witticism

Not Me

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

My fifty-year career in public education began at a career technical high school teaching English, where my students were more interested in auto mechanics, cosmetology, and nursing rather than reading and writing. This thirteen-year experience taught me a lot about the trades from laying cement block, to offset printing to welding. I spent one afternoon in the welding lab with the delightful, instructor, who made me don gloves and the special helmet and taught me to light the torch. “Sue, I’m going to teach you how to mend anything, except broken hearts and promises.”

Curiously, today, I recalled Mr. Harold’s proclamation when I read a post written by a longtime MAGA supporter, who wrote in part he’d recently been terminated by US Department of Agriculture. “Each time I voted for you, it was because I knew you’d make things right and you’d fix the wrongs. I’m counting on you to make this right too. I’m pleading with you to reinstate my employment and give me my job back. Please, Mr. President.”

While I feel compassion for the author and regret his career loss, hopefully, he’s learned that the flim- flam man cares little about anyone other than himself, nor have any notion of right and wrong. With all due respect to the author, His Highness thrives on breaking hearts and promises. (Check the soaring gas and grocery prices, if you doubt me.)

Sorry, Mr. Author, you’re not going to be reinstated just because you wear a red hat.

Another Thing That Makes Me Crazy

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I know it’s hard to believe, but my eldest turned forty a few months ago. In my effort to make her milestone birthday memorable, I made plans to commission an original painting. Thankfully, I mentioned the subject I had chosen, which was not something she wanted; she wanted one I owned. I agreed; she might as well have it now, then when I’m dead.

After some very sparse research, my friend and I went off to FedEx to ship it this week. (For your edification, the framed lithograph is 36″X4″X34″ and is valued at approximately $500.)

“How may I help you?”

“I need you to pack and ship this to South Carolina.”

“And your account number?”

“I don’t have a FedEx account.”

“Then, I need to see your driver’s license.” And for the next fifteen minutes, she fiddled around with her computer. She walked away and conversed with the manager. “The box will be $280.”

“Fine. That sounds reasonable,” as I attempted to shove my credit card in the terminal.

“Plus insurance and shipping.”

WTH? “How much is that?”

“Four hundred and ninety dollars, plus the $280 box.”

My friend could no longer contain herself, “Are you saying one cardboard box costs $280?”

The clerk nodded.

“That’s absolutely absurd.” She picked up the painting, “Come on, Sue, we are out of here!”

We got in my car, “Can you believe it?”

“I was afraid you were crazy enough to pay it. Sorry for my intrusion, but you could practically drive it there for less.”

After my encounter with FedEx, I tried to rein in my craziness to no avail. For then came the megalomaniac, and his little automatons: Gabbard, Patel, and RFK. I suspect I will remain bat shit crazy for the next four years.

Confessions on Potato Salad

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10844_tart_cranberry_pieI do not have a sophisticated palate; I’m far from a gourmand.  Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks; they prepared rural, regional cuisines.  My paternal grandmother was the family legend of baking: pies, donuts, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon rolls were her forte.  I knew I’d never learn to make pie crust or breads like hers.

Thus, given my upbringing I never discovered delectable Italian dishes until I went to elementary school.  In fact, I have vivid memories of sitting next to a girl in the lunch room who was eating what appeared to be some variation of bread slathered with tomato sauce and meat.  “What is that?  It’s smells wonderful.”

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“You don’t know?  It’s pizza.  Want to try some?”

“Sure.  I’ll trade you one of my Mom’s chocolate chip cookies for it.”  My adoration of Italian food began.

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Then, horrors of horrors!  I was asked to bring potato salad to a party.  Me?  Every time I tried to make it, it was not edible.  I knew I couldn’t go to the deli and buy it, for those places are rife with creepy diseases.  The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of Montezuma’s revenge!

I fired up the computer and searched the net.  Finally, I found a recipe that even I might put in my mouth.  Of course, I made a “dry run” and served it to my kid.  Both she and I pronounced it the best we’d ever eaten! In case, you want to try my tweaked concoction:

  1. Peel, cube, and boil potatoes.  Remove and drain when still rather firm.  Drizzle one and one-half teaspoons of white vinegar over potatoes and let sit.
  2. Chop celery, one or to two green onions, and one hard-boiled egg.
  3. In mixing bowl, blend equal parts of Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, with a squirt of mustard and celery salt or celery seed. (The combo of Miracle Whip and Mayo is key!)
  4. Toss and stir everything together and let stand in refrigerator for at least two hours.

Trust me.  It’s a winner!

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On Being 105

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According to folklore, dog years are multiplied by 7.  Thus, I have a part pomeranian, part yorkie who recently had her fifteen birthday in people years or 105 dog years.  Meet Tessa Marie Jenkins, the centenarian!

Tessa was her original name, but over time, Marie and Jenkins were added.  Why? I don’t know.  In her early years, she was an active, friendly little dog, but then she became a recluse.  She spent the majority of her time under the bed.  So much so, that many of our family and friends asked, “Who’s that elusive dog of which I caught a glimpse?”  She kept her distance even from me.  She ran and hid if I tried to pet her.  I had to feed her in a separate room, as she wouldn’t eat in front of the others.  My kids called her a diva.  “She’s too good for our company.  Such a high-maintenance snob!”

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Then miraculously, two years ago Tessa Marie came out from under the bed.  She ate with my other dogs, and she even came to parties.  I took her to the vet for her innoculations and check-up, and the vet said she was in wonderful condition.  “Sue, you must have just had her teeth cleaned.  Her teeth are immaculate.”  I only nodded–little did he know her teeth had never been cleaned.  (I’m not a fan of routinely putting dogs to sleep for teeth cleaning, unless infection threatens their health.)

These days Tessa is a spry, active and very demanding 105 year-old.  She barks and barks until she gets a dog biscuit or three.  I can’t tell her “no” because she is stone deaf.  Yet, when her internal clock goes off, she barks until her dinner is served.  She barks when she needs to patrol the backyard, and she barks when she sees someone at the front door.

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Tessa has lived in my house for 15 years and has never gone near the swimming pool.  However, this week, during a romp, she fell in the deep end.  I was in shock!  She’s freaking old; she’ll have a heart attack and plummet ten feet down.  No.  She swam to the side, where my cabana boy rescued her.  Though I was sure she’d have some type of injury or side effect, she shook herself off as we towel-dried her.  She sprinted around the yard; I imagined her singing: Hey, now.  I’m a Rock Star!  I was amazed at her energy.

I guess I need to add this to my daily, dietary intake:

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It Pays to Advertise

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Most of us are bombarded with advertising.  All with promises of the best car, the best detergent, the most energy efficient car or appliance.  Oh, dear God, yes, I’ve been sucked into these claims of years.

I’ve bought miracle cleansers guaranteed to make my shower sparkle.  I bought wrinkle-free clothing, five-minute meals, and solar pool covers.  None of those products delivered their false promises.  Yet, I kept on buying–searching for the one.

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As time and age reduced me into a shar pei, which I could not bear to look at in a bathroom mirror, let alone a full-length mirror, I searched for hope.  And with simple clicks on my computer, I bought beauty creams, make up, oils, and elixirs all guaranteed to forestall my aging process.  Sadly, not one of them worked.

Finally, I just gave up.  I chose to no longer be a victim of a publisher’s clearinghouse subscription, nor a free week at a Maui timeshare.  I solved my problem.  Then, I spied this:

Really?  You want to move me?  Do realize how much stuff I have?  A Ford Focus?  Not to mention, how many muscular men could sit in a car of that size! I almost rolled over the sidewalk laughing in hysteria.

Given the current state of our world, this is what pays to advertise.

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Gullibility: $

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New-Small-Designer-Slim-Women-Red-font-b-Wallet-b-font-Thin-Zipper-font-b-LadiesMe thinks there is a substantial percentage of American consumers, who are so gullible they pay outrageous prices for routine items.  Of course, my daughters are in that group. To me, a handbag or wallet fulfills a need.  To them, it is a fashion statement.  So I ask you: when was the last time you ogled someone’s wallet at the store checkout?  When was the last time you coveted someone’s choice of paper towels or toilet paper?  When was the last time you envied someone’s plastic bottle of water?

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This week, I was early to an appointment, so I entered a designer grocery–the kind which caters to folk with more money than sense.  I perused the inflated prices: boneless, chicken breasts at $5.99 a pound, broccoli crowns at $4.99 a pound, and the deli was serving $10 a cup coffee.  I found this curious as the day before I paid $1.47 a pound for boneless chicken breasts.  Obviously, something is seriously wrong with my palate.  Chicken is chicken.  Beef, however, is another matter.  (Ribeye steaks are far superior to round steak.)

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Yet, the most outrageous item I saw on my adventure was one, peeled navel orange in a plastic container. It’s price: $6.00!  Had I known folk were so gullible, I would have picked my plentiful oranges, peeled and contained them, and undercut the price by one dollar.  Damn!  I’d be wealthy!  Maybe, next year.

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Oh Package! Where Art Thou?

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Every year I send navel oranges to friends and family.  Since navels are “Christmas oranges,” I usually mail them before the US Post Office gets overwhelmed with packages. And again, this year I did so on December 11.  The boxes went to New York, Ohio, and to Texas.  Since they were sent priority mail, I had tracking slips.

However, I usually get a text or a call from the recipient long before I get around to checking on them.  I’d heard from New York and from Ohio, but not from my sister in Texas.  Curious.  I texted: Did you get the citrus?  “No” was her reply.  Now, I was involved in a mystery, for according to geography, Texas is much closer to Phoenix than NY or OH. I entered the tracking number to find the lost parcel.  OMG!  I was astounded!  The oranges and limes must have decided to go on adventure!

They fled my sister’s Houston suburb, went to downtown Houston–perhaps to ride the Ferris wheel, and then took off to Dallas.  In Dallas, they were sent back to my local post office–less than five miles from my home.  According to tracking, those bad boys arrived on December 18.  Christmas and New Year’s came and went.  No citrus returned.  Weird.

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On January 4, I received a brown envelope from the mailman.  Enclosed was this box top. (Since the original was addressed correctly and neither my sister, nor I want to be deluged with fan mail, I altered the label.)  Also enclosed was a letter, dated December 24 from a Dallas postal facility.  It read:  An empty wrapper with your address was found in the mail and is believed to have been separated from a parcel during handling (see attached portion of the wrapper.) Really?  The package was allegedly in Phoenix on the 18th.  How could the top of a large, flat-rate box been separated from it…unless, someone in the postal service knoshed on oranges and squeezed lime in beer?

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Included was a form to file for missing items.  A laborious form that mandated receipts for whatever was in the box, plus serial and model numbers, sex and size of clothing articles, etc.  I tossed the form.  I have better things to do than worry about errant citrus.  However, the next time I send a box to my sister, it will be filled with….

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XYZ: Examine Your Zipper

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Many will recall the childhood comment: XYZ.  Usually, it was made to a boy, who emerged from the lavatory after those stupid, elementary school bathroom breaks.  Perhaps, you’ve experienced them, where the teacher lined up his/her class at the appointed hour and marched them down the hall.  I referred to this practice as pee on demand.

Though invented in 1851, zippers weren’t used in clothing until the 1930’s.  In the 1937, Battle of Fly, the zipper was declared winner over buttons.  This new tailoring idea in men’s trousers promised to prevent the possibility of embarrassment.

In recent weeks XYZ has morphed into headline stories, graphic dalliances of sexual harassment, even rape, have been exposed.  Certainly, rumors of the “Hollywood casting couch” have been around for years, but both men and women victims remained silent.  Now, it seems to be a pervasive epidemic propagated by those in power over the powerless.  Further, fueled by fear of losing a starring role, a job, or even getting a good grade in a college course.

Finally, victims found their voice.  Unnamed predators are probably suffering from sleepless nights and wobbly knees.  And thankfully, this week voters rejected a known creep, who advertised himself as an upright, moral man.

My advice to the powerful is simply: XYZ.  None of your employees, nor teenagers shopping at the mall are interested in your sausage.  And in this case, it doesn’t pay to advertise.

 

 

 

 

Pricks

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Arizona is awash with pricks!  Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not being bawdy.  The reality is the desert is full of pricks.  Perhaps, piercing needles are the first line of defense for smoldering summers, or perhaps, deadly burrs and barbs help flora survive.  I don’t know.  But Mother Nature early on forced me to employ a landscaper.

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Of course, I, first, tried to control errant cacti by myself.  Then an inch-long spine impaled my leg.  A jumping  cholla attacked my foot on my way to the mailbox in my flip flops.  An agave ripped open my wrist when I tried to free a lost baby quail.  I was so stupid to think I could trim a palo verde tree and survive–wrong, my arms looked like I’d been in a lion’s den.

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Bougainvillea and other gorgeous flower plants also wreck havoc.  When picking grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons, as most of the branches have razor-sharp needles.  I’m glad I don’t take blood-thinner.  I would need a transfusion for the amount of times I’ve been stuck.

So if you come to my house for dinner, don’t have one too many and end up with these pricks!

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The Cicada and The Tortoise: A Curious Tale

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Admittedly, I’m a technological immigrant.  Further, I’m technologically challenged.  I belong in a special class with any 10-year-old teacher.  Even five-year-olds today, know more than me.  My daughters and the school board folk have drug me into this new arena, and I know just enough to be dangerous.  While I enjoy that the world is now just one arrow key away and adore my cell phone convenience, I abhor “auto correct”  and the feature of speaking rather than typing. Lord knows, I sent far too many incoherent messages and emails.  A heinous crime, when the author is an English major!

On the other hand, I laugh uproariously when I receive one of these messages.  This week I received the following:

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Hmm.  A large cicada, which looks like a desert tortoise.  I was engulfed in laughter.  A family pet?  Even funnier.  Did they clip its wings so it wouldn’t fly off?

Really?  I see no likeness in the least.  Yet, I was sad I have no artistic talent.  Can you imagine the joy of creating such a creature?  I bet Dr. Seuss would have drawn and made millions on this hybrid character.

My neighbor and I had several hilarious conversations discussing the email.  We concluded the sender must be whacked.   Twas, not the case.  Damnable auto correct was at fault.  Behold the sulcata tortoise.

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