Prime is a versatile word; it can be a noun, adjective, or verb. As a noun, it can mean the time of one’s greatest success or strength, i.e. the prime of life. As an adjective, it can mean excellent or outstanding, i.e. prime member of Amazon or prime example. As a verb, it can mean to fill or load, i.e. prime a wall or a pump.

After surviving my dance with death four years ago, I am enjoying the prime of my life, even though every so often, I’m forced to prime the swimming pool pump. Also, I’m jazzed to be a card-carrying member of Amazon Prime and receive my random orders in less than 24 hours. But this week, I was taken aback at the grocery store when I went in search of a steak, specifically a filet mignon. There were none. I walked to the butcher case, and there they were! Pricey, to be sure, but I only eat a small amount.

“Do you want choice or prime, ma’am?”

A two-dollar difference. Hmm? “Which do you recommend?”

The butcher glared at me–stupid old woman doesn’t know the difference. “Obviously, ma’am prime is the best.” Thankfully, he didn’t say “Duh.” For god’s sake, I knew that!

“Prime it is, sir.”

That evening I grilled it; rare the way I like it. OMG! OMG! I was overwhelmed by its tenderness and flavor. Granted, I’d been to numerous expensive steak houses across the US, but never had I had anything that tasted so wonderful.

Realizing my days on the planet are numbered, and fully realizing there are no do-overs, when I want a steak once in a while, it will be prime!

I’m a very discriminate crier. I rarely cry at old people’s funerals or at weddings. In fact, the last time I cried was two years ago, when I learned I was going to be a grandmother. However, this week the proverbial dike broke, and I wept and sniveled for over an hour. Why? Sheer, unadulterated stupidity and frustration!

No internet service, the root of my sadness, forced me to call COX, my provider. A very nice child technician came and assessed my issue, changed my WiFi around, and departed. While the internet on both my computer and cell phone worked, my TV’s, printer, and outside cameras were not. My fancy Linksys towers were dead. So I read, I watched fix-it videos, and monkeyed around for three plus hours trying to get the printer to work. (Because I needed it, stat!) My efforts were futile–I cried. I blew my nose. I cried. I yelled at the dogs and swore every profane phrase I knew–even meanie head. I cried.

Once I regained composure, my thoughts led me back to Youngstown, Ohio. Now a decaying steel town, but in its prime was the third largest city, where many European immigrants settled. I wondered how many times they cried from frustration when relocating to a new country, with a different language, monetary system, cuisine, and societal norms. One of my friend’s parents came from Greece. Her mother sat in front of the living room window, dressed in a black, and wearing a black head scarf. She never left the house, never learned to speak English, never learned to drive, never went to the store. She would politely wave at me when I came in their house, and I would speak to her. But she’d just shake her head and returning to staring out the window.

So, just like Mrs. Pappas, I was a digital immigrant this week. This new technological knowledge world and all of its nuances brought me to tears. Since summer has arrived to the desert, I can’t don a black dress and sit on my patio waiting until my high-tech knight-on-white horse rescues me next week.

Is it just me, or has pork lost its flavor? I’m not talking about bacon, ham, nor sausage; I’m talking about pork roasts, tenderloins, and chops. Regardless if I grill, bake, or slow cook, the meat has zero flavor. In fact, I often have to stare at my plate to figure out what I’m putting in my mouth. Even grocery store tomatoes have more taste than pork!

Once in a while, I’d be glad to pay big bucks for a delicious roast or a pack of pork chops, but in all of Phoenix I’ve tried the best, only to be disappointed once again. At first, I thought I was victimized by COVID destruction of my taste buds, not. Then I wondered if it was due to my family raising their own pigs to butcher, maybe. So, I decided to ask others and discovered those of us west of the Mississippi are clearly disillusioned by the flavorless “other white meat.”

Of course, most of us are further disillusioned by the “pork” in Congress. That sneaky little way of sliding a localized project primarily to a representative’s district. One of the most outrageous examples was Boston’s Big Dig, a 7.8 mile road relocated underground. Its estimated cost was $2.5 billion, but due to delays, we, Americans, paid $15 billion for the project. Parking decks in small towns were all a favorite of some congressmen, even though the entire town could have parked on the main level. Another favorite was a million-dollar grant to research the use of sheep grazing as a means of weed control. WTH?

I’m quite sure, though, the Warner Brothers cartoon character is delighted I’ve stopped buying his ribs–that’s all folks!

Unfortunately, I’ve never been delivered from the temptation of a dare. And several weeks ago, I received two challenges. I’ve been working on a new book, which for the most part, is set in a neighborhood bar and grill. Since I’ve no experience in the food and drink industry, I’ve been interviewing owners of those establishments.

Word traveled fast, and one of my friends who owns a diner asked me to waitress for a day. She promised to shadow me, so I don’t scare off her customers. But she insisted it would enrich my understanding of her business. My performance there is still to be determined.

However, my first and foremost challenge is Saturday, April 6 from 1-4 PM at The Playa, where I’ll be serving food and drinks to its patrons, under the tutelage of the outstanding, young owners, Sandi and Lindsey. They are even providing me with a separate tip jar, and its proceeds will be donated to the Paradise Valley Food Bank.

While I’ve a fairly good imagination, it’s far easier for me to write about something I’ve experienced. In fact, according to Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

‘Nuff said. See you on April 6th!

Why? To get rid of fine wrinkles, age spots, uneven skin tone, sun-damaged skin, and mild to moderate acne scars. I never considered such a treatment after I saw my neighbor’s face when she did it. To me, she looked like she’d been napalmed!

However, this week I had a dinner party, and one of my guests suggested we sit on the patio. “Come on, Sue. We can light the fire pit, and you’ll be warm enough.” You’ve probably already guessed what happened next. As I lit the pit, the gas exploded, and I literally went up in smoke! My quasi-eldest daughter swatted the back of my hair, as I batted the singed bits from my black blazer. My eyebrows, and some of my hair that framed my face were mere ashes.

Curiously, I was not as shaken by the event as my guests were. To make them more at ease, I said in my best Southern accident, “Lord Jesus, it’s a fireyah.” They looked at me like I was insane! “Watch this YouTube video,” I commanded. (If you haven’t seen this viral, NBC affiliate KFOR-TV interview of Kimberly “Sweet Brown” Wilkins after escaping from an apartment complex fire in Oklahoma City, you must google Ain’t Nobody Got Time for That.

Sweet Brown certainly vanquished my guests’ anxiety. And me? I have very soft face and a lot less hair. After all, ain’t nobody got time to pluck eyebrows anyway.

Last weekend I was in North Carolina for my grandson’s first birthday, where I nearly froze when the temperature dropped to a nippy 26 degrees. The baseball-themed, party was great fun and my grandbaby, Mac, loved the balloons, streamers, and especially the tissue paper in his present bags. Even though his cake was sugar-free, he seemed delighted to stick a fistful in his mouth.

While all in all, it was a wonderful celebration and a memory I shall cherish forever, I was frustrated. Like most walking toddlers, Mac is fascinated with plantation shutters he can repeatedly open and close, but he’s most enamored by the cabinets in the kitchen island and those under the sink. Thus, his inquisitiveness prompted child locks. Now I don’t know who invented these contraptions, but this old grandma spent four days struggling to unlock them. Finally, when I figured out the one which held the garbage and recycling products, I left the damn lock unattached. I went about my self-appointed tasks of loading the dishwasher, cleaning up the kitchen, and throwing away the garbage. I was nearly done. I turned to throw my last wad of detritus in the garbage…unbeknownst to me, Mac, had toddled over and locked the door.

I wanted to vocalize a number of my favorite expletives. (Mac doesn’t need to know that Grandma has a potty mouth…yet.) I made several attempts trying to release the lock, which refused to budge. WTH? I was disgusted with my lack of manual dexterity and my endless lack of patience. In the pantry I found a sack full of used grocery bags and filled one with the remaining debris. I donned my winter jacket and took the garbage outside to the dumpster where the cold wind slapped some sense into me and reminded me…this too shall pass.

Happy First, Mac!