Blog #17
If John Milton were writing Paradise Lost today, I’m
certain that his choice for the location of Hell would be the space underneath
my desk. There are enough wires down there
to reach Mars and enough plugs to populate Howie Mandel’s head. I’ll bet it looks just like that under your
desk. There are eight “things” plugged
in. There’s a router and a modem and a
computer and a printer and a lamp and my iPod and two other things that could
be nuclear warheads for all I know. I am
so technically hapless that I could screw up a nail file. If it has a wire, I’m guaranteed to put it in
the wrong place. It amazes me that I
have children! But I had to plug my
pacemaker monitor into the phone jack, which happens to be there. Pacemaker?
Oh, maybe I haven’t told you about that.
Works like a charm, but every six months I have to transmit whatever it
is doing to Dr. Pacemaker so he can see what’s ticking (literally).
I needed to plug the monitor in, but there wasn’t a
plug available, which meant I had to unplug something. After considerable thought, I chose the lamp,
which was plugged into a surge protector.
I unplugged it. And you know what
– the lamp went off! I could not have
been more delighted if I had discovered fire, and with an unexpected surge of
confidence, I plugged the pacemaker monitor in and everything immediately shut
down. Disaster! By pushing in the prongs, I had pulled the
surge protector out of its wall socket, so I put it back. Too late – the internet was gone because the
modem or router or nuclear warhead or whatever gismo that the internet comes out
of had been unplugged. By this time, I
really didn’t care if my chest exploded -- at least it would end the
ordeal. I proceeded to plug the machine
into the phone-jack and hold the mouse over my chest. Lights flashed, bells rang, beepers beeped
and all seemed to go as I had remembered.
So maybe it worked. The counter
on the nuclear warhead had stopped at 007.
It’s been seventeen weeks. Seventeen blogs. By now you’re beginning to know me pretty
well. You know that I go to McDonald’s
every morning. You know that I write
limericks and that I like books. I’m
thinking about writing a book just for Seniors.
I really don’t have a plot or a plan or a serious idea – but I have a
bunch of titles. So, let’s take a
poll. I’ll give you the choices for the
title of my new book. Then you email
your favorite title to me at mfox1746@gmail.com
and I will tell you the results of the poll next week. Ok, titles for the book about Seniors:
The World According to AARP
Rheumatism at the Top
To Kill an Early Bird
Cataract on a Hot Tin Roof
I’m serious – send me your pick.
My lovely wife and I have just celebrated our 50th
wedding anniversary. Awww! I’m a very lucky man indeed. We celebrated at my daughter Abby’s
house. Abby’s a great cook, and she prepared
a wonderful meal which perfectly epitomized the spirit of our fifty-year
partnership. She made everything my wife
liked. Abby called her mother, asked
what she should cook for the celebratory meal, and Carol rattled off all her
favorites. “Don’t worry about Hop Sing;
he doesn’t care what he eats.” That’s
ok; I know my place. It was delicious,
and besides, I don’t care what I eat.
Speaking of food, whenever we travel to Jen in North
Carolina or Steph in California or Mama Doc in Naples or Aunt Linda in West
Palm – in short, whenever we mooch on our friends and relatives, they always
ask us what kind of food they should have in the house for us. Our answer is “nothing”. I bring my own tea and that’s all we
require. We’re easy. But when my Jenola comes to town for two
days, she requires organic peppers, raw pumpkin seeds, unsweetened coconut
water and, of course, kale. How can
anyone get through the day without kale?
I think the Queen of England would be an easier guest. All she needs is a place to hang her
purse. But it’s ok; my Jennifer is worth
every organic pepper.
I am considering coming out of retirement to become a
Marriage Counsellor. You see, I have a
unique ability to view a domestic conflict from both sides. Three years ago, I had a cornea transplant
and the donor was a 62-year-old woman from Kansas City. Thus, my left eye is female. My right eye, therefore, gives me the male
perspective while my left sees things from the feminine point of view. Hence, the marriage counselling gig. “Yes, I can see with my right eye that you
are a dedicated and caring husband. But
with my left eye I see that you always get lost and wear linen in November.” The first candidate for the transplant was a
50-year-old man who had died of a heart attack.
They told me that was great because the guy was healthy. Healthy? I asked. How long had he been healthy before he died
of a heart attack? We switched to the
lady from Kansas City.
The eye surgery was performed by a local physician
named Dr. Blinder. Seriously! Now what perverse sense of fate would lead
someone with that name to that profession?
Why couldn’t he have become an airplane pilot instead? Well, maybe not. I have mentioned the odd coincidence to
friends and have been rewarded with other doctors who maybe should have chosen
a different specialty. Apparently, there
is a dentist named Dr. Payne and a surgeon named Dr. Butcher. Someone told me that in Florida resides a
plastic surgeon named Dr. Pricey. In Texas,
there is a urologist named Dr. Dickey and an OB-GYN named Dr. Fingers. Unless
my friends are fibbing to me, these are all real.
I don’t want to
complain. The world has an over-abundant
supply of self-pity and I really don’t
need to add to it, but the truth is that we seniors have plenty to complain
about. Taxes, Social Security, health
care, aching backs, salt – but what can we do about it, riot? Can you just picture a bunch of old people marching
the streets chanting: WHAT DO WE WANT? WE FORGOT.
WHEN DO WE WANT IT? WE FORGOT
THAT TOO.
We’d
loot and we’d burn and we’d riot
Except
we are too old to try it.
If
the Cops told us Halt
Well
we couldn’t assault --
‘Cause
we’re on a no-assault diet.
Ain’t it the truth!
Well, I have to go dig out my old “IMPEACH GARFIELD” sign for the
march. Come back next week. I’m counting on you. Stay well and send me your favorite book
title.
Michael
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