Blog # 495                               September 3, 2026

 

Do you know the word mnemonic?  Let’s make that our Weekly Word.  A mnemonic is a device for helping you to remember something.  Like Every Good Boy Does Fine which, if you remember your music lessons, reminds you of the notes of the musical staff:  EGBDF.  Or HOMES which helps you to remember the Great Lakes:

 

H                Huron

O                Ontario

M                Michigan             

E                 Erie

S                 Superior

 

Except now that President Trump has changed Lake Ontario to Lake America, it’s SHAME:

 

S                 Superior

H                Huron

A                America

M                Michigan

E                 Erie

 

Our President’s got a new game

He gives everything a new name

To him it’s a sport

To rename an airport

And now the Great Lakes are a SHAME.

 

I’ll bet you think I make up these stories just so I can insert a limerick.  It’s just the opposite.  I find a weird, but true, fact or occurrence first, and for one reason or another it stimulates my wacky brain to wax poetic. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him and makes me poor indeed (Othello).  I’m not letting anybody change my name, unless they change it to The Prettiest Pussycat in the World.  I like my name, and when Pops calls me, I always look up to see if he wants to play with our toys or just wants something warm on his lap while he reads.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and getting ready for Labor Day, which is a week from Monday.  Labor Day marks the end of Summer, although it doesn’t officially end for three more weeks.  Labor Day is the day we recognize and give thanks to all of you who work.  I don’t work anymore.  I read and write, do my volunteering, visit doctors, talk to my grandkids.  That’s during the day.  At night, I do whatever my wife tells me to do.  It makes life so much easier.  I also play a little poker and some bridge.  I do not play mahjong.  Do you know what you call a lady mahjong player?  A tile pusher.  A gentleman mahjong player is called a gent-tile pusher.

 

Every year, I get a physical from my doctor.  I’m sure you do too.  One of the first things they do is get your weight and height.  The English language is so bizarre that weight and height are spelled the same but pronounced differently. Weight, for most of us, goes up or down, but height is an alarming one-way street, an inexorable shrinkage leading eventually to your grandchildren calling you Ant Man.

 

After they tell you that you are half an inch closer to the carpeting than you were last year, they give you a battery of questionnaires, one of which is to determine if you are depressed.  Of course I’m depressed!  Who wouldn’t be depressed after learning that their new friends are Happy, Sleepy, Dopey and Doc?  During the physical, I told Dr. Primary that I was having some problem with my vision.  He told me to see an eye doctor.  I said, “If I could see an eye doctor, I wouldn’t need to see an eye doctor.”  Geesh!

 

I just walked into our bedroom and I smelled the unmistakable aroma of nail polish, and I immediately thought of something that happened seven or eight years ago.  It’s a good story, and you’re not going anywhere, are you?  One evening around 9:00, my heart started to race.  I remember staggering back to my bedroom and lying on the bed.  I remember a cool, soft hand holding mine.  I was certain that was my sweet Carol ministering to her frightened husband.  I was mistaken.  It was, instead, the hand of our neighbor Betty.  You see, Carol had just done her nails and couldn’t be expected to risk smudging the polish, so she called Betty to come over and hold my hand.  Look, I know my sweet wife loves me and would do anything for me, but let’s be honest -- there are priorities!  Thank you, Betty, for helping your friend by sparing her the inconvenience of doing her nails twice.  And thanks for holding my hand.  I wonder how my wife called 911.  It must have been with her toes.  When the two EMTs and the three firefighters entered my bedroom the chief EMT turned to my wife and said, “How long has he been in distress?  And, by the way, nice nails!”

 

We went to a local restaurant recently with some friends.  As the waitress handed out our menus, she took pride in informing us that all the vegetables were organically grown and all the seafood was responsibly raised.  I asked her how you responsibly raised a mussel.  Come on!  I can understand feeling sorry for a cow with those big watery eyes, or a pig with the funny snout and the cute tail, or a chicken with the pretty feathers.  I understand the “let’s not eat anything with a face” crowd.  But shellfish?  Woody Allen said, “I will not eat oysters.  I want my food dead, not sick or wounded.” 

 

So back to the question of responsibly raising a mussel.  What does that mean?  Do they sing to it, pet it, let it watch Dancing with the Starfish, paint its nails?  No, they farm raise it squashed next to a million of its cousins like sardines, then rip it off its anchorage and kill it.  To me, I wouldn’t care if they sent it to Princeton and gave it a tiny Mercedes for Christmas.  I still wouldn’t eat the slimy little thing.  Even with bacon duxelles.

 

I had already traumatized the waitress enough about the mussels without asking her what duxelles meant.  Instead, I just added the word to my list of food-related words -- like ratatouille and chiffonade – that I am pleased to live my life without understanding.  I was instantly disappointed in the chef for using such a term, and I began looking at all the patrons, trying to determine what a person who liked duxelles would look like.  Probably a rich person who likes mussels and spells ketchup with a “C”.

 

Okay, you’re excused.  Have a nice day, stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #494                                August 27, 2026

 

Do you remember the movie called THEM ?  That was the one about the giant ants starring James Arness, James Whitmore and Santa Clause.  Well, North Carolina has mosquitos that size.  And the last time I was there, I had to suffer the umbrage of a few of them big enough to carry luggage.  And the luggage had stickers on them, not for the places they’d visited, but for the names of the people they’d eaten – Marge, Fred, old man with the pacemaker. 

 

And speaking of dangerous flying things, there’s a warning sign near the airport that says Low Flying Aircraft.  Just how exactly do they want you to react to this information?  Are you supposed to duck?  They might as well put up a sign that says Watch Out for Falling Space Debris.  I mean if a door from the Space Station happens to fall on you accelerating 32 feet per second per second, well, it’s going to be a bad day.  There’s not much to be done about it.  And if an American Airlines 727 clips your Lexus with its landing gear, well, you’ll be shuffling off this mortal coil.  A little Shakespeare there.  We should never let a day go by without a little Shakespeare.

 

And speaking of a little Shakespeare, here’s a Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me from mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom (The Tempest).  I’m only little because everyone else in the house is bigger than me.  But I think I’m the purr-fect size, exactly the size of my Pops’ lap, where I go whenever he’s reading one of his books.  They must be boring books, because, after I sniff them, I fall asleep every time.  Purr.

 

And speaking of Carolina trips, I remember one trip that included our whole family – sixteen of us.  Somehow, one morning, after all eight grandchildren had eaten breakfast, Carol and I were alone in the kitchen.  I asked her to make me pancakes.  She makes great pancakes.  A quiet breakfast of delicious pancakes all by myself!  I was ecstatic with anticipation.  But no sooner did those hot steamy flapjacks flap onto my plate than the room began to shake, and a stampede of little urchins invaded the kitchen screaming for pancakes.  “I want the biggest!”  “I want the one on the bottom!”  “Where’s the syrup?”  “Move that old man out of the way.”  I got none of the first stack.  I guess they all figured if they had my genes, they could have my breakfast.  They inhaled the second stack, annihilated the third stack, devoured the fourth stack.  Carol was moving faster than the third zebra trying to reach Noah’s Ark.  Then, abruptly, the vultures, sated and happy, left me like a used and discarded call girl.  They didn’t even leave any money on the kitchen counter.  All they left was one, lonely, cold, torn pancake.  And the syrup bottle was gone.  I think they ate it.  I love being a grandfather!

 

Umbrage is the Weekly Word.  It means offense or annoyance.

 

Carol and I have been vacillating between buying some cemetery plots or doing the cremation thing.  There is a plot for me next to my parents and I’m pretty sure Carol has one next to her parents, but it just seems like we should be buried next to each other, doesn’t it?

 

You know, of course, that Carol and I have been married for 59 years.  I’ve told you that, haven’t I?  Fifty-nine years is a long, long time.  I'm a little fatter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same weight.  I'm shorter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same height.  I'm much older-looking now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she still looks the same.  Fifty-nine years ago I loved her with all my heart.  Well, some things never change.

 

Anyway, it just seems right somehow that after sleeping next to each other for 50 or 60 or 70 years, we should be buried next to each other.  I don’t know, maybe not.  Maybe she can just use her plot and put a little footnote on the headstone for me.  Just a little note in the lower corner that says, “Oh, and there’s him.  He didn’t get a closet, so why should he get a plot?”

 

And, of course, there’s the cremation option.  There’s a company called Celestis Memorial Spaceflights that, for a few thousand dollars, will take your ashes into space on a rocket and let them fall to Earth, burning in an atmospheric fireworks display.  It’s absolutely true! Now the phrase for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return could actually mean interstellar dust.

 

I don’t think the cremation fireworks idea has caught on yet.  In fact, it’s been about as popular as iceberg lettuce from Mexico.  But that’s because the company just hasn’t come up with the right flair, the right panache.  I’m thinking about going for it -- if they can do it the way I want.

 

I’ll pay you a few thousand cash

To light my remains with a flash

But when it’s my turn

For a re-entry burn

I want it to spell KISS MY ASH?

 

And I think I’ll ask them to throw in a quarter-pound of bacon when they fry me up.  I’d like my remains to smell like bacon.  Wouldn’t it be galactically spectacular if my atoms could be recycled into new plants and viruses and violin players and cabbages and kings?  Just a thought.  It probably won’t happen – too expensive.  So my second choice is to scatter my ashes in the Petite section of Nordstrom’s.  That way I’ll get to see my wife once in a while, but I’ll probably have to leave the bacon smell out.

 

By the way, if you ever think that I have died but you’re not 100% sure, just place my body in front of a TV playing Dancing with the Stars and if there’s any life in me at all, I will get up and walk out.  I’d rather be water-boarded.

 

I’m finished and you are too.  Stay well and count your blessings and I’ll be back next week, if the mosquitos don’t get me first.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com 

 

 

 

Blog #493                                August 20, 2026

 

Movie Review: The movie SIX was a filmed production of the live musical performed in London.  SIX is the story of the six wives of Henry VIII.  Henry was the English monarch from 1509 to 1547, the father of Queen Elizabeth I and a song by Herman’s Hermits.  The cast consisted of six women, each playing one of the wives, and they sang and danced energetically while telling their stories.  They were very good.  But, as George Bernard Shaw said, "England and America are two countries separated by a common language", and it was very difficult to understand what these girls were saying.  What few words we did understand, however, made it clear that the whole emphasis of the show was a celebration of Woman Power and how pusillanimous men are.  By the way, every member of the musical band was a woman.  So, if you’re looking for a Women’s Lib “high”, go for it.  You’ll enjoy the exuberant vivacity of the cast, but you won’t understand much of what they’re saying.

 

We are going out to dinner tonight.  I asked where we were going and my lovely bride said, “We’re going to Lester’s; be ready at 6:30.  Wear the khaki pants and the pink shirt.  You’re getting the chef salad no onions, no cucumbers. And don’t slow down for any yellow lights.”  I’m wondering -- why exactly does she need me to go?  I bet if I dressed a mannequin in the khaki pants and the pink shirt, she wouldn’t even know the difference.  She’d probably just say, You acted like a dummy tonight.

 

Hi there and welcome to Blog #493.  Man, these numbers are getting big.  Where does the time go?  It feels like just yesterday I was picking out my own clothes and deciding what I wanted to eat for dinner.  I hope you’re feeling well.

 

And speaking of movies, how about a story? You have nothing else to do.  As Shakespeare would say, a tale told by an idiot.  This happened a couple of years ago, when Carol said we were going to a movie.  I didn’t know which movie we were going to see, but it didn’t much matter.  I dropped her at the entrance.  Every morning she crawls, climbs and stomps around the house doing yoga-esque contortions and smiling like Richard Simmons on speed.  Then she hops on the treadmill for multiple miles.  But it is apparently too much of an effort for her to walk from the parking lot to the entrance.  So I dropped her.  Prince Charming! 

 

She bought two tickets, and when I entered, she handed me one and went to the ladies’ room.  I got a glass of water, showed the attendant the ticket that said Film A, and was directed to Theater 4.  I went in.  No Carol.  I picked a seat and waited.  No Carol.  I watched the coming trailers – all 827 of them.  At which point Carol entered and, in a voice loud enough to be heard in Istanbul, said, “You’re in the wrong theater!”  The patrons began to chuckle mercilessly as I slinked sheepishly out to follow my wife to a different theater.  And how, I hear you snicker, had I wound up in the wrong theater when my ticket clearly said the movie that was playing there?  Well, they printed Film A when she bought the tickets even though she wanted to see Film B.  No big deal; she just went to the theater showing Film B.  EXCEPT SHE FAILED TO TELL HER POOR DUMB HUSBAND.   And now everyone in the county is talking about the ignorant namby-pamby who couldn’t find the right theater and his skinny wife who had to come rescue him.  I think tonight I’ll just wear a sign that says USELESS SLOB.  Best to warn everybody up front.  See, a tale told by an idiot.  That Shakespeare was pretty smart.

 

I don’t really understand why she didn’t tell me where to go.  She does it all the time.  In fact, she and all her buttinsky ancestors have been telling men where to go, what to say and how to live their lives all throughout history.  For instance,

 

“No, Chris, don’t pick the first New World you see.  Let’s keep looking.  Maybe we’ll find one on sale.” 

 

“No, Abe, you don’t need to waste time shopping now.  Let’s go see a play.  And wear that tall hat”

 

“Forget it, Arthur, see if they have a round table.”

 

“Adam, put down that candy bar – too much fat.  Have an apple instead.”

 

“Sorry, Attila, I need more room.  You’ll have to move your clothes to Europe.  Thanks, Hun.”

 

“What did God offer you, Moses, eight commandments?  Go back up there.  See if you can get ten.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The play’s the thing (Hamlet).  Pops keeps talking about that other Shakespeare.  Who cares about some dumb old poet that nobody can understand when you can have a soft, intelligent cat?  I’ll bet there are more people reading this message right now than are reading Hamlet.  Purr. 

 

Let’s talk about something other than my wife, like Foreign Accent Syndrome.  Yes, there actually is such a thing.  Trust me.  Google it.  I just love Google.  The entire knowledge of Mankind is on Google.  Or should that be Womankind?  Personkind? Himandherkind?  Oh, who gives a rat’s Google?

 

Foreign Accent Syndrome (FAS) occurs when someone has a head injury and responds by talking with an unfamiliar foreign accent.  There have been cases with British, Chinese and Hungarian accents following blows to the head.  Honest!  I know this one is harder to accept than Anthony Fauci saying, I’m not in it for the money, but it’s true.

                            

There once was a fellow named Dennis

Who fell down one day playing tennis

The trauma and stress

Gave the guy FAS

And he talks now like Jose Jimenez.

 

How about a Weekly Word?  It’s namby-pamby, and it means a feeble person lacking in strength or courage.

 

Well, this poor player has strutted and fretted his hour upon the stage and is ready to wind it up.  That was more BS (Bill Shakespeare).  Go on, read Hamlet or Macbeth between now and next week.  You’ll like it.  And there’s going to be a pop quiz.  Don’t forget to count your blessings and try to stay well.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #492                                August 13, 2026

 

Hi there.  Thanks for coming back.  I hope you are feeling young and wonderful and can help me understand how my wife’s brain works.  Just the other day she called me.  “Fred and Ethel are going to a movie at 4:45.”  No, she didn’t use those names, but everything else I’m about to tell you is true.  She continued, “I really don’t care one bit about this movie, but if you want, we can go with them or just meet them for dinner.”  I asked her the name of the movie and she told me, adding, “I couldn’t care less.  I have no interest in that movie.”  I said ok, let’s just meet them for dinner.  And she said, “Or maybe I’ll just go to the movie with them and you can meet us later.”

 

Now you tell me, is this woman making any sense?  It’s like being married to Yogi Berra.  Yogi, the bad boy of badinage, was famous for his strange sayings.  Like you can observe a lot by watching and if they don’t want to come, you can’t stop them and of course I didn’t really say everything I said.  My own little Yogi is actually famous for some of her sayings as well.  The grandkids call them Nonnie-isms.  One goes like this: you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your relatives.  I told you she was like Yogi.

 

But she is loyal and caring.  She went with me to visit Dr. Heart for a stress test. The instructions did not allow me any caffeine for 24 hours before the test. What?  No caffeine?  No Diet-Coke in the morning?  That’s like telling Donald Trump, NO TWEETING.  It’s like telling Kim Jong Un, NO HAIR GEL.  It’s like telling a Catholic priest, NO ALTAR BOYS.  By the time I reached the doctor’s office, I was as jumpy as a caterpillar at a Sumo Wrestling tournament. 

 

I don’t do the treadmill variety stress test.  Instead, I get an injection of the nuclear isotope Thallium-201.  It’s a little risky, but I’m glad I did it.  With these things, you have to be aggressive.

 

For chest pains I should be pro-active

So a stress test just sounded attractive

And the good news, my friend:

I survived to the end

But the bad news: I’m radioactive.

 

I really don’t like talking about personal health issues, but it is part of my world.  And if you’re loyal enough to waste a few minutes of your Thursdays with me, then I guess I’m part of your world now.  Wow, that sounds like a lot of responsibility on my part.  I guess I’d better make you laugh.  The two choices for my stress test were the treadmill or the nuclear injection.  Those choices are the modern Scylla and Charybdis.  If you’ve seen The Odyssey, you should know what that means.  Anyway, I became stressed another way they hadn’t even thought of.  By the time I was in there five minutes, I was shivering enough from the cold to stress out a polar bear.  I was shaking more than a starlet at a meeting with Harvey Weinstein.  Why are the labs so cold? 

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell (Sonnet 58).  I don’t need a stress test because I don’t have much stress.  I do a lot of sleeping and a lot of resting on a warm lap.  The only stress I have is when Pops goes away, and I have to worry if he’s coming back.  I always wait by the door for him.  Purr.

 

Doctors and stress tests and medications!  It’s a lot of work being a senior.  But we all adapt and come to terms with it.  The other evening, we went to dinner with friends and one of the guys at the table asked the waiter what wine goes well with Lipitor.  Maybe we should just eat dinner at the Emergency Room.  They have a new restaurant there called Broken Bonefish Grill.

 

By the way, the result of my stress test was that I was going to live to be 120.  I’m not sure I want to live that long.  You’ll be a bunch of old people by then and I won’t know how to deal with you.  So while you’re still young, let’s talk.

 

Many of you send me comments from time to time, and I honestly love getting them, but I have noticed a trend lately.  Here’s a typical comment: Love your blog, keep talking about Carol, she’s just like me. Or sometimes I get: Love your blog, quit picking on Carol, you drive too slow.  I spend ten hours writing and re-writing and editing each one of these, strain and suffer with anxiety over what to say and how to say it, and after all that – my wife gets all the fan mail.  Well, she does have to put up with me, and that deserves some kind of award I suppose.

 

What should we talk about now?  Yogi said if you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll wind up somewhere else, so let’s see where we wind up.  There’s an Olympic event called Race-Walking.  My daughter Jennifer used to do it.  She said it was fabulous exercise.  You’ve seen it, I’m sure.  The racers walk heel to toe and must stay in contact with the ground at all times.  Bob Costas said seeing who can walk the fastest is like seeing who can whisper the loudest.  I think it looks silly.  Yes, Jen, I know it does take skill and stamina.  But so does eating an Audi.

 

Which reminds me that I think last week was National Gluttony Day.  It was August 8.  And what did I do on 8/8?  I ate/ate.  And that’s why it’s National Gluttony Day!  But I’ve run out of my time and your patient indulgence.  Yogi said it’s not over till it’s over.  And you know what?  It’s over!

 

Except for the Weekly Word.  It is badinage, which means humorous or witty conversation, something we try to do here every week.  At least we try.

 

Thanks for sticking with me for so long.  Stay well, count your blessings and come back to see me next week. 

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

                                                Or just call Carol directly.

 

 

 

 

Blog #491                                August 6, 2026

 

I have many faults.  One is, according to my wife, not driving fast enough.  I know I don’t drive as fast or aggressively as she’d like, but I look at it this way – in the car I can adjust the temperature precisely as I like, listen to whatever kind of music I want and rest comfortably in a cushioned seat.  I’m happy!  Do I need to go faster?  Do I need to get to the doctor’s office two minutes earlier so that I can wait forty minutes?  Do I need to race home so I won’t miss the opening minutes of The View?  What’s the hurry?  Relax and enjoy the Summer.  I could eliminate her criticism of my driving just by letting her drive, but she makes me nervous when she’s behind the wheel.  First of all, she sits too far forward.  She’s closer to the steering wheel than the guy who painted it.

 

And second, my wife is good at everything -- except waiting.  She is starting now to time the red lights and is majorly unhappy if they are too long.  And she has zero patience for anyone that is in her way.  “I’m going around that person. Who allows them to drive?  I’m not stopping for that light.  MOVE!”  She’s like a Maxine Waters who has skipped her Ritalin.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well, and I hope you feel like going to a movie, because I have a Movie Review for you.  Hades Town is a movie recording of the stage musical as performed in London.  It was terrific.  It follows the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, two lovers with great singing voices and names too difficult to pronounce.  And don’t bother to read up on the story before you see it.  That would only give away the ending.  What’s important is that the voices are spectacular, the staging is clever and professional and the rhyming of the lyrics is wondrous (I’m a rhyming guy).  Go see it!

 

Did you vote this week?  In Missouri, we had primary races and a few propositions to vote on.  The problem is, the ads are so confusing that you don’t know which side they’re promoting.  I wish the ad would just be the Republican leader of the state legislature standing up there and saying, “Listen, if you’re a Republican, here’s how I want you to vote.  Period!”  The same for the Democrats.  Voters are sheep.  They need somebody to direct them.  They know what party they support.  They just don’t know how that party wants them to vote.

 

I know this will sound weird, but someone very reliable told me that the Tupperware Company, besides making all the kitchen stuff you love, also makes coffins.  I told you it was weird.  Weird enough to deserve a rhyme:

 

The Tupperware party? Fantastic!

But it ended in something quite drastic

When we buried old Sid

With a burp from the lid

In a box made of Tupperware plastic.

 

This Fall, I will have four grandchildren in college.  They just grow up so fast.  I remember telling them stories.  I did most of the storytelling because I was good at it and because I couldn’t trust Carol to do it.  Once I heard her telling the story of Cinderella, but she left out any reference to glass slippers.  Cinderella with no slippers?  Where does the woman come up with this garbage?  I asked her why she left out the slipper part, and she replied, “Nobody wears glass slippers.”  Hard to argue with, I suppose.  She was so flippant about the Fairy Tales, that I told her never to tell stories to the grandkids any more.  She always seemed to forget the facts.  Like when she told them a Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t go with brown boots.  Or that The Tortoise and the Hare was about a couple named Michael and Carol.  Or that Beauty and the Beast was about a Princess named Melania. 

 

But her favorite story is Goldilocks and the Three Tables.  It’s about a girl who goes to a restaurant with a party of six and the mean old hostess wants to seat them at a rectangular table.  No, no, says Goldilocks, this table is tooooo square!  Then the mean old hostess tries to seat them at a table for eight.  No, no, says Goldilocks, this table is tooooo big. 

 

When we go to a restaurant now, I never sit down at the first table.  I know better.  I stand peacefully in a corner while Goldilocks and her cronies wander the entire establishment looking for a table that is juuuuust right. 

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul (Hamlet).  My favorite Fairy Tale is Puss in Boots, although I only need three boots.  I actually like when Pops tells me a story when I’m sitting on his lap.  His voice is very soft and kind.  He’s such a good boy.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is flippant which means not showing a serious or respectable attitude.

 

A couple of weeks ago, near the end of the blog, I said I hoped that I brightened your Thursdays.  That’s a pretty slimy way of begging for a compliment, isn’t it?  It was gratifying to learn that none of you would fall for a cheap trick like that.

 

You men know what begging for a compliment is.  It’s when your wife says, “Honey, do you think this dress makes me look fat?”  A husband must either know how to respond to that properly or have a good orthopedic surgeon.

 

Actually, I did receive a few responses that said, “Yes, you do brighten my day.”  Most of them were from my female readers, and I thank them very much.  I wonder if my wife is upset that I talk to so many of my limerick girlfriends via email.  Just to be safe, let’s keep it among ourselves.  If she got mad and stopped picking out my clothes, that would be a bad thing. I’d leave the house half the time looking like Clarabell.  

 

And if you remember Clarabell, you’re my kind of people.  Thanks for visiting with me today.  Stay well and count your blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send Comments to mfox1746@gmail.com