Blog #2

I’m back, and, obviously, so are you.  That means you must have liked Blog #1.  Nice!  This may be the start of a long friendship.  And of course it means that my wife was right.  She noodged, cajoled, browbeat, intimidated and thoroughly stampeded me into doing a blog and I (they do call me “stubborn”) resisted and fought and refused.  Until that morning when my granddaughter said, “C’mon, Pops, I can help you.”  Yes, my wife was right.  She usually is.  Sure, I write the songs and the poems.  I even wrote her college papers for her.  And yes, I get more of the Final Jeopardies than she does.  But she’s the one with the brains, if you know what I mean.  And, of course, the looks.

But even though she has the brains, I must admit that I do not like her taste in books.  She and her friends all read the same books, and they all sound the same:  The Dressmaker’s Cousin, The Lieutenant’s Niece, The Butcher’s Son-in-Law, The Bishop’s Third Cousin.  And every book is either a Holocaust book or a book about a poor orphan wretch who has been abused, mistreated, malnourished, drawn, quartered and forced to watch reruns of the Perry Como show.  Even so, the poor wretch always grows up to be something special, like a contestant on The Bachelor.  Holocaust?  Abused children?  Do the women really need to wallow in that much misery just to make them see how great their lives are?  That’s called “schadenfreude”, and it’s a great word, but a pretty depressing way to spend a few hours.  If they want to know how wonderful, stress-free and privileged their lives are, all they have to do is ask their husbands.

I have received a lot of comments regarding Blog #1, all very warm and complementary.  I’m excited!  I have also received my share of “helpful” suggestions.  It’s too long – it’s too short.  It’s too wide – it’s too narrow.  It’s too dark – it’s too light.  You should do it twice a week – you should never do it again.  I appreciate all the help, but for now I’m going to leave it like it is.  I told you I was stubborn.  Carol, that’s my wife, and our friend Betty consistently call me stubborn, and I have finally determined what it is they mean.  A man is “stubborn”, according to them, when he does not do exactly what his wife tells him to do:

Eat some kale. -- I don’t like kale. -- You’re so stubborn.

Read this Holocaust book. -- I don’t like Holocaust books. -- You’re so stubborn.

See what I mean!  It’s pretty simple – if you open your mouth and the first two words you speak are not “Yes Dear”, then you’re stubborn.

We flew home from North Carolina to St. Louis last week and had a layover in Atlanta.  I took a little walk in the airport and came across a Starbuck’s.  That, of course, is not a shock, but I stopped to overhear a few customers ordering their drinks.  Now back in my time –  wait, let’s hold it right here.  I realize that I have readers in my grandchildren’s generation and readers in my daughters’ generation, but I’m pretty sure that the majority of you are in my generation.  And here’s how I can tell:  if you can sing the Dinah Shore Chevrolet jingle, you’re there.  So when I say back in my time, most of you can relate.  Now I’m not a coffee guy, but I do remember when the only choices when ordering coffee were:

            Black                                      Cream, no sugar

            Sugar, no cream                 Cream and sugar

Just four.  Then came the world-shattering and confusing new option:  Decaf.  Overnight the menu went from four choices to eight, sending many insomniacs into asylums with overworked synapses.  Now – well, the permutations are incalculable.  I heard one lady order a large decaf mocha Frappuccino, two pumps, split quad shots, one raw sugar, two short sprinkles of cinnamon, no whip.  It took longer to order it than to drink it.  It took this lady one hundred yards of walking down the airport concourse to finish the drink.  And what do you know – there was another Starbuck’s, perfectly placed to reel her in for another shot.  I grabbed a napkin to blow my nose and headed back to my seat.

When I got to the gate, I spotted a trash grouping which had five containers – paper, plastic, cans, old Neil Diamond albums and landfill.  I was perplexed, but I decided a snot-filled napkin qualified as landfill.  I reached for the container and noticed a green LED shining from the top.  I paid no attention, but when I reached to push the little door open, it opened by itself.  Cool, I thought, but to what purpose?  Maybe they presume we are too weak to push a ¼ inch sheet of aluminum open?  No, I get it now – it’s so you don’t have to touch the container.  Right, avoid the germs.  This is a perfect thing to have in an airport so that you can throw your stuff away without risking contact with a germ and then spend two hours in a closed metal tube with 250 people coughing and sneezing and inundating you with pathogens for every communicable disease known to the human race.  Makes sense to me.

Thank God you did not touch the trash.

                                    But you’ll still get the mumps and a rash

                                    You’ll get plague, you’ll get flu

                                    And a hemorrhoid or two.          

And besides that– we might even crash.

But at least you didn’t touch the container.  Thank you for flying Southwest Airlines.

I guess I’m finished here, but before you click off, I want you to do two things for me.  First, go to the upper right of the blog and enter your Email in the box that says “Follow Blog by Email”; then click “Submit” and you will be notified automatically every time I post a new blog.  Can you handle that?  Good.  Second, I want you to take a deep breath and sing the Dinah Shore Chevrolet song.  C’mon, I know you can do it.  Nobody’s listening.  Sing it loud.  It’ll make you feel young again.  C’mon!  No?  You won’t do that for me?  You’re so stubborn.

And, hey!  Don’t forget to tell everybody you know about the blog.  The more, the better.

 

Stay well.  See you next week.

Michael