Blog # 12

My wife likes to keep up to date with all the new technical stuff.  I’m just the opposite.  I use a paper calendar, not my phone.  I use scratch paper for notes, not my phone.  The highest technological level I have ever reached is changing to Daylight Savings Time.  And you know I was dragged kicking and screaming into this blog thing.  But, to be honest, I’m glad I did it.  I like talking to you. You must like it too, because you’re back.  Welcome.  I hope you’re all doing well.  So, my wife now has different sounds on her phone for different things.  When she gets a text, the phone makes a doorbell noise.  Ding-Dong.  That’s annoying.  Now she has an ap that reminds her to drink a glass of water every two hours.  That noise is the sound of gushing water.  I can be reading in the evening and these ding-dongs and waterfalls are going off in the room.  I don’t know whether I have visitors or diarrhea.

Now she has an Alexa.  Great – another woman’s voice I have to listen to.  I’d really like to have the voice changed to sound like an English butler.  Carson, call my daughter in California.  “Yes, Sir, I will make that connection expeditiously.”  Wouldn’t that be great?   I love that old style English.  That’s why I have read all of Dickens’ books.  Where I said in the first paragraph that I like writing to you, Dickens would say, “If my readers have derived but half the pleasure and interest from its perusal, which its composition afforded me, I have ample reason to be gratified.”   Ooo, talk British to me!

I know that Dickens is hard to read because the language has changed so much since the 1840s.  Heck, the language constantly changes.  The way we spoke in the 1950s isn’t the same as it is now.  There are new phrases and meanings and usages.  Some are great, but there are some of them I don’t like, like “like”.  Teens seem to use the word “like” as every third word of their vocabulary.  Give me like Dickens like any time.  Like.

I’ve figured out why I love working at the Zoo.  It’s the only place I’m not lost, it’s the only place where someone actually listens to what I have to say, and it’s quieter than it is at home.  Last week I found a kindergarten class sitting on the ground, each child studying the brightly-colored Zoo map.  I asked the teachers what they wanted to see and two little girls screamed “flamingos”.  So I gave them directions to our lovely pink birds, then asked, “Do you want to hear a story about flamingos?”  I instantly had 14 cherubic little faces staring up at me and I proceeded to tell them my flamingo story, which, although possibly apocryphal, is cute.  The brief version is that when pink flamingos were first brought to the Zoo, they were fed fish and grain and normal bird stuff and after a while they turned white.  Nobody wanted to see a white flamingo and the zoo people were puzzled.  Finally they discovered that flamingos are pink because they eat shrimp and absorb the red coloring from the shrimp shells.  When they don’t eat shrimp they turn white, and sure enough, when their diet was changed to shrimp they turned pink and beautiful and everybody was happy, except the shrimp.  I finished the story and the little girl closest to me stuck her smiling gap-toothed face two inches from mine and said, “Can we just stay with you?”  I guess I just have a knack.

And speaking of kids, Austin, my 7-yr-old grandson, had a baseball game this week.  There I was, in the first inning, sitting in a comfy chair next to the bleachers when a 99-year-old woman in a wheel chair was rolled up next to me.  I guess they thought I was the geriatric section.  She sat there giving her best imitation of Mt. Rushmore until her grandson, or maybe great-grandson came up to bat. The first pitch was called a strike, at which point this ancient woman snapped out of her catatonic stupor and yelled, “Strike my butt!”  You’re always a kid at a baseball game.

And speaking of baseball, I’m a Cardinals fan.  The St. Louis Cardinals, not the Vatican City Cardinals, although they might have a baseball team too.  Who knows?  Wouldn’t it be fun to have the two teams play each other?  The Pope could throw out the first pitch, bless the umpires and sell Pope-Corn and indulgences in the stands.  I think the Pontifical Cardinals would be pretty certain of victory:

The St. Louis Cardinals? Who cares!

They sin and they make lots of errors.

They don’t have a hope

Cause we play for the Pope:

Lots of hits, lots of runs, lots of prayers.

Wow, I had to work pretty hard to set that one up!  Sometimes, when I’m writing and looking for the right word or phrase, I get up and begin to pace forth and back.  It’s impossible, of course, to pace back and forth.  To go back, you must already have left the place you are going back to.  And that act of leaving is what is called going forth.  So you have to go forth first.  In a similar vein, no-one can jump up and down.  Once you jump up, you cannot jump down – you can only fall down.  So people, when excited, are actually jumping up and falling down.  Or running forth and back.  Got it?

Time for a mystery.  I ran into a woman today who has a twin.  She said, “My twin sister was born at 1:15 a.m. and I was born at 1:55 a.m. of the same Autumn morning.  But I am the older.”  How can that be?  Answer later.

Another grandson, Tyler, graduated 5^th grade.  The ceremony highlighted 72 little 11-year-olds, each giving a four or five sentence speech.  Was I bored!  No, I was amazed.  They were bright and poised and happy and ready to take on the world.    They were black, white, Hispanic, Indian, Chinese, Korean. After hearing all of them, I actually felt better about the future of this country than I had before.  Of course, then I came home, turned on the news and lost all hope.

Ok, here’s the answer: it was the night that Daylight Savings Time ended.  The speaker was born first at 1:55 a.m. Daylight Time, then at 2:00 the time reverted to 1:00 a.m.  Then the sister was born at 1:15 a.m. Standard Time.  And speaking of time, I can just see you pacing forth and back so it must be time to end.  A friend of mine, Francie, told me that she loved my blog, but it was long. Well, maybe it is, but stay with it, friends.  Everything that’s really good is long.  But this one’s long enough, so thanks for coming.  See you next week.

Michael

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Blog #11

This morning I filled my pockets with all the things a man must carry.  I have no purse, you see, so everything has to go in the pockets.  Keys, reading glasses, sun glasses, money, cell phone, gum (I like spearmint), ibuprofen in case I get a headache, aspirin in case I have a heart attack, lip ice and a handkerchief.  I don’t need a purse; I need a kangaroo.  The handkerchief I chose today had a monogrammed N.  I got a package of these as a Father’s Day gift a few years ago from Jennifer, my North Carolina daughter.  I always need handkerchiefs and I thanked my daughter.  Then I noticed the monogram.  No N appears in my first, middle or last name, and I told her it was the wrong monogram.  “Oh, that’s what that is!” she replied.  Four years of Duke and three years of Washington University Law School down the drain

Welcome back.  I have a question to ask you.  Have you ever spent a night in a hospital?  There’s not much worse, I think, than a night in the hospital when you’re sick and alone.  When your only companions are things that beep.  When your night nurse has the brains of a house slipper. When the simple act of going to the bathroom requires as much engineering as the digging of the Panama Canal.  When you are wrapped in mankind’s most annoying invention – the hospital gown.  And when you may or may not have a fever.

The last time I was in a hospital the nurses would come to take my temp several times a day.  It was always 37 or 39.  Now I knew that was in Centigrade, but I wondered why.  Was I in France, Guatemala, Abu Dhabi?  No, I was in the USA, where the meteorologists tell us the forecast in Fahrenheit.  Where every recipe, every oven, every toaster contraption is calibrated in Fahrenheit.  Where water  freezes at 32 and boils at 212.  So why is my nurse trying to confuse me?  If the medical community wants to conduct their affairs in the Wonderful World of Metric, great.  I don’t care.  But I would like to know what my temperature is.  Being a math nerd, I knew the conversion, but what if I didn’t or if I made a mistake?  When she told me my temperature was 39, I did the calculation and got 103.  I’m dying!  But just to make sure, I asked feverishly and politely, “What’s that in Fahrenheit?”  She didn’t know.  I asked the other nurse.  She didn’t know either.  I was too sick to yell, but really – is that nuts?  Either train the nurse or put a chart on the wall.  This isn’t the Peace Corps; it’s Missouri.  Tell me what my temperature is!  One night they told me my weight was 78.  Now that I didn’t mind.

I know I give you the impression that I’m sickly; that I’m in the hospital all the time.  That’s not true at all, and even though I have lived seven decades and have had my share of medical experiences, I’m as healthy as a horse.

To say I’m unfit is a crime

I’m pretty good most of the time

The truth is, of course,

I’m fit as a horse --

That’s 68 years past its prime.

I read this in the paper the other day:

Americans are working longer hours but also sleeping more and watching more TV, a new survey found.

So they’re working more hours, sleeping more hours, watching TV more hours.  What are they giving up?  They’re certainly not giving up eating.  Have you walked in a mall lately?  I hope they’re not giving up reading Limerick Oyster.

Recently I got a deal from eBay.  If I listed something for sale and sold it for more than $25 by a certain date, they would give me a $50 PayPal gift certificate.  So I did and I got the certificate.  It expired in only a few days, and I began to ponder about what to buy.  I mean, it’s the World of eBay!!  Every possible item made or conceived or saved or dug up by the human race since the dawn of civilization is on eBay.  I have my choice from vast and unlimited selections of electronics, art, fashion, household items, sporting goods, vacations, automotive, luxury, jewelry, collectibles, investments, nostalgia, antiques, futuristic, leisure – Twinkies, false teeth, rubber bands, ANYTHING!  They even had some nice handkerchiefs monogrammed with an N, but I have enough of those. So what did Mr. Exciting decide to buy from this unbounded emporium of riches, this galactic cornucopia of wonders, this magnificent market of marvels?  A year’s supply of fiber pills.  It is a sad and curious life, isn’t it?  Fiber pills. 

Yes, it can be a sad and curious life, but I think my wife and I have found our place in it.  I was recently asked to pick a famous couple that we, as a couple, resemble.   One of those pointless wastes of cranial energy we call a Carol Question.  Like -- “Would you rather be an ugly tall-person or a beautiful midget?”  Right, that one kept me up at night.  Anyway, famous couple.  Let’s see – George and Gracie?  I hate cigars.  Lucy and Desi?  My wife doesn’t have red hair.  Bill and Hillary?  Pants suits are out.  Brad and Angelina?  Who am I kidding?  I finally decided we most resemble Rocky and Bullwinkle.  Carol would be Rocky of course.  Rocky was small and fast and smart and made all the decisions.  Bullwinkle was loyal and steady and goofy, always getting it wrong, always getting in trouble, always getting lost.  What does a moose eat?

Ok, this is the time for my apologia.  I used the word “midget”.  Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I just don’t have the energy to keep up with all the political correctness in the universe.  This is your 11^th adventure into my world, so by now you know I bear no ill will to any human or beast (other than nurses who can’t change Centigrade to Fahrenheit).  I would have said “man or beast” just now but then I would be in trouble for that.  It’s too much for one poor old slob to remember.  So hate me, if you must.

And speaking of this poor old slob’s ability to remember, I do not remember where I ate dinner last Saturday night.  I certainly cannot remember what I ordered or what I was wearing.  My wife can tell you the restaurant, the dish she ordered and what she wore every Saturday night for the last twenty years.  I’m serious.  But not me.  I can only sometimes remember where I parked.  But ask me the words to any song by The Coasters, The Four Tops or The Beatles – I’m all over it.  Why is that?  “Take out the papers and the trash or you don’t get no spending cash.”  Go on, finish it.  I’ll wait.  Oops, I forgot it’s time to end for this week.

Stay well.  See you next week.

Bullwinkle

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Blog #10

We all love to eat.  We all love to go to fancy restaurants and try new things.  I’ve had ostrich (tastes like chicken), wart-hog (tastes like pork), kangaroo (tastes like chicken).  I wonder what an Australian would say the first time he tried chicken.  “Tastes like kangaroo,” I suppose.  In each of those forays into adventuresome eating, however, I knew what I was getting.  But in some of these chi-chi joints, I haven’t a clue.  A few weeks ago we went to a new place.  It was beautiful; the food was colorful and architecturally impressive, built into little hills and balls.  And then I looked at the menu and found this:

Cassoulet in choux pastry glazed in a cumin and mint ratatouille and topped with a chiffonade of Brussels sprouts, arugula and (of course) kale.

Did you know there is no such thing as arugula?  Arugula is actually the sound someone makes when trying to swallow a Brussels sprout.  Back to the cassoulet:  I had no idea what this stuff was and I was not about to order a wart-hog in a poke.  Restaurant people, listen up.  Tell me what I’m getting – in some form of English I can understand.  I don’t really care if the food is parboiled, blanched or bruised; just tell me what it is.  Truthfully, some of the food at these places is exotic to read and sumptuous to look at.  But eat?  Arugula!

This fancy new restaurant was neat

I sat in a comfortable seat

I admired the venue

Then read the whole menu

And couldn’t find one thing to eat.

And what, in God’s name, is a reduction!

There’s a new trend called sologamy (rhymes with monogamy).  Sologamy is the practice of choosing yourself as a spouse.  I am very pleased and totally proud to say I don’t get it.  All I know is that if I had told my mother I was getting married to myself, she would have said, “That’s nice, Dear.  At least you’re marrying someone Jewish.”  What kind of gift do you give at a sologamous wedding?  A mirror?  Batteries?

I have determined what the scourge of my grandchildren’s generation will be.  No, they will not succumb to eye disease from watching screens for hours each day.  And no, their muscles will not atrophy from lack of exercise.  The great epidemic looming in our youngsters’ future is sunscreen poisoning.  A child of today can’t even get near a window without his mother holding him up by his ankle like Achilles and dipping him into a vat of zinc oxide mixed with titanium dioxide.  That’s what sunscreen is made of.  Watch their diet, make them eat kale, seatbelt them in, hold their hand all the way to school – and then dunk them in industrial poison. 

Did you know there are no birds in Guam?  Am I not just a bottomless cornucopia of useless what-nots?  That’s probably why you come back each week.  Welcome back, by the way.  I hope you’re doing fine.  Well, it’s true – about the birds in Guam, I mean.  There aren’t any.  About ninety years ago a family of tree-snakes snuck off a ship and invaded the island.  They multiplied, proliferated and ate all the birds.  Are the snakes “bad”?  They’re just doing what they were created to do – eat birds and make more snakes.  And what about us?  We’re just another species doing what we were created to do – shoot any animal we see and place its head above the fireplace, burn down entire forests to make room for a Bed, Bath and Beyond, dip our children into industrial poison, leave plastic garbage on every square inch of the planet, and make more people.  We are such a successful species that we are likely to force all the other species to extinction.  Pretty soon the Earth will have just people.  And mosquitoes.  And a few sad leftovers in a few sad zoos living in cages and watching women spread Coppertone 50 on their triplets.   Bummer.

May is National Older Americans Month.  I think most of them forgot.

The other day I was looking through some old pictures.  Remember pictures?  We used to take pictures of our families standing in front of the World’s Biggest Ketchup Bottle or just being cute on the couch.  I have travelled with picture-crazy  people who insist on having a waiter take a picture of the four of us at every restaurant  – breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Anyway, we used to have these pictures “developed”; then we’d put them in a scrapbook or throw them in a basket.  Now everybody keeps their pictures on their phones and printed pictures are as rare as birds on Guam.  But I still have my basket of old pics.  You should go look through your old pictures some time.  I bet I can predict exactly what you’ll say when you look at yourself ten or twenty or thirty years ago.  All you women will say, “OMG – look at my hair!”  And all you men will say, “I still have that shirt.”

Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Consort to the Queen of England is retiring from his public duties after 65 years of princing and consorting.  And what, you might ask, are all these princely duties from which he is stepping down?  Well, Philip’s complete portfolio of duties consists of standing behind the Queen and being her Insignificant Other.  I understand, Philip old chap.  I’ve been doing the same thing for almost 50 years.  The only difference is that your Queen is richer, older and more famous than mine.  Plus you have more medals.  I actually think he is retiring from public exposure because that jacket with the twenty pounds of medals is too heavy.  Come to think of it, I don’t have any medals.  Don’t I deserve one for 50 years of devoted service?  The Supreme Order of the Husband!  It should be beige (for insignificance) with the Latin words “votum est mandatum meum” (“your wish is my command”) emblazoned across the bottom and the semblance of a closet door with a big X over it.  A few weeks ago, my granddaughter Charley was over and she wanted something.  I said it’s in my closet.  She said, “You have a closet?”  She’s learning fast.  As for Philip, my man, well he can retire with this small comfort – they also serve who only stand and tinkle.  The medals, I mean. 

And one more of those useless what-nots.  A few hundred years ago, farmers took the wild cabbage and began to breed certain strains and, just like dog breeders, developed different looking cabbage varieties.  Included are broccoli, cauliflower, kale and, of course, Brussels sprouts.  Arugula!

Ok, I’ve reached my limit and you probably have too.  Please come back next week.  I like talking to you.  And stay well.

Michael

If you get this emailed to you automatically, it is coming from Blogspot.  If you click “Reply”, you wind up sending your comments to Blogspot, not to me.  They don’t care about you at Blogspot, but I do, so send your comments to my email.

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Blog #9

Number 9?  We’ve been doing this for nine weeks?  Let’s see:  52 divided by 12, square the hypotenuse, multiply by seven – that’s over two months.  Thank you for your loyalty and patience.  Let’s talk about old people.  I seem to do that a lot, but giraffes have giraffes, apples grow on apple trees and old people talk about old people.

For instance, I’m sure you have noticed that old folks, to a large degree, are slow drivers, and I want to explain to you why we are.  It’s not that our eyes are blurred or our reflexes are poor.  And it’s not because our cars are old and decrepit.  The real reason we drive slowly is that we are no longer in a hurry.  Where do we have to go, Walgreens?  It can wait.  When you’re young you want everything to come fast.

·        I can’t wait till I get rich.

·        I can’t wait till my kids are grown and I have some time to myself.

·        Just ten more years and I’ll have it made.

·        Just ten more years!  I can’t wait.  I can’t wait.

Well, what young people are waiting for is exciting – success, freedom, prestige.  I have never heard a senior say, “Just ten more years and I’ll have it made.”  We can wait.  We have nothing else to do but wait.  Besides, what could I possibly be looking forward to in ten years – Caitlyn becoming Bruce again?  So what difference does it really make if I miss that green light?  I’ll just get to the Dollar Store thirty seconds later.  So don’t honk at slow drivers.  Relax, slow down, take a breath.  One of these days you won’t be in such a hurry any more.

If you’re driving behind someone slow,

It’s likely an old person, so

Don’t get red in the face;

We just drive at this pace

Because we have no place to go.

But I do have to make a confession about my driving -- I have a tendency to pass up where I’m going if I’m talking.  I really never could do two things at the same time.  I can’t read with the television on and I can’t talk and drive at the same time.  I miss the turn every time.  So when I drive alone (nobody to talk to), I’m fine, but when someone’s in the car, I mess up. Always.  I look at it this way: even though I can only do one thing at a time, at least I can do one thing at a time.  So far. 

Ok, confessions are over, limerick is done.  How are you doing?  I’m fine, but I must admit I’m a little aggravated.  My wife has the television on all the time, and it’s just one continuous and cacophonous stream of talking heads.  Today they were talking about playing games with your young kids, and the conclusion was that, after the age of 4, it’s bad for the kids if you let them win at Crazy 8s or ping pong.  Where do they get these people?  And what right do they have to tell us how to raise our kids? These are the same pompous busybodies who for years have been telling us that there shouldn’t be any winners or losers in children’s sports.  That no-one should keep score.  That everyone should get a trophy.  That no child should have his self-esteem damaged by being on a losing team.  Now these same bobbleheads are telling us to beat the crap out of our five-year-olds at ping pong.  Did they go to college to learn this preposterous drivel?  How is a child ever going to get interested in anything if he fails every time he tries it?  “Oh, Honey, you really tried hard even though I beat you 21-0 for the 19^th time today. Wanna play again?”  What monumental idiocy!  Of course I let my girls win at cards, at ping pong, at baseball. They were five or six or seven.  Do you think they would have been anxious to play again if every time they played, their old Dad would beat their butts and chuckle?

A couple of weeks ago I went to a funeral of a sweet lady named Margie.  It was a lovely service.  I saw a bunch of you there and I know exactly what you were thinking.  “Will this many people be at my funeral?  Should I be in an open casket? What should I wear?  What are they going to say about me?”  Well of course they will say nice things about you – I promise.  Have you ever heard anything that wasn’t nice?  Like: “My mother-in-law was an old witch and I’m going to make sure they bury her deep enough so she can’t claw her way out.”  Of course you haven’t, but I’m not taking any chances.  I wrote my own funeral.  Really, I did, and it’s sealed in an envelope with instructions to have it guarded by anybody except Faye Dunaway.  I’m serious.  It’s all written and ready to go.  Don’t miss it.

My daughter Jennifer has always been a big football fan and plays in a Fantasy Football league every year.  She just told me the league has changed its scoring rules for next season.  You get six points if your player scores a touchdown, nine points for a DWI, thirteen points for beating up a girlfriend and twenty points if he is convicted of murder.  Let the games begin.

I try every week to make this blog fit into three pages.  Remember pages?  We used to have pages to measure the size of a book or an article or a spectacularly clever and humorous blog.  Most likely you are reading this on your smart-phone or iPad.  You start at the top and, if you have the stomach for it, read to the end.  There are no pages.  My wife reads books on her iPad, and when I ask her what page she is on, she replies, “I’m 30% through.”  Now I suppose that’s informative, but it sounds so – modern.  It’s like something my grandchildren would say: “Oh, Poppy, you silly old man, there are no pages anymore.”  And yet, every week I look at my blank computer screen and realize that I have to fill up three pages, about 1150 words, with something that will entertain you.  And boy are you tough!  When I’m finished and have posted the blog, I print out those three little pages and stack them with the previous installments.  Silly?  Old fashioned?  Retro?  Guilty!  But when Kim Jong Whatever hacks into our internet and Kentucky fries all of our computers, there I’ll be – with all my pages.  So if your computer starts smoking and smelling like Kimchi, just come over to my house and I’ll read to you right from the beginning.

And that’s it – three pages.  I hope you enjoyed.  Come back next week or just come over to the house for my post-apocalyptic reading.  Either way, stay well.

Michael

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Blog #8

Welcome back.  How are you?  I’m good.  You know, I have many friends who are doctors, my son-in-law is a doctor and all my doctors are doctors.  And I have great respect for their dedication and for the time and effort they invested to earn their degrees.  Having said that, I have a little bone to pick with doctors.  And it ain’t no metatarsal.  My wife and I belong to a country club and in the lobby there is a big board with a list of all the members.  The names are in alphabetical order: John Ames, Frederick Atwater, Rocky Balboa, etc.  But any member who is a doctor has an MD after his name.  You have every right to be proud of what you have accomplished, but this is a country club -- a group of folks who want to get together to eat, drink and play golf  -- and nobody gives a rat’s divot if you are a doctor or not.  Yes, you’re successful and rich and highly trained and all that, but so is a plumber or an accountant or a guy who sells ice-melt, but you don’t see their professions plastered after their names.  And some members have DDS after their name.  Seriously?  One guy even has DVM.  Now that’s insulting.  And bottom line, nobody cares what you are.  You’re just Fred or Joe or Sally.  Take all those letters away from your name and put up your handicap instead.  Then we’ll see how proud you are.

Now I hope all you doctors, dentists, and dog-groomers out there don’t get mad at me, especially Dr. Ken who just went above and beyond to do me a generous and caring favor.  I know what the MD stands for after his name – Mighty Decent.

Last night my wife went out to dinner with “the girls”.  It was Happy Hour at the gas station or something.  For a bunch of old women who can barely tolerate half a glass of wine, they sure don’t miss a Happy Hour.  Which makes me think of cemeteries.  You probably have figured out by now that I have a warped and unpredictable thought process.  Some people have a train of thought; I have a train wreck.  Anyway, it occurs to me that most people really don’t want to trudge out in the weather to visit an old grave in a depressing cemetery.  I sure don’t.  So here’s the light bulb!  Let’s bury our loved ones indoors, in a big warehouse, and then turn it into a bar.  Every night we could have a special memorial time called Sad Hour where we pay respects to Grandma and eat half-priced calamari at the same time.  Hey, that’s where I want to be when I’m gone.  At least I know my widow will be thinking of me over a chilled Chardonnay and a fried artichoke.  “C’mon, girls, I need a drink; let’s go visit what’s his name.”   And she could drink a toast to my memory while laying shrimp tails and empty mussel shells on my plaque.  We’ll call the place “Shots & Plots” or “Tears with Beers” or something goofy  like that.  I told you I was warped.

But that’s ok.  I mean, what are we here for anyway?  To have fun?  To make money?  No, I think we’re here to leave a part of ourselves in the memories of others.  Your loved ones still live in the memories you have of them; you know they do.  And you will live in the memories you leave behind:

“Wasn’t Grandma terrific!”

“I remember how Grandpa used to play baseball with me.”

“My Mom was such a good cook!”

“My Dad had a warped and unpredictable thought process.”

Well, some memories are better than others.

You know, there are some things I just don’t do.  I do not eat kale; I do not drink alcohol; and I do not fish.  I had dinner the other night with my friend Harmon and he asked me to go fishing with him.  “I’ll go,” I said, “but I won’t fish.  I don’t feel the need to torture little animals just because I have nothing else to do.”  He assured me that the hook really doesn’t hurt the fish, so I told him that when I see him stick a hook through his own upper lip, pull it out and smile – then I’ll go fishing.  I have not heard from him since.

The other day I was with my nine-year-old granddaughter, Charley.  She was practicing being grown up by putting on some lipstick.  She looked up, struck a pose and said, “I’m just like Nonnie.”   I told her, “You’re a very lucky little girl if you’re just like Nonnie.”  And she replied, “That’s cause I get to marry someone like you.”  It was all I could do to keep from collapsing into a puddle.

I had to ask Google whether “nine-year-old” should have hyphens.  I love Google.  Anything you want to know is right there.  It’s wonderful.  Before there was Google, there was my big brother.  He knew everything.  If we were sitting around wondering what Queen Elizabeth carried in her purse, we would just call Uncle Ricky.  He would always know.  Now we have Google and we don’t have him.  I miss him.  By the way, Lizzy has lipstick, handkerchief, a £10 note to place as an offering at Church on Sunday and a little suction cup with a hook.  She takes it out of her purse, moistens it with spit and then sticks it to the underside of the table.  She then hangs her purse on the hook.  Really!  If you don’t believe me, call my brother.

The big news today was that 41% of Americans are obese.  I thought we had gotten past those harsh, accusatory words like “obese”.  We don’t say “illegal aliens” any more.  Now it’s “undocumented immigrants”.  We don’t use “handicapped”, substituting “challenged” instead.  It’s time we got rid of the hateful word “obese”.  I have a modest suggestion:

When words are just too filled with hate

A substitute term we’ll create,

So from now on we’ll cease

Calling people “obese”;

We’ll just say they’re “short for their weight”.

Did you know that 41% of Americans are short for their weight?  I’ll bet you thought you were going to get out of here without a limerick.  Not a chance. 

And speaking of politically correct phrases makes me think of my Dad.  He was brought up in the 20s and 30s and had to struggle sometimes to adapt to the new terminology.  In 1994 when Nelson Mandela became President of South Africa, my Dad said to me, “What do you think about South Africa electing an African-American president?”  I replied, “Dad, he’s not an African-American; he’s an African-African.”  He smiled.  And I hope you smiled a little while reading this.

Stay well and come back next week.

Michael

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