Blog #52

(Fifty-two)   (52)   (LII)  – it doesn’t matter how you write it, it means we’ve been doing this for a whole year.  Can you believe it’s a year already?  Have you been around through all 52 episodes?  I remember that after writing the first two or three blogs, I began to wonder how I would ever find anything else to say.  Apparently, however, I have turned out to be considerably wordier than any of us could have imagined.

Sometimes, when I’m looking for something to share with you, I just review local news stories from around the country.  There’s always something interesting.  In Kentucky, for example, cattle are dying from “frothy bloat”, a condition they get from eating too much clover, and the US Department of Agriculture has agreed to reimburse them for their losses.  What?  The Dept. of Agriculture (which means your tax dollars) is going to reimburse farmers because their cows got sick from eating too much clover?  Just think about that for a while.  What has this country come to?  Are we supposed to collect as much taxes as we can and use them to make sure no American (or illegal immigrant for that matter) has a bad day?  Oh, your cow got sick?  I’m so sorry.  I’ll use some tax money from someone who has never heard of you to buy you a new cow.  Just vote for me in the next election.

In other news, a North Dakota public golf course has taken a new approach to keeping the course clear of weeds – goats.  The goats graze on the weeds and everybody’s fat and happy.  Hey, why don’t we send the goats down to Kentucky so they can eat the clover that’s making their stupid cows sick.  Think of all the money that will save.  You just need to think outside the box.  Or the goat.               

I saw a truck on the highway this morning.  It said Brightfield Casket Company.  On the back it read, “Drive safely.  We can wait.”  Actually, I have another thing they could write on the back of the casket truck:

You can die from electrical shocks

Or the flu or the flux or the pox

But we’ll be your friend

When it comes to the end

Cause we’re thinking INSIDE the box.

Hi there and welcome back.  Did you watch the Academy Awards?  I really had no interest, but I did walk in while Carol was watching, and I noticed one thing:  Luke Skywalker is fat!  I was horrified!  Obi-Wan fed you well, young Skywalker.  May the lasagna be with you.

I was in a restaurant washroom the other day.  I had just washed my hands and was looking for something to dry them.  Aha, a towel dispenser!  Thank goodness!  I hate those hot-air things.  I always say they just turn the cold water on my hands into hot water on my hands.  But no, this was an actual towel dispenser.  So I started to wave my hands under the thing.  I waved until I began to feel like Toscanini.  I got through Beethoven’s 5^th and The Nutcracker Suite before I realized that all I had to do was reach underneath and pull a paper-towel out.  I felt sillier than a man wearing shoes that don’t match.  I think I’ve done that one about three times.    

I am reading a book about the United States Merchant Marine.  Of course, that doesn’t surprise you.  In it, I learned that the phrase used to describe the captain of a Merchant Marine vessel is the “undisputed master of any gross tons upon oceans”.  I, in my own home, am the undisputed master of precisely nothing.  Last week I dressed up to go out for dinner with friends.  Nice shirt, sweater, slacks, two shoes that matched, two socks that matched (well, you never know).  I presented my sartorially splendid self to my wife who instantaneously forbade me to leave the house

What?  Forbidden? What kind of pusillanimous worm does she think I am?  I’m a man! I can do what I want and no woman is going to push me around.

Not one of the above thoughts actually entered my head.  I said, “Yes, Dear” and marched my 50-year-married and highly trained rear-end back to my alcove that my wife lovingly calls “your closet” to change every piece of my wardrobe.  But I still think I can do whatever I want any time I want.  Can’t I?

How tall are you?  No, no, don’t lie to me.  And don’t bring out your driver’s license either.  You lied on that too.  Admit it, you’re shorter than you were when you were nineteen.  Every time you go for a physical, they measure your height.  For two months before your appointment you let your hair grow longer so you have an extra cushion of fluff on your head.  You wear the thickest socks you can find.  Then you stretch and strive and lift your heels – and still you’re half an inch shorter than the last time.  It’s inevitable.  Get over it.  You didn’t want to go on that roller-coaster ride anyway -- you know, the one where you have to be taller than Minnie Mouse?  Just start memorizing the words to Follow the Yellow Brick Road and live with it.  Those slacks look better anyway with a little break on your shoes.

When Zach, my oldest grandson, was ten and grew out of his clothes, they put the clothes aside for my next-oldest, Tyler, who was six.  When he was ten they passed down to his brother Austin who was then six, and then lastly to Parker, my youngest grandson.  When he is ten and grows out of those same trustworthy clothes, they will come to me.  By that time, I’ll be three-foot-seven.

Well, this is the end of the 52^nd blog we have shared -- a whole year of stories, musings, rantings, poems, confessions and picking on my wife.  She doesn’t mind.  There was one blog where I didn’t mention her at all and she was so pissed she forbade me to leave the house.  I’ve had tremendous fun writing to you.  I hope you have had fun too.  What do you say, let’s do it for another year!  I’ll be back next week.  Hope you’ll be there too.  Stay well.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com