Blog #70

Have you noticed that on every corner, they’re building a new Senior Citizens Residence Center?  Do you know who they’re building them for?  All those people who rode bikes without a helmet when they were kids.  All those people who drank water from a hose, played outside without sunscreen, put butter on their popcorn and rode with nine other kids in the back of the station wagon with no seatbelts.  All those people who played with dirt and acorns and bugs, ate hotdogs every day and swam in the quarry.  And all those people who stared for hours at Howdy Doody and Lash Larue while double-dipping their spoon in the Peter Pan jar.  I wonder how we all made it this far.

But I’m glad we did.  Hi and welcome back.  Hope you are feeling spiffy!  Carol’s out celebrating her birthday for the 23^rd time, so I have some time to chat.  We made it this far, they tell us, by eating healthily.  By “they”, I mean the ever-increasing accumulation of supercilious busybodies who think they know how to run my life. Well, I have a bulletin for them – there is only one person who knows how to run my life.  Carol.   And she does not need your help!

I pay some reluctant lip-service to the Gods of nutrition, but I have to like what I eat, don’t I?  Since Carol’s out, I decided to go to the grocery store and buy some stuff for dinner.  Nothing appealed to me, and I decided if nothing turned me on, I might as well eat something healthy.  I bought a package of zero fat, zero cholesterol veggie hot dogs.  I got home and put them on broil.  While they were so engaged, I sliced up a pickle and splashed a dollop of mustard on a plate and opened a can of sliced pineapple.  My faux frankfurters began to sizzle and I turned them over.  I poured some tea and set up my dish and silverware all ready for a delicious hotdog dinner.  Then I let my little gardenwurst burn a bit and accumulate a black crust.  I have learned an important lesson in life and this is something you should remember.  A burnt carrot tastes the same as a burnt pig.  So I ate my overcooked veggie wieners with pickles and mustard and they were just fine.

There are, however, some things I just cannot abide, one of which is popcorn with no oil and no salt.  It tastes like packing peanuts.

You probably can tell that I love telling stories.  Most of my stories have been told to my grandchildren.  Tyler used to sit on my lap and say, “Poppy, say a onceuponatime.”  I tried telling stories to Carol, but it didn’t work out.  She’d always be working a crossword puzzle, reading a book and Candy Crushing all at the same time and still was able to butt in and correct everything.

Forget that Rapunzel woman.  Nobody wears their hair that long anymore.

Who would name a kid Rumpelstiltskin?  That’s ridiculous.

Seven dwarves?  I think the girl has a fetish.

Glass slippers are out!

The tortoise beats the hare?  That’s stupid.  The damned tortoise is too slow.

Gotta go now.  Thanks for the story.  Next time talk faster.

Maybe I’ll do better telling you a onceuponatime.  Once upon a time, 51 years ago, a skinny little boy (21) married a beautiful girl (21).  They saved her wedding gown for over 30 years thinking their first daughter, Jennifer, would wear it, but Jennifer was taller than her mother.  Besides, a bride wants her own dress.  I’m surmising this, of course, never having been a bride or being in possession of even the smallest sliver of fashion acumen.  (Or is it acu-person now?  They’ve changed everything else.) Anyway, Jennifer got her own wedding gown and we saved that and then there was Abby’s wedding dress and we saved that too.  And that made three. Stephanie was married at a ranch in the wine country of California, and the wedding attire was more blue-jean than white.   

I’m rambling here, but it’s making me think of the time years ago when one of my employees told me her granddaughter was getting married and they were doing everything without spending money.  Grandma was doing the cooking and a friend had offered their house for the reception.  In the spirit, I told her we had three wedding dresses in the cedar closet and I’d be happy to let her granddaughter choose one.  I don’t think it would fit, Grandma said; she’s 8 ½ months pregnant.  Wow, I said, I hope she doesn’t have the baby while she’s walking down the aisle.

The wedding was slightly belated

The bride was already dilated

We sang “Here Comes the Bride

Eight centimeters wide

To get herself wed, then sedated.”

And they all lived happily ever after.  And so, it seems, is my cough.  It has gone on for too long, so I took myself to Dr. Primary for another look-see.  I didn’t get to see the M-D.  I didn’t get to see the P-A or even the R-N.  But I did see the N-P, and she was O-K by M-E.   She was actually terrific, and, in my best Alfonso Bedoya impersonation, I told her, “We don’t need no stinkin’ doctors!”  She gave me a regimen of over-the-counter stuff to take, some in the A-M, some in the P-M.  And I won’t need the E-R.

Or GERITOL.  Do you remember Geritol?  That was the 1950s product advertised to cure iron-poor blood.  It was 12% alcohol, so it really didn’t matter whether it cured anything or not.  I haven’t heard of that since I was a kid.  Back then there was also SERUTAN, which is Natures spelled backwards.  I think it was a laxative, but I was ten then and didn’t care about such things.  Little did I know!  But I did like the backwards-spelling idea.  I think more medicines should be words spelled backwards.  If you’re throwing up, get some FRAB-ON.  If you need an anti-depression medicine, use ELIMS.  Or, if you need a laxative, try POOP.

See, whenever I start talking toilet, it must be time to go, and so it is.  Please come back next week.  I’ll tell you another story if you do.  And in the meantime, stay well and count your blessings. 

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com