Blog #77

Labor Day is next Monday, and although Summer doesn’t officially end for three more weeks, Labor Day marks the end of swimming season.  I like going to the pool.  I sit and read and get hot, then I dip in to cool off.  The hotter I get, the more delightfully delicious the cool water feels.

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, take my grandkids places.  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 golf, 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.

An Oregon man was recently sentenced to spend 130 days in jail for the federal offense of harassing a bison.  Do you think I made that up?  Nope, that’s direct from the Bozeman (MT) Daily Chronicle.  Even I am not wacky enough to make that up.  In a plea bargain, the magistrate dropped the lesser charges of molesting a moose, cuddling a caribou, aggravating an elk and flashing a beaver. 

Here’s another story I did not make up and one of my favorites.  It happened in 2007.  You might remember the story.  It involved an astronaut named Lisa Nowak who drove 950 miles non-stop from Houston to Orlando because she needed to confront a woman rival whom she suspected of stealing the affections of her boyfriend, a fellow astronaut.  The juicy part of the story was that on the trip she wore adult diapers so she wouldn’t have to stop.  Maybe “juicy” was a bad choice of words.  Anyway, it was a pretty shocking and salacious story and got a lot of press at the time.  Well, I couldn’t resist:

To follow the man she sought,

She went to the store and bought

A box of Depends

It’s perfect, my friends

To cover your astronaut.

I know -- I’m weird.  I am the Walrus, Coo-Coo-Ka-Choo. 

Hi there.  Welcome back.  Hope you had a nice week and are feeling fine.  I am feeling fine now, but do you remember earlier in the month when my heart started to race about 9:00 one night?  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 have since found out that 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.  Well, 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, being an irreverent smart-ass, 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 – well, I can’t come up with anything lovable about a chicken.  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 (interesting phrase), 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”.

I passed a drug-rehab center today and there was a sign on the lawn that said, KEEP OFF THE GRASS.  Have you ever had a bad habit that was hard to break?  Maybe even an addiction?  I used to smoke, but I don’t do that anymore.  It was easy to stop – the 86^th time.  I used to drink, but I don’t do that either.  There’s one thing to remember about bad habits or addictions -- just because you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

Time to go now.  Have a happy and safe Labor Day.  Stay well, count your blessings and keep off the grass.   And Deb, I didn’t talk about anything morbid this week.  See, I listen.   Come back next week, everyone.  Who knows what I’m going to say?  Don’t miss it; it might be about you. 

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #76

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 have told you many times that I know nothing about cars or anything else mechanical.  I only know about useless stuff – like Edgar Allen Poe or chemistry.  Here’s some chemistry:  Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says, 'I've lost my electron.' The other says 'Are you sure?' The first replies, 'Yes, I'm positive.'  See?  Useless!

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 51 years.  I’ve told you that, haven’t I?  Fifty-one years is a long, long time.  I'm fatter now than I was fifty-one years ago, but she’s still the same weight.  I'm shorter now than I was fifty-one years ago, but she’s still the same height.  I'm much older-looking now than I was fifty-one years ago, but she still looks the same.  Fifty-one 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 asbestos cookies.  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 (there’s that pesky chemistry again) 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.

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.  I’ve got one picked out for you next week that you’ll like.  Don’t let me forget.

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. 

The other night, Carol had the Dancing thing on the TV, and, because the washing machine was going as well, she had the volume way up.  I cannot tolerate uncontrolled cacophony, so I headed for the bedroom, closed the door, plumped my little pillow and began to read.  I had not finished a page and a half before the TV Monster invaded my peace and instantly turned on Dancing With The Stars in the bedroom.  I was horrified!  Where could I escape?  I decided to shower.  I left the bedroom, holding my ears, and traipsed to the shower, turned on the faucet, took off my clothes and stepped in to the warm rush of soothing water.  The beads of moisture had barely begun to form on my skin when the Noise Fairy followed me like some psychopathic Pac Man creature and turned on the bathroom TV to its loudest setting to overcome the pleasant sound of running water.  “Can you turn that down,” I pleaded.  “What?” she said.  I washed, rinsed, dried and ran out of there like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving morning.  And tonight -- it's America’s Got Talent night!  

Ok, I’ve complained about doctors, the television, getting buried and shrinking.  Thanks for putting up with me, but now I need to go.  I have to get my pants shortened.  Stay well, count your blessings and study your chemistry.  Oh, and don’t forget to come back next week.

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #75

We spent the last week on the beach in North Carolina.  Everything was wonderful – except the bugs.

The insects have all come to greet us

They seem to be happy to meet us

Mosquitos and gnats

They’re smiling, and that’s

Because they’re preparing to eat us.

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.  I saw a few of them carrying 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, limping old man with the pacemaker.  How come my nurses can never find a vein when they’re drawing my blood, but these mosquitos zero in on the first try?  I think the next time I get a blood test, I’m going to bring a bottle of mosquitos to show the nurse where my blood is.  It’ll save time.

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.

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and watching out for mosquitos and other low-flying stuff.  How about a story? You have nothing else to do.  Your bridge game doesn’t start for an hour, so here we go -- as Shakespeare would say, a tale told by an idiot.  We went to a movie, you-know-who and I.  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 bozo 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.”

The North Carolina trip 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?”  “Get 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!

And I love writing to you each week.  But for now, 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 #74

I visited Dr. Vascular and he checked me out.  He told me 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.

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 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, and we decided that, to be safe, we ought to find out what made my heart do its Speedy Gonzalez imitation a couple of weeks ago.  So we’ve scheduled a stress test.  The instructions do 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.  During that 24-hour period, I will not write to you because, with no caffeine, I’ll be as jumpy as a caterpillar at a Sumo Wrestling tournament. 

I’m back.  I survived the no-caffeine and the test.  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.

For a few days, I’ll be able to heat up the leftovers just by hugging them.  After the test was over, they gave me a Diet Pepsi.  I had not had caffeine for 24 hours, but I refused.  Pepsi?  Are you joking?  That’s like offering a starving man kale.  I made them search the building until they found a Diet Coke in the doctor’s private stash.  Some things are important in life.

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 treadmill or the nuclear injection were my Scylla and Charybdis choices for the test, but 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? 

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 to recommend a wine that goes well with Lipitor.  Maybe we should just eat dinner at the Emergency Room.  They have a new restaurant there called Broken Bonefish Grill. 

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 a sheep.

Which reminds me that I think yesterday was National Gluttony Day.  It was August 8.  So what did I do on 8/8?  I ate/ate.  And that’s why it’s National Gluttony Day!

I am writing today from North Carolina where my wife, three daughters, two sons-in-law, one daughter-in-law, four grandsons, four granddaughters, two dogs and myself are occupying a house on Bald Head Island.  The house is as crowded as a Bangladeshi ferry and the floor looks like a toy store after a nuclear explosion.

Time out:  the word I just used is pronounced nu-cle-ar.  Any of you who insist on pronouncing it nu-cu-lar should travel to McClennan County, Texas and hang out with George W. Bush.  And while I’m at it, the person who sells real estate is a re-al-tor, not a re-li-tor.  Sorry about that.  It’s the old teacher in me.  One of these days, I’ll tell you some stories about my teaching days. 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!

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

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #73

We’re going out to dinner tonight.  I asked where we were going and my lovely bride said, “We’re going to Big Sky Cafe; be ready at 6:30.  Wear the khaki pants and the pink shirt.  You’re getting the side salad and the barbecue shrimp appetizer. 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.

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.

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 Stormy Daniels 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

Now he talks just like Jose Jimenez.

Hi there and welcome to Blog #73.  Man, these numbers are getting big.  Seventy-three weeks!  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.

Our 55^th High School Reunion is coming up this Fall.  I say our because Carol and I were in the same class.  Yes, high school sweethearts, isn’t that cute and so on.  Reunions are always interesting.  At the 50^th, I remember being stunned at how many old people there were.  There were a lot of beards and a lot of baldness – and that was just the women!  I’m joking, the women looked pretty good – a little shorter maybe, a little blonder.  Most of the men were getting grayer and fatter and everybody’s posture was taking a hit.  How did all this happen to us?

My junior high-school sweetheart, Judy, was there.  After fifty years she looked great.  I gave her a big hug and told her I’d see her in another fifty years.  I wonder if she reads the blog.  I wonder if she knows she was my junior high-school sweetheart.  Another female classmate was excited to see me.  “Oh,” she said, “you were so funny in High School.”  Carol looked her straight in the eye and said, “I think you have the wrong person.”  True story.

The other day, I caught my wife telling stories to our five-year-old on FaceTime.  The story was 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.  I have told her never to tell stories to the grandkids because she always seems 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 husband who drove too slowly.  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. 

I have a land line.  I never answer it, but it’s bundled with my internet and cable.  When I tried to eliminate the land line, they told me it would cost me more to get rid of it than to keep it.  Is that ridiculous?  Anyway, I still have it.  It rang today and I was going to ignore it, but I happened to look at the display, and it read Int’l Hearing Aids.  Well, why not?  So I picked it up and said hello.  After a two-second delay a voice came on and said, Is this Michael?  And of course I said What?  And he repeated in a much louder voice, I’m looking for Michael.”  No, young man, I said, I don’t need a bicycle.  I’m way too old for such a contraption.  No, sir, I want to talk to you about a hearing aid. And I said What?  He repeated loudly, A Hear-Ing Aid.  And I said, I don’t need help in steering the cycle if I don’t have one, now do I, young man?  I started giggling so hard I had to stop.  I’m sorry, young man, I was just teasing you.  I apologize.  And do you know what he said?  He said What?  And hung up on me.

Now don’t you hang up on me, even though this turned out to be about Carol again.  And I’m sorry if it was tooooo long.  Promise me you’ll come back next week. I’ll see you then, and in the meanwhile, stay well and count your blessings.

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

                                       Even comments about Carol