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