Blog #86

Only five more days of political ads.  Can you last that long?  Today I started listening to a radio station from Wichita Falls, TX.  It’s refreshing to hear Texas candidates being trashed for a while instead of Missouri candidates.  I try not to talk about politics ever, and I’m certainly not going to talk about it here, except to give you two apt quotes:

Every two years the American politics industry fills the airwaves with the most virulent, scurrilous, wall-to-wall character assassination of nearly every political practitioner in the country – and then declares itself puzzled that America has lost trust in its politicians.  Charles Krauthammer

Instead of giving a politician the keys to the city, it might be better to change the locks.  Doug Larson

Oh, and then there’s the quote from Billy Connolly: Don’t vote, it only encourages them.  Even so, I’m counting on all of you to vote on Tuesday.  Except the ones who don’t agree with me.  I’m going to the polls early so I can see the new car that, apparently, all the Democrats are buying.  It’s called a Drove.  I don’t know anything about it except CNN says the Democrats are going to show up in Droves.  I do know that it only comes in two colors – Sanctuary Cherry and Im-Peach.  The Republicans have a new car as well.  It’s called The Donald and only comes in Privileged White or Fake Blues.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling stellar.  Did you have a good Halloween?  I went as Megyn Kelly.  She seems to be the scariest thing out there.

As you know, I teach an English as a Second Language class (ESL), and, as a courtesy, I have learned how to say Good Morning in each of my student’s native tongue.  So far, I can greet people in Spanish, French, Portuguese, Hindi, Russian, Arabic, Mandarin, Japanese, Korean and Amharic (spoken in Ethiopia).  I know they appreciate my effort, but I think I should concentrate on learning more Spanish.  Especially when I’m ordering at McDonald’s.

I went into one the other day, and the staff looked at me like I was Cortez.  I made myself understood by pointing, but I think we should all start learning a bunch of Spanish.

You really should save every peso

To buy Quarter Pounders Con Queso

I’m warning you now

Your kids should learn how

To say “¿Quieres fritos con eso?”

I presume all the foreign-born McDonald’s employees are here legally, and that’s fine.  But I often worry about illegal immigrants.  Hundreds of years ago, millions of illegal immigrants came to America, and that wasn’t so good for the Native Americans.  Just ask an Indian – if you can find one. 

Today I went to Dr. Skin.  They showed me into a room and I stripped down to my skivvies.  Now there’s a word that I haven’t used in decades.  As soon as I was sufficiently disrobed, three women entered.  One was Dr. Skin and the other two were young women with clipboards who apparently were there because they like to see naked old men.   Dr. Skin checked the usual places and asked if there was anything I wanted her to look at.  That’s when I brought out my Official Pirate Treasure Map which located all the skin thingies I had been recording for the past six months:  two pinkie widths below the left elbow, a thumbnail right of the right knee, etc.  My brother died from melanoma, so I am particularly cautious.  She checked them out, found one she decided to freeze off and wished me well.  I would highly recommend keeping such a list, because the one thing that needed treatment was very small and would possibly have been missed.

I have now paid my annual visit to each of my doctors, and they all seem to be in agreement that I am perfect! Well, who am I to argue with such highly-educated people?

As you know, I take pretty good care of my wife.  Last Tuesday, I went to the library to get her a book.  I went to the pharmacy to get her pills.  I went to Straub’s to get her some chicken salad.  Then I took her to vote.  I dropped her at the door (naturally) and parked the car.  We stood in line for a bit, then exercised our honorable and civic duty by lying to the poll workers that we would be out of town on Election Day.  They expected it, of course.  We voted the nine-page ballot and were out in twenty minutes.  Then I offered to get her a mocha Frappuccino, but she declined.  I am a loyal and willing gopher.  Is there a Gopher’s Day?  On Gopher’s Day, if I come out of my hole and see my shadow, it’s Carol telling me she won’t let me out of the hole dressed like that.

Do you know what time it is?  I’m so confused.  I think we’re supposed to change our clocks this weekend because it’s getting darker in the morning but lighter in the evening.  That is, until Sunday when it will become lighter in the morning and darker in the evening, except in Arizona and Indiana where they have enough good sense to ignore this dance of the dials.  What’s the point?  I’ve forgotten.  And which is the “real” time, Standard or Daylight Saving?  Why not just get rid of the Standard time altogether and make it Daylight Saving time all year round and put Arizona into the Pacific Time Zone and let Indiana secede?  I’m so confused.

I’m supposed to change this coming Sunday at 2:00 a.m., but am I switching to Daylight Saving, or back to Standard?  And is it backward or forward?  And who can stay up that late?  I’ve got an idea.  All of you who vote for Democrats move your clocks forward and those of you who vote for Republicans move them backward.  A couple of hours difference couldn’t make us any farther apart than we already are.  But at least at the Early Bird Special, we’ll know who’s who.

I’m only teasing.  Of course I know what time it is.  It’s time to say see you next week.  I’ll be back, but I’ll be an hour earlier.  Or later.  I’m so confused.  But don’t you be confused.  Just be here on time, count your blessings, vote and stay well.  Can you do all that?  Multi-task! 

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #85

I have a new name – it’s Sherlock.  What, I hear you cry?  How did you become Sherlock?  Well, Carol and I went out one morning to do some errands.  We went to Macy’s to make a return.  Then on the way to Trader Joe’s it began to pour.  I said, “I guess I’ll be the one running in to get the flowers.”  “No shit, Sherlock,” was her reply.  She likes rain as much as the Wicked Witch of the West.  So I ran in to Trader Joe’s and got drenched.  But never fear, my princess stayed as dry as Death Valley!

The best husband? My Sherlock is!

He knows just what duties are his

He takes out the trash

And brings in the cash

And makes sure my hair doesn’t frizz.

A full-fledged Jewish Princess in ultimate bloom is a frightening thing.  I hope my daughters are fortunate enough to follow in their mother’s glass slipper.

Hi there to all my loyal readers.  I hope you are feeling well and enjoying the cool weather.  Did you win the lottery?  Me neither.  But I bet you had it all worked out what you were going to do with the money.  I can just hear you now.  “I’ll give 100 million to each grandchild and 200 million to charity and I’ll buy the Louvre and make it a pickle-ball court.”   I asked Carol.  She had more modest goals.  “I’m going to eat at a restaurant that’s not on the Passport Card and buy two bananas at the grocery store instead of one.” 

Don’t forget next Wednesday is Halloween.  I remember Halloweens when I was a little kid.  I would go out with my friends and my big brother. We’d walk all over, for blocks and blocks, never afraid to go anywhere.  Every year we’d go to Mrs. Sanders’ house.  She made us caramel apples.  And Mrs. Rubenstein had popcorn balls.  And sometimes we’d get brownies from the nice old lady on the corner.  I said “old lady”, but she was surely younger than I am now.

When I got a little older, they started giving us dimes instead of candy.  What a waste of a perfectly good Halloween!  You can’t eat dimes.  But Mrs. Sanders still made caramel apples.

My grandchildren asked me, “Poppy, what do we do if they want a trick?”  I told them if they ask for a trick, do this:  Knock knock.  Who’s there?  Boo.  Boo who?  Don’t cry.  Just give me candy.

I’m embarrassed to tell you that my thumb hurts.  With all the horrible things wrong with some of our friends – well, complaining about my thumb sounds silly.  But it hurt, so I went to Dr. Thumb.  The nurse grabbed my hand - does it hurt here - does it hurt there – tendonitis - the doctor’s going to give you a shot - you ok with that?  So I told her all about my vasovagal reactions.  According to the official dictionary of the American Medical Association, a vasovagal reaction occurs when an intelligent, grown man behaves like a whiny little baby just because somebody sticks him with a needle.  I’ve had this reaction many times, and it is most unpleasant.

 

When she left, a young doctor walked in.  He was tall, dark and handsomer than George Clooney.  He was Dr. Thumb’s assistant.  Does it hurt here - does it hurt there – tendonitis - cortisone shot.  I asked him how long the needle would be in my thumb.  Six seconds, he said.  Then Dr. Thumb arrived.  We talked for a few seconds, after which he said, “You’re going to hate me for about 10-12 seconds while I give you this shot.”  I said, “McDreamy over there told me it was 6 seconds, let him do it.”  We kept talking while he put the needle in and I never felt a thing or had a reaction.  I loved him.  I’m looking for more things that hurt just so I can go back.

Speaking of doctors, I have a bone to pick with them, and that’s the use of their titles.  I’ve talked about it before, specifically the membership list at my golf club where every MD, DDS or DVM must, just must, have his degree affixed to his name.  No-one cares if you’re a dentist, you arrogant creep.  All we care about is your handicap.  But now, I’ve heard even worse.  We went to a Friday service at our temple where they typically read the names of deceased members who have died at this time in previous years.  One was Dr. George Summers.  Do we still have to call him Doctor after he’s dead?  He’s not any more or less dead than a sales clerk or a gardener or a lifeguard.  What, are we afraid if we don’t call him Doctor he’s going to cancel our appointment in Heaven?

I like going to the grocery store with my wife.  It’s a nice walk up and down the aisles and I get to wave at all the stuff I’m no longer allowed to eat.  The last time we went, I had to go to the shoe repair place which was to the left of the store, so I dropped Carol at the grocery store’s left entrance.  What are you doing? she asked.  You see, in Missouri we always shop from right to left, although in Israel, I’m pretty sure they shop from left to right.  I’m miserable, she said.  The phrase I’m Miserable spoken to a husband is akin to the phrase Code Blue spoken to a doctor, and requires the same urgency and attention.  Every morning, Carol walks six miles on the treadmill, but the thought of walking from the dairy section to the produce is too exhausting.  It’s like Frank Sinatra used to sing: Oh, it’s a long, long way from milk to cucumber.”   Of course she could never be expected to shop from left to right.  She’d have to read her list upside down!  So I drove her to the right-side entrance.  Good boy!  Good Sherlock!  I’m not embarrassed.  It is, after all, my proud and sworn oath to protect my bride from unwanted weather or exercise. 

And it is also my proud and sworn duty to be back next week with more stuff for you.  It might even be funny, so don’t miss it.  Stay well, count your blessings and buy some more lottery tickets.  Maybe this time, you’ll win.

Sherlock                                  Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #84

You’ve been hearing a lot about Hurricane Michael.  I have a serious problem with the name.  My daughters will not allow me to use the terms policeman, fireman or waitress.  Instead, I must use police officer, firefighter and server.  Ok, I get it.  It’s a gender thing, but it works both ways.  If they’re going to name a hurricane after me, the least they could do is call it a Himicane.

I have two great fears during any normal day -- leaving home and coming home.  My fear upon leaving is that my wife will notice me and tell me she doesn’t like my outfit.  The shirt doesn’t go with the pants or the belt doesn’t go with the shirt or the left shoe doesn’t go with the right shoe.  Hey, I know I’m not Bill Blass.  I’m closer to Mr. Magoo, but who wants to start changing clothes just to go to McDonald’s and Walmart?

My second great fear is that I will succeed in sneaking out of the house without being sartorially scrutinized and then have to come home to find Carol waiting for inspection.  She is one tough Lorna Doone!  But, she’s mine, and even if she were only a whiskey-maker’s daughter, I would love her still.

Thank goodness I don’t have to dress up to write to you.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and having a good week so far.  Look down – do your shoes match?  I have been sensing a trend lately toward mismatched shoes, and it seems that soon it will be acceptable.  Whew!  Now all I have to do before leaving the house is make sure my belt buckle is lined up with my Adam’s apple and that I’m not wearing linen after Labor Day.

Did you hear about the woman who brought her emotional support squirrel on a Frontier Airlines flight?  This is a true story.  She was removed, of course, though she put up a fight.  Someone suggested she was probably flying home from Washington, DC after spending a week screaming at the Senate Judiciary Committee.  She was likely mad because they wouldn’t let her squirrel into the Senate, although I don’t see why not.  They let every other kind of vermin in there.  Later, her grown daughter said she was proud of her mother for sticking up for her rights.  Her rights?  Does she have a right to bring a support yak on the plane?  A support python?  It’s bad enough they allow children.  You’re actually allowed to take a dead animal on board, but then they charge you for carrion.

Have you gotten your flu shot?  Carol and I got ours last week.  And I didn’t even faint.  I’m so proud!  Some years, as you know, the shots work really well, but some years, like last year, the shots don’t work at all.  And since I’m not so sure the shot will work for me, I’m developing an alternative strategy to get rid of the flu virus.

Hey I’m not afraid of the flu

I’ve figured out just what to do

I’ve nothing to fear

I’ll wait till you’re near

Then sneeze all my flu germs a-choo.

Getting the flu means going to the doctor, and you don’t want to do that.

Doctor:  I’ve examined you and I’m sorry to say you have a terrible and fatal disease.

Patient:  My goodness, Doc.  How long do I have to live?

Doctor:  Ten.

Patient:  Ten what, Doc?  Ten years?  Ten months?

Doctor:  Nine.

There’s a store near me called Three Dog Bakery.  It sells all kinds of dog food, obviously.  I think they should sell food specialized for each brand of dog, and who better to think up cute dog food names than Yours Truly?  Here are a few modest suggestions: Hearts of Pomeranian - Chow - Poodle Kugel - Collie Flower - Split Pekinese Soup - Chocolate Maltese - German Shepherd Pie.

Last week was Columbus Day – twice.  The real, traditional Columbus Day was October 12^th, but we celebrated it on Monday, October 8^th.  This continues a trend of moving holidays from a specific date to a Monday near that date.  Presidents Day used to be Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s Birthday, but we threw out Washington (he was a white, male slaveowner after all) and Lincoln (he had an ugly hat) and moved it to Monday.  Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Easter don’t count because they are always on a Sunday and don’t disrupt the work week.  That leaves only four non-Monday holidays.  Three of them surely are toast.  There’s no reason to leave Thanksgiving on a Thursday and no reason to have Christmas on the 25^th.  It won’t be long until they’ll both be on Monday.  And although you can’t imagine Fourth of July on any other date, just think of it as Independence Day and make it the first Monday in July.  The one holiday that will be hard to move is New Year’s Day, but I’m working on it.

My wife and I graduated high school together – high school sweethearts and all that – and last weekend was our 55^th reunion.  Reunions are always a mixture of narcissism, surprise, warmth and sadness.  Conflicting images run through our heads, thoughts like, I look way better than her – Oh my, he looks so sick – Gee, we’re all getting old.   Some of my classmates had fallen ill, and that’s terrible.  Some were as boring and tiresome as they had been in high school.  But most looked good and were eager to talk.  Carol looked terrific, and I actually got some attention from the women.  I think it’s because I can do the two things women are looking for in a man my age, comb my hair and drive at night.

Some of my loyal readers were among the crowd, like Bruce and Cindy from Atlanta, and I enjoyed talking with all of you.  And Carol passed out my cards promoting my blog.  I guess she doesn’t mind everybody knowing all her charms, habits, foibles and quirks.  Stay well, Classmates.  I’ll see you in five years.

And for the rest of you, I’ll see you next week.  Count your blessings, stay well and make sure your shoes match.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #83

Years ago, when Carol and I were first married, young couples would have dinner parties for their friends.  It was cheaper than spending money on restaurants and babysitters.  We had wine and cocktails and put out some candy, nuts, appetizers, crudité.  Isn’t that a great word?  Crudité!  Back then we called it celery. 

We seldom have dinner parties anymore, but we do have friends over to play cards or watch some special television event.  And now, since everybody’s on a diet or suffering some ache or pain, we put out different stuff than we used to -- stuff that makes sense for our generation.

When all our old friends come to call

We don’t put out candy at all

Just fat-free Wheat Chex,

Some Tums, Celebrex

And a few Extra Strength Tylenol.

I’ve made a momentous decision.  I don’t drink any more, but I’ve decided I should be allowed to drink on holidays, like Thanksgiving or Christmas.  Or Easter. Or Passover.  Tomorrow is National No Bra Day (true) and Saturday is National Dessert Day (also).  Monday, I think, is Bring Your Wart-Hog to Work Day -- very big in Africa.  And Tuesday, of course, is Palestinian Blow Up A School Bus Day.  Ok, relax!  I’m only teasing about the drinking, although I do think the wart hogs deserve a toast.

Hi again and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling fine.  Have you ever looked inside a toilet tank?  Inside this sleek and shiny porcelain receptacle, perfect for the sanitary and odorless elimination of human waste, Kleenex, toenails and eyebrow-pencil shavings, rests the most arcane, jerry-rigged, Rube Goldberg collection of junk imaginable.  Chains and plastic rods and rubber balls jammed inside in such a delicate configuration that the smallest tremor will make the chain detach from the plastic rod or the rubber ball lodge against the side wall or any number of other fatal calamities.

This is the 21^st Century, the age of the Internet and the iPhone and the self-driving automobile.  Where are the geniuses of today?  Where is the Bill Gates of plumbing?  Where is Elon Flush?  We have mapped the human genome.  Why can’t we invent a toilet that isn’t filled with non-replaceable, non-interchangeable, non-transferable refuse that looks like it came out of a Fat Albert cartoon?  Well what do you expect from a device invented by a man named Crapper?  (Thomas Crapper, 1836-1910)

I finished a book last night, some short stories by Rudyard Kipling.  I loved it, but more importantly, it was my 700^th book since I began keeping a list in 1979.  Seven hundred!  Wow, that’s more than the number of Bill Cosby accusers.  If I stacked all those books up – well, who cares!  The total is less a testament to my reading prowess than it is to my anal-retentive list-making mania.  I love lists.

And speaking of lists, we need a list of new names for sports teams because none of the current names will survive the scrutiny of the Politically Correct crowd.  No more can we tolerate the Indians, the Chiefs or the Braves – they’re demeaning to Native Americans.  And Lions and Tigers and Bears – oh, my, they’re too violent.   And Cardinals, Padres, Angels?  No, no, too religious.  So what will the future politically correct sports teams be called?  Well, I have a few guesses: The Chattanooga Choice (of course that’s a pro team), The Pittsburgh Kneelers, The San Fran Trans, The San Diego Sanctuaries and, of course, The Mobile Warming.

This was a very special weekend for me because my grandson Tyler was bar mitzvah’d.  He was great, and I was very proud of him.  All of my family was here – three daughters, eight grandchildren, both sons-in-law -- and I felt like the happiest hitchhiker on the Highway of Life.  I snuck a few of the kids out to McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a Coke.  By the time my daughters read this blog, it’ll be too late for them to yell at me.  So there!  I ate fast food and drank Coke all my life and look at me!  Well, maybe that was a bad example.  I’ll try to find a better example, someone who hasn’t had cataracts, heart attacks and spinal stenosis.

There was one funny incident over the weekend.  We were driving to the temple, all dressed up and beautiful.  I drove with Carol and five others in my daughter’s minivan.  I needed to change lanes and looked to my right mirror, but it was out of place.  So I rolled down the window and asked my son-in-law to pull it back.  Immediately I heard my wife screech from the back as loud and horrified as if Charles Manson had just been released and was her new Yoga instructor.  “What are you doing?” she screamed.  “It’s blowing my hair!”   I said that we needed to move the mirror so I could see, and my oldest granddaughter, with wisdom beyond her years, said, “Poppy, what’s more important, the safety of our family or Nonnie’s hair?”  I always knew she was smart.

Earlier in the week, Carol had lunch with her pedicurist.  I thought that was a little bizarre to begin with, but who am I to interfere in a relationship between a woman and her pedicurist?  I’m not sure where they were going, either Dunkin ToeNuts or Ruby Toesday, but I was assigned to pick her up.  She told me if I got there early I could wait at the bar next door.  Early?  I am always early.  Always!  Punctuality is the politeness of kings!  I really didn’t want to wait at a bar, but she said just go there and try to pick up some girls.  How am I going to pick up some girls?  Read them my blog?  I can just see all those young women shoving each other out of the way to get closer to the raggedy old fart reading some kind of limerick gibberish.  It’s a good thing I’m not in the market to pick anyone up.  With my back I can’t even pick up my grandchildren.  Instead, I passed the time wondering what you eat at lunch with your pedicurist.  Probably corn chowder and, of course, toe-fu.  How about French bunion soup?  I know, I’m corny, but at least I’m on time.

And I’ll be on time next week.  So have a lovely, count your blessings and stay well.  And don’t be late.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #82

Nobody read my blog last Thursday because you were all glued to the Kavanaugh hearings.  Seriously now, what’s more important – the most riveting, slanderous and ribald Congressional hearing in the nation’s history or my blog?  The results are in and it’s clear that you would rather hear about high-school farting and college flashing than read witty and intelligent prose.  I guess I’ll just have to sink to your level by telling you about a new line of breakfast cereals geared to the sleazy and lascivious among us.  The brands include Captain Raunch, Froot Lewds and Porn Flakes.  There, are you happy now?

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and staying away from all the natural shocks that flesh is heir to.  (A little Shakespeare there.)  I’m good, except my back feels about as happy as a guy who was betting on the Cardinals.  I remember fifty years ago when we would get together with friends and talk about who was pregnant and who was buying a house and who got a promotion.  Now we get together and talk about who’s in the hospital and who’s in the nursing home and who’s in the obituaries.   Pretty sad.  Please don’t get sick and don’t fall and don’t forget my name.

Next Monday is Columbus Day.  I’m not sure exactly why we celebrate a day for a man who never set foot on this continent.  Nothing around here was named after him except a city in Ohio.  And, of course, he was a nasty white European colonialist who ordered the extermination of indigenous populations.  But he made good pomodoro sauce, so I guess it’s alright.  The day has turned into something of a celebration of Italian Heritage, even though there was no such country as Italy in Chris’ day.  He was from Genoa, a country unto itself, and sailed under the flag of Spain – which is why everybody south of the border is Hispanic, not Histalian.  Isn’t this informative?  It’s like continuing education.

Columbus was actually lost when he discovered America.  He was looking for India.  He should have had my wife along with him.  She would have set him straight.

The crew is all down with infections

You haven’t met any projections

You’re sailing too slow

You don’t know where to go

Pull over and ask for directions.

Is it just me, or are all men so poorly disregarded by women?  Sure, when they need to know how to spell something or how to screw in a lightbulb or they need a poem for their cat’s neutering party or whatever – they come right to me.  But when it comes to driving, dressing, directions or common sense, they avoid me like Harvey Weinstein.  Am I that useless?  (This is the part where you go to your computers and e-mail poor, helpless old Michael and tell him how respected and important and loved he is.  That’ll be nice.)

Let’s move on to something light and amusing.  Like baseball.  Even though the Cardinals’ chances are deader than Bill Cosby’s Mastercard, the Baseball Playoff Season is here.  Did you know that Cosby was a football player at Temple University?  Temple just announced yesterday that they were retiring his number – PA4974482.

I hear Cosby is going to manage a new Major League Baseball team next year, the San Quentin Felons.  Their uniforms are striped and some of these guys actually stole second base.  The pitcher and catcher are known as the Aggravated Battery.  When they announce the lineup, these guys really get in a lineup.  How many more do you want?  The numbers on the back of their uniforms read 5 to 10 or 20 to life. 

Here’s the roster: Enos Manslaughter, Alcatraz Pujols, Barry Bondsman, Ernie Banksrobber, Don Larceny, Roger Clemency, Yadier Molester, Babe Ruthless and Johnnie Benchwarrant. 

Now that we have entered the last quarter of the year, the 2019 calendars are available.  Wow, 2019!  The decades fly by, don’t they?  Anyway, I heard they have a thirteen-month calendar available.  I wonder what they’re going to call the thirteenth month.  Maybe they’ll play nothing but Beatles and Stones music during that extra month and call it Rocktober.  Maybe they’ll add a month in honor of Bill Cosby and call it Rapril.  Or a month dedicated to destroying the reputations of Supreme Court nominees.  We’ll call it Kavanaugust.

Carol gets up earlier than I do.  Last Saturday morning, she got out of bed, went to the living room and, of course, turned on the television.  Within a few seconds I heard her scream, “OH NO!”  What could it be, I wondered.  What disaster had she witnessed on the television that could make her so upset?  Had Jane Fonda found a wrinkle?  Had Meghan Markle cracked a nail?  Had some woman claimed that Brett Kavanaugh pinched her Barbie Doll when they were in pre-school?  Whatever it was, I had to come to her rescue.  So I hopped out of bed (well, I can’t actually hop) and ran to the living room (I can’t really run either).  “What’s wrong?” I inquired.  Her answer?  We’re losing 8-4 in the Ryder Cup.

I was relieved.  Much better than Jane Fonda finding a wrinkle.  Carol is obsessed with beautiful women.  Heidi Klum – who can argue with that?  Jane Fonda – Carol just watched a Jane Fonda special on HBO.  Melania Trump – “she’ll dump him as soon as he’s out of office”.  Kate and Meghan – the English Royalty.  The Royals are her major obsession – first Diana, then Kate and now Meghan.  My wife is most assuredly a princess; all she lacks is a crown.  I think when Queen Liz dies, Carol will start sending casseroles to Phillip.

It’s not fair to be jealous of people just because they’re beautiful.  As Charles Dickens said, Persons don’t make their own faces, and it’s no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other people’s fault if theirs is a bad one. 

There you go – stories about Columbus, quotes from Dickens and Shakespeare.  You don’t get that from Congressional hearings!  And on that obvious note, I shall end Blog #82 with a cloud of dust and a hearty “High-ho, Silver! Awaaaaaaaay!”  Stay well.  Count your blessings.  See you next week.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com