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