Blog #135

Two things happen every morning – the sun rises and I go to McDonald’s.  When I was using my cane, it occupied my left hand while my right held exact change, my key-ring and my book.  I looked like one of those one-man bands where the guy has drumsticks in his ears and an oboe up his kazoo.  I placed my order at the counter to a thirty-something lady, and she nodded at my book and asked, “What are you reading?”  Dickens, I answered.  “I don’t know him,” she said.  Doesn’t know Dickens?  Ever heard of Shakespeare?  Darwin?  Felicity Huffman?  I didn’t actually ask her any of that.  I asked her what she likes to read.  James Patterson.   I wonder how many more generations will have its ancient, stodgy hangers-on like me, reading Milton and Dickens and Shakespeare.

Hi there and welcome back.  I have arrived once more to enliven your senses, inspire your wonder and tickle your fancy.  Or maybe just to talk a little.  I hope you’re feeling well and ready for some fun.

There’s a genetic testing service called 23andMe.  You’ve heard of it.  You take some saliva or other precious bodily fluid and send it to them along with $150 so you can find out if you’re related to Donny Osmond.  I, of course, have no interest.  I know who I’m related to and am happy with my place on the Tree of Life.  Besides, not everything they tell you is good.  I might find out I’m related to Joy Behar and would have to kill myself.  Plus, being a scientist of sorts, I know that 99% of human DNA is the same as that of a chimpanzee, so unless they have a picture of J. Fred Muggs in my portfolio, I pass. For those of you who care, I looked it up and J. Fred Muggs is 67 years old and retired.  I think he’s related to Donny Osmond.

I had a physical.  Doctor Doctor said I was just fine, but it was the process before I saw the doctor that was troubling.  The nurse weighed me, measured my height and told me I had shrunk another ¼ inch.  “I’m not Happy’” I said.  “Well,” she said, “I don’t care whether you’re Happy, Sleepy, Dopey or Doc, but you’re all getting to be about the same size.”  Next, they asked me if I was depressed. “You’re damned right I’m depressed,” I said as I began studying the lyrics to Follow the Yellow Brick Road and checking job-placement websites to see if Snow White was hiring.

I wonder what my Dwarf name would be if Snow hires me.  I prefer Funny.  I know what my wife’s would be – Speedy.  When I pull into the garage, she opens the passenger door and starts to get out 20 feet before I’m parked.  I’m thinking of installing child-restraints in the front seats.  While I’m still rolling to a stop, she shoots out of the door like a Cruise Missile and sprints to the elevator like Usain Bolt before I’ve even put the car into Park.  This woman could cook a three-minute egg in 48 seconds.  That’s why she doesn’t sleep.  She doesn’t have time. 

She’ll never need a Dwarf Name because she hasn’t shrunk at all.   You know those little cut-out family stickers you put on the rear window of your car?  From left to right is a tall cut-out father, then a slightly smaller mother, then three kids in order of height, then a dog and finally the cat.  I can just picture ours in a few years.  In order of height there will be Carol, a cat and me. What a world!

Three weeks after hip surgery I gave up my cane.  Don’t need it any more.  Plus, I’m giving up my bell, the one Carol gave me to call her when I was convalescing.  I didn’t use it very much, but it sure was fun, tinkling the bell and having her fly into the room like a super-charged BMW (Beautiful Marvelous Wife).  Anyway, she made me give it back. 

Well now that you’re perfectly well

You no longer need the damn bell

So if you give that thing

One more ding-a-ling

I’m sending you both straight to Hell.

Actually, she didn’t say it that nicely.  It was more like if I used it again, she would put it somewhere where I would need a different kind of doctor to find it.  I liked my bell.  So did Paul McCartney.  He even named his – Michelle, my bell.

I haven’t given you a movie review in a while, because I haven’t seen one, but last weekend we went to see JUDY with Renée Zellweger.  All the women thought it was fabulous because Renée was such a fine actress, but all the men thought it was boring and depressing.  Instead of showing what a wonderful, talented performer Judy Garland was, the show highlighted the darkest, most dismal and depressing parts of her life and all the abuse she endured from others and from herself.  So Girls, go see it.  And Guys, stay home and watch the baseball playoffs. 

This week was the Jewish Day of Atonement.  At the Temple, the Rabbi went through a list of sins arranged alphabetically.  I like that.  It’s pretty anal to list your sins alphabetically, but it’s organized and concise.  We have a list of names that we guys use for our wives – A you’re adorable, B you’re so beautiful.  And a list of names they use for us – A you’re aggravating, B you’re boring.  So why not sins?  As the Rabbi read the list from A to Z, Carol was next to me, and every time he read a sin of which I was guilty, she turned and glared at me the same way Nancy Pelosi glares at Donald Trump.  By the end, she had a crook in her neck.  So, I apologize for the alphabet soup of sins I have committed in the past year.  I apologize to God.  I apologize to my wife.  Maybe I should have put her first.   Actually, my sins weren’t that bad, so you can come back and visit me next week.  Please do.  I’ll be good.  Meanwhile, stay well and count your blessings.  I’m sure counting mine.  

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com