Blog #197

 

As Herman’s Hermits once sang, “There’s a kind of hush all over the world.”  The election is over; the election challenges are all but over; and we are at home in our forced relaxation.  It’s quiet.  It’s peaceful.  I’m miserable!

 

Hey, I don’t mean to complain.  The world has an over-abundant supply of self-pity, and I really don’t need to add to it, but the truth is that we seniors have plenty to complain about.  Covid, prescription prices, cable TV excluding NBC, aching backs, boredom, isolation, unwanted updates to our phones, salt – but what can we do about it, riot?  We certainly saw enough of that last Summer, but there’s an innate problem with Senior Riots.  Can you just picture a bunch of old people marching the streets chanting:  WHAT DO WE WANT?  WE FORGOT.  WHEN DO WE WANT IT?  WE FORGOT THAT TOO.

 

Where was I?  I forgot.  Oh yes, hi there and welcome back. I hope you’re feeling well and that you had a nice Hanukkah.  My daughter made latkes, which we appropriately called Potato Pan(demic)cakes.  They looked good on FaceTime, but that’s the closest we got.  Of the 8,312 alternate spellings of Hanukkah, I have chosen to use this version because it’s the one my children and grandchildren use.  When I was a kid (images of dinosaurs and telephone cords dance through my head) we spelled it with a Ch at the beginning, but languages and spellings adapt to common usage.  We no longer can understand the 14^th Century language of The Canterbury Tales -- Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote -- and I’m certain that 500 years from now, people (if there are still people) will think our literature as foreign as Chaucer is to us.

 

But I will never abandon the language I learned from my teachers and my mother.  I will always use the proper forms of lie and lay and always use none as a singular and always spell kidnapped with two Ps.  As phones have gotten smaller, so have words and now kidnaped with one P has become acceptable.  Well, for every P that young generation uses, we seniors need to P twice.  But fear not.  I, your bastion of all that is fuddy and duddy, shall remain steadfastly loyal to the ancient language I learned so many years ago. 

 

Weekly Word:  A bastion is an institution, place, or person strongly defending or upholding particular principles.  It is a reservoir of strength and security.

 

Ok, let’s use some of that English to talk about what’s going on in the world.  Are you staying locked up, away from your family and friends and all human contact as if you were a leper?  That’s what it feels like. Carol, however, even in these days of isolation, fills up her day efficiently.  Of course, she can do two or three things at once and can easily pack 48 hours-worth of activities into any 24-hour day.  The only multi-tasking I can do is to be lost and poorly dressed at the same time.  It’s a gift.

 

Gone are the days when we would go to a movie, or a nice restaurant, or the symphony.  I have friends who love the Symphony, but I suspect many people go only because it is the place to be seen with the High-Class glitterati.

 

The Socialites gather like sheep

They sit there and make not a peep

Through Wagner and Strauss

They’re still as a mouse

Because they have fallen asleep.

 

And while we are talking about the use of language, there’s this big kerfuffle over whether Jill Biden, the soon-to-be FLOTUS (First Lady of the United States), should continue to be called Dr. Biden because she has a doctorate in education.  I have a Juris Doctor degree, Doctor of Jurisprudence, so I think I should be called Doctor as well.  I have instructed my grandchildren to call me Dr. Poppy.  But you, my loyal readers and friends – you can just call me Dr. Limerick.

 

You know, each week I bring you my collection of little musings and stories like a pet dog dutifully brings dead squirrels to the front door.  The dog actually thinks his master is going to love them.  Well, I’ll keep trying.  Here’s one that might ring true.

 

If Dante were writing The Inferno today, I’m certain that his choice for the location of Hell would be the space underneath my desk.  There are enough wires down there to reach Mars and enough plugs to populate Jeff Bezos’ head. There are eight “things” plugged in.  There’s a router and a modem and a computer and a printer and a lamp and my iPod and two other things that could be nuclear warheads for all I know.  I am so technically hapless that I could screw up a nail file, so it’s a sure bet that if it has a wire, I’m guaranteed to put it in the wrong place.  I’m amazed that I have children.  And stop laughing.  It probably looks the same under your desk.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Bulldogs are adorable, with faces like toads that have been sat on (The Merchant of Venice).  Who would ever want a dog?  They go outside and chase squirrels.  I never go outside and never chase anything nastier than a rubber ball.  And I can be just as loyal and cuddly. 

 

Many of you, out of concern or just a gossipy and gory curiosity, have been asking what kind of eye surgery I am having next month.  It’s called a Vitrectomy and Lensectomy.  Hopefully, after ectomy-ing the lens and the fluid from my left eye, they will do whatever they want in there and put everything back where they found it. You can Google all the slimy details if you like, but I’d rather not.  I would surely faint.

 

Ok, enough dead squirrels for one week.  I hope one or two tickled your whatever.  It’s time to go.  I’ve probably gotten a little too wordy.  Am I getting too wordy?  I don’t think I’m getting too wordy.  Do you?  Really?  I’ll stop.  Soon.  Wait, just one more thing.  Stay well and count your blessings.  There, I’m done.  See you next week – Christmas Eve.

 

Dr. Limerick                            Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com