Blog #210

 

I got on an elevator today along with another man – tall, big, 40ish.  In other times, you would look at the person, smile, nod your head, maybe say an innocuous word or two.  Not anymore.  Now, you can’t smile at each other because you’re both wearing masks.  You can’t even make eye contact because everyone is reading a device constantly, always, 24/7.  They are reading their texts or their emails or their Twitter or Limerick Oyster.  What have we become when we no longer interact with the people around us?  We have become a sad and robotic society.  Social media has made us anti-social.  Obviously, Mr. Big-Tall-40ish and I did not communicate.  His loss.  Maybe mine too.

 

Later that day, I went to get a blood test.  I hate blood tests.  Even somebody else’s blood test!  When the young man began to take my blood, he asked me about my book.  I had a book. Is there ever a time when I’m without a book?  Is there ever a day when a mattress isn’t on sale?  I sat with this young man for 15 minutes after he was finished drawing blood.  We talked about books and his job and his trip to the Grand Canyon.  What a pleasure.  I didn’t want to leave.  He didn’t want me to leave.  Simple, friendly, social contact.  If you’re ever down on people and need a lift, just go get your blood taken.  It’s fun.

 

If I’m beginning to think that having a blood test is fun, you know I have nothing to do.  I have no worlds to conquer, no wrongs to right, no dragons to slay.  I actually went out this morning looking for a dragon to slay, but all I found was a McDonald’s.  I ordered a Bacon-Egg-Cheese-Biscuit for my grandson.  They were out of bacon.  What?  McDonald’s out of bacon?  That’s inexcusable.  It’s like Colonel Sanders running out of chicken, Nordstrom’s running out of shoes, Trump running out of combs.  I got the sandwich anyway.  I’m flexible.  Besides, it wasn’t for me.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you feeling well?  Feeling Springish?  Spring will officially arrive in a few days – the Vernal Equinox, when the day and the night are the same length everywhere on the planet.  When it’s the Vernal Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s the Autumnal Equinox in the Southern Equinox and --- oh, you don’t really care.  All you care about is what time the next Meghan Markle interview is.

 

I know you’re going to hate me for this, but I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Sussex.  She’s been in the news a lot lately, complaining that the people who gave her a royal wedding, a title and a palace weren’t nice to her.  Do you have a palace?  If somebody gave me a palace, I’d let them drag my nails across a chalkboard every morning.  But I guess I’m just selfish and shallow.  In addition, the Princess complains she has been depressed and has lost weight.  That’s a strange diet when you lose weight while gaining ten million pounds.  Poor Princess!

 

The Princess’s woes are alarming

Her list of complaints is disarming

She fights with the Queen

And from what I have seen,

Her Prince isn’t really that Charming.

 

I have a prediction.  Within a year, Prince Harry will jettison the Fresh Princess of Bel-Air and sidle back to the capacious skirts of Gran-mommy where, I’m sure, he will be welcomed with open tiaras.  Meanwhile, Meghan will be running around Southern California looking for a fixer-upper palace and appearing on Dancing with the Stars.

 

Last Monday was the Ides of March, another thing you don’t care about.  Neither do I so we’ll move on.  Monday was also the day we decided to go even further to find a dragon to slay.  We hopped in the car and drove to North Carolina.  My eyes are fine, we’ve been vaccinated, my daughter and her family have been vaccinated – so off we went.  Thirteen and a half hours, door to door.  Carol says it’s an easy drive.  Of course it is.  I do all the driving while she reads a book, talks to her friends, listens to Dr. Laura and sleeps.  No wonder she thinks it’s an easy drive.  Kind of like being a royal princess, except Carol’s prince is charming.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I all alone beweep my outcast state (Sonnet 29).  Tuesday was a special day for me.  It was the one-year anniversary of when I was adopted.  And they left me home alone.  Their daughter, Abby, comes to feed me and take care of me, but it’s not the same.  I hope they come home soon.  Purr.

 

I’ve decided I need an exemption.  We all need an exemption from the political correctness culture.  It’s not fair to make people my age change everything they’ve learned and grown accustomed to all their lives.  Anybody over a certain age (say 65) should get a sticker like the ones that say I VOTED.  But this sticker should just have a big “O”.  And it doesn’t stand for Oscar Robertson and it doesn’t stand for Oprah.  It just means you’re old and your allowed to say “policeman” and eat Aunt Jemima syrup and read Dr. Seuss books.  C’mon, everybody, give us O people a break.  We’ll be gone and out of your lives soon enough.  Don’t make us spend our few remaining years worrying about what pronouns to use.  It’s not disrespect or sexism or any-ism.  We’re just at a time in our lives when it’s hard to change our ways.  We’re too O for TikTok and Bluetooth and we’re too O to figure out what to call the person who delivers our mail – a Mailman or a Femailman.  

 

Our Weekly Word is capacious, which means having a lot of space inside, roomy, but it looks like I’ve run out of room for this week, and it’s just as well.  I’ve given you enough ammunition to send me a whole basket of hate mail, but first stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.  And Shakespeare, I’ll see you next week too.  I love you, Shakey.

 

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