Blog #222

 

Fifty-four years ago, a frightened little boy walked down the aisle dreaming of the wonderful and beautiful girl he was about to commit to for life.  And a young and innocent girl walked down the same aisle looking sweet and incredibly lovely, wondering what restaurants to eat at in Hawaii and how long it would take her to get diamond studs.  Mostly, I still feel like a frightened little boy when I’m with her.  Happy Anniversary, Honey.

 

That was 54 years ago, and now we have other things to think about besides restaurants and jewelry.  Carol and I were paying our respects after a funeral recently.  She looked at me and asked, “Is that the suit you’re going to wear at my funeral?”  “Yes,” I replied. “Don’t embarrass me,” she said, “get your shoes shined and wear a blue tie.  And make sure you cry.”  I think the worst part of dying is that you don’t get to eat the dessert trays.

 

On the night after we were married, we found ourselves in San Francisco on a nightclub tour.  The Latin dance club was called Sinaloa and a voluptuous, scantily clad bombshell was performing a furibund samba on the dance floor.  After her opening number, she searched the audience for a poor, innocent slob to bring onto the floor to tease and embarrass.  She spotted me – married for 24 hours, clueless, frightened.  She dragged me from my chair and we danced.  Her name was Vicki Alvarez.

 

How can I remember that name from 54 years ago but not remember where my reading glasses are?  Why can I recite all 1,085 words of the Raven but not have a clue where I ate dinner last Saturday night?  Sound familiar?  Well, at least you remembered to come back today.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting a good night’s sleep, whatever that means.  I believe I sleep well.  It’s hard to tell.  My wife has an Apple Watch that tells her how many hours she sleeps and how many steps she takes and her heart-rate and the weather and the price of tea in China.  It just doesn’t tell her what time it is.  I don’t have one of those contraptions, but I sleep and I wake up.  Sometimes I dream.

 

One night, recently, I dreamed I had become blind, and I awoke considerably agitated.  In the morning, I told my wife about it.  Did she say, “Oh, you poor baby!  You really must have been frightened.  I feel your pain.  Let me give you a big hug?”  She did not.

 

Did she say, “Oh, Honey, don’t worry.  Your eyes will be just fine.  And if you do have problems, I’ll be there to help you.  Let me give you a big hug?”  Nope.

 

What she did say was, “Even if you go blind, we’re still going to the Van Gogh exhibit. You can listen to it.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub (Hamlet).  Sometimes I dream that I have four legs and can catch birds.  Mostly, I just sleep, and when I get up, I go find Pops so he can scratch my head.  Ay, there’s the rub.  Purr.

 

Do you go to physical therapy?  So many of my friends have back or knee or hip problems, that they look like the United States O-limp-ic Team.  I’ve been to physical therapy for various reasons, but now my wife just gives me instructions.

 

When the pain is like I don’t know what

She tells me to keep my mouth shut

“Start running and stretching

And stop all your kvetching

You’re just a big pain in the butt.”

 

My 15-year-old grandson just informed me that there is now a gender called Attack Helicopter.  I don’t care what your sexual orientation is or who you want to love – a man, a woman, a goat or a Hoover, but inventing hundreds of new genders with ridiculous names is just making a mockery of a serious issue.  I suppose soon there will be a store called Bed, Bath and Are You Kidding Me where you can buy matching hand-towels monogrammed Attack Helicopter and Hers.   The issue is important to many people; stop making it a big joke by having 58 genders on Facebook including Two-spirit and Neutrois.

 

I recently saw an ad for a set of matching masks and underwear.  I’m just an old-fashioned guy, but it seems to me that if you’re showing someone your panties, you’re past the mask phase.

 

And speaking of grandsons, my oldest grandson turned 20 this week.  Happy Birthday, Zach.  He’s a fine young man and I’m proud of him, although I still hold a grudge for the time I took him out for dessert a few years ago.  He ordered a Coke.  Coke for dessert?  “Yes, Poppy, I’m replacing you.”  He knew that my habit was to have a Diet Coke every single morning.  “You can never replace me, Zach,” I replied.  “Sure I can; someday I’ll be old and wrinkled and drinking Coke.”  That’s my boy.

 

There was a time when I actually gave up Coke in protest against one of their ads in which America the Beautiful was sung in seven languages.  Is there no pride in America anymore?  Aren’t Americans allowed a heritage and a music of their own?  We have only one official language.  I don’t want to hear America the Beautiful sung in Chinese.  Try going to Paris and singing France’s national song in English.  Try going to Israel and singing Hatikvah in Arabic.  Go to Iran and sing their national song in Hebrew.  Good luck. What are these people thinking? 

 

I know what you're thinking – you've had enough.  But not before I give you our Weekly Word – furibund, which means frenzied, furious, raging.  Like Vicki Alvarez.  Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that paragraph already!  Well, don’t forget to come back next week.  I’ll be taking roll.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.  And Happy Anniversary to my beautiful wife, my biggest blessing of all.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com