Blog #233                                                   August 26, 2021

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story.  Those are the first words of the Odyssey by Homer.  Yes, Homer had his muse, and I have mine, my wife of course, although at times she uses a cryptic set of signals to convey her desires.  After 54 years of marriage, I think I have a few of those signals figured out.

When she says: Are you hot?  she means - I’m hot, turn on the air conditioner.

When she says: Are you going out like that?  she means - If you are, it’s not with me.

When she says: You look tired.  she means - Take me home; I’m tired.

When she says: I like when you go shopping with me. she means - Drop me off at the door, then come inside and hold my packages.

When she says: My hair looks horrible! she means - You have three seconds to compliment my hair. Three, two, …

 

Anyone who thinks that a man can control a woman – is a bachelor.

 

We all watch Jeopardy, don’t we?  It’s fun!  We get to see how much we know and how awfully much we don’t know.  I think there should be a Senior Jeopardy.  I have some ideas along that line.  First, we have to get rid of that little clicker thing they use.  Mechanical devices confuse us and we have arthritis in our fingers.  And which button controls the volume?  Second, we need more time to answer.  Who can think that fast?  And, of course, the questions have to be senior-friendly, like “What is MiraLAX for?”  This is stuff we know about.  I have a whole new Double Jeopardy category for you called Who’s the Dummy?  Here it is; you pick the ventriloquist’s dummy.

 

$200           Who’s the Dummy, Charlie McCarthy or Edgar Burgen?

$400           Who’s the Dummy, Meatloaf or Lambchop?

$600           Who’s the Dummy, Jerry Lewis or Jerry Mahoney?

$800           Who’s the dummy, Topo Gigio or Charo?

$1000          Who’s the dummy, Donald Trump or Joe Biden?

 

How’d you do?  Did you get them all right?  The real dummies are Charlie McCarthy (held by Edgar Burgen), Lambchop (Shari Lewis), Jerry Mahoney (Paul Winchell), Topo Gigio (Ed Sullivan show) and – no, no, I’m not going there. Now you can try the Final Senior Jeopardy Answer: “She was the Indian princess on Howdy Doody.”

 

One year, for my wife’s birthday, I surprised her by hiring a ventriloquist to give her a lesson, something she said she always wanted to try.  We and a few friends gathered at my daughter’s house where The Amazing Mario showed her how to use his dummy, which looked like a little boy.  Carol tried and everybody laughed.  Then it was my turn and he placed the dummy on my lap.  My little granddaughter, Charley, was about 15 months old then and was sitting in a corner enjoying the show.  But when she saw the little boy on her Poppy’s lap, she roused into action, calmly walked up to me, silently picked up the dummy, gently placed him in the corner, came back and crawled onto my lap, a lap she did not intend to share with some creepy little boy.

 

It's Thursday – do you know where your Limerick Oyster is?  Well, it’s right here.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  I have a question for you: What do you spend the most time doing during the day?  I know what my answer is.  It’s not reading or writing or watching television.  No, the thing I spend the most time doing is getting ready.  There’s getting ready in the morning – brushing and lotions and pills and the litter box and the cat food.  Then there’s getting ready for a bridge game with my friends or for working at the Zoo.  Then the treadmill and the shower.  Then there’s getting ready for dinner, and finally, getting ready for bed.  All day long, I’m getting ready for something.  And the nighttime getting ready takes the longest – the flossing, the brushing, the pills, the eyedrops, the skin lotions and putting my three-legged cat to bed.  It lasts forever.

 

I have to take pills and I tread,

Make sure Shakespeare’s watered and fed,

There’s so much delay

That I wake up each day

Just to start getting ready for bed.

     

It seems that way, doesn’t it?  And I don’t even have to put on makeup or do my hair like you girls do.  And a fine and glamorous job you all do!  Isn’t it especially apropos that today is actually National Toilet Paper Day and you all look so Charmin’?

 

Sometimes, when I’m trying to get ready for bed, my wife gets in the way.  That’s when her watch has told her she has failed to do her 10,000 steps and she starts stomping and kicking around the house like a Rockette and making an annoying, if attractive, obstacle of herself.  They all think that such a salubrious activity will somehow convince God to magically let them live forever.  I hope they’re right.  My watch tells me what time it is.

Message from Shakespeare:  Let every man be master of his time (Macbeth).  I don’t need a watch.  For me, it’s either sleep time or play time.  And counting my cat steps wouldn’t be fair.  Other cats would get four steps when I only get three.  Anyway, the only electronic device I care about is a mouse.  Purr.

Last Monday, we buried a good friend, a sorrowful event that seems to be happening with increasing frequency.  Listening to the Rabbi’s words reminded me that I have already written my own eulogy.  I have left written instructions for the Rabbi to say all the Hebrew he thought appropriate -- nobody will understand it anyway – but to confine his remarks in English to a two-page message I have written.  It’s concise, brief and, if I do confess, somewhat charming.  Don’t miss it.

The Weekly Word is salubrious, which means promoting health and well-being.  Basically, if something is salubrious, it’s good for you.  Like Limerick Oyster.  Well, at least it makes you smile sometimes, and that’s good for you.  Hope we made you smile this week.  Stay well, count your blessings and come back to me in a week.  Time to go – I have to get ready.

Princess Summerfall Winterspring     Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com    

 

 

Blog #232                                         August 19, 2021

 

I hereby admit and confess my immaturity and my crabbiness and my total lack of taste or common sense or mechanical ability and my anti-social behavior and my moodiness.  Jump right in here, friends and neighbors, if you want to contradict my adventure into self-flagellation.  No?  You don’t want to help me out here?  Well, I deserve it.

 

Last Sunday, after golf, we drove to a restaurant for lunch.  I dropped my wife off at the door (does a bear you-know-what you-know-where?) and then parked the car.  But when I opened the door, bells started dinging and a message appeared saying the key was not in the car.  I had the key in my hand, but when I tried to restart the car, it wouldn’t.  I tried more times and just got the dinging.  Then I got out and tried to lock the car with the smart key.  It wouldn’t work.  The smart key must need a new battery, I surmised.  I grabbed the manual and went to the table.  Reading the car manual is like talking to a pigeon.  You have a feeling there’s something there, but you know you’ll never get it.  So we called daughter-Abby to go to the house, pick up the other set of keys and bring them to us.  She did.  What a good girl!  That key didn’t work either.  As Carol and I were climbing into Abby’s car to get a lift home, Carol said, “Give me the keys and let me try.”  Fifteen seconds later the car started and everything was fine.  I asked Mrs. Goodwrench what had happened.  “You didn’t put the car in Park,” she said.  “It was still in Drive.”  I wasn’t even embarrassed.  I know what I am.

 

It really was quite a big shock

When the Smart Key would not work the lock

Though the key might be Smart

A car will not start

When the driver’s as dumb as a rock.

 

On the other hand, I write good limericks.  Besides, I’m sure there are other people as clueless as me.  I had lunch with a friend on Monday at a breakfast & lunch diner place.  When we arrived, there were two other customers.  We ordered from a young man who did not seem to know what he was doing.  Fifteen minutes later, we had received nothing.  This was an eggs-and-hashbrowns kind of lunch which takes no time to grill, especially when we were the only two people ordering.  I called the waiter over. 

 

How’s our food doing? I asked.  “I’m just the busboy.  I’m not the server.”  I looked around and saw no-one else.  Well, I asked, is there a server?  “Yes,” he replied, “that’s Renee.  She won’t be here till Thursday.”  I was flummoxed.  I took a deep breath and suggested that he go ask the cook if he had prepared any food lately.  The food arrived, most of it. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I’m fine, but I’m becoming reluctant to go anywhere nowadays.  My goodness!  There’s Delta Variant in Florida, drive-by shootings in Chicago, illegal immigrants in Texas, earthquakes in Haiti, Taliban in Afghanistan, murder hornets in Washington and Andrew Cuomo in New York.  No one is safe anywhere.  If you don’t get infected, shot or stung, you’ll get groped.  I feel like a centipede at an elephant convention.  We accidentally left the door to the primate house open at the Zoo, but the monkeys and lemurs refused to leave.  They’re all too smart to go out in this crazy world.  I’m telling you, politicians should only be allowed two terms – one in office and one in prison.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  It makes a man a coward (Richard III).  Pops might be afraid, but I’m not a scaredy-cat.  I’d love to go outside and chase birds and play in the grass.  Wait, look at that big dog.  Maybe I’ll just stay here in my nice house and look out the window.  Purr.

 

I was shaving the other day when Carol walked in.  “What’s that bottle of scotch and the ice-bucket doing in the bathroom,” she inquired?  I told her I was just following doctor’s orders.  He told me at my age I should install a bar in the bathroom.  I guess she’ll really get mad when those young girls come to do the bathtub strips.

 

Our Weekly Word is flummoxed, which means bewildered or perplexed, and it would not surprise me if my crazy thoughts leave you flummoxed from time to time.  Let me end this week’s adventures with a calm and pleasant story.  John Steinbeck said a thing isn’t necessarily a lie even if it didn’t necessarily happen, but I assure you this actually happened exactly as I’m telling you.

Some days ago, I went to McDonalds as I do each morning.  As I was filling my Sweet Tea, a little Korean boy walked to the drink bar.  He was about 3-foot-7 and could not reach the straws.  He stood there with his hand stretched up as far as it could, but there was no chance.  I guess most people would have said, “Hi there, little boy.  Do you need a straw?  Would you like me to get you a straw?  What’s your name?  There you go; can you say thank you?”  I, being a highly trained handler of small children, said not a word.  I plucked a straw from the container and handed it down to the little Kim Jong Short.  He accepted the straw, looked me right in the eye, gave me a 3-foot 7-inch smile and walked back to his Daddy.  I smiled too and walked to my car.  A Chinese proverb says, “A child’s life is like a piece of paper on which every person leaves a mark.”  Maybe I left a happy-mark on this boy’s young mind.

 

And I hope I’ve left one on your mind today too.  Stay well, count your blessings and exercise that nice mind of yours.  Use it to remember to join me again next week for another ride.  See you then. 

 

Mr. Badwrench                                  Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #231                                         August 12, 2021

 

You may have noticed that the legal sale of marijuana is sweeping the nation, and soon it will be legal to buy pot in every state.  I can clearly envision McDonald’s adjusting their menu to add a Really Happy Meal which will include fries and a Diet-Toke.  They’re already training their staff to say, “Would you like highs with that?”

 

Of course, we’re going to see national chains created just to sell pot, so we need to come up with appropriate names.  I am up to the challenge.  Unfortunately, the perfect name for a national pot chain is already taken – Quik Trip.  But I have some alternative suggestions:

 

Pot-Belly’s            Toke-O-Bell          Grass Pro Shops

H & R Pot            Bed, Bath and Way Beyond

 

And if the whole pot thing works out well, then locations selling harder substances will become rife in no time.  A new drive-through chain for heavy drugs is already in the works.  It’s called Crack-In-The-Box.

 

The Weekly Word is rife, which means unchecked, widespread and common, kind of like the silly jokes and useless information I write to you each week.  But where else can you find poetry, jokes, stories, quotes and opinions all rolled into one?  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are all feeling well today.  Do you like animals, or as Milton puts it in Paradise Lost, “every creeping thing that creeps the ground?”   I’ll bet you do.  And so, apparently, do the project engineers at NASA who make certain that none of their planetary exploration spacecraft contaminates possible life on other planets.  It’s fascinating how much our species thrills in ecstasy over the possibility of life on Mars or Saturn, while at the same time destroying life on Earth with abandon.  We pollute the environments of our own plants and animals, cut down their forests, poison their rivers and lakes, dump plastic into their oceans, eat them or just shoot them for fun.  We would spend a trillion dollars to preserve a Martian microbe but comparatively nothing to save the magnificent life of this planet.  We have destroyed everything we touch, except the sun, moon and the starry skies which God in His wisdom has hung beyond our reach.  At least until now.  Sorry about the preaching.  I’m a little passionate here.

 

Message from Shakespeare:   Then with a passion would I shake the world (The Life and Death of King John).  It’s good that he’s passionate about animals.  He sure treats me like a prince.  But sometimes I think he goes overboard.  Yesterday, he told me he saw a mouse while he was taking his walk.  The mouse was in the street and couldn’t climb the curb to get into the grass.  So Pops helped it up.  Maybe he could have been a little less passionate and brought that yummy mouse back home to me.  Just purrin’.

 

Earlier this week, I found a big, ugly, bruise-mark on my arm.  It didn’t hurt and I don’t remember bumping into anything, so I ignored it.  My wife said it was nothing to worry about, but Daughter-Abby said it was a spider-bite and I should go to Emergency Care.  Neither of those charming and loving people has a medical degree, so I decided to call my doctor.  His staff was very efficient, and, after three conversations and an exchange of pictures, the staff notified me that the doctor wanted to see it.  So I went, and even though I knew it was nothing, I was nervous.  I’m always a little edgy when I see a doctor.  You never know when a doctor is going to examine you, then look you in the eye and say, “Do you want the shiva to be one night or two?”  The doctor examined me, looked me in the eye and said, “We need an ultrasound to see if there’s a blood clot.”

 

Ok, I walked over to the hospital and registered for the ultrasound.  And I waited!  After 90 minutes of sitting and reading (I always have a book; this one was Sweet Thursday by John Steinbeck), I became restless.  Well, I asked myself, what would Carol or Daughter-Jennifer do under these circumstances?  And the answer came to me – exercise!  Jennifer would just start doing pushups in the middle of the waiting room.  That’s not for me, but Carol would take a power walk.  That sounded good, so I began walking the hospital corridors, making sure I was always close enough to hear my name when it was called.  Back and forth, forth and back.  Two employees of the hospital actually stopped me and gave me directions to the Psycho Ward.  After about 15 minutes of power-walking, I heard my name called.

 

To get ready for my ultrasound,

I took off my clothes and lay down.

I finished it all

Then walked back down the hall

With my butt sticking out of my gown.

 

No, I’m teasing.  I didn’t have to put on a hospital gown, but I thought the image might be amusing – and frightening.  The results were negative, no blood clot, just a bruise.  Maybe my wife does have a medical degree.

 

My family is lovable, sensational, irrepressible and irreplaceable.  But friends are nice too.  I have a friend who is a talented artist and loves to paint birds, especially chickens.  We were together some months ago and I showed her a picture of Misty, one of my daughter’s roosters.  Misty is a very attractive boy.  I must have sent my friend the picture, though I don’t remember.  Today, after golf, she gave me a painting of Misty.  It was beautiful and I was touched with her friendship.  It is a good person who gets pleasure out of doing nice things.  Thank you to my talented, thoughtful and very sweet friend.  That was a special gift.

 

And now back to the rest of you mugs.  What do I always tell you to do at the end of each blog?  All together now:  Stay well and count our blessings.  Good job.  I have you well-trained.  See you in a week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #230                                                       August 5, 2021

 

I was at an establishment recently, some kind of school-museum thing.  What caught my misguided brain was a sign that read:  You are included without regard to race, age, gender, physical ability, sexual orientation, family structure, citizenship, or socioeconomic background.

 

Wow, it must have taken them a long time to decide which kinds of people they will not discriminate against.  By making a list of all the people against whom they don’t discriminate, they imply that there are people against whom they will discriminate.  Probably people who have read Moby Dick five times.  Why can’t they just say everybody is welcome?  Or, in this case, everybody is welcome if you have $5.00 admission and no nuts. (It’s a peanut-allergy thing. You have a filthy mind.)  And what’s with the family structure item?  Do they think we expect to be rejected because our family has two fathers, six mothers, a crazy uncle and a camel?  C’mon, lose the guilt of the world and just say everybody’s welcome.

 

It seems like the more tolerant our society purports to be, the more we tend to cubbyhole everyone into racial, religious and sexual corners.  But what do I know?  I’m just an elderly, Jewish, third generation Russian-American, carnivorous, Midwestern, average height, Caucasian, married, straight, male, United States citizen who can recite The Raven. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  All of you are in my favorite cubbyhole – Limerick Oyster Readers.  Stay there; it looks good on you.  I hope you’re feeling well.  There has been a lot of talk about health lately, both physical and mental, especially with Simone Biles’ issues.  It all reminds me of trash.  “Trash?” I hear you muse.  “How is this crazy old man going to get from mental health to trash?”  Well, stick with me here. 

 

Every morning I throw out the trash.  This consists of tying off the trash bag which contains the junk mail, banana peels, old strings, avocado husks, empty Honey-Nut Cheerio boxes and other sundry detritus of the previous twenty-four hours.  I tie a knot, carry the bag down the hall, open the trash chute and drop it in.  The bag drops down into something and then someone takes it somewhere.  They must have it under control, for I never see it again.  How simple.  How easy to dispose of all the physical trash and to start the new day fresh and free.  If only we could cleanse the mental garbage as effortlessly as the physical.  Just toss out the medical problems, the money worries, the anxiety for those we love, the disorientation and useless feelings of old age – throw them all in a large, recyclable, renewable, free-range, gluten-free bag and toss them down the same chute.  Let them mix with the banana peels and go wherever the empty avocados go.  And start the new day fresh and free.  Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

In my research on celebrated days, I have discovered that today is National Oyster Day, obviously conceived to honor our blog.  You should celebrate by reading it twice.  Friday is International Beer Day and Saturday, in a bolt of unexpected logic, has been declared International Hangover Day.   You can’t find this important stuff in the New York Times.

 

Last Saturday morning was gray and rainy.  I had made a commitment to visit a friend who was displaying daylilies at a Farmer’s Market.  She is a loyal ready and frequent commenter, so I decided to support her and go to the market.  As I was leaving McDonald’s to start my 30-minute drive to the market, I had a thought.  Maybe Charley, my 13-year-old granddaughter, would go with me.  Maybe my granddaughter would hurriedly get dressed, leave her comfy home to spend 90 minutes with a poopy old man to go see some unknown woman selling strange flowers at a far-away place in a bad neighborhood in the rain.  I called.  She said, “Sure, Poppy, let’s go.”  I was very, very touched.  We had a great time.  We bought a daylily for her to plant in the back yard and some cinnamon rolls and we didn’t get rained on and I saw my friend.  Thank you, Charley.

 

It’s not always easy for grandchildren to relate to us old folks.  Our lives, our outlooks, our generations are so different:

 

·        They’re just finding their way.  We’re almost always lost.

·        They’re growing so fast.  We’re shrinking.

·        They’re whizzes at the computer.  We can’t even find the ALT key.

·        They’re on Twitter and TikTok.  We’re on statins and blood thinners.

 

Isn’t it just wonderful that she still wanted to be with me?  Well, the cinnamon rolls helped.

 

Watching my grandchildren grow up makes me feel warm and fulfilled, but it also makes me feel old.  And I must be looking old too.  The other day, I saw a girl I had graduated high-school with.  I hadn’t seen her in years, and I went up to her to tell her she was in my high-school class.  “Really?” she said.  “What did you teach?”  Ouch!

 

Have you been watching the Olympics?  I love the Track and Field events.  The Olympic motto – Faster, Higher, Stronger – is emblematic of Track and Field.  I wonder if I could do any Olympic events.

 

Higher and Stronger and Faster!

There isn’t a sport I can master

A swimmer I’m not

I can’t throw the shot

And my golf game is just a disaster.

 

There must be an event that I can do well.  I’ll get back to you when I come up with something.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Nothing can seem foul to those that win (Henry IV, Part 1).  My Pops could win a medal in the backstroke.  When he strokes my back, I purr like a lawnmower.  They have an Olympics for three-legged cats, I think.  It’s called the Purrolympics.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is detritus, which means any kind of waste or debris and is a fairly good description of what I write to you every week.  Hey, I finally found something I am good at, something I could win a Gold Medal for – telling you to stay well and count your blessings.  Please do that and I’ll see you next week.

 

Michael -- the elderly, Jewish, third generation Russian-American, carnivorous, Midwestern, average height, Caucasian, married, straight, male, United States citizen who can recite The Raven.            Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com