Blog #270                                May 12, 2022

 

I have been doing all the grocery shopping since Covid arrived.  I enjoy it; it’s my version of “hunting and gathering”.  But I think the stores should be planned better.  I’m developing a plan for grocery stores that arranges the items by age.  Aisle 1 for young parents; Aisle 2 for parents of teenagers, etc.

 

Aisle 1 (age 20-35) – Diapers, formula, oatmeal, wine

Aisle 2 (age 35-50) – Cereal, ice cream, soda, anxiety medication, wine

Aisle 3 (age 50-65) – Diet soda, low-fat ice cream, anti-depressants, wine

Aisle 4 (age 65-80) – Caffeine-free diet soda, yogurt, fiber pills, wine

Aisle 5 (age 80+)  – Ensure, Depends, stool softener, cheap wine

 

Don’t you think that would make life easier?  You could even make the store circular, because Aisle 5 looks a lot like Aisle 1.

 

First diapers and oatmeal and then

The stuff for a child of ten

You’ll pass low-fat food

And finally conclude

With oatmeal and diapers again.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Did you have a nice Mother’s Day?  A lady named Mildred Vermont said, “Being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs in the world, since the payment is pure love.”  I hope you all are feeling well.  I was a bit under the weather most of last week.  I’m pretty sure it was a cold – cough, sneeze, runny nose.  I didn’t have a fever, but I took a COVID test, twice.  Both were negative.  I discovered a few things though.  The first thing I discovered was that chicken soup doesn’t do shit.  I ate chicken soup with vegetables, chicken soup with chicken, chicken noodle soup, chicken gumbo.  I tried them all and they were all good, but they did nothing for my symptoms.  I think this whole thing about chicken soup’s palliative powers was made up by Jewish mothers trying to ensure their sons’ meekness and dependence upon them.  “If I weren’t here,” they warn, “who would make chicken soup for you?”  And if you let them get away with this fake-news power grab, then they had you by the matzo balls.  Next, they would start working you over with other myths:

 

·        You can’t wear white after Labor Day.

·        Your socks have to match (I never saw the purpose of that).

·        If you go out without a coat, you’ll catch your death.

·        You can only date a nice, Jewish girl.

 

All a teenaged boy ever wanted was a girl who would put out like a Pez Dispenser.  We didn’t really care about her religious leanings, her mental acuity or how her chicken soup tasted. 

 

The other thing I learned during my self-quarantine was how nice it was to sit in a comfortable chair with a blanket on my lap, a Stephen King in my left hand and a Shakespeare in my right.  Nothing better than a good book and a good cat.  Except maybe that Pez Dispenser.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me with volumes that I prize above my dukedom (The Tempest).  My favorite thing is to sit on Pop’s lap while he’s reading.  He’s warm and he strokes my neck.  But he can only last for 15 minutes.  Then he loses interest, slides me off his lap and goes back to writing his stupid blogs.  He may be warm, but he’s weird.  Purr.

 

I was never a fan of the Opera or the Symphony.  Call me low-class, call me a boor, call me Ishmael.  I went to the Opera last night.  Now obviously, I have had to write this blog long before Wednesday night, so, as I write to you now, I haven’t been there yet.  I go because a friend of mine loves the Opera and gathers a few guys to go once or twice a year.  I like the friend, so I go.  This will be my seventh adventure into operaland, and I truthfully cannot say I’ve ever considered it glorious entertainment.  I used to think I was just a plebian with low-class tastes. (Except in women, of course.  Oy, and I love your chicken soup too, Honey.)  But lately, as I’ve come to understand myself better in my senior years, I think it’s some form of ADD.  No matter how elegant and talented the performers are, I get bored listening to a bunch of Italians singing their meatballs off for four hours.  According to the translation, the Italian women sound just like my mother: “If I weren’t here, who would make meatballs for you?”

 

I lose interest.  Maybe that’s why I don’t go to the Symphony.  Maybe that’s why I’m not a big lover of golf.  Maybe that’s why I can’t watch an entire baseball game.  They all take too long!  And maybe that’s why I push poor Shakespeare off my lap after fifteen minutes.

 

By the way, our Weekly Word is palliative, which means a treatment that relieves the symptoms of a disease or disorder without curing it.

 

You’ve likely read books about Victorian England or watched Downton Abbey, and you probably noticed that, for dinner, the Lady of the house would take particular care with the seating arrangements.  The Duke must sit next to the Ambassador’s wife, the Count next to the American cellist, the Marquis next to the Duchess, the French Ambassador next to Lady Asbury.  Always male-female-male-female.  This week we went out for dinner with four other couples and the seating arrangements were as expected: all five duchesses sat together at whatever side of the table they deemed superior after which their loyal footmen occupied the other side.  The server was instructed as to which woman belonged with which man and which women wanted water with no ice.  And that was that.

 

So what did the five abandoned men talk about for 2½ hours after being made to feel as useful as Dave Chappelle’s bodyguard?  Much of the conversation was taken up with a detailed discussion of how best to open the often-sticky checkout bags at Walmart and wasn’t it helpful that the produce bags at grocery stores had an arrow and an OPEN THIS END notice on the bag.  It was pathetic!  No wonder the women didn’t want to sit near us.  And no wonder you want to stop reading now and go do something important, like WORDLE.  Stay well, my people, and count your blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com