Blog #294                                October 27, 2022

 

We are Your humblest and poorest of leasties

Deliver us, Lord, if You might

From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night.

 

That was a traditional Scottish prayer, as expanded and enhanced by your humble leastie himself, and it reminds us that Halloween is almost upon us.  On the last night of October in 1067, shortly after the Norman conquest of all England, scattered bands of renegade Druids congregated near Stonehenge to sacrifice a small herd of lambs and a somewhat larger herd of Norman prisoners and to declare that henceforward this night shall be known as All Hallows Evening (Hallows E’en) when all the faithful shall call forth demons and witches and all the forces of evil, even unto the Devil himself, to take revenge upon the non-believing Normans and their offspring from generation to generation, which explains why you do not know very many people named Norman. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Something wicked this way comes (Macbeth).  Why, on Halloween, do you humans think cats are nefarious? (Nefarious means wicked or criminal.  Oo, I got to do another Weekly Word.) Cats are kind, loving and harmless creatures.  And if you don’t agree with me, I’ll bite you.  Meowwwwww!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and getting ready for Halloween.  I remember trick-or-treating when I was a kid.  We got popcorn balls and caramel apples and stayed pretty much away from the Druids.  I’m doing okay, except my eye feels about as happy as someone who bet on the Cardinals.  I remember fifty years ago when we would get together with friends and talk about who was pregnant and who was buying a house and who got a promotion.  Now we get together and talk about who’s in the hospital and who’s in the nursing home and who’s in the obituaries.  Pretty sad.  Please don’t get sick and don’t fall and don’t forget my name.

 

I was at Walgreens recently and picked up a box of assorted-sized flesh-colored Band Aids.  When I got home, Carol noticed the bag.  She notices everything.  She knows what I eat, what I wear and what the second half of each of my sentences is going to be.

 

What’s in the bag? She asked.

Oh, I replied, I just needed some . . .

flesh-colored Band-Aids, she said.

How did you . . .

Know?  I just did.  But they’re really not flesh-colored Band-Aids.

But . . .

No they’re not.  Read the box.

 

I did and discovered two things.  First, it did not say “Flesh Colored”.  In today’s world, the term flesh-colored is unacceptable.  What color is flesh-colored anyway?  Perhaps it should be labeled “Flesh of White Americans of European Descent Colored”.  It occurs to me now that white people are not People of Color.

I feel so drained!  But do not be alarmed.  There is a brand called Tru-Colour Adhesive Bandages – Diversity in Healing which are the color of – well, people of color.

 

And second, they weren’t Band-Aids.  They were Walgreen’s Adhesive Bandages.  Carol was right.  She always is.  Just ask her.  But you can understand my mistake.  Band-Aids have been such a familiar commodity in our lives for so many decades that we presume it’s just the name of the commodity itself, not a brand name – like Kleenex, Scotch Tape, Coke, Jell-O or aspirin, all of which are brand names.

 

Last week, I wrote a blog without talking about my wife, and the consensus response was that the blog was boring and I should get back to talking about her.  So, I just did.  Thanks for your helpful input.  Maybe I should change the name to Limerick Wife.

 

And speaking of wifely irritations, Carol and all her friends like to talk about who’s seeing who, what widow is dating what widower and should they fix this one up with that one.  It’s as if they were still in high school and wondering who’s going to ask them to the Prom.  If I survive her, she tells me, I will start receiving casseroles because I can play bridge and drive at night.  Apparently, those are the only two endearing traits which I possess.  I just hate talking about this depressing scenario, but she thinks it’s as much fun as watching The Bachelorette.  She even has my next wife picked out for me.  “She’s perfect.  She can cook and has lots of money.”   As if I would abandon all thoughts of romantic attraction for a Caribbean cruise and a meat loaf!  I have never met this woman she has picked out for me, but my wife feels that since I cannot pick out my own clothes, I shouldn’t be allowed to pick out her replacement.

 

Carol and her friends, of course, have no interest in romance.  They’re too practical.  “Well,” my wife says to me, “If you go first, I want someone who makes me laugh and who likes to travel.”  Slow down, Zsa Zsa, I’m not even coughing.

 

We went to a fancy-schmancy restaurant the other night.  You know, I need to go to Class Class so I can learn how to order wine and what fork to use and how not to bite into a cherry tomato and spray my wife with tomato seeds.  I noticed a menu item called Deconstructed Chicken Pot Pie.  The waiter eagerly explained that deconstructed meant that all the ingredients were on your plate, but they would not be formed together into the expected shape.  He said it was the newest trend.  Ok, I was confused, but I ordered it.

 

We want Deconstructed, they clamor

For fine cuisine, it’s the new glamour

The plate arrived soon

With no fork and no spoon

Just a screwdriver, saw and a hammer.

 

With which I reconstructed my dinner.  It was delicious.  They had a lunch special:  Hammer and Cheese Sandwich with Wrench Fries and a Drill Pickle.

 

Now it’s time to go.  I’ve got work to do, people to see, places to go, fires to put out, dreams to dream, Diet Cokes to drink, lots of people to love and things to pick up on the way home.  Don’t worry, I’ll save enough time to write to you next week.  Until then, stay well, have a Happy Halloween and count your blessings. 

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com