Blog #334                                August 3, 2023

 

It must be Thursday, because here we are again.  Hi there and welcome back to the incoherent ramblings of the elderly.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying cool.  The big news here in the Midwest is the weather, which is hotter than Taylor Swift tickets.  It’s so hot --are you ready for all these?  It’s so hot that:

 

·        My daughter’s chickens are laying omelets.

·        Elizabeth Warren asked Donald Trump to dinner so she could be with someone shady.

·        My artificial flowers died.

·        I saw a funeral procession driving through a Dairy Queen.

·        Everybody is sweating like Hunter Biden’s lawyers.

 

And, of course, the weather people are having an Arctic Blast making up new weather-phrases and frightening people.  Strangely, much of their weather terminology describes how I sometimes feel.  When I have a cold front and my stomach feels like acid rain, my mood often becomes mostly cloudy and I sink into a tropical depression.  You know what the heat index is.  We ought to have an Age Index:  I’m 77, but I feel like 91.  I’m totally cirrus.

 

Exercise often helps my mood become sunny.  Some days I do the treadmill.  When it’s not too hot or too cold or too humid or too windy, I walk outside.  And each time I work at the Zoo, I wind up walking several miles.  Today, I even vacuumed.  (I know that’s how you spell it, but it just looks wrong.)  After my heart attack in 1997, Dr. Heart gave me three restrictions -- do not play craps, do not vacuum, do not have sex with an unfamiliar partner.  Seriously!  I have not played craps or vacuumed since.  But now, the person who comes to clean didn’t come to clean today, so Carol has been cleaning, and I volunteered to vacuum.

 

It’s not the vacuuming itself that’s so hard, it’s the cord.  It’s always in front when it should be behind (like my wife) or on the left when it should be on the right (like my wife).  Sometimes it’s wrapped around my leg or my ear.  And, of course, the plug is behind the bed.  I don’t think Dr. Heart talked about moving the bed.  I’m still working on the “unfamiliar partner” thing.  I wonder if he meant the vacuum cleaner.

 

Sometimes, for exercise, I play ball with Shakespeare.  I roll a ping-pong ball from one end of the hall to the other, and he chases it.  Once he’s corralled the ball, he sits there waiting for me to arrive.  Cats do not fetch.  I trudge to the other end, pick up the ball and throw it again.  He chases, I walk to the other end, pick it up and throw.  That’s how we get our steps in.  He gets three steps for every two of mine.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Power to flattery bows (King Lear).  There he goes again, making fun of my missing leg.  He should talk!  I can run faster than him and jump higher.  I’m smarter, softer and way more handsome.  But even though I know I have him totally under control, I let him think he’s the boss.  That way, I always get what I want.  Carol taught me that.  Purr.

 

Weather terminology permeates the language of our self-perception.  We’re in a fog.  We feel under the weather.  Some people, when they’re mood is low, go for coffee.

 

When I’m feeling low-down and crappy

I know what will make me feel happy

A large cappuccino

With zero caffeino

Skim milk and a chocolate frappe

 

I never drank coffee, and I’ve given up most other things I used to love.  I loved smoking – gave it up in 1995.  I loved wine – gave that up in 2007.  Then there was popcorn at the movies – not since 2009.  Chocolate – 2018.  Ice cream – 2019.  What’s left to love?

 

Well, I love my wife and my family.  I love to read.  I love to write.  I love my cat, but don’t tell him.  He’s arrogant enough as it is.  I love the sunshine and the Zoo.  I love to teach.  I love all you loyal readers out there and I love to be with my friends.  You see, it’s not individual people that I dislike; it’s the accumulated mass of humanity.  I mean, there are terrorists and credit card thieves and mass shooters and car-jackers and I hate them all!  Oops, sorry.  I’m going to start trying to love everybody.  Can’t we all just get along?

 

Something really spooky happened last week.  On Tuesday, in the letter that I write to my daughters every week, I wrote the following: Now I’m going to start a history of the ancient civilizations in Pakistan called Empires of the Indus.  Only me.  Hey, it might come up in a crossword sometime.

 

You know I like abstruse history or travel books, and this is one.  It’s not that fascinating, but I learn a few things.  Anyway, the following Sunday, as we all were Zooming the NY Times Crossword, there was the following clue:  Himalayan River.  The answer, of course, was Indus, just as I had predicted five days earlier!  Now that’s pretty spooky.

 

Abstruse is a good Weekly Word.  It means obscure and difficult to understand.  Kind of like me.

 

ITEM:  It appears that The Biggest Loser is coming back for a new season.  I can’t wait.  There’s nothing more thrilling than sitting on my couch, eating butter-free, salt-free popcorn and watching fat people sweat.  Two spin-offs have already been planned entitled The Biggest Liar and The Biggest Racist.  Sounds like our Presidential election.

 

ITEM:  When we went to see Oppenheimer last week, we got Senior tickets at a pretty low price.  Pretty soon we’ll qualify for the Super-Senior Price for people so old they can neither hear nor see the movie, and are there just to suck the salt off the popcorn and avoid sitting at home while their wives watch The View.

 

Are you tired of me yet?  I am.  Are you mad at me yet?  Get over it.  I haven’t even picked on anybody. I know you like it better when I’m a miserable curmudgeon.  Don’t worry, I’ll get back to normal next week and pick on somebody.  Probably Carol.  Don’t miss it.  Stay well, count your blessings and have a frappe.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com