Blog #351                                November 30, 2023

 

I’ve told you that my daughter, Jennifer, and her husband, David, had qualified to represent the United States for pickleball in the Pan-American Maccabi Games in Buenos Aires in December.  The Maccabi Games are for Jewish athletes, but now, with the omnipresent, virulent antisemitism in the world, the pickleball competition has been cancelled.  It’s a huge disappointment to them.  And I had such a clever shirt designed for the Jewish pickleballers.  It said: Kosher Pickleball – It’s a Pretty Big Dill.  What a world!

 

We spent Thanksgiving in North Carolina with Jennifer and her family.  The company was special and the food was world-class.  And Carol shopped.  She likes to shop at a particular clothing store up there, so Wednesday morning I dropped her off, then went to Subway to drink a Diet Coke and read my book.  Her “mallgasm” lasted for over an hour, then she texted me to come get her.  I found her engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a mannequin.  My little shopper was trying to rip a jacket off the poor plastic creature.  It was the only jacket left in her size and she wanted it.  I tried to help, but the lady mannequin (should that be called a person-equin?) would not let go.  I pulled and yanked and pleaded, but the poor, lifeless thing would not give up its jacket.  We called for help, and a nice store employee came by, unscrewed the mannequin’s hands and removed the jacket.  Why didn’t I think of that?  There have been times in my life when I have struggled to remove clothing from a woman (always Carol of course), but I never thought about ripping her hands off.

 

Thank goodness we traveled home on Black Friday.  It kept Carol out of the stores.  Black Friday is the day that Americans concentrate on shopping and forget about war and crime and how many Congresspeople it takes to screw in a lightbulb.  Carol, like most women, loves to go shopping on Black Friday.  I would rather have my fingernails pulled out by Kim Jong Un.  The only thing I hate worse than Black Friday is Cyber Monday.  Keep the extra $200 I would save by fighting the Friday crowds or suffering the slings and arrows of an outrageous Internet.  I’ll be happy to pay a little more in exchange for some peace and personal service.  That’s just me.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Tomorrow is December, and I hope you are feeling well and getting ready for the fabulous, magical holiday season beginning soon – Awards Season.  There are SAG Awards and Golden Globes, Oscar, Tony, Emmy, Grammy – and that’s just a few.  I have a new show I’d like to see:  The Dummy Awards.  Previous winners have been:

 

·        Will Smith for the What Was I Thinking Award

·        Jussie Smollett for the I Made All That Shit Up Award

·        Lori Loughlin for the Rowed to Glory Award

·        And the winner of the 2023 I Have Some Friends Who Are Jewish Award – Susan Sarandon.

 

Message from Shakespeare: To whom God will, there be the victory! (Henry VI, Part 3). I should get the Sylvester Award for the smartest three-legged cat in media.  After all, I have my own blog, don’t I.  I let Pops write most of it, but it’s still mine.  Purr.

 

Besides all those award shows, December brings cold weather.  Right now, it’s colder than a stethoscope!  It’s so cold I saw Elizabeth Warren go inside a tent to keep her Wig-Wam!  It’s so cold I saw Joy Behar snuggling up to Donald Trump because he’s so full of hot air!  Ok, that’s enough. 

 

Before the Thanksgiving weekend, all the media was screeching about how terrible the airplane travel was going to be.  We didn’t have any problems.  We flew to Raleigh-Durham on Tuesday and back on Friday.  Everything was exactly on time, no TSA delays, none of the traveler’s angst that was predicted.  The only problem was that I brought a dead squirrel on board and they charged me for carrion.

 

Our Weekly Word for this issue is angst, which is a deep anxiety or dread.  We did have some serious angst before we left for the trip.  Our main television went out, stopped, deader than Queen Elizabeth.  Carol wanted me to fix it.  Nothing good was ever going to come of putting a piece of electronic equipment in my hands.  I have no level of expertise, so everything is beyond it.  I have no pay grade, so everything is above it.  I have no league, so everything is out of it.  We called the Geek Squad and set up an appointment for three weeks from never.  Then Abby, my computer and media expert daughter, came over and diagnosed the problem.  Our cable box was dead.  We called Spectrum and waited three days, when a very capable young man came and made everything work.  Three days was a long time for my wife to be without her living-room television.  She was miserable.

 

She suffered without her TV

Three days of the worst tragedy

For until my sweet Fox

Got a new cable box

She had to spend more time with me.

 

I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.  Before I let you go, I want you to explain to me why you clean your house right before the cleaning service arrives.  Don’t lie to me, I know you do it.  Why?  Do you mow your lawn the day before the landscape crew shows up?  Do you make the bed in a hotel room?  Do you brush your teeth longer and harder on the morning of your dental cleaning appointment?  Actually, I do that. 

 

Movie Review: The Holdovers, starring Paul Giamatti, was good.  You’ll like it.  Go see it.  I did not think it was “great”, but it was certainly better than the interminable drivel they call Coming Attractions that lasted as long as a hockey season.

 

This week I received so many messages from you wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.  Thank you.  Aren’t you special!  You are a loyal, if easily pleased, group, and I have truly appreciated your warmth.  Stay well, avoid angst and count your blessings.  One of my blessings has been the opportunity to visit with you every week.  Thanks, and come back next Thursday.  Please pray for Israel and the hostages.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #350                                November 23, 2023

 

What’s the biggest lie you have ever heard?

·        When the car salesman told you the original tires would last 60,000 miles?

·        When the cable company said we’ll have a guy out there today?

·        When the nurse said this won’t hurt?

·        When Bill Clinton said I did not have sexual relations with that woman?

 

Nope!  The most outrageous calumny you’ve ever been told is: the colonoscopy prep doesn’t taste as bad as it used to.  Let’s use calumny as our Weekly Word.  It means a false statement. And, by the way, when Dr. Sleep puts you under for the colonoscopy, why do they make you count backwards from 100?  You never even get to 97, so they should just make you count backwards from 3.  And why do you have to count backwards?  Is this a test?  Sorry, if you can’t manage to count backwards, then I’m afraid we won’t be able to shove this camera up your ass.  Why do you have to count at all?  Why don’t they just tell you to say goodbye twice?

 

And why does it seem that all the people of the world are lying to me or trying to kill me or steal my car?  Just getting up in the morning makes me feel like a worm in a field of robins.  Do I have to spend my life watching out for these people?  Is everyone in the world bad?  Is every priest a pedophile?  Is every politician a liar?  Is every car salesman trying to cheat me?  Are all of them antisemitic?  I don’t want to go through life mistrusting everyone.  Except the car salesmen and the politicians, of course.

 

It’s time to stop all this political folderol.  Politicians and bullshit go together like Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.  Do you know who you want for President?  Don’t tell me you haven’t decided yet.  The highway of life is paved with dead squirrels who couldn’t decide which way to go.

 

 

 

We all know who we don’t want for President.  We don’t want Trump and we don’t want Uncle Joe.  I propose a candidate that would get 90% of the vote from both Republicans and Democrats.  Prince Harry for President.  We love the British Royals.  We fawn and gush over every royal wedding and royal baby, and every time we check out at the grocery, we pick up the magazines with Meghan’s picture.  Wouldn’t we just plotz over Meghan as First Lady?  Or would that be First Duchess?  Besides, Harry’s never going to be King, so he’s available.

 

At least there are some people I can trust – and that’s you, my loyal readers.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling spectacular, staying warm and getting ready to spend a glorious Thanksgiving with those you love.  Carol and I are in North Carolina with my oldest daughter and her family.  My daughter lives in a relatively small community and cannot find the Everything Bagels she loves.  The last time we flew up for Thanksgiving, I brought her a dozen of the smelly little things packed in my carry-on.  As it was moving down the conveyor toward the x-ray, the TSA agent took a sniff, looked up at me and said, “Ah, everything bagels!”  True!

 

You can’t carry on, Mr. Fox

Whatever you have in that box

The smell is so vile it

May knock out the pilot

Or make him turn back for some lox.

 

Edward Payson Powell, an American author, said, “Thanksgiving Day is a jewel to set in the hearts of honest men; but be careful that you do not take the day, and leave out the gratitude.”

 

Happy Thanksgiving.  It’s my favorite day.  It’s my favorite food.  I have so much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day.  There’s my wife (yes, I’ll say something nice about her: she’s special and wonderful and I adore her).  And there are my children, my grandchildren, my children-in-law, my friends.  I’m thankful for my health and I’m thankful for the opportunity to talk to you every week.  Count your blessings, everyone. 

 

I know you are troubled by the world at war, your constant struggle to stay healthy, the frustration you feel about politics, and the cost of nearly everything.  But today we must be thankful for the food we are fortunate to share and the people we can share it with.  Please enjoy your holiday.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee . . . Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe. (The Taming of the Shrew).  I’m very thankful to have Pops and the warm home he gives me.  There are lots of toys and good food, and he scratches me and plays with me.  He’s a good human, even if he left me alone to go to North Carolina.  But I have my neighbors to come over and take care of me.  I’m thankful for them too.  Purr.

 

I do not eat breakfast.  Stop, don’t tell me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  I just heard Dr. Oz say that was a lie your mother told.  Now, everybody’s into the Intermittent Fasting thing, and complaining what a sacrifice it is not eating for 14 straight hours.  Well, it’s certainly better than the diet I used to be on.  It was called the Cardiologist’s Diet:  If it tastes good, spit it out.

 

I don’t get it.  I’m finished eating dinner at 7:00 and I don’t eat until lunch at 11:30. That’s 15½ hours, for those of you who flunked 4^th Grade Math.  Actually, it’s 16½.  For lunch I often make PB&J on Ritz crackers.  Now that’s delicious!  I’m assuming you all know that PB&J means Peanut Butter and Jelly, although I suppose it could mean Pork Bellies and Jerky or Pickled Beets and Jell-O or Pinto Beans and Jambalaya or Pistachio Ben & Jerry’s.  I have way too much time. 

 

But you don’t, so I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you do when you’re not reading your Limerick Oyster.  Stay well, count your blessings and have a lovely Thanksgiving.  I hope I have lightened your spirits with a giggle or two.

Thank you for letting me be a part of your Thursday.  I’ll talk to you next week.  Don’t miss it.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #349                                November 16, 2023

 

I have just begun to read a combination history and travel book entitled Cairo, about which the 14^th Century traveler Ibn Battuta said, “She shelters all you will of the learned and the ignorant, the grave and the gay, the prudent and the foolish, the noble and the base.”  Do you remember when gay meant lighthearted and carefree, when a tweet was the sound a bird made, when a Politician was someone smart and trustworthy?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and trying to stay calm among all this worldwide turmoil.  Maybe you should go to the symphony.  When I was rich, we used to go to the symphony.  Carol would get all gussied up in an elegant dress and her best jewelry.  I would have a glass of wine at the lobby bar, settle into my seat, close my eyes and listen to the serene music.  I might even fall asleep.  I mean, seriously, there isn’t anything to look at.  But I have learned a few things about the symphony:

 

·        Never applaud until everybody else does.  The music stops and you want to applaud, but if you’re the only one, you’ll look as conspicuous as a rabbi at a Hamas convention.

·        The concertmaster, the person who shakes hands with the conductor, is always a violinist, and that’s the only musician who gets to leave the stage between pieces.  I guess for a potty break.

·        The Symphony must really be hurting for money. They even revealed one of the cellos was 300 years old.

·        I think most of the instruments must be old.  That’s why they have to tune them so often.  I could save the Symphony some money.  I counted the violins (I count everything).  There were 30.  Come on, could you tell the difference between 30 violins and 28?  Fire two violinists and you could afford to buy a new cello.

 

It’s obvious that I have never been much of a classical music fan.  I’m a Rock ‘n Roll brat through and through.  But all my Rock ‘n Roll favorites are getting really old now and are having to come up with new songs to reflect their age.  Newies by the Oldies.  For instance,

 

·        Paul McCartney (81), like the rest of us, has been getting shorter with each added decade.  His new album is called Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m two-foot-four?

·        Paul Simon (82) now sings Fifty Ways to Lose Your Liver.

·        The Stones (Mick Jagger is 80) have Goodbye Senior Tuesday.

·        The Eagles (Don Henley is 76) have Welcome to the Nursing Home California.

·        And Elton John (76) has Bennie and the Stents.

 

Did I ever tell you the story about Bennie?  No, not Bennie and the Stents, a different Bennie.  For about five years, before Covid, I tutored inmates at the St. Louis County Justice Center, an institution which housed those who had been charged with a crime and were awaiting court disposition.  If you could not make bail, you might be there for months, sometimes years, waiting for your case to come up.  I tutored the inmates in math so they could pass a test and receive their High School Equivalency Certificates.  Most of my students were young men, some were older.  Some actually wanted the high school degree, others just wanted an excuse to get out of their pods for a few hours.  Some were difficult, rude, lazy.  Most were young, insouciant goof-offs just passing time.  95% of them were Black.

 

Bennie was about 35-years-old with a wife and two daughters – and the quietest, nicest, most cooperative person you could imagine.  And Bennie was the size of Mt. Rushmore!  Six-foot-nine, 290 pounds of hard muscle, Bennie was an imposing, but gentle, giant. I had worked with Bennie for five or six months and we got along well.  He liked to talk about his wife and his girls and how he was going to see them when he was released in February.  He was never a problem.  One day in January, the head teacher and I were going through the intensive and elaborate security routine required before we were allowed in the occupied areas, when we were grabbed by security guards who politely suggested that we should enter a storage closet.  All the security guards, men and women, were large, strong, heavily bedecked with spray cans and clubs and had not the slightest scintilla of a sense of humor.  We were locked into a closet where we could see but little out of a small window and could hear only a muffled version of the ensuing scuffle.

 

We learned later that Bennie was asked to arrive early for class where he was told by one of the guards that his February release date, the day he could be reunited with his family, had been delayed until sometime in June, and that’s when Bennie exploded like Mt. St. Helens.  While we waited in the closet, twenty guards with handcuffs, chains, clubs and pepper spray struggled for thirty minutes to get Bennie under control.  We were let out of the closet in time to see Bennie, strapped into a special restraint-chair, with cuffs around his wrists and ankles and straps across his chest, wheeled out of the area.  The guard suggested we cancel class for the day since the classroom was filled with pepper spray.  I never saw Bennie again.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief (Othello.)  This blog is so boring.  There’s nothing funny.  You should stop reading, but that would make Pops cry, so I’ll give you a few really funny jokes.  What’s a cat’s favorite cereal?  Mice Krispies.  And what’s a cat’s favorite color?  Purr-ple.  I’m good, right?  That’s why they call me Rodney Dangercat.  Purr.

 

Shakespeare is right.  I apologize for the long, saturnine story. 

 

I know that this blog has been boring

There’s nothing that’s cute or adoring

But it’s been a slow week

A drag, so to speak

And I’ll stop now before you start snoring

 

Take a nap.  I’ll see you next week.  Stay well, pray for Israel and count all your blessings on Thanksgiving.  That’s what it’s for.  Oh, and our Weekly Word is saturnine, which means dark and gloomy and sullen.  That’s all; you can go now.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #348                                November 9, 2023

 

This world is a total mess.  I don’t need to tell you that.  You watch the news just like me, and it is painfully clear that something needs to change.  The problem is that the world is run by men.  Men are useless.  We can’t dress.  We’re always lost.  Every decision we make is wrong (at least that’s what Carol tells me).  Let’s turn the World over to women.  If we do, we won’t need the UN or NATO any more, just the A Group and the B Group.  And there wouldn’t be any more wars.  Women don’t make war.  It would just be: “I’m not calling France.  I called last time and she didn’t call back.  It’s her turn to call.  Oh, and there was a tsunami in Sri Lanka?  Send a tray.”

 

Those men never know what they’re do-N

They totally messed up the U-N

To deal with Iran

We don’t need a man

They’re not good for much except screw-N.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are warm and healthy and not hungry.  If you are, you won’t be after you listen to this.  Have you heard of Feet Loaf?  It was a popular main dish at Halloween parties and consisted of cooked meatloaf molded into the shape and size of a human foot, complete with sliced onions or radishes for toenails.  I would not make this up.  It’s revolting!  Is that what we have come to?  Dinner made to look like human body parts?  I mean, what are they going to do with Rump Roast?  I can see a whole meal composed of Toe-mato soup, macaro-knee, with chocolate-hip cookies for dessert.  We could

serve it all with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

 

As much as I hate technology, some of it is pretty amazing.  Under my bed is a machine the size of an apple pie that is connected to my Pacemaker by radio waves.  My Pacemaker, besides making paces and threatening to whap the crap out of me should I need it, records my heart activity on a continuous basis.  Wait, I had to stop there and think about the difference between continuous and continual.  Continuous means non-stop without interruption.  The Moon revolves around the Earth continuously.  Continual means over and over again.  My wife continually criticizes my driving.

 

So, the thing under my bed continuously records my heart activity.  Every three months, without my help or knowledge, it transmits a record of my heart activity by telephone to Dr. Rhythm.  Easy-peasy!  But there is also an option where I can manually transmit to the doctor.  Last Thursday and Friday, I noticed some twinges that felt to me like the pacemaker was doing something.  The method for manual transmission is so simple, a hamster could do it.  You pick up the mouse-like device from the machine, press the button, put the mouse over your pacemaker, wait, put it back, you’re done.  Then I called Dr. Rhythm, and you know what?  It worked!  They received the transmission and it showed no episodes of activity.  Everything’s good.  Have a nice day.  Pet the hamster.  

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Not a mouse shall disturb this hallowed house (A Midsummer Night’s Dream.)  Wait, did he say there was a hamster in the house?  And a mouse too?  Where are they, Pops?  Maybe they would play with me.  Purr.

 

We had dinner recently with some old friends, a judge and his wife.  We had a very nice time and really didn’t discuss any judginess.  I just made that word up, which makes it a neologism, a newly coined word or expression.  We’ll let neologism be our Weekly Word.  What we did discuss was all the people we knew and what widow was dating which widower, who had what medical condition and so on, something we call Jewish Geography.  Jewish Geography used to be easier when our memories were a little sharper, but now --- well, I think we need a little help.  Wouldn’t it be nice to have an app to remind us of the things we used to know?  We’ll call it Hoozat. You just point your phone at the familiar-looking woman in the green blouse and say Hey, Siri, Hoozat?  And Siri will immediately respond: 

 

That is Lois G. -- University City class of ’59.  Her husband died four years ago.  She dated a man named Frank for a few months, but he wanted sex, so she dumped him.  Don’t mention her daughter Roberta who hasn’t talked to her in thirty years.  And don’t mention her weight; she’s gained twenty pounds since the last time you saw her, which was at her granddaughter’s bat mitzvah in 2020.  That little bitch never sent you a thank-you note, did she?

 

Now that’s what we need to know!

 

I just heard my wife talking on the phone with one of her friends.  The friend must have had a juicy tidbit of local gossip to relate, because I heard the phrase “just between you and me.”  I had to smile, because I know what that means between girls.  Just between you and me translates into you’re the 19^th person I have told since breakfast and I’m only up to F in my contacts.

 

I am a big Stephen King fan, having read 61 of his books.  When King, in an introduction, speaks to us, his loyal fans, he calls us constant reader.  I have my own wonderful readers and they often send me comments.  I got one this morning from one of my lady readers, who called herself one of my groupies.  Groupie?  I have groupies?  That could be the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard in my life – next to Carol saying I do and the doctor saying It’s a girl, It’s a girl and It’s a girl.  Suddenly I feel like a rock star.  Later, I ran into a friend who looked glum.  What’s the matter, I asked?  I have shingles, he said.  You may have shingles, but I have groupies.

 

Well, that’s it, little Groupies (I just love that).  I’m finished, but I’ll be back next week.  You don’t have to do anything.  I’ll have my people call your people.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and pray for Israel.  And remember: this is just between you and me.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #347                                November 2, 2023

 

Recently, a pilot, deadheading as a passenger, tried to crash an Alaska Airlines flight by turning off the engines in mid-flight.  He claimed he took some mind-blowing mushrooms.  It lends a new meaning to the term Dead Head, doesn’t it?  There has been too much passenger violence on airplanes lately.  We need to restrain these people, so I’ve decided to start a new Airline – Nasty Air.  Here’s the pitch – you sit, you fasten your seatbelts, they automatically lock.  No-one is allowed to leave the seat until the plane lands.  If you have to use the potty, you raise your hand and a well-armed Potty Patrol will escort you to the bathroom, one at a time. 

 

If you think this is inconvenient, fly some other airline.  We don’t serve food; we don’t serve drinks.  We don’t waste time scanning you or searching you.  We lock your ass in a seat and get you there quick and in one piece.

 

Pay heed to this safety recording

We’re Nasty and treat you according

We’re not gonna slow you up

Frisk you or blow you up

And please urinate before boarding.

 

The violence in this country is escalating and alarming.  We’re afraid to fly, afraid to go to certain parts of our own cities to eat or attend sporting events.  We’re afraid to send our kids to college. 

 

Hi there and welcome back to Limerick Oyster, a place where you’re never afraid.  You might be shocked, angered, horrified, indignant or even amused, but you know I will never hurt you.  I hope you are feeling well today.  Let’s see if I can find something unfrightening to talk about.

 

I received a lot of comments saying that last week’s blog was dark or depressed or hateful.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Maybe I was a little more crabby than normal, but, after all we’ve been through, if I can’t be bitchy with you, who can I?  And hateful?  I don’t hate anybody.  Well, maybe a few people, but they’re the same people you hate too.  They include:

 

·        The person in front of you driving too slowly

·        The person behind you driving too fast

·        Anybody who works for your cable company

·        Your proctologist (Dr. Asshole)

·        The guy who invented the child-proof caps for pill bottles that none of us old people can open

 

My spirits do need a little lifting actually with all the violence and antisemitism we see every day.  Sometimes I feel lower than Vivek Ramaswamy’s poll numbers and as useless as a snake with a typewriter.  Maybe it’s the shortening daylight or the political landscape.  Someone suggested I look for a younger woman.

 

Nonsense!  I have a wonderful, smart and beautiful wife (don’t tell her I said that).  Besides, some young chick would be as safe with me as a virgin with a eunuch, as safe as a lobster with a Vegan, as safe as an electric razor in Afghanistan.  And what would I do with some Gen X chick?  Twitter?  Watch her count my wrinkles?  Let her teach me how to use Apple Pay?  Maybe I could let her cut my pills in half.  Just the fact that I have to ask the question shows that we would have as much in common as Al Sharpton and Marjorie Taylor Greene.

 

And why do we have to cut our pills in half?  In 2022, the top three drug companies took in $197 billion.  With all that money, can’t they make the pill in the size my doctor prescribes?  Apparently not.  So we have to sit there, with reading glasses, fitting the little thyroid pills into a miniscule slot and plunging the blade down to cut them in half like some near-sighted antediluvian sushi chef.  Even if we’re careful, most of them get flipped onto the floor or in the toilet.  Instead of taking half a pill every day, why don’t we just take a whole one every other day?

 

I’ll tell you why.  Because we won’t remember!  We can’t remember our passwords, our next doctor’s appointment or our youngest grandchild’s name.  We can’t remember who was with Kelly Ripa before Mark Whatshisname.  We can’t remember – well, I forgot.  So how are we supposed to remember to take a pill every other day?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I’ll note you in my book of memory (Henry VI Part 1).  All I need to remember is where the food is and where Pops likes to sit and read.  I always jump on his lap, sniff the book and curl up.  Then he gives me a nice rub.  I like it best when he reads a boring book and falls asleep.  Purr.

 

Here’s another thing that stresses me out – getting dressed.  I once read a humorous line that said, “If the Fashion Police really existed, you’d be serving a life sentence.”  What do they mean if?  The Fashion Police does exist.  It sleeps next to me every night and then, every morning it looks at me like I was a duck with two bills.  I shiver when I get dressed – not because I’m cold, but because I’m frightened that the socks don’t match the belt or the socks don’t match the shoes or the socks don’t match each other or that there’s linen somewhere.

 

Some days, she tells me, “If you’re planning to leave the house dressed like that, don’t stand or walk anywhere near me.”  Other days, when she’s feeling charitable, she’ll just look at me and say, “Did the mirror break?”

 

Weekly Word:  Antediluvian which means before the Biblical flood; very old.

 

Last week, the Richmond, CA City Council voted (5-1) to support the Palestinian people with a resolution that accuses Israel of “ethnic cleansing”.  It was the first city in the United States to do so.  That’s bad enough.  What makes it worse is that my middle daughter and two of my grandchildren live in Richmond.  Just horrible!

 

Well, I hope you had a fun Halloween. Enjoy your spooky self, stay well, count your blessings and avoid stress.  But don’t avoid me.  I’ll be back next week.  Be there or I’m hiding your Halloween candy.  And don’t forget to set your clocks back Saturday night.  If you don’t, next week’s Oyster will come an hour late.  Or is it early?  And pray for Israel.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com