Blog #432                                         June 19, 2025

 

My wife’s having a birthday soon.  Birthdays at our age are fun, but lurking behind the merriment is the realization that we are now one year closer to all the stuff we don’t want to be closer to.  Grandkids are different; they want to get older. 

 

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to getting my driver’s license. 

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to losing my driver’s license.

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to moving into a home of my own.

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to moving into a home.

Kid:  Yay! I’m getting taller. 

Grandparent: Oy! I’m getting shorter.

Kid:  Yay! I’m growing up so fast.

Grandparent:  Oy! He’s growing up so fast.

 

But I have the perfect recipe for living long.  Let me start by relating a recent news story that highlighted the fact that two Death Row inmates were executed on the same day.  Two different states, two different methods of execution.  One had committed his murder 31 years ago; the other 37 years ago.  And there’s the answer.  In this country, killing someone and earning a death sentence guarantees you at least thirty more years of peaceful life.  What a world!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Do you have a dog?  My daughter Jennifer in North Carolina has three dogs.  I remember taking her oldest, Micah, out on a leash.  A dog’s morning walk is akin to your reading the morning newspaper.  If only Micah could talk: “Ok, Pops, a doe crossed over here this morning with her fawn.  Boy they smell good.  And look, it’s trash day.  Sassy’s humans had meatballs last night for dinner.  I bet they didn’t give Sassy any.  And ooh, ooh, look over here, Pops.  A squirrel was here not more than a few minutes ago.  Can you smell it?  No, I guess you can’t.  What a primitive species you humans are!   I can see better than you, hear better than you, certainly smell better.  And I can run faster too.  Look, there’s Rocco.  Hi, Rocco.  Nice day to be walking your human, isn’t it?  Yah, this one’s just babysitting.  He’s old.  Oh, thanks.  Your butt smells nice too.”

 

Those humans shake hands, which is nuts.

That’s just not an option for mutts.

We’ve no hands, you know

So when we say hello

We do it by sniffing our butts.

 

How could you possibly have imagined when you awoke this morning that you would be reading such a thing?  Well, that’s what you get for hanging with me.  Glad you’re here. 

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  I have a proclivity for behinds of great mass (The Tempest).  Why is he always talking about stupid dogs?  Cats are too high class to sniff another creature’s behind.  And cats don’t tie their masters up to a leash and drag them around outside.  Why would anyone want a dog?  Cats are purr-fect.  Purr.

 

The following story is absolutely true.  At a McDonald’s recently, I came upon an employee lingering around the outside, welcoming patrons, directing traffic and generally being joyful and upbeat.  Her name was Bonnie.  We exchanged the following colloquy:  Bonnie started with

 

Hello, Darling, and how are you today?

I’m fine, Bonnie.  How are you?

I’m good, Sweetie.  And very thankful to the Man upstairs.

But Bonnie, I said, what if it’s really a Woman upstairs?

Then God help us all.

 

Ok, I have just insulted all my women readers.  Let’s move on to the men.  At the Zoo the other day, I saw two men looking over a map while their companions (wives? girlfriends? parole officers?) watched.  I walked up and offered my services.  No, the men said, we have it figured out.  I turned toward the distaff half and said, “Men never accept directions.  Come see me when they’re lost.”  C’mon, men, you know I’m right.  We never accept directions. “Siri be damned, I know how to get there.”  Really?  You don’t know where your reading glasses are.  You barely know where the bathroom is.  And how many times have you lost your car in the parking lot?  We, as husbands, have learned how to say yes to everything.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake.  Except, “Let’s ask directions.”  We would sooner be spayed than ask directions.  I’m a man!  I know what I’m doing!  And what do we do when we finally and inevitably get lost?  We start yelling at our wives, as if they had anything to do with our galactic idiocy.  I’d better stop; my wife is calling.  Yes, Dear.

 

Carol does not sleep well.  I do not have that problem and I feel very sorry for her.  I have a sleeping pill that I take every night and it works.  I have suggested that she try going to the Opera, but instead she keeps trying new cocktails and stratagems, all suggested by her Voodoo friends who are quick to give her a list of things to try, none of which has ever worked for them.  “I take organic cherry juice and I never sleep.  You should try it.”  Each night she lays out a pill to take when she wakes up at 2:00 a.m.  It cannot, to my simple and well-rested mind, be a good strategy to plan to get up in the middle of the night in order to take a sleeping pill.  So yesterday, the head gypsy, whom I call Mama Doc, told her about white noise, random sounds that she could find on her iPhone.  Having selected three different ones and unable to decide which was best, she played all three simultaneously: screeching psychotic birds, torrential tropical monsoons and another that was just loud.  Amid the cawing, dripping and screaming – she could not sleep, and neither could I.  The next day I called Mama Doc to ask her if this cacophony of Muzak actually helped her sleep.  “Hell no,” she confessed, “but it keeps my husband up all night.  Why should he sleep if I can’t?”

 

I need a nap.  You probably do too, so I’ll let you go.  But first, our Weekly Word.  Colloquy means a conversation or dialogue, and since we’ve had such a nice one today, I expect you back next week right on time.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com