Blog #218

 

Amazon is now testing the new palm-scanning technology at its Whole Foods store.  No cash, no credit-cards, just pass your palm over a scanner and you’re good to go.  Congratulations, you’ve saved 10 seconds.  Can we just stop for a minute?  Why is everybody in such a hurry?  If you shop at Whole Foods once a week, the palm scanner will save you enough time so that every four years you can watch a Friends episode.  Was that worth it?  We do everything online so we don’t have to spend time going anywhere.  We bank online, buy food online, order prescriptions online.  What are we doing with all this extra time?  I have a different concept.  I like to do things in person.  I don’t order prescriptions online.  I go to the pharmacy and learn the names of the people working there.  I say, Hi, Mark; he says Hello, Mr. Fox.  Sometimes we chat for a little while.  If I ever need some help on anything, Mark is happy to help me.  I do the same with banking and other routine services.

 

Our world is becoming more and more impersonal and intrusive.  There are video cameras everywhere – on the street corners, inside businesses, at everybody’s front door.  Google knows everything about us -- where we are, what doctors we use, what cat food we buy.  We are constantly tracked, monitored and controlled.  The least they could do is tell me where I left my reading glasses.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope all you mommies out there had a happy Mother’s Day, or, as they’ll be calling it in the future, Birth Person’s Day.  Don’t get me started!  I hope you’re feeling well and getting ready for a glorious summer.  That’s right, it’s May already and the weather is warming up, although last week it rained so much that I stopped worrying about Global Warming and started to worry about Global Drowning.  But today it was so sunny and pleasant that I reached for a sporty linen shirt I haven’t worn in a while.  Warning! Warning!  Alarms began to ring in my brain about wearing linen out of season.  So I checked my calendar, my horoscope, Poor Richard’s Almanac, the phases of the moon and an old Martha Stewart Prison-Wear Catalog and determined that yes, I could wear my linen shirt.  I put it on and walked into the living-room.  Carol looked at me.  Memorial Day to Labor Day.  It’s not Memorial Day yet.  Take it off.  My wife is under the impression that the sun wouldn’t come up if she were not there to allow it.  I believe she’s right.  Actually, she didn't really say that.  She barely looked at me.

 

I don’t need to scurry around saving time by palm-scanning and the like.  I have plenty of time.  I certainly have enough time to do all the unpleasant errands my wife chooses not to do.  Do you remember Dirty Harry?  Clint Eastwood?  Go ahead, make my day?  They called him Dirty Harry because he was always the one chosen whenever there was a dirty job to do.  Well, I’m Dirty Mikey.  When someone has to drop Princess Summerfallwinterspring at the restaurant door, then park two blocks away and walk back in the pouring rain, who does it?  Dirty Mikey!  When someone has to pick up the dozen Everything Bagels and stink up his car and his clothes with that caustic, garlicky stench, who does it?  You guessed it.  One time, on the way back from picking up those nasty bagels, I stopped at McDonald’s and went in.  My clothes smelled so much like the Everything Bagels that two old Jewish women started spreading cream cheese on my shirt.  I liked it.

 

Yes, I have plenty of time for all the dirty jobs.  Plus, I have plenty of time for my little conservation projects.  I’ll bet you do the same things.  Do you squeeze the last little eensy infinitesimal bit of toothpaste out of the tube?  Do you use the bar of soap until it’s tinier than Andrew Cuomo’s chances of re-election?   I don’t consider that being parsimonious; it’s just conserving resources.  Like saving paper clips.  Do you save paper clips?

 

One summer, our family rented a house on Bald Head Island and two of my granddaughters (they were 8 and 10 at the time) asked me if I had a paper clip.  They had heard about someone who had traded a paper clip for something else and that something else for something else and so on.  I gave them a paper clip and off they went.  Now, the island has at most 20 merchants – shops, hotdog stands, restaurants – but these two were persistent and cute as bunnies.  They traded the paper clip for a Hershey bar, which they traded for two cans of soda, and so on.  After two hours, they returned with two candy bars, two necklaces, two pairs of earrings and a $25 gift certificate to a spa.  So of course I save paper clips.  Look how valuable they are.

 

We’re going back to Bald Head Island this summer.  Eight adults, eight grandchildren, two dogs and a lot of pills.  I have to start planning pretty early to make sure I have a supply of all the medicines I need.

 

There’s heart pills to keep me from dying

And Zoloft to keep me from crying

I’ve so many pills

To treat all my ills

I need extra luggage for flying.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  How like a winter hath my absence been from thee (Sonnet 97).  I hate when they go away.  I hate it.  I hate it.  I hate it!  I’m all alone except when some stranger comes for two minutes to feed me.  Can a cat take some of that Zoloft?  I think for cats they call it Purrzac.  Purr.

 

The Weekly Word is parsimonious.  I’ll bet you figured that out.  Parsimonious means frugal or stingy or downright cheap.  I am very parsimonious with my writing, and I try to keep each blog under 1100 words.  That’s enough to put most of you to sleep and I’m getting close to that number now, so I’ll stop.  It’s been very nice talking to you and I hope you enjoyed.  Stay well, count your blessings and make sure you file your taxes on time.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Dirty Mikey                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #217

 

Last Tuesday, May 4^th, was Star Wars Day.  May the 4^th be with you!  Then yesterday was Cinco de Mayo.  Did you celebrate?  Cinco de Mayo is a Mexican holiday which celebrates the victory of the Mexican army over the French in 1862.  That’s right, the French.  What the French were doing over there in Mexico is a mystery.  The holiday has no relevance for Americans and barely any for Mexicans, but it is an excuse to party and get drunk.  Hope you enjoyed it.

 

With so many Spanish-speaking citizens and residents here, I’m beginning to understand why we have to Press 1 for English, Press 2 for Spanish.  That’s ok with me.  I get it.  But recently, I have been getting a different response:  Press 1 for Spanish, Press 2 for a lady from the Philippines who knows six words of English.  Good luck. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and coming out of the malaise the pandemic has forced upon us.  This past week, I did something I had not done in more than a year.  Can you guess?

 

A:  Rode an elephant

B:  Had lunch with Joy Behar

C:  Ate kale

D:  Went to a movie

 

If you chose B, you were right.  Joy and I had a wonderful lunch.  She’s not as bad as I thought.  I’m kidding of course.  My having lunch with Joy is about as likely as seeing Maxine Waters and Donald Trump doing the foxtrot. In truth, Carol and I went to a movie for the first time in 14 months. There were about 15 people in the theater and we felt completely safe.  And now I am able to resurrect an old feature of Limerick Oyster.

 

Movie Review:  The movie was Minari, about a Korean family who moves to the United States.  It was mostly sub-titled, well-acted, not great, not terrible.  It was pleasant but unremarkable. 

 

I like movies, but I have no patience for watching television.  The commercials are annoying.  After watching television one night for a little while, I came to the conclusion that one out of every three people in this country is a personal injury attorney.  And the other two are suing somebody.  I tried to sue somebody once.  I bought a house, a 100-year-old impressive stone mansion in a very desirable part of town.  My plans were to fix it up and sell it.  The day after I bought it, I was meeting some contractors in the house when a neighbor walked over.  “You know this house is haunted, don’t you?”  She commenced to tell me the story of a child who had died on the second floor and could be heard moaning from time to time.  I did a little research and discovered that the house featured prominently in a book called Haunted Houses of St. Louis, a fact which I believed should have been disclosed to us by the seller.  I asked my lawyer to sue the seller for damages.  He laughed.  What damages, he asked?  Well, I told him, we spent $100,000 remodeling the house and put it on the market, but every time a potential buyer came to view the house, that same neighbor (don’t you love neighbors?) trotted her little busy-body over to inform them the house was haunted, whereupon the buyers would run faster than Bruce Jenner running toward a camera.  The lawyer laughed louder and refused to take the case.  We finally sold it to a man who loved the house and was thrilled that it was haunted.  It takes all kinds.  To this day, I still think we would have won the lawsuit.

 

And then there was the lawsuit, which really happened, to determine ownership of an escaped parrot. The parrot was actually allowed to testify, after the Judge gave him these instructions:

 

Well now we will hear from the parrot

Please perch on the bible and swear it

Just raise your right wing

Go on, Bird, and sing

And then we’ll decide on the merit.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I’d rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad (As You Like It).  And I do have a big fool that takes care of me and keeps away the malaise.  I guess I’ll keep him.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is malaise, a general feeling of discomfort or illness.  The best way to cure your malaise is to get a chuckle, and I hope I can give you one every week.

 

For instance, the LBAE (Let’s Bitch About Everything) Movement is after Disney and the Snow White ride at Disneyland.  Why?  Is it because she’s white, is named White or employs seven vertically challenged and underpaid miners?  Or is it minors?  Is it because she treats her dwarfs so horribly that six out of seven say they’re not Happy?  Apparently not.  It is because of the true love’s kiss that the Prince plants upon Snow’s lovely red lips in order to wake her from the sleeping spell placed upon her by the Evil Queen. They claim the kiss was without consent. Didn’t they watch the movie?  Didn’t they hear the song where Snow sings:

 

Someday my Prince will come . .

He'll whisper I love you
And steal a kiss or two . .
Someday when my dreams come true?

 

She’s not only consenting, she is begging the Prince to give her a big sloppy smack to make her dreams come true.  C’mon, People.  It’s a cartoon.  It’s a kiss.  It’s a dream come true.  Just because it’s not your dream, don’t ruin it for everyone else. 

 

Another thing we did this week was play golf.  Carol hit a lot of great shots.  I hit three.  But they were all on the same hole and I got a birdie.  I guess it’s better to clump all your great things together instead of stringing them out.  If a baseball player hit five home runs in a year, nobody would care.  If he hit them all on the same day, he would be in the record-book forever.  If a guy wrote one funny thing every month, no big deal.  If he wrote dozens of funny things all at once – it would be Limerick Oyster.  Don’t miss it next week.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Happy                                     Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #216

 

During the Covid months, my wife and I stayed in our condo pretty much all day, and although I flourish in a quiet atmosphere, Carol needs constant noise – the television, some music playing, phone calls with her friends.  It is fortunate, therefore, that our place is big enough for me to escape to a quiet room away from her cacophonous milieu.  Our ability to be apart all these years has kept us together all these years.  Still, on occasion, I overhear some of her conversations, and I have noticed a change.  The gossip used to consist of, Did you hear what A said to B and then B told C all about it and now C is mad at A?  Or, Did you know that E did not invite F to her birthday lunch and F found out about it from G?  Well, since Covid has limited the number of live conversations to be overheard, my wife and her friends have turned to a different strategy -- reading people’s minds.  I know what A thinks about B and B probably thinks the same about her.  So now, if you don’t want to be gossiped about, it’s not good enough just to keep your mouth shut.  You have to keep your mind shut as well.  Some of you may be better at that than others.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Please don’t keep your mind shut for the next few minutes while you read this.  You might miss something amusing.  Spring has been tardy in arriving and St. Louis has been cold and ugly.  I hope you are enjoying better weather and feeling well.  My St. Louis daughter has three children, two cats and a dog, and it is to her house that we moved last weekend so that she and my son-in-law could enjoy a weekend trip.

 

Their dog is a sweet hybrid puppy.  You know, money will buy a fine dog, but only kindness will make her wag her tail.  She is a mixture of basset, boxer, probably some poodle.  Everything has some poodle nowadays.  Labradoodle, Goldendoodle, everything has a doodle.  I think in the future, dogs will be named for the religions of their owners.  There will be Methodoodles, Buddhadoodles, Hindoodles, Muslimdoodles and even Jewdledoodles.  See, that’s what you get when you give a keyboard to an old man with a disturbed mind.  Sorry.

 

Where were we?  The dog!  The dog and the two cats have not as yet come to an understanding, so the dog is not allowed upstairs where the cats hang out.  There is a gate at the bottom of the stairs which is very efficient at keeping dogs and old men from going up the stairs, and I need help from my grandchildren to operate it.  Once upstairs and in bed, there are the cats, two large, beautiful creatures who believe they own the master bedroom.  They have obviously not met my wife.  It took an hour of scratching and screeching and hissing and spitting – and that was just Carol -- before the cats recognized her dominance and reluctantly ceded control of the bedroom.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed (Romeo and Juliet).  I don’t know about those cats at Aunt Abby’s house.  They must be low-class peons.  I, on the other hand, am a genteel and well-mannered pet and Carol likes me on her bed.  I’m such a good boy!  At least until I start biting her toes.  Purr. 

 

One of the evenings, my 11-year-old grandson and I climbed into bed with a bowl of popcorn to watch the movie Troy with Brad Pitt, a great action movie I knew he would love because he has recently read The Iliad.  He is, after all, my grandson.  He loved the movie, until Achilles (Brad) lured a Trojan princess into his bed.  They started to kiss and fondle, whereupon my grandson put a pillow over his face and said, Poppy, tell me when it’s over.  I smiled and wondered if I was the same when I was eleven.  Then I realized that I could not have been.  There were no steamy, seductive scenes on television back then.  The only two characters I ever saw in bed together were Timmy and Lassie.

 

Carol and I, with another couple, are making plans to visit some of our Western National Parks – Zion and Bryce and Grand Canyon – in September.  We chose September because, by then, the parks will not be crowded with school children.  As Phyllis Diller said, We spend the first twelve months of our children’s lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve years telling them to sit down and shut up.  I adore my eight grandchildren but am reluctant to tolerate anyone else’s.  We started our planning by making a list of all the things four old people were unwilling to do. 

                            

We do not ride horses or hike

Go hot-air ballooning or bike

No kayaking please

And no ATVs

‘Cause eating is all that we like.

 

We will not climb mountains nor rappel down them.  No white-water rafts or helicopters.  And we do not camp.  To me, camping is just spending a small fortune to live like a homeless person.  In addition, we do not function well in the rain, and abhor cold weather or hot weather.  It sounds like a lot of fun. 

 

Our Weekly Word is milieu.  It means the environment in which something occurs.  And the environment in which I write you each week is becoming curiouser and curiouser.  For example, Google news reports that Mauro Morandi, the Italian Hermit, who lives as the only resident of a small island off the coast of Sardinia, has recently announced that he will be leaving the island after living completely alone for more than 30 years.  He made the announcement on his Facebook page.  What has this world come to when even the hermits have Facebook pages?

 

A true hermit does not communicate with others, so I suppose I cannot be considered a hermit because I send you this blog, if that can be called communication.  Some people call it gibberish.  Perhaps so, but stick with me and I’ll send you some more gibberish next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michaeldoodle                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #215

 

His Royal Highness, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh died last week.  I feel bad for Liz.  They had been married for 73 years.  You know, all those European royal families are inter-connected.  Both Philip and Queen Elizabeth are great-great-grandchildren of Queen Victoria and both are also descended from King Christian IX of Denmark.  Philip’s most famous quote was, “When a man opens a car door for his wife, it’s either a new car or a new wife.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and enjoying nice weather and beautiful scenery.  I was in a doctor’s waiting room this week.  I was getting tired of reading my book (I always have a book) so I got up to stretch and look out the window.  Did I see lovely meadows of verdant veldt and crystal-clear brooks of cool water?  No, from the fifth-floor doctor’s office the only scenery was a concrete morass of overpasses and underpasses and a cloverleaf that had more bypasses than my heart.  It was ugly and artificial and depressing.  I could not wait to get home, put on my walking stuff and head out on the suburban streets around my house.  The weather was perfect, the birds were melodious and welcoming and the lawns and trees were at their springtime best.  There was even a bubbling brook.  It was probably filled with agricultural runoff and industrial waste, but it calmed me nevertheless.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  In nature's infinite book of secrecy a little I can read (Antony and Cleopatra).  I have a wonderful porch to play on with lots of windows that look out to trees and birds and squirrels and people walking their dogs.  Pops leaves a window open so I can sit on my cat-tree and smell and hear everything, watch the birds and laugh at the stupid dogs.  Purr.

 

Tomorrow, April 23^rd, is Shakespeare’s birthday.   He’s either 2 or 447, depending on which Shakespeare you are talking about.  My cat was left on the doorstep of the animal shelter with a mangled leg, so no-one really knows his exact birthday.  I decided he should share birthdays with the other Shakespeare, so happy birthday to my wonderful three-legged cat – and to that other guy as well.  

 

Now that we’re feeling vaccinated and liberated and ready to re-enter the society of restaurant-going oldies, I feel it a public service to remind you of the restaurant etiquette you may have forgotten from lack of practice over the past year.  Here’s what you need to remember:

 

1.     Call ahead and reserve the round table next to the window.

2.     When you arrive, reject that table immediately because it is near a table of eight noisy young women.  Move to a table in the main room.

3.     Reject that table because the main room has music playing that is too loud.  I never sit at a table until my wife has already moved twice.  I guarantee that when she gets to Heaven, she will reject the first table God gives her because it’s too near the Holy-Rollers.  Put me near the Mormons; they’re quieter.

4.     At Table #3, make sure the women sit on one end and the men on the other because the men are boring and the women need to talk even though they have spoken on the phone with each other for at least ten hours in the past five days.

5.     Ask the server, Guido, who has followed you from table to table like a groupie following a Phish tour, to bring you water.

6.     Send half the waters back because two wanted water with no ice and one with only light ice. 

7.     When the waters arrive, order drinks.  Make the server bring you a taste of the house Chardonnay.  Then make him bring you a taste of the premium Chardonnay.  Then order a half-glass of the house.  If he says they don’t serve a half-glass, make him ask the manager.  By now, Guido will be offering $50 to any server who would switch with him and take your table.

8.     The half-glass arrived but in a glass without a stem.  Make the server go back and find a glass with a stem.  Then make him go back and get you a glass of ice to add to the half-glass of wine that is now in a glass with a stem.

9.     Order half the house salad with no onions and the dressing on the side, half romaine and half iceberg and chopped.  And can you bring me a taste of the house dressing.

10.  This woman and I are sharing the chicken sandwich.  Can you split the plates and she’ll take French fries extra crispy and I’ll have fries, not crispy, no salt, and not fried in oil.  And can we have the honey-mustard on the side and a thing of barbecue sauce.

11.  And when you do the checks, she’s with that guy over there, she’s with the guy next to him and I’m with the one hiding behind the napkin dispenser.  And don’t forget to split the price of the chicken sandwich.

12.  By now, Guido has changed his name to Genevieve, entered the Witness Protection Program and moved to Poughkeepsie.  Your table is now being served by the Assistant Manager.

13.  The food arrives.  Send back the chicken sandwich because it isn’t hot enough and the fries because they weren’t extra-crispy.

14.  Eat.  Ask for more napkins and whether they have a senior discount.

15.  Ask if they give a complimentary dessert for a birthday?  Someone must be within six months of a birthday.  The Assistant Manager has, by now, resigned and become a drug-runner for El Chapo, but the Manager brings the free dessert and hopes you enjoyed the meal.

16.  Tell her you’ll be back.

 

The Manager said with much sorrow

That a plane ticket she’d have to borrow

‘Cause it came to her ear

The worst thing she could hear

When we said we would be back tomorrow.

 

Let’s make our Weekly Word morass, which means a confusing and complicated mess, like this week’s blog.  I’ll have another one next week, but now I have to go.  Maxine Waters called and said if I don’t stop, she’ll set my house on fire.  Stay well and count your blessings.  And enjoy the Spring!

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #214

 

I have a strange story.  It’s not funny, just a bit bizarre.  I called a good friend last week and scheduled a meeting at McDonald’s to catch up.  My friend showed up wearing a blue baseball cap.  You remember MAGA hats.  They were red and stood for Make America Great Again.  This one was blue and said MASA on it with the words Make America Sane Again.  Cute.  He said he doesn’t wear it very often because he’s afraid someone will shoot him.  When we were finished talking, he put his hat back on and we started to walk out when a man accosted us.  He was 40-ish, tall, slender, wearing a khaki-green jumpsuit festooned with golden pins, little eagles and rifles.  “Hey, Man,” he said, “I overheard you saying you were afraid of getting shot.  You need to be carrying.”  At this point he pointed to a large handgun sticking out of a loose pocket below his right knee.  It was large and metallic and serious.  He then, very politely, suggested we should buy guns and get trained and carry our weapons so we wouldn’t be afraid of being shot.  This was in the middle of McDonald’s!  He was not threatening at all.  Actually, it was sort of comforting to know this guy would eagerly protect us if some danger arose by blasting holes in the offending parties.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are all feeling well.  I have seen lots of cowboy movies and crime TV, but actually seeing a gun that near, especially in the possession of a jump-suit wearing, medal-festooned cowboy telling me the only way I can be safe buying a Big Mac is to walk in looking like Wyatt Earp – well, it was disturbing.   Festooned is a good word, isn’t it?  Let’s make that out Weekly Word.  It means adorned with ribbons or other decorations.

 

Last week was Opening Day for the St. Louis Cardinals.  I don’t know about other baseball towns, but here in St. Louis, Opening Day is Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day and the Fourth of July all stuffed in a duffle bag with beer and red hats and Clydesdales.  Those are the big horses which are the hallmark of Anheuser Busch Brewing Company which sponsors the Cardinals.  Each opening day, those huge Clydesdales prance around the stadium (Busch Stadium) to show off their strength and beauty.  But is it safe?  I consulted the CDC guidelines to see if, during Covid times, the large horses were allowed onto the field of a crowded stadium. Yes, I found out, they were fine, but ponies were not allowed. 

 

The CDC governs, of course

Their guidelines we all must enforce

You’ll have to stay off

With a fever or cough

Or if you are – a little hoarse.

 

Little hoarse?  Pony?  Just wanted to see if you were awake.  As long as we’re doing pony jokes, I have a dog joke. 

 

Fritz and Pedro are out walking their dogs.  Fritz has a big, beautiful German Shepherd; Pedro a tiny Chihuahua.  It’s a warm day and Fritz says, “Let’s go into that bar and get a beer.”  Pedro replies, “The sign says NO PETS ALLOWED.”   Fritz says, “Watch this.”  He puts on dark sunglasses and saunters into the bar with the German Shepherd.  A few minutes later he comes out looking refreshed.  “Well?” asks Pedro.  “No sweat,” says Fritz, “with the dark glasses they thought I was blind and that the German Shepherd was my seeing-eye dog.  The beer was great.” 

 

So Pedro borrows the dark glasses and heads into the bar where he is immediately accosted by a burly bouncer.  “No dogs, Mister,” he barks.  Pedro responds with confidence, “Can’t you see I’m blind?  This animal is my seeing-eye dog.”  “No chance, Bozo,” growls the bouncer.  “That’s a Chihuahua.”  “What?” shrieks Pedro.  “They gave me a Chihuahua?”

 

We used to have a dog named Alex.  After writing that joke, I started thinking about him and I commented that Alex was a wonderful dog and that I missed him sleeping on my pillow.  Carol said, “That’s alright, you’ll see him in Doggy Heaven.”  Doggy Heaven?  First of all, I’m not even sick.  And second, is that where she thinks I’m going?  Doggy Heaven?  I guess I’m nothing more than an Alta-Cocker Spaniel to her.  Probably on our wedding night she thought to herself, “What! They gave me a Chihuahua?” 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Well, heaven knows I love you (Othello).  I certainly love him more than some stupid dog could.  Dogs are loud, drooling, pooping monsters who are too stupid to know a squirrel from a bean bag.  Cats are always climbing because they know they belong in Heaven.  Dogs are always digging down because they know where they belong.  Purr.

 

Last Sunday, the 11^th, was National Pet Day, and I must admit that Shakespeare is a loyal, loving and beautiful pet.  So there.  Wednesday, the 14^th, was National Gardening Day.  I have no gardening skills.  I love flowers and all growing things, but I am just no good at it.  Besides, it feels like growing tomatoes is a lousy way to spend a lot of time and effort trying to save a dollar and a half.  And today, the 15^th, is Tax Day.  But it’s not.  They’ve changed it to May 15^th because, since the entire country has been locked in their houses with nothing to do for 12 months, they couldn’t possibly have had enough time to do their taxes.  Genius!

 

I finally have a solution for this “feeling old” thing.  As soon as we reach Medicare, we should change our ages to Centigrade.    I’m serious now.  Listen, I am 75 years old, but in Centigrade (let’s see, subtract 32 and multiply by five ninths) -- that makes me 23.  Now doesn’t that sound better?  80 becomes 26; 85 becomes 29.  I bet you feel younger already.

 

This blog has been festooned with stories of dogs and ponies and, of course, Shakespeare.  I hope you got a chuckle or two.  I don’t know what we’ll talk about next week, but it will be strange.  See you then.  Stay well and count your blessings and change your age to Centigrade.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #213

 

My wife and I are both 75 years old, and we look like a 150-year-old couple.  She looks 45 and I look 105.  Hey, mirrors don’t lie.  I just wish mine would stop laughing.  Carol’s big birthday was last summer, but Covid prevented her friends from celebrating and treating her to a ceremonial “Big Birthday” dinner.  This week, however, they decided it was safe enough to spend lots of money on a lavish meal, and while they were out hotsy-totsying with wine and oysters, I went to a sandwich joint with some boyfriends.  By the way, here’s some advice.  Don’t ever ask your grandsons about their boyfriends or your granddaughters about their girlfriends.  To their generation, if a boy has a boyfriend, they’re obviously gay.  Same for girls.  It’s part of the reason our grandchildren look at us as if we were the original cast of the Bible.

 

Anyway, I got home about 90 minutes before she did.  The silence hit me like a religious epiphany!  There was no television, no phone calls, no bridge games or canasta games or mahjong games online.  I was alone with no noise or distraction.  It was as quiet as an Andrew Cuomo re-election rally.

 

Tonight I was home on my own

No Netflix, no iPad, no phone

Though I love my sweet wife,

(She’s the light of my life)

Sometimes I like being alone.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I myself am best when least in company (Twelfth Night).  Alone?  He was alone?  What am I, a toilet seat?  I was loyally waiting by the front door when he came in.  He gave me a nice scratching and called me his sweet baby.  He’s such a juvenile.  And now he says he was alone?  Let’s see how alone he feels when I bite one of his fingers off.  Purr.

 

Carol has rarely gone out without me in the past year, so I took advantage of the peaceful silence and decided to finish the book I was reading, my 57^th Stephen King book.  When she came home, I asked her when it would be my turn to be feted for my 75^th.  She explained to me the calculus by which, among our friends, women are taken out for their birthdays ending in zero or five, but men are treated only on the zero birthdays.  I would have to wait for my special dinner till my 80^th.  I might be pretty hungry by then.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Our Weekly Word is fete which means to honor or entertain someone lavishly. Let’s see if I can entertain you lavishly for the next six or seven hundred words.  Have you gotten your vaccinations yet?  You really should because the shots will protect you from getting the virus, not to mention that proof of vaccination may be required for flying or entrance to concerts or even restaurants.  NO SHIRT, NO SHOTS, NO SERVICE!  Get ready for it.

 

I used to have a poker game every Friday.  Nine or ten old men, two decks of cards, some poker chips.  The yelling and confusion and the screaming and the cursing – we all love it!  But we haven’t played in over a year – until this week.  All the players have been vaccinated, and we decided to resume the poker wars.  Everyone looked good and the game was as raucous as ever.

 

Plus, Carol and I played golf this week.  Oy, the yelling and confusion and the screaming and the cursing.  What fun!

 

Besides the mirror and the aching back after playing golf, there are other nagging little reminders that I have passed my prime.  The main one is that I can’t even remember my prime.  When we were in North Carolina recently, I took my wife to the store to shop. Shopping for clothes is an activity I rate one step below watching C-SPAN and one step above having a tooth pulled without Novocain.  Luckily, I had a volume of short stories by Rudyard Kipling (does that even surprise you by now?) and I went to find a seat.  There were no seats for patient husbands, but near the door were two soft, comfy-looking wheelchairs.  So I picked one, relaxed and opened my Rudyard.  Not a minute later, a woman carefully led her shuffling and drowsy mother to the other chair and left her.  And there we were --   the ancient and nearly-comatose woman and me sitting in our wheelchairs.  You don’t have to say it – I know.  But I bet she doesn’t have a blog.

 

Whenever we visit my daughter and her family in North Carolina, I often visit her chickens.  They are very attractive birds and they live in a coop that, if it were listed on Priceline, would cost you $129.00 a night.  It has everything but cable TV.  I told Jen she should install cable and let the little cluckers watch some movies.  And what movies, you ask, would I recommend?  Well, Chick Flicks of course.  You know I like silly lists and I know you do too, so here are my favorite Chick Flicks. 

 

A Few Good Hens

The Maltese Chicken

A Flock-Work Orange

Some Like It Fried

Pulp Chicken

 

And speaking of food, (don’t tell my daughter I used food and her chickens in the same thought), this week, Carol and I visited a local donut shop that actually serves donuts with bourbon, amaretto and other alcoholic flavorings inside.  They call it Daylight Donuts.   Why didn’t they call it Drunken Donuts or even Tipsy Kreme?  They needed some Smart Alec like me to come up with a catchy name. I’m still available to name the individual offerings.  Johnny Walker Red Velvet and Beer Belly Jelly Donuts come to mind.

 

Smart Alec is an interesting phrase.  It comes from a man named Alec Hoag, a pimp in New York City in the 1840s, who used to take the cash from the pockets of the male customers while they were enjoying the feminine company they had paid for.  Now, it just means an obnoxiously conceited person who thinks he’s clever – like me!  But I know you love me anyway, so stay well, count your blessings and come back next week.

 

Alec                                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com