Blog #207

 

Our friends, the Goldmans, just hired a housekeeper from Sweden named Inga.  Last week, Mrs. Goldman told Inga to set the table for four because the Schwartzes were coming for dinner.  When Mrs. Goldman returned later that afternoon, she noticed the table was set for eight people.  “Inga, I told you the Schwartzes were coming and to set the table for four.”  Ya, Miss, Inga replied, but Mrs. Schwartz called and said they were bringing the Blintzes and the Knishes.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.   Sorry about that old joke, but everything seems to be getting old these days and I am beginning to feel caged, stir crazy, cooped up, purposeless.  Get the picture?

 

Each day is a lot like the next

I read and I write and I text

And day after day

I feel the same way

Repetitive, bored and perplexed.

 

We have tried, during Covid, to spice up our lives with a little Nature.  We adopted Shakespeare.  He’s sitting next to me as I type, waiting for me to finish so he can watch squirrel videos, but as much as I love the little thing, a tabby cat is not very exotic.  We drove to a place called Lone Elk Park where, from the safety of our car, we saw an emaciated elk and a few bulimic bison, but let’s face it – St. Louis is not a beautiful place, even when it’s blanketed in snow.

 

At the Zoo, one time, I had a couple from Denmark.  “Ah,” I said, “I have been to Copenhagen and I thought it was a truly beautiful city.”  They looked at me as if I were as crazy as Marjorie Taylor Greene.  Of course, to a tourist, Copenhagen consisted of the old, charming port area with the multi-colored houses, the classic old boats and the wonderful outdoor restaurants.  But it’s a big city and this couple probably live in a row house by the train station and think the city is dirty and old and boring.  Perspective can be everything.  A tourist to St. Louis sees the Arch, the Old Post Office and the Zoo and they come away thinking the town is magical.  The only Nature I get to see is when I watch the squirrel videos with Shakey.

 

I did go out for a haircut today.  I have gotten haircuts throughout the last year and, as you know, have done plenty of errands.  But today I felt different.  I felt liberated a bit, less afraid of my fellow travelers on this pestilential planet.  Having been vaccinated makes me feel safer, I suppose, less constrained.  I still wear my mask everywhere; I still wash my hands 40 times a day, but somehow, I feel a tiny bit safer. 

 

Maybe Award Season will cheer me up.  Are you ready for Award Season?  The Golden Globes, Critics’ Choice, Grammy. SAG, Oscars.  I don’t know 90% of the nominees anymore.  I mean who is Kaley Cuoco?  Is that a person or a new disease from China?  My wife and her friends watch every award show, mostly just to see the ubiquitous Red Carpet.  Who are you wearing?  What kind of question is that?  Actually, Joan Rivers introduced the phrase in 1994.  But tell me this -- why is it that all the guy interviewers on the Red Carpet are 5’3” and all the girl interviewers are 6’3”?  Once I saw Ryan Seacrest interviewing Charlize Theron; it looked like a squirrel trying to climb a giraffe.

 

We need an award show for old people, but all the good names are taken.  The Grammys would have been an apt name or, at our age, SAG is reasonably descriptive.  Maybe we’ll just call it the Oldies.  We could get Dick Clark to host it.  He must still be alive somewhere.  Oh, he’s dead?  Perfect!  They could give awards for the Oldest Tie or the Most Organized Pill Carrier or the Longest Number of Days Without Losing Your Reading Glasses.  And “who” would all these famous oldies be wearing?  Probably Donna Medi-Karan or Oscar de la Yenta.  I don’t know who I’ll be wearing, maybe Jewish Dior, but I know who I’ll be eating – Colonel Sanders.  And I know what movies I’ll be rooting for – No Closet for Old Men and the unforgettable I Remember Whatshername.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Nothing can seem foul to those that win (Henry IV, Part 1).  I would like an award show for cats.  Tomcat Hanks and Cat Blanchett could win for Romeow and Mewliet.  Maybe I could be an actor.  I could play Captain Ahab’s cat.  Purr.

 

Carol and I don’t always see eye to eye.  That’s because I am 5’10” and she is her little 5’3”.  Ok, I lied -- I may no longer be 5’10”.  I’m getting shorter it seems.  I don’t feel it; I don’t see it, but the nurse tells me I’m shorter every time I have a physical.  I always thought my grandchildren were getting taller, but now I realize it was me getting shorter.  It’s inevitable, I suppose.  I can just picture the future as I continue my vertical vanishing act and go from Munchkin-sized to Hobbit-sized until, eventually, I will qualify as a Happy Meal toy.  Or an interviewer on the Red Carpet.  Charlize, would you like fries with that?

 

I used to have an employee named Angie, who worked as a receptionist.  Angie was spunky, had a plethora of personality and was 4’5” tall.  When Angie was in the supply room looking for some printer paper or in the kitchen looking for a new can of creamer, she often discovered that these things were stored in a cabinet that was out of her reach.  It didn’t bother her one bit.  She would just stand there and yell “Tall Person” and the nearest tall person would respond and get what she needed.  Nothing was going to stop Angie!  And nothing is going to stop me from sending you another blog next week.

 

Our Weekly Word is plethora, which means a large or excessive amount, and I hope to have provided you a plethora of entertainment this week.  Please stay well and count your blessings, and I'll see you in a week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

         

 

Blog #206

 

I have a friend and loyal reader named Andy.  Andy likes to write too, and sometimes, she tells me, if she has an idea in the middle of the night, she goes into her closet to write so she doesn’t disturb her husband.  What a great idea, I thought, until I realized I don’t have a closet.  Why can’t men have closets?  We knew a couple who lived in Phoenix in a grand and gargantuan house on top of a mountain.  The wife had a closet complex the size of Delaware.  She actually had one closet just for her Judith Leiber bags.  If you don’t know what a Judith Leiber bag is, just imagine a purse with the price-tag of a Cadillac and the dimensions of an English muffin.

 

I asked the husband to show me his closet.  He led me into his study and pointed to a corner where there was an open suitcase and a large cardboard box that used to hold Charmin.  The girl’s name, I remember, was Jill.  I don’t remember his name, but then why should I remember the name of a man who doesn’t even have a closet?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying warm.  It is very cold in the Midwest.  I can count the temperature on my fingers.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  For never-resting time leads summer on to hideous winter (Sonnet #5).  Big deal about his fingers.  I can count the temperature on my fingers, and I only have four.  Purr.

 

It has been a very busy week, so put a log on the fire, strap yourself in and let’s get started.

 

Valentine’s Day:  It is because of Valentine’s Day that you are now reading this.  When my three daughters were growing up, I always bought them a bunch of junk candy for Valentine’s Day, but 23 years ago, they had all moved out of the house, and I decided they were too old for all that sweet stuff and I sent nothing.  The next day, they all called me and demanded, with outrage, to know where their Valentines package was.  I wrote them a letter to apologize.  They liked the letter.  I liked the letter, and I have written a newsletter for my daughters each week since – 1,200 letters.  Four years ago, my oldest granddaughter suggested I turn that letter format into a blog.  So there it is and here I am and there you are.  I hope somebody gave you a Valentine.

 

President’s Day:  Did you have a nice President’s Day?  President’s Day is the day we honor all the people whose statues we have torn down and spat on in the past year.  Joe Biden is the 46^th President, but since they count Grover Cleveland twice (the 22^nd and the 24^th), Joe is actually the 45^th different man to serve as President.  He is also the oldest.  He is older now than Reagan was after serving 8 years.  I like having an old man as President – someone to look out for my rights.  Like why husbands don’t get closets – or birthday presents?

 

Friend’s Birthday:  This week, one of Carol’s closest friends had a birthday.  So what did my wife do?  She bought the friend an orchid – well, she sent me out to get it.  She wrote a poem – she had me do that too.  She videotaped herself reciting the poem – she had our daughter do the videotaping.  Then she braved the 15^o temperature and snow-covered roads to drive (I drove) to this girl’s house to sing happy birthday and deliver the present.  Very thoughtful indeed.  As I recall, for my 75^th birthday last month, my wife gave me nothing more than a hug.     

 

You see, in a woman’s world, treating your husband like an unmatched sock is okay.  It’s expected.  But ignoring a friend will make you the subject of intense criticism and ridicule throughout the County.  It’s the truth!  We husbands need a better lobby, and I don’t mean like in a hotel.  Nobody fights for our rights.  I’m hoping President Biden will fight for us.  If his wife lets him.

 

Carjacking:  This week in St. Louis, a van was carjacked.  The van belonged to a funeral home and had a lady’s corpse in the back.  The corpse has not been recovered.  The daughter of the deceased has written an impassioned plea to the carjacker:

 

You stole Momma’s corpse and that’s wrong

And I just cannot say this too strong

You’re a villain and, well,

You should go straight to Hell

Just please don’t take Momma along.

 

Australian Open:  I like tennis.  I’m rooting for Serena Williams.  She’s not my favorite, but she’s the only one whose name I can pronounce.

 

Corona Vaccine:  It was the day scheduled for our second vaccinations, and we were excited, but the temperature was zero and the roads were covered with snow.  My wife checked the news on CBS, Carol’s Buddy System, where a gaggle of gabbers spread the news faster than the speed of light.  She learned that many of her friends who had appointments were rescheduling for later in the week.  Our appointment was for late afternoon, but the forecast was even worse then.  I said let’s just go.  Neither wind nor rain – well, you know the drill – and we went.  I drove carefully, assiduously and with unerring attention to the sparse traffic and the blustery conditions, and we arrived unscathed – at the wrong place.  Well, you didn’t expect me to drive safely and accurately at the same time, did you?  Neither did Carol.  She calmly informed me I was at the wrong hospital and I should have made a left.  Hey, I only missed it by a few blocks.  We got the shots, drove home, turned up the heat, and now here I am telling you all about it.

 

Did I mention the Weekly Word was assiduous?  It means constant in application or attention, diligent.  Now with that out of the way, I’ll leave you alone. Never miss an opportunity to make others happy, even if you have to leave them alone in order to do it.  But I’m only leaving you for a while.  Stay well, stay warm, count your blessings and don’t go too far, because I’ll be back in a week.  See you then.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #205

 

Larry McMurtry, one of my favorite authors, says that the chief paradox of life is that the thing you most want is the thing you are least likely to get.  I cannot agree.  It seems to me that the thing I most wanted in life, at least when I was seventeen, was a small, cute, dark-haired girl I spotted in the High School cafeteria.  And I got her!  I’m still not sure how.  Yes, maybe I was a little smart and a little humorous.  Mostly I was completely devoted and easily trained, both very important to a smart girl.  But I certainly wasn’t remotely Rock Hudson-ish.  Of course, in retrospect, neither was Rock. 

 

Saint Augustine said, “Miracles are not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature,” and to me, her choosing me was an absolute miracle.  To her, it was a project, and she has been diligently training me and protecting me for over 53 years.  Did I tell you she could multitask?

 

There is, in the Guinness World Records, a record for Multitasking.  They report it like this: Multitasking has taken on an entirely new meaning for one UT student who can recite the first 100 digits of the mathematical constant pi while solving a Rubik’s Cube and balancing 15 books on her head.  Pshaw!  You call that multitasking?  That’s only three things, not one of which is remotely useful.  I promise you that my wife would not be caught dead solving a Rubik’s Cube -- I might break a nail.  Or placing books on her head -- my hair!  Or memorizing the digits of pi – what a waste!  But Carol is the undisputed Queen of Multitasking.  This morning, for instance, I walked into the bedroom and found her simultaneously performing four tasks using four different electronic devices and four separate parts of her body:

 

·        Her feet were walking on the treadmill

·        Her eyes were watching the television

·        Her fingers were playing bridge on her iPad

·        Her ears were listening to a Podcast on her phone

 

And she still managed to use her mouth to tell me to change my shirt.  Five tasks at once.  I was so proud!   The woman just has a surfeit of internal energy.  She even has a sign hanging in the kitchen:  Don’t Just Sit There – Nag Your Husband.

 

Look, I’m not trying to make fun of people who multitask.  In fact, I’m jealous.  I cannot read and listen to music at the same time.  I cannot talk and drive.  It amazes me that I can, at the same time, breathe and write things like “Hi there, and welcome back.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are doing well and have gotten your vaccinations.  Did you watch the Super Bowl?  We had a Super Bowl party – Carol and me and the three-legged cat.  I remember Super Bowl parties when we all looked forward to the commercials.  They were funny and clever and tried to sell you Budweiser and Coke and Ford trucks.  This year they had commercials where, well, I didn’t understand what they were talking about or what product they were trying to sell or if they were even trying to sell something.  Maybe they were just trying to show you how “woke” they were.  I cannot remember the name of one advertiser.  It makes me feel old.  But Tom Brady made me feel young. 

 

I hope you are feeling mellow.  I am definitely not mellow.  Either my capacity for tolerance is rapidly declining or the world just has more aggravation than usual.  There’s this Dr. Fauci character.  You all know him.  A year ago, he told us that we did not need to wear masks.  Now, he says we need to wear two masks.  I’m confused. 

 

This two-mask advice, I don’t buy it

But Fauci says we should all try it

I’d much rather place

Upon Fauci’s face

A mask that would keep the man quiet.

 

I have written over 1,500 letters, blogs, essays, poems and songs.  It has always been a labor of love, but a labor nonetheless.  For example, I re-read and edit each of these blogs at least a dozen times before I publish.  I am obviously reading a book by Larry McMurtry because here’s another one of his thoughts: “To read oneself every morning and afternoon for more than a quarter of a century, as I have now done, is at best a strange chore.”  I have been doing it for 60 years now, and I must agree.  But it’s something I’m good at.  And believe me, I’m not good at much.

 

For instance, Carol plays canasta online.  She made a date with another couple, so I had to download an app called Canasta Junction onto my computer.  It was above my pay grade.  A stapler is above my pay grade.  Naturally, I called Abby, my St. Louis daughter.  Her 10-year-old’s quarantine is over, so she was looking forward to her first day with all three children at school.  And who shows up?  Her Dad, the biggest baby of them all.  I packed up my computer in the cat-carrier and, as soon as Shakespeare saw the case, he ran under a bed.  It took Abby less than a minute to install the canasta game.  Thanks, Abs.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The best safety lies in fear (Hamlet).  I’m afraid of that bag he calls a cat carrier.  Each time Pops puts me in there, I wind up at the doctor.  This time he took that machine.  Poor machine -- I guess it has to go to the vet.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is surfeit, which is an overabundant supply; an excess.  It is likely that, by now, you have had a surfeit of Limerick Oysters.  Well, you’re out of luck.  They just keep popping out.  So be here in seven days when the next one pops out.  All that’s left is making sure you stay well and count your blessings.  Do it!  Oh, and have a nice President’s Day.  Buy a sofa.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #204

 

It was Groundhog Day Tuesday and Punxsutawney Phil came out of his burrow looking for a Covid vaccine.  He didn’t find one because his dose had been given to Baghdad Benjy, one of the masterminds of the Nine-Eleven attack.  That’s right, last week the Pentagon approved a plan to give Covid vaccinations to the remaining Guantanamo detainees, many of whom were instrumental in planning the Nine-Eleven attacks.  This is the worst idea since the Edsel.  Under the plan, the prisoners will get the vaccine before the husbands, wives, children, mothers and fathers of the victims who were slaughtered on 9-11-2001.  How do you think that is going to make those families feel?  But hey, maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe the Guantanamo prisoners are really good guys after all.

 

I really should get your vaccine

So I don’t get Covid-19

I planned Nine-Eleven

But I swear to Heaven

I’m really a nice Fellaheen.

 

Another famous groundhog, Schenectady Stu, stuck his head out, saw Governor Cuomo and went back in for six more weeks of lockdown.  Ok, good joke, good limerick, but it doesn’t change how angry I am that someone could come up with such a horrible idea.  Maybe I should calm down and have some breakfast.

 

Except, I don’t eat breakfast – never have -- and Carol makes wonderful dinners, so that leaves lunch.  I eat a small lunch which consists of one of three choices which I buy at Walmart.  First, there are those wonderful, frozen PB&J sandwiches called Uncrustables – soft and sweet, no mess, pop two or three in the microwave.  Yummy.  OR, Campbell’s Chunky soup – I like the Gumbo.  OR, Hormel Compleats, meal-sized, vacuum-packed servings of meaty stuff that are loaded with preservatives and probably decades old.  But they’re delicious.  I had the Turkey and Dressing today and noticed that on the package it said, “Packed during the Johnson Administration.”   That didn’t bother me so much until I looked closer and noticed it was Andrew Johnson.

 

Well, it works for me.  They’re all delicious, all under $2 a serving and all microwavable.  Forget the wheel, forget the steam engine, forget the cell phone – the greatest invention of man is the microwave oven.  Can you imagine living in the stone age when bringing in meant killing an animal and dragging it to the door?  When fast food meant too fast to catch?  When warming up the leftovers meant gathering sticks and building a fire?  What would you do if you didn’t know how to build a fire out of sticks?  Look it up on Stickipedia?  Thank goodness for my microwave.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  ‘Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers (Romeo and Juliet).  I only get cat food to eat.  It’s fine.  Sometimes, he gives me a little cheese and I like that.  It doesn’t take me very long to lick my fingers.  I only have one front paw, you know.  Of course you do.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are safe and well and warm.  I know many of my readers are in sunny and cozy climes – Florida and Georgia and North Carolina, Arizona and Nevada and California, even Mexico.  But I, your tireless guide, am here in St. Louis, the lint-filled navel of America, where last week it snowed.  The snow is beautiful, of course, but it has confined me to my house and stifled my ability to go to the grocery store, an activity which I call hunting and gathering.  Today, I was planning to hunt and gather a Sumo Orange.  I don’t know what that is and neither does Carol, but Hoda Kotb said we had to have one, so there you go.  If Hoda said you had to have a moose, Carol would sit on the couch and yell, “Michael, get me a moose.”  And I, dumb and loyal schmuck that I am, would do it. 

 

The only time my sweet little groundhog exits her burrow is for her monthly pilgrimage known as Senior Day at Walgreen’s.  And I assure you that no snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night would have stayed my little Princess from her appointed discount.  Did I call you a groundhog, Honey?  No, I didn’t call you a ground hog.  I did?  Oy, am I in trouble!  Can a husband be impeached?

 

Sometimes, do you feel like you’re losing it?  You can’t find your reading glasses or your keys or your bathroom?  You forgot where you parked your car or the license plate or the color or whether you even have a car?  I’m pretty sure I can’t be losing it.  I don’t even remember what “it” was.  But I do have trouble with passwords.  Who can remember a password you were forced to create for some obscure website you set up two years ago?  And if you can’t remember, you’re up Schitt’s Creek without your Netflix. 

 

Name That Password!  Yes, Name That Password, the show that tests your skill in remembering the one word you chose because you knew you’d never forget it and then promptly forgot it.  Was it your dog’s name?  How about your mother’s name?  Or your Mother’s dog?  Or your German Nanny’s barber’s sister’s dog?  Berlin-Tin-Tin!  That’s it!  Congratulations!  You win.

 

But what do you do if you can’t remember it?  You do what I do.  You submit yourself to the most degrading and embarrassing torture imaginable – you call your grandchild and beg for help.  To avoid such ignominious groveling in the future, I have written all my passwords on an Excel document on my computer and snapped a picture of the spreadsheet.  So now, I can look up my passwords on my computer or my phone.  But that’s not safe, I hear you grumble.  Who cares!  What’re they going to steal – my library card number?  My frequent movie-goer balance?

 

Our Weekly Word is ignominious which means deserving or causing public disgrace or shame.  Kind of like the decision to publish this blog every week.  But I can handle the shame and I can handle the disgrace. I just can’t handle The View.

 

I’m about finished, but I’ll be here next week.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and come right back in seven days.  I’ll leave the light on for you.  See you then.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #203

 

Did you watch the Inauguration?  The songs and the flags and the poetry and the speeches!  It was all very grand.  The only things that bothered me were all the repetitions about healing and coming together and mending the nation.  I’m not sure how convincing the calls for healing are when your party is impeaching the guy that 75 million Americans voted for.  It’s like signing a peace treaty with Canada while your planes are bombing Montreal.  It’s like throwing a wedding for your daughter and seating the groom’s mother in the kitchen.  It does not presage a warm and peaceful relationship.  I should know, because I am the expert on successful relationships.  After all, my wife and I have had a wonderful marriage for 53 years.  That’s because we have the same goal in life – to keep her happy. 

 

I’m glad, at least, that we finally have a President who is older than me.  The last four were not.  In fact, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Donald Trump and I were all born in 1946.  We make a wonderful quartet, don’t we?  Three Presidents and a clown who writes limericks.  Sounds like one of those cognitive tests where they ask you which bird doesn’t belong in a picture of three eagles and a duck.  Well, somebody has to be the duck.  I have never kept score of my life by the great things I have or have not accomplished.  Most people never accomplish anything great.  But to live an ordinary life that’s fairly decent and fairly honest and to see your contributions to the next generation and even the one after that; well, I’m not sure there is more most of us ducks can wish for.

 

The last President older than me was Bush 41, and I respect my elders.  It just keeps getting harder to find any.  I never liked being governed by some young whipper-snapper.  I guess Trump was the Snapper and Clinton was the Whipper.

 

I got all dressed for the Inauguration in my favorite item.  I know my fashion faults and limitations and so does my wife.  I trust her judgment, but there’s one article of garb that I will let no-one disparage or talk me out of – a gray sweatshirt that has comfort written all over it.  Actually, it has “Sports Illustrated” written all over it and is as warm and as soft as a poodle.  I got it years ago for renewing my daughter Jennifer’s subscription to the magazine.  She’s a bigtime sports fan.  In fact, she was the first girl to win a varsity letter from an all-boys’ school we have here called Country Day.  She attended the girls’ school next door, saw them practicing football, walked over and talked herself onto the team as a manager.  Won two state championships.  Then she went to Duke University and became a manager on the men’s basketball team -- Christian Laettner, Grant Hill and all that.  Won a national championship there.

 

Back to the sweatshirt.  It was one of those insulting promotions available only to new subscribers.  I bitched about that and begged and pleaded that my little girl (she was about 35 then) was a loyal reader and wanted to cuddle up with a warm sweatshirt.  That worked, and when the shirt arrived, I stole it and never let her know.  And that’s what I wore for the Inauguration.  Don’t tell Jennifer.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  “The cat will mew and dog will have his day” (Hamlet).  What was that crap about soft as a poodle?  What does he think I am, Brillo?  Where is he?  I’m going to bite him.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying safe.  I must apologize to the State of Missouri and the Federal Government.  After complaining for weeks about the vaccination process and being as grumpy as a guy whose cat ate his winning lottery ticket, I finally got my shot. It was very organized and painless and I already have an appointment for the second dose.  The whole event, including waiting, registration, the shot and the recovery period took a total of one hour.  I was as happy as a pagan in an idol factory.  Does this mean I’m free?  Is this horrible disaster about to be over?  Am I going to be able to hug my grandchildren and see people smile?  Well, I don’t know, but it’s a start.  I hope you all are getting yours soon.

 

Do you have face-recognition on your phone?  Does it recognize you with your mask on?  I’m not sure how anyone can recognize me.  This morning I dropped some McDonald’s off for my grandchildren.  They came out to see me but I’m not sure they actually saw me.  I had a mask on and those big wrap-around shades to protect my eyes from the sun plus a golf hat.  I could have been anybody under that disguise.

 

With an old golfer’s hat on my head

And a mask that was yellow and red

Plus those shades on my eyes

Under all that disguise

I could have been Big Bird instead.

 

Maybe not.  Big Bird is a little taller than me.  Miss Piggy is a little taller than me.  So I went home and took a picture of myself, undisguised, and sent it to them.  I think I look better covered up.

 

I got very few comments last week because people who clicked on my email address at the bottom right were not sent to my email as usual.  I don’t know why.  I love your comments.  It’s the only way I can see what you like and don’t like.  Try something new this week.  Don’t click on the address at the bottom.  Just type in my address (mfox1746@gmail.com) in your email and send me a note.  Please, please, please try that for me.  I miss hearing from you.

 

Our Weekly Word is presage which means signaling that something, usually bad, will happen.  But it can also mean something good will happen, like you coming back for next week’s blog.  Stay well until then and count those blessings.  And please follow the above instructions about comments.  I have to go now and grab a Band-Aid.  Shakespeare just bit me.  See you later. 

 

Daffy                                       Sent comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Blog #202

 

I have nothing to talk about.  My eye is fine, so we can’t talk about that.  It’s not my birthday.  The election is over and we have a new President.  Congratulations and good luck to President Biden.  So that’s old news.  Now, what are we going to talk about?  How about trash.  Each day I take the small amount of trash generated by two old folks and a cat, bag it up and throw it down the trash chute, where it descends to the nether reaches of Hell or the local landfill – I’m not sure which.  I recycle paper (mostly junk mail) and cardboard (mostly Amazon boxes) by throwing them in a separate container.  Pretty simple, actually.  Not in California!  Steph, my California daughter, has seven containers – paper, plastic, glass, metal, organic, batteries and mixed.  The last time we visited, Carol was so afraid of putting something in the wrong container that she packed up her trash and brought it home in our suitcase.  Totally true.

 

Jennifer, my North Carolina daughter, has an even more complicated system.  She has chickens, so you have to decide between compost, trash, recycle and chickens.  One afternoon she decided to give last night’s leftover eggplant parmesan to the chickens.  Who feeds their chickens eggplant parmesan?  But before she carried it out to the coop, she saw me and asked if I wanted some.  I don’t eat eggplant when it’s the main course, let alone the garbage, but I told her I was grateful that I was mentioned in the same category as the poultry.  I guess that puts me just above compost.  Hey, as long as I know my place.  They also serve who only stand and cluck.  And yes, the chickens will eat leftover chicken.  I think there’s some biblical injunction against that (“You shall not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk” Exodus 23:19), but the last time we showed a Bible to the chickens, they ate it.

 

Hi there and welcome back to Limerick Oyster where you can get Milton quotes and Bible quotes while talking about chicken food.  I hope you’re feeling well.   Have you gotten your vaccination yet?  Not here in Missouri.  Now they’ve decided that obese people and people who smoke should come before old people.  So here’s the message – Take up smoking, eat some Twinkies and rob a bank.  All three of these activities will make you eligible for the vaccine long before the law-abiding seniors who have given up smoking and watched their weight.  It doesn’t pay to be a good citizen.

 

They should have contracted the whole vaccine process to the most efficient and reliable organization in the country – Chick-fil-A.  Have you ever been there for the lunchtime rush?  They have their act together.  Let them do the vaccine.  Pull up, grab some nuggets, stick your arm out the window and – Wham Bam Hot Damn – you get the vaccine and a good lunch at the same time.  And let Medicare pay for the lunch!  Right on!

 

Back to the prisons.  When the prisons start giving shots, it will surely be the Death Row prisoners who get the vaccine first.  The nation’s correctional system is extremely cautious about the health of its Death Row inmates.  Their motto is: We don’t want y’all to die until we want y’all to die.  They also have a sign:

 

Don’t smoke while you’re lying in bed

Don’t fall – you might injure your head

Stay safe and be well

‘Til you’re pulled from your cell

And hanged by the neck until dead.

 

Hey, I warned you I was a couple of bulbs short of a chandelier.  I am also, as you may have noticed, a diligent collector of the impractical and totally useless.  Here’s some,

 

Why do YouTube videos that are made to be watched only by cats contain commercials?

 

Why, when the number on your bathroom scale is a little higher than you’d like, do you move the scale a few feet over?  You know you do.

 

Why do we turn the volume down on the car radio when we want to see better? 

 

Or why, at a live play, do the actors sometimes smoke a cigar and stink up the whole theater?  If a character dies in the play, he only acts like he’s dead.  We can handle it.  We know it’s a play for goodness sake.  It says so on the ticket.  So let him act like he’s smoking.  We’ll figure it out without getting lung cancer.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players (As You Like It).  I’ve never been to a play, but I’d like to act sometime.  That Shakespeare person wrote a lot of parts for cats.  Maybe I could play Romeow or Cleocatra or even Richard the Purred.  Purr.

 

This week we observed Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a day which celebrates his birthday three days after it really was.  There are no longer very many holidays named after people.  Washington’s Birthday is gone, Lincoln’s Birthday is gone and Columbus Day is gone, shredded and burned to a crisp.  The only eponymous holidays left are Christmas, named after Christ, and Easter, named after Eostre, a pre-Christian goddess in England, probably the goddess of bunnies and colored eggs and Judy Garland.

 

Yesterday I was reading some stuff I had written years ago.  It was about my 40^th High School Reunion.  My goodness, it made me realize that my 60^th reunion is in a couple of years.  That’s pretty sobering, isn’t it?  It’s interesting how the perception changes as the reunions march along.  At my 25^th, a girl came up to me and said, “I remember you.”  At my 40^th, the same girl said, “I think I remember you.  You were taller.”  At my 50^th, that very same girl said, “I thought you were dead.” 

 

Ok, I wasted enough of your time with another otiose edition of rambling nothingness.  Otiose, the Weekly Word, means serving no practical purpose, unnecessary.  Fits perfectly, right?  I’ll never understand why you come back every week.  But you’d better.  Who else will tell you to stay well and count your blessings?  See you in a week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com