My sister and I have had several rather vocal arguments in the past, many of them only materialized because she’s really, really annoying. But, she is the oldest so she has to be…it’s the law.
When my mother passed away I thought the biggest problem we would have would be deciding who would get mom’s neat little Julia Childs autographed food processor. I was wrong. We had bigger fish to fry as it turned out.
My mother was cremated in Chicago and after the service, Sal and I returned to New York. It was only then that we realized something was missing: MOM! I thought my sister had her and she was under the impression that mom was with us. One of us was going to lose but being the mature adults that we are, our phone conversations regarding the topic remained quite civil.
Bob: Sal, are you sure you don’t have her?
Sal: Wouldn’t I know it if I had her, you moron?
Bob: Hey, who are you calling a moron? Who’s the one who threw up in the backseat of dad’s
car on prom night and then tried to blame it on the dog?
Sal: Oh, yeah? Well at least I had a date.
Bob: Jerk!
I had a horrible thought cross my mind and it was making me physically ill. Lord, please tell me mom didn’t get thrown out with the closet debris? You see, Michele and I had some work done to enlarge our closets and…I can’t even think about it. But in fairness how would a contractor be able to tell the difference between a shoe box containing Pro Keds from one containing human remains? OK, maybe the “Crematorium” label on the box might have helped, but contractors are busy people. They don’t have time to read. Still, the thought of mom nesting in some dumpster between a bunch of old Dinty Moore cans and an empty 12 pack of Corona beer was a little disturbing. I had to calm down. It was time for me to get a grip. The most important thing now was for me to find a way, any way at all, to blame this on my sister.
The flashbacks were running rampant. I thought of the time my mother grounded me for a month when I traded my grandmother’s false teeth to Tom Klute for a pocket knife (including three blades and a corkscrew). Then there was the time when I was seven and I ran into my parents bedroom at eleven o’clock on a Friday night after hearing some interesting noises and yelling, “Fire drill, everybody out!” I’m sorry, mom.
Misplacing a mother is not like losing a Blockbuster video or a library book. The guilt can be overwhelming. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Bob, when you lose a box containing a cremated parent, there are no late fees. The fines don’t keep accruing every day. That can run into a lot of money with a book or a movie. What’s the big deal?” That’s a fair point but given the choice I’d still rather lose ‘National Lampoon’s Vacation’ than my mother. I’m sure you understand.
A few days had passed when I got a call at work from this frantic woman whose voice I almost didn’t recognize. “I found her! She’s OK! Well, she’s still dead, but she’s here. All of her!” It took a moment to sink in. It was Michele and she had finally located my mother. “Where was she?” I asked. “It’s the funniest thing,” she said. “You’ll laugh.” “I don’t think so,” I said. “Where was she?” “She was under the steps, next to your weights. Isn’t that ironic? She’s deceased and she still can’t get away from dumbbells.”
Whew, what a ride that was. Mom, I’m so glad you weren’t in the dumpster or mistaken for plant food or kitty litter. I promise to never let you out of my sight ever again. I found a great place for you. From now on you're going to be right under our bed. Won't that be great? Well, as I think that through, maybe the guest room would be better. That way you can have your own pillow and none of the cat hair. I love you mom and don’t worry about a thing because somehow you know I'm going to find a way to blame this all on Sally. It’s the law.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
MEAT DRIPPINGS AND GOOSE NO MORE
So, I woke up and my foot felt like it had just been run over by an Amtrak train with a bunch of sumo wrestlers on board. I thought maybe stubbed a toe before I went to bed, or possibly kicked the wall in anger because Michele asked me to do something totally unreasonable like dry the dishes. All I knew was the pain was excruciating and I couldn’t take it another minute. Who do you see when the pain is so intense that driving rusty spikes through your forehead with a ball peen hammer sounds like a vacation activity? Obviously, you would see... an herbalist! I got his name through a friend of a friend who knows somebody who once lived next door to his niece’s baby-sitter.
After and hour and a half with him, I walked out with orders to try some dandelion root, elevate my foot for long periods, try yoga and always think good thoughts. Then, rinse and repeat. Oh, and meditate.
It was time to take some drastic action. An action so distasteful that the mere mention of it might make you, the reader, scream. It was time to bring my HMO into the picture and see my primary physician. Just the thought made my skin crawl which is unfortunate because I’m pretty sure that skin crawling medication is not covered on my policy. But this pain in my foot was so intense that the word ‘hacksaw’ entered my mind on more than one occasion.
So, how are you doing, Bob?” Dr. Cho asked. “Fine,” I said. “Now cut off my foot and let me get out of here.”
Dr. Cho: Does it hurt here?
Bob: Yes. It hurts to look at it.
Dr. Cho: Hmmm, Do you drink alcohol, Bob?
Bob: Of course I do. Have you seen the price of gas recently?
After gently poking and prodding and silently making notes in his chart, I had to ask the question. “Doctor, when you’re six inches deep into a kid’s ear canal with that magnifying thingie, do you ever say to yourself, ‘God, I should have gone to law school?”
When he was done checking blood pressure, sticking me with needles and making me feel like a sissy, he finally got around to concluding unequivocally that I might perhaps possibly have a case of gout, maybe, and prescribed an anti-inflammatory. He then handed me a list of foods I can no longer have. The list included anchovies, mincemeat, herring,sardines and goose. I’m guessing there are ample amounts of people who fake having gout just to AVOID those foods!
“Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought gout was for old people. I’m not quite ready to wrap myself up in a crocheted afghan, sit on the front porch with my father-in-law and yell at kids to get off my lawn.” “Calm down, Bob,” he said. “It’s a dietary thing that has to do with too much uric acid in the system. It’s easily correctible through a change in diet.
“I would say no alcohol for a few weeks and see how your foot reacts,” he said. I swallowed hard and asked him, “Certainly you’re not talking about happy hour or anything like that, are you?” Pulling his half glasses down to the tip on his nose making sure to establish eyeball to eyeball contact with me, he said very s-l-o-w-l-y, “Of course not, Bob. Let me be clear on that. You may have all the beer you like during happy hour. That doesn’t count. Everybody knows that. I’m strictly talking about before or after happy hour. It’s in all the medical books. You can check it out.” “OK, OK, I get he idea, but what if I swear off mincemeat and herring instead?” Until that moment, I had never actually seen a doctor throw his clipboard on the ground and slam the exam room door as he left while muttering something about law school.
Today, I’m proud to say that I have not had a recurrence of gout in three weeks. I have to attribute this to my new change in attitude as well as a change in diet. I’ve completely sworn off mackerel and tongue, which was pretty easy seeing as how I never started eating them in the first place. So take some advice from your old buddy Bob. Should ever develop a case of gout, make sure you have at some dandelion root every day with a cold beer...but only at happy hour.
After and hour and a half with him, I walked out with orders to try some dandelion root, elevate my foot for long periods, try yoga and always think good thoughts. Then, rinse and repeat. Oh, and meditate.
It was time to take some drastic action. An action so distasteful that the mere mention of it might make you, the reader, scream. It was time to bring my HMO into the picture and see my primary physician. Just the thought made my skin crawl which is unfortunate because I’m pretty sure that skin crawling medication is not covered on my policy. But this pain in my foot was so intense that the word ‘hacksaw’ entered my mind on more than one occasion.
So, how are you doing, Bob?” Dr. Cho asked. “Fine,” I said. “Now cut off my foot and let me get out of here.”
Dr. Cho: Does it hurt here?
Bob: Yes. It hurts to look at it.
Dr. Cho: Hmmm, Do you drink alcohol, Bob?
Bob: Of course I do. Have you seen the price of gas recently?
After gently poking and prodding and silently making notes in his chart, I had to ask the question. “Doctor, when you’re six inches deep into a kid’s ear canal with that magnifying thingie, do you ever say to yourself, ‘God, I should have gone to law school?”
When he was done checking blood pressure, sticking me with needles and making me feel like a sissy, he finally got around to concluding unequivocally that I might perhaps possibly have a case of gout, maybe, and prescribed an anti-inflammatory. He then handed me a list of foods I can no longer have. The list included anchovies, mincemeat, herring,sardines and goose. I’m guessing there are ample amounts of people who fake having gout just to AVOID those foods!
“Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought gout was for old people. I’m not quite ready to wrap myself up in a crocheted afghan, sit on the front porch with my father-in-law and yell at kids to get off my lawn.” “Calm down, Bob,” he said. “It’s a dietary thing that has to do with too much uric acid in the system. It’s easily correctible through a change in diet.
“I would say no alcohol for a few weeks and see how your foot reacts,” he said. I swallowed hard and asked him, “Certainly you’re not talking about happy hour or anything like that, are you?” Pulling his half glasses down to the tip on his nose making sure to establish eyeball to eyeball contact with me, he said very s-l-o-w-l-y, “Of course not, Bob. Let me be clear on that. You may have all the beer you like during happy hour. That doesn’t count. Everybody knows that. I’m strictly talking about before or after happy hour. It’s in all the medical books. You can check it out.” “OK, OK, I get he idea, but what if I swear off mincemeat and herring instead?” Until that moment, I had never actually seen a doctor throw his clipboard on the ground and slam the exam room door as he left while muttering something about law school.
Today, I’m proud to say that I have not had a recurrence of gout in three weeks. I have to attribute this to my new change in attitude as well as a change in diet. I’ve completely sworn off mackerel and tongue, which was pretty easy seeing as how I never started eating them in the first place. So take some advice from your old buddy Bob. Should ever develop a case of gout, make sure you have at some dandelion root every day with a cold beer...but only at happy hour.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
Whenever Salvatore, my well documented ninety- year old father-in-law comes up from Florida for a visit, he requires a home health aid to do all the essential stuff like look for his teeth, warm his prunes and help him set up the Twister board.
I'd like to take a moment and say good bye to Holly, the latest of that profession to buckle under that enormous pressure. Just in case you're keeping score, Holly, there were six highly qualified people before you who also turned in their badges, so don't feel bad. Normally they last a week or two and if memory serves correctly the all time record is eighteen days but, unfortunately, that particular aid is now spending her days in a padded room, drooling and drawing carving knives with crayons on her notepad.
What is it about Sal that makes aids as well as the rest of the world so uncomfortable? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when he's not busy napping he likes to touch people, most of them strangers and all of them women. Even in the supermarket he still does the old 'squeeze the melon' test. The only problem is the 'melons' he's reaching for are in the frozen food isle and they're attached to actual female bodies. Did I mention that my father-in-law has been permanently banned from Price Chopper?
Let's take a closer look at the time line and see if Holly may have overreacted, OK?
Day #1: Sal asked her if she wouldn't mind clipping his fingernails. She thought nothing of it and went to get the clippers. When she came back in the room (kitchen) there he was...naked. He claimed he didn't want to get any clippings on his clothes.
Day #2: Michele asked Holly to help him write a letter to his girlfriend, Anna, in Florida (age unknown due to lack of carbon dating evidence). He seemed to be doing quite nicely all by himself and when Holly took a look at the finished product, she noticed a passage that read "I can't wait to get back and slip my hand underneath your knee high stockings." Trust me when I say there are a few things no son-in-law, daughter, home health aid or any other human ever needs to know about and that's one of them.
Day #3: This was the day the wheels fell off. I was getting ready to go out and cut the grass when Sal started getting antsy. Holly was preparing his peaches and Miralax when he told me to hurry up and go outside. Meanwhile Holly was making violent gestures in the background begging me not to leave her alone. I assured her everything would be fine and went on my way. No more than a few minutes later, I saw her car peel out of the driveway. I managed to flag her down and after seeing her face muscles all tightened and her eyeballs practically bulging out of her head, it became pretty obvious that time had run out on her patience meter. "He kept pinching my butt," she told me. "I know. I'm sorry about that. He thinks you're Leah Remini from King of Queens. What exactly did you say to him?" She took a deep breath and said, "I slapped him, plopped him on the toilet and told him to wait until his brains came out and then flush them."
Well Holly, the votes are counted and you'll be happy to know you did not overreact. We want to thank you for giving it a shot. Please be aware that Sal means no harm, he's just a ninety-year old horndog. It was nice almost getting to know you. Michele and I hope your therapy goes well and, by the way, should you ever worry about running into Sal in public, two words: Price Chopper.
I'd like to take a moment and say good bye to Holly, the latest of that profession to buckle under that enormous pressure. Just in case you're keeping score, Holly, there were six highly qualified people before you who also turned in their badges, so don't feel bad. Normally they last a week or two and if memory serves correctly the all time record is eighteen days but, unfortunately, that particular aid is now spending her days in a padded room, drooling and drawing carving knives with crayons on her notepad.
What is it about Sal that makes aids as well as the rest of the world so uncomfortable? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when he's not busy napping he likes to touch people, most of them strangers and all of them women. Even in the supermarket he still does the old 'squeeze the melon' test. The only problem is the 'melons' he's reaching for are in the frozen food isle and they're attached to actual female bodies. Did I mention that my father-in-law has been permanently banned from Price Chopper?
Let's take a closer look at the time line and see if Holly may have overreacted, OK?
Day #1: Sal asked her if she wouldn't mind clipping his fingernails. She thought nothing of it and went to get the clippers. When she came back in the room (kitchen) there he was...naked. He claimed he didn't want to get any clippings on his clothes.
Day #2: Michele asked Holly to help him write a letter to his girlfriend, Anna, in Florida (age unknown due to lack of carbon dating evidence). He seemed to be doing quite nicely all by himself and when Holly took a look at the finished product, she noticed a passage that read "I can't wait to get back and slip my hand underneath your knee high stockings." Trust me when I say there are a few things no son-in-law, daughter, home health aid or any other human ever needs to know about and that's one of them.
Day #3: This was the day the wheels fell off. I was getting ready to go out and cut the grass when Sal started getting antsy. Holly was preparing his peaches and Miralax when he told me to hurry up and go outside. Meanwhile Holly was making violent gestures in the background begging me not to leave her alone. I assured her everything would be fine and went on my way. No more than a few minutes later, I saw her car peel out of the driveway. I managed to flag her down and after seeing her face muscles all tightened and her eyeballs practically bulging out of her head, it became pretty obvious that time had run out on her patience meter. "He kept pinching my butt," she told me. "I know. I'm sorry about that. He thinks you're Leah Remini from King of Queens. What exactly did you say to him?" She took a deep breath and said, "I slapped him, plopped him on the toilet and told him to wait until his brains came out and then flush them."
Well Holly, the votes are counted and you'll be happy to know you did not overreact. We want to thank you for giving it a shot. Please be aware that Sal means no harm, he's just a ninety-year old horndog. It was nice almost getting to know you. Michele and I hope your therapy goes well and, by the way, should you ever worry about running into Sal in public, two words: Price Chopper.
Monday, June 16, 2008
JUST SAY NO TO MANSCAPING
Guys, we need to get on the same page here, OK? Women taking tweezers, scissors, pluckers or any other object intended to remove hair growth from our bodies is unacceptable. Can we agree on this?
We have no choice but to reach down deep within ourselves and somehow muster the courage to tell our spouses that we are perfectly capable of grooming ourselves.
Michele asked me if she could 'trim' my eyebrows the other night before we went to dinner. When she was finished, I was the proud owner of one and a half eyebrows! I peered in the mirror and it took me a few seconds to come to terms with the fact that I was now deformed. I suggested we go someplace with really dim lighting or, better yet, someplace that is currently experiencing a power outage!
Ladies, when we agree to let you prune us, we can instantly sense when something's gone awry. As you work feverishly to fix the problem, you bite your lower lip a bit and start to swear under your breath. Something has gone horribly wrong and the more you try to rectify the problem, the worse it becomes. You would probably have better luck getting a one week old red wine stain out of a pillow case than making us look human again. I wound up going to work the next day wearing a Band Aid over my eye and told everyone that it was poison ivy. They weren't buying it.
Although it's true that there are still some men who would rather beat themselves repeatedly over the head with a ball been hammer until rendering themselves unconscious rather than to charge up the ol' Norelco, these men are in the minority. It's you that I speak to when I say if you want to grow ear and nose hair long enough to snarl a chainsaw, then at least do something useful and toss some potato seeds in there and do your part to fight world hunger. Yes, it's a rare man to has to put 'pluck nose hairs' on his "To Do" list.
Michele has been grooming me for a number of years and up until the eyebrow incident I've just sat back and taken it but those days are over. Now, I'm encouraging the rest of you gentlemen to support me as we march for our grooming freedom. We simply must unite and the time is now!
So, let's take an oath men. Raise your right hand and repeat after me:
I will not allow my well meaning spouse
(I will not allow my well meaning spouse)
To pluck, pull or tweeze
(To pluck, pull or tweeze)
Any hair currently residing on my body
(Any hair currently residing on my body)
And if I ever weaken
(And if I ever weaken)
And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon
(And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon)
Then while my wife sleeps
(Then while my wife sleeps)
I shall grab my Magic Marker
(I shall grab my Magic Marker)
And, well
(And, well)
Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?
(Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?)
We have no choice but to reach down deep within ourselves and somehow muster the courage to tell our spouses that we are perfectly capable of grooming ourselves.
Michele asked me if she could 'trim' my eyebrows the other night before we went to dinner. When she was finished, I was the proud owner of one and a half eyebrows! I peered in the mirror and it took me a few seconds to come to terms with the fact that I was now deformed. I suggested we go someplace with really dim lighting or, better yet, someplace that is currently experiencing a power outage!
Ladies, when we agree to let you prune us, we can instantly sense when something's gone awry. As you work feverishly to fix the problem, you bite your lower lip a bit and start to swear under your breath. Something has gone horribly wrong and the more you try to rectify the problem, the worse it becomes. You would probably have better luck getting a one week old red wine stain out of a pillow case than making us look human again. I wound up going to work the next day wearing a Band Aid over my eye and told everyone that it was poison ivy. They weren't buying it.
Although it's true that there are still some men who would rather beat themselves repeatedly over the head with a ball been hammer until rendering themselves unconscious rather than to charge up the ol' Norelco, these men are in the minority. It's you that I speak to when I say if you want to grow ear and nose hair long enough to snarl a chainsaw, then at least do something useful and toss some potato seeds in there and do your part to fight world hunger. Yes, it's a rare man to has to put 'pluck nose hairs' on his "To Do" list.
Michele has been grooming me for a number of years and up until the eyebrow incident I've just sat back and taken it but those days are over. Now, I'm encouraging the rest of you gentlemen to support me as we march for our grooming freedom. We simply must unite and the time is now!
So, let's take an oath men. Raise your right hand and repeat after me:
I will not allow my well meaning spouse
(I will not allow my well meaning spouse)
To pluck, pull or tweeze
(To pluck, pull or tweeze)
Any hair currently residing on my body
(Any hair currently residing on my body)
And if I ever weaken
(And if I ever weaken)
And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon
(And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon)
Then while my wife sleeps
(Then while my wife sleeps)
I shall grab my Magic Marker
(I shall grab my Magic Marker)
And, well
(And, well)
Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?
(Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
MY SUMMER VACATION
I picked up copy of The Sun the other day. In this particular issue the big bold headline was, “MAN HOLDS STORE MANNEQUIN HOSTAGE: THREATENS TO BLOW HER BRAINS OUT.” I also noticed an ad they were running that read, “We pay money for stories. Be a Sun reporter. No experience necessary.” I liked that idea, especially the part about no experience necessary. That’s my best thing. So, I thought I might submit a paper I wrote in the second grade entitled, “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.”
We were traveling from Chicago to a place called Meadville, Pennsylvania to see my grandparents. For you non-historians, Meadville is not where the mighty Casey struck out; it’s where technology struck out.
We stayed at the Ro-Ho-Cho Motel and I must say that the view we had from our room of the ice machine was the reason the Lord invented post cards. Couple that with all the marvelous things my grandmother could do with her false teeth and, well, the trip was just a couple of inches shy of Nirvana. But, unfortunately, this year I didn’t quite make it all the way and so my paper began.
My father, tooling down some dirt road in Ohio singing Tennessee Waltz at the top of his lungs, suggested that my sister and I play a game in the backseat. I think his exact words were, “Kids, why don’t you play the game called, “See who can throw the other one out of the car first.” My sister won.
I got picked up by this farmer plowing his field who was totally convinced that I was the baby Jesus sent from Heaven to pray for his freshly planted corn crop. He took me inside to meet the ‘Mrs.,’ and as soon as she laid eyes on me, the funniest thing happened. Her arthritis, bursitis, laryngitis as well as the dandruff that had been plaguing her for years mysteriously vanished. The next day, with the full intention of adopting me, they loaded me on the tractor and took me down to Balls, the local bowling alley, where the town judge, who moonlighted as a custodian was busy disinfecting bowling shoes. I tried to tell them that they were making a big mistake. I said that I was just a six-year old kid who got tossed out of the car by my sister at my father’s urging. I tried to convince them that I was part of a loving, nurturing, wonderful, nuclear family, but they wanted no part of it.
The next day, the local paper ran the headline, “Farmer Drover and wife adopt the Baby Jesus. Good corn crop all but Guaranteed.”
Days passed and neighbors became more envious of my presence in their little town. Every night when I went to bed they would take turns climbing through the window begging me to help them out. Many were on their knees, face to face with me, tears streaming down their cheeks, tugging on my pajamas, pleading their needs all the while spitting the remnants of that night’s squirrel dinner on my forehead.
Finally, I was able to sneak out of the Drover’s place late one night and head back to the main road. I knew that my family would be returning home to Chicago and I was hoping that if they hadn’t already passed, they might stop if they saw me. Then in the distance I heard a disturbingly loud muffler noise and the sound of an equally obnoxious country song blaring on the radio. I was in luck. They stopped. Mom said that she felt terrible about not turning around and picking me up but added, “You know how your father gets when he wants to be someplace.” Then they asked me what I did and I told them that I stayed with this old farmer and his wife. It was at that moment that something strange happened. The muffler started purring like a kitten, my father’s cigar fell into his coffee cup and the country music station just vanished from the air!
We had been home for about three days when my mother heard a story on the news about this town in Ohio that had a miracle corn crop, prompting the President to proclaim it “Corn Capital of the World.” I thought, “Hey, that’s neat. I was just there.”
Yeah, it was a summer I’ll never forget and believe me I’ve tried. But when I got my paper back I got the shock of my life. There was a humongous red “F” sprawling the full length of the page. “Oh no,” I thought. “I’m going to get killed. I just failed my very first paper of the school year.” Then I looked up as the principal came strolling in. He said he was there to unveil the school’s new grading system. “Boys and girls, from this day forth the new grade scale will be as follows: A = abhorrent; B = below average; C = commonplace; D = dismal; and F = fantastic.” Wow! Double Wow!
When I submitted the story to The Sun, I got this response: “Thank you for writing to The Sun. Unfortunately, the story you submitted has already happened to one of our staff members. However, if you should ever run into Jimmy Hoffa enjoying a peanut butter and banana sandwich with Elvis in the French Alps, let us know. And remember, if you subscribe today, you can get 50% off the newsstand price. Sincerely, The Sun.”
We were traveling from Chicago to a place called Meadville, Pennsylvania to see my grandparents. For you non-historians, Meadville is not where the mighty Casey struck out; it’s where technology struck out.
We stayed at the Ro-Ho-Cho Motel and I must say that the view we had from our room of the ice machine was the reason the Lord invented post cards. Couple that with all the marvelous things my grandmother could do with her false teeth and, well, the trip was just a couple of inches shy of Nirvana. But, unfortunately, this year I didn’t quite make it all the way and so my paper began.
My father, tooling down some dirt road in Ohio singing Tennessee Waltz at the top of his lungs, suggested that my sister and I play a game in the backseat. I think his exact words were, “Kids, why don’t you play the game called, “See who can throw the other one out of the car first.” My sister won.
I got picked up by this farmer plowing his field who was totally convinced that I was the baby Jesus sent from Heaven to pray for his freshly planted corn crop. He took me inside to meet the ‘Mrs.,’ and as soon as she laid eyes on me, the funniest thing happened. Her arthritis, bursitis, laryngitis as well as the dandruff that had been plaguing her for years mysteriously vanished. The next day, with the full intention of adopting me, they loaded me on the tractor and took me down to Balls, the local bowling alley, where the town judge, who moonlighted as a custodian was busy disinfecting bowling shoes. I tried to tell them that they were making a big mistake. I said that I was just a six-year old kid who got tossed out of the car by my sister at my father’s urging. I tried to convince them that I was part of a loving, nurturing, wonderful, nuclear family, but they wanted no part of it.
The next day, the local paper ran the headline, “Farmer Drover and wife adopt the Baby Jesus. Good corn crop all but Guaranteed.”
Days passed and neighbors became more envious of my presence in their little town. Every night when I went to bed they would take turns climbing through the window begging me to help them out. Many were on their knees, face to face with me, tears streaming down their cheeks, tugging on my pajamas, pleading their needs all the while spitting the remnants of that night’s squirrel dinner on my forehead.
Finally, I was able to sneak out of the Drover’s place late one night and head back to the main road. I knew that my family would be returning home to Chicago and I was hoping that if they hadn’t already passed, they might stop if they saw me. Then in the distance I heard a disturbingly loud muffler noise and the sound of an equally obnoxious country song blaring on the radio. I was in luck. They stopped. Mom said that she felt terrible about not turning around and picking me up but added, “You know how your father gets when he wants to be someplace.” Then they asked me what I did and I told them that I stayed with this old farmer and his wife. It was at that moment that something strange happened. The muffler started purring like a kitten, my father’s cigar fell into his coffee cup and the country music station just vanished from the air!
We had been home for about three days when my mother heard a story on the news about this town in Ohio that had a miracle corn crop, prompting the President to proclaim it “Corn Capital of the World.” I thought, “Hey, that’s neat. I was just there.”
Yeah, it was a summer I’ll never forget and believe me I’ve tried. But when I got my paper back I got the shock of my life. There was a humongous red “F” sprawling the full length of the page. “Oh no,” I thought. “I’m going to get killed. I just failed my very first paper of the school year.” Then I looked up as the principal came strolling in. He said he was there to unveil the school’s new grading system. “Boys and girls, from this day forth the new grade scale will be as follows: A = abhorrent; B = below average; C = commonplace; D = dismal; and F = fantastic.” Wow! Double Wow!
When I submitted the story to The Sun, I got this response: “Thank you for writing to The Sun. Unfortunately, the story you submitted has already happened to one of our staff members. However, if you should ever run into Jimmy Hoffa enjoying a peanut butter and banana sandwich with Elvis in the French Alps, let us know. And remember, if you subscribe today, you can get 50% off the newsstand price. Sincerely, The Sun.”
Sunday, June 8, 2008
THE SUMMER OF THE SIDEWALK
OK, guys, let's get it done. I just know this is the summer my sidewalk will be fixed. I have been assured by the boys down at the Department of Public Works that repairing my sidewalk is 'on the docket.' This, by the way, is government speak for "I'm being fitted for a new hard hat right now and don't have time to listen to your sniveling."
Here is the entire sidewalk story, condensed into little bite sized portions. There is a block of sidewalk outside my house that has somehow sunk to dangerous depths. At this very moment I'm sure thrill seekers and parasailers are scoping it out for their next adventure dive.
During the time of our last local elections, I got a chance to meet and chat with many of the fine, upstanding politicians of all shapes, sizes and mindset as they came by merrily ringing my door bell acting like they had known me since birth. Politicians are very good at that sort of thing. But it was Mary Solomon, our 6th ward council person, who's conversation I remember the best. I told her about the sidewalk and to her credit, she didn't promise me anything she couldn't deliver. I think her exact words were, "Sidewalk, smidewalk, are you going to vote for me or what?" She clearly won me over.
I explained to her that two years ago a big Oak tree in the parkway came tumbling down as a result of a major storm and it still hadn't been replaced. Then I got on to the more pressing issue of the unlevel and dangerous sidewalk. I said my ninety year old father-in-law trips on it daily, always landing face first in my freshly watered English Ivy garden. Oh sure, my neighbors get a kick out of it but I'm the one who has to hose him off.
Bob: Mary, what can we do about this?
Mary: Actually (eyes light up) I can get you a tree!
Bob: What?
Mary: I can get you a tree but the sidewalk season is over.
Bob: The sidewalk season is over? I didn't know there was a sidewalk season.
Mary: Oh yes. It's very clearly defined. We have meetings about things like that.
Bob: But, it's still tree season?
Mary: Yes, I'm sure it is. We got called into special session last week on that very
subject. I've gotta go. Remember me on election day. Bye.
Bob: Mary, be careful on my side...(KERPLUNK!)
I really do think some progress is being made. I'm noticing a lot of chalk markings on the street with arrows and circles and initials. That's got to be a good sign. Although, it has crossed my mind once or twice that some of those initials you see in the street in front of your house may be nothing more than code for the amusement of Department of Public Works employees. For instance, I've got the letters 'C.C.O.' scribbled in the street in front of my house. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that C.C.O. really stands for Crazy Cat Owner or 'G.T.N.P.' means Goes Topless - Not Pretty. Sometimes, I'll see what appears to be a complicated chalk written grid in the street almost resembling a hopscotch pattern. But, to their defense, I'm pretty sure I can count on one hand the amount of times I've actually seen a group of them taking time out to play hopscotch, but let's be honest, the temptation is always there.
So, guys, if you could possibly find it in your heart to save me a smidgeon off cement, I, along with my English Ivy and my father-in-law, would be eternally grateful. Oops! Gotta go look out the window. It's opening day of tree season. Thanks Mary!
Here is the entire sidewalk story, condensed into little bite sized portions. There is a block of sidewalk outside my house that has somehow sunk to dangerous depths. At this very moment I'm sure thrill seekers and parasailers are scoping it out for their next adventure dive.
During the time of our last local elections, I got a chance to meet and chat with many of the fine, upstanding politicians of all shapes, sizes and mindset as they came by merrily ringing my door bell acting like they had known me since birth. Politicians are very good at that sort of thing. But it was Mary Solomon, our 6th ward council person, who's conversation I remember the best. I told her about the sidewalk and to her credit, she didn't promise me anything she couldn't deliver. I think her exact words were, "Sidewalk, smidewalk, are you going to vote for me or what?" She clearly won me over.
I explained to her that two years ago a big Oak tree in the parkway came tumbling down as a result of a major storm and it still hadn't been replaced. Then I got on to the more pressing issue of the unlevel and dangerous sidewalk. I said my ninety year old father-in-law trips on it daily, always landing face first in my freshly watered English Ivy garden. Oh sure, my neighbors get a kick out of it but I'm the one who has to hose him off.
Bob: Mary, what can we do about this?
Mary: Actually (eyes light up) I can get you a tree!
Bob: What?
Mary: I can get you a tree but the sidewalk season is over.
Bob: The sidewalk season is over? I didn't know there was a sidewalk season.
Mary: Oh yes. It's very clearly defined. We have meetings about things like that.
Bob: But, it's still tree season?
Mary: Yes, I'm sure it is. We got called into special session last week on that very
subject. I've gotta go. Remember me on election day. Bye.
Bob: Mary, be careful on my side...(KERPLUNK!)
I really do think some progress is being made. I'm noticing a lot of chalk markings on the street with arrows and circles and initials. That's got to be a good sign. Although, it has crossed my mind once or twice that some of those initials you see in the street in front of your house may be nothing more than code for the amusement of Department of Public Works employees. For instance, I've got the letters 'C.C.O.' scribbled in the street in front of my house. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that C.C.O. really stands for Crazy Cat Owner or 'G.T.N.P.' means Goes Topless - Not Pretty. Sometimes, I'll see what appears to be a complicated chalk written grid in the street almost resembling a hopscotch pattern. But, to their defense, I'm pretty sure I can count on one hand the amount of times I've actually seen a group of them taking time out to play hopscotch, but let's be honest, the temptation is always there.
So, guys, if you could possibly find it in your heart to save me a smidgeon off cement, I, along with my English Ivy and my father-in-law, would be eternally grateful. Oops! Gotta go look out the window. It's opening day of tree season. Thanks Mary!
Monday, June 2, 2008
I CAN'T...REMEMBER
Michele came home with two movies and asked me if we had already seen either one or both of them. I couldn't remember. We watched one and for the entire length of 'The Cooler,' we weren't sure if we had seen it. Why is this happening? It's the economy, my friends.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Bob, normally you don't make a ton of sense but now I think you might have slipped of the pier for good." Please allow me to explain.
We're rapidly becoming numb to the whole money flying out of our wallet phenomenon. We keep hearing reasons why everything is costing more and we just accept them because there's nothing we can do.
Believe me, I've given the subject a great deal of, um, oh what's that word...oh yes...thought. I've stood there fuming while squeezing the nozzle at the gas station until I realized that I was helping to ensure that a retiring oil executive somewhere would have a nice cushy golden parachute as a result of my contribution. Please pardon me while I experience some severe intestinal reversal.
As a result of the high gas prices, everything else is being affected as well. Have you checked your grocery bill recently? As we all know most of the food we buy today is made from the finest 10W30 motor oil. Even the price of lettuce is not immune to the rising prices. Why, you ask? Lettuce is grown on farms and people called farmers live and work on the farms. They need the finest navigational devices to maneuver the fields don't they? What if they went to the wrong quadrant and started picking cauliflower? Yuck! And, of course, their children need the latest electronic games just like any other normal kid, don't they? Hey, c'mon, Grand Theft Auto's aren't cheap, but obviously the expensive price tag is offset by the educational value they hold for our children. The kids on the farm are no different than the average urban dweller, except for maybe their straw hats and the bamboo fishing poles. When they're not milking cows or bailing hay, they need to be texting their little farm buddies and playing Metal Slug 7 just as any other normal kid. We can't blame the farmer for passing on these expenses to someone, can we? After all, we're getting a salad out of the deal.
The technical name for this economic trend is 'Horse Hockey,' and it has left us battered and broken and, make no mistake, we are pre-occupied with it. I now find myself using only half a napkin and throwing used dental floss in with the white wash. Our minds have gone to a state of mush. Our ability to concentrate and remember even the simplest of things is gone and no amount of Gingko Baloba can help us out. It might be somewhat comforting to know that no one is immune from this inability to concentrate and remember. It's even affecting important business decisions made in the boardroom.
Brad: Chad, I'm sorry to have to tell you this and believe me, I never wanted
to have to do this.
Chad: I don't like the sound of that. What is it?
Brad: I, well, um, I...can't seem to remember.
Chad: How about some lunch?
Brad: Yeah, sure. You buy.
All we can do is continue to hold our heads high. As soon as prices begin to fall and the economy regains some semblance of normalcy, we're all going to feel better and our memory will slowly but surely start to return. In the meantime, what do you say we all see a movie we've probably seen before and then enjoy a...um, what do you call those things...oh, yeah, salad.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Bob, normally you don't make a ton of sense but now I think you might have slipped of the pier for good." Please allow me to explain.
We're rapidly becoming numb to the whole money flying out of our wallet phenomenon. We keep hearing reasons why everything is costing more and we just accept them because there's nothing we can do.
Believe me, I've given the subject a great deal of, um, oh what's that word...oh yes...thought. I've stood there fuming while squeezing the nozzle at the gas station until I realized that I was helping to ensure that a retiring oil executive somewhere would have a nice cushy golden parachute as a result of my contribution. Please pardon me while I experience some severe intestinal reversal.
As a result of the high gas prices, everything else is being affected as well. Have you checked your grocery bill recently? As we all know most of the food we buy today is made from the finest 10W30 motor oil. Even the price of lettuce is not immune to the rising prices. Why, you ask? Lettuce is grown on farms and people called farmers live and work on the farms. They need the finest navigational devices to maneuver the fields don't they? What if they went to the wrong quadrant and started picking cauliflower? Yuck! And, of course, their children need the latest electronic games just like any other normal kid, don't they? Hey, c'mon, Grand Theft Auto's aren't cheap, but obviously the expensive price tag is offset by the educational value they hold for our children. The kids on the farm are no different than the average urban dweller, except for maybe their straw hats and the bamboo fishing poles. When they're not milking cows or bailing hay, they need to be texting their little farm buddies and playing Metal Slug 7 just as any other normal kid. We can't blame the farmer for passing on these expenses to someone, can we? After all, we're getting a salad out of the deal.
The technical name for this economic trend is 'Horse Hockey,' and it has left us battered and broken and, make no mistake, we are pre-occupied with it. I now find myself using only half a napkin and throwing used dental floss in with the white wash. Our minds have gone to a state of mush. Our ability to concentrate and remember even the simplest of things is gone and no amount of Gingko Baloba can help us out. It might be somewhat comforting to know that no one is immune from this inability to concentrate and remember. It's even affecting important business decisions made in the boardroom.
Brad: Chad, I'm sorry to have to tell you this and believe me, I never wanted
to have to do this.
Chad: I don't like the sound of that. What is it?
Brad: I, well, um, I...can't seem to remember.
Chad: How about some lunch?
Brad: Yeah, sure. You buy.
All we can do is continue to hold our heads high. As soon as prices begin to fall and the economy regains some semblance of normalcy, we're all going to feel better and our memory will slowly but surely start to return. In the meantime, what do you say we all see a movie we've probably seen before and then enjoy a...um, what do you call those things...oh, yeah, salad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
