Category: humor

The Geezer Discount

My buddy, Dr. Frank Lang, turned eighty years old this month. As an age, more are achieving it. Technically, he’s an octogenarian, but once upon a time, he started calling himself a geezer. This led to beer-fueled debates about what age one becomes a geezer. Is geezer a matter of years lived, or a state of mind, or maturity? Perhaps, it’s all these things. I’ve known some thirtysomethings who seem like Geezers.

In honor or Frank and our aging population, I believe we need to reconsider our restaurant discounts. Senior discounts vary on when they’re applied. Some are honored once fifty-five years old is achieved. I suspect that’s a ploy to increase their market share. Others pin their discounts to the age at which people can begin withdrawing social security, so it’s a sliding scale, with later generations forced to be older to enjoy a senior discount.

I think that’s wrong.

I call upon Congress to fix it. We’re a society that’s supposed to honor our elderly. A food and beverage discount is a great way of doing so. I think, though, with more people aging, we should have a Geezer discount alongside the Senior discount. If you reach sixty-five, you’re eligible for the Senior discount. Once you’ve celebrated your eightieth birthday, you should be authorized the Geezer discount. If the Senior discount is ten percent off, the Geezer discount should be fifteen percent off.

It just makes sense. For one thing, Geezers tend to consume less. Businesses can accommodate the Geezers and still protect their bottom line by providing them smaller portions. I know some businesses, like Bob Evans Restaurants, already do something like this for Seniors.

Of course, it would be unfair of us to not also extend a greater discount for those who reach one hundred years old. If you get that old and you’re out eating at a restaurant, you deserve a Centenarian discount. That would be a one hundred percent discount.

Yes, Centenarians would dine for free.

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Catmology

From the Human word cat and -logia, study of, we have catmology.

Catmology was originally the study of cats. However, in more recent popular culture, catmology has come to be accepted as the theory that the universe is cat-centric.

Evidence of this developing trend is on display in the world wide web and Internet. Cat rescues, cat love, photos of cats being cats, seem to be at the forefront, fighting with ‘real news’, such as the Superbowl, lessor sports information like baseball, cricket and football scores, fashion trends or if the POTUS knows how to read, to dominate our interests.

It certainly seems plausible that cats started the Big Bang. Something was sitting there and along came a cat. “Hey,” said the cat, “what’ll happen if I knock this over?” So they did. Bang. Then they probably rolled around in it a bit.

Some will point out inconsistencies in this theory. How can cats be there when there was nothing else except hot, dense matter? Catmologists will admit, they don’t know, but will counter, it’s quite possible that a cat managed it somehow. Cats have long defied every other law of special and normal physics. If any creature can tear or slip through the space-time fabric, it’s probably a cat. In a personal aside, I believe it was a ginger cat. They’re always getting into trouble.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to someday learn that physicists changed the string theory to the fur theory. Cat fur seems to be everywhere. Revealing it as the most fundamental aspect of our reality seems like a no-brainer.

 

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Disgusting

I’m going to break a rule.

I’m blogging about body functions and human habits. Other than a few books, like “Our Bodies, Our Selves,” and “Everybody Poops,” we prefer that our body functions are kept secret.

I’m writing about one of the things I do that most disgusts my wife. Now, I’m sure several things will come to your mind, depending upon your age, history and sex.

It’s in my thoughts today because I did it today. The habit in question is blowing my nose in the shower.

The water is running. I’m blowing into my cupped hand. Then I’m rinsing.

My wife has informed me several times that it’s a disgusting habit. One time when she told me that, I complained about it to female friends at work. Did they find it disgusting?

“Oh, yes, absolutely.”

Astounding. “Why?”

“Because it’s a filthy, dirty habit,” they answered. “It’s disgusting.” Their husbands and boyfriends did it, too, and they wanted to know, “Why? Why do you do this? Why do men do this?”

I had an answer. “There are several reasons. One. I have hairy nostrils. Things get fouled up there. Snot hangs on and hardens.

To quote them, “Oh, gross, do you need to be so graphic? TMI.”

Undeterred, I continued, “Two, I’m in a private location. I can blow to my nose’s contentment.”

They were feigning gagging.

I think they were feigning it.

“Three. The hot water loosens everything up. And four, I can wash it all away. It’s efficient, clean and economical. If I didn’t do it, I’d be out there blowing into wadded tissues and hankies for a long time, which you would probably find equally disgusting.”

I was thinking of that conversation today, during my third day of cold therapy, because there wasn’t any steam. There was only ice water. At least it seemed so to my naked skin. The cold water was worse today because I was washing and conditioning my hair. That gave me time to think because I turn on the water, soak my head, then turn off the water to lather up. The water is then turned on again and the shampoo rinsed out. The water goes off again while I apply conditioner. I’m trying not to be wasteful. Then I turn the water on, rinse off the conditioner, soap up, and turn the water off, turning it on again for the final rinse.

It’s during the final rinse where I blow out my nostrils. Was it as effective in freezing water? Seems so.

So my logic for doing this may be partially wrong. Maybe I’m just a gross, disgusting male with bad habits.

Well, some would claim I’m now being redundant.

 

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A Laugher

One of last night’s dream makes me laugh whenever I think of it.

I was working. I can’t say the nature of the work. Seemed like I was conducting inventory. Whatever I was doing, I was busy, happy and fulfilled. A manager came by. He wasn’t someone I knew from my life but he was known by the dream me.

Dream manager told me they — the rest of the office or work place — were leaving. I was fine with that. While they were gone, they were expecting two people to arrive: Major Record and a garbled, unintelligible name.

Sure, got it. Understood.

The manager left and came back. Still waiting for Major Record and the other, whose name he screwed up. Although I can’t remember the other name, I corrected it in the dream for him.

A little later: Major Record arrived, along with X. X was another name. I asked about the original second name. That’s who arrived, was the reply. They came by another way. They’ll be coming this way.

The manager had continuously screwed up the second name until it became a joke. Meanwhile, the Major Record we’d been awaiting had already arrived.

Waking, I keep laughing about that. I’m waiting for Major Record, but he’s already arrived. And I just kept working, doing the same thing, the entire time.

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Chow Down

Once again, it’s time to celebrate cereal. Yes, it’s National Cereal Day in America.

We’ve embraced cereal in America. The ready to eat stuff first originated in the 1800s. Pouring it into bowls and adding something to it is standard breakfast fare in many houses.

Back as a kid, my favorite was Wheaties. Yes, I was a Breakfast of Champions guy. The flavor was so-s0 but I believed in the advertising. My little sister was strictly a Cheerios person. It was Cheerios or nuttin’. This was back in the day when all that was available were those basic miniature oat inner tubes. She did like adding banana to it.  On Saturdays, the practice was done to the sounds of the Roadrunner and Bugs Bunny, cool friends to have.

Mom liked it because we could ‘make our own’ breakfast without involving electricity and sharp objects. I liked making a game out of it, racing around the kitchen while multi-tasking, grabbing the ingredients, bowl and utensils in the fewest possible steps and motions.

Unfortunately, the refrigerator wasn’t properly grounded. We were warned never to touch the refrigerator handle and the counter at the same time, but in my quest for speed, that’s what I did.

I can still feel that current coursing through me.

My reaction was apparently to scream and cry with pain. Mom came racing in. “What happened?” I told her I’d been shocked. “Well, keep it down,” she replied. “You’ll wake the baby.”

Blaming the Wheaties for my error while acknowledging that Wheaties essentially tasted like wet cardboard, I switched to Raisin Bran. It was my go-to for about a dozen years. Oh, I tried Kix, Trix, Coco Puffs and Life. I think Lucky Charms, Count Chocula and other disgusting, sugary cereals came out then. I tried them at friends’ houses during sleep-overs and found them repulsive.

I liked Puffed Rice and Shredded Wheat for a long time, but they gave way to my all-time favorite: Grape-Nuts. I put very little milk or sugar on them. It was, my wife noticed when I introduced them to her, like eating a mouthful of gravel. I found chewing rocks personally rewarding. Maybe it’s the Neanderthal in me.

They were once tried with beer, Miller Lite, I believe, just to see how that worked. It provoked a shrug sort of response, meaning, not good, not bad, just different.

But eventually, I drifted into eating oat meal regularly. Organic steel-cut instant oats (now GF and non-GMO) with a little brown sugar and cinnamon, berries, fruit and walnuts have been my breakfast preference for the past dozen years. And today, in honor of National Cereal Day, I had pancakes.

What’s life without whimsy?

Probably Cheerios.

 

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Catradictory

Catridictory (catfinition) – someone who begs and pleads for something from you and then walk away without touching it are said to be catradictory.

In use: “Meowing, purring, and tapping his leg as she rubbed against his calves, the cat seemed to want food, but the catridictory feline sniffed the food bowl once after he set it down, and silently walked away.”

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Catflation

Little Quinn weighs a shockingly light seven pounds, six ounces. He’s mostly fur. Yet, he manages to grow larger as we sleep. In this process, called catflation, cats begin gaining physical size and mass as they sleep beside you or on you. The longer they sleep, the more they grow. Quinn ends up exploding like a popcorn kernel in size. I think he gains fifty percent more weight. I’ve tried weighing him but once a cat awakens, they revert to normal size.

As for big Boo the Bagheera, or mighty Tucker the Enigma, they become enormous. Boo awake comes in about sixteen pounds. Tucker, at fifteen pounds, is the lightweight of the two. But both easily weigh fifty pounds or more and are as big as me once they’re asleep on me or beside me for a while.

At least it seems that way when I try to move them.

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Catucation

All my cats know what no means.

They know their names, and they know the other cats’ names. That they know so when the others are summoned, they can come to me instead and cat-block their fellow felines.

All my cats have learned the sounds associated with food – certain doors, drawers and cupboards opening, the sounds of can openers on cans, or can pop-tops, the rustling of food bags.

They know the sounds of us going to bed, and getting out of bed.

None of them know that the sound of rain on the roof or windows means it’s raining outside. It’s always an event that astonishes them.

They’re very selected about what they know.

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The Question

The Question has arisen, raised by my wife.

It was innocent enough, oh, it’s always innocent enough. But knowing her…I was expecting, even anticipating, The Question.

It came today after I put on my coat. I call it vintage. She, however, said, “Honestly, honey, I know you love that coat, but don’t you think you should give it to charity? It’s worn and faded. You’ve had it for twenty-five years.”

Old and faded? “No, I love it.” And she was exaggerating. “For your information, I’ve only had it twenty-two years. I bought it on sale at Macy’s in the Sunnyvale Town Center when we were stationed at Onizuka in 1994.”

“Okay, twenty-two years. It’s still really faded.”

“Its worn fabric provides it with vintage character.”

Her eyebrows went up as she broke into a questioning grin. “Vintage character?”

“Yes.”

I stand by my declaration. I don’t plan to give it up. I don’t easily give up my goods. Underwear, sweatshirts, shoes, shirts, coats, pants, I wear them until  they’re clearly too small or begin disintegrating.

And I’m serious: they disintegrate. I was once wearing a pair of shorts, put something in my pocket, and torn the pocket. The cloth just ripped. I was so depressed. I’d only had the shorts twelve years. I looked for replacement shorts but never found a pair just like them.

My wife is clearly the arbiter of these matters for me. Not too long ago, she held up a pair of boxer shorts and sniffed. “Do you really want to keep these?”

I was affronted. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Really? The colors are faded, the elastic band just came off in my hands, the seam is coming apart at the crotch, and you have a hole in the rear.” She held them up higher. “They’re so worn, I can see through them. They’re like sheer curtains.”

I doubted her. I’d just worn those boxers in the last several days. “Let me see.”

She was absolutely correct, of course. All those small details she’d noticed about these old Hanes boxer shorts were true. (I believe they’re Hanes, but the label was gone.)  I’d noticed them, as well. I knew that these boxers would start dropping down my legs when I walked after I put them on. I laughed every time I saw their dilapidated condition.

I sighed, cringed and swallowed, bracing myself to issue the answer to The Question: “Yes, you can throw them away.”

Grabbing them from my hand, she hustled away. “I’m going to get rid of these now, before you change your mind.”

She didn’t even give me time to say good-bye.

This is not an economic practice on my part. Nor is that I love these things. They’re familiar and comfortable, like an enjoyable book, a favorite food or wonderful friends. These things are woven into my fabric of my memories and the essence of my being. I like remembering the past, not to hold onto it, but to understand it and myself, and measure the future. It’s only by looking at the past and understanding what didn’t go as planned that I can change things so they’ll be better in the future.

Elaborate rationalization? Sure, it could be. These goods I don’t give up might just be emotional crutches to remind me of glory days and better times. It could be that what you’re thinking and what I’m claiming are all correct, that it’s necessary to hold these competing ideas in our minds and accept, both are right.

All I know is, this was but round one. The Question will arise again.

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The Competition

I always interact with the Boulevard baristas. Intelligent, personable, charming, they seem to enjoy it as well. This isn’t limited to me; they interact with everyone. After all, they do get rewarded with tips. The interactions are about snippets from personal activities and lives but also about the drinks. They get serious about making the drinks, which serves me well, because I’m serious about drinking my coffee, especially my writing mochas.

As part of our daily rituals, I often admire their latte art. They typically fill my drink to the brim, forcing me to slurp some away before walking lest I spill some of it on the way back to the table, so I comment about its taste. They’ve come to wait for those comments, and some of them are competing to see who makes the best-tasting drink, and who has the best art.

I didn’t know how serious this had become until I made a comment to Meghan about three weeks ago. “I think your drink tastes the best,” I said, “but Lexi has the best art.”

Meghan responded, “I make your mocha different. I put the cocoa directly in the steamed milk at the bottom.” Chrissy stopped what she was doing and leaned in to listen. “And I add a lot of cocoa powder because I know how much you like it. I can make better art but I’m being lazy.”

That changed immediately. Her drinks started sporting more serious latte art – flowers, trees, and hearts. Lexi also heightened her efforts, along with Chrissy and Chelsea. Madi is still learning it, something we both acknowledge, and often covers her efforts up with extra cocoa powder (which I mind not at all). Sam, ironically an art student whose wonderful water colors are now on display in the coffee shop, is also still learning latte art. Allison, the owner, doesn’t try.

But Meghan raised her game the other day. After calling my drink out, she waited for me to pick it up. “Look at what I did. Do you see it?”

I looked into the cup and laughed; she’d spelled out my name above a daisy. “Wow,” I said. “You’ve upped your game.”

Eyes bright and smiling big, Meghan nodded. “I have upped my game. You have to tell Lexi that I upped my game. But don’t tell her how. I want her to have to ask me.”

To be continued, I think….

 

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