Random Thoughts

I saw a lady wearing a tank top with the colors of the American flag. It read “free and proud.” I thought that could be pretty funny if she was braless.

Any time I see a donkey, he looks sad. Is that how Eeyore got his personality, or do I emote Eeyore on all donkeys? Maybe they’re sad because people like me yell, “Jackass!!” every time we pass a donkey. I even roll down the window to do that sometimes.

When people ask, “Where has the time gone?” I always want to say, “To your butt, it appears.” But I usually don’t.

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I quit saying, “Makes you want to slap yo’ mama” when my Mama said she’d slap me back. She said it like she meant it.

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If your last name is Screws, does it really matter what your first name is?

It’s not that I hate carrots, it’s just that if I’m going to put that much effort into chewing something, it ought to taste better.

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When I saw the car tag, HVN SNT, ‘heaven sent’ didn’t immediately occur to me. Perhaps because the car was parked in the hospital parking lot, my initial thought was ‘HAVING SNOT’.

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If I ever get my own state, I’m gonna call it Potato. When someone asks me where I live, I think it would be fun to say, “North Potato.”

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Ever notice that when someone is telling a story, and they say, “Anyway, to make a long story short…”, it’s always way too late for that?

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My wife tells me that a half pound bag of Peanut M&Ms before I go to bed is not good for me. There’s a good chance I may never know if she’s right.

A Man Needs a Maid

I lost my glasses. They are somewhere on a golf course in North Carolina. Since I don’t need them to play golf, I never intended for them to leave the car. But that’s history now. So are my glasses.

This will be highly amusing to my eye doctor’s office staff. I think they have a running pool, betting on how long it will be before I lose my glasses again.

The doctor took his entire staff to New York City recently. I got a thank you note.

My brother-in-law, playing golf with me on the day I lost them, told me I needed a life caddy. He knows me well enough to make such a statement. He knows that after a round of golf, he can drop me off at the house, and I’m liable to get out of the car and just walk away.

“Wanna get your clubs?”

Oh, yeah, I might need those again. Thanks.

“Don’t forget your hat’s in the back seat.”

Oh, yeah.

“Don’t forget your shoes are on the floorboard.”

And so it goes.

I don’t think anyone would describe me as flighty, but it’s probably fair to say that I don’t pay much attention sometimes. And by making that statement, I know I have just given my wife a little more ammunition for the next time I lose something.

Some of you will know that the title I used for this piece is the title of an old Neil Young song. I don’t know that I would call her my maid, but yeah, I could use one. A life caddy. A Girl Friday. A personal assistant. Someone whose sole job would be to tend to the details in my life.

“Where are my glasses?” I would ask.

“They’re on the kitchen counter, I’ll go get them,” she would say. “While I’m in there, would you like me to make you a martini?”

Question: does your assistant need to be a female?

I think so. While that’s a bit sexist, having a female assistant will make me feel a little like James Bond. Especially if she’s making me a martini. I would have my very own Moneypenny. (Yes, yes, I realize she was the secretary for Bond’s boss. Literary license.)

Question: what would your wife think of this?

Honestly, I think she would feel like she’s done the job long enough already and be happy to let someone else take over.

So I’m giving my (thus far) fictitious assistant the name, Sara.

Sara would go to the golf course with me, making sure I’m wearing sunscreen and that my cooler is properly stocked. She’d make sure I have enough tees and balls, and that my shoes are tied. And she would carry a ball marker, because I’m forever forgetting to put one in my pocket.

 Away from the golf course, Sara would remind me to keep my doctors and dental appointments and not to forget I’m getting my hair cut at 11:00 tomorrow morning.

You know why your doctor’s office smothers you with calls, then emails, then texts about your appointment? Because of me. I forget stuff. I do a lot of apologizing.

But not anymore! Not with Sara! And I think we can see that Sara would have a pretty easy job most of the time, so she should be happy.

“Sara, would you make me a sandwich?”

“I’ll be happy to,” she would say. And why wouldn’t she be? It may be the only thing she has to do all day.

Question: how much would Sara make?

I’m thinking I’d pay Sara about $50,000 year. That’s more than the average teacher’s salary in most states, and Sarah would only have one snotty nose to look after, not a whole roomful, so I think I could attract some quality applicants with that pay level.

This topic, however, brings us to just the tiniest of problems with Sara: I ain’t got that kind of money.

Today, on the way home from golfing, the solution hit me. I stopped and bought a lottery ticket. Because what better way to get money than to play the lottery, eh? I figure in another week or so I can start advertising, so keep an eye out if you’re interested.

But if being Sara interests you, there are a couple of qualifications you must meet. Sara needs to be in good shape, because while grabbing me another cold beer while I rock on the porch isn’t all that hard of a job, at some point, I’m going to need to take a walk, and she’ll have to do that for me.

Sara also would need to be fairly attractive. James Bond wouldn’t have it any other way.

#fatamerica

I am at the beach. If there’s one take-away from this visit, it’s that the bikini body is gone. Dead and buried.

I know that term implies a woman’s body, but it’s all of us, men and women. All ages, too.

We are a nation of people who have decided to adopt the Michelin Man as our role model for the perfect body.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m on the Gulf of Mexico. In another life, I lived here for a while. It has the most beautiful sand on the face of the earth, but I know that most of its visitors are from South Georgia, Lower Alabama, and the bottom of Mississippi.

Deep south and chicken-fried, we are.

Look going there… big mama, fat daddy and their three little penguins waddling behind them. A family of roly-polys. Not really sure why they are expending energy walking when they could just fall over and let the wind roll them down the beach.

Hey, you can pick up these rocks and throw them right back at me. My 6-foot frame weighs a full 50 pounds more than it did when I graduated from high school. Even in the last 3 years, I’ve put on 10 pounds. I am not part of any solution.

I also know what I’m having for dinner tonight. Seafood. Fried.

I like it,

I love it.

Bring it,

And I’ll shove it.

Into my face. After I’ve ladled more tarter sauce on it.

I do think we’ve all gotten way too comfortable with being large. There is no other explanation for why she would be wearing that two-piece. Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.

Men, too.

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why women can’t go topless, if they choose to, when you could put a t-shirt on that dude, hose him down and if size was all that mattered, he’d win any wet t-shirt contest on this beach. That he isn’t required to wear a shirt is surely evidence that men write the rules. Or that there are not yet enough women writing them to overturn ‘em.

If that lady’s bosom is more offensive than my Italian bread loaf-sized love handles, could somebody explain to me why?

 I’m tempted to make a comment about tattoos here, but I really should save that for another day.

Or not.

I think I’m the last man standing in the anti-tattoo camp. Besides, if you’re walking around with a back the size of a drive-in movie screen, I suppose you might as well have a show playing on it.

I must admit that I wonder sometimes about the procreation process of the Fat Family Robinson (no offense, if your name is Robinson). There would seem to be a lack of, shall we say, visual appeal.

Maybe that’s why we’re using less energy today. “Turn off the lights!!”

A lot of pundits want to blame the fast-food industry for the super-sizing of America. I don’t. I think the fast-food industry follows more than it leads. We want more, they give us more.

Because it is so bad for my already-bulging waistline, I virtually never eat fast-food. When I do, it’s usually Chick-fil-A. Two reasons: Number one, agree with their CEO’s stance on gay marriage or not (I don’t), that company is a great company that invests in the communities where they do business.

Number two, fried chicken, y’all.

My favorite all-time fast-food indulgence, though, is the Hardee’s mushroom and swiss burger. Other chains have them; Hardee’s is better. I used to allow myself to eat one once every couple of years or so. No more. The last time I pulled in will be the last time I pulled in. The reason is because like a lot of Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr. burgers, it comes in two versions: 1/3 pound and ½ pound.

Hello? Does anyone remember when the quarter-pounder was the biggest kid on the block? Introduced in 1972, it was all the rage. A fourth of a pound hamburger! Wow!

In fact, Burger King upped the Whopper to ¼ pound in 1985 because their competitors were having more success selling larger burgers. Again, don’t blame the industry, they’re following the trends.

Fast-forward to today, Hardee’s doesn’t offer the mushroom-swiss (and other burgers) in versions that small.

I’m all for capitalism, and I’m all for Hardee’s or anyone else serving what sells best for them, but every time I stand on the scale, I’m shaking my head and wondering what I can do.

Lacking the will to diet, I’ll simply back away from the half-pounder you’re serving. With fries. Because you gotta have fries, eh?

For the life of me, I cannot remember what restaurant I was in recently where the quarter-pound burger was offered only on the kids menu. No wonder our kids look like beach balls.

 

I hate to get all socially-conscience on you, but if we’re ever going to have a real discussion about soaring healthcare costs, maybe everyone involved should gather in the room naked.

There would likely be a whole lot to look at but probably not much you’d want to see.

Free Beer

I like beer. Tom T. Hall wrote a country song with those words as its title. I know it by heart.

But something has changed in the last few months, and I don’t know why. When it comes to beer, my taste buds have either grown up or been replaced.

For all of my adult life, when I enjoyed a beer, it was your average brew: Miller Lite, Bud Light, Coors Light… nothing fancy. I’ve never been opposed to trying something else, but given the choice, I went with the popular brands.

From time to time, beer-snob friends have chided me for my choices, but I say, you drink what you like, I’ll drink what I like, and what say we both shut up about it.

Drink your chocolate porter; I’ll have a Corona, thank you.

It’s all different now. My taste for beer has flip-flopped. The question is, what happened? I wasn’t trying to change. I didn’t need to change. Nor did I hope one day I would change. But change has come.

A year ago, I didn’t care for IPAs. Now, I prefer them. Did I fall on my head? Get struck by lightning? Have a vision? (I do have visions, but they are typically associated with tequila.)

So accepting that our tastes in food and drink are ever-evolving, let’s talk about what this change has really meant. Better beer – if that’s what we’re going to call it - is more expensive.

Yep, it’s all about the Benjamins. Or in my case, the Jacksons or Harriet Tubmans or whoever else is about to be on the twenty-dollar bill.

Twenty dollars will typically buy a 30-pack of Miller Lite. But twenty bucks will only buy two 6-packs of the good stuff. I’m a man on a fixed income. Snootery costs more.

I have found a solution. To understand it will require you to know personal details of the financial set-up at our house.

When my wife and I married, we were well into our 30s with established careers. We were used to having our own money. As a means of dealing with who pays for what, we decided to each maintain separate accounts, but we would both contribute to a joint account to be used for household bills.

Translated, that meant she would pay for the house, I would buy the beer and pay for my own golf, and the ‘house’ account would pay for groceries and utilities. A more fair arrangement, you could not hope for.

Enter now the problem with my newly-discovered taste for expensive beer. I pretty quickly found out that I can’t afford it.

It is a simply, though unwritten, economic principle that one’s spending rises to – and possibly through – the level of one’s income. Put another way, you spend what you make (and then some, usually).

So I’m already tapped out, pardon my pun. I got no more to spend. Now what? A bank loan for beer? 

“Collateral? You want collateral? Sorry, ma’am, I drank the collateral.”

This is a problem in need of a solution. Critical situations require critical thinking. That’s when the tough get tougher, the strong smell stronger, the brilliant get brillianter.

I’m stepping up to the plate and swinging for the fences!

Taking a cue from government accounting, I have simply moved the beer to a different budget. No longer will I be responsible for buying the beer. It will now become a part of the grocery bill. And why not? After all, doesn’t the grocery store sell beer?

Yes. Yes, it does.

I have yet to determine what to do with all of this money in my personal budget, now that I have one less expense. I’ll mull it over while I enjoy what I call a ‘free beer.’

Gay Turtles: Conversations From Happy Hour

The following are actual excerpts from happy hour on May 5^th, 2016. Except where I interject, the two gents involved are senior citizens. While it was indeed Cinco de Mayo, use your own judgement as to whether alcohol was involved.

“Why is so cold? One of those Roberta clippers or something?”

“Alberta clipper.”

“I need a hoodie or something.”

“I can get a plastic bag and put it over your head.”

“Reckon that’ll work?”

“We could find out.”

“Why did you paint that rock black?”

“My granddaughter’s pet rabbit died, and I told her I’d make a headstone for it.”

“Why did you paint it black?”

“So when I put the rabbit’s name on it, it would stand out.”

Me: “When did it die?”

“Two years ago.”

Me: “You think she’ll even remember she had a pet rabbit?”

“She will after I show her the tombstone.”

“I had a pet turtle once. Before I let it go, I painted its name on its back.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So if someone found him, they’d know what his name was.”

“What was his name?”

“Louie.”

“Isn’t that the name of your cat?”

“Yeah, I name all my pets Louie. That way, you don’t ever forget what to call them.”

“Do you know for certain the turtle was a him?”

“No, I don’t. It could have been a her. Or a gay turtle.”

“Is there a such thing as a gay turtle? How would you know if it was gay?”

“Turn him over, I reckon.”

Me: “Turning the turtle over doesn’t prove whether or not it’s gay. You have to ask him.”

Stupid old men.

A Dog's Tail

Dear Human:

Thanks for choosing these people to leave me with while you are gone.

It’s been most satisfying being with another guy, something I don’t get living with you and the other female dog in our house. There’s another word for her, but I’m way too polite for that. Although, that sometimes makes two of you. Just sayin’.

It’s tough being the only guy in the house.

I gotta tell you, you’re way too hyper, wanting to play with me and take me on walks all the time. Maybe I didn’t realize that sooner because you’re about all I’ve ever known, but these people you left me with are flat-out slugs.

I’m learning it’s a lifestyle that suits me just fine, thank you. If I could get that guy with the large nose to bring my food and sit it down in front of my face, I wouldn’t have to move all day.

Except for bathroom breaks, of course.

I have especially enjoyed being with a man who appreciates that you don’t just ‘poop in the woods.’ You must first frolic amongst the ferns until you come to just the right spot. Fortunately, none of the neighbors have been around this week, so as I have visited their yards, I have been the gift that keeps on giving.

I feel like I have enriched the lives of these people you left me with. They have this retarded cardinal that visits every – and I do mean every – morning starting promptly at 6:30 a.m. He makes a lot of racket jousting with his reflection in the plate glass doors. This goes on all day!

I have taken it upon myself to investigate his behavior, and I see fear in his eyes when I approach the door. He keeps coming back, but as I make an appearance, *poof* he’s gone. Meantime, he makes a real mess on the glass doors. We haven’t got all that figured out yet.

So you’ll know, expect some changes as we reunite.

To start with, I no longer wish to be called Scruffy. From the day you rescued me from the shelter, I’ve thought that name was just a little too cute. You have several options I like better. There’s Scruffarious, which combines my name with ‘nefarious.’ Makes you think I might be up to something (besides eating and sleeping).

I also like The Scruffinator. Sounds tough. But I actually prefer to be called by my ‘rap’ name, Scruff-nacious.

Specifically, Scruffnacious D. The ‘D’ is for dog, of course.

Finally, I will no longer be your “little guy.” I’m part husky, for heaven’s sake. I am not just a dog, I’m a dog with a mission. Right now, my mission is to take a nap.

Later,

Scruffnacious D

Stuff, Part 2: No Souvenirs?

It was almost a conspiracy. Packing for a big trip, we’d think of some clever way to bring treasures back home.

It started with us trying to put most of our clothes in one suitcase, leaving the other almost empty. That eventually morphed into cramming an old soft-side bag in the suitcase. An extra bag for all the things we would buy, of course.

Then, we’d bring nothing home. Almost never.

I’m not so sure that bringing something home from a trip isn’t some sort of proof that you were actually there. Because that picture of you standing in front of the Eiffel Tower isn’t enough, you’d better buy a 3-inch replica of the tower for your mantel.

Many years ago, I bought my wife a new dress in Mexico. It was festive, colorful, and asked (very loudly), “Hey, guess where this dress came from?!”

She wore it once. That it still hangs in her closet after all these years is my little victory.

It’s completely understandable that you want something to remind of the good time you had on your trip, but what do you need? Or what can you actually use once you get home? Even, ‘what do I want to display?’ is a fair question. That’s the tricky part of buying memorabilia.

The way we overcame packing an extra bag ‘just in case’ was to get more practical: shot glasses. They’re cheap, small, and shot glasses actually get used in our house.

My most recent purchase was from Disney World. That Disney World even has shot glasses seems a tad unnatural? Yes, it is the ‘happiest place on earth’ but not because people are standing around shootin’ tequila.

Still, once in a while, I grab that Magic Kingdom and fill ‘er up. I’ve found that my personal stopping point is when “It’s a Small World” becomes “It’s a Crawl World.”

After all.

I also have a green M&M shot glass. While most shooters are 1.5 ounces, Miss Green is 3 ounces, making her a popular lady ‘round here. “Tonight, I’m dancin’ with the big girl!”

Through the years, though, acquiring shot glasses has become a little pointless. Not that it doesn’t still occasionally happen, but we’ve got a hundred of them and only a few friends that will use them with us.

I recently found a box filled with shot glasses I had forgotten we had. My wife had boxed them up and put them away. I wanted to fuss at her for putting my favorite pewter shooter from Germany in the basement, but honestly, I hadn’t missed it, so why start a fight?

About the only other memorabilia we buy anymore is a refrigerator magnet. I’m big on those. “Hey, y’all, I went to Ireland. Look! Brought back a fridge magnet!”

We were fortunate enough to be able to visit Cuba a few years ago, before the current thawing of relations were taking place. What do I have to show for it? It’s on the fridge.

(It’s entirely possible that a person could have brought back cigars and rum, but since that’s technically illegal, let’s say that did not happen.)

But you need something, right? How else will you remember your trip? That’s why tourist stores are filled will all that crap. It sells.

In the end, though, you’re just collecting stuff. And don’t we already have enough stuff? We do. Because of that, these days, about all we possess at the end of a journey are a few photos.

Our most recent trip was to Italy. It was a most memorable vacation, but we left the country empty-handed. No shot glass, no fridge magnet. Nothing.

I did buy a new pair of tennis shoes there, but since I left behind the pair I had completely blown out, I’m calling that even. Besides, I think they also sell New Balance shoes in the states. A good shoe but not exactly fine Italian leather.

On second thought, though, maybe I did souvenir-shop in Italy. We visited a small village winery and at $8 a bottle, I declared it the best value in all of Italy! I must have some! Ship me a case of this stuff, and do it now!

Cost to ship one case of cheap Italian wine: $110, more than doubling the price. So much for the ‘value’ argument. (Note to self: two-hour wine tastings are hard on your pocketbook.)

Besides, aren’t souvenirs something you keep? Wine is hardly a ‘lasting’ memory.

Not around here, anyway.