Doing Disney, Part 2

Welcome to our show, boys and girls! Today’s game is called Disney World: Addiction Or Devotion?

Let’s meet our contestants. (Y’all, these are actual people and real stories. They share information on the promise their real names would not be used.)

Today’s first contestants, the Benjamins! The Benjamins are in their upper 30’s, both work, no kids and consider themselves devotees to The Happiest Place on Earth. They stay at the same place and eat at the same places each time they go. Because they own a travel agency, they do get a few price breaks but will spend approximately $3,000 for an 8-day trip that they take once a year. Or twice, if the mouse moves them.

Let’s take a commercial break so that I can cuss the Benjamins. My 4-day trip cost almost $3500, although I suspect the Benjamins don’t have the same beverage bill that my wife and I are capable of running up.

And we’re back!

Our next contestants are the JJs, James and Joanne! The JJs hail from Utah and are retired. While raising their three children, the JJs always took their family vacations at either Disney Land in California or Disney World in Florida. “The kids loved it, so it was a really easy choice for us.” Now, the JJs are here once or twice a year on their own. They stay in an off-Disney property to mitigate costs, but they generally do not worry about expenses. They are devotees.

Let’s take another break while we ponder why a retired couple in their 70s hops a plane twice a year in Salt Lake City and flies to Orlando to frolic with Cinderella and Goofy.

Next, let’s meet the Double Ds. These people look normal: good looking, gainfully employed, and like the Benjamins, also in their upper 30’s. They however, have a child. They are looking forward to going to Disney World in just a couple of weeks for spring break. It will be their 21^st trip (not a typo) to Disney World. The DDs also enjoy a financial break at Disney World, theirs being a military discount. Still, for their 4 day stay the DDs will usually spend well over $2,000. With a 6-year old child, they can be forgiven for making Disney a regular vacation spot, but 21 times in 8 years?!? And because they plan to renew their wedding vows at Disney World in a couple of years, we have labeled them the Disney Dorks!

And now meet our final contestants. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the STDs!  Seriously Trained Disney-ites. Looking like average people of a similar age to me and my wife, we struck up a conversation with the STDs while waiting in line at the popular attraction at Epcot known as Soarin’. What we learned was that Disney World was every single vacation they ever took with their children. In the first two years of retirement, the STDs made 12 trips to Disney World, at which point they decided to move to Orlando. They now visit one of the Disney parks – Epcot is the favorite – two or three times a week! And they love it. No golf, no tennis, no Europe, no Mexico… Disney World is their world.

Stop the game.  I think we’ve found our winner.

50 Shades of Gray(ing)

1.      Well, look at that.

2.      Where’d that come from?

3.      Guess you knew you’d see one at some point

4.      Just pluck it out.

5.      Dang, didn’t you just pluck that out last week?

6.      Uh oh.  There’s one here, too.

7.      Double-pluck.

8.      Oh, crap.  They’ve called in reinforcements.

9.      So what? It’s just a few, right?

10.  Probably, no one notices.

11.  If anybody notices, color.

12.  It’s not really color, it’s a rinse. Color is for girls, right?

13.  They notice.

14.  So what?  At this rate, you’ll be dead before you’re all gray.

15.  Maybe not.

16.  Nowhere close to dead.

17.  (Hopefully).

18.  So what?  It’ll make you look distinguished.

19.  Right?

20.  Besides, you’re just gray-ish.

21.  Still mostly dark hair.

22.  At worst, half and half.

23.  Starting to look really distinguished.

24.  Et tu, mustache?

25.  And beard?  And sideburns?

26.  Ha ha!  Look a gray chest hair.

27.  Hang on. You don’t know any young men with gray chest hair.

28.  Or even young-ish.

29.  Most are called “grandpa”.

30.  You are different.

31.  A very young-looking gray.

32.  Dang, he looks young to have that hair, they’ll say.

33.  Nobody is saying that.

34.  Plucked a gray hair today from eyebrow.

35.  So what? It was just one.

36.  Co-workers start calling you “old man”.

37.  Some are only 10 years younger than you.

38.  They think it’s funny.

39.  They’re just jealous of your wisdom.

40.  You still da man!!

41.  Ha ha! You’re young at heart!

42.  Gray arm hair?

43.  Nah, just be bleached from the sun.

44.  Pluck eyebrows daily.

45.  More gray?

46.  NOT THERE! PLEASE, NOT THERE!!

47.  Calm down, you’ve still got it.

48.  Check body in the mirror.

49.  Side view, not so good. Check front view.

50.  Pull the shades and turn out the lights.

Ain’t nobody wanna see that.

Eatin' Bugs: Life with an Entomologist

“There’s a lizard in here.”

That proclamation from my wife carried no weight, warning, nor was it a call for help. It was just a statement. No further action required at this time and none was taken.

Such is life with my wife, an entomologist in her former life.

Entomologists are bug people. A lizard is not a bug, got it, but it eats bugs. So by extension, it gets a hall pass. For now.

Living with someone who understands bugs has its downsides. There have been countless 4-H programs where she would single me out as an unsuspecting man-on-the-street and shove a plate of sautéed crickets or meal worms in my face and proclaim to the kids, “See, this guy will eat them.”

(By the way, they are tasty, but you never quite get past the fact that YOU’RE EATING A BUG!!)

Life with a doctor of bug-ology means every little creature you discover in the house is not a crisis. And squealing like a 5-year old girl every time you see something creepy is apparently not an aphrodisiac. Grow some, boy.

So we’ve had to set boundaries.

Rule one: roaches are disgusting. No, they don’t attack and don’t bite, but they are nasty. On this, we pretty much agree. What I’ve had to live with, though, is that one roach does not an infestation make; they can come in from outside.

That’s her take. As far as I’m concerned, one roach is reason enough to call professional exterminators to come tent our house and fumigate it with DDT while we move to a motel. Roaches die.

Scorpions also die. We live on a heavily wooded lot and occasionally get scorpions inside. Our version has very little venom and the only downside of getting stung is a little pain. Or so I’m told.

I’ve never been stung by a scorpion but she has. Twice. The result was language that would get your mouth washed out with soap as a kid. (Bonus: tequila helps get over the pain. Or so I’m told. I could only do a sympathy sip.)

Ants in the house are not acceptable. Neither are flies.

Spiders? Spiders are not considered evil ‘round her. Unfortunately, spiders mean spider housing, and…

spider webs are a no-no,
so the spider must go-go.
They don’t always die, though;
sometimes they just get relo’d

(That’s ‘relocated’. To the outdoors. Sorry, I got caught up in the moment.)

I must say, living with an entomologist has taught me a lot about bees. As a result, I do not run, nor even flinch, in the presence of any bee or wasp. Yes, I do kill wasps nesting on the house, and I don’t tolerate carpenter bees burrowing into the wood siding, but if you’re a bee just buzzing around, welcome.

We also have a few crickets. A portion of our basement is living space; the other part is cool, dark storage. I’ve intended for that part to become a wine cellar, but wine around here has as long of a life span as chocolate does at your house, so crickets occupy that space.

As long as I’m not having to harvest them for snacks, I’m all good. Besides, they’re good lizard snacks, and as far as I know, we still have a house guest.

Getting Old is Getting Old

Man, I’m fighting it.

Truth is, I had made a deal with myself to never get old. As a younger man, you look at older men and think, “I ain’t never gonna be like that.” You think that because you’re an idiot. A handsome, young idiot, but you can’t stop stupid.

The old line that getting older beats the alternative isn’t cutting it anymore. Not that I’m particularly interested in dying, but come on! Where did my full head of brown hair go? What’s with these love handles? Why is my wife tweezing hair from my ears?

It doesn’t get better. Looks like I’m starting to get moobs. Man boobs. I’ve started doing pushups. Not helping. I did 10 yesterday and it still looks like moobs. What’s it going to take? 15? 

I don’t think I can.

For a Christmas gift, I’ve asked my wife for a magnifying mirror. My eyesight is such that after I shave, if I get in some good light, I’m appalled at what I’ve missed. I can only imagine what the check-out girl thinks when she sees me. 

“Hey, old man, next time you hold a razor, try opening your eyes!”

Another thing I was never going to get was turkey neck. You know that loose skin that runs from an old guy’s chin to his neck. It’s the equivalent of back-arm waddle on older women. I’m starting to see it. I’ve consulted a nurse from a plastic surgeon’s office. She says it would be best to get a ‘tuck’ done now. While I’m younger. It’s expensive. Maybe I should ask for that instead of a mirror.

“Honey, what I really want for Christmas is….”.  Let’s see how far I get with that.

The young lady that cuts my hair gives me tips on how to hide the fact that I am severely thinning on top. That includes selling me stuff that ‘might’ grow new hair and something else to ‘fluff’ my existing hair.

I’ve stopped using it. Makes me look like a TV preacher. 

While we’re on the subject of hair, let’s talk about going gray in places other than the top of your head. The eyebrows, of course. (I’m sorry, what did you have in mind?)

For as long as the occasional gray – OK, white, dang it – eyebrows have been popping up, I’ve been plucking. This is a war I am losing. I’ve eventually got to decide if I’m going to have any real eyebrows or do the Tammy Faye Baker: pluck them all out and paint new ones on.

I sense a theme here. Maybe I have a future on the PTL Network. Is it still on the air?

The Wedding: An Affair to Remember

A fine occasion, it was. The barn had been rented and decorated in burlap and ribbons. The bride and groom were long-time roommates, friends, and lovers. The time had come to make it official.

I booked a room at the same hotel as the wedding party, only to find out that the wedding party had moved to another hotel. It seems that upon arriving at the original hotel, one of the wedding party members discovered a condom in their room. A complaint to the hotel manager didn’t bring the appropriate response, so they cancelled all the rooms and moved down the road. 

Some people might think finding a condom in their hotel room was a perk, kind of like chocolates on your pillow. Not this group.

Wedding day: the girls all get their hair and nails ‘did’; the boys grabbed their pistols and went to the firing range. Guests from out of town gathered at the Waffle House for something scattered, covered and smothered. “An acceptable level of ecstasy”, Lyle Lovett would say in a song.

Guests arrived at the barn, parking in a field down the road. The preacher arrived and within 5 minutes fell and broke his hip. I’m not making this up, but feel free to steal it if you need a story line for your comic book. Nothing like an ambulance waling into your wedding to kick-start your dream night.

I offered to perform the marriage, figuring the whole ceremony has a script and being that I can read. By that time, however, the preacher’s son had been designated as the replacement. It all goes off without a hitch under the pecan tree out back.

Afterwards, there’s bocce ball, horseshoes, cornhole and croquet on the lawn. The bar is open and dinner is a huge buffet. A big box of cigars awaits those who head to the fire pit.

This was a lavish affair.

And there was dancing. The DJ spun the bride’s favorite tunes. Anyone ever notice who storms the dance floor when “Fat Bottom Girls” is played? It’s like the national anthem for those that qualify for the title of the song.

Nothing quite like a southern wedding.

The bride is my niece, and I had a moment with her before she and her new husband departed through a sea of sparklers that lead to their limo. She confided that the preacher’s son was not a ‘real’ preacher. He had no legal authority to marry anyone, and as the night ends, her big fat wedding was not a wedding at all. 

She laughed heartily, and I felt better because of it. Like I said, it went off without a hitch.

Retirement? What Retirement?

"Playing a lot of golf?”

I get that a lot since I retired. I am an avid, though quite atrocious, golfer. But the answer is ‘no’.

I am approaching the one-year mark since I officially retired. I use the word ‘official’ because I spent 41 years as a radio announcer. My wife was an administrator at the University of Georgia; that’s some heavy lifting. It can be argued that I never really worked.

We chose to retire on the same date. Some friends and colleagues wondered if that was a good idea. Several have admitted to going back to work in some capacity to get away from their spouse for at least part of the day.

I get that. When you and your partner have been separated for most of the day 5 or 6 days a week, suddenly having all that time together could be… challenging? Suffocating? Time to question whether murder is really a sin?

We’ve struck a nice balance on the togetherness thing. I play golf; she’s not invited. She joined the gym; I’m not invited. She reads; I watch TV. We do our online shopping on separate computers and without consulting one another. (To that last item, our coffee maker recently died. We now have two. Be in touch if you’re interested.)

Advice from friends already retired on how much free time I would have was a mixed bag. Some had found other jobs, if only volunteer or part time, to fill the void left by not having to show up at the office. Mostly, though, the warnings were opposite, that I wouldn’t know where the hours of the day went.

Boy, were they right. In fact, whoever told me, “You won’t know how you ever had time for work!” nailed it.

In the year before I retired, I played 122 rounds of golf. As I reach the one year anniversary of no job, I will have played well less than half that many times.

Isn’t that supposed to be the other way around? What happened?

Travel gets some of the blame. Or credit, perhaps. By the time we reach the one year mark, we will have been to Alaska, Europe, Mexico, Disney World, Boston and New York City, not to mention trips to see family and friends closer by.

Moreover, though, I think work brought structure to my day. Working, I was up at 4 a.m., finished with work and on the golf course by noon, then whatever needed tending to would happen after that.

Take the car into the shop, buy groceries, make a Home Depot stop… on any given day, I could squeeze the necessary chores into whatever hours were left in the afternoon. What didn’t get done simply rolled over into the next day’s effort.

Nowadays, there is very little structure. Heck, we’re lucky if we to make the motion detector blink by 10 a.m. Breakfast often gets skipped because we’re too close to lunch by the time we get motivated to do anything.

That sort of inactivity can really shorten up a day!

Then once you do get moving, there’s always some sort of agenda: plant the garden, work in the yard, fix the leaky toilet, grocery store, drug store, doctors and dentists… oh my word, we could fill this page with doctor’s appointments.

I’ve often heard that the reason you retire is so you will have time to go to the doctor. I shouldn’t have dismissed that notion so nonchalantly. And we are healthy people!

So another day begins and golf is again not in the plan. I’ve been splitting firewood and have chosen a gorgeous spring day to try and get that finished up rather than frustrate myself trying to accurately move a little white ball 60 yards in less than five shots.

If I have time, I need to pick up the computer from the repair shop and run to Lowes. I could also use a haircut. Oh, and the ‘check engine’ light is on in the truck. I doubt anything is wrong with it, but the shop is clear across town. That takes time.

By day’s end, another day of retirement will have been filled up without going to a job and without playing golf. Then I’ll have to fire up the grill and drink a beer while cooking dinner.

*sighs heavily*

Do my chores never end?

Marketing 4 Dummies

Having spent my entire career in radio, I learned a few things about marketing. For example, did you know that “new” is considered a very powerful word? That’s why you hear something – for instance, a radio station that’s been on the air for years – still refer to itself as “the new” station.

“Free” is another power word. Having a sale or promotion? Throw in something for “free” and ears hear.

There is one area where I think marketing runs into the ditch: Razors.

Actually, I think once razor blades got so expensive that grocery stores had to put them under lock and key, society sort of ran into the ditch, but let’s stay focused.

When razors left behind the old single-blade, marketers got hyper-creative. 

Two blades became ‘twin blades’. No, wait. Too old-fashioned. Let’s call it the slim twin. Wait! The ST2. ST is for slim twin, and the 2 is for… two blades. And put a moisturizing strip on there and it can be the ST2 Hydro. Yeah, that’s it. (Read that again, but this time be breathless with excitement!)

Schick makes the ST2. They also make a three-blade for both men and women. Can’t call it three-blade, though. (Did you fail marketing class??) It’s the Xtreme3. And the four-blade is the Quattro. Because ‘cuatro’ is the Spanish word for ‘four’.

Get it? You can’t call it Cuatro because then only Spanish-speaking people would buy it, right? But Quattro sounds like cuatro, so they’ll think, hmm... 4 blades… but not just for Spanish-speaking people. Give everyone in marketing a raise!

Schick also makes a ladies’ razor called “Intuition.” I haven’t investigated, but I assume it knows when it’s time for you to shave your legs and hops in the shower with you on its own.

The grand prize in razor marketing goes to Gillette. 

Who decided to call a shaver the Mach3? Shouldn’t the Mach3 come with speakers that play NASCAR sounds as you shave? Am I to believe it will shave my face at warp speed? If not, then what?

But Gillette didn’t stop with the Mach3. Oh, no. They added “turbo”. If I’m using the Mach3 Turbo, I want flames shooting out of the end of that thing. I want it to soar across my face. I want to feel exhilarated. Like I just won the Le Mans across France!

Gillette also has a Fusion Proglide Silvertouch Manual Razor with Flexball Technology. Please note that most of the words in that name are registered or trademarked so don’t plan on stealing them for your own shaver. Since a whole lot of marketing genius was put into that thing – and I know my marketing - I’ll break it down for you as I see it.

-Fusion implies it becomes one with your face, so it touches your face.

-Proglide means you glide it over your face, but not like an amateur. Pro. Glide.

-Silvertouch means it’s silver. (It is.)

-And the Flexball part means it rotates on a ball of some sort.

Oh, forgot the ‘manual’ part. That means for all the money they spent on marketing and you spent on buying the thing, you still have to hold it and shave yourself.

Glad I could help.