Imagine you are undergoing major surgery. Not something you would typically imagine, I understand. If you're like me, and you want to let your imagination run wild you imagine yourself relaxing in a hammock on your own private island, your billions close at hand. OK, so it's time to leave the island and get some surgery.
So you are undergoing major surgery and you happen to be awake while it's going on. Hey, I didn't say it would be realistic; I think I was fairly specific that this was imaginary so don't get all technical on me. OK, so you're imagining that you're undergoing major surgery, you're awake during the surgery, and now imagine that the doctor says something like, "Whoa! What is that thing?"
I am wielding the uncanny power of imagination to try to relay to you something of what I feel when I experience the following very real situation: My wife and I are driving down a winding road while on vacation, miles and miles from home... miles and miles from anyone or anything. Suddenly my wife utters the following heart stopping words:
"Is that our car?"
Hoping that she didn't hear or smell something that is wrong with our car, I tell myself that perhaps she saw a car that looks like ours, and I say,
"No, we're in our car."
That my wife is senile and that there is not a thing wrong with our car is too much to hope for. Thus say the gods of smite. Or so it seems. But the smite gods are not on top of their game today (fortunately for me) because as it turns out, my wife merely smelled the gas that I had just passed seconds before. There is nothing wrong with our car. It is my stomache that has issues - the car is fine. Disaster averted. Of course it could mean that I'll be having that major surgery soon.
I wonder if passenger phobia causes as many accidents as drunk driving. Here's one that has nearly put me in the hospital: Driving down the road with a car approaching from a side road on the right. He has a stop, I don't. But then suddenly my observant (and somewhat paranoid) wife announces at the top of her lungs, "Oh my God, he's not going to stop!" And naturally for full effect, she is obligated by the laws of paranoia to grab and pull on my arm as she yells. This of course aids me in my driving. How can I ever call myself a decent driver if I am not slamming on my breaks for no apparent reason?
I am not picking on my wife. She suffers from a disease that is not her fault. And as for her paranoia... well, that's probably not really her fault either. And if I knew who to blame it on I would write that person a sharply rebuking letter. I would say something like,
Dear Person Who Caused My Wife to Be A Paranoid Passenger:
I am very angry with you so don't talk to me for at least a week. May the gods of smite look on you with contempt. May your peers snicker when you walk by, and may your bladder suffer from retention issues. That is all.
OK, so I admit that I don't write good nasty letters. But that doesn't let the responsible party off of the hook. At the very least, they should have to pay for my surgery.
*Read and submit comix and stories at http://comixfarm.co.cc/
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Growing Old Less Gracefully
No matter how old you get there is always someone older telling you how young you are. And those older people will always marvel when you say that you feel that you're getting "so old". I've been noticing that since I was about ten.
But now I have at least some semblance of legitimacy to my claim. Perhaps not on the surface, but if you'll listen to my reasoning then you will undoubtedly understand. That is, if you're not senile.
I just turned 46. Now first of all, I've been told that 46 is not a significant birthday. All of the birthdays that end with zero are supposed to be the significant ones... 40, 50, 60, etc. But here's what is significant about 46. 46 marks the beginning of the transition from mid-forties to late-forties. And late-forties means pushing 50. And we all know what happens in your fifties: Senior discounts. A cruel reminder to those of us who would prefer to remain in denial.
Of course not all restaurants nowadays offer senior discounts to 55 year-olds. In some of them you have to be 60. Now this is what has me really worried. With my luck and this economy, by the time I'm old enough for senior discounts they will have pushed the age back even further. Which means that not only am I getting old, I don't even get rewarded for it.
Me at 60: I'm 60. Do I get the senior discount?
Restaurant hostess: No, you have to be 65 to get the senior discount.
Me at 60: But they passed that new law... they're terminating everyone over the age of 64!
Restaurant hostess: Uhmmm... you'll have to talk to the manager.
Restaurant manager who is only 22 and therefore unsympathetic: Is there a problem here?
Restaurant hostess: This old man wants a senior discount.
Unsympathetic manager: Well, you know the rules. If he's not old enough for the senior discount he doesn't get it. If he is old enough... call the police and have him terminated.
(Restaurant hostess dials 911)
Me at 60: But I'm only 60!
Recently I saw a bumper sticker that says "Old guys suck" and I was actually offended by it. You know you're getting old when young wipper-snappers disrespecting their elders offends you. But I wish that bearer of that bumper-sticker a long life. Actually I hope he gets really old, really fast. That would serve him right.
You do get to a point very late in life (and most people don't ever even live long enough to get this old) where no one can tell you that you're not old. At this age you digress back to a very "youthful" habit. The habit of telling everyone who will listen how old you are. We've all seen the little ones: "I'm four years old! I'm four years old!" People at my age usually won't tell you how old they are. But then something happens... you cross a line and before you know it you're telling everyone you meet, "I'm a hundred and four years old! I'm a hundred and four years old!"
And then there's another similarity that I've noticed between young people and old people. Both groups drive by feeling. I remember driving with my son when he first got his drivers lisence. I remember saying to him, "You better slow down, the speed limit around here is only 40 MPH." And he would say, "Am I going faster than that? It didn't feel like I was going faster than that." Well, that's why you have a speedometer. You're not supposed to gage your speed based on how it feels, you're supposed to look at the speedometer, which hopefully isn't broken. Old people also drive by feeling:
"Grandpa, the speed limit is 40. You're only going 25!"
"How's that? I'm only going 25? It feels like I'm going a lot faster!"
*Read and submit comix and stories at http://comixfarm.co.cc/
But now I have at least some semblance of legitimacy to my claim. Perhaps not on the surface, but if you'll listen to my reasoning then you will undoubtedly understand. That is, if you're not senile.
I just turned 46. Now first of all, I've been told that 46 is not a significant birthday. All of the birthdays that end with zero are supposed to be the significant ones... 40, 50, 60, etc. But here's what is significant about 46. 46 marks the beginning of the transition from mid-forties to late-forties. And late-forties means pushing 50. And we all know what happens in your fifties: Senior discounts. A cruel reminder to those of us who would prefer to remain in denial.
Of course not all restaurants nowadays offer senior discounts to 55 year-olds. In some of them you have to be 60. Now this is what has me really worried. With my luck and this economy, by the time I'm old enough for senior discounts they will have pushed the age back even further. Which means that not only am I getting old, I don't even get rewarded for it.
Me at 60: I'm 60. Do I get the senior discount?
Restaurant hostess: No, you have to be 65 to get the senior discount.
Me at 60: But they passed that new law... they're terminating everyone over the age of 64!
Restaurant hostess: Uhmmm... you'll have to talk to the manager.
Restaurant manager who is only 22 and therefore unsympathetic: Is there a problem here?
Restaurant hostess: This old man wants a senior discount.
Unsympathetic manager: Well, you know the rules. If he's not old enough for the senior discount he doesn't get it. If he is old enough... call the police and have him terminated.
(Restaurant hostess dials 911)
Me at 60: But I'm only 60!
Recently I saw a bumper sticker that says "Old guys suck" and I was actually offended by it. You know you're getting old when young wipper-snappers disrespecting their elders offends you. But I wish that bearer of that bumper-sticker a long life. Actually I hope he gets really old, really fast. That would serve him right.
You do get to a point very late in life (and most people don't ever even live long enough to get this old) where no one can tell you that you're not old. At this age you digress back to a very "youthful" habit. The habit of telling everyone who will listen how old you are. We've all seen the little ones: "I'm four years old! I'm four years old!" People at my age usually won't tell you how old they are. But then something happens... you cross a line and before you know it you're telling everyone you meet, "I'm a hundred and four years old! I'm a hundred and four years old!"
And then there's another similarity that I've noticed between young people and old people. Both groups drive by feeling. I remember driving with my son when he first got his drivers lisence. I remember saying to him, "You better slow down, the speed limit around here is only 40 MPH." And he would say, "Am I going faster than that? It didn't feel like I was going faster than that." Well, that's why you have a speedometer. You're not supposed to gage your speed based on how it feels, you're supposed to look at the speedometer, which hopefully isn't broken. Old people also drive by feeling:
"Grandpa, the speed limit is 40. You're only going 25!"
"How's that? I'm only going 25? It feels like I'm going a lot faster!"
*Read and submit comix and stories at http://comixfarm.co.cc/
Friends and Fiends of Facebook
Not having the sense the Good Lord gave a head of lettuce, I recently signed up for a Facebook account. It was pretty cool at first, catching up with old friends and being rejected by the same old people. What's not to like about it? Plus I tried MySpace a few years ago and I just never got into it. All I ever got was solicitations for porn. And it wasn't even funny porn. I'm sorry, I know that's weird, but I like things to be funny. If I don't laugh during sex, it wasn't any good. Sorry, hon (my wife is a little sensitive).
Facebook isn't quite as cool as MySpace, but it was pretty straightforward and fairly easy to use. But then recently I was updating my profile information and I see this checkbox, which for some strange reason I had checked that said, "Show my sex in my profile." Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a fairly modest guy and I believe that some things should be left private. So now I have to find where the camera is hidden.
There are other things that have me bugged about Facebook lately as well. Like its tendency to add friends to your profile that you didn't request. Recently I was reunited through Facebook with an old friend who I will call, for the sake of privacy and the ability to make up things that aren't really true at all, Bernie McHucklberry.
Bernie was an old drinking buddy of mine. In High School we used to have contests to see who could drink the most water without making a trip to the bathroom. Not necessarily without going potty... just without making a trip to the bathroom. And I use the word "potty" because I realize there may be young children reading this post, and I don't want them to pick up the bad habit of saying the word "pee".
It was nice to catch up with Bernie, and fairly interesting to learn that he now suffers from incontinence. Apparently our contests did some lasting damage. That's what happens when you drink too much, so young people who should never say "pee": Let that be a lesson to you. I was also very surprised to learn that Bernie did, in fact, have a few other friends. One of them was a guy by the name of Art Pimpleton who Bernie did some time in college with. And I say "college" because I don't want people to know that I hung out with a kid who ended up becoming a criminal. Even if it was just for public urination.
Art Pimpleton was from the same small town where Bernie and I attended High School (and I use the word "school" loosely here) and so when I got an email telling me that Art had requested me as a friend and I saw that he was a friend of Bernie's I figured I must have known him in High School as well. Hey, I can't be expected to remember everyone I knew from High School. I was usually pretty whimsical back in those days. And I say "whimsical" for the sake of the young readers who should not say "pee" because I don't want them to read the word "stoned" in one of my posts. They can find it elsewhere on the internet.
After a while of having Art Pimpleton on my friends list, I got a little tired of his assinine political views making their way onto my Facebook page. That part is true, even though it wasn't a guy named Art Pimpleton and that's all I'll say about that. But I continue the story...
I sent Art a message asking him if we knew each other from Science class. I figured that was the easiest place for me to forget someone. To my surprise, Art claimed that I was the one who requested to be HIS friend. We didn't know each other AT ALL (THIS PART IS TRUE, TRUE, TRUE... even though it wasn't a guy named Art Pimpleton). My wife experienced the same glitch in Facebook when she was recently, unwittingly reunited with her old nemesis who I'll call... nevermind, I won't call her anything. The point is that Facebook is deciding who my friends should be, and I'm not too happy about it. THAT part is TRUE. I did make up most of the rest of it (sort of... I really was whimsical in High School). But it was loosely based on truth and Facebook really does have that glitch.
Has anyone else noticed it? Seriously.
*Read and submit comix and stories at http://ComixFarm.co.cc
Facebook isn't quite as cool as MySpace, but it was pretty straightforward and fairly easy to use. But then recently I was updating my profile information and I see this checkbox, which for some strange reason I had checked that said, "Show my sex in my profile." Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a fairly modest guy and I believe that some things should be left private. So now I have to find where the camera is hidden.
There are other things that have me bugged about Facebook lately as well. Like its tendency to add friends to your profile that you didn't request. Recently I was reunited through Facebook with an old friend who I will call, for the sake of privacy and the ability to make up things that aren't really true at all, Bernie McHucklberry.
Bernie was an old drinking buddy of mine. In High School we used to have contests to see who could drink the most water without making a trip to the bathroom. Not necessarily without going potty... just without making a trip to the bathroom. And I use the word "potty" because I realize there may be young children reading this post, and I don't want them to pick up the bad habit of saying the word "pee".
It was nice to catch up with Bernie, and fairly interesting to learn that he now suffers from incontinence. Apparently our contests did some lasting damage. That's what happens when you drink too much, so young people who should never say "pee": Let that be a lesson to you. I was also very surprised to learn that Bernie did, in fact, have a few other friends. One of them was a guy by the name of Art Pimpleton who Bernie did some time in college with. And I say "college" because I don't want people to know that I hung out with a kid who ended up becoming a criminal. Even if it was just for public urination.
Art Pimpleton was from the same small town where Bernie and I attended High School (and I use the word "school" loosely here) and so when I got an email telling me that Art had requested me as a friend and I saw that he was a friend of Bernie's I figured I must have known him in High School as well. Hey, I can't be expected to remember everyone I knew from High School. I was usually pretty whimsical back in those days. And I say "whimsical" for the sake of the young readers who should not say "pee" because I don't want them to read the word "stoned" in one of my posts. They can find it elsewhere on the internet.
After a while of having Art Pimpleton on my friends list, I got a little tired of his assinine political views making their way onto my Facebook page. That part is true, even though it wasn't a guy named Art Pimpleton and that's all I'll say about that. But I continue the story...
I sent Art a message asking him if we knew each other from Science class. I figured that was the easiest place for me to forget someone. To my surprise, Art claimed that I was the one who requested to be HIS friend. We didn't know each other AT ALL (THIS PART IS TRUE, TRUE, TRUE... even though it wasn't a guy named Art Pimpleton). My wife experienced the same glitch in Facebook when she was recently, unwittingly reunited with her old nemesis who I'll call... nevermind, I won't call her anything. The point is that Facebook is deciding who my friends should be, and I'm not too happy about it. THAT part is TRUE. I did make up most of the rest of it (sort of... I really was whimsical in High School). But it was loosely based on truth and Facebook really does have that glitch.
Has anyone else noticed it? Seriously.
*Read and submit comix and stories at http://ComixFarm.co.cc
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