Boost, honey, oatmeal, and tea. These are the elixirs benefiting my 90 year old friend each morning. For the last week, she has told me the current presidency has upset her stomach, and all the doctors in the world can’t cure her suffering, because they no longer believe in Obama Care.
There is nothing worse than an upset stomach.
We’re not in an IHOP anymore.
One would think, with the Super Bowl more than a week away, gambling may be slow for the remaining eight excruciating days without American football. This is the only event in America creating thousands of jobs the following Monday when so many don’t report to work after Super Bowl Sunday.
Not so fast. With the new President stirring things up a bit, I have already won a friendly bet regarding his idea that Mexico would be more than happy to pay for a 14 billion dollar wall separating the alliance with our tequila manufacturing amigos. While I believed Mexico would be setting up pinatas in the shape of a malignant narcissistic, pouty faced, bullying liar, my friend truly believed Mexico would cower to Trump as though he was a card carrying member of the Magnificent Seven. Still, it took some persuasive tactics to convince him to take the bet. I had to provide odds. So, I told him if Mexico declined on this more than generous olive branch of opportunity, his end of the bargain was treating me to a bowl of Seattle’s finest clam chowder. If Mexico was drunk enough to say, “ayyeee yeyyy yeeea, yi yi yi, Si! Build thee wall. We pay for it all, amigo! Do you want my wife and daughter as well? Ahh ha ha ha ha ha ha!” I told him I’d give him 14 billion dollars. Pretty risky bet, but I felt the odds were still in my favor.
Winning the bet, my friend was less than happy to pay for the chowder when he found out it contained a mysterious spice indigenous only to Mexico, thus costing him an extra dollar for the importation tariff.
Companied with beer, my mother always said “Laughter is a great chaser.” In her mind, “chaser” was the medicine. Approaching one hundred years of age, I’ve stood at ease listening to her glorious laughter for decades, but I’ve only witnessed her drinking one beer. She should have been more specific with the ratio of beer to laughter while providing this advice to some of her spawn.
Have a safe New Year, and then more to follow.
Resurrecting a story should be reserved for those who are canonized in literature or paleolithic history…….I guess. Charlie Brown Specials, The Grinch, Frosty, and some of those claymation documentaries about Rudolf and Santa should remain frozen in our holiday television sets.
That being written, I may be so bold as to resurrect one of my most sacred of holiday blogs. It’s a favorite of the blasphemy blog section. I hope it’s one of yours.
While traveling along the highway somewhere in Spokane, Washington going to Anywhere, Washington, amidst a flurry of snowflakes, a friend of mine and his dad witnessed something special. It was an icicle laced billboard displaying an image of HIM…. Jesus, or God, or whatever floats your arc, raising His hands in glory to the sky. The sign read, “Jesus Christ is Christmas.” Despite your faith, the sign might resonate to some forgetting the true meaning of Christmas.
Fortunately, for our own nostalgia, my friend’s father misread the billboard. He bellowed with terrific irreverence, “Jesus Christ, it’s Christmas?!”
Trying to park at Target, CostCo, or even a 7-11 this time of year may manifest that phrase in even the most pious of us all.
Jesus Christ. It is, indeed, almost Christmas.
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Stuff this and dress that. I do love the dressing and the stuffing. Dark or white turkey? I’ll take both with a splash of gravy. (No one knows the difference if good gravy is on anything.) Yams and Sweet potatoes really aren’t my thing, but what the hell, I’ll try them both. Marshmallows on top of the dish only cloud the potatoes exceptional nutritional value.
I’ll even give a shout out to green bean casserole. (“Casserole” being one of the most difficult dishes to spell but easiest to make.)
Apple and Pumpkin Pie can fight amongst themselves for a bit, but eventually get along, once the proper whipped cream makes the decision not worthy of fighting.
Thank you, food.
Good Gravy
Taking a road trip with my one hundred and twenty year old, or something, mom, provides sweet humor. I think she’s only one hundred and thirteen. When it comes to her age, she tends to lie. Our driver was equally amused with our mother’s lack of age driven acknowledgement.
Hard of hearing, my mother required being shouted to from the backseat. I made a critical mistake by thinking it may be fun asking her questions from our local newspaper. It’s referred to as the “Super Quiz”. Ironically, or just by coincidence, the subject of the quiz was, “The 1920’s”. Since my mother was born before or during the 1920’s, depending on her mood, I thought she’d nail the answers. The first question of this quiz was, “The “blank” Twenties.” Our driver, one of her six daughters, quickly, had the answer.
“The Roaring Twenties”.
My mother, apparently tossing her hearing aid out the window prior to my inquisition, decided it would be better to just read lips. She looked at our driver and responded, “The Boring Twenties?!!”
Following our laughter, our mother fell asleep after reading, out loud, several road signs.
Some house guests are commonly stressful. Usually, they piss and leave other unsavory waste all over your house before leaving. Even if you love them, you shouldn’t be ashamed while rejoicing their departure.
Almost a year ago, we had a house guest. After two days, unusually, we didn’t want him to leave, and were sad when his grandmother picked him up and pried him from our warm, live hands. His name was Gizmo. He was a small canine making immediate friends with our two, much larger, and grateful dogs.
As much as we try to please our dogs, and a few homeless cats, squirrels, and chickadees, there is nothing like a new, ambitious dog to light the fire beneath two enormous, flammable dogs. Gizmo did just this… figuratively speaking.
While staying at our house, Gizmo ate when he was supposed to eat, crapped where he was supposed to crap, and pissed only once in the cat box, which we thought was funny. (Our pretentious cat didn’t find it so amusing.) After providing the cat with some nip, and before his nap, and with terrific arrogance while wearing one of his Harvard ties, our cat purred, “Don’t let this happen again”.
Gizmo didn’t require an Ivy League tie. Rather, he was a perfect gentleman and a delightful guest, despite our cat’s poor behavior. After eating, Giz would also try, with all paws, to do the dishes. He would bark at you in the general direction of the kitchen if you even attempted to clean a plate in his fortress of solitude.
I seldom use the word, “cute”. However, my wife and I tossed it around relentlessly when this eight pound dog took charge of our house within minutes upon arrival. Our “plus one hundred” pound dogs found Gizmo equally adorable. They, Jack and Etta, both barked with pleasure walking around with him in a house lacking a little energy. They were also sad to see him leave.
Gizmo did leave our house, but it was with great pleasure anticipating his return. Honestly, how often do you wish a guest to return before you take a six month nap? The Giz ruined that theory.
Sadly, Giz won’t return because he has retired to the great and glorious open field in heaven to run, piss, and, hopefully, make new friends. I haven’t told our one remaining dog the sad news. I figure he is stressed enough about about our new President.
Rest and Play, Giz.
My wife and I officially completed our duty as Americans by casting our votes last week. Fortunately, I didn’t cast them in those, once revered, blue United States Mail Boxes, making certain mail was to be delivered without being stolen. According to the U.S. Mail Box Outlet Barn I use when the rain keeps our local mailmen or women at home, I was told, specifically, not to use the mailboxes outside their outlet because people commonly pour unfinished chocolate milkshakes, including other refuse, from the local McDonald’s into the box after closing time. It made me so proud to be an American. It also reminded me of how proud I am of the two Presidential candidates.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Jewish rituals. All respected and appreciated by my father, but no holiday compared to game seven of the World Series. As a man of faith, he attended church more than regularly, but he appreciated both the love of baseball and the fact game seven of the World Series wasn’t deemed as a Holy Day. Rather, he left us believe it would be a hope, or future treasure chest filled with nostalgia which we could open years later and say, “We watched that game with our dad.” We didn’t have to go to church on these days.
Rather than inviting people over, he’d only allow pedestrians in if they were interested in the game. Following the game, you must stay off the phone, because one of his great friends, annually, would call him after the final out. If you stayed off the phone, and watched the game with popcorn wedged in your teeth, game seven was more than just a good mood.
Due to weather conditions and laundry issues, my cell phone has been unavailable for the last three days. Embarrassingly, I reacted to losing it almost as immaturely as Americans kneeling or sitting during the National Anthem. (Those protesting have the right to do so, and I have the right to disagree.) Different story.
Regarding my cell phone, for three full days, there was no calling, no texting and no such luxury. Help me, Mr. Banana Yellow rotary home phone when I need you.
I have currently managed to survive without the cell phone, but it is handy, if used properly…much like fire.