The Valentine’s post can wait.
Here it comes, are you ready?
Warning: Contains nothing, absolutely nothing of literary value. As most of you already know. My blog’s major thrust today shall be, complaining, guilt and regrets. I will try not to let good writing get in the way.
“You Remember When?”
Nothing would date you faster than saying “Do you remember when, candy bars were five cents, gas was eighteen, Dwight was President and dogs could not vote.” The proverbial “Good Old Days” that we seem to always remember to be better than they actually were.
“Grandpa, how come you are so tough and strong.”
“Well dear, it is like this, back when the earth was still warm, I used to do a lot of Dinosaur hunting when I was a kid. The damn decoy weighed in at almost a ton, that is a lot to be draggin’ around all day. Your Grandma wants you to help her cook something in the kitchen.”
When it came time to explain oil and gas exploration, I jumped right on it. After all, I don’t want my grand-babies to be stupid, we want them sharp as a tack and on the ball. So I sat them down and told ‘em all about it, where it is that oil and gas came from, explaining in great vivid detail everything I know about it.
Then after my scientific explanation of the facts as the oil companies gave them to me, they in turn all run into the kitchen and look at Cup Cake and say …. “For real Grandma? I mean … For real?”
Do you remember when you begin to forget things, little things, like the car-keys in the refrigerator thing. A common affliction of the “Do you remember where is that !!@##!!@#@$%^!** thing Bunch.”
I remember when they taught me my A-B-C’s and they used that stoooopid song to do it. A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K … Well you know, and at the end, “now I know my ABC’s blah, balah-p-blah” Oh good gosh, how I hated that song. The only good thing about it was the warm milk and cookies afterward.
Now I find myself some sixty-years later, alone late at night, writing my particular brand of insanity, and I get stumped on the spelling of a word. So what do I do … Yup. “A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K … I start singing that dumb song.” Could have held down three keys and walla spelling checker!
But no …
Here is another mystery of life I cannot for the life of me figure out. You get hung up on a word and you cannot spell it. So you type it in the checker as best you can (y’know taking your best shot) and the !!@##!!@#@$%^!** thing comes back with xjr3cekjdje is NOT in the dictionary. In other words, “spell it right dummy or we will not give it to you.”
Thank you Mr. Gates, there is a bus leaving in ten minutes, be under it.
Sadly today I have to report the death of my Garth Brooks Cowboy shirt. It was a long sleeve shirt, black, no buttons-snap, had little prints of a guy riding a horse, a bucking horse by-gawd all over it. It had evidently somehow shrunk and was dispatched to the next garage sale bin.
Rest In Peace Garth Brooks Shirt, you served us well.
Next time we will talk about appropriate Valentine’s Day gifts for the wife, those very strange salespeople at the Apple Store snuggle up to you, tests and/or quiz questions on FaceBook.
Why it so much easier to just go to the Western store and buy a bigger shirt, than to sweat your butt off on an exercise machine.
Until then …