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Wednesday, September 30, 2020

The Persnickety Mrs. C


The Persnickety Mrs. C


There are several thing about which Mrs. C is especially persnickety.  

(That’s right…PERSNICKETY!  I am old and proud of it.)

She gets angry when she takes the car in for service and someone changes her seat adjustment.  She claims it takes forever for her to get it “Just right” again. 

I almost paid an additional $200 a month on a car lease to get one with an automatic seat adjustment setting.  Common sense did kick in, especially as it was to be my car, I opted for a Honda over a Cadillac.

Anyway, she is very particular about any of her things, especially when it effects adjustments.

The other night I wanted to try on her bowling glove.  She doesn’t bowl much, but she uses the glove to prevent that carpool-tunnel thing you get from using your computer keyboard a lot.

My bowling glove is too large, I was talked into an extra-large probably as the shop did not have a large.  It has stretched out a bit and now does not fit correctly. 

Without asking, I started to try on Mrs. C’s “Small” glove to get an idea what size to order on-line.

She went ballistic. 

“Don’t change the setting!  It is just right for me to be able to slip on and off without having to adjust the straps.”

“Ooh, adjust those Velcro straps…what a nightmare!”

“Just don’t touch it.”

Last week, I tweaked my back bowling.  Mrs. C has a back brace which also has adjustable Velcro straps.  Since she has to readjust it every time she uses it, unlike the glove, I thought maybe she would let me borrow it for bowling.  It was with great trepidation that I approached her about trying it on and maybe borrowing it until I could order one for myself.

“Er…ah…I was…”

“What did you do now?”

“Do you think maybe I could try on your back brace and use it tonight for bowling?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why, how could I possible ruin or change an elastic back brace?”

“Because you don’t need my brace.”

“Maybe not, but it might keep me from tweaking my back again; damn you and your persnicketyness!”

I was getting a bit miffed over her reluctance to share, even at the expense of my bad back.

“Because last week when you told me you tweaked your back, I ordered a brace your size just for you.”

Well now I felt pretty small.

It did fit perfectly and my back was fine after bowling.

It takes a good wife to think ahead for her husband’s need, but only Mrs. C knows how to hold on to such a gesture in a way to maximize the deed and make me look small and petty.

Or do all wives have this ability?


Monday, September 28, 2020

Lighten up Old People


Lighten up Old People

I started this blog thing nine years ago.  In those days everyone was blogging.  Blogging was the snap thing, the tic-toc, U-Tube of the time.

Blogging was kind of new and people thought they could actually make money blogging.  I think maybe some people did make money from blogging, but they were either famous already, had talent or had a specific niche.

Early on, most of my readers were young people, especially young moms.  These young people seemed to find many of my posts to be humorous and their comments reflected that.

Many of my posts take a simple situation in my life and for the sake of humor (hopefully) exaggerate a bit or maybe even change a fact or two.

As the years have gone by, somehow my readers have aged a bit.  They have gone from young moms to Old People.  Now don’t get your drawers in a bunch, I am an Old People myself, I love Old People we just have a different perspective on life.

Where as younger readers found humor in my blog posts, Old People want to problem solve.

Instead of,

“That was funny, made me spit out my morning coffee!”

I now get,

“I would never put up with that, what you should do is…”

I used to get

“Oh my, ROFLMAO!”

Today it is more often

“That is terrible, what I always do is…”

Earlier comments,

“That was a great story, I had to read it to my coworkers.”

Often today,

“I think you meant ‘aisle’ not ‘isle’ and you do know that ‘you are’ is contracted as ‘you’re’, and not 'your' don’t you?”

Once upon a time a comment might read

“Oh, I so agree, squirrels are fun to watch.”


“Speaking of squirrels, that ______ (chose a politician) is a big stupid hater, and anyone who disagrees with me is an ass!”

When do people lose their sense of humor and become problem solvers, content editors and political analysts? 

Don’t get me wrong, I love any comments, but I am not really looking for problems to be solved, my grammar and spelling to be corrected or unsolicited political opinions. I guess Old People just can’t help themselves.

What you should do when commenting on a post is…wait, am I doing it now?

See, I am an Old People too.

Thursday, September 24, 2020

You Can Not Bank on This Bank


You Can Not Bank on This Bank

 Have I ever mentioned that I hate my bank…Wells Fargo?  Well I do.  Why?  Let me count the ways.

1.This is the bank that took a thumb print before they allowed me to DEPOSIT a check into my own account.

2. This is the bank that after I cancelled a payment to a vendor because I did not want a revolving service, issued me a new card with a new number and when the vendor asked why the payment was turned down, they gave them my new card number and paid for the service I did not want.

3.  This is the bank that charges $2 every time you use an ATM that is not their ATM.  I gave away about $140 over a year’s time before I realized the ATM I was using was not free.

Today Mrs. C wanted to deposit a check into her account.  We have separate accounts.  The check, an insurance rebate for $16.24 was made out to both of us.  Mrs. C anticipated Wells Fargo would have a problem with this request, so I signed the check under her signature along with my account number.

This was not good enough for Wells Fargo.  I had to make a trip to the bank with Mrs. C and show my driver’s license and my Wells Fargo ATM card before they would deposit the check into Mrs. C’s account.

Please do not tell me to change banks.  I have automatic payments made into and out of my account, and I do like their on-line banking system…a previous bank I used had a horrible on-line system that was down half the time.  I can not bear  attempting to change all those automatic instructions…it took forever to get them right the first time.

So, I won’t change banks.

Instead I just screw with them. 

Wells Fargo has a branch in Red Bank NJ and also in Long Branch NJ. 

Periodically I call them up and ask if they could check my account. 

I tell them I’m not sure if my account is at the Red Bank branch of their Long Branch bank, or the Long Branch branch of their Red Bank bank?

They used to call for a manager, Now they just hang up.

Monday, September 21, 2020

Why Did You Wear Those?


Why Did You Wear Those?


Mrs. C does not always offer advice, if she does not like something, she tends to be silent.  I’ve come to understand that no comment when I ask for an opinion means, a strong negative.  If not asked an opinion her negative feeling remains hidden…generally.

I do not have the best sense of style and I usually check with my wife before stepping out in public.

“Does this shirt go with the slacks?”

An “It’s fine” response means yes.  Never do I get a “you look nice."

 I’m good with,

“It’s fine.”

If I fail to ask an opinion, she will not offer it.

Saturday, we went to my grandson’s Pop Warner Football game.  There was a fall chill in the air so I decided to wear blue jeans.

I have three pair of blue jeans.  A size 40 for my fat years which as I have lost some weight I now can swim in.  A size 36 for when I was also 36, but have saved all these years because you never know.  Actually, I am currently about 4 pounds away from those pants, but…no.  The third pair are size 38 loose fit, which means 38 waist with extra room for the butt.  This pair needed an extra notch pull on my belt to keep them from slipping into that young rapper u-trough showing style that so many hoodlums prefer.

I chose the size 38 loose fit.

About half an hour into the drive to the game, I am asked this,

“Why did you wear those jeans, you know they look ridiculous.”


“They’re way too baggy, you look like a clown.”

“Well it’s too late to change them now, why didn’t you tell me that before we left?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“But why tell me now, when it is too late to change? Now I will feel like a clown all day at the game!”

“I just couldn’t keep quiet about it any longer, they are awful!”

“Then you should have told me before!”

“You didn’t ask, and I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“So, you waited until it was too late to change to make me feel bad?”

“Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t have said anything, but I just couldn’t stay quiet any longer.”

“Well next time say something while I still have the chance to change, I do have other pants that fit, I didn’t have to wear jeans.”

“Next time ask me.”

“You are something else!”

At the game I asked everyone I met,

“How do you like my new jeans? Karen picked them out!”

Maybe I am a jerk.





Saturday, September 19, 2020

Don’t Sound The Alarm


Don’t Sound The Alarm


We have an alarm system on our townhouse.  Our neighborhood does not have a crime problem, and we don’t have much to steal if we were broken into, but Mrs. C feels safer with the alarm system.  She never leaves the house without setting the alarm.

Go for the mail several blocks away…set the alarm.

Drive to the store for only a few minutes…set the alarm.

Pretty much leave the house…set the alarm.

I hate the alarm, but I really can’t complain too much. 

Before we were married, someone did break into the house.  Of course, the alarm didn’t bother them.  Burglars know they have about 8 minutes to take whatever they can grab and leave before the police arrive.  In this case they even cut a phone wire so the system did not make the call to the alarm company for them to alert the police anyway. 

The alarm made a lot of noise, but the neighbors just ignored it. False alarms  from a house or a car are not uncommon.

These burglars stole nothing because Mrs. C came home only minutes after they broke in.  They skedaddled out the back door and took nothing.  

It is creepy though, knowing strangers were in your house.

Anyway, because of this, Mrs. C demands the alarm be set whenever we are away.

It is not difficult to set, it is not difficult to unarm on entry.  Except if you have skeighty-eight different codes to remember; computer code, phone code, credit card code, garage door code etc., and you are 74 years old, sometimes you punch the wrong code when you get home. 

Also, about every other time I leave the house I forget something and have to go back.  When I do this, I have to wait for the alarm to stop its 60 second beeping (I don't know why it does this, but it scares me to touch while it is beeping) so I have plenty of time to punch in the disarm code. 

Anyway, I hate the alarm system.  Besides we now have a “Ring” camera system, so anyone that approaches the house sends an alert to my cell phone and is recorded.  This makes the alarm system a little less necessary.

Today I left to go to the bowling alley.  When I got in my car, I realized I forgot something.  I went back to the door and waited for the beeping to stop, entered the house and punched in the code.  I punched in the wrong code due to an old-age brain-fart.

I did not hear the unalarmed “boop.”  I froze for a minute, realized I made a mistake and punched in the wrong code again.

“REE-ah-REE-ah-REE-ah” It would not stop! 

Now I know the company would call and ask for a code word to confirm I just set off the alarm by accident.

The phone did ring.


“Sir, I see your alarm is activated, do you have the code word?”

Crap!  The code word is the last name of Mrs. C’s ex-boyfriend. 

“Ah, my wife is out, she knows the code word…it is the name of her ex-boyfriend.”

“That is not really good enough sir, I will have to alert the police.”

“Wait, I know it starts with a ‘C’ right?”

“I can’t really help you with it sir.”

“Wait…wait…I complained to her about using her ex-boyfriends name and she changed it.  It is her mother’s first name.”

“I shouldn’t help sir, but you are on the right track it is a lady name.”

“I think it still starts with a ‘C’ right.”

“Sir I’ve said enough.”

“Just blink twice if it starts with a ‘C’.”

“I’m calling the police sir.”

“Constance…I think it is Constance!”


“Can you turn off the damn ringing?”

“Just punch in the correct code.”

“I’ve been punching in the code, it doesn’t work…WAIT (I suddenly realized I had been using the wrong code) let me try again.”

The “REE-ah-REE-ah-REE-ah” stopped.

Back to the phone.

“It stopped; I remembered the right code…thank you.”

“You’re welcome sir, have a nice day, and please don’t leave the house without your wife!”

I hate that alarm system.



Tuesday, September 15, 2020

Italian Ice


Italian Ice

While it is still warm, every night Mrs. C and I share a cup of Italian Ice,  “Marino’s” Italian Ice.  They come at the store in three flavors, strawberry, lemon, and cherry.  All good, but cherry is my favorite.

We share the cup spoonful by spoonful.  I feed Mrs. C alternating spoonful’s which she opens wide for like a hungry baby bird.  If I sneak a spoonful of shavings out of turn, she spots it right away.

About two thirds of the way through the cup, Mrs. C declares she has had enough.  This is much to my great relief.  If you are a connoisseur of Italian Ice then you know the bottom third is always the best. 

I don’t know how they make the stuff, or what the science is, but the flavor syrup of the ice tends to seep to the bottom third.  The top two thirds have plenty of flavor, but the bottom is always the best.

I may be a bit selfish, so I hold my breath as the ice works its way down to the extra good, extra gooey, syrup.  Mrs. C always calls it quits before we reach the good part.

The other night I was feeling a bit guilty and as we reached the bottom third of the cup I said,

“You do know the best part of the Italian Ice is the bottom third of the cup, right?”

“Yuuck!  The bottom third is always ruined by the gooey syrup that seeps through.”

My wife has some unusual tastes, and unusual ways of doing things.  For instance, she does not eat tomatoes or garlic, and she is Italian! Even stranger, she dips her pudding and does not scoop.

I have been known to make fun of her weird food habits.  I think I will just let this strange aversion to the best part of an Italian Ice work in my favor.

Monday, September 14, 2020




Mrs. C is a very intelligent woman…no really, don’t judge by who she married, she apparently has a thing for old jerks.  Really, she is very intelligent.  She often shocks me with her knowledge of obscure “Jeopardy” questions, and yet, sometimes I wonder…

The other day I caught her watching that old cartoon show “The Flintstones.”

“Why are you watching that crap?”

“I don’t know, I used to have a “Dino” doll from the show when I was a little girl, I guess I just retained some affection for the show.”

“It was a horrible show.  After about 15 minutes the humor of everything being related to a rock was a bit stale.  Mr. Slate, Pebbles, Barney Rubble, the town of Bedrock, he worked at a quarry, etc. etc.  All those modern conveniences that were performed by different animals…very funny, for about two minutes!”

“Well I liked it, except, do you know there was a flaw in the show.”

This an example of where I question Mrs. C’s intelligence.

“A flaw in the Flintstone show?  A flaw, as in “A” single, just one flaw in a show where his pet was a sabretooth tiger, where they drove pedal cars, where a bird acted as the needle on a phonograph, where CAVE MEN SOMEHOW LIVED A LIFE WITH MODERN CONVENIENCES YET THERE WAS NO ELECTRICITY AND NO GASOLINE ENGINES, a flaw in that show?”

“Yes, there was one thing that always bothered me.”

“One thing?”

“Yes, you know what it was?”

“What IT was?  There were at least seven thousand flaws in the show!”

“One really big one.”

“Please tell me, what was THE flaw in the Flintstone Show that has troubled you for these many years?”

“You know that car he drove?”


“Well the fork on the axles faced both forward and backward.  When the car moved, no matter forward or backward, one set of wheels would have to simply fall off those forks.”

“And that is what you find unrealistic in the cartoon.”

“Yup, otherwise I always like that show.”

Sometimes in a relationship you have to overlook some things, this is one of those things.

On the other hand, it was a rather poor design, how do those wheels not just slide off the forks?

While were at it,  how did that thing turn?

Crap, now she has me doing it.



Friday, September 11, 2020

Package Rage


Package Rage

 Did they ever catch the son of a bitch that poisoned Tylenol bottles a zillion years ago?  That prick belongs just below Hitler, Pol Pot, Jack the Ripper, and Barney the annoying Sesame Street Dinosaur in the list of world villains!

Maybe he didn’t murder millions of people, he did not force a neighborhood to live in fear, and he did not make billions of parents want to blow their “I love You” brains out, but he did create “Package Rage.”

Before this asshat made us distrust the safety of all packages, the only problem the world had with packages was removing the cotton from an aspirin bottle.  After this despicable turd tried to kill people so he could sue J and J or whatever his reason was, nothing package opening related is safe.

The other day I needed something for a headache.  I had a choice of Aspirin or Tylenol.  I chose aspirin, I still don’t trust Tylenol.

All pill bottles are now covered with a plastic that can only be removed with the business end of a steak knife.  Fingernails will not work, they break before the plastic.  A fork will not do, it does not get under the plastic at the correct angle.  Teeth?  Forget about it, rock break scissors, plastic pill bottle protectors crack teeth.

Once getting by the plastic barrier, one has to figure out the child protector code.  Oh sure, it is written on the bottle.  It is written in print that only a child can see.  Most of the child proof bottles require manual dexterity and un-arthritic fingers to follow the unreadable directions.  In short, only a child can figure out how to open a childproof bottle.

Once I get my neighborhood six year old to open the bottle for me, I now have to tackle that friggin cotton ball blocking the pills I need.  

“Kare!  Do we have a tweezer so I can get this damn cotton out of the bottle?”

“Just bought a new one, it is in the medicine drawer.”

Great, the tweezers are wrapped in that damn plastic even thicker than the bottle plastic.  Of course I cut myself with the steak knife trying to open the tweezer protecting plastic. 

I need a Band-Aid. 

Ever try and open a Band-Aid box with a bleeding thumb? 

Then the Band-Aids themselves are covered in a wax paper that requires teeth, I’m not trusting the steak knife again.

Finally, with a bandaged bleeding thumb and a chipped tooth I am able to get at the aspirin I wanted for my headache. 

Wait!  Aspirin is not good if you are bleeding, maybe I should use Tylenol instead.

Screw it, I still don’t trust that stuff, I’ll just suffer the headache.

If they caught that Tylenol bastard, I hope they locked him up and threw away the key…Or even better, gave him the key wrapped tight in sealed plastic!