The irritable old man is an alter ego who takes the helm once in awhile after I have had a few too many glasses of wine the night before or attended a funeral. His opinions do not necessarily reflect those of my, er, regular ego.
Who are these people, anyway?
The Christmas card from the Rourkes is addressed to us and appeared in our mailbox last week. The photo shows four human males and one female all smiling. At the center of the composition is a table bearing two dogs. Since their genitals are prominently displayed, it is apparent they are both males.
One dog ding-dong on a Christmas card is probably okay, but two is over doing it.
With the exception of the dogs, they are all wearing black polo shirts and tan trousers. They look more like the police academy graduating class than a festive family.
Unknown guy senior looks like he could be a cop. Maybe he is the Gestapo bastard who ticketed in me in High Bridge rubbing it in. Or maybe it is his idea of “community policing” to send a Christmas card to some poor slob he just nailed.
Surely they are Republicans and mistake us for their cronies because they wished us “prosperity” in the coming year clearly a reference to their plan to plunder our Social Security and Medicare.
Despite their smiles, the three teenage males look like bullies. I’ll bet they put their black shirts on and go to New York to hobnail stomp some poor Occupy Wall Street dude.
The one dog definitely is part pit bull and probably bitch humps on the other one who is one of those repulsive Pug things.
Almost invisible in the left hand corner sits a mousey female with a cheesy grin. Although judging from her demeanor she might be an abused servant, she is probably the mother of the thugs and wife of the sadistic policeman.
Kathie does not recognize these people and no one we know knows who they are.
“I wonder where they think they know us from?, Kathie asks.
“Either gun club or prayer group, I would guess,” I respond.
I have to admit, I am somewhat put off by the fact that this card came in well after Christmas.
“Should we send them a New Year’s card?,” she asks. This is her fix for dealing with people we have dropped from our Christmas card list because we didn’t get one from them last year only to receive one from them this year. Of course, they will drop us next year while we will re-instate them….and so it goes.
“Although they think they know us,” I reply, “They don’t think enough of us to get our card to us in a timely manner, so the hell with them.”
Who do these people think they are anyway?
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Things We Did Last Summer
In case you hadn’t noticed, no new posting has appeared on these pages since last July. Of course you hadn’t noticed, but I will explain my absence anyway.
By the way, thanks to my good friend Googlebot who faithfully visited three times a day and accounted for thirty per cent of my readership during the Absence.
Also, a check of my site meter reveals that many of you continued to come here looking for information on how to get a haircut like George Clooney. Get over it: I posted “George Clooney Stole My Haircut” three years ago and I am sure he has changed his hairstyle sixteen times since then. I, of course, have not changed mine.
The long and short of it is I decided to take the summer off. Okay, it is almost November, but I am retired and lose track of time.
Here is what I did on my summer vacation:
. Played “Angry Birds.” I found this a productive way to fill the empty, wasted hours I used to spend senselessly blogging. After thirty-three days, I got to the end of the free version and opted not to spring for the 99 cents to upgrade to the full edition.
. Spent a week in my daughter’s bathroom. Elisabeth and her husband, Alex, are renovating their house in Boston. I was called in to install moldings and baseboards in the upstairs. I was supposed to finish the whole project in a week, but didn’t manage to get out of the bathroom. Each evening she would examine my progress and comment: “Is this all you managed to get done.” In my defense, I would state that I spent most of the time in a semi-conscious state due to constantly banging my head on the ceiling that slopes off precipitously on one side of the room.
. Tried to stay dry. We have had a lot of rain in this part of the country and two major floods in town. My house has stayed dry but I had two pair of Wal-Mart sneakers rot right off my feet. I replaced these with a pair of Crocs. These are the same rubber clogs that Mario Batalli wears and are sometimes called bistro shoes, although I think, as Mario probably does as well, this sounds a little girlie. I call them my puddle jumpers because they are perfect for that enjoyable recreational activity that swept the northeast this summer.
. Played “Zombie Highway.” This is what I took up after besting the Angry Birds. This involves running over and shooting lesser sorts while hurdling along the highway in your black SUV. While this may sound like it would only appeal to Dick Cheney, it filled in the time I used to spend thinking about writing a novel or going back to work.
. Got an IPod Touch. I must admit I got somewhat addicted to this amazing little gadget (see Played “Angry Birds” and Played “Zombie Highway.”) Don’t even get me started on the ApStore. You can have just about every piece of information ever assembled instantly at the touch of this magical device. This includes every sexual position in the Kama Sutra. No kidding! When your new girlfriend suggests that you and she make the Monk With Two Backs, you will know she is not recommending you team up on a Halloween costume.
By the way, thanks to my good friend Googlebot who faithfully visited three times a day and accounted for thirty per cent of my readership during the Absence.
Also, a check of my site meter reveals that many of you continued to come here looking for information on how to get a haircut like George Clooney. Get over it: I posted “George Clooney Stole My Haircut” three years ago and I am sure he has changed his hairstyle sixteen times since then. I, of course, have not changed mine.
The long and short of it is I decided to take the summer off. Okay, it is almost November, but I am retired and lose track of time.
Here is what I did on my summer vacation:
. Played “Angry Birds.” I found this a productive way to fill the empty, wasted hours I used to spend senselessly blogging. After thirty-three days, I got to the end of the free version and opted not to spring for the 99 cents to upgrade to the full edition.
. Spent a week in my daughter’s bathroom. Elisabeth and her husband, Alex, are renovating their house in Boston. I was called in to install moldings and baseboards in the upstairs. I was supposed to finish the whole project in a week, but didn’t manage to get out of the bathroom. Each evening she would examine my progress and comment: “Is this all you managed to get done.” In my defense, I would state that I spent most of the time in a semi-conscious state due to constantly banging my head on the ceiling that slopes off precipitously on one side of the room.
. Tried to stay dry. We have had a lot of rain in this part of the country and two major floods in town. My house has stayed dry but I had two pair of Wal-Mart sneakers rot right off my feet. I replaced these with a pair of Crocs. These are the same rubber clogs that Mario Batalli wears and are sometimes called bistro shoes, although I think, as Mario probably does as well, this sounds a little girlie. I call them my puddle jumpers because they are perfect for that enjoyable recreational activity that swept the northeast this summer.
. Played “Zombie Highway.” This is what I took up after besting the Angry Birds. This involves running over and shooting lesser sorts while hurdling along the highway in your black SUV. While this may sound like it would only appeal to Dick Cheney, it filled in the time I used to spend thinking about writing a novel or going back to work.
. Got an IPod Touch. I must admit I got somewhat addicted to this amazing little gadget (see Played “Angry Birds” and Played “Zombie Highway.”) Don’t even get me started on the ApStore. You can have just about every piece of information ever assembled instantly at the touch of this magical device. This includes every sexual position in the Kama Sutra. No kidding! When your new girlfriend suggests that you and she make the Monk With Two Backs, you will know she is not recommending you team up on a Halloween costume.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A New Outlook
Looking at the deep tooth marks on the temple ends of my eyeglasses, Kathie said: “Well, you’ve chewed through these, maybe it’s time to start on another pair.”
This was her way of saying she thinks I need a new pair of glasses.
I agreed because, frankly, I was fed up with the half-eaten ones.
“I really don’t like these progressive lenses,” I said. “If not being able to see in any scenario is progress, I’ll be getting around with a red tipped cane and a dog before long.”
“Just get your regular distance glasses and take them off when you read,” she suggested, “but don’t lay them down in the grass and run them over with the mower like you did with your last pair.”
Elisabeth was home for a visit and was delegated to accompany me and prevent any fashion miscues from occurring.
Upon arriving at the eye glass store, our different approaches to shopping became apparent: she headed straight for the European and Designer collection while I perused the $69.95 and under collection. Everything she chose made me look like either Dame Edith or Buddy Holly; everything I selected made me look like a Wal-Mart employee or a really cheap retired guy. “Those will really go well with Velcro sneakers,” she snottily opined about one pair I tried on.
Finally, we settled on a nice tortoise shell pair that I thought gave me a certain scholarly air and that she agreed to because she thought it would get her out of the store before Starbuck’s closed.
Now, you may well ask: Why is someone still wearing glasses when everyone else is wearing contacts? Well, why does someone still have a flip cell phone with a screen photo of a dog that died six years ago when everyone else is simultaneously watching American Idol, posting naked pictures of themselves, and filing their income taxes on theirs? I am slow to change.
Also, glasses hide the tote bag size sacks that hang beneath my eyes. These bags are so large that it has been suggested that I get them monogrammed.
It is also part of my image. How will all of my senior friends who have forgotten my name identify me if they cannot refer to “You know, that guy with the glasses”?
I did spring for one option: I got the non-glare lenses. When I put the new glasses on my world went from a "Foggy Day in London Town" to "It’s a Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day."
Shit, I guess I wasn’t clinically depressed after all.
This was her way of saying she thinks I need a new pair of glasses.
I agreed because, frankly, I was fed up with the half-eaten ones.
“I really don’t like these progressive lenses,” I said. “If not being able to see in any scenario is progress, I’ll be getting around with a red tipped cane and a dog before long.”
“Just get your regular distance glasses and take them off when you read,” she suggested, “but don’t lay them down in the grass and run them over with the mower like you did with your last pair.”
Elisabeth was home for a visit and was delegated to accompany me and prevent any fashion miscues from occurring.
Upon arriving at the eye glass store, our different approaches to shopping became apparent: she headed straight for the European and Designer collection while I perused the $69.95 and under collection. Everything she chose made me look like either Dame Edith or Buddy Holly; everything I selected made me look like a Wal-Mart employee or a really cheap retired guy. “Those will really go well with Velcro sneakers,” she snottily opined about one pair I tried on.
Finally, we settled on a nice tortoise shell pair that I thought gave me a certain scholarly air and that she agreed to because she thought it would get her out of the store before Starbuck’s closed.
Now, you may well ask: Why is someone still wearing glasses when everyone else is wearing contacts? Well, why does someone still have a flip cell phone with a screen photo of a dog that died six years ago when everyone else is simultaneously watching American Idol, posting naked pictures of themselves, and filing their income taxes on theirs? I am slow to change.
Also, glasses hide the tote bag size sacks that hang beneath my eyes. These bags are so large that it has been suggested that I get them monogrammed.
It is also part of my image. How will all of my senior friends who have forgotten my name identify me if they cannot refer to “You know, that guy with the glasses”?
I did spring for one option: I got the non-glare lenses. When I put the new glasses on my world went from a "Foggy Day in London Town" to "It’s a Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day."
Shit, I guess I wasn’t clinically depressed after all.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Test Drive
I knew the test drive of the speedy, stylish Hyundai Sonata wasn’t going well when I saw my wife, who was sitting in the passenger seat, pounding her fists on her headrest and making noises like she was being throttled from the back seat like Luca Brasi.
“What’s the matter?,” I asked as I brought the car to a stop.
“This damn headrest is pushing my head forward and giving me a headache,” she complained. “I can’t ride around for the next ten years with a crooked neck and a headache.”
We keep our cars for a long time. “But we’ve only gone around the block,” I whined.
Kathie is usually a gamer, but this seemed to be really giving her a problem.
I was crushed. I REALLY liked this car and I sensed that this was a game changer.
As we rolled into the dealership, Frank, the affable, overweight salesman, was waiting in the driveway. “Whatya think?,” he asked clearly expecting good news.
“The passenger side headrest gives her a headache,” I responded. “I think it’s a deal breaker.”
“Huh?,” he asked, his rubbery face contorting in stunned confusion. “But they are all like that,” he explained. “It’s a new Federal safety regulation.”
I can occasionally understand why conservatives get fed-up with government over-regulation, and I for one can’t understand why Obama wants us all driving around with our heads between our legs.
Frank, however, was not about to let this sale go quietly into the afternoon. “Let’s try adjusting the seat back,” he suggested.
With Kathie on board he gradually lowered the back of the seat until she pronounced that her head was comfortable. Unfortunately, by the time this was accomplished, she was in a three-quarter supine position.
“There!,” Frank shouted, sure the problem was solved and now the haggling could begin.
“I can’t ride around on my back. I’ll get car sick and I can’t knit,” my wife complained.
“Try rolling on your side,” he suggested.
Turning to me, the creative salesman asked: “Do you have a vise.”
“I drink too much and smoke cigars. What of it?,” I replied.
“No a VISE. You can put the prongs of the headrest in the vise and gradually bend them back; or you can rest the prongs on the pavement and hit them with a hammer.”
I had to admire his persistence, but a withering glance was my only response.
“Do YOU have this problem in the passenger seat?,” he asked me.
I said that, since I am a shrunken old man whose head slumps forward naturally, it was not an issue for me.
“Great! Then let her drive!,” Frank shot back, convinced this was a Eureka moment.
Still, our expressions told him that there was no way around the forward-thrusting headrest and he quietly slumped back into the showroom.
We continued on to the Subaru dealer. The salesman seemed surprised that the first question we asked pertained to the orientation of his product’s headrests. He confirmed that those on the Subaru also slant forward.
“I have only seen this as a problem for people with pony-tails,” he said.
While it was obvious that Kathie does not have a pony-tail, he seemed to be examining the back of her head to see if there was some sort of bony projection that might be contributing to her discomfort.
We had now both lost our enthusiasm for car shopping and returned home.
Later that evening, our son called to ask how we liked the Sonata. “We loved it, but the headrest gave your mother a headache,” I gloomily responded.
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
“What’s the matter?,” I asked as I brought the car to a stop.
“This damn headrest is pushing my head forward and giving me a headache,” she complained. “I can’t ride around for the next ten years with a crooked neck and a headache.”
We keep our cars for a long time. “But we’ve only gone around the block,” I whined.
Kathie is usually a gamer, but this seemed to be really giving her a problem.
I was crushed. I REALLY liked this car and I sensed that this was a game changer.
As we rolled into the dealership, Frank, the affable, overweight salesman, was waiting in the driveway. “Whatya think?,” he asked clearly expecting good news.
“The passenger side headrest gives her a headache,” I responded. “I think it’s a deal breaker.”
“Huh?,” he asked, his rubbery face contorting in stunned confusion. “But they are all like that,” he explained. “It’s a new Federal safety regulation.”
I can occasionally understand why conservatives get fed-up with government over-regulation, and I for one can’t understand why Obama wants us all driving around with our heads between our legs.
Frank, however, was not about to let this sale go quietly into the afternoon. “Let’s try adjusting the seat back,” he suggested.
With Kathie on board he gradually lowered the back of the seat until she pronounced that her head was comfortable. Unfortunately, by the time this was accomplished, she was in a three-quarter supine position.
“There!,” Frank shouted, sure the problem was solved and now the haggling could begin.
“I can’t ride around on my back. I’ll get car sick and I can’t knit,” my wife complained.
“Try rolling on your side,” he suggested.
Turning to me, the creative salesman asked: “Do you have a vise.”
“I drink too much and smoke cigars. What of it?,” I replied.
“No a VISE. You can put the prongs of the headrest in the vise and gradually bend them back; or you can rest the prongs on the pavement and hit them with a hammer.”
I had to admire his persistence, but a withering glance was my only response.
“Do YOU have this problem in the passenger seat?,” he asked me.
I said that, since I am a shrunken old man whose head slumps forward naturally, it was not an issue for me.
“Great! Then let her drive!,” Frank shot back, convinced this was a Eureka moment.
Still, our expressions told him that there was no way around the forward-thrusting headrest and he quietly slumped back into the showroom.
We continued on to the Subaru dealer. The salesman seemed surprised that the first question we asked pertained to the orientation of his product’s headrests. He confirmed that those on the Subaru also slant forward.
“I have only seen this as a problem for people with pony-tails,” he said.
While it was obvious that Kathie does not have a pony-tail, he seemed to be examining the back of her head to see if there was some sort of bony projection that might be contributing to her discomfort.
We had now both lost our enthusiasm for car shopping and returned home.
Later that evening, our son called to ask how we liked the Sonata. “We loved it, but the headrest gave your mother a headache,” I gloomily responded.
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
For Sale: My Stink Bug Civil War Diorama
Kathie and I are not hoarders, but we are very much both I’ll-deal-with-that-laterers. This explains the unconscionable amount of stuff that has accumulated in our basement in the 35 years we have lived here.
With a move looming in the foreseeable future, I have been assigned the task of cleaning the basement and finding any treasures we might sell on eBay. I don’t have high hopes for this project because typically we throw out anything of value and retain the worthless leftovers of our lives.
Still I did find a few things that I think might go over big at the web auction site:
. A large quantity of Asian Stink Bug carcasses. How these poor creatures died I am sure would be the makings of a fine nature special, but dead they are and I wracked my brain for a way to turn dead bugs into bucks. Of course, they would have value to the entomologically inclined, but I decided to cash in on the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, by creating a diorama of a battle between the blue and gray painted insects. I only have enough for a skirmish now, but by the way they are reproducing in our house, I will soon have enough for the whole three days of Gettysburg. I was discouraged to find, however, that there are a dozen Stink Bug Civil War Dioramas already on EBay, plus the work of one poor soul who was infested enough to stage the Normandy Invasion.
. My son’s sixth grade science project which is a realistic plaster-of-Paris rendition of Mount Vesuvius, complete with puffing smoke. Strangely, it is also a realistic rendition of the left cup of a brassiere worn by Madonna during her “Material Girl” tour, complete with puffing smoke. I have always thought my son spent an inordinate amount of time stroking the smooth, wet plaster into just the shape he desired. This should be big with eruption fans of all stripes.
. A rare CD of a lecture given by then Alaska Governor Sarah Palin explaining T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock” to the juniors at Fairbanks High School: “He’s the one who was a-coming, he was a-going, he was a-Michelangelo-ing.” This will be of interest to illiteracy collectors everywhere.
. A nearly complete gallon of Martha Stewart’s “Heat Rash Rose.” According to “Rare Paints Digest”, only one gallon of this color was ever sold. Hey, we only used it as an accent color in our bathroom and it went perfectly with her “Deathly Pallor Gray.”
. Two dozen two piece plastic martini glasses. For some reason known only to the Chinese, these had detachable stems which detached when you raised your glass to your lips depositing four bucks worth of gin on your tie. Understandably, these are a highly sought after gift items by dry cleaners and liquor distributors.
Still, it seems a shame to sell off these things when the market for collectibles is at a low…..maybe we should hang onto them for awhile.
With a move looming in the foreseeable future, I have been assigned the task of cleaning the basement and finding any treasures we might sell on eBay. I don’t have high hopes for this project because typically we throw out anything of value and retain the worthless leftovers of our lives.
Still I did find a few things that I think might go over big at the web auction site:
. A large quantity of Asian Stink Bug carcasses. How these poor creatures died I am sure would be the makings of a fine nature special, but dead they are and I wracked my brain for a way to turn dead bugs into bucks. Of course, they would have value to the entomologically inclined, but I decided to cash in on the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, by creating a diorama of a battle between the blue and gray painted insects. I only have enough for a skirmish now, but by the way they are reproducing in our house, I will soon have enough for the whole three days of Gettysburg. I was discouraged to find, however, that there are a dozen Stink Bug Civil War Dioramas already on EBay, plus the work of one poor soul who was infested enough to stage the Normandy Invasion.
. My son’s sixth grade science project which is a realistic plaster-of-Paris rendition of Mount Vesuvius, complete with puffing smoke. Strangely, it is also a realistic rendition of the left cup of a brassiere worn by Madonna during her “Material Girl” tour, complete with puffing smoke. I have always thought my son spent an inordinate amount of time stroking the smooth, wet plaster into just the shape he desired. This should be big with eruption fans of all stripes.
. A rare CD of a lecture given by then Alaska Governor Sarah Palin explaining T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock” to the juniors at Fairbanks High School: “He’s the one who was a-coming, he was a-going, he was a-Michelangelo-ing.” This will be of interest to illiteracy collectors everywhere.
. A nearly complete gallon of Martha Stewart’s “Heat Rash Rose.” According to “Rare Paints Digest”, only one gallon of this color was ever sold. Hey, we only used it as an accent color in our bathroom and it went perfectly with her “Deathly Pallor Gray.”
. Two dozen two piece plastic martini glasses. For some reason known only to the Chinese, these had detachable stems which detached when you raised your glass to your lips depositing four bucks worth of gin on your tie. Understandably, these are a highly sought after gift items by dry cleaners and liquor distributors.
Still, it seems a shame to sell off these things when the market for collectibles is at a low…..maybe we should hang onto them for awhile.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tea Party Reject
Dear Mr. Andersen:
Thank you for your application, but we are unable to accept you as a member of the National Tea Party at this time.
We appreciate your sending your medical records, but the fact that you have both irritable male syndrome and irritable bowel syndrome is unfortunate, but does not qualify you for membership per se. The fact that most of our members also have these conditions is merely a coincidence. The same goes for your two blocked cranial arteries.
At this point, we would like to disabuse you of the notion that we in any way actually sponsor tea parties. Congratulations on your granddaughter’s birthday, but we cannot participate in her Alice in Wonderland theme event. Besides, the “guy with the top hat” and the “guy with the bunny suit” have prior commitments on that day.
We note with dismay that you confess to being a registered Democrat. While we take under advisement your idea for forming a Decaffeinated Division for Disgruntled Democrats, we seriously doubt it will build our membership in a meaningful way.
However, all we require is a simple letter of resignation from the party. You do not have to “stick your registration card up your ass in Macy’s window” as your brother-in-law suggests.
By the way, we cannot imagine where you ever found a photograph of Michele Bachmann clad only in her American flag panties, but we firmly reject your suggestion that we name her the Tea Party Muffin of the Month. We must admit that such an idea shows a certain lack of moral turpitude on your part, Mr. Andersen. Unfortunately, we are unable to return the photo at this time.
We were also not particularly impressed with your religious background as explained on your application. We hardly think you are qualified to call yourself a born again
Christian merely because you once dated a stripper named Rapture.
And while we admire your enthusiasm to prove you loyalty by dressing up as a tea bag and jumping in Rachel Madow’s swimming pool, we think it shows a poor grasp of our strategy and tactics.
Your remark about tea that “you hate the damn stuff” also caused us to question your understanding of our goals. It isn’t about tea, Mr. Andersen. Tea is a symbol…er...well it has something to do with the revolution. Go look it up.
For these reasons, we are unhappy to report that the party must go on without you.
Sincerely
Membership Committee
National Tea Party
Thank you for your application, but we are unable to accept you as a member of the National Tea Party at this time.
We appreciate your sending your medical records, but the fact that you have both irritable male syndrome and irritable bowel syndrome is unfortunate, but does not qualify you for membership per se. The fact that most of our members also have these conditions is merely a coincidence. The same goes for your two blocked cranial arteries.
At this point, we would like to disabuse you of the notion that we in any way actually sponsor tea parties. Congratulations on your granddaughter’s birthday, but we cannot participate in her Alice in Wonderland theme event. Besides, the “guy with the top hat” and the “guy with the bunny suit” have prior commitments on that day.
We note with dismay that you confess to being a registered Democrat. While we take under advisement your idea for forming a Decaffeinated Division for Disgruntled Democrats, we seriously doubt it will build our membership in a meaningful way.
However, all we require is a simple letter of resignation from the party. You do not have to “stick your registration card up your ass in Macy’s window” as your brother-in-law suggests.
By the way, we cannot imagine where you ever found a photograph of Michele Bachmann clad only in her American flag panties, but we firmly reject your suggestion that we name her the Tea Party Muffin of the Month. We must admit that such an idea shows a certain lack of moral turpitude on your part, Mr. Andersen. Unfortunately, we are unable to return the photo at this time.
We were also not particularly impressed with your religious background as explained on your application. We hardly think you are qualified to call yourself a born again
Christian merely because you once dated a stripper named Rapture.
And while we admire your enthusiasm to prove you loyalty by dressing up as a tea bag and jumping in Rachel Madow’s swimming pool, we think it shows a poor grasp of our strategy and tactics.
Your remark about tea that “you hate the damn stuff” also caused us to question your understanding of our goals. It isn’t about tea, Mr. Andersen. Tea is a symbol…er...well it has something to do with the revolution. Go look it up.
For these reasons, we are unhappy to report that the party must go on without you.
Sincerely
Membership Committee
National Tea Party
Friday, May 13, 2011
Adventures of a Poll Worker
My wife, Kathie, frequently finds jobs in the newspaper or via the grapevine for me in the forlorn hope that I will begin to bring some income into the family.
She feels this way because I spend most of time whittling, blogging, or fighting crab grass, none of which produces a farthing.
My usual response to one of her suggested positions is to look up and say: “Great! That sounds right up my alley”……and get back to my pathetic activities.
This time she said that several women in her book club were poll workers and that the work was easy, infrequent, and the pay good.
This not only matched my three top employment priorities, but perked my interest as well. I have always been interested in the political process and served as an elected town councilman many years ago. I am also conscientious about voting and always do so, usually with unhappy results.
I went to the county web site and filed my application. “Message Sent” had no sooner appeared on the screen when I received a reply saying I was accepted and should appear for training two days hence. This should have raised my suspicions because my email applications usually wind up in the great round file in the sky never to be heard from again.
I appeared at the county office complex on the appointed day. As I entered, I walked into a swarm of the oldest human beings I have ever seen. I was sure that Meals on Wheels was just getting out or it was enrollment day for the county nursing home.
I asked a gentleman standing next to me if he could direct me to the poll worker training registration. He indicated that it was somewhere in the midst of the swarming wheel chairs and colliding walkers. I asked where the line started and he responded: “There is no damn line. Just look at them.” The old folks were surging around a table scanning sheets of registration documents. “How do you expect me to read this?”, one old gal piped up to no in particular.
“I usually wait for them to move on,” my companion said. I am not sure if he meant into the auditorium or the next plane of existence, either of which could happen at any moment.
I’m old but these folks were OLD, Mr. Riley, Sr. old. A number of years ago, friends of ours had a father and son living next door. Mr. Riley, Jr. was in his sixties and Mr. Riley, Sr. was considerably north of that. The friends’ daughter, who was 5 or 6 at the time, made a reference to one of them and her mother asked which one she meant. “Not old Mr. Riley, Mom, I was talking about almost dead Mr. Riley,” she replied.
I entered the hall and took a seat at the end of a row near a side exit. This is my usual spot at any assembly. I choose it so I can bail in a hurry in case a crazed person comes crashing through the center door with guns blazing. Hey, I didn’t live this long by being stupid.
I was nicely settled when a voice boomed behind me: “I want that seat!” Suddenly, I was transported back to high school and turned expecting to see Anthony Nadjatowski looming over me with fists clenched. Instead, it was a large scowling woman leaning on a walker with a large foam pillow under her arm. Like high school, I vacated in a hurry before I got my ear flicked.
Soon a young-by-comparison older woman came to the lectern and bellowed into the mike: “Can everybody here me?” A chorus of “no’s” echoed across the room. She repeated this several times turning the volume up each time until it was at ear splitting level. Still, the consensus was no. Finally, she gave up and went on anyway.
Here is something I didn’t know: if a blind person wants to vote and asks for assistance, he/she must be accompanied into the booth by both a Democrat and a Republican. He/she can also bring a guide dog. A Democrat, a Republican, a blind person and a dog enter a voting booth…..write your own joke.
At that moment, another large woman with a walker began to stagger down the aisle in search of a seat. We all eyed her carefully fearful that she would either demand our seat or fall on us. She shoved a chair to the end of a table. She also carried a foam cushion, but her’s was the size of a two person life raft. After she got all comfy, she began ripping the pages from her employee’s manual.
Another Board of Elections staffer took the floor and explained how to open and start the voting machine. This seemed beyond the physical abilities of most of my co-workers, but they didn’t seem too concerned as many had dozed off.
The staffer pointed at me and asked if I would come up and play the part of a voter in a simulation. I suppose she thought I was one of the few who could make it to the front of the room in the allotted one hour of training time. As I signed in as myself, the staffer chirped: “Oh, Mr. Andersen is a Democrat!” This the old dears heard and a collective growl rose up. Democrats are few and far between in our county and are hunted with dogs when flushed out.
The trainer said that we would work in teams and stressed the need for mutual assistance and preparation. She asked for questions, but there were none, although I was tempted to ask if each team would be supplied with a defibrillator and body bags.
As I left I thought that if these good folks, despite their physical limitations, are motivated to perform a community service at considerable inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, what is wrong with the rest of us slackers? That’s why they are the Greatest Generation.
She feels this way because I spend most of time whittling, blogging, or fighting crab grass, none of which produces a farthing.
My usual response to one of her suggested positions is to look up and say: “Great! That sounds right up my alley”……and get back to my pathetic activities.
This time she said that several women in her book club were poll workers and that the work was easy, infrequent, and the pay good.
This not only matched my three top employment priorities, but perked my interest as well. I have always been interested in the political process and served as an elected town councilman many years ago. I am also conscientious about voting and always do so, usually with unhappy results.
I went to the county web site and filed my application. “Message Sent” had no sooner appeared on the screen when I received a reply saying I was accepted and should appear for training two days hence. This should have raised my suspicions because my email applications usually wind up in the great round file in the sky never to be heard from again.
I appeared at the county office complex on the appointed day. As I entered, I walked into a swarm of the oldest human beings I have ever seen. I was sure that Meals on Wheels was just getting out or it was enrollment day for the county nursing home.
I asked a gentleman standing next to me if he could direct me to the poll worker training registration. He indicated that it was somewhere in the midst of the swarming wheel chairs and colliding walkers. I asked where the line started and he responded: “There is no damn line. Just look at them.” The old folks were surging around a table scanning sheets of registration documents. “How do you expect me to read this?”, one old gal piped up to no in particular.
“I usually wait for them to move on,” my companion said. I am not sure if he meant into the auditorium or the next plane of existence, either of which could happen at any moment.
I’m old but these folks were OLD, Mr. Riley, Sr. old. A number of years ago, friends of ours had a father and son living next door. Mr. Riley, Jr. was in his sixties and Mr. Riley, Sr. was considerably north of that. The friends’ daughter, who was 5 or 6 at the time, made a reference to one of them and her mother asked which one she meant. “Not old Mr. Riley, Mom, I was talking about almost dead Mr. Riley,” she replied.
I entered the hall and took a seat at the end of a row near a side exit. This is my usual spot at any assembly. I choose it so I can bail in a hurry in case a crazed person comes crashing through the center door with guns blazing. Hey, I didn’t live this long by being stupid.
I was nicely settled when a voice boomed behind me: “I want that seat!” Suddenly, I was transported back to high school and turned expecting to see Anthony Nadjatowski looming over me with fists clenched. Instead, it was a large scowling woman leaning on a walker with a large foam pillow under her arm. Like high school, I vacated in a hurry before I got my ear flicked.
Soon a young-by-comparison older woman came to the lectern and bellowed into the mike: “Can everybody here me?” A chorus of “no’s” echoed across the room. She repeated this several times turning the volume up each time until it was at ear splitting level. Still, the consensus was no. Finally, she gave up and went on anyway.
Here is something I didn’t know: if a blind person wants to vote and asks for assistance, he/she must be accompanied into the booth by both a Democrat and a Republican. He/she can also bring a guide dog. A Democrat, a Republican, a blind person and a dog enter a voting booth…..write your own joke.
At that moment, another large woman with a walker began to stagger down the aisle in search of a seat. We all eyed her carefully fearful that she would either demand our seat or fall on us. She shoved a chair to the end of a table. She also carried a foam cushion, but her’s was the size of a two person life raft. After she got all comfy, she began ripping the pages from her employee’s manual.
Another Board of Elections staffer took the floor and explained how to open and start the voting machine. This seemed beyond the physical abilities of most of my co-workers, but they didn’t seem too concerned as many had dozed off.
The staffer pointed at me and asked if I would come up and play the part of a voter in a simulation. I suppose she thought I was one of the few who could make it to the front of the room in the allotted one hour of training time. As I signed in as myself, the staffer chirped: “Oh, Mr. Andersen is a Democrat!” This the old dears heard and a collective growl rose up. Democrats are few and far between in our county and are hunted with dogs when flushed out.
The trainer said that we would work in teams and stressed the need for mutual assistance and preparation. She asked for questions, but there were none, although I was tempted to ask if each team would be supplied with a defibrillator and body bags.
As I left I thought that if these good folks, despite their physical limitations, are motivated to perform a community service at considerable inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, what is wrong with the rest of us slackers? That’s why they are the Greatest Generation.
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