More AARP or Old People Burping

Well, I’m happy to report, Dear Reader, that I have just received an important dispatch from my friends (practically my blood brothers, really) at AARP!  Guess what?  AARP thinks I’m “fully eligible” for their membership.

Which, of course, is their thinly veiled way of saying I’m  old,– very, very old . . . and now it’s official!

And on top of that, if I give $16 to AARP, they will give me these benefits that aren’t available anywhere else:

Gee, I’m so overcome with emotion, I’m getting tear stains all over my Hoveround . . .

Because for 16 dollars AARP is giving me:

AARP, The Magazine!  Which is great and all –but if they aren’t including the loaded gun which would have to be held to my head in order to get me to read itAARP, The Magazine! isn’t much good to me now, is it?

Discounts that save me money!  Uh, I’m sorry AARP, but I kind of prefer discounts that DON’T save me money.  Call it crazy.  Call it wacky. Call it maybe my Depends are too tight.  I don’t know.  I guess I just feel like being cantankerous because I’m so very, very old . . . oops . . . I mean so I’m so very, very “fully eligible”.

Strengthening Social Security, protecting Medicare . . .  including fighting age discrimination for all!  Hey listen, AARP, you’re the one calling old people names like “fully eligible.”   So here’s a little suggestion.  Why don’t you start fighting age discrimination by socking yourself in the eye!

Access to health insurance . . . access huh?  What kind of access?  Handicap access?  Hoverround access?  Oh maybe AARP means they’re going to give me the idea (for $16) to access the internet so I can find myself some health insurance.

And just in case all these AARP Benefits don’t make me want to reach my arthritic hand into my sock and pull out $16, they are throwing in this  FREE GIFT (that only costs $16.)!


As you can see, AARP knows us geezer people don’t like to stumble out to our cars and head down the wrong side of the road without plenty of liquids because us “fully eligible-sters” often get dehydrated causing us to do senile things like drive through plate-glass windows and buying $16 worth of NOTHING from AARP.

All I can say is Aaarrrrppppp!  Has anybody seen the Pepto Bismal?

Until next time . . . I love you

1937 Smart Party Talk

I found this picture in a 1937 cookbook which was just begging for some dialogue using slang from the 30’s.

picture of a party from 1937

Hey this party’s ring-a-ding-ding, don’t you think so, dollface?

It’s alright I suppose.

Suppose I say you’re a looker with a swell pair of get-away-sticks.

Suppose I say that’s the smoothest line of monkey talk I’ve heard all evening.

Suppose I say we blow this wingding and stop at a speako for a bottle of beer.

Suppose I say you’ve had one too many snoutfuls if you think I’d fall for a chisel like that.

Suppose I say let’s stop by my place, I’ll peel off this tuxedo, and we’ll roll a few lines at the bowling alley.

Suppose I say where did you learn to sweet talk,  from a correspondence course?

Suppose I say I wonder if you’re giving me the kibosh?

Suppose I say I’ll let you know after I finish this glass of giggle.

Suppose I say I’m going to park a honey cooler on those lips 0f yours?

Suppose I say try it and I’ll ram this gobble-pipe up your schnozzle!

Suppose I say remind me never to get dizzy with a dame who is holding a saxophone.

Suppose I say that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all  night.  Hey, I had you pegged all wrong, maybe you’re not a flopperoo after all.

Hey listen, muffin, let’s get another glass of rot gut, put on a keen platter and jolly up!

Murder! Now you’re talkin’ mister!

Getting Drunk Through the Ages

Getting drunk at 18 is as exhilarating as skiing down a mountain blindfolded.

sking down a mountain blindfolded
"Hey look! I can't see a darn thing and I'm skiing down a mountain! Yeeehaw!"

Getting drunk in your 20′s is as exhilarating as skiing down a mountain.

sking down a mountain blindfolded
"Hey look! I'm skiing down a mountain! Yeehaw!"

Getting drunk in your 30′s is as exhilarating as skiing.

sking bunny hill
"Hey look! I'm skiing."

Getting drunk in your 40′s is as exhilarating as watching somebody ski.

sking bunny hill
"Hey, look! They're skiing."

Getting drunk in your 50′s is as exhilarating as watching someone wearing ski clothes.

lady wearing ski clothes
"Hey look! Ski clothes."

Getting drunk in your 60′s is as exhilarating as seeing a mountain on tv and saying, “I’d climb that mountain if I wasn’t so drunk.” 

a crystal clear picture of mount everest
"Hey look. A mrounshin."

Pottery Barn Sad

Good News!  The latest edition of the Pottery Barn Catalog arrived by Pottery Barn Pony Express just seconds ago!

Let’s open a page at random, shall we?

Finally, a glimpse into the mind of the Pottery Barn People for whom the Pottery Barn Rooms have been specifically decorated for! 

White Board from Pottery Barn $54.00
This isn't just a white board, it's a way of life!

Pottery Barn is offering this whiteboard to its customers for $54!  Oh sure, Pottery Barn knows you can get the exact same thing at Wal-Mart for $10. 

They didn’t just fall off the truffle truck yesterday, you know! 

But PB also knows that the real value of this white board lies not in the actual white board itself; but in the hip, aristocratic lifestyle that has been casually, yet carefully outlined for us in a manner that implies the targeted Pottery Barn Person of whom we are speaking is either a) descended from royalty or b) vice versa.

Is this the stuff us ordinary people’s dreams are made of or what?

As you can see written on the $54 white board, Pottery Barn is going “Truffle Hunting on Labor Day!”

Probably with the Queen of England and Camilla who they will make do all the digging, of course.  (But that’s another Pottery Barn story for another Pottery Barn day.)

On the 17th is scribbled:  Grams” 

Now we aren’t sure exactly who or what Grams is.  Either PB is planning a Graham Cracker Festival that day; or something is going on with Grandma — even though Pottery Barn wouldn’t be caught dead referring to “Grams” as Grandma because that would significantly lower the price of their $54 white board back down to Wal-Mart’s $10 price.

No, Pottery Barn is probably referring to  “Dear ol’ Grams” who is bff with the Queen and who organizes the family truffle hunt every year. 

Yes Grams! Who was also the first woman to ever romp on the beach wearing nothing but a barrel and a puffy hat back in 1874 — which is why sometimes Pottery Barn doesn’t want people to know about Grams.

Pottery Barn Grandma
"Dear Ol Grams" just seconds before the madness happened.

Then on the 8th, there’s an interesting note that simply reads: Pick cat color for bedroom! 

Rest assured, dear reader, that Pottery Barn will choose a cat the coloring of which will not only flatter; but will also go so far as to worship the Benjamin Moore paint colors in the bedroom.

350 Thread Count Kitty Boasting Persian Hand-dyed Eyes should do nicely!

But sadly, the very next day  – in square 24 of PB’s $54 white board – there’s a rather ominous magnetic letter “d” just sticking there as magnets are wont to do.

This can only mean one of two things a) Divorce or b) Diflorce and since Deflorce  isn’t a word it’s probably Divorce. But anyway, Pottery Barn doesn’t feel like talking about it.  OK? 

Let’s respect that.

Until next time . . . I love you

Strange and Eerie Unexplained Jello Phenomenon

I was just wandering around in reality as I used to know it, hanging out at my favorite thrift store and going about my life as though the laws of physics still applied, when suddenly I came across this little know pamphlet depicting in great detail, the forbidden knowledge of the strange and eerie Unexplained Jello Phenomenon.


Oh sure, on the surface this little cookbook looks perfectly harmless:

Cookbook for Jello
Joys of Jello? Well that’s what they would LIKE us to think anyway.

And I’m sure innocent 1950’s moms bought it because they wanted to whip up a big ol’ batch of innocent Jello for their big ol’ innocent 1950’s families.

But lurking inside these mild-mannered pages are mysteries so unexplainable, so counterintuitive, so very very hard to explain that it just isn’t explainable no matter how many thesaurus’ a person owns (btw, I only own one thesaurus — as you may have guessed already).

Anyway, getting back to the strange and eerie Unexplained Jello Phonomenon. Let’s start with Exhibit A, shall we?

Obviously the government or something eerily government-like wants us to believe this is Jello.

Please!  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this is actually a bona-fide real-life UFO that is obviously utilizing the thrust from an ion antimatter, strawberry propulsion system so that it can zip around planet earth causing havoc all OVER the place . . . hello

And if that isn’t enough to convince you that the laws of physics as we know them are totally bogus, may I present, as further evidence,  Exhibit B:

Jello? Are you kidding? Do I really look that naive?

I hate to be the one to have to break it to you, but this seemingly ordinary Jello Upside Down Cake, isn’t fooling anybody (except for maybe you, sorry).  

For  this, Dear Reader, is actually a crop circle.  A crop circle depicting the most beautiful and profound mathematical equation in the history of arithmetic, or failing that, in the history of Upside Down Cake.

As a matter of fact, this crop circle calculates the exact date the world will end while, at the same time, managing to make your mouth water.  And if that’s not proof of cool, other-worldly intervention, I don’t know what is. 

 And now for the final proof.  May I present: Exhibit C.  An exhibit, I might add, that puts the ex in hibit like nobody’s business.  See for yourself:

Can this get any more self-explanatory?

This strange and eerie Unexplained Jello Phenomenon is so blatantly obvious, so glaringly conspicuous, so flagrantly in your face, that I absolutely refuse to  insult your intelligence by explaining it. 

Besides I only own one thesaurus.

Until next time . . . I love you


Adventures in Grandma Land or Old Fogey Finds Car!

Old People shopping
Betty and Barney Flurp just seconds before discovering that instead of purchasing a cart full of groceries, they had inadvertently kidnapped a baby.

If you want to find out where all old people go in my neighborhood, (and why wouldn’t you?) look no farther than Nob Hill Grocery Store. (Otherwise known as Nob Over the Hill Grocery Store).

I shop there because they carry all the geezer stuff we aging boomers have to have to ward off heart disease, type-2 diabetes, osteoporosis, lactose intolerance, high cholesterol, warts and gangrene.

Judging from the age of the shopping crowd at Nob Hill, every day is senior discount day.

This means there’s a lot of oblivion happening in the isles which takes the form of obstruction.

Either there’s a motorized cart blocking the aisle you want to go down or an aging big-butt boomer (me) blocking the cold case you want to reach in.

Which is perfectly fine as long as you don’t have too much to grab and you don’t have to be anywhere, in particular, until next summer.

Besides, I don’t want to go shopping for no-sugar-added chocolate chip mint ice cream all over town when I’m sure Nob Hill will have it.  Which means I find myself paying practically twice  as much for ordinary foodstuffs like Cheerios or pop. (In case you’re not that old, pop is an old-fashioned word for sarsaparilla.)

So I can never get in and out of Nob Hill for under $100 — even if I’m just dashing  in to pick up a carton of  unsweetened, vanilla-flavored, almond milk.

Checking out is pleasant enough —  if not a teeny condescending.

The checkers tend to speak a little too loud, and take the items out of the cart for you. (But I suspect only to avoid having to call 911 should some unfortunate boomer’s back suddenly seize up).

Also, the checkers tend to give you a lot of instructions on which buttons to push when sliding your card.  “Push the green button now.”  “Do you see the green button?” “Push the green button.”  “Can you say green?”

Yesterday, when the Bagger and I were trying to find my car in the parking lot, he suggested I do what all their other slightly-senile customers do  – click my car alarm.

I wanted to say,  “Hey buster! I’m that old yet!” but didn’t because apparently I’m too old to know how to turn on my car alarm using my key thingy.

In fact, I don’t even know if I have a car alarm.  I didn’t tell him that though.  I do have my pride.

Until Next time . . . I love you

Toodle Doesn’t Give A Fig

Unless you’re a gifted and talented psychic or are renting-to-own a time machine, the future is a place most of us haven’t spent a lot of time knocking around in.

So the only thing we can do about the future is prepare for it in a way we think we’re going to like years from now.

That’s why when we lovingly tuck away Toodle’s first-grade dinosaur coloring book with the other 783 pictures that tiny Toodles drew during the month of April 1987 (using only his blue crayon) along with a clip of his hair and a wad of his first piece of chewing gum in a waterproof, earthquake proof, nuclear-plant meltdown safe container, we know Toodle will thank us from the bottom of his heart one day when he wants to show someone how wonderful he was.

So even though we secretly suspected that  the twice-a-year school pictures multiplied by 12 years might be a tad too much Toodle, we lovingly  preserved  what turned out to be 14,000 pictures of Toodle in every conceivable stage of growing up in  247 boxes labeled ” Toodles –Important” and carefully stored them in the Toodle designated storage area called the garage.

Will Toodle really want all this memoribilia someday?  Answer: no.

So why do parents do this? For one reason and one reason only.   To prevent the following nightmarish scenerio in which the storage of Toodle’s memoribilia went terribly terribly wong.

Fast forward to the year 2040

You and your husband are relaxing on the stainless steel couch sipping Clockwork Orange juice  in matching white jumpsuits looking exactly as you do now only with a tiny bit of gray at each temple.  In pops Toodle looking just like he did in first grade only taller.

“Mother, Father, I’d like you to meet my new girlfriend ThX1138. She wants to see my first grade picture.”

You dash to the garage.  Instead of reaching for the Box labeled Toodle’s First Grade Pictures, BOX 1 of 45,  you manage to find one crummy shoebox smooshed behind the lawn mower with the words “What’s His Name” scribbled on top.   Hands slightly shaking, you carefully lift the lid and are horrified to find just one lousy picture of Toodle with the words “what’s his name, age 8 or possibly 9” scribbled on the back in blue crayon.  Averting your eyes from Toodles’s piercing gaze, you carefully hand it to THX1138.

She takes it in her slender hand and asks, “Why’s there gum on it?”

You run to your to your room and cry yourself to sleep for being such a horrible parent.

The reality?

Much as we would like to think that our future selves will appreciate the efforts of said self here in the present, we got another thing coming.

Until next time . . . I love you