Arm Pit Hair

I love Mitchum gel deodorant. Twist the knob, three globs of gel pop out, one swipe under each arm, all day protection. Problem is I confused the gel with the rub on because both sticks look alike. I hate the rub on. Every time I use it at least one arm pit hair winds up in the deodorant stick. At my age, losing hair anywhere is traumatic.
You were thinking perhaps this was going to be an entire blog about arm pit hair. I defy anyone, Philip Roth included, to accomplish that. No, I have a more important subject to address, namely, the possible end of the Post Office. My pension comes from the PO--thirty years of mind numbing repetitiveness and stress. The Postmaster General is talking about reducing retiree benefits. If they cut my pension I would not be able to afford my mortgage. I'll be out in the street.
Who could I stay with? My brother's terrier wants its stomach rubbed for hours at a time. Scratch that option. I have friends who are bossy, who tell endlessly long stories, who I suspect snore, who have demon kids, who can't cook, who don't get my sense of humor, who are too upbeat, who are homeless themselves. Could I live in my garage after my condo is repossessed? The woman upstairs lives alone, but she orders pizza at 11:30PM and paces the floor at all hours. I don't need neurosis right now. The shelter is an option. I know self defense and don't sleep that much anyway. I need to find a sturdy baggie for my belongings and warmer clothes for winter. This dissolution of the PO isn't supposed to happen until next summer, but I can't go into denial. One thing for sure--if I'm homeless I'm going to need lots more arm pit gel.

I've Fallen

Is it time for me to get a Life Alert button? I live alone as a senior citizen. I don't know the people upstairs or next door. I certainly would not give them a spare key in case the mailman sees my mail piling up. My brother has a spare key, but he's usually out golfing. I could lose my balance and be unable to crawl or reach my phones or turn off Judge Judy. In essence I could be helpless, not unlike what happened several weeks ago when I threw out my back lifting weights.
I literally could not dress myself or shower. If I dropped something, it stayed there. The spasms were excruciating. I resembled several contestants on "So You Think You Can Dance." Stooped in front of my full length mirror, I grasped what it must be like to be Abe Vigoda. Somehow I eventually got clothes on, made it into my car and drove to the clinic. It was Sunday at 1230 and they wouldn't take me. They closed at 3. There was one stinking person waiting. I was in too much pain to argue, so I went home and took expired muscle relaxants and ibuprofen, which helped not one bit.
Next day I made it to emergency, where I received stronger meds from a doctor who looked like Josh Groban, but it wasn't until I went to my orthopedic doctor who looks like Sissy Spacek and gave me even stronger meds that I began to feel relief. Five visits to my chiropractor, who resembles a large pear, completed the treatment. I have resumed my exercise regimen, but now I'm using a heavy belt for support. I look like a WWF champion. This Life Alert button would help me in any emergency, including falls, CO gas release, other medical situations and invasion. I guess if aliens breech my living quarters I just press this button and Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones show up. But by getting this button I'm essentially giving up the idea of dating Charlize Theron. I'll bet she never falls. She would get my spare key in an instant.

Disillusion

If I expect others to read my blog, I have to start reading theirs. Fair is fair. Here's my problem. What if their blogs are better than mine? What if people I always thought I was smarter than turn out to have deeper insights than me? What if much younger folks possess more wisdom? What if I conclude my entire blog is a farce, just a shallow exploration of arcane possibilities and meaningless observations? What if their blogs contain less rhetorical questions like these?
On the other hand, there may be those I've always respected as intelligent who turn out to be dumber than moss on their blogs, stating the obvious, repeating themselves, recounting endless, unfunny stories and anecdotes, whining about superficial stuff. I can never look at them in the same way. But isn't that the key with blogging? Never having to actually look someone in the face and letting them see you grimace at a bad pun or stupid opinion.
Recently I saw a man I've known for years, highly educated, verbally proficient, a good listener, a man who asks the right questions, probing deeply into the human psyche. He was crossing the street, carrying some bundles and his shirt was sticking out in the front. He looked disheveled, possibly homeless, unkempt. Actually he looked like me on one of my better days. I can never view him the same way again. I didn't beep to get his attention because what could I say? Tuck in your shirt, have some pride?
So I will make time to read blogs and battle my insecurities. Right now I have one follower, which reminds me of the movie High Noon, where everyone, including Lloyd Bridges, deserts Gary Cooper. No one wanted to be the only one helping him oppose that gang. I sense my one follower may feel the same if no one else joins.

Doggie Bag

When is it proper to bring a doggie bag to a barbecue? Is it ever? Invariably when I attend one of these things there's a truckload of food left. It is possible the host uses that food for a follow up barbecue where their second line friends are invited. Or it may be donated to a food pantry, which is fine. But what if it is just tossed into the fridge for days and weeks until it all runs together into an uneatable collage? All because I didn't have the guts to wield my baggie.
This particular gathering was not well lit and participants were distracted by a possibly feral cat and Macintosh apples falling from their tree, narrowly missing several vanishing species of intellectuals. My problem was how to smuggle in the baggie without anyone seeing. It was summer's end and too warm for a pullover. I could have stuck it down my shorts, but a sweaty baggie is no place for a potato salad concoction Paula Dean would have been proud of.
To make things more frustrating, the host dropped a glass container of chicken and onions right next to the grill. The food seemed perfectly fine as it lay splattered on the concrete, but there were glass fragments one had to consider. I mourned the onions more than the chicken. Despite the loss, there was still lots of grub left. People came much later than the 6pm time listed in the invite and they talked more than ate. In other words, this was a perfect scenario for a moocher. Periodically I glanced at the food table in between educating guests with my opinions on the cultural sludge pit our country has fallen into.
Understand, you simply do not ask the host for a doggie bag. There are standards of behavior in my circle that must be upheld. So, ultimately, I didn't even abscond with a carrot stick. I don't know what happened to all the leftovers. I did eat three small brownies, but only after offering them to others. After all, I got there first and the accepted rule on brownies is one extra for the first guest. You didn't know that? Because, my friends, you don't travel in the right barbecue circles.

M&M

I think parents' biggest responsibility is to prepare kids for life. In many instances, this is not happening. Take the other night. I was about to see a free outdoor screening of "Mary Poppins". I had successfully avoided this blockbuster for almost fifty years, but this was a freebie, the night was balmy and I was in the mood to be simply entertained.
Just before the film began, the MC announced that there were free M&M packs available at the publicity table, especially for kids. Note, they never specified they were ONLY for kids. So I made my way over there--okay, I walked crisply--and, sure enough, boxes of these precious items were being split open by four volunteers. Naturally some of the kids got there first--tykes can run fast over grass--but I was able to calmly wait my turn, smiling and patient. Except when I put out my hand, this woman scowls and says they were only for the kids. As I mentioned, that was never specified.
I did what mature adults do. I held my temper and moved laterally to the next volunteer. Did I push kids out of the way? Push is a strong word. A possible elbow may have ensued. But I got my candy. This is a life lesson kids must learn. Get there fast, maneuver for position, grab anything grabbable, say thank you if there's time and scoot away. I wasn't proud, but I wasn't exactly ashamed either. Now if it were Skittles, my behavior could have been criticized because you simply cannot compare M&Ms with Skittles. Don't embarrass yourself by trying.
During the movie, the very kids who were supposed to be watching were running around making noise. Not enough to prevent me from realizing Julie Andrews was pretty hot back then, but still annoying. Of course the parents let them do what they wanted. I had my dart gun with me and I was tempted. But perhaps the squeaky clean film being shown kept me from using it. If it were a Steven Segal flick I can't promise I would have restrained myself. I ate only twenty two M&Ms before stopping, the mature response.

duplicates

Al got home from the supermarket and, as he was putting food away, realized he had bought a liverwurst pack when he already had an unopened one. He cursed himself. Unlike American cheese, which can remain unspoiled for decades, liverwurst begins going rancid as soon as you take it out of the bag. Al recognized that he could either return the second pack and make up a reason, like it clashed with his vegetable bin, or tell the truth, which made him seem like an idiot. If he kept the liverwurst, he knew he'd have to make liverwurst sandwiches for the next three weeks straight, and by that time his ham and baloney would have gone bad.
Al did this a lot--buying something he already had. DVDs, cds, books, magazines subscriptions, canned goods. It was annoying, but he could always give the extra stuff as a gift. Adam Sandler Highlights is a dvd anyone would cherish. He could donate canned corn to the food pantry. You cannot donate liverwurst anywhere. But there was one incident he found especially upsetting.
He was in a coffee shop scanning the paper when he noticed a bearded, rather disheveled man reading a volume of essays by Karl Jaspers. Al felt he was well versed in German philosophers and when the man paused to sip his coffee, Al made a remark about a particular Jaspers point he was familiar with. The man smiled and leaned forward. "So you know Jaspers work?" And that was all the opening Al needed. For a good two hours they debated intricate points by a wide array of German thinkers from Heidegger to Gerhold to Becker, Ebbinghaus, Herbert Marcus, Rudolph Otto. Invigorated, Al suggested they should return to his house and continue the discussion. The man frowned and admitted he was living on the street. Al proposed he stay in Al's garage on a cot for an indeterminate period. Having this sort of intellectual company was invaluable to him, so this was no great sacrifice.
Alas, when Al arrived home and opened his garage door the realization hit him when Max jumped up and bellowed, "Who is this man?" The truth was Al had already collected an expert on German philosophers and forgot about him. Now he had two--Max and Carl. Both men eyed each other suspiciously while Al apologized. Carl turned to him, scowling. "You are sick pervert. You wanted a threesome."
"No, that's not my intention," Al protested. "It was an honest mistake." Neither believed him. "I know people like you," Max stated. "Always seeking a new high. A simultaneous three-way intellectual climax revolving around a Jacob Frohschammer theory."
"Frohschammer was an imbecile!" countered Carl. Max grabbed a snow shovel and swung it wildly at his adversary. Al managed to grab it away from him, but things had completely unraveled. Both men left in a huff. Al had not a single German philosophy expert to debate. He sighed, shut his garage and went inside to make lunch. The liverwurst was already going bad. Right then he noticed he had two containers of mustard, both unopened.

moping and sulking

There is a basic difference between moping and sulking. Moping is a general malaise bordering on depression, but not quite there. Sulking springs from a single incident, leading to resentment. Some say mature adults shouldn't mope or sulk. I say go for it. I, myself, have mastered both moods for huge benefits. I have a way of looking down and hunching my shoulders, of walking slowly as though beaten and left for dead. I also have my far away look, my disgusted look, my victim look. I do lots of interesting things with my lips and eyebrows, frowning like Tom Selleck for reasons you have to guess.
Some parents have told me they mirror their kids in using these techniques to get what they want. I doubt that. Kids quickly master the guilt free sulk/mope to manipulate adults. Most adults have a moral center children lack, so it's really difficult for them to go around kicking things, refusing to make dinner and being uncommunicative, even surly in front of a five year old. Of course there are parents who realize they are in a steel cage death match from the moment their kids can reach a doorknob, and pull out all the stops to stay one step ahead. Our society is geared toward that philosophy--anticipate and act before the others sense what's happening. Sometimes moping and sulking are called for. Planting guilt in someone else for a perceived slight may be all that's left for some of us.
Which brings me to that party you're throwing, the one I haven't been invited to. The next time you run into me at Walgreen's expect an expression of hurt so deep you'll gasp in guilt. Serves you right. On the other hand, you have every right to sulk and mope because this entry is ending.