Monday, December 30, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part Three)

Merry Christmas to me!
     Ho, ho, ho, and all that jolly old elf stuff.
     An empty house is not a happy place, in and of itself. No, it takes a family to make that house a home, to fill all the nooks and crannies with Christmas joy. For me, my family is what makes my house the happiest place on earth. Even happier than Disneyland.
     And they're all here. At home. At least for one night.
     Everyone is talking and laughing. The grandkids are running around, laughing, and eating, with the dogs eating what the kids drop on the floor. All of this is what makes life worth living.
     As some of us get older, some of us get smarter. Don't sweat the small stuff, because it's all small stuff. And, while you're at it, don't sweat the big stuff either.
     When I ask some people how they're doing, not that I really care, some will respond with a big sigh.
     "Oh, I take it one day at a time," they'll tell me. "One day at a time."
     Heck, isn't that what we all do?
     My Dad once asked me, "Do you know how the world champion potato peeler won the world championship?"
     What did I know, I was just a dumb kid at the time.
     "By peeling one potato at a time," he answered.
     So, I've taught myself how to live one day at a time. I can  plan for tomorrow, but when it comes to living...
     ...I live for today. Which brings us to...
     Christmas Eve and it's time to eat. My wife has put out a spread that would feed a Weight Watchers convention, and still have enough left over for Jenny Craig.
     My wife serves my Dad a plate that could feed eight Rosie O'Donnells, with, maybe, a Rosanne thrown in to clean up the scraps. That plate of food would have cost my Dad over a hundred bucks at any restaurant owned by a celebrity chef.. To make a long story short, my Dad puts it away faster than Monica Lewinski at a Dunkin Donuts. And that's after telling my wife that she served him too much.
     "You always serve me too much," he says, and then is nothing but a blur of silverware for the next half-hour. I once got too close to my Dad when he was chowing down one of my wife's holiday feasts, and the sparks from his knife and fork blinded me for three days. Those three days were the only time I was able to sit and watch baseball with him.
     After he's done, my wife heats some peppermint tea and places it on the little table next to my favorite chair. A chair my Dad quickly sits in. It's his favorite chair, too, you see. Then she asked him the Big Question. The question I've been waiting since yesterday for her to ask. She asks, "Are you ready for your pumpkin pie?"
     "Ahhh... hmmm... well..." my Dad says.
     "I also bought some whipped cream."
     "Weeell, hee hee hee..." Click, click, click! Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhh..."
     My wife waits for his answer patiently. She's married to me, so she's learned patience.
     "A small slice?" she helpfully encourages him. "Maybe without the whipped cream."
     "Hee, hee, hee..." he hee-hee-hees.
     My wife is starting to read the writing on the wall. Myself, I read it in yesterday's newspaper.
     "Are you too full?" she asks him finally, giving him an honorable way out. Like Nixon in Viet Nam.
     "Wellllll... hmmm... ahhhh..."
     I know exactly what's coming. Exactly.
     "Ahhh, yeah... I'm pretty full," he tells her. "You always serve me too much."
     I'm sure I don't have to point this out to you, but while my wife does the serving, it's my Dad who does the eating.
     My Dad shakes his head.
     "Yeah, I'm just too full," he kind of, but not really, apologizes. "Hoo-boy, yeah... too full."
     "Okay, Dad," she tells him.
     My wife pretends she's not, but I can see her looking at me from the corner of her eye. As she starts her walk of shame back to the kitchen, my dad stops her.
     "Is there any fudge?"
     What can I say? Now we have 10 pounds of pumpkin pie we didn't want.
     If I could send it via Federal Express to my brother I would, but with Federal Express being so tardy delivering everybody's Christmas gifts... I guess I'll keep it.
     Two days later, my Dad still hasn't even touched the pie.
      Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
 
 
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Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part Two)

Ah, Christmas.
     I remember when it would cost me under $100. It would be enough to buy enough gifts for everyone, and I'm talking about nice gifts. Not like the kind my brother gives. He once gave me a shirt that was from a very expensive store, and when I went to return it, the sales person hemmed and hawed and then told me that the shirt was from last season, and they could only give me the sale price, which ended up with ME owing THEM money. But I don't hold grudges.
     Anyway...
     Then the cost of Christmas warp-speeded into the hundreds. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I could still keep everything under a thousand... now it runs over a thousand. Why? Don't ask me, I just earn the cash and sign the checks. 
     Well, now that I have taken my parent's place within my family, the cost of Christmas continues to make the jump to hyper-drive. Especially when certain kinfolk requested certain eats without contributing to a certain pot.
     My wife is busy putting a feast together that would put a Las Vegas-type buffet to shame. All you can eat. If it's not there, then it's not food. My wife has a serious sweet tooth, so the desserts are varied and delicious. She makes them herself, but this time decided against pumpkin and pecan pies because 1) we just had them for Thanksgiving, and 2) she wanted a more original selection to choose from.
     I can hear her getting everything ready, and then I hear: smack, Smack, SMACK!
     "Ahh... hmm..." my Dad says. Click, click, click.! Smack, smack, smack! My Dad still has all his choppers, so I don't know why he makes those clicking and smacking noises.
     Anyway...
     "Wooweee, are you having pumpkin pie? Yeah, boy, I like pumpkin pie."
     My Dad gets out of his--my--favorite chair and walks over to where his daughter-in-law is standing. He looks around all the kitchen counters making a big show of looking for the pie.
     "Where is it?" he asks.
     "Weeell," my wife says slowly to the wrench in her carefully-planned works, "I wasn't planning on making any pumpkin pie. We just had it for Thanksgiving. Remember how I had to throw most of it away because no one was eating it?"
     She was trying to be diplomatic, but diplomacy is the not-so-irresistible force to my Dad's immovable object (his head). He's Hitler to Britain's Neville Chamberlain. He's Iran to Obama's John Kerry. He's pumpkin pie to my wife's dessert menu.
     "We have so many other desserts..." (and we do) "...that I wasn't planning on getting pumpkin pie."
     "Did you say pumpkin pie? Where is it? I don't see it."
     My Dad is conveniently hard of hearing when he wants to be.
     "Yeah, I like pumpkin pie," he goes on. "Great googly- moogly, I sure do like pumpkin pie."
     He didn't really say "googly-moogly," but he might as well have.
     Anyway...
     My wife looks at me. I'm no help. Remember that smile she gave me when I was trying to buff the floors? I give it back to her.
     "Well," she gives in, finally. My Dad has a way of wearing you down. "Do you reeeally want pumpkin pie?"
     "Welllll, ahhhhh, sure" my Dad says. "As long as you're asking, sure you should make one."
     Make one?
     Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhhh..." Click, click, click! "Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?"
     I don't know what this being Christmas has to do with buying a pumpkin pie, but it really doesn't matter.
     He walks back to his--my--favorite chair. His work is done.
     Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "If you want a pumpkin pie, how about offering to pay for it? Take out your wallet. Pull out a few shekels." Even if he did offered to pay, my wife wouldn't let him (heck, I wouldn't either), but it's the courtesy behind the offer that would count.
     So, yesterday, Dec. 24, we went out, fought all the holiday traffic, fought the crowds, fought the jerks in the parking lot, and parked two football fields away from the store...
     ...and bought my Dad his pumpkin pie.
     My Dad, who will probably have only one thin slice ("Don't serve me a big slice. You always make it too big.), and he probably won't even finish that. We'll probably end up throwing it away, like we did with the Thanksgiving pie he didn't eat.
     Meanwhile, we already have a cornucopia of delicious desserts for tomorrow. From dozens of different kinds of cookies and pastries, to fudge, popcorn, pudding, pumpkin empanadas (fold-overs), and carrot cake. Not to mention candy, candy, and even more candy. On and on.
     And now we have a pumpkin pie so large it can feed 20 people, because we couldn't find one any smaller. All because of my Dad.
     And all at my expense.
 
 
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Monday, December 23, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part One)

     Watch out, folks, Christmas is just a day or two away.
     Myself, I enjoy the holidays. The days are short and cold, and the nights are long and even colder. People are friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to be friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to appear to be friendly. I'll settle for that. I've always said that I'd rather have someone who hates me, but treats me good, than someone who loves me, but treats me bad. The pretense of gentility is just as good as the real thing, as far as I'm concerned.
     As usual, my wife and I are having the family Christmas dinner at our home. My wife likes to have it at our house because, as she says, we can cook whatever we want and invite whomever we want... it's our house. Our family has grown to the point that we have a lot of grandkids and non-family guests.
     The house is already decorated with Christmas decorations. We began decorating the day after Thanksgiving, and we'll probably keep everything up until after New Years. It's what we usually do.
     My grandson, who's three, helped me decorate his playhouse outside, the trees in the court yard, and the front yard. As long as there are kids, we'll continue to decorate the house inside and out.
     My wife, as usual, goes all out preparing dinner. She always has enough food to send everybody home with doggie bags. There can never be too much food and dessert.
     *sigh*
     But it's also that time of year when I deep clean, polish and buff the oak floor. It seems like I'm always buffing and polishing that floor. It's a two to three day job. If I could just do the job myself, with no interruptions, I can finish it in one. If my grandson helps me, it takes two. If my Dad helps me, it takes three, because his idea of helping is getting in the way. I find myself having to work on the floors when he goes into his room to do whatever it is he does in there.
     So, for three days I'm busting my butt, deep cleaning the floor when my father is not around. As soon as he walks into the house, I stop working. Yesterday, he walked in and sat in his--my--favorite chair, turned on my TV, began drinking a hot cup of tea my wife brought him that my retirement paid for, and helped himself to one of my favorite oatmeal cookies, he tells nobody in particular, "Ahh... hmm... huh..." Smack smack smack! "You know... you know, that polish sure is bothering my eyes."
     "What, Dad?" my wife asks him, because she's nicer than I am.
     "That polish," he says, turning to her and nodding in my direction, "It's tough on my eyes..."
     "The polish, Dad?"
     "...and it's cold in here."
     Cold? I'm on my knees, cleaning the floors with my bare hands, and, man, I'm sweating. My back and knees are killing me. I turn and look at my wife. She gives me a smile that's equal parts compassion and laughing at me.
     "Well, Dad," she tells him, "it'll clear up after he's finished."
     "When he's done?" my Dad says, plaintively.
     "Don't worry, Dad. He's almost finished."
     "Well, let me tell you, it's rough on the eyes." This from a man who spent the majority of his life on Earth smoking. "Mumble mumble... ahhh... that wax is hard... and I'm cold. That wax is making the room cold."
     Okay, I'll kick this dead horse one more time, my Dad has his own little father-in-law apartment built in the front property of our house, and it's fully equipped. It has a large TV, a convertor box, a genuine soft leather recliner, a full bathroom, stereo system, and it's own air condition and heater. He can set the temperature there to any degree he wants. The only thing his apartment doesn't have is a stove and refrigerator, but even if he had one, he wouldn't use it,. Not when he has my wife to make his tea and serve it to him on a silver tray as he sits in his--my-- favorite chair. She'll also serve him cookies, muffins, a piece of cake or pie with his tea. Anything he wants.
     But all this hard work is making me cranky. I get up angrily to my feet and yell, "Why don't you go to your room if you're cold, old man? Can't you see that I'm slaving on this floor?"
     Well...
     ...that's what I feel like doing.
     But, being the good son that I am, I stop working, get up... and go upstairs to decompress until he leaves. I have a weight room upstairs with actual weights. I don't just use them to hang my clothes on, like so many people do. I use them to stay in shape and work out various frustrations.
     Having to do this, however, irks me to no end, because, when I do something, I like to get it over with. I'm not a hard worker by nature, in fact, I'm pretty lazy, but I give the impression of being a hard worker because I work hard at getting something done fast, so I can enjoy the free time it leaves me.
     At 2000 hours (which is eight o'clock at night for you non-military types) I'm able to start again on the floor. Two hours after that, I'm finally done. My, Dad, meanwhile...
     ...is probably sleeping like a baby in his room.
 
 


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Friday, December 20, 2013

What's Easier?

I get home today. All the lights are on.
     In the great room. In the kitchen. The hallway. I can see the path whoever it was took just by looking at their trail of lights. It's so bright, I put on my sunglasses before I burn out my corneas.
     I hear talking, but that's just the TV. It's on with no one watching it. 
     I know my wife is out having her hair done, so who could it have been?
     I then look at my Dad's little father-in-law apartment in the front of my property. It's a separate unit, and its front door faces the entrance to our kitchen. I can see all the lights are on there as well. It's the middle of the day, and yet the outside light over his front door is even on. The lights are on in his room, his closet, his bathroom. Of course, his TV is on, too. Why wouldn't it be?
     What is up with this? Has he, in his old age, grown fearful of the shadows? Has he, in the twilight of his years, become afraid of the dark?
     In the back of my mind I can picture him hiding from me. And laughing. High stepping it and laughing. Always around the next corner from where I am and where I'm looking.
     Is he laughing at me? High stepping it because he left on all the lights?
     I want to ask him, "Dad, what the hell are you doing?"
     I mean, besides driving me nuts. 
     He doesn't pay for any of the bills. Maybe I should start charging him one-third of all the utilities, since there are three of us living here, just like he used to threaten to do to me when I was in high school and he was paying my living expenses. He never followed through on his threats, but I'm less sentimental than he is, so I wouldn't have a problem doing it. In fact, he should pay more because he eats three big meals and several snacks a day, that means more gas to cook the food. Myself, I'm happy with a sandwich. So's he, when it's just me cooking. I'll ask him, "Dad, do you want half of my sandwich?" (I'm watching my weight.) (Aren't we all.)
     "Sure, son," he'll say, and eat it with no complaint.
     With my wife, he'll hem and haw and go back and forth and eventually my wife will hit upon a suggestion that he'll tolerate.
     "Well, if there's nothing else," he'll concede. "I don't want you to go to any trouble."
     A deluxe, four-course meal later, he'll say, "You know what I was really in the mood for? Some soup. It's kind of chilly."
     Kind of chilly?
     Put on your sweater, old man! You know, the same sweater you wear when you go out for your daily walk on a hot summer day. I can't have the heater going on and on full blast because the temperature inside the house has dipped below 90 degrees.
     Besides, I like a cool house.
     Anyway...
     When I finally find my old man, I'm going to jump on him about forgetting to turn off the lights... but, in the end, what's the point? I know his answer: "What?"
     "The lights, Dad. The lights. You've got to remember to turn them off."
     "The lights?"
     "Yes, the lights."
     "You want me to do what with them?"
     "Turn them off, Dad. Turn them off!"
     "You want me to turn off the lights?"
     "Yes, Dad. I want you to turn off the lights."
     And he'll look around. Just to mess with me.
     "But they're already off," he'll point out, calmly.
     "I mean, when you turn them on. When you turn them on, turn them off."
     "But they're already off."
     "I'm saying, when you turn them on."
     "You want me to turn them... on? And then turn them... off? Are you messing with me?"
     Hmm...
     Maybe it's just easier for me to turn the darn things off myself.
 
 
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Monday, December 16, 2013

Just Messing With Me

Last night, as I walked by my Dad's private bedroom in his private little father-in-law house at the front of the main house, I noticed that all of his lights were on. The light on the ceiling. The light on the nightstand. And the light in his closet. The TV was on. The bathroom light was on. And the heater was working overtime.
     Has my Dad, in his old age, become afraid of the dark?
     In fact, now that I think about it, where was my Dad?
     He was in the great room, sitting in his--my--favorite chair.
     (In case you've always wondered why I always refer to his favorite chair as my favorite chair, it's because before my wife and I decided to invite him to live with us, that used to be my chair. He had his chair, back in the house he used to live in when my Mom was still alive, and it went with him to the very nice apartment he moved into after she died. When we were moving his furniture to our house, he decided not to take that chair.
     "I don't need it," he told us. "I'll mostly be staying in my room. Plus, I've always liked sitting on your couch. It's comfortable."
     And I believed him.
     So we sold it in a garage sale where, as I told my wife, he spent thousands to make hundreds.)
     With one eyeball he was trying to watch baseball on the TV, with the other eyeball he was trying to pay as little attention as he could, and still be polite, to my wife, because she was showing him the pair of thermal underwear she had just bought for him. He's always complaining about being cold, and she keeps making the mistake of listening to his complaints.
     My wife had given him a pair of thermals that used to belong to her. He liked them, that is, until she made the mistake of telling him they used to be hers. There's no difference between a man's or a woman's thermal underwear, but, he didn't want them because they were, as he said, "a woman's." It's not like they were pink with pictures of Brad Pitt on them.
     "Who's going to see you in them, Dad?" I asked him. Does he sneak a woman into his house when we all go to bed?
     For an old man who's about ready to shake hands with the century mark, he sure is picky.
     But my wife always makes the  mistake of having a kind heart, so she went out and bought him a new pair. To make a long story short...
     ...he didn't like them either. He told her to give them to someone else.
     Give them to someone else?
     Who else is 5'2" and 110 pounds?
     I have no idea why my Dad gives us such trouble whenever we buy him something new to wear. (Well, my wife buys it. I just pay for it.) My Dad wears a sweater that's practically older than me. He wears t-shirts that he bought when JFK was passing off his female interns to other members of his cabinet.
     And he complains about the new stuff?
     My Dad has a lot of new clothes, but why he doesn't wear them, I have no idea. I guess I was the same way when I was in high school and would only wear my favorite pair of jeans. I'd wear them to school, and then put them in the hamper for my Mom to wash that night so I could wear them the following day. And my Mom always would.
     She had a good heart, too. But back to my Dad...
     I keep telling my wife to quit buying him clothes--"He doesn't wear them," I tell her.-- but she doesn't listen. When we're shopping, she'll always find him something.
     He has a nice new sweater and a nice new jacket to wear for his walks. He has new shirts, new shorts, and new socks. He'll wear the socks, complaining all the time that they're not as comfortable as his old socks, but everything else is as new as the day I paid for them.
     Last week, against her wise husband's better judgement, my wife bought him a pair of pants.
     My Dad: "They're too long."
     "They're not too long, Dad. Try them on." He does.
     My Dad: "They're too short."
     "They're not too short, Dad. Walk around in them."
     My Dad: "They're too tight."
     "They're not too tight, Dad. They look good."
     My Dad: "They're too loose."
     "They're not too loose, Dad. How can they be too tight and too loose at the same time?"
     My Dad: "The material's too thick."
     "The material's not too thick, Dad. It's cold outside. You need a thicker material when the weather turns cold."
     My Dad: "The material's too thin."
     Sometimes I'm almost positive my Dad is just messing with me.
     "So your Dad doesn't like anything you buy him, eh?" my buddy Maloney laughed, when I was complaining to him.
     "Only all the time," I groused.
     And then Maloney told me the following story:
     "The other day I picked up a stick that was in my driveway. As I walked in the house, my mother-in-law asked me, 'What's that?'
     "I don't know if she was just wondering what I was doing with a stick in my hand, or if she was asking me because she couldn't tell what I was carrying. Her eyesight's bad. When she does the dishes, my wife has to do them all over again, because they're never clean or rinsed properly.
     "'It's a stick,' I told her.
     "'A stick?'
     "'Yeah, a stick. I bought it for you.'
     "'For me?'
     "'Yes. For you.'
     "She took the stick, gratefully, and it's now on top of the television set in her room, where she can admire it while she's watching TV. She's from a small town in Mexico, where she grew up poor. Her mother died when she was practically a toddler, and an aunt of hers took her in, and treated her like an unpaid servant. I don't think anyone was ever thoughtful enough to give her a stick before.
     "For Christmas, I'm planning on giving her a rock."
     That Maloney...
     ...sometimes I'm almost positive he's just messing with me.
 
 


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Monday, December 9, 2013

Hang Over Remedies


as submitted to the AARP Bulletin
 

     At 18, you could say I was feeling my oats.
     It was the 70’s, and various states—in their wisdom—had just lowered the drinking age, so my buddies and I thought we’d do our patriotic duty and throw back a few.
     My father only had 2 rules for me: 1) don’t miss my curfew, and 2) don’t drink. Unfortunately, he didn’t add another rule to that short list: 3) don’t be stupid. If he had, I might not have broken the first 2.
     To his credit, my father—whose belt not only held up his pants, but was also in charge of administering justice—didn’t overreact. In fact, he even let me sleep it off.
     When I woke up the next afternoon, hung over didn’t even begin to describe how bad I felt. I didn’t think I was hung over, I thought I was dying. I felt so bad, my teeth even hurt.
     “Hung over?” my Dad asked. He was a man of a few words.
     “Yeah,” I answered, in even fewer.
     “I can cure that.”
     He then took me outside, into our backyard, and handed me a shovel. It was early afternoon, but the day was already hot.
     My Dad told me what he wanted. He wanted me to dig a hole 3 feet wide by three feet long by three feet deep. So I did. I could see he had his belt secured around his waist, and that’s where I wanted it to stay.
     When I was done, he came outside, looked at what I had done, and told me I had dug the hole in the wrong place. So he had me fill it, careful to place the grass back on top, and then dig another hole, 3’ x 3’ x 3’. After doing this same dance several times more, I was tired, sweaty… but no longer hung over.
     “Learned your lesson, son?” my Dad asked me on our last dance.
     “Yes, sir,” I told him, respectfully. I didn’t want to antagonize the man who could keep me blistering my hands into the night.
     “You’re dismissed,” he said, finally. “Go take a shower. You stink.”
     I wasn’t offended. I did stink. How can I be offended by the truth?
     I went inside and took the longest, hottest shower I could get away with.
     My Dad’s 94-years-old now, and lives with my family and I. To this day, every time I get the urge to “throw back” a cold one, if my father’s around, I’ll decide to put what I learned about hang overs remedies to use, and I’ll pass.
 
 


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Monday, December 2, 2013

Even MORE Stupid People

Today I went to Costco to gas up.
     With the gas pumps, there's only one way in and one way out. There are HUGE white arrows painted on the black pavement indicating which way you're supposed to travel. There are numerous signs that read "DO NOT ENTER!" "EXIT!" "EXIT ONLY!" and they're all painted in a bright red. Not even Ray Charles could miss them. And, if I haven't made my point clearly enough already, there are the white signs: "Enter" "Enter For Gas." Again, you could put a blindfold on Stevie Wonder, and he would have had no problems finding the entrance and exit to the gas pumps.
      Costco being where you can get cheap gas, the lines are all long  Except for one. I can do the math, that pump must be broken. But, as I drive closer to the pumps, I notice there's a car there... and it's pointed the WR0NG WAY!
     This driver--a female--had ignored all the signs, the exiting traffic, the long lines of cars all pointed in a particular direction, and she STILL drove in the wrong way to get gas. I parked in front of her, pointed in the right direction. I get out and started to pump my gas. She exits her car, and looks at me funny, as if I'M in the wrong.
     "I don't know if you noticed," I politely inform her, "but you're going the wrong way."
     She is still looking at me.
     "This is a one way," I say, and gesture toward the thirty-plus cars facing her. "ALL the traffic comes this way."
     The young woman smiles--and it's a nice smile--and she tells me, "I know, but my gas cap is on this side," indicating the side facing pump.
     WWJD? He'd think WTF? and let it end there.
      She just stands there, smiling at me.
     Being a guy who's not dead, I couldn't help but notice that she wasn't bad looking. That's probably why she's been able to go through life without having to pay attention to silly little things like which direction she needs to travel in.
     There was an accident on the freeway the other morning around 3am. Sadly, there was one fatality. It seems someone was heading west in the lanes that were supposed to be traveling east, and they caused a major pile-up.
     I wondered where that girl was that day. Anyway...
     I tell her, "So is the gas cap on my car, but the gas hose is long enough to pull around the car. You drove in the wrong way."
     "Yes, but my gas cap is on this side." she patiently explains to me, giving me a poor-you look, and pointing to the side nearest the pump.
     I stand there. Now it's my turn to look at her. Finally, I smile and walk away... not my problem. Besides, what does Maloney always tell me? "You can't help the stupid."
      The gas attendant finally opens her eyes and sees the wrong-way woman--I don't know how she missed her (yes, I do... she was on her cell phone)--and comes over to explain the routine. Being a guy who's not blind, I couldn't help but notice that the female attendant wasn't bad looking. I smile at her, and she smiles back at me.
     Finally, the bozo (make that bozette) gets it. She is asked to back up and drive around and enter correctly. The woman is nice enough not to argue and does as she is told. You know, before I retired, I used to have authority, too. I would speak, and people would listen and do as they were told.
     What happened? Anyway...
     I let my mind wander.
     You know, like I've told Maloney, thank God for stupid women, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten lucky half as often as did.
     Bless old Wrong-Way's heart.
     I needed a second opinion, so I call my buddy Maloney, and he agrees.
     "You can't help the stupid," he says.
     "So... how's it going with your mother-in-law?" I ask him.
     I'm not particularly interested (I've got enough problems of my own), but maybe, if his horror stories are worse than mine, I'll feel better.
     He tells me about how his wife always buys him two gingerbread cookies that are in the shape of a pig when she goes to the bakery on Sunday mornings where she buys menudo.. Menudo is a kind of Mexican stew made with posole (hominy) and tripe (a cow's stomach lining). Trust me, it's delicious. Just ask Andrew Zimmern. Anyway...
     Maloney will eat one on the day she brings them home, and then he'll take the second one with him to work the next day for lunch. It's a regular routine with him. Maloney is a lot of things, and one of those things he is, is a creature of habit.
     The only problem is, when he goes to eat his first gingerbread pig, he sees his mother-in-law already chowing down on it.
     She gives him a big smile.
     "I saved you one," she tells him. Chomp!
     Maloney tells her, "Thank you."
     What else can he say?
     But Maloney can do the math.
     He doesn't see it as his mother-in-law saving him a gingerbread pig. He sees it as his mother-in-law eating a gingerbread pig.
     His gingerbread pig
     You can't help the Maloney.
 
 
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