Where, Oh Where, Have My Brain Cells Gone?

Back in my prime I could walk and chew gum at the same time. I was able to remember what I had for breakfast. I could even remember my phone number.

Sadly, those days of astonishing mental prowess are long gone.

When I turned 60 last year I took stock of my life (I only do this once a decade; that is about all the introspection I can stand) and I realized that something was missing -- the memory cells I used to have in my brain.

I decided to document the symptoms of my memory loss so I could discuss them with my family doctor.  But then I lost the list.  And forget the appointment.

I forget the simplest things, and at the worst times! Names? Oh, those fell out of my head years ago.

Appointments? All I can say is it is a good thing the doctors' offices do those robo-call reminders the day before. In fact, I may be the reason they started.

I try not to let this upset me. After all, how much does it really matter? I've got maybe 10 or 20 years left to stumble through this life, and how much do I need to remember anyway? And if I could remember it, who else would want to hear about it?

But I did become alarmed earlier this summer when I was in the hospital recuperating from an operation. On the third day after surgery I was still taking strong pain meds, but I thought I had totally recovered from the anesthesia. I thought I was back in my right mind.

Then my cell phone rang.

I could feel my brain cells tingling, as if they were trying to transmit a message. Finally it came through. I said to myself, "The phone is ringing. I should pick it up."

I finally picked it up and looked at the screen. A few more brain cells lit up. "Hmmm," I thought, "My son is calling me."

I stared at the phone some more. It was still ringing. What should I do? I felt some more brain cells firing and I told myself: "I should answer that phone."

And then came the moment when I realized the cheese had slipped off of my cracker. I was holding the phone, staring at the screen, seeing my son's name right next to the big green circle that said "ANSWER"... and I could not remember how to do it!

As if on cue, the phone stopped ringing. I sighed with relief. Maybe I could collect my thoughts now that that annoying noise had stopped.

I laid back on the bed. I thought real hard. I furrowed my brow. I clicked my heels together three times and repeated: "There's no place like home, there's no place like home..."

Finally, after several minutes of excruciating concentration, I remembered that I could go to the "call log" screen and look for his name. Then I could tap on it and my phone would automatically call him back.

I was so proud! I managed to return that phone call all by myself without any help from T-Mobile tech support.

I believe I am doing better now as my recovery has progressed, but it still seems like quite a few brain cells have gone AWOL. Maybe some of them will return, like the Prodigal Son, after they have exhausted themselves in carousing and wild living.

Or maybe they have run away to join the circus, and won't even bother to send a postcard.  Maybe I have recovered as much of my mind as I am going to get.

I must confess that this sneak preview of my looming debilitation has left me feeling vulnerable. Once again I am reminded how short and fragile this temporary earthly life really is.

All I ask for when the time comes is a nice corner room with a view at the Shady Acres Home for Weary Bloggers, preferably overlooking a tranquil pond. The rest will do me good.

And also, a name tag please,  just so I can remember who I am in case anyone asks.

One Morning in Lego Land

I spent a recent Saturday morning assisting my daughter-in-law's father Andy on a perilous mission - escorting our two young grandsons to the Lego KidsFest at the Indianapolis Convention Center. It was going to be a special day of grandfather/grandson bonding.

Andy and his wife Carol originally planned to take the boys themselves, but when Carol was unexpectedly delayed out of town, Andy asked me to step in and help him. Despite my misgivings, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving a fellow grandfather alone with Zeke and Malachi in such a mob scene. And it could be fun, spending some quality time with the boys and a few thousand other young children frolicking amongst the Legos. What could go wrong?

My son and daughter were quite amused at the thought of me embarking on this expedition.

"Dad is going to the Lego fest?" my daughter Stephanie asked her mother. "I can't quite picture that."

My son Steve laughed at me out loud. "Spending the morning with a few thousand kiddies at the convention center? Have fun, dad."

My Birthday Trip to the Emergency Room

I've had better days...and way better birthdays...but all has ended well, and I am thankful for that!

A gut-wrenching pain on the left side of my abdomen had me feeling pretty queasy as I laid around the house on the Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving. Later that evening my mind finally opened the email that my body had been sending all day long: "Go to the hospital!"

Please allow me to share some observations I made during this experience.

1. ER personnel don't give you much respect when you show up with a tummy ache on the day after Thanksgiving.

2. Apparently the medical staff uses a tag-team approach to weed out bogus stories from patients who may be "faking it" to get pain medications.

3. If you can successfully give a consistent detailed account of your symptoms, and circumstances, to at least five different inquisitors, eventually someone will start to believe you might be legit and order some kind of test.

4. I'm not sure how all the staff at the ER gets to work every night, since few of them appeared old enough to hold a driver's license.

5. I do not understand how the stuff they make you drink for a CAT scan does any good since I truly believe I peed it out as fast as I drank it.

6. ALWAYS make sure you know where the bathroom is when they move you to a new location.

7. I wish everything in my life was as easy as getting a CAT scan.

8. After the doctor gets test results showing that your gall bladder is a hideous, oozing, swollen, infected time-bomb, you get a lot more street cred with the ER crowd. AND you finally get your pain meds!

9. Once you get your pain meds, life is beautiful.

10. You sure have to sign a lot of papers in the hospital.

11. My wife is going to have to jump through a lot of hoops at home to continue giving me the same level of TLC I received from the nursing staff. The challenge will be good for her.

12. I started to get concerned as I was being prepped for surgery, because every time they moved me to a new location nobody knew what was going on. They all kept asking me who I was and what I was there for. Shouldn't they know? 60 Minutes should investigate this.

13. Everybody wanted to know when my birthday was, but nobody bothered to get me a present or a piece of cake.
 
14. I could have enjoyed my nap after surgery more if nurses had stopped waking me up all the time.

15. Hospital food is a lot better these days, at least at St. Francis.

16. I want a set of those leg-squeezing massage things to take home.

17. I don't care how many cable channels there are, there is still nothing to watch at 3 a.m.

18. It is a lot more fun getting ready to go home if the doctor isn't telling you about something else that showed up on your CAT scan.

19. I suppose it really is good news that they happened to see a teeny spot in my bladder, since whatever it may be is small and easy to deal with.

20. When the doctor says, "They'll just slip a scope up your urinary tract and take care of that little problem," with a calm reassuring smile, it still makes me pucker up.

21. The colonoscopy they've been nagging me about for 8 years seems a lot less intimidating now.

22. The only way to truly keep yourself from lifting more than 15 pounds after surgery is to have your arms strapped to your side and walk around like a mummy for 14 days. You cannot make yourself remember not to pick things up. It is just too automatic.

23. While recuperating at home after gall bladder surgery, avoid watching old re-runs of "Everybody Loves Raymond" - especially if it is an episode you haven't seen before.

Take the Test: You Might Be a Conservative!

One thing the Democratic Party is wildly successful at is demonizing the opposition. Conservatives like me are routinely portrayed by the media as heartless extremists who want to starve school-children, keep women barefoot and pregnant, and push little old ladies over a cliff.

Why otherwise intelligent people believe this mystifies me. But we are creatures of habit, and if a big lie is repeated often enough, it becomes believable.

Sometimes we even vote out of habit. After several recent conversations with life-long Democrat friends, I have come to the conclusion that there are a lot of them who automatically vote for Democrats in every election without ever giving it a second thought. 

Does this describe you? Don't worry, there is hope! Take the following simple quiz to find out what kind of American you are. You may discover that you really do have a choice.

1. The answer for every problem in American society is to create another government agency and borrow more money from China to pay for it.  T  F

2. The United States will be safer from threats by Communist dictatorships and rogue terrorist states if we slash our military defense budget and unilaterally cut our nuclear missile defense by 90%.  T  F

3. The best way to build a strong economy is for the government to gain more control over private businesses, and to keep printing billions and billions more dollars of paper money.   T   F

4. The Constitution is old-fashioned and out of date, and it prevents our government officials from creating the regulations needed to control us.   T   F

5. The best way to create strong, stable families is to promote homosexual marriage and provide government-funded abortions to teenage girls without their parents' consent.   T   F

6. Individual liberty is over-rated. We should learn to behave as we are instructed, and allow unelected government bureaucrats to decide what is best for us.   T   F

7. The best way to conduct honest elections is to let anybody who shows up at a polling place cast a ballot without having to prove who they are, which also allows them to vote at as many polling places as possible on election day.   T   F

8. Rich people are evil. Anyone who is successful must have stolen it from someone else, so the government should be encouraged to confiscate as much of their wealth as possible.   T   F

9. There is no God. The state is our ultimate authority. The only rights we have as citizens are whatever privileges the state decides to grant to us.   T   F

10. No one is responsible for themselves. The government should provide young women with contraceptives; food stamp recipients with cell phones; and those out of work with 2 years of unemployment benefits.   T   F

11. Congress is too powerful. If the President cannot ram his unpopular agenda through Congress, he has the right to simply issue an executive order and bypass the legislative branch of government.   T   F

12. It doesn't matter if our country goes bankrupt, as long as we get all we can. The future is our kids' problem.   T   F

Now check your answers:

9 or more TRUE answers: You must be a Democrat. You are just the kind of voter that welfare-state politicians drool over. You have my sympathy.
 
5 to 9 TRUE answers: You are either lost in the '60s, or you are just too young to know better.

1 to 5 TRUE answers: You are getting closer to the light. There is hope for you.

0 TRUE answers: Congratulations! You are a responsible conservative citizen with your head screwed on straight. And if you answered FALSE to all these questions, why would you even think about voting for Barack Obama?

Comic of the Week

Can't I Even Dream About Sleeping In?

Some things just don't mix: oil and water, Tom and Jerry, grandchildren and sleep.

I love my grandchildren. They are sweet and lovable and endlessly entertaining. But I also love my sleep, so there are inevitable conflicts.

Miranda is eight, Zeke is five, Malachi is two. When we have them all at the same time it is like a three-ring circus over here. All we're missing is the clown car and the smell of elephant poop. (Though, on second thought, Malachi is a pretty dependable source of poop smells.)

It doesn't matter how much we ignore their parents' instructions, and keep those kids up past their bedtimes: They will still be up and bouncing off the walls at the crack of dawn, demanding breakfast and a trip to the playground.

At least when we are at home, we don't have to worry about them disturbing the neighbors, since the grand-kids' ruckus-raising can't be heard outside of our walls. But when we go camping, there are problems.

If you have ever been camping at a state park, you understand that there are rules such as: no fireworks, dogs must be on a leash, don't pick the flowers. One of my favorite rules is "Quiet-time hours are from 11 PM to 7 AM."

That is a good rule. After a long day of swimming or hiking or whatever, I am tired, and I need my rest. You can safely assume that your camping neighbors also want to enjoy their peaceful night of sleep.

Just try explaining that to a two-year-old.

On our last camping trip to Brown County, I was soundly sawing logs at 6:00 in the morning. Then I was mercilessly roused from slumber by a persistent noise that kept orbiting around the camper, like when a fly keeps zipping around your head and you get that disconcerting 360 degree "surround-sound" buzz.

As I groggily entered consciousness, I realized what was happening. Little Malachi was outside, running laps around the camper while chanting repeatedly, "Papaw...papaw...papaw...papaw..."

He apparently had decided that it was time for papaw to get up and play. Didn't he know it wasn't 7:00 yet?

I remember three years ago, before Malachi was around, when we camped at Salamonie Reservoir. Zeke was two years old then. His parents were sleeping in their tent, but Zeke wanted to sleep in the camper with us, which was fine -- until came the break of dawn.

All was quiet inside the camper. The prompting of my nearly-bursting bladder awoke me from a sound sleep. I laid there as still as possible, considering my options.

If I got up to relieve myself, I would probably awaken Zeke, and then I could forget about getting that last wonderful hour of sleep. On the other hand, if I stayed put, I probably only had another 30 uncomfortable minutes before I wet the bed.

While I laid there debating these issues, I decided to carefully, quietly, slowly turn my head 45 degrees to the left and take a peek at Zeke to see if he was still sleeping soundly. Maybe I could stealthily tippy-toe out to the comfort station and resolve this dilemma.

So I carefully, quietly, slowly turned my head 45 degrees to the left. I opened my eyes ever so gently so I could just barely peek through my eyelashes. And what did I see?

Zeke was standing on his bed, with his little arms crossed and resting on the counter-top, and his chin resting on his arms, staring at me like a cat watching a bird.

"Good morning, Grandpa! Can I have some oatmeal for breakfast?"

I have no idea how long he had been standing there, but I had to give him credit for at least waiting until I moved before he made me get up.

"Yes, Zeke, you can have some oatmeal, but first let's go to the bathroom."

To Hug or Not to Hug, That is the Question

The Christmas season is fraught with peril.

Will your gift to that special someone be a hit or a flop? Will you over-indulge at the office Christmas party and make a fool of yourself in front of your superiors? Will you be crushed in a human stampede at an early morning Black Friday sale?

But of all the thorny issues this holiday season, there is one that looms over all others, both in its magnitude and potential for disaster: Do you hug? If so, who do you hug? Where do you hug? Do you initiate the hug? Do you hug the opposite gender only, or do your hugs swing both ways?

Some people are huggers by nature, others not so much. Still others will absolutely cringe at an uninvited and unwanted embrace.

Especially for men, these are dangerous times.

For example, if a man is giving Christmas greetings to a female co-worker, and she happens to be a hugger, she will feel slighted if she doesn't get a quick squeeze about the shoulders.

On the other hand, if a man initiates a friendly hug with a female acquaintance who is not a hugger, she will be quickly offended, and he may find himself labeled as a sexual harrasser. There is nothing worse than hugging a woman and feeling her back stiffen and her shoulders tense up in revulsion at your unwanted familiarity.

For the ultimate awkward moment, think of what happens when you are greeted simultaneously by two or more long-time acquaintances, one of whom is a hugger, and the other who is not. This can be quite the sticky wicket.

This happened to me not long ago. Two women I knew quite well walked up towards me at church while they were talking together. Woman A, a notorious hugger, wrapped her arms around me in a big squeeze, and I happily reciprocated. Woman B, a very nice woman whom I had also known for some time, but had never hugged, stood there quietly.

I had no idea what to do. Was she standing there waiting for her hug? Was she standing there hoping I would NOT hug her? Was she thinking that I liked Woman A better and I was slighting her by not initiating a hug? Who knows? All I can tell you is that it was quite uncomfortable. Where is Miss Manners when you need her most?

It gets even more complicated when you consider same-gender hugs. A lot of guys have an issue with this.

Personally, the older I get, the more huggy I become. I think that happens to a lot of us. Hugs are nice. Hugs are comforting. Like the song says, there's just not enough love in the world, and when you have a chance to show some affection to another human being, it should be a good thing.

But a lot of guys don't want a hug from another guy. The unwritten rule seems to be that hugs between men are restricted to long-time close friends and male relatives at family reunions. Casual hugs between men who are casual friends just don't seem to work.

Women, by contrast, have no problem with hugging any other woman on the planet. Women will jump up and down while they hug, pat each other on the leg (if they're seated), even kiss on the cheek, and no one has a problem with that.

Of course, women live in a whole other world: They even go to the bathroom together and no one bats an eye. Apparently this is a genetic thing.

Men, we need a manual for this. There should be some kind of code signal that women could give to let us know what they really want, hug-wise. But I imagine we'll get that information about the same time we can get a true definition of what a woman means when she says, "Fine."

Since the dawn of time, men have stumbled blindly about, trying to understand what women really want. Who knows?

Merry Christmas, and hug at your own risk.

Adventures in Grand-parenting

It is easy to forget what it was like to have children in the house.

Grand-parenting, for the most part, consists of a few hours here and there, doing short stints of child care or taking a trip to the park. Quick and painless.

It is a beautiful thing. All the gain and none of the pain. Play with kids for a while, and by the time they are getting cranky or whiney, it's time for them to go home and annoy their parents.

But sometimes grand-parenting requires an extended commitment. This can be hazardous.

We recently kept our two grandsons for a three-day stretch while our son and daughter-in-law were on a short trip.

Zeke is four years old, and he is a sweet little boy. He is very observant, very talktative, and most of the time, very loud.

His brother Malachi is 18 months old. He is cute as a button, with a raucous laugh and an endearing smile. But he is stubborn, and quick to throw a fit when he doesn't get his way. I predict he is going to take his parents on a trip through the "terrible two's" that they will never forget.

The first morning they were here, things went pretty smoothly. That is because Grandma Peggy stayed home that day and took care of getting the boys up in the morning. All I had to do was wake up and eat breakfast with them.

I ended up working late that evening, so I only got to see the boys for about an hour before bedtime. So far, so good.

But the following morning, I was in charge. Peggy had to leave at 7:00 for work, and it was my job to get the boys ready to go for the day.

Zeke woke up first. I talked to him for a while and helped him pick out his clothes for the day. Then he started getting dressed. While he dressed, I got his lunch ready for school. Then I gathered up his school items and back-pack and set them by the door. When he finished dressing, I tied his shoes.

Of course, he was hungry. He sat at the table, and I poured some hot water into his bowl of instant oatmeal while he stirred. As I reached across in front of him to grab a napkin, I apparently got too close for his liking.

He jerked his head back and said, "Grandpa, you don't smell very good."

I considered pointing out to the wee lad that if I had not spent every waking moment of the morning serving as his butler, I might have had time to shower before now. But I let it pass.

Then it was time to wake up the Hulk. Malachi was out like a light in his little crib. I don't think he had flinched since we tucked him in the night before.

I sure wish I could sleep like that.

I rubbed his bulging tummy and softly called his name. He yawned. His eyes fluttered. He stretched. He jerked his head up, looked around, rolled over onto all fours and then stood up. It took him all of 30 seconds to go from sound asleep to wide awake. Impressive.

I sure wish I could wake up like that.

He was grunting and making agitated noises as I sat him into his high chair. He kept pointing to the refrigerator and waving his arms around.

Zeke decided I needed a translator. "Grandpa, Malachi is hungry!"

"Is he like this every morning?"

"Yeah."

I stirred up the oatmeal as fast as humanly possible and began to shovel it into little Malachi's gaping mouth. He was still grunting, but the tone had changed a bit. It was something like the sounds you might hear at the zoo at feeding time.

After breakfast, the little Hulk was happy. I changed him, dressed him and started getting ready to go. I grabbed Malachi's diaper bag, and Zeke's backpack for school, and began to load the car.

As I walked from the kitchen to the garage, I told Zeke to bring Malachi with him while I loaded the car. When I walked back to the kitchen, Malachi was lying on his back and laughing as Zeke dragged him along by one arm across the kitchen floor.

"Here he is, Grandpa!"

Soon I had both boys strapped into the car and we were ready to go. Right on time! I was congratulating myself on my organizational skills until Zeke interrupted me.

"Grandpa, I have to pee."

"Didn't you go before?"

"I forgot!"

"Can't you wait until we get to school?"

The look on his face told me no.

I sat in the car with Malachi while Zeke went to pee. Malachi began to thrash around in the car seat, chafing at his restraints. He began grunting again. I was afraid he might chew through the seat belt and run off into the woods.

I went inside to find out what was taking Zeke so long. He was standing at the sink, the faucet blasting like a fire hose, watching water drip from his fingertips as he held them out at eye level.

"Zeke, we're going to be late for school!"

"I'm washing my hands, grandpa."

"Did you use soap?"

"Not yet."

I turned down the faucet and lathered Zeke's hands with soap. He had to endure my body odor again as I hovered over him to make sure he finished washing up and dried his hands.

By the time we returned to the garage, Malachi was grunting and rocking violently in the car seat in a desperate attempt to escape his confinement. He finally quieted down once I began to back out of the garage.

We arrived at school almost on time, and I dropped Zeke off. Then I made the short drive over to Mrs. Sherry's house to drop Malachi off for the day. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I drove away, alone, in peaceful solitude.

I still needed a shower. I'm sure my blood pressure was higher than my cardiologist would have liked, and I was going to be late for work. And I had to do this all over again the next morning.

I don't know how mothers do all this on a daily basis. And I don't really want to know. I'm just part-time, and I like it that way.

15 Trillion and Counting!

Remember this past August when members of Congress wailed and gnashed their teeth as they wrangled over lifting the Federal Debt Ceiling to 15 TRILLION dollars?

Well, it has taken the Obama administration all of 100 days to blow through that credit limit, and the spending spree continues. At this rate of deficit spending, we will have amassed a National Debt somewhere in the neighborhood of 19.5 TRILLION dollars by the time of our next Presidential Inauguration in January of 2013.

With the U.S. Senate still controlled by vote-buying political hacks like Democratic Majority Leader Harry Reid (who can't even bring himself to cut federal funding for the Cowboy Poetry Festival) you know we're in deep doo-doo.

I love cowboy poetry as much as the next hombre, but not when we have to borrow 40% of the funding for it from China and then stick our grandchildren with the bill.

The 2012 election cannot come a day too soon.

Check out the National Debt Clock to keep up with the latest accounting of our government's irresponsibility.

Occupy This

"Life is tough...even tougher when you're stupid." - John Wayne

During a recent visit to Wall Street to discuss the status of my vast investment portfolio with E.F. Hutton, I heard a commotion going on some short distance away.

I followed the scent of urine that seemed to float on the breeze, and before I knew it, there I was in Zuccotti Park.

I was surprised to see a familiar face grinning at me from beneath a hoodie. It was my old high school buddy Slug. I hadn’t seen him since I helped him to get on-line a couple of years ago.

“Dude, have you come to join us?” he asked.

I was distracted for a moment by a pirate on a unicycle, and when I turned back around, Slug was standing beside me, holding a crystal pyramid in the palm of his out-stretched hand, waving it in circles over my head.

With his arm raised so close to me, I couldn’t help but notice that Slug had been neglecting his personal hygiene.

“Slug, what are you doing?” I asked as I tried to hold my breath and back away.

“Can’t you feel the aura? I just want you to become part of the vibe we have going here,” he replied earnestly.

Suddenly, Slug grabbed me by the collar and yanked me off the sidewalk just in time to save me from being knocked down by a tattooed kid on a skateboard wearing a Spiderman mask.

“Dude,’ he said, “You gotta watch yourself around here. The 99% are restless and on the move.”

“I see that,” I commented as I looked around at the milling crowd.

“So how long have you been here, Slug?”

“I was here the first week, man! I got to see Roseanne Barr give her speech.”

“That had to be a Kodak moment,” I interjected.

Slug ignored me and continued. “When I saw that first night of protest on TV, I knew I had to come down and join my brothers and sisters. The spirit of the 60’s is back, man! Look around, dude, it’s almost like being back at Woodstock.”

A young woman, with more hair than clothing, walked past us while beating a drum and chanting, “Shame on you! Shame on you!”

“Slug, you weren’t at Woodstock! Your mom wouldn’t let you go, remember?”

“Yeah, dude, but I was there in spirit! I saw the movie AND bought the album.”

I jumped back to avoid being hit be a stray Frisbee and stepped right into a pile of poop.

“Slug, this is disgusting! How can you hang out with these slobs? Can’t you people poop in a bag or something?”

I was starting to get a headache. Between the smell and the noise, I was just not feeling the aura. I said, “Slug, aren’t you getting tired of living out here in this noisy park?”

“It’s not so bad, man. We have people cooking for us, and there are rallies every afternoon when the TV crews arrive. At night we have campfires and some pretty good jam sessions. It sure beats sitting around the house.”

“Speaking of home, how is your mom doing?”

“Mom’s fine, dude. I’m sure she misses me, but she told me to stay here as long as I want. I’ll tell her you asked about her whenever I go back.”

My head was still throbbing. “Okay, Slug, so just what exactly are you protesting?”

“I’m here because of the injustice of the capitalist system. The 99% of us struggle for survival while the elite 1% gets rich off of our labor. I want my share of the wealth. I want to have decent housing, free health care and a guaranteed pension when I retire. The corporate power structure owes us for what it has stolen from us!”

I was reaching the limits of my patience.

“Slug, what are you going to retire from? You’ve been mostly unemployed and living at home with your mom for the last 12 years.”

“Hey dude, the system is rigged so that a guy like me can’t find a decent job. I’m not going to just do manual labor…I’ve got my pride, you know.”

“So you’re too proud to take a job loading trucks, but you’re not too proud to collect food stamps, unemployment and a free unfunded pension?’

“Dude, you just don’t get it. You’ve sold out to the man. You’ll never understand how we’ve been oppressed by the system!”

“Slug, I have to go. Take care of yourself, and try to keep in touch.”

“Dude, just give me your email. As soon as my IPad recharges, I’ll make sure you’re in my address book.”

I watched Slug wander off into the crowd: A crowd of Gen-Xers eating free food, camping illegally in a public park, texting and video-recording and organizing themselves with all the technological wonders produced by the capitalist system that they claim to despise -- the same capitalist system that created the national wealth that makes possible a society rich enough, and free enough, to tolerate the immature and ungrateful behavior of a group of left-wing wackos like Occupy Wall Street.

Slug was right. I don’t get it.

Herman Cain Did It!

This just in!

New allegations have surfaced in the Herman Cain sexual harassment debacle. An unidentified accuser from Alexandria Virginia now reveals that Herman Cain made her feel uneasy at a dinner party in 1998 when he appeared to be winking at her while he was scratching his eyes. More on this story at 10 o'clock!

An alleged victim has contacted the Off The Top of My Head news service to report that Herman Cain might have brushed against her thigh while standing in line at a Taco Bell in Cleveland sometime in 1993. Stay tuned for more as new reports come in.

Also, an anonymous man reports that he might have felt uncomfortable while shoe-shopping at a mall in Boston in 2001 when he thinks he saw Herman Cain looking in his direction while he took off his shoes to try on a new pair of wing-tips. The alleged victim did not report the incident at the time, but now that Herman Cain is a potential nominee, feels compelled to come forward.

Just off the wire!

A waitress at an Olive Garden Restaurant in Sheboygan believes that she was stiffed for a tip by a man who might have been Herman Cain during a busy Friday night in 1977. More details to follow.

On a more personal note, a man who looked suspiciously like Herman Cain cut me off on I-465 last Tuesday as I was trying to exit at Emerson Avenue. I have reported the license plate number to authorities.

Absolutely Not Getting Any Younger

I received a birthday card some years ago with a cartoon of a marching band on the front that said "TIME MARCHES ON..." and then when I opened it the inside page continued "...YOUR FACE."

Tender sentiments like that always choke me up.

You may recall a blog I did some time ago titled The Day I Became Old in which I bemoaned the inevitable toll that the passing years take. Trust me, things aren't getting any better.

I was pointedly reminded of this recently while shopping at the drugstore. Walgreens had a sale on bottled water, so I loaded my cart with seven cases and pushed it into the parking lot. As I started loading the cases into the side door of my van, a thirty-something woman who was walking by stopped and sincerely asked, "Can I help you with that, sir?"

She was so earnest and polite, I didn't hold against her the fact that she had just made me feel about 100 years old. Plus, I reasoned, I might really live long enough that I will appreciate offers like that sometime in the future, so I had better learn to be more gracious.

"Thanks for asking," I said cheerfully, "but I'm fine."

It's just a matter of time before Girl Scouts start helping me across the street.

I've lost count of how many people have asked me if I am retired. In my dreams! Unfortunately, I have worked in the real world, where the majority of Americans work, and we don't have a union pension or the option of retiring after 25 or 30 years. We work, and live economically, and save, and hope we can accumulate enough to "retire" to part-time employment once we are old enough to draw whatever is left of our Social Security.

A while back I was at the grocery store. The cashier couldn't find the code for my Romaine lettuce, and since I buy it all the time, I remembered it and told her what it was. My knowledge of produce impressed the sack-boy, who had to be all of 16 years old.

"Dude," he said, "you should get a job here part-time."

I just laughed. "Man, my life is so busy, the last thing I need is another job!"

The kid looked at me incredulously, and in all innocence said, "You mean you still work?"

Ouch!

Dear Lord, I sincerely hope I wasn't that annoying when I was sixteen...but I probably was.

Somebody Stop Me Before I Hoard Again

I knew we were in trouble when I found my deceased father-in-law's leg under the bed in the guest room.

They say that you can't begin to rehabilitate yourself until you admit that you have a problem, so I'll bare my soul to the world and admit it publicly: I am a hoarder. Even worse, I am married to another hoarder. Someday you will see a report about us on the 6 o'clock news after the police find our decayed remains buried beneath a fallen stack of old magazines.

But we're trying to mend our ways. Which brings us to how I found the leg.

This past January, I spent one whole Saturday morning cleaning out the guest room. There were a lot of valuable items that I just had to force myself to pitch because we needed the space. I had a fine set of encyclopedias from 1956 that a neighbor had given me in 1985, but they seemed a bit "past it" in 2011, so they had to go. I also had a complete collection of National Lampoons from 1974 & 1975.

Obviously, I have had this hoarding problem for a long time.

But when I found my father-in-law's leg, I knew we needed serious therapy.

My father-in-law died in 2006. My wife was the executrix of his estate. For a while we had numerous boxes of his personal belongings stored in our guest room while the estate was being settled. That is how we ended up with the prosthetic leg that he wore for the last few years of his life.

I had forgotten all about the thing, until I found it while I was cleaning.

ME: Peggy, I just found your dad's leg under the bed!

HER: I wondered where that had gotten off to.

ME: Why in the world are we saving this?

HER: Somebody else might be able to use it.

ME: If I ever need a prosthetic leg, I prefer to have mine custom made.

HER: Oh, quit whining. I think there's some organization that takes them and re-fits them for people.

ME: This leg has been here for five years! Some poor guy is hobbling around downtown right now on a crutch, waiting for someone to donate a leg for him.

HER: Okay, okay, I'll find the place and get rid of it.

ME: Fine! But let's get it out of the house. I'm putting it in the trunk of the car so you will have it with you whenever you decide to drop it off.

HER: Whatever.

When two hoarders live under the same roof, things can get pretty testy anytime one hoarder wants to get rid of something that the other hoarder is hoarding. I could easily throw away a bunch of her stuff. She could easily throw away a bunch of my stuff. But that could quickly escalate into something unpleasant, so it is easier (and safer) to just let things pile up.

After my most recent heart attack (see Another Routine Day in the ER) I decided I needed to clean out the garage and tool shed so that, in the event of my untimely demise, my children wouldn't have to spend several weekends cursing my memory as they cleaned up my life-long accumulation of junk.

So last month I stifled my inner-hoarder and made myself throw away a dumpster-load of odds and ends that I had saved for years on the off chance that someday one of them might be useful.

It was quite liberating! I felt like I was freeing myself from the shackles of my past. Perhaps there was hope for us. Perhaps Peggy and I could begin a new life; a life free from the compulsion to save so much stuff "just in case" we might need it someday.

I was feeling pretty special as I packed up several paper sacks with old newspapers to take to the recycling bin. That is, until I popped open the trunk and saw my father-in-law's leg, laying right where I had left it 5 months before.

Whatever.

Why Can't I Get Anything Done?

After weeks of monsoon rains, there was a sunny day last week that presented me with a golden opportunity to complete some outdoor chores.

I was burning up with spring fever, and decided to finish replacing the exterior siding on my tool shed.

It took me about ten minutes to find my extension cord, circular saw and drill. I started spreading my lumber out onto the grass when I realized I didn't have my tape measure.

Hmmm...tape measure, tape measure...what did I do with that tape measure?

As I pondered this, my neighbor strolled over to the fence and began talking to me. Since I have a one-track mind (which is easily de-railed) I really wasn't in the mood for chit-chat at that moment, but I didn't want to be rude, since my neighbors are nice, and I stopped working so we could yak for a while.

After the gab session, I returned my focus to the task at hand. I decided to start by trimming out the plywood siding on the shed with some 1x4 pine boards. Then I remembered: I still needed to find that tape measure!

I walked back into the house to look for it, and heard the phone ringing. When I answered it I was thrilled to hear a digital voice giving me the exciting news that I had won an all-expenses paid Caribbean cruise, and that if I pressed "1" for more information I could book my reservation today!

How lucky can a guy get?

After hanging up the phone, my bladder reminded me that I had business to take care of inside. While visiting the throne room, I discovered an interesting article in Fortune magazine that detailed some exciting new investment opportunities for my vast retirement portfolio. (I will be able to retire by 2052 if I can figure out how to live on 500 calories a day and also talk one of my kids into letting me live in a back bedroom rent-free.)

After washing up, I stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of ice water. Noticing the ice cube supply was low, I took a minute to fill the tray and put it into the freezer. That's when I saw the fudgecicle, so I grabbed it and sat out on the porch for a few minutes to slurp it down.

It occurred to me that I still needed that tape measure. I thought I had seen it in the garage, so I spent about 10 minutes out there searching the shelves, but never did find it. Hmmm...maybe I had left it out in the shed.

As I walked out the back door, the neighbor kids on the other side of my yard called me over. I stopped to talk to them, and they asked me if I had any extra wood that they could use to build a lemonade stand. I told them I'd be happy to let them have whatever was left over after I finished working on my shed. (I didn't have the heart to tell them that at the rate I was going, they'd be able to sell lemonade to their grandchildren.)

I walked back over to the shed, and started looking around for the tape measure. I was really starting to get irritated. So far it had taken me 90 minutes to go to the bathroom, fill up the ice cube tray, and eat a fudgecicle.

Where was that freakin' tape measure?

I finally decided to forget about any carpentry work, and just finish staining the wood trim that I had laying in the grass so that it would be ready to put up whenever I finally found my tape measure.

As I started stirring the wood stain I felt the first drops of rain on my neck. I looked up to see a line of menacing dark clouds moving in from the west. Apparently I was not destined to accomplish anything that day. I frantically started gathering up my power tools and putting them into the shed. Then I picked up the lumber and stacked it inside the shed against the north wall, right next to a shelf.

I looked down on that shelf, and there, right where I had put it, was the tape measure. I swear I heard it laughing at me.

Photo of the Week

I am always amused when I visit the men's room at the American Legion Post on South Meridian Street to see that the veterans still remember Jane Fonda for her activities during the Vietnam War. I wonder how many thousands of these stickers are in use around the country?

Fleecing the Next Generation

My conscience bothered me a little bit at first, but as time went on it became easier and easier, and before long, I didn't even give it a second thought.

Some time ago, I was short on cash the day before payday. All I needed was enough gas in the tank to get to work. I didn't have time to stop at the bank. Then I remembered my little grand-daughter Miranda's piggy bank.

We keep a bank at our house for her so she can save the money she earns when she helps us with chores. After she has saved for a while we take her to Dollar General and she buys a few toys.

So I helped myself to ten bucks from her bank, and left an IOU to help me remember to pay her back.

Since she's only seven, Miranda is not too good at tracking her money, so she never noticed that I had taken another five bucks from her bank the following week, and left her another IOU.

It occurred to me after a while that I had been working hard for all these years, and I deserved to enjoy a little more out of life. I began to feel like this kid owed me something. After all, if I hadn't fathered her mother, Miranda wouldn't even exist. I started to feel entitled to some of her assets.

It didn't take me long to clean out the piggy bank -- her piddly savings barely bought me the house steak dinner at Applebee's -- but I faithfully filled the little pig up with IOUs so that Miranda would know she still had assets on hand.

After I opened the first credit card account in her name, I finally felt that I could start living in the manner to which I hoped to become accustomed.

Since Miranda was still in elementary school, and didn't have much of a credit history, I could only get a $500 limit on that first card, but I knew I was on to something. It was easy to apply and receive new credit cards, and as Miranda's credit history became established, all of her existing cards began to qualify for larger limits.

My first major purchase was a 14 mega-pixel SLR digital camera with 10x zoom. Best camera I have ever owned! It was worth every cent Miranda paid for it.

Later on I bought an awesome 4-wheel-drive ATV for off-road excursions. And I really looked good tooling down the highway in my new Harley. Eventually I acquired my ultimate dream-come-true: a 40-foot yacht fully rigged for blue-water sailing. I was all set to travel around the world, courtesy of my grand-daughter.

Thanks to this child, I never had to worry about budgeting again. Anything I wanted, I just charged to her. As the bills from the older cards came due, I would simply apply for a new card, and then use a small portion of the new card's balance to make a minimum payment on an older card.

After all, don't we have the right to enrich ourselves at the expense of our grandchildren? Don't they owe us a comfortable lifestyle?

After a while, Miranda started catching on to what I had done to her credit rating. She started getting kind of disrespectful with her grandpa, and accused me of taking advantage of her. The nerve of that ungrateful child! I handed her a shoebox full of my personal IOUs, and assured her that everything was accounted for.

But she wanted some cash. She had tried to buy a new doll at the Dollar General, and they wouldn't take any of my IOUs as payment. So she gets all whiny and in my face about it. What are they teaching these kids in second grade nowadays? How about some respect for your elders?

So then she starts crying and screaming at me. "You are ruining my life! You have piled debts on me that I can never repay! How can I ever go to college? How will I ever afford to buy my own house? How could you do this to me? How could you be so selfish? I hate you!"

On and on she kept fussing, until finally she spit in my face and kicked me in the groin...

I was writhing on the floor, crying and coughing, when my wife slapped me across the face to snap me out of it.

"Dave, wake up! You're having a bad dream!" she shouted.

I sat up in terror and was barely able to breathe. I was covered in sweat, and my heart was pounding. I held my head in my hands and could feel my temples throbbing.

"Oh Peggy, it was awful," I sobbed between gasps for air. "It was the worst nightmare I've ever had! I dreamed I became a United States Congressman!"

Another Routine Day in the ER

Fortunately for me, I was wearing clean, new briefs. Turns out mom was right: You never know when you might end up in the emergency room and all those people are going to see your underwear.

I knew I was having a bad day when I kept getting short of breath while working on a plumbing project in South Bend. I had some tightness in my chest, but I was not overly concerned. Mild angina attacks are not uncommon for me, and I always carry a bottle of sub-lingual nitro tablets.

I decided I would call it a day and head home, just in case I started feeling worse. At first the nitro was helping to relieve my symptoms, and I began driving back to Indianapolis, telling myself I would be okay.

Somewhere between South Bend and Peru, heading south on US 31, my chest pains become stronger. The nitro tablets weren't helping much anymore. That is when the serious praying began.

"God, please, just let me get home in one piece. I promise I will head straight for the hospital!"

The further south I drove, the worse I felt. There was a strong steady ache in my chest and left shoulder, and I felt a little woozy. I considered my options. Pulling over to take a nap sounded tempting, but I wasn't sure I would ever wake up.

Finally I passed a sign that said Kokomo was 20 miles away, and that sounded like the place for me. I have driven through Kokomo hundreds of times, and had often noticed the large billboard for Howard Regional Health System that pictured a lifeline helicopter streaking through the sky with the caption, "Tell them to take me to Howard!" Howard Regional was my new destination.

I kept driving and praying. The ache in my shoulder grew stronger. The tightness in my chest was increasing, and it seemed to be harder to breathe. I was struggling to keep my anxiety under control so I didn't make things any worse.

When I ran out of nitro tablets, I still had about 10 miles to go. I swallowed another aspirin, and then let a second aspirin dissolve under my tongue. That was not a pleasant taste sensation, but I was getting desperate.

I began to think that maybe this was it. Is this is how I would die, having a heart attack while trying to get to a hospital? I thought maybe I should just pull over and let it happen, but I just kept praying and kept driving.

I got really serious with Jesus at this point. I apologized to him for not having done anything more constructive with the life he had given me. I thanked him for having saved me so many years ago, and thanked him for the peace I now had, knowing that I would be with him in heaven the moment I left this earth.

I asked him to show me if there was something I had missed that I should have accomplished for him, in case I did actually survive this thing. Maybe, I thought, he had orchestrated all of this as a teachable moment. Maybe I was about to experience some glorious revelation or a life-changing vision of heaven.

Well, this illustrates what a pathetically mundane life I live: After all that praying, the only thought that came to my mind was the fact that my garage and tool shed are filled with 35 years worth of junk, and I felt ashamed that my kids were going to have to clean up all my trash after I was gone.

After this moving spiritual experience, I realized that I was getting close to the hospital. Maybe I was going to live! The sweetest sight I have seen in a long time was that sign that read: Emergency Room Entrance.

The staff at Howard Regional was fantastic. Within 30 seconds of walking into emergency, I was being wheeled into an exam room. The emergency room doctor, William Driehorst, and a team of nurses were on me like white on rice. They were all moving at double-time, hooking me up to things and poking and prodding me. As they peeled my clothing off, I was glad, as I mentioned earlier, to have those nice new briefs on.

You have never experienced total customer service until you walk into an emergency room with a heart attack. I've never had so many people working so hard on my behalf.

Within 30 minutes of my arrival, I was in surgery. It turns out that Howard Regional has an outstanding cardiac care unit, and one of their top physicians, Dr. Michael Ritchie, was my surgeon. Was Jesus looking out for me, or what?

The next day Jan, one of my nurses in the ER, visited me in my room and told me that she was glad I stopped when I did. "Your EKG was awful. You would not have made it to Indianapolis," she said.

While in the ER, I had been teasing the staff that I drove all the way to Kokomo because of their billboard, and they thought that was so funny that the hospital's PR person arranged for a reporter from a Kokomo newspaper to visit me so he could do a short feature about my experience. I will be happy to autograph souvenir copies of next week's edition of the Kokomo Perspective for the nominal fee of $10 each. (I've got medical bills to pay, you know.)

Life really is like a box of chocolates sometimes.

So now I'm back home, resting and praising God for once again delivering me. Life goes on, and I hope to have a long time yet to watch my grand-kids grow up. I look forward to many more trips through Kokomo, and I'll always give a salute as I drive by Howard Regional Health System.

My number one spring project this year will be cleaning out the garage and shed. Then I will be ready to die in peace should I happen to run out of nitro tablets on a deserted stretch of highway sometime in the future.

What I Learned Today at School

I like to think of life as a kind of continuing adult education program. I possess several degrees from the School of Hard Knocks, and I am particularly proud of my Working Man's PhD.

If you are paying attention you will, in fact, learn something new every day. I learned several new things just this evening, so in the interest of my readers' enlightenment, I will be happy to share these recent life-lessons with you. Pay attention, there may be a quiz later.

When cooking with a wok, I find that an aromatic wok oil consisting of a blend of garlic, ginger, sesame and soybean oils imparts a delicious flavor to a healthy batch of home-made Vegetable Lo-Mein. Ideally, your wok will be just hot enough to cause the wok oil to smoke when you drizzle it into the wok immediately before adding your vegetables.

If you become distracted and allow the wok to become "blue hot" before you add the wok oil, the wok oil will quickly vaporize, burst into a fireball, and become a blazing inferno atop your stove.

The fireball is likely to cause you to reflexively jump back, which can result in you spilling wok oil on the kitchen floor and all over the front of your shirt.

Your wife will not be pleased when she walks into the kitchen and notices that there is an inferno on the stove, even if it is safely contained within your wok.

Never attempt to extinguish an oil fire with water. You should smother the fire with a large towel, but preferably not your wife's favorite new Pampered Chef's terry cloth print towel, even if it is the closest thing within reach.

After the blaze is extinguished, a dedicated chef will resume preparing his recipe, carrying on as if nothing unusual has happened, despite the smokey working conditions.

Burnt wok oil imparts an appetizing "fire-roasted" flavor to the vegetables in your lo-mein.

Wok oil stains are difficult to remove from a cotton shirt, and so is the smell of garlic and ginger.

Wok oil imparts a lovely sheen to the vinyl tile on your kitchen floor, and could be used in a pinch if you happen to run out of Mop n' Glo.

Questions, Questions, Questions

Happy to report that Mrs. Smith and I had a great time in downtown Indy at the Ribfest this past Sunday evening. One of my favorite bands, Collective Soul, played for 90 minutes to close out the festivities for that day.

During the concert, I engaged in one of my favorite past-times: people-watching. There was quite a diverse crowd of BBQ lovers on hand, and since that excursion, some stray questions have crossed my mind, which I will now share with you, in no particular order.

1. How would I look with a spiked yellow Mohawk?

2. Am I the only person in Indianapolis without a tattoo?

3. Would I look younger if I wore plaid boxer shorts and let my jeans slide halfway down my butt?

4. How much does it hurt to have your tongue pierced?

5. Can you really get people to give you money by leaning against a lamp post and shaking a plastic cup?

6. Who has time to write graffiti inside a port-o-let?

7. Who keeps a toddler up until 10:30 at night and takes him to a concert without hearing protection?

8. How far do you have to move away from a crying toddler so that you can enjoy the concert?

9. Why did I wear a white shirt to a Rib Festival?

10. After all these years, does Peggy ever get tired of cleaning me up?

11. If the street is dark and there is no policeman to see you, is it still jaywalking?

12. Why is there only one bench in Military Park?

13. Should women whose waist size exceeds their bust size wear tank tops in public?

14. How much does it cost to cover your entire upper torso in tattoos?

15. Would I feel self-conscious if I had a piece of metal stuck through my nose?

Cartoon of the WeekI Believe This Says It All

(click on graphic to enlarge)