Give Me My Dang Discount!

There is a trendy new axiom regarding age that declares...

"50 is the new 40!" and

"40 is the new 30!"

With this great logic is 20 the new 10, and is 10 the new ??? (although it may explain our ten-year-old AJ's behavior!)

However, I say it is propaganda from individuals who obviously failed in math.

A lot of this new math nonsense is being perpetuated in Kaiser Permanente commercials. To which I respond, how comfortable do you really feel about a Doctor that is, apparently, "not good with numbers", working on your heart.

"Don't worry Mr. Olson, that 275/140 BP reading is the NEW 117/70...or at least, I think it is..."

Although while we would like to think of ourselves as that younger version of us we get subtle reminders that we, indeed, are not!

Case in point, I got the above pictured AARP membership card in the mail yesterday. It is a gentle reminder that I am officially old. At least old enough to start claiming discounts from Denny's and participating Movie theaters.

But then, I started thinking, besides the discounts, that there are actually a lot of additional perks to this "card-carrying old guy thing" such as:

- You no longer have to help anyone in the ward move ever again. If an overzealous Elder's Quorum president asks you to help with a family move-in (out) all you have to do is simply grab any part of your body such as your lower back, knee, or my personal favorite...the "chest grab" and the offending elder will be off to his next victim faster than you can say, "U-Haul"!
Note: You must be attending the High Priest group for this to work.

- You can officially be cranky for absolutely no reason whatsoever. People will just assume you didn't get your fiber that morning.

- You will always get a seat on a shuttle bus, train, or subway...just remember to limp ever so slightly whenever you enter said vehicle(s).

- You now have a valid reason why you can't dunk a basketball. The younger guys weren't alive during the time you claimed that you could...revisionist history is an ally to the aged.

- You can fall asleep in Sacrament meeting (or anywhere else actually) and people will think it is cute.

And lastly, you get grandchildren.

I took my 4 year-old granddaughter, Olivia, for a walk with the two dogs (Moto and Erin's dog, Charlie) and after awhile as we headed for home Olivia said,

"Papa, I really love coming to California!"

"Why is that Sweety?" I asked.

Then, tilting her head back and looking up at me from her stroller she says,

"Cause I get to see YOU!"

I love being old...

I Am A Neat-Freak (Not)...

I have known individuals who cannot leave their office at the end of the day without making sure that everything is filed away and the top of their desk is "clean as a whistle" (by the way, just how clean are whistles with all that saliva and icky mouth germs on them? I digress. Everyone understands this saying).

Anyway, I am not one of those people.

The photo above is my desk. This is actually the clean version of my desk because yesterday I purged a lot of junk mail, messages, fliers, unread Wall Street Journals, and six half-empty soda cups from Quik Stop (why do I always buy the 32 oz size when I never, ever even come close to finishing them?)

If "cleanliness is next to godliness" then my desk makes me definitely hell-bound. My closet and garage at home? They qualify for son of perdition-hood.

However, like a repentant brother of Nephi, I occasionally will be so overwhelmed by the spirit that I will clean like a madman and restore my desk, closet, and garage to their celestial glory. I find that when I do clean, I enjoy the results immensely and revel in my sainthood up until...

...that first half-full 32 oz. cup of diet soda spends the night on my desk.

Then, the slippery-slide to hell is "quick and sure" as the junk on my desk multiplies faster than rabbits on viagra and I return to the chaotic mess that has a parasitic grasp on my faux-antique desk.

My purgatorial "calling and election made sure", I was resigned to my fate until today, when I discovered...

ADDERALL!

I am saved.

Hi, My Name is...Buddy!

One of the more disconcerting aspects of being an aging Boomer is how the RAM portion of the brain's memory can crash so quickly.

Case in point. Have you ever been in social situations where you meet someone, hear their name, and instantly forget it? Now, if it is a guy, there is an easy solution...you call them "Buddy".

NOTE: My much, much younger counterparts can insert "Dude"...but then, they don't have memory issues do they?

Anyway, Buddy will always work and no one is the wiser, especially upon leaving, when the dismissive departing wave is accompanied with, "Hey, take care buddy!".

Buddy. It is the pre-Alzheimer guy's life preserver.

Last Saturday night I went with Margo to her school fundraiser dinner/dance. There were lots of recognizable faces, however, I was absolutely unable and clueless on recalling any names. Contrast my dilemma with the fact that my wife can remember everyone's name, including the 830 students and 85 staff members at her school only serves to exacerbate my anxiety.

Our table has ten people, one couple I have known for nearly 20 years so I am good to go there, but another couple I meet for the first time along with yet another couple, they all introduce themselves and as much as I am trying to remember them, I have forgotten their names before they have even finished the last syllable.

The remaining couple sitting to our right I have met at least 3 other times (they have even been to our house!) and I am drawing a complete goose egg on the guy's name. I spent a good 15 minutes mentally going though the alphabet trying to recall his first name to no avail, so I gave up and defaulted into my "buddy system" for the remainder of the evening.

I hope it is not hereditary. Although, the other night I was talking to my son on the phone and just as he hung up he said, "Hey, take care Buddy!"

Dang!

I Have Been Tagged!

I woke up this morning with "XIII Los Lobos" spray painted on my belly!

Sadly, with plenty of room to spare...

Actually, "tagging" in the blogging world means that I am suppose to reveal 7 unusual things about myself and then pass the "tag" along. My daughter-in-law, Renee, was the one who tagged me after she herself had been tagged.

So, without further ado and in random order:

1. I met the Shah of Iran. In early 1980, (after he was exiled and Iran was taken over by the Ayatollah Khomeini), in Atlanta at a Financial Planning seminar. He was trying to raise money...but that is whole other story.

2. I have a phobia about swimming in lakes. I can swim in a pool. I can swim in the ocean. Get me in a lake and I start to hyperventilate. I think it stems from almost drowning in Lake Berryessa...again another story.

3. I can still hit a 90 mph fastball. A nasty slider on the other hand...

4. I have scored over 84,000 in TextTwist.

5. My first computer was an Apple II with 64K of memory. I used Visicalc for spreadsheets. They didn't have a word processing software then. Windows did not exist.

6. President Hinkley and I have talked on the phone. Another story of course...

7. I have said the opening prayer in front of 15,000 people...yep, at the Marriott Center.

Now, I am duty bound to "Tag" three other people (and they in turn tag three more...hey, if everyone "tagged" would send me a dollar, how many downlines would it take to reach a million??? Okay, Britton, we know you answered the question before anyone else...)

Anyway, I now "Tag": Tia (aka Aileen), Grandmalita, and Britton!

Now...how do you remove spray paint from skin?

All I Want For Christmas is a New Menorah...

Alex is a wannabe Jew.

Where he developed this affinity and fascination with Judaism is beyond me. Last year he really did indeed want a Menorah for Christmas and which he did, in fact, receive.

Alex and Margo (his quasi-Jewish mother) went to a Hanukkah party last weekend at a REAL Jew's home and played games (spinning the Driedel) and ate Kosher food. He apparently had a good time because he is now cutting the bills off all his baseball caps and using the remaining hat as a yarmulke.

To top it all off, Margo actually WON the Matzoh Ball soup contest at school which pitted the Mormon-Green-Jello-Salad-Queen against the Jews and their historic Matzoh Ball soup recipes that have been handed down from generations of Jewish moms. I told Margo to tell them that the secret ingredient that made her soup so tasty was bacon!

They got even though...the winning prize was a bottle of wine and a coffee mug.

Why I Hate Cats...

Sometime, well after the fall of Adam, God created telestial creatures like cockroachs... and CATS!

My dislike for cats was borne through years of observation and honed into a fine hatred during my missionary days in England.

While I always seemed to have companions that were deathly fearful of dogs, I have always loved dogs and they seem to have a natural affection for me. Even the most vicious dog was reduced to a vigorous tail wagging puppy when I met up with them...maybe it's a "gift of the spirit".

Cats, on the other hand, were a completely different story. It seemed that every house that we got into, that had a cat, would do it's obligatory rub against your leg, jump onto your lap with it's "you-may-pet-me-now-you-large-pink-colored-beast" look, which I would reluctantly indulge the finicky feline. Inevitably, the petting is abrubtly halted by a tear-inducing scratch and bite from the crazy cat as it leaps from your lap. (Note: A dog will look at you, acknowledge with a lick his gratitude for the scritch-scratch, and meander off. A cat, however, feels obligated to punish you for exceeding your time-limit of petting).

Back to the scratching cat. It's timing was impeccable one time as it was my turn to bear my testimony about a particular principle:

"Mr. Brown, I want you to know that I have a testimo....OUCH!!! &*#*$%@&!# CAT!"

The Browns never joined the Church. I blame the cat. I dust my feet of that cat. I'm convinced that Satan probably owns a cat.

Now, I know I will get the cat lovers of the world dander up (pun intended) and I am okay with that. The prevailing rejoinder of that misguided group of cat-lovers is that cats are:

1. Smart. Yeah right. Show me even one that has graduated from kindergarten.

2. Loving. I submit that they don't love you, they allow you to live so that you can feed them and change their litter box.

3. Loyal. Yeah? Just miss one feeding time and they are shacking up with your neighbor faster than you can say Pamela Anderson.

4. Clean. They shed. You vacuum.

5. Easy going. Sure...until you cross them.

As irony would have it, we "own" (or do they own us?) two cats! Yes, dos gatos! This is in direct defiance of my wishes (which by virtue of having two cats proves the utter lack of power and authority I wield in our family) and brought into our home by my animal-loving daughter, Kelsey, who apparently (and suspiciously) did not inherit my cat-hating gene.

I am awaiting the DNA results.

On Spitting, Scratching, and Double-Headers

I don't think I can ever watch the end of the movie, "Field of Dreams", when Kevin Costner asks his father, "Hey, Dad? You want to have a catch?" without breaking down and bawling like a baby.

Britton and I played (and AJ watched) in a Father/Son Baseball tournament in Phoenix, Arizona last week in what (with apologies to Iowa) heaven is suppose to be like. There was unlimited sunflower seed spitting, scratching, butt-slapping, more spitting, and the grabbing and adjusting any part of your body, with unfettered joy.

We played a double-header (two 9-inning games, for the less enlightened. By the way, I wonder where that term ever originated?) on Thursday, and then on Friday we played another double-header. Thirty-six innings of baseball in less than 24 hours!

It was Nirvana!

We won our first game, and lost the remaining 3 games. Saturday we could barely move. I caught all nine innings of the first game (in 98 degree desert heat) and have 3 new bruises in spots that will be difficult to explain to my wife. We are slightly heat exhausted, battered like baby seals, and move "slower than cold molasses through a straw" (Britton's terminology).

Man...that was fun!