Jill visits for Spring Break

“Spring Break”

    Kay and I have made it a point to stay close to home from mid-March to early April. We made it a point immediately after renting a beach house with the Plilers during spring break of 2003. What a stupid time to go to the beach.

We saw things that still bother me to this day. Just think, without the binoculars, I would’ve missed a lot of it. Anyway, I protect Kay from stuff like that now. Virginia and Freeman? Oh, you can catch them in some of the spring break footage that appears each year on the news. It changed the couple. -- Virginia is either laughing or in the process of calling me.  

True to form, last week Kay and I stayed put during spring break. But, we still had a blast, ‘cause my sister Jill came up and spent a few days with us. My kid sister works at a college south of here, so she’s a big fan of the break known as “Spring.”

I’m a fan of her visiting ‘cause we talk about old times, test each other on the lyrics of the old songs and we laugh a lot. Oh, the best part is that Jill treats us to IHOP for breakfast. She used to take us out only on Christmas mornings, but has recently decided to treat us during each of her overnight visits. I keep insisting that she stop doing that, but each time I hand her the check she takes it. Whatta sister!

At last week’s IHOP visit, I finally got the red velvet cake pancakes. It was either that or the banana caramel. I asked the waitress which she preferred, and she said the ones without the bananas and caramel. I developed an instant liking for Kathleen. 

And also for red velvet pancakes. They have now edged out the cinnamon pancake as my favorite. Kathleen told me that I’d better eat as many red velvets as I can, ‘cause in the near future they’re gonna drop ‘em for something else. She was almost in tears when she said it.

I tell you that as way of encouraging you to notify the IHOP front office and urge them not to kill the red velvet pancake. These people have lost their minds.

Besides IHOP we went to Kroger. Kay and I go there usually twice a day, ‘cause one of us can’t remember to occasionally refer to the grocery list. Hey, that thing usually gets misplaced over in produce. Either that or someone is stealing it from me. 

Before leaving Kroger, Jill told the kid who bagged our groceries that he looked like Eric Burdon. The boy did not change his expression, so I said, “Eric Burdon of The Animals?” Nothing. Then I said, “House of the Rising Sun?” He looked up to his right as if he were thinking of the song or hoping I’d leave him alone. 

I decided to sing him some of the lines to jog his memory. “There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun--” Kay dragged me out of the place. She said, “How can a guy who didn’t recognize a single song or recipient during this year’s Grammy Awards, expect a high school kid to know who Eric Burdon is?”

After a lunch of Vernon’s fried chicken (I really like Fried Chicken Tuesdays) we went to the movie to see “The Great and Powerful Oz.” We went because we’d already seen “Jack the Giant Slayer.”

Turned out, OZ was really quite bad. Great special effects and the 3-D look was superb. However, the movie stank on ice. Jill blamed it on James Franco, the guy who played OZ. Jill said that Franco is not suited for comedy… or drama. I believe her words were, “The guy can’t act and can’t even pretend to act.” You have to weigh that awhile before it makes sense. Once it registers, it’s near profound.

Kay actually agreed with Jill. Kay is so sweet that I like to hear her say something negative. Makes me feel better about me. – Oh, and the good news about the OZ outing  was that the popcorn was good.

And, do you want to know a coincidence? The night before Jill left, we watched something on PBS about the songs of the ‘60s. Sure enough, there was Eric Burdon. I reached for the phone to call Kroger, but a sane mind prevailed.

    During the rest of Jill’s visit we managed to squeeze in a lot of other fun stuff. I don’t think the bag boy at Kroger would’ve thought it all that much fun, but, hey, youngsters? Unless they’re on the beach, they never look like they’re having fun.

    Speaking of which, I’m fairly sure that incoming call is from Virginia. – “Hey, kiddo, it was a joke. I joke, okay? Sheesh…” -- Next time.

Earlier days: I'm in the middle with a tight grip on Big Al. 

Jill is trying to help.

End

Whataburger meet

This isn't Merle, but he kind of looks like him.

“Too much”

I ran into Merle and Lucy at Kroger the other day. Kay and I were trying to find the cookies when I made eye contact with Merle from mid-aisle. It was one of those deals where you recognize somebody, but you don’t know from where. 

Fortunately, Merle knew from where. Sensing my unease he said, “Whataburger.” I just love people who don’t make me guess. I don’t have the stamina for it.

Of course, it was Whataburger. Merle and his wife go to Whataburger almost morningly. They sit with several other of the less young and solve a multitude of life’s preponderancies.  

Kay and I occasionally hit Whataburger right before we do some of our in-town chores. On each occasion we’ve seen Merle and Lucy sitting there talking with the gang. I always get a reciprocal smile and nod, but don’t join in. Some gangs have initiations that are quite taxing.

For breakfast at Whataburger, Kay and I always get Breakfast on a Bun… bacon. It’s the best, Jerry. And, get this -- seniors get a discount on their drinks. I can get a small coffee for free! They’ve got the best breakfast sandwich, they play old rock ‘n roll hits on the radio, and they serve discounted drinks to old people. If they put a wading pool in the parking lot, I’d spend the whole day there.

By the by, Kay looks too young to be a senior citizen. They have never asked for her ID, but it would tickle her if they did. Crazy thing is, the girl is two weeks older than I am. We’d look equally young, but I didn’t think to take care of my face… or my hair. Look at me now. Just look at me! Don’t let this happen to you.

All right, let’s get back to Merle. He’s standing there in Kroger over by the salad dressing waiting for Lucy to decide on a brand. – Sidebar: Lucy is not Merle’s wife’s name. I think it’s Lucretia, but I have no idea how to spell that.

So, Kay and I got to talk with Merle and Lucy for a little while in the store. Nice couple. Strange taste in salad dressing. (I just made that up.)

Just this morning, at Kay’s insistence, we went to Whataburger before grocery shopping. Seems I’m a most impulsive buyer of stupid stuff when I’m hungry. My thinker repositions all its saneness back there with the names of the State capitals. A lot of dust back there.

Bottom line, when I’m hungry, I end up doing stuff like buying a carton of Blue Bell Grandma’s Pecan Apple Butter and a carton of Chocolate Grease Nut Cookie Dough. Next morning, I have no recollection of the purchase.

Because of this morning’s Whataburger breakfast stop, I didn’t buy anything stupid in Kroger. Kay thought the pecan pie unnecessary, but what does she know. I told her that she oughtta buy a Stick-in-Mud Pie with Walnuts.

While leaving Kroger I checked on the progress of the HEB across the street. In my neck of the woods, they’re building a giant H.E.B. right across from Kroger. There’s gonna be a battle of the food depositories. It’s a gastronomical perfect storm.

In anticipation of the HEB opening, the Kroger boss is shuffling stuff around. Store bosses go to school to know the best place to put stuff. You don’t even wanna know where they put the crackers. Nor will you. Why is it that no one ever consults me before making major changes in stuff? I know things. Use me!

Before the Kroger shuffle, I had the place completely figured out. I was actually helping old ladies and Californians find stuff. Not now. Now, I’m reminded of a line from Shakespeare’s brother: “Use resides with me not. I am become the asker of where stuff is.” (From “Three Guys of Syracuse.”)

Two big grocery stores right across the street from one another. What will I do? What WILL I do? I only wish I had thought to ask Merle and Lucy their thoughts on the matter.

Me? My first concern in choosing between two competing grocery stores is variety. I don’t want too much, nor too little. Life is too short for too much.

An example of too much variety is breakfast cereal. Last year 38 new types of cereal arrived on the market. Thirty-eight new boxes to overlook on my search for Wheat Chex.

Soon there will grocery malls. – Okay, darling, I’m going to the Cereal Store, while you head to the soup over by the penguin pond.

Too much of a good thing. That’s what came across my mind after making eye contact with Merle. The origins of some articles are just weird as they can be. Fortunately, the articles themselves end up making perfect sense.

By the way, did I mention that Lucy isn’t Merle’s wife’s real name?

End

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Faster than a pancake

An actual drawing of Esau and Jacob from Dead Sea Scrolls.

“Food algorithms -- Beg pardon?”

    Do you have any idea how long it took to prepare food back in The Good Ol’ Days? A long time. So long that the course of history was occasionally determined by the length of time it took cook a meal. Case in point:

    Are you familiar with the Jacob and Esau story in Genesis? They were twins. Esau was the older by about 18 seconds. Give or take. As the eldest son, Esau got the bulk of his father’s inheritance. There’s no justice in that.

    One day, Esau came home starving as a result of an unsuccessful hunting excursion. Who hasn’t been there? Jacob had prepared a pot of soup, but refused to give his brother a bowl, because… well, he was acting the jerk.

Esau, fearing he might die of hunger any minute, agreed to give Jacob his inheritance in exchange for a bowl of soup. Logic being -- What good is my birthright if I’m dead?

That’s all Biblical. Movies have been made. However, if that same episode had happened today… well, it wouldn’t have happened. Esau would’ve come home and said, “Hey, how about a bowl of soup?” Jacob would’ve declined, and Esau would’ve scrounged around and eaten a grilled cheese sandwich or peanut butter and crackers. Maybe some Honey Nut Cheerios.

The entire course of Biblical history could’ve been altered because of the length of time for food preparation. That’s one reason that most of us are a lot bigger than Jacob and Esau. Jacob and Esau must of weighed, what, 28 river stones apiece? Sounds about right. On average, most of us weigh closer to 52 river stones. (“Ancient Measurement Conversions” by Arnold Brackett, 1921.)

This whole speed-of-food preparation algorithm visited me last week and sat heavy on my brain. – What? Algorithm? I don’t know. But, I like the word. -- Algorithm.

Saturday, Jill had the greatest idea in the history of idea-dom. My kid sister invited the family over for a pancake lunch. Can you believe that? Not spaghetti, chili or barbecue. Pancakes! For lunch! (It’s okay to use exclamation points when mentioning pancakes. I looked it up.)

Lunch was to start at noon, so everyone showed up at about 12:15. Jill had fried up a plate of sausage and mixed up a gallon or so of pancake batter. The sausage was staying warm in the oven. The batter was just sitting there on the cabinet.

Do you know how long it takes to make pancakes for 84 people? Longer than for the 11 of us, but it still takes a long time. You’ve got to get the griddle hot. Toss out the first few pancakes ‘cause they’re… I don’t know. The first pancakes are cursed. 

So, we’re looking at pancake supper, not lunch.  In her e-mail, Jill had assigned the pancake-making to Big Al. It’s 12:30 and Big Al is sitting on the couch waiting for… what? I had no idea. Eleven people, a cold griddle and a cook who was unaware of algorithms. -- Boy, I like that word.

I couldn’t ask Al to get started, ‘cause I’m the Hayter brother who always tries to take charge of stuff. There’s a reason for that, but there’s no need to discuss it here. Meet me at Starbucks shortly after you finish this thing.

I eventually went over to Kay and asked her to the pancakes. Big Al would kill me had I usurped his authority, but he wouldn’t touch Kay. Al likes Kay. Everyone likes Kay. One reason they like her is ‘cause she never usurps. She can’t. Well, she does usurp me, but I’m the only one. – Usurp? Not that good a word. Let’s drop it. 

So, I went to Jill and asked if she had any idea how long it would to prepare pancakes for 11 people. She said, “No, how long?” -- Zombies! I was surrounded by zombified doodle heads. They’re the worst kind. Jill, then turned and said, “Hey, Alan! Mark thinks you should start the pancakes."

Al making pancakes... as I remember it.

D’oh! Had I been Esau, I would’ve had to turn over my birthright right then and there. All because I was impatient to get my pancakes. I wasn’t going to die from lack of food. I could live for months off of the fat stored in the area just above my hips.

But, nooo. I wanted syrupy flapjacks with sausage, and I wanted ‘em 30 minutes ago. -- “Mark, thy name is Esau.” That’s in Malachi somewhere. I’m paraphrasing.

And, there you have it. A tale of impatience, of gluttony, of pride and pancakes… with a few algorithms thrown in. So, take a lesson, dear reader. Be patient, less indulgent, more humble. Oh, and go to IHOP… if sanctity of family means anything to you. – Next time.

End

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com. You can find a stockpile of his articles at www.rooftopwriter.com. 

Jimmy Legg -- 546 in dog years

“Restless legs”


    Did you know that it’s possible to take too many naps? I had no idea. A tendency towards daytime dozing is a sign of something. There is a 73 percent chance that it’s something bad. I may have read that somewhere.

    According to my sleeping nurse, I nap too often. Sleeping nurse? That sounded bad. She’s a family nurse practitioner (FNP). That’s what she is.

    My FNP told me that napping could be a sign that I’m not getting enough sleep at night. My first thought was – Who told you I’ve been napping? Turns out, my machine told her. She had the printout from my CPAP machine right in front of her. CPAP stands for “Blow Air Up Your Nose” machine.

    Kay and I both use a CPAP. Have for years. As long as you don’t take a look at me wearing my mask, I don’t mind you knowing about it. Some of the CPAP masks give you the look of a jet pilot. If you have trouble nodding off, you can pretend to be in a dog fight. Kay always makes me fly the MIG-29, because she wants to be one of the Blue Angels. She’s such a child.

    Turns out Kay and I were both told we needed to go the sleep clinic… again. It would be Kay’s second visit and my third. A sleep clinic is where you get a room with several other people and talk about sleep. No, that’s something else.

The sleep clinic we went to was really a place where you get hooked up with wires on your head, face, arms, chest and legs. Once you’re completely wired, you’re told to go to sleep on a bed that feels much worse than yours. It’s a blast.

    Kay and I went to the same clinic, but were given separate rooms. They apparently fear that, if you get the least bit amorous, one or both of you are liable to get electrocuted. That’s just a guess.

    Kay was the first one to get wired, so she had some time to kill before lights-out—uh, lights dimmed. So, she walked into my room looking like a giant chia pet. The minute she laid eyes on me, she started laughing. The girl looks like Medusa unchained, yet has the gall to laugh at how I look. For some odd reason, they didn’t have mirrors in the sleep clinic.

    During the night, your every move is videoed, while a computer takes readouts from all the wiring. Our night in tangles ended at six a.m. We could’ve stayed longer, but we had a reservation at I-HOP.

We walked into the pancake palace with red gel in our hair from where they stuck the wires. We would’ve cleaned up better, but there were no mirrors. I thought I told you that.

A couple of days ago, we went back to our FNP for the results. Kay’s doing okay. She just needs a chinstrap to keep her mouth shut at night. And, she needed her CPAP jacked up three more points to shoot more air up her nose. She’ll be fine.

Me? The nurse needed to increase my air power four more notches. And, get this, I’ve got the jimmy leg. RLS. The ol’ restless leg syndrome. Apparently, I move my leg 78 times an hour. That converts to 546 in dog time. (I don’t know what that means.)

As long as Kay hadn’t complained about my night-kicks, I didn’t see a problem. The nurse told me that each time my leg twitches, it wakes me up. She had the readout to prove it. I was waking up 78 times an hour. Had I been a dog I would’ve dug a hole in the mattress.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been diagnosed with restless leg. The last time, I was prescribed a pill that gave me headaches and made my breath reek. I quit taking it. My new nurse told me not to worry. They’ve come up with a patch. A patch that, without insurance, would be affordable by only one percent of the nation’s population.

    I now wear a patch 24 hours a day. I’m in the constant state of patch. Side-effects? – I’m not making this up. – The patch makes me hungry and it makes me want to nap. Fortunately, it hasn’t caused nausea and mood swings, two of the other possible side-effects.

Okay, let me sum all of this up for those of you still awake. -- If you take too many naps, it may be a sign that you’re not sleeping well at night. But, again, it may be a sign that you’re sleeping well at night, but the medication that helps you sleep at night  makes you nap.

     If you scratch this thing, you’re gonna find someone in the pharmaceutical industry laughing his rear off.

End

You can contact mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

We used to call 'em thongs.

Flip Flops -- No can wear

    The evolution of the shoe is a fascinating subject… to about a half dozen people. Today, I find myself among ‘em.

You can trace my allure for foot coverings as far back as yesterday. It was right after Brad and I exited a restaurant in the Market Street area of The Woodlands. As we discussed what we didn’t get the wives for Valentines, I noticed a shop that sold predominantly flip-flops. I think it was called The Flip Flop Shop.

As Brad walked past, I stopped to study the different varieties of flip-flops in the window display. Realizing that we had taken my car, Brad walked back to the shop window and said, “I can’t wear those things.”

That was so weird, ‘cause that’s just what I was thinking. I was thinking that Brad can’t wear— I mean that I can’t wear flip-flops. Actually I can, but I hate to. Not only do I find it uncomfortable walking with an object between my toes, I don’t like my shoe flipping and flopping as I walk.

We used to call ‘em “thongs.” you know. We don’t call ‘em that anymore ‘cause it creates a mental picture that burns. “Can I help you, sir?” – “Yes, I’m looking for something in a black thong.”

No, “flip-flop” is a good name for ‘em. “Hard-to-walks” would also be good. “Shuffle-shoes” another appropriate name. That’s the only way I can wear flip-flops or sandals. I have to shuffle my feet.

Some of you are not old enough to remember Tim Conway on “The Carol Burnett Show.” Occasionally, Conway would mimic an old person by walking in a short shuffle. It was funny, for the first 10 seconds. Unfortunately, that’s the only way I can wear thongs—uh, flip-flops. I have to shuffle. Do you know what happens to you after the foot-shuffling stage of your life? They put you in the ground.

I thought Kay was aware of my disdain for things that make me shuffle. Listen to this. Kay urged me to buy a pair of Crocs for yard work. Crocs are those heavy plastic, wide-toed, weird-looking shoes with holes.

So, I bought a pair at Academy. I chose the camouflage design, so the neighbors wouldn’t notice. And, I got a pair with a strap across the back, so I wouldn’t be flipping and flopping in the yard. The next morning I got those buddies out so I could inspect the fiefdom, and low-and-behold Kay had removed the straps. She said that it would make it possible to put the shoes on without bending over.

Any shoe that you can put on without bending over is not a shoe. It’s merely a loose footpad. I don’t pine the loss of my Crocs. I feel sure that shoes that come with holes in the top will collect dew of a morning. I don’t like to start the day with wet socks. Perhaps I’m asking too much out of life.

Speaking of houseshoes, those things have been a wonderment since their invention back in 1894. My research is peccable. When they were first invented, houseshoes were called “slippers.” I’ve made it fairly clear that I don’t like shoes that  you slip-on. That’s why I buy “houseshoes.”

Brad says that “houseshoes” is the effeminate name for “slippers.” He is so enlightened. Regardless what they’re called, they have a half-life of about two months. That’s because they stretch like crazy.

Until recently I’ve always purchased houseshoes that actually fit. After a couple of months they become enlarged to the point that I have to shuffle to keep them on.

If you scratched this thing, you’ll uncover a conspiracy that can be traced to China. It was in 1984 that the stretchable shoe-sole was discovered by accident in a Shinyang sweatshop. Americans have been shuffling ever since. 

I’ve managed to circumvent the Chinese ploy by purchasing houseshoes that don’t fit. I wear about a 10, but purchased a size eight last month. The shoes are just now beginning to fit. Obviously, as soon as this article is distributed abroad, the Chinese shoe industry will be brought to its knees. Next target? Mislabeling “Medium” shirts as “XL.”

    Well, our time’s up and I never really got much into the history of the shoe. Cavemen first called them uglops. Roughly translated it means “Mastodon ear.” I’ll have to save the rest of the story for another time. Let me tell you, it’s fascinating.

End

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Reaction to giant egg in the park.

“Audition”

    How many times have you taken a test or had a job interview or cheerleader tryout and found yourself unprepared? It’s happened to me twice in recent weeks, and it wasn’t my fault… either time.

    Have you seen the commercial about the big egg in a park handing out boxes of cereal? I auditioned for that commercial. Did you see me anywhere in it? No, I was unprepared during the audition, because of my agent.

I doubt my agent could pick me out of a lineup. That’s largely because I seldom go to the office, and I look nothing like my headshot.

Regardless, my agent e-mailed me the time and place for the cereal audition. I’d be a guy walking in a park with his wife and a dog on a leash. No dialog. No mention of a big egg. Piece of cake, right?

I replied to the e-mail, asking if I would be the one walking the dog, or if my unknown wife might handle the leash. I’m not good with dogs. My agent shot back one of those text comments. <:- br="" good="" i="" idiot="" into="" it.="" m="" nbsp="" not="" read="" somehow="" things.="" those="" with="">
The audition was filmed in a small studio. Not in a park. Against one of the walls in the room was a big piece of cardboard with a tiny window. Two ladies and I were hurried into the room, and the director told us to pretend to be walking in the park, and reacting to the sight of a giant egg. Someone inside the egg would hand us boxes of cereal. – “Ready? Quiet on the set! And—“

A giant egg? Nobody told me about a giant egg. How do you act when you see a really big egg? I needed time to think, so I interrupted and asked about the dog. I had practiced dog walking, but there was no dog.

The guy told me to forget the dog. I asked which lady was supposed to be my wife. He told me I had no wife. I asked about dialog. Since my wife and dog had been taken from me, I figured maybe dialog was added. The director said. – “Sure, okay. Say whatever you’d say if you saw a giant egg in the park. And, action!”

I’m fairly sure I over reacted when I saw the make-believe egg. I do that sometimes. Hard to believe, but I didn’t get the part. When the commercial came out it had a real-lookingl giant egg. The people who saw it didn’t act scared or even surprised. When a hand came out of the egg, they just reached over and grabbed the free cereal.

I wasn’t what they were looking for, largely because I didn’t know what they were looking for. I had intended to play off of a dog and my unknown wife. Instead, I had to make up stuff to say to a really big egg. I had no idea it would be like that.  <:- br="">
A week or two after that, crazy ol’ Brad Meyer and I went to the Owen Theater in Conroe to audition for a part in The Players Theater Company Old Time Radio Hour. In a few weeks, The Players will broadcast its first radio production – A Philip Marlow episode – on Lone Star Internet Radio.

Brad actually came to write a story about the upcoming event, but also wanted to audition to be the announcer. Brad’s was once a disk jockey and thought his voice would work well in an announcer’s role.

When Brad’s turn came, he was ushered into the audition room, handed a script and told to read for one of thugs, a guy named Baldy. Normally, Brad wouldn’t even have to act to be a thug, but, boy, was he a flop. He even told me so. When Brad says he did bad, you know he stunk up the place, ‘cause he never does bad.

I went in to read for Marlow, but was handed a script and was asked to read for Baldy. Why was this happening to me? Fortunately, unlike Bradly, I had prepared myself for all the roles. Even the lady parts. Hey, you never know.  

Turns out, I got the part of  Waldo, a sarcastic guy who gets iced in the first scene. Brad? He got nothin’, nada, zilch cakes. Serves him right for being unprepared.

He’ll know better next time. The Players plan to produce a show each month. The second show will actually be broadcast live with an audience. How cool is that.

    I plan to write a script for a husband and wife team and submit it to the director, Craig Campobella. If he likes it enough to try it out, he’ll probably assign my part to crazy ol’ Brad and let me play the lady in the grocery store. A lot of stuff happens to me in the grocery store.

    If some of you decide to crawl out of your rut and audition for stuff, be prepared to be unprepared. They might take your dog and your spouse. They may even turn you into a sarcastic dead guy. But, it’s generally a really fun experience. Unless you’re like Brad. He’s a real <:- br="">
End
To view Brad and Mark’s video of their visit to The Woodlands Taste of town, click below.

Doin' great

Scratch your own back


    Less than a few of you have asked how I’m doin’. I’m great. I just got back from seeing my urologist and got a big thumbs up. Figuratively.

    Seems my prostate hasn’t grown back, nor have any new kidney stones formed. I was so happy with the news that I considered hugging the doc, but I remembered reading somewhere that 62 percent of all urologists prefer not to be hugged. I think it’s urologists. Somebody doesn’t like hugging.

    I haven’t been letting on, but I’ve really been concerned about kidney stones. I’ve been drinking a lot more water and not eating nearly as much dry toast since my last attack. The toast part is unrelated, but I thought it worth mentioning. 

    Since my eighth attack, I get scared when I get even the slightest ache anywhere below my neck. At least I did before I got the thumbs up.  Now I’m good for another year or so.

    And, guess what else. A couple of weeks back I got a flu shot. It’s only my second. I got my first flu shot from the school nurse at Oak Ridge High a bunch of years ago. They had a special deal for teachers. We got a free chalkboard eraser with each shot. It was something like that.

Anyway, a few days later I got the flu. If I didn’t get it from the shot, I likely got it from one of three dozen students who came to my desk to bum some of my Kleenexes. Back then, kids were too cool to carry handkerchiefs. I imagine that hasn’t changed.

I also got a shot for shingles. I’ve never had shingles, but Kay has. She had a slight case on her forehead once. She tried to hide it by combing her hair over her face, but the touch of hair to her skin hurt too much. When hair hurts, that’s not good.

A month ago, while I was talking to some of the guys at church about urination frequency, Kay got in a conversation with some of the ladies about shingles. Fellowship takes different forms.

One lady said that she got shingles in her eye. Someone else got ‘em across the stomach. Another on top of her head. From what Kay told me, shingles is not particular.

Kay seems to think that you can only get shingles if you’ve had chickenpox. I choose to believe her because Kay is smart, and because chicken pox is the only childhood disease I’ve ever had. Mumps, measles, whooping cough, tonsillitis… I dodged ‘em all. If that’s not a harbinger for shingles, nothing is.  

The only ailment I ever hoped to get was mononucleosis. With mono you could miss school for 40 days. We called it the kissing disease, but I heard that you could also get it from unwashed vegetables. I knew I’d come closer to eating sullied greenery than I would to kissing a girl, so I wolfed down a bunch of unwashed lettuce. Nothing.

Truth is, I’m not sure Mom washed food back then. This was before Americans got so obsessed with health. I imagine we ate so many tainted vegetables back then that most of us developed an immunity to a lot of ailments. Unfortunately, I must’ve developed a resistance to mono. Just my luck.

Other than kidney stones, allergies and colds, I don’t get sick very often. Oh, I’ll get an occasional rash, but nothing that develops into something bad. And, that’s a good thing, ‘cause I doubt there is a husband in this county who has had his back scratched or rubbed less than I have. Even the rare times that Kay has a mind to scratch, she’s bad at it. -- Sly, this one. 

Can you believe there is no back-scratcher in this house? We’ve got a 30-year-old bottle of earwax remover, but no back-scratcher.

Last week I was walking down the baking goods aisle at Kroger and noticed a sale on salad tongs -- Buy one, get one FREE! I bought one for salad tossing and got the other one for back scratching. I haven’t tried it yet, but have high hopes.

From all of this, you can discern that my health is fine. Of course, I could have a fall tomorrow, but I can deal with it… just as long as my kidneys are stone free.

Yeah, I think I should’ve put on some rubber gloves and hugged my urologist. He may not be one of the 62 percent with hug issues, but best not to take chances with a urologist. I’m just sayin’. – Next time.

End

To watch a Whine and Dine video featuring Hole in the Wall Grill, click below.

Hole in the wall Grill -- James Canada