honey

“Honey tasting judge” 

    A couple of years ago I agreed to be a judge in a chili cook-off. It was for a good cause. They always are. It took eight weeks for the swelling to go down enough for my doctor to safely reattach my left retina. Did I mention it was for a good cause?

    Last week, I got pegged for another food judging contest, only this one was sweet. That meant I wouldn’t be leaving the event in a white van with strobe lights and a siren blaring. No I was picked to judge a honey contest. “Sweet” is good.

The Montgomery County Beekeepers Association (mocobees.com) is a group of about 150 people, some of whom raise bees as a hobby, and all of whom are honey bee enthusiasts. 

    Chari Elam, one of two First VPs of the group, thought it would be cool if Brad Meyer and I helped in judging the 35 honey entries. She still remembers “Whine and Dine with Brad and Mark.” How nice is that? (Chari’s husband, James, is the second First VP of MoCo Bees. Two firsts? Must be a bee thing.)

After the invite to honey judge, I asked Brad if he thought it’d be okay if I invited Big Al and Kay to join us. Kay likes bees and honey, and Al is good with public appearances. Brad said, “Well, ‘spam’! Go ahead and invite the whole ‘spam’ family!” Only, he didn’t really say “spam.”

    Joining us was Tom Lister, a MoCo Bee member, selected to ad a touch of legitimacy to the judging. We welcomed any hint of legitimacy.

James and Chari had previously been our guests on the Mark and Cindy Internet Radio Talk Show (irlonestar.com) That couple shined. They are funny and bee literate at the same time. Their senses of humor are so Hayterish that I’m fairly sure we’re related somehow.

    Okay we’re now at the Texas AgriLife Building on Airport road just across the street from the Lone Star Convention Center. A nice facility. Chari escorted us into a giant kitchen/work-area, where we were introduced to the intricacies of honey judging.

Just as the judging began, the voice of guest speaker, Master Beekeeper Lance Wilson came over the intercom where we were doing our judging. In the world of beekeeping, the name “Lance Wilson” is a big draw. He’s the Einstein of bees. I could understand every fifth word of what he said.

    Understanding was not our job, though. We were tasters. We tasted by dipping short Popsicle sticks into small plastic containers of honey. The 35 samples were divided into seven groups of five. (I was confused at the very beginning.) We judged each grouping together.

    Before the tasting began, I actually thought that honey was honey, and that it’d be hard to differentiate between different samples. I was so naïve. There are big honey differences. Taste, texture, color, degree of sweetness... After my twentieth sampling I added another category – Medicinal taste.

    At one time Big Al belched quietly and then said, “Hold it! I just got another taste of sample 22, and I want to change my vote.” I laughed till I about lost sample 25. Is there any wonder why I like to have my kid brother around?

    By the time the tasting was over, I had a cup full of 51 sample sticks. Chari wouldn’t let us double dip, so anytime I forgot to write down my assessment, I had to resample the sample. After entry 18 I had trouble focusing. At 27, I started patting my head and cheeks. Didn’t notice it till Kay brought it my attention.

    When it was over, Chari had me announce the winners. Brad wasn’t in the mood, Al couldn’t quit belching, Kay wouldn’t, and Tom couldn’t touch anything without it sticking to his hands. We were a mess.

I vaguely remember my first comment. It went something like “Up until this evening, my regularity was always in question.” They thought it was a joke. 

After the announcement of the winners, we took a seat and listened to Round Two of Lance Wilson’s lecture. After about fifteen minutes, the guy began to get interesting. I learned so much about Africanized bees, bee diseases, honey badgers and drones.

Did you know that 90 percent of the bees in a hive are girls? They do all the work. The drones just sit around, drink nectar and meet girls. A few ultra fanatical Middle Easterners call that heaven… absent the bees.

    I see that time is up. I can’t leave, though, without thanking Tom Lister, MoCo Bee President, Leesa Hyder, the members of the Montgomery County Bee Keepers Association, and especially Chari  and James Elam and Chari’s parents’ Robert and Shirley Meadows,

Oh, and Lance Wilson. – Did you know that honeybees are responsible for about 80 percent of our nation’s fruit, vegetable and seed crop? And 12 percent of the regularity among U.S. citizens. (Lance didn’t say that that last part. I made it up. But, I’m fairly sure it’s true.)
End

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Just throwup? Impossible.

Kay's sick and Mark's on the roof

 

    ROOFTOP – There’s a pretty good chance we’re sitting on or near a wasps nest. That single bee keeps easing himself closer to me. This metal roof has some ridges and overlays that the smarter insects managed to homestead. Wasps, praying mantises, metallic woodborers… No, june bugs or dung beetles.

    There’s probably a nest of wasps in the attic, and the entrance is beneath an uncaulked place behind us. At least it’s not raccoons. Our neighbor came over last night to borrow our flashlight. She said there was a raccoon in her attic. A better neighbor might’ve gone over and helped eradicate the creature. Instead, she left with my flashlight.

    If I get any animal larger than a mouse living somewhere within the house, I’ll go ahead and sell the place. – “Sir, your house looks great. Is there anything I need to know about it?” – “Well, there is a badger in the attic; or skunks under the house; or a snake in the utility room.”  Any of those scenarios would be enough to for me call the brothers and rent a U-haul.

    Whoa! Yes, it sounds like incoming rifle fire. While there are no less than three gun ranges within listening distance of the house, that noise is not related. What you’re hearing is the sound of acorns hitting the upper part of the metal roof. They do make a cracking sound.

    I think this will be a good season for deer and squirrels, ‘cause the acorn crop is big. Those things are smashed all over my driveway and are almost in piles around the Jungle Gym.

This would be a good year for the American Indian. Indians never established a deer season. Or, squirrel season for that matter. No hunting season. That’s why the sasquatch is now extinct. Just a guess. By the way, sasquatch are like deer, elk and fish. Their plural is the same as their singular.  If you told someone that you saw eight sasquatches, they’d probably laugh at you.

 And, speaking of laughing, there hasn’t been a whole lot at ground level for me to giggle about. Kay is just now getting over being sick. She went to the doctor just as she started getting better. That’s how it usually works. I don’t know why.

Kay’s sickness began last Wednesday night. I woke up at a noise coming from the bathroom. I immediately felt to see if Kay was still in bed with me. She wasn’t. That cleared up two things. One: I wasn’t going to have to sell the house. Two: Kay was obviously not well.

I whispered, “Darling, are you okay?” I guess I was afraid I might wake up attic badger. Anyway, Kay yelled “I’m just throwing up. Go back to sleep.” Can you believe that? “Just throwing up.” I have never “just” thrown up in my life.

I have horrendously, grossly and hideously thrown up. But, never simply thrown up. Remember the movie “Alien” when the creature comes out of the guy’s chest? That’s the way I feel when I’m throwing up, only the alien can’t get out my chest, so he starts crawling to my throat.

After listening to Kay for half a minute, I got sympathy nausea. A friend of mine once described his kidney stone attack with such vividness that I managed to pass a stone that evening. I empathize to the point that when I say, “I feel your pain.” I actually do. And, let me tell you, Kay was sick.

I did not leave that girl alone for a week. “Kay, can I get you something? Do you want some ice cream?” – No. – “Jello?” – No thank you – “A grilled cheese?” – Heaven’s no!

She’s feeling better now, but still isn’t up to eating anything on my suggested food list. I asked her a little while ago if she wanted one of the last Almond Snickers, and she said, “No, dear. Look, why don’t you go sit on the roof?” So, here we are.

    The only halfway good thing about Kay having been sick is that she wasn’t up to eating any of the leftover Halloween Almond Snickers. I got Snickers with almonds instead of peanuts ‘cause I wanted to test ‘em. I don’t hand children just any ol’ thing. After feasting on a bag of miniatures, I’m here totell you that I could not identify the crunch or the taste of an almond anywhere in that thing.

So, I’ve found that Peanut Snickers are a whole lot better than almond, because almonds are more expensive than peanuts so they leave ‘em out. It’s genius. I don’t know why they don’t see a Cashew Snicker. 

What? Right, we’re about out of time. No, no, feel free to head on down. I think I’ll stay up here awhile and give Kay a longer break. I might see if I’m sitting on the entrance to the nest of wasps.

That lone bee is getting uncomfortably close to my sitting part. I have never had a bee sting me on my rear. I would not call the sting “just” a bee sting. It would be a screaming-jump-off-the-roof sting. You sure you don’t want stick around to watch? Right. – Next time.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

football gloves

“That’s one sticky glove”

    Are you in any way impressed that it’s now possible to watch games of three different sports played on the same day? Four, if you count soccer. -- I don’t.

 No, I’m talking about baseball, football and basketball. Those are the Big Three sports in the U.S.  Anything else is ill-conceived nonsense concocted in Europe or Australia. 

I only watch one of the Big Three sporting events. For all I care they could stop airing basketball and baseball games. So much easier to locate games when there’s only one sport listed on the Cable

A basketball game is like watching an acrobatic team perform the same routine for three hours. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good, they’re great, they’re fantastic athletes. But, nothing means anything until there are only two minutes left on the clock. The only way to spice up that sport is to have the length of each game vary and remove the clock from the arena.

Baseball? I really enjoyed playing baseball, but I never cared to watch it. Talk about drag. At least soccer players are always in motion. And, what’s with baseball uniforms? Is that not ridiculous? The players wear whatever belt they had on when they entered the locker room. There are no common team belts.

And some guys pull up their pant legs and some don’t. It’s the most unflattering uniform in the field of sports. Possible exception, any game played by any sports team out of Vatican City. 

Football, on the other hand, is the most perfect sport devised by man. Right now I have seven unwatched games recorded on TiVo. Four college and three NFL. I probably won’t watch all of ‘em, ‘cause that number will double by the time this article gets out. Before TiVo, DVR or whatever, I missed so many games. For a while I even started watching soccer.

Today’s game of football would be unrecognizable to those who played back at the turn of the 20th century. Back then, there were no helmets. Players suffered from something called “wrestler ears” and “gangster nose.”  No helmets and  very few rules. Players could lock arms and charge through opponent’s defenses. In 1905, there were 18 players who lost their lives playing football. There weren’t even any professional teams. Three of the players of the ’05 season played in college, while the other 15 deaths occurred at high schools.

After the disastrous results of the 1905 season, President Theodore Roosevelt assured the nation that changes would be made to the sport. Seems one of his sons played for Harvard. Thanks to TR, the rules of the game were altered a bit.

There were very few passes thrown way back when, because penalties were assessed if no one caught the ball. And, the quarterback could only throw the ball to the middle of the field. 

Over the years the game has evolved into what we have today. And what we have are the greatest players who ever played the game. Something has happened to the human body over the years. We’re a bigger people. That’s because of all-you-can-eat buffets.

So, because of buffets, I’m bigger and slower. I’m slower ‘cause no one has invented a drug that will make me enjoy exercise. Obviously football players have some kind of joy juice that makes them enjoy strenuous activity. They’re bigger, faster, more agile and love to exercise. That’s the formula for a jihad stopper.

It hurts me to say this, but I don’t think Johnny Unitas would start on any team in today’s NFL The guy was one of my heroes, but I must be realistic. Today, quarterbacks have near supernatural abilities, defensive backs are double jointed, and linemen are incredible hulks. Fast hulks.

Those are important reasons for the evolution of football, but none is the MOST important. The real reason that football is better than it’s ever been is because of -- the gloves. Defensive backs and receivers now wear gloves that were apparently made in a lab at Warehouse 51 in Nevada.

Today, when a player merely touches a ball, it sticks to his finger. You can knock the daylights out of him, and he won’t drop it. Fumbles that do occur happen because the running back is not wearing gloves, or he’s carrying the ball under his armpit. Watch the instant replay.

That’s why the coach of the Kansas City Chiefs came up with the idea of bumping fists instead of high-fiving. If two gloved players touched hands, it would take a spatula to separate them. I think it was Kansas City.

Regardless of who devised the first fist bump, it’s safe to say that there has never been a better time for football. The greatest game, the greatest players, and the stickiest gloves. It’s the perfect storm of sports. In the words of Buzz Lightyear. – “To infinity, and beyond!”

end

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Blood moon

The night of the blood moon

    I was sitting on the roof the night of the big lunar eclipse. I wasn’t up there at the time of the eclipse, just the night of. I missed it by about six hours.

I would’ve stayed on the roof all night waiting for the eclipse, but it was too warm; the metal roof was wet with night dew; and I’m a reasonably sane adult.

As kids, Dennis and I would’ve camped on the roof of our house on Camille Street. But we never thought of it. Back then, the Blood Moon was called Pumpkin Moon. I’m not sleeping on the roof for a Pumpkin moon. For a Blood Moon we would’ve likely camped out. Back then we were tough. That’s what they called us -- Tough. Well, not both of us. I was known as the little brother of Tough.

Today, I’m called a lot of things. My nieces and nephews call me “Unca Mark”; Kay calls me “Sweatpea” and “Babe” and “Buster.” She uses Buster when she’s threatening me. -- “Buster, you’d better not throw that tennis ball at the ceiling fan! You hear me?”

Let’s see, Dennis often calls me “Dawg”; Al will call me “Jocko”; Susan calls me “Little Brother”; Jill calls me “Moke” and Larry calls me almost never. Something happens to a person who becomes the oldest living family member. Larry’s attitude is “Hey, I’m the patriarch of this dynasty. I shouldn’t have to call anybody. You guys call me!” I would call Larry more often if there were any kind of inheritance involved.

Mom was that way about not phoning. Oh, if she hadn’t heard from me in three days, she’d call and tell me that I needed to call my mother. Mom was so cute. Me? I’ll never reach the cute stage. Oh, when Kay puts me in a retirement home, the workers there will call me “Sweetheart.” It’s just something they have to do. I believe it’s in the Old Folks’ Home Book of Etiquette. 

Speaking of which, I’ve got a nursing home insurance policy. They call it Long Term Care. If I don’t live long enough and get sick enough to collect, I’m going to feel like such a loser. I’ve put in some serious bucks into that thing. I get a rush when I think of being able to afford to have someone spoon-feed me lemon Jello of a morning.

By the by, the thought of aging was on my mind during that warm and humid night on a wet roof. The combination of those factors caused me not to invite you to join me. I think the pre-eclipsed moon was shooting some bad ju-ju rays at me.

I was thinking about nursing homes and how I was beginning to look like some of the old barnacles I used to make fun of. Not to their faces, you understand? I’ve got more civility than some. Recently, I was in downtown Conroe getting ready to begin The Mark and Cindy Show at the Lonestar Internet Radio studio, when an acquaintance stopped me at the door and said“ Mark, does your wife ever get a look at you before you leave the house?”

A supposed funny guy should appreciate a joke like that, but that one stung a bit. In fact I had been thinking of the hilarious insult a lot while sitting on the roof. After some soul searching, I finally decided to appreciate the comment. It actually opened my eyes to the realization, that I look as good as I’m ever going to look. I wore a tuxedo to an event a while back, and felt as out of place as a panda in the Outback. I doubt anyone really noticed, because, during dressy occasions, I believe everyone is thinking more about themselves. What I was thinking about me was that I looked like a slouch in a tuxedo.

That being said, I am now ready to accept what people have realized for years. -- “Clothes do not make the man or woman.” The face and physique do. My physique is gone. I’ve put on weight to the point that the location of my waist is a mystery. From my front, my waist is located beneath my gut. From the back, it’s at the top of my butt. The two are parallel, but one is on a lower plane than the other.

That’s why I’m on the cusp of wearing suspenders. With suspenders I won’t need to keep tugging at the front of my pants to make my belt line look even.  That gets old. The thing that has kept me away from suspenders is a belief that they’ll make me look old. How stupid is that? If you have to keep your hands in your pockets just to keep your pants up, it’s time for suspenders.

From now on, I’m going to dress strictly for comfort. I will no longer attempt to impress anyone with how I look. All I can hope for is to be able to dress in a way that no one notices me. That’s a practical goal. Almost doable, too.

And, with that it’s time to announce something about this Blood Moon that I didn’t wait up to see. Turns out I hauled my buns out of bed at five that morning, just to observe a wonderment. I walked across the driveway and saw—What I saw was the entire house and yard engulfed in a cloudbank. The Blood Moon was not noticeable. Which means we’re having two more months of summer. That’s a guess… based largely on reality.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Change is a bear.

Phone, Internet, TV Cable: The perfect storm.

    It took about six hours for the telemarketers to discover my new phone number. They found me before my family and friends did. Possibly before the NSC.

I’m now getting multiple calls from someone named “San Antonio.” When SA isn’t calling, Huntsville, Texas and Alliance Security take turns. My phone is ringing more now than it did when everyone had free access to my phone number. .

    By the way, we didn’t change our number to dodge people. We changed phone companies and the new company couldn’t use our old number. Something about our metro-line..

    We also get Internet service for a fraction of the cost we were paying our ex-phone provider. And, we get ten times more megs of ram! I’d be more excited if I knew what that meant. Kay says it’s good, so I’m on board. Life is on the cusp of greased grooves here at the Hayter house. – I wish.

    Truth is, I’m goin’ nuts. It’s all about losing what I knew. They say “love hurts.” Well, that’s nothing compared to getting a new phone number and e-mail address.

    Do you have any idea how many people you have to call when you change your phone number? All of ‘em. First on my list is Kroger. If my pharmacist can’t reach me, my carcass will be in the hands of the Neptune Society before the next Octoberfest.

    Since Kroger doesn’t know my new phone number, I’m technically not a ”Loyal Customer.” I don’t know what they do to a fraudulent loyal customer, but it’s bound to be worse than what they do to you for dropping a jar of mayonnaise. I’m just guessing here.

    The change of my e-mail service is several times more trying than the phone number change. I’ve lost the copies of all my saved e-mails. And, my contacts are floating around in the netherworld. If you find ‘em, please redirect them to me. For all I know Mr. San Antonio has them.

    I’ve still got two existing e-mail addresses. One is for readers to find me. That’s the one at the bottom of the page. The other is for my spam mail. Whenever I enter a drawing to win a wheelbarrow or BBQ pit, I give ‘em my spam address, and only check it once a week to see if I won anything. – Excuse me a second, it’s the phone. -- Forget it. It’s San Antonio again. (I’m not making this up. They’re on me like flies at a cantaloupe toss.)

    All of these gripes are nothing compared to how I feel about my last change. Let me get a hanky, before I begin this part.  – All right. Kay and I just dropped Dish Network and adopted someone else. Having the Dish office disconnect you requires someone with the temperament of a rabid badger.

    I have trouble communicating with healthy badgers, so I had to handle the task. The first person I talked to at Dish was a girl named “Tahme.” That’s all I could make out. -- “Dish Network, this is Mumble, how can I help you?” – It’s as if they fear arrest should their identify be revealed. -- Excuse me a second, I’ve got a call.  -- It was Alliance Security. (No joke.) They didn’t care to leave a message.

    Okay, back to Dish. No, forget Dish. I don’t have time to tell you about their professional keep-you-on-the-line person from Burma, formerly Miramar, which was formerly Burma again. It’s enough to say that Brk (that’s what it sounded like to me. Brk.) is the greatest stalwart against Network cancellation in the Eastern Hemisphere. When that Burmese was through with me, I was still registered with Dish, but transferred to their In-Limbo division. I’ve got nine months to change my mind and go back to Dish at no cost. And I’ll receive my full docket of channels for only $14… for the first two days. (I made that up, but each sweet deal has time limit.

Truth is, if I can’t make more sense out of my new network’s remote, I may have to return to Dish. (Kay didn’t want me to say Suddenlink, so I’m referring to our new provider as “new network.”)  I had our old Dish remote down to an art. I could turn their remote upside down, while standing on my head and still record something on the DVR. Arranging “closed captioning” was a bit more difficult. I needed both thumbs and a straw to pull that off.

    I’m having some issues with the new network remote. I haven’t thrown it across the room, but only because Kay keeps grabbing my arm. – Excuse me. Another call. – It was “Huntsville.” (I kid you not. I don’t know what my new phone number is going for on the world market, but I’m apparently in demand.)

    Each channel on my new network has a different number than I’m used to. NBC is still Channel 2, but if I want it in HD, it’s 104. I can’t tell you where FX, TNT, AMC and USA are. They’re listed somewhere with nearly 1000 other numbers. I only get a fraction of those stations, but there’s no way of telling which ones I get. A red dot or something would sure help.

I will catch on, though. Either that, or there’s a Burmese guy named Brk that’s getting a call. – Excuse me. I’ve got an incoming call. (This one is a joke. I just needed an ending.) Next time.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.net

Inventions not yet invented

What’s your theme song?

http://www.televisiontunes.com/Have_Gun_Will_Travel.html

    I recently read an article in September’s issue of Reader’s Digest entitled “Someone Should Invent…” It wasn’t an article as such, but an assortment of inventions that readers submitted. I enjoyed the topic so much, that I decided to steal it… I mean enhance upon it. Yeah, enhance.

    Among the proposed inventions suggested is a pair of pants that actually catch fire when someone tells a lie. That was from Raymond Portalatin from New York City. He could well be the only Portalatin on the continent.

    My favorite idea came from Kelly Johnson in Columbus, OH. Kelly thinks someone should invent a way for each person to have his or her own theme music, so that when you approach ‘em you can better decide if you care to stop and chat. How great is that?

    By the way, I’ve already got my theme song. “Have Gun Will Travel.” I’m going to start humming the tune when a stranger approaches. Who wouldn’t feel safe around Paladin? Kay’s song should be “Peace Train” by Yusaf Islam, who will always be Cat Stevens to me. I have mentioned that Kay won’t argue about anything, have I not? Oh, she gets upset, but won’t argue. I’m sleeping with the conductor of a peace train.

    I would like to continue coming up with theme songs for other people, but that’s not my job. I’m supposed to tell you things that need to be invented. Remember? Toward that end I asked listeners of “The Mark and Cindy Show” on www.irlonestar.com to phone in or Facebook their thoughts about inventions. What a dud.

    The most common suggestion was for a remote control to find your TV remote control. Problem is, I’ve got three remotes for TV viewing. I’ve got one each for the cable, the TV and the DVD player. That makes three objects to keep track of… to return to one central location.

Kay can’t return things. I’m liable to find one of the remotes in the Quaker Oats round cardboard box thing. She has no recollection of putting away anything. --  BUT. She is the peace train conductor. I’ve got to remember that.

Mark & Cindy Show listeners are the best people in the world, but their invention ideas stunk on ice, so I had to come up with my own. I waited till now to mention ‘em because I don’t have that many. -- Ready?

Someone needs to invent a wearable GPS device that not only tells you where you am, but explains why you’re there. For example: “GPS lady, why am I standing in the utility room?” – “You’re looking for the vinegar, Mark.” – “Vinegar? Are you sure? Why do I need vinegar?”  – “I’m sorry, Dave, that’s not my job.” Those computers can really get uppity.

Someone needs to invent a weird orb, the size of one of those exercise balls that you sit on, only you don’t sit on this orb ‘cause its got some weird juju in it. We’ll say gamma rays. Anyway, you roll the ball into a room, close the door, and instantly all of the dust and dirt in the room is attracted to the ball. See why you don’t want to sit on it?

After about eight minutes you open the door to the room, roll the ball out the backdoor, push a button and it repels all the dust and dirt. How about one of you start work on that?

The most valuable invention would be a machine that exercises for you. I was talking to a fitness lady a couple of months back who said that her health center has a platform that you stand on and it vibrates real fast. I think it makes tiny motions so there’s no fear of falling. The thing is supposed to be like jogging, only you don’t have to bend your knees or even move. It’s all done for you.

I believe the machine is called a Scam-track. It can’t possibly work. What we need is one of those big balls that people climb into and roll around and bump into other balls with people in ‘em. Only instead of bumping into people, somebody rolls you down a rocky hill or mountain or cliff.

Even though you’re perfectly safe ‘cause there’s padding in the ball, your reflexes would be going crazy and you’d be using every muscle in your body, especially the ones near your vocal cords. When you finally settle at the bottom of the precipice, you’d be completely worn out. And it only lasted a few seconds. Exercise period over!

You’d lie down on a cot for a few minutes, and once your balance and sense of smell returned (They say smell is the first to go) you’d hop up and go get a smoothie or waffles. Someone might want to do the science on this to make sure I’m right about all your muscles being used. Makes perfect sense to me.

I’ve got a few other inventions, but they’re mostly stupid ones. I’ll save ‘em for later. Speaking of which, I think next time we’ll discuss “What if gluten isn’t making you sick?”  That’s another article in the September issue of RD. A fascinating read. As is this. — What?

end
mark@rooftopwriter.com

It's weird, but I called me.

Oh, they're gonna get you.

    If age is in any way related to intelligence, I am obviously smarter than a lot of you. Unfortunately, my lack of understanding of practically everything is evidence that the “Age = Intelligence” formula is a load of horse sweat.

    My IQ used to be way up there. I took the test in the back of a guy’s pickup truck parked outside a Dandy Dog in ’84. The truck had the name “Wally” printed on the door and a decal of a ball peen hammer on the back window. Weird, the stuff I remember. Did I mention I scored way up there?

Everyone with lower IQ’s than mine agree that your Intelligence Quotient is a terrible way to measure smarts. It means next to nothing. The only significance of my score is the fact that I registered one point higher than Kay. God smiled on me that day, my friend.

Of course, that’s all behind me now. Today I’m dumb as dirt. I understand nothing. In fact, just this week someone asked if I knew the origin of the word “understand.” I thought it was a joke lead-in, so I didn’t make up anything.

From what I was told, if you stand under something it means you grasp it. Thus “understand.” Had I told that to anyone, the person would’ve said, “No, then you would call it “standunder” not “understand.” But I accepted it without comment, ‘cause I don’t like it when someone finds fault when I’m trying to impress.

After a bit of research, I found that few agree on the way the word originated. Some say the Old English word meaning “among” or “amidst” used to sound like “under.” I believe it was spelled “hostergotten.” So technically, if you “understand something, you’re supposed to say “Yes, I stand-hostergotten.”

I say that to say this: I was sitting in this very spot three hours ago when I got a call from myself. Up until that point, I had never been able to do that, yet, there it was. My caller I.D. had posted my phone number as the caller. Since I was the only one home, the call had to come from me… or the gnome that keeps stealing my left house shoe.

It’s a frightful thing when you’re alone and you get a call from your downstairs phone to your upstairs home phone. I was scared to answer it. I was thinking Twilight Zone and William Shatner. Had Twilight Zone aired such an episode I’m pretty sure William Shatner would’ve been it. Or, maybe Jack Klugman.

I eventually decided to answer ‘cause I didn’t want have to play back the message I would’ve left when calling myself. – “Hello?” – I thought that better than saying, “I thought you’d never call.” I wasn’t in the mood to joke around.

There was about a three-second pause before a recorded message came on suggesting that I act now in order to take advantage of a low interest rate on my credit card. That was it. I wasn’t relieved. Not in the least. In fact, I was more scared than I would’ve been had I been on the other end of the line.

I don’t understand how telemarketer companies managed to infiltrate my caller I.D. Made it look like I was calling myself. Anyone who can do that has the capability of establishing an alibi for any crime committed. “Officer, if you’ll check my phone records you’ll see that I was at home Friday night talking to myself on the phone for eight minutes.”

That’s a bit upsetting. Or, settingup, depending on the origin of the word. As disconcerting as that is, it’s less frightening than the fact that Home Depot accidentally let someone get my credit card info. I am now one of about 60 million customers whose credit info was stolen right under the nose of Home Depot’s computer security team of, uh… currently unemployed computer programmers.

The thing is, Home Depot didn’t learn about the breach for five months after it happened. A blogger, not even associated with the store had to inform them. – “Excuse me, but, uh, how are you guys handling the credit card info stolen from 60 million of your customers? Has that been a problem? Want me to see if I can buy the info back for you?”

If the hackers sell the data to just one person, there’s a chance my number won’t come up. It’d be like my name getting picked out of 60 big city phone books. However, it the hacker blankets the world with the credit info, I may have already purchased a portable hot tub for a Cossack named Igon Tuskovovich. And, quite possibly a John Deere rice reaper for East Asian agriculturist Chin Dom Phu..

No, I don’t understand stuff. I am so out of step with… uh, all the people who are stepping. I don’t want to even think what my IQ would register if I took another test. Doesn’t mean you can’t take one, though. You can find Wally’s pickup outside the Family Dollar store most Thursday afternoons. I’m still confused about that hammer. Ask him what that’s all about, would you? Ball peen? Where’d that “peen” come from?

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com