Cal 1, Wal-Mart 0

This past week a long, dragged out, personal war with Wal-Mart finally ended.  And I won!  Here’s my long, dragged out, personal story…

THE BACKGROUND

Here is what set off this string of events that changes lives forever:

Off of our second floor laundry room is a porch.  When we purchased the house there were clothes lines strung between two pieces of wood that were nailed into the porch posts.  Over the years carpenter bees bored into the wood, laid their eggs, and came back each year to repeat the process.  Much like me going to McDonald’s every week.  (To be clear, I order food each time.  I don’t lay any eggs.)

Now, for those of you not familiar with carpenter bees, they are disgusting.  They eat the wood and spit it out of the hole they are boring.  They also don’t bother to find a bathroom while they work so THAT comes out of the holes, too.  Soon, there is a pile of sawdust and gunk on the porch windows, walls and floor.  For example:

Not wanting the bees to come back again, I decided to replace the wooden boards with PVC pipe.  The former owner of our house had done one smart thing.  Instead of using standard clothesline he used electric wire wrapped in plastic.  This was stronger and stood up to the outdoor weather much better.

I decided to take the same path.  I measured how much electric wire I would need to cover the five clothes lines.  It was about 80 feet.

So I put on my best t-shirt, sweat pants, white socks and sandals and trucked on down to the Albion Wal-Mart.  They did not have the PVC pipe I needed but they did have electric wire. They came in 50′ packages so I bought four of them.  The Southwire 50′ 1402 NMW/G Sire 28827429, of course.  Note: Always go with the NMW/G – for obvious reasons.

I had very little trouble putting up the PVC pipes and drilling the holes for the wire.  I figured this would be a piece of cake running the electric wire through the holes and snipping it to length.  Wrong!

The wire in each package was rolled into a circle.  As I was about to open the first package I noticed that the wire looked okay when viewing the package from the top.  However, it was obvious that the wire would not work when I looked from the side as it was twice as wide as it was thick.  If I’m not painting a clear picture with my words then you can view the picture at the end of this article.

Now, doing what any husband would do, I grabbed the four packages of wire, put them back in the Wal-Mart bag, took them out to the garage, put them in a pile on my workbench, grabbed a can of pop and sat front of the tv for a while.  Like four weeks.  Sometimes the gods are telling you to slow down.  Just look for the signs.

THE CONFRONTATION

About a month later I decided to return the wire.  Again, being a husband I didn’t bother keeping the receipt.  (Who ever needs a receipt???)  So I went online to check Wal-Mart’s return policy.  Here it is:

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How to Return an Item You Bought in a Store

Here’s how easy it is to return your item to a Wal-Mart store:

1. Bring the item you wish to return to the Customer Service desk.
2. Be sure to also bring all original packing materials and accessories.
3. If available, bring the receipt that came with the item.

Within 90 days of purchase	Within 15 days of purchase
We accept most returnsWalmart Storewithin 90 days after purchase. To see the full list of departments and exceptions, visit the full list at Wal-Mart Stores Return Policy Returning a Sam’s Club item? For the Sam’s Club Returns Policy, please visit SamsClub.com	Computers Camcorders and digital cameras Digital music players E-tablets and e-readers Portable video players GPS units Video game hardware Pre-paid cell phones and post-paid cell phones

No receipt? No problem, you have few choices:

• You’ll have the option of a cash refund (if the purchase was under $25)
• A Gift Card for the amount of the purchase (if $25 or over) or
• An even exchange for the product
• As applicable, we follow any manufacturer’s warranties

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And here is the link: Wal-Mart’s Return Policy.  I then knew I was okay.  Just take the four packages back and get gift cards.  No biggie.

So, whistling a happy tune, one thumb tucked into my t-shirt collar, the strings from my sweatpants swaying in the wind, I go strolling up to Wal-Mart’s Customer Service counter.

I had never been to the Wal-Mart Customer Service before.  I had heard stories: only one register open, waiting in line for hours while the person in front of you returned a just-purchased 85″ plasma television and demanding cash back, a second line opens while you are looking around and the lady behind you with her three shopping carts of returns (and the most touchy, snot-running kids in tow) jumps to the newly opened register.  I discovered these were not urban myths but true events.  I longed for the DMV.

When I finally got up to the register I was handled by the manager herself.  I put the four packages on the counter and announced “I am returning these, and I don’t have my receipt.”

“Okay, I’ll just need your driver’s license” the manager said so I handed it to her.  Then I leaned on the counter and swung around, looking smugly at the others in line behind me.  “See?” I thought to myself, “This is how it’s done, people.”

The smug looked quickly disappeared when the manager, let’s call her PITA from this point on, told me “Sorry, you cannot return these.”

When I asked why PITA replied “Because your returns total over $50 and you don’t have your receipt.”

“Umm, I checked Wal-Mart’s return policy online and it said I can return items without a receipt and get a gift card.” I informed her.

“Umm, not here.  Store policy says you need your receipt for any returns over $50”.

So I said “Okay, then let me return just one” which had a price of about $28.

“No, we can’t do that” said PITA.

“Why not?  It’s under $50!”

“Because you already tried returning four.”

“You’re kidding me.  Okay, what if I go out, put three back in my car and return with just one package?” I asked.

“No, because I already know you tried to return four.”

So I grabbed my four packages and stomped out.  I got halfway to the door when I decided “No!  This isn’t over!”

I marched back into Customer Service but PITA was gone, assumedly to high-five her coworkers for putting another stupid customer in his place.  So I asked the attendant if I could have a copy of the store’s return policy.  She said sure, but she would have to print one off in the office.  Okay, fine, I’ll wait.  And off she went.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  I noticed a security camera and all I could imagine was that the attendant and PITA were in the back office watching me stew this whole time and laughing at me.  I know I would.  So I left, but I consoled myself knowing they would now have a copy of their store return policy printed off and no one to give it to.  Hah!

I got home and explained my ordeal to my wife.  First, she gave me the same look I give her when she asks me how the television remote works.  Then, showing the compassion and empathy that comes from 35+ years of marriage, she said “You’re flagged.  And now I’m probably flagged, too.  There go all of my Wal-Mart shopping privileges.”

THE TIDE TURNS

I spent the next couple of weeks in front of the tv drinking pop, stewing over my dilemma.  I’m a nice guy, I did nothing wrong.  Why is this happening to me?  It shouldn’t have.  But it did.

I decided to go back and try again.  Maybe PITA wouldn’t be there.

When I returned to Wal-Mart I brought only two of the four wire packages.  I figured I would double down if things went my way.  I sure wasn’t going to be an idiot and take all four again.  Lesson learned!

I turned into Customer Service and PITA was nowhere to be seen.  YES!  I put one package on the counter and announced I was returning it.  I held the second package behind my back to avoid suspicion, much like a robber hides a gun behind his back when approaching a Customer Service counter.

The attendant took the package along with my driver’s license.  She then gave me a gift card for the one wire!  I had it.  Like Charlie’s Golden Ticket, I really did have it!

So, pushing my luck, I asked “Can I return this one, too?” and put the second package on the counter.  She said “Sure” and started ringing it up.

“Hmm, something’s wrong” she said.  “It won’t take it.  SALLY!” she called out to another attendant.  “The system won’t take this package.”

Sally came over to see what the problem was.  Sally said “Oh, there’s a note.  It says that four wire packages were returned.”  PITA had left her mark in the system.

I said “No, I only returned the one.”  And the attendant backed me up.

Sally said “Just a minute, I’ll call the manager at home.”

Sweat began dripping from my forehead.  My hands started shaking.  I felt faint.  If they got PITA on the phone then the jig was up.  And I would probably have to return the gift card.  I can’t let that happen!

Thinking quickly, I said “NO!  Don’t bother.  I’m in a hurry.”  I grabbed the second package and my gift card, sneaked past the Wal-Mart greeter at the door, got into my car and locked the door.  I was safe!  One return down, three to go.

THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA FALLS

The next day the second package was still in my car when I went to work in Niagara Falls.  I decided to try returning it at the Niagara Falls Wal-Mart during lunch.  After all, they wouldn’t know my Wal-Mart situation from back home.  And just to play it safe and make me more believable, I’ll bring the gift card I had received the day before.

When I got to the Customer Service register I gave the package and, of course, the dreaded driver’s license to the attendant.  She informed me that I could only receive a gift card because I did not have my receipt.  I reluctantly said, “Oh, okayyyy.”

She started the transaction but soon had problems.  The attendant then said to her manager “Look at this”.  “Stay calm”, I told myself.  “You already survived this scenario once.”

The manager looked at the register.  She told me the Albion store is reporting that someone using my driver’s license tried to return four packages.  I explained “Well, I live out there but they accepted one of my packages yesterday.  And here it is.”  I showed the manager my gift card along with its receipt.

The manager looked at it and said “Yes, this is the gift card from Albion.  It looks like someone is using your driver’s license to return items.  We’ll accept this return, too, but if I were you I’d make sure I got over to Albion and straighten it out.”

“Oh, boy, I better do that!”  I replied meekly.  “Thank you!”  I walked out and, being that time of the week, I treated myself to McDonald’s.  Two down, two to go.

DON’T COUNT ON FAMILY

That night I thought about my next move.  I was thinking of ways to get around the system.  Just as the velociraptors tested the electric security fence in Jurassic Park, I was testing Wal-Mart’s security system for electric wire returns.

I decided I would seek the help of a female in the family.  Not only is a shopping center their home base, females are considered more trustworthy when it comes to returned items.  That’s according to “Man’s World Monthly” magazine.  (There is a lot of good articles in that magazine that back up my viewpoints.  Subscribe today!)

My wife made it quite clear that she did not want to be involved.  So, I went to a family member that looked trustworthy and is always willing to help anyone out.  To protect her identity we’ll call her “olly uohey”.

When I asked olly to return the two remaining items for me she said “Sure!  I just go in there and they always take my stuff.  No problems whatsoever!”  Perfect, perfect…

I only had one package at the time so I gave it to olly.  I went home and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally, we visited her and her husband “raig” (not his real name).  olly said she was too afraid to try.  She had returns coming up from some showers and weddings (or some crap, I stopped listening at this point), and she didn’t want to lose her Wal-Mart shopping privileges.  She was very happy to give the package back to me.

RETURNING TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

Several more weeks went by.  No one would help me and I felt like I was being watched.  I was sure that every person walking by our house in their pajamas, t-shirt, sweat pants, or white socks and sandals was a Wal-Mart undercover employee just scoping me out.

Finally, I decided to take the bull by the horns.  I grabbed the third wire package and drove off for Wal-Mart.  I could not find the fourth package.  Like matching socks in the dryer, one had disappeared.

I marched into Customer Service not knowing what to expect.  Anything could happen.  My heart quickened, my pulse raced.  My senses were heightened to a point I could smell colors.  (Note: if that ever happens to you, stay away from anything brown.)

There was only the attendant and me.  I gave her the package and (all together now) my driver’s license.  She ran it through, gave me my gift card, and I was off.  Apparently, somebody had hacked into Wal-Mart’s Troublesome Customer Database and cleaned out my account.  Thanks, Anonymous!

Three down, one to go.

THE STING

The following week our family had to go to Wal-Mart so I decided to end this once and for all.  I had found the fourth package hidden behind a pile of empty pop cans.  While my wife and son went shopping I took off to Customer Service.  But there, not 15 feet ahead of me in front of Customer Service, was PITA herself!

I quickly ducked by a magazine rack and coolly perused the latest Glamour magazine so as not to attract attention.  Fortunately, there were no brown colors on the cover.

Did she see me?  Will she follow me into Customer Service?  Will she be the one handling me at the register again?  Can’t we all just get along?

When PITA turned away I made my move.  With any luck I would be in and out before she returned.  Nope.

There were two people ahead of me.  One was a lady who was returning an item and getting $3,000 to $4,000 back.  Heaven knows what she had returned because it was already off the counter.  I’m assuming five pallets of cat food and kitty litter.

There were problems with her credit cards so it took her quite some time.  All the while I’m anticipating a tap on the shoulder from PITA, a grabbing of my arm, and an escort to the door.

Finally, a second register opened and the lady ahead of me jumped to it.  I could tell she knew what she was doing because she turned around and smugly looked at those of us behind her.  She was done in three minutes.  Wal-Mart announced over the speaker that there was a new record for the quickest return.  “That’s how it’s done, people!”  The lady was given a prize: a two month old printout of the store’s return policy.

My turn.  By now you know my MO.  I was close.  I was so close.  I was Andy Dufresne crawling through those 500 yards of sewer pipe.  Could I finish?

YES!

I got my gift card and receipt!  It was done.  The war was won!

I caught up to my wife and gave her the final gift card for her to use.  She embraced me as only a proud wife could embrace her strong and resilient husband.  We then grabbed our son and had a wonderful family hug.  I thought I saw a tear in her eye.  Yeah, right!

For the record, she originally suggested I give the four packages of electric wire to charity and be done with it.  What a waste of time THAT would have been!

The Front Porch: Busier Than It Looks!

We have a front porch and we love it.  In the summer our porch is like another room of the house, only more important.  Here is my list of my favorite rooms:

1. Bathroom – anything you can do in all the other rooms can be done in the bathroom, but the reverse is not true.
2. Porch – you are about to read why.
3. Bedroom – better than the living room because the bedroom has a pillow for your head while you fall asleep watching television.
4. All Others – consider these compartments for all our stuff.

In the evening the porch is a perfect place to chat with friends.  If enough people stop by then it turns into a spontaneous porch party.  “Night Out” has nothing on us.  A get-together can last anywhere from a few minutes to late in the night.  Sometimes 10:30 P.M.  Woo-hoo!!!

Living on one of the busiest streets in town, the traffic is a feeder for the next topic to talk about:

• “There goes so-and-so, wonder if he’s found a job yet”.  Then we start discussing people who are out of work or recently retired.  Mainly those recently retired.  At our age if you are out of work you might as well be retired.
• “There’s so-and-so again.  That’s the fifth time he’s driven by tonight.  Must be waiting for his girlfriend’s husband to leave.”  Then we discuss who is going out with who, and who is “seeing” around with who.  (Try to have a hairdresser for this – they know EVERYTHING!!!)
• “Why do the police keep driving by that house on the corner?”  Then we discuss where to get the best donuts.

Drivers frequently honk as they go by.  If you ever drive by and honk, and we don’t respond, then here’s why:  the glare off their windows makes it impossible to recognize you.  WE HAVE NO IDEA WHO YOU ARE!  Well, that’s not quite true.  Once, Jack and I were in the front yard when our neighbor and a relative drove by.  Our neighbor honked so Jack and I waved.  The passenger waved back.  Turns out, it was Mark Valley from Boston Legal and other television shows.  As Carl Spackler once said, “So I got that going for me.  Which is nice.”

Sometimes I’ll find myself sitting alone on the porch counting the cars and trucks.  I don’t know why I do that, either.  I just do, okay?  Anyway, I will count 100 vehicles and see how many are trucks.  And here is the “Worthless Statistic of the Year” – 99% of the time the total number of trucks is either 18 or 19 out of the 100.  I lead a full life.

My wife takes pride in decorating and arranging the porch furniture.  Adirondack chairs, rockers, a glider, tables.  Everything except a fridge and TV.  There are three nice rockers on the porch.  I like rocking because it allows me to truthfully tell people I can’t sit still.  I’m not allowed to sit in the other chairs, though.  Apparently, our bathroom scale is not the lone item that can handle only so much weight.

Foot traffic is common, too.  Some are out for a stroll, some are joggers, some are walking their dog.  The people walking their dogs always carry a doggy poop bag.  I don’t go for carrying a poop bag so I take our dog for walks at night.  Although there are times when I wish I had a bag, dog walk or not.

So, if you are ever in the neighborhood and are looking for something to do, just stop by.  We are always happy to entertain on our porch.  And you will take comfort knowing that, this time, we aren’t talking about YOU!

All The Yard’s A Stage

I take pride in my yard.  I say “take pride”, others say “he’s obsessed”.  Doesn’t everyone stencil their driveway or trim their lawn with nail clippers?  Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much.

The problem is that the part of my lawn that needs the most help is the same part that is open to the public – the front yard.  On weekends my front yard transforms into a stage where I put on a talent show.  Neighbors, passers-by, bicyclists, truckers and motorcyclists are my audience, taking in my performance with enthusiasm, curiosity, and often pity.

Recently I spent a Saturday sprucing up the front lawn.  What started out as a simple watering of the flowers led to pruning the flowers, which led to the bushes getting trimmed.  The clippings then needed to be raked up so I did, then raked the leaves, which caused me to notice the dandelions and crabgrass, so these were weeded.  The grass needed mowing after that, which led me to edge the sidewalk, which led to the sweeping of the sidewalk.  Noticing cracks, I repaired them.  And for fun I reseeded, fertilized and de-grubbed the front yard.

By the time Saturday evening arrived some people were filming my work.  I’m not sure if it was for a do-it-yourself cable show or to give to my psychiatrist for evaluation.

Like many a live performance there were hecklers.  Here are some of the examples:

• It was hot so I took off my shirt to mow the lawn.  A pickup driving by stopped dead in its tracks.  The driver rolled down the window and yelled “HEY!  PUT A SHIRT ON.  WE HAVE DECENCY LAWS IN THIS TOWN!!!”  It was my wife.
• Neighbors on both sides of me have ‘For Sale’ signs in their yards.  The realtor strolled over and told me “I know why the two houses next to your are not selling.  It’s because YOU don’t have a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of yours.’”  Ouch.
• Later in the afternoon the realtor sauntered over again and told me “We are having an open house next week.  Can you stay inside that day?’”  Double ouch.
• While picking weeds a pedestrian stopped and said “It’s a shame you had to grow up here.”  I told him I this is a great town and I’m glad I’ve been here my whole life.  He said “I was talking to the weed.”  Soon, I had a few choice things to say to the weeds myself.

Those of us that do yard work on a busy street are always aware of which way we are facing when we need to bend over.  There is no way to look glamorous hunched over with your backside to the street.  And I sure don’t want to be the cause of the next Granny’s Fanny resurgence.  Once was enough.

There comes a time when even the hardest worker needs a break.  That is where my former neighbor would help.  We had a pact: if either of us saw the other doing work we’d come over with a cold, adult beverage and put a stop to it.  The next thing you knew, the sun would be setting, we were still laughing, and our yards were completely covered with empties.

Uh, oh, what’s that I see?  My neighbor is talking to a weed control firm about maintaining his lawn?  That’s cheating!  Who does he think he is, Tom Brady?  His grass is going to be smoother than Bruce Willis’s head on a frosty February morning!!!

I better get a cold, adult beverage and head over there…

No Riding Dirty for Me

I just finished watching the seventh and final season of Sons of Anarchy (“SOA”).  It’s an interesting series about how a gang (oops, I mean, a “motorcycle club”) manages to eek through life by helping others with a warm smile and shooting guns at people.

Knowing that cable TV series always try to be as realistic as possible, there are a few things I have learned about your run-of-the mill motorcycle club:

1. Let all your cellphone calls go to voicemail.  You will sleep better.  Like phone calls from the dentist, 99% of all incoming calls are bad news.  But you will still lose a tooth tomorrow.
2. Biker women are much more attractive than I knew.  Knowing SOA was shot in the LA area, and that the directors wanted to show the biker life as realistically as possible, I now know that only the skinniest blonde women enjoy the lifestyle afforded riding on the back of a Harley.  And they are much less argumentative than most women I know.
3. In a meeting, you have a better chance of being shot by your partner than your enemy.  Never go into a meeting alone because it is probably an ambush.  And never go to a meeting with only one guy alongside, because he is probably leading you into an ambush.  And never go to a meeting with two or more guys because there is no meeting – it is an ambush.  All of a sudden an IRS audit suddenly seems like a piece of cake, doesn’t it?
4. Never leave an MC (motorcycle club) because having the ink removed MUST hurt!  When joining an MC the club makes you get a tattoo to prove your commitment.  If you mess up (which is not a wise career move, by the way) then they kick you out and they remove the club tattoo.  Sure, we’ve all seen the commercials about how easy it is to have a tattoo removed nowadays.  But don’t expect the members of your soon-to-be-former MC to make an appointment with one of those specialists.  Not only don’t they have the time to sit in the lobby and wait for you, I don’t think the club’s health insurance covers it.  Your former club has a quicker way to remove the tattoo for you.  Spoiler alert: look up the phrase “skin graft”.
5. If you try to run a legitimate business, like an ice cream parlor, it will be a tough go.  Until John Q. Public toughens up you can expect customers to shy away from businesses where bikers hang out and occasionally get grenaded.
6. Don’t deal with the IRA.  They are meanies and sometimes they lie.  And they always seem to have someone else in the back room that they ‘forget’ to tell you about…and he has an AK47…pointed at you.
7. People still like you even if you have club connections, ink (tattoos), cuts (an MC jacket), cuts (tears in the skin), guns, no real job, a cool ride, greasy hair, and an attitude.  Note: guns really help sway people over to you.
8. Your mother MAY get you in trouble.  Fortunately, SOA has their own take on how to handle the situation.  I just don’t recommend it.
9. Your MC logo won’t contain a rainbow, flowers, a unicorn, a smiley face, fluffy clouds, or a picture of a person with any skin still remaining.
10. White supremacists are not always nice.  It’s true.  And I’ll argue all day with anyone who disagrees.
11. Nobody watches TV.  I have to say this about how I’ve raised my kids: while they are watching mindless shows about Decepticons or Kardashians they are not out popping a cap in someone’s a**.  Sorry, sometimes the street lingo crawls into my vocabulary.
12. Don’t worry about social media.  MC’s don’t have Facebook pages or Twitter accounts.  And they sure don’t put any pics on Instagram.

So I guess I will have to change my midlife crisis plans from joining a motorcycle club to something less stressful, like a senior citizen’s club.  And senior citizens are more dangerous on the highway!

Danger is around every corner when riding.

Today’s Childrens Television Gets Bad Reception

Many believe that how people act on television is how we should act in real life. Absolutely not! Well, except for the commercial of the couple lounging in bathtubs outdoors overlooking a panoramic view. I could get with that.

Those of a certain age had shows like Captain Kangaroo, Rocketship 7 and Romper Room. They taught manners, courtesy, and to be nice. Captain Kangaroo getting pummeled with ping-pong balls notwithstanding.

Captain Kangaroo showed that older people had value: Mr. Greenjeans repaired things and Grandfather Clock always told the correct time, even when he fell asleep. Besides White House security, who else sleeps while they work?

Rocketship 7, a locally produced show, had Commander Tom and Promo the Robot. Commander Tom was like a nice grandfather – he would never get upset with anyone and calmly listened to everyone’s story. Promo would get either an ‘X’ (for bad deeds) or an ‘O’ (for every good deed) placed on his shoulders depending upon his behavior. Heaven help him if he had more X’s than Rosie O’Donnell’s waist size.

Rocketship 7 played the cartoons Davey and Goliath and Gumby. Davey and Goliath went straight to core values: courtesy, respect and tidiness. Sure, Davey wore his pants up around his neck but that ensured his shirt was tucked in. For my money that’s a much better look than having droopy pants exposing underwear.

Gumby taught us to deal with bullies. The Blockheads, G and J, always caused trouble. But Gumby and Pokey handled those two themselves. One need not run to the teacher and snitch!

Romper Room was like a classroom but with well-mannered kids. Mr. Do-Bee and Mr. Don’t-Bee showed how to behave properly. Other traits taught were good posture (“See me walk so straight and tall, I won’t let my basket fall”), manners (“Mr. Music, please!”), loyalty (the pledge of allegiance), and imagination (“Romper, stomper, bomper, boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me do. Magic Mirror, tell me today, did all my friends have fun at play?”). And more imagination – I swore the teacher was really looking into the houses of us kids. My brother would actually hide behind our couch so she would not see him!

Nowadays, television overflows with cartoons where the characters constantly fight. Beyblades, Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, Bakugan…they all battle and look mean. I’m grabbing these guys when starting my gang. Instant street cred.

And the yelling! Characters all yell at each other. Cartoon writers should stress the dangers of loud noises for extended periods of time. Right, Pete Townshend?

I used to think no one truly liked drama. Then I saw the ratings for The Housewives of Orange County. Those same adults watching THOOC are raising the latest generation of drama kings and queens. Just keep them in Orange County and I won’t mind.

There IS some hope, however. Barney the Dinosaur is big on manners, respect and especially tolerance. We no longer tolerate jokes about big, purple dinosaurs hanging around little kids. The result of another 5-4 Supreme Court decision, no doubt.

Blue’s Clues takes kids on an imaginary adventure to solve a puzzle while encouraging kids to think. Sure, it takes the whole 30 minutes for Steve to find the blue paw prints but sometimes one just has to sit and wait for the paint to dry.

If we can have those anti-smoking commercials forced upon us then maybe television networks can again start airing shows about good manners and caring. Oops, gotta go. My son is screaming for me to hand over the TV remote before he beheads me with his Galaxy Pegasus Beyblade.

An Elderly Journey

Our family just returned from a vacation. In the past, vacations have always been a time to rest and relax.  Get in a little exercise.  However, this time it turned out to be very different and an eye-opener. It made me realize that I have crossed over.  Over the hill, that is.

Having not been a youngster for quite some time I know that even my middle-age years are in my past. I think I might now be a senior citizen since I am in the final third of my life.  Unless I live to be 100.  And knowing my eating and workout habits, I’m betting against that.

The first indication was at the airport.  Even though I did not have any metal on me I set off the alarm.  Turns out it was my recent knee replacement.  I no longer may pass through the typical scanner.  I must go into the booth, stand on the two yellow feet on the floor, and raise my hands above my head so I may be x-ray’d (or microwaved, or something).  I feel like a fresh prisoner about to get hosed down.

Even this did not go well. The scanning booth also turned up some metal on me that was not in my knee. It was one joint higher up. Use your imagination.  The result of the scan showed a metal object between my right pocket and my zipper. A flashback came to me of the scanning scene in the movie Spinal Tap where the bass guitarist got caught with an aluminum foil wrapped cucumber in his pants.

The TSA agent then pulled me aside. He stated “Sir, I am going to perform a hand check on you. I will be using the back of my hands only” as he put surgical gloves on.  “Do you wish to have a private room?” My first thought was to ask him how much extra it was.

After confidently stating “No, I don’t need a private room!” I looked up to see my son standing there, watching me get a backhand job. “Daddy, are you okay?” he asked. I replied “Yes, Daddy’s just having some fun.” I immediately realized how awkward that reply sounded.  Especially when the agent asked me to turn my head and cough.

After arriving in Florida, my family drove to our destination, a condo is located in a “55+ Community”.  AND I LOVED IT!!!  Sure, someone will admonish you if you walk on the wrong side of the road (it actually happened to my friend) and you have to shower with soap before entering the pool (I don’t even do that at home).  But all-in-all the people are very friendly.

Sometimes too friendly.  A woman who was elderly even for that community asked me to help her load a cushioned chair into her car. “Sure!” I said. As I attempted to lift it I was astounded at how heavy it was.  “It’s an electric chair” she explained.  Electricity must weigh a lot in Florida because that chair ran about 100 pounds.  Like rings on a tree stump, the chair must have gained a pound for each year of the woman.  I think my knee replacement compressed like a hamburger patty.

Another time we were driving through the community when I blurted out “Gosh, the plants around here are beautiful!” That’s when I threw in the towel on maintaining any thought that I was still youthful. Or maybe I was sucked into the aging vortex of the community.  Cripes, why don’t I just start talking about adult undergarments, describing my meds, and yelling at kids?  Okay, I admit I already do two of those three.  Usually when I drop a med down my undergarment.

At the pool I quickly grew tired of swimming while playing with my son. I was so happy when one of those “young” fathers showed up to play with the kids for a while. I think he was around 45.  I DID have to remind him to shower with soap, though.  Don’t think you youngsters are getting away with anything when I’m around!

Nowadays I find myself asking for discounts at stores while whipping out my AARP card.  I find it more enjoyable to go to museums than the beach. I am constantly looking for park benches where I can rest.

And some people think I’m losing my zest for life!

Knee-ding Improvement

Medina’s best-known knee replacement is nearing the end of its recovery.  This also means that having people listen to my whining is also nearing its end.

My disability leave ended last week.  I am back to work and getting around without canes, crutches, or walkers.  I walk slowly and sometimes limp a little.  This is only to prove to my co-workers that I had something done.

I’m not sure which was the easier part of disability: being confined to a chair 95% of the time and having people wait on me at the beginning, or being able to move around but then having to get a lot of things myself later on.  I guess the first part.  “It is good to be king.” – Mel Brooks.

In the first month it was not easy for me to move around so I sat in my chair all day.  I was covered by four blankets because we had one of our coldest winters ever and I was too lazy to get up and turn up the heat.  It was nice and cozy.  The only downfall was the buildup of ice on my blanket just below my chin.  Visitors questioned why I had an ice scraper next to me.

I didn’t spend the whole 24 hours each day in a chair.  I had to exercise my knee three times a day.  There were the annoying telemarketing calls to be answered every other hour.  And my lunch didn’t make itself.  So, some rain DID fall into my sedentary life.

Trips to physical therapy were also on my weekly calendar.  Three times each week I went.  I now know how prisoners felt centuries ago when they first entered a medieval torture chamber.  There are no candy machines, hot tubs or wet bars as I hoped.  Just lots of things for stretching, moving, stretching, wrenching and stretching.  I didn’t mind the rack too much, but being drawn and quartered was uncomfortable.

Here’s a tip for those that need to do physical therapy exercises at home: always perform your exercises when family or visitors are around.  They will be impressed with your motivation and feel obligated to get you something when you ask them.  Be like your mother, toss a guilt trip their way!

I really didn’t have too many highlights during my leave.  I mean, how much can happen in a recliner?  I definitely had some low points, though.  I had a tooth pulled.  And another tooth, which was cracked, needed filling.  Remind me to send a 1099 form to my dentist.

Our dog got hit by a car, too.  Because I was home “doing nothing” I became her home health care worker.  I had to give her physical therapy three times a day, feed her, and make trips to the vet.  Several.  And let me tell you, after the operations, we now own the most expensive dog in the county.  I have a game going – whenever someone asks how much the operations have cost I reply “I’ll give you three guesses, and your last guess will still be low.”  So far, I haven’t lost.  Well, I haven’t lost my game, but I think I’ve lost respect with my friends for how much we spent on a dog.

So, all in all, my knee is improving each day.  That’s good.  I’m also back to work.  That’s not.  But that’s a blog for another time…

How to Move Up to #1 on My Speed Dial

A week ago yesterday I had my knee totally replaced. We assumed there would be a few bumps while I recovered. Neither is complaining about my being laid up. And only my wife, Jeanne, is complaining about my constant whining.

Jeanne has been running all over for me.  And when she got home I could tell that she had a long day.  So, last night after work she had to fill my shoes with Jackson, our son. Jeanne took him to bowling right after work. It was then that he asked if he could go to last night’s basketball game, to which I always take him. So, she laced up her boots, threw on her jacket, and took him to the ballgame. She hates to go because (1) the bleachers kill her back, (2) she is not a fan of basketball, and (3) she doesn’t get the quick wit of me and my friends.

Because Jeanne was going to be in a hurry, she bought Jack some bowling alley food for supper and bought me a Big Mac meal.

Now, since the operation, my appetite has shrunk. Not my stomach, just my appetite. I’ve been eating simple meals, lots of fruit and even more popsicles. Anyway, I was thinking the Big Mac meal would be just the ticket to get my system back in gear.  Let my stomach know I didn’t leave our relationship.

While I was eating my dinner Jack announced “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. The supper is making me go.” Okay, okay, whatev! Just go!  And he raced off to the bathroom.

Shortly after I finished my Big Mac meal (medium fries – I didn’t want to be a hero) Jeanne and Jackson took off for the game. This is when “fun time” began for me.

First, I had the same reaction to my supper that Jack had to his. My stomach felt like a fast-moving lava lamp. So I take my covers off, take off the ice pump and get ready to do a quick sprint.  I would say ‘run’ but I hate puns.

Just then, my mother-in-law calls. “Hi, Cal, is Jeanne there?” When I tell her that she just went to the basketball game with Jack she says “Okay, can you have her run over a pair of earrings to the house?” She then proceeds to explain that she is going somewhere and how it matches her outfit. Meanwhile, my intestines are warning me to get moving.  Like an avalanche flowing down the mountainside warns skiers to get moving.

I told her “Okay, but she won’t be back until 8:30 or so”, speaking quickly through clenched teeth. Apparently she couldn’t see my face through the phone because she said “Oh…How are you doing? You feeling better? Do you need anything???”

“Nope, I’m okay. Gotta go…literally”.  Next time, Facetime!

So I grab my walker (a nice, fancy, souped-up model) and bolted at 30 yards per hour to the bathroom.

From this point on the squeamish might wish to look away. Let’s just say the scene of Harry Dunne with the upset stomach at Mary Swanson’s lodge need not be acting on the part of Jeff Daniels – it DOES actually happen.

Twenty minutes later I felt it was safe to flee the scene. Trouble is, when I stood up I noticed there was already some toilet paper in the bowl. Apparently, Jack backed up the toilet like Joe Biden backs up Obama and didn’t tell anyone.

We all know there is only one way to check the damage – give it a flush. So I did. And the water level slowly rose. About 500 questions went through my head in the next three seconds. Why didn’t Jack tell anyone? How far will the water rise? Why didn’t I put on wader boots?

Good thing for us we had one of the new low-flush toilets that only hold about a handful of water. Trouble is, I already knew Jeanne was not going to be in a good mood when she got back from the game. And I was not able to manipulate myself around the bowl to fix it, so she was going to have to do THAT, too, along with already performing my duties by taking Jack to two sporting events.

I ambled back to the couch to rest and think. “Jeanne is already tired and I just made her more work. Where is our plunger? Can I do it when Jeanne gets home? Maybe I can call someone over.”

So I grabbed the phone and called the one guy everyone can count on in an emergency – my brother-in-law Dave. He should be wearing a cape and have an ‘S’ on his chest for what he does for others.

Dave answered the phone (his only mistake of the night) and asked “What’s up?” I told him I have a HUGE favor to ask him. The only reason I was calling is because Jeanne had a long day, our toilet is backed up, and I don’t want to leave it for her to attend to when she gets home.

Dave gave out a big laugh and said he’d be over in about 5 or 10 minutes. I told him to bring his best plunger.  And waders.

When Dave arrived I was still lying on the couch. He put on his health mask, plastic gloves, double-checked his wading boots and headed off for the commode. After a few seconds Dave yelled back “WHAT DID YOU DO, WAIT TEN DAYS TO GO???”  I was both embarrassed and proud at the same time.

Soon after I heard the most beautiful sound since Van Miller announcing the Bills were going to the Super Bowl – the sound of the toilet flushing properly. Dave yelled back “BEAUTIFUL SOUND, AIN’T IT?”

Yes, it is, Dave.  And so is the sound of your voice when I call your phone number late at night.

40th Class Reunion

Forty years have gone by since my high school accepted my parent’s bribe and gave me a diploma.  Diplomas are said to go to good students so I’m not sure how I got one.  But I took it anyway, like when I take communion in church without having gone to confession.

This past weekend my class celebrated our 40th reunion.  Every five years I work on the committee.  “Work” may not be the best description.  We meet several times, drink beer and wine, and talk about our classmates.  Just like in high school.

We invited as many of our classmates as we could find.  Thank heavens for Facebook – that site was a great tool for obtaining addresses of missing classmates.  It is amazing how many of our classmates still live nearby and we never see them.  I assume they meet several times, drink beer and wine, and talk about us.  Just like in high school.

We had a turnout of 33, not bad after 40 years for a class size of 185, give or take a couple classmates that earned their GED in prison.

The shortest distance a classmate traveled was about 40 feet – he lives across the street from where our reunion was held.  I assume he had a great time because he got lost on the way home.

The farthest distance was about 3,800 miles.  He came all the way from Alaska, showing up like a lost dog traveling across the country to rejoin his family.  I imagine most dogs would have just given up their search after a few years but not this guy.  He has not retired yet despite having 40 years in the Air Force.  It makes me wonder how secure our Alaskan borders are.

The best part of the reunion was seeing everyone again.  I talked to everybody and there were plenty of laughs and smiles.  Usually when I left the conversation.

The worst part was not remembering who some people were and calling them by the wrong name.  “Hi, Bill!  How have you been?…What’s that?..Oh, sorry Kathy.  No, you look the same – it must be my glasses.”

When I got home that night I discovered someone had put a “Kick me” sign on my back.  Some things never change.

The “State” of Driving Down the East Coast

Recently I returned from a trip to help move my daughter to Florida.  She graduated from college and, as I found out on our trip, always wanted to move to Florida.  I guess she loves hurricanes.

It was a very unremarkable drive so we had plenty of time for observing. This is a summary of the trip, by state:

1. New York – the start of our journey and the end of my daughter’s time in her home state. She’s trading in the “Land of Laws” for the “Land of Sunshine”. On New York’s thruway there is a sign every ten feet reminding of you some driving law we have.
   Get your wallet out because we are one of the few states with tolls.  It is a strange feeling, having to pay to get out of New York.
2. Pennsylvania – This was an uneventful part of our drive.  Not much to see except trees.  In fact, it was so boring that my daughter decided she needed to start driving just to stay awake.
   One thing I will say in Pennsylvania’s favor is, it separates us New Yorkers from…
3. West Virginia – We stopped for lunch in this “great” state.  Their fast food joints are all located near stills.  Their motto is “Mountaineers are always free” but it should be “One Truck, One Gun Rack”.  I’m guessing the state song is the theme from “Dukes of Hazzard”.
   Stick a toothpick in your mouth, put on your best t-shirt, cut the sleeves at the shoulders and drive on, Cooter.   Eeeeeeee-YOU!!!!
4. Virginia – We hardly knew ye.  One hour and we were through.
5. North Carolina – One of NC’s nicknames is “The Old North State”.  Nice try.  I’m guessing you gave yourself this name after you were on the losing side in the Civil War.  Don’t try to sneak onto the winning team!
   And you can tell that stock car racing is big here because everyone practices it on the open road.  If we weren’t in a red vehicle with NYS license plates I would have given them a go…maybe.
6. South Carolina – Stayed overnight.  Gas was $3.23/gallon, about 50 cents less per gallon than New York.  Thanks again, Albany.
7. Georgia – #1 in speed limits and state police cruisers.  I lucked out not getting a ticket here.  Heck, I even speed in my driveway.  It was nice that the flow of traffic was going 90mph.  On to…
8. Florida – “Sunshine State” my posterior!  It started raining as soon as we hit the state line.  Jacksonville was a downpour.  And if people drove in New York like they do in Florida our state’s coffers would be filled to the brim with speeding fine dollars.  Here, the rear view mirror is optional equipment.

We arrived at my daughter’s destination safe and sound.  Fortunately, it is not near the Bermuda Triangle.  But I hope she never loses sight of her roots.
The best part of spending so much time together was that I now know I have passed a valuable lesson along to my daughter – how to drive offensively without getting caught, or getting the finger.