Brangelina

Just where did this, for want of a better descriptor, THING come from?  Why am I expected to think these two particular actors are so special that they get a name for their marriage?

I confess that as a curmudgeon, I am not at the forefront of keeping up with hot new movie stars, but these two can't really be our #1 can they?   When I first heard the term "Brangelina," I had to go looking for who they were, having never registered seeing them before.  I have since seen them in a few movies and honestly still find them quite forgettable.

Apparently the marriage-challenged in this country endlessly hunger for stories about star marriages (think of all we heard about Gable & Lombard, Burton & the Shrew, even a manufactured heterosexual romance for Rock Hudson) and star private lives.  This is, of course, twaddle, but it entertains the dimwitted and gets them to buy National Enquirers in the grocery lines.

Although, one does pine for a happy life for Jennifer Aniston...

Moxie

What is it with all these namby-pambies who are slave to sickeningly sweet sodas?  They need to broaden their horizons.  As good as it is, Dr. Pepper is just a start.  Try cream sodas, Root Beer, and Sarsaparilla - work your way up the taste chain of fine sodas.

Finally, have some Moxie - it can only be described as a special occasion soda - the Champagne of fine sodas.  The trick, it seems, is for everyone to find their own personal "special occasion."  In 30 years of graciously extending a courtesy taste of this hard-to-find elixir to close friends, the curmudgeon has yet to find a single soul willing to even finish a taste sampler, let alone say "mmm, good!"

I can only assume that they have just never found their personal "special occasion."  Ahh well, all the more for me.

Senior Pools

At the resort I recently visited, there were multiple pools.  This is a good thing - the one designed for toddlers should keep the little screamers off by themselves.  The main pool, therefore, should be ideal - great bikini watching, sunning, swimming, reading and relaxing, and did I mention bikini watching?  Should be perfect, no?  Alas, no.  Little kids are learning how to swim at ridiculously early ages and therefore the pool was infected by loud splashing, screaming, toy tossing and all sorts of mayhem.

Happily, there was a third pool that appeared to attract seniors.  Just the thing for a curmudgeon - no screaming kids, no balls bouncing out of the pool or noodles flying about.  One had to endure an hour of senior women doing water calisthenics (not an especially pretty sight early in the morning), including the leader bellowing the drills to a musical backdrop.  But if you skip this crucial window of time, you are out of luck finding a poolside chair because all these women have already staked nearly all the good places around the pool for themselves.

But finally it's quiet.  There's a muted murmur and the occasional laughter - it all seems so civilized.  I start to relax - my vacation is on.  Only, no bikinis.  

Tiger & the Bear Trap

I have often maintained that Tiger, the wonder cat, is not of this earth (see early blogs on this matter from last year).  Support for my belief continues to accumulate.


Just last evening, while doing a perfectly normal cat thing - scavenging the trash behind our backs  for that recently discarded bit of pork chop - he somehow managed to pry the under sink trash  cabinet door open, grab the beckoning bit of pork, and somehow (slip? - hard to believe) wedge his hind foot between the top of the door and door jamb, ending up dangling upside down screaming his precious little head off.


Curmudgeon to the rescue, I raced (think Tim Conway playing the old man on the Carol Burnett show) to his side and wrenched his paw free, oblivious to the pain of claws flying everywhere in his desperate efforts to free himself.


Whew.  But Tiger was limping and trying to hold the offending foot off the floor. The debate started.  Coach Curmudgeon said "let him walk it off."  The Curmudgeon's sainted wife, meanwhile, was running around in circles screaming "to the emergency room," "get him an x-ray," "where is there a cat MRI," or words to that effect.  So off to the Vet.  The doctor suspected a broken toe (not on the cat from Planet X, thought I), and offered to do an x-ray - "just a couple hundred bucks for us to be sure."  Ever on the alert, I cleverly inquired how that would change her treatment plan.  It wouldn't - she would still just wrap his foot, pump some painkillers in and have us watch him.


We set him up at home and retired, it having been an adventurous evening.  I suspect, as ever, he beamed home and was cured, because this morning he is as active as ever, jumping around, breaking things, sliding magazines off the coffee table - the usual.  He showed us!

Telephone Etiquette

The telephone was invented during my Grandparent's life.  Their generation viewed it with awe - "I'm gettIng a call!  How exciting!!"  During my folks's generation, it became  an essential tool of life, with its own personality - when it rang, you dropped everything and answered it.  There was excitement - who might it be?  Must be urgent - can't miss it.

My generation invented the answering machine.  The phone became controllable - one could "screen" calls.  This was right up a curmudgeon's alley.  Now we were getting somewhere!  No more did the phone rule our behavior - we could call that party back at OUR leisure, if at all.  But, as with all progress, there was a price - how long can you put off returning certain calls without insulting erstwhile phoners, like family members and such?  What is the proper etiquette?  Emily Post was dead - social chaos would certainly ensue.

Then came cell phones and caller ID.  Now we were cooking!  Complete control of the conversation - a curmudgeon's phone heaven, if you will.  But let's be honest, annoying calls still happened.

Well, I've just discovered the "Block This Caller" feature.  Yow.  Now the telephone is my ally, complicit in my personal phone etiquette shenanigans.  Go ahead, try calling me - you'll never know where you landed.

The Pop-In Part 2

There is a type of pop-in that deserves its own special mention.  This is where very good friends who live like 1/2 hour away are out for a Sunday jaunt and find themselves "in the neighborhood."  But, knowing the curmudgeon's opinion of the pop-in (remember, good friends and all) decide to do a drive-by.  


Here's where it all falls apart - during the drive-by, I happen to be out in front of my house, and SEE them.  Surprised, and fighting the temptation to duck out of sight, they get a belated feeble wave in, turn around and swing back for the now inevitable pop. Now we're all in a fix, aren't we?  How will they explain being so close but not simply using that nifty invention, the cellphone, to call ahead?  Should I be happy they're visiting or insulted they were trying to sneak by without stopping? 


 Man, the pop-in can be a brain-freeze.

Checks & Groceries

I try to do my bit around the house, "bit" being a well-chosen descriptor.  Nonetheless, in that spirit, I help out with the grocery shopping.  You get to know your store's layout, bring a list, and things go smoothly...until, whilst innocently waiting in the checkout line, some benighted shopper in line ahead of you still living in the last century drags out her checkbook.

I realize some of my faithful readers will cry "you said HER!" but I must patiently point out that in some 30 years of observing this behavior, the one constant is that it is invariably a woman.  With the speed of today's checkouts, the ceremony of looking through a purse, dragging out a checkbook, fumbling for a pen, writing the damned thing - all AFTER checkout is complete rather than simultaneously - wears pretty thin.

There should be special lanes for check writers.  Then they can waste each others' time at will.

Lawn Tchotchkes

What is it with people who feel lawns aren't complete unless they have a sufficiently gaudy display of tchotchkes?  Apparently well-mown grass, the nice patriotic touch of a flag or a discrete address plaque don't suffice.

And how many tchotchkes is too many?  Permit me to hazard an answer - one.  Is the size of the front lawn a factor in this calculation?  One would posit no, considering the answer just hazarded.  But the prevailing practice appears to be the smaller the space, the more's the merrier.  They sprout like weeds: gnomes, elves, sleeping cats, "design elements" that defy both good taste and categorization at the same time - the list is apparently endless.

Then there are the seasonal collections.  Ye gods, where do people store all this stuff?  After all, there is an inverse relationship between the size of the house & lawn and the size of the display.

Be on guard - these things sneak up on you as you drive around and are dangerously distracting.