A Tale of Nails

       Since I have now arrived at the septuagenarian stage of my life, it has for awhile seemed abundantly clear to me that I have experienced about all of life there is to experience. I mean, if you haven’t done something by the time you reach seventy-plus years of age, it probably ain’t going to happen, and dreaming about it will not get it done. Even if the opportunity arose that you could indulge in a new experience, your body has become so creaky, and the mind so mushy that the very attempt to experience something new makes one just want to take a nap. The comfort zone becomes so narrow that any deviation is met with alarm.
      Let me say before I go any further that during my entire life I have always been considered a masculine sort of guy. Even as a mere youth, I enjoyed playing in dirt, picking on girls, climbing trees, and making obnoxious noises. As I progressed into adulthood, I enjoyed cars, fishing, hunting, sports, and even girls. But I also enjoyed being dirty, greasy, sweaty, and sort of generally unkempt. I mean, dirt under the fingernails or scruffy hair never really bothered me that much.

     Now that I am the picture of refinement with impeccable speech and decorum, I can proudly say (somewhat secretly) that I haven’t abandoned my roots. I am still distracted by a sporty, stylish car that passes me. I had a boss in the car business who used to describe a good looking car by saying, “It just stands up and says hello to you!” After years of appraising trade-in vehicles for dealerships, to this day when I look at a car, a number always pops into my head as to its value. Girls…i.e. women…are a different kettle of fish. When you’ve got the best, who needs the rest? End of story. However, I still enjoy spending time with guys as we make remarkably visionary statements about every subject known to man. Lastly, I had always been an active participant in various sports, although I have now pretty well retired from strenuous activities.

      Being a man’s man who considers beauty shops a sort of no-man’s land and a real old time barber shop one of the last bastions of real manhood, I have always been a person who looked with amused disdain upon men who had their hair styled, while with pride I took care of my own hair and trimmed my own nails, both hand and feet. The age problem, however, has made it difficult for me to even put on my socks, much less to trim my toenails.

     My wife came to the rescue for me, however, on a recent Fathers’ Day when she presented me with a gift certificate for a massage and a pedicure. The massage I can take or leave, but the idea of a pedicure made alarm bells go off in my head. To walk into the very heart of enemy territory…especially a guy of my…um…maturity, made me equate this gift as akin to getting a gift certificate for a root canal. I could imagine the outcry of the women as this bull entered their china closet. However, since my wife had shown very limited enthusiasm for helping me with the nail trimming, I decided that I would go to the pedicure shop (whatever you call it), plug in my music, keep my head down, and endure the humiliation.

      So, one morning recently, at 10:00 sharp I walked nervously through the doors of Vintage Nails. I was greeted by this fellow, very stylishly coiffured and dressed, with a big beaming smile, who said, “Welcome to Vintage Nails! How can we help?”  I asked, “Do you do pedicures for old guys?” To which he laughed and replied, “Of course, one moment, please,” and he disappeared.  I nearly bolted for the door.

     But then this charming, beautiful Vietnamese lady walked out, and it was love at fir…..no, wait that’s a different story. Anyway, the lady invited me back into her room (parlor? lair?), and I followed like an obedient puppy. I was placed in a chair with more buttons than the seat in an F-16, and she without asking removed my shoes and socks…and pulled UP my pants legs to my knees. “You come here often?” she asked, and I replied, “No, as a matter of fact, this is my first time…in fact it’s my first time for a pedicure in my life.” She jumped up and squealed sometime in Vietnamese, and suddenly all these women were coming out of the back room, squealing, laughing, and pointing at me. Each one looked at me and asked, “First time?” I started to run, but she was holding my feet down in some water and wouldn’t let me get up. Trapped!…so I meekly replied, “Yes, ma’am.” My Vietnamese captor exclaimed, “I take good care of you!” So I just mumbled, “Please be gentle.”

     Anyway, she put something in the water (probably Ajax with Ammonia) and allowed my feet to soak for about ten minutes while she talked. The water was warm, the chair was really comfortable, she was easy on the eyes, and suddenly I felt my fears beginning to lessen. I learned she was 47 years old (looked 35), had escaped Viet Nam in a boat 25 years ago, made her way to the United States, taught herself English, married a successful businessman, and was a living example of the American dream. After the soaking, she began to massage my feet, and trim, clip, cut, buff, and otherwise beautify my poor toenails. I glanced at her feet (she was wearing sandals,) and her feet and nails were perfect. I asked her, “Can you make my feet like yours?” She laughed and replied, “Not today, but you come back, and I will.”

     After she had taken care of the nails, she spread some kind of lotion over my feet and legs up to my knees that smelled like oranges, but creamy with like grains of sand in it. She began to massage my feet and calves, and whatever anxieties I had about the session began to fade like the end of a black and white movie. It felt….good. Just so my Friday breakfast buddies will be reminded once more…because they did ask me…I did not yell, “Green light!” at that moment. (Whatever that means…) It was about this time that I made a friend for life. She said something complimentary to me (I forget what) and I replied with “Cam on ban,” which is “thank you” in Vietnamese. God bless Google Translate. You would have thought she had just met her long lost father. In my experiences I have found that in dealing with people whose primary language is not English, learning just a few of their home language words can establish almost instant friendships.

     Anyway, once we got rid of the sandy orange lotion, she wrapped my legs and feet in hot towels, all the time massaging, and then, after removing the towels and applying some kind of smooth lotion, she massaged my legs again with some smoothly rounded, palm-sized rocks which had been heated. Back home sixty years ago my ancestors would have said, “It wuz plumb fittin’!”

     Somewhere along this time, she asked me if I would like a manicure to go with the pedicure, and honestly, at that juncture I would have agreed to about anything. With the manicure, just about everything which I described that occurred with my feet occurred to my hands and arms. I admit it…it was heavenly! At the end, I bade Ty (her name) farewell with the promise that, “Yes, I shall return.”

     The only mistake I made during this whole pedicure/manicure episode was…I told a few people. Well, maybe more than a few, since I posted it on Facebook, so I know that at least my 21 friends are aware of it. But I fear that my manly, masculine, macho image has been damaged forever. I want to set my friends’ fears at rest, however. I may not drive around with a set of horns on the front of my car anymore, or I may have forgotten a few batting averages or names of NFL players. The Rockets or Astros or Texans may not interest me as much as before. I may not go fishing or hunting as much as before. I may not know or care as much about guns or fear Democrats as much as you do. I may not talk about my wife in disparaging terms as much as you do (and you know who you are…). BUT I am still a man and am willing and anxious to do man stuff as often as possible.

     Well...except Thursday mornings….that’s my pedicure time.

"Jaws" Revisited

     My wife and I love the state of Hawai'i.  Forgive me for spelling it with the apostrophe, but that’s the way it’s done over there. Were it not for money, family, friends, jobs, medical care, cost of living, church, and other various details, we would probably be living there. But, alas, since we don’t have much money, but lots of friends and family, and we need good medical care, plus the Hawai’ian cost of living is astronomical, not to mention that Hawai’i is politically heavily Democratic, we have chosen (been forced?) to settle in our own little Garden of Eden in Houston, Texas. The only thing you can say that is true about both Houston and anywhere in Hawai’i is that they are on the same planet. However we have made several trips to Hawai’i , and are now card-carrying kama’ainas, which allows us to get into all sorts of places nearly free and gives us the right to complain how all the mainland tourists are ruining the true Hawai’ian momona aloha.

     We have wandered Waikiki, cruised Kaua’i, mellowed on Maui, snorkeled Lana’i and Molokini, and viewed volcanoes on the Big Island. We've dinner cruised on every sort of ship and went down in a submarine to view….well, not much. If you get a chance to take the Yellow Submarine, don’t. There's not much to see off shore and 150 feet down. We have practically been to every luau (beach festivity) in the islands and have eaten our share of i’a a poi. It would be easy to say about any activity in Hawai’i, “Been there, done that,” but the fact is, given an opportunity to “be there and do it again,” we would jump at the chance to repeat every Hawai’ian adventure we ever had. Hawai'i is truly a state of mind, and, once affected with the “aloha” spirit, every other place which is touted as “just as good as Hawai’i” somehow pales in comparison.

     On our fourth visit to Honolulu, we stayed at the Sheraton Princess Ka’ialani, next door to the International Marketplace and across the street from the Sheraton Moana Surfrider, the oldest (built in 1903) and most expensive hotel on Waikiki Beach. We had access to it due to the fact that we were in a Sheraton Hotel, but our extent of usage was walking through it as we headed to the beach. Our first couple of days there were spent doing the things one does when in Honolulu…visit the famous sites, hit the beach, shop, and stroll around. On the second evening as we were collapsing in our room after a full day of activities and tours, I happened to see an advertisement in a tourist paper that headlined, “Fish for Shark…The Great Adventure!" The ad went on to say that the boat made regular evening tours with the prime directive of catching big sharks. Upon further reading, I began to hear the soundtrack of “Jaws” playing in my head and could imagine myself as the grizzled Robert Shaw battling the monster of the deep in mortal combat. The fishing excursion, strangely enough, did not debark the dock until 10:00 p.m “because all the big ones cruise and feed at night.”

     Placing a quick phone call, I discovered that there was a trip planned that very evening, and there was space available. The gravelly voice on the phone said, “We catch more big shark than any other boat in the harbor! There is an 85% chance you will catch a shark!" Already, I was hooked. About 9:30 p.m. I headed downstairs to the lobby and shortly hopped in a van from Sushimo Fishing Charters. The other seven patrons were already aboard. I had been a little nervous about this trip. I had imagined it to be a test of my manhood…you know, the man vs monster plot that Hollywood has used for a hundred years. But on board with me were four giggly young girls, none older than 21, and three of their latte-sipping, quiche-nibbling nabobs that pass for young men now days. The fourth young girl was a girl friend of one of the other girls. I decided that this was a serious joke or that this adventure was not going to be as challenging as I thought. These young examples of America’s future (shudder) were much more interested in their personal interactions that the task at hand. The young girls looked at the large buckets of dead fish we would be using as bait and exclaimed,” Ewwww!" It was clear I was not in a group of serious fishermen. Oh, well, less competition, I thought.

     Our boat for the night would be the “Explorer,” a well equipped 60 foot vessel that sported around 50 ready-to-go fishing rigs, including 10-12 rods and reels that looked heavy duty enough to reel in a battleship. Sure enough, the heavy babies would be our weapons of choice for the night. The captain gave us a safety pitch as we motored out of the harbor and assigned each of us a spot along the rails. The plan was the crew would bait our monster sized hooks, drop them over the side, and our job was to holler “Shark on!” if the line took off. When the alarm went out, all others were to reel in their lines to avoid tangling while the battle of survival was going on. Once the “all clear” came, the lines went back in the water. It was exciting!     We motored out of the harbor and the night was…enchanting. The full moon caused the water to sparkle, and the warm breeze created just enough wave action that there was a rhythmic slap against the bow of the boat as we slipped farther from the harbor lights. The lights of the Waikiki hotels glistened and reflected on the water. I had imagined that we would go offshore for 10-20 miles or so to bob for the big ones, and it confused me when we sailed out of the harbor, turned on our port beam and cruised until we were just off of Waikiki Beach. When we stopped we were close enough that we could see people walking along the beach in the light of the hotels. The captain explained that this was the best place to catch shark…we were in about 100 feet of water and relatively close to the shore because “sharks like to cruise the shoreline to feed." After hearing that amazing bit of news, I made myself a personal note…no more romantic midnight swims!

     The crew started baiting the hooks and tossing them overboard. I was fisherperson number three. Mine went in the water, and about the time he got to number six, I felt a somewhat firm tug on my line and then suddenly my reel started spinning out the line like mad. "Shark on!” I yelled, and the crewman ran over and said, “Yeah, that’s a good one!” as my rod began to bend from the strain. "you want to try it yourself?” he asked, meaning that he would pull it in for me if I wished. My manhood issues popped up again, however, and I replied, “No, I want to bring him in." So he got a cable and anchored the reel and rod to the boat. I noticed he didn’t offer me a safety belt of any kind. Oh, well, tourists come and go, but fishing hardware is expensive. He did help me adjust the drag on the reel a bit so that I ceased to lose line, and afterward it became a tugging war between the shark and me. He stayed near the bottom and did not want to come up, but inch by inch, and reel crank by reel crank, he tired and slowly rose to the surface. When he got within about ten feet of the surface, the crew switched on spotlights, and there he was, a gray shark, about seven feet and around 170 pounds (captain’s estimate). Not the shark from “Jaws”, but big enough to make you decide to stay in the boat. Since this was all catch and release fishing, the idea was to pull him as far as possible out of the water for all to see, then cut him loose.

     I had my camera with me and, while lifting mightily along with the crew’s help, I held the camera in my right hand and sort of aimed sharkward and hoped for the best. At least I got photo proof of my catch. By this time a crewman was holding the line leader lifting the shark and another reached down with some wirecutters to cut the line (see photo). What happened next could have been disastrous. When the crewman cut the line, it snapped back like a whip, and the backlash caught the captain, who was leaning over the rail watching the process, about an inch under his left eye and opened a two inch gash clear to the cheek bone. He fell back and grabbed his face, and grabbed a relatively clean towel and in a few seconds stopped the flow of blood. He put on a bandage and continued with his job. Tough guy.

     With the shark gone and the excitement over, it was lines back in the water, but this night would prove to be a dud. About an hour later one of the young guys caught a four footer that caused a little excitement when it came off its hook inside the boat and the crewmen had to grab it without getting bit. Its teeth were snapping shut like a steel trap. Finally it was grabbed by the tail and thrown overboard. By this time the girls were tired of yucky dead fish bait and just plain tired, so they quit fishing and drank Cokes and ate hot dogs. The guys eventually followed suit, and I, like the Ancient Mariner, was left to go it alone. I had made my catch for the night, however, and since it was approaching 1:00 a.m., the captain asked me and I said yes, I’m ready to go home.

     We heaved to the anchor, fired the engines, and made the short journey back to the docks. All in all (at least if you’re a fisherman) it was a worthwhile evening. I had a new experience, a cool photo, and another Hawai’ian memory to add to the collection. I'd go shark fishing again.

The End Justifies The Means

(An experience from 2009) 

    It all started with my most recent interview with my melanoma doctor at M.D. Anderson Cancer Clinic. Since I had undergone surgery to remove a melanoma (skin cancer) on my right arm about a year ago, I have been checking in with him about every three months. Everything has been going well, and he was about to cut me loose from him and allow me to just visit a dermatologist occasionally. This time, just in passing, he asked me when I had last undergone a colonoscopy. When I replied that I had never had a colonoscopy, he stopped and gave me that look that only wives and doctors can give and said, “You’re 66 years old and you’ve NEVER had a colonoscopy??” After casting my eyes down in a repentant manner and shuffling my feet a bit, I regretfully answered that I had not. That response, of course, gave him the opportunity to launch into a lecture about the need for regular checkups, including colonoscopies, for anyone as ancient as myself and how all sorts of bad things can happen if regular checkups aren’t scheduled. The upshot of all this was that a colonoscopy was scheduled for me two weeks later. I was to go in on a Thursday for “anesthesia assessment” and the main event would start the next day promptly at 8:00 a.m. I was due to visit the clinic that Friday anyway for my six month checkup in the Leukemia Center, so this way I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. You have to understand that at M. D. Anderson Cancer Clinic, every floor of the hospital is like a separate hospital. For melanomas, it’s the ninth floor; for leukemia, it’s the eight floor, for GI endoscopy, it’s the fifth floor, for lymphoma, it’s the sixth floor, for lab work, it’s the second floor. I have been on all these floors; I’m trying to avoid the other levels. Each floor is an entity unto itself having different registration procedures and totally concerned with only its mission…to treat whatever form of cancer is its specialty. They are incredibly competent, organized, and caring. I am convinced I am still here on earth because of God’s hand and their skills.

     Now, if you’re under the age of fifty, it is possible that you do not know what a colonoscopy is. For those of you who are teachers, it has nothing to do with English grammar and counting, adding, or subtracting colons in an essay. Rather it is an up close and personal (REAL personal) examination of your intestinal tract. Your colon (or intestinal tract,) doing the critical job that it does for you, is fertile grounds for all sorts of bad bacteria, germs, and diseases, and therefore close monitoring of this very critical function within your body is a prerequisite to disease prevention. The actual examination is an exercise in state of the art technology and medical creativity. Doctors are able to insert a little video camera into the colon and visually inspect every inch of this tunnel of digestion. When it’s over, they’ll even give you photos, for crying out loud, of the inside of your colon! Seeing any abnormality, they are able with tiny scissors to snip away any bad stuff and remove it for closer analysis. “How do they do this?” you may be nervously asking. Well, the camera and any other tool is inserted through the….is inserted through the….through the…the…well, I’m sorry, I can’t say it. I was raised in a very sheltered environment, and there were just some words we did not say in public conversation, and that included the crude words used by uneducated folks and educated words describing the same things used by doctors and proper people. Let’s just say that the word describing the place of entrance rhymes with the word for the seventh planet from the sun, and let it go at that. If you’re not an astronomer, there are only a couple of areas of entrances into the human body…from the top down or the bottom up. And it’s not the top down. I think I’ve made it clear. It’s really better not to think about the process, anyway, just the results. Fortunately, when all this probing and photography is going on, you will be in dreamland thinking about candy canes. They will say, "This will relax you,” the lights will go off, and the next instant they will be saying, “Wake up, Sir! It’s over!” Piece of cake.

     So, on Thursday, Shirley and I made the trek to M.D. Anderson for my “anesthetic assessment,” which is basically a question and answer activity to make sure I had no hidden allergies, previous bad anesthesia experiences, or potential problems. Each time you visit MDA, a blood draw will be taken along with “vital signs” which are weight and blood pressure. This data is then analyzed and compared to previous records for any changes. All was well with me, and we left MDA to head home via the drug store, where a prescription had been sent for me. The prescription was for the “prep” that would get me ready for the main event tomorrow. When I walked out of the drug store, I was carrying a jug that was bigger than a gallon milk container. In fact, at four liters, it was about a gallon and a pint.

     Just for your future references, if you see any kind of medication with the work “lyte” in it, I would suggest that you make yourself scarce at the earliest possible moment. Medications such as Gavilyte, Colyte, Nulytely, and Golytely (someone had a sick sense of humor there) have an effect that, well, you just have to experience it to believe it. My medication was the tried and true Gavilyte, and all I had to do was drink the entire gallon and a pint of Gavilyte at the rate of 8 ounces every ten minutes. Needless to say, since the makers of these drinks have a sort of captive audience, they have no concern for taste or “drinkability” to quote a beer advertisement. In fact, one could come to the conclusion that the drinks had been designed as some sort of evil revenge for our past sins. Anyway, the taste was not too good. But it wasn’t too bad, either, and I downed the first two or three glasses with no effects. I began to think that this whole process may be pretty easy. A few minutes later, however, the inevitable took place. Without being too graphic, let me just say that in the next few hours I had plenty of opportunity to study my bathroom and make a list of trim to touch up, paintwork to do, and doors to adjust. I was able to determine that my new toilet, which I installed only three weeks ago, worked very well even under extreme conditions. By 4:00 a.m., I was able to find the bathroom in pitch darkness, do my job, and get back in bed without even opening my eyes. At 6:30 a.m. Shirley and I rose up to prepare for the MDA big day.

     Friday morning the weather was muggy, warm, cloudy, and rainy…a bad day for someone like Shirley who is still recovering from a knee replacement a couple of months ago. People who have joint problems like arthritis or joint replacements are better weather forecasters than the best meteorologist on TV. When the weather changes for the worse, they feel it in their joints. And Shirley was feeling it this Friday morning. To make matters worse, she forgot her cane as we left home, and so she had to wander all around MDA without much help. Plus, she had to push me in a wheelchair for a short time. Her day was as hard as mine. The plan on Friday was for me to have my colonoscopy from about 10.00 to 12:00, and then visit with my leukemia doctor about 1:00. I had to get another blood test for him, so since we got to the hospital about 7:30, we went to the leukemia laboratory (8th floor) first. I weighed in, got my “vitals” taken, and blood drawn and headed to the GI Endoscopy Department (5th floor). Check in time was 8:00 for the 10:00 procedure.

     Another thing to consider when entering a hospital is that you check your modesty at the door when you go in. Endoscopy is a prime example. We were cheerily lead back to a large room divided into maybe 16 individual cubicles with curtain walls. The sweet young lady said, “Remove all your clothing, put the hospital gown on, open in the back, lie on the bed, and cover with the sheet. When you have finished, open the curtain so we’ll know you’re ready.” I did so, and lie back to listen to the voices around me. You put sixteen patients with spouses and friends plus nurses in a big room, and cloth walls don’t mean much. The nurse visited the old guy across from me with the intent of giving him an IV, and he told her (as we listened) all the horrible experiences he had endured in hospitals. When she jabbed him with the IV needle, he yelled like his leg was being amputated. I can say truthfully that in the last two years I have probably been stuck with a needle a hundred times, and there have been times I did not know I had been stuck until I looked. The nurses at MDA are incredibly skilled. But maybe he got a bad one…I think it was in his head.

     Think also, there were sixteen patients in the room and all still feeling the effects of their “prep,” and there was ONE unisex bathroom. The traffic was heavy. The Oriental lady next to me headed to the bathroom thinking she was holding her gown closed in back…but she wasn’t. Oh, well, we’re all in this together. Another husband and wife (patient) came in and was assigned to a bed. As soon as the nurse left, the guy said, “Well, there’s not much I can do here. I think I’ll go down to the first floor and have lunch. I’m sure they’ll call me when they’re finished.” And he left. I do not predict a long and happy marriage for that couple.

     In a few minutes, a different cheerful nurse came in and placed an IV in my right hand, and said the big event would commence shortly after 10:00. Since it was still before 9:00 the interminable waiting had begun. In this regard, MDA is like every hospital; time is relative, and there’s no need to rush. But around 10:25, sure enough, in came the serious looking medics who, after telling Shirley to wait in the waiting room, wheeled me down a couple of halls to a large refrigerator. Well, it really wasn’t a refrigerator, but it was cold enough for one. I guess that’s just the characteristic of an operating room. I then had about a dozen wires attached with suction cups to my chest and arms and told to roll onto my left side (open back gown.) With nary a modest thought, I dutifully rolled, and then the nurse said something about relax…and that’s all I remember.

     I awoke to someone yelling in my ear, “Mr. Downing, wake up!” and to the worst sore throat I have ever experienced. My chest was hurting and I was having a little difficulty breathing because I was so congested. I tried to speak, but I had no voice, and I felt I had swallowed a box of razor blades. I lie there for a few minutes until they determined I was back amongst the living and could respond to questions, at least with a head nod, anyway. I asked for a drink of water, but they said, “Not yet.” So I asked for a tissue and was able to blow some of the cobwebs out of my head and breathe easier. They begin to explain that the procedure had gone well, but midway I had begun to choke and managed to get some of my stomach acid down into my lungs. They could not explain why my stomach still had liquid in it while my colon was clean except to say, “Sometime that happens.” They had been forced to aspirate (suction) the liquid from my lungs using the gadget they force down your throat into your lungs. Hence the sore throat. I would assume in an emergency situation like that they’re not too concerned about the effects on your throat and vocal cords.

     I was wheeled back to the recovery area where my faithful wife was waiting. I couldn’t say much to her since I could barely talk, and when I coughed, I sounded like a lifelong chain smoker. In a few minutes, the doctor came by, and said I still had some fluid in my lungs and to be very careful the next couple of days and watch for fever and difficulty of breathing. Pneumonia was a definite possibility because stomach acid can damage the lungs. However, I was able to see for the first time full color photos of my colon which I will not post here in the interest of delicacy and decorum. The colon report was very good and there were no problems. In a few more minutes, we were released from the Endoscopy department…just in time for lunch.

     I was in a wheelchair by this time, and Shirley wheeled me to the first floor and the cafeteria. Although I had not eaten for two days, I wasn’t too hungry, and after a half of a sandwich, I was done. Shirley’s knee was bothering her enough that I couldn’t bring myself to have her push me, so we left the wheelchair in the foyer and headed to the eighth floor and my visit with my leukemia doctor. By this time, neither of us was feeling too well. I was moving slow because the procedure medications had not yet worn off and Shirley was limping badly. But we checked in right on time at 1:00. We were called back to Doctor Farhad Ravandi-Kashani’s (NOT a native Texan) office about 1:30 and waited….and waited…and waited. Finally the nurse came in and gave me my lab reports from the morning…and that was the bright spot of the day. My blood condition is the best it has been in probably twenty years. One funny note: since I had blood work and vital signs taken on Thursday and on Friday, she noticed that my weight on Friday was six pounds less than it was on Thursday. “How could that be?” she asked. When I said, “I had a colonoscopy this morning,” she smiled slightly and replied, “Oh.” Finally, over two hours after our 1:00 appointment, my doctor makes his appearance, checks me over and declares me sound. He asked when I wanted to come back, and I think if I had said in a year he would have said OK, but he said, “Why don’t we keep it at six months; that way I can keep an eye on you.” I agreed; a lot can happen in a year.

     We pulled out of MDA shortly thereafter and drove home and collapsed. As I walked in our home, I began to have chills and a little fever with a still-awful cough. It began to assuage in an hour or so, and, other that just feeling worn out, I began to feel better. Both of us did very little besides recline in our sofas before bedtime. Saturday morning I awoke with a throat not nearly as sore and feeling much better, but not perfect. As I write this, I still have a hacky cough, but my prognosis is in a couple of days I’ll be back to my normal, cheerful self.

     To you readers who are over a certain age, consider a colonoscopy. I think I had a rougher time of it than the usual patient, but truthfully, it is a vital part of your maintaining health vigilance. Remember, you have to go into it with the proper positive attitude and consider it an adventure. Plus, you’ll have photos that are guaranteed to break up any party whenever you feel the need!

It's Not My Fault!

     It is clear to anyone who reads a newspaper or magazine or, for that matter, bothers to walk down the street (or go to Schlitterbahn) and observe humanity, that the United States has a new disease du jour…obesity.   Heart problems, cancer, muscular dystrophy…all these life-threatening diseases pale in comparison to obesity when we observe how the various professional medical associations react when they observe a…um…weight-challenged individual lumbering into McDonalds.  I must confess, I am one of those poor creatures who has for the major portion of my life struggled with a weight problem. With the hysteria generated by the obesity issue, we are seeing society being divided into two camps: the politically correct, medically acceptable, weight optimum, happy person and the out-of-touch, health hazard, gross-weight-maxed-out porker.  I say this with all the gentleness and delicacy I can muster, since I, too, occasionally fit into the second category.   I have argued for years, however, that I am not overweight; I am just really dense.   No, no, not that kind of dense…I mean, like you can have a block of Styrofoam and an equal sized block of steel, and the steel will be much heavier than the Styrofoam because its matter (particles, molecules) is much more compressed (dense.)  That’s my situation…I am just very firmly packed together.  Anyhow, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.   Not many people are like my beloved daughter-in-law’s father, who was around six foot five and about as fat as a toothpick.   Eddie could eat like a starved horse and never gain an ounce, whereas I can smell a cake baking in the oven and I start to gain a few ounces in anticipation.  I can’t help but feel self-conscious and a little guilty when I’m around the Eddies of the world.  

     I am here to announce, however, that I have found a solution to the problem that all of us normal weight-challenged people face. And I want to thank my new hero, none other than Former President Barack Obama, for helping me come up with the answer to our unfortunate circumstances.   Actually, it was his inspiration along with a news article I read this recently that gave me, like a revelation from on high, the road I need to take to assuage my dilemma.   The article referred to a Texas court case of a few years ago that won millions (maybe billions, I can’t remember) of dollars from the tobacco companies because of all the pain and suffering they had caused to all those poor, innocent people who insisted, even after constant warnings, on smoking cigarettes to their dying days. The inspiration from the president came from a speech I heard him give during his presidency.   He discussed the plight of various poor, unfortunate groups, some of whom had not held a steady job in four generations and comforted them with the pronouncement that "it wasn't their fault, but rather a failure of society." Can you imagine a son telling his dad he wants to get a job, and his dad saying, “Don’t do that, kid, they’ll reduce my welfare!”   Anyway, in his infinite wisdom, our beloved former president revealed to me that the answer to my own personal tragic situation is…. "It’s not my fault!!"  Yes, friends, society in its meanness has made me the weight-challenged (but proud of my heritage) person I am today.

     But it’s time for payback!!   Today I am announcing the beginning of a class-action suit against anyone who produces anything good to eat.   Using the tobacco settlement as a precedent, it will be a slam dunk court case, and we’ll get millions.   Because we all know, if it’s good to eat, it’s NOT good to eat (obesity-wise.)   I am inviting all my friends and relatives to jump on the bandwagon in order to share the piles of money that will be dumped on us when we win our case.  Pillsbury, Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines, Dunkin Donuts, KFC, Outback Steakhouse, Wendys, McDonald's, you name it, we’ll go after them all.  Other people, of course, who contribute to our sad situations will be prosecuted on an individual basis.   EXCEPT wives...after all, we have to live with our wives…I mean, get real.   Peace in the family is worth a few million, and besides, have you ever tried to get money from a wife or mother?

     The millions we receive, just like in the tobacco settlement, will go toward educating us about what to eat and to compensate us for being forced to eat all those German chocolate cakes, double meat, double-cheese hamburgers with extra grease, and gooey donuts.   Those perpetrators of these unspeakable crimes cannot go unpunished!   We can only hope, through education and our examples, that our children will be protected from these culinary predators.   Personally, when I get my millions, I going to talk the talk and walk the walk.   “If it tastes good, don’t eat it” will be my mantra, and in just a very short time I’ll be able to walk down the street and hear little kids say to their dads, “Daddy, why aren’t you healthy and slim like that man?”   In fact, I could get started right now eating healthy things, but at this time of year?   Are you serious?   Think about it…summertime on the way...picnics...steaks, hamburgers, hot dogs, and ice cream...or is it the one with turkey, dressing, potatoes, rolls, cranberries, cakes, and pies?  No, wait, that's in the fall. Regardless, I will soon be the poster boy for good health and anti-obesity…. starting...um...next month.

Nip/Tuck

      Shirley and I have enjoyed vacationing in Hawai’i. We have been there five times and have learned that the proper spelling for “Hawaii” is “Hawai’i.” There are many parts of the world which are touted as places of paradise (and we haven’t seen them all), but the Hawai’ian Islands are our benchmark until something better comes along. This short essay will not be a travelogue, but rather a recounting of an incident which happened in “paradise” which is a little funny now, but at the time created a few tense moments.

     On our third trip to Hawai’i, our base of operations was our condo on the island of Maui. On our first trip to the islands, we were captured outside our hotel in Honolulu one evening by a slick talking salesman, given the condo sales pitch, and fell for it hook, line, and sinker. It actually worked out pretty well. We used the condo on our next three trips and in the years that we did not travel to Maui, we were able to easily rent the condo to someone else. Anyway, one thing that Shirley and I enjoy doing is snorkeling, and Hawai’i is a snorkeler’s dream. The water is clear, the coral is magnificent, and there’s an abundance of marine life. One of our favorite places to go was Molokini, which is a crescent shaped uninhabited island about fifteen miles off the Ka’anapali coast. Charter boats take loads of water-soaked tourists to this island, where they drop anchor, and the tourist jump in and snorkel and dive to their hearts’ content. It is a gorgeous spot.
     On this particular Molokini trip, we rode to the site in a forty foot cruiser sponsored by the Pacific Whale Foundation. These people are extreme conservationists to the point that their boat runs on used cooking oil instead of diesel or gasoline. They make regular visits to all the restaurants on Maui to collect their used oil and use it to power their boats. Probably explains why everything smelled of fried fish (not really.) The guides on these trips are very knowledgeable, and by the time you get to the dive site, you want to go hug a shark. They are very dedicated to the ecological well being of the ocean. These Molokini trips usually begin about 8:00 a.m. with arrival at the dive site usually around 9:30 to 10:00 with a little meandering around to look at dolphin and other ocean life. A couple of hours of diving there, then it’s another excursion around the backside of the Molokini volcano to a place on the southwest coast on Maui called Turtle Bay, for obvious reasons once you get there. Lunch is cooked and served while at anchor, then it’s another couple of hours of diving before heading back to port.

     So, on this particular morning while we were snorkeling at Molokini, Shirley and I had been in the water for an hour or so looking at the clouds of fish. Shirley likes to meander along just under the surface with her breathing tube safely out of the water, while I like to dive down to the coral in the 15-25 foot deep water to investigate whatever might catch my eye. Moray eels and other varmints like to hide in the coral, and it’s neat to see these creatures in their natural habitats. Anyway, I would do my thing, diving down here and there, while Shirley would paddle along on the surface. When I decided to surface I would look up and could usually spot her bathing suit so I could get back to where she was.

     This one time I went down because someone had yelled there was a small shark cruising around some of the coral, and I spent fifteen minutes or so seeing lots of creatures but no shark. No, I did not stay underwater for 15 continuous minutes. A snorkler dives, stays down as long as possible, surfaces, gulp some more air, and re-dives. When I gave up on the shark and decided to surface, I looked up, and sure enough, there was Shirley paddling along, and I guess, since shark was on my mind, I decided to do my shark imitation as I cruised up toward her. I floated up underneath and behind her, reached up and gave her a …um…. pinch of a personal nature that a husband might give a wife...if you catch my drift. She jumped and turned, but I dove instantly and got away. I snorkeled elsewhere for about five minutes and then surfaced to look for Shirley. No Shirley anywhere. I swam around for a few more minutes, and then I spotted her back up in the boat. Well, by this time I was getting tired, so I climbed aboard and sat down next to her. “Did I scare you?” I asked with an apologetic look on my face.

     “What are you talking about?” she replied with a puzzled look.

     “When I came up behind you and pinched you.” She looked at me with a blank look.

     Suddenly a great horror flashed in my mind. “How long have you been back on the boat?” I asked her.

     “About 30 minutes…I got cold!”

     At that moment the realization that I had pinched the wrong woman hit me like a bucket of cold water. I could envision the next scenario. A flustered lady would come out of the water, point at me and yell, “There’s the sick pervert! Somebody shoot him!” And next to her would be her husband, a former World Wrestling Federation champion, six feet, five inches and 290 pounds, walking toward me and growling, “I’ll handle this, Baby!”

     For the next few minutes as everyone reboarded the boat in preparation for leaving, I spent a lot of time looking in the opposite direction of the boarding ladder and studying the boat deck. Any second I expected someone grab my shoulder and make all sorts of accusations. I kept a VERY low profile the remainder of the trip.

     But, you know, I got to thinking about it later, and who knows? I may have made some woman’s day a very special day. I can just imagine some lady getting on the boat, looking around, and upon seeing me trying to be invisible in a corner, graciously walking by while thinking to herself, “I’ll always wonder what his name was!”

Internet Scam

      It all started when I decided to sell my prized 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser. The old horse had served me well for three years as a driver to school, but after Shirley and I retired, our need for an extra mode of transportation diminished somewhat. Actually, that’s only partially true; the main reason I decided to sell it was so I could buy another car and sell it…and then buy another car and…well, you get the picture. It’s just hard to get all the gasoline out your blood when you’ve made a living for a few years selling cars, even if it’s been a few years ago.

     Since we are living in a (for us) new area, I wasn’t aware of any local newspapers to advertise in, so I decided to place an ad with Autotrader.com. I took the usual pictures, wrote a glowing description of the vehicle, emailed the ad in, and sat back to await the phone to ring or my Yahoo email box to fill up.

     A week went by. No phone calls. No emails. Nada. I reduced the price a bit, but still not a single contact…until yesterday. Now, here is my routine every morning since I have retired: I awake at 5:00 a.m. By 5:30 I am bicycling briskly around the neighborhood in a rectangular route for exactly 3.2 miles. I then park my bike, and begin running a circuit which covers about 1.5 miles. I then come back into the house, cool down a bit, and have a light breakfast of dry wheat toast, fat free jelly, and black coffee. Afterward, I kick on the Wii Fit hardware and shadow box and jog in place for 30 minutes. A quick shower follows these exercises, after which I settle down with the Houston Chronicle to keep track of all the local murders, robberies, and political scandals. I finish my morning with some time on the computer as I check my friends on FaceBook and monitor my blog.

     If you have just read the previous paragraph and believed what you read, boy, do I have a car deal for you! The truth is, I get up, read the paper, eat two Pop Tarts with a big glass of milk, and that’s my morning. The previous paragraph sounds good, however, and sometimes we writers describe things with a little…um…flourish. We call it artistic license.

     Anyway, on this particular morning when I opened my Yahoo email, there was a message about my car. It was very brief and said he/she was very excited about the car, and would I please send them some photos and the price. Well, that seemed a little strange, since the only place my car is advertised is with Autotrader, and the ad has photos, description, and price. But, thinking happy thoughts, I sent all the car info to the email address. Within ten minutes I had a response. To wit:

     “Thanks for your email. The car is good. I’m ready to buy it immediately. I will be paying through PayPal. All I need is your email address, name and address, so I can arrange payment and pickup.” He went on to say that he could not talk to me directly because he was a sailor, and he would have an agent pick up the car. Well, I have used PayPal often to pay for items through eBay, but never in an independent sale, so I emailed him back saying I would check with PayPal to confirm the procedures. He said no problem and would await my instructions. I emailed a question to PayPal about the transaction, and, sure enough, a person can use PayPal for practically anything now days, including independent car deals. All I needed to give the buyer was my email address, and he could deposit payment directly into my PayPal account. PayPal said I didn’t even need to give him my name and address until the funds were deposited in my account and we were ready to arrange pickup of the car. PayPal gave me one bit of advice: if I received a PayPal email confirming that funds had been deposited in my account, do not believe it…confirm it. There had been incidences of fake but official-looking PayPal notices of fund deposits being sent to unsuspecting sellers.

     I emailed my buyer the PayPal procedures, and he responded, “I’ll make the deposit as soon as possible.” And sure enough, about an hour later, I received an email from PayPalpickup@mail2world.com confirming deposit of all funds….even the funds for the shipping charges. The shipping charges amounted to $735.00, which in my vast experience with automobiles tells me the car was going to be shipped about 1300 miles away from Houston. That seemed a little strange, also, since although I love my little PT Cruiser, if I wanted to buy one, I would not need to have one shipped to me. I’d just go down to the nearest car lot. PT Cruisers are not exactly a rare breed.

     So, I did what PayPal (God bless ‘em) suggested I do. I went on line to confirm the money, and, sure enough, no money. So then I stopped to read all the fine print in this two page “official” PayPal email. Here’s what it told me I had to do “prior to confirmation of full funding.” Since the funds allegedly coming to me included the shipping charges, I had to send a Western Union money order to the shipper for payment of shipping charges. When the shipper received the money order, the funds for the car would be released into my PayPal account. The person to whom I was to send the money was an individual who lived on a highway on the outskirts of Flowery Branch, Georgia (no doubt a major trucking terminal.)

     So the scam is the poor victim, namely me, is supposed to send $735.00 in certified, non-recoverable funds to this address in Georgia and then wait for the deposit into his PayPal account, which of course never happens. Instead, I emailed my “buyer” and told him that if you can PayPal payment to one person, you can do it to two, namely me and the shipper. Send me my money and send the shipper his, and we’ll all be happy. That was the last I heard of my hot-to-buy sailor. I didn't sell my car, but I didn't lose $735.00, either. I contacted PayPal and sent them all the information and copies of the emails. I do have a name and address in Georgia, but it’s probably an empty mobile home. I wonder how often people like this are successful in scamming a victim. At $735.00 a scam, it wouldn’t take long to make some real good money. I know that on eBay thousands of cars are sold every year to buyers who do not see their vehicles before they are delivered to their doorsteps, but when someone tells me he’ll buy my car sight unseen with no price negotiation, my old used car salesman instincts rise up. Car salesmen (and there are many honest ones) will tell you that there is only one group of people who can lie even more boldly than car salesmen…and that’s car buyers.

     One more thing. If you need a good, economical, sporty, stylish car that’s priced right and dependable as a mother’s love….I have a car for you! There I go again.

The Lost Art of Making A Bed

     All right, we may as well get this settled right off the bat….when it comes to the skillful art of making a proper bed, I AM an expert. I was trained under combat conditions by the Armed Forces of the United States. While you were home nibbling on Blue Bell ice cream, I was in some far corner of the world learning how to make a bed so tight that a quarter tossed on the covers would bounce like a ping pong ball on concrete. My military bed was such a work of art that many nights I slept on the floor rather than destroy my masterpiece (especially before an inspection.)  The photo, however, shows my military bunk in a somewhat more...um...relaxed state.
     But, friends, I have become alarmed at the havoc being wrecked on the art of bed making by those who should know better but are doing so in the name of “style.” No longer is a bed the summation of two sheets, a bedspread, and a pillow or two. We now have “comforters” and “throws” and all kinds of fluffy stuff on top and all around the sides of a perfectly good bed. The inefficiency of these actions boggles the mind.
     The following example is simply another testimony to the superiority of men over women, and as such…. but I digress…back to the example. What happens when a woman hops up in the morning and the bed needs to be made? That’s right! EVERYTHING comes off the bed, and all components of the bed...sheets, blankets, bedspread, miscellaneous coverings, pillows, etc. are reassembled with the meticulousness of a brain surgeon.  A man, however, with an efficiency that is truly instinctive, grabs the bedspread, jerks it up over everything, and smoothes it out. So what if one of the sheets is crammed down by your ankles! You can pull it up when you crawl in the sack the next night. So what if a pillowcase is missing?  It'll show up on wash day.  And what about those pillows? If you have a woman in your home, you probably have more pillows in your house than in the average sized Holiday Inn…and most of them are on the bed.
     Winters are even worse, because then we have quilts, blankets, and heavier coverings. The refined modern bed maker nowadays applies the blanket over the previously mentioned sheets, but one MUST fold the top sheet over the edge of the blanket exposing four inches of sheet prior to placing fluffed-up pillows in their assigned positions and installing the bedspread. Balderdash! Fling that blanket on top of those sheets and get on with the bedspread! Time is money!
     I haven’t even mentioned a woman’s resistance to storing items under the bed. It's like they prefer dust bunnies or some such pestilence.  The way I feel about it is if you're not supposed to stuff shoes, socks, magazines, sandwiches, water bottles, and iPads under the bed, then let’s get rid of the bed frames and throw the mattresses on the floor!
     I submit to you that the simple act of making a bed has become a grotesque aberration of the pure act it once was. It’s time for us men to take the art of bed making back to the basics. Gentlemen, go to your nearest army surplus store, buy two G.I. blankets and TAKE CHARGE!