I’m Behind the Rope

Today I celebrate two milestones: I have officially been on a diet for 50 years, and my New Year’s resolution to lose weight has been over for six-months, now.

 

Although I am a spitting image of Tom Selleck, I would really like to weigh less than Tom.

Each year begins with one of those pesky resolutions that are touted by svelte TV newscasters.  Prancing about with tights and a headband, they egg their audience on about devising a resolution of some sort.  It usually involves quitting smoking or losing copious amount of weight, though.  Their personal goals are to lose an astounding 5.8 grams.  My goal is to rid myself of the equivalence of a Steinway piano.

Feeling especially guilty because I feel as though they are talking directly to me, I usually turn the television off and retreat to the kitchen for a snack.  But then, I eventually get that culpable feeling back and make a concerted effort to actually shed some pounds.

Being cold and damp in early January, I found a need to exercise indoors.  Chasing Smokey the Cat around the house with a broom doesn’t necessarily qualify as genuine exercise so, I purchased a stationary bicycle.

As a Lorenzo Jones-type of inventor, it wasn’t long before I found myself re-purposing this motionless mode of transportation into something more practical – a multifaceted hanger for my exercise clothes.

Realizing that exercise was not enough, I turned to eating ‘lite’ foods.  After some time, I began eating less lite.  Alas, disappointing results were realized.  This means I actually gained three-pounds.

But, as time passed, ads began showing their ugly little heads in print, on radio, and via billboards.  “Lose weight with ease.  Get that swimsuit body now!” proclaimed the media hoopla.

Yes, it would soon be time for all us fat guys to wish we could doff our shirts to expose our pasty-white chests to the sun.  Sadly, this activity is subject to incarceration in 18 states and all of Canada.

Close scrutiny to these advertisements made me realize that I was going about this all wrong.  It seems as though there are pills available to “melt pounds away.”  At only $19.95 per bottle, I can take these miracle pills that allow me to eat bacon-wrapped doughnuts and lose weight while doing so.

The good news is that I also found a magic powder of some sort that can be sprinkled on ice cream and other health foods, and make my extra ‘baggage’ disappear.  Pictures of women, who were every bit as large as both me and Tom, fill the ads showing remarkable results of their diligence in dispensing this scientific dust to their meals.

All this hoopla gives me motivation and hope that I will someday be able to hide behind a piece of rope.

Just in case, I had bags of potato chips and dip on-hand, in the likely event these products worked so well that I found myself starving to death while eating.

The bottom line is, this business with the New Year’s resolutions is traditionally a lost cause for many people, making me feel somewhat better about my failed efforts.  Yet, there’s always next year to try again. 

Nonetheless, this 50^th anniversary of dieting is going to find me celebrating with an extraordinary meal consisting of a leaf-lettuce salad with a vinaigrette lite dressing, and a glass of lo-cal water.  For dessert, I’ll watch the Food Network for an hour.

BOOM!

This past year I failed to receive a calendar from my local Chinese restaurant because economic times are bad and those “perks” are the first things to go.  But, I was counting on the media to help me along, and they did not disappoint.

 

 

In the week leading up to Independence Day – the Fourth of July, for all you socialists – local television news is peppered with stories about the danger of fireworks.

 

 

Fireworks have long-been a symbol of July 4^th celebrations and represent “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” mentioned in the Star Spangled Banner.

 

 

When I was a little kid, the neighborhood juvenile delinquents magically came up with firecrackers and Roman candles, often set off in a public-style display.

 

 

I don’t ever remember anyone getting hurt during those displays and looked forward to the next one with anxiousness.

 

 

But those local TV scare stories are all the same.  Take an old flannel shirt and pair of britches, stuff them with newspapers, and top them with a watermelon.  An M-80, an eighth stick of dynamite, is taped to the watermelon “head,” then ignited.

 

 

BOOM!  And shards of melon are spewed about, evidently trying to drive home the point of how dangerous taping an M-80 to produce is.

 
 

In the unlikely event this second-hand-store scarecrow is supposed to represent a human being, it is equally unlikely that someone would duct tape an eighth stick of dynamite to their cranium.  They get what they deserve if they do, according to Charles Darwin.

 
 

Some folks may recall those things called ‘snakes.’  They are small, black pellets formed from compressed charcoal that are lighted and expand to awe five-year olds, grandmothers, and anyone with a 57 IQ.  It seems as though snakes are legal in most places possibly because they are so lame.

 

 

Still, I’m not quite certain why backyard fireworks are illegal everywhere I live.  The big news here is that sparklers – those little silvery sticks coated with magnesium, titanium, and an oxidizer, whose temperatures reach roughly 2000°F, are making a comeback in some jurisdictions.

 

 

At the same time, places such as South Carolina and Florida have more fireworks stores than tattoo parlors.  One particular shop in South Carolina sells just what I need for my backyard display, and I frequent it often.  Particularly great are those aerial bombs that produce spiders, mums, and tinsel-like showers.  In other words, the good stuff.

 

 

While we’re talking about South Carolina and Florida, let’s ask ourselves why aerial bombs are legal there, but not on the Eastern Shore.  Perhaps Eastern Shore politicians think their constituents are too stupid to safely light a fuse, but smart enough to vote for them for re-election.

 

 

Let’s prove these sycophants wrong.  Let us use fireworks at our own risk.  Politicians: If you don’t like that idea, find a new job.  Next year, bring on the good stuff!

Buy American!?!

For years now, we have been hearing about how we – as Americans – should be buying products made in America.

Way back when, the United States was involved in a war on two fronts – one in Europe, the other in Asia.  The European front was fought against Germany and Italy, while the Asian war was directed toward Japan.  I feel this need be said because kids do not learn about such things in school.  Apparently there is no time between the sex education and anti-bullying classes.  But, I digress.

Without getting into a history lesson on World War II, the Germans, Italians, and Japanese eventually surrendered.

It wasn’t long, though, before the factories destroyed by Allied bombing were rebuilt with efficient, modern technology.  These factories began producing such things as Mercedes-Benz and Volkswagen vehicles which were summarily exported to America for consumption by the Americans who just finished fighting a bloody war there.

And, Americans did buy these cars by the boat-load.  VW Beetles were scarfed-up because they were reliable and inexpensive.  More than 21,000,000 were manufactured during their production run from 1938 until 2003.  Mercedes-Benz sales were targeted toward the well-heeled crowd of the world.

Toyota, Honda, and Datsun are just three of the Japanese auto manufacturers that wanted U.S. suckers to buy products from a country that arbitrarily bombed a Navy base for no apparent reason other than starting a conflict.

Japanese cars, trucks, and motorcycles are commonplace on American roads for the same reason German cars are here: people don’t care that by buying these products they are subsidizing societies that killed thousands of people.

America proudly stood behind anti-apartheid measures in South Africa, in the 1980’s.  We boycotted South African goods – including gold – instituted trade embargoes, and suspended many diplomatic privileges with that nation, although we didn’t ‘have a dog in that fight.’  Being urged not to support such a nation that exerts distasteful legislation upon its citizens is supposed to groom our sensibilities.

But, here we are pushing Americans to buy costly union-made goods merely because they are domestically produced.  We are treated like pariahs because we tend to buy less expensive foreign-made goods such as tools, clothing, and electronics.  Why?

So we purchase Chevrolet vehicles to join that “Buy American” campaign.  Unfortunately, many of GM’s cars and SUVs are made in Canada and Mexico.  When did those countries become part of the United States?  And, how does that help Americans?

General Electric’s light bulb manufacturing operations have been transferred to China.  I suppose that is another way to aid the domestic American worker.

Besides, American-affiliated unions that have infiltrated U.S. labor forces, have caused the costs – and subsequently the prices – to dramatically increase, thereby creating an economic conundrum about which product best suits the needs and wants of the consumer.  Reasons as this one are why moving jobs and operations overseas make sense.

It is sad to report that in 2012, $3,300,000 worth of American flags were imported from China.

Size Matters

If you didn’t read the title of this masterpiece, please go back and read it; I’ll wait.

 

This is for all those people – especially men – who don’t believe those words.  Yes, women know those words to be true but, those who are ladies don’t offer such advice, in public.

 

In essence, I’m talking about men with their rubber products.

 

It seems as though Crusty had to learn the hard way with some accompanying embarrassment.  Alas, here’s the story.

 

With an ardent desire to drown some worms with his neighbors, Crusty proudly offered his pontoon boat up for the task.  As per usual, neither Crusty nor his pontoon boat was ready to stray anywhere near the water.

 

The boat was up on cinder blocks because he needed to paint the pontoons.  Getting the boat back onto the trailer would be a normally easy job, by backing the trailer under the boat and lowering it on the trailer.

 

Involving jacking the boat up high enough to clear the trailer, once situated below the boat, the jack is lowered and the blocks are removed.  The pontoons hang over the sides of the trailer – next to the tires – with the deck of the boat resting on the trailer for support.  Pretty simple, actually.

 

It was one of the two pesky tires that decided to burst when the boat loaded.  Wouldn’t you know that aged, cracked sidewalls present an omen toward the longevity of the ride.

 

With one tire out of commission, it was time to re-raise the boat off the trailer and fetch a new tire.

 

As will all millionaires, Crusty made his by being, well, frugal.  He would rather buy used underwear than spend $2.50 for a new pair.

 

A trip to the tire shop helped him locate a tire that was a bit larger than the old one, but also a bit cheaper than the correct size.

 

The tire goes back on the trailer, the trailer is backed beneath the boat, the boat is jacked up – again – and the cinder blocks are removed, once more.  Success!

 

It is only a three block drive to the marina’s boat launching ramp but, far enough for the ending of this adventure.

 

In an attempt to impress his fishing chums, he piled them all into the boat for a short jaunt to the water.  With the harbor in sight, a din of hollering emerged from the gallery of Crusty fans which Crusty took as a positive thing.

 

Because that new tire was a bit too large, it managed to create a trail of smoke by rubbing against one of the pontoons.  Those were not cheers of success; rather they were shouts for the fire department and a cry for Crusty to stop driving.

 

Not to worry, as the hole worn into the pontoon could be patched with some magic Crusty elixir and duct tape.  Unfortunately, that fishing trip was cancelled and everyone escaped with their lives.

 

There you have it: size matters.

Graduation Options

It’s graduation time for both high school and college students.  This magical time of year occurs when various awkward scenarios converge to create the “perfect storm.”
 

High school seniors, who realized back in ninth grade that they had no desire to attend college, are anxious to enter the workforce to earn money for dream fulfillment.  These youngsters likely were less-than-stellar students who had to work hard for everything they got, or they were lazy laggards who blamed society for every misstep in their lives.  In any case, they are now attempting to enter society as an employee with 12-years of training.

 

On the other hand, some of those laggards will enter the world of academe to simply delay the inevitable task of searching for a job.  They will likely sponge off society – if not mom and dad – during their quests to discover additional avenues to sloth-like behavior in later life.

 

Those high schoolers that go directly to work, rather than college, deserve lots of credit for realizing they do not have the skills or desires to slog through another few years of school.  Such responsible attitudes easily eliminate the painful courses of life to which we refer as ‘knowing your limitations.’

 

There is little common sense in spending countless thousands of dollars on a college education to prove to others that you are not cut out to be a corporate executive, or merely possess an advanced degree in order to repair wheel barrows.

 

Likewise, many educated people who studied hard to attain those MA’s, MBA’s, and PhD’s, are more comfortable in higher-learning institutions than dirtying their hands.  And, they are often delighted paying those less-educated folks $90/hour and up for an opportunity to repair their toilets or mow their lawns.

 

These well-educated people usually live in metropolitan hubs and often look down on those with a lesser scholastic background.  Think of their student loan debt as a badge of knowledge and intelligence; they do.  Initially, they went to college to more easily find a job and earn more money once one was located.  In reality, much of their earnings are being used to repay their student loans. Ergo, their education is supposed to be their currency.

 

But, a third group exists that defies logic for much of society.  This group consists of laggards who are unable to work with their hands in a trade and are equally unable to find a job only because they never applied for one.  They enjoy going to school.  We refer to this group as ‘professional students.’

 

Our family had a professional student who may still be in school after 34 years.  He studied mechanical engineering, English, computer programming, history, and sciences, and may actually be in a position to get a job serving French fries under the golden arches.

 

Let’s not forget those 5^th-year seniors who are on the cusp of acquiring an NFL contract.  It seems a bit odd to me when the college basketball team enters the court to a screaming fan group from AARP.

 

That perfect storm combines a little bit of knowledge with attitude, and a smidgen of hormones and an overdose of bravado.  This concoction will point the direction for the life course compasses these young know-it-alls have.

 

The bottom line is kids will gravitate toward what they enjoy and with what they are comfortable.  Some will teens will leave high school to work at Jiffy Lube, some will enter college; some will spend four years in college, others will never graduate.  Some kids will follow their buddies into the military; a few will end up in prison.

 

In any case, congratulations to the Class of ’13!

Bargains Everywhere

Yard sales and flea markets can be found nearly everywhere.  Usually held on weekends, these events are wildly popular and are well attended by those searching for a bargain.

 

Often resulting from an itch to clean out the garage, closets, or merely downsize, all sorts of goodies wind up in driveways and curbs to exchange hands for quick cash.

 

Savvy sellers neatly place their wares on tables – sometimes made from saw horses and plywood.  Really savvy sellers wash and polish their wares to make them more attractive to potential buyers.

 

At these events you will meet any of several types of individuals.  The person with clearly priced items is the most anxious to sell.  They make it plain that this is at least the starting point in the negotiations to make their stuff your stuff.

 

Another type of person you will meet is the seller who has no price on anything.  This can be a sign of a seller who does not really want to sell anything.  They often have things ranging from used toothbrushes to bags of lint.  When inquiring about the price, they will respond with, “Make me an offer.”

 

At this point, I usually make an obscene offer that generally insults the seller who never wanted to sell in the first place.

 

A third personality you can find at a flea market or yard sale is the one that doesn’t want to sell anything any more than the ‘Make me an offer’ guy.  Still, no visible prices so offers must be made.  The exception being this fellow could be offered $400 for a rusty hubcap and he will weave a story about his first car, the type of salt he uses, and the person who taught him how to tie his shoes.

 

Finally, the best person selling anything at these venues is the fresh divorcee.  Each time she looks at the Dale Earnhart-signed official NASCAR racing jack, she thinks of her ex-husband who left the household with a decidedly younger waitress.  The ex-wife is willing to sell that jack for five bucks.  And that will be subject to negotiation.

 

Buying things at such events can be iffy but, sometimes profitable.  Those folks selling dirty items can easily be talked down on prices.  The same holds true for hawkers offering broken or non-running tools and appliances.

 

I recently bought a chipper-shredder that eats 4” branches, and copious amounts of leaves, for $40 because it wouldn’t start.  This $500 machine was running immediately after the gas shut-off valve was turned to the “on” position.  This was one of those rare bargains for me.

 

Still, the old saying, “If is sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” holds firm.

 

My sainted wife personally hates yard sales and flea markets, and lets me know each time we stop at one.  Unfortunately, she quickly forgets why she dislikes these bazaar-like dealings by finding some inexpensive must-have trinkets.

 

It’s too bad she didn’t see the value in a genuine, autographed NASCAR jack.

Killing Me Softly

Every year – like clockwork – counties around the country celebrate their agriculture-based living through county fairs.  These fairs usually make the news not because of the rides, carnival games, or midway shows, but because of the variety of unhealthy foods that can be had at these venues.

 

One culinary shocker that caught my attention was the fried butter.  Yes, you read that right: fried butter.

 

How these sticks of modified heavy cream became a big success is wildly unknown, as is the way such temperature-sensitive bars of fat do not melt in deep fryers.  But, I digress.

 

When gastronomic delicacies, such as fried butter, are mentioned in the news reports, the reporters usually smile with a wink and a nod that they are surprisingly tasty.  Of course they are – they are butter!

 

Before you stop reading and move on to another website, try to work with me on this one.

 

If you have ever had an ear of corn, you slather it with butter and salt.  After all, corn really has no taste, so you are ingesting butter and salt.

 

The same is true for steamed clams, lobsters, and king crab legs.

 

Last night, my sainted wife enjoyed a dinner at a neighbor’s home which featured artichokes.  It’s not as though she had never had an artichoke before but, someone eyed her dissecting it as if it were a frog in a biology class.  Carefully tearing off leaf after leaf, using a knife to surgically remove strategic portions, she eventually reached the much-loved heart of the ‘choke.

 

Fellow diners were awestruck at her deftness in the use of simple table utensils to reach the center prize of her spiny, steamed vegetable.

 

She was questioned about the succulent leaves she discarded in lieu of reaching the much-desired core.  “They’re way too much work for too little to bother,” she explained.

 

All eyes immediately bulged, which eventually turned to scowls.

 

It seems as though my sainted wife doesn’t scrape the artichoke leaf ‘meat’ off because she doesn’t like stuff stuck in her teeth.  She doesn’t balk at eating corn-on-the-cob, though.  But that is why they invented dental floss and fingernails.

 

Once again, she passed on a golden opportunity to use those leaves as a vehicle to ingest butter.  For artichoke novices, they, too, have no taste but, it is the melted butter through which they are dredged that induces the flavor.

 

Coming full circle, deep fried butter my not be so bad because it appears as though butter is the ultimate goal in epicurean adventures.  It may not be good for your heart or its related blood vessels. 

 

Paula Deen made a career of cooking and baking with copious amounts of fattening butter, and now you know why she was so successful.  Butter is better.