Dumbkin

You know what I found out recently? 

My mom won't pay for a can of pumpkin because it costs more than the price of tea in China. 

I know, I don't get it, either. The statement's kinda nonsensical, and I'm pretty sure racist because that's the way Mom rolls.

This doesn't matter.

What matters is I take my mom grocery shopping every week. God love her, Mom has macular degeneration, so she can't see and can't drive. Since it's Thanksgiving, we should all be thankful she's off the streets. Last time she drove, she nearly clipped a crossing guard.

"Well, he shouldn't have been standing in the streets," she said, applying a true Perry Mason defense.

I digress!

So, the holiday season's upon us, and Mom and I go shopping. Fun!

Mom demands pumpkin. That's all she says.

"Mom, I don't even know what that means. You want a pumpkin?"

"Yes!" She vacantly stares at me like I'm the crazy one. "Pumpkin in a can!" Very irritable, she can't believe how pumpkin dumb ("dumbkin?") I am.

"Okay," I say. "Where do I find pumpkin in a can?" Between Mom's outrage at my pumpkin stupidity and my exasperation, people are drawn to the building dust-up in aisle three.

"In the pumpkin aisle," she answers, just short of adding a "duh."

I set off on the great pumpkin quest. I find a can of pumpkin pie filling, bring it back to her.

"No! I need pumpkin!"

Off I go again--too prideful and dumb male to ask for assistance--and finally stumble upon a can of pumpkin. (Until now, I never knew pumpkin came in a can. Some things just shouldn't. Besides you can't carve a can.) 

"Here, Mom. Here's your blood pumpkin." I thrust the can toward her like a badge of honor.

"Huh," she says, her "tell" when things are about to get worse. "How much is it?"

"$2.55," I answer.

She sways her head, disgusted. "Forget it. I'm not gonna pay that for pumpkin. It's more than the price of tea in China."

We've been playing out the pumpkin game for three weeks now, leading up to the holidays.

"Mom! A can of pumpkin's not gonna get any cheaper," I rant.

"Huh. Well, maybe it's cheaper at Price Chopper."

I bite my tongue. Wonder how much gas I'm gonna burn driving twenty-three miles away to the Price Chopper to save Mom three cents on a can of pumpkin. But rest assured, it'll be cheaper than the price of tea in China.

But, lo, on Thanksgiving day, a miracle happened! (Actually, there were two Thanksgiving miracles; instead of pardoning two turkeys, I was absolutely certain President Trump was going to slaughter them on live TV.) Mom's pumpkin pie magically materialized and it was good.

This book's cheaper than the price of tea in China, for sure:

Click here and help sponsor Mom's pumpkin in a can quest!

Physical Therapy Has Gone to the Dogs!

For those of you who've been reading my blog, you know of our travails with our beloved, recently three-legged dog, Zak. 

Four weeks ago, the worst scenario happened. Zak had blown out the ligaments on his remaining back leg, completely unable to walk. Until our appointment with Zak's surgeon to verify what we knew to be the truth, I spent a long, torturous five days saying goodbye to our pet. We didn't--couldn't--put him (or us) through another "iffy" operation. But...sigh...things change and Zak's now going through the long, hard, nerve-wracking road to recovery and rehabilitation again after yet another operation.

Which is why we took him to a doggy physical therapist. I know, right? Physical therapy for dogs, who'd 'a thunk it? But, hey, why not? We've already taken Zak to a doggy dentist and a doggy ophthalmologist. I imagine it's just a matter of time before he finds himself on the doggy psychiatrist couch (if he doesn't chew it up first).

Anyway...in the therapist's waiting room, an assistant drags Zak away. We wait. Finally, the head therapist comes out, grills us, and leads us to our dog. 

We walk around the offices and through this frightening room full of cages. Busy people in all manner of blue and green and white lab coats are toying with the most sinister looking scientific equipment to be found anywhere this side of a Frankenstein film.

I thought, What kinda fresh Hell is this?

As if to answer my question, the therapist invites us into a utilitarian elevator, a grey box, something out of Hellraiser. Old-fashioned and cranky, the elevator drops us down into the bowels of a torturous Hell. I imagine I hear Zak's cries as he's subjected to needles and torches.

The elevator doors crunch open. Again, we weave through a maze of hallways, and finally enter a swinging door depositing us unto the final ring of doggy Hell.

And there lay Zak. Spread out on a mattress as four young women hugged, patted, and cooed at him like concubines attending to their three-legged harem king. The only thing missing were peeled grapes being hand-fed him.

Zak thumped his tail in approval. Stopped when he finally noticed us.

What the...?

This is physical therapy? Sign me up!

After the "Love-In" portion of therapy was completed, the women lowered Zak into an underwater treadmill.  We watched as they enclosed Zak inside a plastic tomb and water started to slowly fill up. Immediately, I thought of Harry Houdini or one of Batman's villain's traps. Then the treadmill started. Aquadog!

Zak's harem of therapists kept reassuring us that our dog would be so tired from his workout, he'd sleep for 24 hours. Hardly. Even with only two good legs, he had more energy than ever that night, ready to chase those damn rabbits outta our yard.

Our dog year continues...

Hey! For the best kind of therapy--laughter!--check out the newest book in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, Nightmare of Nannies. (See what I did there?)

Clickie to purchase!

"If the cabdriver kills me, goodbye and I love you!"

My wife's final words that fateful day, delivered via an ominous email.

Here...let me run the message by you again...

"If the cabdriver kills me, goodbye and I love you!"

Exclamation point was all hers, too.

What was I to make of this? Had Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver picked her up on a one-way ride to oblivion? 

Immediately I fired back a phone call. Zip. Zilch. Dead zone.

So my wife was dead, slaughtered by a Kamikaze cabdriver on her way home from a medicinal marijuana ("Do they give out samples?" I'd asked her) summit in Denver, Colorado. 

I don't know if my wife is (was?) kidding, if she's alive, if I need to go unpeel her outta a cab in Denver or what.

I mean, what else could I assume?

I really, really hate electronic messaging.
 
It's nearly as bad as my daughter's text to me earlier this year: My mom just had a heart attack, can you watch my dog?

Wait...what? In a panic, I tried calling her back. I texted (and I loathe texting as I'm still on the ol' flip phone, tap, tap, tapping each button painstakingly three times just to get one letter and that's if I don't screw it up). No reply. Once again, I'm abandoned to the dead zone of drama with no recourse but to FREAK OUT.

Phone calls are good, people. Remember them? There's no mistaking a person's tone whether it's screamed in blood-curdling shrieks or spoken with mild amusement. Either way I'd get the message.

Which is just one of the many reasons I still haven't gone Smart Phonesque. I like hearing peoples' voices. I like the lost art of phone calling. And I don't want to end up like those restaurant people who don't communicate with the person they're eating with but instead teppity-tap away on their phones while slurping soup.

Ain't no smart phones in Peculiar County. Lots of other weird stuff, though. Click here to discover.

Let's hold up on the senior discount a bit longer...

Just like Winter on Game of Thrones, old age is coming.

Writing's on the wall and, man, I'd sure like to scrub it off.

The other day I took my mom to get her hair cut. In front of Great Clips, I kicked her out of my car, parked the vehicle, then ran inside to make sure she hadn't started some sorta race riot or something. Everything seemed relatively peaceful, so I took off to run an errand.

When I came back, one of the hair stylists (are they "stylists" if they work at Great Clips?), mumbled, "Welcome to Great Clips, can I help you?"

Well. One look at my shaved pate clearly supplied the answer. But things got worse. MUCH worse.

One of the other "stylists" said, "He's here to pick up his wife."

A great big A-OOH-GA horn blasted my skull to bits. A firing squad unleashed a torrent of bullets into my heart. My chest clenched up like a mean, coiled fist.

"Um...she's my mother," I squeaked, very much a cartoon mouse voice.

The offending stylist took a long, gawping look at me, then my mother, highly amused with herself. Doubtful looking even.

Good Gawd a'mighty! Do I really look like a doddering old man? Have I turned into my mother's peer overnight? Will I ever be able to scrape the horrific ramifications of what the anti-stylist said from my brain?

Mom, of course, was oblivious to the entire exchange. Just sitting in her Great Clips chair, with her Great Clips bib tucked beneath her Great Clips chin. When I later told her about the nightmare, she hooted. Loved it. Went on to brag about how someone couldn't believe how old she was the other day. She missed the sheer terror of it all completely.
  Several nights prior, I went to a movie with a buddy of mine. The ticket girl asked my friend if he wanted a senior ticket. He took offense, corrected her. As it didn't pertain to me (at the time), I laughed it off, chucked him in the shoulder, said, "Does that really bother you?"

He said, "Not really, but let's not rush things along."

Indeed.  

Apparently Karma decided to rush my comeuppance for teasing my pal. At Great Clips, of all places. Stupid Karma. Karma probably even gets her haircut at Great Clips, too.

Kids today think anyone over say, 30, is ancient. And they can't be bothered to try and make an accurate age assessment. Just too much darn work.

Great Caesar's ghost! I didn't realize how late in the day it's getting on. I'm gonna miss the early bird supper down at the Shady Ache's home if I don't get my electric scooter in gear!

Nothing old about my newest book, the third in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series:

Do an old man's heart some good and click to buy.