Routines and Randomness

Larry’s Lollygaggings
Volume 2, Number 2
19 November 2009

Just thinking about…routines and randomness

I think being spontaneous is one of the true joys of living. You know how special the smallest tilt or tweak to your routine can be in making a bad day good or a good day great. Like coming home with flowers when it’s just any old Wednesday, waking up one morning and telling the kids you are taking them to Disney World, or answering the Wal-Mart gal’s “How are you?” with a “Super-dee-dooper!” that makes her giggle. It is what helps spice the otherwise mundane days that we all too often muddle through.

But (my father always said “beware of the ‘buts’; what comes after is the reality”), sometimes the routine things make me wonder.

Why is the seemingly simple routine of a checkout line so difficult? Why is it that the express line at Wholesale Freddy’s Food-O-Rama for 12 items or less? I can’t tell you how many times I put back two things because the lady behind me ratted me out and I was afraid they’d make me return my Happy Dappy Customer Card or something. And why isn’t it 11 items? We all know why not 13. No one would dare buy 13 items for fear of bad luck. Kinda like how there is no 13th floor in a hotel. Do you think those people on the 14th floor are really fooled into a sense of security? And for that matter, if there was a checkout line for 666 items or less and you went on it with 667, would you go to Hell? See what goes through my mind when I’m waiting to restock on the necessities that I save so much money on by going to the wholesaler’s club?

Who decided that the senior citizen’s discount at Zippy Mart starts at 62? Or 65 at The Rusty Buddah Asian Seafood House? It’s only 55 at Plastic Bag Mart. I don’t know how it will be when I’m at those senior ages. But with it coming up faster than my lunch after reading the health department bacterial culture report at a Chuck E. Cheese’s, I hope I can remember what age is what discount at what place. As it is, I already have trouble figuring out what my own kids’ names are – just come over here…YOU!

What about the random way people spell? There must be 100 spellings for ‘omelet’.

Or the random way people speak? No one thinks of what words mean anymore. It seems that every time I go to the out, I hear someone say add some senseless words like “where are the cracker jacks?”… “they were around the corner yet.” I guess the randomization of language has invaded our lives. We should have been warned when Missing Persons sang ‘What are words for?’. (On a related note, it is Cracker Jack. Not Jacks. That is a game, not a snack.)

Hey, maybe I liked the thrill of surprise! Now, automation has taken the randomness out of my life. My car is idiot-proof so I won’t lock the keys in it, my phone dials people by name so I can’t call my parents when I am at using any phone other than my own, my toaster won’t let me burn my bagel…MAYBE I LIKE IT THAT WAY! I’m so frustrated at organization in my life that I had to buy a circa-1972 toaster on ebay from ColdWarEraSurplus.com just so I could have a well done, crunchy poptart. Does anyone have any idea what the shipping charge is from bloc Vladbekistan?

It seems the only spontaneity left in my life is finding out if that my shopping cart is the one with one crippled wheel that twists and screeches and binds up when pushed. Of course, this wheel problem only starts when you are as far away from the front of the store as possible. Too far to go back, we’ve all thought about stealing Old Lady McGurtie’s cart when she was thump-testing the melons. I know. I know. The bad carts look just like the good ones – mixed in so well, they are impossible to pick out. But coming down the aisle, I’m as easy to spot as Opie Griffith juggling flaming chainsaws in a Carmen Miranda hat on a solid gold unicycle playing the electric guitar in Duke Ellington’s Band.

Anyway, looks like I finally finished the 55 gallon industrial drum of sauerkraut that I bought at Costco to save 5 cents in 1987. It took years of sauerkraut pancakes and sauerkraut parmigiana to do it. Maybe I’ll surprise the kids with a new supply.

And, by the way, what do you do when the public bathroom sink is so dirty that you don’t want to wash your hands?...just thinking.

Ageing

Larry’s Lollygaggings

Volume 2, Number 1

21 January 2009

Just thinking about…Ageing.

If you think writing a blog about age is difficult, you should only know how long I had to stare at the word ‘ageing’ to figure out if it was spelled with the ‘e’ or not. I’m still not sure which is right, so I just went for the extra letter…hey, it’s free!

Anyway, I am currently on a plane. This is seemingly the only time when I have enough of a stretch of uninterrupted peace to write a blog.

I am finishing spending a few days away with my oldest son, Sam, and his friend, Max. They are great kids. Smart. Respectful. Intelligent. Oh, and fourteen years old.

This trip taught me a few things that I either never learned, didn’t realize, or failed to experience when I was that age. Some things are so strange that I may have to go check the replay of my life to see if I ever WAS 14!

For example, what did I ever do without text messaging? I can only assume that I had to converse with the people around me. There were a number of times where one of the boys would tell the other to read the message that he JUST SENT TO THE OTHER!!! I am amazed even reading that! I am now intimately familiar with the crown of their heads from looking at them looking down all day. I guess this is what Andre’ The Giant felt like. (I notice I use a lot of wrestler references in my blogs…what’s up with that?) Oh, yeah, in 1980 at 14, we wrote notes and then waited six class periods to pass them to our girlfriend. Most of my relationships didn’t last a full six periods. Oh, well. I think I still have all the old notes.

Regarding ages…I am not sure at what age males become aware that there is such a thing as a floor mat and it should be laid down OUTSIDE the shower to be stepped on while drying off, but apparently it is older than fourteen.

Likewise, I learned that the age at which we y-chromosomed Cretans learn how desirable Brazilian women are is less than 14. After the boys got a glimpse of the Rio Teenie-Bopper Crowd, they followed them around with more interest than Brad and Angelina at an African orphanage. I kept wondering if either they got the Evelyn Woods/Portugese Version of Rosetta Stone sent by FedEx, or there was some type of universally understood language called grunting. While these girls were probably thinking “what the heck are they saying” in Portugese while the boys were thinking” what the heck are they saying” in English. On top of that, they thought they had scored an immense international coup after getting a smile and an illegible email address. I guess they can always text them a smiley face emoticon thingie.

I wonder why is it that now that I am twice as old as when I was first legal to drink, I have to drink half as much to get the same results?

Another thing. At some age, men stop listening. To everyone and everything. Just stop. I don’t know when. I don’t know why. And this is not random. We don’t listen to our wives, our kids, our friends, the waitress, the safety talk on the plane, the toll-taker, the boss, the TV, the movies. Come on! How ridiculous is it that we are AT A MOVIE and have to ask our wives what the character just said? There is nothing else going on there! No microwave timer going off, no dog asking to be walked, no doorbell ringing. Just listen, will you guys?!? As a gender, there is some age where we males have the collective attention span of a gnat. I guess I’ll ask my wise old dad if how I’m acting at my age is ridiculous. But he probably won’t pay attention.

This is kind of like my favorite Winnie-the-Pooh scenario where our humble bear is awoken by Rabbit after snoozing during an instructional speech. He tells Rabbit that he couldn’t hear the whole talk because he got fluff in his ear and asks if Rabbit could repeat himself. “From what point?” asks Rabbit. “Well, from the point that the fluff got stuck in my ear, of course”, replies Pooh.

That proves that Pooh is a male. I’m just not sure how old.

Huh?

I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?

Just thinking.