When I first started this Blog, I thought I would have a lot of adventures to write about. What I discovered is that as I matured in retirement and advanced into old age, there were more symptoms than adventures to be shared.
One of the first ones I noticed about two month ago is one that I shall call the first D. I discovered the first D when I awoke from a deep sleep only to discover that my pillow was wet and that my mouth was dry. I did not give it much thought until latter in the evening as I was reading a W.E.B Griffin novel and drinking a small glass of scotch that there was moisture on the counter top in the kitchen where I held the book in place. Since the moisture did not look like scotch, I wasn’t really too concerned.
The next D I discovered was rather unpleasant. If there are any young readers out there or people with upset stomachs, they should probably stop reading and return to their sitcoms. I found out that after I was finished peeing and had zipped my self up, that my pant leg was damp. This has continued with some frequency over the past period of time.
Now I will reveal what the D & D stand for. Drool and Drip.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Leak
The Leak
All of you who are living and breathing know about the oil leak in the gulf. The head of BP recently said that it was an act of God and that they were not responsible: however, they set aside 20 Billion dollars for the “poor people” who were damaged.
Well, none of you kind people know about the leak in my kitchen. But now you shall.
This past Sunday my wife and I were having our pre lunch cocktail when my wife yelled” There is water running all over the kitchen tabletop and onto the floor.” Probably from the dishwasher valve she said. On further examination I discovered that it was coming from the faucet that the Culligan soft water people had installed several years ago. Having seen the TV and newspaper articles on the gulf spill, we decided that if we could not stop it, we could at least contain it.
We got all of our containment towels into action. Barbara would mop up and I would run the dryer to get rid of the water. I had seen on TV that hair could be thrown into the mess to help sop up the leak. Well, I am very bald so that did not seem like an option until I had a clever thought. I had several toupees left over form my working days, so I chipped them up and threw them at the sink. No Luck!
Well, this was becoming an emergency. I decided that I better call Culligan and see if they could help. There answering machine advised me that their main troubleshooter was engaged in a sailboat race at Lake Tahoe and would not be back to work for a week.
Now, we were up to our ankles in water so I decided some drastic action was needed. I called a local plummer who advertised that they took emergency calls seven days a week. The guy told me that he was not familiar with the Culligan system but that he would come over and look things over for $250.00 with no guarantees that he could help.
Not that I’m cheap, but that amount would seriously diminish my scotch budget. I looked under the sink and found two cut-off valves that stopped the flow of water just before it hit the Florida beaches. Maybe BP could learn from my experience.
All of you who are living and breathing know about the oil leak in the gulf. The head of BP recently said that it was an act of God and that they were not responsible: however, they set aside 20 Billion dollars for the “poor people” who were damaged.
Well, none of you kind people know about the leak in my kitchen. But now you shall.
This past Sunday my wife and I were having our pre lunch cocktail when my wife yelled” There is water running all over the kitchen tabletop and onto the floor.” Probably from the dishwasher valve she said. On further examination I discovered that it was coming from the faucet that the Culligan soft water people had installed several years ago. Having seen the TV and newspaper articles on the gulf spill, we decided that if we could not stop it, we could at least contain it.
We got all of our containment towels into action. Barbara would mop up and I would run the dryer to get rid of the water. I had seen on TV that hair could be thrown into the mess to help sop up the leak. Well, I am very bald so that did not seem like an option until I had a clever thought. I had several toupees left over form my working days, so I chipped them up and threw them at the sink. No Luck!
Well, this was becoming an emergency. I decided that I better call Culligan and see if they could help. There answering machine advised me that their main troubleshooter was engaged in a sailboat race at Lake Tahoe and would not be back to work for a week.
Now, we were up to our ankles in water so I decided some drastic action was needed. I called a local plummer who advertised that they took emergency calls seven days a week. The guy told me that he was not familiar with the Culligan system but that he would come over and look things over for $250.00 with no guarantees that he could help.
Not that I’m cheap, but that amount would seriously diminish my scotch budget. I looked under the sink and found two cut-off valves that stopped the flow of water just before it hit the Florida beaches. Maybe BP could learn from my experience.
Friday, February 19, 2010
From C.E.O. to Pack Leader (?)
My dog, Skippy has a barking problem. Actually he doesn’t have a problem, I do
with his barking. I tried various collars. One that emitted sounds that only a dog could hear and dislike. One that emitted an odor that dogs hated. I tried yelling at Skippy or putting a muzzle on him. Nothing worked. It is not as if we had complaints from our neighbors. We live in the historical part of Carson City where the office-buildings look like Victorian homes and they are not occupied during the weekend. His barking only upset me.
I decided that I needed some professional help. I made contact with Bark Busters, the largest home dog training company in the world. They sent a trainer to my home who carefully explained that dogs are descended from wolves and they traveled in packs. Only one dog could be the pack leader and in my home I had to be the pack leader.
Well now. My household includes a wife, a cat, and Skippy. My wife has demonstrated over the years that I would never be her pack leader. Have you ever made a cat sit and stay? So that only left Skippy for me to lead.
To stop Skippy from barking I was to growl at him like a dog pack leader would. If he continued barking my next step would be to throw a beanbag at his feet. She asked me to do this a few times and after about the fourth or fifth time it actually worked. She also explained that when Skippy came to me for affection or to play, I was to growl at him since I, as pack leader, should decide when he could play or have affection. She left after about an hour and I had not decided whether or not I was going to sign a contract for her to train me to train Skippy.
For the rest of the day Skippy would not come near me and looked like he was afraid of me. Maybe wolves and dogs are afraid of their pack leaders but I don’t want Skippy to be afraid of me and when he wants some affection I want to pet him on his terms. Needless to say, I did not hire Bark Busters. As far as I am concerned Skippy can bark all he wants so long as he loves me and is not afraid of me.
with his barking. I tried various collars. One that emitted sounds that only a dog could hear and dislike. One that emitted an odor that dogs hated. I tried yelling at Skippy or putting a muzzle on him. Nothing worked. It is not as if we had complaints from our neighbors. We live in the historical part of Carson City where the office-buildings look like Victorian homes and they are not occupied during the weekend. His barking only upset me.
I decided that I needed some professional help. I made contact with Bark Busters, the largest home dog training company in the world. They sent a trainer to my home who carefully explained that dogs are descended from wolves and they traveled in packs. Only one dog could be the pack leader and in my home I had to be the pack leader.
Well now. My household includes a wife, a cat, and Skippy. My wife has demonstrated over the years that I would never be her pack leader. Have you ever made a cat sit and stay? So that only left Skippy for me to lead.
To stop Skippy from barking I was to growl at him like a dog pack leader would. If he continued barking my next step would be to throw a beanbag at his feet. She asked me to do this a few times and after about the fourth or fifth time it actually worked. She also explained that when Skippy came to me for affection or to play, I was to growl at him since I, as pack leader, should decide when he could play or have affection. She left after about an hour and I had not decided whether or not I was going to sign a contract for her to train me to train Skippy.
For the rest of the day Skippy would not come near me and looked like he was afraid of me. Maybe wolves and dogs are afraid of their pack leaders but I don’t want Skippy to be afraid of me and when he wants some affection I want to pet him on his terms. Needless to say, I did not hire Bark Busters. As far as I am concerned Skippy can bark all he wants so long as he loves me and is not afraid of me.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Gym
When I retired in Carson City, Nevada, I decided to join a local gym. For many years I had neglected my body, working twelve and fourteen-hour days, climbing the corporate ladder until I became President of my company.
I went to the gym diligently for a couple of years and then I was sick for a while and my wife also had some medical problems so I slacked off to the point where I was hardly going at all. Well, we both got better and it was time to return to the gym, but this time I wanted to do it right. So I hired a professional trainer. He is a young man, probably 50 years younger than I am. He is over six feet tall and very muscular where as I am about five foot eight and shrinking.
I have a one-hour lesson with him once a week and go twice more each week to practice what I have learned from him. He is relentless in making me do 15 reps. of each exercise and makes me do each exercise three times. When I am finished with the exercises, he has me go to a stationary bike and peddle until my heart rate is up to 105 beats per minute and than I can go home.
The last time I was at the gym with my personal trainer, at the end of the session, when I could hardly move, he suggested that next week, we would work out by doing a little boxing in the ring that sat at the far end of the room. Well, I was pretty proficient at boxing, having won the intra collegiate championship in my weight class at Cornell some sixty years ago. So I said to my trainer, that I did not think that was going to happen. He asked why and I said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I went to the gym diligently for a couple of years and then I was sick for a while and my wife also had some medical problems so I slacked off to the point where I was hardly going at all. Well, we both got better and it was time to return to the gym, but this time I wanted to do it right. So I hired a professional trainer. He is a young man, probably 50 years younger than I am. He is over six feet tall and very muscular where as I am about five foot eight and shrinking.
I have a one-hour lesson with him once a week and go twice more each week to practice what I have learned from him. He is relentless in making me do 15 reps. of each exercise and makes me do each exercise three times. When I am finished with the exercises, he has me go to a stationary bike and peddle until my heart rate is up to 105 beats per minute and than I can go home.
The last time I was at the gym with my personal trainer, at the end of the session, when I could hardly move, he suggested that next week, we would work out by doing a little boxing in the ring that sat at the far end of the room. Well, I was pretty proficient at boxing, having won the intra collegiate championship in my weight class at Cornell some sixty years ago. So I said to my trainer, that I did not think that was going to happen. He asked why and I said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"Rocky"
Carson city, the Capitol of Nevada, is known for its friendliness especially to older retired people. One of the attractions for us retired folks is gambling which true Nevadans call “Gaming.” Most of the casinos are small intimate places that cater to the locals, although there are a few larger casinos that are frequented by tourists.
One night shortly after I had retired, , my wife, Bobbie, and I were were sitting in the Sport’s Bar of the Carson Station Casino having a glass of wine and playing the video poker machines. Sitting on my right was a young fellow who was explaining to Doug, the bartender, that although he was working at the “Big O” as a tire changer he was really an inventor who was going to be quite rich one day.
Doug paid him the appropriate attention so he started to talk to several of the cocktail waitresses. He started to pick on one waitress who was visibly pregnant. He told her that she probably didn’t know who the father was since she was obviously the kind that slept around a lot. When I saw her become flustered and teary-eyed, I told the guy to mind his manners if he knew what was good for him. I guess the security guards knew what was going on because the jerk told me to “shut the f—k up” and I belted him and knocked him off the bar stool. Security surrounded us in seconds. Since Barbara and I are well known in all the bars and gin mills in Carson City, they escorted this creep out and told him never to return. We left the Station and did not return for several days. When I finally got the nerve to go back to the Sports Bar, I was greeted with applause, and a “Here’s Rocky.” The cocktail girls and bartender called me “ Rocky” all evening. Not bad for a guy in his seventies.
One night shortly after I had retired, , my wife, Bobbie, and I were were sitting in the Sport’s Bar of the Carson Station Casino having a glass of wine and playing the video poker machines. Sitting on my right was a young fellow who was explaining to Doug, the bartender, that although he was working at the “Big O” as a tire changer he was really an inventor who was going to be quite rich one day.
Doug paid him the appropriate attention so he started to talk to several of the cocktail waitresses. He started to pick on one waitress who was visibly pregnant. He told her that she probably didn’t know who the father was since she was obviously the kind that slept around a lot. When I saw her become flustered and teary-eyed, I told the guy to mind his manners if he knew what was good for him. I guess the security guards knew what was going on because the jerk told me to “shut the f—k up” and I belted him and knocked him off the bar stool. Security surrounded us in seconds. Since Barbara and I are well known in all the bars and gin mills in Carson City, they escorted this creep out and told him never to return. We left the Station and did not return for several days. When I finally got the nerve to go back to the Sports Bar, I was greeted with applause, and a “Here’s Rocky.” The cocktail girls and bartender called me “ Rocky” all evening. Not bad for a guy in his seventies.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Skippy
“Skippy”
About two years ago, my wife, Barbara, and I adopted Skippy from the Wylie Animal Rescue Foundation. We have had dogs all of our lives but this is the first time we adopted one. Skippy is a small (about 25lbs.) mixed breed with a lot of Whippet in his genes. We know that because it is impossible to catch him when he is racing around our house if he does not want to be caught.
Skippy has a habit of picking up our stuff in his mouth and showing us he has it and than begins the game of “chase” which he always wins. One night, a few days ago, he somehow got hold of Barbara’s bottom denture. The game began and we lost again, but this time we could not find where he had placed Barbara’s teeth. We searched all over the house without luck in discovering where he had hidden them. Naturally, I was furious.
First I yelled at my wife for putting her denture in a place where Skippy could find them. We searched again, lifting up the sofas and chairs and still had no luck. This time I yelled at Skippy and told him that he was going to the pound the next day. Of course, I could never do that, as I love Skippy too much. Within a few minutes, Skippy appeared with the teeth in his mouth and dropped them at my feet. He was not going to the pound!
About two years ago, my wife, Barbara, and I adopted Skippy from the Wylie Animal Rescue Foundation. We have had dogs all of our lives but this is the first time we adopted one. Skippy is a small (about 25lbs.) mixed breed with a lot of Whippet in his genes. We know that because it is impossible to catch him when he is racing around our house if he does not want to be caught.
Skippy has a habit of picking up our stuff in his mouth and showing us he has it and than begins the game of “chase” which he always wins. One night, a few days ago, he somehow got hold of Barbara’s bottom denture. The game began and we lost again, but this time we could not find where he had placed Barbara’s teeth. We searched all over the house without luck in discovering where he had hidden them. Naturally, I was furious.
First I yelled at my wife for putting her denture in a place where Skippy could find them. We searched again, lifting up the sofas and chairs and still had no luck. This time I yelled at Skippy and told him that he was going to the pound the next day. Of course, I could never do that, as I love Skippy too much. Within a few minutes, Skippy appeared with the teeth in his mouth and dropped them at my feet. He was not going to the pound!
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