Downton vs the Super Bowl

            Sunday afternoons at our house are spent waiting for Downton Abbey to air.

            It wasn’t always this way. There once was a time when Sunday afternoon meant anticipating such manly shows as The Simpsons and Family Guy and Futurama. But my wife likes Downton Abbey – and I mean really likes it, much in the same way that a dog really likes peanut butter – so we watch Downton Abbey.

            “Why should I care about those kajillionaires and their problems?” I asked my wife as the Masterpiece Theatre theme thrummed. “Folks who have servants whose sole purpose is to hang around and help them get suited up! A bunch of people who are waited on hand and foot and are kowtowed to wherever they go!”

            “And how does that differ from the group of guys who will be playing in the Super Bowl?”

            “Well, it’s, um... That’s entirely different! I can’t tell you how just this second, but it is!”

            My wife often opines that she was born in the wrong historical period. She loves the frilly, girly-girl clothing that was worn back in the Victorian era. We’re talking dresses that contain enough square footage of cloth to construct the sails of a clipper ship. And that’s just the outerwear!

            I pointed out to her that the sheer logistics of wearing such togs must have been a nightmare. “It would take two grown women and a small child just to take a bathroom break!” I said.

            “That’s why we go to the loo in pairs,” she replied. “It’s a girly-girl tradition.”

            I blame the English. They are the ones who began such frivolous practices as “high tea” (As opposed to what? “mid-level tea?”) and extending your pinky daintily when you eat a crumpet (whatever that is!) and surrounding your abode with large lawns that require constant care. Thank goodness America had some fortitude or else we would also be driving on the wrong side of the road!         

            But there’s little we can do about any of that now. The English invaded and left us with their system of inches and ounces and roods and firkins. And now, Downton Abbey.

            We have two televisions in our house, so it’s not like anyone is being forced to watch a particular program. But the second TV is much smaller than our main TV, which has a commanding presence in the living room. It’s like riding shotgun versus being consigned to the backseat.

            There are some major differences between watching a British period drama and watching the Super Bowl. The food situation is a huge for instance.

            Viewing the Super Bowl traditionally involves mass quantities of manly and artery-clogging snacks, including buckets of melted cheese and brats the size of fence posts and those cute little cocktail weenies. This is all washed down by an all-American beverage such as Budweiser, a beer that’s delivered by an all-American dream team of draft horses. This is why a beer is often referred to as a draft.

            Oops! Just a second. I did some Googling and learned that Budweiser is owned by a Belgian company and that the Clydesdale breed originated in Scotland. Oh, well. At least the TV you’re watching was likely manufactured in the good old U.S of A.!

            The correct behavior expected of Super Bowl viewers involves zero correctness. You’re free to whoop or yell “In your face!” or “Sacked him like a bushel of potatoes!” And should you find the action on the field sufficiently moving, you can whip off your shirt and whirl it above your head like a helicopter rotor. Even the ladies are free to do so; unlike those sissy British dramas, football doesn’t impose strict gender roles.

            Compare this to the behavior engendered by watching Downton Abbey. 

            “It’s half-seven. Shall I ring for Carson and inform him that we are ready to dine?” your wife might ask with an elegance that makes it clear she attended the finest finishing schools.

            “Fortnight,” you might reply since you don’t really know how to speak British. “Quid. Blimey. Whinge.”

            “Don’t be so cheeky! By the by, what do you think of the latest developments regarding Lady Mary and Lord Gillingham?”

            “Lurgy,” you reply.

            “I quite agree. How do you feel about Lord Aldrich’s invitation to holiday with them at their summer cottage in Poshampshire?”

            “Anti-clockwise! Petrol!”

            “Good! It’s settled, then. You look knackered. Perhaps supper will reinvigorate you. We’re having bubble and squeak, toad-in-the-hole and spotted dick.”

            “Spiffing! Bob’s your uncle!”

            I’m just glad that baseball season arrives soon. I need to counteract all this refinement with some all-American spitting and scratching.               

           

                       

An Elliptical Experience

            Among the exhibits at the Ag Heritage Museum is an ancient wooden treadmill. It was designed so that a sheep – or a goat, or some other small domestic animal such as a teenager – could walk upon the treadmill, thus spinning a shaft that would power such things as a clothes washer or a water pump or an iPhone charger.

            There were several advantages to this system. First was portability, but only if you define “portable” as “approximately same the size and weight as a Sherman tank.” Second was the fact that should your power source fail to provide enough power, you could simply sell it.

            The sheep or the goat, that is. Teenagers cannot be sold. You generally need to pay to have a teenager taken off your hands.

            I have recently begun to feel a measure of empathy for the sheep.

            Like many Americans, my wife and I have gotten the message that we need to “get in shape,” even though it isn’t entirely clear what shape that should be. And like many, my wife and I are gradually getting older. We have passed through the Collectable phase and are currently in our Classic years. Next up is Museum Piece.

            These and other factors prompted our recent purchase of an exercise machine. The thing is called an elliptical, although I can’t see anything ovoid about its construction.

            We considered joining a gym, but think it’s weird to go to a place where a bunch of strangers are straining and sweating and chuffing. We saw enough of that when we tried to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. Besides, I got my fill of locker room towel-snapping in junior high gym class.

            Plus we live out in the boondocks. In the wintertime, getting into town to do a workout might involve shoveling a path out to the car, scraping off the snow and ice, trying to start the car, searching for the jumper cables and so on. After all that, who has the energy for a workout?

            I personally favor a brisk walk on our township road as a means to get exercise. But this winter has brought some brutally cold weather, along with wind speeds that have bordered on supersonic. Bundling up to brave such weather requires more protective clothing than a space walk.   

            We quickly discovered that there are many choices regarding exercise gadgets. There is the “el cheapo” level of quality, which often involves contraptions that resemble a conglomeration of baling wire. On the other end of the spectrum is the “Cadillac” level, but some of those machines cost more than our actual car.

            There are also numerous bells and whistles from which to choose. Some exercise devices have an internet connection that will track your fitness level with a web-based app. No, thanks! Bad enough that we know how out of shape we are; the NSA doesn’t need to know too.

            So we have begun to work out on this elliptical thingamabob. The movements it requires are similar to that of pedaling a bike while standing, along with a slow punching motion. If you need somebody to pedal your bike uphill while delivering a slow-mo punch to someone’s face, I’m your guy.

            The scenery never changes during my workout. No matter how hard or fast I pedal, I’m still stuck in the bedroom. Thank goodness for the TV! Ironically, the TV is also a major reason for us needing exercise.

            The whole idea of working just to work strikes me as odd. When I was a kid, such a thing would have been deemed the height of folly. Back then, when we worked it was toward a purpose. At the end of the day, you had the satisfaction of knowing that grain had been shoveled from Point A to Point B or that your exertions in the calf pen had raised its ceiling by several inches.          

            Nothing comes of the effort expended on an exercise apparatus. All that energy is lost, evaporated into the ether. I might feel better about this if some of it could be used to power the TV or to help keep the earth’s magnetic field on an even keel.

            Perhaps someday exercise machines will all have flux capacitors. After a predetermined amount of pedaling – KAZAM! – you’ll be transported into the future and the future you will be svelte and muscular and won’t need to work out on any silly exercise gizmos.

            At least that’s what I’m hoping for. In the meantime, I’m thinking about buying a specially trained sheep to fill in whenever I can’t find time to ellipse.

 

             

           

                       

           

                       

           

           

The Colonoscpy

            The twin Pratt & Whitney turbo ramjet engines on the SR-71 Blackbird produce 34,000 pounds of thrust apiece, enabling the spy plane to blast through the sky at speeds in excess of Mach 3.

            This and other useless factoids tumbled through my brain as I languished in the loo at 2:30 a.m., conducting the “cleanse” that one must endure to prepare for a colonoscopy. It may have been sleep deprivation, but the bathroom ceiling sometimes seemed awfully close.

            If caught early, colon cancer can be over 90% curable, so everyone who has had more than 50 birthdays should be screened. For the past several years my doc has been strongly hinting that I should take this test, implying that it’s my duty to let them peek up my booty.

            Plus, my grandpa Nelson passed away from colon cancer. It did not look like fun.

            I finally yielded to my doc’s advice and called to make an appointment with a gastroenterologist. I was told that it would be more than a month before they could fit me in! One would think that there wouldn’t be any waiting list for such an unappealing event.               

            I was issued a prescription for the colonoscopy prep solution. This consisted of a gallon (37 liters) bottle which contained some white powder. You fill the bottle with water, shake it and – ta-da! – you have the runs in a jug.

            The prep mixture tastes approximately like warm snot. Drinking it is a form of torture and should be declared cruel and unusual, on par with waterboarding. I was given a lemon flavoring packet to help with the taste, but this was akin to using a toy squirt gun of flavor to fight off a flamethrower of ick.

            The first half gallon went down without a hitch. Nothing was happening and I was beginning to think (and hope!) that my prep mixture was a dud. Then came rumblings similar to those that preceded the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

            Things soon began to move quite rapidly. I learned several lessons during the course of that long night: 1. It’s never just gas; 2. Your best friend is super-soft toilet paper; 3. Two words: diaper cream.

            My intestinal discomfort wasn’t all that bad. Certainly it was no worse than the gut bug that tied to kill me some months ago. One of the hardest parts of the prep was the not eating. You have no idea how many advertisements there are for food until you’re told that you aren’t allowed to eat!

            The next morning my wife drove me to the medical facility. There, a nice nurse named Janae instructed me to disrobe and don a hospital gown. This was the first time that the rear opening feature made any sense.

            Janae started an IV drip in my arm. I chatted with her and hung out with my wife until another nurse arrived and announced that it was my turn.

            I was carted to the procedure room where it was explained to me what would happen next. My perception was that a two horsepower DeWalt air compressor would be used to inflate me to 85 PSI, after which a periscope salvaged from a WW II German U-boat would be used to “take a quick peek.”

            No, that’s not true. What happened next was...

            ATTENTION KIDS: Don’t do drugs! Drugs can wreck your life and can cause infinite amounts of misery! Just say no!

            ATTENTION PARENTS: Don’t let your kids read the next part!

            Drugs are wonderful! I have no idea what happened after they explained what would happen! I don’t know what they slipped into my IV, but it must have been the  same stuff they use when they perform prostate exams on grizzly bears. I woke up in the recovery room and my wife was at my side telling me that it was all over and I was being plied with orange juice and cookies. Thank goodness for modern pharmaceuticals!

            In the end (ha!) I was given a clean bill of health. No polyps, no weird-looking spots, no trace of Jimmy Hoffa.

            It appears that I have gotten away with a slew of dietary sins. The carnivorous habits, the predilection for all manner of charred meats, the fact that it’s been a long time since I’ve received Communion. All that worry about all those trespasses seem to have been for naught!

            It’s also great to have the peace of mind. And best of all, I won’t have to endure that ordeal again for some while. That is, unless SpaceX calls to say that they need an extra engine for their Falcon rocket.