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.                                

           

           

                       

Kansas City Coffee

            Kansas City is a town that’s often associated with such fearsome forces as the Royals and the Chiefs and Hallmark Greeting Cards. It's also a bustling metropolis where one can openly purchase my favorite mood-altering substance: coffee.

            My wife and I recently visited our youngest son, who lives in the Paris of the Plains. Among the places he suggested we visit was a joint called The Roasterie. This business specializes in coffee, so of course they have an authentic DC-3 cargo plane bolted to the roof of their cavernous facilities.

           There is a good reason for the aircraft adorning their roofline. And no, it doesn’t have anything to do with a shortage of hangar space at the airport. The Roasterie air roasts their coffee beans and the vintage airplane helps make that point. I think it might have been cheaper to simply stick a sign up there, but what do I know?

            You can smell The Roasterie from a thousand feet. The heavenly aroma of toasting coffee pulled me in; my feet barely touched the ground as I floated along on clouds of freshly-roasted coffee fragrance.

            We soon learned that the people who run The Roasterie take the topic of coffee very seriously. Java is all they think about.

            We took the free tour of their facility. Scores of bulky burlap bags bulging with beans were stacked on immense industrial racks. We were shown some raw coffee beans, which were a sickly pale green. Poor little guys! They needed a vacation in some place that’s nice and warm so they can get some color in their cheeks! And then be lovingly ground into small particles and soaked in hot water.

            Our tour guide spoke rapidly and enthusiastically. I suspect this was because the coffee vapors in The Roasterie are so strong, she couldn’t help but absorb massive amounts of caffeine. By the end of the tour, I too was feeling a contact buzz.

            After the tour came the best part, namely, coffee tasting. We were told that in order for the roasted beans to be properly tasted, they must first be properly ground. I was shocked to learn that “between your molars” isn’t considered an acceptable grinding method!

            I was further appalled to discover that after more than half a century of being a java junkie, I have been brewing my joe wrong!

            Our tour guide lady gave an educational coffee making demonstration. The first thing she did was dump a measure of freshly ground coffee into a smallish cup. She then added hot water; we were told that the ideal temperature is just a smidge below boiling. This seemed similar to cowboy coffee, or egg coffee minus the egg.

            We were informed that the proper method was to let the coffee steep for exactly four minutes. Who can wait that long? I need my caffeine NOW!

            Our guide then demonstrated the method that professional coffee tasters employ when sampling coffee. Using a teaspoon, she scooped off the foam and grounds that were floating on the surface. She then took a spoonful of the luscious auburn liquid, placed it to her lips and slurped it in a very noisy and decidedly unladylike manner. We were told that this how one aerates the coffee and whooshes it across the palate.

            This was a stunning revelation. As a child, I was told that it’s impolite to slurp. All those years of slurping shame have been for naught!       

            The tasting process is called “cupping” and the coffee tasters at The Roasterie might “cup” 20 to 30 coffees per day. Talk about a dream job! We weren’t introduced to any of the tasters, though. My theory is that their super-elevated caffeine levels cause them to move so fast that light can’t keep up.

            Following the tour and the tasting, we repaired to the bar area where friendly baristas offered more free samples. For me, this was like turning a kid loose in a toy store and telling him he could try one of each. Gimmie!

            They also had coffee making devices for sale. Some looked as if they had been designed by Rube Goldberg while others were as simple as “hot water goes in here, coffee comes out there.”

            We finally bid adieu to The Roasterie, but only after purchasing several pounds of souvenir beans. When we got back to the car, I noticed something.

            “Whoa!” I said to my wife. “My clothes and my skin reek of coffee! I won’t have to shower for a week!”

            “Fine,” she replied, “You can just go up onto the roof and sleep in that airplane.”        

           

           

 

           

Last-minute Christmas

            It’s nearly Christmas, which means that it’s almost time for me to begin thinking about considering the possibility of starting Christmas shopping.

            I am a diehard, last-possible-minute Christmas shopper. It isn’t time to begin looking for gifts until the mall security guards are locking the doors on Christmas Eve.

            My wife, on the other hand, is an über Christmas shopper. She has been known to purchase gifts decades in advance. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she has stockpiled Christmas presents for possible future grandchildren that aren’t even yet a twinkle in an eye.

            It’s not as if I don’t like Christmas shopping. I just don’t particularly enjoy the parts that involve driving to the store, dealing with the crowds, searching for the perfect items, paying for said items and then driving back home. Other than that, Christmas shopping is OK.

            Finding an item that’s suitable for conveying the kindly feelings that accompany Christmas has always been a problem. This would often lead to panic decisions and gifts such as booklets of S & H Green Stamps and Mason jars full of mismatched buttons. Nothing says “Happy Yuletide!” like a festive ball of lint that has been lovingly and recently – it’s still warm! – collected from the clothes dryer screen.

            Let’s face it: it’s hard to know what to buy for some people. Back when I was a kid, the fallback gift for a man was a pocket square. Uncles all across this great land of ours probably have dresser drawers full of pocket squares.

            When I was growing up, the default Christmas gift for me seemed to be socks. It was always disappointing to pick up a promising-looking box and realize, based on its mass and lack of interesting rattles, that it contained socks. My heart had been set on a jet pack! Besides, what message does the gift of socks send other than “Your feet reek!”

            Aletta, a neighbor lady, gave me a model car kit for Christmas when I was about eight. My guess is that assembling the model was supposed to give me insight into the automotive manufacturing business – minus the labor and supply chain problems, of course. 

            Ideally, the box containing the model car would be opened carefully. Its instruction sheet would be gently removed, studied in great detail and scrupulously followed. This is pretty much the opposite of what I did.

            Excited at the prospect of owning my first car, I ripped the box open, sending tiny plastic car parts skittering across the floor. I tossed the instruction sheet aside, figuring that directions are for sissies. I still use this approach when traveling.

            I was eager to get started and began to randomly glue car parts together. I soon learned a couple of things regarding model car assembly.

            First was that there were some very good reasons for having an instruction sheet. It turns out that there is a very specific order that needs to be followed when assembling a model car. For instance, the engine and transmission should be installed before the hood and fenders, not after.

            Second was that model glue is surprisingly strong. Say that you have to remove the hood and fenders to allow the installation of an engine. The fenders are likely to snap before their glue joints give.

            I also learned that model glue has an atomic attraction to my skin. And my clothes. And my hair. There is no way on God’s green earth to remove model glue from hair, so a guy has no choice other than to cut it out. This is more difficult than it sounds, especially when you don’t have access to a mirror.

            The final step was applying the car’s decals which were released from a special sheet of paper by soaking it in water. This caused the decals to become so slimy and fragile that they would rip if you so much as breathed on them. You need the hands of a neurosurgeon when applying model car decals.

            After nearly an hour of intense effort, my model car was finally done. It listed to one side and was riddled with random splotches of glue and hair. The fenders were crooked and the decals looked like wads of wet tissue that had been thrown at the car and left to dry. None of the wheels turned except for the steering wheel, which kept falling off.

            Even so, I was proud of my miniature roadster. I was racking my brains for a way to properly thank Aletta for her thoughtful present when I stumbled upon the perfect gift: a nice new pair of socks.                                             

 

           

             

           

           

 

           

                                   

             

The Gut Bug

            An uninvited and unwelcome guest came to our house recently. His stay was short – only about 48 hours – but his visit left us emotionally and physically drained.

            I am speaking about that nasty intestinal bug that has been making the rounds lately.

            My wife was the first to sense his presence.

            “I don’t feel so well,” she said to me one morning. “I’m kind of urpy and my tummy is rumbling like Mount Vesuvius shortly before its epic eruption in 79 AD, a historical fact that one can look up on Wikipedia and use at times such as this.”

            As Chief Medical Officer of our household, it was my duty to diagnose the patient. This consisted entirely of taking her temperature via the proven scientific method of placing a hand on her forehead.

            “You don’t have a fever,” I said. “It’s probably just something you ate. I told you we should have thrown out that potato salad! When we bought it, the Colonel was still just a private!”

            “I’m going to lie down,” was her only reply. The fact that she didn’t point out that it was me who had insisted on keeping the leftovers told me that she wasn’t kidding about feeling ill.

            I was performing important journalistic research – watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons on the internet – when I heard some strange sounds emanating from the bathroom. My wife seemed to be calling for someone named Bork.

            “You OK?” I asked when she staggered out of the loo.

            “What do you think?” she replied. “My gut feels like it’s been worked over by Mike Tyson! I yakked so much, I saw a taco that I ate in 1973!”         

            My wife is prone to exaggeration and hyperbole, so I patted her on the head and told her to go back to bed. I was certain that the picture wasn’t nearly as bleak as she had painted it and that she merely had some minor stomach issues.

            Throughout the day she made several more verbal visits to the lavatory. In between times I would offer her 7-Up and soda crackers, but that only caused her to blanch and bolt for the bathroom.

            I found this deeply troubling, mainly because I was worried that I might also be stricken. But I decided that getting sick wasn’t an option. I simply would not allow it! Using nothing but the sheer force of will, I would avoid the dreaded fate of driving the porcelain bus.

            And it worked – for a while. By the next morning, I had the distinct feeling that a mighty maelstrom was brewing in my digestive regions. As the thunderheads of nausea gathered and boiled, I vowed that I wouldn’t let the gut bug win.

            My wife had by then pretty much recovered. She checked in on me at midmorning. “How are you doing?” she asked.

            “It feels as if an EF5 tornado, which, according to Wikipedia, can have winds in excess of 200 MPH, is churning its way through my innards!”

            “You always exaggerate everything! It’s probably just a minor stomach thing.”

            I languished in anguish for half a day. There were times when I thought that my determination might successfully beat back the enemy, but this was swiftly followed by the sense that the invaders were about to breach my defenses.

            Just when I was beginning to believe that hostilities might end with an uneasy ceasefire, a tsunami of profound emotions swept over me. The kind of profound emotions that, as a rule, causes a person to sprint for the bathroom.

            Once there, I was faced with an extremely pressing dilemma: which end should I hold over the toilet first? What followed is probably not what they had in mind when they minted the word “multitasking.”

            Afterwards, I was engulfed by a deep feeling of relief. I crawled back under the covers, glad that the storm was over. But it wasn’t over.

            Several additional urgent bathroom visits took place over the course of the day. My wife tried to help by offering 7-Up and soda crackers. Of what use would such things be to a man who, in the professional opinion of our family’s Chief Medical Officer, was clearly dying?

            At some indiscernible point, some invisible corner was turned. Less than a day after they had materialized, most of the symptoms had disappeared.

            We knew that our unwelcome houseguest had left when we could sit upright and watch TV without feeling woozy. We sipped weak tea and nibbled on saltines, both of us murmuring that this was a feast fit for the gods.                   

Sparkles The Adventure Cat vs Evil Cat Food-stealing Squirrel!