Tag Archives: Growing old

What You Doin’ in the Bathroom?

Google images: dreamstime.com

Google images: dreamstime.com

My wife is always late. But sometimes the slipper is on the other shoe, and she was banging on the bathroom door last Tuesday for me to hurry up.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked. “We have to meet Millie and Bob at the popsicle festival now!”

“Well,” I haven’t primped for a day and a half,” I said, “and things are already getting out of control in here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? The waffle-cone rodeo starts in fifteen minutes!”

“Okay, okay!” I cried. “My routine is kind of private. Must you stand right outside the door listening?”

“I’d be interested in hearing what your finicky grooming procedure actually is,” I heard her mutter as she walked away from the bathroom door.

Okay. I’ll admit it. It takes me longer than it used to to go out in public.

To get ready, I have to scrape my earwax with a key.

I have to shave my ear lobes and drums.

I have to insert my tooth plate.

I have to cover my tooth plate with a plastic white tooth-covering protective and decorative drape, which I bought from an infomercial for just $19.95. And after having called the informercial’s toll-free number, I received a second protective tooth tarp for free except for having to pay for shipping.

I have to rub wet coffee grounds into my goatee to eliminate the grey.

I have to dust and paste my eyebrows.

I have tamp my nasal hair.

I have to rub coconut oil on my elbow.

I have to tape the skin tag under my arm.

Finally I was ready to go. My wife was waiting in the car, beeping occasionally.

We were halfway down the street when I gasped in alarm. “We have to go back! I forgot my three-pronged photographic selfie crane!”

We finally met up with Bob and Millie. “Sorry we’re late,” I told Bob. “The wife overslept.”

 

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Weird Is the New Nice

Google images: pinterest.com

Google images: pinterest.com

My son and I dropped my wife off at the door of the grocery store, and then we parked in the lot to wait for her. Biff was sitting in the back seat.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon and my window was open. The passenger window in the car next to me was open, too, and sitting by himself in that car was a young boy of about 11 or 12. He was probably waiting for his mom.

“How are you doing?” I said unthinkingly through my window to the boy. The boy stiffened and looked straight ahead.

“DAD!” hissed my son. “What the heck are you doing?”

“Why? What’s the matter?” I said, looking at Biff’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“You don’t DO that!”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Don’t say hi to a strange kid. Don’t you know that’s weird and creepy?”

“He doesn’t look very strange,” I replied.

“No, YOU’RE strange!” Biff whispered to me behind his cupped hand.

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess in these days you’re probably right. I was just trying to be friendly.”

“You’re going to get yourself arrested,” said Biff as he slunk down in his seat and looked away.

I rolled up my window.

After my wife was finished buying her cucumbers, she got back into the car. As we drove off, I told her what happened and asked her opinion. “I side with Biff,” she said. “You’re whacked.”

Okay. I understand. I used to be nice. Now I’m just weird.

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