This running joke is now barely a jog. With a walker. Wobbling along the white stripes of the black sidewalk.
But this is also a fillibuster on how we flirt at The Home. Teach the young uns how to do it.
And how frequently do we, jokingly, gather by the door and debate endlessly and pointlessly how often the big, tall senior center van is coming this week? Same times as the previous week. And the week before that. OK, it’s really not that often. As I’d joke in more ways than one, and even bring youthfulness in.
— In the beginning, in fall, there were honor-the-harvest corn feeds in every other parking lot. Then came the holidays, each hawking their own kind of wholesome food. And now on us is Lenten fish, for a full 40 days, to culminate — is that the correct term, oh ye theology police? — with Easter ham, and then we soon start over again.
And begotten in the middle, before church Ordinary Time — again right lingo? — there were chili tastings, having started already and running hot the full course of February, ending symbolically with Mardi Gras. As once we get to March, such chilization marches on.
But based on what I’ve seen at those chili-chows-kept-light, already offered by virtually every veritable bar and grill, or grill and bar, if you choose — and the following is a benchmark for you still seeking to indulge — if you are paying a dollar-amount kept in single digits, you are faring fairly well, whether to taste or to enter the fray for the fare. As these are typically full-fledged contests, and the requested fee is generally different between those hosting and those of us scarfing down, as in the AYCE fish for all, even ELCA not Catholic, and I have been both. But take heed, another rule of thumb for chili samplers, I’d guess, is don’t ask for a second spoonful-not-cupful unless asked by the proprietor-for-the-day. (This like extra fish pieces, hopefully cut quite generously, is at about a buck apiece, as money needs to be raised to feed about 5,000 more, loaves of bread extra, as I cite the Ukraine where the wheat comes from tariff factor.) But oh with chili, your shrimp pairs so well with that bit of lemon pepper, heavy on the pepper, ma’s family recipe, but I’m not sure if the taste is hearty enough, so could I try a bit more? Heavy on the divinely de-veined? Well OK, if you put it that way. —
Like when shown on the news on one of those phone video screens, an iPhone was to be sent into space, as just announced by NASA.
Taking advantage, I moaned loudly, “Phones in space,” and laughed heartily at my ode to the old classic joke.
She stared a bit blankly at me.
You know, “pigs in space?” While In a blanket? The comedy standard of a generation?
Her lip just twitched a bit.
“OK, just call me on my Android.”
Lip twitch dropped.
As I conversed with that one neighbor, another happened by, bearing fluffed up laundry as she approached.
She set down the basket, and then left for a tasket. Then she returned.
“Your sheets were very cozy,” I interjected, trying to make small talk.
Then I caught my gaffe.
Kidding, I am, I said to both of them.
“Rather I should say, your comforter.”
Gaffe number two. With a forehead smash, with forehand.
Neighbor number one tried to save the day.
She revealed that frequently her dad would announce to the family, while warming up the car, (or oven), “I’m pulling out in a few minutes.”
The way, yeah or nay, that the kids would respond, would determine how many siblings they end up having. And does stamina count for something?
Rim shot, by the snotty nosed, waxy eared kid with the broken glasses who just can’t keep his cymbals clean. We will not talk about his drum sticks.
Unlike the pristine delivery guy, who followed, and did not go postal. He listened to all my bad jokes, which follow, and took it all with a smile, but had many, many other deliveries and was likely more than happy to leave. And would have been in any case.
As a sign had been placed by management just inches from the door, stop and do not permit anyone to enter who you do not personally know. As too many drunks had tried to enter. Sixty percent of them are named Joe. But seriously folks, then the pizza guy came calling. I don’t know this guy. Wasn’t he the one who’s always trying to pass off fake pepperoni for the real kind? And we won’t even talk about sausage. Or hey, I do know this guy. Drinks beer with me all the time at the bar. Smilin’ Moose I think it is. Yeah, that’s the one. Then when his wife calls, he’s gotta run. Says he’s gotta quaff his Moose Juice fast, as he’s suddenly got two more pizza calls to make. Just another working stiff. Buddy, just watch your antlers on the way out.
But as far as going postal, she did, the new one, sorta, when I mentioned having some of her stuff. Just packed away in storage, stupid. The good stuff … Nevermind.
Say less. Or then say more.
A confession followed. “I’m a hoarder,” she said.
Not really. She just has a lot of nice things, she added, from a lot of nice people, and this nice gentleman — that’s me — said he would take a few of them off my hands and store them at his place, as he has an empty closet, and then one partially full, until I unclutter, you know.
She motioned to me and chided, you’re not supposed to say anything about that to other people.
I was just gonna say I had two of her shoe boxes …