HEY, IT'S HERE---2013

Hard to believe.  Even with one of the biggest frosts stuck to the ground since we've resided in Arizona.  But the year 2013 seems so, so, well strange.  Actually, ever since 2000 turned over our previous century, I've been a little uncomfortable about the date.

Sometimes, I even start to write 19 on a check.  Old habits are hard to break free from. In some ways, 2013 has met some of pre-conceived notions about the future.  I digress to 1959 when my favorite car, play car but not a Matchbox, was a silver sports car that looks somewhat like my wife's 2000 Jaguar.  Which, incidentally, our daughter says looks like the Monopoly car. 

For one thing, science fiction futurists show adults as having no hair.  Many now don't.  Some without choice, some too lazy to coff, some work hard to shave it all off for stylish reasons, I suppose, but short hair is in.  But not for me.  I'm glad I still have locks, gray as they may be, and if they can cover even part of my countenance, then I'm keeping them.

Clothing styles look somewhat as I might have expected them to look from my 1959 vantage point.  Though I would have never thought of the 70's styles and some of the wild shirts I wore then.  And buttons instead of a zipper?  How crazy is that?  I use "is" because Levis still makes a 511 jean with buttons.  I guess no designer has ever really had to pee bad.  But then again, they love to advertise the waist size on a banner above the widest of belts.  When I was a 32, I didn't mind.  When I jumped to a 40, I stopped buying Levis.  But my faves are a Joe jean size 38.  Now, that's the way to go, designers.  Make a 40  in reality a 38 or even a 36.  There's no truth in advertising anyhow.  I guess I digressed again.

So I'll get back to the topic.  If I only knew what it was.  Something about a new year.   Resolutions?  I've made 'em and like all I've broken them, but it's always good to get to hit the re-start button.  Goal-oriented is good, too.  As is re-assessment.  So why am I not making any this year?

Well, I'll blame the fiscal cliff.  I was certain that our country would go over it.  Those that know say we didn't.  I say differently.  We went over that a trillion dollar deficit. And I don't mean in one year either.  If you started counting to one trillion by one digit with a one second pause in between, it would take 32, 000 years to reach 1 trillion.  No kidding.  Our preacher quoted some guy, he had some staff research the validity, and I even double checked with him about the accuracy.  He's convinced, and so, then, am I.  

But smiling Joe Biden saved the day.  Has anyone ever had a more pretentious smile than our current veep, now in the running for 2016?  But I digress yet again.  Three is all I allow myself per entry, so I'm done.

Have a wonderful 2013, and as one of my Facebook buddies says, "May the best of your 2012 be the worst of your 2013." 

IN 1972 I HAD A PURPOSE

for voting for the first time in my young life.  Simply stated, I didn't want to go to Viet Nam.  So, I voted for George McGovern.  Most people didn't and he got smeared.

Today is election day 2012.  Who would have thunk I'd still be around to vote?  Not me.  Most don't picture themselves growing old.  And in 1972, the year 2012 seemed like something out of a sci-fi book.  But it's here and so am I.

It's been a funny day.  Hourly, I change my mood based on who I think will win this crucial election.  My routine was the same.  No golf--my gosh it was 93 degrees here today!--so I substituted backyard work.  A three-mile walk this morning, a short nap on a float in our hot tub.  An errand or two ran and a gas fill-up.

But the wait.

I've done my due diligence on the election.  I've prayed.  But although my heart has been in it, I haven't relied on God as I should have.  I haven't trusted his sovereignty.  Oh, I haven't doubted it, I just haven't bought into it that He and I are on the same page.

Just like in 1972, I didn't get my way.  I didn't get what I thought was best for the country.  Sometimes I play God myself that way. 

I know again in 2012 whom I want to lead our country so richly blessed by God for so long.  The supreme advantage is that He knows already who won.  He knows how it will all turn out.  He wrote the book and I know how the final chapter ends.  It's the plot, the denouement I want my selfish hand in.

I know also that Jesus is King and I embrace that.  It's some of His underlings that I fret about.

If Mitt Romney does not win today's election, it will be God's will.  For me and my egocentricism, that embrace will be like a cold hug from an estranged relative.  As you can see, I need prayers.

Go Mitt and God, please bless America, time and time again.

EXPRESSIONS

This one, I could simply leave to you.  A fill in the blanker.  That is, what's disgusted her?

Well, if it were actually a fill in the blank, my entry for this day would be finished.  You need a little help?  OK.

She hates her new hair style. "I hate my hair.  Why did you let me get it cut like that?"  I've actually heard that a few times from my wife, whose hair never looks bad.  And if she decided she wanted shorter hair, who am I to tell her no?

Or.  She's had an umpteenth call from a telemarketer or surveyor.  Not a land surveyor but one who phones out of the blue and requests just a brief ten question survey that is needed to be completed by me.  "I was really hoping you would call because I'm never busy at 6:00 PM and full of opinions on that subject," no one ever said.

Or.  She's seen something really gross, or worse she's stepped in/on something really gross.  A few weeks ago, we had an enormous winged creature with hard shell and cockroach-like sticky legs that moved sluggishly across our kitchen floor around 10 PM.  When I first saw it, I thought it to be a small mouse.  When I threw my shoe on it, I connected which  enabled me to stomp the intruder into our tile floor.  I didn't make quite the face, but it was pretty disgusting.

Or.  I, in all my humanity, have left that impression on her for something I did, said, or didn't do or say. I've had that effect on girls from junior high through junior college.  A few teachers, too.

OK.  There you have it.  Four choices.  Or none of the above.  You are limited only by your imagination.

But I hope you don't get that look.  Unless you want to.

CANDY KITCHENS ARE SPECIAL

My parents met at a candy kitchen in MTV.  Acme, like the Roadrunner cartoons, I think.  It stood on the square, south side, where the Register-News building in all its ugliness now stands.

But this entry is about another candy kitchen, Crown Candy Kitchen on St. Louis Street in, well, St. Louis.  My wife, son and three of our grandchildren ate there September 16, 2012.  It was an excellent experience

The line to get into the restaurant at just after 11 AM stretched (you know that's about the only thing lines do--stretch or snake) outside the door.  Unless the customer just wanted candy, ice cream, or a shake.  Then they could squeeze by, make their purchase and squeeze back by the people waiting to be seated.

Old, real old, narrow booths 14 at the most, made up the interior.  They reminded me of the church booths in The Old North Church in Boston that we had visited last Summer.  Even though they weren't, these booths looked older or at least more used.

1913 is the year it opened and for three generations it was operated by the same family.  A few fourth gens worked there, too, but I got the idea that they didn't really have their hearts into the kitchen.

A little old guy who looked as if he had worked there for half the century was cleaning tables and collecting money.  Two waitresses patiently took orders and delivered huge deli sandwiches and shakes.

Lots of sharing for the Quinns who split shakes, roast beef sammys and BLTs.  An obscene amount of bacon which suited the boys and delicious beef.  A big order of fries and two iced teas for the grandparents.  When the little guy totalled our bill he said, "one roast beef--$6.99, we'll round that to $6, and you're going to the Rams' game today, we'll take off some more.  Total for all 6 meals and drinks $33." 

Not bad, not bad at all.

Hopefully, we'll be back on game day and maybe be a little hungrier where no splitting is necessary.

WHAT'S YOUR SIGN?

I'd like to know these cross streets.  Now, that's not quite right.  But you see it's been since March that I've blogged, so I'm more than a little rusty.

I'd like to know what the sign says at these cross streets. The picture was selected by me a long time ago and I can't recall.  It may not have been a long time ago at all.  I'll explain.

My wife and I were blessed yesterday with 44 years of married life together.  44.  That, now is a long time.  She posted a picture of us dancing at our 25th.  My hair was brown then.  I don't remember when it wasn't at least a little gray, so there you have it.  Length, long, longevity--they're nebulous to me.

Some of the most obscure events inn my life that happened in grade school, I can recall with clarity.  Not so with some recent happenings.  I search for words and names escape me.  I can usually bring them to mind over the course of a few hours, but not always.

So, I'm not sure what these signs might have held for me.  I could conject and say it was at the corner of  Mitt and Barry.  I would have no problem following the road that Romney may pave for the country.  I'm certain I wouldn't care for another trip  down Obama Way.

There is a street in MTV that our son at age 4 referred to as Mommy Street.  It was Caroline Drive.  But we couldn't figure out where a good friend of his lived when he said "On Mommy Street".

So the possibilities for this intersection are as endless as the galaxy.

Please leave suggestions.  One may just spur my imagination.

SPIDEY

Last night on Survivor, a guy whose name eludes me,(Troy?) went looking for the immunity idol.  He found it.  But before he did, he stuck his hand in a dark, dank, dirty tree hole. 

The camera focused on another indentation that showed teeth and kinda scales.  It almost looked like an eel.  Fortunately he didn't try that opening.

Stephen King once said the scariest thing for him was what was behind the closed door.  For me, it's what's inside something I can't see. 

Some kind of elongated object would have been a requirement for me to shovel out the inside of the tree.  I would have tried to find the idol, but by shovel or scoop-- not by exposing my precious bare hand. 

It's not as if I haven't made use of bare paws for a variety of gross, sludgy, mucky types of goo, some more solid than others.  But it was always by the light of a clear, bright illumination and no concealing darkness.  Even if I had to turn my head away for awhile.

It's a simple credo: no see/no feel.   Not without protection.  Not without distance.  Not without an escape path.

IN A RAGE

Here's the scoop.  I see my doctor on Thursday morning at 7:00 AM.  He prefers me thinner and tells me I'm lucky not to have blood sugar problems. He expects me to come in trim.

He's going to be disappointed.  I went into diet mode after we returned from our Florida trip.  I was getting there.  I was progressing.  Until Saturday.

Nothing especially different in activity or eating but a slight gain.  A little concern, a little wake up call.

So instead of walking 3 miles a day, we walked 5 miles yesterday.

Not splurging, no purging, no regurging.

But the scales showed me a weight gain of nearly half a pound.  When I was expecting at least a loss of one, maybe two.  I mean Saturday and Sunday lunch was a salad.  Huge with light dressing, but c'mon.

So today, I'm not eating any salad and walking 7 miles.  Ok, probably not.

If you don't hear from me until after my Dr. Lakin thrashing, you'll know I'm still in a lousy mood.  Or maybe I'm just too weak to hit the keyboard.