MICK

When my youngest grandson, Nathan, was younger (he always says, "I'm bigger now,") and he wanted milk, he would say one word "mick". While on the cruise in December, I rediscovered mick. And I'm glad I did.

You see, every morning I eat Frosted Flakes because "They're great." I used to eat them dry. But on the cruise, I had the luxury of fresh blackberries, raspberries, and strawberries. Rather than to eat them all dry, I poured regular mick all over them.But it all started by accident or habit. One day they flip flopped the placement of regular mick with the skim, so I got some real mick.

What a difference. And like a lot of other things in my life, I looked back at all the lean (pun) years of 2% or even 1% mick, and regretted the past. Why had I deprived myself of real mick for the sake of a few calories? I can't stand the watered down stuff. Never could.

Oh well. Now I know. And I supppose I'll nevr drink the fat free again. "Got mick?" Now I do.

WAITING, WAITING, WAITING ON THE ...

Repairman. Who gives them that power? How can they give a 4-hour time frame? People of the world: Unite. Stamp out repair and/or delivery men.

Can you imagine being ill, ill enough to have to go to the Emergency Room and having to wait four hours to see a doctor? Oh, yeah, that happens. Nevermind that analogy.

Can you imagine buying a whole bunch of necessities and groceries at Wal-Mart and then being sent to a check out line that runs fifty feet long, while unmanned checkout counters abound and 20 Items or Less (sic) are denied to you because you have the nerve to purchase forty or forty-five items? Oh, yeah, that happens, too.

Can you imagine trying to buy tickets to a ballgame or concert and being put on hold or getting a busy signal for over one-hour? Even when you are willing to pay exorbitant rates for the tickets? You're catching on. That happens, too.

Can you imagine that repair man or service man not intending to show up and not calling when he can't? That just happened to us as I'm writing this blog. True story/sad song. But I'm outta here now. Freed from the waiting game.

A LOST ART

Handholding, that is. It used to mean so much. If you were holding a girl's hand, it meant you were in like. Not in love. Not yet. But it was reassuring that there were some definite vibes.

"I Wanna Hold Your Hand," the first of the great Beatle songs, now seems extremely passe. But holding hands and sitting next to the driver in the old car bench seats were two signs that "we gotta a groovy thing going". And even when bucket seats became fashionable, the young woman straddled the console to sit close to the driver. Seat belts? Naugh. Not when "Love was in the air".

At the movies, walking down the halls at school, sitting in the same room as one's parents, even in church were all good times to hold hands. It was a way of showing affection as well as domain. At football games I remember holding hands with a gloved girl, and my hands without gloves on were almost always warmer than hers.

I don't know what that says about me. But holding hands would reveal clammy hands (the worst kind), small hands, soft hands, perfumey hands, boney knuckled hands, or gripped hands when fear arose.

I guess a cold or two were spread holding hands. But they were always worth it.

ANY CHANCE

that I can read a newspaper, turn to internet news or watch tv today without?

Without hearing or reading about Anna Nicole Smith, Britney Spears, et. al?

No? Ok, how about no stories about athletes and DUI's? President Bush bashing by yet another liberal celebrity? Or researchers changing their minds on healthy foods for the body or how to avoid a disease?

No? Ok, how about no stories about the 2008 election for at least another 6 months? No more ranting about Iraq unless you have a plan--and if you believe bringing the troops home now is the answer, then you are hopeless. Same for universal health care and education. If you have something new and different to offer, then please step up to the plate and share it.

But unless it's new and different, it's simply re-hash. And if you've ever tasted hash, no one wants a re-hash. Ever.

"GLASSES. MAYBE HE NEEDS GLASSES"

Don Coryell reintroduced me to pro football three decades ago. As a kid I can remember team names such as the Chicago Cardinals, San Francisco 49-ers, Green Bay Packers, and New York Giants and thinking they were funny. They weren't at all like the baseball cities team names I had grown to know. I had no idea what a Packer was or where Green Bay was, but I thought they sounded tough.

Not long afterwards, the team from Chicago moved to St. Louis kind of validating my young social strata order. I mean the St. Louis Cardinals was now a good fit. And while there had been a New York Giants baseball team, I hadn't known of them.

Feebly the Cardinals limped into the NFL in St. Louis and proceeded to unimpress. Once in a great while I'd hear about Charley Johnson or some other borderline star, but St. Louis has always been a baseball town, so there wasn't much interest until Coach Coryell took over.

A masterful college coach with an unasssuming personality and slight lisp, no one would have expected his success at the pro level. But he changed pro football as it had been played. And he was doing it in my (almost) hometown. Jim Hart, Mel Gray, Terry Metcalf, Jim Otis, and one offensive line that was the best ever. They became the Cardiac Cards with their last minute excitement.

But he could never get control of the draft, of personnel matters, of say-so that so many coaches demand. So dull George Boone drafts Steve Pzarkewitz, a Missouri Qb, and passes on Robin Cole, Hall of Fame LB drafted later by the Steelers.

At one of the Qb's first practices, he couldn't complete a ten yard slant over the middle with no one rushing. Exasperated, Coach Coryell says to one of his assistants,"Glasses. Maybe he needs glasses." He was that bad. And Cole was that good.

It was the beginning of the end for Coryell in St. Louis. No more Cardiac Cardinals. Now in Az, the Cardinals are still floundering/ still messing up on draft day. This year, we'll soon see them in action again. Or should inaction be one word?

"TOUGH GAME THIS GOLF"

I made that saying up. I don't know why or how it began, but when I hit a bad shot, that's what I say. I guess I could say a lot worse, and I do hit more than my share of bad shots. So I'm sure my regular playing partners are growing tired of hearing it.

This red tile roof with a couple of golf balls sticking to the troughs could be my house, but it's not. As I look across at my neighbor's, Colonel Pryor's, I see almost the same picture minus one golf ball.

You see we live on a golf course and receive wayward golf balls whose targets were not our houses. In the three years we've lived in our current abode, we have encountered four broken windows and one broken skylight. And have accumulated hundreds of golf balls. I have them organized by brand and condition. I even have separate boxes or compartments for logo balls that are unique. And no, I don't buy golf balls. Ever.

I now have enough golf balls that I'm glad when I don't any in the yard. Because the more I find in our front or back yards, the greater chance of a ball finding a window in the front or back of our house.