TIME TO MAKE YOUR RESOLUTIONS

I am very good about making New Year's Resolutions.  I'm just not worth a darn in keeping any of them.

 

Five years ago I decided to simplify my resolutions.  But the list down from 43 or so to just 5 good ones.  I had way too many.  I wanted to pick 5 that were really worthwhile.

 

Here it is five years later and I have the same resolutions.  Each year I just scratch out the date at the top of the page and insert a new date.  2008 coming up!

 

My number one resolution is always to lose weight.  I don't put how many pounds I want to lose.  But it's a lot.  A friend told me I was so fat it was like carrying an overweight housewife around all day.  Along with her Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Those things weigh a ton.  I keep gaining weight every year but I think it's the woman that's gaining the weight.  It's no wonder I move slowly.  It wouldn't be so bad if she would vacuum once in a while while I waddle around.

 

My number two resolution is always to clean my office and get organized.  I don't really care about this one.  I just put it on the list mainly for my wife.  She thinks I need to get organized.  She's afraid I am going to die and she will have to deal with all the stuff.  Personally I think being organized is highly overrated.  You file stuff away and you have no idea what you have or where you put it.  Last year I hit upon the idea of putting everything in stacks and putting the stacks behind me so they are out of sight.  This way I feel organized.  Out of sight; organized.  I used to have an assistant and she filed all my stuff.  Or so I thought.  She put it in file drawers chronologically.  When I would ask her for a certain thing she would always ask me, "When was that Mr. Adams?"  And then she would start searching.

 

One of my other resolutions is to read one good book a month.  I've since scratched out "a month" and also the word "good".  That should make it easier.

 

My goal to get healthy is giving me a lot of trouble.  I've had cancer surgery, six eye operations, and a stroke which I have been recovering from for the past five months.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not whining.  I know that doo-doo happens.  And I was brought up to accept things as God's will.  But I am beginning to wonder, WHY ME? 

 

What I really want to do this year is WAIL.  I want to build a Wailing Wall out back.  I admire those old middle eastern women who are out wailing their lungs out.  They are not crying.  They are wailing.  And I think it's probably very therapeutic.  I've tried it a few times.  It always makes the dog bark and my wife yells, "Stop that wailing you crazy old man."  But so be it.  I plan to wail if my newspaper gets wet.  I'll wail when I misplace my keys.  WAIL, WAIL, WAIL.  I may let my neighbors come over and wail at the Wailing Wall.  We might have to have certain hours for

wailing so we don't become a public nuisance.

 

I've joined a gym and I have a personal trainer now.  This is part of my quest to get healthy and fit. I almost didn't join because they had a 5-page questionnaire you had to complete.  One question was: have you ever been on a diet?  I said: Yes.  Then they asked: Did you lose weight?  I said: Yes.  They wanted to know how much weight I lost.  I said: 3 pounds.  They asked: How long were you on a diet?  I said: 32 Years.  Which is the truth.

 

My trainer is a cute woman so I will probably continue to go.  My therapist before this was a guy who looked like a chipmunk.  He was a drum major in school and wore a kilt.  He wouldn't tell me whether he wore underwear or not.  But I'm sure he did.  He wouldn't be a high-stepping drum major without his drawers on. 

 

At the gym they have big colorful rubber balls in the back.  People use them to exercise.  I thought they were training seals.  When I found out that people lay across these balls and do various exercises, I told her flat out that I wasn't getting on a ball.  And I want to take this opportunity to say publicly to the person who invented these balls for exercise: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.  Whatever happened to touching your toes?

 

 

I JOINED A GYM THIS MONTH TO AVOID THE RUSH

I decided to avoid the January rush and join a gym in December.  Nobody joins a gym in December with the Christmas table laden with goodies.  But recently I saw a boxing match on TV and when they showed the fighters' statistics, one weighed 140 pounds and one weighed 142 pounds.  I thought to myself, "Jez.  I'm so fat it's like carrying a full grown boxer around with me all the time. No wonder  I move so slowly.  Or like carrying a full grown housewife.  And her Kirby vacuum cleaner."  That thought was all the incentive I needed.

 

I'm in Phase VI of recovering from a stroke back in July.  I not only joined the gym, but I got a Personal Trainer named Amanda.  She's cute.  Mainly she giggles as she leads me from one

torture chamber to another.

 

I got the distinct impression that the gym works much like used car lots...they assign cute young

women to sell to old fat guys.  And they assign male hunks to sell the women who come in.  But that's o.k.  I don't mind  having some Eye Candy while I work out (which is a euphemism since I have not yet sweated).  Amanda has a sweat shirt that says FIT HAPPENS.  She bounces around so much I was sure she had been a cheerleader in college.  I asked and she

was.  I asked her to do the splits and prove it.  But she did a cartwheel or two instead.  That proves it in my book.  I often wondered what happens to cheerleaders once they grow up.  I

think a lot of them peak early although they were always highly prized Date Bait when they were active. 

 

Before you can get on a machine at the gym (which in itself requires a  lot of dexterity), you have to fill out a 5 page questionnaire.  Health things and personal questions.  One was: Have

you ever been on a diet?  I answered: Yes.  Another question was: How much weight did you lose?  I answered: Two pounds.  Another question was: How long were you on the diet?  I answered: 32 years.

 

Then you have to sign a complex 5 pager legal document promising that you will not attempt

to sue the gym in the event that something terrible happens to you.  I wouldn't sue them.  All

they have are a bunch of exercise machines.

 

This gym is rather sedate.  At the moment.  the place is scheduled to expand into one of those

Disco-type gyms...the ones at which half-naked people go to meet other half-naked people amid loud music and flashing lights.  I don't think my membership allows me to go on the Disco side.  I know my heart wouldn't allow it.

 

Right now there are more women than men.  I guess they care more about their appearance.  But they are Old Chicks and mostly very skinny.

 

One lady rides a stationary bike next to me.  If it were a real bike she would be in Santa Fe by

now.  But she doesn't go anywhere.  She watches TV news as she pedals that sucker.  Next

to her is another woman who rides the bike and is reading a Stephen King novel which takes longer than pedaling to Santa Fe.  I don't know how she can read and ride.

 

Another personal trainer was working with his client (that's what they call us...clients, not

customers...not even members).  He had her on a table and had twisted her legs around so

much she looked like a human pretzel.  Without salt.

 

(This is an aside so I will put it in parenthesis.  But I have a certificate as a Certified Pretzel

Maker.  I got it  in Pennsylvania years ago where they have a Pretzel Making School.  You laugh,  but it's a lot more difficult to make a pretzel than it looks.  You don't lay them flat and

twist them.  You roll them out like a worm...pick up the two ends...and you flip/twist while they

are in the air...and if you are lucky, they turn into a pretzel.  This is all done in one move. My graduation certificate remains one of my proudest accomplishments and I hope my family remembers to include this in my obituary.  I think I should probably write my own obit now because I feel as if the family might have forgotten some other good stuff.  People do write their obits ahead of time and some file them with the NEW YORK TIMES.  My lawyer said he would die if he doesn't get a big piece in the NEW YORK TIMES so he updates his obit every year and files it along with a photo from his college yearbook.  He's now 87 years old, but he's still

using his college yearbook picture.  So much for obits.  Except for the fact that long ago, newspapers used to run them on the front page of the newspapers.  This was before they really had any Hard News.)

 

They have clocks all over the gym...and time does not pass quickly when you are grunting and groaning.  I may be the only person who grunts aloud.   I'm deaf and I can't hear when I groan.

But apparently I am scaring some of the other "clients". But other clients are scaring me.  In

the backroom they have about a dozen big, big rubber balls in bright colors. I thought they were

training seals back there. But, no!  They make clients get on these balls...stretch across them

to do exercise routines.  I told the trainer right off that I was not getting on a ball.  First of all, it

might explode and wouldn't that be embarrassing?  She claimed they would hold 500 pounds but you never know and I'm not taking any chances.  She tried to play Dodge Ball with me but I could not dodge a ball that holds 500 pounds.

 

In the new gym we will have changing rooms.  I think I am past my getting naked even in front

of a bunch of other men.  I think I might fit in better on the women's side, even with my beard.

 

We have a snack bar in the current gym.  Well right now it's more like a candy store.  They have all kinds of candy bars that all have the word POWER as part of the name. And drinks

that are called POWER AIDE.  I guess power is what we all are looking for.  I know I am, and I always want to start my routine in the candy store.

 

In the new gym, we will have a Karaoke Juice Bar where we can sing and meet people.  I can't

wait.  But I'm not drinking carrot juice, even on a bet.   I'm not that desperate to meet people.

 

I AM A PRINCE. I'M PRETTY SURE OF IT.

My birth certificate says I was born in the Gastonia hospital.  It doesn't say anything about my royal personage.  But, of course, how would they know?  I mean, Royals aren't born with a silver crown in their mouths.  It has to do with your blood line. My guess is that I came from a line of Royal Gypsies, perhaps The Count of Gastonia in Transylvania, who lost his right to move up to kingdom on the Royal Ladder of Gypsy Heritage.That's just a guess.  Sure, you might laugh at me and wonder how I ever got sired by the Count of Gastonia.  Gypsies travel you know and it's a well documented fact that the Count of Gastonia came through here in 1935 via a Trailways Bus.  He got off here because the town was amazingly named after him.  He was traveling incognito at the time as gypsies often do.  Apparently he was a sperm donor at a local clinic.  It's the only way we can explain it because my Mother claims she would never have taken up (in the Biblical sense of the word) with a gypsy who was just passing through, even if swore on a goat that he was royal.  My feeling is that there might be a whole string of Royals living among us because the Count of Gastonia supported himself by being a sperm donor in the various places he travelled. Do you feel royal?  You may be a

Prince or a Princess, and chances are good that you are not being treated like one.  You've got to stand up for your rights!

 

     I felt  royal from the very beginning of life.  When I was born everybody was so elated because my Mother previously had six miscarriages before she finally had a healthy me.

Also, three of her sisters and my grandmother lived with us and they all adored me and made over me as if I were a little Prince.

 

     I was spoiled rotten. My wife says, "They didn't do you any favors", meaning she doesn't

intend to treat me like a prince.  If this were the olden days I would probably remind of of what happened to Marie Antoinette.  It was a wicked way for Louie to get her to shut up, but it worked. When you are King you can have the Royal Ax brought out on a moment's  notice.

It's also not sinful if you are King.  It's one of your many perks.  I'm not sure that this right applies to Gypsy Royalty however.

 

     I was treated royally for the first five years of my life.  But then I had to start school and

Miss Abernathy, my first grade teacher at Victory School, had never had a Royal in her class.

And without a crown or proof of some kind, I was just another snotty nosed mill kid.

 

     Later in life when my third daughter was born, we had a sure sign of royal heritage appear.  She was born with two thumbs on one hand..and everyone knows --- well, every gypsy knows --- this is a sure sign of royal blood.  Plus it makes thumbing a ride much easier when you grow up.

 

     Actually the double thumbs has been showing up every other generation on my Mother's side of the family.  My Mother had double thumbs.  She also did not have hair under her arms

and neither does Queen Elizabeth, so I am told.

 

     We had my daughter's extra thumb surgically removed  so she would not be self conscious and because my wife did not think it was a royal appendage.  When my daughter started kindergarten, she came home the first day in tears.  Apparently, on the bus to school, my two

older daughters told everyone about the double thumbs and they called my little darling a freak.

Everyone wanted to see it.

 

      I took her out on the back porch to console her and I told her that I was going to tell her a

secret and she had to pledge never to tell anyone else.  I explained  to her that in another time

and place, the double thumbs would have signified she was a sign of royalty and she would have been a Princess. Or maybe even the Queen.  She perked up at this revelation and got

a royal look as if she were sitting on a throne .  I warned her not to tell others because they would be jealous.

 

      I watched when she got on the school bus the next morning.  She ran through the bus with her crooked thumb held high yelling, "I am a Princess.,  I am a Princess.  Get off my bus!"

 

     So much for family secrets.  I still treat her like a Princess and she's now 37 years old.  She doesn't wear the crown I got her.  She says it falls off so easily when she has to vacuum.  I don't think other Royals do their own cleaning.  I can't imagine Queen Elizabeth with a vacuum.

Although she may have a Dirt Devil in her room to suck up cigarette ashes when she smokes.

I also can't imagine Queen Elizabeth going to the bathroom.  Or having sex ever.  It would be

easier imagining her with a vacuum.

 

WHO IS THAT MAN IN THE RED SUIT?

I like Santa Claus.  But  I never liked the fact that my parents lied to me about him being the

real thing.  Even when I was five years old I could figure out that some fat guy in a red suit wasn't going to be able to land on our roof with a herd of flying raindeer.  And then to come down our chimney with a bag of toys.  I had a vivid imagination, don't get me wrong.  But I remembered that the wolf that tried to blow down all the little pigs' houses had decided to come down the chimney of the one who had built with brick and he ended up in a pot of hot water and the three pigs ended up with Wolf Stew.  Besides, we didn't have an open fireplace and Santa would have ended up in a kerosene heater.  Now explain THAT to me Dad.

 

Actually I never spoke aloud my thoughts about Santa being a fake.  I mean, why should I?  Somebody was putting gifts under the Christmas tree every year and if I turned the spotlight on

him, the gifts may have stopped.  So I kept my little skeptical mouth shut...I think I was 22 or

23 years old when I confessed that I was a non-believer. 

 

But parents tend to lie about everything.  Think of the Tooth Fairy.  Now why do they have to

think up such a stupid fairy.  Thank goodness he didn't give much for a tooth or I would have

pulled out every one in my mouth just to get the money.  I remember distinctly the first time

I went to the dentist...we lived in Charleston...I was 8 years old.  We went on the bus and as

we rode in to town I asked my Father where we were going.  He said to the dentist.  I wanted to know if it was going to hurt.  He laughed and said, "Of course it's not going to hurt.  Don't be silly."  Well, liar liar pants on fire.  It did hurt because he yanked out one of my teeth.  And then I had to sit beside that my liar Father on the bus.

 

That's not the only time he lied.  Another time we took the bus one Saturday and when I asked

where we were going he just said, "We're going to see a man about a dog."  Of course this got me excited thinking we were going to get a dog as a pet.  But when we got off the bus we went into a doctor's office.  As we waited I tried to whisper to him about what was going on.  He didn't want to go into details but just said they were going to cut off a little of my penis.  "FOR WHAT?" I said too loudly.  It didn't make any sense to me.  None at all.  We went into the

doctor's office and he made me take off all my clothes, even my underwear.  He had me get on a table/bed and they started to give me ether.  I was suppose to count backwards from 10.

After one whiff and the count of 9, I jumped off the bed and ran out into the waiting room.  Sure

I was naked, but I didn't care.  My Father chased me and took me back in.  They had to get a couple of male volunteers from the waiting room to come hold me down while they gave me the

ether again.  I wasn't counting, but I was out before I knew it.  I didn't sit next to my Father on

the bus home.  I didn't speak to him even after I got home.  He tried to make up by offering to get me ice cream.  This wasn't like losing one tooth, you know.  I had a mouth full of teeth but

I only had one penis.  And to tell you the truth, I think the doctor may have cut off more than he had to because he was so angry at me for running off.  But there's no use crying over a severed...well you know the phrase.

 

As I was recovering, my Father came into the bedroom one day, sat on the bed and said,

"You still my boy?"  I didn't answer him at first.  But he asked me again.  Then I told him,

"I'm not going to be your boy if you keep lying to me."

 

When my daughters were growing up and had their first visit to the dentist,  they wanted to know if it would hurt.  I told the truth.  YES!  I didn't lie.  I told them it would hurt really badly...that it wasn't as bad as childbirth, but it would hurt.  I remember my oldest daughter

came out of the office saying, "Liar, liar. Pants on fire.  It didn't hurt at all."

 

When I was 5 years old we went to my Grandfather's house for Christmas.  We had a housefull

of people...all my cousins.  Suddenly there was a knock on the door and when we went to answer it, there stood Santa Claus.  A real live Santa Claus.  He was carrying a bag of toys

and a guitar.  Before he handed out stockings with our names on them, he played the guitar

and sang, "I'm Back In The Saddle Again".  I knew it wasn't Santa but thought it might be Gene

Autry in a Santa suit.  When he told me to get on his lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas, I knew for sure it wasn't Santa.  I could smell the bourbon on his breath.  It was

Uncle Johnny for sure.  But, again, I didn't admit that I knew it wasn't Santa.  Maybe I am just

as big a liar by not admitting what I knew...but, you know, there were all those gifts every year

and I hated to risk them stopping. I was just a boy after all.

 

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More new features than ever. Check out the new AOL Mail!

An Herbal Remedy That Might Kill You 'With Joy

Medical people are now saying that lots of guys with erectile dysfunction are taking herbal remedies that are causing them to have heart attacks and dying.  Well it's a big price to pay

but if you die with an erection, you'll probably have a smile on your face.

Dogs From Baghdad

I love dogs but, honestly, I have never heard of such a stupid idea.  Someone has decided to

collect stray dogs in the city of Baghdad and they are shipping them to various places in the world to be adopted.  It's costing $4,000 a dog!  They must be flying First Class.  Of course they might be using some of that money to teach them to speak English. 

what's In Your Medicine Cabinet?

You better check it out because if you don't, one of your visitors will.  Everybody wants to look in other people's medicine cabinets.  And most people do. Admit it!  If you haven't looked in another

person's medicine cabinet, you've certainly wanted to as you stand there washing your hands and wondering what's behind the mirror.

 

It's called CURIOSITY.  The same thing that has killed all those cats.

 

I look. I don't mind saying it.

 

But I look very carefully. A friend of mine puts about 200 loose marbles in her medicine cabinet.

So if you take a peek without knowing what's inside, hundreds of marbles come bouncing out

and hitting the sink and her tile floor.  And she's usually outside the door laughing and asking,

"What's going on in there Nosey?"  She makes you pick them up.  I know because I've opened

the cabinet door before.  More than once.  I have a short memory.

 

Another friend of mine has a big sign inside that says: WHAT HE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?

 

Another one has a big assortment of Adult Store "toys" just to get the neighbors talking.

 

My medicine cabinet is dull by comparison.  And  I don't care if people look in it.  It's filled with

dozens of half-used prescriptions....all of them are way out of date and I don't know what most

of them were for anyway.  Half the doctors who prescribed them are dead now.  I've got enough

prescription medicine to start my own drug store.  If I could only remember what they were for.

Must have worked however because I'm still alive.

 

I have a lot of stuff in little bottles with droppers.  But I don't know where you drop the stuff or

why.  There are two partially used bottles of Caldarom.  I think it's an herb of some kind.  A

naturepath doctor in the mountains sold it to me to cure a hand disease that had baffled four doctors who had prescribed various expensive hand creams.  The naturepath guy made me quit taking vitamins and other stuff...then I took the Caldarom drops in water. And like a miracle, my hands  were clear again.  (Sadly he got arrested soon after for murder...he was treating a young girl and had her quit taking her regular medications. She died and he went to the clinker.)

 

I have a bunch of grey whiskers on the top shelf.  A stack of them.  II was saving them for an art project but have  forgotten exactly what the art project entailed. But it will come to me one day...and I hope I can

remember where the whiskers are stored.

 

On that shelf I also have a tube of DARKIE TOOTHPASTE...it's suppose to whiten and brighten

your teeth. But I think you have to paint your face black like Al Jolson to make it really look

effective.  The guy on the tube of toothpaste looks like Al and it always makes me break out in

song.  Usually "Mammy".

 

That's pretty much it for the medicine cabinet itself.  But we have about l0 drawers.  My wife

keeps  her assigned drawers sort of neat.  She knows what's in each one.   I just sort of open

a drawer and throw whatever I have into it.  I have an unbelievable collection of crap in the drawers.

 

One drawer has seven razor blades.  All used.  I am taking a blood thinner medicine now and the doctor advises against using a razor to shave.  So I have grown a beard. I could throw the old razors away, but I don't really need the space.

 

I've got quite a collection of motel soaps, shampoos and lotions.  I figure you pay for all the

stuff they put out, so I take it with me.  I don't think I've ever used any of it. For one thing, you

can't get the wrapper off the soaps.  I can't imagine how they seal them so tight.  And if you

do get one open, the pungent odor breaks out into the room and your bathroom then smells

like a cheap motel for eternity.

 

I have eyewash, mouthwash and three partially used cans of shaving foam...a Dry Look hair spray(but I don't have any hair so it would make my head dry looking...I must have had this left over

from when I did have hair...and nobody can remember that far back).  I have Herbal Ed's salve

but I'm not sure where to apply it. I have a pencil sharpener and a pencil with white lead...you

use it to put the white under the tips of your fingernails when you want them to look neat.  Then

I have about four different fingernail clippers in various sizes.  Yet I can never find a single pair when I want to clip my nails.  I have some dog shampoo...although we haven't had a dog in years.  I guess I could really get rid of that but who knows when a dirty stray dog may wander

by and need a shampoo.  I want to be ready to clean him up.

 

 

Getting Ready for Fly Season

I hate flies.  And  I hate them most at this time of the year because as the weather gets colder

they start dying off.  And because they know they are going to die anyway, they start opening the door and coming in the house...flying around and landing on your nose...they know no fear.  They are like Kamikazi pilots with four feet.

 

I am not a hateful person by nature, but I sure hate flies.  I must have had a swarm of them attack me when I was a baby out for a stroll.  They probably ate my ice cream cone.

 

I am a collector.  I collect lots of different things.  If you have three of something, technically you have a "collection".  So I have a fly swatter collection.  My fly swatter collection includes one that

functions as a wall clock.  There's a big black fake fly on the second hand...so  as the clock ticks

away, the fly moves around.  I have another one that's shaped like a big screen hand.  Then I have some home made fly swatters...a friend of mine calls them "make do" fly swatters because they

were put together by poor people who had to use whatever was at hand to make them. One of my make do swatters has a ruler for a handle.  And I yell, "Joe Rules!" when I smash a fly with it.

 

I spent a summer in Maine one year...in a wildlife preserve.  And I think it must have been dedicated to preserving dreaded black flies.  They are the biggest and meanest flies I have ever

met.  And you never see a word about them when you read Maine tourism literature.  They are always writing about their lobsters, but their flies are bigger than lobsters..  If they showed the dreaded black flies in their literature, their tourism business would die out.  You need more than a regular fly swatter to combat these things.  I tried to hit one with a regular swatter and he grabbed it, swatted me on the head and flew away with it.  You can see why they aren't featured on Maine's website.

 

If you mention these black flies to somebody from Maine, the person will absolutely deny their existence.  It's like people from the coastal area of South Carolina who deny that we have huge

flying cockroaches.  We call them Palmetto Bugs. But a roach is a roach.  And you can't kill

these things with a fly swatter.  It's no use to put out one of those Roach Motels where the roaches

check in but they don't check out.  These South Carolina roaches don't check out because they

eat the motel.  I tell my wife, "you just have to learn to live with them."  But she still jumps up on the couch if one goes scampering by...as if they can't jump up on the couch.   The minute

she goes to bed, they all jump up in her spot, sit and watch tv.

 

The last time I was in Jackson, Mississippi, I stayed in a Brand Name Hotel.  My daughter makes my reservations and I have told her if the person who answers sounds forgeign, not

to make it.  I know this sounds discriminatory..and it is.  Quite a while ago, Indians (not

the American kind but the ones from India) have started buying up motels. First it was the

Mom and Pop type, but now they own chain and name brand ones.  When I got to Jackson

and checked in, there was a young college-looking guy at the desk...but the lobby was filled

with flies.  I mentioned this to the guy.  He just shrugged and said, "The place is owned by

Indians.  They don't kill anything.  They have a goat in their room." I don't think people should be in the hospitality business if they keep goats in their room.  And his comment is not

true about them not killing things.. They kill chickens.  And if they can kill chickens, they can damn well kill flies.  When I

went to my room,  it too was filled with flies.  I went back to the lobby and asked to have

the manager come down.  He did and I explained about the flies and that I wanted him to go

to Wal-Mart and get me a fly swatter.  But he started that routine about the fact that they might

be reincarnated relatives, etc.  I asked him, "Does your grandmother have big buggy eyes and

four legs with poop on them?  Because if she does, she is flying around in my room and I'm going to swat her with USA TODAY unless you get me a fly swatter."  He said he would come and collect the flies.  He actually shooed them out of the room with a towel.  I thought he would probably bring the goat down and let them light on him.