The goodbye process.

When to say goodbye?

When does goodbye mean goodbye? It depends on who you ask. We had a party the other day. It gave me a wonderful opportunity to observe my favorite skirmish in the unending battle of the sexes - the confusion over the meaning of goodbye. It starts when SHE says, “We’re going home now.”

And, it is the wife who decides when a couple will go home. We husbands think we do, but it’s a delusion, even though we start a campaign to leave the minute we get there. “Give me a nod when you’re ready to leave, Honey,” we whisper, in an attempt to plant the seed. If the truth were known, men work on an escape plan before they even get there. The exit strategy begins when they’re getting dressed, something they’ve been ordered to do, after being told that a stained T-shirt and a pair of wrinkled khakis are inappropriate party attire.

No, men don’t make the decision to leave. We whine; we beg; we conjure up tales of horror that will unfold if we don’t go home soon - traffic jams, deer jumping onto the path of the car, or mechanical breakdowns in the dark. Eventually our wives tire of the battle and announce that it is now time to leave. Unfortunately, that is the signal for the battle of the sexes to commence. Men think that, “We’re going now,” means finding the host and hostess, saying thank-you and going out the door. It doesn’t. For men, good-bye is an event, for women, it is a process. And no matter how many times we go through it, we never figure it out. We’re out in the car with the motor running, but our wives are just in the early phase of leaving. We sit and listen to a boring sports talk show on the radio for 5 minutes before we realize she isn’t coming out any time soon.

We leave the car running for our first trip back inside, foolishly thinking we’ll soon be on our way. We find our wife and hover by her side, like a toddler clinging to his mother’s skirt. We listen intently to the conversation; anxiously awaiting the words that will signal the end is near. The words never come. We have to butt in and recap the horrors that await us if we don’t leave this second. That gets us a look, but not any movement toward the door. The conversation continues until we fall to the floor, kicking and screaming. Our wives respond by finally saying to the person she is taking to, “We really have to get going.” Upon hearing those magic words, we head back to the car, expecting to get underway. We are wrong!

We turn off the engine for our second trip back into the house. We have no optimism. It’s a walk of defeat, a march of tears. We find our wives closer to the door, but still with a queue of 10 or more exit interviews between her and freedom. We stand at her side, this time like a secret service agent escorting the first lady at a wedding reception. We nudge people aside to clear a path, but add nothing to the conversation. We’re the ultimate invisible men. Eventually we make it through the “good-bye” process. It’s quite a scene, a room full of women engaged in animated conversation, each with an antsy adult-child at her side. Eventually the door is reached. She is finally ready to go; the 20 minute good-bye process is over, but the slug she came with is nowhere to be found. He’s wandered into the den with the rest of the husbands to watch the last minute of a double overtime game. It doesn’t matter if it’s football, basketball or celebrity wrestling. He wants to see the finish. “I’ll be just a minute honey,” he says, not having a clue that he just restarted the goodbye process.

Car horns are lacking.

I need a user friendly car horn.

I was driving down the street minding my own business the other day, well, that's not exactly true; I never mind my own business, but anyhow, I was tooling along when I saw two neighbors, Jean and Dee Dee, walking their dog. They waved and I blew the horn. But the horn didn't make a sound. I didn't push it hard enough. I tried again, but nothing happened. Then it finally worked, half a block away where a young woman was pushing a baby carriage. She gave me a dirty look and hustled up the street to get away from the "jerk" blowing his horn at her. This happens to me all the time. The horns on today's cars are dangerous and rude.

I guess it's because the button sits on top of the airbag. When you want to push the horn you have to shove the whole airbag mechanism to make contact with the horn circuit. You can't give it a gentle tap. You can’t toot a friendly hello; you have to slam your hand down and blast the horn. It’s why we have road rage in this country. It's not due to stress in people's lives; it's due to the crappy horns that the automakers install on our vehicles. Blaring horns make people mad.

They don't have road rage in Europe; they don't have it in the Caribbean. I've never been to Europe, but I've been to several of the Caribbean Islands and I can attest to the lack of road rage there. They have good horns on their cars, the kind that can give a friendly toot, and they use them all the time. All it takes is one cab ride to get the picture. The driver toots as he pulls out - toots as he approaches another car - toots when he turns - waves and toots when he asks to be let in at a busy corner. The horn is a friendly device in the Caribbean. It's the same way in Europe. They wear out their horns; we wear out our brakes.

I'm thinking of installing an auxiliary horn on my car. I'll put the button on the dash, next to the radio. I'm good at finding the volume knob while I'm driving. I crank it up when a Ricky Nelson song comes on. I shouldn't have any problem finding a horn button mounted right next to it. Then I'll be a friendly “Caribbean” driver, not a rude American. I'll be out there tooting to my friends, giving old fogies a gentle reminder that it's OK to go right on red. I did this to my father's car when I was a teenager, except I put the button under the dash so he wouldn't notice it, and mounted a giant truck horn in the engine compartment. I used it to scare people, in the true spirit of a teenage idiot. The horn became history the day I blew it while my father had his head under the hood. I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to see if the old man could dance. He could. He waltzed me out of the car and stood watch while I dismantled the modification to his prized Edsel.

 

Old Coot avoids the "UM" People!

Watch out for the Um people.    

I was studying the “Um” people the other day. You know the type. They wait in line, staring at the racks of donuts in Dunkin Donuts or the extensive menu at a fast food joint, but when their turn comes, they are dumfounded. The clerk says, “How may I help you?” They reply with, “Um.” They tap their index finger on their chin and repeat it again, “Um.” Finally, they get started. “Give me two jelly.” That’s followed with another, “Um.” All through the selection process their dialog is interspaced with ums. That’s why I call them the Um people. They’re never prepared for the task at hand. When the exasperated clerk finally gets their order together and says, “That will be seven dollars and sixty-eight cents,” they shift right back into the um mode, as in, “Um, where did I put my wallet?” Everything that comes their way is a shock. We all do this from time to time, but the Um people never get out of the groove.

Old coots are the exact opposite of Um people. We know what donuts we’ll order before we leave the house. We come prepared for line situations. We know what it will cost; we have our money ready. We make the exchange, accept the, “Have a good day,” and step out of the way. Like customers of the “Soup Nazi” on the Seinfeld TV show, we are obedient, compliant and unobtrusive. We do this because we hate lines. It’s why we go to dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon; we don’t want to wait for a table. It’s an ailment that affects all old coots. It’s incurable. It’s limiting. And, it’s why we so dislike Um people.  

Our line-phobia is a handicap, that’s for sure, but it does have its good points. It’s made us into experts on line behavior. We don’t get in lines that take over five minutes. We sit off to the side and study the dynamics of the people that do. It’s how I first detected the existence of the Um people. I love to watch them in line at a donut store, and even more at a deli, ordering a sub. They are overwhelmed by the number of choices, the number of decisions that they are forced to make. First, they have to select the size, six inch or one foot. That’s good for two or three ums. Then they are confronted with a bread selection - hearty Italian, whole wheat, white, etc. That’s good for another few ums. This is when I swivel in my chair to get a full view of the Um symphony. The choices of meat, cheese, vegetables and garnishes are endless. The crescendo of ums is deafening. The fatal blow comes when the clerk offers a final option, “Would you like that toasted?” That does it; the Um person’s brain reaches overload. He runs out of the store, waving his hands in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. The clerk looks over to me and asks if I want a free sub. “Um,” I reply. “What are my choices?”

Old coot clothes last forever

I buy stuff for a lifetime.

The other day my son was getting ready for school. He was trying to squeeze into an old pair of sneakers, but not having much luck getting his size 7 foot into his size 5 sneaker. I asked him why he was wearing those old things; he has at least three newer pairs.

“They’re my favorite. I just found them in the back of my closet while I was looking for something.”

I loosened up the laces for him, starting at the bottom, and somehow, he managed to get them on. He was smiling and happy, as though he rediscovered an old friend, which he had. We all have clothes like that. Things we just love. They feel right. They make us feel good about ourselves. Usually my wife won’t let me wear mine.

“How old are those things?” I asked him.

“Mom bought them last summer. They’re almost a year old.”

It started me thinking. “He thinks sneakers he got a year ago are old. Wait till he gets to be my age, then he’ll know what old clothes really are.” I looked down at the sweater I had on. It’s dark blue, has a yellow X across the front, red, white & blue nautical flags on each side, the word “navigator” sweeps in a white arch across the chest area and the left sleeve has yellow & red anchor on it. It’s 100% cotton. My daughter Amy bought it for herself at a Tommy Hilfiger outlet store when she was a freshman in college. She gave it too me after months of looking for it and finding it hidden in my bottom dresser drawer under three layers of sweaters and sweatshirts. That was eight years ago.

Next, I looked down at my feet. I had on a pair of “dusty bucks.” I bought them in Maine, on a trip I took, six years ago. I started to realize that all my “stuff” was ancient. “Hell, I’ve got boxer shorts older than my son.”

I’m not an old coot who wears the same thing everyday, a fashion flashback to the past. Well maybe a little, but I do buy new clothes every year. Everything I have on, as I write this, is less than six months old, except for my sneakers. They’ve become an old friend that I save for when I go for a speed walk or a run. I’ve had them for three years and I suspect they will be around for a few more. Yet, I guess, that a chronological inventory of my wardrobe would be like a walk through history.

I own a pair of LL Bean rubber boots that I bought in 1987. They get a ride on my feet when it snows and I have to shovel the driveway and sidewalk, but not more often than that. They look brand new, which they are, in old coot years, so I expect to have them as long as I live. And that’s the point. Most of what I buy will be a lifetime purchase. That thought hits me like a sledgehammer, but it’s true. I’m not outgrowing anything, though if I don’t get my willpower under control when facing a Sunday night pizza, I might need something new; something with an elastic waistband. I don’t wear anything out anymore, and a lot of stuff, like suits, ties and dress shirts, are seldom worn, so why replace them? The linen suit I bought for my daughter Wendy’s wedding nine years ago, has been out of the closet on only three occasions. The tux next to it gets an airing once a year, on a cruise, though last year I left it home. All my closet “friends” are like that. They will be with me till I die, even though I expect that event to be delayed till I’m well over 100. Old coots never die. They don’t even fade away. They just hang around forever wearing 30-year-old oxford cloth button down collar shirts, pleated kakis, loafers or buck shoes, yellow rain coats, black overcoats and never a hat, having learned from, and been inspired by John F Kennedy, the first president to attend his inauguration ceremony, bareheaded.

I’d better be careful about what I buy. It’s going to last me a lifetime

Don't blow your brains out!

Old Coots know how to beat the heat!

Every time there is a hot spell a flock of “experts” swarm to the media to offer advice on keeping cool. Some are global warming advocates, trying to cut down on green house gasses. Some are good Samaritans, trying to make sure the elderly and the very young don’t suffer when the temperature soars. The cat and dog people step in with their advice too. Us old coots get a chuckle every time the weather advisors take the stage. Our society can’t deal with the environment anymore. We’ve been spoiled by air conditioning. It’s everywhere: in our cars, our homes and the places where we shop, dine and work. We’ve lost the ability to cope with summer. When we were kids in the good old days we got a drink from a hose, not from a bottle of chilled water from France. Our parents warned us when we did, “Be careful. Don’t blow your brains out!” Of course it never worked. We’d put the hose in our mouth and trust our friends to turn it on gradually. They never did; they always cranked it up full blast. It’s why my generation is so dumb. We blew our brains out getting a drink from a hose.

It was a lot harder keeping cool in those days. People didn’t have air conditioning in their houses or pools in their back yards, except for those metal framed, canvas, kiddy ones that were one-foot deep. We didn’t care that our legs hung over the side; we’d lie down in the tepid water and pretend we were swimming at the lake. It wasn’t too exciting but it cooled us off. It didn’t take much to entertain a bunch of kids who had blown their brains.We’d spend hours running around under the sprinkler and taking turns soaking each other with a hose, a pail of water or squirt guns, the kind that had to be refilled after about ten squirts. We would have killed for one of the half-gallon soakers that today’s kids have at their disposal. When we got older, we rode our bikes to one of the public pools. My favorite was the First Ward pool, the one behind the Ansco Film plant. It cost thirty-five cents to get in. If you turned in your locker key on the way out, you got a quarter back. Mine never made it past Lamb’s Ice Cream Parlor on Clinton Street.

You had to learn to sleep “hot” in those days. Sleeping “hot” was an art. You had to fluff up the sheet just right so it didn’t cling to your skin and you had to turn your pillow over every half hour to get to the cool side. You never fell into a deep sleep on a hot night in those days. You just made the best of it. I had a fan in my room, but only if I could sneak it up the stairs without my parents noticing. It was a "droner." It sounded like a small airplane coming in for a landing. The blades were metal and could nip off the end of your fingers if you weren’t careful. Those were the days before manufacturers were required to child proof everything. Those were the days when parents taught children to keep their fingers out of the fan. It was a wonderful device. The drone lulled me to sleep and the rotating mechanism alternated between cool blasts of air and dead still heat. It was the variety that made it feel so good.  

We may not have had air conditioning when I was a kid but we had something better, Kool-Aid. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a glass of frosty Kool-Aid on a dog day afternoon. Especially the way we made it, with a full cup of sugar, two if mom wasn’t watching. A lot of folks had a back porch in those days, the lucky ones, that is. It was a perfect place to slumber on a narrow cot or a hired man’s bed on a hot night. People bragged if they had a sleeping porch, like they do today if they have central air. We didn’t need “experts” to tell us how to cope with the weather. Ours was a self-reliant society. We even figured out that a hot drink on a sweltering day made us feel cooler. It didn’t take a scientist on TV with an anatomy chart to convince us. We didn’t watch the “Discovery” channel; we discovered things for ourselves. We didn’t complain about hot weather. It was what we waited for all winter. It’s why you see us old coots all over the place when the temperature heats up. We enjoy the heat. We don’t know any better; we blew our brains out getting a drink from a hose when we were kids!

I got squeezed

I got squeezed!

I went to a luncheon the other day. There were 14 of us. We called ahead for a reservation. When I walked in the table was set up: 14 placemats, silverware sets, napkins and water glasses graced the surface. Fourteen chairs lined the table. There wasn’t an inch between them. I took a seat. I had to pull the chair out, get in front of it and then go through a few contortions in order to pull the chair from behind while lowering my body to meet it as it came forward.  I felt as awkward as a new colt gaining its feet for the first time. Thankfully, I was the first one there and nobody saw the graceless maneuver. Old coots are always the first ones there. We’re the only people left who think being on time is good manners.

The rest of the gang straggled in and went through similar contortions to get themselves seated. I chuckled each time. Some were a lot less graceful than me. Eventually all 14 of us were seated. We looked like a collage of artificial people. Our arms were at our sides, our backs erect and our faces forward. We didn’t have enough room to be anything but erect and proper. The lunch was brutal. I don’t know how the food was; I was intensely focused on the chore of using a knife and a fork while keeping my elbows from crashing into my neighbor. I looked like a praying mantis with his front paws pulled together in prayer.

It took me five minutes to spear a French fry, dip it in ketchup and maneuver it up to my mouth. Some of my fellow diners weren’t quite so polite. They dug in as though there were three feet between them and the person next to them. Unfortunately, one of them sat next to me. My arms and side still sport the black and blue marks.

Even the conversation was affected by the lack of space between us. When you sit at a table with your elbows pulled so they are almost touching as you maneuver food on a plate in front of you, your whole being feels pinched. It limits your thought process and forces you to speak in a high-pitched squeaky voice. I said something to the guy across the table from me and wondered. “Who said that?” I didn’t recognize my own voice. The lunch ended early. We all wondered why we thought it was such a good idea for old friends to get together for a few laughs. I’d managed to eat three French fries and take two bites out of my hamburger. It was all I could accomplish in a straight jacket.

The next time I phone for a reservation I’m going to call it in for 18 and then remove four chairs when I get there; I’ll tell the maitre d’ the other four couldn’t make it; they haven’t healed from the beating they took the last time we went out to eat.