August 24, 2016 Article

The Old Coot’s last meal issue.

By Merlin Lessler

Have you ever been out to dinner with menu-challenged people? Ones who can’t decide what to order, who keep sending the waiter or waitress away, “I haven’t decided yet. Give me a few more minutes.” A few minutes turns into 20 minutes, or more. That’s when I ask, “So what time is your execution scheduled for?” To which I get the reply, Execution? What are you talking about?”

I should shut my mouth right then, but I don’t. “I thought you were trying to decide what your last meal will be, and think that you have to get it right because you’re never going to eat again.” Don’t try this tactic. It isn’t going to get you the result you want. Just the opposite! First, you’re going to get, THE LOOK, from your wife, followed by a kick in the shin under the table. She’s not the one who is meal-ordering challenged, but she’s on their team and will join in the delay and say, “I think I’m going to reconsider my order. I’d made up my mind, but now I want to look through the menu again.” That’s when I realize I’m all alone in my quest to eat soon.

I can’t relate. I know what I want before I get out of the car. I have an acute case of old coot dining out syndrome. I only order maybe five things: a hamburger, spaghetti and meat balls, pizza. Well, I guess that’s three things. I hate menus that are more than a page long. Each additional page adds five minutes to the group ordering process. Ten pages, fifty minutes. Longer, if you are with a death row patron ordering their last meal.

I liked what and how Kelly Gissendanger from Georgia ordered for her last meal in September 2015. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be enticed to try something new, like I am every once in a while, only to pledge to go back to my “favorite three” the next time. She ordered two Whoppers, two large fries, bell peppers, salad with boiled eggs, cherry vanilla ice cream, cornbread and a side of buttermilk. I was near Georgia at the time of her execution, driving my car and listening to a local afternoon radio news show. The pundits went nuts. “What is she thinking? Why not a nice steak dinner, lobster, anything but fast food.” Kelly knew what she liked and stuck with it, driving the media crazy. Then, they started in on how unhealthy her food choices were. “That’s a 4,200 calorie meal,” one of the reporters opined. I yelled at the car radio, like I often do. “Come on! It’s her last meal, who cares if it’s unhealthy.” They creamed her for her politically incorrect last meal, yet hardly mentioned that she hired someone to kill her husband. I was critical of her too; she left out spaghetti and pizza.

Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

August 17, 2016 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t “fall” for it.

By Merlin Lessler

A regional hospital in our area, which shall remain nameless (not to protect the innocent, but to protect this old coot who needs their services all too often), is sponsoring a “fall” (as in people falling) prevention program aimed at the elderly (my crowd). It’s a good thing; it should help a lot of people and we need it. But, the ad writers went astray. They tried to lure us in with a big fib. The come-on claims that falling isn’t normal (if you’re an old guy stumbling around, you’re unusual; come in and get yourself repaired.) What the ad writers don’t know, is that us old guys and gals resent corporate jibe and slick advertisements that take liberties with the truth. We watch this ad unfold in our living rooms and yell,  “BOGUS!”  It IS normal for seniors to fall? Heck, it’s what we do best.

Our foot doesn’t come up as high as it once did when we take a step. If the sidewalk has pushed up an inch at one end, or some small obstruction is lying on a walking surface, our toe will make contact and put us into a tumble. That’s not the only problem. We’re also distracted walkers. We don’t look where we’re going; we’re ruminating in our heads: Did I turn off the stove? - What time is my doctor’s appointment? - Is it today? – What is that guy’s name, the one I just passed and said hello to? Then, we do a cartwheel because our foot encounters the lifted edge of a slate sidewalk on Front Street? (Talk about death traps)

We’re also not as limber as we used to be, but seem to forget. We pull up our foot while standing to slip into our socks. It takes so long for a leg that is limber-challenged to get up far enough to slip them on that we often find ourselves on the floor looking at the ceiling, a sock dangling half off our foot. We tottered for a second and then went down. I timed myself; if I don’t get my foot in the sock in 4.2 seconds I’m going down. I’m just thankful I haven’t cracked my head on the sharp corner of the dresser yet. When old guys fall, or have a close call putting on socks or pants, we resolve to sit down to do it the next time. And promptly forget.

Standing up too quick, starts another scary scenario for my people. Our inner ear, where the balance mechanism resides, is sleepy. It’s taking a nap most of the time and doesn’t wake up when we pop up out of a chair. We stand; it rubs its’ eyes and looks around in a stupor and we reel, then totter and guess what? Fall down. 

I’m sending this article to the good people at the regional hospital in hopes they will scold their ad writers and just tell the truth. It is normal for seniors (what we used to call old people, which most of us prefer by the way) to fall. Then more of us might do something about it. As it is now, us old guys see the ad on TV and yell, “BOGUS!” And, figure they can’t help us; they don’t even know we’re out here in great numbers falling all over the place.

Two point eight million of us go to the emergency room to seek treatment from injuries due to falls every year. Eight hundred thousand end up being admitted and twenty seven thousand get to have a date put on their tombstone. If the ad writers put that out there, the balance program would take off like wild fire. I won’t be able to attend, not for a few weeks; I just took another tumble putting on my socks. I’ve got to remember to sit. 

Comments? Complaints? File them at mlessler7@gmail.com

August 10, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is a gift consultant.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s your wife’s birthday. What to get her? A dress? A bathing suit? Flip-flops? You know better. You’ve been married long enough not to make those mistakes again. And, you also know better than to buy her something with a handle. Like that vacuum cleaner you gave her one Christmas. Or that new set of copper bottom pots and pans you anxiously watched her unwrap on your third anniversary. You definitely know what not to get her.

But what to do? Buy her flowers? That usually works, except the last two times the ones you picked out wilted in one day (that darn gas station). Candy? Not politically correct in these days of weight obsession. Maybe it was OK back when the Ozzie & Harriet Show was on TV, but that era ended 60 years ago.

If you buy her a “thing,” you will miss the mark. You won’t get it on sale or with a coupon or on double discount, senior Wednesday. Oh sure the hand made Italian shoulder bag you picked out last year was perfect, but you paid retail. A disappointment instead of a positive.

So, what should you do? You’ve gone through the list of things that husbands a handed along the marriage license: took her out to dinner and a show, on mini-trips, even had a surprise party for her at the Elk’s club. But this time you know there is something she wants. A new coat. Now that you’ve exhausted your list and made all the mistakes you can put your acquired wisdom to work and give her the best gift of all. The gift of shopping! You know she wants a coat because one of her 1,300 hints finally made it through to you. Perfect! Put a gift card in an envelope with a thoughtful birthday card. No cute cats or monkeys on the front, and definitely no little old lady with stockings rolled down to her shoes, a flower hat on her head and holding a martini glass with false teeth floating next to the olive.

A gift card and a nice card, that’s it. Not only will she get exactly what she wants (the new coat), she’ll get to go on a quest and search for the best buy, maximizing coupons, secret sales and a special, “extra” credit day discount to land the prize. It’s the best gift ever. Shopping.

Oh sure, this advice qualifies as sexist, 20^th Century thinking. And, it may not fit everyone’s situation, but it will work in a lot of cases. More than some of you are willing to admit. This advice is politically incorrect, dated and just plain useless. Or, is it? You tell me.

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

August 3, 2016 Article

The Old Coot will call you Tim.

By Merlin Lessler (AKA Jim Steel)

I know three guys named Tim. Tim #1 thinks his name is Tom, as in Tom Silvanik. Tim #2 thinks his name is Robert, as in Robert Fairlie. Tim #3 is different. His name really is Tim, as in Tim O’Rourke.

Tim #1 is used to me calling him Tim. He doesn’t even correct me anymore. Sometimes I remember and call him Tim-Tom, but usually it’s just, “Hi Tim!”

Tim #2 is new to the game. I see him and say, "Hi Tim.” He immediately tells me his name is Robert. I don’t care, I still call him Tim. That’s the name I programmed into my head and I don’t have access to I.T. people to fix it. But, he’s coming around. He doesn’t correct me as much anymore, and when he does it’s by calling me Jim. He doesn’t know it, but I like being called Jim. When I was a kid it’s one of the names I used. Some people in Elmira, where I lived for 5 years in the sixties, still call me Jim, as in Jim Steel the electrician, neither of which I am. (Doesn’t everyone have an alias?)

I would have killed for a name like Jim growing up. If my father named me Sue, like the kid in that old Johnny Cash song, I wouldn’t have been any worse off. Growing up as a Merlin did have some advantages. It was instrumental in teaching me to defend myself on the playground, but that got old after a while and “Jim” was born. In third grade I found myself with a seat assignment on the girl’s side of the room, until the teacher called attendance and got no response when she called out Marilyn, even after repeating it several times. She finally looked up, saw I was a boy and quickly ordered me to the boy’s side of the room. She got mad because she had to redo her seating chart. She didn’t like me after that and I didn’t like her, because she would still call me Marilyn every once in a while. I think on purpose. 

Growing up with a moniker like Merlin is the reason I can’t relate to people getting irked when an old coot calls them Tim. It may not be their name, but it’s a nice name. (It’s not Marilyn). Besides, if an old guy calls you by the wrong name, you should give him a pass. Be impressed that he even remembers that he knows you. So, we’re a little sloppy; we call Craig, Greg, and we call Tracy, Stacy. And we lump all the women named Katie, Katlyn, Kyla, Catherine and Kathleen into one name – Kate.  Let it go.

A few years back I wrote about my name problem with the Wiles twins, Paul and Phil. How my batting average was less than 50% in getting their name right when I saw them around town. And, the day my head exploded. First, I ran into Paul and called him Phil. Then, I ran into Phil and called him Paul. A few minutes later, Paul Phillips came walking up and I called him Phillip. I didn’t think it could get any more confusing until I discovered a guy named Paul, that I had coffee with several times a week at the Starbucks in Ormond Beach, Florida was also named Paul Phillips. Son of a gun if the wires in my head didn’t get crossed and I started calling him Phillip. I give up. When I’m back there next winter, I’m just going to call him Tim.

Comments. Complaints. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com