February 20, 2019 Article

The Old Coot has a “bug” up his sleeve.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m sitting here in a Starbucks with a container of coffee in front of me, watching a cashier wait on customers. She’s been writing about half of the orders on cups and putting them in a queue for the barista (which I call a mixologist). She takes care of the simple coffee orders in a routine way that may someday be done by a robot: listen to the order – turn to the back counter – grab the proper size cup – fill it with blonde, pike or dark roast coffee – install a top – slip the cup into a thin, cardboard sleeve – swivel back around and hand the container to the customer. I watch her do this again and again, always exactly the same.

It’s the sleeves that bother me. I don’t know why, they just do. Whenever I’m handed a container with a sleeve, I wonder why they don’t use better cups. My sleeves end up stuck in my car’s cupholder or the one on my bicycle. It’s no small thing, the proliferation of these sleeves across the land. It is estimated that Starbucks goes through 8 to 10 million every day – close to 4 BILLION a year.

I’m not a whacko environmental extremist, just a regular environmental aware person. I take care of my trash, recycle and pick up stray litter on occasion, though I do take a frowned on “Sunday drive” every week. I like to survey my world and learn where the roads go. It’s an inborn, genetic trait to know your territory, going back to the days of the cavemen when it was important to know where the wooly mammoths roamed and the sabretooth tigers lurked.

It’s not that the sleeves are that much of an environmental hazard anyway – they are biodegradable, but still, they irk me. I guess it’s an old coot thing. Right now, the one on my cup has slipped down and is resting on the table, like an extra-large shirt collar surrounding the neck of a skinny necked guy like me. Every time I take a sip, I have to slide it up on the cup. Maybe my issue is increased by the picture of the Starbuck’s woman on the sleeve, wearing a crown and staring at me with a smug, disapproving look on her face. It makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s the same look my 3^rd grade teacher gave me when I handed in a test paper, an ink stained and eraser shredded work of art. 

I should bring a glove with me when I go to a “sleeve” place. One of those cheap, cotton things they sell in the hardware store by the bundle. Then, I could ask for a sleeveless, tall (that means small in English) dark roast.  But I won’t. If I did, I’d look like even more of a geek, and I can’t risk it. Maybe Starbucks could put a pile of these cheap gloves by the cash register so customers could use them, and then toss them into a wash bin by the door on the way out. Most customers stay in the store until they finish their beverage and take up space for time on end. I know! I’m right there watching them.

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February 13, 2019 Article

The Old Coot adds things up.

By Merlin Lessler

We name a number. It’s how old coots respond (to each other) when asked, “How are you doing?” We don’t go into detail about our current ailments. We just state a number that corresponds to the number of issues we’re dealing with at the moment. We’ve retired the age-old and over used replies - Not bad – Not so hot – OK. Our response is usually in the 3 to 4 range. I hit 6 one day last December. It’s not as bad as it sounds, but sometimes the collective number of minor ailments we deal with makes us preoccupied with our state of health, even more self-possessed than normal.

Responding with a “6” was a kindness to the, “How you doing?” asker. Better than running through my list at the time - a tender arthritic knuckle on my left index finger – an achy left knee (my good one) – a cold coming on – a nagging low level tooth ache, that may or may not go away – a bad haircut (something more upsetting than you might think, especially when the cutter did exactly what I’d asked for) – and lastly, a zit in the middle of my forehead, that apparently had been lying in wait for 60 years before making its debut.

 It doesn’t take much to get your number up there. Start with a sore back, a common ailment that old coots are well versed in. Throw in a leg that keeps cramping up, stub a toe, add a dash of vertigo and you have a recipe that gets you off and running. The magic number is 10. That’s when you start engaging the worst of your grouchy, old crab persona. Fortunately, it usually only takes a day or two before you get used to it, or USED OF IT, as my son used to say when he was a toddler, bumping around the house and racking up a stack of numbers himself.

Women, I’ve noticed, don’t play the numbers game. They don’t keep track and add them up, they just deal with whatever number of ailments they face and make us look bad. Yet, society refers to them as the weaker sex. What a lie. If I wasn’t crabbing about hitting the “5” I’m dealing with today, I’d expand on the issue and help my gender understand the truth, that WE, are the weaker sex. Not even strong enough to admit it. It’s that often quoted saying, “If men had the babies, every kid would be an only child.

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February 6, 2019 Article

The Old Coot buttons up a mystery

By Merlin Lessler

I was in one of those outlet stores the other day. It was a Bealls outlet, a popular retail store in Florida. They pronounce it “Bells” – but not me. I learned to read using phonics, to sound out words, & Bealls isn’t Bells to me. I don’t pronounce meals as mells - or deals as dells. So, though I know it’s not correct, I’m sticking to pronouncing it my way, knowing every time I do, I’ll be corrected.

Anyhow, on the men’s super-discount rack, which is where old coot’s shop, was a nice-looking, unusual pale yellow, Columbia fishing shirt, in the XL section of the rack. A fifty - or sixty-dollar item marked six bucks. I was going to grab it and run (to the cashier), but decided to try it on, for a change. It didn’t fit; the sleeves came well above my wrists and it felt tight across my shoulders. I quickly slipped it off and returned it to the rack, but I put it in the “medium” section, thinking it had been mislabeled. Darn! It was such a good buy.

I mentioned it to my wife, who is a super smart shopper. She asked if the buttons were on the right or left. I didn’t know; I hadn’t tried to “button it” – “Well,” she continued, “If you did, you might have seen that they were on the “wrong” side, that it probably was a woman’s shirt. Unfortunately, it was a question I couldn’t answer.

But, the bigger question that came to me was, “Why are the buttons on men’s and women’s clothes on opposite sides. Finding the answer turned into a history lesson. Buttons came into use in the 13^th century; they were fancy and expensive, so only wealthy women could afford them. Wealthy women didn’t dress themselves, as you would know if you watched Downton Abby or The Crown; they were dressed by a lady’s maid. Since most people are right handed, lady’s maids as well, the buttons were sewn to the left placket, making it easier for them to fasten. And to this day, that’s where they remain.

Buttons on men’s clothes, back then, were mainly found on military uniforms; soldiers dressed themselves, so the buttons were located on the right placket, easiest for right handers buttoning from inside the shirt.

Since women, from an early age, generally outshine boys in the dexterity department, it’s never been much of an issue for them that the buttons are on the left side. But, put a man in a woman’s shirt, if you want a chuckle, and watch him struggle with the buttons. (Unless he’s left handed). Lefties have always gotten short shrift from society on mechanical devices. Try to cut paper left-handed with a pair of regular scissors and you’ll understand. Left handed maids and soldiers were “left” out in the cold, so to speak, in the 13^th century and not much has changed since then. Man! I wanted that shirt!

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January 30, 2019 Article

The Old Coot can’t read the fine print.

By Merlin Lessler

I did one of those stupid things the other day, a male ego thing; I jogged across the street (like a chicken getting to the other side, but slower). A driver had stopped his car and waved me across. I jogged, if you can call it that, to minimize his wait, after being so considerate. As I hopped over the curb onto the grass area between it and the sidewalk, I pivoted to signal, “Thank-you,” with a wave over my shoulder, twisting my knee and straining or spraining (I never did know the difference) the lateral collateral ligament (LCL). It took 30 minutes to hobble home, a distance equivalent to two laps around the track at the high school.

That’s a long set-up to get to the point. Sorry. It’s not about my male ego affliction, it’s about font size, the tiny font on prescription drugs, explaining how to take the medicine and alerting the user to possible adverse reactions. The doctor prescribed a steroid regimen, a five-day, descending dosage plan: 6 pills the first day, then 5, 4, 3 and ending with 2. Steroids have a bad rep, at least in the sports world, so I thought (for once) I’d read the information regarding drug interactions and side effects.

I unfolded the tiny wisp of paper that lay hidden at the bottom of the pill box. It was the size of a cigarette that had been squashed in a vise. It opened up into an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of mumbo jumbo. The font was so small I couldn’t make it out, even with my extra strong pair of reading glasses. I had to take it outside, and look at it in bright sunlight, the equivalent of using a magnifying glass. I could read it, but just barely. The print was about one/half the size of the font used in this article. This size, if it makes it through the publishing process.

The trouble is, it’s not just the pharmaceutical companies that hide important information by making it microscopic. Our ground fault interruption (GFI) plugs in the kitchen have 2 buttons between the top plug and the bottom plug. One button is used to test the GFI, the other, to reset the mechanism after it trips. The font is not just tiny, it’s the same color as the surrounding material. It’s kind of important to see what you are doing, or getting into, when you use electric shock protection devices or prescription drugs. But, apparently not to the companies that produce this stuff. Our TV has the same issue, though you can’t consider this to be as critical an issue. If I misplace the remote and try to operate it from the TV set, I’m confronted with black on black, tiny font. I have to get a flashlight and a magnifying glass to turn it on and select a channel.

Who takes the most medicine? Who is more apt to stumble and splash water on a GFI plug? Who is most apt to forget where they set down the TV remote? OLD GUYS, of both sexes. We’re the ones faced with fine print. There! Now I feel better. Even my knee is returning to normal. Old coot normal, anyhow.

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