Too much stuff! March 20, 2019 Article

The Old Coot says we’re buried in stuff.

By Merlin Lessler

Stuff! Way too much stuff! How did we get here? Our homes are overflowing. Our attics are filled to the rafters. Our cars won’t fit in the garage. We buy Amish sheds and rent space in storage yards, yet we’re still buried in stuff. Our affliction is the focus of cable TV shows. Even Oprah covers it! A whole new branch of psychology has sprung up to deal with it. 

Old coots like me have an excuse. We’ve had a lot of time to accumulate our treasures. And, we’re cheap! We don’t throw anything out. “We might need it someday!” We grew up in a simpler world, the so called “good old days.” We remember all the good things, yet somehow forget the bad (like the summer semester in college when I was sent home because I wore shorts to school). But, one thing for sure, is that we lived with scarcity back then. We were the last generation before the “too much stuff” generation emerged. We had one winter coat, one pair of Levis, one of most things. We didn’t spend time mulling over what to wear. A family’s weekly garbage accumulation rarely filled a single metal can. Throw-away packaging was limited, if non-existent. Recycling was the norm; soda and milk came in reusable glass containers. Other products that came in glass were recycled too, baby jars into nuts, screw & bolt holders, pickle jars for collections (sea shells, marbles and many other items), newspapers for packing and window washing, cardboard boxes for storage bins, sleds and play houses. Today, it’s a razor thin line between an average residence and a hoarder’s nightmare.

It’s not just physical stuff we’re buried in. It’s TV, radio, other media, plus a hurricane storm of data, and information from social media, cable TV and the like. Hundreds of channels on TV – News all day – Weather forecasts that never stop, often with a prediction of doom that forces us to stay tuned. A simple cup of coffee isn’t simple anymore; we now have more options than I can count - regular, decaf, ½ caf, dark, light, flavored and a litany of lattes and mochas with another litany of “stuff” that can be squirted or spooned in. We were lucky. We had one phone per household, often on a line shared with several other customers. There was only one TV station in town when the idiot box, as it was called, arrived at my house. Two other stations came a few years later, but you had to turn the rabbit ears to go from one to the other. And even then, you had to clip hunks of tinfoil to the ends of the “ears” to remove the “snow” from the picture. The evening news took 15 minutes. Now the weather forecast takes that long. The stations signed off at midnight, playing a scratchy Star-Spangled Banner record and turning the screen into a test pattern.

Us old coots have an out. The "been around a long time" thing. But, most people with too much stuff are young (by old coot standards). Under 40. Even little kids are buried in stuff. I don’t know if our society can solve the problem, but it has created a lucrative business opportunity: the people who build sheds or set up rental storage facilities are rolling in the bucks, psychologists are getting their share of the pie, personal organizers (consultants) are starting to make the scene. But old coots are the best consultants. We know what to keep and what to throw away. If you need help, drop me a note at oldcootclutterremovaladvice.com. I’ll come over as soon as I can move aside the pile of stuff blocking my car in the garage.

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

Pajama Time - March 13, 2019 Article

The Old Coot plays the pajama game?

By Merlin Lessler

When is it too early to put on your pajamas? Not an issue for you? It will be when you enter the land of old coot and cootessa-ville. Let’s see – early bird special dinner at four o’clock – winter sun sets around five – you’re not planning on going anywhere- no one’s coming over for a visit – is it OK to get into your jammers? And, settle in for the night?

Emily Post doesn’t cover the subject! Google is of no help – It’s an issue you have to deal with on your own. What to do? What would people think if they knew you were jammered up by seven o’clock? Seven, because you certainly can’t watch the national news in your night clothes. Wouldn’t that be disrespectful to the country, the world? As long as the newscasters are wearing dresses, suits and ties you have to stay dressed in your day clothes. As soon as they sign off, the question rears its ugly head, “Is it too early to get into my pajamas?”

What would happen if someone dropped by or the Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts or high school athletes rang your bell in hopes of selling you cookies, light bulbs or candy bars? Would you even answer the door? Best to have a long coat hanging in the hallway by the front door. In case the bell rings. Two problems solved - #1 the bell ringer will never know you’re wearing your pajamas - #2 if they are selling some real junk, like they sometimes do: magazines, greeting cards and the like, you can say, “Sorry, I’m on my way out; won’t you come back another time.”

So, go ahead; put on your pajamas as early as you want. You won’t find this in an etiquette book or by asking Google. If you want to see it in writing, go to WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com and scroll down to the page titled – “Pajama Time” The blog is the only known authority on old coot etiquette.  

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com   

The Old Coot doesn't measure up. (March 6, 2019)

The Old Coot doesn’t measure up.

By Merlin Lessler

You’re 10 years old and waiting in line to get on the roller coaster. You see the bar ahead, the one you have to be taller than, to ride the “Monster.” Will you make it this year? You hope against hope, pulling yourself up, to be as tall as possible, wearing work boots to give you an extra half inch. Maybe? But, no! Not tall enough again this year.

Fast forward 50 years. It’s a different size test you need to pass this time, not to get on a ride, but into your favorite “all-you-can-eat” restaurant. Ham, chicken, roast beef, mac & cheese, mashed potatoes, potatoes au gratin, vegetables (mostly going untouched), a zillion other items and a dessert bar that could feed a small village. This size test is not a height measurement, it’s a set of bars that measures your girth. You’ve got to fit through them to feed from the trough. You wait. You try. You fail. And are just as crushed as you were when you failed to make it onto the roller coaster fifty years earlier.

A real scenario? Not yet, but it looms ahead as we evolve into an obese society. Without it, the all-you-can-eat restaurant business will become extinct. I think we’re safe for a while; it hasn’t come to a set of bars at the entrance. Not yet. The airline industry is another story. They already make us pay for our width, to buy a second ticket to get on board. We’ve gotten bigger; the seats have gotten smaller. What a profit-making strategy. We’re on even more of a collision course. A measurement system is all set up at the TSA scanners. The airlines just have to convince the agents to relay measurements to them, so they can collect the extra before we get on board.  

We wonder how this has happened to us. Every year when we went for a checkup our weight was almost the same as the previous year.  Ok, maybe a pound or two more. If you do the math, you won’t have to wonder anymore: 2 pounds per year, times 50 answers the question of how this happened. I refuse to do the math; I know my girth is expanding and I also know my height is shrinking. It’s just a matter of time before I’ll be banned from both, a smorgasbord and a roller coaster ride. It ain’t as great as you might think to be an old coot.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

February 27, 2019 Article

The Old Coot ain’t a flip-flopper.

By Merlin Lessler

I need flip-flop lessons. Getting them on, to start with. I have a hard time slipping my foot into the thong that goes between the “Little piggy who went to market” and the “little piggy who stayed home.” The second my foot gets near the thong, those two toes stick together as though in a death grip. I pick up my foot and slam it along the ground, hoping to get the thong to break through the toe clench. I do this multiple times, but I usually have to bend down to get the issue settled. No small feat for an old coot, even one who bends over and touches his toes as a part of a daily stretching routine.

My wife steps up to her flip-flops and in a single motion slips into the straps and is off and running, looking back at me and asking, “Are you coming or not?” I point down to my feet and stomp away in a panic to get them shod. But, it’s not just the “getting them on” that defines my flip-flop problem. Walking in them is another challenge – I constantly find myself heading toward a spill because I’ve caught the front edge on the ground, throwing me into a stumble. 

Then there’s the “going down stairs” issue. When I go down, I fully understand why they are called flip-flops. It’s that flip and flop noise they make. In my case, it’s so loud that the unfortunate people in the stairwell with me have to hold their hands over their ears. FLIP! FLOP! FLIP! FLOP! Quite often, one or the other of them flops off. Then, I’m back to the “getting them on” ordeal, but now, while balancing precariously on a narrow stair tread. Meanwhile, my wife has made it to the bottom of the stairs without making a sound, wondering, “What is that old coot up to now?” I’m a floor or two behind, even on a good day, thinking she won’t wait, but she usually does, if only to chuckle at me as I stub my toe while we walk along, and watch me perform the old coot ballet, my desperate effort to stay upright. Boy do I ever need flip-flop lessons. I wonder if they have a class at the senior center.

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