The old coot is opposite! (January 29, 2020 article)

The Old Coot does a brain exercise.

By Merlin Lessler

I tried an “Opposite Day” last week, to give my brain a workout, and boy it needed it. It’s a way to get unused neurons to fire and expand the brain’s capability. You just do common everyday things, opposite of what you would normally do. Things you don’t even think about when you’re doing them. It started early in the day, right after I got out of bed and slipped into a pair of pants. What leg goes in first? I did the opposite. I normally insert the belt starting on the left side. I did the opposite. It feels awkward when you feed it through the loops the “wrong” way. And then, you’re faced with a buckle that buckles backward. It’s doable, but you can tell it’s using a different part of your brain. A fuzzy feeling visits you as you do it.  

I put my watch on my left wrist. Realized that was normal; took it off and struggled to get it buckled on my right arm. I did a double take every time I checked the time; it was hard to get used to the watch being on the other wrist. It haunted me all through the day. The toothbrush was another challenge. I’m a righty, for the most part. Putting the toothbrush in my left and squeezing on the paste felt a little awkward, but not too bad. Most of the paste made it to the bristles, some on the handle. Then came Brusha, brusha, brusha, as sung in the old Ipana toothpaste ad. The toothbrush didn’t go through my cheek, but it came close. Those old, unused neurons in my brain were slow to catch on. I can’t complain too much; they’ve sat dormant for decades. I brushed my hair as though I was a lefty. It really felt weird, but not as weird as it looked when I was done. 

You do all this stuff without thinking. On opposite day you have to stop and think before you do anything. Even a simple task like walking up the stairs is a left-right thing. I always start with my right foot; I didn’t know that. Switching to a left foot start wasn’t an issue but did stimulate a few well aged neurons.  Cutting with scissors left-handed was a different story. Not only was it awkward, I discovered the scissors themselves were a problem; the edge is slanted for a right-handed cut. Something, I’m sure left-handed people are well aware of.  

Eating was a disaster. Soup was impossible; I had dribbles down my chin and all over my shirt; I couldn’t cut a porkchop worth a darn with the knife in my left hand and my fork delivery skills were on par with those of a two-year-old.  If I stuck with this experiment, I’d have to spend the rest of my life eating sandwiches. The process did stimulate a ton of underused neurons though. I ended the experiment after trying to get on my bicycle from the right side, stepping on the pedal with my right foot and swinging my left leg over the seat. I didn’t quite make it. I ended up on the ground looking like a turtle on its back, struggling to roll over and get back up. I just lay there laughing my head off. It was the opposite of how I felt.  

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January 22, 2020 Article - Coot complains about "tipping" formula.

The Old Coot buys low, tips high.

By Merlin Lessler

So, you go to a restaurant with a friend. A “separate check” kind of friend. Your meal is $30 – you tip the waiter $6, twenty percent. Your friend’s meal is $20. His tip is $4. He got the exact same friendly service but paid $2 less for it. I don’t get why the tip amount is based on the price of the meal.

And, now that I’m into it, why did the percentage go from 10% to 15% and now has settled in at 20%. Meal prices have risen, so tips went up without raising the percentage. It’s a double hit on the customer - a higher percentage tip based on a higher priced meal. I tried to discuss this with my wife, to get her concurrence; she told me to get the moths out of my wallet and pay the tip like everyone else. And, while I’m at it, to stop being a cheapskate.

Sure, I am a cheapskate, most old coots are, but that’s not the issue here. It’s the “service” cost being related to the meal price. They are two separate transactions, or should be. I tried to negotiate a resolution the other day in a restaurant.  Before I gave my order to the waiter, I asked, “How much do you charge for taking my order to the kitchen, delivering my food and drink, giving me a bill and taking my payment?” He looked at me like I was an alien from outer space and told me there was no charge for his service. If I wanted to leave a tip, he wouldn’t refuse it. Then he rolled his eyes. I tried again, “Let’s settle up for your waiter service now; then I’ll order. Here’s five bucks.” It didn’t work; he wouldn’t accept it.

So, now I’m on a crusade to enlist support from other restaurant goers to protest tying the tip cost to the meal cost. They should be independent of each other. One based on food cost, the other on how obnoxious and demanding you are. When you order from the pricey part of the menu you pay a bigger tip, which my wife points out is something I never do. I order the cheapskate options, or from the children’s menu if they allow it, and tip accordingly, but I do base my tip on a 20% multiplier; I’m cheap but appreciative of good service. I still think it’s wrong to base it on the meal price. I think a lot of things in today’s culture are wrong, like getting charged to cross the Hudson River on the Tappan Zee Bridge (now renamed to honor Prince Andrew Cuomo’s father, which is wrong too). But, I shrug and pay. In fact, I just mailed in my payment for crossing the river last Thanksgiving. They took a picture of my license plate and sent me a bill. I thought I got through without paying. I can’t win, but I’m still trying. It’s what old coots do.

Comments? Gripes? Tips on tips? Send too mlessler7@gmail.com 

The Old Coot exposes old advice. (January 15, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot visits a foreign land.

By Merlin Lessler

I discovered a foreign country with strange customs the other day.  It was introduced to me via a housewife’s guide that offered tips to new wives on how to treat their husbands. I’ll begin with the first two tips; it will get you started on an exploration of this foreign land. #1 Have dinner ready when he comes home from work. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready and on time. This lets him know you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. #2 – Take fifteen minutes to rest, so you’ll be refreshed looking; be a little gay. His workday has been long and boring, and he needs a lift; one of your duties is to provide it!

I bet I have your attention now. Where is this foreign land? It’s mainstream America, circa 1955. That’s when this advice was written and included in many of the cookbooks that new wives received at a bridal shower, along with the tools of the trade: steam irons, rolling pins, aprons, brooms, dust pans, mixers, ironing boards and the like. But that just scratches the surface. How about this tip – Prepare the children (for his arrival). Wash their hands and faces, neaten up their clothes. They are his little treasures and he would like to see them play the part. Minimize all noise of the washer, dryer and vacuum, and keep the children quiet. (I guess not a treasure when they act up a little.)

Oh yes, this is a strange land, with strange customs. It’s no wonder the women’s movement struck such a chord in the early sixties. But still, it’s hard to fathom how it got off the ground, when you consider Tip #10. – When he arrives home, shut your yap! (I paraphrased that last part) Even if you have a dozen important things to tell him. Let him talk first – Remember, his topics of conversation are more important that yours.  

But, that is nothing compared to Tip #11 – Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax (when he gets there). (Strain? If he spent one day with the kids and the challenge of running a house his head would explode).

How about # 14? – Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. (I thought this one might have been a joke. But it wasn’t. It was dead serious.) Which is easy to understand when you consider the follow-up tip – Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement of integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness.  You have no right to question him. A good wife knows her place!

 Women - if you are steaming at this point and want to wring my neck, remember, I didn’t create or endorse this advice. I’m just the messenger, making a connection between America today and America of 70 years ago. And you men - who are engaged to be married, no, I won’t provide the full list of housewife tips to you so you can slip them into your wedding vows. It wouldn’t do you any good. You’d never get an, “I do,” all you’d get is an, “I won’t!” And maybe a slap up side the head.  

Send comments, complaints to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot hates surveys (January 8, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot takes a survey.

By Merlin Lessler

You go to the doctor – you get a survey in the mail asking, “How did we do?” You buy something online – before you get what you ordered – you find a survey in your in-box.  Survey! Survey! Survey! Corporate America is obsessed with surveys. If you give a bad review and take the time to describe the problem you encountered, you think you will get a call in an attempt to make things right. But, you don’t! The survey data, including the detailed feedback you provided just goes into a data base that the CEO uses to crow to the board of directors about the wonderful job he or she is doing to run a customer friendly company. 

Eventually, we’ll get a survey asking how we liked the survey. It’s so overdone, and just a PR move to make us think they care. Just like the recording you get when calling ANY corporation today and get shoved to the back of a long line that says, “All our representatives are busy at the  moment; we’ll be with you shortly;  your call is important to us.” Followed, with, “This call may be monitored.” I guess that is supposed to stop us from swearing at the clerk when we finally get connected.

When I’m in a queue waiting to talk to a human, I picture a large group of call-takers siting around in a break room, listening to me over a loud speaker, as I wait, cracking up when I get frustrated and start yelling, “Answer the darn phone,” along with other, (unprintable) rants, interspaced with, “Please, please get some music that isn’t so annoying that it makes me want to hang up.” (That probably is their intent. And, it works).

This survey mania is out of control; it’s so bad that eventually muggers will hand you a survey as they run away with your wallet. The ATM machine will force you to tell it how it did, before it will return your card. It’s high time we stopped replying to corporate surveys. It’s the only way to stop the madness. If you agree, please let me know how well I did in convincing you too join, the “no survey” movement. Rate me on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being very well, and 1 being not at all.   

Send survey responses to mlessler7@gmail.com    

Best Christmas present, a bike for the Old Coot (December 31, 2019)

An old coot remembers his first bike; the best Christmas present ever.

By Merlin Lessler

It happened two Christmases in a row! The best presents a boy (in the fifties) could hope for were under my tree. But, I had to wait an “eternity” to play with them. The first time it happened, I was seven; it was a set of electric trains; I didn’t get my hands on them until late in the day, after my father finally had his fill, “showing me how.” The next year it was a bicycle; I didn’t get to ride that until the following spring. My sister, Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a new coat of paint. We didn’t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw them under the tree. But, into the basement they went for three long months.    

Finally, the first robin arrived in our town and the bikes came out. We lived on a hill; it was too steep to learn to ride a bike on, so my father helped us push them to the top, to a flat street with hardly any traffic. I can still remember the exhilaration of staying upright while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I felt when I looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn’t there. I panicked and crashed to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I’d kept the bike upright all by myself and didn’t need his help, except to get started. I hopped back on, and like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, rode off into the sunset. One problem; I didn't know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply fell over.  

My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near the curb and put out my foot. It wasn’t my fault; the bike was too big, like everything in those days. We had to “grow into” stuff: shoes, clothes, skates, sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we called them dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper stuffed in the toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my bike. 

I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. It allowed me to leave behind my three-wheeler and the ridicule that went with it. I don't think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of the parades in downtown Binghamton. A lot of kids did. We also “clothes pinned” a piece of cardboard to the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound like we were riding motorcycles. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back in the fifties.    

My mother loved the bike too. She sent me off to the market a few blocks away, just about every day. My favorite errand was a bread run. I always snuck a slice out of the middle of the loaf; it was the price my mother unknowingly paid for delivery service. I lost my concentration on one of those bread runs, distracted by the freshness of the bread I guess, and crashed into the side of a delivery truck. I was only slightly injured. More startled than anything.  A neighbor passing by ran to my house and yelled in the door to my mother, “Come quick; Merlin has been hit by a truck!” Mom got a terrible scare, but I paid for it. Once she discovered I was OK she started yelling, and kept it up all the way home! Those gray hairs I allegedly gave her were painful for me too. The bike got fixed and served me well for years. Then, the year I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three gears under the Christmas tree. It was brand-new and the exact right size. I was ecstatic, but I’ll always think of that used, repainted first bicycle as the best Christmas present ever.