The Old Coot is unpluged. A May 24, 2023 Article

 The Old Coot is plug challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I have a plug problem. For most of my lifetime, I could plug something into a wall outlet with ease: two slots, two prongs, in they go. Now, because of an overprotective bureaucratic safety edict, I’m stuck with a wide prong and a narrow one and a wide and narrow slot. You would think a person has a fifty-fifty chance of getting the plug lined up the right way. Not the case. Not for me, anyhow. It’s more like one in ten chances of getting it right.

 Oh sure, if I went and grabbed my reading glasses, I could get it right the first time. But I don’t, and thus, I have a plug problem. And, not just with electric lamps and appliances. It’s the same with USB and HDMI plugs. I also seem to get them wrong most of the time. And, my cell phone charger and plug, until just recently, when my new Samsung phone came with a plug that is indifferent to which way you plug it in. If I’d had an Apple phone, I never would have had the problem. But, being a cheapskate and opting for a phone that cost one fifth that of an I-phone, I’ve had to deal with a phone plug problem for more than a decade. It’s why I like my Apple I-pad so much, a gift from my oldest daughter seven years ago. Never a plug problem with that device.

 I recently moved to an apartment in a house a block or so down the street from our well-loved two hundred and eighteen-year-old residence. It’s one of those life adjustments you make to accommodate the aging process. But it wasn’t easy -all those plugs; all those slots. It was a wrong-way, plug festival. My wrist is still sore from twisting it to get the plugs to line up with the slots. The wrist will get better, my plug problem won’t.

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

Od Coot wans age tage. Published May 10, 2023

 The Old Coot wants to know.

By Merlin Lessler

 I always thought my life would be less frustrating if everyone wore a nametag. Then, I wouldn’t have to fake it, pretend I knew who a person was. Like a lot of old coots, I call people by fake monikers like: Governor, Missy, Buddy, while scrambling through my rusty memory files in a desperate attempt to dig their name out of the cobwebs. It never comes to me until five minutes after they leave. Sometimes, not for a day or more. People won’t wear name tags, except at a business conference or similar event where attendees don’t know each other. The only name tags they will wear, are those of clothing designers, corporate logos or sports teams: Ralph Lauren, Chaps, Tom Brady, Nike, Buffalo Bills and the like. Sport their own name. No way!

 That “No way” attitude is even more in play with my second ID suggestion, an Age Tag. Either with a person’s age or with the year they were born, making us to do the math if we want to know how old they are bad enough. Most of us are curious about other people’s age. I’m constantly going on line to look up someone famous enough to be listed on Google or Wikipedia. It’s so much easier than in the old days, digging into World Almanacs, encyclopedias or calling the library.

 All the people I’m around have the same age curiosity that I do. And, many of them are not old coots; they’re people of all ages. Someone will walk into wherever we are “hanging out” and invariably, one of us will ask, “How old do you think that guy is?” We try to figure it out. “I think he’s in his fifties. He looks younger, but I guess he’s made it out of his forties. I’ll ask my sister; she knows him.” That sort of conversation. And, it might stop some embarrassing Old Coot utterances – “Is that your daughter or your wife?” – Are you sisters or mother and daughter?”

 We’re a curious species. We want to know things. Especially everyone’s age. We’d also like to know how much they earn, or what they’re worth. I guess that’s too much to ask for. I’ll settle for an age tag. It would be a boon to society. Don’t you agree?

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The Old Coot tells all. published May 3, 2023

 The Old Coot Admits It - Men Don’t Listen!

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve been moving stuff all week to a new place in Owego. My mind and body are shot. So I’m using this article from 2012 to readmit that I don’t listen.

 Men don’t listen. And worse, we don’t know it. We think we’re good listeners. Our wives know we’re not. They have to deal with it all the time. “Why are you getting all dolled up?” we innocently ask. “Because we’re going to the play tonight with Nick and Nancy. I told you about it last week and reminded you again at dinner, just 20 minutes ago.” This is when the wisest among us shut our mouths and start to get ready to go out. Many of us aren’t that smart. We whine, “You never mentioned it to me!” That’s when we get the short version of the lecture on how we never listen. We’ll get the long version when we get back home after the play.

 It’s not our fault. We try to listen. We’re positive we hear everything our wives tell us, but we don’t. I think it’s a right brain, left brain thing. When somebody talks to us we are all ears, for about ten seconds. Then our brain switches into a sports mode. It drags up images of scoring the winning basket as the clock winds down to zero. Actually, it doesn’t drag up the image; it makes it up. There never was a moment like that. The male brain can’t distinguish between fact and fiction.       

 It’s not just our wives we don’t listen to; it’s everybody. It’s why we get in so much trouble. We’re in a conversation; the other person talks and talks and then stops and looks at us and says, “So, do you think it’s a good idea?” We have no idea what they are talking about, but we never admit it. “Sure,” we respond. “That’s a great idea.” Then we discover that we just loaned our car to our neighbor’s teenage son for the prom. “How could you do that?” our wife asks. “It sounded like a good idea at the time,” we lamely respond. “You had to be there.”

 I’m so glad that women are getting into leadership positions in business and politics. It was a tough road without them. If a woman had been in charge of Ford Motor Company in the 50’s when the design team made the pitch to introduce the Edsel, she might have listened to the engineers who warned that it was too soon, that the bugs hadn’t been worked out. As it was, Henry Ford the 2nd, who is a man, may I point out, was daydreaming about the Detroit Tigers when the discussion took place. When asked if they should move ahead and introduce the car in the 1958 model year, he said, “Sounds like a good idea.”

 It’s just the opposite with women. They hear everything, even the stuff that you never say. If the words make it into the little waiting room in your brain, the place you put stuff for a few seconds before you let it go public, women hear it. They also have long-term memories. We say stuff that gets them so mad they can’t see straight. But they don’t say anything at the time. We hear about it two months later - “On December 2nd at two in the afternoon you said I looked a little chunky in my new coat.” Here’s where tact has such great value, if only we were smart enough to use it. We have no idea what she is talking about. We don’t even know she has a new coat. We can relate to December 2nd; the Giants were playing the Eagles that day. The stupid among us, blurt that information out, ala, “Didn’t know about the coat, the Giants were playing, etc.” Those of us who hope to live to a ripe old age take a breath and fake it. “I remember saying that. It’s bothered me every single day since then. I almost cried; I felt so bad. It wasn’t true anyhow; you looked great. I was mad because the Giants were losing and I took it out on you. How can I ever make it up to you?” Of course it’s all fiction. No man would ever say those things. How could he? He never heard what she was complaining about to begin with. Remember, men don’t listen.

Cheapskate I am! published in Tioga County ny on 04/26/23

 The Old Coot is cheap .

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a cheapskate! I’ve learned to live cheap!  But, I’m not stingy. Cheap and stingy are two different things. I’m living the low life, a low-price life. It doesn’t always work, not when the lowest price is junk and I have to repurchase it. So, sometimes I move up the price scale, it’s been a life time of learning, when to pay more. Long before I became an old coot.

 This is how I operate as a cheapskate. Take beer and wine for example. You can pay eight, nine or ten dollars for a glass of beer these days. Or, you can learn to like the cheap stuff. I only have two or three beers once a week or so. Usually on a Friday, out with my wife. I don’t ask for a beer by name. I ask, “What is your cheapest beer?” (As my wife sitting next to me cringes). Same thing with wine. Years ago, I drank more wine than beer, my favorite was Two-Buck-Chuck. A two-dollar bottle of wine sold only at Trader Joe’s. None of their stores are in this area, but you can find something similar, just ask the liquor store clerk, “What’s you cheapest wine?”

 It's easy to learn to like cheap wine and beer, as it is to develop your palate for the high-priced stuff. The same is true for groceries. Store brands are easy to adapt; most of the time they are the same exact product as the name brand, just cheaper. Same thing with dining out; It’s one of the best things about being an old coot. I can’t eat the full portion they serve in a restaurant anymore. So, I split it with my wife and cut my cost in half.

 Now that I’m eighty, I employ a new cheapskate technique. I order from the children’s menu. If I’m told the children’s menu is only for kids under 10, I play my 80 card. “I’m eighty, that’s the same thing as being a little kid. Give me the same courtesy, please.” Nine times out of ten it works.

 Buy plain old coffee. You can live without a ten-dollar double shot, mocha latte. Never buy a new car. Fix stuff yourself (if you can). Wash your own car, don’t pay a car wash place. Mow your lawn. Rake it. It’s great for your physical (and mental) health. That’s it for today. If I go any farther, it will take two sheets of paper to print this out. Something a cheapskate like me tries to avoid. 

The Old Coot is on it. Right now, 4-19-23

 The Old Coot can’t get anything done.

By Merlin Lessler

 People who think that old coots have zero memories are wrong! It’s true that we aren’t as sharp as we once were, but our memories are not really that bad (except for names of people and places). We do suffer from a chronic illness that makes us appear more forgetful than we really are. It’s called “the do-it-right-now” syndrome. It’s the exact opposite of the syndrome we had when we were teenagers. I know; it’s hard to believe that an old coot like me was ever a teenager, but I was. And, just like today’s teens, I suffered from “the put-it-off-until-the last-minute” syndrome back then. Now, I do the opposite.

 I walk into the living room to get the newspaper for my wife and spot a smudge on the mirror. My “do it right now” disease sends me back to the kitchen to get a bottle of Windex and a paper towel. But on the way, a screw driver I was using earlier to fix a loose doorknob attracts my attention. I bend over to pick it up, and the trip to the kitchen for window cleaner flies right out of my head. “Where’s the paper?” my wife asks when I pass her on my way to the garage to put the screwdriver away. “Right here,” I reply, and hand her the screwdriver.

 This happens all through the day. Whenever I go to do something, the “do it right now” syndrome sends me off in another direction. I never finish anything, at least on the first try. I’m as bad as the teenagers who never start anything. Thank goodness for the generations in between; they get things done. But, you have to give us credit, teenagers and old coots alike; we have good intentions.

 

The Old Coot knows how to sleep. Article #1023 - 4/12/2023

 The Old Coot is a pro at nap taking.

By Merlin Lessler

 There is a lot of chatter out there about sleep. A lot of worry and anxiety! People say - “I can’t get to sleep!” – “I wake up at two in the morning and toss and turn for hours!” – “I don’t get enough sleep. I doze off in meetings.” That sort of chatter. It’s nothing new, according to historian, Amanda Foreman. Worries about sleeplessness even kept ancient Egyptians up at night. In fact, some of their methods for treating insomnia are still in use today – Lavendar oil and chamomile tea to name two.

 Medical commentators ramp up the issue on TV all the time. They claim the average American doesn’t get enough “good” sleep. We are advised to turn off the TV, black out the room, read, take a bath, wind down. I don’t have a sleep problem. Like a lot of old coots, I sleep like a baby. I wake up every two hours, roll over and watch TV. But it’s not a problem. I take naps to make up for it. It’s my favorite pastime. Sometimes I don’t even realize I dozed off.

 Put me in a movie theater or in front of a TV and I zonk out. When I come back to planet Earth I’ve missed 20 minutes of the storyline. That’s when I drive my wife nuts, and all the people around us, with a game of 20 questions. “Who is that guy with the gun?” – “Did the woman in red have a baby?” – “Why is that old man in jail?” A chorus of “SHUT UPS!” leaves me in the dark. Later, someone will ask, “How did you like the movie?” I reply, “I’m not sure. It was kind of disjointed.”

 I’ve tried all the tricks to get a good night’s sleep or to get back to sleep. I have a collection of sounds on my I-pad: thunder storms, ocean waves, night birds, breezes, winds & even wild winds. One thing I haven’t tried is a warm cup of milk before bedtime.  It’s what my mother did with us when we were kids. It worked. Stephen King published a great book called, “Insomnia.” The main character woke up (and couldn’t get back to sleep) earlier and earlier every morning. He eventually only got a few hours of sleep. It took me more than a year to finish the book. The old guy with the affliction made me feel as tired as he was. I couldn’t get through ten pages without dozing off. Probably something you do after the second paragraph of one of my old coot articles. Glad you made it all the way through this time.   

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com   

The OldCoot says, "Cheerio!" A southerntier NY Coot Article of 4/05/202

 The Old Coot tries out a new accent.

By Merlin Lessler

 These thoughts ran through my head and out my pen in 2012. I still am irritated and can’t help but notice the continuation of this invasion from across the pond. And, the fact that media moguls think we are too dumb to notice what’s going on. So, I’m giving it another go. What? You ask. THE BRITISH INVASION OF OUR AIRWAYS!

 There are a lot of British accents on TV.  It’s an invasion of sorts, like when the Beatles came to America and pushed Elvis aside. More and more of the commentators on news shows have British accents. You never hear them say, “I seen a man get hisself arrested in Albany!” They speak the language at a high level. – “Good show, old chap.” – “That was a smashing street demonstration.” It’s the accent that makes everything they say sound credible.

 The people who run TV news programs know this and hire as many people with British accents as they can. They want us to think the newscasters are smarter than us. People with British accents help sustain that myth.

 The accent not only makes reporters and commentators seem smart, it also makes them seem honest and frank, like Simon, when he was on American Idol. He told it like it was. (He’s since softened up, unfortunately.) Eventually, all plain speaking American reporters will be pushed aside and replaced with Brits. The Revolutionary War isn’t over. We won the battle but not the war. It’s still going on.

 I’ve been practicing my British accent, hoping to regain the respect that hasn’t come my way of late. It’s working pretty good. (Oops.) I mean, it’s working pretty well. I watch BBC a lot, to learn British sayings and pronunciations. Not all my attempts to speak British have turned out so hot. I asked the clerk in the gas station where the loo was the other day. She said, “Lou doesn’t work on Thursdays.”

 That’s OK; I’m in no hurry. I can take my bloody time making the transition. I’m going to try it out and order eggs and bangers with a spot of tea instead of my usual #3. I’m sure the boys at the other end of the counter will start to show me some respect, especially when I get up to leave and turn to them and say, “Cheerio! It’s been jolly good to see you again!” I’ll be the only British old coot in town. Finally, a place of distinction!

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