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.

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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.

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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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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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