Melancholy Retail: Where America Shopped

“Every cloud must have a silver lining
Just wait until the sun shines through
Smile, my honey dear, while I kiss away each tear
Or else I shall be melancholy too”¹


Detroit Sears store at Grand River and Oakman. My dad worked at this location in the 1950s and 1960s.
Source: Wayne State University Libraries

On a long drive last week, I listened to an NPR story about the uphill battle for survival that the Sears department store is facing. The odds of it succeeding are long. There is speculation that the company’s current management is purposely dragging out its demise so that it can continue to sell off valuable assets before eventually closing all the stores for good. It reminds me of a corporate version of the Bataan Death March.

The decline of Sears is sad for me because I have so many fond memories of the place from my childhood. Even as I relentlessly mocked it sometime around the mid-eighties, it was mostly out of love and affection for its former place in my life. I had a nonsensical belief that I alone was allowed to tell Sears jokes because I was as much Sears as Italians are Italians, Poles are Poles, Irish are Irish, etc.

Sears & Roebuck was a big deal to my family. My father worked there starting in the early 1950s selling shoes, and eventually became a manager of the shoe department at Detroit’s Grand River store. For a brief period he was groomed to be an executive and sent on trips to its headquarters in Chicago for meetings.

He never really made it as an executive, though. Dad pissed off upper management one too many times for not marching in lockstep with the other gray flannel suits. He just wasn’t boardroom material. Family lore has it that he ultimately told management to “stuff it” in favor of going back to the friendlier confines of the sales floor. By the time I was a toddler in the early 1960s, he was transferred to their Lincoln Park store selling TV’s, radios, and stereos.

He retired at age 55 sometime in the mid seventies. Any resemblance to certain bloggers, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Of course, as an adult I now understand that Dad had been demoted. His career as an executive was curtailed because of his mouth. The many versions of whitewashed stories we were repeatedly told over the years made him out to be Dilbert long before Scott Adams invented the comic character. Whatever disappointments Dad may have harbored about his Sears career, they were discreetly kept under wraps in favor of spinning yet another yarn about how he once stuck it to the corporate Man. Indeed, those stories were hilarious.

In spite of his thoughts about the company’s management, though, my dad believed in Sears as an institution which catered to the public at large. He thought highly of his colleagues and even more so for the products they sold.

We were a Sears family. It was represented everywhere in our house by the clothes that hung in our closets, the shoes on our feet, the clock radios next to our beds, the appliances in our kitchen, the tools on Dad’s workbench (including the workbench itself), and all the outdoor gear such as hoses, lawn chairs, lawn mowers, and grills. The cars we owned were all Chevy’s, Fords, Dodges, etc., but you can be damn sure they had Diehard batteries in them. And, of course, they were insured by Allstate.

Like so many other homes of that era, ours was a microcosm of the post-war American experience for the middle class. This was still the period when the phrase “Made in Japan” was said in jest. Chinese manufacturing hadn’t yet hit the U.S. radar. American-made products were omnipresent, and Sears was where America shopped.

Stepping inside a Sears store was definitely fun for a pre-teen in the mid-sixties. Probably for the adults too. You entered an environment where the aroma of freshly popped popcorn, chocolates, and warm nuts hit your senses immediately. Parents may have been forcing you to try on snowsuits, but your mind was only on getting them to take you to those goodies before exiting to the parking lot. If you were really lucky in those pre-Toys-R-Us days, you might even manage to somehow get ten minutes of browsing in what was then considered to be a pretty respectable toy department.

Sales staff worked strictly in the departments for which they had been hired. This was important because it made them experts on the merchandise being sold. Don’t see the item you were hoping to find? No problem, they would nearly always go in the backroom and look for it. And while all of this was happening, those unusual store chimes were paging managers in a secret code that only employees understood (for some inane reason, my father never explained it to us).

The cherry on top of the shopping sundae for this Sears family of mine is that Dad was entitled to an employee discount. It mattered not if the item was on sale, employees still received a flat 15% discount on clothing items and 10% on everything else. This cut both ways, however. As I reached my early teens, my desire for name brand clothes instead of the proprietary Sears brands started to materialize. A test of wills commenced over whether I could have Levi’s jeans purchased at another store, or continue to wear the Sears Toughskins I had worn since grade school. The compromise that was ostensibly offered– that I “graduate” to the more expensive Sears Roebucks jeans went over like a lead balloon.

It took me till age 14 before I finally got my first pair of Levi’s. I remember it being an absolute nightmare having to wear those damn Toughskins to school.

Eventually after my dad retired, he finally eased up on the requirement that we had to first consider Sears before other retailers. Not working there everyday eventually gave him a healthy separation.

The country was also changing, with national department store chains having less of a hold on consumers. Where stores like Sears and Montgomery Wards might have once offered a sense of comfort and security to consumers, other retailers and brands were becoming more creative. When beer of all things was being sold as a positive lifestyle choice, that probably didn’t fare well for stodgy old Sears and Roebuck.

As my siblings and I began to marry and have homes of our own, we still took advantage of Dad’s discount, shockingly still offered to retirees as late as the early 2000’s. All of us at one point or another used him to purchase big-ticket appliances such as refrigerators or washers and dryers for that additional 10% off, and then we would immediately pay him back after we left the store. The company later eliminated the discount, or Dad was simply too old and frail to help us anymore. I can’t recall which happened first.

By now we all pretty much know the current condition of their stores. A hilarious Family Guy parody lampooned what it’s like to actually walk into a Sears now. It’s not quite like that, but it’s an awfully depressing experience all the same. Shelves are empty, cash registers are placed in center aisles away from each department, and you’re lucky to find an employee who has much knowledge about a particular item. There is a feeling of doom and finality. This company is breathing its last breath.

It’s sad only when I think about it, and I really don’t think about Sears much anymore. Still, the NPR report did make think about my dad and how disappointed he’d be to see what’s happened to his former employer. But at least I have those wonderful whitewashed old stories of his.

Until next time…

¹ My Melancholy Baby, songwriters: E. Burnett / G. Norton, 1912.

Never Mind Stella, I Want *MY* Groove Back

A smattering of what’s left of my once-large record collection. Patiently waiting for components to be purchased…

I recently stepped into the home of a man who owns an incredibly impressive audio system sitting front and center in his living room. He had the largest set of speakers I have ever seen outside of a commercial establishment. Overkill? Perhaps, but they were a thing of beauty, encased in custom-made teak cabinets which in turn matched the modern Scandinavian decor of his home furnishings.

Those speakers dwarfed everything else in the room, making it clear that the enjoyment of music is the most important thing to this man. If he owned a TV it was placed elsewhere. This particular room was all about the music.

What was missing for me, however, were the components into which his speakers were connected. I saw nothing to adjust the volume, pop in a CD, etc. It was just those amazing looking speakers and nothing else.

I didn’t actually know this man. I was only in his home because I was with a friend who was dropping off some paperwork. But as the two of them completed their business, I had a chance to ask him where the rest of his stereo components were. He absolutely delighted in answering me. He pulled out his phone, brought up some kind of an app, and punched in a few keystrokes. Within seconds Sarah Vaughn’s exquisite “Lover Man” filled the air. It sounded beautiful and the room’s acoustics were terrific.

The man explained that all of his music is digital and loaded on some kind of software similar to iTunes but apparently much more advanced. He showed me how he can create playlists on the fly by artist, genre, year recorded, etc. From an automation standpoint it was impressive. But for an old-fashioned audiophile like me? It was disappointing. Still, I was a guest in his home, and so I lavished praise on his system and congratulated him. The speakers were to die for after all.

But no dials, knobs or buttons? No big headphone jack in the bottom corner? And most important, no turntable playing that warm analog sound? I looked at this man who obviously spent a fortune on this system, and all I could do was pity him.

This, from someone whose only current sound system is two tabletop radios (albeit one is satellite) and a Sears Silvertone transistor clock radio, circa 1966. Talk about reverse snobbery.

My faithful clock radio.

It wasn’t always this way, though. I once had a beautiful stereo system with a Mcintosh preamp¹, Marantz receiver, Garrard turntable, Teac reel-to-reel, and standalone Advent floor speakers. The speakers were Advent /1‘s, which perhaps would make the above man pity me with his own reverse snobbery. I remember how they took all summer to pay for on “the drip” at the Gramophone, a former high-end stereo store in Birmingham, Michigan. I absolutely loved their sound.

Eventually that stereo was sold along with so many other possessions prior to a big west coast move to California about 15 years ago. The theory was that I would buy a newer, more modern system which would integrate with the TV and other video devices. In practice what happened is that we bought a flat screened TV and a DVR that was added by the cable company. CD’s were played using a Wave radio or in the car. There was no integration.

I’ve been without a full-fledged stereo ever since.

But that’s only one part of the tragedy. The real calamity is the near death of my record collection.

Sometime around 1986 or so, I began making the transition to compact discs. To make matters worse, I started to replace everything I had once owned on vinyl and buying it on CD instead. Vinyl records by the carton and box were taken to used record stores and sold for nickels on the dollar. Except for a few sentimental favorites or rarities which I fortunately did keep, the lion share of my records are gone. What I have now is a pittance compared to the original collection.

What was I thinking?! doesn’t even begin to come close to the remorse I feel for that misguided decision. I spent many happy hours staring at Roger Dean’s artwork on all the Yes albums, the famous Sgt. Pepper cover created by Peter Blake and Jann Haworth, and that cool poster tucked inside the White Album. Album covers have it all over the CD case for sheer beauty and trivia.

Later when I attended college, I learned how useful having a double-album was for cleaning… oh, never mind. That was a long time ago.

My poor dad never really quite understood precisely what I actually did at college. Each fall we would pack up my possessions in the car to return to campus, and a good 70% of the trunk and back seat space was taken up by stereo components and milk crates full of albums. I think I maybe had two small suitcases of clothes, one box of study supplies, and perhaps a razor and some tooth paste.

My priorities were clear and it sure as hell wasn’t the academic curriculum. Or apparently how I looked.

Fast forward to today, more than anything else what I miss about vinyl is that glorious sound. There’s a warm richness in those analog recordings, which for me anyway, beats the digital format. Yes, I enjoy the convenience of playing CD’s in my car, having music on my phone, and joining the six other people in the country who also still use an iPod. Small and light is good.

But I now realize just how much more wonderful that earlier sound was. Yeah, sure, there were “snap, crackle, and pop” hisses in those record grooves. And indeed, we did all celebrate the supposed end of that format when CD’s were introduced. I just think in hindsight that those blemishes are now more of a comfort than a hindrance.² 

Recently, to my delight and utter surprise because it happened so fast, Gorgeous and I put in on a successful offer for a new home (more on this in a later post). We are now facing lots of paperwork for the mortgage, arranging for home and termite inspections, and transferring funds from this account to that account. While she is thinking all about furniture, rugs, kitchen cabinets, light fixtures, etc., all I can think about is the later purchase of that vintage stereo system, and where in this new place I’ll be putting it.

Oh, and also the purging lots of lots of CD’s to be replaced with vinyl versions. I’ll forgo the milk crates this time, if I know what’s good for me anyway. I suspect they probably won’t pass the feng shui test.

Source: Pinterest

In honor of the upcoming Record Store Day, I want to highlight two of my favorite bloggers who each devote nearly all of their posts to the beauty of vinyl. They are worth your taking the time to drop by their blogs and checking them out.

Bruce Jenkins at Vinyl Connections lives in Australia and has a huge and varied interest of pretty much every musical genre. Just when I think I know everything about an artist or group, he’ll offer an entire facet about which I was completely unaware. He also occasionally gets off-topic and writes about his earlier life with tales of school, early jobs, etc. He’s fun to read.

Thom Hickey is the blogger at The Immortal Jukebox. Thom doesn’t just write about how much he likes artists, he actually researches their life, where they lived, and the influences and cultural heritages that shaped their music. The reader ends up not just learning about the legacy of a musician, but also the human(s) behind their songs. Thom lives in England, but probably knows more about Detroit, Memphis, New York, New Orleans, and so many other American musical capitals than some of the actual residents of those cities. His posts are always a treat.

So move over Stella, and get yer ya-ya’s out. It’s time to boogie.

Until next time…


¹ Technically the preamp was completely unnecessary since by this time (circa 1979), receivers were more than capable of providing the necessary amplification and power needed for most audio components. So why did I have it? It was cool looking.

² If you need a more technical commentary on the differences between CD’s and vinyl, you can find it here

What? Me Worry?

Source: Mad Magazine

Let’s talk serendipity, shall we?

I am amazed at the moment at how some obstacles are smoothed out simply by doing nothing. It’s the ultimate reward for procrastinators or those caught in what we in polite society refer to as “circumstances.” Naturally, it doesn’t happen very often. But when it does, I see it as a strike against all those authority figures from my childhood. Take that, you previous brow beaters.

It’s also not the smartest approach to problem-solving either, of course. We can look no further than governmental bodies for what happens when things are swept under the rug. Be it carcinogenic water pipes in Flint or inadequate care at VA hospitals, problems fester until the public at large eventually shouts a full-throated roar of protest.

Occasionally, though, some of us mere mortals privately strike a little gold in the avoidance department. Take your humble blogger, for instance. I’ve managed to pull off a couple of feats lately and done absolutely nothing in making them happen. I’d say it’s karma or even fate, but then I’d be going all crunchy granola on you with that higher vibrational claptrap. So we’ll just chalk it all up to really dumb luck and leave it at that.

What originally lured us to live in Florida, or as Gorgeous might put it on a challenging day, “the false pretenses under which I was brought here,” was based on an understanding I thought I had with my ex-wife about a condo property that we still jointly own. The agreement — such as it was — lasted for a few weeks until my ex decided that it wasn’t in her best interest. So she subsequently changed her mind. At the risk of coloring myself a chauvinist, I’ll just leave it that it was her prerogative to do that. Words were quickly exchanged and then we collectively moved on in search of our separate Kumbayas.

In spite of that initial disappointment, my own internal compass was resolute. I believed, and continue to believe, that moving to the Sunshine State was the best decision. I love palm trees, beaches, and a place where election results are shrouded in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not invisibility cloak. And, okay, Florida not having a personal income taxes may play a small role here too. I do have my greedy side.

“Taxes? Never!

Without boring you on the details (a sly way of saying that I’m still intimidated by my ex’s attorney), I have been waiting forever to have my name removed from the above property, and also a second one. It’s been both a waiting game and also a test of wills between the mortgage company and the tendency of my ex to make quick, sweeping decisions about her life. Time was on my side if I remained patient.

Sure enough, in January she decided that she’d had enough of year-round humidity and hurricane watches. With the snap of a finger she made plans to move back to California. Both condo properties were immediately put on the market, and now within three months there are solid buyers for both. Closing is scheduled for next week and a date has been set aside for me to go in to separately to sign the documents. In the language of my tribe, I’m kvelling.

The role I played in bringing this about? Zilch, nada.

I have had my share of sleepless nights thinking about it all, but I kept my mouth shut after our earlier row for fear of engendering any bad feelings or purposeful delays out of spite.

My new mantra for surviving life issues is a simple rhetorical device: “what would Donald Trump do?” I then do the opposite. Nevertheless, it is a shock to actually see a successful resolution come about. Which is more than he can say lately.

Source: Memegenerator.net1

The second area in which I’ve found some good fortune is with my part-time job. In January along with my W-2 for taxes, my boss extended her sincere thanks to me for coming aboard last year. She said she was pleased about how it all had worked out, and she hoped I was enjoying the job. She also said she looked forward to working with me over the next year.


Immediately I felt a pang of guilt. Missing from her message was any mention of the fact that I would be leaving by late spring or early summer because of our move north to St. Augustine later this year. I only see her occasionally because she manages several libraries, and I am but one of many staff members in her employment. I didn’t necessarily expect her to remember, but this seemed like such a lousy time to remind her.

A “hey, right back at ya, and oh by the way, don’t forget I’m leaving you!” response seemed a little course. I instead wrote a thoughtful reply saying how much I appreciated her hiring me, and that I hope I can use her as a reference when I begin looking for another part-time job sometime after we move.

Later that evening I received a very short response: “I now have some accounts in Jacksonville for which I’ll later need someone to service. Just one or two days a week. Care to talk about this?

I did indeed. The total sum of time I had thought about finding a job for after we move came to zero. Getting our ducks in a row with finding a real estate agent, obtaining pre-approval for a mortgage, and arranging for our down payment to be safely sequestered seemed like more of a priority these past few months than anything else.

But after several phone conversations and emails with my boss, it appears I also now had a ready job waiting for me on that other end. I will be servicing law firms and helping to maintain their lawbook collections. It’s a little bit of the cart before the horse, but who am I to question it? All I know is that I absolutely wasn’t looking for it.

Last week I traveled up there to get oriented with the accounts. My boss will be going away for five weeks, and I will be covering while she is away. The timing couldn’t be better because April was always the time in which we were planning to start looking at new homes anyway. Gorgeous will amuse herself in downtown Jacksonville while I work each time, and then at day’s end we’ll drive to St. Augustine for an overnight before spending the following day with our real estate agent. With a little luck, we might even find a place before the boss returns from her trip.

Things never quite work out this easy for me, so I am waiting for the proverbial Other Shoe to drop. At the same time, though, I’m also trying not to think about the following things:

  1. A Mega Millions winning lotto ticket.
  2. Airline tickets and hotel accommodations to see Phil Collins in London this coming summer.
  3. News that my ex-wife has re-married (re: end of alimony).

Not necessarily in that order, of course. I’ll keep you posted.

Until next time…


¹ This wonderful meme graphic from Memegenerator was uploaded by a Russian user. After a bit of consideration (preceded by the firing up of my malware software), I’ve decided not to provide the link for your own computer or phone/tablet’s safety. As Mr. Stills once sang, “paranoia strikes deep…

Cacti, Baseball, And One Very Cool Apollonia: A Visit to Arizona

I traveled to Arizona last week to spend a few days with my oldest sister. I haven’t seen her since the death of her husband last summer, and so it was time to check in on her in person to see how she’s doing. We keep in touch regularly, but it really is important to actually make an effort to be with those we love in the flesh. Otherwise they can literally become like strangers, which to me is the ultimate result when people resort to communicating only by text message or email.

Big Sis lives in Michigan but now spends December through March in Scottsdale to escape the harsh winters. She and her husband had started this routine shortly after he was forced to retire because of some serious health issues. They made two winter visits before he unfortunately had to permanently enter a care facility to live full time. I then watched her soldier through four very difficult years with very little time to herself.

It was good to see her return for a recuperative migration and also some post-mourning soul cleansing. As she does in seemingly every life situation in which she finds herself, she’s already made a ton of friends there via the local synagogue and also among those who love the arts, particularly classical music. Sis is a networker. She hates social media, so she does it all the old-fashioned way– by meeting and greeting people face-to-face.

This was a solo trip for me. Gorgeous stayed home and stuck to her regular work schedule and painting activities. In fact, she was so productive with the latter that I’ve begun to wonder just how much my presence interrupts her creative output on a daily basis. It seems like someone had their own little private Ferris Bueller moment. Or two.

Here’s a sample of her efforts while I was away…

Except for a brief visit to Tucson one time (Hi, D!), the majority of my previous time in Arizona has been through countless transfers in the Phoenix airport. And as we all know, that really doesn’t count.

An old friend and I once spent an entire evening debating the merits of whether changing planes in an airport constitutes having “visited” that city. As a structured proposition, it bordered on the ludicrous. However, for an argument in which beer consumption was the primary aim, we fancied ourselves to be Oxford-quality debating society standouts. I recall the only winner of our match to be the bartender (a very large tip given by us). Still, it remains my absolute belief that unless you leave the airport grounds, you are merely passing through in a quasi-virtual fashion.

Finally, though, I can now honestly say that I’ve visited the Phoenix area. It was only a three-day stay (or as Sis felt she needed to point out — two and 1/2 days because of travel time), but we filled the time cramming in as much as possible.

I arrived in the middle of a rare March heat wave with temperatures in the mid nineties. I’m now acclimated to the humid Florida heat, so this was a bit of a reminder for me of what western dry heat feels like. Curiously, I enjoyed all of it while Sis did not. Careful what you wish for when you escape those midwestern winters, I guess.

Many weeks ago, Sis proudly bought tickets for us to attend a spring training “Cactus League” game. This was during a period of normal Arizona temperatures for late January. But in the days prior to my arrival, she began fret about having to sit outside in ninety degree weather. It sounded like heaven to me, but somehow it didn’t have the same allure for her. We had premium seats right behind home plate but sadly only stayed for about three innings. I was fine with that because it was about spending quality time together.

And besides, ahem, she paid for the tickets.

At the same time, though, I did get to meet one of Tennessee’s honored statesman at the game. In Arizona no less.

Jack and me

From the ballgame, we went directly to the fabulous Desert Botanical Gardens, where we lucky enough to see their annual Spring Butterfly Exhibit. I’ve been fortunate enough to visit so many beautiful gardens on my travels over the years, but this was my very first desert-themed one. As warm as it was walking around, I’m so glad I had the opportunity to go there. I will definitely want to return on a future visit.

The best stop was saved for last. On my final day we visited the Musical Instrument Museum, simply known locally as the “MIM.” It’s an absolutely fascinating look at musical instruments from around the world. A treat for me was seeing the extensive Asian offerings, which have always been a bit of a mystery when I hear their exotic sounds in TV documentaries, movies, and of course in Chinese and Indian restaurants. To actually see them up close and get to hear snippets of their sounds was educational and fun. Guided headsets are offered and encouraged, and they really are a must if you venture into the global exhibits to look at the various instruments of those cultures.

But no matter how educational a museum is about music, I’m still a sucker for western pop music and jazz. And the MIM doesn’t disappoint. Displays on Elvis, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Willie Nelson, and so many others are offered. As a somewhat new devotee to the Hammond B3 organ, it was exhilarating to be able to touch Joey DeFrancesco’s Hammond which was on display. Was this allowed? Absolutely not. Let’s just keep this between us, okay?

A lively part of the MIM is their mechanical music collection. Have YOU ever been able to see and hear an actual Apollonia organ played? Well, thanks to me you now can by clicking on this link. I recorded it with my cell phone. You’re welcome.

An Apollonia organ. Waiting for the revival.

In between activities and sightseeing, I was taken to plenty of the area’s restaurants. Most of that is a blur in hindsight, unfortunately. But I can recommend the Camelback Inn’s Pretty Ricky.¹ It was the perfect end-of-the-day libation in an absolutely beautiful setting.

The Camelback Inn’s Pretty Ricky

Sis is 12 years older than me. Sibling rivalry has fortunately never been an issue with us because of that age gap. Nevertheless, moments still arose when we poked, pressed each other’s buttons, and had a few cursory squabbles that siblings sometimes have with one another. That’s where the 12 years really makes no different – siblings can and will squabble no matter their age. Fortunately each incident was over as quickly as it started. That’s what getting together in the flesh is all about after all.

I will return next year to see her, hopefully with Gorgeous. Maybe the western landscape will inspire her artwork. If not, there’s always the Pretty Ricky.

Until next time…

¹ Hendricks gin, Cointreau, hibiscus, raspberry, lemon. They offer it sweet or “less sweet.”  I went for the latter.



Missing My Calling: The New Honesty

I’m always late to the party.

It’s not that I’m incapable of lying. It’s just that my lies are mostly of the white variety designed not to hurt anyone’s feelings.

No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Yes, your hairdresser did cut more off than probably necessary, but it actually makes you look younger. Thinner even!

My lies always sit on the edge of that gray, murky precipice where sincerity is loosely connected to compassion and truth.

Take love, for instance. Back in my dating days, where some guys were marked as cads by making bald-face lies to end a romantic relationship, I opted trying for diplomacy; I was trying for at least an honest version of the truth. The end result was no different than those other cads — I still ended up looking pretty much like, well, a cad. But I did take some solace — manufactured completely out of whole cloth, btw– that while those other guys probably didn’t give a damn about their predicament, I at least did…

.. or thought I did. Or maybe faked that I did. 

Will you settle for a sum of the parts?

But oh, Lordy, I had no idea lying how fashionable lying would suddenly become in this decade. Had I for one moment realized that someday the flimsiest and most transparent of lies could be given full consideration and even acceptance in some quarters, I would have worked harder at developing some decent chops. Other than my miserable attempts with the opposite sex, really my most flagrant violations with the truth were in tabulating statistics for library visits back during my career as a librarian (the custodian who changed light bulbs got counted each time he came down the ladder).

I at least felt guilty about such nuances. But what we’re now witnessing on a daily basis at the highest levels of our government is so brazen, I’m certain Ron Ziegler himself would probably blush. A “third rate” blush, but a blush all the same.

Ron Ziegler
Source: Wikipedia

For instance, my mouth is still agape since the president accused President Obama of tapping his phones during the last campaign. What I found utterly fascinating is how Mr. Trump had very few compunctions about tossing his own staff under the bus after he made his comments. He seemingly never cared in how they would go about actually proving the accusation. All that week it was like watching a bad film noir, with White House spokesmen and women attempting to clarify those tweets of his.

In one of the tweets, Mr. Trump had the strange temerity to actually mention Watergate. Again I think of Mr. Ziegler, but I’m fairly certain that this president wouldn’t know who he is.

I’ll leave it to other bloggers to chronicle these moments in a more comprehensive way. But I do feel I’d be remiss to not also mention the new EPA Administrator’s denial of the link between human activity and climate change. I suppose one could say that he was simply stating his opinion and not actually lying. However, if so, this flies in the face of the science presented on his own agency’s web site (still posted as of this date, 3/12/2017). This man, Mr. Pruitt, is to the environment what Captain Beatty in “Fahrenheit 451” is to books.

As a kid I was an absolutely terrible liar. My parents and teachers were able to spot my fibs even before I finished speaking. The last time I attempted a bald-faced lie of any great proportions was right after I graduated from college. I had devised a half-cocked scheme to launder money given to me by my mom and dad. I don’t recall the details of the plan, but I do remember their cross-examination of me as I stood mute at the living room witness stand. My testimony was shredded within seconds. I realized that any future shading of the truth would have to be painted in white tones only.

Fast forward to today, I now realize that I simply had really bad role models. I admired people who possessed a high degree of integrity and moral purpose. While I may not have successfully followed their example to the letter (ahem, we can perhaps explore that another time), it’s now apparent that their teachings put me at a severe disadvantage for this millennium.

I still cling to that antiquated virtue known as truth, nobly represented by established facts, verified science, and historical precedence. It’s at best an unhealthy reliance and also ill-suited in this current environment of “alternative facts.”

My new hero?
Source: NBC Meet The Press

So damn those earlier elders and betters of mine. They left me unprepared to survive in this climate. Worse yet, I am decidedly unfashionable. Maybe if I had studied chemistry instead of history and politics, I’d be better at creating new potions and versions of the truth.

Fortunately I have a pretty good internal bullshit barometer. There’s so much of it flying around at the moment, and the bar thankfully is set so low for what’s being said (and tweeted) that you’d have to be in a pretty, ‘er, deplorable shape to accept it all at face value.

But do feel free to take ME at face value because I’d never mislead or otherwise lie to you. Besides, that outfit you’re wearing? You look fabulous and it makes you look at least 10 years younger.

Until next time…

Tax Refunds and Stress Tests: An Early Retirement Milestone



Right in the middle of making popcorn one evening last week the phone rang. A perfect example of snack interruptus. As I continue to mend from a recent surgery, snacks are pretty much the only excitement I have at the moment.

The call was from our accountant and her timing couldn’t have been worse. The new season of “Humans” was just about to start, and I was psyched to again watch actors portraying robots who in turn are portraying humans. I really like this show.¹ As disappointed as I was with the interruption, I had to admit that this is what happens when one keeps a west coast accountant and then moves to the east. Our evening was in full gear; hers hadn’t even started yet.

Only the week before I had mailed back her “organizer” with all of our tax information for 2016. I knew that we’d hear from her soon, and I was bracing myself for what fresh hell awaited us this year. The past two tax seasons had been disappointing due to Gorgeous earning more money than any of us anticipated. Darn the luck, you know?

To stem our April bleeding this time around, Gorgeous made sure in 2016 to send the IRS a higher fixed percentage of her estimated quarterly payments. Our accountant’s software tends to suggest payments that aren’t realistic compared to what she’s making in real time. So after a long discussion with her last season, we changed the calculation and upped the amounts for the new year.

Our newly found diligence paid off for us. Between her higher estimated payments, and the automatic withholdings taken from both my retirement annuity and part-time job, we got a refund back this year of just under $5,000. It’s not ideal to overpay like that, but at the same time it’s a message that we’re finally getting this whole retirement thing under control. It’s a meaningful milestone.

At the accountant’s suggestion, we applied the refund to Gorgeous’ next estimated tax payment for this coming April.

Well. How nice that she’s taken care of. I guess I can kiss goodbye that box set of vinyl Genesis albums I’ve had my eye on for over a year. I remember a time when a refund meant that you could celebrate and buy something nice for yourself. Those days have apparently ended. It’s now all about prudence. Bitter? Who, me? Nah. 

Sigh. Always "next year"... Source:

Sigh. Always “next year”…

My taking early retirement in 2014 was a sudden and spontaneous decision. A medical concern for me at the time had a major influence, as was a change in my job that hadn’t worked out quite as I hoped it would. Although I never had a strict time frame in mind, it was always a dream of mine to retire before I reached age 60. But at that point in 2014, I was at least three or four years away from busting a move.

Nevertheless I went ahead and took the plunge. I was 55. 

But there were some hurdles in my path:

  • In spite of being divorced for four years, I had a couple of financial entanglements with my ex which remained unresolved.
  • My 401(k) took a small hit four years earlier courtesy of our divorce decree. I was able to get it back to pre-divorce levels thanks to increased contributions, but the overall balance was still short of my previous goals.
  • My amazing new wife brought me lots of unconditional love and happiness, plus a Julia Child-like mastery in the kitchen. But sadly, she had absolutely no personal savings of her own. Divorce hadn’t been as “generous” for her as it was my ex.

Nearly every single retirement article you read advises to plan way ahead of time before walking away from a career. But my own planning was literally squeezed into months instead of years. Although my fundamentals were all there (pension, a substantial 401(k), ample Social Security credits), I was nonetheless confronted by a creeping parental-type voice whispering in my ear saying, “Dude, you’re really taking a risk here.”

Even as a spirit, I really wish Mom would stop calling me “Dude” on those periodic visits of hers. It’s creepy.

Gorgeous and I spent many a night before I retired discussing our plans and going over different financial scenarios. We used spreadsheets and a pendulum (each of us bring different skill sets to the table). We were trying to wrap our minds around how we’d pull this whole thing off without my having to become a dish washer at IHOP and her waiting on tables.²

"Can we assume a modest 3% in the S&P for the next ten years or a more robust 12%?" Only her archangel knows for sure. Source:

“Can we assume a modest 3% in the S&P for the next ten years, or perhaps a more robust 12%?” Only our archangel knows for sure.

To be sure, we’ve experienced some rocky moments and unexpected challenges after I walked out that career door a free man in 2014. For one thing, Gorgeous drastically underpaid her estimated taxes that first year, and boy did we get a whopper of a tax bill the following April. That one hurt.

She was also hit by an absolutely perfect storm of dental issues that began as soon as we arrived in Florida. Like a series of dominos falling, it started with one tooth, then the adjacent tooth, followed by the next one, and so on. When all the dental repair was finally finished by early 2016, our total out-of-pocket expenses for two dentists, one endodontist, and an oral surgeon amounted to over $17,000 (after insurance payments).

I decided later to view all of the above as a kind of “stress test,” similar to those written for the Dodd-Frank Act to test if a banking institution has enough capital to withstand adverse conditions. Ours wasn’t a simulation but we thankfully passed the test with enough of our own capital still intact.

So one milestone noted and filed in the cabinet.

Other milestones on the horizon are the purchase of a new home later this year, building a sizable Roth IRA investment for Gorgeous, and somehow find a way to start traveling more around the U.S. We both have a strong desire to make our way up to Nantucket and beyond.

Oh, and someone desperately wants two kitties.

And while all of that is happening, I once again repeat how I’ll be watching (and bracing myself) for deviations to the campaign pledges the Orange One made about social security and medicare. He made strong promises about keeping both programs intact because of their “popularity” (his word). Let’s pray someone in that administration can explain to him that a government program’s popularity isn’t the same as ratings on TV. I’m not very optimistic about our chances.

Now if you don’t mind, please leave me alone with my popcorn. I’ve had enough interruptions for one day.

Until next time…

¹ For American audiences: Monday nights on AMC. Please also be advised that whenever I publicly endorse a TV show, it becomes a fate worse than death for that particular series. Look for it to be cancelled sometime next summer.

² Apologies to readers who actually work at IHOP and are offended. I think I actually meant Denny’s.


The Catch 22

I am recovering now from my recent hernia surgery, and I keep thinking how funny it might be to channel my late mother for this blog post. Mom loved to milk every single medical malady from which she ever suffered. Cousins of mine to this day continue to experience PTSD symptoms from having sat next to her at holiday meals. To her, no detail of her healthcare needed to be private. She happily shared with anyone and everyone; come one, come all.

But thankfully I do realize that although it might be funny to me to do the same, it probably wouldn’t be enjoyable for you, my dear readers. So I’ll spare you all the gory details of the physical experiences I’ve had over the last three or four days.

I’ll also spare you from having to see any more of me wearing that short hospital gown in the above picture (although my photographer wasn’t so fortunate). I now have a glimmer of the challenge celebrity women face when they wear short skirts on talk shows. 

The good news is that apparently the operation was a success. The hernia on my right side was successfully repaired according to the surgeon. He even took pride in also repairing a small one in my center which he thought looked like as if it might later morph into a possible problem.

The bad news is that we discovered this surgeon has a bedside manner similar to Attila the Hun.

We met him only once during an initial exam at his office when he confirmed our family physician’s diagnosis of a hernia. We noticed immediately that this guy had a vastly different personality than our doctor.

Our doctor has a staid and courtly manner which can almost put you to sleep because of his tendency for slow and methodical answers to questions. The surgeon by contrast is fast-talking with a tendency of making you feel guilty for deigning to ask any question, let alone breathe the same air in his presence.

I can probably use the combined persona of celebrity actors to capture just who he is: visualize a blend of John Lithgow and John Malkovich, with just a dash of Christopher Walken, and you pretty much have him. Sarcastic and arrogant with enough creepiness to later put you in the fetal position as he makes an appearance during a nighttime anxiety dream.

Gorgeous, to her credit, noticed all of this immediately at our initial appointment with him. But I minimized her warnings, choosing instead to see him as merely eccentric. The lesson here? If you marry a psychic, perhaps you should pay close attention to her observations.

Things got off to a rocky start at the hospital last week when he greeted us in the pre-op area just prior to surgery. Feeling a bit nervous and also full of whimsy, I decided to make a joke at his expense. He asked me to confirm whether it was a left or right hernia that he was repairing. Confident that I was in the company of a fellow traveler of irony and mirth, I bellowed good-naturedly “Well if you’re not sure which side it is, I guess we’re all in trouble, aren’t we?!” I laughed the hearty laugh, which turned out to be not unlike a proverbial one hand clapping.

Dead silence. Tough room.

Gorgeous somehow summoned an absolutely killer double-interpretation of Marcel Marceau mimicking Tammy Wynette: not saying a word yet somehow standing by her man. The surgeon, on the other hand, looked at me and was morphing into Hannibal Lecter by the second.

I see on average about 30 patients a day,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye. “I can’t keep everyone straight until the day of surgery.” And with that he turned on his heel and left.

I suspect I broke an unspoken rule: don’t piss off your surgeon before an operation.

I remember nothing about the surgery itself except being wheeled into the operating room and greeting all of the staff there as if I were being shown to a table at Joe’s Stone Crab. I later awoke to a nurse in post-recovery who was hell-bent on ignoring my non-verbal cues to stay sleeping. I was groggy and felt sick to my stomach.

I was also apparently impressed by wearing not one but three wrist tags. Gorgeous later told me that I asked her to take a picture of them for this blog. I don’t recall that at all, but it does admittedly sound like me.


Three! I rock.

We arrived back home in the late morning and I slept till around 4:00pm. The nurse’s instructions were clear about not taking any of the pain meds until I had food in my stomach. But the problem was I really had no appetite, and even trying to eat a small cracker resulted in my wanting to vomit. I was feeling strong pain in the surgical area, but couldn’t seem to hold down the slightest bit of food in order to take the pain meds. It seemed like a catch 22.

Gorgeous later used that very phrase when she called the surgeon’s office for instructions. The poor woman on the other end paused for an extended moment because she knew no matter how it was put to him, Dr. Voldemort wasn’t going to be in any mood to deal with this. In hindsight, I wish we had just used our own mothers’ 1970’s home remedy of Coke syrup, ginger ale, and saltine crackers. But no, the good doctor called back in about ten minutes loaded for bear.

After repeating pretty much what she told his assistant minutes earlier, my surgeon decided to be a prosecutor and go full-on with a cross-examination against my wife.

“I have no idea what you mean by a catch 22. What exactly does that mean?,” he asked. 

For the third time, Gorgeous again explained my dilemma: I couldn’t take the pain pills because I also seemed to be suffering from nausea.

His response will forever now be our go-to expression for any illnesses in the future: “Well what do you want me to do?”

Somehow she got him to call in an anti-nausea medication, which I never needed because at some point I actually was able to hold down food. I graduated quickly from crackers to jello and finally to chicken soup. Things were going so swimmingly in the stomach department that I requested nachos later in the evening (it was denied). The pain meds worked well all through that night, and I thankfully switched over to ibuprofen the following day. Since then everything has been fine, though I am still sore.

This coming Thursday I have to return to the surgeon’s office so he can remove the steri strips and sutures. I will go alone, though. One of us is washing her hands of this particular episode.

So all I have to say is be careful when a surgeon is recommended. Bedside manner is certainly not to be underrated, nor is suppressing your own thoughts and concerns aloud.

But do take it from me: keep your jokes and literary references to yourself.

Until next time…




Disorder In The House

Disorder in the house
There’s a flaw in the system
And the fly in the ointment’s gonna bring the whole thing down

The floodgates are open
We’ve let the demons loose
The big guns have spoken
And we’ve fallen for the ruse

(Warren Zevon)

Thinking…. thinking hard.

Okay, okay, hear me out with this: I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like the situation in which we find ourself, but as a natural born American citizen (you know, the “regular” kind), I am enacting my inalienable right to make a quasi-citizen’s arrest. Or whatever comparable equivalent Rudy Guliani later tells me is legal.

We can do that, right?

Whaddya say… let’s just suspend the rules and have a total do-over. High school student councils, college senate bodies, school boards, liquor control commissions, etc. all reverse course and change their minds on a regular basis. Hell, even our U.S. Congress does it chronically. I’m pretty sure I have five friends that I think would agree to this, and I bet you’ve got almost as many. This could actually burgeon into something real if we put our minds to it. Trump’s a businessman; he should understand the concept.

I mean, take Nordstrom’s for instance. They’ve always been gracious about accepting the return of an occasional shirt, even when it may have been worn twice and had a tiny stain on the cuff courtesy of a gin and tonic cherry. If an actual profit-minded business can overlook a customer’s foolishness, surely the Electoral College can do the same for us citizens also.

Apples and oranges, you say, eh?

Oh, all right, fine. I see eyes rolling out there. But hey, I’m at least trying to explore some ideas. All I see elsewhere are people standing on the Supreme Court steps fumbling with microphones, singing songs, and asking where the “real people” are. My ex and her divorce lawyer made for a more potent loyal opposition than the Democrats are at the moment.

Folks, I don’t think you need my telling you that we’re in a heap of trouble right now. I can even see it on Jared Kushner’s face. The man looks like a doe in the headlights.

It’s only two weeks and already the junta is flexing its muscles. I’m not quite sure exactly who they’re looking for, but they’re making an absolute mess of things at the airports and ship terminals for arriving passengers. They say it’s not religious-based, but try telling that to the Jewish family who were held for more than six hours after disembarking from their Royal Caribbean cruise in Port Canaveral, Florida last weekend.

Note to self: cancel any shopping excursion plans to St. Thomas, stat.

I now belatedly feel the Bern, truly I do. I hope he understands that I was just being playful when I said he reminded me of my Uncle Shlomo, the one relative in my family who everyone avoided at holiday meals because he talked long and loud, and food particles shot out of his mouth like projectiles. Bernie, you’re no Uncle Shlomo. Seriously, I love you, man. Just say the word and I’ll even embrace that whole budget-busting education plan of yours. For all I know it’s probably cheaper than building a wall.

Not Uncle Shlomo Source: Yahoo News

Not Uncle Shlomo
Source: Yahoo News

What’s most galling for me as I ponder the next two, three, or four years (my bet is two, but I’ll defer to Vegas) is just how much vitriol our ears and eyes will have to process as we filter the daily news. Hostility and partisan mudslinging have long been staples in government, of course. Still, except for some notable exceptions (i.e. Newt Gingrich in the nineties), we expect those in leadership positions to at least fake the part of acting like a statesman.

However, even that pretense is now out the window.

When Orrin Hatch of all people refers to his Democratic counterparts as “idiots,” I know there is zero chance of comity. A recent Washington Post article caught my eye because it warns of a permanent condition called the “New Rudeness” (suggestion: skip down towards the end of the article for the pertinent part).

Look for variant versions of “lock her up!” to be uttered by actual members of Congress and not their supporters at press conferences and forums for the foreseeable future.

Earlier today I learned as I drank my morning coffee that last weekend the president pretty much hung up on Malcom Turnbull, Australia’s prime minister. Apparently Mr. Tump kept hearing things from the prime minister that he wasn’t interested in hearing, so he just ended the call. Good one, Mate.

And as I feared in an earlier post, the administration is now taking aim at Iran. I think we can anticipate a forthcoming round of snark and bombast in the form of tweets about their Supreme Leader. It’s hard not to visualize American naval forces in the Persian Gulf involved in some kind of armed conflict in the not-so distant future. I pray I’m wrong.

Actually for someone who’s not very religious, I’ve been praying quite a bit lately. Or whatever your might call prayer at 3:00am when I lay in bed with my mind going to the most extreme places of angst. My pension, cut! Social Security, cut! Health insurance, “accessible“!

I suddenly miss my previous dreams where I would stand buck naked at the corner bus stop reading a newspaper. I’ll write a detailed post about that sometime if you’re interested. Just ask.

So two weeks in and we’re all on the edge of our seats. I sure as hell haven’t got any coping mechanisms for you, so I’m afraid you’re on your own. If you’re a naturalized U.S. citizen, or you’re here on a green card, I do recommend that you stay put. Call or Skype your loved ones abroad because you’re pretty much stuck in place for now. But, hey, don’t sweat it. The rest of us are too. Pull up a chair and watch the chaos.

Until next time…

I’d Never Steer You Wrong

The problem with giving advice is that you sort of have to know what you’re talking about in order to make a difference in someone else’s life. It’s not a hard and fast rule, though. Many people fake it. They express a noticeable sense of self-confidence and put up strong airs about their superior knowledge. We call such people blowhards, but in fact it should be mentioned that a hefty number of our citizenry here in the U.S. were dazzled by such an approach in the most recent election– 62,979,636 of them to be exact.¹

But with apologies to Oscar Wilde, one can also impress simply by showing a little earnestness.

I learned this myself recently when I unwittingly became an advisor on health insurance to a couple who live in our community. The husband, Billy, is a retired postal worker. We became acquainted by floating on pool noodles in direct proximity to one another over the previous 12 months. This same kind of camaraderie is also formed by men who congregate at doughnut shops every morning in most of your towns. It works the same way at the pool except that there are no carbs, caffeine, or calories ingested. Instead, you have two lazy dudes who pass the time with their belly’s floating up, each pontificating about the status of their pensions or the wait time at the local Jiffy Lube. John Waters, Barry Levinson, or Albert Brooks could have a field day with us.

Billy and his wife Phyllis both turned 65 in the last year and signed up for Medicare Part B. They also wisely kept the health insurance Billy earned by being a postman for 40+ years (the same health plan under which I am also covered as a retired federal employee). But being covered by both Medicare and a second health plan quickly brought unintended stress and confusion into their lives. They weren’t sure whether to stay with their current policy or shop for a new one. And in either case, would they lose all of their current doctors? They felt overwhelmed and confused, and the Open Season health insurance deadline was fast approaching.

In addition to making a call to their eldest daughter, a bright and accomplished accountant, they also sought out a fellow federal retiree who in their eyes knows his stuff. That would be me, your humble blogger.

I’m no blowhard, but I do walk an earnest strut.

Source: Clip Art Kid

Source: Clip Art Kid

Billy, Phyllis, and I had long poolside conversations over a series of days in late October and early November about their many Open Season options. Medicare is now to be their primary insurer, and the policy offered by the Federal Employees Health Benefits Plan (FEHBP) will be the secondary. Their previous policy, which they had without interruption for nearly 30 years, had become too expensive in combination with the monthly cost of Part B. So they needed to find a more affordable alternative that is economical, yet still allows them to retain all of their doctors, and offer a seamless coordination with Medicare. Not all plans are alike, so shopping and comparing was crucial. Billy and Phyllis admitted to being intimidated by this process.

In short order I went from being Billy’s wise-cracking noodle mate to that of a helpful consigliere. I also had a laptop that when connected to WiFi in the pool area, allowed us to review plans. They do not own a personal computer and that made their struggle all the morning challenging. The three of us would sit at a deck table under an umbrella, and we talked through all of their concerns.

The more we all talked, however, it also became apparent that Billy’s interest and grasp of health insurance matters took a backseat to Phyllis. Although he was the actual cardholder, Phyllis herself would be making this particular decision. While not wishing to deflate or marginalize Billy, my discussions nevertheless became singular with Phyllis only. A private and personal marital dynamic had exposed itself, but it was my polite duty to acknowledge it and not belabor it. We were all on the same page no matter who was doing the talking.

I’ll spare you the details of their ultimate decision, but suffice to say that it was both flattering and stressful to have them ask me for assistance about something so vitally important. In spite of the fact that I myself won’t be eligible for Medicare for another eight years (very comparable to dog years if you think about it), my quest since taking early retirement to learn as much about Medicare and Social Security as I can came in handy.

In the end, Billy and Phyllis chose a very good health plan that has a much lower monthly premium than their previous one. Because Medicare is now their primary insurer, and payments between it and their secondary will be coordinated, this new plan won’t require them to cough up office co-pays or any yearly deductible. It also includes all of their current doctors (who thankfully also accept Medicare). In the words of a song I helped compose while in college, their new policy “filled their basic needs” and then some.²

The experience was both uplifting and gratifying. The other day I bumped into the two of them, and they happily reported that they received one billing statement that showed everything was being handled as it should be. May that continue!

But now dark clouds are appearing on the horizon for what the Trump administration and a Republican Congress have in mind for “reforming” Medicare and Social Security. Candidate Trump said that these entitlements work well for people, and that it was his desire to keep the current system in place. Let’s hope he stands firm not only to Paul Ryan but his own chosen cabinet officials as well. I know I plan on watching closely.

Oh, and my advice to you?  Why, plastics, of course.

Until next time…

¹ Cook Political Report (January 2, 2017)

² The lyrics to the song was one line only, sung both as verse and chorus: “You fill my basic needs.” What we lacked in originality and depth, we more than made up for by acting pithy.


Is That a Hernia in Your Abdomen, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Source: Chronically Vintage

Courtesy of the exceedingly kind Jessica at: Chronically Vintage

If you’re like me, you get rattled when latex gloves are pulled out of the examination room drawer. It’s when… and I apologize for this… the rubber meets the road during a doctor’s office exam. That’s the point at which the appointment figuratively speaking goes from getting to know one another over lattes at Peet’s, to warily searching for the exit doors in the lobby bar at a Marriott.

One minute you’re answering questions and having a completely calm conversation, and the very next you’re trembling at the sight of those gloves slowly being fitted around a physician’s hands and fingers. Groping of your most private of areas is about to commence. While I am thankful for his office’s acceptance of my modest insurance co-pay, I’m also thinking that this guy could splash on some aftershave and perhaps pipe in a little Bill Evans or Sade for a more soothing atmosphere. You know, give me something other than the inability to sit comfortably for the next hour.

But no, the experience is really nothing more than a temporary and acknowledged invasion of my privacy and pride. The only saving grace is the knowledge that it’s probably the last thing the good doctor also wants to be doing at that moment. All those sailing magazines in the waiting area and examining rooms are proof of that.

Which brings me finally to the point of this post. I recently endured such violations to my body not once but twice in the last couple of weeks. A simple follow-up visit to my general practitioner for a discussion of lab results inspired him to somehow to initiate one of those “turn your head and cough” exams. One minute we’re discussing a slight increase in my cholesterol count and in the next I’m suddenly dropping drawers. Usually these are quick, how-do-you-do incidents which transpire as we discuss the high cost of docking his schooner at a local marina. This time, however, our conversation is cut short by a sudden kick-back from my abdominal area.

“Turn your head and cough again, please.”

“Again, please”

“Once more, please.”


This is not the normal drill. Usually after one pass with the crown jewels, I’m zipping up and we’re jointly complaining about the 12b-1 fees of our actively managed funds. This time, though, he’s annoyingly more interested in my jewels instead of Wall Street equities.

He asks me to put my hand where his just was, and again repeat my turning and coughing. This is quickly turning into a re-creation of some of my earliest dating experiences. The memories aren’t cozy.

“Feel that?,” the doctor asks. “That’s a hernia pushing back at you. It might even be two, one on each side.”

Great. Nothing like a medical annoyance to start out the new year. I’m immediately set up for a consultation with a nearby surgeon. An appointment is scheduled for the following Monday.

Except for some painful kidney stone calamities, I’ve been very fortunate in my adult life to have avoided serious visits with surgeons and hospitals. You wanted retirement and all that goes with it, huh?  Okay, but it ain’t all just part-time jobs and thrice-weekly visits to the beach, boychik. Welcome to age-based medical issues.

The visit with the surgeon turned out to be uneventful and unremarkable. With more turning and coughing on my part, he quickly determined that I indeed have a hernia that needs to be repaired. It was fortunately caught early, and because I am experiencing no pain, he said it’s completely up to me if I want to repair it now or wait till I begin experiencing discomfort later.

It’s not exactly Sophie’s Choice, but I was conscious of both Gorgeous and the surgeon staring at me to make the decision right then and there. Neither were giving me any hints as to which way to go, but I decided to be proactive and have it taken care of now rather than later. Time is money; just get on with it.

It should also be noted that the surgeon’s primary magazine of choice is Popular Mechanics. I suppose in some measure that’s reassuring, but I have also decided that his waiting room is not one in which I wish to revisit to read it either. I have my limits.

Tomorrow I have to call his office to schedule my surgery. To be continued.

For some related comic relief, check out the always wonderful blogger Trefology, and his take on Superman being under the weather. As Dave Matthews sings, I ain’t no Superman, and heavy lifting is probably out of the question for the next few months.   Darn it all.

Until next time…