At our age, routines are great.  They keep us on track. I have a basket by the front door and when I enter, I put my keys in the basket.  I don’t always remember doing it, but when I’m looking for my keys, I find them in the basket.

I have my eye drops right next to the bed.  And when I get up, I make the bed, lie down and put in the eye drops.  Last week, I decided to wash the sheets.  I try to do it every season.  This was the Spring wash.  I’m running a little late.  But because I didn’t make the bed, I forgot the eye drops!

Every Sunday that I’m here, I try to attend the Protestant service in the auditorium.  It’s a great way to start the week and I encourage you to join us. The service starts at 9:15 AM.  So, I leave the apartment at 9:00.  Ten minutes before that, I sit down at my desk and write a check to BWPMS (Belvoir Woods Protestant Mission Society).  I fold the check and put it in my shirt pocket.  When the basket comes around, I take the check out of my pocket and drop it in the basket.  I do this routinely and would swear that I have done it every time.

Some time later, I got my bank statement.  I always check off my checks.  I used to balance my check book, but after spending three hours unsuccessfully looking for 43 cents, I said the hell with it.  The last two months, I have only been 30 cents off, and I feel that makes me consistent.  Well, one of the BWPMS checks didn’t clear.  I called Gary Waitschies who collects the donations for the church (and keeps meticulous records).  He advised me that they never received my check.  I was bewildered.  I thanked him and told him I would cover it the next week.

Last week, I picked up my laundry and pinned to one of the shirts was a soft eyeglass case that I had lost.  I was delighted because I had just lost the one I was presently using.  When I wore glasses all the time, I didn’t use a case.  But now wearing half glasses to read with, I’m taking them off and on all the time

I put my half glasses in the case and went about my routine.  Later, when I tried to return the glasses to the case something was stuck in the bottom of the case.  Don’t get ahead of me.  But you are right.  It was the missing check!  Holy Cow!  Now I’m trying to figure out who took the check out of the basket and put it in my glass case.

I have been writing silliness for a long time.  But I hadn’t given much thought as to when I started.  Not too long ago, someone asked me that specific question.  So, I gave it some thought.

I considered some of the exams I wrote in college pretty humorous, but the grades I got weren’t.  The first time I started writing a column was in Vietnam.  The 1^st Cav had a weekly publication, and I wrote articles each week under the title, “The Judge Says.”  I let the Division know what was happening in our courtrooms.  One of my buddies said I should call it, “Military Law for Dummies.”

The first article I published in a newspaper was in 1972 in the Charlottesville Daily Progress.  The University was having a fit over streaking, and I decided to poke fun.  It was published as a letter to the editor, and I have reprinted it below.  It is called, “After Streaking, What?”

Rah, Rah, Raw for the streaking streakers of this wonderful country.  No one should really complain.  Youth have always had an overabundance of energy, and it must be expended.  So why not streak?  Just keep in mind that three years ago, some of these kids were expending their energy by making bombs and burning down buildings on campus.  Bless their streaking streaks.

However, I am concerned about the longevity of streaking.  While streaking is great for cool spring nights, I fear that the heat of the summer will have a deterrent effect upon even the heartiest of streakers and the sport will wane.  In short, streaking will soon be out of season.  I submit that those of us who advocated harmless frolic are compelled to bring forth an acceptable substitute.

The suggested substitute would consist of the student climbing up on the outside of a university building in the nude and assuming a position on the facade as a gargoyle.  Our society has long accepted the appearance of weird looking gargoyles on buildings, so it would be inconsistent to object to gargoyling.  While universities have competed to see which could gather the largest group of streakers, gargoyling too, can have it competitive aspects.  For example, most gargoyles on campus, or the highest gargoyle, or the weirdest looking.

The ultimate contest could be gargoyling for the longest period of time.  Any student who could hold his pose for over four hours would definitely be a contender.  By then, he might be subjected to such adverse elements as fatigue, campus police and birds.

While I realize that gargoyling, like streaking, suffers from the malady of being seasonal, those of us who are organizing the Society for the Encouragement of Harmless Frolic are already concerning ourselves with selection of a winter sport.  Something with mittens.

The next time you see your grandchildren, tell them that when you grew up there was no such thing as a credit card.  They will probably say, “Gee Gran, how did you get through college?”  Try to explain to them what a lay-a-way plan was.

Nowadays, I suspect everyone has at least one credit card and I hope we are all smart enough to pay them off each month.  There are things like Pay Pal and Apple Pay, which I don’t understand, but I think they all come back to a credit card. I get a kick out of a retail store that has lost its power.  No one knows how to collect a payment.  Sam Walton would be turning over in his grave.

Of course, someone can always steal your card number.  A number of years back, I took clients to Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Detroit.  A short while later, I discovered I had not only paid for their meal, but I had bought two rooms of furniture at a local store!  It turned out I didn’t have to pay for the furniture, but I was disappointed that no one was interested in investigating the theft.  I guess it was less expensive to write it off.  But what about the fact that I felt violated!

A slight little problem with credit cards is that they come with expiration dates.  And that date eventually arrives.  Never fear, they will provide you with a new credit card just in time.  The problem comes when you have given companies your card number so that they can collect their monthly charge.  You may say, “Oh, I would never do that.”  And then I would remind you of Cox, Verizon and Amazon.  USAA?  Netflix?  Yep, I think most of us do it.

My expiration date was 01/25.  The new card arrived in early January, and I dutifully made a list of companies to notify.  What a pain.  I finally got ahold of the right person at Verizon.  She explained to me that she was not permitted to take credit card numbers or expiration dates over the phone; that I had to do it through an “app.”  The good news is she sent me a “link” and stayed on the phone. She then walked me through the loading of the “app” and then, the necessary steps to change my expiration date!  When we were finished, I offered to adopt her, but no luck.

I couldn’t talk to anyone at Amazon, so I started working online.  No, I don’t want an Amazon credit card.  No, I’m not interested in Amazon Pay (I don’t even know what it is).  I’m sure Amazon Music is great, but I just want to change my expiration date.  Finally, success.

I can vouch that the charity Tunnel 2 Towers keeps their administrative costs to a minimum, because no body answers their phones!  What was most troubling was that Go Daddy and Hewlett-Packard already had my new expiration date!  How did that happen?  I had only had the card for two days.  That was when I had an epiphany.  No more calls.  If they want their money, they can come find me.

The other evening, I was untying my shoes and I noticed I was doing it with my left hand.  Not just my left shoe, but both shoes.  That caused me to pause, because I am right-handed.  I switched around to use my right hand.  Clearly, I could do it, but it wasn’t as comfortable.  At that moment I realized that I don’t have enough important things to keep me busy.

While that was probably true, this left-hand, right-hand thing caused me to reflect.  What else do I routinely do with my left hand?  Not much.  Of course, from time to time, we all itch.  Sometimes you can only get to it with your non-dominant hand.  No thought process here, you scratch!

When I am combing my hair, I pick up the comb with my right hand and comb away.  I comb my hair to the right.  If I don’t have a comb, I swipe my hair with my left hand.  Isn’t this fascinating?  Clearly, the right hand doesn’t work, swiping to the right.  When I am watching a sporting event on TV and the game gets to a critical moment, I find myself swiping at about 80 swipes per minute.  I hope nobody is watching.

When I’m getting ready to shave, I shake up the shaving gel in my right hand and squirt it into my left hand.  Then, using my left hand, I apply the cream to my face.  It feels very natural and I’m pretty good at covering my face.  We are never graded on this, but I would give myself a B plus (in college, I was happy with a B minus).

About twenty years ago, my wife, Carole, was big into Korean Yoga.  There was a location close by and she would practice two to three times a week.  The practices were tough, but she hung in there.  She brought a book home about Dahn Yoga and encouraged me to read it.  I read it and there was a lot about balance and wholeness.  The book encouraged using your opposite hand.  I was doing OK with the little things, but then I tried to shave with my left hand.  I put the band-aids on with my right hand.

I look things up on Google all the time.  I very seldom follow their advice.  I had a scratch on my glasses, and they recommended scrubbing the glass with toothpaste.  Fortunately, before I did anything, I found another article screaming “don’t use toothpaste.”  I looked up parents trying to change their child’s dominant hand.  Some articles said, no problem.  Other articles said the child would probably have psychological problems and be scarred for life.

Then I found out there is a “Handedness Research Institute.”  Good old HRI. What a crazy world.  I also found out that my son, Paul, who is right-handed, unties his shoes with his left hand.  Now, I believe it might be hereditary!

Thinking about getting a new car can be like a sickness or compulsion.  Once you start thinking about it, it’s like a dog with a bone.  I was very happy with my nine-year old Lexus RX 350 (SUV).  Then some friends picked me up in their new car.  I asked what it was, and they said it was a Lexus RX 350!  What a difference nine years had made.  So, the bug had bit me.

If I leased for three years, it would cost less.  And in three years, I could see if I were still driving.  I checked the value of my low milage Lexus with Kelley Blue Book and came up with $18,000 to $20,000.  CarMax would give me $18,000.  Take that off of a three-year lease and boom, I’m golden.  My Lexus salesman from nine years ago was still there and we set up a meeting. Compulsive, who’s compulsive?

I drove the car and it was great.  I was hooked.  We picked out the color and the interior.  I told him I wanted to trade in my Lexus.  He took the keys and had someone check it over.  Later, he came rushing up to me, all excited, and said, “Write this down, $15,000!”  Well, that was that.  We who are elderly are always concerned about someone taking advantage of us and I felt an attempt had just been made.  As I told him later on the phone, when the clock strikes 13, you begin to wonder about the first 12.

Well, Lexus was no longer an option, but the fever was still there.  I got the name of a salesperson at BMW and started the process over.  I drove an X 3 (SUV) and liked it a lot.  The salesman said he had other X3s with more powerful engines.  I asked him if the car I was driving had more power than my Lexus.  He said, “Oh, sure.”  I told him that was all I needed.  We picked out the color and interior and he advised that he had the exact car I wanted in a reserve lot somewhere close.  The issue of trading in my Lexus had disappeared as I was shipping it to my daughter, Becky, in Arizona.  We decided I would pick up the car the next week. I arrived early for my 1:00 appointment, but there was no car and no salesman.  At 1:30, someone came up and advised me that my salesman was retrieving my car and would be there shortly.  Now, don’t get ahead of me.  At 2:00, my salesman showed up in a car that had three months of dirt and pollen on it.  He said the crew had cleaned and detailed the wrong car (now, I wonder if that was true).

We decided on a change in plans.  I would next meet with the BMW “genius” and she would explain all the bells and whistles.  When she arrived, she took my cell phone and linked it to the car.  Then, she got a call and disappeared.  Thirty minutes later, the salesman came back and ask how it was going.  I told him I had lost her.  He checked and told me that she had just found out that her dog had died, and she was in the back crying. There are certain things you cannot complain about, and this was definitely one.

So, the new plan was that the car would disappear to be cleaned and I would do the paperwork.  Then, they would find another BMW “genius” to help me.  While waiting around, I saw the young lady and told her I was sorry about her dog.  She smiled and thanked me.

The rest of the afternoon went slow but steady.  Because of the delays, they were going to give me a free Cilajet coating for my car.  Don’t feel badly if you don’t know what that is, I didn’t either.  The second  BMW “genius” set up everything I requested.  But since she did everything and I just watched, I wasn’t sure what I was learning.  This was confirmed on the way home when I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the radio!

We set up an appointment for the Cilajet treatment the next week.  When I arrived, I had no appointment, but 30 minutes later, my salesman showed up, grabbed my key fob and made it happen.  While there I saw the young lady who had lost her dog.  She recognized me and said hello.  I asked how she was doing.  She smiled and said, “Great, and the vet did a wonderful job of fixing up my dog.”

Sometime back, one of my “mentors” told me to keep in mind that when talking to career management, only one person was interested in my career.  And that was me.  I have concluded that it is the same with medical care.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am delighted with the medical care provided to me, but it is up to me to make sure I get what I need.

The chief of gastroenterology at Walter Reed examined me and decided I was too healthy to receive a colonoscopy.  I may be one of the few people you will ever know who fought to get a colonoscopy.  I won, if you can call that winning.

When one of my young friends had a massive heart attack on the 8th fairway at Fort Belvoir, I decided to get my heart checked out.  I figured out I needed a nuclear stress test.  Again, another stone wall.  My primary care physician concluded that there was no medical justification to give me the test.  I am convinced that the Fort Belvoir Hospital gives a prize to the Doc who saves them the most money and I believe my Doc is in the running.  Well, I finally found a friendly cardiologist who let me walk on her treadmill.  I passed.  Me, me, me. Over ten years ago, I had a basal cell problem on my nose.  I got to keep my nose, but every six months, I check in with a dermatologist.  One of the problems with military medicine is you are constantly losing your doctor and getting a new one.  So last June, I had my six-month checkup.   The doctor was pleasant and thorough.  She froze a few spots on my face, but thought I should have something called “blue light” therapy for the area around my jaw. We decided to wait until golf season was over.  After the treatment you have to avoid the sun and even bright lights.  

I got my blue light appointment in October.  My doctor was out on maternity leave and the new doctor looked younger that my grandson.  The technician asked what area to treat.  The Doc said, “Oh, let’s do his whole face.”  I know, I know, I should have spoken up.  The technician painted my whole face with the medication stick.  Then he put metal goggles over my eyes.

The blue light machine looked something like a beauty-shop hair dryer.  I had to sit in it for an hour.  Remember, I had on goggles and couldn’t see a thing.  It was really a long hour.  I tried meditation.  I tried yoga deep breathing.  But most of the time I spent trying to figure out where I went wrong.  Me, me, me had backfired.

By that evening, my face looked like a lobster just pulled out of the boiling water.  And it hurt.  It took me about two days to realize that my face was burnt.  After three days, most of my facial skin was on my pillow.  By the time my face peeled for the third time, I was not a happy camper.  The only thing that pleased me was all the tales I was making up about what happened to me, me, me (skiing in the Himalayas)!

Well, it’s all history now.  And I don’t think the precancerous cells on my face faired any better that I did.  I’m no longer furious with the child doctor.  I’m also letting people touch my face for a quarter!

Isn’t satellite radio great?  You never have to change your radio station.  You can listen to “Willie’s Roadhouse” all the way from here to El Paso.  Satellite radio also gives you a chance to listen to old-time radio shows.  They have a station (maybe now it’s called a channel) Radio classics where you can listen to Gunsmoke, Bob Hope, Jack Benny and even the Shadow.  “Who knows what evil lurks . . .”  You know the rest.

The other day I flipped over to Radio Classics and guess what was on?  Duffy’s Tavern, “where the elite meet to eat.”  That got me thinking – where  have all the taverns gone?  When I was growing up there were taverns everywhere.  The corner tavern.

In high school, we were too young to go to a tavern.  There were drive-in diners and our favorite place, the “Parkway.”   You could go into the Parkway and for a reasonable price get a barbecue pork sandwich and a Coke.  And when no one was looking, you could carve your initials on the table.  You didn’t want to put your hand under the table.

I have fond memories of McDonald’s back in the 60’s.  You could get a burger, fries and a Coke for 35 cents.  Now that’s nostalgia.  In fact, as we were struggling to get me through law school, that was a big night out.

Now, there are all kinds of specialized burger places.  I’ve only been to 5 Guys a couple of times.  It seems like they only had about three tables, so I guess it’s mostly a carry-out place.  The burgers and fries aren’t too expensive and the grease is free.  Take a bunch of napkins.  BGR, The Burger Joint is a little more expensive, but the burgers are bigger.  BGR has on its menu “The 9 Pounder.”  It cost $80.00 and feeds 10-15 hungry people. It comes with a “river of Mojo sauce.”   I could devote a whole column to the 9 Pounder, but I’m going to stop right here.

The Springfield Mall is now the Springfield Town Center.  It went through a major renovation and is a vast improvement over the Mall.  You no longer have to fear being mugged in the parking lot.  They have a BGR and a Zinburger’s.  Zinburger is sort of an upscale burger joint.  I knew it was upscale, because when they gave me the menu listing burgers, they also gave me the wine list!  The Kobe Burger was $15.25.  No fries, they are extra.  But you can get double truffle fries for only six bucks.  Maybe a cabernet sauvignon is in order.  However, if you are ordering the Seared Ahi Sandwich, then, by all means, go with a white wine.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

Copyright 2017