HOARDING

I must confess that I've watched the show "Hoarders" several times. It's an awfully sad situation. For those who have not seen it, the show focuses on people who can't seem to get rid of any possessions. These possessions range from household items to dachshunds to chickens. In fact, the houses of these unfortunate individuals are crammed with junk, dogs, cats, etc. to the point where the dwellings are unlivable.

Sad, indeed.

In my never-ending quest for the truth I must ask: At what point do we become hoarders and not just "normal people with too much stuff"? Truthfully, the greatest challenge that we face as we grow older is not Social Security or incontinence. It's what to do with all of the crap that we have jammed in the house.

There was a trend a few years ago that seems to have stalled out. That trend was downsizing. This occurs when a couple finally rid themselves of the children in their lives and find themselves alone in a 3,000 square foot home. The smart thing to do would be to sell the McMansion and move into a smaller place. For the sake of argument, let's say that the new place would be in the 1,000 square foot category - certainly plenty of room for an older couple. The trouble that people had was that they couldn't part with all of the possessions that they had accumulated through the years. Rather than move, people decided to stay in the McMansions.

Bear in mind that I am not pointing fingers at other people. The wife and I are hoarders in our own right. What do we hoard?

Bowling trophies? Pens and pencils? Books? Small animals?

No to all of the above. We are glassware hoarders.

I went around the house today and counted all of the drinking vessels that we have jammed into our cupboards. The numbers are shocking. All told, the two people living in our house have amassed a total of 253 drinking vessels; 252 if you don't count the dogs' water dish.

Here's the breakdown:

Water glasses: 30

Beer glasses: 23

Shot glasses: 9

Wine glasses: 61

Martini glasses: 8

Large tumblers: 4

Margarita glasses: 14

Coffee cups: 28

Plastic cups: 12

Disposable cups: 50 (approx.)

Vessels of unknown purpose: 13

Dog dish: 1

NOTE: I didn't count the large plastic drinking vessel that I received during my stay at Valley View Hospital. I think that they charged me $1,000 for it and I only included glassware that was under $1,000.

In looking at the inventory of drinking vessels that we have on-hand, it looks like we're running a little short on shot glasses. Should the U.S. Marines show up here for a get-together we may run out.

I'd better get to Target today.

Readers, enjoy your day.

BRING BACK THE DRAFT?

Background: Rep. Charles B. Rangel has written an article for CNN.com floating the idea of reinstating the military draft.

Does anyone remember the draft? Show of hands? I didn't think so.

How about Vietnam? Kent State? Nothing there either.

Alright, here is the Cliff notes version of how the military draft worked in the 1960's. When males in the U.S. turned 18, they were required to register with the Selective Service. Once they were out of high school and weren't going to further their education and were reasonably able-bodied and did not have obscene tattoos, they were classified as "1-A". That's the big one, folks. That means that one is about to be contacted by the military and forced to enlist. Those drafted were sent into the military for a 2-year hitch and stood a better than even chance of serving in the infantry. Many of us chose a different route, opting for a longer hitch in the military in exchange for having a lower probability of being in the infantry.

The Vietnam era draft was an airtight lead pipe cinch for the politicians. Eighteen year-olds were subject to the draft. These same individuals were not eligible to vote (as the voting age did not change from 21 to 18 until 1971). Therefore, those of us who were drafted had no say in our fate. As the Barry McGuire song used to go: "You're old enough to kill, but not for voting". That's incredible as I look back on it but, like a lot of things 50 years ago, we accepted them without question and just did our duty.

As with most things, there was a silver lining to the draft: it brought the Vietnam war home to the U.S. Every one of us had friends and/or family who were among the more than 303,000 who returned physically wounded. Many of us knew one or more of the more than 58,000 individuals who came home to be buried.

All of us were affected by the war in one way or another. We internalized the war, it made us sick to our stomachs, nothing about it made sense. And, due to the fact that we were all affected by the war, Americans took to the streets and protested. Draftees fled to Canada in defiance of the U.S. government. Those of us who served kept asking "why?" with no response from our military leaders. Probably because little of it made sense to them either.

Let's fast forward to the wars in the Mideast: Iraq and Afghanistan. Where are the protests? Where are the draft card burnings? Where is the outrage at having spent over $1,400,000,000 (that's $1.4 trillion  -- so far) on wars whose justification is questionable, at best?

In short, protests and outrage have been conspicuously absent.

Which brings us to the point of this posting. Only if the misery of the wars declared, paid for and perpetuated by our elected officials is truly brought home to the people of this country, will Americans do what they must do as citizens and elect leaders who will work toward peaceful solutions with other countries.

I hate the draft and always have. It forced many of us to give up years of our lives. Some gave it all.

But it is probably the the most effective thing that we can do as a country to minimize our involvement in future armed conflicts.


Readers, enjoy your day.

THE FIVE SEASONS OF THE ROCKIES

Someone told me when I moved here that there are four seasons: summer, fall, winter and mud season. You know, the one that people who live in normal parts of the world call spring. This year we have added a new season which shall now be named turd season. It comes midway through winter and before mud season in years such as this one when snow starts becoming scarce in late January.

It works as follows: there are a few strong snowstorms in December and early January. During these storms people walk their dogs and don't pick up what the dogs leave behind. During the storms, no worries, the fresh waste is covered with a layer of fresh snow and no one is any the wiser. The $100 fine (that the city never enforces anyway) is all but forgotten. The dog walks away with the afterglow of a job well done. Its owner, after looking around for observers to this noxious act, revels in the fact that he/she does not have to deal with picking up the steaming mass and possibly foul his/her Bruno Magli gloves.

Everybody's happy and the world is beautiful again.

But wait. Several weeks go by without snow. The temperature climbs into the 40's. The snow progressively melts. Those beautiful piles of snow that once resembled a New England Currier and Ives scene are now dotted with...OH, NO, IT CAN'T BE...amorphous wet dog poop.

Just like your Aunt Mildred who comes uninvited every Christmas, it's back and it's not going away. Furthermore, every day that is over 32 degrees reveals a new and exciting layer of waste.

"Look, there's one - must be that Dachshund that belongs to the folks who live on the next block.. Holy moley Margaret, will you look at that one - must have been that St. Bernard that lives on the corner. All I can say is WOW!"

 I for one am sick of this mess and I plan on doing something about it.

March on city hall? No.
Complain to the offending dog owners? No.
Pick up the offensive waste? No.
Set up a neighborhood committee? No.

I plan on doing the only thing that will make this problem disappear:

Pray for more snow.


Readers, enjoy your day.

TRASH WEEK IS COMING

I look forward to it; God help me but I look forward to it.

Every year our little town has a week where the city picks up unwanted items that have been left on the city streets. It usually happens in early April and is the social event of the season. It's even bigger than the return of the buzzards in June.

To me, it's five weeks of non-stop entertainment.

Although it occurs in April, people start piling their junk in the streets in late February. This is when the drama occurs. Normally by the time April comes, most of the trash has been picked over by the town scroungers (yes, I am one of them) and has disappeared. In short, our town has the biggest garage sale in the world....and all of the merchandise is free. 

An adventure on every street.

To enhance my "life in the Rockies" experience I walk the dogs twice a day, seeking out uncharted territories to experience new adventures in refuse. There is no stone unturned in my quest for new and exciting garbage. Most of my friends agree that last year was a particularly exciting year and that there were ample opportunities to experience something that is uniquely our town. On top of that, scoring a toilet seat in fair condition is a bonus. For this year's upcoming event, I'm even considering writing a newsletter, pinpointing on a map where the best trash is located. 

Garbage is not created equal.

Of course, some people's trash is better than others'. I must have some pretty good trash. Most everything I put out for removal last year was gone within minutes. The old front door was gone by the time I walked to the back door. The Styrofoam insulation was an overnight sensation. The cabinet: gone with the wind. And to the person who took the vacuum cleaner, my apologies; it hasn't worked in years. 

A feeling of remorse after someone has taken an item.

I put an old whiskey barrel out in the street. It's wood was rotten to the core and covered with maggots from years of being buried in the garden. It was gone in seconds.

But why?

What am I missing?

Perhaps I threw away the most collectible maggot-infested whiskey barrel that ever lived, thus making it a valuable piece of property. Maybe it was sold on eBay for a small fortune. Maybe if you looked at the decayed wood there was a Ben Franklin autograph. Or, better still, it was a remnant of Noah's ark.

I knew I should have kept it. Crap!

Unfortunately, many people do not share my appreciation of the spring trash removal.

To the untrained eye, a sofa on the street is just a sofa on the street. To the trained eye, however, it is the end of an era. Thinking of all of the many family members who have perched their asses on the plaid sofa after an ample Thanksgiving dinner brings a bit of mist to the eye. For the flowered sofa a few blocks east I can picture Uncle Fred and Aunt Gertie sitting beside one another, enjoying reruns of the Lawrence Welk show before having their glass of milk and retiring for the evening. How many bowls of popcorn did the kids spill on that sofa? And, if you were to remove the cushions, how many bowlfuls would still be there?

And one mustn't forget the washing machine a few blocks south, so broken down and decrepit that it stands nary a chance of being saved by even the most desperate scrounger. How many pairs of jeans have been bounced and jostled within the bowels of its mechanical core until the dirt couldn't take it anymore and relinquished its hold on the stubborn denim? Alas, the dirty denims finally won, thus leaving a once proud machine to the shame of the street curb. 

Mark your calendars.

Trash week is only 75 days away. Gentlemen, start your engines.


Readers, enjoy your day.

HEAVEN AND HELL

I've been giving a lot of thought to this lately. Why? Because I'm retired and don't have much else to think about, I guess. I'd like to think that our creator, being the creative type, could have done much better than promulgating the existing perceptions of heaven and hell. Eternal bliss vs. eternal flames are both too predictable and, well, boring. Both heaven and hell should be relevant to a particular person's experiences on Earth. That is, what is heaven for one person may be hell for another. Example: a hardened sailor may find life on land to be pure hell. Conversely, someone who has lived away from water may find life on the open seas to be tortuous. Thus, heaven and hell need to be targeted accordingly.

Sometimes, however, there are hells that apply to everyone; take Florida, for example.

I've carefully compiled and honest list of my personal heavens and hells, all of which could be used by our creator for or against me, depending on how much the creator feels that I have pleased or displeased him (her?).

Heaven: Listening to Beethoven's Fifth

Hell: Consuming a fifth of Pagan Pink Ripple Wine

Heaven: Colorado Rockies (the mountains)

Hell: Colorado Rockies (the baseball team)

Heaven: Spending time with my wife

Hell: Spending time with my ex-wife

Heaven: Boston Red Sox, 1918, 2004 and 2007

Hell: Boston Red Sox, any other year

Heaven: A Saturday afternoon enjoying fine cheese

Hell: A Saturday afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese

Heaven: New York pizza

Hell: Chicago pizza

Heaven: A Princess cruise

Hell: A Disney cruise

Heaven: John Elway

Hell: Tim Tebow

Heaven: My wife's cooking

Hell: My mother's cooking

Heaven: ESPN
Hell: Fox News Channel

Heaven: Swordfish
Hell: Tuna Fish

Heaven: Denver Broncos, 1997
Hell: Denver Broncos, 2011

and, lastly:

Heaven: Marriage

Hell: Marriage

Readers, enjoy your day.

SUPER BOWL

I have a love/hate relationship with the Super Bowl. Love the game/hate the side show. Every year it gets more extravagant - more fireworks, more commercials, more Beyonce at halftime.

Barf.

I really and truly wish that they would broadcast the Super Bowl as a pay-per-view event with no commercials and a standard 15-minute halftime break. How much would I pay? I would gladly pay $100 to watch the game without the fluff that has become the reality of this event. Maybe instead of Beyonce at halftime they could show a simple message on the screen  that says "INTERMISSION" to give people the chance to catch their breath and take a potty break. Plus, we wouldn't have to listen to Howie, Jimmy, Joey, Larry, Billy, Dopey and Sleepy analyze every second of the first half.

Did I say $100 for pay-per-view? Do I hear $200?

Without belaboring this next point, I'd venture a bet that the most heard statement during Super Bowl parties is:

EVERYBODY KEEP QUIET - I WANT TO HEAR THE COMMERCIALS!!!!!!!!!!!

Did I say $200 for pay-per-view? Do I hear $300?

Plus, I'd like to see the game played in a real stadium. You know, the ones with real grass and real mud and real weather, not some wussy-dome in Dallas or New Orleans.

Here's an idea: how about a Super Bowl played in Green Bay's Lambeau Field? I can see Vince Lombardi and his wonderful, toothy grin looking down and smiling as I'm typing this. 

Lambeau Field with its 72,928 seats frozen solid.

Lambeau Field where even 120 proof brandy freezes in minutes. 

Lambeau Field where sissies needn't apply.

There is hope along these lines; the 2014 Super Bowl will be played in East Rutherford, New Jersey.

I can live with that.

Readers, enjoy your day.

HOW TO BE A GOOD HUSBAND

I should give classes on this. Most husbands make the mistake that, if they get the big stuff right, the rest will fall into line. Nothing could be further from the truth. Guys, take my word for it, work on the little stuff.

Why? Because wives worry about the little stuff.

I've seen husbands get away with murder. Some of these guys were forgiven by their wives for the most unacceptable behavior that you can imagine - messing around with other women, gambling away the family fortune, drinking excessively and numerous other offenses. Why did they get away with it? Because they did the little stuff right.

What are the big things, what are the little things?

Here are some examples:

Dumping out the trash is a big thing; after dumping the trash, replacing the disposable bag in the trash can is a little thing.

Heating some food for your wife is a big thing; cleaning the splatter from the inside of the microwave is a little thing.

Buttering your wife's toast is a big thing; keeping the crumbs out of the butter is a little thing.

Cooking dinner for your wife is a big thing; cleaning up afterwards is a little thing.

Buying groceries is a big thing; bringing her home a bag of potato chips is a little thing.

Doing the driving on a road trip is a big thing; buying her a bottle of water when you stop to fill up the gas tank is a little thing.

But, there's one more thing.

I'm about to reveal what has never been revealed before and no man, besides me, is remotely aware of this. The one biggest thing that a husband MUST do, without fail, forever and ever, is to ensure that there is an adequate supply of toilet paper in the house. Wives get really testy when they run out of toilet paper. And, for some reason, it's always the husband's fault. This probably goes back to the days of the cave man when men were the hunters and women were the gatherers. Part of the men's hunting duties included picking up toilet paper at the 7-11 after hunting down a saber tooth tiger.

Lastly, wives demand the high quality variety of toilet paper - you know, the stuff that Mr. Wipple likes to squeeze. As a buying guide, remember that if the toilet paper is shiny or has wood chips in it, it's probably not the kind that your wife will be happy about. That's the stuff that they use in the restroom outside the Registry of Motor Vehicles office.

I think I just figured out why the women who work there are so crabby.

Readers, enjoy your day.