Conversation with a summer house fly
By Wally Nichols
203 858 3634
(insert fly buzzing sound)
Hey house fly buzzing about my head: You are wily, unlike your plump, lethargic, green-bottle brethren that like to hang out by the kitchen sink. They are easy to dismantle with my swatter. Whap! Gone.
Not you. You are elusive.
Not so readily distracted as they by the accidental, sweet , summer melon juice on the counter. Even as the dark waffled shadow of the orange plastic swatter gets larger, little fly smiles remain on their content little fly faces. That is, until they are rendered pulp.
Not you. You chose not to live and die in my kitchen. Is that too obvious a spot? Have you ambition? Some other plan? Am I doing your genus and species the disservice of generalization by considering you all to be obsessed only with eating (and laying larvae) for the 4 days you get to live?
I say you are unique. Educated? Focused in your game of torment? You have been buzzing my head in my office. Are you looking for something? Treasure? A lost relative?
Hopping from my knuckle to the unpaid Sprint bill on my desk. Why? Then the arm, then the toe, then the neck. Repeat. Subtle, surreptitious, stealthy.
(insert buzzing sound)
Why can’t you just be a fly on the wall, the wish of so many?
I have a swatter nearby yet you never sit still long enough to let me get a lock on you. I’ve learned to use it with the deadly speed and accuracy required of a still standing six shooter at the OK Corral. But I’ve been flummoxed by your cunning. Again and again.
You go to my right ear. Bzzzzzzzz. I flick you off (no I won’t swat myself if that’s your game, but nice try). I write a few more words and you are back. Refreshed. Regrouped. Ready to pester. You buzz around so quickly that I can hardly see you. Just a slight irritation on my skin and I see you have landed again on some other part of my body-- a passing spec in my visual periphery- a baker’s dozen jagged fingernails on the chalkboard of my nerves.
It seems like a design flaw of nature. You are obsessed with landing on me like I’m some sort of foreign planet that has food , shelter, entertainment and a mate for you. Yet for your needs, I am fallow. You have no tools to penetrate my skin and get my blood to feed your young like your annoying cousins the summer mosquitoes. And even if you acquired some discarded BP mining tool for that job, time is not a luxury you have.
Yet, surely the great designer who made us both knew that by giving me a nervous system that carries a message to my brain saying “There is something irritating on your arm,” and a brain that then says to the hand muscles, “neutralize the irritation by lifting up the orange swatter you bought for a dollar at Shoprite last night and pulverize it,” surely that great creator knew you would be smote by me, and I victorious over you.
(insert buzzing sound)
Yet even with no reason to land on this dead, hostile planet, you try. Repeatedly. At the risk of sounding paranoid (and frustrated that I have trouble finishing one single sentence because of your pesky interruptions), I am left no choice but to conclude your raison d’etre is to annoy me.
If that’s the case, so be it. Game on. Let us do what comes to us naturally so I may mush you and this folly be over once and for all. I will temporarily suspend my life goals of happiness, love, compassion and productivity. I will instead focus on your demise, as you, and nature herself, have so forced me.
(insert buzzing sound)
I’ve picked up the swatter with my best hand- the one that can deliver a sizzling first serve on the tennis court every now and then. Hold on- this part is going to be shaky as I’m not good at typing lefty while scanning the skies for a tiny buzzing something that is, admittedly, and with all due respect, quick and cagey in flight.
It’s hard to concentrate on writing when… Whap. Damn I missed. You little F-er… Ok, Ok… There you are, camouflaged on the thin edge of my black computer screen. Finally you stop moving for a nanosecond. Enjoy your last second on Ear…Whap. Damn.
(insert buzzing sound)
Whap Whap Whap.
Damn Damn Damn.
My wife pokes her head in my office. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes,” I growl. But it’s not.
(insert buzzing sound)
Ok Ok Ok, I reassure myself in a lunatic’s whisper. Now I’ve got you... You have moved to my LED backlit screen which betrays your position. You show up like a broken femur on a bright X-ray. A fly on a wedding cake.
Checkmate, fucker.
(Insert buzzing sound)
(Insert swatting sound – buzzing sound stops abruptly)
(A beat then...throat clear)
For the record, let it not be said Wally Nichols wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dear Wally 74
Dear Wally #74 (Why don’t we do it in the road?)
Oh Wally:
Who do I call about an appliance (something white and ugly) that was dumped on the side of the road? It’s an eyesore against the lush, knee-high, sweet corn and I don’t want to have to pick up (and pay for) someone else’s crap.
Signed, Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I know I know! I feel like I’ve received quite a few angry letters over the years on this subject. Obviously they are not BSP readers or they would have heeded my patronizing lecture series on littering.
We recently had someone ‘deliver’ a mattress to the corner of our road and rt 209- not exactly a discreet location. There is virtually no time to intentionally (or accidentally) heave junk off of the back of your truck and not be seen, reported, arrested or rear-ended.
I did a little research on this from the guys at the town dump. There is a $4 fee to dispose of a used mattress. It doesn’t matter if it’s yours or someone else’s. (I’m not sure if they only take used mattresses -- do they have a test to verify it’s used? Do they dust for lice or bedbugs? Use that ultraviolet light to look for bodily fluids like they do on CSI?
Some mattress age investigations are probably pretty much open and shut cases, but how about those questionably new looking mattresses? Or the ones still in the wrapper? (My wife insists people throw away perfectly good stuff). I don’t know. It actually probably doesn’t matter).
The mattress on the side of my road is definitely used and given the lack of attention it gets from passers by, there could well be someone living in it, on it, or under it. Or worse. I don’t think this is what Paul McCartney had in mind when he penned, “Why don’t we do it in the road,” though I bet no one driving by would even notice if elephants were fornicating on it. Too busy texting or whatever.
Anyway, my dump guy gave me three numbers to call to have the problem solved, none of which, incidentally, was the number of the dump itself. He suggested I first call the town supervisor, a man whose day I’m sure will pick right up when he fields this call. I can only imagine that amidst the throttled tangle of paperwork that bulges over his desk, this exciting project must rocket to the top of the heap and make him wonder if he might just be better off flushing himself down the urinal in the men’s room. (“Is this why I got into public service??”)
The dump guy suggested I might also call the highway department superintendant. These are the folks who fix potholes and chisel the splayed, stiffened raccoon carcasses off the road. This mattress is definitely dead. And God knows what yecht is feasting on it now after countless thunderstorms and crippling humidity. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I wont. There are a lot of mushed critters out there these days. They might be busy.
Dump Guy’s third option was more of a political statement –one of obvious frustration and disapproval. He told me to kick this matter way upstairs and call Obama directly.
How will this play out? I’ve spent enough time on the phone with customer service over the years to answer this by way of natural logic: A bear in the woods needs 5,000 calories per day, let’s say. Let’s say it sees a mouse (1,000 calories) and gives chase. At some point, the bear realizes that the energy expended lumbering after that mouse (3,000 calories) will not offset the caloric gain. Instead, the bear gives up, eats some low hanging, unripe berries, gives himself a bad case of backwoods diarrhea and then takes a nap.
I will be that bear after making my futile phone calls to options 1, 2 (and 3). I then will be out there with my trailer and a hazmat suit and poker. I will struggle with a soggy, boneless, moldy mattress that doesn’t want to leave its ‘happy place’ in the weeds on the side of the road. I will prevail, however, and after much yuckiness, I will wrestle it to the trailer floor and drive the 3 miles to the dump where I will unload it single handedly while the dump boys scratch themselves and look on with great amusement as they pass around my 4 dollar bills and hold them to the sun to make sure they aren’t counterfeit.
Or I’ll send my hottie wife to the dump and watch them fall over themselves to help her unload it. But on second thought, maybe not. She usually goes to the dump with 2 bags and comes back with a pick up truck of stuff like broken treadmills and other forgotten exercise equipment that has had a truncated and disappointing life with another well-intentioned family .
But you. You have an appliance on the side of the road to deal with. White and ugly. I know a little bit about white and ugly. I’m guessing it is valueless or someone would have filched it already.
I’ve got 3 numbers for you to call-Town supervisor, Highway Superintendent, and finally, former President GW Bush (who is obviously responsible and who, I presume, has ample time to deal with just exactly this sort of matter).
Good luck and wear goggles (and gloves)!
Wally
Ps-if you come across a working micro brewery that has been left on the side of the road, make ME your FIRST of 3 calls!
Got a question for our columnist or just don’t like his politics? Write him a feisty, anonymous letter at cwn4@aol.com.
Oh Wally:
Who do I call about an appliance (something white and ugly) that was dumped on the side of the road? It’s an eyesore against the lush, knee-high, sweet corn and I don’t want to have to pick up (and pay for) someone else’s crap.
Signed, Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I know I know! I feel like I’ve received quite a few angry letters over the years on this subject. Obviously they are not BSP readers or they would have heeded my patronizing lecture series on littering.
We recently had someone ‘deliver’ a mattress to the corner of our road and rt 209- not exactly a discreet location. There is virtually no time to intentionally (or accidentally) heave junk off of the back of your truck and not be seen, reported, arrested or rear-ended.
I did a little research on this from the guys at the town dump. There is a $4 fee to dispose of a used mattress. It doesn’t matter if it’s yours or someone else’s. (I’m not sure if they only take used mattresses -- do they have a test to verify it’s used? Do they dust for lice or bedbugs? Use that ultraviolet light to look for bodily fluids like they do on CSI?
Some mattress age investigations are probably pretty much open and shut cases, but how about those questionably new looking mattresses? Or the ones still in the wrapper? (My wife insists people throw away perfectly good stuff). I don’t know. It actually probably doesn’t matter).
The mattress on the side of my road is definitely used and given the lack of attention it gets from passers by, there could well be someone living in it, on it, or under it. Or worse. I don’t think this is what Paul McCartney had in mind when he penned, “Why don’t we do it in the road,” though I bet no one driving by would even notice if elephants were fornicating on it. Too busy texting or whatever.
Anyway, my dump guy gave me three numbers to call to have the problem solved, none of which, incidentally, was the number of the dump itself. He suggested I first call the town supervisor, a man whose day I’m sure will pick right up when he fields this call. I can only imagine that amidst the throttled tangle of paperwork that bulges over his desk, this exciting project must rocket to the top of the heap and make him wonder if he might just be better off flushing himself down the urinal in the men’s room. (“Is this why I got into public service??”)
The dump guy suggested I might also call the highway department superintendant. These are the folks who fix potholes and chisel the splayed, stiffened raccoon carcasses off the road. This mattress is definitely dead. And God knows what yecht is feasting on it now after countless thunderstorms and crippling humidity. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I wont. There are a lot of mushed critters out there these days. They might be busy.
Dump Guy’s third option was more of a political statement –one of obvious frustration and disapproval. He told me to kick this matter way upstairs and call Obama directly.
How will this play out? I’ve spent enough time on the phone with customer service over the years to answer this by way of natural logic: A bear in the woods needs 5,000 calories per day, let’s say. Let’s say it sees a mouse (1,000 calories) and gives chase. At some point, the bear realizes that the energy expended lumbering after that mouse (3,000 calories) will not offset the caloric gain. Instead, the bear gives up, eats some low hanging, unripe berries, gives himself a bad case of backwoods diarrhea and then takes a nap.
I will be that bear after making my futile phone calls to options 1, 2 (and 3). I then will be out there with my trailer and a hazmat suit and poker. I will struggle with a soggy, boneless, moldy mattress that doesn’t want to leave its ‘happy place’ in the weeds on the side of the road. I will prevail, however, and after much yuckiness, I will wrestle it to the trailer floor and drive the 3 miles to the dump where I will unload it single handedly while the dump boys scratch themselves and look on with great amusement as they pass around my 4 dollar bills and hold them to the sun to make sure they aren’t counterfeit.
Or I’ll send my hottie wife to the dump and watch them fall over themselves to help her unload it. But on second thought, maybe not. She usually goes to the dump with 2 bags and comes back with a pick up truck of stuff like broken treadmills and other forgotten exercise equipment that has had a truncated and disappointing life with another well-intentioned family .
But you. You have an appliance on the side of the road to deal with. White and ugly. I know a little bit about white and ugly. I’m guessing it is valueless or someone would have filched it already.
I’ve got 3 numbers for you to call-Town supervisor, Highway Superintendent, and finally, former President GW Bush (who is obviously responsible and who, I presume, has ample time to deal with just exactly this sort of matter).
Good luck and wear goggles (and gloves)!
Wally
Ps-if you come across a working micro brewery that has been left on the side of the road, make ME your FIRST of 3 calls!
Got a question for our columnist or just don’t like his politics? Write him a feisty, anonymous letter at cwn4@aol.com.
Dear Wally 73 Ringo Starr first concert for Hattie
My two and a half year old daughter and I went to see her first rock concert. I felt it was an important rite of passage and I wanted it to be special as it might define her later when she is inevitably sitting around a bonfire with friends and the subject of first concerts comes up. I didn’t want it to be something shameful and fleeting like Miley Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers (or whoever replaces them in 9 years).
We saw Ringo Starr and his all star band at Bethel Woods- the hollowed site of the Woodstock concert in 1969, which is cool in its own right if you ask this wanna-be Hippie. And you saw us apparently. I was the guy in shorts.
I wanted her to see the Beatles, my all time favorite band. If I could deliver to her or anyone the entire intact Beatles, daddy wouldn’t be driving a Subaru.
Some parenting can unfairly boil down to imposing ones values and perspective (and wishes) on one’s child. That, of course, is not necessarily a good thing. I’m aware of this temptation, but decided to take a gamble, selling her on the promise of a blanket and picnic.
At almost 3, she’s frequently a contrarian in language, though not necessarily in sentiment. Plenty of times she defines things and people with a binary declaration of appreciation, as in “I love….” Or “I don’t like…” And those can flip flop inside of seconds.
On the car ride over, she queried me from the back. “Who is Ringo?”
I tried to explain that he was a Beatle and immediately realized the error from her confused look. I chucked it back from insect into terms she can relate to these days: “He’s a very nice man,” I said. “He plays the guitar” (Which is a stretch of the truth, I know, but explaining the drums would require more concentration than I could spare while driving.)
“He plays guitar like you?” She asked. I might be doing him a disservice but I think Ringo plays guitar as poorly as I do so I said yes. The association felt grand.
“I don’t like Ringo,” she declared stubbornly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t really either.”
Now If Paul McCartney was within 500 miles, I’d consider getting a large box of diapers a bigger picnic basket and making a weekend of it. Paul, you see is my favorite Beatle. Then George. Then John. Then Ringo.
I think your Beatle preference reveals a lot. It’s possibly an entire other essay.
But, seeing ANY Beatle felt incredibly important to me. It was high on my bucket list. On Dec 8, 1981, after years and years of singing along to them in the shower and car, I closed my bedroom door and played all my Beatles records in tribute to John Lennon. And I cried. I was 15.
Taking my daughter to see a member of the phenomenon I listened to at her tender age seemed like the very most important thing to do. I literally got so excited that I started worrying Ringo might have a heart attack and not make it to the show.
But Ringo was there in fine form. The guard at the entrance gate was so happy to see my smiling young baby girl on my shoulders that he let us in for free.
The music was spot on and just hearing Ringo sing felt as comforting as listening to an old friend on the phone. I’d heard his voice so many times on records, 8 track tapes, CDs and the radio over the years that the familiarity was precious.
Hattie had a great time. Shoes came off, she was running and dancing on the grass chasing other small kids whose parents, like me, had one eye on the stage and one eye on our kids.
The unspoken bonding that happens at any concerts is always special. You go because you love the music. Music crosses socio-economic racial borders gracefully. But at this show, the depth of connection felt tectonic. For the Beatles have a well-deserved place in the musical canon. Their music a gift to all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Indeed, by the folks represented that night, all generations, shapes sizes and ages. Ringo was an integral part of that experience no matter where on your ‘Beatles List” he is.
He tried out cuts from his new, forthcoming CD. We were all polite. But we were not there for that. When he played Beatles tunes, people went berserk. I felt like I might need to hand a few of Hattie’s diapers out to fully grown women there was that much excitement.
Hattie said to me as we left, “I love Ringo.” To which I replied, irresponsibly imposing my values on another, “Like Ringo. Love Paul.”
We saw Ringo Starr and his all star band at Bethel Woods- the hollowed site of the Woodstock concert in 1969, which is cool in its own right if you ask this wanna-be Hippie. And you saw us apparently. I was the guy in shorts.
I wanted her to see the Beatles, my all time favorite band. If I could deliver to her or anyone the entire intact Beatles, daddy wouldn’t be driving a Subaru.
Some parenting can unfairly boil down to imposing ones values and perspective (and wishes) on one’s child. That, of course, is not necessarily a good thing. I’m aware of this temptation, but decided to take a gamble, selling her on the promise of a blanket and picnic.
At almost 3, she’s frequently a contrarian in language, though not necessarily in sentiment. Plenty of times she defines things and people with a binary declaration of appreciation, as in “I love….” Or “I don’t like…” And those can flip flop inside of seconds.
On the car ride over, she queried me from the back. “Who is Ringo?”
I tried to explain that he was a Beatle and immediately realized the error from her confused look. I chucked it back from insect into terms she can relate to these days: “He’s a very nice man,” I said. “He plays the guitar” (Which is a stretch of the truth, I know, but explaining the drums would require more concentration than I could spare while driving.)
“He plays guitar like you?” She asked. I might be doing him a disservice but I think Ringo plays guitar as poorly as I do so I said yes. The association felt grand.
“I don’t like Ringo,” she declared stubbornly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t really either.”
Now If Paul McCartney was within 500 miles, I’d consider getting a large box of diapers a bigger picnic basket and making a weekend of it. Paul, you see is my favorite Beatle. Then George. Then John. Then Ringo.
I think your Beatle preference reveals a lot. It’s possibly an entire other essay.
But, seeing ANY Beatle felt incredibly important to me. It was high on my bucket list. On Dec 8, 1981, after years and years of singing along to them in the shower and car, I closed my bedroom door and played all my Beatles records in tribute to John Lennon. And I cried. I was 15.
Taking my daughter to see a member of the phenomenon I listened to at her tender age seemed like the very most important thing to do. I literally got so excited that I started worrying Ringo might have a heart attack and not make it to the show.
But Ringo was there in fine form. The guard at the entrance gate was so happy to see my smiling young baby girl on my shoulders that he let us in for free.
The music was spot on and just hearing Ringo sing felt as comforting as listening to an old friend on the phone. I’d heard his voice so many times on records, 8 track tapes, CDs and the radio over the years that the familiarity was precious.
Hattie had a great time. Shoes came off, she was running and dancing on the grass chasing other small kids whose parents, like me, had one eye on the stage and one eye on our kids.
The unspoken bonding that happens at any concerts is always special. You go because you love the music. Music crosses socio-economic racial borders gracefully. But at this show, the depth of connection felt tectonic. For the Beatles have a well-deserved place in the musical canon. Their music a gift to all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Indeed, by the folks represented that night, all generations, shapes sizes and ages. Ringo was an integral part of that experience no matter where on your ‘Beatles List” he is.
He tried out cuts from his new, forthcoming CD. We were all polite. But we were not there for that. When he played Beatles tunes, people went berserk. I felt like I might need to hand a few of Hattie’s diapers out to fully grown women there was that much excitement.
Hattie said to me as we left, “I love Ringo.” To which I replied, irresponsibly imposing my values on another, “Like Ringo. Love Paul.”
Dear Wally 72
(Old) Men Troubles
Dear Wally,
I am a woman of a certain age who has never gone for much older or younger men. That is still true. My preference is someone within three or four years of my own certain age, which is none of your business. My problem is I never go for anyone anymore because men my own age have started looking and acting really decrepit. In fact they often look like my grandfather. I don’t want to date someone whose diaper I need to change or who will set their chattering dentures on my night table before bed or whom I’ll need to stuff with Viagra every 15 minutes like he’s a NYC parking meter or someone who grunts or smacks their lips when they sleep. That’s not my idea of fun.
Please don't come up with an easy answer such as change my preferred age.
Hoping you will have a solution. I’m artistic and attractive by the way.
-Randy (not my real name, but close)
Dear Randy:
Diapers? Decrepit? Agonal breathing? Just how old are you anyway that within 3-4 years of your age you are winding up with Methuselahs like this? Are you trying to pick up guys at a nursing home or the ICU? Are you speed dating stiffs at the morgue?
There’s a fellow at my gym who must have been alive when Lincoln was president and he’s in fine fettle. Doesn’t even grunt when he’s lifting weights, unlike the gentlemen it seems you tend to couch. You might just be a looky loo and show up.
When my grandfather died 37 years ago, I thought my beloved grandmother might be lost. So as a kid I wrote a letter to bachelor Marlin Perkins who was then the already very old host of Mutual of Ohmaha’s ‘Wild Kingdom’ --the tv show ostensibly about shooting zebras in the rump with dart guns as they ran willy-nilly and petrified across the African grasslands. (In fact the show was a shill somehow for life insurance but that was lost on this whippersnapper at the time). Anyway, he was the oldest looking person I knew of other than my dead grandfather and he actually looked a little like my grandmother (matching age spots) when he was leaning out the chopper door hooting and hollering. My letter was never answered but even to this then 6 year old, it was clear there were options out there for the willing and patient. So ‘Randy’ rest assured.
Do you go to a car dealer and ask for the oldest piece of crap they have? The one that won’t even make it off the lot without breaking? The one with bald tires that backfires? The one with a large suspicious puddle of some brightly colored lubricant under it? No one likes getting stuck on the side of the highway because their fuel pump or timing chain went out. Fuel pumps and timing chains break on old, used cars. You, my friend, have been hanging out on the old used car lot. And if you buy an old, used car, beware--you will also need to buy AAA with unlimited towing, do you hear what I say?
Anyway, where I’m going with this is maybe you can do some internal work to revisit the whole objection to younger men thing, and thus your objection to my ‘easy answer’ of lowering your age requirements. (Why wouldn’t anyone want an easy answer? Hmmmm. You stumped me).
I’m sure you have much to offer a young buck beyond carnal satisfaction --experience, appreciation for chamber music, the ability to cook without a microwave, actually remembering the 60’s (and the 50’s?) (Egads, the 40’s??).
And the spoils of such a relationship would be myriad, including only getting told stories once and not having your date pitch forward in his oatmeal if it is after 6pm.
I’m not saying to go pace the chain link fence at the local college, but how about splitting the difference between 18 and 108?
The worst that is going to happen if you start trolling the waters for young men is that you will be accused of being a cougar (so what?) by jealous friends, mocking members of the public and readers of this column, if there even are any left. Technically a woman one single day older than her target is a cougar, so don’t get hung up on the definition no matter where between the goal uprights (i.e 18-108) you are.
Of course if you do still object to being with a guy too much younger, yet want all the sparks flying (ahem) except stimulating conversations and bad morning breath, then there is another option-- Get the other kind of boyfriend. (I’d put the term boyfriend in quotes but it’s too salty).
Hope this helped. By the way, if you find you like this last option, please, save some batteries for the rest of us and our flashlights-- hurricane season is coming.
-Wally
Got a question that needs answering or just want to learn how to tweak your match.com profile so the old geezers with no money stay away? Email him at cwn4@aol.com This is also a good address for your irate letters.
Dear Wally,
I am a woman of a certain age who has never gone for much older or younger men. That is still true. My preference is someone within three or four years of my own certain age, which is none of your business. My problem is I never go for anyone anymore because men my own age have started looking and acting really decrepit. In fact they often look like my grandfather. I don’t want to date someone whose diaper I need to change or who will set their chattering dentures on my night table before bed or whom I’ll need to stuff with Viagra every 15 minutes like he’s a NYC parking meter or someone who grunts or smacks their lips when they sleep. That’s not my idea of fun.
Please don't come up with an easy answer such as change my preferred age.
Hoping you will have a solution. I’m artistic and attractive by the way.
-Randy (not my real name, but close)
Dear Randy:
Diapers? Decrepit? Agonal breathing? Just how old are you anyway that within 3-4 years of your age you are winding up with Methuselahs like this? Are you trying to pick up guys at a nursing home or the ICU? Are you speed dating stiffs at the morgue?
There’s a fellow at my gym who must have been alive when Lincoln was president and he’s in fine fettle. Doesn’t even grunt when he’s lifting weights, unlike the gentlemen it seems you tend to couch. You might just be a looky loo and show up.
When my grandfather died 37 years ago, I thought my beloved grandmother might be lost. So as a kid I wrote a letter to bachelor Marlin Perkins who was then the already very old host of Mutual of Ohmaha’s ‘Wild Kingdom’ --the tv show ostensibly about shooting zebras in the rump with dart guns as they ran willy-nilly and petrified across the African grasslands. (In fact the show was a shill somehow for life insurance but that was lost on this whippersnapper at the time). Anyway, he was the oldest looking person I knew of other than my dead grandfather and he actually looked a little like my grandmother (matching age spots) when he was leaning out the chopper door hooting and hollering. My letter was never answered but even to this then 6 year old, it was clear there were options out there for the willing and patient. So ‘Randy’ rest assured.
Do you go to a car dealer and ask for the oldest piece of crap they have? The one that won’t even make it off the lot without breaking? The one with bald tires that backfires? The one with a large suspicious puddle of some brightly colored lubricant under it? No one likes getting stuck on the side of the highway because their fuel pump or timing chain went out. Fuel pumps and timing chains break on old, used cars. You, my friend, have been hanging out on the old used car lot. And if you buy an old, used car, beware--you will also need to buy AAA with unlimited towing, do you hear what I say?
Anyway, where I’m going with this is maybe you can do some internal work to revisit the whole objection to younger men thing, and thus your objection to my ‘easy answer’ of lowering your age requirements. (Why wouldn’t anyone want an easy answer? Hmmmm. You stumped me).
I’m sure you have much to offer a young buck beyond carnal satisfaction --experience, appreciation for chamber music, the ability to cook without a microwave, actually remembering the 60’s (and the 50’s?) (Egads, the 40’s??).
And the spoils of such a relationship would be myriad, including only getting told stories once and not having your date pitch forward in his oatmeal if it is after 6pm.
I’m not saying to go pace the chain link fence at the local college, but how about splitting the difference between 18 and 108?
The worst that is going to happen if you start trolling the waters for young men is that you will be accused of being a cougar (so what?) by jealous friends, mocking members of the public and readers of this column, if there even are any left. Technically a woman one single day older than her target is a cougar, so don’t get hung up on the definition no matter where between the goal uprights (i.e 18-108) you are.
Of course if you do still object to being with a guy too much younger, yet want all the sparks flying (ahem) except stimulating conversations and bad morning breath, then there is another option-- Get the other kind of boyfriend. (I’d put the term boyfriend in quotes but it’s too salty).
Hope this helped. By the way, if you find you like this last option, please, save some batteries for the rest of us and our flashlights-- hurricane season is coming.
-Wally
Got a question that needs answering or just want to learn how to tweak your match.com profile so the old geezers with no money stay away? Email him at cwn4@aol.com This is also a good address for your irate letters.
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