Shoe Boxes And Shit Birds

I’m bored.  I sat around this morning watching it rain and listening to Regina Spector tunes.  When you find yourself listening to Regina Spector tunes you have a psychiatric diagnosis and just don’t realize it yet. And———you’re really bored. The boredom ain’t nothin but trouble.  

My intellect is always getting its butt kicked by my imagination. My  wounded inner child makes up stuff that isn’t based in reality, which produces anxiety, anxiety about things that aren’t happening or going to happen. How dumb is that?  Add my hearing impairment to the equation. Yeah. It contributes to the anxiety but sometimes, thankfully, it can be comical. 

Examples:

Katherine and I  attended an owners association meeting two weeks ago in Gulf Shores. At the meeting we found ourselves surrounded by people(fellow owners) with such deep tans that it defies imagination. Mostly retirees,  they sported shockingly white teeth, Swiss watches and German cars.  They clearly had gobs of money. I love the word gobs.  I figure a gob is about three million. Google that. 

I was determined to fit in with these folks. I did my best to seem precocious and full of wonderment. You know, a winner. 

First I hid our pitiful Japanese car and took off my Timex watch. I tried not to reveal my not so sparkly white teeth and covered everything but my hands and face so that they wouldn’t notice my wrinkly, untanned  white skin.  Then I set about trying to find out where all of their money(gobs of it) came from. 

“I fart in shoe boxes!” Yes, that’s what I thought Hiram said.  No, I didn’t ask him for clarification. “Where does this farting take place? I said.  “What? he said. Hiram looked so perplexed that I smiled and slowly backed away. 

I approached an older, rather attractive woman with straight, bleach blond hair, piercing blue eyes and high cheek bones. She wore a diamond dinner ring, and a too short leather skirt.  Oh, and  deeply tan, augmented (rather creepy) cleavage.  

After some small talk I popped my question. “And so, Piper, what is it that you do?”  Very seriously she looked at me and said, “oh, I scorch um mung  stings and dink a beaner turtle!” “Do you enjoy it?” I said.  “Why yes!”  

Just then Katherine tapped me on the shoulder.  “So, big boy!  You forgot your hearing aids again didn’t you?  “Uh, yep.” “Do you have any idea what these people are saying or are you faking it again?”  “Faking it.” “Go over there and sit down on that couch and don’t move” she said. 

Okay, what is the likelihood that farting in shoe boxes can be parlayed into big money?  You tell me!  I mean, you can buy shellacked horse turds made to look like little dukey birds  off of the internet.  Shit birds I believe they are called.   Google that. 

Later I found out (from Katherine) that Hiram owns an online catalog business called The Smart Shoe Box.  Well, I’ll be dipped in sh*t!  I was close!  

I never found out how Piper scored the big bucks.  

Then, even later in the evening there was this character named Boo. He was an odd looking man whose head was shaped like a pencil eraser. I talked and talked and talked to Boo and questioned him about his fortune but he never answered. I don’t think. 

But then as the evening wore on and after he left I heard Piper refer to him as a shit bird.  Ha!  

What are the chances that Boo is Mr.Shit bird?! I’m gonna go google that.

Cicero, who wrote his advice on retirement in 44 B.C. while in his early 60s, didn’t recommend ways to stay busy or “give back” to society. Instead, he saw intrinsic value in aging. “How wonderful it is for the “soul” when—after so many struggles with lust, ambition, strife, quarreling and other passions—these battles are at last ended and it can return . . . to live within itself,” Cicero wrote in “Cato Maior de Senectute.

When I’m not keeping tabs on Pud Rutledge or trying some new recipe that will disappoint my children, or failing at an ill informed gardening project or standing in front of the Asian women at Crispy Donut at 5 a.m.and wondering why they are wearing bustiers in a donut shop, or writing new songs on my electric bass that nobody wants to hear, or writing such ridiculousness as this——I’m definitely in the category of “not giving back.” I gave for sixty years. Done!

My funeral has already begun. No, I’m not dying. Not as far as I know. But my children and grandchildren have already started dividing up my stuff. I must be looking pretty rough. Oh, don’t worry. It will happen to you too someday. Some of them are up front about it. “I want that wooden Indian.” Sometimes I find out from third parties where my stuff will likely be going.

Does this upset me? Not really. I’m proud to own a few desirable things. “They” say you can’t take it with you. “They” of course are the ones inheriting the loot. Power to them. I won’t be around to witness the scuffles. I’ll be watching from above—-or below (if that Catholic things doesn’t work out.)

Yoga pants are evolving. I see them at Walmart, at the doctors offices, at convenience stores, at the gym. Even at Home Depot. Those are the places I go. Some appear to be painted on. I wonder. Was actual yoga ever in the plans for these garments? Most of the ones that come into my path say “yoga”, but their butts are screaming, “Double Quarter Pounder With Cheese!”

I have been surprised and yet somehow pleased to discover that as I have aged and then faded into retirement (key word, faded) I’ve become less and less visible. That’s right. People actually don’t realize I’m present. It’s like being furniture. There’s no need to speak to furniture. Unless you stump your toe on it. These days I’m getting about as much attention as Maxine Waters on Valentine’s Day. My family members will begin a conversation with another person while I’m talking directly to them and in mid sentence. This deviates into the “highly insulting” category and is the one thing that has dis-inheritance potential. No humor in this.

However, plenty of attention arrives when money is needed. Suddenly I’m back on the team! They talk to me for at least the time it takes to secure the moolah. Then, back to curio cabinet. How do I feel about relative invisibility? Pretty good actually. It has its perks. I no longer need to get away to get away, if you know what I mean. Alone in a crowd so to speak. I don’t hate people, but I seem to feel better when they’re not around. Do I think I’m better, smarter, wiser than those around me. Don’t make me say it.