Herby

Yesterday my wife mentioned, pointedly, that I had not posted anything on this here blog thing for a while (okay, since May), and asked me why. I replied that I had nothing to say.  “All my stories have been told,” I said. The look she gave me was – well, shall we say, skeptical.

Today, however, while thinking about something else altogether, I thought of a story not told, at least not here.

In a posting last fall (“A Name by Any Other Rose,” September 25, 2018) I mentioned that because my wife tends to name everything, I occasionally give names to various inanimate objects of my own.

In 2007, after having experienced what is called a “silent” heart attack (that is, one I knew nothing about because I never felt a thing), the medical types decided to implant a pacemaker/defibrillator in my chest. I like to joke with people that I can’t say "pacemaker/defibrillator," so I call it "Herby."

How I chose the name is simply that after the surgery, while I was lying in my hospital bed thinking about having a device in my chest to regulate my cardiac rhythms, it occurred to me that if you took the word HEARTBEAT and started leaving some of the letters out here and there, you would end up with:  HE R BE.

And that’s how my ICD Herby got his name. I suppose it's possible that my natural creativity was enhanced to some degree by the very enjoyable effects of a cocktail of morphine, Valium, and Versed I had been given, but I like to think I have a flair for whimsy.

It also helps me understand how people become addicted to drugs.

If only it were so

This is the story about my Aunt Mae and the Jewish turd.

For the record, she was my father's oldest sibling and my favorite aunt. She was smart and well-read and  interesting and funny.

Aunt Mae couldn't stand snobbish, pretentious people and whenever she found herself in the company of someone of that ilk, she could not resist the temptation to strike a blow.

To that end, she would ask such a person, "Have you heard about the man and the Jewish turd?"

She would get, as she expected, a negative response and a somewhat shocked countenance, whereupon she would continue, "Well, there was a man who had a Jewish turd ..."

At this point she'd stop, pretending she just noticed the listener's discomfiture. "Oh, I'm sorry," she'd say pleasantly. "Do you know what a Jewish turd is?"

Said listener would say, "No, I don't," and be visibly relieved, expecting her to explain that "turd" is a Yiddish word for some inoffensive thing, but she would reply, "It's a piece of shit about this long," holding her hands about six inches apart.

And then she would move on. Mission accomplished.

Did I mention Aunt Mae was my favorite?

Pepper candy, bumpy skin, and little O's

There must be some sort of marketing wisdom that suggests that if people like what you have to sell, you should make more of it, only in different sizes or colors or flavors or applications.

Take, for instance, Gold Bond. A nice lotion, but why do we need so many? They have specific ones labeled for a specific body part, a specific malady, or created with some special ingredient. Whenever I see one of their commercials on television, I begin thinking of varieties they have missed -- Back of the Left Knee Lotion, or Earlobe Protection Cream maybe.

At some friends' house for a party last week, I happened to see a bag of Caramel M&M's, which prompted me to ask aloud, "Who do you think has more varieties -- Gold Bond or M&M's?"  Everyone chuckled, but nobody guessed.

Yesterday after seeing an ad for Cheerios, I threw them into the mix too. You would think a tiny round bit of oat would be enough to satisfy everyone, but General Mills has gone above and beyond.

As usual, the Internet provided the answer.  Gold Bond wins with 24 lotions and creams. Cheereios is next with 18, and M&M's brings up the rear with 15 little candies in bags. There are, however,  5 M&M's Candy Bars which I didn't include in their total. I leave it to others to add it or not.

And so you don't rack your brain, here they all are:

Gold Bond Overnight Deep Moisturizing Body Lotion, Cracked Skin Relief Fill & Protect  Cream, Radiance Renewal Body Lotion, Men’s 5-in-1 Face Lotion Face Lotion, Healing with Aloe Body Lotion, Healing Fragrance Free with Aloe Body Lotion, Softening with Shea Butter Body Lotion, Restoring with CoQ10 Body Lotion, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Body Lotion, Eczema Relief Body Lotion, Multi-Symptom Psoriasis Relief Body Cream, Strength & Resilience Body Lotion, Rough & Bumpy Skin Body Cream, Neck & Chest Firming Body Cream, Dark Spot Minimizing Body Cream, Men’s Everyday Moisture Body Lotion, Men’s Intensive Therapy Body Lotion, Daily Moisturizing with Vitamin E Body Lotion, Healing with Aloe Hand Cream, Diabetics’ Dry Skin Relief Hand Cream, Eczema Relief Hand Cream, Pedi Smooth Foot Cream, Healing with Aloe Foot Cream, Softening with Shea Butter Foot Cream.

Original Cheerios, Maple Cheerios, Cheerios Oat Crunch, Peach Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Multi Grain Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, Chocolate Cheerios, Fruity Cheerios, Frosted Cheerios, Banana Nut Cheerios, Cheerios + Ancient Grains, Cheerios Protein Cinnamon Almond Cheerios Protein Oats & Honey, Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios Medley Crunch, Pumpkin Spice Cheerios, Very Berry Cheerios.

M&M's Hazelnut Spread, Peanut Chocolate, Peanut Butter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Peanut , Pretzel Chocolate, Crispy Chocolate, Caramel Chocolate, Coffee Nut Chocolate, Dark Chocolate Mint , Almond Chocolate , Mexican Jalapeño Peanut , Thai Coconut Peanut , English Toffee Peanut , Caramel.

I was told the Caramel M&M's are good.

Walk this way

My first job was with an insurance company in Chicago which had offices in the Bankers Building downtown. I rode the commuter train every day, then hoofed it from the North Western Station, crossing the river on Washington. It was another six or seven blocks from there to the Bankers Building at Clark and Adams.

When the weather started turning colder, I bought myself a new winter coat. It was black-and-red tweed, and it had a big black mouton lamb collar that could lay flat or could be hooked in front and made to stand up, encircling my neck. It was plenty sharp, that coat.

The first morning I wore it to work – collar up, of course, for maximum effect – I strutted along with an extra spring in my step because I knew everybody was looking at me in my new coat with the black mouton lamb collar.

I was flouncing down LaSalle Street in my black plumps with the three-inch heels when I suddenly put my right foot down on something very cold. I looked down and saw that my shoe was missing. I looked behind me, and there was my shoe, standing upright in the middle of the sidewalk as if it was on display. Just how I walked right out of it, I didn't know, but I wasn't thinking about that because what I was thinking was, "Oh, God! Now everybody is looking at me!"

So, I turned back, slipped my foot into the shoe, and kept on walking, almost without breaking stride.

Sometimes couture can get a little too haute.

Spill and Spell

My last name is difficult for people. Asked to give my last name, I will sometimes just spell it: K N E Z. And the person asking will sit, waiting, pen poised, and when they finally look up, I have to add, "That's all."

I do that to avoid the spelling problem that occurs after they've heard it. Once they hear "Kuh-NEZ," they are apt to write down Kanez or Kenez or Kenz no matter how slowly and distinctly I spell it for them.

Pronunciation is another matter. Sometimes people make the K silent and the E long, as a number of teachers did when we were in school which is why my brother was called Knees and I was called Little Knees. The pronunciation we normally get, of course, is Nez.  Second most popular is Kenz.

There was one guy who outdid himself, though. I was being inducted into some honorary thing and had to parade across a stage with a dozen or more other inductees. Beforehand, we were all herded into a room off stage where the man calling our names went over the list so as not to mispronounce anybody's name, which I thought was a very nice thing to do. He was going through the list alphabetically, so when he said, "Jan Krenz," I assumed that was me.

"Kuh-NEZ," I said politely. He looked at me and then back at his list, and said, "What was that again?" I said it again. "Kuh-NEZ." He studied the sheet, then asked for a pencil. He wrote something, then said, "Kruu-nez?" I said it correctly again. He shook his head in confusion.

Is this guy retarded? "Kuh-NEZ!" I said again, and he made another note on the paper and said it right. All right, fella. Now you got it.

As the event unfolded, we all walked across the stage to accept our certificates and pins, and when it was my turn, the dude said, "Jan --" then shut his eyes and, from memory, I guess, repeated, "Kuh-NEZ."

Whew. You got it! Good work!

I return to my seat and looked down at my certificate on which my name was very clearly printed in a fancy font: JAN KRENZ.

Sorry, buddy. I didn't know.

Drink to me only with thine I's

I’ve been having some extremely minor yet thoroughly annoying health issues which have combined to keep me from eating some of my favorite foods. Things I couldn’t have became cravings that  blossomed into obsessions. I would have traded my youngest nephew for a bag of popcorn.

Also forbidden were spirits, as a result of which I have decided that there is absolutely nothing in the world that is more essential to my continued health, happiness, prosperity, and willingness to abide by the laws of our country than a vodka martini.

I’m not sure where I get my taste for cocktails as my family were not big drinkers. Somebody would give my father a fifth of whiskey at Christmas time with which he would occasionally make high balls when friends or relatives visited. That bottle would usually last until the next Christmas. And my mother always had a pint of gin in a cupboard in case the women at a neighborhood baby shower decided the punch needed a spike.

My mother did, however, school me in proper etiquette related to this general topic. She had three simple rules which I was to memorize. (Which, obviously, I did.)

A. Ladies do not go into a tavern, bar, or cocktail lounge alone.

B. Lades may sit at the bar only if escorted, but a table is always a better choice.

C. Ladies may order a Bacardi, a Pink Lady, or a Whiskey Sour.

Well, my wait is over -- tonight's the night, but none of those foo-foo drinks for me. Get out the vodka and vermouth, and keep the olives coming.

Are you kidding?

Among the emails I was reading through this morning was one that appeared to be from Netflix, but when I opened it, I got suspicious.  It told me there was a problem with my account and that I needed to update my payment information. Click this link, it said.

Yeah, right. I’m not falling for that scam. I deleted it and moved on.

After lunch I was wearing out the TV remote trying to find something to watch -- daytime television is the worst. I gave that up and flipped over to Netflix. Instead of all the little squares showing the shows and movies available, there was a black screen that told me my account was suspended and I needed to straighten out my payment information.

Well, there was no safer way to determine if the email was legitimate, was there?