Gloria was a widow on the make at the local nursing home. She was after just about every man in the place. “Frank,” she said. “Hmmmm,” he replied from his hiding place behind the newspaper. He was not really wanting to start a conversation with Gloria. Especially this conversation.
“Do I look old?” she asked. “Hmmmm,” he replied again.
“Well, I don’t feel old. My hair may be grey, my eyelids drooping, and the ‘girls’ are hanging farther South these days, but I think all in all, I look pretty good. What do you think?” she asked.
“No, you don’t look old.” he replied,
She continued to pester him for reassurance. “I just feel like I’m elderly and matronly. How old do you think I look?”
Finally, he put the newspaper down. “Gloria,” he said, “You have the body of a 24-year-old, the face of a 20-year-old, and the hair of an 18-year-old.”
“Thank you, Frank,” she said.
Frank said, “Now, let me finish… I haven’t added them up yet.”
Little Justin was the epitome of cuteness wrapped in the body of a four-year-old boy. The problem was, he was just too cute. It wasn’t so much the day-to-day living, as it was special functions. Like church.
Come Sunday morning, all the older ladies of the church would just carry on about Justin’s cuteness, and before he could get away from them, they would grab his cheek betwixt the index finger and the thumb, and give it a pinch. Sometimes they would add a little shaking motion, like a pit bull latched on to a chew toy. It left his cheeks rosy and numb. The pinching was especially bad at weddings. There are even more old women at weddings than there are at church on Sunday. As each one pinched his little cheeks, they’d say “You’re next!”
Well, Justin finally discovered a way to get the old women
to leave his cheeks alone. Whenever he’d go to a funeral, he’d seek
out the older women. He’d run up to them, grab their cheeks, and pinch it with
a solid twist, look them right in the eye, smile and say, “You’re next!”
or – the effect of a pretty girl on men’s clothing
Human Psychology says that what clothing a man wears is very dependent on the reward he expects to receive in return for any extra effort it takes to look a little better. In other words, the greater the potential of reward, the better a man will dress. However, there is a conflicting theory that says as a man grows older, he couldn’t care less what he looks like, regardless of the potential of reward.
Let’s look at an example. Given the potential to interact with the pretty girl (pictured), and the effects of aging, here are my observations on men dressing:
You are in the middle of some kind of fix-up project
around the house, such as mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the
living room, or whatever. You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You
have your old “work clothes” on, and you know exactly the outfit I’m talking
about: that old Boy George and the Culture Club t-shirt with yellowed
armpits, the shorts with the hole in the crotch, and an old pair of white
tennis shoes, the toes of which are grass-stained green.
Right in the middle of the most crucial part of your home improvement project, you realize you need to run to WalMart to get something to complete the job. Since you will have to inter-act with people, you will do one of the following depending on your age:
You stop what you are doing. Take a shower. Shave. Blow-dry your hair. Brush your teeth. Floss. Gargle. Put on neat, clean, leisure-lifestyle clothes. You check your face and your abs in the mirror and flex your biceps. You add a splash of your cheap cologne Aunt Margaret bought you for your birthday. You never know, you just might meet some hot chick while standing in the checkout lane. Actually, it turns out you go to school with the pretty girl running the register.
You stop what you are doing, put on clean shorts and polo shirt. Change your shoes. You married the hot chick who worked the WalMart register, so there’s no need to be prowling around. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. You still got it. To cover the smell of sweat, you add a shot of your AXE cologne – which you can afford now that you have a job. The cute girl running the register is the younger sister to someone you went to high school with.
You stop what you are doing. You put on a sweatshirt that is long enough to cover the broken zipper of your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat to cover your mussed hair. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute cologne is almost empty and you don’t want to waste any of it on a trip to WalMart. Check yourself in the mirror and do more belly-sucking-in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register at WalMart is your daughter’s age and you feel kind of creepy for just talking to her. You wonder how many guys think your daughter is just as spicy.
You stop what you are doing. Put a hat on to cover your hair loss, wipe the dirt off your hands onto your shirt. Change shoes because you don’t want to track dirt into your brand new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror. Swear not to wear that shirt anymore because it accentuates your man-boobs. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming and you think you still have what it takes. What you don’t realize is that the T shirt you have on is from your buddy’s bait shop and it says, “I Got Worms.”
You stop what you are doing. Realize that you need to go to WalMart to get something you’ll need to finish the job. Don’t bother with your face or your shirt — why would you? You haven’t bothered to check yourself in the mirror since you turned 58. There is no need for a hat anymore, either. Hose the dog poop off your shoes. As you drive to the WalMart, you remember there’s a hole in your shorts and you hope you have some underwear on.
You forget what you are doing. Remember what you were doing. Start doing it again. Remember why you stopped the first time. You decide to wait to go to Walmart until you go in the house and get your prescriptions so you can have them filled at the same time. Don’t see, smell, or even care that there is dog poop on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles at you because you remind her of her grandfather who recently passed away.
You stop what you were doing. Rest. Start again. Then stop again. Rest. Now you remember that you need to go to WalMart for something to finish the job. Go to WalMart and wander around trying to remember what it was you came for. Fart out loud and turn around because you think someone called out your name. Leave streaks of dog poop off your shoes from the front to the back of the store. Stop to talk to the decrepit, crotchety old lady that greeted you at the front door and discover that she went to school with you.
Courtney Stodden has us nostalgic for the innocence of
Rebecca Black. Like Black, Stodden is a teenager with a really silly video that
came out of nowhere and went totally viral. But Stodden’s video isn’t what made
her famous this week. It’s her husband, Doug Hutchison, a 51-year-old actor who
was in “Lost” and “The Green Mile.” Hutchison wed the 16-year-old last month in
a quickie Vegas ceremony.
He posted their wedding photo on his website and it made
their age difference even more terrifying. It looks like a prom photo outtake
of a lecherous neighbor drooling over the chest of the high school popular girl
next door. It’s the kind of photo that could get a man arrested, if he wasn’t
so beloved by Stodden’s family.
That news item reminds me of the time one of the older
deacons, Buddy, came to church with a spry, young girl on his arm. She was
dressed in a shapely dress, and dripping with jewelry. She was probably in her
late 20’s or early 30’s, very cute, friendly, and energetic. Buddy had been a
widower for quite some time, so it was a shock to the other deacons to see him
escorting such a pretty — and young — lady.
Filled with curiosity, the other deacons pulled Buddy
aside and asked him, “Buddy, How’d you get that cute young thing to be your
girlfriend?” Buddy replied, “Oh, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s my new wife.”
“Your new wife?” they asked in astonishment. “How did you talk her in to
Candidly, Buddy replied, “I lied about my age.”
“You didn’t lie and tell her you were 50 did you?”
It was a hard decision to make, but the family finally agreed. Grandpa’s level of care requirements were greater than the family could sustain without disrupting their own lives. Making this kind of decision is tough; it makes you feel as if you’re callous, placing the importance of your own happiness above that of your parent, despite all the sacrifices they made for you in life.
So the family put a lot of time into finding the
retirement center that offered the cleanest facilities, the most varied menu,
the most interactive social environment, the most structured activity schedule,
the friendliest staff, and the most tender-hearted caregivers. It was no
The day came that Grandpa was to move in to Happy Valley
Retirement Center, and all the family came out. There were third cousins twice
removed, and great-aunts by marriage on the father’s side, and grandchildren
down to the great-great-great level. It was an atmosphere of celebration, and
everyone wanted Grandpa to know they still cared. But eventually they all left,
and it was just Grandpa and the staff.
One of the staff members noticed that Grandpa was leaning
to the right in his wheelchair. “Here, let me prop you up with this pillow,
sweetheart,” she said as she straightened his posture.
But then he started to lean to the left. “Well, sugar, now you’re falling over the other way! Let me get you another pillow.” And she put a pillow on his left side, wedging him in the wheelchair so he would remain upright.
Grandpa sat there a few minutes, then slowly started to
slide forward in his wheelchair. “Oh my,” said the nurse, “We’re going to have
to do something to make sure you don’t fall out and hurt yourself.”
She went and got a restraining strap that, like a seat belt, would keep Grandpa
upright and safe.
The next day, the family came to check on Grandpa. They
were sure he would be pleased with his new living arrangement and all the
attention the staff would shower on him. “How are you liking Happy Valley,
Grandpa?” they asked.
“I HATE IT!” he declared loudly.
“Well, it’s clean, your room is nice, You’re getting good meals. What’s
“It’s the staff. They’re mean to me. They’re trying to torture
me.” he said.
“What are you talking about, Grandpa?”
Grandpa pointed to the pillows and the strap holding him securely in place, “They won’t let me fart!”
A Couple in their eighties were both having problems remembering things. During a medical check-up, the doctor tells them that mentally, they’re just fine. He advises them that if they’re having trouble remembering things, they might want to start writing things down.
Later that night, while watching TV,
the old man gets up from his chair.
‘Want anything while I’m in the
kitchen?’ he asks.
“Will you get me a bowl of ice
“Don’t you think you should write it
down so you can remember it?” she asks.
“No, I can remember it.”
“Well, I’d like some strawberries on
top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so as not to forget it?”
He says, “I can remember that. You
want a bowl of vanilla ice cream with strawberries.”
“I’d also like whipped cream. I
don’t want you to forget that, so write it down.” she says.
Irritated, he replies, “Dang it,
woman, I don’t need to write it down! I can remember that simple thing: Vanilla
ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream – I got it, for goodness sake!”
Then he ambles into the kitchen and
she hears him getting out bowls and flatware. After about 20 minutes, the old
man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs. She
stares at the plate in disbelief.
“I told you, you should have written it down,” she quipped, “You forgot the toast.”
A retired metropolitan doctor decided his small hometown could use the services of a seasoned medical provider, so he left retirement and hung out his shingle for the second time in his life. To drum up business, he took out an ad in the local paper announcing his return to the practice of medicine. The ad said, “Experienced Doctor opening medical clinic in town, is now accepting new patients. ‘I Can heal any condition for only $300. Results guaranteed or I will give you $1000 cash back.’”
Eventually, one of the younger doctors in town started losing business to the older man. He decided to take revenge on the older provider. He would pretend to be a patient, and fake an illness that the older doctor couldn’t possibly heal. Then he would collect his $1000 cash reward.
The younger doctor went in and said, “Doctor, I’ve got an illness that no other physician has been able to cure. I have lost all sense of taste in my mouth. It is so bad, I can’t enjoy food any more.”
The older doctor called out, “Nurse,
bring out a medicine dropper of Formula #2 and put three drops on the patient’s
As the nurse placed the drops on the young doctor’s tongue, he screamed out, “Are you trying to kill me? That tastes like kerosene!!!”
The older doctor said,
“Congratulations! You’re cured, that’ll be $300.”
A week went by and the young doctor returned for a second round. “Doctor, I have memory problems. I can’t seem to remember anything.”
The older doctor asked, “How long
has this been going on?”
“How long has what been going on?” replied the younger doctor, feeling mighty smug.
“I see,” said the elder.” Nurse, please bring out a medicine dropper of Formula #2 and put three drops on the patient’s tongue.”
“No way!”, said the younger doctor, “‘Formula #2’ tastes like kerosene.”
The older doctor said,
“Congratulations! You’re cured, that’ll be $300.”
The younger doctor pouted for a week then decided to give the old man one final challenge. This time he would pretend to be blind. Donning dark glasses and a cane, he went to see the older physician. “Doctor, I’ve gone blind, I can’t see a thing anymore.” he said. After a series of inconclusive tests, the young man said, “Doc, just admit you can’t do anything for me and give me my thousand dollars.”
The older doctor says, “You’re right, I may have been a little ambitious in my claim. Here’s your thousand dollars,” He counted out loudly: “$100 – $200 – $300 – $400…” as he placed ten $10 bills in the patient’s hand.
“Hey, that’s not a thousand dollars,” objected the younger doctor, “that’s only a hundred. What are you trying to pull?” To which the elder replied, “Congratulations! You’re cured, that’ll be $300.”