Today was Wordle Puzzle #676 but I was not an early adapter, playing only for the 404th time out of 405. I’ve been playing well over a year now, somehow missing a day at some point, inadvertently ending another streak. Yesterday, I got stumped for only the 5th time with the word JOKER, interrupting my longest streak at 119 straight and a 99% solve rate. I will need another run of at least 100 to get back to that percentage, starting with this morning’s success. LEAFY was another memorable stopper, but JOKER was the first time I missed with multiple letters – both J and K.
My other streak, the running version, is still intact at 5,232 days, with the challenge of boat travel ahead. I’ll probably have to use the deck or treadmill on our upcoming Nile River tour, as I walk then run like an Egyptian!
Here’s the Bangles’ version of that tune, although Steve Martin made the strut famous:
All the old paintings on the tomb
They do the sand dance, don’t you know
If they move too quick (oh way oh)
They’re falling down like a domino
All the bazaar men by the Nile
They got the money on a bet
Gold crocodiles (oh way oh)
They snap their teeth on your cigarette
Foreign types with the hookah pipes say
Way oh way oh, way oh way oh
Walk like an Egyptian
The blonde waitresses take their trays
They spin around and they cross the floor
They’ve got the moves (oh way oh)
You drop your drink
Then they bring you more
All the school kids so sick of books
They like the punk and the metal band
When the buzzer rings (oh way oh)
They’re walking like an Egyptian
All the kids in the marketplace say
Way oh way oh, way oh way oh
Walk like an Egyptian
Slide your feet up the street
Bend your back
Shift your arm, then you pull it back
Life is hard you know (oh way oh)
So strike a pose on a Cadillac
If you wanna find all the cops
They’re hanging out in the donut shop
They sing and dance (oh way oh)
They spin the clubs, cruise down the block
All the Japanese with their yen
The party boys call the Kremlin
And the Chinese know (oh way oh)
They walk the line like Egyptian
All the cops in the donut shop say
Way oh way oh, way oh way oh
Walk like an Egyptian
Walk like an Egyptian
RUN like an Egyptian
RUN like an Egyptian
It’s Monday and time to break out in song, especially in retirement when Monday doesn’t have a full-time job to go with it. Instead, I’m done with my run and headed to lunch with a friend, and the chiropractor. Still mourning the death of a beloved Meatball and weighing the implications that it could happen to anybody at any time:
Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
So good to me (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Monday mornin’ (ba-da-ba-da-da-da-da)
It was all I hoped it would be
Oh, Monday mornin’
Monday mornin’ couldn’t guarantee (ba-da-ba-da-da-da-da)
That Monday evenin’ you would still be here with me
Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way
Oh, Monday mornin’, you gave me no warnin’ of what was to be
Oh, Monday, Monday, how could you leave and not take me?
Every other day (every other day), every other day
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah
But whenever Monday comes (but whenever Monday comes)
But whenever Monday comes, you could find me cryin’ all of the time
Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
So good to me (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Monday mornin’, it was all I hoped it would be
But Monday mornin’, Monday mornin’ couldn’t guarantee
(That Monday evenin’ you would still be here with me)
Every other day (every other day), every other day
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah
But whenever Monday comes (but whenever Monday comes)
But whenever Monday comes you can find me cryin’ all of the time
Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Can’t trust that day (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
It just turns out that way (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Woh oh, Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Won’t go away (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
It’s here to stay (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Oh oh, Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Oh oh, Monday, Monday (ba-da-ba-da-da-da)
Oh oh oh, Monday
Another Saturday has arrived after an evening with the neighbors. In two more Saturdays, we will be in Cairo. There is a dinner with my wife’s bridge group tonight. Next Saturday, I have the day to myself since my wife has theater tickets and a dinner date with a girlfriend. Tally and I will have to fend for ourselves, along with Sophie, our schnauzer guest for the night. Another episode of Succession was our late night entertainment, after I listened to the White Sox blow another game to the Rays.
I make the Sunday morning drive to St. Pete for the final game in the series, as the Sox try to salvage a single victory. A former Ft. Wayne radio friend will meet me in the Publix parking lot where 275 branches off from I-75 near Palmetto to cross the Sunshine Skyway bridge. We’ve attended many White Sox games together, including the last two years as residents of Florida. My son has to work today, so he won’t join us for this year’s reunion.
I’m wearing my #10 personalized Sox jersey with the 2005 World Series patch. It has been eighteen years since that monumental occasion, with little hope for an encore. The team is quickly sinking (stinking) to the bottom of the division with a 7-14 record to start the season. Tampa Bay is now 18-3, by far the best in baseball. Lucas Giolito is on the mound with a 4.29 ERA, facing unbeaten Zach Eflin.
I just got word that another media friend has passed away. Between classmates, co-workers, and acquaintances it’s hard to keep up. He had a heart attack years ago and was revived but not this time, sadly. I need to start approaching every day as if it’s my last and stop worrying about tomorrow. Seize the Day – Carpe Diem.
My wife collects recipes and cookbooks, to the point where we have plastic bins filled with recipe clippings and hundreds of celebrity chef books. Our pantry bookshelves are filled with them, and they are not just for show. She cooks with these recipes frequently and isn’t afraid to experiment, making her a top chef in my eyes. Guests are never disappointed with her creations and willingness to prepare them.
Our days of dining in five-star restaurants are probably over. The retirement budget simply doesn’t allow for pricy dining options. Plus, we’re satisfied with the range of top restaurants that we’ve frequented for business and pleasure through the years. To top it all, we finally made it to The French Laundry a few years ago. There aren’t many things a restaurateur can do to impress us anymore, so it’s not worth the price. However, we still do a weekly “Date Night,” with the basic rule to try only restaurants and diners that we’ve never been to before.
Last night was a combination “Date Night” and 22nd wedding anniversary. However, it was a restaurant favorite, The Perfect Caper, that features a woman chef that beat Bobby Flay. By definition, it wouldn’t qualify as a “Date Night,” but it was her choice, the best in our area. We were married in Las Vegas at the Bellagio Chapel, on the ominous date that celebrates both national Pot Day and Adolph Hitler’s birthday. A placard on our table wished us a “Happy Birthday” – well, close. Chef/Owner Jeanie Roland introduced herself to us and signed her book, Butter Love & Cream, to the great delight of my wife. I didn’t have much to give her this year except this dinner and the cookbook – the chef made her day. Jeanie’s restaurants in hometown Westerly, Rhode Island and here in Punta Gorda have achieved national acclaim, founded the year after we were married. Today, this cookbook is her favorite, along with The Perfect Caper Home Cookbook that is also part of her pantry book collection.
I’m picking up my granddaughter from Pre-K at noon and will keep her until we drive to Punta Gorda for our 7p anniversary dinner at The Perfect Caper. She’ll enjoy a ride on the golf cart, that she calls her “go cart.” We’ll go to the playground and hunt for alligators on the elevated boardwalk through the Islandwalk nature preserve. She’ll be five next month when we’re in Egypt.
We’ve done a lot of dining out and entertaining this week, more than our retirement budget can probably handle. My wife prepared dinner three nights for guests, while I went out to eat twice. Tomorrow night is the neighborhood pitch-in, Saturday evening the bridge club meets with spouses for dinner, and Sunday we’re invited to a neighbor’s home. I will just be getting back from St. Pete and the White Sox game against the Rays. Monday is another lunch for me with a friend down the street.
Once these next few weeks are over, the neighborhood population will shrink in size as folks head north for the summer. We’ll leave for our Egyptian tour, and when we get back in late May things should be quiet on our street, except for our Indy 500 party for those still around. We’ll have my wife’s June birthday to celebrate after she flies to Indy for a bridal event. Tally and I get to stay home until Portland in mid-July and the actual Indianapolis wedding in late August.
We’re trying to decide on a travel plan to Indiana and the stops we’ll make there and back in August. It will be about the same cost to drive there instead of airline and rental car expenses. The Louisville Slugger museum is a possibility and maybe Hilton Head on the way home. We’ll soon get out the map and plot a course.
Today is another Borrego Boyz luncheon, a gathering of neighbors who mostly live on our Islandwalk street. A few of them have moved away, so we pick restaurant locations to accommodate their presence like Pelican Alley, today’s dining destination. While living in Portland, I would organize similar functions called “Leadership Meetings,” usually at a Buffalo Wild Wings location.
Last evening, I joined the guys on the next street over, Rinella, for their get-together at the Cool Today Park Tiki Bar. It was first time I had strayed outside the Borrego Street group. These were guys that I had never officially met, with the exception of two, but run by their homes every morning. Today was 5,225 straight, without missing. Rinella Street is my main daily route, encompassing about half of my run, so most of them see me wave as I pass by. I was curious to get to know them a little better. Several of the women on the street are in my weekly Chair Yoga class, so little by little I’m expanding my neighborhood network.
There are a couple of runners on Rinella (I should call it Runella) that I’ve gotten to know at local races, but they were not there last night. I will undoubtedly have trouble remembering all the new faces that I met. One problem is that I don’t wear my glasses when I run, so passers-by are somewhat of a blur. Also, hats, helmets, and sunglasses often hide their identity, especially with women. I try to consult the address directory, but all too often are not listed. To make getting to know them even more complicated, at least half of them will be gone for the summer months, going back and forth between their two residences. They will all undoubtedly miss me “pounding their pavement” most of the month of May because of our Egyptian travels.
The Rinella homeowners all jokingly seem to set their clocks by me, since my running routine is pretty consistent. Every day at seemingly the same time, I pass by. Typically, I only cover about a block of my own Borrego Street with the exception of those rare days when I only have time for the minimum mile route. However, the Borrego Boyz luncheons, and Borrego Street “Meet the Neighbors” events have been a consistent means of getting to know the people that live close by. They often get more than just a wave of the hand.
My nickname growing up was “Smiley,” given to me at summer basketball camp by a guy a came to despise. The name was probably appropriate, considering the wide grin that was seemingly plastered on my face at all times. I was never much of a talker, so the smile was a quiet expression of my shy nature. One of the bullies in my school was using it to mock me and it quickly caught on with the other campers. I was horrified, and remember feeling relieved when camp was over, thinking that I would gladly never hear it again. However, I ran into the guy that coined the name later that summer at a movie, and he began to taunt me again. “Hey, Smileeee, give me a Smiley smile!” or “let’s see that smile, Smileeee.” If he could have only seen the hatred in my eyes but found great delight in drawing out the final vowel in an obnoxious way. Others followed his cruel lead. By the time school started, everyone knew me as “Smiley.” Since then, I’ve been called much worse names in life.
I think that my fellow classmates thought that it was my given first name or my last name and never realized it was a playful, silly gibe, or the bully’s insult as it was intended, in my mind. Even though the use of the name seemed to anger me, my only reaction was sadly an uncomfortable smile, reinforcing the behavior to others. I never expressed my feelings about its use or confronted anyone who called me such. I saw it as confusing, personally embarrassing, and disrespectful, so I refused to call myself “Smiley.” As a result, I rarely used the phone since no one seemed to remember that my real name was Mike. “Hi, this is Mike.” “Who?”
Mike no longer existed, and smiles weren’t as frequent, as I continued my internal fight against having a stupid nickname. It made me think of the song, “Tears of a Clown.” In retrospect, I could have simply adopted the name. At least other classmates knew who I was, when I could have been just another Mike. It was so well known that I could have probably won a school election, or better yet created my own “Smiley” face and capitalized on its marketing. Instead, I cringed every time someone used that reference, and envisioned putting a bloody smile on its inventor’s face.
All these years later, I still run across former classmates who knew me as “Smiley,” and by habit call me such. At one point in my first marriage, my wife and I owned a golden retriever that we named Smiley. It somehow seemed more appropriate for a pet and ended my nickname torment. If friends came to our house and called for “Smiley,” they usually got a friendly, wet tongue and a lapful of fur. It made me smile, again!
My longtime friends arrived yesterday afternoon from Marco Island. They are headed back to lower Michigan tomorrow, after a stop near Panama City for a few days. We enjoyed a duck dinner last night and another outdoor concert, this time from a group named Brigade, a Heart tribute band. There were major thunderstorms all last night, so I got thoroughly drenched on my run this morning. I cut it short to two miles, but it was soothing to run in the rain. My GPS stopped working so I technically only got credit for .03 miles on my Nike Run app and at the same time the music stopped, leaving me with only the sound of the rain.
The band was tolerable, at times sounding like the original Wilson sisters. We sat with some neighbors in our beach chairs. Once I get comfortable, my butt nearly drags on the ground, so I can’t easily get up. Distant thunder roared in the background, but the rain held off. An Indy 500 discussion ensued after the show, as my grade school friend plans to attend this year and one neighbor in particular, a former Hoosier, has attended over 50 races. We shared some stories about past races that we’ve been to see, including the very first my buddy and I enjoyed back in the mid-eighties.
Shortly after I got back from my run this morning and stripped off my wet clothes, the downpour stopped, and everyone returned to their normal activities. My wife took Tally to the dog park and my friends walked the neighborhood streets. The plan is to go for a late lunch at Snook Haven, if we can figure out how to cram four bodies into the Lexus. Their Suburban is packed to the gills with snowbird stuff for their transition back home, leaving no other option but our sports car. Last night, the golf cart comfortably got us all to the nearby concert, but the restaurant is too far away. Good thing they are close friends.
Last night was the first fundraiser that I’ve attended in some time. Memories of rubber chicken, formal dress, and paddle raising came to mind. However, we were actually on the outside looking in. A barrier of red ribbon separated us from the VIP section, as we picnicked in comfortable clothing. We did have to listen to the boring speeches and pleas for dollars, but had the same view of the Venice Symphony orchestra and fireworks finale. They didn’t even give us a bidding paddle, only a foam light stick to keep beat to the music.
Those inside the barrier were treated to a buffet dinner and encouraged to give their hard-earned dollars to support student scholarships at the State College of Florida, the host of this annual event. We apparently missed the first thirty-two and may not go back again next year. The show did not compare with Symphony on the Prairie, my wife’s favorite event back in Indianapolis. The pleading for money and long speeches took most of the fun out of the evening, as we painfully awaited the music and fireworks. Plus, hit songs from The Beatles, Katy Perry, Lionel Ritchie, Phil Collins, and Barry Manilow did not necessarily work for me when put to strings. It reminded me of a harpist at a fine dining establishment playing “Wasted Away in Margaritaville.”
Nonetheless, we enjoyed each other’s company, drank lots of good wine, and dined much better than the VIPs. It was only a $25 dollar donation and close to home, despite any disappointment, so well worth our time on a Saturday night. Tonight, we’ll attend a free lawn event in our own neighborhood with the band Brigade, playing the hits of Heart. We have friends in town for the night. We’ll take the golf cart and enjoy another evening of wine and song.
I remember that “Saturday Morning” feeling, knowing that there was no alarm and two more days before I had to go back to work. Work wasn’t always so bad, but it was just the fact that I had to do it. The weekends were my own schedule, but now every day is just like every other day. Wake. Walk Dog. Puzzle. Run. Write. Repeat. Yes, it gets more complicated after lunch but essentially mornings are always the same. I’ll mix in a little TV while I’m writing, check my finances, and get ready for what’s ahead.
This afternoon, I’m going to help out in the kitchen, by preparing some wings for tonight’s “Symphony Under the Stars” pitch-in. The weather looks great and it’s about a mile to the event site, so it should be an enjoyable evening with friends. Eat. Drink. Be Merry. Fireworks will follow the concert featuring music from The Beatles, Katie Perry, and Lionel Ritchie.
Tomorrow, friends arrive for a two-night stay. They will be our second to last house guests until the fall. Like many of our visitors, they are snowbirds with lake homes up north. These transients come down in January to avoid the snow and leave in May. While they are here, the roads, restaurants, and beaches are jammed. After Memorial Day, we reclaim our town, as the population shrinks. We’ll make our trek up north in late August, around my birthday. Right now, we’re considering the long drive, since we’ll need a car to get around Indianapolis. My wife’s niece is getting married, we’re staying with friends who work, and we look forward to reuniting with Hoosier pals. Mobility is the key.
My wife is going back to Indiana in June without me for the bachelorette party. It will be just after our 2nd annual Indy 500 watch party and our final houseguest. She is not a snowbird but rather another former Hoosier, now Florida resident, from the east coast of our state. Once she leaves and my wife gets on her Indy flight, I’ll be more than ready to relax at home with Tally after a month of trapsing through Cairo, Petra, and London. Tally will be equally glad to be back from Schnauzerville, and in her own bed, hopefully for the rest of the year. It will then be time for all of us to make the best of home, sweet, Islandwalk home.
