When I was courting my wife 18 years ago, I brought some flowers to her house. In the process of trying to find a vase, I apparently left every kitchen cabinet door open in my quest. If you’ve ever seen the movie, Sixth Sense, the haunted, youthful character, Cole, leaves the undisturbed kitchen with his mother, and when she returns all the drawers and cupboards are open. He “sees dead people,” while my future wife saw “Messy Mikey” for the first time. Unfortunately, I haven’t changed much through the years.

I try to keep things in order, but like Pig-Pen, dirt seems to be attracted to me. My worst enemy is mustard that always seems to find me, especially if I’m wearing a white shirt. I can’t seem to leave a baseball game without getting it on me, regardless of any precautions that I take. I like mustard but I don’t like its magnetic properties. Every time I step into our kitchen, Mr. Clean wears a frown, and my working wife is faced with extra work. I’m supposed to by using my free time in retirement to save her time, but “Messy Mike” is a lot like the “Bathroom Beast” in the poem below. 

For years, I wore a suit and tie to work, that I carefully steam-pressed the night before. Being a “sharp dressed man” did not come easy for me. My first years in business, I was known for my shirt-tail hanging out and un-shined shoes. Fortunately, before I met my current wife, I had a boss who taught me how to dress. I’m sure this was an attractive quality during the courting process. However, it could never mask my true identity as “Messy Mikey.” As you may recall, “Mikey liked nothing.” Mikey was John Gilchrist, who starred in the memorable Life cereal “Mikey Likes It,” and eventually went on to become an ad salesman like me. I’m the antithesis of that “Mikey” because I like most everything. It’s my wife that’s the picky eater, and she’s just as picky about her kitchen, not to mention the rest of the house. “Messy Mikey” managed to stay hidden, with the exception of the cabinet incident, until he became exposed in marriage.

She probably knew what she was getting into, after I built a poorly-leveled patio in her back yard, and could only paint the bottom two-thirds of the house because of my fear of heights. Paint to me was also a lot like mustard, hard to avoid making a mess. I remember coming home from work one night and spotting a small area on the garage wall that needed to be touched up. I got out the ladder and opened the can of paint, carefully setting the lid on top of our trash can. I was still in my suit but this was just going to take a minute. Instead, as I was stepping down, I put my foot on the edge of the open can, spilling thick green paint on the garage floor. In the process, I got it on my shoes and on my pant leg. Next, I stripped, putting my clothes in the washer, and used paper toweling to clean up the spill. As I went to throw the used paper towels in the trash can, the lid that I had so carefully placed on top to keep out of the way flipped up and stuck to the wall, slowly sliding down to the floor, as I stared in disbelief. There I was, half-naked, with a streak of green paint on the wall, after it was just a small touch-up job that initially drew my eye. Without getting into further detail, DIY was never my forte. I can easily turn any project into a huge mess. (See Post #107)

“Messy Mikey” was in the kitchen last night (See Post #451) and in the entry hall this morning. I bought some Lock Ease a few weeks ago at the advice of the hardware store guy. He also gave me the wrong-sized washer to supposedly fix our bath room sink leak. That was my most recently attempted DIY project that ended with a call to a plumber instead. Cha-Ching! The Lock Ease comes in a spray can and contains graphite that supposedly won’t gum up your key locks like WD-40. What I didn’t realize was that the oily, black mixture would temporarily stain our white doors, while the errant spray got on the windows and new shutters. What took fifteen minutes to “fix,” ended up taking another hour to properly clean-up. Fortunately, “Messy Mikey” didn’t have to call in a professional. I already paid for one to fix the garage door control panel yesterday, another project that I couldn’t quite master myself. Cha-Ching! In my last three months of retirement, we’ve had to hire an electrician, Maytag man, plumber, water heater specialist, carpet/tile cleaner, and garage door expert. Total cost was more than a single Social Security check. Plus, we helped pay for a water heater at my son’s house. It’s too bad that I’m not known as “Handy Mikey” or “Tidy Mikey.”

Bathroom Beast 

Pigs are messy,
Smelly and crude.
Happy in slop,
Rooting for food.

Whales are slimy,
Giant and wet.
Splish, Splash,
Have you got a net?

Pigs live in sties,
Whales in the sea.
Where did they meet?
How could this be?

Somehow it happened,
That two became one.
This mythical creature,
Weighs more than a ton.

Is it a whale?
With a pig’s snout.
It lives in our bathroom,
And I want it out.

It’s there every morning,
Don’t know where it hides?
Perhaps in the drain,
It boldly resides.

Snout or Spout?
Pink or Blue?
I’ve never seen it.
Have you?

Hogfish?
Moby Swine?
Pig-Whale-aaa,
Works just fine.

Water on the floor,
A ring around the sink.
Towels everywhere,
Don’t know what to think.

Clogged drain,
Counter all wet.
Help me get rid,
Of this unwelcome pet.

Puddles all around,
Not a dry spot in sight.
Little rubber ducky,
Are you all right?

Cap off the toothpaste,
Bottles askew.
Pigwhalea was here,
There’s clue after clue.

I’m very neat,
Each thing has its place.
I look in the mirror,
And see your face.

Brush out of place,
Cosmetics askew.
You’ve done all this,
Pigwhalea is Y-O-U.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

 

No bumps, no bruises, no breaks, and only a few errors would aptly sum up my ski experience these past three days. It’s 44 degrees today so getting off the slopes a bit early was a good idea, as the snow melts and becomes sluggish. Tonight, we’re doing a birthday bash for our friend and financial adviser, Kit, who is celebrating her Medicare birthday today. She’s more than a year behind me in age and is a much better skier. Since I traditionally do a poem every time we get together, it seemed apropos that I deliver this at her party. It’s admittedly silly to match our childish behavior when we all get together, so I decided to have some fun with words that rhyme with Kit. You probably had to have “been there” to understand all the royalty references and other “inside” information, but I’ll share it anyway. 

Lots of words,
Rhyme with Kit.
Before I start.
I should “quit”

How many of them?
Can I work into this?
Some are vulgar,
And will require finesse.

Closing your ears,
Might be better.
When we talk about things,
Under a sweater.

What next to mind,
When you think Kit?
Classy and sexy,
Or full of “wit?”

Behind those glasses,
A woman of steel.
Charmed with smarts,
And friendly appeal.

And what else,
About our friend Kit?
She’s full of energy,
And physically “fit.”

I know what you’re thinking,
I really do.
When will I mention,
The words do-do?

The really good “sh*t,”
I’m saving for last.
As we celebrate Kit,
And sixty-five passed.

And who cares?
More than we?
Medicare does,
We’d all agree.

The bubbly is open,
The candles “lit.”
We’ll open gifts,
In just a “bit.”

We want to proclaim,
Before we all split.
Thanks for your friendship,
We Love you, Kit.

And yes you’re looking,
Young for your age.
Mother of Prescott,
Parker and Sage.

And Peter P******,
Made a huge hit.
When he found,
And married you, Kit.

My wife and I,
Plus, Carol and Barry.
Along with dinner guests.
Hope your day is merry.

That’s Mary Catherine,
Queen of Wall Street.
Thanks to Dora,
For this dining treat.

“Zit” and “spit,”
Didn’t “fit” for “shit.”
Nor “mitt” and “pit.”
And you don’t “knit.”

But there’s a phrase,
That came from Kit.
And it’s now time,
To unveil “it.”.

On the throne,
She likes to “sit.”
If she had two balls,
She’d be King Kit.

It’s “Good to be King,”
Robe and all.
So take no “sh*t,” Kit.
And have a ball.

copyright2018 johnstonwrites.com

 

While I was still working and needed to fill time, I would clear my mind of thoughts and jot them down in my OneNote app. I might write a few lines. or make a note on something that I saw or heard. In some cases, even years later, I would finish what I started and transfer the final product to my growing collection of poems. This morning I completed one of these “unfinished symphonies.” The first half doesn’t necessarily match my current state of mind, since it tends to be a bit darker than the ending.

Clouds of Doubt

,

Plenty of clouds,

A whole lot of rain.

Sometimes I think,

I might go insane.

.

I’m far from famous,

No worth to my name.

More moments of peace,

Than flashes of fame.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

And the more misfortune,

You’ve had to endure.

.

What we accomplish,

Defines who we are.

Whether the President,

Or behind the bar.

.

If I weren’t what I am,

What would I be?

And If I were blind,

What would I see?

.

Is the grass greener,

On the other side?

Have you been successful,

Or haven’t yet tried?

.

Are games your life,

Or your life but a game?

Is it full of glory,

Or filled with shame?

.

Is all that you’re after,

Those material things?

Or is life more than,

Collecting brass rings?

.

What is it,

That you’re missing?

Whose derriere,

Needs kissing?

.

Lots of questions,

Clouds of doubt.

What is good living,

Really all about?

.

Should you think less,

Or is there more?

What does the future,

Have in store?

 .

Will there be rainbows,

And a pot of gold?

Will there be happiness,

When you get old?

 .

Will the clouds part,

And blue skies appear?

Or will you have to wait,

Until next year?

 .

Who has the answers,

And what do they cost?

Will there be solutions,

Or will all be lost?

.

Life is a mystery,

With no guarantees.

It can lift you up,

Or take out your knees.

 .

It’s all up to you,

Sunshine or rain?

Why are you smiling,

With others in pain?

 .

Try to find balance,

Learn to give back,

Share what you have,

Don’t step on a crack.

 .

What’s the message?

How does this end?

Don’t take more love,

Than you can send.

.

Copyright 2018 johnstonwrites.com

 

It’s always an adventure when I get behind the wheel of a car. The near-sighted cartoon character Mr. Magoo, voiced by Jim Backus, comes to mind. Especially at night on these dark Portland roads when it’s raining, it really gets interesting. My wife is not shy about giving me driving instructions, so this only adds to the tension, as Siri tries to guide us to a Chinese restaurant. Often in Portland the route takes you out of the way to avoid traffic congestion, and there always seems to be disagreement on the best way there. The environmentalist influence in this area keeps street lights to a minimum, so the lethal combination of old age, darkness, twisting roads, a wet windshield, and cautious commuters makes any drive extremely stressful. Both driver and passenger were relieved to finally arrive at the restaurant safely.

I often joke about my wife striking the Heisman pose as I drive, one hand pressed against the dashboard in a protective stance. I’d probably do the same thing if both hands weren’t on the steering wheel. I’m also extremely bad with directions, so I try to welcome her back-eat driving. When she’s not with me, I end up in the strangest predicaments and often lost. However, trying to follow both Siri and her instructions at the same time can be additionally frustrating. In retirement, I only venture out there a few times each week now, so the lack of regularity only adds to my lack of confidence. I recently purchased a 1957 Saturday Night Post magazine on Ebay, specifically interested in a baseball article on one of my childhood favorites. (See Post # 406).

In trying to find a little more value in my purchase, I began to peruse some of the ads and took particular interest in the cover. We’re all certainly familiar with Norman Rockwell and his contributions through the years, but there was another illustrator that designed 115 Post covers between 1948-1962. His name is George Hughes and his signature is on the cover of this particular issue. As co-workers, he and Norman Rockwell both settled in the same Vermont neighborhood area, taking advantage of the beautiful scenery to provide creative energy. This particular cover considered one of his best was titled, “Mixed Exit,” as Post editors poked fun at misplaced signage on highways that were difficult to navigate. As they noted in reference to this common complaint: “high-speed turnpikes are wonderful inventions…except for a few bugs that need to be ironed out, such as exit signs moving by too fast.” The illustration features a blue convertible with a couple engaged in an obvious argument after missing their turn onto Highway M-20. She’s leaning out of the car pointing a finger at the exit sign behind them, while he ponders what to do next, while surrounded by unhelpful warnings like “No Stopping,” No U-Turn,” and “Next Exit 52 miles.” I could see my wife and I in this very situation.  She would be right and I would be both wrong and sorry, as this little poem wisely advocates:

 

I’m Sorry, You’re Right, I’m Wrong

.

I was wisely advised,

A long time ago.

Of nine little words,

I needed to know.

.

I’m sorry,

You’re right,

 I’m wrong.

.

In patching a friendship,

Keeping peace with a spouse.

Words that will keep you,

From the dog house.

.

 You’re right,

 I’m sorry,

 I’m wrong.

.

Use these nine magic words,

The order is up to you.

Say them with meaning,

Any combination will do.

.

I’m wrong,

 You’re right,

I’m sorry.

.

It’s what to say,

When you’re a jerk.

Healing words,

That really work.

.

I’m wrong.

I’m sorry.

You’re right. 

.

A lesson to learn,

In the game of life.

Words of wisdom,

Between husband and wife.

.

I’m sorry,

I’m wrong.

You’re right,

.

Say them with meaning,

And often repeat.

I promise these words,

Will lower the heat.

.

You’re right,

 I’m wrong.

I’m sorry,

.

Six combinations,

Nine words any way.

Old fashioned math,

Keeps trouble at bay.

.

You’re right,

 I’m sorry,

 I’m wrong.

.

Always wrong or sorry,

When you have a fight.

Just remember,

You’re never right.

.

I’m sorry,

You’re right,

 I’m wrong.

 .

johnstonwrites.com

Copyright April 2009

.

These “words of wisdom” are credited to a former boss of mine, and have become an important part of my philosophy with any partnership. I can safely say that I’m usually wrong when it comes to directions, so driving is always a challenge. I have missed so many exits and made so many wrong turns that I no longer have any confidence in getting from Point A to Point B. For some inexplicable reason, I still try to argue, but ultimately I resort to these “9 little words” that always end in “sorry.”