The Geezer Monster - Episode 5

 

Mild Cognitive Impairment

Bear with me while I’m serious - just for a paragraph or two. Elderly folks suffer from cognitive impairment to some degree more than do the general population. The more serious cases require some level of special care and some even need to take up residence at Shady Pines. Most of us, however, learn to live with a slight slow-down of the old cranial processing unit by recognizing the problem and installing software patches that work around the neurological roadblocks.

Please understand that nothing in this epistle is intended to disrespect or humiliate those with these chronic geriatric mental deficiencies. We are thankful that our handicaps are slight and chose to ease the burden they pose by making light of them. We have a great deal of sympathy for those whose mom doesn’t recognize them any longer and for the awful pain that situation causes.

Now, before I lose my train of thought, let me enlighten you about how The Geezer Monster tries to make life miserable for those of us who experience a mental glitch or two now and then but aren’t yet ready for Shady Pines. This very morning, while engaged in an intense conversation with my regular coffee klatch comrades, I got eventually to the point of my argument and absolutely could not find the words to illuminate my hypothesis. My train of thought simply left the station without me, suffered a massive derailment, and there were no survivors! I’ve noticed that this happens more frequently as the years go by - both in my own efforts at postulation as well as in the sermons of my peers. I take no serious concern over these occurrences because someone with my magnificent command of the English language and status as valedictorian at the Jethro Bodine School of Mathematics surely could not be correctly diagnosed as senile (I hope). Besides, I can still remember what the red, six-sided traffic sign means even if I can’t read what the letters say and my car remembers the way home when I don’t.

One of the ways we work around our diminished ability to store information and quickly retrieve it is to disregard bits of data we determine are completely or marginally useless. The number of ounces in a medium-sized cup of coffee at our regular hangout is twelve. This is an important data point because the cute little barista frowns at me when I order a medium cup of bold and politely but firmly corrects me by repeating: “Twelve ounce, right?”. So, it’s necessary for me to remember that there are twelve ounces in a medium cup of coffee at the place we hold our klatch. The number of ounces in a gallon, on the other hand, is useless information, at least until Brandon gets the price of gasoline so high we begin to have to calculate it on a per-ounce basis. 

“I can’t make your lunch! I told you last week I had a hair appointment today.” this is something I hear from SWMBO in a tone of voice that clearly implies contempt for the accuracy of my memory. Her coiffeur maintenance schedule may be important to her but it’s a piece of data I do not have enough storage capacity to retain. If we were talking about a brain surgery appointment that would be different, but forgetting about her trip to the hair house is hardly a valid reason to threaten me with a visit to Shady Pines. I thought about asking her if she’d prefer I remember her stylist schedule or her wedding anniversary but decided her answer would be something I’d rather not hear. 

The Geezer Monster well understands the phenomenon of limited cranial storage capacity in our generation. Three of us geezers meet frequently over coffee to solve the world’s problems. The Geezer Monster’s spies have discovered our meeting schedule and he shows up like clockwork. The vicious little ogre waits patiently until our conversation takes on a serious and semi-complicated tenor, at which time he flashes a totally unrelated but important thought into the subconscious of the one about to make an important point. Telepathy is a mysterious and powerful tool in the little fellow’s bag of tricks. It is terribly disconcerting to be pontificating on the virtues of capitalism vs. communism, only to visualize Bo Derek running along the beach just as the punchline is about to erupt. A truthful explanation for the lapse is too embarrassing to report, so “Sorry, I lost my train of thought.” is the only viable phrase available.

One of my comrades in our group, Dr. Double, is more often the target of the monster’s “Train of Thought” telepathy weapon than I. He has devised a unique defense for the monster’s thought projection scheme that seems to have some merit. We bring a few extra paper napkins to the table for the occasional spill or runny nose. Dr. Double usually takes out his ballpoint pen early on and gathers one of the napkins to his location for quick use. As he formulates his position on a given subject and begins to pontificate, he will jot down a word or two or make a crude drawing on the napkin. This way, when the picture of Bo Derek flashes into his mind he can quickly glance at the napkin and maintain his sermon on the evils of communism without missing a beat. When he does this I can see in my mind’s eye the little green Geezer Monster slinking off to his dunce chair over in the corner of the room.

Defeating the Geezer Monster, even if only in a minor skirmish, is one of life’s most prized accomplishments in our little corner of the world. 

The other two of us have not yet found a shield for the monster’s train of thought derailment weapon. Fortunately, we all understand the problem and its cause so we don’t have to feel embarrassed when it happens. We also understand that this slight neurological short circuit is not indicative of any massive network failure. The fact that I can remember who starred with Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca (Ingrid Bergman) but can’t remember what I had for breakfast (corn flakes & prunes) is not a symptom of anything beyond a natural inclination to disregard useless data bits. As long as I remember how to get to the coffee shop, which day to go there, and how to get home without any unplanned detours I figure the old cranial gonkulator is working well enough. Moreover, Google Maps on my iPhone will talk me through the route to the grocery store if SWMBO asks me to stop by for more prunes on my way home.

Another indication that we’re not yet ready for Shady Pines is that we can program our cell phones to perform some of the helpful tasks without enlisting the aid of the grandkids. One useful feature of the phone is to sound an alert on the day and time of an important event - at least if we can remember to set up the alert in the first place. For instance, if properly prepared the iPhone will make a noise and show prearranged words on its screen. There are several choices for the sound and the message shown is customizable. After several instances of forgotten pill-taking, SWMBO suggested (demanded) I set up an alarm to remind myself to take my evening meds at dinnertime. After setting the reminder up on the phone, I canceled it several times because I remembered the event before the alarm was scheduled to activate. 

Eventually, I forgot. Just as I was about to take the first bite out of a delicious bleu-cheese burger a noise came from my pants pocket that sounded like two orangutans were making love and one wasn’t in the mood. The sound was horrific and there was abundant panic in the effort to shut it off. The Geezer Monster had turned up the volume on the iPhone to its “Jet Engine at Take-off Power” setting and at that level the “Romantic Orangutan” soundtrack became utterly debilitating. I managed to silence the devilish device just as SWMBO came running into the room asking if she should call 911. My efforts resulted in the disappearance of the preprogrammed “Take Your Evening Meds” message as well as silencing the gorillas. With the emergency under control, I breathed a long sigh of relief and went happily back to the burger. Later, when I announced my intention to go to bed, SWMBO casually asked if I’d taken my evening meds, the conscientious and loving caregiver that she is. 

At this point, I was faced with a difficult dilemma. I could admit that the Geezer Monster had successfully distracted my response to the reminder, which would lead to a lengthy discussion of how to include Shady Pines’ fees into the household budget. Alternatively, I could lie. I went to bed with a prayer that 1.) I wouldn’t die of vitamin deficiency overnight, and 2.) that I'd be forgiven for “justifiable prevarication.”

The little green bastid chalked up a W in this round. It was only a battle, however, and not the war.

The Geezer Monster - Episode 4

 

Sockless at the Range

Those of us who have traveled far enough down our path through the garden of life to be promoted to the rank of Geezeer have been endowed with various skills, as well as a few disabilities. We’ve achieved this status, not by surpassing any of the achievements of our peers, but by merely surviving the many instances of our own stupidity and the curve balls life throws at everyone from time to time. A few of us arrive at our “graduation ceremony” completely unscathed, sporting the minds and bodies of whippersnappers despite our chronology. Most, however, carry a few battle scars, some of which are the result of a life well-lived while others are simply the result of normal wear and tear.

Lots of normal bodily functions don’t work as well for Geezers as they do for whippersnappers. Fortunately, medical science has developed the equivalent of a software patch for many of our disabilities - the “little blue pill” comes to mind - but not everything we suffer can be controlled by a trip to CVS or a quick “snip ‘n stitch” in the outpatient surgery. We simply have to find a work-around for the mild-to-moderate bodily function failures we can’t get repaired. Unfortunately, The Geezer Monster is very adept at recognizing the deficiencies in each of us and uses them as “soft targets” to make easy his job of malevolence. The Monster is superbly adept at hacking our software patches.

This morning I was managing a minor - at the time - gastroenterology malfunction which had scheduled itself to be in conflict with my departure time for an important engagement. Clearly, the issue could not be overlooked and any attempt to delay dealing with it would likely have embarrassing adverse consequences later in the day. We Geezers have learned that this kind of thing must be dealt with immediately. “Damn the torpedos, full speed ahead” is not only foolhardy but has the very real possibility of permanent social ex-communication. So, “I’ll be a few minutes late. Go ahead and start without me.” goes out over the cell phone network.

Now, arriving late is a major faux pas for folks in our generation. Our rule is “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is inexcusable!”  “No excuse, Sir.” Not that any of the other guys would make a big deal out of it, or even acknowledge the blunder in etiquette, but showing up late is a distraction of not insignificant magnitude for the offender. The gaffe causes serious, if not indelible, confusion for some period of time, and The Geezer Monster knows this.

My comrades did not belittle me nor even mention my tardiness but my set-up activities at the session were somewhat erratic due to a tardiness-induced loss of focus. I could feel their eyes upon me as I struggled to make my actions seem nonchalant. With some extra effort, I got my gear unpacked and placed in locations appropriate for my intended activities. I began to prepare for today’s exercises when one of the guys reminded me to anoint myself with insect repellant, as we do every time to prevent tick bites. It is a well-known fact that Covid, Monkeypox, and Male pregnancy can be transmitted by the bite of the notorious Alabama Brown Recluse.

One of the accouterments I bring to every one of these meetings, along with insect repellant, drinking water, band-aids, and sunscreen is a spray bottle of herbicide I use to combat the crop of poison ivy that adorns our meeting venue. The concoction I use is a homemade solution of a chemical outlawed by the World Health Organization (WHO) several years ago when it found that the active ingredient was instantly lethal to humans in even minuscule amounts. It works much better on poison ivy than any of the newfangled stuff, though, and I got some of the concentrate free from a retired railroad worker. A little extra care when mixing and applying it seems a fair trade-off for its excellent efficacy and dramatic cost savings.

As you may have guessed by now, The Geezer Monster was lurking at my side this morning, and took advantage of my distracted demeanor to place the bottle of herbicide into my hand when I reached for the insect repellant.  Never mind that the bottles are significantly different in size, shape, and color. By the time I noticed his egregious sleight of hand, I had anointed my left ankle with a stout dose of the WHO-banned weapon of mass destruction. The thought of just saying “Oops” and pressing on with my duties crossed my mind (I don’t think the other guys saw my mistake) but the word “lethal” then came to mind and discretion became the better part of valor. 

I sat down and removed the sock from my left foot, doused the ankle with a bit of drinking water, wiped it off with a paper towel, and replaced the boot. I soon found that having one sock on and one sock off added to my overall state of distraction so I removed the right sock as well. Going completely sockless, even in high-top boots (The Full Monte of the Phalanges) is less distracting than “Lopsided Nude Foot Syndrome. Since I’m alive to tell the story, the WHO either over-estimated the efficacy of this particular chemical (Surprise, Surprise!) or I got my socks off just in time.

Walking around in work boots with no socks is not the worst thing ever to happen to a person of my advanced age but the abnormal feeling of leather rubbing on superannuated epidermis is not easily ignored. I had important matters to address in today’s session that simply could not be adequately evaluated while enduring the humiliation of tardiness combined with the unnatural feeling in my lower extremities. I was sure that The Geezer Monster was reveling in the satisfaction of having demolished my state of well-being. The picture I had in my mind’s eye of that little devil giggling at my discomfort caused me massive mental anguish. Chalk up a big win today for the Monster.

Due to a rare moment of lucid thought, I avoided a terrible social mortification later in the day by promptly addressing my gastric problem even though the tardiness it promulgated led to a distraction with serious consequences. My handgun accuracy was severely diminished, which I attribute to the fact that I was shooting sockless: a well-known marksmanship handicap. I shall now have to pack an extra pair of socks in my accessory kit, just in case something like this happens again to me or one of my comrades. My friends have assured me that She Who Must Be Obeyed (SWMBO) will not hear of the incident, lest she demands my immediate transport to WHO’s Geneva Sanitorium for Toxic Chemical Prevarications.

The Geezer Monster has struck again! This time, even in retrospect, I can think of no defense to prevent or deflect this kind of attack. Sometimes the confluence of events simply lines up in his favor and the wicked little leprechaun is quick enough to take advantage of the situation. Fortunately, Geezers are tough and resilient enough to survive and fight another day.

Find the next episode HERE

The Geezer Monster - Episode 3

 

Karen - The Geezer Monster’s Daughter

In episode 1 of The Geezer Monster, I tried to explain the phenomenon that plagues many senior citizens in today’s world - the paranormal ogre, known as The Geezer Monster, that stalks us. I explained that The Geezer Monster is a powerful force from the dark side. It delights in making life difficult, if not downright dangerous, for those of us who suffer from a diminished capacity in some or many facets of our everyday existence. Karen is its malevolent offspring, whose narcissistic viewpoint is that geezers are merely impediments to the smooth flow of modern society and should be dealt with in the same manner as an unwanted pregnancy.

Many geezers have adopted a great fear of The Geezer Monster and a severe dislike of Karen. These folks have allowed these two nemeses, the Monster and his daughter, to exert unnecessary control over their lives by granting them more power than they deserve. Karen can be ignored by adopting an attitude of pity rather than scorn. The Geezer Monster can be held at bay, if not defeated, by understanding its methods and turning its parapsychology against it. Let me explain …

Karen: “Will you please hurry up and get out of the way so I can order my latte and get on with my life, you old fogey!” 

Geezer: “Yes, young lady, I’ll gladly expedite my activities if you’ll provide me with some shits to give about your needs.”

Karen: “Quit shambling along the cart path, I’m late for an appointment at my Brazilian wax salon.”

Geezer: “So sorry, M’Lady, the world will surely be a better place when it doesn’t have to look at the pet orangutan peeking out from your tennis shorts.”

As I explained in Episode 2, The Geezer Monster can be at least temporarily nullified if met with a coordinated effort from like-minded compadres focused on a singular goal of thwarting his mischief. Likewise, Karen can be neutralized by a little light-hearted “in your face” retort. Her evil psyche dissolves like the Wicked Witch of the West when sprinkled with holy water, and we Geezers have been around long enough to have heard them all.

After a regular Saturday-morning breakfast convocation with my ROMEO (Retired Old Men Eating Out) chapter, I needed to stop by a gas station to fill up the car and the can for the lawnmower. The station I normally use has pumps oriented for vehicles with fill ports on the right side and other pumps positioned for those with fill ports on the left. I like the fact that my car has its port on the right because there are fewer of us and we tend to find unoccupied pumps more often. It is possible to use what I will call a “right side pump” on a vehicle with the port on the left side but the driver needs to have a relatively small vehicle, needs to park in a slightly unorthodox way, and needs to struggle a bit to get the full length of the hose positioned around/over the vehicle. Most reasonable “left side drivers” simply wait a few minutes longer for a pump with the correct orientation to open up.

I pulled up to a right-side pump, in my right-side vehicle, clearly within the zone of reasonableness for my intended activity, and left plenty of room for another right-side vehicle to pull up to the unoccupied right-side pump behind me. I even chose between the forward of the two unoccupied pumps because leaving the pump behind me free would make it easier for someone to use it instead of having to pull around to use a pump in front of me. Most Geezers are pretty considerate. Now, I was moving right along, neither hurrying nor dawdling, with my filling of both the vehicle and the lawnmower can when Karen pulled up behind me.

I immediately noticed that her vehicle was somewhat larger than the average 18-wheeler even though it was shaped in the likeness of a standard minivan. I also could not help but notice, despite my geriatrically diminished auditory capacity, that several children inside the minivan/tank were engaged in a World-Class shouting contest. The ear-splitting screeching emanating from Karen’s vehicle was clearly, IMHO, a misdemeanor disturbance of the peace but I decided the reporting of such a violation, with subsequent red tape, would be less than worthwhile. Besides, I was almost done with my fueling chore.

As I was returning the fuel nozzle to the pump I noticed Katen struggling with the hose on her pump, trying to get it to wrap around her oversized vehicle, which was, remember, a left-side vehicle parked at a right-side pump. I giggled to myself, congratulating Karma this morning for rewarding Karen so quickly for her narcissistic impatience in choosing the unoccupied right-side pump instead of waiting for a more appropriate left-side pump. At that point, I got “The Look” from Karen. I know all about The Look because I get it at home from time to time and SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed) is not to be trifled with when dispensing The Look. This helped me decide that discretion was the better part of valor as I considered an appropriate response to Karen’s visage, so I started to close the back door of my vehicle in preparation for a quiet and orderly departure.

At that point, I heard Karen say something that was distorted by the continuing screeching of the mini-devils in the minivan and I hesitated, as I usually do, to try to understand what has been said to me. There was no way I could have helped her anyway, considering how cavalierly she had parked the behemoth. Karen misinterpreted my hesitation as indifference, I suppose, and, dropping the fueling hose, she approached me closer with a demand in a very strong tone: “You could move your car out of my way, old man, instead of gawking at me!”

Now, I’d just come from an enjoyable gathering with my ROMEO comrades and was feeling moderately at peace with the world. This worked in Karen’s favor. Instead of adopting my standard anti-Karen defense protocol as described above, a brainstorm of unimaginable brilliance came over me. Lord only knows how I could have devised such an ingenious response in such a short time. I’d had a very nice, very filling breakfast only a short time before and was experiencing gastric pressure of a significant but completely manageable magnitude. Had no one arrived while I was fueling, I had planned to add some of my personal probiotic aroma to the scent of fuel already permeating the local atmosphere. Being polite, however, I clinched the geriatric sphincter when I saw what I thought was a young lady get out of the vehicle behind me. Now that the misconception had been clarified about how the term “Lady” should be applied in this case, my ad hoc Karen Defense protocol was locked and loaded.

Upon hearing “... out of my way, old man …” my anus took the shape of Louis Armstrong’s lips on his trumpet, the sphincter released,  and several liters of high-pressure organic flatulence escaped in a loud refrain that sounded a lot like The Battle Hymn of the Republic. The look on Karen’s face was memorable. I turned and walked away.

She could probably make a case for assault. I’m waiting for the police to show up but they haven’t yet. They’re probably laughing too hard. If I have to do time for my aromatic gesture it’ll be worth it. I’ll become the Joan of Arc of the Geezer Nation.

Find the next episode HERE

The Geezer Monster - Episode 2

 

Posnoggeration

Most Geezers don’t have to get up and go to work every day. They’ve taken the off-ramp from that path through the garden of life and passed on to a route with lower speed limits and better scenery. This so-called “scenic route” also provides access to many destinations not easily found on the main highway. Traveling the scenic route allows us to take a day off from drudgery any time we want, as long as we’re caught up on the household chores assigned by SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed). Electronic banking has even relieved us of the obligation to meet the postman to get our Social Security checks. We can just throw a bag of our toys in the back of the car and meet up with other geezers for a day of fun & games, topped off with a session of kicking lies and telling tires. These are the days of our lives - filled with sunshine (we use rainy days for SWMBO chores), shits, giggles, and never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story.

As nice as all this sounds, the Geezer Monster is fully aware of our plans for frivolity by the time we all agree on a meeting place. He has a part-time job at the CIA and NSA. Before we walk on to the first tee the bastard has developed a plan to hook the drive or shank the chip shot. As we learned in the last episode, he’s figured out which gun part to hide in our belt buckle or how to distract a comrade from assisting with acute observation. The monster is relentless, persistent, and diabolically imaginative. We must, therefore, be Semper Paratus and Semper Vigilans, for against The Geezer Monster - praevalēbimus (bonus points for the first reader to guess the translation).

One of the most common of the monster’s shenanigans is adjusting our memory. Just like we used to adjust the rabbit ears on the old TV sets, The Geezer Monster reaches in and twists our neuron pathways so that they produce what we call a posnoggeration. In this situation, thoughts racing through their cranial conduits are given false directional signals and wind up colliding with one another before reaching their destination. I came into the bedroom to get my slippers, SWMBO hollered something I couldn’t understand from the other room, I stepped on the cat’s tail, now I’ve got to pee, and I don’t know why I’m here in the first place. That’s a posnoggeration, and the only possible favorable outcome is to get to the bathroom in time.

Today, as I was leaving the house for an outing with one of my regular comrades, SWMBO ask me to drive by the Post Office and drop off a letter in the mailbox. During today’s journey, I will pass the PO location, but not until I’ve attended to several important duties which involve industrial-strength frivolity and massive absorption of caffeine. Knowing that the Geezer Monster has already been informed of this prime opportunity for mischief, I hesitated; not because I didn’t want to help her out but because I didn’t want the mental abuse that would come from an admission, upon my return home, that: “I’m sorry, my Queen, I plumb forgot.” I don’t need any more reminders that my memory isn’t what it used to be and that she’ll be making a reservation for me at Shady Pines. I decided to take a chance, however, and score a point or two by performing an extra “honey-do” that wasn’t on this week’s list. 

I resolved to enlist my comrade in devising a defensive battle plan to thwart the monster from promulgating a posnoggeration regarding my USPS duties. I placed the letter in a prominent place near the gear-shift lever of the car so as to remind me to enlist my frater in armis (another bonus point for the translation) in the effort to come up with a plan of defense. When I got to our first meeting place I had to move the letter to park the car, so I was reminded to engage my comrade in a discussion. I was proud of myself for remembering, unaided, what the letter was for and why it was perched on the console of the car. I told my friend about my plan and he praised me for having dreamed up such an auspicious strategy to defeat the monster. He agreed that if we both put forth maximum effort we might just score a victory for the good guys this day.

The sun shone brightly on our session of throwing lead pebbles at a berm, a light breeze wafted over our joviality, and good-natured insults were freely exchanged. The Geezers were in their element and the monster was nowhere to be seen. Or so it seemed.

After solving all the world’s problems during the ingestion of sweet potato fries and savory java, my friend and I sauntered out to the parking lot to mount or iron steeds for the trip home. We both blurted out the punch line of our plan to defeat the monster: “Stop by the post office. Stop by the post office. Stop by the post office.” Repeating it, together, out loud, three times, just before the final leg of the journey, we reasoned, would stymie the monster’s attempt at posnoggeration. It worked. I remembered to stop by the PO on my way home to mail the letter. I had it placed in a prominent location in the car that would also be convenient to reach through the driver’s window and drop in the PO box. I was THAT close to defeating the monster and earning a bonus point from SWMBO - all in one fell swoop. Woo Hoo!

Not so fast, there, pilgrim.

The normal route from where I parted with my friend to my home takes me past the PO. I’ve lived in my little town and driven that route almost daily for 30 years. To say I’m familiar with every bump in the road, pebble on the centerline, and driveway cut along the route would be a massive understatement. I absolutely know where the damned Post Office is. It’s been in the same place at the same intersection for as long as I’ve lived in this town. All I have to do is make one extra left turn, drop off the letter, and finish the two-mile drive home. While congratulating myself for my heroic podium finish in today’s memory contest and jousting with the monster, I noticed that I had passed the PO. Apparently, nobody told the car it was supposed to turn left at that intersection and it was just motoring straight on home like always.

For about a nonosecond I reasoned I could just tell SWMBO that I’d mailed the letter and then manufacture some excuse to go out again “to pick something up at the hardware store” but experience told me that she’s got even better ESP than the Monster. At best I’d get the “Shady Pines” lecture and at worst there’d be another dent in the frying pan. So, a u-turn was executed at the next safe spot and I made it back to the PO and then on to the house without further incident.

Did I defeat the Monster? You be the judge. The letter got mailed just like I promised it would. There was an extra mile or so of driving involved and an extra ounce or two of expensive gasoline consumed but the damned letter was safely delivered to the clutches of the United States damned Postal Service. Today, as far as I’m concerned, I beat The Geezer Monster.

Find the next episode HERE