Sweets, Sex and Sixties

“You may have noticed we have no sex lives. As a result, there's lots of chocolate in this house.”

― Keryl Raist

When I woke up this morning, my wife asked, “Would you like a cookie?”

My reply was, “That sounds so gross right now.”

What she actually said was “quickie,” and if she starts talking to me again,

I’m sure we’ll laugh and laugh.

-Kenneth Goorabian

If you were standing outside our bedroom door in the morning, you might think we’d been“in flagrante delicto.” Oh, how I wish it were true. I actually make those moans and groans every day when I get out of bed.

Growing old can certainly be trying. Not only does one’s hearing begin to falter, but the memory as well. This last one isn’t so bad now, as I’ve finally memorized the way to the bathroom in the dark due to the frequent trips. I confess, my aim’s not what it once was. Then again, it’s not like I’m shooting at intruders.

One fun thing I’ve noticed as I’ve matured (like a fine wine), is an increased appetite for sweets. I believe I could live on frozen yogurt and neon sour gummy worms if I had to.  If pressed to choose between sex or frozen treats, I’d be inclined to order a side-by-side freezer for the bedroom. It’s come to the point that when I see a beautiful woman walk by, my only sinful thought is wondering if she has a Snickers in her purse. Is that odd?

Confession: I just ate a chocolate and vanilla ice cream bar during the writing of this piece.

Sweets cover a multitude of sins.

K.G.

Larry, Moe and Curling

It’s Olympics time again, my sporting aficionados; and I’m hunkered down in front of the TV with one hand on the remote and the other clutching a candy bar. Okay, it’s not exactly candy. It’s a faux chocolate, protein bar that tastes something like a dead wax-dipped gopher stuffed with peanut-flavored Play-Doh. Just my wife’s way of keeping me healthy and alive. Bless her “all natural” little heart.

Like most of you, I love the swimming, gymnastics, track and field and stuff. Oh, and the women’s beach volleyball. I admit to having some trouble staying focused on the game due to the wardrobe selection, but generally manage keep my eye on the ball.

Here’s where my problem lies. I am a curling fan. There, I said it. I hear some of you (my spouse included) snickering. We have spirited discussions on whether or not curling is an actual sport. Granted, speed, acrobatic prowess and jumping abilities aren’t essential in this highly skilled, chess-like sport (yes, it’s a sport), and the outfits are less than titillating, but it might be my only chance of attaining Olympic greatness.

This dawned on me as I sat in the Laz-Z-Boy watching my wife sweep outside. I could do that. I can wield a broom like nobody’s business. I realized that at my age I had all the fundamental skills necessary to take the curling world by storm.

I spent years cursing the trees for their incessant shedding of needles and leaves on my patio and walkway when like a towering, shaggy-headed Mr. Miyagi’s (watch Karate Kid) they had been preparing me for my run at the gold.

Ah, who am I kidding? My desire to sweep my way to curling fame is vastly outweighed by my desire to snack and nap.

Better wrap this up. My wife is scowling at me through the window. Doesn’t she realize that cleaning up the backyard is not a job, but a path to Olympic glory?

By the look on her face I would say not.

K.G.

No Way You’re Going to Make a Monkey Out of Me

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I shaved one of those monkeys.”

-God to Michael

If evolution is true, why aren’t my arms longer so I don’t need glasses?

-Kenneth Goorabian

I assume Darwin sat around watching chimps one day and thought, hey, they look just like me. We must be related. Hmmm…

If that supposition holds true, then turtles must be aliens because they look an awful lot like E.T. sans the shell. Wait a minute.  A turtle’s shell is saucer-shaped and very similar in appearance to a UFO. Am I the first one to make this connection?  Just blew my own mind.

It’s my belief that life would be easier if we were monkeys. Getting our recommended intake of fruit and veggies without complaint would be eliminated, we’d be totally oblivious to the awesomeness of pizza, deep fried chicken wings and Twinkies, swinging in the trees is great exercise and we could run around naked. Plus, having a hairy back wouldn’t be a turn-off to the opposite sex.

Just think, if I were a monkey I could have skipped all the trepidation in high school when ordered to climb the rope. I’d have scampered up that thing like poop (ask your grandpa) through a goose, all the while grinnin’ like a … well, like a monkey.

I pondered this as I shaved my chest and back. Unfortunately I am more simian than I would like.

Maybe we are actually de-evolving. After all, monkeys have long arms and don’t wear glasses. Think about it.

K.G.

If Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder, When will He be Holdin’ Me? (Excerpt from A Boomer’s Adventures in Cyber-Dating)

Welcome all seekers of cyber love and romance. 

It’s been said there's a soul mate out there for every one of us. No matter if you look like Quasimodo, smell like a yak, have more hair than an orangutan, or less teeth than a Louisiana gator hunter, the guy or gal of your dreams is somewhere waiting for you with a hump massage, aromatic shampoo, a stiff back comb, and a dental referral. This is very good information to know. I'm comforted by this. We're all wonderfully made by a loving God who has put it upon another’s heart to see beyond our warts and wrinkles and get a glimpse of our inner beauty.

Can I get an Amen?

One factor that plays a major role in our quest for true love is patience. I was going to add a second, panic, but we are not that desperate are we? Of course we aren’t.

Patience:  The ability to endure delay.

Ouch. Endure and delay are words most of us aren't fond of. But we forget that a simple jaunt to the 7-11 by our ancestors involved hours of staring at the hind quarters of a horse, and a trip abroad on an ocean-going vessel with fewer creature comforts than the local Motel 6 could take weeks. How’s that for patience? I imagine the lovely lad or lassie that we wooed with our perfect penmanship and flowery repartee might be married with children long before our declaration of undying love was delivered by the local postman.

A sweet lady sent me the following question on cyber-dating:

“Guys flood my inbox with email, but before I can even answer they send another saying they are moving on. What gives?”

My response was as follows:

“When wandering through a valley awash with thousands of beautiful flowers of every color and hue, some just don't have the patience to wait for a particular rose to bloom.”

Patience (along with Elvis) has left the building. We live in a society of instant gratification, instant oatmeal and instant messaging. We get miffed if someone at Starbucks orders an extra drizzle on their mocha frappucinno, or question the basic addition skills of the person in front of us in the 15-items-or-less lane at the grocery store who has obviously overstepped the boundaries of all fairness by having ignored the posted limit.

 

Patience, when it comes to romantic endeavors, is of the utmost importance. I have been accused of having little (or none). I’ll admit the lady was right. I had a propensity to slap a big old Evinrude outboard on the row boat of love and strangle the throttle for all it’s worth.

Do you rush into relationships? Maybe your biological Timex is ticking so loud it’s keeping you awake at night, or perhaps your mother is getting tired of doing your laundry and wants to turn the doublewide’s spare room into a Wayne Newton shrine.

Whatever the case, you must learn to gently tap the brakes of your emotions or run the risk of whizzing by the huge red flags alerting you to the fact that the swiftly approaching bridge of happiness is closed for repairs. Stop and smell the roses so you’ll be certain that nasty virtual smell is actually fertilizer and not something your future love bunny has stepped in and will never be able to completely scrape off the bottom of their shoe.

Crawling through the virtual weeds in order to find the perfect flower takes loads of patience and persistence. This can be harder than finding the perfect pair of jeans. You ladies should relate to this. They shouldn’t be too tight or clingy as to restrict freedom of movement. They must have a little room to grow; be soft and comfortable, like an old friend; the stitching strong; the materials impeccable; not so long that we step all over them; the right color; the right style; hold us in all the right places; flatter us; make us feel good about ourselves; and never wear out. Impossible you say?

Hmmm…  Impossible for us, perhaps, but with God, all things are possible.

Choose wisely my friends.

K.G.

This is my Brain on Drugs

La, la, la, spring is here. Birds are chirping, flowers are blooming and meds are being re-evaluated in an attempt at drool control.

For those who read my drivel (Hi, Mom), I apologize for not keeping up my end of the bargain by putting fingers to keyboard. Time -among other unmentionable things- has a tendency

to shrink as I grow older.

Why, back in my day…

I swore those words would never leave my lips, along with “Get offa' my lawn,” and my personal favorite, “Honey, could you add Depends to the grocery list?" Well, so much for that.

Oh, how I wish I could go back. During childhood, hours seemed like days, and weeks like years. As a youngster, in the time it now takes me to relieve myself in the morning, I could've caught a frog, road my bike ten miles, and totally irritated the old lady next door with incessant attempts at playing the perfect E chord at ear-shattering volume until she called the police.

Ah, those were the good ‘ol days, weren’t they?

Here are three things I would do if I could go back in time.

1.  Pay more attention in English class (punctuation sucks!).

2.  Use paper-route money to buy stock in Disney, Apple and Microsoft.

3.  Find my wife. (Ew, wait. If I was thirteen, she’d be three. Strike that one).

Happy Trails,

K.G.

The Mind is Willing, but the Body is Tweaked

What a long, strange trip it’s been.

-Jerry Garcia

I realized something today. Not only am I no longer interested in climbing the corporate ladder, but I get dizzy just standing on a step stool.

-Kenneth Goorabian

I’ve finally reached the age where I have nothing new to write about except my aches and pains. Well, unless I have an accident while writing this and then we can add incontinence to the list.  Which in itself wouldn’t be too awful. Wearing an adult diaper would save me the ten minutes it takes to decide between my Superman briefs or Sponge Bob boxers. Some people wear strictly one or the other, but I find some days you just want to swing free and easy, or to quote Seinfeld’s Kramer be “out there and lovin’ it.”

I bought new glasses the other day. It was either that or have custom arm extensions made. The glasses seemed like a cheaper alternative. But to be honest, having bad eyesight is sometimes a plus. If I take off my glasses my wife looks like a teenager again. Still can’t get her to slip into her old cheer leading outfit though.

These days I maintain a strict diet of coffee, oatmeal, coffee, string cheese, coffee, and the occasional Jumbo Jack with a large coffee. Eating healthy can be challenging, so I always ask for extra lettuce and ketchup. One mustn’t ignore the veggies. For snacks I’ll generally have a protein bar, which I have chosen (I find they taste better if I convince myself I a Milky Way) to call candy bars, much to my wife’s chagrin.

I guess life after 60 isn’t so bad. I have most of my hair and teeth, and I have no desire to play

in either a country or blues band. Okay, I’ll admit I do accept the senior discount at Supercuts and Denny’s.

Hey, I may be old, but I’m not stupid.

K.G.

Sleepy Alligators

Sleepy alligators love to ride in elevators

They get lazy when it comes to climbing stairs

For the most they’ll do is scurry, even when they’re in a hurry

So you’ll rarely see them rushing anywhere

Llamas in pajamas long to lounge in the Bahamas

Though their traveling opportunities are few

The ocean makes them seasick and vacations make them homesick

So they never leave the mountains of Peru

Climate-conscious weasels won’t be caught dead driving diesels

Cause the carbon footprint causes them to wheeze

So they’ll call their good pal Goober, who’s employed these days by Uber

For his Prius always makes them feel at ease

Double-dealing dingo’s always cheat when playing Bingo

So it’s always wise to keep their paws in view

And it’s best to not assume, when you get up and leave the room

That they won’t switch the cards, cause dingo’s hate to lose

So though we’re not as hairy or have humps like dromedary

We’re no different from the birds and bats and bees

So next time you meet a ferret, who’s quite ornery, grin and bear it

And be grateful you don’t have to deal with fleas

© 2016 Kenneth Goorabian

Money, Money, Money, Money… Money

“There are three books my daughter felt were the most important influences in her life: The Bible, her mother’s cookbook, and her father’s checkbook.” - Joyce Mattingly

“Someone stole all my credit cards, but I won’t be reporting it. The thief spends less than my wife did.” - Henny Youngman

“My wife has been attending a lot of financial seminars. So far it’s cost me $1,000 for her to learn how to save us money.” - Kenneth Goorabian

Among us married folks, money has always been a hot-button topic right up there with the two S’s. They are, of course, sex and sandwiches. I adore both, but given the choice I will on occasion choose the latter if cheese is involved. We’re talking cheddar here.

As my wife and I perused Goodwill the other day, I was thinking about money and how lucky I was to have a low-maintenance woman who loves rummaging through other people’s discarded junk as much as I do. We have loads of fun, even though she doesn’t share my obsession with ceramic monkeys or 8-track tape players. But fear not, I don’t hold her less-than-enthusiastic attitude regarding fine art or cutting-edge technology against her. Every dog has to scratch its own fleas, or so my granddad used to say.

Having a frugal spouse is quite wonderful. She finds all kinds of uses for things we might never utilize. Take for instance the 500 (slight exaggeration) condoms she received as a gift at her bridal shower a few years ago. If you factor in my age and the sandwich equation above, I will die long before they are used up, but will go with a full belly and a cheesy grin.

The other day she came out of the bedroom with a handful of the aforementioned pickle protectors and strode like Peter Piper to the front door. Now, contrary to my claim about lack of precipitation in So Cal, it was pouring rain outside. Being the inquisitive (i.e. suspicious) husband/rat that I am, I begrudgingly abandoned my salami and Swiss on rye (only looking back once or twice with longing; call me Lot’s wife and turn me into a salt lick) and followed.

I found her kneeling on the flooded walkway and watched with fascination as she slipped the pickle protectors over the air conditioner’s condensate (Google this) line, which was now nearly submerged under the rising water due to poor (not mine) landscape design. Left unprotected, the water would have quickly traveled back into the house and cost us a fortune. Genius, I thought. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I was married to Miss-Gyver.

So the next time she makes a sandwich using the sourdough heels (completely throws off the bread to meat/cheese/condiment ratios don’t-cha-know) as a cost-saving measure, I will stuff my face with crusty pride. Maybe someday she’ll power up the lights using a lemon, chewing gum wrapper, and a few pieces of copper wire so I can tell Edison to take a hike.

K.G.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Cool nicknames are so in. Everybody seems to have one these days. JLo, JLaw, Black Mamba,

Caitlyn, Jay Z, ‘Ol Blue Eyes, Pitbull, etc. Even people I know have cool names like Skeeter, JPomp and Vinnie Pee. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately. I should have a cool name too. Something catchy and memorable.

Names I’m considering.

1.      Grand Pubah of the Universe. This has a nice ring to it, but it’s a bit long. And most people I know don’t know how to spell Pubah… Poohba… Puba? You get the idea.

2.      Captain Caffeine. Saving the world one double espresso at a time. I was up all night thinking about this one.

3.      One-Hit-Wonder-man. Follow for https://youtu.be/sBLHETjlwTI?t=10  shameless living-in-the-past plug.

4.      Sprinkle-man. This is my wife’s idea. She says I’m like Rain Man lite. I don’t quite know how to take that, to take that, to take that. And since starting medication, I’m beginning to really believe I’m much better looking than Dustin Hoffman, tic or no tic.

5.      Loquacious-man, External Processor Dude or for you native Americans, He Who Never Shuts Up. You may Google these if you must.

So, what’s the difference anyway? I guess it’s just fine to keep the moniker my parents bestowed on me. Still, I wish they’d had a better sense of humor when choosing a name.

I think Kim and Kanye’s new child would be much happier if his last name was Augustine. 

K.G.