Less Talk-a-Lot, More Chocolate

“Nine out of ten people like chocolate. The tenth person always lies.”

-John Q. Tullius

“Chocolate’s a lot like sex. I always finish it too soon.”

-Kenneth Goorabian

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d chew them up in bunches

Every meal would be filled with glee

Dinners, breakfasts and lunches

I wouldn’t hide from lima beans

Squash I’d gobble down

I’d roll in fields of broccoli

All covered in gooey brown

And if offered cauliflower

I’ll admit, I used to hate

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d gladly fill my plate

Kenneth Goorabian

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.

The Forrest Gump Syndrome

The Forrest Gump Syndrome

(Excerpt from “Hot Grandpa: A Boomer’s Adventures in Cyber Dating”)

Now, let’s examine the following quote:  “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.”

Monsieur Gump’s above statement so embodies the online dating experience most of us have experienced that I almost cringe when I read it.  I dare say there’s more fudging (pun so-intended) on cyber-dating profiles than on most income tax forms.  Does filling out a simple love questionnaire suddenly cause temporary Alzheimer’s?  I believe someone should do a study on this.

But Mr. G’s sweet proclamation is spot on, isn’t it?  He was a visionary and philosopher; a true renaissance man.  Way ahead of his time, if you ask me.

The only other person to come close is Patrick Starfish, sidekick to SpongeBob SquarePants.  And I quote:  “Being grown-up is boring.  Besides, I don’t get jazz.”

Sorry.  Occasionally my inner child sneaks out of the crib.

Continuing with the box ‘o chocolates analogy, I find that hours spent searching for love online can be compared to blissfully nibbling away on an unlimited supply of cyber bon-bons in the hope of finding a diamond while trying desperately not to chip a virtual sweet tooth on a hidden blue-eyed CZ.

Another problem is the box of chocolates keeps growing larger and larger every day, which, in turn, causes us to completely disregard the age-old “bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” lesson our ancestors understood so well.  It becomes so hard to settle for fluffy nougat when a few rows over could be the cherry center of your dreams.

Let’s get real, shall we?  There are only so many raspberry truffles to go around.  Sometimes one must take a chance on a coconut crème or a Peppermint Patty.  Who knows?  It might just be a flavor you could fall in love with.

Caloric Side Note:

Statistics say couples gain on average 14 pounds once they get comfortable in a new relationship.

Really?

So, as you hunt and peck your way to sugary surrender, keep in mind:  If you’re advertising yourself as a soft, creamy caramel in the hope of snagging the love glutton of your dreams, sooner or later he or she will be inclined to take a bite and quickly find out you’re really just a wee bit nutty inside, which to some other unsuspecting nibbler might just spell sweet success.

So be real, be yourself, and remember these words of wisdom from Charlie Brown’s creator:  “All you need is love.  But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.” -Charles M. Schulz

Jusqu'à ce que nous nous reverrons,

K.G.

I Want to Look Like Heidi Klum

I Want to Look Like Heidi Klum…

 … but I’m 5’2”, brunette and 50. 

The above statement was made by my wife in response to my desire to have the body of a 20-year-old male model, complete with a six pack and buns of steel. My name is Kenny, I’m 60, gray and delusional. Okay, you can laugh now.  Body self-image is such a strange thing.

Is it ego that keeps me striving for the impossible dream? Possibly. Sometimes I long to chug chocolate milkshakes while sitting in my La-Z-Boy attired in an undersized Polo shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black dress socks and wingtips; moobs to the wind. Is that too much to ask?

Being a rock musician for almost 50 years (yeah, I saw Jimi, Janus and Morrison; don’t be jealous), my greatest fear is stepping onto the stage and having people assume I play in a blues band. Now, I have nothing against the blues, a few of my earliest influences were B.B. King and Peter Green, who IMHO were two of the greatest guitarists who ever lived, but as one ages it appears as though there’s an unwritten rule that states one must hang up the rock and roll power chords for a twelve bar blues progression in the key of “A”. Yawn.

My Vows:

 I vow to never even consider looking at a “Manx” Website. I work out like a madman in a vain attempt to fight my arch nemesis, GRAVITY. Moobs are not an option, nor do they come as standard equipment.

I vow to never shop at Costco, or go on stage wearing “old blues band guy attire,” which includes “Dad” jeans and a Mexican Wedding Shirt. If you are unfamiliar with this shirt, and you play in a blues band, look in your closet. You probably have several.  If you still want to dress hip and cool without looking silly, this can be done. There is no written rule that you have to be gay to dress well. Don’t let your wife buy your clothes in bulk. Khaki is not a pop of color.

I vow to limit my French fries intake. Well, some things are nearly beyond the realm of human possibility, but that purple, slim-fit, V-neck is slammin’. I could totally rock that.

K.G.