Letters to Jim: A trip to Florida

Dear Jim:

Well I got back from Florida last night wondering why I had looked forward to going so much.  Despite all the hospitality everyone showed us  there is no question that I’m not  ready for Florida yet. Don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are Floridians! I think not being there all the time makes the difference as being a short timer seems to accentuate some of the quirks that  I never hear any of my friends talk about .

Driving is really a hoot. There are cars on the road that you have to stay far far away from. These are cars that appear to be moving along without a driver. Actually  there are little old men behind the wheel. You look for the telltale hairy ears sticking out of  either side of the headrest and that’s the signal to steer clear.

You need to carry a sharp stick in the car. This is so your partner  can stick it in your ribs to wake you up after a five minute traffic light. Waiting at traffic lights is one of the main activities in Florida and explains why people always say  “ I don’t know what I do all day but I’m busy all the time.”

A lot of type A executives end up in Naples. Those that  have recently  retired are roaring around at high speed, turning right on red lights without slowing down and generally can be identified by how close they are driving up the rear of some poor 91 year old. Gradually, they slow down and become like the rest of the population careful not to exceed the 30mph limit…anywhere.

Every morning, you wake up and attach your wife to your hip for the “walk”. You can see the couples by the hundreds. Those who need hip replacements are weaving side to side. The ones using Walkers try to stay to the right. Usually the women are walking just a little bit faster than the man.  The men aren’t saying a word and the wives are babbling on to them about Grandchildren or some shopping extravaganza. I am convinced this daily ritual alone accounts for the high number of assisted suicide requests found in Florida.

And by the way, I’m here to predict that  the Florida custom of never having your spouse leave your sight 7/24 is unlikely to catch on anywhere else.

You keep telling me to buy a place and I finally called a real estate agent for Bonita Bay.

“Hi, I’m looking for a condo in Bonita.”

“Great, what area are you thinking about?”, says the agent.

“The Sanctuary interests me”

“What street would you like to be on?”

“ Memory Lane"

“North or south side of the street?”

“North is good”

“What price range?”

“$500 to $525k tops?”

“How many days are you here?

“5”

“OK, if you can start before 8AM every day for the next 5 days we can show you most of what is available in the Sanctuary  on the North side of Memory Lane in that price range.”

Boy, I don’t know if it  isn’t a little early to be buying but the agent assured me again for the third year in a row that this was the perfect time and she really knows her stuff.

Golf in Florida has some strange features. You spend $ 175k to join a club, $12k per year for dues, $20 for “trail fees” (read golf cart) and when you are finished your round some goof ball is waiting with a dirty rag to wipe your clubs and you give him $2-$3 dollars out of your pocket. Go figure!

 Fortunately my friends all left Florida when I announced my dates so I was only able to organize a couple of games. This saved me tons of money! 

Have fun for the rest of the season in Florida and be careful on the migration drive home.

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: The kids return for another visit

Dear Jim:

The Grandkids have just left and although it was advertised as a quick visit of only 6 days I could pass a lie detector exam claiming it was at least a month.

Now I know that some people think it is terrible to be critical of those little sweeties called Grandchildren especially when they are yours. These people (mostly women I’m afraid) are just plain crazy. There is no other explanation for the oooing and ahahing that goes on during these encounters. This is brutal work for any normal person. At one point, when the door bell rang  I was hoping it was a Home Invasion where the guy would shoot me when I opened the door. I’m experienced at this however and I decided this year to have a plan.

My first brilliant idea was to go tobogganing on a real hill near the house. I can summarize the experience by saying I lost my tobogganing license and have been declared a dangerous offender by my entire family. I shoved my 7 year old in a flying saucer (and I emphasize flying) down a bumpy part of the hill and she flew out of the sled halfway down and landed on her face. Now I think that’s part of the fun. Bleeding nose, scrape on a cheek…what the heck...no one was killed. What’s the big deal? As the sobbing continued I was instructed to send the 4 year old down from the half way point. No way, says I and from the top, lets’ go. I forgot to tell him to hold on and he and the saucer parted company at about 20 MPH over a rather large bump (think jump). He scraped his side pretty good and got snow up his clothes and in all kinds of uncomfortable places. So with two sobbing kids, screaming that Grandpa pushed them, we headed back to the car and home. Wife and daughter didn’t talk to me for two days which was a kind of bonus but I had planned to do this every day of the visit so you can imagine my disappointment.

Skating wasn’t much better. After buying all the equipment I then found out that the 4 year old can’t stand up on skates. This seemed like information that could have been provided in advance.

I made arrangements to get the 7 year old and me a special spot for the Cirque du Soleil show at the Bell Center. We had to dodge the sweat coming from the trapeze artists, we were so close. After the first Act, Georgia informed me that she had a friend at school who could do that! After 20 minutes she told me she wanted to go home and get something to eat. Since she was holding $50 of popcorn, Doritos, jube jubes, chocolate bars and a 60 ounce soft drink I found myself confused. I held on for two more acts and then she insisted on leaving. At least getting out of the parking lot was easy as there was no one else in the entire garage when we left. No one mentioned this outing for the entire visit although I had planned it to be the highlight of the visit.

The kids are fascinated by the cat which doesn’t share the same interest and can’t keep their hands off of it. The cat was last seen climbing the large indoor  tree and hiding under the leaves. Now that the kids are gone the expression “Nervous as a Cat” takes on new meaning as the slightest noise produces a look of fear that could be sold to Disney if I could hold her down long enough to capture it. We may have to replace the Cat!

As my 4 year old watched Scooby Doo he reached over to place a 10 ounce glass of milk on the coffee table without taking his eyes off the TV. He missed the table by six inches and you would be amazed at how much area can be covered by one small glass of milk. He got some on his robe which he whipped off without taking his eyes off the TV and handed it to me and told me to put it in the laundry. Who made the rule that you aren’t allowed to hit kids? My parents would have done 4 rounds with me, bare knuckled, for this. I wasn’t allowed to say anything because I would have interrupted the movie!

As you know we just installed a new kitchen. I was a little nervous by all the activity and toy throwing in the general area. I’m pleased to report that riding a bicycle at high speed in to the island only caused minimal damage and if the painter can match the original colors we will hardly notice. Why was someone riding a bike in the house you ask? Well, he is only 4 years old…what do you expect?

This week (and I’m not making this up) we have a plumber, carpenter, painter and handyman coming in to make temporary repairs. The cleaning lady arrived this morning and announced that she would have to cancel her other clients for the rest of the week.

Time to take them to the airport and I can tell you I had them there 4 hours before flight time. There was no way they were going to miss that flight.

Oh, and I shouldn’t forget to say…I really missed them this morning!

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: A path to happiness

Dear Jim:

Well here it is February with another  year starting to fly by. People keep asking me  how things are and as you know I have had a lot of spare time to contemplate life the past couple of months.

Rather than give you a big long note with

obvious references to death let me sum it up by saying the following.

It is a sad state of affairs to have come to this but it in a moment

of clarity it has become obvious that my future success and happiness

is now totally dependant on the failure of my friends and

acquaintenances. If you know of any real horror shows please share

them with me and put a smile on my face. 

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: Some safety tips

Dear Jim:

It has been a very interesting winter. My experiences can by expressed with some Safety Tips that I wanted to share with you.

I recently found myself away from home over the weekend on a business trip and was bored. I want to confirm that having your hair cut by a Korean barber watching a football game on the screen in front of you while he cuts your hair with a razor is a very bad idea. It seems that growing out this cut takes many weeks although the bleeding ear seems to heal more quickly.

Asking the security officer to hurry up because you are late for your flight does not produce the results that you would logically expect. This safety tip comes with the added advice that use of the F word (one of my favorites as you know) is not recognized as a motivational expression.

If you forget to get your wife a Valentines Day present an attempt to reuse last years card doesn’t work as well as you might think! I had to deal with a reaction that any man would consider waaaay too dramatic and could in fact result in bodily injury. Who has time to think about Valentines Day anyway?

Don’t say that you can’t see what the big deal is with Tiger Woods when you are in mixed company. All the men know what you mean…none of the women do. Fending off a large number of ladies, foaming at the mouth, is not pretty.

I have an executive who works 14 hours a day complaining that his wife needs more attention. I offered to spend some time with her. Apparently that wasn’t as helpful as you would naturally think it would be.

And finally Jim, when you called me from London yesterday complaining that Air Canada had lost your luggage I thought I gave you a brilliant suggestion. Getting a hooker and staying in your room for 24 hours where you wouldn’t need any clothes was inspired. When the connection was broken I didn’t know if you had hung up on me or forgot to say goodbye in your haste to implement my plan. Let me know…

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: The wife leaves you all alone.

Dear Jim:

Sally left me alone for one week while she went to LA to visit the kids and I’m under so much stress I haven’t been able to think of anything.

As you know, many, many years ago I cleverly told Sally that since I would be the first to bite the dust it was important that she know how to run the house. To help her training program I refused to do anything related to the house and now I happily know nothing about how any piece of the operation works. As her plane lifted off for LA every mechanical and electrical device in the house stopped working.

Talk about a scene from Abbot and Costello. I did find some phone numbers for plumbers and electricians and now I’m stressed out waiting to give them directions because I can’t find any of the boxes that are supposedly controlling this stuff. Seems that there is no piece of equipment that has a warranty left and there are no pieces in stock to fix anything. I hope to have the major items fixed by her return on Wednesday. Heat and water are my two top priorities.

It hasn’t all been bad.

 Living alone has allowed me to come up with a lot of productivity improvements.

Why would you make your bed every morning if you are just going to get back in to it that evening?

No need to open the blinds. No one there to see anything during the day.

 Putting away shaving gear and toothpaste makes no sense if you are just going to have to pull it all out of the drawers the next day.

Why close cupboards when you can see what is in every one of them by leaving the doors open?

It's true that a towel on the floor doesn't dry as fast as a towel hung up...but..if you have a lot of towels....

Putting away the peanut butter is a complete waste of time.

I could go on but I’m sure you get the picture.

 Granted the house isn’t as pretty but it sure is functional and I can hardly wait to show Sally how much time and effort I’ve been able to save. She will certainly be proud of me.

One chore that I was left with has resulted in some property damage but nothing that can’t be fixed in a few weeks

 I was told to water the plants on Saturday..just a little bit, whatever that means.

 I wasn’t aware that we had any plants in the house but on further inspection and much to my surprise I discovered that we have a virtual forest growing in most of the rooms. So on Sunday morning I set about watering with a giant pail.

How much water do you think you need to put in a plant?

This is a task for morons and should be simple..right?. Not so!

 A lot of the pots didn’t hold as much water as I thought the plant needed. And the leaves get in the way of pouring the water causing a lot of splashing outside the pot.

The hardwood floors are starting to pucker up from the water damage. I tried to mop up the excess water with the dishtowels but they don’t absorb nearly enough water. Who knew this was a job requiring skill?

And why wasn’t I warned that some of the plants were fake. Their little pots don’t take much water at all. From what I can see we should only have fake plants because I sure couldn’t tell the difference. No instructions…poor communications. We could have paid someone $300 or so to come in and it would have been a bargain. Sally’s fault! I’m going to really let her have it when she gets back. (Two of the larger trees are losing their leaves and I’m wondering if I should just throw them out…do you think a wife would notice?)

And to top it all off I haven’t seen the cat for three days. This could be a problem. Sally really likes that cat. I’m thinking of posting a picture on the telephone pole at the end of the driveway to show I care.

It is clear to me now that if Sally goes before me I will have 48-72 hours to list and sell the house. After that it will probably have to be torn down.

She is home Wednesday and if I survive the interrogation I will be available Saturday to begin the season. I will keep you posted.

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: A painful operation

Dear Jim:

If someone came up to you and said “how would you like to pee like a racehorse?” what thoughts would run through your head? I can’t recall being at a bar and overhearing two young beauties saying, “Have you met Bob?” He pees like a racehorse you know. It never occurred to me that this was a “must have “feature of success. Apparently, however, it seems to be the new rallying cry of the Geriatric set.

This is a piece of cake. It is called Green Light Laser Surgery. After a small procedure you will “pee like a racehorse”. Well not wanting to be left out and always being on the bleeding edge of new Technology I said, “Sign me up”. There are a lot of cruel people out there and I have discovered that a lot of relevant details were left out!

When I arrived at the Hospital they asked if I wanted to be put under or have a local that would paralyze me from the waist down. Being a coward, I chose to be unconscious. I didn’t like the paralyze part of the second option and certainly didn’t want to watch everyone watching me. Turns out that in the Urology department they only hire hot nurses that like older men! A bad joke instigated by the union I suspect.

When I woke up I discovered that they had inserted a one half inch pipe in to my penis….yes I did say in to my penis! This went in what felt like two feet and connected with my bladder. (I had been stretching my penis for a few weeks (with professional help obviously) so that I wouldn’t be embarrassed with all those nurses standing around.) This pipe had a camera, a laser and rear view mirrors for all I know but with this equipment the doctor, who never appeared before or after the surgery, burned, vaporized, sculpted and in layman’s terms “ripped me a new one”. As I came out of the anasetic I had the most uncontrollable discomfort I had ever experienced. The Nurse told me to relax and when I started crying she said the solution was to rip out and I do mean rip out the tube. Ok let’s go…take a deep breath… (This could be THE new interrogation technique for terrorists) and out she comes.

So now I’m sitting in a room with all kinds of activity coming and going and the nurse says “now you have to pee and we will send you home”. How hard can that be…I’m an expert at peeing. I start drinking water at 11am and by 4pm I’m still standing over the toilet with an uncontrollable urge to urinate but nothing coming out. Oh did I say nothing coming out…I lied…blood was coming out. Finally the nurse says she will have to put in a catheter and send me home and I would come back tomorrow to demonstrate my peeing capabilities. And the message is clear…you better be able to do it!

Now that I’m conscious I get to see how they do the catheter trick. They make you lie down, stark raving naked on your back with your legs in a frog position. They do this in the middle of the room where there is the most traffic and then they ask young nurses to bring all the pieces they forgot to get when they got ready.  First to freeze your poor little Willy they take a big needle and ram it in to the head of your penis..You know the part that you’ve grown to love and nurture most of your life as the source of all meaningful pleasure. When you come down off the ceiling they then push a tube up your penis, and I must say, not in a loving way. This tube looks short but she pushes it in for what seems like several minutes. They then set the hook inside your bladder and strap a bag on to your leg and show you a whole bunch of twisting and pulling motions that are required to operate. Now you understand that this is attached to one of your favorite body parts and is subject to a lot of inadvertent pulling and snagging on clothes etc. And yes it is as uncomfortable and hurts just as much as you are imagining as you read this.  Off you go. And by the way here is a big bag for the night and be sure to drink 4 liters of water before you go to bed.

Arriving home, I started drinking water and figuring out how to clean myself up. After they butcher a cow there is less blood than I had all over my delicate little body. The tube hanging from your penis and a heavy bag poorly attached to your thigh makes for some clenched teeth and watery eyes as you try to maneuver. You would have thought they would just hose me down before I left the hospital as a courtesy but apparently this is do it yourself medical care.

I keep tripping over that damn tube, and the cat thinks it’s a toy, and 4 liters of water gives me indigestion that almost makes it impossible to breath and I feel like throwing up and what if I can’t pee tomorrow…or ever again?

Anxiety and a feeling of impending doom completed the day and I crawled in to bed sitting straight up because I didn’t want to drown with all the water I had drunk.  And I did throw up just to complete the picture. First time in 40 years and no sympathy was forthcoming from anyone I must add. Why were there no prescriptions for pain? I love Demerol or any other similar drug but they gave me nothing. Oops just a minute, here is an envelope that the nurse shoved in my pocket without comment and low and behold three prescriptions with no instructions. Sure wish I had found them before we were home ready for bed!

So after the worst night of my entire night I get up and try to get presentable and drive in to the hospital ready for my pee test. They have a new antagonist to remove the catheter and she laughs and giggles while she pulls the cord and I gasped (the way Mel Gibson gasped when they gutted him in the final scene of Braveheart. I’m sure this is how they got that look of pain on his face.)

So far the description “minor procedure, piece of cake, nothing to it, easy” seems to be applying to some other activity. They must have thought I said the Green Hornet and not the Green Laser. And have I mentioned the blood.

Now every man knows that you can’t pee on demand and that if someone is watching you it is an impossible activity. The nurse says “whistle” it might help. I can’t whistle with tears streaming down my cheeks. I ask the head nurse if she remembers me from yesterday so I can ask her some questions about what happened since no one has told me anything. She says she doesn’t recognize me with my clothes on. “Pull down your pants and I’ll tell you if I remember anything.”

At any rate, with clenched teeth and a rolling of my eyes I did manage to perform...more or less the same as I did before this all started. After threatening to put in a new catheter which caused me to faint, they did let me go home. I had to promise to go to Emergency over the weekend if any complications set in. Since no one has told me what a complication is I will go to the hospital if I die and for no other reason.

I realize this is a delicate subject and most people would say why share this personal experience. Well, I want to warn my fellow man as a public service announcement. If someone asks you if you want to pee like a racehorse, turn around and gallop away as fast as you can.

Bill Meder.

Letters to Jim: Can't seem to make those golf lessons work.

Dear Jim:

            You know what is really hard to do? Concentrate on your golf lesson with tears streaming down your face. I told you I lost my swing. Wrong..It’s worse than that. I can't hit the ball at all! Well that’s not completely true. I can hit the top 1/16th of the ball 50% of the time. I shot 100 last week, the highest score I've posted since 1984. And no, it wasn't a fluke. I have been working up to it for the past five games.

            When I went to enter my scores on the handicap system I got a warning message to "step away from the computer. It is grounds for dismissal from the club to impersonate another member and falsely manipulate their data."

            Yesterday, when I was hitting my three wood on the range I dug a hole so deep that I sprayed three other members with mud and bits of grass. They asked me to leave. And I don't think they meant just the range area!

            What part of the game is gone? Well, my chip shots end up in either the trap, the water or over the back. I haven't hit a chip on to the green since June 3. My putting isn't working either since I'm so tired by the time I get to the green I can barely stand over the ball. Three putts are normal and that only happens with 10 foot gimmies on the third putt. What a mess!

            I finally tracked down the pro for a lesson this afternoon. After watching a few swings and bringing the camera in to play he asked me not to mention to anyone that he was giving me lessons. I whacked balls for one hour and we eliminated 7 things that I was doing badly. The other 5 things will require more work (surgery was mentioned more than once)  I don't know if I should phone in sick, wear a bag over my head or crash in to a tree on the way to the first tee. This is stress.

           Even more humiliating is that my wife is now out driving me, and scoring better. She suggested I start playing from the senior tees! If there was a compassionate God he would have someone shoot me right now.

          I haven’t given up completely yet. That will happen around next Wednesday. In the meantime don’t bother telling me how well you are playing…I don’t give a damn.

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: Golf is getting frustrating.

Dear Jim:

I know it’s been a while. I wanted to tell you about my breakthrough in golf but it seems to be taking a tad bit longer than planned so I ‘m giving you an interim update.

By the way, let me start by thanking you for your suggestion re: Viagra. I‘ve had a logistics problem however. My doctor told me that before he would write me a prescription I would have to get a note from at least three women who would sign a document indicating that they would consider having sex with me. I’ve been carrying these documents around for a month now ( I’m telling people I have my lunch in my briefcase) but so far I haven’t got any takers. I guess if your wife won’t sign it is hard to convince others without that endorsement. Another good idea gone bad.

At any rate, with intense lessons and coaching as well as frequent practice sessions I have now moved from a 16 handicap to a steady 21. Last Saturday I shot a bogey free round. One par, 13 doubles and 4 triples.

My last gasp was to have a new equipment fitting. You won’t believe it. After hitting 50 balls the consensus was that I didn’t have enough strength to swing the club fast enough to hit the ball like a real golfer. In front of everyone they shouted out “you need a super-soft senior’s shaft”. The most humiliating event of my life. Can you imagine the nerve? I can still hear the snickering and tee-hees. And not just for the woods…irons also. There comes a time when you need to fight back and this was it. I immediately began exercising 6 hours a day and can hardly wait to tell them to bring out the stiff, steel shafts along with a one iron for a new fitting session. This whole episode set me back a fair bit and as you can imagine played havoc with my head. I will continue with my old clubs for now.

My lessons have resulted in changing everything about my swing including shaving my ankles so that nothing can get in the way of a smooth follow through. I have gone from only losing balls on the water holes to losing them on the par threes. I still go in the water every time there is water mind you and I’m now buying balls by the gross from a guy wearing a scuba outfit on the side of the highway. I can’t remember the last time I broke 90 and now I am dangerously close to100. While I used to be a model student used in advertising promotions, my pro now calls me shithead.

How bad is it you ask? Let me put this in perspective.  I’m sick of listening to all these bleeding hearts in the Gulf or Australia moaning and groaning about floods,  an oil spill or hurricane damage. So a few birds can’t fly and some fish have trouble breathing. I’ve got real problems! I’ve lost my golf swing!

You can always rebuild your trailer park or bring new sand in to cover your beach but for goodness sakes how can you compensate for a lost golf swing?

I’m looking seriously for a new sport. So far The Running of the Bulls, blindfolded, in Pamplona looks to be the winner. This is a sport where you can really only have one bad day! Perfect.

Bill

Letters to Jim: Golf trip to Scotland

Dear Jim:

I know you are going to ask me how Scotland was. Rather than repeat the story many times this is it in a nutshell.

It started with a phone call at 10.30 am from a dear friend  as I was pumping gas at a self-serve station in high winds trying to save 2 cents/litre. “Hey, what are you doing two weeks Saturday? Want to go golfing? Ok says I, you’re course or mine? Turnberry, Scotland was the reply. “Don’t move”,he said, I’ll be right back. So as I sprayed my arm with Javal and Lemon juice to remove the gasoline smell, I waited.

Within minutes.”our two best buddies will join us, and I’ve got Business Class upgrades for the flight and a special (and I do mean special) rate for Turnberry.” “I’m in” was the knee jerk reaction, which seems to precede most of my horrendous decisions. As I drove home I thought to myself, “this austerity program I’ve been considering may not work out in the short run but I’ll get to it next month ” Oh well, how much can it cost anyway to play golf in Scotland for a week!?!? The first indications that the complete  answer to this question wasn’t going to be good was the $ 230 cab ride to the hotel.

And how bad can the weather get anyway? The 10 day forecast when I left said Rain, Rain, Rain, and Wind, Wind, And really windy. Temperatures at  45 degrees low with a high of 50. Can’t be right. They would all be underwater if it rained that much. I’ll pack a toque just in case as a joke.

So what is the big deal about golfing in Scotland? You know you are golfing in Scotland when:

Your caddy fee is greater than the biggest green fee you have ever paid in the USA.

Your discussion on the second hole is centered on the early signs of hypothermia.

You bring several golf outfits and find yourself wearing them all at the same time.

You welcome the onset of Sleet because the Hail is hurting your face.

You experience four seasons in one hour.

Every hole is in to the wind.

Your caddy has to tape his ankles after spending 18 holes walking in gorse.

You can spend in one week for green fees what it costs for the entire year at your home club.

Your caddy says,” its 80 yards, play it for 140!”

After missing every green for 17 holes your caddy says on the 18^th,” I want you to aim 5 yards left of that bunker about 240 yards ahead”

Your partners keep saying, “ Isn’t this great?” and the answer doesn’t quickly come to mind.

You are really, really happy when it is over.

My caddy broke my driver in two (no I’m not making this up) when he reacted to a three wood that went slightly off during my first round. This put me at a serious disadvantage for the next 5 days. I had to swing my three wood extra hard to compensate for not having a driver. I usually hit right after our big hitter belts out a 270-yard beauty. I found that if you really grip the club tight and swing as hard as you can you may make contact with your three wood but direction becomes a bit of an issue.

 The caddies are quite interesting. My caddy informed me on the first tee that he had placed 5^th in the British Open and is Vijay Singh’s caddy when he comes to play. My subsequent drive was topped to  160 yards!  It got worse when I saw the tears running down his face as the game progressed. Never mind the stress of golf. Imagine four really experienced caddy’s watching your back swing and groaning with every shot.

We played 8 rounds in five days and walked 40 miles. I personally hit over 800 shots! My feet were throbbing and my hands look like hamburger. We would have slept like babies but the hotel parties took place right outside the windows in our very modest $ 700 per night rooms until 2.00 am every night and we had to be up at 6.30am so we could play golf for 14 hours a day. I should be out of intensive care by the weekend.

 My favorite moment was on the ninth hole at Turnberry. There was a huge bunker on the right, up ahead. My caddy pulls out a 6 iron and says “what ever you do, don’t go in the bunker on the right. Aim left, further left, further left again. Don’t look at the bunker. We need to be careful here. Keep your head down. Follow through. I’ll watch the ball.  Play it safe!!”… Whack!.. I looked at him “ was that the bunker you didn’t want me in?” I tried to capture the expression on his face with my camera but he wouldn’t look at me.  We didn’t talk for the rest of the round.

So how did I play? Well at one point my friends  asked me to take a few holes off so the other members of the team could remove the thistles from their pants. I stopped keeping score after the second round and in one round picked up 16 times! I had 4 pars in 8 rounds. Two of my caddies, quit….the profession. After one round my caddy looked like he had taken a bullet and limped off without saying goodbye and another one, who started off drunk, informed me that he could hardly wait for the round to be over. I started off hitting the ground 2 inches behind the ball and by weeks end was hitting 10 inches behind the ball.  In summary, I played my game. The good news is that at 4.00 am the day we were returning home I figured out what I was doing wrong. I can hardly wait until Saturday to test out the corrections.

Was it all worth it? It is too early to say. I can’t say right now. With every traumatic experience your brain needs time to heal and process. I’ll let you know it a few weeks.

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: Getting on the Health kick wagon

Dear Jim:

My new, new thing is instead of working on my physical fitness (gravity has been declared the winner) I’m going to work on the internal workings of my rapidly deteriorating body. I Googled “Nut jobs and Quacks” and found a Nutritional Consultant who specializes in Holistic Health Management. Before we could begin she insisted on an in depth analysis of my habits. The interview went something like this.

Current Eating habits:

Sugar? I prefer Brown.

Fruit? Can’t stand it.

Steak? Just twist off the horns and throw it on the Grill.

French Fries? Only at Lunch.

Butter? Always on Bread and Potatoes and extra on pancakes.

Fish? No interest.

Chicken? For poor people.

Fiber? Two tablespoons of Metamucil every night.

Desserts? Never at Breakfast.

Vegetables? Too filling.

Salads? For Girls .
Pizza? My basic food group leader.

Nuts? Prefer chips and dip.

 

Throwing up her hands in horror.."We haven’t a moment to lose!!

So off I go to the Health Life store with a list of “must have” items. It seems my breakfast of Yogurt, English Muffin with Peanut Butter and Blueberry jam needs updating.

Almond Butter rather than Peanut Butter, Big Organic Muesli 24 grain bagels instead of Muffins and Goat Yogurt rather than dairy based.

The bill for one breakfast worth was $33. Not to worry this will change my life. This morning I eagerly set about my new Health conscious regime.

Now if you have never tasted Almond Butter let me try and find an image for you. If you took Cow dung and spread it on a muffin and covered it with Blueberry Jam you would have a much better tasting treat with better texture.

The Yogurt was so sour that my lips are still puckered five hours later.

The Bagels which replaced my 90 calorie muffin are a hefty 250 calories. The Almond spread was 90 calories per tablespoon. I won’t be eating again until dinner. I’m under a lot of stress because there are no additives in any of these foods and they go bad in 48 hours so you really can’t leave the house for any extended period as you have to keep eating to make the deadline.

I think I’m cancelling my next session which was meant to be at the grocery store to gear me up for other meals and a lifetime of eating dry, tasteless seaweed inspired delicacies. I’m not making this up. She described a vegetarian sushi that I could make myself  which uses seaweed to wrap cucumber and avocado. The saliva was dripping down her chin as she talked about it.

I thought we were having a get to know you chat but apparently it was a consultation. She pocketed the $125 consulting fee as she described a “shake” that she could give me that I would take twice a day. One of the main benefits is that after a few weeks “you will see some really ugly black stuff coming out of your system”. Oh goody, says I. Sign me up for that.

I am kind of disappointed because I thought I had a new activity for the spring. Clearly I’m not a good candidate for this and I'm not ready to make the rest of my life more miserable than it is  likely to be without booze and cigarettes and chasing strange women. I will have to find something else.

I will keep you posted.

Bill Meder

Letters to Jim: Visits with the Kids

Dear Jim:

Well, the holiday is over and I learned an important lesson spending the week in California with my daughter and our two Grandchildren. While Barabados, the beach and warm lazy days could have been an option I was  convinced that Grandparents need to visit their families at XMAS.

This has led me to the conclusion that  Golfers and Grandparents are both liars.

The Golfers are always telling you how much they love the game. Any fool who plays the game knows that deep down he hates every moment of it. He just can't say it.

Ask Grandparents (especially if they are both standing together) how great it is being a Grandparent and you have to take an insulin shot to neutralize the blast of sugar coated blather that follows. "The best, great, fabulous, .what life is all about…love it" etc etc and "oh, have you seen the latest pictures?

Now I have finally figured it out.  There are clearly two classes of Grandparents!

First are those, whose kids live in the family city. They get short, sharp blasts of exposure a couple of times a week and the occasional baby-sitting assignment. These grinning fools are not talking about the same phenomenon that I just experienced. They are amateurs in the Grandparenting category. In complete control of access, duration and purpose of the visit as well as the ability to escape at a moments notice, these people are not qualified to describe the true nature of a remote family get together.

Their comments should be greeted with a quick change of subject and if they won't shut up you should feign an illness (coughing up blood works) and move on. If you don't have Grandchildren yet you could be sucked in pretty good.

The real test of Grandparenting is to spend one week (7 full 24 hour days) visiting a one year old and a 3-½ year old in your daughter's home!

This is in the same category as a third tour in Iraq.

My Grandson, (cute little devil) is one year old. I quickly found out that if you hand me a one-year-old child who is built like a fireplug and weighs 25 pounds, you have about 90 seconds before I will want to hand the child back. I came to accept this  ritual which is repeated 30 or 40 times a day at random intervals followed by a mandatory exclamation "isn't he cute?"

Now you have to realize that  the little goober can't talk, walk, play or last more than an hour without a two-hour nap. This makes for many extremely short, pleasurable experiences to be sure. Since they are not programmed however  you have to be ready at any moment to jump in. This creates a lot of pressure to be "up" and tends to make the day drag on a touch.

 Women are programmed quite differently. If  you hand a Grandmother this child, two days will elapse before she will release those sticky little hands from her neck and sit down.

Many of my friends say, "Just wait until they can talk". "Oh boy, what fun".

My Granddaughter who is 3 ½ says three things to me. "Go Away!" "Where is Grandma?" And "No, I want Mommy to do it". This also makes for a long, long day and if rejection makes you insecure this is no place for you.

Living in your Daughter's (or Son's) house creates a power shift that sneaks up on you as you realize that you are not in charge of anything. And, apparently you have become a complete Bozo without even realizing that it was happening. The house rules begin with, no TV (too many violent images), no radio, no music, no noise, no talking too loud, no swearing and a list of taboo subjects. Sentences that begin with "I think you should…" are not welcome.  I can tell you this greatly reduces the time filling options one is used too.

Some of the effects of our visit are more striking than others. The next time you see me you will have to talk loudly. My hearing was permanently damaged during the gift opening ceremony at 6.00 am XMAS morning. Also you will want to listen closely to what I am trying to say. I am only now able to speak a complete sentence. I can colour inside the lines, but only am allowed to do it alone.

So there it is. Seven days of shuttle diplomacy back and forth to the hotel. The only breaks were for afternoon naps (theirs) and shopping (Sally's). You will be pleased to know that Sally personally tried on or touched every piece of merchandise offered for sale on Rodeo Drive. Our suitcases that were carry-on (bright idea of mine to allow us to get out of the aiport quickly) were so heavy and tightly packed we had to saw them open in the garage when we arrived home.

I am typing this with a blanket over my head and using a flashlight at 4.00am. You see, one of the responsibilities of being a Grandparent is to not let any future Grandparent on to what they have in store for the future. If this ever got out the social order would be disrupted in possibly a violent way. Also, it seems that Grandmothers are built for this and we are not. Implying that you are not having a blast could result in physical abuse. So this is a subject we men must never discuss.

I have been told that as the kids get older it gets to be a lot more fun. I believe this to be true and have booked my next visit for December 2012. I expect to fly out in the morning, exchange gifts at the airport while the plane is refueling and come home by 8 pm. It's the plan!  See you soon.

Bill Meder