These Times

A good epitaph for a tombstone: “Sorry. I’m late.”

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I was late to an appointment last week because my internet algorithm wasn’t right. It was promoting Grateful Dead songs and videos of people getting hurt on trampolines. I couldn’t let it go — if you don’t stay on top of your algorithm it can lead to worse developments, including songs from Metallica and clips of people being hit by commuter trains. I was late to my appointment, but the person completely understood once I explained why.

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God has an unusual job. It’s the sort of job where he gets all the credit and someone else gets all the blame.

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I was talking to a woman recently who owns her own business, and she told me about a financial problem she was having. She said her solution was “to out-earn the problem.”

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For those of you who ingest marijuana often: Have you ever neared the end of a day and suddenly realized, “Oh, darn! I forgot to get high today!”

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Do you ever do this? I was in a grocery store, looking for where the butter was kept. Sometimes I get distracted and forget why I am where I am. In this case, I found myself walking through the store muttering “butter, butter, butter …” I can see two reasons for this. I’m giving myself an aural reminder, or perhaps I believe that by saying the object I seek, I can make the object appear. I do the same when I’m looking for my phone in the house. I walk around muttering, “phone, phone, phone …”

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We should change the name of the condition called “attention deficit disorder” to “attention interest order.” “Attention interest order” seems an accurate description of what’s going on, and it’s a more positive way of looking at it.

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If everything was as bad as some people claim, we’d all be dead.

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I just turned 65, an age prone to thoughts of what’s left to accomplish in life. One thought I have dismissed is starting a life of crime. I know I’m too old for that.

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The nice thing about getting old is you’ve encountered much of what life can throw at you, so you develop reflexes that avoid overly emotional and complex reactions. Mrs. Ericson told me recently the toilet was backed up. Instead of thinking, “Oh, god, why me? Why?” I said nothing and immediately went to the basement to fetch the plunger and auger.

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I don’t like judgmental people. I don’t like the shirts they wear, their opinions, the shape of their nostrils, their Christmas card photograph, the color of their children’s hair, the volume of their voice, that hedge in front of their house, the way they tie their shoelaces, and how they pronounce the word “machination.” And I especially don’t like the way they eat clam chowder.

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There’s a satisfaction that comes with knowing all of one’s mobile electrical devices — phone, car, wireless speaker, earbuds, laptop — are fully charged. This particular satisfaction was unknown to our ancestors.

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I liked the era when clothing, especially T-shirts and hats, didn’t express wearers’ political opinions. Why do some people feel compelled to express such things on their clothing? Maybe it’s an expression of loneliness.

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Life is one long ad lib.

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I wonder whether this has ever been said in a home in the United States: “Honey, are we out of ghee?”

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Do you ever have days when you feel like a blob? I had one of those days last Tuesday, and it wasn’t until two days later that I discovered I had written “be a blob” on my calendar for that precise Tuesday. I had forgotten all about that.

Author Bio

Kirk Ericson, Columnist / Proofreader

Shelton-Mason County Journal & Belfair Herald
email: [email protected]