Every day it’s the same. I start out with optimistic plans of getting everything done and feeling good about my productivity. And every day ends with me asking the same question: What happened? How did everything go so so wildly off the rails?
When I was in my forties, I routinely worked 55-hour weeks (commuting an hour each way), taxied my kids to soccer practices and dance recitals, mowed the yard, paid the bills, and worked out five nights a week (some things are sacred). I knew exactly where my day had to go, and I made sure it went there. Missions accomplished.
But now, at 65, I feel my days slipping away. Not from some morbid fixation on death, or from my compromised knees. Rather, each day flies by and I’ve done squat. I don’t get it. I’m semi-retired, working maybe 15 hours a week. The commute to my downstairs home office averages 60 seconds – longer if there’s a pileup of cats on the stairwell. Our kids are grown and drive themselves to practices and parties. So, what’s my problem?
To help keep myself on track, I developed the following daily regimen.
7:00am: Chug protein kale shake (while holding nose).
7:30am: Power through email, deleting all junk emails requesting political campaign donations (average 298 per day). Pay bills, perhaps.
8:00am: Work. Stay focused to finish by noon. Max 15 minute break.
Noon: Join wife for quinoa and chicken. Try to eat it.
12:30pm: Intense workout on elliptical and weights to enhance 2-pack.
1:30pm: Get some fresh air on brisk two-mile walk. Try not to get lost this time.
2:30: Read a book to broaden mind, such as on Paleolithic artforms. TV verboten.
5:00: Cook healthy dinner of legumes, tilapia, salad. Try to feel full without dessert.
This is how I see my day beginning: working on my core, followed by 45 minutes on the elliptical, energizing me to work productively. The reality is that I’m lucky if I have energy to put on gym clothes before running out of steam and watching a rerun of The Office. At least I’m thinking about the office.
6:00pm: Feed cats, scoop litterbox. Tidy up house. Resist urge to shove laundry under bed.
7:00pm: Chill with cats, Buddy and Zippy. Watch intellectually stimulating film with Michele.
9:00pm: Check Facebook feed (only once daily!)
10:00pm: Brush teeth, floss, bedtime. Reflect on accomplishments of the day.
Care to guess how many times I’ve adhered to this schedule (in reality, not just in my dreams)? Yup! Right down there with the number of successful Titanic oceanic crossings. I don’t know why, but every single solitary day I deviate widely from this plan – through no fault of my own, I’m sure. To get to the bottom of this conundrum, I decided to log each minute of my day. Surely such a study would reveal who or what keeps derailing me.
Reality (bites):
6:30am: Hit snooze button. 6:30 is an ungodly time to get up. I can barely open one eye, let alone rise and shine. Roll over. Sleep another hour.
7:30am: Shuffle downstairs in PJs. Trip over cats. Forget to shave, shower, or brush teeth. Log onto computer to check email and Facebook feed. Congratulate Norman on his 75th birthday. (Personally, I thought he would have kicked the bucket years ago.)
8:30am: Scarf bowl of Apple Jacks. Must be healthy cuz’ it has the word “apple” right in the name. Turn on CNN for latest news. Something about President Trump’s plans to prosecute every Democratic governor and mayor for treason. IOW, another normal news day.
9:30am: Start workday (90 minutes behind schedule). Plan to make up time by punting laundry for yet another day.
9:50am: Receive SOS from neighbor to borrow pressure washer. Meet them at my garage. Engage in lively discussion about Trump’s plans to build another border wall – around the White House.
10:20am: Return to work.
10:55am: Consider shaving. Get distracted by unusual bird outside window. Ponder its species. Check bird book. Looks like a black-bellied plover or maybe a Pacific golden plover. While away 20 minutes researching the answer. Yeah, I knew it. Definitely a black-bellied plover.
11:25am: Back to work. Focus, Tim. Focus!
11:40am: Turn on Amazon Echo. “Alexa, play music by Elton John.” Internal debate over whether the Rolling Stones would be better background music for working.
11:55am: Observe how cute Zippy looks lying in that tiny box. Decide he needs pats because he’s been such a good boy. He hasn’t peed on the carpet by my desk all morning.
Noon: Lunch. Michele’s already eaten. I’m too tired to grill chicken. Looks like it’s another PB&J lunch day. There’s protein in Skippy peanut butter, right?
12:30am: Return to my desk. Stare at computer.
12:35pm: Receive Snapchat from daughter Rachel describing her next trip abroad. Daydream about Costa Rica.
1:05: Wonder if they have Cable in Costa Rica – which reminds me – did I pay the cable bill? Check bank account. Paid! Phew. Notice $50 charge for Wonder Waffles. What the heck?!
1:15pm: Take quick peek at Facebook. There’s a breaking WA Post story: Trump plans to purchase the Falklands and rename them the Trumplands. Think silently to self, “Perhaps he’ll move there when he loses.”
1:30pm: Take a brisk walk to mailbox. Exhausted, decide it’s time for a nap.
When in my 30’s and 40’s, I was full of energy and focused on powering efficiently through my daily To-Do list. Nowadays, it’s an accomplishment just to create a To-Do List, let alone do anything on it.
2:30pm: Contemplate working out – which would require getting dressed and tying sneakers. Too much of a hassle. Maybe tomorrow.
2:35pm: Think about work. Guilt paralyzes me.
3:00pm. Call it a day. Collapse onto couch and pat Buddy. He’s feeling ignored. Nod off again.
4:00pm: Snack time. Fleeting thoughts of fresh fruit. Opt for Cookie Dough ice cream instead. Begin diet tomorrow.
4:10pm: Gaze at book on coffee table about Paleolithic artforms. Reach for remote instead. Catch the latest breaking news story from CNN: Trump has decided to replace Mike Pence as his VP with the My Pillow Guy. Think to self, “I did NOT see that coming.”
6:10pm: Catch glimpse of clock and realize I’ve been glued to CNN for two hours. A recipe for stress. Time for a dinner of comfort food. Surprise Michele with a pepperoni & sausage pizza delivery. With a large Mountain Dew.
7:00pm: Get cozy on couch with Michele, Buddy and Zippy. “Watch” action thriller flick while texting buddy Steve about Seahawks game. Apologize to wife for not being fully present with her.
9:00pm: Time for bed. Wait! Did I feed the cats? Probably not. Guess that’ll have to wait till tomorrow.
Where did my day go?
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When it comes to texting, it’s a brave new world. No one under the age of 30 uses punctuation anymore. And why type in coherent sentences, when a confused face, a unicorn, and a wine glass emoji say it all?
I feel bad. Earlier today, I did something very hurtful – and to my own daughter, no less. I sent her a terribly insensitive text. What was the hostile, insulting thing I wrote? “Hope you’re doing well. Would love to see you sometime soon.”
I feel sick about what I’ve done. As my daughter explained it, I was bullying her and being demanding – both clearly conveyed by my use of a period at the end of each sentence. You read correctly. The period(.) also telegraphed anger and that I wished to end this text exchange.
How rude of me! After all, my daughter has a lot on her plate with work and grad school. After apologizing profusely and asking if she could ever find it in her heart to forgive me for my heartless affront, I asked her to enlighten me about any other texting rules that perhaps I had been routinely violating without knowing it.
Oh, I’m aware of a few do’s and don’ts. I know you shouldn’t type out novels (but I do it anyway – partly just to annoy my kids). I also learned that the use of ALL CAPS is considered SHOUTING and is frowned upon. BUT I DON’T CARE!! That said, after my daughter stopped reading my 200-word soliloquy about all the things I’m grateful for as her dad, she texted back: TEXTING PROTOCOLS HAVE EVOLVED DAD GET WITH THE PROGRAM
According to my daughter, and the newly abridged millennial version of Elements of Style, when it comes to texting etiquette, I’m stuck in the Pleistocene Era. Who knew that nowadays it’s “bad form” to use any punctuation when texting? Here I thought I was with the times texting my kids rather than telephoning, when actually I’ve been driving them crazy with my constant barrage of commas, apostrophes, and in-your-face use of question marks.
Apparently, not only is a period interpreted as a command, but also as a blow off. And exclamation marks?! Tread carefully there. Did you know that using a single exclamation mark means you’re being sarcastic? Me neither! I mean me neither. However, two exclamation marks is fine. But stop at two. Because three !!!’s is over-the-top irritating. It means you’re being a drama queen, so take it down a notch, sister!!
The use of capital letters is also something to avoid at all costs, especially if the word is normally meant to be capitalized. Never text “New York” when “new york” (or better still, “ny”) will suffice. Evidently, proper grammar and syntax are indicators you’re a total nerd who is just not woke enough for today’s under-30 crowd.
Let me give an example. Normally, I might be inclined to text my daughter, “Hi, Rachel. Did you have a good day at work? I can’t wait to see you when you come to Camano Island. Call me soon, if you have a chance, okay? Love you!” First of all, the period clearly showed I was ordering her to come home. Then the derisive single exclamation mark made a mockery of my love for her. And all those capitals!! The correctly written text would have looked like this: “hi rachel did you have a good day at work i cant wait to see you when you come to camano island call me soon if you have a chance okay love you”
Better still, eliminate all those time-wasting vowels: “hi rchl dd u hv a gd dy at wrk cnt wt 2 c u whn u cme 2 cmn islnd cll me sn k lv u”
That’s better. But if you really want to be respectful of your kids’ communication preferences, you should eliminate those pesky adjectives, adverbs, and nouns – young people can’t be bothered to read complete thoughts. That’s so 1990’s. They are way too busy checking out Instagram or Tinder to wade through your meandering message.
Young people today are extremely busy. They don’t have time to make eye contact, let alone call their parents. If you really need to get their attention, send a text – but keep it to under eight words, please. They don’t have all day.
Technically, if you truly want to adhere to the official guidelines of texting civility in this brave new world we live in, bail on the notion of sending your child a text in the first place. After all, you texted her a mere two weeks ago. Back off!! You’re starting to crowd her, dude.
In summary, when texting one of your under-age-30 offspring, remember these helpful DON’T’s:
DON’T drone on and on. Get to the point.
DON’T SHOUT at them with angry periods and in-your-face ALL CAPS.
Wherever possible, DON’T use words when texting. I’m sure there’s a four-emoji chain that can clearly communicate, “I won’t be able to make it to your place before 7pm because I’m stuck in traffic, so could you order us a veggie pizza?”
DON’T expect them to spellcheck their texts. So what if your college graduate’s text auto-corrected to change “I’m putting up my prius for sale” to “I’m putting up my penis for sale.” You should know what he meant.
DON’T text your kids too frequently. Once a month seems slightly excessive but within the margins of millennial social norms.
DON’T force them to wade through yet another adjective-laden tome about your recent home remodeling project. They won’t be spending any time at home when they come to visit you at Christmas anyway, so why are you telling them this stuff?
Most important of all, DON’T expect a reply – EVER. Your kids have far more important things to do than to keep in touch with their parents.
Be patient. Just wait till they turn forty and have self-absorbed teenagers of their own. Then they’ll be texting you night and day (begging for your parenting advice). And their kids will mock them as so passé. After all, fifteen years from now, who’d be caught texting? That’s so 2020.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Thanks to the COVID pandemic, millions more people are expected to vote by mail in the 2020 election. To prevent massive voter fraud, the Trump Administration is taking bold action, like requiring every mail-in ballot to be accompanied by a check for $50 payable to Re-Elect Trump to Save America. Don’t forget to include postage.
The 2020 presidential election is fast approaching. In recent days, alarm bells have gone off about the possibility of rampant voter fraud. President Trump has gone so far as to suggest the entire election has been nefariously rigged by the Democrats and that mail-in votes are going to be submitted by millions of people who have no right to vote, including the Chinese, dead people, and blacks.
Many on the left have argued there is no evidence of widespread voter fraud, insisting this is a myth concocted by Trump because he knows he’s going to lose. “Another Trump crazy conspiracy theory,” they quip. But the President has effectively refuted those specious claims with compelling evidence, pronouncing, “Everybody knows there is massive voting fraud,” and “You should hear what people are saying about mail-in ballots.” As if that wasn’t enough, Trump retweeted an actual post from a random dude with the Twitter handle @MAGALarry129lockherup, which reported “I know a guy who thinks something’s fishy with the mail-in voting in Scranton.”
What further proof do God-fearing Americans need? In order to prevent this dangerous assault on our sacred electoral process, President Trump and his personal Department of Justice (a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Trump Administration) have nobly promulgated a series of stringent voting requirements intended to prevent flagrant voter fraud by the corrupt Biden campaign. The following provisions only apply to people who choose to vote by mail – or vote Democrat. Those voters will now be compelled to furnish the following supplemental information to prove they are who they claim to be:
A valid USA passport AND
A copy of their social security card AND
Three years of federal tax returns (unless they switch their vote to Trump, then they can skip this step) AND
A donation of $100 or more to the Trump charity of their choice (Don Jr., Eric, Ivanka or Tiffany)
The Department of Homeland Security has also provided a list of criteria which will immediately disqualify certain America-hating groups from voting, including:
Anyone recently released from prison (this provision does not apply to Trump campaign or Trump administration officials)
Anyone who has ever seen the Broadway play Hamilton
Any resident of Seattle, Portland, or New York (and they know why)
Muslims, or anyone with a Muslim-sounding name, such as, hypothetically, a name like Barack Hussein Obama
In addition, all mail-in ballots have been updated for this year’s election to more easily indicate people’s voting preferences. Here is a mockup of the new streamlined mail-in ballot that will be used in all 50 states.
Even with the above measures, it’s impossible to prevent 100% of the voter fraud the Democrats plan to unleash in 2020. Impartial observers like Roger Stone point out that the Biden campaign will have a huge unfair advantage in the voter tabulation. This is in part because, for reasons impossible to explain, more people appear to prefer the Democratic candidate over our very stable genius Commander-in-Chief.
Therefore, in order to balance this lopsided scale, the Department of Justice has announced a totally impartial new voting scale as follows:
Each vote for Joe Biden will count as 1 vote
Each one for Donald Trump will count as 2 votes
Each one for Kanye counts as 1 vote for Donald Trump. (Because, seriously, a vote for Kanye really is a vote for Trump. Let’s not kid ourselves.)
Using this new, fairer weighted voting system, the outcome will almost certainly no longer be in doubt on election night. Thankfully, Americans won’t have to agonize for weeks, wondering who ultimately won, Trump or Biden. Now they’ll be able to start their agonizing on election night, knowing that same evening who will be sitting in the Oval Office (and tweeting) for four more years.
President Trump claims the Democrats are engaged in massive voter fraud. Moreover, he refuses to commit to a peaceful transition of power if he loses. So, to ensure things go smoothly, he has issued an Executive Order that he can continue to live in the White house no matter what the ballots state. What could possibly go wrong?
Because of the enormous volume of mail-in ballots predicted in this year’s election, the U.S. Postal Service has expressed serious concerns about its ability to deliver them all by the Election Day deadline (November 3rd). Therefore, the Department of Making Shit Up has announced that for this year only, the deadline to vote by mail will be moved up to September 15th, to give the post office plenty of time to get those ballots delivered.
If you miss that deadline, don’t worry. You’ll still be able to drop off your ballot at any of the many polling stations conveniently located in affluent, white suburban communities or in the middle of nowhere. Thousands of volunteers will be prominently located at polling stations in every battleground state, happy to explain to any person hoping to cast a ballot for Biden why, unfortunately, they’re not eligible to vote. But they’ll be very nice about it. They’ll also be easy to spot: they’ll be the friendly folks wearing camo pants, a red MAGA hat and carrying an AK-47 assault rifle.
Thanks to these bold measures, our election security will be the tightest it’s been in American history, and the chances of widespread vote-by-mail fraud by Democrats should be contained. But in the event Joe Biden still attempts to steal the election using shameful tactics like being the more attractive candidate (literally), President Trump is still confident that he will win in the end. That’s because he has faith in our democratic institutions.
However, on the off chance that democracy fails him, and the election is decided by the Supreme Court, Trump has incriminating Photoshopped pictures of Supreme Court Justices Kavanagh, Thomas, and Gorsuch in drag. The President added, “It would be a shame if those photos accidentally ended up in the Inquirer.”
Looks like when it comes to this election, everything’s going to work out fine.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Way back in 1999, Betsy was interviewed by Katie Couric on NBC’s Today Show with her twin boys. To understand how they ended up on national TV, we have to go back several years before her national television debut, to September 8th, 1990.
At that time, Betsy was massively pregnant with twins and due to deliver in six weeks. Doctor’s orders restricted her to no travel outside Albany, where she lived, in case the babies got pushy and tried to arrive early – which if you ask me, is highly inconsiderate of any prenatal youngsters. I therefore persuaded Betsy to go on a drive with me 60 miles north to the idyllic Lake George. I was particularly looking forward to a boat ride. In my defense, I was not yet a parent myself – and I’m a guy – you really can’t expect me to have a clue about obstetrical matters.
Betsy said okay – except for the boat ride – something about not wanting to rock the pregnancy boat. And she rudely insisted on driving. I gently pointed out that she was too huge to fit behind the wheel. She slugged me. Then she maliciously accused me of being a poor driver who hit every pothole and bump in the road.
Long story short, we had a lovely day up north. Betsy began the drive home, but soon got too exhausted to drive. Wimp. Reluctantly, she let me take the wheel. As Betsy had predicted, I hit every pothole and speed bump, enduring Betsy’s repeated rants of: “If the babies are born tonight, it’s your fault!” Personally, if you ask me, I think New York State needs to improve its highways.
Spoiler alert. Betsy’s babies didn’t arrive that night. In an unrelated story, at 5:00 the next morning, Betsy went into full labor. Her first words caught me by surprise: “Tim, this is your fault for hitting every bump in the GD road!” At 9 am the boys came down the chute. (Is that okay to say in a story about your sister? ) They weighed in at a scant 3 lbs. 14 oz and 4 lbs. 8oz, respectively. Though tiny, Betsy’s identical twin boys were just fine.
The same could not quite be said about Betsy. Apparently worn out from a challenging birth – or perhaps just from visiting too many tourist shops at Lake George the day before – she was utterly exhausted and became incoherent. She actually started speaking exclusively in French (she had lived several years in France). On the negative side, doctors were worried that she might have suffered some mysterious medical complication. (She hadn’t). On the positive side, her French was flawless.
The twins were born on September 9th, 1990. Most normal people would not think anything special about that date and would just be glad their newborns had approximately the right number of fingers, ears and noses. But my sister somehow figured out minutes after she regained the ability to speak English that one day her boys would celebrate a uniquely memorable birthday.
This is my sister Betsy, cradling her newborn identical twin boys. I know, it’s hard to tell them apart. So, in case you’re not sure who is who, Betsy is the one in the middle.
Nine years later, at the 9th hour of the 9th day of the 9th month of the 9th year of the 9th decade, the twins would turn, wait for it, 9.
Fast forward to summer 1999. Betsy had a brainstorm – inspired by an innocent query of her twins as to what they wanted for their birthday: “We want to be on TV”. So, she called a local news station and told them how her identical twins would be turning 9 years old at precisely 9a.m. on 9-9-99. They referred her to NBC, who referred her to Willard Scott (remember him?) Apparently, it was a slow news week because The Today Show said YES! They wanted to interview Betsy and her twins on LIVE TV. Oddly, the network neglected to interview me. I’m not going to lie. That slight really stung.
NBC flew Betsy and her twins, named Tyler and Kevin (not their real names), from Albany, NY to New York City, met them with a limousine, and put them up at the luxurious Essex House Hotel on Central Park. (Okay, I lied. Kevin and Tyler ARE their real names. I just wanted to protect their privacy. I appear to have failed miserably.)
Finally, Betsy’s big moment of national stardom was here. While she was on the set of The Today Show, chatting with Al Roker, I was in my living room, wearing a nice beige pull-over cotton shirt and blue jeans, having just finished cleaning up the dishes and taking out the trash. Now that I re-read the previous sentence, I see that it really added nothing to the storyline. Please accept my humble apology.
Anyway, right after the commercial for Bounty Towels, the show was back on. Katie Couric introduced my sister and the soon-to-be-famous twins to a national television audience. She began with a warm hello to the boys. And was met with … dead silence. You could hear a pin drop. Katie prompted them with an innocent question about their favorite birthday present. She was met with a torrent of rambling twin-speak, as Barry and Larry (not their real names) answered together, babbling in harmony about some colorful thingamajig that sparkled and twirled. The ever-poised Ms. Couric, who had interviewed movie stars and world leaders with aplomb, was speechless.
She recovered, however, and steered the interview in another direction, asking Betsy, “Is it true that their uncle played a significant part in their birth story?”
And you thought I was making this up. Here’s Katie Couric of NBC’s Today Show on 9-9-99, after Betsy’s appearance with her twins. Apparently there was a scheduling mix-up, as I was accidentally left off the show.
Then Betsy began to destroy my reputation: “My brother Tim is a terrible driver.” She proceeded to retell the events of our driving adventure on September 8th, 1990, and how I hit every bump on the road. “I told Tim to drive more carefully because he had a pregnant woman in the car. I even said, ‘If I give birth tonight, it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!’ Sure enough, the twins were born the following morning. They have called my brother ‘Uncle Bump’ ever since, because of his driving. I need to reiterate this. Tim is a really bad driver.”
Thanks for throwing me under the bus, sis. I may be a terrible driver, but if it weren’t for Ole’ Uncle Bump, your kids would’ve been born on some forgettable date at a healthy weight and lived lives of obscurity. And you never would have been on national TV, chatting with America’s Sweetheart, Katie Couric.
So, if you ask me, this story is really about how great a big brother I was by selflessly helping my little sister achieve her 15 minutes of fame. She returned the favor by turning the spotlight on me for my 15 seconds of infamy.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is me, Grumpy, with my owner. I’m the one in front. We have been together for over 40 years. One of us, on a good day, still has the maturity of a nine-year-old. I’ll let you guess which one.
Hi, there. I’m Grumpy. No, not that Grumpy. I’ve never met Snow White. Do I look like one of her minions? No, I’m Grumpy the bear. My owner, Tim Jones, adopted me in 1980 when I was a mere cub, barely 4 inches tall (and wide). I’m still the same size today because he never feeds me.
I need to get some things off my chest. I’ve kept silent for the past forty years. That’s in part because, technically, I’m a stuffed animal, with no vocal chords nor, for that matter, a mouth – unless you call this tiny strand of yarn below my nose “a mouth.”
You see, I’ve been bounced around by Tim, his sister Betsy, and their pal Dale for decades. The three of them have traversed the globe, taking turns with me riding shot gun. I’ve been to five continents – six if you count Iceland. Go ahead – correct the brainless bear by pointing out that Iceland is technically not a continent. Why would you expect a stuffed animal to be an expert on world geography? I’ve had virtually no schooling, since Tim and his cronies never saw fit to take me to school with them – , or even so much as let me watch a TED Talk. So cut me some slack, okay?
Over the past forty+ years, I’ve trekked to Paris, Berlin, Rome, Ireland, Switzerland, Russia, Botswana, Zambia, Malawi, South Sudan (during a civil war, I might add), Indonesia, China, Machu Picchu, Bali, and Scranton, PA, just to name a few. (Gotta say, I was surprised how much I liked Scranton. Good people.) Oh, and one more destination: The North Pole. More on that later. Dale, through his contacts at NASA, arranged for me to ride on the Space Shuttle, but then they cancelled all Space Shuttle flights forever. A pretty extreme way of keeping the Grump from exploring outer space.
Lest you’re thinking, “Wow, Grumpy, what a charmed life you’ve led. I’m so jealous,” – don’t be. These were not exactly Rick Steves tours – with the exception of a Rick Steves tour we took of Northern Italy. Um, what was my point? Sorry. With fluff for brains, I get easily distracted.
My point is that most of these journeys were no picnics. While I have explored all four corners of the globe, it is usually in cargo, in the bottom of a suitcase, inside a shoe, with no view and no free soda and peanuts.
When Tim and I flew to Paris, sure, he took a selfie of us in front of the Eiffel Tower. But did he let me check out the view at the top? Heck, no. It was one quick photo, then slam – back in the backpack.
Top row, L to R: Grumpy balancing atop a termite mound in Botswana; studying a map of Ireland in a B&B in Shannon; NOT catching the view of Mont Saint-Michel, France, from our hotel room. Middle: Grumpy checking out Komodo Dragons in Indonesia; downing Fanta’s with the locals in Zambia. Bottom: Grumps contemplates his empty glass of Merlot, oblivious to the 9th century Mahayana Buddhist temple behind him; so close to bathing at a sacred temple in Yogyakarta, Indonesia; examining the wrought iron work on a balcony in Paris.
One time, Tim, Dale and I trekked to Zermatt, Switzerland, home of the world-famous Matterhorn. I was stoked to join them skiing down the powdered slopes, taking in the incredible vista. But Tim shattered my dream, claiming skis didn’t come in my petit size. I doubt he’d try that lame excuse on his true favorite stuffed animal, his brainless beagle Snuffles.
When Betsy ventured to Machu Picchu, she made certain to snap the classic tourist photo of me with the ancient ruins in the background. But before I could ask, “Is there a Starbucks nearby?”, boom again, back into the duffel bag, wedged between a leaking water bottle and her sweaty socks. I gave her a scathing Yelp review.
Throughout these wanderings, I’ve spent countless nights in dodgy lodgings. Man, these three people are cheap. They seemed to prefer hotels without elevators. Picture me scaling the stairs on my half-inch paws to Dale’s 4th story room in Jakarta. Whoever manufactured me didn’t know much about teddy bear paw design. But there was a bed – which Dale wouldn’t let me snuggle in. I had to crash in the sink. Not even a pillow, much less a mint.
Here I am at the North Pole, thanks to a really crappy cruise ship. Not complaining, but the all-you-can-eat buffet sucked, and they wouldn’t let me play shuffleboard unless I agreed to be the puck. So unfair. [This is a real photo of Grumpy at the North Pole. At top is a photo of the actual Russian ice breaker Grumpy took to reach the pole.]
When Tim and I flew to China, I was exhilarated! Maybe I’d see the Great Wall, or perhaps the Terra Cotta soldiers. Wrong again. Turns out, he was there to adopt some cutesy baby girls, not travel with Grump. In fact, my presence was an accident as I wasn’t even supposed to be in his luggage. Guess how much attention he paid me once he stared into their innocent googly eyes? Correctamundo. None. I would have been better off back home hibernating.
Don’t ask me what the food is like in London, Lugano, Leningrad, or Lusaka. How would I know? Tim, Dale, and Betsy rarely took me out for dinner. I haven’t a clue how I’ve survived these 40 years without a proper meal. Oh right, because I’m an inanimate object made of stuffing. Duh!
Even my trip to the North Pole was bogus. A friend of Tim’s booked passage on a Russian cruise ship sailing out of Murmansk and I hitched a ride. The view from our cabin? One star. Nothing to see see see but sea sea sea. The unlimited buffet featured only unlimited cod. Do I look like a seal? No casino, no wave pool, no Trivia Night. A total bust.
We fought pack ice for seven days before finally reaching the pole. I picked the wrong time of year to shed my winter coat. It was freeeeeeezing out! But what a thrill to step onto a massive ice floe. Not bragging, but I’m pretty sure I’m the first fake bear to have set foot, er, paw, at the North Pole. Talkin’ to you, Fozzie. After that fleeting commune with nature, I was back below deck.
Through all these misadventures, I’ve stoically accepted my place as the quiet, accommodating sidekick. I never complained, despite the fact that not once in all of my globe-trotting did my travel buddies let me bob in the hot tub or order room service – or even use the remote. That’s why I had to set the record straight.
Uh oh. I just overheard Tim talking about another trip to Paris. Oh, non, non, non! Parisians are such snobs.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps my owner, Tim Jones, is off base.
L to R: Dale, Cousin Betsy, Tim, Sister Betsy, Dave
[Author’s note: The story behind the story: When I was in my twenties, I bought a small teddy bear. Round and about the size of a softball, he had a frowny face. So, I named him Grumpy. I decided that all my closest friends needed their own Grumpy’s, including my sister Betsy and my friend, Dale. So, I bought them each their own. I wasn’t going to share mine! See photo.
It eventually became an ongoing challenge between me, Betsy, and Dale to take photographs of our respective Grumpy’s in increasingly exotic locales. The three of us have been doing this for the past forty years.
Many of the most extraordinary trips mentioned in this piece were taken by Dale or Betsy, both of whom share a love of travel. But it was my Grumpy who actually sat on the pack ice at the North Pole, having trekked there in a Russian ice breaker. Suck it, Dale and Betsy! – TEJ]
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
![Here I am at the North Pole, thanks to a really crappy cruise ship. Not complaining, but the all-you-can-eat buffet sucked, and they wouldn’t let me play shuffleboard unless I agreed to be the puck. So unfair. [This is a real photo of Grumpy at the North Pole. At top is a photo of the actual Russian ice breaker Grumpy took to reach the pole.]](https://z2i.cfe.myftpupload.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/Grumpy-at-the-North-Pole-no-caption.jpg)
