After years of writing, I finally have a story to die for

If you’ve visited before, you may know that I have self-published a few books. When you self-publish enough books, you get noticed. Some authors get noticed by readers, but I find that I get noticed much more often by aggressive marketers, trying to sell me their publishing platforms. These platforms usually come at a high price for very little useful platform, so I disregard the advertisements.

When this marketing piece appeared in my mailbox, I assumed it was from a fly-by-night, vanity press that had bought my name from a mailing list in the hope I possess three important characteristics:

  1. I am ignorant of publishing scams.
  2. I harbor dreams of penning the autobiography of my quietly fascinating life.
  3. I do not know what the word fascinating means.

Before tossing the piece into the recycle bin, I turned it over to make note of the name of the publishing company trying to take advantage of my feeble-minded sense of self-importance.

That’s when it hit me. Publishing companies, even the shady ones, don’t have Memory Gardens in their names nearly so much as cemeteries do.

I am not being recruited by a shady publisher, but by a shady plot in a peaceful meadow. They’re not trying to sell me a two-bit book layout for my memoirs; they’re trying to sell me a hole to bury my carcass.

This is disturbing, because nowadays these marketers know more about you than you do. Last year, AARP was all over my 50th birthday like flies on sheet cake. What does Memory Gardens know about me that puts me on the same prospect list with Great Depression Babies? Should I take heart that it’s addressed to me OR whomever took up residence in my death trap of a home after my demise?

I guess the best thing is to find the humor in it, of which there is plenty. I do enjoy the Resolutions theme: A new year is a time for resolutions. Why don’t you resolve to die this year?

I also like the appeal to the control freak: By planning your final arrangements in advance, you can still tell everybody what to do even after you’re dead. After all, you wouldn’t want them to grieve in any way but the one that suits your departed ego.

But the best laugh is reserved for the smallest print:

“Our sincerest condolences if this was received during a time of mourning.” In other words, “We hope we’re not too late, but if the next of kin need to throw something together right away, we are such considerate people, and by the way, we still do have plots available.”

Having considered all this, I’ve decided I’m not writing my autobiography or resolving to die this year. I’m hoping to keep my story to myself for a while longer.

 

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Don’t call me a hero. I’m just a guy who touched feet so future generations could live fuller lives.

The trouble with major research universities is somebody there is always trying to do research. All this intellectual curiosity can get annoying, but when you live in the shadow of the behemoth you get its shade cast upon you sometimes.

Most people can avoid getting caught in the net of the research study, but most people are not married to my wife. The only thing she likes more than making herself into a guinea pig for the discoveries of tomorrow is making her husband into a guinea pig for whatever human subject experimentation is going on today.

The latest thing she leapt to sign us up for is a study on reflexology. Reflexology, as it applies to us, is the application of pressure to the feet. As explained to us, different areas in the foot correspond to areas within the greater body, and by massaging these foot areas, relief can be applied to the rest of the body. Whether this is true, I don’t know, but I’m just a guinea pig; it’s not my job to draw conclusions.

We are just a couple of weeks into our study, but I have already learned two important things. I learned how to, in my amateurish way, apply reflexology pressure to feet. I also learned, although I probably already had this info tucked somewhere in the back of my mind, that I am in no danger of ever contracting a foot fetish.

Why can’t feet stay this cute and soft, with Piggies who still say “Wee, wee, wee!” all the way home?

It turns out I’m not so high on feet.

My training began with getting reflexology applied to my own feet, which was fine, but I’d just as soon have a back rub. Next, I had to work on the feet of somebody I’d just met. I don’t even really like to hug people I just met, so whipping out the foot lube and going to town all over their little piggies was a tad unsettling.

But I got through it.

You’re welcome, Science.

Now, I just have to manhandle my wife’s feet on a regular basis. Though I dearly love all of her appendages, I have to say, there are other parts of her where I would more enthusiastically plant the flag of scientific enlightenment.

I’m just not into feet. I don’t even care for my own feet. Yes, they are extremely useful to me in my everyday doings, but they are not cute or cuddly, or even gritty handsome in a backwoods kind of way. My feet are homely workhorses, which is why I grew them as far from my eyes as I could.

The only pair of feet I can truly say I love to touch are those soft, pudgy, still babylike ones at the ground end of Big Man. They have yet to develop the harsh gangliness of his older brothers’ feet. For a year or two more, his feet will be a pleasure to touch.

Too bad he’s not signed up for the reflexology study.

 

 

We let Daddy live in our house

When Daddy is not sleeping in the bed, Mommy sometimes lets the little people sneak in and cuddle up with her. Going back as far as Bambi, mommies seem to like to cuddle their babies. Daddies have a different take on it, since daddies are usually the ones who end up tumbling to the floor when the bed gets overcrowded. Also, daddies have targets painted over their kidneys, so little feet know exactly which spot to kick.

Due to Mommy’s generosity in these matters, and Daddy’s downright stinginess, childish minds color the parents’ room in a certain way. Daddy has a pillow; Mommy has a bed. Daddy has a little area of closet space; Mommy has a bedroom.

This domain belongs to Mommy. It’s her realm. Daddy would be nothing more than a sleepy vagabond if Mommy didn’t let him stay in her room until he finds his own keep. And it sure is taking him a long time to stand on his own two feet when it comes to lying down.

Daddy is just more competition for the warmest, softest, safest sleeping spot in the house.

One fell out and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said:
“No more daddies sleeping in the bed.”

And then you get a three-year-old who thinks he’s a comedian making a shtick of the issue:

Yesterday, Big Man had a long nap, so he was not ready to go to bed at the same time as his older brothers. When Daddy’s bed time came, Mommy was asleep on the couch, but Big Man was still awake. I prefer for him to sleep in his own bed, but since he seemed too wired for that I gave him a choice. “You can go to your bed or you can sleep on the sofa in my room.”

“You don’t even have a room,” he replied, the huge grin on his face betraying how funny he thought he was.

“You can sleep in your own bed then.”

Out of necessity, he conceded I had some kind of mysterious special right to Mommy’s room, having been the priority squatter there. He came upstairs to the sofa.

As I was putting a blanket on him, he pointed to the bed. “I wanna sleep in the bed,” he said.

“No, not in my bed.”

“No. In Mommy’s bed,” he giggled.

I shook a finger at him. “Okay, Smartypants, you stay put and go to sleep. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to brush my teeth.”

The mirth in his voice followed me as he asked, “In Mommy’s bathroom?”

Cue the vultures

My birthday is in August – the far end of August. Notwithstanding the entire month in between, the automated corporate birthday emails arrive on August 1st. Most of them are from restaurants wanting to remind me how well they treat me: “Present this birthday coupon for a free thimble cupcake with your next meal!”

It’s nice of the various corporate entities to think of me within a month of my birthday. It makes me feel loved, in a cozy, direct marketing kind of way.

This August 1st, I was reminded that this birthday – the one coming several weeks from now – is a big one. It’s the one where I get to forget about all the worldly troubles plaguing young people and start to enjoy life. At least that’s the understanding I have from this piece of mail that landed at my house on August 1st.

What a thoughtful birthday card.

This is not the first time I have been recruited by AARP. They’ve been after me for decades as a random fish who might get caught up in the big nets they cast blindly. This time it’s different. This hook was chosen especially for me.

In the past, the recruitment materials had an anonymous vibe to them: “Hey, Dude. Are you old by any chance? If so, come hang out with us. We’re the cool old people.”

This new mailing feels like a spotlight in my face: “Scott. Yes you, Scott. We know when your birthday is (more or less) and we know how old you are. Don’t fight it. Give in. Become one of us. There’s no escape. We already made up a card with your name on it. It’s only temporary, so be sure to mail us $16 by 9/11/17.”

“We’ve been watching and we know all about you.”

You must agree there is a hint of totalitarian voice in the command to enjoy my birthday. Maybe I haven’t sorted out my emotions regarding this milestone yet. And it is a little presumptuous to assume I want a membership kit. On the other hand, the free tote does look nice; I could use it when I hike off with the other novice seniors to the indoctrination camp. I’ll just pack a few necessities. I wouldn’t want an overweight bag to make me fall and break my hip before I’ve been given all the tips and tools to help me begin enjoying life.

“Free tote. You can carry all your medications. You know you want it. Yes, you do.”

Maybe I’ll carry the temporary card around with me for a while, just in case the secret handshake doesn’t buy me into the bingo game. I’ll carry it for a month. By then, maybe they’ll be concerned about the September crop of fresh old people and forget about me. I’ll lay low and let the card quietly expire.

Unless the card gets me some good discounts by then. In that case, I’ll have to seriously reconsider parting with my $16, because if there’s one thing we senior citizens dearly love, it’s a good discount.