Mr. Magoo. That’s the best way to describe our taxi driver. We had just arrived at Termini train station in Rome. We got into the taxi line and it wasn’t a long wait before we were in a taxi and on our way.

Our driver seemed like a very nice older gentleman. He was likely in his mid to late 70’s. He had a thick head of white hair, was quite short, and had a nice smile. He spoke no English. He also could not drive.

We’ve all heard the phrase that describes the Italian approach to life philosophy. La Dolce Vita. Having just returned from a trip to Italy, I witnessed that wonderful approach first hand.

The taking it easy, slow living, enjoying being in the moment, with good food, friends and family. Being Italian-American, with both sides of the family tree from Italy, this may resonate even more deeply with me.

However, to La Dolce Vita, I would add another approach to life philosophy that I also witnessed. I call it, Eh. Eh might actually be a component of La Dolce Vita.

What is Eh you ask? It’s a shrug of the shoulders, a lifting of the hands, a facial expression that all conveys a ‘no big deal, it is what it is, not gonna worry about it’ feeling.

When we were little kids, the adults always used to say, “Don’t run away from the bees. They won’t sting you if you just stand there.”

I thought this was the worst possible advice ever. It truly made me doubt the common sense and overall intelligence of adults. I absolutely ignored what they said and ran like hell any time a bee came near me.

That is how, I believe, I had managed to avoid ever being stung by a bee my entire life.

That is until about 2 years ago.

Sticking with last week’s Boston theme, this week let’s go bowling in Brocton.

Brocton, MA is a hard-scrabble, rough and tumble, blue-collar town on Boston’s south shore. Or it was, I should say, back in the mid to late ‘80’s when we experienced it. It’s sometimes referred to as the ‘City of Champions’ because it’s the hometown of two successful boxers of whom you may have heard: Rocky Marciano and Marvin Hagler (put a pin in that for a sec).

We just got back from a quick trip to Boston. We used to live there when we were first married, back in the mid to late 80’s. This trip triggered some PTSD on not one, but two fronts: accents and driving.

Heed my advice. Pee before you leave. No matter if it’s a 15 or 45 minute drive to where you are headed. You never know what might arise to turn that 15 or 45 minute drive into 5 hours.

Case in point: I was headed from work one day when I decided I would not take the time to pee. I really didn’t have to go and I was in a bit of a rush to get home. I was working at the National Constitution Center in Philly at the time, so I was looking at a 45 minute to an hour drive, depending on traffic.

“There’s a place, where the boat leaves from

It takes away all of your big problems

You got worries, you can drop them in the blue ocean

But you gotta get away to where the boat leaves from”… Zac Brown Band

Ernie and I were cruising down the Overseas Highway on our way to Key West from Miami. The beautiful May sun was shining a warm, golden yellow. The skies were cerulean blue, with some wispy clouds sitting softly in the sky, as if put there by the delicate touch of a painter. The sea was a spectacular aquamarine that reminded me of the Caribbean.

“Ah. Life is good today,” I thought.

Have you seen or heard about the latest food trend? Girl Dinner? Apparently, it’s on fire on TikTok. I don’t have or know how to use TikTok, so I heard about it the old-fashioned way: through my newsfeed.

It’s described as something the opposite of a guy dinner, ie, protein, starch and vegetable. You know, something we used to just call dinner. Not sure when the genderization of mealtime took place.

Last week we took a brief look at the aging process, prompted by a recently published study which tried to pinpoint an age, a single, magical point in time, at which people no longer feel young.

This week, let’s pick up that thread and explore further what aging is really like, shall we?

We’ve already established that it is more of a process that starts out slowly, creeping up on you subtly, by degrees, like a patch of crabgrass that slowly but surely subsumes your beautiful garden if left unattended. But, whereas that crabgrass can be eliminated, no magic elixir has yet to be developed to halt the aging process, despite what you see in your social media feeds.

Hyaluronic acid and Botox only get you so far.

…that the average age when people stop feeling young is 43. And that the average age when they start feeling old is 52. Not sure what they are feeling in those intervening 9 years, lol.

This little gem of a study popped up in my newsfeed this week. Have you seen it?

Say what you will about Millenials, but hats off to them with figuring out how to have your cake and eat it too. Or rather, how to have your beer and drink it too, I should say.

Been to a brewery lately? Notice how it’s overrun with parents with young children? I look at them with a weird combination of kudos, envy, and horror.

“Start the car, John, start the car!!,” my friend Lou Ann yelled frantically, as we stumbled out of the wooded area of the dunes. Well, she walked. I stumbled, prostrated with heat. The car, with its blessed air conditioning would be my salvation.

For most people, the term ‘asleep at the wheel’ is a figure of speech. For me? A literal occurrence. And the literal occurrence led to a date night with a sleep lab. I would have much preferred a date night with George Clooney, but that wasn’t an option.

Let’s talk chicken. Roast Chicken to be specific. Sam’s Club Roast Chicken to be even more specific. The mecca of all Roast Chickens. The cult-like fanaticism of its customers who worship at the roasted altar. A visit to that altar is not for the faint of heart. You have to be prepared for exchanges that might happen, for the rules and protocols of which must be adhered.

I am loathe to admit it, but I think I am turning into my parents. It’s kind of like the Progressive commercials with Dr. Rick. Only instead of Millenials turning into their parents, it’s Boomers.

The signs are subtle at first. You catch yourself saying to your family and friends, “What’s that you said? Speak up, you are mumbling!” You find yourself turning up the volume on the TV. Worse, you put the subtitles on now because you find that even if you can hear, you can’t understand what they are saying and you struggle to keep up with the dialog. And any interaction with technology is sure to pose at least one challenge.

Picture this. You’ve just moved to Upstate NY. Saratoga Springs, to be exact. A place where the winters are real. And long. Real long. So, you decide to become outdoor winter activity people and the first activity you take up is skiing.

This was our reality many moons ago when we were young and our prefrontal cortexes, which control judgement, were still developing.

We had previously enjoyed the occasional ski trip. In fact, we had recently skied Mount Killington in Vermont and aside from all the muscle soreness after the fact, had had a really good time.

We decided to fully embrace this skiing thing. We went out and bought all the necessary equipment. No more rentals for us!

You know how sometimes when you go to the doctor you get the question, do you feel safe at home? The harsh reality is that I’d have to answer that as a no. I live with a stalker you see.

There I am, comfortably ensconced on a stool at my kitchen counter, sipping my tea, wordling, when suddenly, out of nowhere, there he is. Sitting there. Those big green eyes staring at me, boring holes through me, unblinking. He shifts ever so slightly. I nervously bring my gaze back to my wordling, but I feel him staring. I look over at him again. He’s moved closer. I scooch myself away from him a bit. Then it happens. Not satisfied with just the stalking he decides to go for blood. I’m paying attention though, so I am able to dodge him just in time.

Ginger was our rescue Lab and Golden Retriever mix. Sweetest dog you’d ever want to meet, but boundless energy that running her 3 miles a day would not even come close to expending.

We had a dog whisperer come to the house once, because bringing Ginger home seemed to be causing issues with Sandy, our Golden Retriever, also the sweetest dog you’d ever want to meet. The dog whisperer asked how much exercise they were getting and when I said I ran with them 3 miles a day every day he pointed to Ginger and said, “She needs at least double that.”

You. Singular? Plural? The fact is, you can’t tell. Because our English language in its infinite perverseness, has deemed using the same word, you, for both singular and plural. What the heck? English couldn’t follow the lead of other countries, like Spain where the difference is clear? Usted. Ustedes. Singular. Plural.

However, Spain and other countries do have this thing for formal and informal use of the word you which just confounds things in a different way altogether. English stayed away from that situation at least.

Back to our conundrum of how to differentiate in our English language when we mean you singular and you plural.

Last week’s blog post, First Jobs: Part 1, found us in the hinterlands of South Jersey being chased by a nasty Billy Goat. This week’s post, First Jobs: Part 2, finds us in an appliance store in Newark, DE and does not involve farm animals of any sort.

I arrived at the huge, super-center appliance store in Newark, DE. The quantity of inventory was so large, that the store assigned one of their salesmen to assist me. I had allotted the full day for the task.