What A Life

I visited Bangladesh or even possibly Katmandu, the other day. I’m not sure which.

I love to travel, and, in fact, to visit such an exotic place as Katmandu, could be very exciting, since many of the mountaineering stories I enjoy get their start in Katmandu.

However, I wasn’t readying myself for a high altitude adventure, no, I was merely attempting to contact a company’s customer service department. A year or so ago, when I had occasion to call to the same department, I was quickly routed to a human of obvious Midwestern USA origins.

This could be Bob…..

My questions were quickly and efficiently answered, a solution to my problem soon found. I ended the call and I moved on to other tasks. So this time, when I sat down to make my call, I assumed that within a few minutes I’d have the problem resolved, and could head for the dinner table—since my wife had advised me that: “Dinner is ready!” (The exclamation mark is hers.) I foolishly answered that I’d “be there in a minute.” I didn’t know of my pending visit to the other side of the world.

The first change I discovered when I dialed the almost familiar number was, that the first “person” to take my call wasn’t. It was some recording of another Mid-westerner, a gentleman who decided that this would be a good time for me to tell my life story, and answer few hundred pointless questions; in order for him to: “direct your call to the proper department.” He also electronically informed me that: “Your call is very important to us, so please be patient.” What he didn’t say was, and should have said, is: “I’m not a real person, I don’t sleep, drink, drive, or eat dinner, so honestly, I don’t care how long this takes.”

Something else I noticed, was that the outfit who had recorded this electronic waste of time, included special little tricks and phrases, like: “Okay, I get that.”, or “ Just a minute while I jot this down.” That would have been quite an achievement for our robotic whiz. Minutes later, (after receiving several other ignored dinner reminders) I was transferred to a real person. In Katmandu. Or Bangladesh. “What is your name?” he asked, adding: “Mine is Bob.” At least I think he said Bob.

“What is the nature of your problem?” I could have told him that at that very moment, I had just had my dinner dumped in my lap, but I knew he wasn’t interested in a difficulty of that sort. I attempted to explain to “Bob“, just what the reason for my far-reaching call was, but I quickly realized that frankly, he didn’t grasp my problem anymore than I understood his solution.

My wife was threatening another food delivery, so I finished my call by asking Bob, “How’s the weather there in Katmandu?” There was a pause. “I am sorry sir, I am unable to give that information.”

So, I hung up, realizing that the only question that I asked that he could have possibly answered in a way that I could understand, was off limits. So was my trip to Katmandu.

I later noticed the company had a website, and a customer service link. I wonder, do you suppose Bob will be the one to man the website as well?

Hmmmm

Here’s this weeks stumper. It’s not what you think….I’ll bet.

I recall a time when one of the banes of my young life, was the dreaded “pityrosporum ovale”.. What it was, (according to Listerine’s radio and magazine ads) the cause of dandruff, an affliction that could turn a potential Prince Charming (me) into a toad. It seems that when those pesky flakes dribbled from one’s scalp, onto one’s shoulders, they created a miniature, organic snowstorm. A snowstorm that would repel the most casual

No dandruff, but he smelled like a sore throat.

observer, and especially those of the opposite sex.

Not to worry folks, for there was help on the horizon, or at least on a drugstore’s shelves—Listerine, the nasty, foul tasting, odiferous potion that took time out from solving a multitude of oral problems, to tackle one’s scalp. Their magazine ad illustrations usually depicted a picture of a young man, sporting drifts of those irksome white flakes on his shoulders, and getting a rather disdainful look by a beauteous cover girl. In the next series of illustrations, Prince Charming took the hint, and merely bought a gallon or two of Listerine, and freed himself of pityrosporum ovale, and won the girl.

Mercifully, the cure wasn’t affected by swallowing the stuff, (however, a few down-on-their-luck consumers of alcohol in any form, would tipple an occasional bottle) the sufferer scrubbed his/her scalp with Listerine; allowed it to work for a few minutes, and then shampooed the last vestiges of it’s aroma from their tresses, or at least mask them with a potent dose of hair oil—-the more fragrant the better.

But miniature blizzards weren’t the only personal annoyances tackled in the 1950’s, it seems as humans, our creator left us with odor problems of many sorts, usually masked with perfume, or distance. For instance; “B.O.” an almost acronym for “body odor” of the under-arm type. According to their ads, one could be rescued from this malady by merely laundering oneself with “Lifebuoy” soap. For those who remember the original formula, it was a force to be reckoned with. First, it’s red color warned you off. In Mother Nature’s realm, bright colors tell would be predators to back off—ditto, Lifebuoy.

If it’s appearance wasn’t repellant enough, then it’s odor was. It possessed a medicinal smell, a combination of iodine and Phenol, or carbolic acid. At one time carbolic acid was a common disinfectant, and when used in soap, supposedly killed some of the odor causing bacteria on the skin. It was also hard on skin, and rashes occurred in places I’d rather not talk about.

One last miracle product, also sold to defeat one of our body’s natural defenses, mouth odor, was chlorophyll gum. A gum called “Ennds” was the first on the market, followed by “Clorets“. For a few years, the stuff that makes grass green, was touted as a way to leave the mouth fresher, with that “just mowed” fragrance.

Frankly, I’d prefer smelling more like spearmint than my front lawn.

Over the past half-century, I’ve made peace with the notion that I’d better take what the Good Lord dealt me, and I hope that anyone who may spot a few flakes on my shoulders, or should need to give me a wide berth to avoid my aura of personal odiferous emanations, will hopefully just chalk it up to my old age.

No guesses on last week’s gadget, maybe this one will stir up some interest.

Bet it hurts.

If you found a billfold on the sidewalk this morning, I’ll bet I know what you’d do; you’d immediately try to find the owner.

Why is it, that the good Lord allowed there to be some in our midst, who would look at the billfold, and immediately think: “Finders keepers.” That type of person is alive and well, and not merely waiting to find someone else’s property they can appropriate as their own, but are more than happy to put a lot of effort in order to rid you of some of your

possessions—without your knowledge.

A few years ago, Craigs List appeared on the scene; and immediately became a great way to find things to buy, or to sell something, and, in the process, to sometimes become a victim of a scam. The methods used are clever, and make me think that should the scam perpetrators put a like amount of effort in honest endeavor, they might earn more money than they steal, and, they wouldn’t have to worry about spending a few hundred happy days in jail.

When I hear the stories of vulnerable people taken in by ruthless predatory scammers, it makes my well-aged blood boil.

A month or so ago, a family member of mine, was looking for a roommate, and Craig’s List was suggested as a way to match him up with a likely candidate. He wrote a nice listing; “Private room, non-smoking, kitchen privileges, etc., etc.” Well, within 24 hours, he had a dream candidate. Seems the applicant was a young woman; a high school chemistry teacher from London, UK. She had found a position in Larimer County, and needed to be settled in by the first of August.

She emailed photos, an impressive resume’, and stated that the room sounded exactly like what she was looking for, and was having her “uncle” in Colorado, forward a check for $500 to tie up the deal, since she didn’t want to lose the room. Another family member smelled a rodent, and a few minutes spent on the internet, found the dream roommate was just that; a dream. It was a clever scam, where a phony check would be mailed to the victim, (of course from a bank in England) then in a few days, the scammer would send another email, stating circumstances had changed, and she wouldn’t be moving, and would the victim send a refund money gram to the scammer. A week or so later, by the time the “deposit” had been reported by the bank as bogus, the scammers would be $500 to the good; the victim; not so good.

This morning, I answered the phone, and emanating from the device was a voice I’d never heard before. “Hello, Grandpa?” the raspy, mature voice grated. Silly me, I was a little suspicious, “Who is this?” I asked. “This is your oldest grandson, Grandpa.” Hmm, I thought, my eldest grandson has a name, and doesn’t sound like Grandpa Simpson. “I’ve had this really bad cold, Grandpa, that’s why my voice is so hoarse.” he quickly added. Not waiting for me to get too curious, he launched into a tale of a “terrible car accident he’d had last night”, and that was when I interrupted him. “Wow, that sounds really bad, Oldest Grandson, possibly you might consider contacting the police. I know they’d be more than happy to help you.” The next sound I heard was the disconnect.

Our creep didn’t realize that there are a few of us old geezers who have ongoing contact with our kids and grandkids, and frankly, as far a mine are concerned, I recognize their voices, and none, not even my granddaughters, sound like Grandpa Simpson.

Sorry for the delay in posting a new story, but we’ve been busy here at WAL. Here’s a gizmo for you to identify.

Don’t most of us love a good dog story? Those heartwarming, happy tales (tails) of a family pet. You may recall, “Where the Red Fern Grows”, and I certainly shouldn’t omit the book and recent movie, “Marley And Me”, both are good dog stories, and tear jerkers too.

Rutager, in a happier place.

Let me paint a mental picture: it’s a cold, winter’s day, you’ve got a toasty fire in the fireplace, a comfortable chair, and a good book—maybe a “dog story”, and, even cozier, possibly your dog “Lad“ is laying at your feet, glancing at you from time to time with his soulful brown eyes. Does it get any better than this?

Well, possibly it can’t get better, but it can get worse—–for if Lad had a recent meal of the wrong kind, say something akin to “Dr. Vet’s Malodorous Liver Egg and Ale for Dogs”, your reverie could be short lived.

“What IS that smell?” Your wife asks, hiding her nose in the folds of her sweater. She gives you a rather suspicious look. Your face is a mask of innocence, and with an unknowing shrug—you and your life partner look around for the source—-and two sets of eyes settle on the wonderful, “man’s best friend“, the ever adoring, Lad.

Lad, noticing the attention, comes to you, his tail in motion; a picture of blamelessness
and devotion.

Not to interrupt your relaxing moment, but have you ever traveled with a dog? There are dogs that travel well, and those not quite so well.

A while back, our son Kelly, was making a trip from Denver to Glenwood Springs. He was driving a car belonging to a friend, Cindy. His passengers were Cindy’s two small sons, Toby, 6 years old, and Gabe, 4. The boys are good travelers, and soon fell asleep. The trip so far, was uneventful.

So far.

Did I mention that there was another passenger in the car? Well, Kelly’s “guard dog“, Norwegian Elkhound, “Rutager“, was on board as well. This was to be his longest road trip, for in the past, his trips had been rather abbreviated, such as a visit to the vet.

He’d been fed before they left home—I’m not sure if it was one of “Dr. Vet’s” recipes, but it was filling.

Some hundred miles short of the destination, Kelly and the boys noticed that there was something in the air. Malodorous. Heavy. Smelly. Kelly stopped, checked the area where Rutager had been, and found that the dog had up-chucked. A quick clean up was done, and soon, they were back on the road. All was right with the world, or so it seemed, except for the smell—-it wasn’t better, it was worse.

When Kelly reached his destination, a more through search was done, and he found that poor Rutager’s problem affected both ends of his alimentary canal. While the forward end was doing it’s thing, the rearmost made it‘s contribution as well…..

As four year old Gabe reported: “Wutago, he got diawe-oh!”

At this writing, poor Cindy is driving with the windows down.

Well, as I said, there’s nothing quite like a good dog story.

Last week’s gizmos are cigar trimmers. Cute, eh? Now let’s see how clever you are this week. Whazzit?

Hmmmm….