Mexico…a Time Well Shared

The first thing that hits you is the warmth seeping in through the front exit hatch.

“Exit Hatch”…that’s airplane talk for “front door”.

The not as cheerful as she started, flight attendant, gives you the perfunctory, “Bye bye…enjoy your stay in Cabo” and without even realizing it, you've slipped out of winter and donned your summer skin.

Sure, there’s something about standing atop those tall stairs, peering out over the tarmac that impels you to do your best Richard Nixon waving to the masses impression, but still…it’s warm, it’s almost hot…it’s suddenly summer…in January!

So much so that you want to immediately spread a towel out right there on the sizzling concrete and never leave.

Surprisingly, customs is a pretty quick process, which basically consists of a nice Mexican official waving you over with the wiggle of two fingers. You present your passport, follow directions to spin around 360 degrees on one leg, then before you know it, the official is spitting on your shoes and telling you to “Move along muchacho…there is much work to be done.”

If you’re lucky, at this point, your significant other will soon realize that her slightly confused and jetlagged compadre, wandered onto the wrong line—again—and will quickly hustle you off the back of the truck, where you have already made several acquaintances and dinner plans for later in the week.

“But we were going guava picking!” one might exclaim.

But that would be “one”…not necessarily me.

Eventually, “one”, including me, finds their way through the terminal and over to the proper representative of the car service that was  hired to drive the 40 minutes or so to the hotel.

One of the things you learn very quickly about Mexico, and are actually warned about, by the Mexicans themselves, is that the national pastime is hustling and outright lying to tourists.

I know that might sound somewhat politically incorrect as an insensitive blanket statement to make, but—unfortunately— it’s true. 

In fact the car service sent an e-mail before we even left home warning us to absolutely not speak to anyone, no matter what they tell us, until we found them—our real car service amigos--outside the terminal, on the walkway, holding a sign with our name on it…or at least a version of our name.

And even with all of that, I still found myself so convinced by the veracity of these people that I nearly signed us up for a free ride into town on the back of a burro, and a two week time share, in January, for the next three decades.

Luckily…again…something is tugging at me, that just doesn’t feel right, so I respectfully decline the burro and the time share, although I have to admit, even now, it still sounds like a pretty good deal.

We finally run the gauntlet of “nuestros nuevo amigos” and find our “verdadero motor” where Z finally feels secure enough to release her grip and stops tugging at the back of my collar.

And from there on, it was smooth sailing because our real driver, had not one but two Burros, waiting for us, which made the trip that much more pleasant than the one burro offers we fended off inside.

What…you think this caballero just hopped off of the guava truck?

Well, yeah I guess I did, actually.

But even so.

Before we knew it, we found ourselves checking into our fancy hotel, and collecting our key card, ready to meet up with Z’s sister K and husband John, and hit the pool.

At that point, the friendly hotel concierge then sauntered over to us and insisted on giving us a complimentary hosing to remove the trail dust from our pores, along with the assorted cacti that were embedded in our hair. She then insisted we sit down with her, for just a minute—or 20— so she could fill us in on all of the free hotel amenities they had to offer, including a deluxe breakfast buffet, where another nice hotel representative, would join us in the morning to tell us all about the wonderful opportunities we would have to purchase one of their…you guessed it…time shares.

And  it was all absolutely free, except for the 20 dollar deposit they required to “hold our spot”.

Mexico…who would have thought. 

So friendly, everybody wants to share their time with you….

Next up…” Cavorting in Cabo” .

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Flight to Cabo

The light dusting of snow falling this morning is a telltale sign.

A pretty pre-dawn surprise, but a jolt of reality, nonetheless.

We’ve been back home for almost a week now.

In fact a week ago today we were sitting in the Cabo airport, munching on a Subway sandwich, reluctantly waiting for our plane to be called to begin the first leg of our 8 hour, 2 flight, journey home.

13 hours if you count car services and security clearances.

And I have to tell you, if you you've never tried to order a Subway sandwich with all its various accouterment in Mexico, and your Spanish barely allows you to locate the bathroom, you haven’t lived.

Well, yeah…you probably have lived, but you haven’t eaten a sandwich with three different varieties of hot chili peppers, that all look oddly similar to parsley.

Is there actually a word for provolone in Spanish?

But I already have us coming home and I haven’t even talked about going yet.

Sorry.

Happily, despite my past hyperbole, all our neurotic pre-travel preparation planning paid off. The driver arrived right on time, we didn’t forget our passports and we arrived at Newark airport with more than enough time to check our bags and get through security…all with a minimum of adrenaline induced seizures, which you want to try and avoid since it tends to raise a red flag with the TSA.

Also, just as a helpful travel note…volunteered full body strip searches are not encouraged and total disrobement is not acceptable outside the enclosed inspection facility.

Just so you know….

Once we cleared security and filled out the FBI incident report, we were free to roam the departure terminal until our flight was called.  However, the fact that I was now somehow wearing someone else’s shoes made it a bit uncomfortable to walk very far, so for the most part we sat by our gate and stared intently at the customer service rep hoping to psychically instill the suggestion to upgrade our seats to business class from coach.

That’s not entirely true.  They didn’t have a business class on this flight or coach section, ether, for that matter. Instead, there was something called Economy and Economy Plus…the plus being about 5 more inches of leg room…plus an additionally 100 buckos for said 5 inches, which I think might have been worth it since it might have allowed me to actually open my laptop all the way, or at least keep my sweater on…that is until the guy in front of me reclined his seat back.

Anyway, while my psychic maneuverings were mostly for naught—a strange name for an airline gate rep, don’t you think—Z, who actually managed to find her own pair of shoes on the conveyor belt, happily strolled along the promenade and checked out some of the stores, most of which you find in your average, everyday suburban mall.

Airports have come a long way, retail wise, since the days of only being able to buy a newspaper and a bad paperback in a corner newsstand along with, if you were lucky, a bag of stale potato chips and 12 hour old coffee.

6 if you bought your own.

Not so today. Today, in addition to all the upgraded retail space you can find everything from McDonald's to Duncan Donuts, plus so much more.

But why would anyone need more than that?

Finally, our flight was called, which surprised me since I’d been looking out the window for the BIG jumbo jet that was going to carry us comfortably across the country.

It should have been here by now, parked at the gate, loading luggage, preparing meals.

But it was nowhere to be found…until I stood up and looked down to see a Boeing 737, being carried to the gate on the back of a small man with a long white beard.

Okay…maybe I’m exaggerating. The man wasn’t all that small and his beard was average at best.

Of course we couldn’t board our toy plane immediately since we had to wait for our “Group” number to be called.

I guess I understand the purpose of the “Group” seating.  If you’re paying for first class, you should be able to board first, if only to get to the champagne while it’s still chilled.

And while I didn’t really mind being in the last group called, I did kind of resent the group name that was assigned to us, rather than a number like everyone else.

What kind of name is “Le Miserable” for a group anyway?

But odd name or not, we soon found ourselves buckled in our seats. Luckily, my seat booking strategy paid off, which was to book Z by the window and myself on the aisle, thereby somewhat assuring that no one would want the single seat in the middle, giving us the whole row to ourselves. That and the note I left saying that plague is almost never really contagious anymore.

Once we were up and on our way, the time passed pretty quickly. The flight was fairly smooth, and it really is pretty easy to work those drop down oxygen masks, once you figure out how get them out of the ceiling.

The flotation devices under the seat, however, are another matter entirely.

Of course we also had the benefit of passing the time watching an eight dollar—each—Richard Gere movie on a 3 x 3 inch screen, while munching on half of an eight dollar cheeseburger, which may or may not also serve as a replacement gasket should a problem develop with the landing gear.

But I guess that’s how it is with air travel these days…everything’s a profit center. 

The good news is, after several naps, we soon found ourselves slowly descending over the dusty shores of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula and inviting azure seas.

Yeah…I know. It took me a while to get here…but flying cross country takes time.

You don’t want me to leave anything out, do you?

Besides I didn’t even mentioned the people with the dogs in the plane.

In the plane…in the passenger compartment, not the luggage compartment.

Not that I minded. The dogs were pretty well behaved and played with their iPads for the most part.

I just wish they didn’t leave the bathrooms such a mess.

Dogs…they never wipe down the sink when they’re done….

Next stop Cabo….

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Between Coming and Going

Between coming and going there’s sometimes a nice vacation.

If you’re lucky.

I suppose between coming and going there could also be a stop at Home Depot.

But not for Z and me this past loooooooong weekend.

This past loooooooong weekend we jetted into Cabo, sat by the pool, baked in the sun and sipped on Pina Coladas…every day.

Well, not every day…that would be just too decadent.

Some days we sipped on Strawberry daiquiris.

Did we miss anything good while we were away?

It was 85 degrees and sunny most of the time.

How was the wdther hdre?

Oooops…sorry for the typos…the glare from my tan makes it a little hard to see the screen.

Cabo, for those who don’t know—which I didn’t until I was packing my bags—is an area that includes Cabo San Lucas—where we stayed—located on the very southern tip of the Baja Peninsula, in Mexico.

So much so that if you step to your left without looking you could find yourself standing knee deep in the calm Sea of Cortez.

Step to your right and you’re wading into the rough seas of the nearly South Pacific.

We were fortunate to have been invited to tag along with Z’s sister K and her husband John for a 6 day 5 night “most expenses” paid vacation, that John earned through his business dealings, which has something to do with frozen food.

I’m not sure how it all works, exactly—I think it has something to do with a meat hook and a walk-in freezer in Chicago—but what I am sure about is one week ago today I was splashing in the pool and lazing on a sandy beach, looking out at breathtaking scenery, all thanks to TV dinners and of course K and John.

I’ll have more to say about our “Cabocentric” adventures in the days ahead, but right now my head’s still spinning from the traveling, the schizophrenic changes in climate and as I said, the 600 or so adult beverages, tacos and enchiladas consumed, not to mention the hip hop bass pounding serenade that has apparently replaced the traditional Mexican Hat Dance as the pool side musica of choice.

You haven’t lived until you’ve heard “it’s Hard Knock Life” from Annie done street style.

Not sure it really had anything to do with Mexico other than the type of “hip-chi-chi” clientele the hotel was hoping to draw to its Jacuzzis.  I think they’re trying to cut down on the excess traffic created around the pool from too many walkers and canes being left unattended.

The truth is you haven’t lived until you’ve seen an 80 year old break dance under water.

Or at least what I mistook for break dancing that really turned out to be an unfortunate incident involving one of the underwater bar stools, which were in short supply. 

What can I say, I was thirsty and can I help it if I’m still slightly quicker than an 80 year old.

Bygones….

Anyway, the point of this piece was supposed to be about travel day prep, travel day and travel back day, and how miserable a time that really is because as the late great troubadour Harry Chapin sang, “It's got to be the going not the getting there that's good…”

And since Z and I are not the most accomplished of world travelers, we spend more energy angsting about the getting there that you would think we were responsible for everything from flying the plane to building the hotel.

I mean, so what if we forget to pack the ironing board, the toaster oven and the DVR?  

And of course the car service has picked up thousands of travelers at 6:30 in the morning and doesn’t require a call to the owner at 4 in the morning to remind him…for the most part.

But what could it hurt?

And is it really so wrong to try and find out who the airline pilot is going to be so you can hire a private investigator to follow him the night before to make sure he gets a good night sleep?

Okay, maybe securing his psychological profile was a bit much, but why take chances?

It’s not like we go on these kinds of trips all the time.

In the end it was worth all the worry and the extensive planning…especially after we drove the 40 miles back to our house to retrieve our passports, which may, or may not, have been mistakenly left behind in the secret lock box, which was purchased for security purposes.

Because as you know…you can’t be too careful….

But we did eventually get up, up and away and on to our destination.

I’ll have more on that next time.

Right now I need another nap.

Adios, mi Amigos!

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We Wuz Robbed! - Redux

From August 8, 2011
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Z has a habit of looking out the window into the front yard whenever she gets up in the middle of the night to do whatever it is people do in the middle of the night.

She’s been doing this going on 10 years now.

For the most part, she takes a quick look and then goes back to bed.

Until the other night….

The other night she had the pleasure of spying a young man of about 18 –or as the police described him, “male Caucasian, dark bushy hair, 18-20, navy blue T-shirt and green, possibly grey, baggy shorts heading in the direction of…” well, you get the idea.

This wayward fellow was poking around in Z’s car, looking for, I guess, her stash of Brooks & Dunn CD’s.

I’m sound asleep since it’s about 1 AM, so when Z wakes me to inform me of the situation my first instinct is to roll over and wish the fellow good luck sorting through the collected inventory of Z’s car. Perhaps he might be able to find that pair of sneakers I lost in there in 05.

Then she tells me he’s heading down the driveway toward my car and I immediately jump out of bed and call 911. No one is going to mess with my collection of Snapple tops!

Besides, if he gets into the backyard and into my garage, my leaf blower is in jeopardy.

A man must protect his leaf blower.

“911—what’s your emergency?”

“Well I’m not really sure it qualifies as an emergency, officer, but my wife just spotted a kid in my driveway, poking around in her car".

“Do you have a description of the “perp”?”

Actually I’m not sure if he said “perp” but I want to believe that he did, and it makes for a better story.

“No sir, it’s kind of dark and I’m cowering in my bedroom window, so it’s hard to see. But I’m concerned he’s heading down the driveway and into my back yard towards the garage….where my leaf blower is.”

“Gas or electric?”

“Uh…electric?”

“Hmmmm….I find gas gives you more power, not to mention mobility.”

“Well, I find the electric is not as noisy and has plenty of power for my needs.”

In the meantime, Z is standing there listening to this exchange thinking that her situation is not being taken seriously enough.

She just doesn’t understand there’s a process involved.

“Okay, sir; suit yourself. I’ll send a car over right away to check things out".

I tell Z, not to worry; it’s under control and then proceed to pick out suitable crime scene attire, in case I end up dodging bullets or in some sort of high speed pursuit.

Plus I’m stalling for time waiting for the cops to arrive before stepping foot outside.

Z looks out the window again and finds the “perp”, or someone we think is the “perp” who might be just some poor innocent kid walking home from his girlfriend’s house, calmly crossing the street, pass under a street light and turn the corner of the street that runs “perp”-endicular into mine.

The police car pulls up and I wait a minute or two, just in case the fellow we saw is not the ‘suspect” and there is still the danger of an altercation with the real “skel” (This is so cool. I knew all those hours watching NYPD Blues would pay off someday!).

Z, still not understanding there’s a process to these things yells out the window to the 12 year old police officer, who’s standing around on the front lawn, scratching his head, that her husband is on the way down to fill him in…so now I have no choice but to get out there.

I rummage quickly through the hall closet but have no idea where my bullet proof vest is, so I have to go “commando”…so to speak.

I fill the young, but extremely polite and competent officer in on the situation and he tells me that he took a quick look around and didn’t see anything suspicious, except for the ineffective electric leaf blower in the garage.

In the meantime, he’s barking information as to the suspect’s “twenty” into his walkie talk (short for walkie talkie) and 2 more police cars zip by the house and tear around the corner in hot pursuit.

I take a walk over to check out Z’s car and see the glove compartment open and report this fact to the officer, who peeks into the widow.

“Wow…looks like he really ransacked the vehicle” the officer says.

I tell him, “Uhm...no…this is pretty much what the inside of the car looks like on most days”

I grab the handle and open the door and immediately start berating myself for disturbing the crime scene.

Have I learned nothing from CSI?

“Sorry,” I tell the cop. “I guess now they’ll have to take my prints too to exclude them.”

He smiles at me politely and informs me that the crime scene boys probably won’t have to come out if we don’t find anything of value missing, which there doesn’t appear to be.

I inform him about my missing sneakers from 05 and he says he’ll make a note for the report.

Z, after finally picking out her own police activity outfit, appears on the scene and inventories the car, since she is the only one who can decipher the puzzle of shopping bags, empty water bottles, umbrellas and assorted pairs of shoes, within.

She reports that the only thing that appears missing is a small change purse that she kept for parking meters and such. She thought there was about $4.65 in it.

And now I’m really irate….a confirmed victim of a heinous crime.

Eventually, we roll up the crime scene tape, which I insisted on, and everyone gets on with their lives.

Except for me…

Now I sleep with one eye open, which is very disturbing to Z as she finds it unsightly.

Somewhere, out in the night, there’s a “perp” a “skel” a bushy haired wayward young man enjoying $4.65 that does not belong to him.

"I am the law, and the law is not mocked"
-Inspector Javert-

And to him I have one word of advice….

”If you can’t do the time…don’t do the crime….”

I’m expecting the DNA results back any day now….

Any day….

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The World That Astounds Me - Redux

From September 12, 2011
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I’ve mentioned a couple of times in passing, that it was 10 years ago that we moved into this house. So there’re a lot of milestone reminders popping up these days, of all sorts.

In keeping with the theme of 10, it was also about 10 days ago, on the 2^nd that I was standing on this deck that did not exist 10 years ago, BBQ-ing a steak for dinner.

BBQ is ways of life for us, all year long, but especially in the summer, so it was pretty much business as usual.

As I wandered away from the grill, surveying my domain, as is my wont, between sizzles, I happened to look down on the little redwood deck by the side of the garage that was here when we bought the place.

Now I have looked down on that deck on countless occasions, on dozens of summer nights throughout the years, smile at all of Z’s pretty flowers then usually return to tend the grill.

But this night was different. On this night, I was immediately flooded with a memory of standing down there, 10 years before, to the very same day, also BBQ-ing a steak, but for the very first time, in this house.

It had been only 3 days since we had plunged head first into the murky waters of home ownership and believe me when I tell you, heads were still spinning and hearts were still pounding.

I should also tell you that conjuring that image of the much younger, much handsomer (if that’s at all possible) me was not a particularly difficult task, because of a picture Z took that night to commemorate the occasion. However, while the photo’s been stuck on the fridge for lo these many years, the thought on that night, that this was indeed the exact date, was not.

Whatever the reason, because of the picture or beyond the picture, I was suddenly struck with the notion that somewhere in the vast slipstream of time, I was still there, at that moment, still cooking that steak, wondering what was to come in the days and years ahead...besides my water pressure tank, which was sorely needed.

Needless to say, 9 days later there was a lot that came and a lot that changed…for all of us. But everyone knows that; experienced it and dealt with in their own way.

So this is not a discussion about any of that….

No, this is more of a metaphysical discussion, to which some will relate, and others will find trite and silly.

But hey, sometimes, at least to me, there’s more safety to be found in things unknown, than in things familiar.

Anyway, as I stood there looking down onto the little deck where I had once positioned the old grill, I called on the memory of that time and envisioned the simplicity of the “me” back then.

I stood there grilling that night, already trying to find a baseline in which I could find the new normal, at least in how it applied to us.

Z and I, after a lot of ups and downs, a lot of hoops to jump through and mountains to climb, had finally settled into a home of our own.

Remnants of past ownership still showed themselves in the form of smelly carpets and floors, mildew growing on the side of the garage, a cockeyed, clothesline whirly-gig that shouted the 70’s if not the 60’s and a variety of doggie toys and balls that lay scattered about in various nooks and crannies.

The lawn was a mixture of something green and something not so green, none of which would ever be mistaken for actual grass.

Yet, there I stood, cooking tong in hand, not much different than the way I stand now, wearing much the same clothes…even listening to the same old Met game on the same old radio I’ve had since the 80’s.

More importantly, while I stood there that night, I recalled feeling for the very first time since the move, an absolute certainty, filled with contentment and peace that we had done the right thing. As if a benevolent spirit had flooded my being and filled it with a sense that everything was going to work out and be just fine.

Of course, as I said, a week and a couple of days later that notion was rocked, for all of us. Yet, throughout that period of such uncertainty on both a personal and global scale, that feeling of solid ground firmly beneath my feet never left. And maybe that's what the message was about.

I had been assured, and that was good enough for me.

So on this night, 10 years later, I stared deep into that now empty corner, saw the “me” of then, and conveyed those reassuring sentiments back into the past, from the “me” of now....

“It's true…we made it…we’re here and we’re safe. And you will be too....”

So…were those comforting feelings I received that night a gift from “future me,” 10 years hence, to “past me”?

Are all those little voices we hear in our head from time to time, messages from our future “selves” looking back with amusement on our present “selves”?

Is even more “future me” the voice I hear, telling me right now…“Whoa buddy, are you sure you want to be writing this crazy stuff for everyone to read…?”

I don’t know. But it’s kind of cool to imagine that it is.

I like the idea of me watching out for me.


Of warning "past me" ...

"Stay away from the abdominizer...it's all a crock of...."

Don't I owe myself that much?

But, like I said…I don’t know.

But what I do know is, while I can’t control the world that surrounds me…I can control the world that astounds me.

And that’s good enough for me….








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One Loooooong Day - Redux

In the spirit of full disclosure, plus the fact that it says the date right at the top, this piece was originally posted on July 8, 2011.  Since I've acquired one or two more readers since the early days of TFR I thought it was worth re-sharing a few of my old favorites.
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Aztec Calendar

It’s July 8^th.

We’re just past the halfway mark for 2011.

Where do the days go?

A friend of mine says they go to a place in Yonkers, where they rent a condo near the river, close to Stew Leonard’s.

Apparently the days like free food samples.

Who doesn’t?

Most people think of a life as a consistent series of "immeasurable" days that, eventually, seem to fly, faster and faster, with each click of the clock, especially if it’s digital.

If your clock is analogue, then they take the train, because they enjoy the scenery.

In the beginning, we take all these indivdual days for granted, but slowly come to realize just how precious and limited these “days” really are. And then we have that to worry about too, on top of just about every other frickin thing we worry about, day in and day out.

Still, even after a brief respite of appreciation for these finite days, we again somehow manage to take them for granted, blow them off and sleepwalk, if not outright sleep, right through them.

On the other hand, some people think of life as just one really loooooong day…with lots of naps. These people also think that Elvis works at Kohl’s, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and occasionally on Sunday as a fill in when needed.

I know that sounds silly to some, but if you think of it that way, it does kind of make a little bit of sense. Elvis probably would want the weekends off.

No…I mean about the life being one loooooong day thing. If we could wrap our heads around this slippery concept— that we only get ONE loooooong day in our lifetime—wouldn’t that day become a little bit more significant than, say last Thursday when you set the toaster oven on fire, spilled your coffee on your new white shorts, dropped your bagel in the kitty litter and stepped on the dog?

I bet that day was kind of a bust from the start and you just let it spiral downhill, out of control, from that point forward. But if you thought of it as just a couple of ticks off the clock of your very loooooong day, then maybe it wouldn’t have seemed so bad. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so willing to let some trivial events ruin your one and only loooooong day. I mean did the dog let it ruin his?

The problem we seem to have when we think of our days, our individual days, is that we always compare them to our past days.

So, say on July 26^th, 1999 we went to see Springsteen at the Meadowlands.

That was a great day by default. Even with the dude with the funny haircut kicking the back of your seat, or the slightly overweight woman with the braid, who liked to sway her hips in time to every song, even the fast ones…especially the fast ones.

But then July 26^th comes around again in 2000-2001-2002-20008…2011…and you find yourself thinking, this is not how I imagined my July 26^ths to be. Where the hell’s “The Boss”?

Okay…I admit that’s a stretch, but I wanted to show off my old ticket stub, which is not really the ticket stub I wanted to show off, which was the August 25^th , 1978, New Haven Coliseum ticket stub, which was my first ever Springsteen concert, which I know I have, but can’t find…which is really ruining my day….

But I digress….

See how that happens?

The point is, last Christmas is not this Christmas, or birthday or summer vacation in the Falkland’s. Each one is brand spanking new and shouldn’t be judged based on the quality of past ones, which are mostly memory enhanced anyway.

I mean would you judge the quality of your morning coffee with the quality of your evening coffee?

Would you say, this coffee isn’t the exact same blend as the one I had at 6 AM, and fail to enjoy it because you’re spending the whole time your sipping it wondering why it tastes a little different?

And then before you know it, it’s a moot point because the coffee is gone. Which is kind of how some of us waste our days...not to mention our French Roast...and French Toast for that matter.

Every Christmas, birthday or summer vacation in the Falkland’s is special and unique unto itself. So we need to stop ruining the one we have “now” because of some silly desire to recreate the ones gone by.

It makes as much sense as comparing and qualifying the earliest sunrises of our one loooooong day with the one we’re watching today…here and now…in this moment.

Or maybe that’s just me…

My faithful daily “Little Zen” calendar says it all, way better than I ever could.

From a dude named Thich Nhat Hanh:

Our true home is in the present moment.

To live in the present moment is a miracle.

The miracle is not to walk on water.

The miracle is to walk on the green Earth.

in the present moment.

So there you go….have a good loooooong day….

Okay?

Okay....

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Nothings What it Seems…it seems

A lot going on in the news today, not the least of which is the big story out of Australia.

Yep…some dude got cheated out of an inch on his foot long Subway the other day.

Actually, probably most days…but who’s counting.

Well, yeah, on second thought…maybe that is the least of it.

Apparently this one guy…and now, maybe a lot more, because he posted his evidence on Facebook…and now…you know…a BIG uproar…over an extra bite of sandwich.

I mean doesn’t the world have bigger things to worry about other than lunch?

Like has Manti Te'o's ever really been kissed.

Apparently not.

And it’s not like this Subway “scandal” is big news to some people.

Some people have been measuring their foot longs for years.

But does anybody actually count the tomatoes…I mean other than me?

Besides, maybe it’s the ruler that’s too long, rather than the sandwhich too short.

Has anyone ever considered that?

And actually been allowed out to actually buy a sandwich?

I don’t know…I like my Subways and an inch less here or there is probably a good thing over time.

It means an inch less on my waistline, over time…at least if you discount the Mallomars.

But how often do you find discounted Mallomars?

Not often.

But they’re Mallomars, the best cookie in the world—pure chocolate…sort of—so why would you.

It’s not like Subway is the only product out there fudging the accuracy line.

I mean do we actually have verifiable proof that KFC is really “Finger Lickin Good”?

Really?

Is there one among us who has not had an M&M melt in their hand?

Can I really have it ‘My Way” at Burger King…I mean any way?

Do Cocoa Puffs really make you cuckoo?

Is Folgers in your cup really the best part of waking up?

Is Maxwell House really good to the last drop… the really last drop…ever?

Does Motel Six actually leave the light on?

Do four out of five dentists really agree…on anything?

Did a little dab really do ya?

Is Lance Armstrong really sorry he cheated.

Which brings us back to…has Manti Te'o's ever really been kissed…by anybody?

And on and on it goes….

You get the idea.

Nothing’s what you think it is.

So get over it.

Move on.

Maybe eat a salad for a change.

But don’t count the lettuce.

Just the tomatoes.




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