The other day, finding myself with a little spare time
on my hands, I decided to put together a list of things
I would like to do before departing this spinning orb we
humans call home.
Some guys dream of winning millions in the lottery, or
writing a best-selling novel, or playing third base for
the New York Yankees. Not me. I tend to wish for the
simple things. . .
I’d like to go into one of those service stations that
make you pump your own gas, and put $10 worth in my tank
without having the number on the pump come up $10.01.
It always comes up $10.01. Not $10.02. Never $10.04.
Always $10.01. The only consolation I have is the
feeling that plenty of other people must do the same
thing because many self-service stations now have little
containers of pennies on the counter to make up for our
total lack of coordination at the pump.
I want to attend a Winter White Sale. I’ve seen plenty
of ads for such sales, but I’ve never been to one. Do
they sell only white things at these sales? And if so,
what white things? Sheets? Pillow cases? Men’s
undershirts? And what if you are at a Winter White Sale
and you want to buy something green, like a dress shirt
or a pair of socks? Do you have to wait until the next
day to get something green because today the store is
having a Winter White Sale? Or, if you are allowed to
buy something green, will it cost you much more that day
because it isn’t . . . um . . .white?
Just once I’d like to dial a wrong number on the
telephone when the people getting my errant call AREN’T
at home. Why is it every time I dial a wrong number
the people I’m not supposed to be calling are there?
“Hi, Nancy,” I say. “This is Bob. Is Jim home?”
”Who?” the woman replies. That’s when it dawns on me
that I have mis-dialed the number, so I say “Sorry”, and
hang up.
I did find a little comfort the other day when my phone
rang and a woman caller asked “Is this Fifth Third
Bank?” “No, it isn’t,” I replied politely, then I
quickly added, “But I wish it was because then I would
have the money I need to buy some of the things I’ve
always wanted, including a jacuzzi, a late-model Italian
sports car, a . ..” The caller hung up on me with a
loud click.
I dream of the day when I can offer a snappy comeback to
one of the many people who try every winter to get me
involved in conversations about the lousy weather.
“Cold enough for you?” somebody asks me on a day when
the temperature is 3 degrees.
That’s when I want to say, “Cold enough for me? No way!
I wish it was 45 below zero with 62-mile-an-hour winds,
blowing snow and hailstones as big as bowling balls.”
But, doggone it, I never think of it in time.
I want to quickly put together any item that comes in
pieces and contains a little slip of paper advising
“Assembly time - 10 minutes.” or “So easy to assemble a
child can do it.” The last time I tried to build one
of those things it took me four days to build a $9.95
book case. The year before that, I had to take two
weeks of my annual vacation to put together a
mail-order-catalog magazine rack.
Well, that’s about it. Gas pumps. Winter White Sales.
Wrong numbers. Cold
weather. And handyman mistakes.
But wait, there’s one more thing.
I also fantasize about hitting a perfect chip shot
while golfing. I’ve been golfing off and on since I
was 12, but I’ve never hit a chip shot that landed on a
green, or, for that matter, anywhere near a green. My
drives are long and straight as arrows. My putts are,
generally speaking, pretty decent. But whenever it
comes time to chip the ball onto the green, I fail
miserably. Give me a 50-foot chip shot and I’ll hit the
ball 120 yards.
Or dub it eight inches and take up enough turf to sod
most of the lawns in
Iowa.
