Coffee does a body good. If you remember to drink it.

A few days ago, my sister sent me a link to an article about a research project which claims that daily consumption of three large cups of coffee may slow the progress of Alzheimer's Disease and possibly even reverse it.

Now, if there was ever a human subject to support this conclusion, it should be my own mother. The woman loves coffee. Black - no sugar and no milk. And in quantities large enough to water ski in. The only reason Columbia still exists as an independent country today is because my mom purchased at least 50% of their exported coffee in the 60's and 70's.

She's not picky about coffee, either. When I was a kid, you could count on there being a jar of those Sanka instant coffee crystals in our kitchen. I always thought that the contents looked like that gravel at the bottom of a fish tank, but my mom loved it. I think she might have sprinkled it on her toast in the morning in lieu of cinnamon and sugar. Sometimes even in lieu of the bread.

Not me. I like to dress my coffee with flavored syrups. I studied the differences between coffee presses and drip coffee makers. I grind my own beans. When I shop for coffee, I have to squeeze the bags and smell the aroma that's expelled through the little hole near the top. Other people in the coffee aisle probably think I was a scratch-and-sniff sticker addict as a kid.

But my mom's method of coffee buying works like this: 1. Look through your plastic box of coupons and use one.

Anyway. If coffee really does prevent Alzheimer's, she shouldn't be in the mid-late stages of the disease. In thinking about this, though, I did realize something. Over the last few years, I think she's actually drinking less coffee. In fact, I'm not sure she's drinking coffee at all. It just looks that way.

A couple of years ago, I'd go to her house and open the microwave to thaw hamburger for dinner, and there would be a cup of java sitting on the turntable, stone cold. She'd say, "Oh, that's my coffee from this morning! I guess I forgot it was in there."

Now, I go to her house and open the linen closet, and there's a cup of java sitting next to the pillowcases, stone cold. And she says, "Oh, that's my coffee from this morning! I guess I forgot it was in there."

Apparently, she's been reheating the same cup of coffee for nearly a decade. No wonder the Columbians have turned to marijuana as their primary export crop.

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In other semi-related family news, my sister accompanied my parents to do their funeral planning this week. After all the decisions were made, she called me to let me know what kind of caskets they had chosen. Mom is opting for a simple pine design, at a relatively low price of $1800. It's a good thing my sister was there instead of me. I'd have suggested that we have Mom cremated and buried in a Bunn coffee brewer.

'Cause they're just supportive that way.

Somehow - possibly by a disturbance in the magnetic force in our solar system, or maybe it was just that Orion lost his belt and gave us all a great cosmic mooning - I recently ended up slated to do a stand-up comedy routine for a talent show at our church.

In the days leading up to the event, I was feeling a wee bit anxious, so, naturally, I turned to my family for some encouragement (and possibly some additional joke material). I told my kids I was worried that people might not laugh at my humor.

Sasquatch, who wouldn't know compassion if it walked up and smacked him in the back of the head, was quick to offer his "support."

He informed me that if my punch lines were met with utter silence, he'd sit in the back of the auditorium and make cricket sounds.

Lucy and Ethel take to the road.

(Note: Long-time readers of this blog know that my older daughter's online persona has changed according to her hairstyle. She started life as Princess Peach, moved through toddlerhood as Princess BroccoliTop, and then spent most of her childhood and adolescence as Princess BunHead. Of late, she has taken to wearing her hair very short and of various fluorescent shades, which has earned her the new moniker, Princess ChopTop. I'm actually kind of looking forward to the day she shaves her head completely, because I have her next name all picked out - Princess Gourdita.)

Back at the end of May, ChopTop and I decided to head off on a little road trip to see some friends in Missouri (state motto: "Branson whups Nashville's butt"). Just the two of us, enjoying the 6-hour drive and having some mother-daughter bonding time. As it turned out, most of the time on the road was a daughter-iPod bonding time. Meanwhile, the mother silently - and somewhat painfully - pondered the mystery that is the Oklahoma tollway system. What kind of sadist creates a highway where coffee vending machines are located at 15-mile intervals, but where the only two roadside restrooms are situated where the state borders Texas and Missouri?

Anyway. I wasn't too worried about the drive itself, because it's pretty much a straight shot on the interstates, until the last 10-15 miles into the small Missouri town where we'd be staying. But Hubster had just gotten a GPS device for his birthday, and I thought it might be a good idea to have it with us, so we packed it into the car and headed north. Neither ChopTop nor I had even turned the GPS on, but if there's one thing the girl and I have in common, it is our certainty that we are smarter than electronic devices. And, more importantly, that we are smarter than each other. One of us would soon be proved wrong.

As we neared the region of Missouri where I thought we'd have to leave the interstate, I suggested to ChopTop that we get the GPS out and input the address of our destination. She agreed, and that's pretty much where the kumbayah portion of the trip began and ended. The next 30 minutes were a seemingly endless variation of the following conversation.

TC: Did you put the address in?

ChopTop: YES!

TC: Well, why isn't it talking to us? Isn't it supposed to tell me when to turn?

ChopTop: It doesn't talk.

TC: WHAT?! It does too talk!

ChopTop: No, it doesn't. Do you see any volume controls on it?

TC: Well, what are those arrows on the screen for?

ChopTop: Those are buttons for the menu.

TC: No, they're not!

ChopTop: YES, THEY ARE.

TC: Well, look here. The back looks like a speaker.

ChopTop: That's not a speaker!

TC: What is it then?

ChopTop: That's for ventilation, so it doesn't get overheated.

TC: I think it's supposed to talk to us.

ChopTop: IT DOESN'T TALK.

TC: Why would it not talk?

ChopTop: It doesn't need to talk! You just look at the screen!

TC: How am I supposed to watch the screen and drive at the same time? It's SUPPOSED TO TALK.

ChopTop: Trust me - IT DOESN'T TALK.

TC: Well, it SHOULD. Are you sure you put the address in?

We finally reached a pause in the, uh, discussion (I think I might have, yet again, been slightly distracted by my bladder, which by this point felt like a 24-cup coffee urn), and were riding along in silence when suddenly we heard

"IN EIGHT HUNDRED YARDS, EXIT RIGHT."

I screamed and nearly drove straight into a billboard advertising several of Branson's butt-whuppin' music shows. ChopTop involuntarily threw herself against the passenger door. We both thought God Himself was sitting in the back seat.

Before I could even compose myself to speak, we heard

"EXIT RIGHT, THEN BEAR LEFT."

There was a brief repeat of the aforementioned screaming, near-crashing, and involuntary throwing of self. Any passersby surely thought our car was being operated by two people with uncontrolled seizure disorders and Tourette's syndrome.

Eventually, I found my breath, and before ChopTop dared utter a sound, I looked over at her and said triumphantly,

"IT TALKS."

In the end, the trip was a great success. We had wonderful time with our friends, ChopTop & I were introduced to Shake's frozen custard (and, yes, I think it's entirely likely that the serpent tempted Eve with a big ol' cone of frozen custard topped with hot fudge), but most importantly, my title of Self-Appointed Genius Know-It-All Of The Family was made even more secure.

But the GPS people really need to program that thing to say, "Caution: You Are Entering Oklahoma, which is an old Native American name that means Land Without Restrooms. State motto: Now You Know Why It Was Called The Trail of Tears."

I went to Florida, and all I got was this...

When a normal family goes to Florida for a vacation, they bring back normal things.

Like a Disney t-shirt.

Some seashells.

Maybe a bag of oranges.

Not us.

We bring this back to Texas:

Grandma's hip.

Shown here proudly displayed on the table next to Hubster's recliner. And you know what this means. 

I have to change my whole decorating scheme from Early Caveman to Contemporary Prosthetic. 

Olympic Dangling

From TC's File of Possibly True Facts:

"Shoulder injury" is the #2 item on the list of Things That Take A Long Time To Recover From.

(The #1 item is "Death.")

______________________________

The upside of this whole broken shoulder adventure is that I found out I'm extremely talented at Dangling. This was news to me. I mean, it's not like Dangling was offered as an elective at my college. Although if it had been, I'd have been on the Dean's List for sure. Well, that, and if they'd just forgiven me for that minor little incident with the guy's underwear in the cafeteria ...

Anyway. My orthopedic surgeon told me to exercise my shoulder by dangling. To help you understand the dangling manuever, I will demonstrate in the following series of photos. (Warning: do not try the following at home without the approval of your physician. Or without a couple of cups of coffee. Whichever is easier to acquire.)

1.  The Warm-Up. 

2. The Dangle.

3. The Cool-down.

Hint: During the dangle exercise, ignore comments by heathen family members,  such as, "Are you getting winded?" and "Do you need a Gatorade, Mom?" 

After a couple of days of dangling, it became apparent that I had a real gift. I mean, I have a number of body parts that dangle without my even trying! So now I'm petitioning the International Olympic Committee to make dangling a competitive sport.

It can't be in the Summer Games, though. Think about it. Dangling is a sport for middle-aged women. If we were to show up in an outdoor arena, dressed in spandex shorts and tank tops, with the sun reflecting off our cellulite, the repercussions would be severe and wide-ranging. 

Bob Costas would have cardiac arrest.

Broadcasters would be forced to show actual footage of actual dangling competition, rather than Bob's interview with the founder of the Dangling Hall of Fame.

Sports fans would suffer hysterical blindness that would last all summer.

Ticket sales to baseball games would drop.

Major League Baseball would need a 9.7 trillion dollar bailout.

The New York Yankees would need an additional 5 billion dollar bailout to pay Alex Rodriguez's hip surgeon.

The steroid industry would be forced to market itself to pro bowlers.

Some unknown bowler named Frank Murphy would win the Tour de France, becoming the first winner to need an XXXL yellow jersey.

China would produce and sell limited-edition Hello Kitty yellow jerseys. 

Nancy Pelosi, unable to locate a limited-edition Hello Kitty yellow jersey for her granddaughter, would propose a 78% tax on all upper-income danglers, bringing the sport to an end.

So I'm thinking Winter Games, where danglers can compete in sweatpants. Besides - I want Apolo Anton Ohno to autograph my "U.S.A. Dangling Team" t-shirt.

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Next: My Physical Therapist is the Anti-Christ.

The Bounce Has Gone Out of My Bungee

 So I was at lunch today with Danger Boy, and I noticed that he was looking down, texting under the table while we were conversing. I gave him the condensed version of the That's So Rude lecture with some of the Cell Phones Are Of The Devil dissertation thrown in for good measure. He smiled and replied, "If I hadn't been using my right hand to eat, I could have texted without even looking at my phone." I sensed the spirit of Perry Mason come over me, and I could feel myself visibly puffing up with the pride and satisfaction of having a fine closing argument, which was this: "If you can text without looking at your phone, that just goes to show that you spend too much time texting." Danger Boy just says, "You type on your computer keyboard without looking, so I guess that means you spend too much time online."

Dang kids and their logic.

And in retrospect, I think that feeling of being puffed up was actually due to the spicy chicken wings I'd just eaten.

Anyway. I'm not blogging much because I have to type one-handed, pending possible rotator cuff surgery. So I'm just going to copy an extremely funny email I received from my mother-in-law. Enjoy.

___________________________________

This is why women should not take men shopping against their will.   After I retired, my wife insisted that I accompany her on her trips to Wal-Mart . Unfortunately, like most men, I found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out. Equally unfortunately, my wife is like  most women - she loved to browse.   Yesterday my dear wife received the following letter from the local Wal-Mart:   Dear Mrs. Samsel,   Over the past six months, your husband has been causing quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to ban both of you from the store. Our complaints against Mr. Samsel are listed below and are documented by our video surveillance cameras.    June 15: Took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in people's carts when they weren't looking.   July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.   July 19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice, "Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away."   August 4: Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&M's on layaway.   August 14: Moved a "CAUTION - WET FLOOR" sign to a carpeted area.  August 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told other shoppers he'd invite them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department.   August 23: When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and screamed, "Why can't you people just leave me alone?"   September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it as a mirror while he picked his nose.   September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.   October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while loudly humming the "Mission Impossible" theme.   October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his "Madonna look" by using different sizes of funnels.   October 18 : Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled "PICK ME! PICK ME!"   October 21 : When an announcement came over the loud speaker, he assumed a fetal position and screamed, "OH NO! IT'S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!"  And last, but not least ..   October 23 : Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile, then yelled very loudly, "Hey! There's no toilet paper in here!"

You've got questions. I've got answers.

1. Fractured the head of my humerus.

2. Playing ice hockey.

3. HOCKEY. ON ICE. 

4. It was a parent/son scrimmage with Sasquatch's team.

5. Hey! Hey!! Hey!!! Don't start on the age thing!

6. I was making a spectacular diving defensive move.

7. No, I don't know if the guy scored.

8. Well, I was kind of busy flopping around on the ice like a seal with one flipper and a seizure disorder.

9. Not immediately, but I was pretty sure there was a problem when, after the game, my brain started playing involuntary word association when I tried to pick things up with that arm.

sock : vicodin!

car key : demerol!

curly fry : morphine!

purse : general anesthesia!

10. Two weeks.

11. In a New York minute. I had a blast.