Going Back

Are you one of those who experiences dread with “Back to _________(fill in the blank).” 

If you’ve checked social media in the past few weeks, you’ve seen adorable photos of adorable kids (and maybe an adorable adult or two) in adorable new outfits holding their little chalkboards telling you what grade they will be in as they head Back To School.

Pictured above: Karlee (Grand-Girl #1) and Aaron.

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I love Fridays! And I like my job, but I still dread going Back To Work on Monday. I enjoy holiday food feasts, even though the holiday passes and it’s Back To The Diet.

Without a doubt though, when it comes to the dread of going Back, nothing compares to School—for me. Thankfully I haven’t had to go Back To School for several years. Looking back, I’m not sure why it seemed so dreadful.

Maybe it was that summers were so much fun for me. Fortunately I grew up in the day before mosquitoes came from the West Nile and ticks didn’t bring the fever back from the Rocky Mountains with them. The guy selling sub sandwiches wasn’t a pervert and the guy driving the ice cream truck wasn’t a meth addict. We left the house first thing in the morning and didn’t return home until we had a jar full of fireflys after nightfall.

Maybe it was that Back To School brought such pressure. I knew I would be expected to “work well with others,” and “work up to my potential.” I’m sure my parents held some hope that this year might be better. There was so much to remember: locker combinations, homework, teacher’s rules, bus number, which was the “up” staircase and which was the “down” staircase. Does this teacher want homework folded vertically or horizontally? Does the name go in the upper right hand corner, do we include the teacher’s name. I must remember not to ask obvious questions, like: “Why should I write your name on my paper Mrs. Teacher, don’t you know it?”

Maybe it wasn’t so bad afterall. Maybe going Back is a good thing. Maybe it’s good to have something to go back to. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I dread retirement. What will I do on Monday morning? Maybe if I ever do retire, sometime around mid-August, I’ll go to the store and buy myself a new pair of jeans and a couple of #2 pencils, some glue and an eraser just for old times sake. Maybe I’ll write something on a sheet of notebook paper and then I’ll fold any way I want to, or maybe I won’t fold it at all. What is there about Back To School time that brings out the obnoxious, rebellious little devil in me?

Pops & Popeye

Happy Birthday Elvis. I can’t believe you would have been 80; it seems like only yesterday.

Normally I don’t dish out birthday wishes to celebrities here at About Pops. But I do normally talk about myself and getting older.

“Then,” you might say, “you must be a big fan of Elvis and his music.”

No, not really. I looked at my iTunes library. I have one Elvis recording, Here Comes Santa Claus. That was a song on a Christmas album I bought.

You see, the deal is, Elvis and I share a birthday; today, January 8.

[cue up The Beatles, "When I'm 64"]

I talked to my Mom and Dad last night. (We senior adults call and check on one another when it’s bitter cold outside.) They were recalling the night of my birth. Apparently, I just barely made it on the 8th. A few more hours and I would be saying, “Happy Birthday” to Kate Middleton, Richard Nixon, Jimmie Page and Dave Matthews. Now there’s a couple of guys whose music I have lots of.

No complaints though. The King and I share the 8th with some pretty cool people and at least one nut-job. I’ll let you guess which one (or more): Stephen Hawking, R. Kelly, Noah Cyrus, Kim Jong-un, and Soupy Sales, just to name a few.

Birthdays are one of those contemplative days for me. You know—looking back and thinking about the days ahead. As happens, well-meaning people, and people selling books, tend to offer insight on days like this. This is from the WWW:

Capricorns born on January 8 seek to balance worldly concerns with an expression of their soul-needs. Although they strive for a pragmatic approach to life, they have a superstitious nature. They are gifted yet may be riddled with self-doubts. These problems are exacerbated by the fact that they have difficulty expressing their feelings through words.

Friends and Lovers
Because of their basic distrust of others' motives, it is hard for January 8 people to make friends. If trust is breached, the friendship is likely to end. They have a powerful love nature. They are romantics who demand total devotion. Even if they are not especially attractive they can cast a spell, drawing lovers to them with ease.

Children and Family
Even when they do not feel bound to family members, people born on January 8 are generous to them. They may have had a strict upbringing from which they lapsed in adulthood, creating guilt and dishonor. They make doting parents, anxious to give their children material as well as spiritual riches.

It’s like someone’s been reading my journals. I’m tempted to click the link and spend “$19.95 for the full report”.

On second thought: for what?! At 64, when it comes to stuff intended to make me more self-enlightened, I’m with Popeye, “I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam.”

Date Night: Then & Now

I write often here at About POPS about what I call our "second coming-of-age." The first being that arbitrary passage from youth to "maturity" and the second, the passage to some other older version of maturity. As I look forward to a "Date Night" tonight with My Amazing-Missus, I thought about the comparisons between a date night during my first coming-of-age and now.

In both cases, you want a full sensory experience: sights, smells, sounds, tastes and touch.

While we both look a bit different than we did back in the courting day, we've aged together, and as far as I know she's okay with that, but still I'll make the effort: you know, shave, iron my shirt, stuff like that.

One of the things I fear most about becoming a "man of a certain age" is picking up that essence of old guy and not even being aware of it. So, again I'll make the effort. Unlike the good old days, I won't be splashing on the English Leather with an extra spritz behind each ear just in case a slow song comes on and a dance breaks out, but again I'll make a good effort.

The sounds for a perfect date night are still key. Back then I would have been picking her up in my VW Bus (I still can't believe her Dad ever let her go out with me). Having just the right song cued up on the 8-Track player was essential. Something like "Wouldn't It Be Nice" by the Beach Boys would be a good choice:

Wouldn't it be nice if we were older
Then we wouldn't have to wait so long
And wouldn't it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong

You know its gonna make it that much better
When we can say goodnight and stay together

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
In the morning when the day is new
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through

Happy times together we've been spending
I wish that every kiss was never-ending
Wouldn't it be nice

Okay, now I've actually embarrassed myself.

Tonight I might Bluetooth® sync my iPhone® and have this oldie-but-goody by The Beatles ready to go:

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

Date Night tastes once included stuff like a Shakey's Pizza followed by an ice cream float at Weber's Root Beer Stand. Tonight? Well since I'm less than two weeks out from gall bladder surgery, I'll probably go with a piece of grilled chicken and dry baked potato. Maybe we'll splurge and go for fro-yo after. What a romantic? Right?

Oh, and the Date Night touches? Now, that's really none of your business is it?

Go have your own date night.

Buying My First Doll

I've been in the behavior modification game for a few years now. I know the tricks of mind-molding, motivation, manipulation and marketing. I've become pretty jaded to the sleaziness of mass-marketing, but I still find the power of targeted marketing to be eerily creepy.

For example, how in the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks did some company called The American Girl Doll Company know that this was an appropriate time to send a catalog to the Amazing-Missus and myself?!

Well they did. And now two of these must-haves will be under the tree for the Grand-Girls this Christmas. (Shhhhh, it's a surprise.)

Not only did we need a doll for each, but a change of clothes as well. Their outfits cost about what I spend on one for myself. (Yeah, yeah, I hear you out there. So maybe it's not fair to compare an American Girl doll outfit to a worn out pair of Levis, an old V-neck sweater and a t-shirt.)

I'm not complaining though. The few moments of joy on their faces before they are on to the next present will be "Priceless."

Like that master of "exterior illumination" Clark Griswold, I too want to stage a Christmastime experience so vivid, Norman Rockwell himself will want to come back from the dead to paint it. And maybe Thomas Kincaid will want to come with him because the warm, golden glow from the windows of our happy, little cottage will be ultra-inspirational.

So yes, I'll fall for the pitch of holiday hucksters and buy whatever they promise will help make it all happen--just like thousands of others before me.

I wonder if Mom & Dad charged into Sears and fought other parents for the last Mr. Potato Head on the shelf, knowing it would provide their son hours of creative fun? Or it would have if Mom hadn't needed my potato back to boil up for lunch.

That's right, back in the good ol' days, Mr. Potato Head didn't come with the plastic spud. You had to provide your own torso.

Well for whatever it is that you've fought to have under the tree--an X-Box, a Cabbage Patch Doll, Tickle Me Elmo, or Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie, I hope that when it gets opened, you get a smile and a hug.