Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll is probably not the one BANGING AROUND. She writes:

Recently, one of my thousands of unsolicited and unwelcome emails started out “The women in your area are bored and looking for a man good at banging…” Naturally, I didn’t OPEN it, any more than I have opened the dozens and dozens of electronic missives from someone claiming “I am hot girl from Russia looking for man who has a huge…” (Desperation? Gullibility? Bank account? What? I will never know because I never clicked on it…sad.)

But wherever this came from – Pakistan? The Ukraine? Nigeria? – it was clear that with “banging” the enterprise had found a euphemism that would not trip Sister Mary Algorithm’s trigger. Banging? I haven’t heard that expression since at least the ’60’s. However, had I responded, I would have told the sender that I have about all the banging I can handle.

Why, just a few days ago, our Bargain Basement Printer — if memory serves, 79 cents on Black Friday Sale at Walmart –- had its traditional paper jam and novelist Max Cossack had his customary meltdown. Some swearing and some banging ensued. The printer had been reduced to its unassembled parts. When the banging tapered off, and it was safe for me to turn down my music, he yelled that it was time for me to call the Paranoid Texan next door. The PT is some kind of a printer savant and was known for it in his long service at Northrup Grumman working on the B-2 Stealth Bomber.

Max could call him himself, of course, but the PT is my daily walking partner and also I often give him various cooked or baked goods which he foolishly believes are fair compensation for his time and expertise. God forbid anybody ever tells him otherwise.

Sometimes humor writers will exaggerate something for comedic effect. But I give you my word as a Biden, no joke, that the PT once rescued the printer from the trash can in our garage and lovingly restored it to its full glory once the three-month old black guacamole and coffee grounds were wiped off.

For awhile, the printer performed very well, apparently having learned that there were consequences for its bang-worthy misbehavior. Like the prize racehorse that was discovered second in line at the glue factory. All the jockey had to do to make it run was yell, “Next!”

I kid Max because I have been known to take frustrations out on inanimate and wholly blameless objects myself. Heaven help any object in my vicinity when I am on some kind of Technical Support helpline with numbered keypad “options” instead of a real person from India who is under the impression that he speaks English.

Though I have never had a car accident that was my fault – once I was sideswiped by an 18-wheeler whose driver did not see my little Rabbit and pulled into my lane – if there is any curb within 100 feet of me, I WILL hit it. Usually it’s when I am making a turn and my height inequity has made it difficult to see over the window ledge in order to judge the distance it will take to clear the curb. Bump! Bump! Scrrrrriiitch! Oh well, there we go again. Sigh. Thank God my car is eleven years old. It is used to me.

As for the “women in my area” being “bored,” I would be surprised. Most of them go to our fancy Village Center daily and do something structured like Hot Yoga or Spin Class or Zumba. Things that make me tired just reading about them. To say nothing of Pickleball, which I first thought was a made-up sport and somebody was pulling my leg. It turns out that not only is Pickleball a thing, but now there are even “professionals” who compete at a national level.

Bored? Are you kidding me? Why, just yesterday one of my fun projects was testing the 17,000 hotel pens I have accumulated from three decades on the road and many long road trips for fun. The pens are housed on my desk in a variety of tall cups, but none of the pens seem to work when you pick it up to write down an urgent message.

And what have I done with those pens that fail to write, you ask? Why, put them back in the pen cups, of course. You never know. It could just be temporary…and I enjoy the spike in my blood pressure when they don’t write while the woman on the phone is rapidly giving me the plumber’s emergency number. I feel that blood pressure spikes help to keep my arterial system taut. However, this time I did some serious thinning of the pen herd. Later this week, I plan to alphabetize my spices and put my vitamins into the little segmented plastic container which is the only way I know what day it is. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Remember that great 1965 Statler Brothers’ song (written by Lew DeWitt) — “Countin’ Flowers On the Wall”? “Don’t tell ME I’ve nuthin’ to do…” It is a clever and humorous song about a lonely guy whose lady has left him who is insisting that he’s “fine.” His life is just filled with activities like “Playing solitaire till dawn, with a deck of 51.” That is a particularly wonderful lyric that conveys an entire backstory – you have to be in pretty bad shape to lack the energy even to go to the drugstore to buy a new deck of playing cards.

As it happens, I have almost no capacity for boredom. I just plain enjoy too many things. Eating, for example. Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Walking upright. Sudoku. Crossword puzzles. Music of all kinds except rap and the louder Heavy Metal. Sitting in a comfortable chair and staring into space! My days fly by!

Also, I enjoy reading, emailing friends, surfin’ the ‘Net; trying not to gasp at clickbait things that challenge me “Try Not to Gasp at …” and then you might see some celebrity who has not aged well appearing in public without her makeup. As someone who is perpetually without makeup, not only do I fail to “gasp,” but I usually think the person looks fine. Although recent pictures of Madonna as some sort of bizarre combo plate of Greta Thunberg (the Braided Years) and Sally Struthers (The Fatter-Faced Years) pushed my limits of forbearance.

And then, last Monday, there was no TIME to be bored because I had to spend almost all day fighting Climate Change. Oy. We woke up and it was so warm I had to take the flannel sheets off of our bed. Friends came from Tucson for cocktails and we were able to eat appetizers out on our sunny patio for the first time since October because our typically-sunny Arizona Climate-Changed into Mordor for the coldest, bleakest winter in the 13 years I have been here.

After an hour on the patio on Monday we were forced to move in for supper because the Climate became Dark on account of it was Night. You would not BELIEVE how much the Climate changed while we slept – and the Climate Deniers think it will take DECADES before it’s too late! – but I’m here to tell you we woke up to cold, rain, and even hail and I had to wash the flannel sheets quickly and put them back on. I am constantly wiping my shoes to try to make sure I’m not leaving any carbon footprint. My invitation to Davos must have gotten lost in the mail, so thank God, I didn’t have to fire up the private jet that takes up most of our two-car garage.

So, anyway, perverted scammers of the Internet, I promise you that I’m not interested in your bangers, whether they be bangers and mash, or gangbangers, because the ladies in my area are not bored. We are joyful, busy, and grateful.

We are above ground, we live in the greatest nation on earth, we serve a loving God, and most of us are blessed beyond any possible sense of merit. As Max said to me just the other day, “If we can’t be happy in this period of our lives with this many blessings, then when?”