THE JOY OF MATURATION

As I get older, I sometimes reach for a word from the vocabulary drawer in the wardrobe of my brain and pull out the wrong item.

I might reach in for "Australia" and pull out "Austria." I may want to say "golf," but I say "flog." Or I may WANT to say "flog," and it comes out "frog." Try saying "frog me, baby!" and see what it gets you. It gets you a laughing prostitute, that's what it gets you.

It can be embarrassing.

Because of this, I have to be more carefull these days about what I try to say.

And sometimes the results can go beyond simple embarrassment.

For instance, saying "dog" instead of "God" can ruffle some feathers.

Saying "feathers" instead of "fathers" can ruffle some fathers.

And "Yo-Yo Ma" is so close to "yo' mama" that I'm hesitant to discuss classical music, or at least the cello.

I've had time to think about all of this for the last three hours because I've fallen and I can get up. At this point I don't know if I even want to get up.

I've been pressing this damned Elder Alert gizmo that my nephew Rodney gave me today at my welcome party here at the facility. Rodney knows everything there is to know about technical gadgets, from loading the hep hap music onto his ePod to rapping with with middle-aged men masquerading as teenage girls on MyFace and Spacebook. But he apparently didn't think about putting a goddamn battery in the Elder Alert thing. Focking idiot. I mean fucking idiot. Pardon my Finnish, or French, or whatever that expression is.

But the carpeting is thick, and so is my blanket of golden memories, so I shall sleep here in the auditorium until the next Bingo game.

In case they don't HAVE Bingo games here, I've scrawled a note on a napkin. It's a long, rambling thing in which I curse everybody I know who's still young, especially Rodney. I hope I got everybody's names right.

I thought about drawing a smiley face on it, but I didn't want to reduce my bitterness to mere sarcasm. Yes, I'm bitter. You can cut my bitterness with a fink. I mean knife.

Fock!