Category: Funny Business

When I was a kid, summer was absolutely glorious.

Once the dismissal bell rang on the last day of school, it was as though the sun had personally invited me to a three-month party – a party that included lots of swimming, a little bat-and-ball action, and creek adventures that started right after breakfast and ended just before dusk.

If I lean back now and close my eyes, I can almost smell the freshly cut grass. I can also smell the tanning lotion covering the beautiful neighbor while she lounged by the pool. And before you think I was a little creep, no, I didn’t stare at her while hiding behind a bush next to the chain-link fence that separated our property.

And even if I did, you can’t prove it.

But those sometimes crazy and oftentimes lazy days of childhood summers are long past, and have since been replaced by the oppressive, unbearable heat and humidity of this dreadful time of year.

Mary has much more tolerance for the heat than I do, and when I complain about it she’ll say, “It’s Alabama in June. What do you expect?”

She’s right. While climate change has certainly made things much worse, it’s not like it wasn’t hot during the summers of my youth. It was … I guess I was just too distracted by fun and frivolity to care.

In the era before video games, kids like me spent most of our days outside if it wasn’t raining. That’s where all the entertainment was found.

You’d play ball, swim, then just run around doing generic kid things until it was time for lunch. After you ate, you’d rinse and repeat until dinner. After dinner, well, the drill was the same.

I’m sure I got hot and I’m sure I sweated, but I don’t recall ever complaining about it.

But boy, do I complain about it now.

Even when I start a 5 a.m. walk, the heat slaps me in the face the minute I open the door. Most mornings the air is completely still, and after I’ve gone a mile, I’m already drenched in sweat.

And if there is a breeze it not only doesn’t help, it often makes things worse. It feels like how I imagine it would feel if a fire-breathing dragon burped on me.

I mean, summer breezes might have made Jim Seals and Dash Crofts feel fine, but that’s probably because they both had low metabolic rates.

By the time my daily summertime walking is complete, I’m utterly exhausted, ornery, smelly and look like I just emerged from a swamp. And when the sun rises and goes into full bake mode (thus triggering all dumpsters within a five-mile radius to activate their repulsive odors), I dread having to venture back out in it.

With two dogs that require multiple outdoor business trips I can’t avoid it, but I try to take them someplace where there’s shade for them and me. And to encourage a quick evacuation process, I’ll often sing soft, soothing tunes that are proven to promote regularity. (I’ve found that Escape: The Piña Colada Song triggers copious poopage).

The only positive to the hellish heat is walking back inside, where I’m treated to central air conditioning, whirring ceiling fans and even a box fan when I feel like running up the score.

“But, Scott,” you ask. “Surely you like going to the beach … enjoying the sand, surf and ocean breeze?”

Yeah, about that …

There was a time in my late teens and early 20s when beach trips were at the top of my list, mainly because of the nightlife. But again, those days are over.

I like looking at the ocean, but I like doing it from the comfort of the hotel balcony.

I don’t enjoy being on the beach because sand gets in my crevices, and I don’t like getting in the ocean because of sharks, jellyfish and things that want to hurt and/or eat me.

Looking at things positively, though, every day of summer that passes means we’re a day closer to fall. And even though Deep South falls now have muted colors and last only 30 minutes or so, they’re still a great relief from being trapped in Mother Nature’s oven.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but summer can kiss my ass.

You often hear stories about people who experience “road rage,” thereby turning a frustrating driving situation into something scary and dangerous. I sometimes get aggravated and angry when I’m behind the wheel, too, but usually after screaming, “rectum!” and speeding away, I’m fine.

What I wonder, though, is why there aren’t more incidents of “frozen food aisle rage.” In my experience – and I’ve been charting this for a while – customers who peruse this part of a supermarket are often the rudest of them all. And that can make customers like me rather … well … testy.

Sure, there’ll be traffic jams on any aisle, especially during busy times of the day. And I understand we sometimes have a tough decision to make between Kraft Easy Mac Noodle and Kraft Original Macaroni & Cheese.

Apparently, though, frozen foods lead to frozen brains.

Yesterday, for example, I decided I wanted some waffles. (I’d just seen Stranger Things 4 and there was a scene where a delicious plate of Eggos had been prepared). So, after loading up my cart with non-perishables, I made my way to frozen foods.

As is often the case, there was someone standing right where I needed to be. That’s fine … like me, the dude was getting waffles, so it really shouldn’t have taken long.

Shouldn’t, but did.

I realize there are different flavors of Eggo, and there are also different size boxes. (Personally, I always go for the 24-pack of homestyle). This guy, though … he’s holding the door open with his right hand and rubbing his chin with his left. Is he trying to decide between homestyle and buttermilk?

Could he be looking at another brand, maybe one of those gluten-free healthier choices that includes freeze-dried blueberries?

Then again, maybe he’s decided to just live like he’s dying and buy some of those big-ass Belgian waffles.

But you know what? You should have all this settled before you ever get to Waffleville. I mean, you’re just buying some frozen enriched flour – you’re not purchasing a car.

By now I’m standing behind him, waiting for him to move just a smidge so I can grab my Eggos and get the hell out of there. Then he starts shifting from side-to-side, making it impossible to go around him without infringing on his and my personal space.

The longer it took, the madder I got.

My first thought was to shove him into the freezer and close the door.

Then I imagined moving all the way to the other end of the aisle and charging toward him with my buggy, crashing into him with such force he goes airborne and flies into one of the registers.

My hatred for this wanker was deep – and growing deeper by the second..

Fortunately for him, he eventually grabbed a 24-pack of Eggo buttermilk, threw them in his cart, and wandered away as I muttered obscenities under my breath. I then made a note to pass on to the store manager suggesting that anyone who lingers in front of frozen waffles for longer than 90 seconds should be banned from the store.

Anyway, I got my supply of homestyle but then remembered I needed to pick up a bag of frozen mixed vegetables because we use those in our soup.

As I neared the destination, there was an older women parked in front of the veggies. And when I say older, I mean ancient – possibly born before time as we know it even existed. It’s not hyperbole to say she looked like a mummy wearing a bucket hat. And she didn’t move … she just kinda gazed through the freezer door.

I’ve always prided myself on showing respect for my elders, and back in my younger days I would’ve stood back patiently while she contemplated the frozen okra versus frozen broccoli conundrum. And when it was done, I’d even help her back into her tomb.

But I knew exactly where the mixed vegetables were, and fearing she might have actually died standing in place, I just slid between her and the veggies, reached in and snatched the bag, and took off.

I’m old now, too, so I feel I’ve earned the right.

Of course, these are hardly isolated incidents. You’ll often find people staring – mouth agape – right in front of the ice cream case.

And folks trying to make the proper call on a frozen dinner never appear to be in much of a rush, either.

About the only crowd-free place at my supermarket is the area that features the veggie dogs and plant-based foods. As a vegetarian it serves as my happy place, and allows me to tamp down my frozen food aisle rage while I stand alone in the land of soy.

Yes, it’s ridiculous to lose my cool because of the indecision of fellow shoppers. There are far more important things to get upset about in this world. Still, sometimes it just builds up.

So, if you ever go in search of frozen food and see some short guy with glasses running through the store holding a box of waffles and screaming, “rectum!” chances are it’s me.

In just a couple of weeks, I’ll be celebrating the one-year anniversary of moving back to the greater Birmingham metro area. Well, “celebrating” is probably too strong a word.

Most likely I’ll look at the calendar and say, “Hey Mary, did you know that today marks the one-year anniversary of moving back to the greater Birmingham metro area?”

“No,” she’ll say.

“Well, it is,” I’ll say.

“OK,” she’ll say.

We’ll then trade obligatory fist-bumps and go about our business.

To me the bigger headline, though, is that it’ll also be a year that I’ve lived in a condominium. Before resettling here, my only experience with condos has been renting one while at the beach, trying not to break anything while I’m there and then signing a guestbook when I leave. Honestly, it never crossed my mind to actually stay in one longer than a week.

But here we are, and now when anyone asks, “I wonder what it’s like to live in a condo?” I can answer with a certain degree of expertise.

In some ways, it’s like living in a small country with its own government. For our purposes, we’ll call it the Democratic Republic of Condo (or DRC for short). Over time, those who live here have compiled a set of rules and regulations and we who take up residence in DRC are compelled to follow them.

It is the way.

Among the rules is a certain amount of uniformity to the outside appearance of each unit. I mean, you don’t have to have identical wreaths on your doors or similar balcony décor, but there are basic standards.

For example, if I wanted to have a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice on the balcony (and I do), I’d have to run it by the DRC board. This hasn’t come up because I’ve yet to find a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice, but if and when I do you can bet your ass I’m calling for a vote.

But just as the condo community itself is like a government, the inside of each unit is akin to an embassy with its occupants serving as ambassadors. Thus, we can do pretty much whatever we like in terms of feng shui because it’s private space and not shared space and we are masters of our internal domain.

This is important for many reasons, not the least of which is if I do find a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice and the Board rules that it would violate DRC standards to place him on the balcony, I can just move him inside.

I’d probably place him in the den, sitting in a chair next to the area that features a replica of the 1966 Batmobile, Mechagodzilla statue and Puss in Boots figurine. It would be a bit ostentatious, but I see no need to apologize for my sense of style.

Now, even though each unit is an embassy, we still try to be respectful of those who occupy other embassies, especially adjoining ones. We have people beside us and someone below us, and we learned quickly that the walls are relatively thin here. It’s hard to hear every word of a conversation coming from another unit, but you can usually at least follow the plot.

Also, I tend to be heavy-footed when I trundle around the condo, so I worry that I might disturb the downstairs neighbor. Since we have hardwood floors and no carpet, I imagine the sound is magnified even more.

That being the case, I wear fuzzy slippers and try to walk slower and more softly when the neighbor is home. Only when they leave do I crank up AC/DC to 11 or break into my one-man “Riverdance” show, trading in fuzzy slippers for jazz shoes.

So, is living in a condo better than living in a house?

It all depends on your lifestyle.

I kinda miss cutting grass, but our old house had a small yard, so it wasn’t that much of a chore.

And of course, being able to turn on the stereo full blast and engage in traditional Irish music and dance is easier to do in an unattached structure.

But overall, condo life is like any kind of life; it’s what you make of it.

The inside of our unit is cozy, comfortable and appealing to the eyes; the balcony offers a beautiful view of the sunset; all our neighbors are warm and friendly; and we have restaurants, a movie theater and supermarket within easy walking distance.

Really, about the only thing missing right now is a life-size, animatronic Beetlejuice.

If you happen to come across one, please let me know. After all, This is an election year and I need to start lining up votes.