Jan 032018

January 3, 2018 — My retirement vision hasn’t quite met reality yet.

In my apparition, I’m reading a leather-bound volume of “War and Peace.” I’m writing handwritten epistles to friends with a crystal nib and brown ink from Siena, Italy.  I’m taking long baths, getting frequent facials, and walking briskly in the mall at 8:30 a.m. daily. I’m spending quality time with my husband of 33 years.

In the real world, I’m reading a sleazy, throwaway novel. I’m sending texts. I’m walking to the mailbox.  I am, however, spending more time with my husband.

We sit side-by-side each evening in our circa 1990 green velveteen recliners, struggling for power over the television remote. My husband’s favorites are “Shipping Wars” and “The Curse of Oak Island.”

It ain’t “Masterpiece Theater.”

We watch a driver maneuver an unfamiliar truck from Opp, Alabama to Walla Walla, Washington with a load of Rhode Island red chickens and a 72-hour deadline. The plot must advance. The driver finds himself and 116 screaming hens in Pawhuska, OK  on a Sunday when the feed store is closed.  The high-tension drama keeps me riveted between commercials for a bathroom odor eliminator or the greatest pillow in world history.

Museokeskus Vapriikki [CC BY 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons

The chickens arrive in time for us to change the channel to “The Curse of Oak Island.”

The premise of Oak Island involves a supposed buried treasure on an island off Nova Scotia.  Legend says seven people must die before the treasure is found.  Six have succumbed.  I might be the seventh, dying of boredom.

Two Michigan brothers use modern technology to pursue treasure hunters have sought for two centuries.  Mostly, the brothers dig or talk about digging.

To pass the time, I’ve invented an “Oak Island” drinking game. I raise my glass to the words “borehole #9” or “ejection probe device.”

While the show is an hour, usually there are no more than six or eight minutes of real action. A recent episode was painfully slow as it revolved around one of the brothers being bitten by a deer tick.  Lyme disease kept him away from the dig just as two human bone fragments were discovered.

The writers need to spice it up. How about a tuxedoed Big Foot (Sasquatch for the Canadian locals) presenting a letter (in cursive with Italian dip ink, of course) from OJ Simpson admitting he killed his wife and her friend and threw the knife in the Money Pit? Now that would make me sit up in my recliner!

%d bloggers like this: