Since I launched this blog late last January, I had no idea I would write a second post much less ninety-nine more, but here it is my one hundredth lame tale.
To illustrate how much the number one hundred is lionized, I Google searched it and was directed to links to sites hawking “100 Picture Books Everyone Should Know” (count me out), as well as another about “100 Women in Hedge Funds.” I have no clue what a hedge fund is but my mind wandered to thoughts of the hedges that were in my parents’ back yard. Along that same line of deep thinking, I mentally time-traveled to “lettuce prey,” images of grasshoppers crawling over heads of lettuce I would envision whenever the priest in the church of my childhood, Jesus Christ This is Boring, would declare, “Let us pray.”
Google also had an Amazon.com link to a book called “The One Hundred: A Guide to the Pieces Every Stylish Woman Must Own.” Pictured below is the contents of my closet that I call “The Thirty: A Guide to the Pieces Every Stylish Woman Would Deny Owning.”
The only link that Google displayed that intrigued me enough to click was “YouTube – 100 Greatest Hits of YouTube in 4 Minutes.” It’s packed with those two YouTube staples – cats and kids as well as numerous numbskulls falling down painfully and a slew of dancing fools. I enjoyed watching these clips immensely.
Considering that there are bloggers that easily crank out twenty or thirty posts a day, this milestone is minimalist. Then, I brightened when it occurred to me that if I continue to write Lame Adventures an average of three times a week until I am age 100 that might be something to crow about. I ran this idea by Milton:
Me: What do you think we’ll be like if I’m still writing my blog when you’re 97 and I’m 100?
If my dear friend and I defy the odds and we both happen to be around several decades hence, perhaps that tale will go like this:
Lame Adventure 7345: My Centennial
Today, I am 100.
Even though I can no longer see or hear very well, my D-cup nose remains fully operational, which is a blessing and a curse. Right now I smell the fragrant aroma of toast, unless my Columbia grad student neighbor, Schenectady, is wearing a massive amount of perfume that smells exactly like toast – a very real possibility.
Over my ten decades, I’ve witnessed countless fads, the hippie look, the punk look, the preppie look, the grunge look, the Goth look, the hipster look, the cowboy look, the zookeeper look, and my personal favorite, the I don’t care look. I did not anticipate that after every imaginable look had been exhausted, fashionistas would zero in on scent with a fervor that smells exactly like that obsolete form of currency, cash.
I know I’m an old timer when I find myself sitting next to a pretty young thing on the subway train who reeks of cheeseburger or a ten topping pizza. What is even more amazing to me is how men of all ages appear to be drawn to women that smell like pancakes, fried chicken or pie. Classic fragrances of my day are not only soundly rejected by anyone who wants to be considered fashionable, I recently read an article in digital Vogue comparing Chanel No. 5 to embalming fluid. That strikes me as sacrilegious.
Milton, my dear compadre, who I have taken to calling “Miss Jane Pittman” since he reached 90, will turn 97 next month. He called me today:
Milton: Happy birthday. I’m so happy that you’re still alive. How does it feel to be 100?
Me: I feel like the poster child for tai chi. Ling called and wished me a happy birthday.
Milton: How is she?
Me: She’s okay, but having a crisis over her granddaughter, who’s wearing some perfume that smells like soup dumplings. We’re completely on the same page about hating this ridiculous trend. I don’t get it. Why do kids want to run around smelling like a deli counter? Can you explain that to me?
The line is quiet.
Me: Are you there?
Milton: This could kill our friendship.
Me: Spill it.
Milton (sheepish): I sniffed a guy on the bus that smelled like waffles drenched in syrup … I got aroused; I even drooled a little.
I absorb this admission.
Me: The next time you ride the bus, Mrs. Butterworth, wear a bib.