Danny Mac's Blog, page 7
August 9, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Grumpy Man
Hello to all,
As my hair and beard turned gray and many body parts started hurting for no apparent reason, I became that grumpy man of centuries-old memes. I wasn’t there when God made dirt, but there are days when it feels like it. So, please don’t ask me for the formula.
I have the urge to yell at kids to stay off my lawn. This impulse remains unfulfilled since I live in the country and don’t have young people traveling in front of my yard. I want to start a business where grumpy men from the country can sit in the yard of a young homeowner. Do you have a problem with elementary using your lawn as a shortcut to get home? Do junior high students decide your perfectly manicured lawn is the best place for a ball game?
You need a grump man to guard your property against the improper use by miscreant kids of the neighbors. The gray-haired retirees will ensure your lawn remains kid-free by years of pain and lost youth piercing their souls. We will expertly growl, “Get off the lawn” or “Don’t step on the grass,” with disdain and misery that only a grumpy old man can provide. Junkyard German Shepherds have nothing on a grumpy man's sheer determination to keep a lawn immaculate.
What is the cost of keeping your yard free of tiny feet disturbing the flow of the grass? Supply the grumpy man with a sandwich and beverage of choice. That’s correct, people. You can have a footprint-free lawn for a ham-on-rye sandwich and a cold beer. But wait, there is more. Throw in a slice of pie or cake with coffee or tea; the grumpy man will stay the whole evening, keeping your front yard pristine.
We are easily found wandering around home improvement stores, looking at potential projects we could accomplish if our backs didn’t hurt. You might see us at a Church social grumbling with other old men about it being too cold or warm. You might even have a relative who is a grumpy man. Invite him to your house, sit him on your porch, and mention that you don’t like kids walking on your grass. You won’t have to say, “Sic them!” The grumpiness will manifest, and he will guard your lawn with an eagle eye.
When your neighbors complain, and you want to stop a grumpy man's services, serve him a cucumber and beansprout sandwich cut into little strips with unsweetened mango iced tea. Five minutes later, you will return, never to see the grumpy man again on your porch.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
As my hair and beard turned gray and many body parts started hurting for no apparent reason, I became that grumpy man of centuries-old memes. I wasn’t there when God made dirt, but there are days when it feels like it. So, please don’t ask me for the formula.
I have the urge to yell at kids to stay off my lawn. This impulse remains unfulfilled since I live in the country and don’t have young people traveling in front of my yard. I want to start a business where grumpy men from the country can sit in the yard of a young homeowner. Do you have a problem with elementary using your lawn as a shortcut to get home? Do junior high students decide your perfectly manicured lawn is the best place for a ball game?
You need a grump man to guard your property against the improper use by miscreant kids of the neighbors. The gray-haired retirees will ensure your lawn remains kid-free by years of pain and lost youth piercing their souls. We will expertly growl, “Get off the lawn” or “Don’t step on the grass,” with disdain and misery that only a grumpy old man can provide. Junkyard German Shepherds have nothing on a grumpy man's sheer determination to keep a lawn immaculate.
What is the cost of keeping your yard free of tiny feet disturbing the flow of the grass? Supply the grumpy man with a sandwich and beverage of choice. That’s correct, people. You can have a footprint-free lawn for a ham-on-rye sandwich and a cold beer. But wait, there is more. Throw in a slice of pie or cake with coffee or tea; the grumpy man will stay the whole evening, keeping your front yard pristine.
We are easily found wandering around home improvement stores, looking at potential projects we could accomplish if our backs didn’t hurt. You might see us at a Church social grumbling with other old men about it being too cold or warm. You might even have a relative who is a grumpy man. Invite him to your house, sit him on your porch, and mention that you don’t like kids walking on your grass. You won’t have to say, “Sic them!” The grumpiness will manifest, and he will guard your lawn with an eagle eye.
When your neighbors complain, and you want to stop a grumpy man's services, serve him a cucumber and beansprout sandwich cut into little strips with unsweetened mango iced tea. Five minutes later, you will return, never to see the grumpy man again on your porch.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
August 2, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Pockets
Hello to all,
I am an old-school type of guy. This means I have pockets and know how to use them. If an item doesn’t fit in my pocket, I don’t need it. Keys on a ring, wallet, knife, and other essentials all fit into my pockets. My shirt pocket has always carried a pen since becoming a manager over forty years ago. (How nerdy is that!) Everything required to navigate life leaves the house with me every morning, stuffed into one pocket or another.
The world sees me as a lumpy mess. Most men, especially us older gents, don’t mind this description of our appearance. It is the reason cargo pants have become popular in recent years. Our clothes are built for comfort and convenience. I doubt you will ever spot us on the cover of GQ or modeling for advertisement on the internet. We usually have a dad-bod under the clothes, completing the image of the modern American father with all the trappings.
It seems women don’t like objects in their pockets. I don’t know if it looks or how it feels, but their pockets remain empty. Their dresses rarely have pockets; when they do, they are only deep enough to sink their hands into them in times of distress. Women also complain about the pockets in their jeans being too small. If they were bigger, most women wouldn’t put anything in them because it would ruin the aesthetic appeal of their outfit.
I used to leave my pants at the end of the day next to the bed for convenience. Then, I got married, and this habit became problematic. We have two clothes baskets in our room, one for underwear and the other for used clothes. Today, I leave my dirty pants, with the belt and all the essentials in the pockets, on top of the unclean garments. The next morning, while getting dressed, I removed the belt from the sullied loops and attached it to the clean pants around my waist. Everything in the worn front right pocket comes out and goes into the freshly laundered front right pocket. I methodically work each pocket until the mucky pants are empty and the spotless pants become a lumpy mess. The used pants add to the growing collection of soiled clothes, and I leave the house without missing anything I need for the day.
Tammy is happy because my pants are not in the middle of the floor, and I am content to keep my routine of having everything where it belongs.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
I am an old-school type of guy. This means I have pockets and know how to use them. If an item doesn’t fit in my pocket, I don’t need it. Keys on a ring, wallet, knife, and other essentials all fit into my pockets. My shirt pocket has always carried a pen since becoming a manager over forty years ago. (How nerdy is that!) Everything required to navigate life leaves the house with me every morning, stuffed into one pocket or another.
The world sees me as a lumpy mess. Most men, especially us older gents, don’t mind this description of our appearance. It is the reason cargo pants have become popular in recent years. Our clothes are built for comfort and convenience. I doubt you will ever spot us on the cover of GQ or modeling for advertisement on the internet. We usually have a dad-bod under the clothes, completing the image of the modern American father with all the trappings.
It seems women don’t like objects in their pockets. I don’t know if it looks or how it feels, but their pockets remain empty. Their dresses rarely have pockets; when they do, they are only deep enough to sink their hands into them in times of distress. Women also complain about the pockets in their jeans being too small. If they were bigger, most women wouldn’t put anything in them because it would ruin the aesthetic appeal of their outfit.
I used to leave my pants at the end of the day next to the bed for convenience. Then, I got married, and this habit became problematic. We have two clothes baskets in our room, one for underwear and the other for used clothes. Today, I leave my dirty pants, with the belt and all the essentials in the pockets, on top of the unclean garments. The next morning, while getting dressed, I removed the belt from the sullied loops and attached it to the clean pants around my waist. Everything in the worn front right pocket comes out and goes into the freshly laundered front right pocket. I methodically work each pocket until the mucky pants are empty and the spotless pants become a lumpy mess. The used pants add to the growing collection of soiled clothes, and I leave the house without missing anything I need for the day.
Tammy is happy because my pants are not in the middle of the floor, and I am content to keep my routine of having everything where it belongs.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
July 26, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Passenger Princess
Hello to all,
Let's talk about 'passenger princesses '. These are women who always claim the passenger seat, whether on a romantic date or a mundane trip to the supermarket. Despite the driver’s seat offering luxurious eight-way electric adjustments at the push of a fingertip, they prefer the position of royalty, even if it's a manual seat.
The loving man has no say in determining the control of the steering wheel, nor does he have any input as to their destination. Some might say this is a masculine mandate based on societal norms. However, I offer this evidence. Recent videos show the man sitting in the passenger seat waiting for their loved one. She approaches the car only to see her throne filled by the man she loves. This sight leaves the woman filled with sadness, grief, anger, or despair over having to drive.
Tammy, my passenger princess, has grown into the passenger queen in recent years. Despite my urging, she has never had a driver’s license and probably never will. She sat in the seat to my right for thirty years and directed me to drive. As queen of the car, she points out significant obstacles and opportunities while I drive. Sometimes, trivial stuff like red lights going unnoticed if it wasn’t for her keen awareness. One time, she blurted out, “Did you see the boobs on her?” as I concentrated on the congested road. I offered to turn around to see them, but she told me to keep going.
We will start on a long road trip, and she will become the navigator by royal authority of her throne. This lasts until I need directions, and then she is completely lost. She opens her phone and finds us and our destination. I get directions like, “You need to go up and sideways.”
I determined my direction was west, and I needed to turn right. “It says you must make a right turn in two hundred feet.” For the next half mile, there were nothing but fields. We kept traversing the back roads. “Oh, you should have turned back there,” she said as I saw the turn disappear in my mirror. We eventually made it back home.
I married my passenger princess thirty years ago. I would much rather have her give me misdirections than any other woman give good directions. Traveling nowhere with my wife is enjoyable so she can peruse around our state. If we have somewhere to be, I plug my phone into the car and get proper GPS directions.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
Let's talk about 'passenger princesses '. These are women who always claim the passenger seat, whether on a romantic date or a mundane trip to the supermarket. Despite the driver’s seat offering luxurious eight-way electric adjustments at the push of a fingertip, they prefer the position of royalty, even if it's a manual seat.
The loving man has no say in determining the control of the steering wheel, nor does he have any input as to their destination. Some might say this is a masculine mandate based on societal norms. However, I offer this evidence. Recent videos show the man sitting in the passenger seat waiting for their loved one. She approaches the car only to see her throne filled by the man she loves. This sight leaves the woman filled with sadness, grief, anger, or despair over having to drive.
Tammy, my passenger princess, has grown into the passenger queen in recent years. Despite my urging, she has never had a driver’s license and probably never will. She sat in the seat to my right for thirty years and directed me to drive. As queen of the car, she points out significant obstacles and opportunities while I drive. Sometimes, trivial stuff like red lights going unnoticed if it wasn’t for her keen awareness. One time, she blurted out, “Did you see the boobs on her?” as I concentrated on the congested road. I offered to turn around to see them, but she told me to keep going.
We will start on a long road trip, and she will become the navigator by royal authority of her throne. This lasts until I need directions, and then she is completely lost. She opens her phone and finds us and our destination. I get directions like, “You need to go up and sideways.”
I determined my direction was west, and I needed to turn right. “It says you must make a right turn in two hundred feet.” For the next half mile, there were nothing but fields. We kept traversing the back roads. “Oh, you should have turned back there,” she said as I saw the turn disappear in my mirror. We eventually made it back home.
I married my passenger princess thirty years ago. I would much rather have her give me misdirections than any other woman give good directions. Traveling nowhere with my wife is enjoyable so she can peruse around our state. If we have somewhere to be, I plug my phone into the car and get proper GPS directions.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
July 19, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Comfort Clothes
Hello to all,
My head went gray ten years ago, and my beard followed it a few years later. As age settled into my bones, it also created a need for comfort in my clothes. Some of my favorite garments came from as early as the 1980s when I bought them as a young man. It was the style of the day, and some still hold its appeal all these years later.
The shirts and pants, primarily blue jeans, left over from a bygone era, found a spot in my closet. The still-stylish clothes were comfortable, and I preferred to wear them daily. They wrapped my body like an old friend to greet me in the morning. Hawian-style shirts that never go out of fashion and dress jeans that now fit more comfortably as everyday wear clutter the center of the closet. The business casual moved to the far ends of the closet in favor of comfort clothes. Suits have been pushed so deep into the closet that it will take an archeologist to find them.
It started a couple of years ago when a pair of old jeans, circa 1985, caught Tammy’s eye. She no longer saw a man sporting stylish jeans but an old man wearing torn and worn-out jeans. I argued they were fashionable, and the kids today pay hundreds of dollars for jeans like the ones I wore.
The woman in charge of the house ignored this argument. I said goodbye to the old jeans with a heavy heart. I wanted to burn them on a funeral pyre, but again, the person I have called boss for thirty years nixed this idea. The sounds of a lone trumpet played Taps in my head as my old friend jeans faded into the trash can. The crashing of the lid matched the crushing blow to my heart as I said goodbye.
I typed this week’s blog in jeans shorts from circa 1990. She noticed the tear in the back pocket where the knife had resided for all those years, and then she mentioned the bare threads hanging from the hem. I fear the days are numbered for this comfort clothing that is older than our marriage. It will probably survive the summer but does not look suitable for 2025.
Perhaps I will start a support group for old men saying goodbye to equally old comfort clothes.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
My head went gray ten years ago, and my beard followed it a few years later. As age settled into my bones, it also created a need for comfort in my clothes. Some of my favorite garments came from as early as the 1980s when I bought them as a young man. It was the style of the day, and some still hold its appeal all these years later.
The shirts and pants, primarily blue jeans, left over from a bygone era, found a spot in my closet. The still-stylish clothes were comfortable, and I preferred to wear them daily. They wrapped my body like an old friend to greet me in the morning. Hawian-style shirts that never go out of fashion and dress jeans that now fit more comfortably as everyday wear clutter the center of the closet. The business casual moved to the far ends of the closet in favor of comfort clothes. Suits have been pushed so deep into the closet that it will take an archeologist to find them.
It started a couple of years ago when a pair of old jeans, circa 1985, caught Tammy’s eye. She no longer saw a man sporting stylish jeans but an old man wearing torn and worn-out jeans. I argued they were fashionable, and the kids today pay hundreds of dollars for jeans like the ones I wore.
The woman in charge of the house ignored this argument. I said goodbye to the old jeans with a heavy heart. I wanted to burn them on a funeral pyre, but again, the person I have called boss for thirty years nixed this idea. The sounds of a lone trumpet played Taps in my head as my old friend jeans faded into the trash can. The crashing of the lid matched the crushing blow to my heart as I said goodbye.
I typed this week’s blog in jeans shorts from circa 1990. She noticed the tear in the back pocket where the knife had resided for all those years, and then she mentioned the bare threads hanging from the hem. I fear the days are numbered for this comfort clothing that is older than our marriage. It will probably survive the summer but does not look suitable for 2025.
Perhaps I will start a support group for old men saying goodbye to equally old comfort clothes.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
July 12, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Timing
Hello to all,
Upon meeting my wife for the first time thirty-one years ago this month, I noticed we seemed to be in tune with each other at a subconscious level. This uncanny timing between us grew over the next several months, and I asked her to marry me. Within nine months of our first date, she strolled down the aisle to say I do.
Almost immediately, we started finishing each other’s sentences. I picked up on her nuances to the point that I knew what she wanted when she was looking for a thingy. I didn’t know where to find it, but I knew the item she was searching for. I came to learn the differences between a thing-a-bob, doo-hickey, and whatcha-macall-it, depending on the expression on her face. She catches me off guard occasionally, and I fail to grasp the meaning of her substitute word.
After thirty years of marriage, we have gained inert timing. We wake at the same time most mornings and go to bed at the same time. She tells me everything stuck in her brain, and when the thoughts run dry, I fall asleep before the next set of thoughts can load. Even this requires excellent timing. I need a particular pause at a specific time before my instantaneous sleep mode activates.
Our timing is so compatible. I know when she is hungry and will feed her before she becomes hangry. Likewise, she tends to my needs before I become cantankerous or, should I say, more irritable. I am at that age where I feel the need to yell at kids to stay off my lawn.
However, the exceptional timing between our two beings has its drawbacks. Picture a man and his wife leaving a store. I accidentally end up to her right. Our mode of travel is in front of us, and I need to move to the left to drive. My pace quickens to get ahead of her to cross over. My bride unconsciously speeds up to match my pace without missing a word of her story. I slow to slip behind her, and she matches my reduction, and I cannot reach her left. I finally stop, and she stops in time with me. “Are you driving,” blurts from my lips. She moves to my right so we can go home. Our great timing overrides the need for efficiency.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
Upon meeting my wife for the first time thirty-one years ago this month, I noticed we seemed to be in tune with each other at a subconscious level. This uncanny timing between us grew over the next several months, and I asked her to marry me. Within nine months of our first date, she strolled down the aisle to say I do.
Almost immediately, we started finishing each other’s sentences. I picked up on her nuances to the point that I knew what she wanted when she was looking for a thingy. I didn’t know where to find it, but I knew the item she was searching for. I came to learn the differences between a thing-a-bob, doo-hickey, and whatcha-macall-it, depending on the expression on her face. She catches me off guard occasionally, and I fail to grasp the meaning of her substitute word.
After thirty years of marriage, we have gained inert timing. We wake at the same time most mornings and go to bed at the same time. She tells me everything stuck in her brain, and when the thoughts run dry, I fall asleep before the next set of thoughts can load. Even this requires excellent timing. I need a particular pause at a specific time before my instantaneous sleep mode activates.
Our timing is so compatible. I know when she is hungry and will feed her before she becomes hangry. Likewise, she tends to my needs before I become cantankerous or, should I say, more irritable. I am at that age where I feel the need to yell at kids to stay off my lawn.
However, the exceptional timing between our two beings has its drawbacks. Picture a man and his wife leaving a store. I accidentally end up to her right. Our mode of travel is in front of us, and I need to move to the left to drive. My pace quickens to get ahead of her to cross over. My bride unconsciously speeds up to match my pace without missing a word of her story. I slow to slip behind her, and she matches my reduction, and I cannot reach her left. I finally stop, and she stops in time with me. “Are you driving,” blurts from my lips. She moves to my right so we can go home. Our great timing overrides the need for efficiency.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
July 5, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Dog Text
Hello to all,
How many of you text another family member while sharing the same house? I recently saw a meme about people sending texts while sitting in the same house. It showed a couple sitting beside each other and sending messages back and forth. I laughed at it because my wife and I text within the house on a regular basis.
We do talk while in the same room, but if I am downstairs and she wants me upstairs, Tammy will text me to her. This method of contacting each other does not involve shouting and serves as a peaceful exchange of information. Furthermore, when I am busy, I can ignore the text until a free moment to check it. It is the most convenient way to communicate in our house.
The biggest reason we prefer texting is that we have a furry four-legged barking machine that jumps to the wrong conclusion if someone shouts in the house. Upon hearing me holler “Tammy” up the steps, Ginger, our dog, understands this to mean there is a strange person in our yard, a truck pulling into our drive, or masked marauders invading our home. Ginger generates a torrent of screams, yelps, and high-pitched barks as she races from her slumber to her protective watch position in the front window.
I loudly and verbally invite Tammy to taste dinner in the kitchen, preempting Ginger's barks at her perceived injustices out the front window. The dark cinnamon hair on her back stands straight up as she immediately jumps to our defense. Her ear-piercing squeal sends shivers down the backs of all in the house, and when she is done, a residue of a headache lingers. There is no relief until she barks at nothing for a good five minutes.
The biggest reason we text in our house instead of shouting is to avoid a headache. I suppose we could approach the person on foot and ask quietly, but where is the fun in that? Maybe we should call them dog texts since Ginger is the reason we text instead of calling out for each other.
I hope everyone had a joyous and safe Independence Day celebration.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
How many of you text another family member while sharing the same house? I recently saw a meme about people sending texts while sitting in the same house. It showed a couple sitting beside each other and sending messages back and forth. I laughed at it because my wife and I text within the house on a regular basis.
We do talk while in the same room, but if I am downstairs and she wants me upstairs, Tammy will text me to her. This method of contacting each other does not involve shouting and serves as a peaceful exchange of information. Furthermore, when I am busy, I can ignore the text until a free moment to check it. It is the most convenient way to communicate in our house.
The biggest reason we prefer texting is that we have a furry four-legged barking machine that jumps to the wrong conclusion if someone shouts in the house. Upon hearing me holler “Tammy” up the steps, Ginger, our dog, understands this to mean there is a strange person in our yard, a truck pulling into our drive, or masked marauders invading our home. Ginger generates a torrent of screams, yelps, and high-pitched barks as she races from her slumber to her protective watch position in the front window.
I loudly and verbally invite Tammy to taste dinner in the kitchen, preempting Ginger's barks at her perceived injustices out the front window. The dark cinnamon hair on her back stands straight up as she immediately jumps to our defense. Her ear-piercing squeal sends shivers down the backs of all in the house, and when she is done, a residue of a headache lingers. There is no relief until she barks at nothing for a good five minutes.
The biggest reason we text in our house instead of shouting is to avoid a headache. I suppose we could approach the person on foot and ask quietly, but where is the fun in that? Maybe we should call them dog texts since Ginger is the reason we text instead of calling out for each other.
I hope everyone had a joyous and safe Independence Day celebration.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
June 28, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Old Man
Hello to all,
Recently, another author posted a meme stating Grammarly doesn’t like the term “old man.” I posted a humorous comment about preferring old fart, which garnered several laughing emojis. I can attest in this blog that Grammarly does, in fact, take exception to using old man in a sentence. Grammarly considers the term disrespectful to some people. My best guess is that stubborn men refuse to see they are getting old.
An old saying states you can tell if you are old by when you fall. If people around you laugh, you are not old. If they rush over to help you up with concern on their face, you are old. I discovered my oldness when slipping on the ice while retrieving the mail at work six years ago. A nice young woman, my best guess is age 25, stopped her car, ran over to me, and helped me up. She called me sir three or four times while brushing the snow off my coat.
I also noticed younger people opening and holding the door for me about the time of my fall. They see the white goatee shining even through the darkest night and make it a point to be respectful of the old man approaching. This disturbed me at first because I was the one holding the door for my elders. Then I remembered youth when I called a thirty-fivish woman “mam,” and she took exception. It was the way I was raised that was my defense.
Like me, the young men and women holding the door for me show respect for the generation that preceded them. Their parents drilled this into their psyche from a very young age. I remembered my mother flicking the back of my head with her bony finger when I failed to show respect for an old man. While typing this memory, my head stung from all the time she needed to remind me.
Yesterday, I wore my white tennis shoes with Velcro straps while running errands. My outfit screamed old man coming, and many people younger than me held the door, some from more than twenty feet away. It pleases this old man’s heart to see Generation Z paying respect to an old boomer like me. All is not lost in this modern world.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
Recently, another author posted a meme stating Grammarly doesn’t like the term “old man.” I posted a humorous comment about preferring old fart, which garnered several laughing emojis. I can attest in this blog that Grammarly does, in fact, take exception to using old man in a sentence. Grammarly considers the term disrespectful to some people. My best guess is that stubborn men refuse to see they are getting old.
An old saying states you can tell if you are old by when you fall. If people around you laugh, you are not old. If they rush over to help you up with concern on their face, you are old. I discovered my oldness when slipping on the ice while retrieving the mail at work six years ago. A nice young woman, my best guess is age 25, stopped her car, ran over to me, and helped me up. She called me sir three or four times while brushing the snow off my coat.
I also noticed younger people opening and holding the door for me about the time of my fall. They see the white goatee shining even through the darkest night and make it a point to be respectful of the old man approaching. This disturbed me at first because I was the one holding the door for my elders. Then I remembered youth when I called a thirty-fivish woman “mam,” and she took exception. It was the way I was raised that was my defense.
Like me, the young men and women holding the door for me show respect for the generation that preceded them. Their parents drilled this into their psyche from a very young age. I remembered my mother flicking the back of my head with her bony finger when I failed to show respect for an old man. While typing this memory, my head stung from all the time she needed to remind me.
Yesterday, I wore my white tennis shoes with Velcro straps while running errands. My outfit screamed old man coming, and many people younger than me held the door, some from more than twenty feet away. It pleases this old man’s heart to see Generation Z paying respect to an old boomer like me. All is not lost in this modern world.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
June 21, 2024
Mac’s Moments – T’s Art
Hello to all,
Recently, I have read many posts on Facebook asking if you prefer a seaside or mountain retreat. It is a great conversation starter, and some of them have many comments. The comments vary between the two choices, with the seaside having an advantage. Then there are strange people like me who answer with alternative dreams. My wife and I would love a cottage by a flowing stream if God grants me a lottery payoff or my books become a best seller.
Tammy began painting a year ago under T's Trashy Treasure Art. She is a self-taught artist who uses tutorials from the web and trial and error. Her preferred art is acrylic landscapes. Her first pictures were from the depths of her memory, bringing out the wonder of unique settings. She also searches the internet for inspiration. She will find a majestic photo of rarely traveled places and create a cozy scene she would like to visit that doesn’t exist.
Most of her works are 8 x 10, but she has finished larger paintings of 18 x 24. My favorite hangs on the wall just outside our bedroom door. It depicts a red barn-like cottage nestled along a cool stream smartly decored with summer flowers and overhanging trees. I imagine this dream house by the river has a studio for her painting and another room for writing in solitude while carrying the usual creature comforts every home should have.
A good picture brings out the imagination in the eyes of the beholder. Her art does this for me. The avant-garde might say her paintings are simple and ordinary, but I like art to be simple and ordinary. Her art takes me places I would enjoy visiting and maybe even living there. The settings are peaceful and serene while demonstrating all the beauty God offers in the wild.
If anyone wants to know more about her artwork, you may see more at T's Trashy Treasure Art on Facebook. There, you will find a collection of mountain vistas, grassy meadows, and even a seascape or two.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
Recently, I have read many posts on Facebook asking if you prefer a seaside or mountain retreat. It is a great conversation starter, and some of them have many comments. The comments vary between the two choices, with the seaside having an advantage. Then there are strange people like me who answer with alternative dreams. My wife and I would love a cottage by a flowing stream if God grants me a lottery payoff or my books become a best seller.
Tammy began painting a year ago under T's Trashy Treasure Art. She is a self-taught artist who uses tutorials from the web and trial and error. Her preferred art is acrylic landscapes. Her first pictures were from the depths of her memory, bringing out the wonder of unique settings. She also searches the internet for inspiration. She will find a majestic photo of rarely traveled places and create a cozy scene she would like to visit that doesn’t exist.
Most of her works are 8 x 10, but she has finished larger paintings of 18 x 24. My favorite hangs on the wall just outside our bedroom door. It depicts a red barn-like cottage nestled along a cool stream smartly decored with summer flowers and overhanging trees. I imagine this dream house by the river has a studio for her painting and another room for writing in solitude while carrying the usual creature comforts every home should have.
A good picture brings out the imagination in the eyes of the beholder. Her art does this for me. The avant-garde might say her paintings are simple and ordinary, but I like art to be simple and ordinary. Her art takes me places I would enjoy visiting and maybe even living there. The settings are peaceful and serene while demonstrating all the beauty God offers in the wild.
If anyone wants to know more about her artwork, you may see more at T's Trashy Treasure Art on Facebook. There, you will find a collection of mountain vistas, grassy meadows, and even a seascape or two.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
June 14, 2024
Mac’s Moments – Shopping Pt. 2
Hello to all,
This is more of a rant than a blog, but I must get this off my chest. I am a sixty-five-year-old man. The gray overtook the dirty blond several years ago, leaving dark black hairs mixed lightly among the ever-whitening of my age. Pain has crept into every joint of my body. It now takes ten steps before I can walk upright.
Tammy, my boss for the past thirty years, has required me to take her grocery shopping. To this day, I complain about the old people slowly meandering the aisles, holding me back from the most proficient route to finishing my list. They all seem to push the buggies down the center of the lane, blocking anyone from passing. The slow and systematic approach to their shopping hinders my desire to buy and get out of the store as quickly as possible. And so, I grumble under my breath on every detour around the slow-moving obstacles.
Recently, I noticed a man shopping with his wife. She methodically moved up and down the rows, searching for something she might need that was not on their list. The husband checked the list, ran off, found the item, and returned it to the cart. At this moment, I realized it was not them being old; they were shopping. The man and I don’t shop, we buy. You have a list for a reason, so stick to the list, get out, and get out.
We were almost done shopping when Tammy discovered she missed sour cream. I ran to the far corner of the supermarket to gain this final item. It took me about thirty seconds to finish our shopping, where she could spend up to ten minutes finding one last thing. She shops like walking our dog. Where squirrels, rabbits, and moles distract Ginger from her walk, Tammy spots products with bright labels, calling her attention away from the final objective.
We were to meet up at the checkout as I slid back for the sour cream. She had one small island to navigate while I traversed to the furthest point away and returned. I still waited five minutes for her to appear by the registers. I don’t know how old I’ll be when I quit complaining about old people shopping; I do know it is not sixty-five.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
This is more of a rant than a blog, but I must get this off my chest. I am a sixty-five-year-old man. The gray overtook the dirty blond several years ago, leaving dark black hairs mixed lightly among the ever-whitening of my age. Pain has crept into every joint of my body. It now takes ten steps before I can walk upright.
Tammy, my boss for the past thirty years, has required me to take her grocery shopping. To this day, I complain about the old people slowly meandering the aisles, holding me back from the most proficient route to finishing my list. They all seem to push the buggies down the center of the lane, blocking anyone from passing. The slow and systematic approach to their shopping hinders my desire to buy and get out of the store as quickly as possible. And so, I grumble under my breath on every detour around the slow-moving obstacles.
Recently, I noticed a man shopping with his wife. She methodically moved up and down the rows, searching for something she might need that was not on their list. The husband checked the list, ran off, found the item, and returned it to the cart. At this moment, I realized it was not them being old; they were shopping. The man and I don’t shop, we buy. You have a list for a reason, so stick to the list, get out, and get out.
We were almost done shopping when Tammy discovered she missed sour cream. I ran to the far corner of the supermarket to gain this final item. It took me about thirty seconds to finish our shopping, where she could spend up to ten minutes finding one last thing. She shops like walking our dog. Where squirrels, rabbits, and moles distract Ginger from her walk, Tammy spots products with bright labels, calling her attention away from the final objective.
We were to meet up at the checkout as I slid back for the sour cream. She had one small island to navigate while I traversed to the furthest point away and returned. I still waited five minutes for her to appear by the registers. I don’t know how old I’ll be when I quit complaining about old people shopping; I do know it is not sixty-five.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
June 7, 2024
Mac’s Moments – A Guy Thing
Hello to all,
Trigger Warning: Women might want to keep this blog away from their soon-to-be adult male children in order not to influence them towards bad habits. Young women looking to marry might wish to note this blog to know the mountain of uncouth behavior they will face upon finding that special man.
I recently watched some reels, shorts, and other videos featuring men doing things that women might find inappropriate. One of them was called A Guy Thing. A guy thing is a behavior, habit, or tradition created by a man living alone for an extended time. It reflects his need for convenience and comfort while keeping a house somewhat inhabitable.
The first Guy Thing I remember from my youth was having a friend comment on how clean and orderly my kitchen appeared. There were two reasons for this. The first was being a professional cook, which was my first career. A clean kitchen was a functional spot. The second qualifies as a guy thing: I rinsed the plate, cup, and flatware and stuffed them under the counter until they formed a pile suitable for washing at a later date. Although the kitchen appeared presentable, there may have been not quite clean dishes in the lower cabinet.
A young woman asked me about separating my laundry. I showed her three baskets in the bedroom. The far left was for clean clothes, and the far right was earmarked for dirty ones. When the dirty basket was full, the whole pile went into the washer and then the dryer as a single load. The middle basket was a case for lightly worn clothes that could be worn again. Most women shutter at this very guy thing.
The last guy thing I remember from my youth was the toilet paper dispenser. It made a great decorative item in the bathroom. If a hot date came over, I would use this device, but other than those rare moments, the TP would sit on the back of the toilet.
My wife had it worse than most women because she married me after my thirty-fifth birthday. I was set in my ways and faced a rude awakening to civilized life by having a woman around all the time. She struggled for thirty years to make me into a gentleman, but there are days when the toilet seat does not go back down for her. I am still a work in progress as I cling to my guy things.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
Trigger Warning: Women might want to keep this blog away from their soon-to-be adult male children in order not to influence them towards bad habits. Young women looking to marry might wish to note this blog to know the mountain of uncouth behavior they will face upon finding that special man.
I recently watched some reels, shorts, and other videos featuring men doing things that women might find inappropriate. One of them was called A Guy Thing. A guy thing is a behavior, habit, or tradition created by a man living alone for an extended time. It reflects his need for convenience and comfort while keeping a house somewhat inhabitable.
The first Guy Thing I remember from my youth was having a friend comment on how clean and orderly my kitchen appeared. There were two reasons for this. The first was being a professional cook, which was my first career. A clean kitchen was a functional spot. The second qualifies as a guy thing: I rinsed the plate, cup, and flatware and stuffed them under the counter until they formed a pile suitable for washing at a later date. Although the kitchen appeared presentable, there may have been not quite clean dishes in the lower cabinet.
A young woman asked me about separating my laundry. I showed her three baskets in the bedroom. The far left was for clean clothes, and the far right was earmarked for dirty ones. When the dirty basket was full, the whole pile went into the washer and then the dryer as a single load. The middle basket was a case for lightly worn clothes that could be worn again. Most women shutter at this very guy thing.
The last guy thing I remember from my youth was the toilet paper dispenser. It made a great decorative item in the bathroom. If a hot date came over, I would use this device, but other than those rare moments, the TP would sit on the back of the toilet.
My wife had it worse than most women because she married me after my thirty-fifth birthday. I was set in my ways and faced a rude awakening to civilized life by having a woman around all the time. She struggled for thirty years to make me into a gentleman, but there are days when the toilet seat does not go back down for her. I am still a work in progress as I cling to my guy things.
If you like my blogs, please subscribe for email distribution at www.dannymacauthor.com.
God bless,
Danny Mac
