I have worn glasses since I counted my age in single digits, and folks, that’s a heck of a long time ago. I clean my glasses, oh, about . . . well, I can’t remember the last time actually. Sometimes something major will splash in the kitchen and I will wipe them off. Other than that, I just keep looking through them; I think most people who started wearing glasses as a kid have adapted this way. Now, Der Bingle, he came to glasses later in life and often times I find myself thinking, “Oh my gosh, he’s cleaning his glasses again for crying out loud.” If he catches a glimpse of my lenses in a certain light, he reacts as if I am wearing a sludge of mud, manure and plague germs. Sometimes he even grabs them and cleans them. He shows disgust.

I think he is a glasses wimp.

But, this morning, I have to admit I was reading and started to wonder if I were having a stroke because I was having trouble maintaining focus. Finally, I did take my glasses off and looked at them from a distance greater than an inch. There were tiny spots all over the lenses; yes, just tiny peepholes between the spots. Obviously, my eyes were shifting from peephole to peephole. Or, I should say, my eye, since I rarely voluntarily look out of my left.

So, perhaps, Der Bingle, I do need to clean my glasses . . . with Windex even. I may get around to it in a couple of hours or so. Or maybe I could just use this soft shirt here. And, really, I probably only need to do the right lens.

Oh, by the way, have you ever wondered if a town has had both a Minnetonka factory and a Mini-Tonka factory? What if the deliveries got mixed up and they started turning out steel moccasins? And kids had to play with little leather trucks with beads on them?

Oh, dear, the guys here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse think it’s time for me to have another “treatment” in the Tabasco Room. Sort of shock therapy.

ALERT    ALERT   ALERT    ALERT ALERT    ALERT   ALERT    ALERT – –  PHOTO NOT FOR SQUEAMISH