A SHAMELESS PLUG, BUT A GREAT GIFT IDEA

Dear Facebook Friends,  

I received a few requests for more information about my newest book, Mopey Dick: Deep Thoughts from a Shallow Mind, a compilation of my columns from the past five years. If you have been reading my stuff each week, you don't need this book, unless you have a rotten memory like me.  It does make a great gift—partly because it is funny, but mostly because it is so cheap. 

There are four ways to get the book, in order of simplicity...

1. Send me an email and let me know who you want the book(s) signed to. I will send them with an invoice ($13.00 each, which includes postage. Or, two for $25.00 or three for $30.00.)

                                        email: Wolfsie@aol.com

2. Go to Wolfsie.com and use VISA, MC or Paypal.

3. There's also Amazon or local bookstores, but I can't personalize those.

4. You can wait about three years until my wife wants them out of the garage. Then you can come and get them for free.

Thanks and Happy Holidays!

Dick Wolfsie

wolfsie.com or wolfsie@aol.com

BREAKING BAD

My family has been attending a new place of worship on Sunday mornings, and we think we have found the perfect spot. The Unitarian minister is engaging. The congregation is warm and welcoming. Even the coffee is good after the service. In fact, I wouldn’t fix a thing.

More to the point, I can’t fix a thing, yet that’s exactly what they asked me to do. Last week, there was a sign-up sheet posted for some terrific social networking opportunities, like movie nights and a pitch-in-dinner.  My wife and I wanted to be involved in several of these activities, but while jotting down our names on a sheet, I noticed a man in a beige sweater motioning me over to his table. He was inquiring about who had certain skills to assist in some projects to spiff up the church grounds.

“Say, Dick, can you help us replace some broken windows?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a clue how to do that.”

“Any experience with electricity?”

“Bulbs. I can change bulbs.”

“How about plumbing? Can you assist with that?”

“I don’t have a prayer.”

I had to be careful. I used to belong to a temple back in New York. Jewish people have a blessing for everything and I didn’t want to find out that I did have a prayer for plumbing.

“How about just cleaning?” he asked.

My wife was on my side with this one. “He doesn’t even know how to do that at home,” she volunteered. Mary Ellen loves to volunteer. What a trouper.

I know that the Lord works in mysterious ways. But why did he have to make repairing things such a mystery to me?  Growing up, everyone in my family was more adept at this kind of stuff. My father, for example, could fix anything. He’d go downstairs to his workshop with the broken cuckoo clock or an electric can opener on the fritz and an hour later emerge from the basement to flaunt his success. How about some credit for me? Where would Dad have gotten his glory if I hadn’t busted this stuff to begin with?

My mother was also skillful at repairing things. After all, she fixed dinner every night for 30 years. I had a sleazy uncle who coached football and bet on his own games. He fixed most of them.  My brother was always in some kind of a fix. And my sister? Well, she spent most of her free time fixing up her unattractive friends. Even our dogs were fixed. Fixing is in the Wolfsie blood. The problem is I don’t have the patience to address repair issues and then I get very down on myself.  My blood must be Type A… and negative.

I used to have a great handyman.  He installed our ceiling fan, rescreened the porch and patched up the leak in our roof.  He charged $50.00 an hour “…unless you help me,” he’d say, “then it’s $65.00.”  Now that he’s gone, my wife’s favorite expression is, “You need to call somebody.” So I call the plumber, the electrician, the roofer, the computer repairman. I can’t fix anything. That’s why I’m broke.

THE MEDIUM IS THE MASSAGE

Ouch!

Ow!

Ooh, that really hurts…

Please stop. Are you trying to kill me?

We can all agree that having a lousy dentist can be an agonizing experience. But I don’t have a lousy dentist; I have a very good one. The only yelp ever heard from one of my appointments was the day I accidentally bit Dr. Smith’s finger. 

Now, my massage therapist is a totally different story. She is not simply good.  She is superb.

“Does that hurt?” she’ll ask.

“Yes, just a little.”

“How about this?”

“A lot: that hurts a whole lot.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I try to see her about once a month because I spend several hours each day sitting in front of my computer. As a reader of this column, you realize just how painful the results of that can be.  I’ve tried everything to relieve my neck and back soreness: a chiropractor, an acupuncturist, a physical therapist, even a ghost writer, but nothing has worked.  I did try typing my column on my iPad while standing up. I also tried it while using a traditional yoga pose, and one time while lying on the pool table. If you get your back in the right spot over the cue ball, there is some merit to this technique.

My massage therapist’s name, by the way, is Dee. Her business is called Touch by an Angel, but you have to go through a little hell in order to get to the heavenly part. I think she should change the name of her business to DEE…P Massage, but I am literally in no position to have a normal conversation with her, because I’d be talking to the carpet.  Each session begins with me lying on my belly with my head in this device at the end of the massage table. Do you know what this contraption is called? It’s a face cradle, which explains why after about two minutes of DEE…P massage, I’m wailing like a baby.

Dee is a big fan of water. Lots of water. She thinks many of my problems come from not being properly hydrated. She suggested I drink 10 glasses of h2o a day, and it has actually helped my back! I am in the bathroom so much now, I don’t get to sit in front of the computer for any stretch of time. Oh, and talking about stretching, Dee wants me to do a lot of that, too. Stretch before I exercise; stretch after I exercise; stretch before I sit at the computer; stretch when I walk away from the computer. I told her I already do all that eight times every afternoon. That was a stretch right there.

After the last session, I mentioned to Dee that the next time I get a massage, I’d like a relaxing therapeutic experience rather than the DEE..P kind that can be excruciating at times.  Dee thought that sounded like a wonderful idea, “but who’s going to give it to you?” she asked.

When I left the other day I gave her a copy of my new book. Why wouldn’t I?  She’s not only been an excellent health care provider, but a loyal friend.  “Thanks, Dee,” I wrote, “You always have my back.”

IF YOU EVER HAD A PIMPLE ( and a Smart Phone)

CLEARING UP A PROBLEM

A dermatologist in Southern California may avoid jail time by the skin of his teeth.  He has been marketing a $1.99 app for smart phones that emits both a bluish and reddish light, which he claims will cure acne.  Dr. Smith has sold about 20,000 of these. Now, ironically, he has a blotch on his once-unblemished medical record.

Most of the experts agree that these lights can’t hurt you, but if a kid is holding his Blackberry against his pimply nose while driving, he’s likely to back the car into a mailbox or end up with his Ford Fiesta in the lobby of a Motel 6. No instructions are provided with the app, so one of the difficulties is knowing exactly how far from the problem area to hold the device. Some of Dr. Smith’s accomplices, I mean associates, are thinking of adding a GPS, a Global Pimple Searcher, that will automatically zero in on any facial imperfections. 

Doctors at Baylor University are upset about this apparent scam: “There should be more studies,” clamored one of their investigators. Okay, Doc, here’s one for you:  Nine out of ten adolescents with zits will believe anything you tell them if they think it will clear up their face. That is why I spent most of the ninth grade with lemon wedges and a heating pad on my forehead. Another researcher was equally concerned, noting:  “I am worried about the teenager with open draining sores, because bacteria on the phone could lead to a minor skin infection.”  Hey, I was just an American Lit major, but this is the last thing in the world a 14-year-old is worried about.

The app emits 660 nanometers of light, which anyone with a post-doctoral degree in laser science knows can’t hold a candle to what a good glob of Clearasil can do. If you are one of those people who paid for this cyber rip-off, it still might not be a bad idea to rub the smart phone across your forehead. Maybe the smart part will rub off.

Even the people at Apple are concerned about the legitimacy of this application, warning customers that it’s “for entertainment purposes only.”  Yes, this warning comes from the same people who offer an app to notify you if you’re going have a bad hair day, and one that measures the amount of time your smart phone hangs in the air if you toss it straight up to the sky. Oh, and there’s also a two-dollar app that simulates human digestive sounds, noises we already download for free every day.

Whether Dr. Smith can avoid prison is still in question, but he maintains he’ll take his punishment like a man. Whenever he’s asked by the media about doing time in the slammer, he’s directed by his PR people to say: “Breaking out is not an option.”

His wife is worried that even a short prison sentence will jeopardize their marriage. Dr. Smith confirms their love: “She’s my main squeeze,” the dermatologist tells everyone. Which is not something his PR agency wants him to say.

PUCKERED OUT

No polling data is offered. No experts are quoted. No international study referenced. The people at Dentyne come flat out and say it in their newest TV commercial: The average person spends 20,000 minutes in their lifetime kissing. Again, this is simply an average. Your smooching may vary depending on whether you attend a lot of Greek weddings or have more than 15 grandchildren.

I'm not an overly competitive person, but I do believe in keeping up with the Joneses, who, by the way, are our newlywed neighbors down the street. The Fettermans next door have been married 40 years, so I'm thinking these folks may represent a more realistic role model for me.

I assume I've been rolling along at an acceptable rate up until now, but why not increase my output so my obit can read: Exceeded the standard kissing time by 2,000 minutes. Even my harshest critics would be forced to concede that when it came to lips, I was successful at putting two and two together.

When Mary Ellen came home the other night, I gave her the customary hello, but I realized that if I lingered a few seconds longer in the osculation and then multiplied that time by my predicted life span, I could increase my total production by 20 percent. Osculation, by the way, is the scientific name for kissing. Don't use that word during romantic encounters. It'll have a negative impact on your lifetime total.

After 30 years of marriage, my wife became instantly aware that I had breached the unwritten rule for time spent on the customary "Hi, honey, I'm home from work” kiss.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Is something wrong?"

“Your kiss. There was this delay. You were loitering on my cheek. You do know it's only Thursday.”

The question, of course, is how they ever came up with 20,000 minutes. I did a little math and it looks like if your kissing career spans 75 years, you need to kiss about 47.4 seconds a day to reach this goal. I'm a happily married guy, but there are a couple of days a week that to reach this number I would have to count my relationship with the dog (we're just best friends, I assure you) and my new Big Bertha three wood that gets a little extra lovin' whenever I don't hit a ball out of bounds.

Dentyne has a Facebook page where customers put their kissers right online, revealing true-life stories about kissing. About 12,000 individuals are seeking advice on how to inform loved ones about their halitosis. Actually, it's only 11,258 people. The rest are Beagles, Cocker Spaniels, St. Bernards and the like, put off by humans who insist on going nose-to-snoot without first freshening their breath.

The Facebook site also notes: “You kiss 20,000 minutes in your lifetime. What about the other 40 million moments?” Great. It's bad enough I'm obsessed with maintaining oral hygiene while puckering, but now I find there are a slew of other situations where my breath should be pristine. I wish they had been more specific.

In order for my wife and me to someday reach the national average, I'm really going to need her full cooperation. Last night I told Mary Ellen how beautiful she is and how great dinner was. I think I have a chance of reaching that 20,000 mark, as long as kissing up counts.

A LA CARTE

On the Wolfsie refrigerator, next to a photo of me hugging Goofy at Disney World (I was a mere 57 years old at the time) is Mary Ellen’s list of items to be purchased on her next trip to the supermarket. Needless to say, there is frequent updating, like if we consume the last of the mayonnaise or the dog gets into the pantry and gobbles up all the raisin bran. Our beagle does that on a regular basis. The good news is that it has made him very regular.

Mary Ellen’s list is a model for all Americans who want to eat healthy. There’s skim milk, low-fat cottage cheese, broccoli, skinless chicken breasts, and granola. Here’s the question: If that’s pretty much what the list always looks like, how did all that other crapola we eat end up in our kitchen? Who smuggled in the chips, the hard salami, the doughnuts and the creamed spinach soufflé–which contains an alarming 27 grams of fat? I am the culprit, of course, and that is why I avoid food shopping with my wife. When we do go together, I’m on a very short leash and the chances of getting any treats are zero, even if I beg. I wish my wife would treat me even more like a dog. I deserve it.

We used to go the store together all the time. She thought it was important for our relationship to walk down the aisle making food choices as a couple. She was confusing its significance with the aisle we walked down 30+ years ago. But there’s a huge difference: After I said “I do” in l980, Mary Ellen didn’t say, “I don’t think this is good for you,” or “Are you sure this is what you really want?” and when we kissed during the service, she definitely didn’t say: “You still have plenty of this back home.”

I’m second-guessed about everything I put in the shopping cart. Here are some of Mary Ellen’s favorite expressions:

No one still living eats white bread.

Yes, we do need baked beans, if you don’t count the 24 cans on top of the pool table.

Why are you buying low-fat trail mix bars? You know you’re not going to eat them.

Why are you buying cheese puffs? You know you’re just going to eat them.

Mary Ellen has junk-food radar and more often than not, she’ll locate my hidden cache with just a glance. I do try to sneak things into the basket, but it’s tough to hide a large Tombstone pizza under a can of peaches.  Having to put an item back on the shelf is the most humiliating thing that can happen to a guy—at least in public.

Recently, I ran into a friend at the grocery. “Hey, Dick, doing a little reverse shopping, are you? You must be here with the wife.”

To avoid future embarrassment, I told Mary Ellen that this week I was going to go to the store alone. She said that was fine, and Saturday morning she handed me a sheet of paper.

“Thank you, Mary Ellen, but I don’t need a shopping list.”

“Oh, it’s not a shopping list. It’s a permission slip.”

MEATING NEW PRODUCT DEMANDS!

I’m okay with artificial flowers. I don’t mind artificial turf. Who can argue with artificial intelligence? (Apparently, not even the people on Jeopardy.)  Honestly, some of my friends are kind of artificial so it would be wrong for me to object to anything that had that label.

However, this headline did catch my attention: ARTIFICIAL MEAT IS SIX MONTHS AWAY. I almost choked on my reduced-fat Hebrew National Hot Dog. This announcement comes from research at the University of Maastricht in the Netherlands. The institution used to be called Rijksuniversiteit Limburg, but even the Dutch couldn’t pronounce that so now they’ve shortened it to UM. You hear a lot of students saying, “I’m going to UM, a really cool college.” Which is what every undergrad says when you, um, ask them where they are studying. By the way, Holland is an odd place for this kind of research. The Dutch make their shoes out of wood when they could have chosen leather. Is this who we want developing a tasty substitute for meat? 

The article reports that scientists are growing synthetic sausages from “pig cells fed by horse serum,” and what a catchy phrase that will make on the package. It has a better ring to it than Johnsonville Fakes. This is obviously not an option for vegans or vegetarians. It’s for people who enjoy meat, but prefer that what they eat has spent its entire life in a test tube, not chewing its cud and emitting greenhouse gasses. I have been informed that these gasses come mostly from the cows burping. Somehow, I thought you’d be relieved to hear this.

Savvy marketers are gearing up for a media blitz to embarrass real carnivores into trying what they plan to call a Vitro Burger.  The ad agency has already started spreading rumors that the most popular McDonald’s menu choice has dead cow in it. This approach was persuasive in focus groups, especially with people who still question the President’s birth certificate and the moon landing.

One scientist admits that right now the meat they are making is generic looking, but in his words, “I’m hopeful we can have an actual hamburger in less than a year,” which is also a commonly heard phrase from people in line at the Burger King drive-thru.  Creating this first artificial burger will cost about $350,000, but that does include a soft drink and a small order of fries.

Apparently, the color of the “meat” is kind of a pasty white due to the lack of blood. The result is the product doesn’t look very appetizing. I could see where that might hinder sales. I totally lose my appetite when my food doesn’t look bloody.

The corporate chefs promoting this new creation are suggesting the faux burger be served on a gluten-free, low-carb, no-sodium bun. Is there any actual food in this sandwich? I’ll eat anything, but it does have to be something.

If my friends want to go to a restaurant that offers bogus beef, I’ll simply refuse to eat that artificial stuff.  I’ll just have a Diet Coke, thank you. 

BREAKING BAD

My family has been attending a new place of worship on Sunday mornings, and we think we have found the perfect spot. The Unitarian minister is engaging. The congregation is warm and welcoming. Even the coffee is good after the service. In fact, I wouldn’t fix a thing.

More to the point, I can’t fix a thing, yet that’s exactly what they asked me to do. Last week, there was a sign-up sheet posted for some terrific social networking opportunities, like movie nights and a pitch-in-dinner.  My wife and I wanted to be involved in several of these activities, but while jotting down our names on a sheet, I noticed a man in a beige sweater motioning me over to his table. He was inquiring about who had certain skills to assist in some projects to spiff up the church grounds.

“Say, Dick, can you help us replace some broken windows?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a clue how to do that.”

“Any experience with electricity?”

“Bulbs. I can change bulbs.”

“How about plumbing? Can you assist with that?”

“I don’t have a prayer.”

I had to be careful. I used to belong to a temple back in New York. Jewish people have a blessing for everything and I didn’t want to find out that I did have a prayer for plumbing.

“How about just cleaning?” he asked.

My wife was on my side with this one. “He doesn’t even know how to do that at home,” she volunteered. Mary Ellen loves to volunteer. What a trouper.

I know that the Lord works in mysterious ways. But why did he have to make repairing things such a mystery to me?  Growing up, everyone in my family was more adept at this kind of stuff. My father, for example, could fix anything. He’d go downstairs to his workshop with the broken cuckoo clock or an electric can opener on the fritz and an hour later emerge from the basement to flaunt his success. How about some credit for me? Where would Dad have gotten his glory if I hadn’t busted this stuff to begin with?

My mother was also skillful at repairing things. After all, she fixed dinner every night for 30 years. I had a sleazy uncle who coached football and bet on his own games. He fixed most of them.  My brother was always in some kind of a fix. And my sister? Well, she spent most of her free time fixing up her unattractive friends. Even our dogs were fixed. Fixing is in the Wolfsie blood. The problem is I don’t have the patience to address repair issues and then I get very down on myself.  My blood must be Type A… and negative.

I used to have a great handyman.  He installed our ceiling fan, rescreened the porch and patched up the leak in our roof.  He charged $50.00 an hour “…unless you help me,” he’d say, “then it’s $65.00.”  Now that he’s gone, my wife’s favorite expression is, “You need to call somebody.” So I call the plumber, the electrician, the roofer, the computer repairman. I can’t fix anything. That’s why I’m broke.

My Life Saving

Would you like to save $14,450? You can, claims the Entertainment book, chock-full of good deals, brimming with coupons, awash in discounts. For a cheap person like me, it’s my savior.

My wife advised me not to pay $25.00 for the annual publication. She claimed we’d never use the coupons—and if we did, we’d either go on the wrong night, end up at the wrong place, or the coupon would have expired. I consider this user error and decided that with proper management of my discounts, the result would be monumental savings.

A few months ago I said, “Here’s the plan, Mary Ellen. For the next few months we are going to try to go to every place in this book, all 569 of them. Think of the money we’ll save. Think of the fun we’ll have. It will be like a second honeymoon, only this time we’ll get two one-topping pizzas for the price of one…as long as we buy a liter of Pepsi and we don’t have it delivered.”

With that, I laid out on the kitchen table an elaborate chart detailing the itinerary—our cost-saving journey through Central Indiana. My wife was not impressed. “I don’t mind dinner at the DQ, but do we have to play a game of Laser Tag the same night?”

“First of all, it’s not one game, it’s two. So don’t poop out on me. It’s the second game that’s free.”

“According to this, Dick, you also want to get up early Sunday morning and go duck pin bowling.”

“Do I know how to plan a vacation, or what?”

“I do think we’ll be tuckered out from the two hours of paintball on Saturday night.”

Mary Ellen had a point. The first couple of weeks were exhausting. Morgan’s River Rentals in Brookville may have been an especially bad choice. To get the discount you had to rent two boats, and I think we’d have had more fun and been less tired if we were in the same canoe.

We were like kids: trampolining, wall climbing, go-karting and miniature golfing. It was a little disconcerting watching Mary Ellen swing at 100 mph fast balls, but what else are you supposed to do with 50 free tokens at a batting cage?

When it came to dining, we had hundreds of restaurants to choose from. Most were fast food locations. Mary Ellen was burgered out. “Didn’t we already eat at White Castle four times this week?”

“We still have six coupons left for sliders.”

“But, Dick, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, that’s why the line is so long.”

We did have some relaxing days: two for one at the Muncie Children’s Museum, the Basketball Hall of Fame Museum, and the Indianapolis Zoo. At the aquarium in Newport, Kentucky, we were offered a free kid’s ticket if we bought two adult tickets. The problem was, we forgot to bring a kid. Later that day, we also got three Big Macs for the price of two. One of them is still in the glove compartment.

Overall, we had a great summer. We saved about $1,200. And it only cost us $3,000.

Keep Your Chin Up

Surveys show that most people hate at least one part of their body. I'm not happy with my ears, for example. I think they stick out more than they should. My wife says I'm crazy and to be that obsessed with my own looks makes me appear very elfish. I think she meant selfish. Freud wasn’t all wrong.

Every morning when I shave, I tilt my head down to look at my receding hairline. For a long time people asked me if I was losing my hair. Not really. I knew exactly where it was. In the sink. About 15 years ago, I had a hair transplant. A hair transplant is sort of like what happens when a person dies. "He's gone to a better place," people often say. That's the same with my hair. I don't have more hair, but what I had, the doctor put in a better place.

While looking in the mirror, I noticed a chin that I had not been aware of before. I was already happy with the two I already had. Fortunately, that morning I saw something advertised on TV that gave me hope. It’s called The Miracle Neck Slimmer, a device they claim was created by a world-renowned physiotherapist. I was all ears.

At first, I thought the contraption was a scam, but they said that the manufacturer guarantees a 68 percent reduction in neck wrinkles. I have achieved similar results by simply slinging my head back and looking straight up at the ceiling. The results are temporary, of course, and I have slammed into several doors, but it does work. Well, I think it works. It’s hard to look in the mirror in that position.

The gadget looks like one of those slap-and-chop thingies you pound with the palm of your hand to pulverize a Vidalia onion. With the Miracle Neck Slimmer, you place the apparatus under your chin, then bob your head up and down like common poultry. Springs in the device create tension. It’s like your neck and chin are getting a good workout on a tiny Stairmaster. You can see why I was hooked.

You also get a luxury faux-leather carrying case that has emblazoned on it: “Miracle Neck Slimmer,” which I am sure got everyone who was sitting on the fence to whip out their MasterCard. So why would you want to advertise you made this purchase? It might as well say: AARP Gift Bag.

The enclosed DVD gives you precise directions on how to properly jog your skull

to and fro. It looked to me like someone auditioning to be a bobble-head doll or a back-up for the San Diego chicken. They also throw in an accelerator cream. I think it’s an anti-aging lotion, but it could be an ointment to make your head go faster.

Finally, in the unlikely event you have resisted their sales pitch, they offer you a second Miracle Neck Slimmer for free. I had assumed that no matter how many chins I had, one device would be enough. Their website suggested the additional Slimmer would make an excellent gift to give to your spouse.

Gee, what could go wrong with that idea? “Mary Ellen, you know those luscious little neck wrinkles you have? Well, for just $19.95 plus shipping and handling...”

At least it would easier to see my extra chins because I’d have my head handed to me.

BRA VO

Some of the spam I receive on a regular basis is for products that I can’t mention in this column.  But recently, I’ve had a few emails about unmentionables, and I’d like to mention those:  Bra Wonder, Super Bra and my favorite, Bra Genie. 

It struck me as odd that I would get so many of these in a week.  Manufacturers nowadays have all kinds of ways to target their message to the appropriate market.  So why was a regular guy like me getting stuff like this?  I tried red flagging key words so this type of advertising would go directly to my spam folder, but all it did was block a really good coupon for Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Sadly, while discussing this issue with friends, I found it impossible to avoid immature plays on words. I would say things like: who are the boobs sending me this junk?  I was very disappointed in myself, but there is nothing more alluring than easy puns, and I am weak.

I did want to know why these ads were flooding my inbox, so I called my techie friend and told him I had this problem that was staring me smack in the face. (See? I can’t help myself.) He responded, “Okay, Dick, it sounds like you need some support.”

“Oh no, Kevin, now you’re doing it.” I hung up. It was time to figure this out myself. And I finally did.

Two months ago I wrote an essay about taking up weightlifting late in life. Here’s what I said: “My wife mentioned to me the other night that I had a pathetic looking chest…She thinks my body lacks definition, but I disagree. You can look it up in the dictionary under scrawny.”

The column appeared in this newspaper and in my blog, and then probably ended up in the search engines at Google, Bing, and Yahoo. Do you know what algorithms are?  Me either.  But apparently my wife’s observation about my “decrepit looking chest” found its way to brassiere makers the world over, who selected me from a database of everyone unhappy with their upper half.

Before I wrote this column, I printed out all the spam ads so I could read them more carefully. When Mary Ellen was poking around my office looking for an envelope she saw the material on my desk and assumed that either I thought she needed a Bra Genie or I wanted to wear one myself. You can see that neither alternative was going to lead to a conversation a husband was eager to have.

Then to make matters worse, some computer software programs couldn’t distinguish between “dissatisfied with your upper half” and “unhappy with your better half,” which meant I got a slew of ads for do-it-yourself divorce kits. How much ’splainin’ can a guy do?

When I explained to Mary Ellen why I was getting spammed, I admitted that I had looked at several of the bra ads, but at least I had stopped making childish puns and double entendres.  It was good to get all that off my chest.

WIFE ON CALL

My wife’s cell phone keeps calling me. She’s not calling me—just the phone. We are fairly certain we did not pay for this feature, but my bill is complicated, so it’s hard to tell.

Here’s how it works. Or doesn’t work. I’m at home minding my own business when suddenly I hear the William Tell Overture. No, it’s not the Lone Ranger on the line.  I check the number and it’s my wife, I assume contacting me from work to remind me to take three tilapia filets out of the freezer and defrost them.  This is the most exciting call I get all day.

But as I said, it’s not Mary Ellen. Apparently her cell phone has been jostled in her purse and somehow redialed the last caller, which was my number. So I pick up and I hear my wife talking—not to me—but on her office phone. I really don’t want to spy, but for 30 years of our relationship she has accused me of not listening to her. I’m always looking to improve my marriage.

Nothing interesting going on in that first ten minutes. Mary Ellen was typing on her computer and I was hoping that a missttroke or two might elicit a few mild expletives that I could tease her about that night.  “Oops!” did not give me much material to work with.

I listened in on Mary Ellen’s office activity until almost noon when suddenly the room went silent. She must have decided to have lunch at her desk, probably the clam chowder she brought from home. Think about this. She’s completely alone in her office eating a bowl of soup, but she never slurps. Why is this not on her resume?

My biggest disappointment was my wife’s professionalism. When she talked with her colleagues it was always strictly business, which is why when she gets home at night she tells me what a busy day she had. The people I’ve worked with over the years know how to slack off. They know that if a third of their day isn’t spent on office gossip, leafing through People magazine, or playing solitaire on their cell phone, they’re headed for an early ulcer.

This rare opportunity to eavesdrop had not afforded me any real dope to use against my wife. Instead, maybe I could win some brownie points with the help of the cell phone. I went to get a haircut and called Mary Ellen. Just before she picked up, I stuffed the phone in my pocket so the muffled sound would make it appear as though my phone had also accidentally called her at work.

“You know, Buddy, as I sit here having my hair cut I’m reflecting on how lucky I am. I have the most incredible woman: beautiful, intelligent, sensitive. Without her, my life would be lonely and without purpose...”

It was the perfect ruse, but I hadn’t planned on my barber being such a wise guy. “Yes, you are a lucky man to have such a woman, Dick. I just hope your wife doesn’t find out.”

I fumbled for the phone in my pocket, but it was too late. Mary Ellen had hung up. I panicked. I tried calling her back to explain but she didn’t answer. She knew Buddy was a jokester. She’s seen my haircuts. Later that night I tried to talk to her...

“Not now, Dick. I want to watch Desperate Housewives. We’ll talk another time.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you have your phone call my phone?”

SQUALK TALK

PILLOW SQUALK

I already know what I want for Christmas. I saw it in the Brookstone catalog. The manufacturers maintain this is NOT some lame novelty product, but a boon to mankind. I’m not so sure about womankind. It was this provocative headline that caught my eye:

                                           AT LONG LAST, A REMOTE CONTROL PILLOW

Someone finally had the brains to sew a TV remote inside a throw pillow. Brilliant! The people who wasted valuable time thinking up Windows 7 must be kicking themselves. Really, what man hasn’t spent 15 minutes looking for his clicker, then wondered why he couldn’t switch channels with something he never misplaces—like his can of beer.

Never again will you have to ask:  “Where’s the remote?” Instead you’ll be asking why there is mustard on the volume button.  One fan commented, “It looks like the regular pillow I cuddle with.” Okay, that is a little creepy, but I was still intrigued.

There are some safety warnings:  Like a minor possibility of being electrocuted if you drool on the thing.  The device shuts off after two hours of inactivity—not gonna happen because most men are persistent channel surfers.  However, falling asleep on the pillow is a pressing problem.  A few customers complained  that one minute they were watching a documentary about FDR on the History Channel and minutes later woke up to Snooki on Jersey Shore.

The people at Brookstone also claim that the item is a great conversation starter.

“Hey, Joe, is that pillow also a remote?”

“Yes, Tom, it is.”

“Please pass the cheese puffs.”

As I mentioned, the big benefit is that you will never again lose the remote. Of course, I came out of Kohl’s the other day and spent 20 minutes looking for my car, and I played golf Thursday and lost six clubs, so I’m not optimistic this is a surefire solution for me. Nevertheless, the designers state that the gadget is idiot proof. However, if you spent forty bucks for this contraption, it may already be too late.

The product website boasts the pillow can control 500 devices. I went around the house and I could only find six or eight devices in all our rooms. Maybe if I counted the bread box and our antique magazine rack, I could get that up to ten.  My electric razor and toothbrush are probably considered devices, but I wouldn’t want those things revving up in my bathroom unless I’m present to monitor the situation.

My wife wondered if she could start the dishwasher with the pillow, but I had to put my foot down. This kind of laziness is ruining our country, although it would be awesome to get Orville Redenbacher popping in the microwave right before the movie starts.

Mary Ellen and I decided not to wait for Christmas and ordered the pillow remote online. We don’t have the same tastes in television shows so we often end up having a little spat about what we should watch on our big screen TV.   Now that we have this new cushy gadget, it has added some spice and excitement to our marriage. Never underestimate the value of a good pillow fight.

TALKING HEADS

Mary Ellen and I were relaxing on our back deck and after swatting a few mosquitos, I said, “You know, sweetheart, we should look into screening in this area.”

“Yes, Dick, you’ve been saying that every year for the past 15 years.”

A few minutes later I mentioned how quickly the summer passes once July 4th weekend is over.

“I know, you say that every year around this time.”

I also remarked that the neighbors don’t grill out as often as we do. Apparently I had made this observation before.  Several  times.

Suddenly, I felt this great pressure on me. After thirty-one years, I didn’t have a single new thought to offer.  I had always taken great pride in my creativity, but clearly I was no longer snappy with the repartee. Several moments of uneasy silence followed. Mary Ellen finally spoke…

“When it gets this hot, I think about cutting my hair shorter.”

“Where have I heard that before?” I asked.

At that moment, we both realized we needed a way to jazz up our conversations. Mary Ellen had an idea: “I read this article in the doctor’s office, I think it was in Cosmo, that might offer a solution.”

I’ve seen some of those covers of Cosmopolitan and I was just praying that was where she saw it. Phooey, it was from Good Housekeeping. Mary Ellen said the writer recommended that longtime married couples should pretend they are going out on a first date. That would make for an exciting and potentially romantic evening.

It seemed like a silly idea at first, but I agreed it was worth a try. On Friday night I asked Mary Ellen out for the next evening. She was annoyed because I waited until the last minute, assuming she didn’t already have Saturday night plans.  To be really suave, I went outside the house Saturday night and rang the doorbell, like it was a real date. I thought that would make a big impression on her, but she’s no dummy and realized I had simply forgotten my keys.

We drove off in the car. “What shall we talk about tonight, Dick?”

“If this were a first date, we’d probably chat about movies we’ve each seen.”

“Okay, great idea.  I just saw Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris.”

“I saw that, too.”

“I know, Dick, we saw it together.”

“Gone to any good restaurants lately, Mary Ellen?”               

“No, my husband likes to go to the same places all the time.”

“Mary Ellen, you are not supposed to have a husband. This is a first date. What kind of a jerk do you think I am, going out with a married woman?  Let’s try travel. Have you ever seen the Pyramids?”

“We went last year. How could you forget?”

“I didn’t forget. I’m making conversation. That was the whole point of this.”

“Well, it’s getting too weird for me. I feel like I’m dating a man who’s lost his memory.

We tried everything that people would chat about when getting to know each other: music, religion, politics. Honestly, we didn’t hit it off, but there must have been something brewing on some level because despite a dismal first date, we both ended up back at my place.

Grand Vacation

Grand Vacation

The Wolfsies have returned from a weeklong vacation to the Grand Canyon. It’s the only place in America where you’re allowed to drag your kid to the precipice of one the world’s deepest chasms, but they put you in the slammer if you feed a squirrel.

Any aspirations our small family had about making the descent to the bottom were squashed when I went into a gift shop on the South Rim. I asked the clerk to recommend a book about this National Park. Hold onto your hat—actually, hold onto anything you can. The number one seller is: Over the Edge: Death in Grand Canyon. What a charming choice for fans of light summer reading.

The authors do not restrict their colorful travelogue to unscheduled plunges to the bottom. They want you to know that with a little bit of poor planning, you can also die of dehydration or starvation. Rattlesnake bites, driving off the edge and eating poisonous plants are more fun options to choose from.

Writers Myers and Ghiglieri want you to know how safe the Canyon is if you are careful, but the book seems oddly misplaced in the gift shop so close to, well, the edge. There aren’t pamphlets relating the history of scaldings on the counter of McDonald’s or brochures about whimsical power tool mishaps attached to your chain saw purchases. I’m glad they didn’t think of this unique marketing gimmick when the Pinto was hot (so to speak).

There are many entertaining chapters in the book: bear attacks, drownings, and rock slides, to name a few. So many ways to buy the farm and still enjoy the grandeur of nature. Maybe I’m an optimist but I look at it this way: only a few hundred deaths in six million years. That’s not a bad record.

You want to hear more, don’t you? In one touching chapter a man makes tea for his wife out of a deadly canyon flower and they both die within minutes. In another section, a woman tries to pet a mountain lion. There’s clearly a fine line between bad luck and stupidity. Then there’s the elderly couple who got lost in their 1996 Taurus on a back road. They were found dehydrated, but still alive. They had no water, but a week’s supply of Depends. I’d call that ironic.

The chapter on suicide makes it clear this really is the place to go if you have a flair for the dramatic. It is rumored that one guy who met his maker by driving off a cliff had complained at the gate that the entry fee was exorbitant and he would never come back again. No idle threat there.

Travelers from abroad love the Grand Canyon. Europeans winter in Arizona. Asians summer in the Canyon. Americans usually fall there. About 600 feet. That’s just an average, though; your actual plummet may vary.

The beauty of the Grand Canyon is overwhelming and we really did have a great time. When we left, I packed the trunk full of water and drove slowly along the winding roads, our GPS leading the way. I enjoyed that book, but I didn’t want to be in the second edition.

WEIGHTY DECISION

WEIGHTY DECISION!

.

Mary Ellen casually mentioned to me the other night that I had a pathetic looking chest. While I suppose your better half is permitted to assess your upper half, I’d suggest not responding in kind. She thinks my body lacks definition, but I disagree. You can look it up in the dictionary under scrawny. Women are definitely more interested in men having muscles than a sense of humor. No female has never said: “I wish Matthew McConaughey would put his shirt back on and tell more jokes.”

I used to go to a gym to play racquetball, and I’d see men and women fine-tuning their physiques, yet I wasn’t inspired to fiddle with my own.  Never really interested in the pure pursuit of brute strength, I would watch weightlifters during their routine. They’d pick up a heavy thing, then they’d put it down again. Such indecision.

After this stinging critique of my body, I read in Prevention magazine that when you reach 45 years of age, you begin losing one percent of your bone density and muscle mass every year.  Old photos of me from high school show there was very little mass to start with, although some did roll in across my midsection in the early ’80s. Density? I asked Mary Ellen about that, but she said not to worry, that I’m as dense as I’ve ever been—and she’s not one to just toss out compliments.

I was embarrassed into starting a moderate body- building regimen. I don’t go to the gym to work out, however.  I do everything at home, in the reclining position, while watching cable news in the evening. Why didn’t I think of this 15 years ago? I still wouldn’t like Sean Hannity, but at least I’d be buff enough to throw king-size pillows at the TV from a prone position. Some of my other favorite moves are curls, extensions and squats. There are two techniques I don’t perform: abductions and snatches. I don’t need any more legal trouble after getting caught walking out of Dick’s Sporting Goods with a set of free weights. Hey, that’s what the sign said.

I'm making progress. Thursday I ''bed-pressed'' a hefty amount: 18,000 grams. It sounds impressive when counted the way the British do. I took one really heavy dumbbell and managed to hoist it over my head. When I put it down, the dog scooped it up in his mouth and buried it outside.

Mary Ellen, who regularly works out with a trainer, says my new resolution to lift things is a good sign. She’s hoping it will carry over to lifting a finger around the house to help. Or picking up the check when her brother and sister-in-law come to visit. As for me, this has all helped lift my spirits. I can now hold a six-pack out in front of me, arms parallel to the ground, for an entire TV commercial.

A few days ago, one of my macho neighbors helped me lug a huge barbell up to the second floor of our house. My hope was that after a few months working out with some of the lighter weights, I would one day be able to lift this new behemoth all by myself. Mary Ellen thought it looked ugly in our bedroom. So she took it down to the basement.