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?”