GOODBY BIG JOHN GILLIS

BIG GOOD JOHN

Big John Gillis was as tall as a grizzly bear, but gentle as a teddy bear. The forty-year veteran of Indiana radio, who recently passed away, was an iconic figure.  His loyal listeners looked up to him. “I guess being 6’ 4” was a big help,” he once told me.

So ingrained in Indianapolis was the persona of Big John that until his passing, people still thought he spent his mornings in a helicopter reporting for harried commuters making their way to work. Truth is, John hadn’t been in a WIBC chopper for almost 20 years. In a bow to the economy, he had transitioned to a fixed-wing plane and then a mobile unit for his reports. He ended his traffic career broadcasting from a studio where even the sound of barking dogs on the street outside did not convince his fans he was really earthbound.

John loved the sound of his own voice. I offer this as high praise, because you always felt that each word that tumbled effortlessly off his tongue was not only meticulously chosen, but was savored for still another nanosecond before he went on to the next.  “His 60-second traffic reports,” said long-time associate Jeff Pigeon at John’s funeral, “lasted about eight minutes.”

Years ago in an interview at his home, after he left WIBC, John told me: “I have 20 seconds to do what I have to do, read a sponsor’s name, and then if I can figure out a way to twist a word or inject my personality into it, that’s it…I’m a disembodied voice, and every 10 minutes I stop what I am doing and talk to my imaginary friends.”

A disembodied voice? Perhaps. But it still embodied everything that was good about radio in those years.  He wasn’t just a person you recognized on the street, he was a person you felt you knew personally. Everyone liked him, of course, but far more importantly, you knew instantly that he liked you, as well.

John loved radio. It was his best friend. He wanted to introduce you to his best friend. But “why radio?” I asked him during our visit in 2007. “Because everywhere you travel, it’s there; it takes you places immediately…it exercises your imagination.” If there was any sadness, any remorse in John, it was that media had changed. “We went to high tech and lost the high touch,” he told me. “Radio should be about content, character and personality.”

John should have thrown in loyalty, an ingredient he added to a recipe that brought him a taste of success, and also fulfilled him. There was no doubt, Big John had many opportunities to leave the market and pursue a more lucrative career elsewhere. That was not in John’s flight plan. His job was on the air and in the air, but his feet were on the ground. He loved Indianapolis; he was wedded to WIBC. Why break up a happy marriage?

“If I have 20 minutes to live and I spend the next 19 with you, having this conversation, I would die happy,” John said to me. “If in that 20 minutes, we come up with an idea and we have 20 years to make it happen, then God has blessed me far beyond my wildest dreams.”

John did not have those 20 years.  But if you still hear his halting, yet mesmerizing, voice in your head, look to the heavens. No, he’s not in the helicopter, but he’s up there. Trust me.

DICK WOLFSIE: DOCTORING MY QUESTIONNAIRE!

DICK WOLFSIE: DOCTORING MY QUESTIONNAIRE!: Whenever I visit my doctor’s office, I have to fill out one form or another. Most of the time, the staff simply wants to confirm that my ...

DOCTORING MY QUESTIONNAIRE!

Whenever I visit my doctor’s office, I have to fill out one form or another. Most of the time, the staff simply wants to confirm that my insurance hasn’t changed, which I think is just medical jargon for: “Has your coverage been dropped?” Before my last appointment, they asked me about my medications and about any side effects I am experiencing. I never have any side effects, but I usually write down headaches, nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, decreased libido and heightened impulsivity. That way they’ll think I’m really taking all my pills.

Here is another question I had to answer:  What is your nickname? I’d never been asked about this before and I really don’t have a nickname, but they hate it when you leave a blank space so I wrote down “Sparky.”  I knew if somehow that ended up on my vial of blood, it would cause a lot of chatter at the lipid lab.

Next, the form wanted me to list any new drugs I’m taking. And then it asked:  What is the frequency? I had my gout medicine with me, so I held it up to my ear, but I couldn’t hear a thing.

My alcohol consumption was also something they wanted to keep track of.  How many cans of beer, how many glasses of wine and how many shots of liquor do I consume in a week? I called my wife to see if she had any idea. “I buy you a case of beer a week,” she said.

“Wait a second. I don’t drink that much beer.”

“Oh, you mean actually ‘drink’ it? You didn’t say that.  I’d say you ingest five beers a week. The rest of the cans I find all over the house, either knocked over by the cat, or warm and three-quarters full in the corners of your office.

There were some questions about my family medical history, requesting info on relatives who had died and their cause of death, including all four of my grandparents. My maternal grandmother died suddenly at 94, her demise the result of large whiskey sours before breakfast and two packs of Camels a day. This should be a lesson to you. I’m just not sure what the lesson is.

The next line inquired about the deaths of my aunts and uncles. We were never a close-knit family, but I thought my brother who still lives in New York might remember some of the details. “Hello, Peter, it’s Dick.”

“Dick who?”

“Very funny. I have a question about Uncle Sid’s death.”

“Oh, how sad. I’m sorry to hear that. When did he die?”

“1985.”

This wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I simply scribbled in something to fill up the space—a cause of death that wouldn’t raise any red flags. It was likely that no one ever looked at those answers, anyway.  But apparently, I’m now quite the topic of conversation in the medical records department. I was told that of all the 2,000 patients in this internal medicine practice, I’m the only one whose aunts and uncles were all run over by a bus.

GROWING PROBLEMS

I’m usually good at planning around big events. For example, I know not to schedule my once-every-five-year colonoscopy the week of the big neighborhood barbeque. I am careful not to sign up for blood tests if the fasting conflicts with the Thursday night meatloaf special at Cracker Barrel. And I’m smart enough to avoid being numbed-up for a filling on the same day I’m delivering a speech at Kiwanis.

But recently, as I made final preparations to attend my high school reunion in New York, I realized I had failed to properly coordinate my barbershop appointment with my trip back east to see my old friends. I looked at the calendar and my dilemma was obvious. I knew I needed to get a haircut about two weeks before the event. Any sooner, and I’d look disheveled in all the photos. Any later, and it would be clear to my buddies that I got the trim just for the party. More importantly, I never look good right after a haircut. The magic number of days after a visit to the barbershop for me is 10. At that point, my hair is not too short, not too long.  Just right. Your number may vary.

I called Buddy, my barber. I figured he’d handled problems like this before. “As I look at my calendar, Dick, I think we can work this out so you’ll look good, but you’ll need to get in three haircuts before you leave town for your vacation.  And you’ll need to have two appointments in the same week.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Hey, I’m a hairstylist, not a vacation planner. How about a little color for that gray?”

“If you touch up my hair right before I leave, everyone will notice. And if you don’t touch up my hair, it will look like I aged 50 years—which I did, of course.  I just don’t want to make it that obvious.”

I hated to admit to my wife that I was so vain, but I wondered if she had ever thought about stuff like this, herself. She’s having a big get-together with her college friends sometime next year.  “Mary Ellen, are you planning your hair salon visits so they time out right for your 40^th reunion?”

“Of course.  I started scheduling appointments way in advance to make sure I could see Jenna about  six days before the dinner. Now she plans to get married the very week of my make-over. She returns from her honeymoon the day before I leave.  Who goes to a reunion with a 24-hour-old haircut?”

Did any of my male friends think about stuff like this? I called Bob to see if he could relate to this situation.

“Why are you asking me about this, Dick?”

“Because, Bob, you have held many high-power executive positions, oftentimes addressing huge audiences—so you had to look your best on those days. Why wouldn’t I ask you?”

“Because I am completely bald, that’s why.”

I’ve decided not to worry about this anymore. Only a narcissistic person would think he had to get a haircut exactly 10 days before leaving for a trip. Not only that, but I’ll be busy that week getting botox injections.

RUG RAT

We’ve always been envious of friends who have done it in every room of their house. So, we finally decided it was now or never: we were going to re-carpet our entire home. We had successfully avoided this huge hassle in the past by moving just as the carpet had worn out our welcome. Early in our relationship, we once moved when the fridge needed to be defrosted. We just couldn’t be bothered.

We knew our carpet was dirty and disgusting when we started wiping our feet before going outside. Also, when friends came over for a cocktail, we told everyone it was a shag carpet. It really wasn’t. It just looked that way because we’ve had dogs and cats for 32 years. Sometimes I walked out of my bathroom while brushing my teeth in order to watch TV in my home office. There were a few toothpaste globs on the floor. I scraped them up now and then. They looked a lot like dinner mints.

In preparation for this big move (of course, we were not moving but we might as well have been), I bought a book called: The Complete Carpet Buying Guide, by Alan Fletcher. The book is wall-to-wall with great ideas. Mary Ellen kept telling me to put the book down and go to bed. “Just a few more pages,” I pleaded.  I still hadn’t gotten to chapter six: Making it all work in the bedroom.

Once we made the decision to go ahead with the project, I stood at the bottom of the stairs and scanned the house. The immensity of the task overwhelmed me. I wondered if we really had to do the first and second floor at the same time.

“Two stories in one day is a lot to cover, Mary Ellen.”

“Isn’t that the attitude that got you demoted at Channel 8?”

When it was time to pick the color, Mary Ellen pretended she wanted my input so she flung some carpet samples on the floor. “Help me decide between the bistro, buff, desert sun, kangaroo, ecru, fallow, fawn, russet, sepia, moose antler, tawny, sienna and Sahara. I want something that won’t stain when you walk into the living room eating your breakfast cereal.”

“Do they have something in a nice Wheaties shade?”

“Dick, this is hard work. Which color do you like?”

“Okay, beige,”

“They’re all beige.”

“See, that’s what made it so tough. Time for a beer.”

Before they could install the carpet, this guy named Luke came to measure each room. He strolled through the house, scanning the walls and floors to get the dimensions with this really cool laser device. I asked him how many people called him Luke Floorwalker, and he said I was the first. That day. 

Because I am cheap, I was looking for ways to cut corners. (Actually, the carpet installers do that for you at no extra charge.) The idea I came up with was to take the dozens of carpet samples we had and use them to create a patchwork of colors that would cover one entire room. Mary Ellen said that was the stupidest idea I ever had in our entire relationship. She’s so young to be losing her memory.

MY ONE NIGHT STAND

BEDSIDE MANNERS

This is an article about my one night stand. No, I didn’t have a one night stand. I bought one. (I’m making this worse, aren’t I?)  Let me try this: I purchased one night stand at a local mega-hardware store.  It was packaged in several parts, but the box said, “Assembly Very Easy.” I was suspicious. That was exactly what my third grade teacher said before she made me sing in front of the entire student body at Roosevelt Elementary School.  I remember swearing that was the last assembly I’d ever do.

Of course, I have broken that pledge a couple of times already.  About two years ago, I tried to put a wall unit together, but I stressed out when the shelves didn’t fit properly.  I walked away frustrated, but the cat liked what she saw. We now have the world’s most expensive kitty litter box.

Overall, this should have been an easy task. Every piece in the kit was assigned a letter. All the grooves were numbered and there was an actual picture of all six kinds of screws and four types of nails. I once saw a guy on YouTube complete the Rubik’s Cube blindfolded using only his feet. Some guys get all the easy gigs.

The first problem was that the directions were in three languages: English, Spanish and French. This was an immediate distraction to me because the phrase “Avec precaution, retourner l’element sur ses chants avant,” sounds a lot saucier than “Carefully turn your unit over and onto its front edges.” The second problem was that I’m not good with tools. Like, the directions said I needed a Phillips screwdriver. That would be equal parts vodka, orange juice and Milk of Magnesia, right?

I was relieved to find there was a hotline number—answered, I am sure, by the very same kind of people who respond to those life and death turkey questions on Thanksgiving morning. One year, I abused that phone number after downing a couple of wine coolers.  I called to ask if I could take a frozen turkey in the sauna with me to defrost it. It’s hard to make those folks laugh. By the way, this furniture manufacturer only answers the phone between 8 a.m. and midnight, so by 7:59 in the morning the lines start lighting up with frustrated customers like me who were up all night wondering who Allen is and where he put his stupid wrench.  

One of the things they instruct the buyer to do is register the product. I’ll register to vote; I’m happy to show a police officer my registration; and I’m never shy about registering my opinion.  But I will not register my night stand.  I have my rights. If they want their night table back they’ll have to pry it away from my cold dead hands.

Once the bedside table was completely assembled, I was pretty happy with myself, although it did take me four hours and three phone calls to complete my task. I must admit, however, that I am not totally confident I got it to look 100 percent like the photo on the box.  But Mary Ellen must have been impressed when she got home.  She thought it was the biggest birdhouse she had ever seen.

QUESTIONING DENTISTRY

QUESTIONING DENTISTRY

Most people have their teeth cleaned and examined twice a year. That was pretty much my routine, but then my dentist started scheduling me for quarterly appointments. I asked him why, and he said that patients with deep pockets need to come in four times a year. What an idiot I am.  I thought he was talking about my gums.

Before my last appointment, the receptionist asked me to fill out a new form so they could update my medical and personal information. There were 50 statements and I was asked to indicate those that addressed a dental concern I had. I checked off all of them because I have found  that with my regular physician,  the more things he thinks I suffer from, the easier it is to get an appointment when I’m really sick.

In addition, I always put in snide comments next to the questions. That’s why the staff doesn’t keep me in the waiting room too long with a writing instrument in my hand. They’re afraid I might talk about my visit in my newspaper column…which is exactly what I have done here. These are actual statements from the dental questionnaire:

_X___I have cavities and broken fillings

          I have no idea if I do. Isn’t it your job to know this?  Hey, I don’t have a shiny metal instrument with a tiny mirror on the end of it.

__X__I have missing teeth

         I do. And my wallet has also disappeared. I’m calling my brother. I was at his house last weekend.

__X__ My teeth are moving

          And I’m going with them. Do you know a good dentist in Boca I can recommend to them?

__X__I trap food between my teeth

          Yes, and I’m pretty good at it. I’m also a helluva fisherman.

_X___ I snore when I sleep at night

           Oh, yes. A dozen people told tell me that last week.

__X__I have bad breath

          A dozen people have also told me that. Not the same people.

__X__I need help flossing

           I could use some assistance.  But be sure that Cyndi the hygienist is over no later than midnight. I fall asleep after Letterman’s monologue.

__X__ My mouth is dry

               I’ll have a Bud. I hate your coffee machine. Thanks for asking.

__X__I don’t like the shape of my teeth

            What are my options here? Is octagon available? I’m very New Age.

__X___I am experiencing recession

            Yes, but I don’t totally blame Obama for this. Some of mine started during the Bush years.

__X__I need information on how to prevent cavities

           Yes, I’m a total moron. Is daily exercise the key?  How about cutting back on fuel consumption. Give me a hint, please.

__X___I often wake up during the night

              Yes, and two minutes later I’m back in bed. Mission accomplished. Trust me; this has nothing to do with my teeth.

__X___ My teeth seem short

            They reach my food. The bottoms and the tops can touch. I don’t think it’s fair to expect much more than that from my teeth when it comes to length.

__X__My teeth don’t fit together

             Okay, it’s not a perfect fit.  But besides the two wisdom teeth you yanked out, we’ve all been hanging out since the Eisenhower administration.

                        

__X___I have one of the following: Obesity, Diabetes, Hypertension, Stroke, Heart Disease, Erectile Dysfunction

               Okay, if I have to pick just one, I’ll say hypertension. But I have to ask, what do teeth have to do with…never mind.

__X__ I keep breaking my teeth

             Yes, and it’s a terrible habit. Mary Ellen has to hide the hammer.

__X__ My teeth are sensitive to stress

             That’s why this is the last question I’m answering.

            

          

           

WHEN I'M 65

I hadn’t been to one of my high school reunions in 35 years. I went to the 10^th reunion because I was still single and figured this was a chance to see the first love of my life again. Phoebe and I never went out. I’m not even sure if she knew my name, but I remember how quiet and innocent she was. It was good to visit with her at the party and I enjoyed seeing photos of her 12-year old son.

I didn’t go to the 25^th reunion because I was sure it would just be a lot of people trying to impress each other with how successful they were and how good they looked. I was not interested in being inundated with that much narcissism, plus the reunion was the same week as my hair transplant procedure.

Not sure why I didn’t go to my 40^th, but based on a DVD someone sent me of the fun everyone had at the open bar, I doubt anyone will remember if they were there.

The 50^th reunion isn’t for a few years, so I was a little surprised when I received a recent phone call. “Dick, this is Nick Carino, president of the Class of ‘65. How have you been these past 37 years?”

“Fine, thanks. ’94 was a bummer, but…what’s up?”

“Well, the committee has come up with an incredible idea. We don’t want to wait until 2015 to get together, because we realized that all of us in the class of ’65 turn 65 this year, so this calls for a special celebration.”

“Wait a second”, I said. “What’s so unique about that?  Didn’t the class of ‘64 turn 64 two years ago? Won’t the class of ‘68 turn 68 at some point?”  There was dead silence. Apparently Nick Carino, a PhD in civil engineering and proud recipient of the National High School Science Award, had not realized this. He continued, “We just think 65 is a special age.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Dick. Maybe because we will all be on Medicare.  We’d like you to do a stand-up comedy bit at the hotel.  The committee suggested a routine about getting older—maybe with some arthritis and gout jokes.  But no type 2 diabetes or heart disease references. Let’s keep it light.”

“You know, Nick, I just don’t think that’s a good idea. Many of us 65-year-olds are still working and are in great shape. And I’ve heard a rumor that a few are still sexually active.”

“None of that is funny, Dick. I thought you were a professional humorist.  Is this the same Dick Wolfsie who wrote on his history final that Joan of Arc went to war while her husband Noah stayed home to patch up his boat?”

“Okay, I’ll think about it. What else do I need to know?”

“The entire event is based on the number 65. We graduated in 65; most of us are 65; we’re going to raffle off a 1965 Mustang, and the first 65 people who show up get a free photo of either David Letterman, David Bowie or Ted Danson, all 65 years old this year. How cool is that?

“How much will this shindig cost?”

“The hotel gave us a great deal: dinner and drinks for $64.95.”

“Why don’t you make it 65 dollars to keep with the theme?”

“Never dawned on me.  I’ll run it by the committee. By the way, Dick, I’ll be in Chicago for work next week. I could drive down to Indy if you’re free.  Which interstate is it?

“Oh, Nick. I’m about to make your day.

CUTTING REMARKS

I was thinking the other day about all the women in my neighborhood who mow their lawns. My wife has never mown our lawn. Lawn mowing season is here a little early this year, so once again I’m trying to figure out what the problem is.

I want to ask her about this, but I am afraid she’ll assume I want her to mow the lawn. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. If she started mowing the lawn, that would jeopardize our relationship by altering the delicate balance between my wife’s independence and her femininity.

Of course, if she really wanted to mow the lawn, I wouldn’t stop her.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not accusing Mary Ellen of being lazy. She works very hard outside the home as a college administrator, putting in five long days each week. I’m just really curious why she won’t mow the lawn.

When we first got married, we lived in an apartment and she really had no opportunity to hone this skill. You don’t see a lot of lawn-mowing women who live in apartments. Then we moved to a condo and again there were few really good role models for her. When we bought a house, I started mowing the lawn that spring and have mown our lawn for 30 years since, whenever the grass has gotten too high or the dandelions needed their heads chopped off.

Mary Ellen has never expressed any interest in this endeavor. I do vaguely remember her saying that mowing is man’s work and I should accept that. I think at the time I was changing Brett’s diaper and she was rewiring a lamp.

When I decided to marry Mary Ellen, I guess it didn’t matter at the time. After all, she was intelligent, beautiful, sensitive and caring. She was all a man could want. I assumed that if push came to shove, she’d mow the lawn. But it never even came to push.

Sometimes I watch other women in the neighborhood mowing and I realize that I probably wouldn’t want my lovely wife to do this. All the women wear ratty old jeans and have no make-up on. I wouldn’t want my wife to look like this. Of course, I wouldn’t have to watch her mow. I could go in and watch baseball and then she could freshen up before dinner.

During the summer, I prefer to sit on a lounge chair and sip lemonade, but instead I have to cut the grass. That’s where a wife who’s willing to mow comes in really handy. Not that it’s that important. Just sayin.’ Come to think of it, it’s chauvinistic for a man to make his wife mow the lawn. On the other hand, it’s also chauvinistic for a man to assume that a woman doesn’t know how to mow the lawn. Maybe she really wants to, but is afraid her husband doesn’t think she can do it. I’m sure that’s it.

My friend, Steve: his wife mows the lawn. He was over the other day and asked me why Mary Ellen never mows the lawn. I was as honest with him as I could be. “I don’t know, Steve. I never really thought about it.”

HOME. HOME AT THE RANGE

When we log on to news websites each morning, there’s a parade of catchy headlines motivating us to click on each link to read more. Then we are overwhelmed by provocative ads persuading us to buy various products. Here are a few of the more eye-catching examples from today:

The Worst Time of Day to Buy Meat

A Vegetable That Can Remove Rust

The Celebrity Chef Who Admits He’d Eat a Human

How Your Electric Can Opener Can Kill You

Some attention-getters, to be sure, but one in particular on my AOL homepage really caught my eye:

Home Cooking Increases Longevity

I know what you are saying. “This is incredible! It can’t be true. Do you really still have an AOL account?”

The article reports that people who cook up to five times a week at home were 47 percent more likely to still be alive after 10 years. I’m no expert, but let me explain why this may be the dumbest study ever done. This will take a few minutes, so if you want to order a pizza for dinner first, no problem.

In 2002 researchers interviewed 1,800 people, age 65 and older and living in Taiwan, about their dietary habits. They called the seniors back this year to see how they were doing. Most of the people who had claimed to eat out at least 70 percent of the time could not be reached. Apparently they had died, or so said the scientists. This is just a wild guess, but I bet they were out for dinner when the phone rang at 6 p.m. Or, because they were all near 80, maybe some of them couldn’t get to the phone in time. Am I the only person to think of this stuff?

But here’s the big flaw in the study. Those Taiwanese who claimed to be cooking at home and living the healthy lifestyle, well, if you think about it, they were probably eating Chinese food just about every night, weren’t they? They can call it “eating in,” if it makes them feel better, but here in the Wolfsie household, we call that take-out.

I’m quite sure that data on the hazards of dining out were not available in the ’50s when I was growing up, which is why my mother was often heard saying to my father, “Would it kill us to go out for dinner once in a while?” Apparently Dad thought it would. He I guess he was not only a cheapskate, but also a visionary.

We were planning to go to Panera for a light salad and a bowl of soup this evening, followed by a brisk walk after eating. Instead, we stayed home, barbequed some ribs, finished off a quart of Ben and Jerry’s, and sacked out in front of the TV. (I wanted to do the healthiest thing for my family so we’ll be around for the next Super Bowl in Indy.)

When Mary Ellen suggested we go out for a bite tomorrow evening instead, I reminded her that according to the research, it would be a real plus for the entire family if she prepared a home-cooked meal every night of the week. I believe I am quoting her response accurately:  “You should live so long.”

FEMALE PROBLEMS

   FEMALE PROBLEMS

The good people at the Social Security Administration are partly responsible for my feeling financially secure, but they have done a lousy job at making me feel secure socially. Hey, isn’t that what the name says? My story begins with an actual letter I received this week from my supplemental Medicare provider…

Dear Richard Wolfsie

Our records show that the gender we have for you doesn’t match the information received from the Center for Medicare and Medicaid. To have your gender corrected, please contact your local Social Security Office.

I dialed immediately, hoping to reach a real person who could look into everything without having to actually look at anything, if you know what I mean. After I answered a few automated questions, a man who identified himself as Art came on the phone and offered to assist me. I told him my last name and Social Security number.

 “Yes, we have you on file. What can I do for you,  Ma’am?”

I could see this wasn’t starting out very well. I explained to Art the confusion that had arisen but I tried talking with a deeper voice, hoping that might move the conversation along in the right direction. At first Art thought his office had a software problem, as opposed to my having…I guess what you’d call a hardware problem, but he was clearly stumped by how to fix this dilemma.

“This is a new one for me, Wolfsie. By the way, mind if I just call you Wolfsie? At least until we satisfactorily address this problem?  Not sure I can fix this with a simple keystroke. This may require a face-to-face meeting.”

I was uncomfortable with that possibility. I’m not a rugged looking guy. I even have some soft features. I tried to talk him out of it. “Look, how about an eyewitness report. Can you take my wife’s word for it? Or I can have the guys from the gym sign an affidavit. Or maybe the security agents at the airport could give you a buzz. Those guys have seen it all.”

I’m very sorry, but we do have our standard operating procedures,” said Art.

The term “operating procedures” really  creeped me out. This seemed an extreme way to get all the information to match.

“Are you on Medicare?” Art asked.

“Yes, for the past several months.”

“Which parts?”

“Gee whiz, you don’t have a record of those parts, either?  There must be some explanation for all this.”

”Wolfsie, maybe the computer read your first name as being either a man’s or a woman’s—thus the confusion.”

“You must be right, Art.  Who doesn’t have a nieces or a grandmother named Richard?”

“I need to put you on hold again, Wolfsie.  Sorry to make you wait.”

“No problem. I’ll pass the time flipping through Bride magazine.”

Moments later…

“It looks to me, Wolfsie, that we have you officially listed as a man all your life, but for some reason you became a woman in our system when you signed up for Medicare. That was effective March 2, 2012.

“Well, if it’s so effective, why didn’t I get half-off Ladies’ Night at Victory Field or a free dirty martini during Cougar Happy Hour at Harry & Izzy’s?”

We had been on the phone almost an hour when Art said he needed to check one more thing. He promised he’d return in a few seconds. I held for another five minutes but he never came back on the line. He just kept me hanging.

Isn’t that just like a man?

A SHORTS STORY

A BRIEF APOLOGY

I recently spent an hour in another man’s underwear. Telling the story of how I took a complete stranger’s briefs may help me locate the original owner and wash away the guilt I am feeling. Let me put my readers and editors at ease. This is not an X rated column, although I did go through a period in my life when my own shorts were XX.

The story began as I arrived at the fitness center hoping to improve my standing on the racquetball ladder. My win-loss record is 12-56, is just about as low as anybody can go, although as you are about to see, I found a way to sink even lower. In preparation for another trip to the courts, I had not only packed all my athletic equipment, but I threw in an extra pair of socks and undershorts, so that once I finished losing, I could shower, sit in the hot tub and then leave refreshed.

After the match I placed my change of clothes on a bench, and stepped to a nearby mirror to comb my hair. I then returned to my locker and dressed.  That’s when I noticed the man next to me frantically looking through his gym bag, then opening and slamming shut lockers.

“You didn’t take my underwear, did you?” he asked.

The very idea I would put on his shorts! Who would stoop that low?  True, I have not led a totally crime-free life. At the supermarket, I’ve pilfered an occasional pistachio from the display pile, double-sampled the quiche at Sam’s Club and just once at a local fast food place, I refilled my water cup with a shot of Sierra Mist.

When I returned home I was caught unaware—I caught myself in someone else’s underwear.  In my duffle bag, I found both the pair I played racquetball in and the extra pair I had packed. It wasn’t possible, was it? I was scared to look, but I undid my belt and took a peek. Sure enough, I was wearing Hanes, a cut above my usual Fruit-of-the-Looms.

I didn’t know where to put myself. But I did put the unfamiliar underwear immediately in the laundry. After all, at some point I would have to return them. But to whom?  I didn’t know the guy’s name, just his waistband size. But I did remember the expression on his face when he realized what a frosty ride home he was about to embark on.

So, if you are the man whose underwear I accidentally took, you have a right to be upset. You probably think I was telling you a little white lie. I know I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes. Wait, I better check those, too. The bottom line is that I didn’t know what I was getting into. You can see I am breaking my New Year’s Resolution to cut back on horrible puns.

I assume at this point you do not want your shorts back. And so, I would like to buy you a 12-pack of Hanes just to say I’m sorry. This will put you 11 pairs ahead.  Let’s you and I make a clean start in 2012.