SECRET SHOPPER

 

It’s so exciting these final days before Christmas. You never know who is going to be at the door ringing your bell. Will it be UPS dropping off a package?  Maybe Federal Express with a holiday gift? Possibly the U.S. Mail with something for this past Mother’s or Father’s Day?  Sometimes it’s a grumpy neighbor telling you he’s tired of getting all your stuff by mistake. ‘Tis the season.

This story begins about 2:00 p.m. last Tuesday. The UPS truck pulled up to the curb and we wondered what Brown was going to do for us. We saw the driver struggle with a huge carton the size of a big screen TV. He maneuvered it to the front porch and left it leaning against the door. I went outside to look at it.

“Who’s it for?” asked Mary Ellen.

I checked the label and it was addressed to me, but sometimes that sticker is misleading. Some of our credit cards are in my name, some are in Mary Ellen’s; so when a delivery is made, we are not sure who ordered it and who the gift is ultimately for. If the wrong person opens it, well, there goes the surprise on Christmas morning.

“It says it’s for me,” I told her, “but I have absolutely no recollection of ordering anything so big. Maybe you ordered it, Mary Ellen.”

My wife thought for a moment and so began the weirdest conversation in our 34-year marriage. “Dick, I know what it is. It’s that special item I mentioned two months ago that I wanted for Christmas. You said you found it in a catalog. Don’t you remember? I am so excited! Thank you.”

“I have absolutely no idea what it is. Can you give me a hint?”

“No, I can’t give you a hint. That would ruin the surprise.”

“Ruin the surprise? Ruin the surprise? The gift is for you! It’s supposed to be your surprise. But you already know what it is. I’m the one who doesn’t have a clue.”

“It doesn’t seem right to tell you. That’s not in keeping with the spirit of giving, Dick.”

“Okay, how about if you whisper softly in my ear and I promise I won’t tell you what you said.” It scared me a little that for a brief moment this actually made sense. It was driving me crazy that I had no memory of what I bought her. “Is it a high tech item?” I asked.

“Not really,” said Mary Ellen.

“Do you plug it in?”

“No.”

“Is it artwork?”

“No, not even close. But I don’t want to play anymore. If you guess it, I’ll have nothing to look forward to on Christmas morning. I want to see the expression on your face when I open it.”

Later that morning when Mary Ellen went out grocery shopping, I secretly opened the box. Let me tell you, it was a really neat present.  I don’t think I have ever been happier with something I bought my wife. Before Mary Ellen got home, I resealed it, then gift-wrapped it and placed it under the tree.  Of course, now we both knew what was in the package. It will still be a surprise on Christmas morning, as long as we can both keep a secret.

 

 

MACHO MAN

 

It’s hard to start writing a column about my chainsaw. But not as difficult as it is to start my chainsaw—considering I was born and raised in New York City and never saw such a device until I was old enough to get into an R-rated movie.

When I moved to Indy, I bought my first chainsaw and found it to be a very inefficient tool.  I took it back to the dealer and I told him it took me hours to cut down one little limb. “Let me give it a try,” said the clerk, and then he pulled the cord.

VAROOM!

“Geez, what’s that loud noise?” I asked him.

“Look, Mr. Wolfsie, I once saw you walk into a plate glass window on your morning TV segment. You are not the kind of person who should mess with power tools.”

I’m actually very good with power tools. I have never once had a problem starting my lawn mower. I did have one accident, though. I almost broke my nose when I tripped over the extension cord.

The chainsaw had been untouched in my garage for about 25 years, but that’s also true of Step 4 of my Scott’s lawn fertilizer because by the end of fall, I really don’t care what my lawn looks like. I also have two leaf blowers—one to blow the leaves and one to suck up the leaves. Both tools can perform either of those tasks with a minor mechanical adjustment, but that involves reading an entire page of the owner’s manual. Like I would understand any of that.

During the Midwest’s most recent storms, we were sitting in the living room and heard a crash. A fairly good-sized tree had blown down and grazed the side of the house. My wife heard the noise and immediately panicked.  “Relax,” I told her. “We’re okay.”

“No, we’re all in danger!  This means you’re going to use that chainsaw.”

The next day, I dug through the huge storage box in the garage filled with barbeque and gardening equipment, sprinkler heads, and rusty tools.  I found the implement and cradled it gingerly in my arms. How am I supposed to start this thing? I wondered. There was one doo-dad labeled “choke,” and I did. There was also a little plastic bubble that I vaguely remembered you have to push several times. Not sure why. I pulled the cord once…twice…30 times. Suddenly, the motor began to hum. But the chain didn’t turn. I needed help.

I didn’t want to look stupid, so I checked online and armed myself with just enough information to be as dangerous as the chainsaw. I found a small nearby motor repair shop and drove over. An elderly gentleman asked if he could assist me.

“Yes, I think the clutch isn’t engaging and there’s a sprocket misalignment that’s making the chain stick,”   I said, but I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He picked up the saw, pushed a button and said: “The safety was on.”

I didn’t bat an eye. “Thanks! What do I owe you?” I asked the man, who now looked vaguely familiar to me.

“Forget it,” he graciously offered. Then, as I started to leave , he added:  “Be careful, Mr. Wolfsie.  You’re about to walk into another plate glass window.”

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned…

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned...

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

GOODBYE TO A FRIEND

Military historian and arms collector Fred Ropkey died this past week. He opted out of medical treatments that might have prolonged his life for a few months. After 84 years, he was not surrendering. He simply wanted to walk headlong into the truth.

 Fred was no fan of war. Few people are. Yet he knew that every tank, aircraft and piece of artillery he recovered was not only a work of exquisite design, but combined they represented the hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives that had been lost—or saved.  

His passion, which was almost an obsession, got its roots early. At age eight, his parents gave him a WWI sword and a Civil War pistol belonging to his great-grandfather. At 16 he bought an armored WWII scout car and drove it to school. He stood up in the auditorium at Pike High School the day after Pearl Harbor and “reported” the Japanese attack to his fellow students. He tried to enlist in the Marines, but he was too young. He would later serve during  the Korean conflict as a battalion commander.

Fred’s collection of arms grew over the years, and he stowed his thousands of acquisitions on the sprawling 100 acres of family land (dating back to the Great Depression) on the northwest side of Indianapolis. At the time, says his longtime mechanic Skip Warvel, the idea was to simply find a place to restore those treasures. But it was really more a warehouse than a showcase. So in 2005, Fred moved everything to Crawfordsville, signaling a new vision and purpose.  “Build it and they will come,” his wife Lani recalls him saying. Then he added: “Who would think that a little pole barn on a 50-acre cornfield in Crawfordsville could change so many lives?”  It was no longer simply a standing building; it was a building that stood for something. He called it the Ropkey Armor Museum.

Once it opened, Fred and Lani fully realized the impact the collection had on people. “Are you familiar with that tank?” he once asked an older man who was examining the vehicle. “I practically lived in it,” said the WWII veteran who revealed that he had not seen his “old girl” in 40 years. “Thank you,” he said to Fred. “My life has now come full circle.” Later, according to Fred, the veteran retreated to a hotel room with a bottle of bourbon and wrote an entire account of his experiences, those notes now part of the museum’s Wall of Heroes.

To the end, Fred loved digging into history, uncovering the human stories behind each piece he salvaged. He found tanks, aircraft, even parts of ships in barns or buried underground, where the  government had discarded them. Fred was always mystified by the lack of appreciation for these historical artifacts. “We can fix that,” he would say to Skip. The mission was simple: No matter the degree of disrepair, it was an obligation to resurrect the piece, honoring those who had lived and died in it. “Everything in the museum runs, flies, or floats, but the cannons don’t fire,” says Warvel, who uses the original spec manuals to make repairs.

Over the years, I was honored to be Fred’s friend. We toured both facilities on a number of occasions for television segments on WISH-TV. I’ve ridden in Sherman Tanks and sailed around a lake on a Vietnam-War-era vintage patrol boat. I will miss Fred. I won’t miss the harrowing ride in a Russian biplane.

Fred Ropkey could converse knowledgeably (and endlessly) about every U.S. combat mission in WWII. At the end of Fred’s life, he chose not to share his plight with others, instead enduring his cancer pain privately.

This was the one battle Fred Ropkey did not want to talk about.

 

 

THANKS BUT NO THANKS

 THANKS, BUT NO THANKS

Like most guys, when I walk past the magazine rack at the bookstore, I start to drool.  Just yesterday I saw one cover that made me glad I am a healthy, normal male.  There she was: perfectly proportioned, with golden skin and a great pair of legs. It was the best looking turkey I had ever seen. Obviously, there are some other attributes of the bird I could have alluded to, but I’m trying to keep this column classy.

At the time, I was looking at Food Network Magazine, the Thanksgiving edition—the perfect holiday purchase for those who don’t have a turkey of their own yet, but who want to live vicariously through others who have enjoyed tremendous success in the kitchen.

The magazine is 218 pages of recipes and cooking tips, including a handful of ads for anti-depressant drugs, which kind of captures the holiday spirit we all feel. One of the articles about preparing leftovers includes a beautiful shot of a bowl of turkey soup. I’m bettin’ except for one poultry little difference it’s the same recipe as the chicken soup the month before. The editor says this is her favorite leftover, but turkey soup is not a leftover. If her first course this Thanksgiving is really turkey soup, she should not be editor of this Food Network Magazine.

Food scientists did extensive research to answer such burning questions as: how many dishes does the average host or hostess serve with the turkey? (answer:  seven); do people favor pumpkin, apple, or pecan pie? (pumpkin);  white wine or red? (a tie); and finally, how long is it after the meal before everyone is talking to each other again? (about two weeks).  Another interesting statistic is that the average American gets up at 9:00 a.m. to begin the preparation for the day. This is certainly true of my wife, Mary Ellen, because if is she is not done with her makeup by 10:00, we can’t make the early buffet at Embassy Suites with our friends, the Haversticks.

Here’s a fascinating find: 72% of the country prefers lump-free mashed potatoes. But only 12% have ever had any. And did you know that 51% percent of T-Day diners opt for whole berry cranberry sauce  and 49% want jellied?  There was talk of a recount (especially in the Red states), but it’s really academic because 75% of families completely forget the stuff is in the fridge until after dessert.

Celebrity cooks offer 50 tips for preparing the annual feast. Iron Chef Judy Joo suggests passing around a small blow torch for each person’s individual pumpkin crème brulees. What fun! And with all the little kids around the table, what could possibly go wrong? John Shook, the chef at a favorite Los Angeles café, advises amateur cooks to always serve some old favorites for side dishes, just in case you “screw up the turkey.”  Confidence! Isn't that what cooking is all about? 

My favorite tip is from Seamus Mullen, a gourmand from one of New York’s finest eateries. Seamus says to throw the leftover meat from the usually less popular legs and wings (along with some oyster stuffing) into the food processor before you go to bed that Thursday night. I ask you:  Is there a better way to begin shopping on Black Friday than with a nice dark-meat turkey smoothie?

 

 

 

 

 

 

ROPE A DOPE

 

Imagine finding yourself stranded in the forest, with no food or water. Or caught in an avalanche, freezing to death beneath a mountain of snow. Sounds scary, doesn’t it?  But you’d have absolutely nothing to worry about if you were wearing your Paracord Survival Bracelet. (Also required: a cell phone, your GPS, warm blankets, a week’s supply of food and a Coleman stove.)

Yes, this is the hottest thing in survival gear since the lit match. Technically, it’s called a 550 Cord, which confused me because that’s also the name of the Levi’s I wear. The bracelet is made of 90 feet of intricately woven thread crafted into a nifty piece of rope jewelry. The material was first used in WWII by paratroopers. The manufacturer describes it as having a “32-strand woven nylon outer sheath with an inner core of seven 2-ply yarns.”  I know, I know, it sounds a lot like Charmin.

Think how lucky James Franco would have been in the movie 127 Hours if he had been wearing one of these.  There he was with one arm under a 6-ton rock. How cool if he could have gotten this bracelet off the other hand with his mouth and then unraveled 90 feet of fiber with his teeth so that he could…let’s see, he would take the cord and…well…. Okay, I have no idea how this item could have possibly helped him.

Here are three uses suggested by the manufacturer:

1.      Replace a broken zipper pull:  Nothing would be more embarrassing than being rescued after 12 days on a deserted island and being caught with your fly open.

 

2.      Detain a person:  When you are shipwrecked in the middle of nowhere and help finally comes, isn’t that the first thing you’d think about: Who do I need to tie up?

 

3.      Fishing Line:  “Our white cord will rarely catch fish in clear water,” admits the bracelet company, “but you may have a chance in murky water if you have stink bait and a hook.” Not a problem. A lot of hikers who forgot to bring even one protein bar have a jar of chicken guts and beef liver in their backpack.

 

The manufacturer is concerned that people will not want to use the rope in an emergency because making it back into a bracelet is harder than solving the Rubik’s Cube with your feet. They are probably right. It’s a good thing that auto safety systems do not allow you to disengage the airbag apparatus on your own. “Push the off button, Agnes. We’re going to hit that truck head on, but I have no idea how to stuff that thing back into the steering wheel.”

The makers of the Paracord Survival Bracelet will give you a free one if you use their product in a legitimate emergency. Simply send them the story of how you used the rope along with a photograph demonstrating the life-threatening predicament you were in.

Dear Survival Bracelet Maker,

My wife and I were recently cleaning the gutters on our roof when the ladder tipped over. As I helped her repel down the side of our house using your nifty piece of jewelry, I tried to get my cell phone out of my pocket to send a picture, thus qualifying for a free replacement. I was too slow but I am attaching a photo of her on the ground with two broken legs.

Personally, I think this bracelet is a waste of money at $39.95. Better not safe, than sorry.

 

 

  

ROPE A DOPE

 

 

Imagine finding yourself stranded in the forest, with no food or water. Or caught in an avalanche, freezing to death beneath a mountain of snow. Sounds scary, doesn’t it?  But you’d have absolutely nothing to worry about if you were wearing your Paracord Survival Bracelet. (Also required: a cell phone, your GPS, warm blankets, a week’s supply of food and a Coleman stove.)

Yes, this is the hottest thing in survival gear since the lit match. Technically, it’s called a 550 Cord, which confused me because that’s also the name of the Levi’s I wear. The bracelet is made of 90 feet of intricately woven thread crafted into a nifty piece of rope jewelry. The material was first used in WWII by paratroopers. The manufacturer describes it as having a “32-strand woven nylon outer sheath with an inner core of seven 2-ply yarns.”  I know, I know, it sounds a lot like Charmin.

Think how lucky James Franco would have been in the movie 127 Hours if he had been wearing one of these.  There he was with one arm under a 6-ton rock. How cool if he could have gotten this bracelet off the other hand with his mouth and then unraveled 90 feet of fiber with his teeth so that he could…let’s see, he would take the cord and…well…. Okay, I have no idea how this item could have possibly helped him.

Here are three uses suggested by the manufacturer:

1.      Replace a broken zipper pull:  Nothing would be more embarrassing than being rescued after 12 days on a deserted island and being caught with your fly open.

 

2.      Detain a person:  When you are shipwrecked in the middle of nowhere and help finally comes, isn’t that the first thing you’d think about: Who do I need to tie up?

 

3.      Fishing Line:  “Our white cord will rarely catch fish in clear water,” admits the bracelet company, “but you may have a chance in murky water if you have stink bait and a hook.” Not a problem. A lot of hikers who forgot to bring even one protein bar have a jar of chicken guts and beef liver in their backpack.

 

The manufacturer is concerned that people will not want to use the rope in an emergency because making it back into a bracelet is harder than solving the Rubik’s Cube with your feet. They are probably right. It’s a good thing that auto safety systems do not allow you to disengage the airbag apparatus on your own. “Push the off button, Agnes. We’re going to hit that truck head on, but I have no idea how to stuff that thing back into the steering wheel.”

The makers of the Paracord Survival Bracelet will give you a free one if you use their product in a legitimate emergency. Simply send them the story of how you used the rope along with a photograph demonstrating the life-threatening predicament you were in.

Dear Survival Bracelet Maker,

My wife and I were recently cleaning the gutters on our roof when the ladder tipped over. As I helped her repel down the side of our house using your nifty piece of jewelry, I tried to get my cell phone out of my pocket to send a picture, thus qualifying for a free replacement. I was too slow but I am attaching a photo of her on the ground with two broken legs.

Personally, I think this bracelet is a waste of money at $39.95. Better not safe, than sorry.

 

 

I AIN’T GOT NO BODY

 

I started reading Golf Digest when I was in high school with the hope I could increase my scoring average. It didn't help, so I finally cancelled my subscription last year.  Same with Playboy.

I was browsing through the magazine rack at a local bookstore and saw the October issue of Mess magazine. Actually, it was Muscle and Fitness magazine, but Arnold Schwarzenegger’s photo was positioned in front of the publication’s name and his huge head blocked out all but four letters. In one of the articles, the former governor and body builder (who has graced the cover countless times and is now the executive editor) refers frequently to loving his MF magazine, not quite the charm as the abbreviation for Gentlemen's Quarterly.

In small print at the bottom of the magazine's cover is a note that states the picture of the world’s most famous body builder has not been digitally enhanced in any way and that the muscular arms shown are 100 percent the result of Arnold's efforts. The same cannot be said of his face, which is 50 percent the work of his plastic surgeon.  The cover also says that on page 57 you will learn how to add one inch to your own arms. That interested me because right now I am just shy of reaching the crock pot on the top shelf in the kitchen. I began skimming the pages and noticed that men refer to their beefed-up biceps as their "guns.’ And that is why they believe in the right to bear arms.

Editor-in-chief Shawn Perine also heralds the importance of a good mental attitude when it comes to physical fitness. "All growth starts with your head," says Shawn, evident by the Terminator's noggin on the front cover.

In another section, fitness guru Jay Cutler fields questions about the most effective exercises for achieving a rock hard body. I favor ‘dips’ as a great mass builder,” says Jay. A similar result can be achieved by any dip with a sour cream base. Jon Jones, another physique freak who writes for MF reports that his favorite workouts are the Bulgarian Split Squat, the Keiser Push Pull and the Glute Hamstring Raise. Why he doesn't include the Sumo Squat Stretch is simply a mystery to me.

The pages are also full of ads for bodybuilding supplements. Choose from
Jet Fuel, Beast Amphetalin, Horsepower X, Shock Therapy and my favorite: Hemo Rage. Not only is it an effective nutritional supplement but it’s soon to be a major motion picture.

Food, if it can be called that, is heavily advertised in the monthly periodical. The culinary delight that really intrigued me was smoked tofu. Bodybuilders are not generally into eating tofu, so they smoke it, instead.

In the last article, there is a question-and-answer feature with Arnold, who is now in his sixties. He admits he doesn't enjoy working with a big dumbbell, anymore. Coincidently, this is exactly why, when Arnold was governor of CalEEEfornia, his first chief of staff quit after two months.

CHRISTMAS IN OCTOBER

 

My Hammacher Schlemmer Christmas catalogue arrived a little later than usual this season. I know because last year I remember using it to swat flies at our July 4th cookout. So once again, to save you the trouble of wading through all the gift ideas, I offer a few of my favorites. And, yes, these are all real. Try to resist.

SHARK BAIT SLEEPING BAG: Your kids feel safe and secure in their home and are finally sleeping nightmare-free. Why not surprise them with a life-size shark sleeping bag? The brochure photo shows a toddler, snuggled inside the bag, with only his head sticking out of the shark’s mouth.  According to HS, this neat gift “devours children with shark-induced slumber.” Soothing, huh? But there’s more:  “It facilitates restful sleep even while the child is being digested.”  My suggestion is to wait and buy this on Craigslist for one-tenth the price on December 26.

FOLD-AWAY ADULT BUNK BEDS:  This is the perfect gift for parents who are preparing their young teens for life in a penitentiary. HS claims it can be put together and taken apart without tools, which is important because you don’t get to play with screwdrivers and hammers when you are in maximum security. The manufacturer says the beds are guaranteed for life, so don’t waste this set on a kid who only aspires to petty larceny.

THE GYROSCOPIC WATCH WINDER: I had no idea what this was. In the old days, I just twisted the stem with my thumb and forefinger every night. Then the self-winding watches were invented and that really freed up my evenings. Now I discover you need some fancy instrument to wind your expensive watch properly. Apparently, a gyroscope is the most efficient and accurate way to do this.  But is it pronounced jiro-scopic, hero-scopic, or gearo-scopic? Even the waiters at the Greek restaurant weren’t sure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GUMMY BEAR: HS says this is 1,000 times larger than a traditional gummy bear. But is it snack food or a big game trophy? HS advises that it tastes best when kept in the fridge and then sliced into cutlets, which is a term that should really be left to veal. The giant gummy bear is cherry flavored and serves 12 kids. Or 106 adults.

THE SPINNING SPAGHETTI FORK: Are you tired of driving all the way over to Olive Garden or Bucca di Beppo, poring over their exhaustive menus only to have to actually twirl the spaghetti on your fork yourself? The spinning fork has “ a thumb activated button that turns the device at 22 rpm…and it fits neatly in your mouth without creating a mess.” This is the exact same copy as on the next page about their electric toothbrush, which is $75.00 more expensive. So I’d buy the fork. You’re welcome.

 

THE SLEEP-TALKING AND SNORING HOUND:  This life-size Gund stuffed animal is for kids, but it’s also the perfect gift for the woman whose husband is away on frequent business trips. The soft and fluffy hound snores and even talks in its sleep, saying things like, “I love bacon.” Your new companion can be spot cleaned. It’s like your hubby never left.

Happy shopping!

 

 

 

GETTING A LITTLE CULTURE

There's a commercial on TV where Jamie Lee Curtis turns to the camera and reveals to viewers that she is having an "affair" with Activia Yogurt. This is either a great way to get a yeast infection or an effective way to avoid one. I have no idea. I’m a guy.

Recently in the press, the Greek yogurt company Chobani got some really bad coverage when it was revealed their product had some really bad coverage—mold, to be precise. I thought yogurt was already part mold. Or is it bacteria? Fungus, maybe? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

The founder of the company, Hamdi Ulukaya, perfected the recipe for Chobani based on his belief that everyone, regardless of income or location, deserved access to delicious, high-quality yogurt. Except for the delicious part, he says the same thing about health care.

The last yogurt scare in the news was a year ago when a New Jersey firm withdrew salmonella-infected mango yogurt cups from Wawa stores in four states. Like the first moon landing, it was one of those pivotal events—you know exactly where you were when you first heard about it.

On Chobani’s Facebook page, some yogurt aficionados expressed their dissatisfaction with the product. "Unnervingly fizzy," said one. "Tasted like wine,” complained another. ”It had a kick to it,” opined a third. So I'm thinking, what's the problem here? Many of the postings are snarky, not befitting yogurt fans who should be more cultured. Comments like: “Chobani is not as sweet as most yogurts, but after a while it grows on you. Literally.” And, “This is the most unique yogurt ever produced. When they made it, threw away the mold…well, on second thought…”

Ulukaya would not reveal how many complaints they had, but he did say "it was not in the hundreds of thousands." This brilliant PR response was written for Ulukaya by the same guy who told George Bush to say, “Mission accomplished.”

By the way, Ulukaya is not from Greece, and neither is his yogurt.  It’s made in upstate New York.  Their plant was an old Kraft factory that once made Jalapeño String Cheese, the only product that Kraft ever recalled because it tasted like it was supposed to.

One news report quoted Ulukaya saying he would “not give a name to the mold.” This is a good idea, because once you call it Jerry or Samantha, it makes mass eradication much harder to feel good about. Ulukaya’s biggest concern is the onset of Giaourtiophobia, the technical word for the fear of yogurt. Besides occasional recalls, I have never understood how someone could be afraid of yogurt.  Tofu? Very scary. But not yogurt—at least, not plain vanilla.

There is some good news in the yogurt world. Dermatologists have determined that slathering the stuff on your face can give you a clear complexion. However, if you use the mixed berry, you will look like you have a bad case of zits.  

So that’s it for all the controversial news in yogurt this week.  I didn’t mean to alarm you but I like to stir things up. That’s why my favorite yogurt is Dannon Fruit on the Bottom.

BELLY LAUGHS

 

I created quite a stir at the Unitarian Church last Sunday. Mary Ellen was embarrassed when she first heard it. The entire congregation was starting to look in my general direction. Noelle started elbowing her husband.  She thought Dan was the instigator. Dan was almost 100 percent sure it wasn’t him. Spouses were poking each other and some of the kids were giggling. My wife thought I should excuse myself from the sanctuary.

Was that my stomach growling?

No one has this identification problem with other bodily eruptions.  Everyone clearly knows who the originator is—although with one sound in particular (and its result) there is usually blame-shifting that unfairly maligns the family dog. But with things like sneezing, hiccupping, and coughing, it’s seldom an issue.

“Hey, Dick that was quite a belch!”

“Actually, that was you, Bob.  It’s an easy mistake to make.”

Even husbands and wives, after years of marital bliss, still ask one question as they drift off in each other’s arms:  Was that you or me?

I’ll admit that I do have loud internal plumbing. Each week I record a version of this newspaper column for broadcast on the local public radio station. Scott Hoke, my producer, listens through his headset during the recording session to ensure the audio is top quality. “Let’s do that last line over again, Dick. I just heard WFYI’s sewer back up.  Or was that your stomach?”

The technical name for a grumbling stomach is borborygmi. The term comes from the Greek word borborugmos. The dictionary says this is an example of onomatopoeia, a word that imitates the sound associated with something. Yes, just like the Anglo-Saxon term bowwow accurately mimics the noise your Rottweiler makes, the Greeks nailed it with boborgymi.

Now, before you start googling (which is also medical jargon for what my stomach is doing), I have already looked up this symptom and I am now aware that stomach rumbling is one indication of about 35 different illnesses, including uremia, mesenteric ischemia, aerophagia and functional dyspepsia—none of which I had ever heard of.  That meant I needed to google those particular disorders, as well, but more googling would have turned my stomach—which was the last thing I needed.  By the way, don’t look up things like insomnia, headache, fever, sweats or constipation unless you want see a long list of diseases you could have…but probably don’t.

When your insides churn noisily, your brain is sending a message to your gut to prepare for a meal. As one medical site notes, your belly is saying: “Hungry. No food here; must eat soon.” Why do stomachs sound like Tonto talking to the Lone Ranger?

Apparently, your intestines are always growling, says another expert, but when you have eaten, you are less likely to hear them. “It’s like putting a pair of sneakers in the dryer by themselves versus with a load of towels.” That thought is enough to give you the munchies.

I’ve been at my computer writing this column all afternoon and my wife just sent me an email saying she had a tough day and wants to go out for a quiet dinner. I hated to tell her, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not when I’m this hungry.

 

 

 

 

DON’T BUG ME

 DON’T BUG ME

 

It was one of those Internet headlines that you think might be a joke:

                        MOSQUITOES PREFER BEER DRINKERS

My initial reaction was to brush it off, just like I do the little pests at picnics and the State Fair. The article had already gone viral.  My guess is that good old boys in places like Pine Bluff, Arkansas, got the bad news while standing around their favorite watering hole where, unfortunately, there is a lot of standing water. The guys were probably a little red-faced that they had never figured out this beer/mosquito connection. Of course, they were also red-faced before they found out about this beer/mosquito connection.

The piece is filled with data that establishes a profile for those people most likely to be bitten. For example, one scientist notes:  “Pregnant women are hit on more than men.”  This, by the way, is always a hot topic at ladies’ night at the Pine Bluff Bar and Laundromat.

Much of this research was sponsored by the American Mosquito Control Association, whose motto includes: “We are dedicated to education…that results in the total suppression of mosquitoes.” Generally, I’m against any kind of suppression, but even a liberal like me can suck it up and admit this is all-out war. And it won’t be bloodless.  

The investigations were performed on hundreds of idealistic young volunteers. What was the incentive for their participation? Lots of free booze and an itch to do something for the betterment of mankind.

The research says that when a mosquito dines on a person who has enjoyed a few brews, the insect gets a little tipsy herself (male mosquitoes don’t bite). Scientists have an instrument called an inebriometer that can measure how much alcohol the bug has ingested. No doubt, Indiana soon will be training our state troopers (those with tiny hands) to administer this test.

What else have scientists learned? Professor Robert Van Pire (not his real name) at a nearby Midwest university sat in a mosquito-filled lab in his underwear to determine which parts of his body were most likely to be targeted. His feet were first, even edging out a petri dish with limburger cheese. Entomologists around the world admired the professor’s dedication to the problem of insect bites, but ol’ Dr. Bob actually teaches American Literature and this was the third time he was caught on campus in his boxers claiming it was research.

What other factors make you susceptible to a mosquito bite? Black clothing, for example, increases the chance of being a victim about 35 percent. And when the moon is full, you are 25 percent more likely to be bitten. This is another reason not to flash people from your car window, especially at dusk when mosquitoes are looking for some action and can’t tell one moon from another.

You are also more likely to be bitten if you are exercising than when you are at rest because you are sweating. So to sum it up:  avoid running during a full moon (dressed all in black) after downing four or five beers. Those are some good tips to prevent attacks by skeeters.

I have another idea. But I am warning you, it is repellent. 

LIVING PROOF

 

 

He hadn’t eaten anything in two days. (With a beagle, you should worry about loss of appetite after two hours.) He was clearly in distress. Breathing heavily. Hadn’t budged in hours. I took him to the emergency veterinary clinic where they initially diagnosed it as a treatable infection, but Toby was not getting better.

 They did an ultrasound.  The doctor came into the waiting room with the results. “Can I take him home now?” I asked the doctor.

 “If you really want to,” she said, explaining that the tumors they found on his liver were probably life threatening, and they might soon become painful. He was too old for any aggressive treatment.

“I do want to take him home,” I said without hesitation. “I want some time with him to say good-bye.”  I looked into his eyes; the sparkle was gone. I hoped that taking him back to the house was the right decision.

Barney—who passed away ten years ago this week— had accompanied me on 2,500 TV shows for WISH-TV.  Rather than become my next TV sidekick, Toby became nothing more than my next best friend. And nothing was more important than that. I’ve had a hound by my side for 23 years. The transition from beagle to beagle was seamless. The two dogs looked alike, they acted alike, they drove my wife crazy alike.

 

When we got home from the vet, Toby curled up on his bed next to the TV. He didn’t move for 12 hours. No interest in water or food.  I spent most of the next afternoon lying next to him, stroking his ears. When my wife got home, I remember saying, “I know this dog; he is dying.” Mary Ellen took issue with my prognosis. “I think he’s going to be fine,” she said, an observation that I took to be directed more at assuaging my anxiety than a legitimate medical assessment.

Over the next few days, Toby began wandering around the house, soon barking to go outside to sit in the afternoon sun. His tail started wagging and by the end of the week he had tipped over all the wastebaskets in the house and snatched a loaf of bread from the kitchen counter. I was ready to kick his butt. I wanted my wife to wipe that self-satisfied look off her face. This was three months ago.

Except for a newly torn cruciate ligament, he’s pretty much like a pup again, carrying around his dinner bowl in his mouth, coaxing me to fill it constantly with the canned moist food I switched to when he got sick. I don’t have the heart to go back to the tasteless dry fare that he never relished.

Toby is 13, but my hope is that he lives long enough for his leg to mend and that we can head out again for our daily walks around the neighborhood. The growths may never have been found had he not been treated for this incidental infection. I’m thinking he may stick around for a while.

I could have easily made a different decision that night at the clinic, never knowing if I made the right one.  This experience offers no life lessons. There is no moral here. It’s just a story, but so far, a story with a happy ending.