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.