HUNKER MENTALITY

The magazine Stay Alive is not a veiled attempt to rejuvenate the career of the ’60s music group The Bee Gees. No, it is a periodical intended for people who are pretty darn sure that at some point in the near future they are going to have to hunker down with their immediate family, probably underground, for somewhere between 5 days and 25 years, hoping to avoid just about everything that can happen to you in a Tom Cruise movie.

The magazine’s current edition is full of cheery articles, as evidenced by cover headlines like:  Surviving the World’s Worst Typhoon; Choose a Survival Firearm; Arrange Back-up Ammunition; Post-Disaster Tools; and my favorite: The Day the Cell Phones Died, which makes me think that the Apocalypse is NOW.

My favorite feature (a poorly disguised advertisement, really) is titled: DON’T BUY SURVIVAL FOOD…UNTIL YOU READ THIS.  That is the author’s ellipsis and I have no idea why it is there. I only mention that because I didn't want you to think I had left something important out.

In the article, the writer advocates a particular brand of survival food, going so far as to say that it is “as good as or better than any survival food I've eaten.” This is the kind of testimony that is hard to discount, not unlike the words of Charles Manson who once grudgingly admitted that San Quentin had the best Salisbury steak of any prison he'd ever been to. You can't buy PR like that.  “The product literally flies off the shelves,” says the unidentified author. You can expect that line to show up on a lot of English teachers’ lesson plans on exactly how not to use the word “literally.”

In one paragraph, the author notes that “many people with good intentions are making critical food mistakes when stockpiling food.”  I see this a lot when I am at Golden Corral for dinner. Do people ever learn?

The writer’s biggest concern appears to be that some of the MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) available in stores may only have a shelf life of five years, which is less than the lifespan of a jar of honey, but about 4 years, 11 months, and 3 weeks, six days and 22 hours longer than a tub of potato salad at a picnic. We also learn that buying this product will allow you to avoid the monotony of having the same boring meals every night for 25 years, a problem I am having now living above ground.

If you order a survival kit, which includes these meals, you get 5,550 heirloom survival seeds. Who counted these out? Whoever it was is not going to have any problem occupying himself underground for two decades.

Also thrown in with the deal are four hardcover books. They don't tell you what the books are about, but with so much time to kill, I'm not sure anyone will care—as long as they are not library books. Oh, by the way, you also get a really cool 11-in-1 survival knife. After all, when you are about to go underground for the rest of your life, you deserve a lovely parting gift.

 

HABITUAL BEHAVIOR

 

Mary Ellen and I have been happy together for so long that we sometimes forget how much we annoy each other, so on the trip back home from our recent vacation, it was time catch up on our bad habits.

For example, I told Mary Ellen that she is a relentless pointer. She points at everything. “See that pretty house,” she’ll say, and then she points at it; or, look at that sunset (she points, like I don’t know where the sun is); “Your turn signal is on,” and then  she directs her finger at the blinker. Really, is that necessary?

 “Dick, I thought you liked it on a vacation when I pointed things out.”

”I do like it when you point things out, I just don’t want you to point at them.”

Then I told her that it drove me nuts that everything we saw, she called “pretty.”  Pretty sunsets, pretty mountains, pretty houses, pretty lakes, pretty much everything. Then she gave me a look that pretty much ended that conversation. Except now it was her turn…

 “Okay, I never really told you this, Dick, but it drives me crazy when we go somewhere to eat, as soon as we sit down, you pretend you have to go to the restroom. What you are really doing is walking around the restaurant inspecting other people’s food.  Other than the Board of Health, who does something so weird?”

“Okay, I admit it. When I see it on another person’s plate, I get a better idea whether I should order it. I don’t think that is so odd.”

“That’s not the odd part. It’s asking for a taste that’s a little peculiar.  And, here’s another thing you do. You are so impatient that after we order you keep looking around to be sure that no one who came in after us is served first.”

“Wait a second. I remember a few years we were somewhere and even you were complaining that we were supposed to be next.”

“Okay, Dick, you do realize the difference between the emergency room and Applebee’s, right?”

“Anything else, Dear?”

 “Yes. When you order, you make a dozen substitutions. The other day we went to a pub and you ordered their signature baked ham sandwich. But instead of ham you wanted corned beef, and instead of mustard you wanted thousand island dressing. Then you substituted sauerkraut for the cole slaw. Why didn’t you just order a Reuben?”

“I don’t like Reubens.”

“And, finally, as soon as we are served, the first thing you do is ask if you can taste my dinner.”

“Now wait a second, that isn’t so unusual.”

“It is when we’ve ordered the same thing.”

As we made our way back home through Michigan, Mary Ellen and I placed a little wager on who could go the longest without lapsing into one of our annoying habits. When we exited the highway toward a quaint little town, Mary Ellen abruptly sat on her hands and said, “Oh Dick look at that pr…pr…cute little café on your right. Let’s eat there.”

Mary Ellen thought the lunch was fabulous, but I couldn’t say. You see, I really wanted to win that bet,  so I stayed in the car.

 

 

TUESDAYS WITH AURI

 

It began with a simple phone call to my friend Auri, a computer geek I asked to help me with my very successful website, which right now is attracting up to three visitors a month. To have a strong online presence, you have to spend several hours a day using social media, like Facebooking, tweeting, and updating your blog. This means cutting yourself off from the outside world. But that’s the price you pay for being social.

Auri and I decided to meet for coffee. I got out my trusty mini legal pad and wrote down the time and date. Then I put a sticky note on my bathroom mirror. At my age, I know I will see it there several times the night before, reminding me of any early morning obligations. This system seldom fails, although one day I accidentally grabbed a list from the previous day and started repeating everything on it.  I’m glad I have an honest barber.

Auri and I set the time for the following Tuesday, 9:00 a.m., at Starbucks.  Auri entered our engagement on his Google calendar, which I soon discovered automatically synched to my AOL calendar, telling me the time and location of the appointment.  I don’t like it when other people tell me where to go—but that was happening way before computers.

A minute after our call, a “meeting alert” magically appeared on my computer screen. The message suggested I pick a color for this entry to make it stand out and distinguish it from other appointments on my calendar, except I didn’t have any.  I had no idea what color a morning at Starbucks should be.  Brown seemed appropriate for morning java, but I wanted something more festive. Mary Ellen suggested taupe or mauve; I told her I wanted the color to reflect the importance of our get-together, not match our bedspread.  I went with red.

The following morning, I got an “Invitation Update” in my email as well as on my cell phone. It was a request by Auri to change the time of our Tuesday breakfast from 9:00 to 8:30. I agreed to the new time, telling him in a comment box that I was changing the color of our meeting from red to green.  Although I’m sure this didn’t matter to Auri, the Department of Homeland Security was probably relieved.

Included with the update was a link to MapQuest, informing me how long it would take to get to Starbucks from my house, which was either 3 minutes away, 4 minutes away, 7 minutes away or 8 minutes away, depending on which Starbucks in my neighborhood I was going to.

On Tuesday morning, I got another cell phone alert (an annoying ding) that my breakfast meeting was in half an hour.  Then at 8:15, I was dinged again, warning that I only had 15 minutes to make it on time. I rushed out the door, afraid that if I were late, news of my tardiness would go viral.

I reached Starbucks at 8:25. Auri had not arrived yet. I bought a coffee and waited.  And waited.  I called his cell phone at 9:00 a.m. He answered right away.  “Auri, where are you? I’m at Starbucks on 82nd,” I said.

“Oh my gosh, was that today?”

 

WHAT A TRIP

 

My wife is planning a very exciting vacation to celebrate our 35^th wedding anniversary. This was a big surprise to me. Not the vacation part, but the 35 years.  I thought it was 34. Right now she is on the back porch, the patio table stacked high with books and brochures, notepad in hand, as she prepares for her next Internet search. She has made me look at photos and videos of Rome, Venice, Marseille and Monaco. I’m not sure why we are even going.  I’ve already seen everything I want to see. Plus, I’m taking her to Olive Garden tonight. Are women ever satisfied?

I’m happy to be going almost anywhere, even if I was there once before. That’s because I don’t remember places, so everything is new and fresh to me. If you set my wife down in the center of Prague, or Budapest or Vienna, she’d know exactly where she was, clear memories from a previous trip.  I can do that also, sort of: Shelbyville, Kokomo, Carmel, not a problem. Greensburg has that tree thing going on atop of the courthouse, right? Or is that Greeenfield? Whatever.

The truth is I don’t have a clear memory of most things in my life.  My brother recently asked me if I remembered exactly how many years he and I had to share a bedroom when we were growing up.  That room sharing thing did not sound familiar. I’m even a little hazy on the growing up part.

For Christmas last year, I gave my wife a huge framed map of the world as gift. The map is constructed so you can stick colored pins in it to denote previous and future travel plans:  Blue pins mean you’ve been there; red pins indicate you want to go back. The green ones are for places you have always wanted to visit. I’m using the yellow pins: Wife says we’ve been there/Doesn’t ring a bell.

Sometimes I try to pretend I remember stuff, but she’s too smart for me and gives me little pop quizzes.

“What do you remember about Rome, Dick?”

“Oh, the churches, lots of churches. Love those churches.”

“Can you name one church you remember seeing?”

“Of course. There was Saint, Saint… you know how bad I am with last names.”

“Do you remember going to the Coliseum?”

Now I’m really worried. No way had I forgotten seeing a football game.

While she was researching restaurants in one country we’re going to visit, I interrupted to ask her what we were having for dinner later in the evening.  “I don’t have a clue, Dick, but on September 24, I’m having the salade aux lardons and the daube provencal.”  She told me I could have the pissaladière, which I’m hoping is pizza.

Later in the afternoon, I learned that we were going to spend one entire morning looking at Roman ruins, then have lunch and spend the whole afternoon looking at even more Roman ruins. “I’m really good at making these kinds of plans, aren’t I, Dick?” asked Mary Ellen.

“Oh yes. If anyone can ruin an entire day, you can.”

At one point, I suggested we should make the trip a little more unplanned. “Look, Mary Ellen, I don’t want to be a grump about this, but I like spontaneity. I need to know there will be a least one surprise in this vacation.”

“Oh, you won’t be disappointed. I have something right here that will shock you and you will not forget it for a long time.”

That’s when she handed me the bill.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PLEASE GO AWAY

                                                         

 

My wife is planning our summer vacation, which we will take in the fall. We took our spring vacation this summer.  We got behind in 1984 and still haven’t caught up. I don’t have much input into the planning of these trips, but Mary Ellen did assign me an article to read in ShopSmart magazine:

                                                         YOUR FEEL-GOOD VACATION

According to this piece, there is actually very little chance you will feel good. These are some things they want you to worry about.

TRAVELER’S DIARRHEA:   In this section we learn that seven out of ten travelers experience this, which is why requests for aisle seats trump window seats on most overseas flights. An infectious disease specialist says, “Many people have been de-railed by this problem.”  I am sure even more have been de-planed and de-boated. But I suppose it does happen on trains, as well. The good doctor suggests you take a drug called bismuth subsalicylate with you on the trip. But in a real emergency, I’d suggest just saying Pepto Bismol to the druggist. You really haven’t got a lot of time to mess with the pronunciation. The doctor directs you to not drink tap water or eat local fruits and vegetables that may be contaminated, but apparently he didn’t read the warning in the next paragraph.

CONSTIPATION: This is a different doctor (I know, I know, medicine is getting really specialized) who says that four out of ten people suffer from this disorder on trips. Wait a second, seven out of ten have the first problem and four of ten have the other problem. That means one person has both problems. Or does that mean he kinda doesn’t have any problem? All I know is that the four out of ten people don’t need an aisle seat. By the way, this physician suggests eating a lot of fruit and vegetables. Seriously, do these doctors ever talk to each other?

BLOD CLOTS: Here’s another cheery section. It begins by telling readers who travel by plane to stand up as often as possible and stretch, so “it’s most important that you get an aisle seat.” Sadly, most of those seats are being taken by you-know-who. If you do end up with the middle seat, you better hope the guy in the aisle seat isn’t sitting there very often, which come to think of it, he won’t be.

MOTION SICKNESS:   Once again, an aisle seat is recommended, but hurry—those seats are going fast.  However, if you are travelling by car, you should take the window option.  

BACK PAIN: “When people lift bags into the top compartment, many swing them in a way that can cause harm,”says an orthopedic surgeon. That is so true. On our trip to Ireland a few years ago, I decked a man and half his family with a poorly timed toss of my duffle bag into the overhead.  Dr. Rao goes on to advise that you should always hold your bags close to your body. Good advice, especially in the New York and Amsterdam airports.

Next to this article is a lovely full color photo of suggested travel drugs and what they will look like when you pack them neatly into one smart-looking designer carry-on bag. There’s Miralax, Ricola, Dramamine, Lomotil, Pepto Bismol, and Benadryl, to name a few.  It’s a visual representation of everything that can potentially ruin your trip.   The magazine admonishes against purchasing these products overseas because in some countries the over-the-counter meds are counterfeit. But you probably will have to buy them there, anyway. Once the TSA agent sees that stash at the airport, you’ll be lucky to still have your two-ounce bottle of shampoo.

JET STREAM

JET STREAM

I keep a clipboard next to my bed where I attach newspaper articles, snippets from magazines, photos, anything that might be an inspiration for my next column. If I still can’t think of anything funny to write by deadline, I just whack myself in the head until something dawns on me. In the past 13 years, I have done that 650 times, which should explain a lot.

On the top of the clipboard this week I inserted a little instruction pamphlet that came with a new device my dentist suggested I buy. I have several dental implements in my bathroom, all the result of Dr. Smith going to some convention in San Juan or the Sandwich Islands where he sits through lectures about flossing instead of hitting a golf course or going parasailing. He told me I needed this thingamajig because after Alyssa, the hygienist, dug away at my gums for 40 minutes last week, there was some bleeding. The doctor asked if bleeding had been a recurring problem, and I said yes—every six months when Alyssa digs away at my gums for 40 minutes.

The package arrived three days later. The box said:

                       Hydro Floss – A New Generation of Oral Irrigators

Yikes. This sounded like my mouth required not just a qualified dental professional, but a small team of agricultural workers, as well.

I opened the pamphlet and, as is always the case, the buyer is admonished not to use the product until all the directions have been read. There were four subsections on the first page, all related to eliminating the possibility of electrocution.

DANGERS

WARNINGS

CAUTIONS

SAFEGUARDS

These are not the kinds of words you want to see associated with a machine you are going to fill with water, plug into a wall socket and then insert into your mouth. The first caution is: Never let children use the Hydro Floss without supervision. Too bad, because with two of these gadgets, kids could have a great water fight.

In big bold print it also says: DO NOT USE WHEN DROWSY. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that how we all feel at bedtime when we are finally ready to address the needs of our teeth?

Using the Hydro Floss requires a deft touch. The manufacturers recommend that you first practice in the mirror without the water stream.

“Dick, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’m practicing cleaning my teeth. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re practicing cleaning your teeth. That’s what’s weird.”

“The pamphlet says that if I don’t first do a couple of dry runs (literally), I won’t develop the proper technique and water will spray all over.”

“Dick, you have been watching yourself brush your teeth for 67 years and you still get toothpaste all over the sink, on the bathroom mirror and, unbelievably, on your slippers. So much for practice.”

The instructions say that once you feel proficient, you can fill the machine with warm water and begin. But now the manual warns you NOT to watch yourself in the mirror because, “this will cause a mess.”

Since I comb my hair and shave while looking in the mirror, I couldn’t imagine how this would be a problem. But it was. Water ended up everywhere: the floor, the mirror, all over the walls. I even got some in my mouth.

Now that I’ve learned how to use it, I can recommend the Hydro Floss. I’d also suggest you buy the two-year extended warranty.  And a good mop.

                          

 

 

COMMATOSE

 IN A PERPETUAL COMMA

I misplace a lot of things: keys wallet gloves the dog’s leash.  Recently I misplaced something that may not seem very important unless you read that last sentence carefully. Then you will realize that believe it or not I can’t find my comma.

Yes it’s true. The comma on the keypad of my iPhone simply disappeared. I will say this: I am very troubled. Where did it go? I don’t know; I still have plenty of other punctuation marks—which I really enjoy using.  But I want my comma back!!!

There has been a lot written about how a comma can change the meaning of a sentence. A bestselling book titled Eats Shoots and Leaves actually has a comma after the word “Eats” describing a murderer who pauses for a snack before firing at his intended victim. Without the comma it’s a simple description of the dietary habits of a Koala.

So where did my comma go? I went to the store where I purchased my cell phone and asked the sales rep John. “Wow that’s a new one on me” he said. Is it really that important to have a comma on your phone?”

“Yes it’s important. You can’t write a newspaper column without commas (as I’m attempting to do now) at least I don’t think so.”

John was perplexed so he fiddled with the phone and then said:

“I can’t find the comma anywhere but I can get you another couple of periods. Would that make you happy?”

“I don’t want any more periods. I have enough trouble finishing a sentence and anyway…”

“I’m still not sure why this is such a big problem for you but I do admit it is weird Mr. Wolfsie.”

“See you just made my point. You just called me Weird Mr. Wolfsie.”

“No I didn’t.  I said this was weird then I paused and then I said Mr. Wolfsie.”

I explained one more time that finding this comma was crucial to being precise and avoiding confusion and that I was not going to be happy without a comma key on my phone.

“When was the last time you used a comma in a message Mr. Wolfsie?”

“Well last week I texted my wife a list of things I wanted her to get at the supermarket: hot dogs beans soda apples lettuce potato chips cookies canned soup.” 

"Did you punctuate that sentence correctly?”

"Of course I’m very punctual.”

"That's a lot of commas for one text.  Which plan are you on?

“Wait a second. You’re telling me I get unlimited minutes but not unlimited commas?”

Another tech guy came over to help me.  We weren’t really making any progress so the store manager finally stepped in to assist and said to his employee: “It’s your lunch hour why don’t you go eat Joe?”

I don’t know who Joe is but apparently he’s very tasty.

Oh, wow, I just figured out where the comma key is.  Apparently, I inadvertently switched to the Canadian keyboard on my smart phone, which does not have a comma in some versions.  But wait, now I seem to be missing another punctuation mark. Not the whole thing, thankfully, just half of it.

(You’ll never guess which one.