AUTO NEUROTIC

I purchased a new car last week, the first in almost 10 years.  It comes with a 250-page instruction book, plus three additional manuals to guide you through the high-tech accessories, but there is no key. I always liked the idea of having a key. “Hey, Dad, can I have the fob to the car tonight?” Sorry, that doesn’t have the same charm.

The car also comes with Bruce, the sales guy at Hyundai, who said he will “always be by my side.”  He didn’t literally mean that, but he did give me his cell number in case I had any problems. Unless, of course, the problem includes using the Bluetooth cell phone technology, in which case I could drive back to the dealership. That is, if I remember how to start the car.

Bruce was very patient with me.  He told me that “before you bring this baby home, you need to know how to take care of her and understand exactly how she operates.” This is pretty much what Mary Ellen’s father said to me the night before our wedding. 

My new steering wheel has 12 buttons on it. That’s more than a corset from the Elizabethan era, and probably just as difficult for an inexperienced guy like me to manage. There are also four buttons on the rearview mirror, including a garage door opener, which Bruce told me I would have to sync with my old garage door opener. Or was it my computer? No, maybe it was my smart phone. No matter.  When he said sync, I knew I was sunk.

One of the apps I can purchase for my smart phone allows me to disable my car if someone steals it. But why not just call the guy?  After all, he has all this new Bluetooth stuff in the car now.  Let’s see if he can figure it out. There are lots of ways to thwart a crook.

“Hello?”

“This is Dick Wolfsie. Who is this?

“Oh, hi, Dick! I’m Joe. How are you?

“Why did you steal my car?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was your car.”

“This sounds like a Seinfeld episode.  Now, I’m going to tap this little app and disable the vehicle. Then I have another app that tells me exactly where the car is.”

“Okay, but this is a pretty bad neighborhood. You won’t have any wheels on this vehicle when you do find it. By the way, this is a great car, but why didn’t you opt for the on-screen GPS? It’s hard to avoid the police without it. Anyway, I’m outta here. Thanks for the ride…and all that loose change.

Hyundai also provides assistance if you have a crash and your air bag inflates. The brochure says that within minutes “help will be on the way.” I don’t know what kind of help an automobile manufacturer can provide in a situation like this,  but I’m hoping they send a paramedic or a neurosurgeon, not some  guy from body and fender repair.

I’m so dense I never know whether something is really broken or if I’m just stupid.  Last night I stayed up until 4:00 a.m. reading about the camera that is mounted on the back of the new Hyundai. I memorized every word so that in the morning I’d remember how to adjust the lens angle, and fiddle with the contrast and brightness.  

I did forget one thing: I hadn’t ordered that accessory.

DRESSING FOR SUCCESS

I’m always disappointed with salad dressing. It’s either too thin or too thick. Some are too vinegary, some are too oily. I must have 25 opened bottles in the fridge. And another 20 unopened in the pantry. In restaurants, I always ask for the dressing on the side, and I request two or three different kinds. Maybe if I combine the lite honey mustard with the raspberry vinaigrette?  How about half French and half Thousand Island? Yuck. Nothing works.

My sister, Linda, who lives in New York, is an awesome cook. Whenever we visit and she prepares a meal, the salad is tossed with the most delicious dressing imaginable. And maybe it’s my imagination, but for 35 years she has avoided telling me how she makes it.  I’ll say during dinner, “Linda, you really have to give me the recipe…”

“Sure, remind me before you leave,” Linda says.

Then, as we are leaving, she often conveniently brings up things like pressing health issues in the family, stuff I really don’t want to talk about. The whole thing is very suspicious. Maybe the recipe is a family secret.  Wait a second: it’s my family, too. 

Recently my wife asked me for the 1,000^th time, “Aren’t you going to eat your salad?” That was it.  I called my sister and told her I wanted to know what was in her special creation and I wanted to know NOW.

“Look, Dick. The reason I never gave you the recipe is that I really have no idea what the exact proportion of ingredients is.”

“How could that be, Linda?  It has tasted exactly the same every year since 1976 when I first tasted it at your wedding reception.”

“I know. It really keeps.  I probably made way too much.”

“Seriously, Linda, nothing lasts 35 years.”

“It actually lasted 25.”

“I’m not talking about your marriage. I’m talking about the salad dressing.”

I pressed her again for details. Finally, after further cajoling, I received this email:

LINDA’S SALAD DRESSING

2 T sugar (NOT artificial sweetener)

2 T ketchup (NOT chili sauce)

1 T Durkee Famous Sauce (Do NOT substitute)

3 T apple cider vinegar (NOT red wine vinegar)

1/2 cup of vegetable or canola oil (NOT olive oil)

Put in blender (Do NOT whisk)

Well, first of all, this was the most hostile recipe I had ever seen, and I think an entire cookbook like this would be very intimidating for people who wanted to just have some creative fun in the kitchen. I prepared the dressing exactly as Linda instructed, and I even called her to be sure I had the blender on the right speed. All Linda said was, “NOT puree.” By the way, growing up, she had a very positive attitude.

I am very proud of my finished product. I have drizzled it on my salad every night for the past week. I decided to ask Linda for the recipe for her fabulous Chicken Marsala. She told me she really didn’t have the specifics for that one, either, but she said that when Mary Ellen and I come to New York next month, she’ll serve it to us. I said “No thanks.” I seem to remember that’s also what we had at her wedding.

BLIND TEST

My wife was away for a week recently and I knew I would have some problems in the kitchen. I had no clue how to operate the microwave or turn on our new dishwasher. One night, I kept answering my cell phone until I realized it was the fridge making a ringing noise because the door was left open.

I had occasion to drive my wife’s Toyota Prius while she was gone and I had no idea how to use all the high-tech controls on the dashboard. I wanted to listen to my favorite radio station, so I turned to what I thought was 90.1. The station did not come on, but it sure got hot in the car.

When Mary Ellen returned from her trip, she asked if I had kept to my diet. I admitted that I had gone to two all-you-can-eat buffets and I consumed too much because everything looked so good.  That was the wrong thing to say. Apparently Mary Ellen read an article on the plane that one way to lose weight is to eat your meals while blindfolded.  In several experiments, people who had their eyes covered ingested 22 percent fewer calories. That number was actually much higher, but researchers decided not to count all the food that fell on the floor or dribbled down people’s shirts.

The theory behind this is simple. When you can’t see what’s on your plate, scientists say you’re “more apt to listen to your stomach.”  I am someone who does listen to my stomach, and so does the entire congregation at the Heartland Church on Sunday mornings.

When subjects were taken to an actual restaurant (rather than dining in the lab) and then blindfolded, they finished about half of what was on their plate—unless they peeked and saw they were in Chipotle. Then they consumed 100 percent less.

I wanted to test the theory of not viewing the food I ate for lunch the next day while my wife was out shopping. When she arrived home, I told her I had been doing a little experiment to see if this calorie-reduction plan was legit. Mary Ellen looked at the ketchup all over my face and shirt and said: “Okay, now tomorrow see what happens when you eat blindfolded.”

Researchers also claimed that cutting off any one of your senses enhances the taste of food, which leads to less consumption of unneeded calories.  I wondered what effect it would have to wear earplugs.

“This is crazy,” said my wife. “Covering your ears will not make you eat less.”

“It’s worth a try, Mary Ellen. What are we having tonight?”

“I’m making your favorite: oven-fried coconut chicken, twice-baked potatoes and creamed spinach.”

“I wish you had waited until I put in my earplugs to tell me that.”

“Why?”

“

Because that sounded really good.”

The bottom line is that I have tried covering my ears, my nose and my eyes and I have not really lost any weight. Next week, I’m going to try something I should have thought of before: I’m going to try covering my mouth.

NOT A HUMOR COLUMN. JUST THE PASSING OF ANOTHER SPECIAL LADY

PAPER TIGER

Betty Weesner had the same job for almost 60 years and never got a promotion. She would have complained to the boss, but she was the boss—both the editor and the publisher of The Republican, the oldest newspaper in Hendricks County. One hundred seventy years old to be exact. Betty always liked to be exact.

Betty passed away last week at the age of 90.

Since 1890, The Republican has had only three editors. When I reached their office to send my condolences, her long-time assistant Betty Bartley said, “Yeah, some newspapers have that many editors in a year.”

Betty Weesner started her career at The Republican in the late ’30s—when she was 10—writing school news. The editor was a crusty old journalist who also happened to be her father. The publisher was a crusty old journalist, too. (Also her father.) “My dad paid me a dollar a week.  I was in it for the money,” she once kidded me.

In the 1950s, she graduated from the IU School of Journalism (rare for a woman at the time) and took over for her dad in the mid ’60s. The tiny storefront on Main Street in Danville has housed the newspaper for more than a century, having moved from a couple of other locations over the years. During Betty’s 60-year career as editor, she didn’t miss a single issue, even battling snowstorms to make her deadlines. “People love their local paper,” she said. “When we mess up, we hear about it.”

The old building is chock-full of, well, everything, but mostly stacks of newspapers going back decades. There’s also an old linotype machine and wood type from the Civil War.  Up until just a few years ago, the paper was laid out the old-fashioned way by cutting and pasting news copy onto story boards, then sending the proofs off to the printer. They went digital about five years ago.

Betty’s view of what was worthwhile for her publication echoed her father’s philosophy. He was once asked why Lindbergh’s crossing of the Atlantic was not reported in The Republican back in 1927. “Because Lindbergh was not from Hendricks County,” said the late Edward J. Weesner. Betty had a more lax policy. “If you want to get in The Republican you have to either be born in Hendricks County, live in Hendricks County, work in Hendricks County or get in trouble in Hendricks County.” I once asked her to print my humor column each week and she pretty much told me that unless I was thrown in the local pokey, she couldn’t justify putting my name in her newspaper.

Betty believed in local newspapers. “They confirm the gossip you’ve heard all week,” she once told me. She was an influential force in the community for decades and still covered town council news until just a few years ago. Even from her nursing home the last few months, she read each issue, occasionally pointing out a typo, but she was more apt to praise her tiny but loyal staff for their hard work.

In 2007, I interviewed Betty for my TV segment. The story earned an Emmy award.  I went to Danville to tell her about the honor, but she said she still couldn’t mention me in her weekly Edition.“But it’s only noon,” she told me. “Plenty of time for you to still get arrested.”

INSULT OF HEIGHT

 

Most people stop growing in their late teens or early 20s. I was stunned the other day to learn that President Obama’s annual physical indicated he had grown over an inch since taking office. His doctor said there was no explanation for this. The Democrats said it was Obamacare.

Of course, seniors do not usually get taller. Just the opposite. One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons is an elderly woman tracking her husband’s height with pencil marks on the inside of a closet door, just like our parents did when we were kids. Sadly, the lines on the door suggest the man had gradually been getting shorter.

Recently I went for a medical procedure that required a brain scan. A nurse called the next day to say that after examining my head for 15 minutes, they were pleased to report they didn't find anything. I guess this was good news, but they need to find a better way of presenting that information.

While I was there, I was also weighed and had my height measured. Now, my father was six feet tall and my mother was barely five, so I always calculated I was right in the middle, at 5' 10". (You can see now why I didn’t do well in math.) For almost 55 years, on my driver’s license, my passport and all medical questionnaires, I listed myself as 5' 10". It not only made me feel tall, but it made me seem trim according to the weight chart. If I gained a few pounds, I just told myself I was taller. I found this easier than cutting back on pie.

The nurse reviewed the stats:  "Blood pressure, 123 over 80; height 5' 8", and weight 170. Very good, Mr. Wolfsie. Please step over here and…

"Whoa!  How tall did you say I was?"

"That would be 5 feet, 8 inches—in your socks, which adds a little, of course."

"Look, first of all, I'm 5' 10". Okay, maybe 5' 9 1/2", and second of all, these are expensive nylon socks, and very thin."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Wolfsie. Please grab one of the blue gowns off that hook on the door…if you can reach it."

That night when I got home, I asked my wife how tall she thought I was. "Well, let's see, when I'm in heels, I'm taller than you, and I'm 5' 7", so I guess I'd say you are 5' 8". And you're just about as adorable as can be." 

"But when we got married, I told you I was 5' 10". You should have said something,

"I figured you just rounded it up from 5' 7." You did the same thing with your math SATs. By the way, I also didn’t believe that 170 number you threw at me—not by a long shot.

“You think I lied about my weight?”

“Oh, I thought that was your IQ you were bragging about.”

The bottom line is I have to admit either I’m a pathological liar and need some expensive counseling or I am—and this is tough to admit—shrinking. It's going to depend on which one is covered by Medicare.

HOMELAND SECURITY

I was watching an episode of House of Cards one afternoon and suddenly the TV’s sound went off.  I pushed every button on the remote. Nothing worked. It was time to get out the manual. Every troubleshooting guide begins with the assumption that some people are totally clueless.

1. Does your house have power?

2. Is your unit plugged in?

3. Is the switch in the ON position?

4. Are you taking all your meds?

Those are the only four things I can effectively troubleshoot. After that I skip right to the 800 number. I am convinced that people who answer these calls are just the Turkey Hotline folks who have nothing to do the other 51 weeks of the year. I called our cable company and, incredibly, got a live representative very quickly.

“This is Dennis. May I help you, Sir?”

I explained the problem I was having. To help me, he required my PIN number, but I couldn’t remember where I had written it down.

“In that case, I have to ask you a security question you provided us. Who is your favorite movie actor?”

Oh, no.  Was that really the security question I had given them? I was drawing a blank.  “How about Johnny Depp?”

“Not the right answer. Sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am. That was way before I saw him as Tonto in The Lone Ranger.

“Look, Dennis, could you ask me my wife’s maiden name, instead? How about my favorite superhero? Where was I when Kennedy was shot? Come on, work with me here.”

I wondered if it was possible that it was Mary Ellen who had signed up for cable and answered the security question.  I asked Dennis to hold while I called Mary Ellen on my cell phone.

My wife was in an important meeting, but I was desperate. “Could you interrupt her?” I pleaded with the receptionist.  “I have an urgent question.  Please ask her who her favorite actor is.”

Apparently, Mary Ellen did not believe that I would bother her at work for something that stupid. “That can’t possibly be my husband on the phone,” she told the secretary.  “Just to be sure, ask him the name of his first pet. Make sure he says Slowpoke.”

Well, I blew that question, too, because I answered Bosco, who was my first dog. I forgot about that silly turtle I got when I was four.

Thankfully, I finally remembered that I had written the PIN number on a piece of paper and taped it to the back of the TV.  The cable company then did some kind of a reset and sure enough, the audio was back. But it was driving me crazy that I could not remember who my favorite actor was, so I asked Dennis to tell me who I had picked.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Sir. That would be a breach of security.”

“Wait a second, you’re not allowed to tell me who my favorite actor is? That’s crazy.”

“Well, I suppose I can, but first I need to ask you a few security questions…”

LOSING AN OLD FRIEND

 

Anna Weisenberger was not an old friend.  But, she was my oldest friend. She passed away last week at the age of 109.

Our relationship began with a call in 2006 from Bob Haverstick, my buddy who headed up Never Too Late, an organization that granted 2,000+ final wishes to seniors.  Anna’s request was to meet me in person.  She had been a fan of my newspaper column and watched me on TV. When Bob heard the wish, he said to her: “We can do a lot of neat things for you in this organization. Can’t you come up with anything more exciting than that?”

Several months later, I joined Anna and her friends for a party at the Lawrence Community Center in Indianapolis where dozens of people gathered for Anna’s centenarian celebration along with a little square dancing.  Friends also attended her 101^st and 102^nd birthday in a similar theme, but at her 103^rd birthday, Anna was clearly finding all the excitement a bit tiring. “Maybe we should just do this every two or three years,” she told me.

Bob and I visited her several times at her home, often bringing her favorite lunch, a fish sandwich from McDonald’s. One time she requested a corned beef sandwich from Shapiro’s, Indy’s well-known restaurant famous for its tasty soups and sandwiches.  A trip to Shapiro’s was not convenient that day so we picked up corned beef from another eatery. Anna was grateful, but before we left she whispered in my ear, “I know that wasn’t from Shapiro’s.”

I once asked her about her husband, who passed away back in l987. They had been together 57 years. “Did you ever consider marriage again?”

“Heavens no,” she said. “I think once was more than enough.”

My favorite of her remarks followed another luncheon date.  As we walked to the door, she was commenting on some of my recent columns. “I want to give you a little friendly advice,” she said. “Be careful: you’re giving your wife all the funny lines.”

A voracious reader and grammar buff, she would occasionally red-line one of my sentences and she questioned some of the phrasing.  She once spotted a typo.  I mentioned this to Heidi, my proofreader, who seldom misses my goofs.

“That’s a really good catch,” said Heidi. “Who spotted  it?  Your wife? “  Some ambitious newspaper editor? I’m dying to know who has a sharper eye than me?”

“It was my friend Anna. She’s 103.”

Anna sent me emails on a regular basis with her critiques.  When she was 94, her family gave her a computer and she took a class to learn how to use it.  “It’s easier than calling the grandkids,” she told me.

When she was in her early 90s, Anna advised her neighbors not to worry if they didn’t see her driving around in her Buick.  “I didn’t die, she told her neighbors, “The car did.”

When I paid my last respects at the funeral home in Westfield, I heard more than a few people say that living to 109 was not something they aspired to. Anna would have concurred. She lived her last five years in a nursing home where they took wonderful care of her--but I know she missed her independence.

I can hear her saying:  “I think 104 years was more than enough.”