WEIGHTY DECISION

WEIGHTY DECISION!

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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.

YES WE CAN

YES, WE CAN

My son has been buying frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the grocery store. I am hooked on the stupid things and I now have to hide them in the downstairs freezer behind the Healthy Choice dinners. If my wife finds out what I have been paying for this rip-off, she may never microwave anything good for me again.

Now, another innovation has hit the shelves: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a can. It’s called a Candwich, a product name that was tested with thousands of potential consumers and produced the fewest number of people sticking their forefingers in their mouths, pretending to gag.

Mark Kirkland from Utah is the creator of this idea. He claims that one day he was eating a cookie and chugging a Coke and when he put his hands together, it suddenly dawned on him that you could put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a can. Say what? Sorry, I don’t think this has quite the lasting charm of the story of Sir Isaac Newton and the apple.

So instead of buying a ready-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a vending machine, or purchasing the separate items in a supermarket, Kirkland puts all the stuff in a portable kit and charges four times as much money. Consumers are also unhappy to discover that—like their new deck chair—some assembly is required. And there are no instructions included.

Inside the container is a hot-dog-like bun wrapped in cellophane. Next to it is one squeezable packet of jelly and one of peanut butter. Dispensing ketchup and mustard this way has always been a hassle, so why not try it again with the world’s two slowest moving foods?

Included is a utensil for easy spreading. Sales for Candwich have been brisk, but not without some drawbacks. Prisons and airlines will not offer the product to their diners. “We’re not sure why,” said one of the company investors, “but we think it might be because there’s a knife in the can.” There is also a piece of taffy for dessert, an ill-advised choice because along with the peanut butter embedded in your palette, the company has pretty much eliminated any chance of word-of-mouth publicity.

Busy parents looking for an easy lunch for the kids applaud this meal in a can, although some are concerned that their six-year-olds might not be able to negotiate the pull-tab. “But I think they’ll figure it out,” said one mom, “and it will be a good learning experience for when they start drinking beer.”

And there’s a new treat soon to be launched, a BBQ Chicken sandwich in a can. Why chicken? Well one day Mark Kirkland had a piece of KFC in one hand and a...never mind, you get the idea.

Americans may soon buy sandwiches pretty much the same way they purchase Quaker State Motor Oil. Kirkland says there is no limit to where he may go with future product development. Pizza in a Can and Thanksgiving Dinner in a Can are both on the table—not that you really need a table to enjoy the contents. Of course, when you ask true food lovers what Mark should consider canning next, there’s a unanimous response: How about the entire concept? 

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DICK WOLFSIE: FAILURE TO LAUNCH

DICK WOLFSIE: FAILURE TO LAUNCH: "j FAILURE TO LUNCH ..."

FAILURE TO LAUNCH

j                                                 FAILURE TO LUNCH

                                                                            By Dick Wolfsie

During 30 years of marriage my wife has made dinner for me 6,700 times. This is just an estimate. I’m not some weirdo who keeps careful track of things like this, although it is interesting that I’ve cleared the table 6,692 times. Now, how many times has Mary Ellen made me lunch? Zero. Nada. Never. We do have our Thanksgiving meal around noon, but I refuse to call this Thanksgiving lunch because it makes it sound like we’re already digging through the leftovers.

So last week Mary Ellen decided to take some vacation days and just bring home a few files to work on. Because I have a home office, I was willing to assist her with some basic needs. She asked if she could borrow my computer in the afternoons.

“Not a problem, Dear. Sharing is what marriage is all about.”

“And the fax machine?”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“Oh, this will be so much fun. And we can finally have lunch together at home.”

Suddenly, the blood drained out of my head.  I started to perspire. A twitch developed in my right eye and I doubled over in pain.  She was bound to know I was not happy with that suggestion.

How do you tell someone after 30 years that you really don’t want to have lunch together?  When you are a man and you’ve eaten that second meal of the day alone most of your entire married life, you develop a few habits that are hard to break.  And my wife, who shares a significant DNA strain with Emily Post and Miss Manners, would never understand.  This was a recipe for trouble.

That first day, Mary Ellen wanted to have lunch around noon.  I usually sit down sometime between 10:30 and 4:15. Actually, I’ve never sat down for lunch at home in my life.  I make something while standing at the fridge, then eat it on the way upstairs to watch CNN.  By the time I reach the TV, I’m pretty much done eating. I just have to wipe the mustard off the banister.

Mary Ellen made it clear that a healthy meal includes a green vegetable.  But you can’t effectively walk up a flight of stairs eating spinach salad without a plate and a fork. Heaven knows, I’ve tried.

She also said she looked forward to having a conversation while we dined. I love my wife; I enjoy talking to her. But not on a Wednesday in broad daylight. And I’m sorry, but no real man has ever picked up the phone at home at 12:30 p.m. and said: “Can’t talk now, Elliot, I’m dining.”

Mary Ellen prepared a nutritious meal—a sauteed chicken dish with fresh broccoli. Once we were seated, she said, “Bon appetit,” which is considered an affectation even in France if it’s said before six at night.  Then she noticed what I was wearing.

“I can’t believe you have on sweats and a dirty T-shirt.  Please don’t sit down for a meal with me looking like that.”

I was hoping she would say that.  I stood straight up, grabbed my plate and headed for the stairs. A few minutes later, I heard Mary Ellen scream for me. She wasn’t angry. It was my turn to clear the table.

MEAN MEDIAN

MEAN MEDIAN

“Have you been drinking?” asked the officer, politely I might add, when he stopped me on

Broad Ripple Avenue

in Indianapolis, after I had turned west from Keystone. I was on my way home from a WISH-TV remote shoot, my usual Sunday morning beat.

“Drinking?” I said with a bit more hubris than is generally advisable when addressing a law enforcement officer. “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

“When was the last time you had a drink?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s not a good sign, Sir.”

“That’s not what I mean. I think I had a beer three nights ago,” I stammered. Stammering, by the way, is not recommended during a situation like this.

The officer then explained that when I made my turn I “nicked the median with my front tire,” and that in his experience as a police officer, “this usually means the person has had a few too many.”

“Officer, this is silly. I’m not drunk. I’m just a lousy driver.” As you can see, I was having trouble saying precisely what I wanted to say. Another bad sign, by the way.

The officer went back to his car with my registration.  A few minutes later he retuned to my vehicle.  “May I ask if you have ever been arrested?”

“Arrested? Look, I know you’re doing your job, officer, but other than three days overdue at Blockbuster, I’ve never been in trouble in my life.”

“Sir, I am going to let you go, but based on your careless turn, I could give you a breathalyzer test to see if you are legally drunk.”

“If it’s legal, what’s the problem?”

(Author’s note: That last line I just made up. But the rest of the story is 100% true.)

When I got home, Mary Ellen asked me why I was so late. I told her that when I made a left turn off of Keystone I hit my front tire on the median and a cop pulled me over for being intoxicated.

“You do that all the time. Why didn’t you just tell him you’re a lousy driver?”

“I did tell him that.”

Mary Ellen burst out laughing. “I was just kidding. I can’t believe you said something that to a policeman.”

I called my friend Rob Butler, who sold me my car, and told him the story….

“That’s amazing. How do these things happen to you?” asked Rob. “And the funny part is, you’re a good driver.”

“I am?”

Of course not, I was just kidding”

The more I thought about this faulty left-hand turn, the more I wondered about my driving ability. So I went back to that corner and made the same maneuver multiple times. In nine out of ten attempts, I  was successful in negotiating that pesky strip that divides the street.

If I were a baseball player in the World Series, that would be a 900 average. But it wouldn’t be for hitting. It would be for missing.

CELL MATE

CELL MATE

It’s not easy being Dick Wolfsie’s cell phone. He’s misplaced me 72 times just in the past 18 months. Of course, I was never really lost. I knew exactly where I was, but have you ever tried to get this guy’s attention?

I’m also all chewed up because his destructive dog likes to gnaw on my corners. I’ve become a cellular cookie, a mobile meatloaf, if you will. It’s not a job I’d call home about. Next time, no pets. 

Here’s my story: On Sunday, I’m at the Shrine Circus at the Fairgrounds where Dick is doing a TV show. I’m in his pocket. No, now I’m resting on top of a clown cannon. Oops! He just shoved me under his coat on a chair. I’m lost. He starts looking all over for me. Now he’s borrowing a phone. He’s going to call me. Uh oh, my battery is running low. I ring. Success.

We’re headed home. He just throws me in his briefcase and I land in a tiny hidden pocket next to a health insurance card that has been missing for the last month. He’ll never find me here. I can just peek out the tattered corner of the leather bag and see him.

Monday: I’m still in this briefcase, but he doesn’t know I am missing because he never left the house all day and most calls go to his regular phone. It’s really dark in here.

Tuesday: He’s looking for me. He’s checking every coat pocket....Oh, here he comes toward his briefcase. He peers into the abyss, but he can’t see me. Call me! Call me before it’s too late! He heads for his desk phone. I go right to voicemail. My battery is dead.

Wednesday: He heads back to the Fairgrounds to see if he left the phone there. I’m right next to him in his briefcase. Oh, the irony. No, they didn’t find a cell phone at the Circus. Back home, he searches the entire car, including where I once slid under one of the floor mats. The rest of the day he looks everywhere, including in his briefcase four more times. Boy could I use a charge.

Thursday: He’s given up. We head to the cell phone store. Time to buy a replacement. His contract is almost expired so they make him a deal on a sexy new model with a lot of features so he can get email he’ll never learn how to access, and take countless accidental pictures of his ear. He falls for it. Men! The salesperson destroys me digitally on the computer. I am cellular non grata.

Dick gets back in the car and we head home. Once in the house, he starts reading the new instruction booklet. He’s confused and frustrated. He has underestimated the power of familiarity. He’s starts pushing buttons wildly. He hasn’t had this look on his face since he bought a new toaster.

Suddenly, a flash of insight. He stares at his briefcase. He walks over and turns it completely upside down and shakes it. Out I fall. Also his insurance card. And a set of keys from his last car and his sister’s Happy 55^th Birthday card. (She’s 57 now.)

He embraces me and kisses my mangled corners.

Friday: We head back to the phone store. He tells the clerk he doesn’t want his new phone, that he’ll eat the cost. He just wants his old friend back. My circuits well up.

“Okay,” says the perplexed customer service rep, “but keep the new phone, just in case you lose the old one again.”

“Yeah,” says Dick, “like that would ever happen.”

CAPTCHAING THE MOMENT

My good friend Patty Spitler is the host of Pet Pals on WNDY-TV every Saturday morning. She asked me to join the show’s fan website where I could view photos of dogs and cats and post digital shots of my own furry friends.

I logged into the Pet Pals sign-up page and after entering some preliminary data came face to face with a CAPTCHA. This is not a breed of dog like a Shar Pei, but both are equally shmushed together.

A CAPTCHA is the security feature that requires you to re-type a series of hard-to-read letters and numbers exactly as they appear on the screen before being issued a password or given permission to access a website. It ensures a real human being is taking advantage of the various promotional opportunities. Without CAPTCHA, renegade software programs could amass a boatload of $10-off coupons to Bucca de Beppo, creating a scarcity of giant spicy meatballs right here in Indiana.

Apparently computer software programs can defeat a grand master in chess and beat the pants off the reigning Jeopardy champions, but they can’t read really bad handwriting. Deciphering chicken scratch was never a problem for my elementary school teachers, but if my printing was as bad as CAPTCHA’s when I was back in the fifth grade, I’d still be back in the fifth grade.

On the Pet Pals site I carefully hunted and pecked the curious series of letters into the box. Let’s see: was that two V’s in a row or was it a W? Was that KLo or Kb? I had no idea, so I took a wild guess. INCORRECT, the prompt berated me. Graciously, they offered me another chance.

I took out my reading glasses and peered onto the screen. I typed with only one finger to increase my accuracy. There were two words this time with a squiggly line through them. Some letters looked like caps and others didn’t, but some you couldn’t tell because they were back-to back with another figure. Some of the numbers appeared as if they were doing the tango together. Why was this so difficult? I just wanted Patty’s fans to see Toby with his adorable St Patrick’s Day hat on. I wasn’t trying to join the CIA. I made another attempt.

INCORRECT repeated the prompt. Or was it InCorRecT?

I became so frustrated that I tried the audio CAPTCHA, intended for folks with vision issues, which clearly included me. In this version of CAPTCHA you hear a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds, much like in a crowded restaurant, then suddenly a recognizable word emerges like ORANGE, then more murmuring, then another, maybe BATHTUB, just as an example.

I enunciated each word I heard into my computer’s microphone, not aware my wife was listening at the foot of the stairs:

RETREAT…ALAMO…VIOLIN…CHRYSTANTHMUMS…SWITCHBLADE

Mary Ellen was frightened by my incoherent rant.  She inched back up the steps without making a sound.

I finally got into the Pet Pals website and I also managed to convince my wife I had not totally lost my mind. How did I do that? Do I have to spell everything out for you?