PUCKERED OUT

No polling data is offered. No experts are quoted. No international study referenced. The people at Dentyne come flat out and say it in their newest TV commercial: The average person spends 20,000 minutes in their lifetime kissing. Again, this is simply an average. Your smooching may vary depending on whether you attend a lot of Greek weddings or have more than 15 grandchildren.

I'm not an overly competitive person, but I do believe in keeping up with the Joneses, who, by the way, are our newlywed neighbors down the street. The Fettermans next door have been married 40 years, so I'm thinking these folks may represent a more realistic role model for me.

I assume I've been rolling along at an acceptable rate up until now, but why not increase my output so my obit can read: Exceeded the standard kissing time by 2,000 minutes. Even my harshest critics would be forced to concede that when it came to lips, I was successful at putting two and two together.

When Mary Ellen came home the other night, I gave her the customary hello, but I realized that if I lingered a few seconds longer in the osculation and then multiplied that time by my predicted life span, I could increase my total production by 20 percent. Osculation, by the way, is the scientific name for kissing. Don't use that word during romantic encounters. It'll have a negative impact on your lifetime total.

After 30 years of marriage, my wife became instantly aware that I had breached the unwritten rule for time spent on the customary "Hi, honey, I'm home from work” kiss.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Is something wrong?"

“Your kiss. There was this delay. You were loitering on my cheek. You do know it's only Thursday.”

The question, of course, is how they ever came up with 20,000 minutes. I did a little math and it looks like if your kissing career spans 75 years, you need to kiss about 47.4 seconds a day to reach this goal. I'm a happily married guy, but there are a couple of days a week that to reach this number I would have to count my relationship with the dog (we're just best friends, I assure you) and my new Big Bertha three wood that gets a little extra lovin' whenever I don't hit a ball out of bounds.

Dentyne has a Facebook page where customers put their kissers right online, revealing true-life stories about kissing. About 12,000 individuals are seeking advice on how to inform loved ones about their halitosis. Actually, it's only 11,258 people. The rest are Beagles, Cocker Spaniels, St. Bernards and the like, put off by humans who insist on going nose-to-snoot without first freshening their breath.

The Facebook site also notes: “You kiss 20,000 minutes in your lifetime. What about the other 40 million moments?” Great. It's bad enough I'm obsessed with maintaining oral hygiene while puckering, but now I find there are a slew of other situations where my breath should be pristine. I wish they had been more specific.

In order for my wife and me to someday reach the national average, I'm really going to need her full cooperation. Last night I told Mary Ellen how beautiful she is and how great dinner was. I think I have a chance of reaching that 20,000 mark, as long as kissing up counts.

A LA CARTE

On the Wolfsie refrigerator, next to a photo of me hugging Goofy at Disney World (I was a mere 57 years old at the time) is Mary Ellen’s list of items to be purchased on her next trip to the supermarket. Needless to say, there is frequent updating, like if we consume the last of the mayonnaise or the dog gets into the pantry and gobbles up all the raisin bran. Our beagle does that on a regular basis. The good news is that it has made him very regular.

Mary Ellen’s list is a model for all Americans who want to eat healthy. There’s skim milk, low-fat cottage cheese, broccoli, skinless chicken breasts, and granola. Here’s the question: If that’s pretty much what the list always looks like, how did all that other crapola we eat end up in our kitchen? Who smuggled in the chips, the hard salami, the doughnuts and the creamed spinach soufflé–which contains an alarming 27 grams of fat? I am the culprit, of course, and that is why I avoid food shopping with my wife. When we do go together, I’m on a very short leash and the chances of getting any treats are zero, even if I beg. I wish my wife would treat me even more like a dog. I deserve it.

We used to go the store together all the time. She thought it was important for our relationship to walk down the aisle making food choices as a couple. She was confusing its significance with the aisle we walked down 30+ years ago. But there’s a huge difference: After I said “I do” in l980, Mary Ellen didn’t say, “I don’t think this is good for you,” or “Are you sure this is what you really want?” and when we kissed during the service, she definitely didn’t say: “You still have plenty of this back home.”

I’m second-guessed about everything I put in the shopping cart. Here are some of Mary Ellen’s favorite expressions:

No one still living eats white bread.

Yes, we do need baked beans, if you don’t count the 24 cans on top of the pool table.

Why are you buying low-fat trail mix bars? You know you’re not going to eat them.

Why are you buying cheese puffs? You know you’re just going to eat them.

Mary Ellen has junk-food radar and more often than not, she’ll locate my hidden cache with just a glance. I do try to sneak things into the basket, but it’s tough to hide a large Tombstone pizza under a can of peaches.  Having to put an item back on the shelf is the most humiliating thing that can happen to a guy—at least in public.

Recently, I ran into a friend at the grocery. “Hey, Dick, doing a little reverse shopping, are you? You must be here with the wife.”

To avoid future embarrassment, I told Mary Ellen that this week I was going to go to the store alone. She said that was fine, and Saturday morning she handed me a sheet of paper.

“Thank you, Mary Ellen, but I don’t need a shopping list.”

“Oh, it’s not a shopping list. It’s a permission slip.”

MEATING NEW PRODUCT DEMANDS!

I’m okay with artificial flowers. I don’t mind artificial turf. Who can argue with artificial intelligence? (Apparently, not even the people on Jeopardy.)  Honestly, some of my friends are kind of artificial so it would be wrong for me to object to anything that had that label.

However, this headline did catch my attention: ARTIFICIAL MEAT IS SIX MONTHS AWAY. I almost choked on my reduced-fat Hebrew National Hot Dog. This announcement comes from research at the University of Maastricht in the Netherlands. The institution used to be called Rijksuniversiteit Limburg, but even the Dutch couldn’t pronounce that so now they’ve shortened it to UM. You hear a lot of students saying, “I’m going to UM, a really cool college.” Which is what every undergrad says when you, um, ask them where they are studying. By the way, Holland is an odd place for this kind of research. The Dutch make their shoes out of wood when they could have chosen leather. Is this who we want developing a tasty substitute for meat? 

The article reports that scientists are growing synthetic sausages from “pig cells fed by horse serum,” and what a catchy phrase that will make on the package. It has a better ring to it than Johnsonville Fakes. This is obviously not an option for vegans or vegetarians. It’s for people who enjoy meat, but prefer that what they eat has spent its entire life in a test tube, not chewing its cud and emitting greenhouse gasses. I have been informed that these gasses come mostly from the cows burping. Somehow, I thought you’d be relieved to hear this.

Savvy marketers are gearing up for a media blitz to embarrass real carnivores into trying what they plan to call a Vitro Burger.  The ad agency has already started spreading rumors that the most popular McDonald’s menu choice has dead cow in it. This approach was persuasive in focus groups, especially with people who still question the President’s birth certificate and the moon landing.

One scientist admits that right now the meat they are making is generic looking, but in his words, “I’m hopeful we can have an actual hamburger in less than a year,” which is also a commonly heard phrase from people in line at the Burger King drive-thru.  Creating this first artificial burger will cost about $350,000, but that does include a soft drink and a small order of fries.

Apparently, the color of the “meat” is kind of a pasty white due to the lack of blood. The result is the product doesn’t look very appetizing. I could see where that might hinder sales. I totally lose my appetite when my food doesn’t look bloody.

The corporate chefs promoting this new creation are suggesting the faux burger be served on a gluten-free, low-carb, no-sodium bun. Is there any actual food in this sandwich? I’ll eat anything, but it does have to be something.

If my friends want to go to a restaurant that offers bogus beef, I’ll simply refuse to eat that artificial stuff.  I’ll just have a Diet Coke, thank you. 

BREAKING BAD

My family has been attending a new place of worship on Sunday mornings, and we think we have found the perfect spot. The Unitarian minister is engaging. The congregation is warm and welcoming. Even the coffee is good after the service. In fact, I wouldn’t fix a thing.

More to the point, I can’t fix a thing, yet that’s exactly what they asked me to do. Last week, there was a sign-up sheet posted for some terrific social networking opportunities, like movie nights and a pitch-in-dinner.  My wife and I wanted to be involved in several of these activities, but while jotting down our names on a sheet, I noticed a man in a beige sweater motioning me over to his table. He was inquiring about who had certain skills to assist in some projects to spiff up the church grounds.

“Say, Dick, can you help us replace some broken windows?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a clue how to do that.”

“Any experience with electricity?”

“Bulbs. I can change bulbs.”

“How about plumbing? Can you assist with that?”

“I don’t have a prayer.”

I had to be careful. I used to belong to a temple back in New York. Jewish people have a blessing for everything and I didn’t want to find out that I did have a prayer for plumbing.

“How about just cleaning?” he asked.

My wife was on my side with this one. “He doesn’t even know how to do that at home,” she volunteered. Mary Ellen loves to volunteer. What a trouper.

I know that the Lord works in mysterious ways. But why did he have to make repairing things such a mystery to me?  Growing up, everyone in my family was more adept at this kind of stuff. My father, for example, could fix anything. He’d go downstairs to his workshop with the broken cuckoo clock or an electric can opener on the fritz and an hour later emerge from the basement to flaunt his success. How about some credit for me? Where would Dad have gotten his glory if I hadn’t busted this stuff to begin with?

My mother was also skillful at repairing things. After all, she fixed dinner every night for 30 years. I had a sleazy uncle who coached football and bet on his own games. He fixed most of them.  My brother was always in some kind of a fix. And my sister? Well, she spent most of her free time fixing up her unattractive friends. Even our dogs were fixed. Fixing is in the Wolfsie blood. The problem is I don’t have the patience to address repair issues and then I get very down on myself.  My blood must be Type A… and negative.

I used to have a great handyman.  He installed our ceiling fan, rescreened the porch and patched up the leak in our roof.  He charged $50.00 an hour “…unless you help me,” he’d say, “then it’s $65.00.”  Now that he’s gone, my wife’s favorite expression is, “You need to call somebody.” So I call the plumber, the electrician, the roofer, the computer repairman. I can’t fix anything. That’s why I’m broke.

My Life Saving

Would you like to save $14,450? You can, claims the Entertainment book, chock-full of good deals, brimming with coupons, awash in discounts. For a cheap person like me, it’s my savior.

My wife advised me not to pay $25.00 for the annual publication. She claimed we’d never use the coupons—and if we did, we’d either go on the wrong night, end up at the wrong place, or the coupon would have expired. I consider this user error and decided that with proper management of my discounts, the result would be monumental savings.

A few months ago I said, “Here’s the plan, Mary Ellen. For the next few months we are going to try to go to every place in this book, all 569 of them. Think of the money we’ll save. Think of the fun we’ll have. It will be like a second honeymoon, only this time we’ll get two one-topping pizzas for the price of one…as long as we buy a liter of Pepsi and we don’t have it delivered.”

With that, I laid out on the kitchen table an elaborate chart detailing the itinerary—our cost-saving journey through Central Indiana. My wife was not impressed. “I don’t mind dinner at the DQ, but do we have to play a game of Laser Tag the same night?”

“First of all, it’s not one game, it’s two. So don’t poop out on me. It’s the second game that’s free.”

“According to this, Dick, you also want to get up early Sunday morning and go duck pin bowling.”

“Do I know how to plan a vacation, or what?”

“I do think we’ll be tuckered out from the two hours of paintball on Saturday night.”

Mary Ellen had a point. The first couple of weeks were exhausting. Morgan’s River Rentals in Brookville may have been an especially bad choice. To get the discount you had to rent two boats, and I think we’d have had more fun and been less tired if we were in the same canoe.

We were like kids: trampolining, wall climbing, go-karting and miniature golfing. It was a little disconcerting watching Mary Ellen swing at 100 mph fast balls, but what else are you supposed to do with 50 free tokens at a batting cage?

When it came to dining, we had hundreds of restaurants to choose from. Most were fast food locations. Mary Ellen was burgered out. “Didn’t we already eat at White Castle four times this week?”

“We still have six coupons left for sliders.”

“But, Dick, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, that’s why the line is so long.”

We did have some relaxing days: two for one at the Muncie Children’s Museum, the Basketball Hall of Fame Museum, and the Indianapolis Zoo. At the aquarium in Newport, Kentucky, we were offered a free kid’s ticket if we bought two adult tickets. The problem was, we forgot to bring a kid. Later that day, we also got three Big Macs for the price of two. One of them is still in the glove compartment.

Overall, we had a great summer. We saved about $1,200. And it only cost us $3,000.

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.