FEMALE PROBLEMS

   FEMALE PROBLEMS

The good people at the Social Security Administration are partly responsible for my feeling financially secure, but they have done a lousy job at making me feel secure socially. Hey, isn’t that what the name says? My story begins with an actual letter I received this week from my supplemental Medicare provider…

Dear Richard Wolfsie

Our records show that the gender we have for you doesn’t match the information received from the Center for Medicare and Medicaid. To have your gender corrected, please contact your local Social Security Office.

I dialed immediately, hoping to reach a real person who could look into everything without having to actually look at anything, if you know what I mean. After I answered a few automated questions, a man who identified himself as Art came on the phone and offered to assist me. I told him my last name and Social Security number.

 “Yes, we have you on file. What can I do for you,  Ma’am?”

I could see this wasn’t starting out very well. I explained to Art the confusion that had arisen but I tried talking with a deeper voice, hoping that might move the conversation along in the right direction. At first Art thought his office had a software problem, as opposed to my having…I guess what you’d call a hardware problem, but he was clearly stumped by how to fix this dilemma.

“This is a new one for me, Wolfsie. By the way, mind if I just call you Wolfsie? At least until we satisfactorily address this problem?  Not sure I can fix this with a simple keystroke. This may require a face-to-face meeting.”

I was uncomfortable with that possibility. I’m not a rugged looking guy. I even have some soft features. I tried to talk him out of it. “Look, how about an eyewitness report. Can you take my wife’s word for it? Or I can have the guys from the gym sign an affidavit. Or maybe the security agents at the airport could give you a buzz. Those guys have seen it all.”

I’m very sorry, but we do have our standard operating procedures,” said Art.

The term “operating procedures” really  creeped me out. This seemed an extreme way to get all the information to match.

“Are you on Medicare?” Art asked.

“Yes, for the past several months.”

“Which parts?”

“Gee whiz, you don’t have a record of those parts, either?  There must be some explanation for all this.”

”Wolfsie, maybe the computer read your first name as being either a man’s or a woman’s—thus the confusion.”

“You must be right, Art.  Who doesn’t have a nieces or a grandmother named Richard?”

“I need to put you on hold again, Wolfsie.  Sorry to make you wait.”

“No problem. I’ll pass the time flipping through Bride magazine.”

Moments later…

“It looks to me, Wolfsie, that we have you officially listed as a man all your life, but for some reason you became a woman in our system when you signed up for Medicare. That was effective March 2, 2012.

“Well, if it’s so effective, why didn’t I get half-off Ladies’ Night at Victory Field or a free dirty martini during Cougar Happy Hour at Harry & Izzy’s?”

We had been on the phone almost an hour when Art said he needed to check one more thing. He promised he’d return in a few seconds. I held for another five minutes but he never came back on the line. He just kept me hanging.

Isn’t that just like a man?

A SHORTS STORY

A BRIEF APOLOGY

I recently spent an hour in another man’s underwear. Telling the story of how I took a complete stranger’s briefs may help me locate the original owner and wash away the guilt I am feeling. Let me put my readers and editors at ease. This is not an X rated column, although I did go through a period in my life when my own shorts were XX.

The story began as I arrived at the fitness center hoping to improve my standing on the racquetball ladder. My win-loss record is 12-56, is just about as low as anybody can go, although as you are about to see, I found a way to sink even lower. In preparation for another trip to the courts, I had not only packed all my athletic equipment, but I threw in an extra pair of socks and undershorts, so that once I finished losing, I could shower, sit in the hot tub and then leave refreshed.

After the match I placed my change of clothes on a bench, and stepped to a nearby mirror to comb my hair. I then returned to my locker and dressed.  That’s when I noticed the man next to me frantically looking through his gym bag, then opening and slamming shut lockers.

“You didn’t take my underwear, did you?” he asked.

The very idea I would put on his shorts! Who would stoop that low?  True, I have not led a totally crime-free life. At the supermarket, I’ve pilfered an occasional pistachio from the display pile, double-sampled the quiche at Sam’s Club and just once at a local fast food place, I refilled my water cup with a shot of Sierra Mist.

When I returned home I was caught unaware—I caught myself in someone else’s underwear.  In my duffle bag, I found both the pair I played racquetball in and the extra pair I had packed. It wasn’t possible, was it? I was scared to look, but I undid my belt and took a peek. Sure enough, I was wearing Hanes, a cut above my usual Fruit-of-the-Looms.

I didn’t know where to put myself. But I did put the unfamiliar underwear immediately in the laundry. After all, at some point I would have to return them. But to whom?  I didn’t know the guy’s name, just his waistband size. But I did remember the expression on his face when he realized what a frosty ride home he was about to embark on.

So, if you are the man whose underwear I accidentally took, you have a right to be upset. You probably think I was telling you a little white lie. I know I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes. Wait, I better check those, too. The bottom line is that I didn’t know what I was getting into. You can see I am breaking my New Year’s Resolution to cut back on horrible puns.

I assume at this point you do not want your shorts back. And so, I would like to buy you a 12-pack of Hanes just to say I’m sorry. This will put you 11 pairs ahead.  Let’s you and I make a clean start in 2012.

A SHAMELESS PLUG, BUT A GREAT GIFT IDEA

Dear Facebook Friends,  

I received a few requests for more information about my newest book, Mopey Dick: Deep Thoughts from a Shallow Mind, a compilation of my columns from the past five years. If you have been reading my stuff each week, you don't need this book, unless you have a rotten memory like me.  It does make a great gift—partly because it is funny, but mostly because it is so cheap. 

There are four ways to get the book, in order of simplicity...

1. Send me an email and let me know who you want the book(s) signed to. I will send them with an invoice ($13.00 each, which includes postage. Or, two for $25.00 or three for $30.00.)

                                        email: Wolfsie@aol.com

2. Go to Wolfsie.com and use VISA, MC or Paypal.

3. There's also Amazon or local bookstores, but I can't personalize those.

4. You can wait about three years until my wife wants them out of the garage. Then you can come and get them for free.

Thanks and Happy Holidays!

Dick Wolfsie

wolfsie.com or wolfsie@aol.com

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.

THE MEDIUM IS THE MASSAGE

Ouch!

Ow!

Ooh, that really hurts…

Please stop. Are you trying to kill me?

We can all agree that having a lousy dentist can be an agonizing experience. But I don’t have a lousy dentist; I have a very good one. The only yelp ever heard from one of my appointments was the day I accidentally bit Dr. Smith’s finger. 

Now, my massage therapist is a totally different story. She is not simply good.  She is superb.

“Does that hurt?” she’ll ask.

“Yes, just a little.”

“How about this?”

“A lot: that hurts a whole lot.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I try to see her about once a month because I spend several hours each day sitting in front of my computer. As a reader of this column, you realize just how painful the results of that can be.  I’ve tried everything to relieve my neck and back soreness: a chiropractor, an acupuncturist, a physical therapist, even a ghost writer, but nothing has worked.  I did try typing my column on my iPad while standing up. I also tried it while using a traditional yoga pose, and one time while lying on the pool table. If you get your back in the right spot over the cue ball, there is some merit to this technique.

My massage therapist’s name, by the way, is Dee. Her business is called Touch by an Angel, but you have to go through a little hell in order to get to the heavenly part. I think she should change the name of her business to DEE…P Massage, but I am literally in no position to have a normal conversation with her, because I’d be talking to the carpet.  Each session begins with me lying on my belly with my head in this device at the end of the massage table. Do you know what this contraption is called? It’s a face cradle, which explains why after about two minutes of DEE…P massage, I’m wailing like a baby.

Dee is a big fan of water. Lots of water. She thinks many of my problems come from not being properly hydrated. She suggested I drink 10 glasses of h2o a day, and it has actually helped my back! I am in the bathroom so much now, I don’t get to sit in front of the computer for any stretch of time. Oh, and talking about stretching, Dee wants me to do a lot of that, too. Stretch before I exercise; stretch after I exercise; stretch before I sit at the computer; stretch when I walk away from the computer. I told her I already do all that eight times every afternoon. That was a stretch right there.

After the last session, I mentioned to Dee that the next time I get a massage, I’d like a relaxing therapeutic experience rather than the DEE..P kind that can be excruciating at times.  Dee thought that sounded like a wonderful idea, “but who’s going to give it to you?” she asked.

When I left the other day I gave her a copy of my new book. Why wouldn’t I?  She’s not only been an excellent health care provider, but a loyal friend.  “Thanks, Dee,” I wrote, “You always have my back.”

IF YOU EVER HAD A PIMPLE ( and a Smart Phone)

CLEARING UP A PROBLEM

A dermatologist in Southern California may avoid jail time by the skin of his teeth.  He has been marketing a $1.99 app for smart phones that emits both a bluish and reddish light, which he claims will cure acne.  Dr. Smith has sold about 20,000 of these. Now, ironically, he has a blotch on his once-unblemished medical record.

Most of the experts agree that these lights can’t hurt you, but if a kid is holding his Blackberry against his pimply nose while driving, he’s likely to back the car into a mailbox or end up with his Ford Fiesta in the lobby of a Motel 6. No instructions are provided with the app, so one of the difficulties is knowing exactly how far from the problem area to hold the device. Some of Dr. Smith’s accomplices, I mean associates, are thinking of adding a GPS, a Global Pimple Searcher, that will automatically zero in on any facial imperfections. 

Doctors at Baylor University are upset about this apparent scam: “There should be more studies,” clamored one of their investigators. Okay, Doc, here’s one for you:  Nine out of ten adolescents with zits will believe anything you tell them if they think it will clear up their face. That is why I spent most of the ninth grade with lemon wedges and a heating pad on my forehead. Another researcher was equally concerned, noting:  “I am worried about the teenager with open draining sores, because bacteria on the phone could lead to a minor skin infection.”  Hey, I was just an American Lit major, but this is the last thing in the world a 14-year-old is worried about.

The app emits 660 nanometers of light, which anyone with a post-doctoral degree in laser science knows can’t hold a candle to what a good glob of Clearasil can do. If you are one of those people who paid for this cyber rip-off, it still might not be a bad idea to rub the smart phone across your forehead. Maybe the smart part will rub off.

Even the people at Apple are concerned about the legitimacy of this application, warning customers that it’s “for entertainment purposes only.”  Yes, this warning comes from the same people who offer an app to notify you if you’re going have a bad hair day, and one that measures the amount of time your smart phone hangs in the air if you toss it straight up to the sky. Oh, and there’s also a two-dollar app that simulates human digestive sounds, noises we already download for free every day.

Whether Dr. Smith can avoid prison is still in question, but he maintains he’ll take his punishment like a man. Whenever he’s asked by the media about doing time in the slammer, he’s directed by his PR people to say: “Breaking out is not an option.”

His wife is worried that even a short prison sentence will jeopardize their marriage. Dr. Smith confirms their love: “She’s my main squeeze,” the dermatologist tells everyone. Which is not something his PR agency wants him to say.

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.