PLEASE GO AWAY

PLEASE GO AWAY

My wife and I were planning a trip to Florida to visit Mary Ellen’s old high school friend, but Joy’s husband was unexpectedly called out of town on business. Steven and I usually play golf together, so I was a little disappointed. But a change in scenery and time to read on the beach still sounded enjoyable.

“You’re still welcome to come along,” said Mary Ellen when she heard the news about Steven’s absence.As you’re reading this, please try to say the sentence, “You’re still welcome to come along,” about six different ways, and just try to make it sound like I really was still welcome to come along.

“Well, do you want me to go with you? “ I asked my wife point blank. I had put Mary Ellen in an awkward position.  My wife always tells the truth, which in this case would probably hurt my feelings, but at least we’d save on a plane ticket.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to join me…” she began, “but don’t you think it would be good for our relationship to spend a little time a part?”Now it was me who was in an awkward position. Suppose I said, “Yes, that’s a good idea, Mary Ellen.”

“

You’ve never mentioned this before, Dick. How long have you felt this way? Maybe we should have taken separate vacations way before this. I thought you liked my friend, Joy.”

Or I could have said: “No, I’d still like to go.”

“And what are you going to do all day while Joy and I are talking about old times? I don’t want you to be grumpy the whole trip and feel ignored. I certainly would be okay if you visited one of your old friends without me.”

“Okay, how about my friend Erik who lives in Paris?” (Heh heh, that was a good one. I wish you’d seen the expression on her face.)

The bottom line is that Mary Ellen is off to Florida and I get to stay home and be a bachelor for a week. That, of course, is one of the dumbest expressions ever uttered by a married man. There’s only one thing I would want to do if I really were a bachelor for a week, and I think you know exactly what I’m talking about: I want to eat my dinner standing up at the sink.

My biggest concern when my wife leaves is that I have no clue how to use our TV remotes. We have one for Apple TV, one for the DVR, one for the VCR and one for regular TV. Mary Ellen told me to gather all the remotes in the house and practice. “How are you doing?” She asked, as I fiddled with each device. “Did you successfully change any channels?”

“No, but I opened and closed the garage door six times.”

I hope Joy and Mary Ellen have a good time together. I also hope Steven and I see each other soon. I sent him a text inviting him to come here to play golf, just the two of us. I also told him he has a standing invitation for dinner. 

BREW HA HA

BREW HA HA

I like to read newspaper articles containing the words "exercise" or "workout" in the headline, hoping that new research will prove the whole thing is a big waste of time or is actually bad for you. They keep changing their minds about the pros and cons of coffee—so you never know.

The first real review of the benefits of exercise was in the early 1900s when a scientist divided people into two groups to compare their relative health.  Half exercised daily or had jobs that required physical exertion. All those people are dead now. So, there you go.

A new study claims that people who drink beer are more apt to exercise on a regular basis.  This seems counterintuitive. I know, because I was sitting at a counter having a brew when I read about it. Maybe this is how people get six-pack abs.

Scientists caution people not to misunderstand these findings. For example, a jogger might assume that a positive correlation between exercising and drinking serves as an excuse to overindulge. This could result in a serious running problem.

The volunteers for this study were asked to install an app on their smart phone so they could document when they imbibed and when they exercised. This generated some false data because after a few drinks a lot of the subjects clicked on the wrong icon and ended up playing a really lousy round of Angry Birds or Pac Man. According to the report, people drank much more than usual on the very day they went to the gym…which may explain why I can't remember the last time I exercised.

Lab animals have been used to more carefully study the connection between exercising and alcohol. Apparently rodents were much more interested in a little booze after spending the day in a rat race. Sound familiar?

Just as you should carefully select the proper wine with food, I’d suggest careful attention to your choice of libation during your workout routine. If you are jumping rope, opt for a nice, hoppy ale. A cold draft seems appropriate while running a winter marathon. If you are trying to add some bulk to your frame, then enjoy a hearty stout. Attempting to break a world record for push-ups? A Guinness, of course. Okay, that was way too many examples.

In more news, a pub owner in Wisconsin is starting a weekly meet-up called Butts and Beers where he sponsors group aerobic activities, then provides his customers with a wide selection of local brews. His big annual shindig is a 5K run, but it’s only a hundred-yard dash. (The K stands for Keg.)

Finally, a new drink called Lean Machine is currently being marketed in California, touted as a “recovery ale.” It's supposed to be a substitute for Gatorade or Powerade, but it’s basically beer with a bit less alcohol and some added sodium.  A growing number of fitness buffs in LA are drinking this stuff just to be hip.

Who can resist beer pressure?

THE WHOLE TRUTH

My wife says I’m not a spiritual person but I believe I could be someday. I mean, you have to have faith. The most spiritual thing I do is shop at Whole Foods, a supermarket that caters to people who opt for a diet that is organic, pure and chemical-free. However, I prefer food with preservatives. It’s cheaper than a face lift.

My wife is really the big fan of this store, and whenever we are headed in that direction, she says, “Let’s stop at Whole Foods.”  Sometimes we don’t even go in. We simply look in the huge window and watch people shop and eat vegan pizza. It’s all about the journey, isn’t it? See, I’m getting more spiritual already.

Over the years, Mary Ellen and I have shopped at various supermarket chains. I don’t like buying eggs and milk in the same place you can buy snow boots, an unassembled chest of drawers and treadmills, like Super Target or Meijer. They’re really Half Foods.  But at Whole Foods, almost everything on the shelves is edible, except stuff that is fat-free, gluten-free or sugar-free…which, come to think of it, is almost everything.

Last week, I bought an organic bar of soap, wrapped in clear shrink-wrap. When I got out of the shower the next morning, I told my wife that I didn’t think it lathered very well. “Is it because it’s organic?” I asked Mary Ellen.

“No, it’s because you just washed yourself with a wedge of cheese.”

Mary Ellen’s shopping list is a model for all Americans who want to eat healthy. She buys skim milk, low-fat cottage cheese, broccoli, skinless chicken breasts, and granola. When I have a chance to shop on my own at the traditional chain stores, I smuggle in the white bread, hard salami, doughnuts and the frozen creamed spinach soufflé (which sounds healthy, but it contains an alarming 27 grams of fat). When we go shopping anywhere 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 more like a dog. I deserve it.

All the magazines at Whole Foods promote a healthy lifestyle. The words “yoga,” “yogi” or “yogurt” are always somewhere on the cover. One that caught my eye was called Spiritual Re-awakening. If you turn the magazine over and then upside down, it reveals a totally different publication called The Road to Renewal. I thought this was another approach to reaching nirvana, but it may have been a subliminal reminder that your subscription is about to expire.

The alternative cover has a headline revealing an article with a check-list for what to take on your next journey.  Already feeling my otherworldly side, I predicted they would advise bringing a positive attitude, a degree of self-reflection and a measure of introspection. Actually, the top three were underwear, white socks and sandals. These were items to take on one of the several dozen mind/body retreats they were offering around the world, and at a very lofty price, I might add.

I guess you can be a new-age, Whole-Foods-shopping, transcendental-meditation-loving, yoga-practicing, Buddha fan, and still believe in capitalism in the real world.

That’s the spirit.

 

BRUSH WITH FAME

Mike and Glenda Carmichael of Alexandria, Indiana, have been married a long time, but they still have a ball. In fact, they’ve had this ball for nearly 40 years. A paintball, that is.

You’ve probably seen or heard about it, but as a TV reporter, I will soon have the honor of covering this story again. And covering is exactly the right word.

It all started in 1977, when Mike and his three-year-old son, Michael Jr., painted a baseball that was sitting on a shelf in their garage. Mike thought it would be a fun pastime for his family to continually repaint the ball to see just how big it could get. Fast-forward four decades and almost (key word: almost) 25000 coats of paint later and we now have a 4,500-pound sphere of paint, so big it sits (hangs, really) in a nearby barn. Yikes! And there is no end (or circumference) in sight. How big is it? Well, as you will learn by the end of this column you will be able to see it… and then you’ll believe it.

When I first did the story on TV back in the ’90s, Mike’s venture was a mere roadside oddity and to know about it you really did have to pass by his little rural road in Madison County. After the segment aired, everything snowballed, er…paint-balled. Since then, Mike has been featured on numerous national travel shows, CBS This Morning, and a page in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. And, of course, The Guinness Book of World Records.

But now with Facebook and Twitter, the word—and the paint—have really spread. “I’ve had people drive all the way from Canada just to paint the ball,” says Mike, whose detailed records show painters from almost every state. Also logged are the different colors in each layer (there are 20 choices) and the name of each person. “Sometimes and entire family wants to paint the ball,” says Mike. “It’s cheaper than a day at Disney World.” Mike’s wife, Glenda, is responsible for more than 8,000 paint coats, a feat for which she is openly proud. “It’s more fun than vacuuming, and you feel like you have accomplished something.” You have?

There have been celebrity painters, as well.  The Oakridge Boys put on a couple of coats along with Bill and Gloria Gaither, and they all sang a few tunes in the process. That process, by the way, takes about 10 minutes if you go it alone, but many families, each member equipped with his or her own provided roller, can knock off a coat in just a couple of minutes. To ensure that no one “misses a spot,” there is a mirror under the ball to see those hard-to-reach places. The ball is not a perfect sphere. “In fact,” admits Mike, “it’s kind of lumpy.”

To paint the ball, Mike asks that you make an appointment, but has welcomed a few unannounced visitors. “It’s hard to turn down someone who’s travelled hundreds of miles just to get a photo of themselves panting the ball.”

On Saturday morning, January 23. on WISH-TV’s Daybreak, I will be painting the 25,000th coat. How interesting will that be? About as interesting as watching paint dry. 

THE VACATION FROM HELL ( A CHRISTMAS POEM)

The Wolfsies have returned from a Christmas cruise where high seas and bad weather made our journey less than enjoyable. So, in the spirit of Clement Clarke Moore's classic poem spiced with a little Dr. Seuss, I hope you enjoy my memory of the trip. 

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the boat

People were restless so here's what I wrote

We had decided this Christmas to forego a gift

And instead spend the money to all go adrift 

The Wolfsies were nestled all snug in our beds

While visions of port calls danced in our heads 

Mary Ellen in her nightgown and I in my tee

Were ready for bed and looked out at sea

When out on the deck there arose such a racquet

I ran to our closet and grabbed a life jacket

Then to the port hole to look out on the ocean

That made me seasick...all due to the motion

When what to my listening ears should I hear

But an officer's voice and the message was clear:

The sea was too choppy, or so said the captain

Disembarking the ship was not gonna happen

Then he whistled and shouted and called them by name

No Honduras, no Cozumel and then, no Belize

I let out a curse word

My wife said, "Oh, geez."

With no ports to dock in, the message was clear

They couldn't stock up on food I held dear:

No knockwurst, no blintzes, no lox, and no brisket

The heck with the waves, I thought they should risk it. 

Then in a twinkling an announcement to all

Confirming again there'd be no ports of call

But the captain assured all on the cruise

There would be lots on board to entertain and amuse

Now Johnsons, now Goldbergs, now Reynolds, now Grays

There's shuffleboard, ping pong and a jukebox that plays

The casino is open, just think about that

Or learn to fold towels in the shape of cat

The people on board could not have been madder

And then out on the deck I heard such a clatter

When what to my wandering eyes should appear

But the head chef himself in his holiday gear

He was dressed all in white like a man from the navy

And his clothes were stained with chocolate and gravy

He had a broad face and a little round belly

And he passed out some pastries and small jars of jelly

Then a wink of his eye and a nod of his head

And now I was sure that I would be fed

He spoke not a word but went right to his station 

Creating his dishes from every known nation 

He pinched thumb to forefinger and said, “magnifique!” 

What a soup he created: I think it was leek.

Then he made a new sauce and a great crème brûlée

Then back to the kitchen to prepare for the next day.

I heard him exclaim as he went out of sight:

Merry Christmas to all and enjoy every bite!

Grumpy New Man

My wife told me the other day that my New Year’s resolution for 2016 should be to stop being so negative and grouchy. But my humor columns are dependent on those very qualities.  I’ve made a career out of people mistaking my crankiness for wittiness.

I once complained to the manager at Kroger that their entrance and exit doors were on the wrong sides. “I’ll never shop here again,” I told him. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” But did he call me grumpy? No, he burst out laughing—and told me I should use that line in my next column.

A few years ago I protested to a couple of Girl Scouts who came to the door selling cookies that their product was too high in fat and that eating S’mores would shoot my lipids through the roof. Their mothers called and thanked me, saying this was a good health lesson for nine-year-olds. These women must not have known I bought six boxes.

This past spring, I complained to some of my neighbors about their unkempt lawns.  I fussed at others who were putting their garbage out at the curb two days before trash pick-up, and I put my foot down about kids making a ruckus shooting hoops in their driveways on Sunday mornings when I was trying to sleep.  Instead of being annoyed, they made me president of the homeowners association. Maybe the problem is that I don’t have the right “old codger” look. I’m going to stop dying my hair and start hoisting my pants up to my ribcage.

I’m optimistic about 2016. I’ve already put together my top 10 list of stuff that makes me grumpy.

I don’t want the clerk to keep asking me if I have a Speedy Rewards Card. I don’t.

I don’t want to buy something in a bag that says tear here. It doesn’t.

I don’t want tech guys telling me it’s as easy as plugging it in. It’s not.

I don’t my wife telling me I can learn to load the dishwasher correctly. I can’t.

I don’t want my son telling me I should look at YouTube cat videos.  I shouldn’t.

I don’t want people asking me if I’m the guy who does the weather. I’m not.

I don’t want people asking me if my dog, Barney, is still alive. He’s not.

I don’t want some telemarketer calling to ask if I would like to try a generic Lipitor made overseas. I wouldn’t.

I don’t want people telling me they read my column in the Indianapolis Star. They can’t.

I don’t want my wife asking me when I’m driving if I know where I’m going. I don’t.

And finally, number 10, just to show you that I don’t end everything on a negative note…

I don’t want someone on the phone asking if I mind holding. I DO!

YEAR IN REVIEW

THANKS FOR THE LAUGHS

Every December I look back at all the people who deserve thanks for helping me find a little humor in everyday life…

Thanks to the young man who came to our door and convinced me to switch my cable provider.  He asked how long it usually took me to get on the Internet.  “Well, I start in the kitchen, getting a beverage. Then, with this pesky knee of mine, it takes me quite a while to get down the stairs to the computer. By the time I find my glasses, we’re looking at eight to ten minutes.” 

Thanks to my plumber, Rex, and my computer geek, Kevin, both of whom charge 100 dollars just for walking in the door. Rex usually brings a plunger and is gone in five minutes. And Kevin, a couple of times, just plugged my printer back into the outlet. As my mother used to say, “They sure have your number.” They do.  But I’m glad I have theirs, too.

To Bruce at Butler Hyundai who sold me a new car that has a steering wheel with 12 buttons on it, 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 laptop? No, maybe it was my smart phone. No matter.  When he said sync, I knew I was sunk.

To my wife, who points at everything. “Look at the sky,” she’ll say and point—like I don’t know where the sky is. And when she wants me to turn right, out comes that finger. On a recent trip, she asked, “Don’t you want me to point out things of interest?”  “Yes,” I told her, “but I don’t want you to actually point at them.”

To all my friends at my 50^th high school reunion, where I learned many things. Here are two. First, if you wear the wrong name tag, most people won’t know the difference for at least an hour.  And second, even though the guys I hung out with in 1965 didn’t take drugs, now we all do.  

To our friends from church who organized a bocce ball tournament. We didn’t know the rules, so I bought a book online called The Joy of Bocce. I already owned The Joy of Cooking and The Joy of Sex, although both of them were put in storage before we started to remodel our kitchen.

Thanks to Mary Ellen, again, who upon checking our email confirmation for our hotel in Washington, DC, last spring, casually mentioned that we weren’t as close to the downtown area as she had wanted. “How far are we?” I asked.  “About 2,300 miles,” she said. I had booked a hotel in Seattle, Washington, by mistake.

And finally, to the authors of my favorite publication of 2015, iPads for Seniors for Dummies, a book the publishers say is for people with no experience with tablets. Wait, seniors take several tablets every morning. The introduction says that with your new iPad you can “have fun, explore the online world, and look at naughty videos.”  It doesn’t really say that, but they could use something to get my generation into the Apple Store.