Bob Miller's Musings

SEARCHING FOR SNOWBALL

2008-10-12T08:48:00.002-04:00

There have been a ton of books written on what happens to our beloved pets when they pass on. The bottom line is that all good pets go to Pet Heaven where they chase imaginary flies, fertilize lawns at will and lick their privates while waiting for us to join them in the afterlife. The bad ones that routinely devoured mailmen, manuscripts and Manolo Blahniks go to a place called Pet Purgatory where they atone for their sins by watching on television the other good departed pets having sex on white, puffy clouds while being fed grapes by Rin Tin Tin.

If you have ever read any of these fine literary tomes, you'll easily spot one common thread: all the people giving testimonials on how their late furry friends have given them a sign from the afterlife, all inhale inordinate amounts of Magic Marker fumes.

Michele and I have never been sent anything even resembling a sign that our past brood is alright and loving the great beyond and you couldn't find better pet parents than we were. Little urns, complete with names and dates, cover our mantle and we acknowledge them every morning. Do we get one tiny sign? No, we don't. Why? Because we clearly don't sniff enough Magic Markers!

Just how badly do people want to believe that they're actually getting messages from*76 their deceased pets? Do they want to believe so much that they take any miniscule thing as a sign? Are these the same people that believe the recent plunge of the stock market is a residual effect of yet another Chicago Cubs collapse?

Here's what Mary P. had to say about her communications with her recently departed siamese feline Fluffy.

"I was sitting there all alone, just drinking a jug of wine when all of a sudden, I heard this distant meow. I looked all around and didn't see anything. Just then, a leaf blew in through the window and I knew it must have been Fluffy telling me that she's alright." What? A leaf that managed to blow in through the living room window must have been a message from her deceased cat? How much wine did Mary have anyway?

Susan from Olympia, Washington had this to say.

"I cried myself to sleep for months, missing Mr. Fartypants so much. I often called his name hoping he would send me a sign that he was doing well. Then, one night while I was taking my bath, the candle by the side of the tub just went out all by itself. I thought for sure it was a message that he was doing fine. Seconds later, I began to pick up what I thought was the scent of his wet fur as I remember it from giving him his weekly bath. However, my joy quickly turned to disappointment when I realized that it was only a pile of damp, moldy towels balled up in the corner. Just then, it happened: a sure sign had arrived. A bird came crashing into the window and I'm positive it was Mr. Fartypants telling me that he still loves me. I'm sure of it. He just wanted to tell me that he's fine and that he's forgiven me for those rare occasions when I fed him cut up Slim Jims telling him instead it was a new Alpo flavor." It's hard to dispute the story that Susan tells because, honestly, what could say "I love you," more from a deceased pet than having a bird come crashing into your bathroom window? It's fairly obvious that Susan has cornered the market on Magic Markers but I also wondered aloud if she had been sharing a jug with Mary as well? As I'm sure we all know by now, wine and Magic Markers DO NOT MIX!

Can we be the only ones who have never gotten any kind of sign? C'mon guys, show us something here. Make the lights flicker or put a little cat head indentation on our pillows, anything. We really want to know that you're doing well in Pet Heaven. Hey wait a minute (cue Twilight Zone theme). I'm hearing something. Is that the faucet dripping? It's never dripped before. OH MY GOD!!! Can it be? Yes, I hear it. I love you, too! Thank you. I love you. What's that? You're happy because you get to eat heavenly mice and all the heavenly grass is really catnip? I'm so happy! I love you guys! We both miss you so much! Thanks for the message. We love you! Wait. You're starting to fade. I can't hear...Wait! Please don't go. Just hang on and let me get a fresh marker!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

2008-10-05T06:48:00.002-04:00

Man, how birthday's have changed. When I was six years old, I remember counting down not just the days but the months to that special day. In early July, I would make the announcement to my mom and and dad that there were only eighty-six more shopping days until my birthday. I would rip out pages from catalogs of things I wanted and leave them in places around the house where I knew they would be seen, like inside the liquor cabinet.

The other day, I tried to remember the birthday gifts I received growing up and by looking at them year by year it's pretty clear as to exactly when I fell out of favor with my parents.

Age 8: A bicycle (with streamers on the handlebars) ***
Age 9: Boxing gloves (which I needed because of the streamers).
Age 10: Etch-A-Sketch; baseball glove; underwear
Age 11: Go-Kart (this was the peak of my popularity); underwear
Age 12: Erector set; Ernie Banks autographed baseball; underwear
Age 13: Cubs tickets; Partridge Family album; underwear.
Age 14: Socks (oops!)
Age 15: Birthday card (time to move out, I guess)

*** Parents are unaware that bicycles with streamers on the handlebars is the quickest way for a boy to get a beat down on the playground.

As you can see, I obviously did something during my 13th year that didn't go over all that well with my parents and I can't figure out what it might have been. They couldn't still be holding that little incident the newspaper called "Zero Pressure Police" against me, could they? I thought it was pretty harmless to let all the air out of the tires in the town's police cars, but I guess they saw it differently.

But, as we get older, our priorities shift a bit. All I really wanted this time around was a vacuum cleaner--but not just any vacuum cleaner--I had my sights set on one of those nifty models that actually picks up dirt! I thought I made that abundantly clear to Michele. Everytime I would bring it up, she would respond with a pleasant little "Hmmm." I thought for sure it was in the bag, so to speak. In my mind, I was already pushing that beauty around the house. Yessiree, on the night of my birthday, we were going to have the cleanest house in the neighborhood.

Fortunately for me, being a lifelong Cubs fan, I've learned to live with disappointment from an early age so I was able to accept the fact that there was no vacuum cleaner to be found on my birthday. There wasn't even a Dustbuster. Heck, I would have settled for a broom, a sponge, anything. Was there at least a card? Um, no. I couldn't throw a hissy because at my age we're supposed to be more mature than to let little things like this bother us. But I have learned two things from this experience: 1) my wife doesn't really care if the house is clean or not, and 2) if I really want something badly enough for my birthday, I'll just have to buy it for myself, wrap it and put it away until the big day. Then when I wake up, I can smile, race downstairs, open the closet, rip the package open and with a big smile exclaim, "Wow, underwear! Just what I wanted! Thank me very much!"

IT'S MOVING DAY. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR FRIENDS ARE?

2008-09-28T08:09:00.003-04:00

If you ever want to find out how many friends you have, just ask them to help you move.

Mark was moving and had the date all set. Everybody loves Mark. He's the kind of guy who will get a traffic ticket and somehow end up with the officer's cell number and then an invitation to the annual Policeman's Blowout Ball at the world renowned Moose Lodge where they have actual heads of various things mounted on walls.

Mark has saved your butt on countless occasions. He's run to the dry cleaners for you, he's held your hand in the vet's office while Gonad, your cat, was having his, well, namesake removed and he's even offered up his Lindsey Lohan blow up doll after that tough break up. You owe Mike...big time. Do you think you can find it within yourself to move a few boxes for him? Can you dig down deep and maybe grab that headboard or aquarium? He's even promised beer and pizza for everyone when the job was done. Friends like Mark don't come along very often.

How do show your true friendship and loyalty to someone who's done so much for you? You hide. You lay belly down in your Hydrangeas, complete with camouflage and face paint until the coast is clear and the move complete. You're a SWINE! This leaves Mark with no choice but to enlist the help of his not so friendly neighbor, the former professional wrestler who had to retire after that unfortunate folding chair in the groin incident.

Oh, the excuses you have are priceless...and oh so believable.

From Stanley comes this gem: "Oh man, I'm so sorry. I can't believe it but I completely forgot that a really, really close friend of my cousin's great aunt is having a C-Section that day and I told her that I'd go down to Brooklyn and photograph her cutting the umbilical cord. Sorry. Hey, maybe next time, OK?"

From Jack: "I'm sorry but I have to go to IKEA. They're saving the last sixteen cup holder recliner for me. Sorry, man. Bummer."

And, oh, there are others as well.

Jim: Mark, you'll never guess what happened. My grandfather died.
Mark: Didn't you grandfather die six years ago?
Jim: Yeah, I mean, um...my cat. Yeah, I mean my cat passed away.
Mark: You hate cats.
Jim: (cough) Yeah. I'll never have another one. I promise.

Brad: I've got an issue with my foot. It's uncomfortable to, um, well, I'm not sure I
would be of much use to you on the 11th. I'm sorry.
Mark: You're getting a pedicure, aren't you?
Brad: It took me a month to get the appointment. I'm Sorry.

You call yourself a friend? You're an embarrassment. You should be seriously ashamed of yourself. Didn't Mark hook up your illegal cable for you? Do you have any idea how much HBO and Showtime would cost you?

Mark, it might be time for you to find some new friends, people you can trust, like me, The Big Bobber, for instance. I'm free and don't you worry, I'll be there for you, buddy. I'll just make sure my heart monitor is up to snuff so that I don't accidentally over exert myself, fall and crack my head open, like last week. The only thing is that I have to starch my friend's lederhosen for his big Oktoberfest celebration by noon but before that, I'm there for you pal. Say, is there any chance you can have that pizza delivered before 11AM? Double pepperoni, extra mushrooms and green peppers sound good to you?

CAUTION: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS INSIDE

2008-09-21T09:35:00.002-04:00

If I asked you what you thought the most disgusting thing in the world was you might respond with "A scuba class taught at the sewage treatment plant," or you may say, "my grandfather's backsplash from a bottle of Meister Brau. But, you would be wrong on both counts. The most disgusting thing in the world is the office refrigerator.

This phenomenon didn't just happen. People have been slobs for years. I remember when I was in the 7th grade and wrestling with what to do for our big science project, my father saved the day when he brought home his office refrigerator. I won first prize. The judges thought it was the most fascinating thing they had ever seen. There was bacteria in there that the world of science hadn't even gotten around to naming yet! It was also the first time that the winning entry had to be inspected by people wearing hazmat suits. It was a very big deal because not only did the project get a big spread on page seventy four of The Deerfield Review, but the winning student (me) also received the coveted Golden Microscope Award. It wasn't really made of gold, actually it was a plastic type substance that melted on the dashboard on the way home but it was still pretty cool.

What I can't help but chuckle at are the threatening notes attached to the fridge, such as, "Who's the dirtbag who ate my eight month old tuna fish sandwich?, and "I heard a rumor that the grocery store sells food. Go buy your own, moron!" The people that stoop so low as to steal food out of a communal refrigerator are the same people who take Halloween candy from their kids and Prozac from their spouses.

Kudos to Sherwood Forlee, an aerospace engineer, who has developed the anti-theft lunch bag, guaranteed to put off the hungriest of thieves. Just slip your sandwich in the bag and it looks like your food has flora, but it's actually just the design on the bag. It's a Pulitzer prize winning idea and I hate Mr. Forlee for thinking of it before I did.

Sometimes, just for fun, I will plant stuff in the refrigerator just to see how long it takes before it miraculously disappears. My latest creation was a very attractive platter of Fancy Feast Yellowfin Tuna cat food on a bed of shredded styrofoam packing peanuts. Although I may not always witness the noodleturd actually stealing it, he certainly reveals himself when he calls in sick the next day!

Then, of course, there is always that one well meaning employee who will clean the fridge from top to bottom every so often and then leave a note hoping the boss will see it. "Hi everyone, it's Jami and I spent four hours Saturday scrubbing this disgusting refrigerator so PLEASE KEEP IT CLEAN!" Well, that should definitely work, huh? Although I'm sure we all admire someone's drive and dedication to the cause, such extracurricular office activities rarely, if ever, are rewarded with a special happy hour or even a gold star. More often than not, the notes are soon littered with side splitting jocularity like "Hey Jami, who are you trying to suck up to?" and "Jami has cooties."

Yes, the office refrigerator is a strange and dangerous place, a microbiologist's playground. Why someone would steal something that in a previous life might have been hummus, escapes the boundaries of my comprehension. It must also be one of the great, often overlooked bonuses of telecommuting because at least you know with certainty that the container of cottage cheese--expiration date, Nov. '82--is yours, damnit! Say, does anybody have a number for Jami?

JUST TALK TO ME

2008-09-14T09:21:00.002-04:00

Over the course of the past ten days, I have received one hundred and eighteen e-mails yet only four phone calls. Of those e-mails, one hundred and fifteen were from people I've never even heard of but somehow still believe that my, um, 'flag only flies at half staff' or that my hair's dropping faster than the president's approval ratings. The other three were from my boss, Steve Frankenberry, asking me if I was the one who hid a pound of fresh haddock in his glove compartment. Who are these people who prefer to communicate via the computer rather than simply picking up the phone? These are people who realize that although communicating is necessary, they hate the thought of it and would rather have their ears pierced with railroad spikes than to actually speak to someone. Then, of course, there are those who feel they lack the proper communications skills or don't have the opportunity to try. Among the professions impacted most by this are mimes, embalmers and, of course, radio sales people.

Picking up the phone can be very frightening to some because they feel they're not in total control. One can be as bold as one wants to be when e-mailing or texting because an immediate response is not possible. The sender then may have to wait up to two minutes before being told that he's a really big loser with a brain the size of a chick pea. But, for them, it's somehow less painful than hearing it in person.

I think it's amusing when the person in the next cubicle, exactly five feet away, e-mails me rather than just rolling his chair around the corner and speaking. Whenever this happens, I like to mess with them and respond verbally. They hate that. I've actually had conversations lasting a half hour or more with the other person never uttering a word. People can be very weird.

Jan C. from Cold Spring, NY, told me she hasn't picked up a phone in seven years. She said for her it's much easier to say 'No' via texting or E-mail. The fact that she can't bring herself to say 'No' on the telephone is evidenced by her impressive array of time shares in Juarez, Mexico, The Everglades and Bangkok.

What the heck did these people do before the advent of e-mail? Did their palms begin to sweat at the mere thought of having to reach for the phone? Did they experience dry mouth and begin tugging at their collar as they found breathing becoming more and more difficult? That's a big negative Captain Introvert. They simply had someone else do their dirty work for them.

Joe: Hey Sam, call Bob Miller and tell him that his report is incomplete, inaccurate
and totally off point. And while you're at it, tell him he's ugly too.
Sam: Why don't you do it, Joe?
Joe: Because I'll throw up.

It's a bit ironic that the e-mail and texting nut jobs are the first to quickly grab their cell and feign a conversation when they see someone approaching them from down the hall. Here's a neat little trick: follow them for awhile and watch them squirm as they try and make stuff up on the fly. They'll start to fidget, clear their throat and perform a couple of fake laughs because they know you're on to them. Well, Bob, why can't they just pretend the conversation is over and hang up? They won't do this for two reasons: 1) They'll want to keep up the facade. They think it makes them more believable, and 2) When they 'hang up' we will be there to confront them which could easily scare them to the point that they'll plotz in their Osh Kosh preppy pants. Truth be told, I actually witnessed someone fainting in the elevator while talking to no one. The pressure got to be too much. As it turned out, his phone wasn't even on. I think he is what professionals call a 'non-people person.'

Taken to the extreme, this inability to communicate verbally can put a serious strain on spousal relationships as well. A couple has reached the point of no return when one will address the other by her screen name in written communication. "Hey, FRY163, turn off the light and come to bed." I'm sorry to say that when this point does arrive, the marriage can no longer be saved and it's time to go on Dr. Phil.

So, for the handful of us left that still like to pick up the phone and are frustrated by those who don't, let's start a support group. We can meet for coffee and just let it all hang out. If this sounds like a good idea and it's something that you're interested in doing, e-mail or text me and we'll make it happen.

TAKIN' THE BUS

2008-09-07T08:31:00.003-04:00

At some point in the past few years, the act of parents putting children on school buses for the first time has become a monumental event; one even worthy of about ten pages of scrapbook coverage. Did I miss the memo from the school district?

Attention parents:

"With all the hoopla surrounding the first day of school and parents reassuring and supporting their children as well as each other concerning the all important first bus ride, effective immediately, the school district has deemed this day a holiday and thus, no school. Thank you for your attention to this matter."

I clearly remember my mother pushing me out the front door with a broom on my first day of school, telling me to take three rights then two lefts and the bus would pick me up in front of Fiona's (Smells Terrible, Tastes Great)) Fish Market.

Today, seminars are held weeks before school begins letting parents know everything possible about bus transportation. They learn the names of drivers, the different routes, times of pick up and drop off as well as the p.s.i. for each one of the tires. Adolescent Transportation Experts are on hand and delighted to answer any questions concerned parents may have.

Parent: What if little Jimmy doesn't know where to get off?
A.T.E.: Then little Jimmy sits on the bus for a long time, doesn't he?

Photos are hurriedly snapped, videos taken from every angle and tears are shed by doting parents as the kids try to comfort them and wonder silently if they've had an increase in their medication.

When I walked in the door after my first day of school, my mother never even asked me about the bus ride. She just wanted to know how many perfect circles I drew with that weird metal thing that has a sharp point on one end and a round piece to slip a pencil in on the other. "But mom, listen to me. It was really neat-o! My bus driver, Mr. Guerino blew some really cool smoke rings with his Lucky Strike." "That's nice, honey," she said as she put the finishing touches on her brisket. "Why don't you go in the basement and help your father with the asbestos until dinner's ready?"

I'm a little puzzled, however, as to why this parental behavior doesn't seem to apply when it comes to summer camp. Wouldn't there be more separation anxiety when a child leaves for two weeks as opposed to just a few hours? All I know is that when I returned from camp, my mother kept on calling my father Tarzan for some reason.

Yes, times have changed and, I might add, for the better. Below, let me display a few examples of how school bus transportation has changed and improved in the last thirty years.

Then: "Hey, Mr, Guerino, can you pull over so I can moon the girls in the pleated
skirts on the corner?" "OK, Bobby, just this once but make sure someone
holds on to you."
Now: Windows are welded shut. Anyone attempting to open them will be neutered,
sentenced to one hundred hours of clapping erasers and then expelled.

Then: Pouring root beer over someone's head on the bus was acceptable
behavior but only if they carried a briefcase and buttoned the top button on
their shirt.
Now: No smoking, consuming of liquids, talking, sneezing or smacking of gum
permitted while riding bus.

Then: Milk crates were used for seats.
Now: Children fastened in like shuttle astronauts.

Then: Guns, knives, bayonets, ammunition and hand grenades were only allowed
if...no wait, there was no 'if.' Have fun.
Now: No sharpened pencils allowed on bus.

Then: Bus driver announced he had a stick with meat hooks attached and he knew
how to use it.
Now: Bus driver has cell phone with police number on speed dial.

So, kids, as you can see, it's amazing that anyone over thirty-five years of age is still alive. Be thankful your parents love you enough to protect you from the evils of the world. Have a great school year and just one more thing: Those little metal thingies that draw circles are totally useless when it comes to diagraming sentences.

THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENTS

2008-08-31T08:33:00.003-04:00

Attention bride and grooms: Along with all the parties, gifts and heart stopping bills, comes one more obligation on your part and that's the all important wedding announcement. Grooms tend not to like this part because for them it makes everything seem so permanent. Brides need to recognize this and just deal with it. I will share with you two announcements that I have seen recently; one from the NY Times and the other apparently from Heavy Headbanger Metal Magazine, whose motto is: "Oh good, the light's red so you get a chance to hear my music and watch my windows shake."

Maybe you will choose not to utilize either one of these methods but at least you'll have a guide for what not to do. Pay particular attention to the differing styles and, just for fun, guess how long it will be before couple #1 rips each others eyeballs out.

Couple #1:

"The happy couple dined on Quail Eggs and Mediterranean Skewered Lamb while the one-hundred and twenty piece orchestra entertained the champagne sipping crowd all the while wondering how anyone could possibly eat Quail eggs without turning eight shades of green. The bride looked stunning in her Oscar de la Renta gown dripping with three carat diamonds. The groom was attired in Ralph Lauren and brought three separate sets with him to the reception in the unlikely event that any of the help should accidentally brush up against him. Mr. & Mrs Pretentious will jet off to The French Alps after a brief stopover in Pamplona where they plan on purchasing a matador.

Couple #2:

The Moose Lodge was all decked out with streamers and Meister Brau cans and the newly hitched couple invited everybody to toss a few bucks in the bucket so they could gas up and head to Wildwood. The bride, married only four times previously, exclaimed to the invitees, "I finally found true love and this one might just work." In attendance was the bride's mother along with her six sisters and five half brothers. The bride was thrilled to get a surprise visit from her natural father, who was able to procure a pass from the court in order to attend. He did a nice job of concealing his ankle monitor by wearing a pair of long pants. The guests dined on some fresh vending machine snacks as well as some really small but very delicious hot dogs. The couple met at a stock car race and after a few beers, knew they had something special. The groom is currently employed and the bride hopes to be someday."

Now, what can we tell about couple #1? Well, first of all, I hate them. I think there can be little doubt that their first son will be named either Chauncey or maybe Radcliffe and will be born with a nice velvet ascot around his neck. We also know that the bride has never even seen dishwater much less toiled in it. As far as the groom is concerned, although he would like you to believe that he has more money that the gross national product of some small countries, he is a total wimp because no self respecting male goes to the French Alps voluntarily, especially during football season.

What else can we surmise from this wedding invitation? I think it's safe to say that the bride probably attended Wellesley where she, no doubt, graduated magna cum laude. Currently, she is singlehandedly keeping Wall Street afloat with her razor sharp business acumen. The groom is more than likely a graduate of Columbia Law and is seriously miffed that the new Yankee Stadium isn't being named after him.

While couple #2 may be perceived as being slightly more down to earth, one might also correctly assume that they have a bloodhound asleep on the porch and a 1972 Dodge Barracuda up on blocks in the front yard.

There is one other point that definitely should not be overlooked when planning your announcement and that concerns the photo that you will distribute to the various print media. Trust me, people will notice when it's taken directly in front of a water treatment plant. This was a regrettable error made by couple #2.

So congratulations brides and grooms. Keep in mind that whatever style you choose, your wedding announcement speaks volumes about you as a couple. It's something that you will break out every twenty-five years and exclaim, "OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT HAIR!"

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

2008-08-24T12:28:00.003-04:00

There's never a dull moment with a ninety year old parent. I speak of my ninety-year old Father-in-law, Salvatore, and when you factor in his mid-stage Alzheimer's disease as well as his equally aged girlfriend, Annie, things can get real dicey. What also needs to be mentioned here is that Annie still has a passion for, um...'fruit.'

We all like fruit, don't we? Well, apparently Annie still likes bananas. However, lately the only fruit she's been interested in belongs to my dear, sweet, and very non-lucid father-in-law. By non-lucid I mean doing things like putting the TV in the shower, using the toothbrush on his toenails and shampooing his hair with mustard.

Anyway, back to the fruit thing. Annie, who has obviously been without fruit for a long time has taken a liking to Sal's collection. Sal, God love him, responds to most things these days with sayings such as "I like spumoni,' and "Is this the toilet?" With that in mind, it should come as no surprise that he was totally oblivious to the fact that she was even handling his fruit and this was of no concern to her. We're all convinced that if Annie was back in grade school, she would spend a great deal of time in the principal's office.

Just how did we find out about Annie's desire to caress fruit? The two of them were alone, sitting on the sofa in the TV room at Merrill Gardens in Naples Florida. Annie, capitalizing on the fact that there was no one around, decided to sample Sal's banana. Kids, for future reference, it isn't polite to avail yourself of another person's fruit without permission. Although there was no indication that she ever attempted to actually consume my father-in-law's banana, she was clearly giving it the old 'Is it ripe yet?" test. Meanwhile, Sal just sat there, probably having no recollection of what else one can do with a banana and wondering what time the ice cream cart was coming by.

As Nurse Hammersley emerged from room 313, after having given Mr. Ashburn his weekly ear canal cleaning, she spotted the two lovebirds on the couch. Looking back, I'm sure she wished she had stayed and given him a nostril check and maybe a nice long pedicure as well. It would have been much easier to take than what she would shortly bear witness to. As she walked over to put the TV on for them, the trauma began as she noticed Annie's through examination well under way. At this point she quickly pondered some career change options and vowed right then and there to never attend another farmer's market for as long as she lives. Her hands were trembling and her voice cracking as she attempted to detail the scene. "Annie was going over that...thing with a fine tooth comb, examining it for any bruises and other possible flaws. I told Sal to PLEASE put his banana away and scolded Annie severely and instructed her to go wash her hands immediately as handling someone else's fruit falls well below the sanitary minimum established at Merrill Gardens."

Of course, as a mid-stage Alzheimer's patient, Sal can not be blamed in any way. For all he knew he was at the Yankee game and someone spilled beer on his lap. As for Annie, she will now wear mittens whenever she roams the halls and must watch the film entitled "My Own Private Kiwi," every night for a month. In addition, she has been forbidden from any further contact with any of Sal's fruits, be they berries, grapes or the all important banana. As far as Nurse Hammersley is concerned, she has decided to stay on at Merrill Gardens and will be reimbursed for what will surely be years of extensive therapy. How does Sal feel about all of this? I think he said it best with, "Is the game on yet?"

A LESSON IN LANDLORDING

2008-08-17T11:55:00.007-04:00

"Welcome to the wonderful world of landlording." This is how all the books on the subject start out. They also include such hooks as "Congratulations! You've decided to make a fortune," and "Try not to flaunt your wealth by picking up rent in your Mercedes." Hmmm, where did I park that Mercedes?

What they all fail to mention is that in the vast majority of cases, residential tenants share many similarities with actual human beings and deserve to be treated with compassion, trust and dignity. Seriously, don't you think that if tenants had the money to pay rent on time every month, they would? To hear some landlords talk, you'd think tenants weren't responsible with their money blowing it frivolously on things like satellite dishes, phones and jewelry. It's always money, money, money with landlords. Hey Mr. bigshot landlord, just because you have a mortgage on that rental property, you automatically think the tenants should pony up and make rent payments on time? Be there at your every whim? Show some compassion already! I swear if the heads on some landlords get any bigger they will have to, by law, spray paint their comb-over orange and start marrying super models.

Most hardcore, insensitive and heartless landlords will tell you that tenants have every excuse in the book when it comes to being totally elusive on rent day. I prefer to think of them more as 'reasons' and not excuses. Remember...compassion. Let me spell that for you here. C-O-M-P-A-S-S-I-O-N. I offer up some of the reasons I've been handed recently and you will too, probably sooner than later. Later being about three weeks.

Last month, a tenant informed me that her grandmother had an inoperable brain tumor. As a result, the tenant missed a great deal of work causing her to come up just a wee bit short on the rent. Of course, by 'wee bit' I mean the whole thing. I saw something interesting in the paper exactly one week later so I called her. "Hey, remember your grandmother who passed away two weeks ago? Well, I just read that she was arrested for stealing Hungry Man dinners from Price Chopper. Brain tumors are weird that way, huh?"

Tenant: My son is serving in Iraq. Can I be late with my rent?
Bob: How late?
Tenant: Two years.
Bob: Of course. Let me know if he needs cigarettes or anything.

Remember, compassion.

T: My baby's teething. I haven't has a chance to cash my check.
B: That's OK. Teething is certainly a legitimate reason for not having rent. It's right up there with fires, floods and beheadings. Let me know if your baby needs anything to chew on, like say, a nice piece of rebar.

The No Pet Policy:

T: Hey Bob, I've got a twelve foot Burmese Python. Does that count?
B: No, of course not. Burmese Python's aren't considered pets. I don't know anybody who has
one. That's cool. Hey, think of the fun you'll have answering the door on Halloween. You're
good.

Compassion, anyone?

T: Hi Bob, I forgot to ask you if food was included in the rent?
B: What are you kidding? Of course it is. Just let me know what you want and I'll run right out and get it for you, 24/7. And remember, Wendy's is open until 1AM or later!

T: Bob, I'm going on vacation for 2 weeks. Will I have to pay rent for the time I'm gone?
B: Oh my goodness, didn't I make that clear? Of course you don't have to, silly. It's the same thing when homeowners go away for a few weeks. They notify the bank as to when and how long they'll be gone and that time is automatically deducted from their mortgage payment. What Attila the Hun landlord would make you pay rent while you're not even there? Jeesh!

T: I received a final disconnect notice from Central Hudson. Can you call them and tell them not to shut me off?
B: Well, they've got some nerve, don't they? Of course I'll call them. I'll make it crystal clear just how nice you are and what a marvelous tenant you've been.
After all, you haven't spent a night in jail in almost 6 weeks and that job you have changing urinal pucks in the men's room at the train station seems to really be agreeing with you. I'll take care of that pesky Central Hudson thing for you. Glad to have you.

T: Hey Bob, we're having a kegger on Friday. Could you tell the neighbors not to call the cops on us?
B: Absolutely. The neighbors can sleep later. Have fun and toss back a couple for me. Oh, and if someone should happen to projectile vomit all over the couch, I'll get a new one for you. Enjoy!

So, as you can see, if you want a successful relationship with your tenants, you must be firm, but fair. Exercise compassion and remember above all else that when the bank comes knocking on YOUR door, you can always tell them that you're terribly sorry but you seem to have come down with that pesky 24 hour brain tumor.

CAUTION: SERIOUS NAKED PEOPLE AHEAD

2008-08-10T07:39:00.003-04:00

Protesting never seems to go out of style. Every time we leave our homes we find well intentioned people protesting worthy things like our dependence on foreign oil, unhealthy workplace conditions and Starbucks charging twenty-six dollars for a Grande Colombia Narino Supremo with double swizzlesticks. All worthy causes, I think you'll agree.

The question is how can we tell the difference between someone who is really serious about his cause from someone who just wants to get out of the house for awhile? The answer is simple: The serious ones always GET NAKED! If you truly want to convince others that your serious and they should listen to your message, you have to remove your clothing. There's no other way. Step out of those BVD's and start shaking your placard.

There was a bike rally in Chicago recently protesting something. If memory serves correctly, it was a group protesting another groups right to protest because the first group had already protested about that very same thing last week. In protesting parlance this is known as 'having too much time on your hands.' Anyway, they were obviously serious protesters because they were riding bikes...naked. Riding a bike naked? Have you seen some of those seats recently? One good bump and you can introduce yourself to Mr. Hurt. One little slip through the crack and you'll be rendered a soprano faster than you can say, "What am I protesting anyway?"

In a recent survey, 75% of protesters actually admitted to not being absolutely sure of the cause they were asked to protest but they heard that hot dogs would be served at the rally so they went along. This reminds me of my neighbor, Leo, who asked me if I would be willing to put a Barack Obama sign in my front yard. I actually considered it for a moment thinking it may hide some of the crabgrass but then, in trying to ascertain how serious he was, I asked him if he would be willing to get naked for Sen. Obama. He froze in his tracks, turned around slowly, tripping over his jaw and scampered across the street. Clearly, he wasn't serious at all about his verbiage and for all I know he might even be planning to cast a vote for the late Pat Paulson. You see, it's hard to trust a message from someone who is fully clothed.

One of the main concerns I have is that it's always the people you would prefer to see in a head to toe parka that strip for their cause. It's the nude beach principle all over again. Where are all the people you would like to see au naturel? They're at home...fully clothed, not protesting. Don't good looking people have causes that they are willing to strip down for? Aren't they willing to become one with nature for the right of hard working tax paying citizens to be able to ride the subway for a decent fare? Hey, wait just a minute. I think I've got it. If only we can convince more sculpted bodies to get involved in causes, more people would show up observing the protests and more hot dogs would be sold, thereby making more money for the vendors and jumpstarting the sluggish economy. So the equation would look like this: Attractive naked people (protesters) + rallies + vendors (hot dogs + beer) = healthy economy.

Trust me, it's a win-win situation. People would spend money, the economy would rebound, we would become more confident and relaxed as a nation thereby allowing the republicans to remain in the White House and with that would come the assurance that at least for the next four years, I wouldn't have to worry about seeing Leo naked! And believe me, that's a VERY good thing.

TEXTWALKING: THE END OF THE WORLD

2008-08-03T07:12:00.002-04:00

Once again I find myself in a position of having to scold you and as uncomfortable as it makes me feel, someone has to do it. Some of you, and you know who you are, need to get off the technology train at the very next stop! People in this country are getting battered, bruised and busted up every single day. Why? Textwalking, that's why!

I'm here to say that I have never attempted to text and walk at the same time. I'm sure this is due in large part to the fact that I'm still trying to master the whole walking and chewing gum thing. But, even if I could pull it off, I wouldn't. I don't need to be appearing on the 6 o'clock news as the guy who stumbled into a fruit stand causing hundreds of fresh cantaloupe to spiral down the street at high speeds thus sending pedestrians screaming into the streets, drivers up on sidewalks trying to avoid the carnage and generally making city traffic a fire breathing Hell!

Hospital officials say emergency room visits are on the rise with many waiting an average of 4 to 6 days to see a doctor, all the result of textwalking. The patients themselves won't admit to the cause because who wants to tell someone that they fell down a manhole because they weren't looking where they were going? Instead, what most people do is tell ER personnel they were hit in the face by a phone thrown by Naomi Campbell.

Textwalking is simply not acceptable social behavior. It's like that little dog on a leash you see being walked who weighs two pounds soaking wet and yet the owner has the poor thing in a sixteen pound sweater. The dog's tongue is hanging out as he's got all he can do just to drag the weight of the sweater, much less poop in your yard. It's the same thing, except for the dog, the sweater and the pooping. You see, you have control. You can stop your behavior and make the world a safer place.

Trust me when I say that if we can't control textwalking ourselves, sooner or later it will be legislated by people we voted into office. Do we really want these public servants voting on how much bubble wrap a person should wear before texting on the street? Do we really need them to enact a helmet law for texters? No we don't! We want them at common council meetings voting against builders naming streets in subdivisions after their children and pets! We have to control the situation ourselves and that's why we ask you to please give technology a rest at least until you're stationary. Just remember our slogan: STOP MOVING TECHNOLOGY!

If it gets much worse you know someone will come up with the idea to make textwalking an olympic sport and from there it may even replace the venerable sack races at our company picnics. The world as we know it could be coming to an end. Please join me in this movement. Let's wipe out textwalking all together before one more person or innocent piece of fruit gets damaged!

SURVIVING THE PLAYGROUNDS

2008-07-27T06:25:00.001-04:00

It's amazing to think that anyone now in their 40's who spent anytime at all on the playgrounds growing up is still alive. We didn't have any Grand Theft Auto to play, we didn't have a phone surgically attached to our ears and we certainly didn't have the benefit of music downloads to wile away the annoying eighteen hours a day we had to be awake. How did we do it? We had something called the playground.

My mother used to encourage me to 'go play on the Jungle Jim' so she could settle down with Phil Donahue on WGN. The playground in our neighborhood was great because we had this long winding obstacle course type thing that varied in height from four feet to 'hey, look, I touched a cloud.' Truth be told, today it would not be allowed but if it were, I'm sure it would be called The Big Wheel of Rusty Bolts and Spinning Jagged Edged Metal. LIfe was good. Kids, you're missing all of that today and it's a shame.

I remember playing a popular game, now, of course banned, called dodgeball. The object was to throw a ball and break the glasses of the nerd who got better grades than you. I've wracked my brain to try and remember if anyone's self esteem was ever damaged beyond repair by getting hit. I'm drawing a big zero on that one. All I know for sure is that the kids that were the first ones out are the same ones we call today for expensive legal advice.

I recall a new playground being built not too far from us and we couldn't wait to try it out. We were standing there pounding our baseball gloves as if to think that would make the workers hurry up. My mother actually scolded me, "Robert, do not go on that playground until the asphalt is nice and hard!" What? "Mom, seriously, are you trying to kill me?"

I broke my arm on the playground, well, all right, I was walking to the playground at the time. I was what we called a klutz, kids. When my father got home my mother gave him the Cliff Notes version of what happened as she was busily taste testing the swiss chard and the first thing he said was, "Did he cry?" "No, he didn't," she told him. "That's my boy." Today, of course, before any actual medical procedure can be performed, it has to be run by our insurance companies, primary physicians, the status of our Health Savings Account needs to be checked and finally a prayer that we've met our yearly deductible. For the time it takes mom and dad to do all that kids, your broken arm's ready to throw a curve ball again! Oh, one more thing on the broken arm: kids who can only get their doctor to sign their cast, don't have Prom King in their future.

Sure, we were bummed at first that they were taking so long to invent the internet and video games and stuff but we somehow got by. Believe it or not we took great pride in our athletic ability. We used to race each other between telephone poles and the first one to lay hands on the next arsenic laced piece of wood was the winner. Weird, huh?

And whatever happened to the Teeter Totter? We used that nifty little piece of apparatus to indoctrinate newbies to the playground. We gave them what we called The Gitlitz Surprise. Basically, we would put big old 9,000 pound Gary Gitlitz on one end and the new kid on the other. The new guy was stuck in mid air until Gary decided to get off to fetch another hamburger. Sometimes the poor kid was stuck up there for three minutes! Man, we had fun.

So thanks for letting me share some memories of when playgrounds were real. Hey kids, keep in mind that some day soon you may find yourself in a clandestine game of dodgeball. Should you look down only to discover massive amounts of blood gushing all the way down your short sleeved shirt (tucked in nicely and buttoned to the top) don't you worry. In twenty years those little worms will be ringing YOUR law firm begging for help because they've just been caught siphoning fifteen gallons of gas from a...POLICE CAR! First, congratulate each other on surviving the playgrounds, then do the honorable thing and raise your rates.

NOT QUITE THE PERFECT LAWN

2008-07-20T06:50:00.001-04:00

In keeping with the outdoors theme, I'm having a hard time growing grass in my yard. I've cornered the market on crabgrass and I keep it nicely manicured because it's green and from a distance (a mile and a half) it looks like Kentucky Bluegrass.

My old Program Director, a wonderfully deluded man by the name of Joe Limardi told me about something he saw 'AS ADVERTISED ON TV.' We all know what a fantastic track record they have but Joe is, in a word, naive. He believes that if two men, combined age three hundred and fifty, climb through the ropes at the Orange County Fair calling themselves professional wrestlers, then, by golly, it must be the real deal. By the same token, he thinks that if products are advertised on TV, they must do what the claim, right? We love Joe but we think his dosage needs to be increased.

Once again I ventured into the laboratory to conduct some experiments purely in the interest of science, curious if any of these As Seen On TV products could grow grass. I should let you know before you start thinking I'm a quack that I once got a "B" in science class. During my laborious research, I found two products worth noting. One is called Bald Be Gone (Motto: If you don't have a full head of hair in two weeks, what's wrong with you?) and the other is called Pancake Puffs which are supposed to make mouth watering mini pancakes. In reality, their best usage is for brick mortar. Astute members of my team reported that Pancake Puffs, when used in quantity, can also be used effectively for drawing base lines on little league fields.

In the Patch Perfect TV commercial, they show grass growing right through actual cinder blocks! Wow, that would be great if only my lawn was made of concrete but unfortunately, I have something really annoying called soil. They claim highway workers use Patch Perfect for those hard to grow areas...like bowling alleys. During the course of my experiments, I discovered that Patch Perfect is great for clearing out clogged toilets, shining up nasty pots and pans and when used as a full container, makes a great paperweight. We also marveled at the fact that if you mix Patch Perfect with a combination of Turtle Wax and a synthetic motor oil (I used 10W30) it will remove unsightly underarm stains and in severe cases, actual underarms. Please don't not try this at home kids. Remember, I once got a really good grade in science class.

With the frustration level now off the charts, I tossed an entire bottle of Bald Be Gone out the window. Imagine my surprise when I got up the next morning and found thousands of little PANCAKES all over the lawn. People traveled from miles around to witness the spectacle and take photos of me in a white lab coat. I cautioned everyone not to eat the pancakes because they might be poisonous. I needed to make absolutely sure that they were safe to consume so I called up Totally Green Bill from across the street. Bill has a huge mural of Al Gore painted next to his solar panels. "How are they, Bill?", I asked. He seemed to like them but then said, "For the love of God, tell me these weren't wrapped in PLASTIC!" OK, everybody, dig in. Bill lived.

After all that, I still can't grow grass but at least now my lawn is edible. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before I hear from Bill Nye,The Science Guy, or maybe even Katie Couric. I have to go now. Joe Limardi just left me a message about something called The Fart Machine he saw As Advertised On TV.

GETTING TO THE ROOT OF INNER PEACE

2008-07-13T06:32:00.002-04:00

So, your search for inner peace didn't go all that well. You've tried yoga, you've delved in meditation and you've even perched yourself on the mountaintop while trying to memorize the number of the vowels in Yogamaharishi Dr. Swami Gitananda Giri. Nothing has worked...until now. The stress free existence and that mental edge you've been searching for is right under your nose and right out your front door. Now, go pull some weeds!

I've been pulling weeds for several years now but it was only recently while I was bonding with my Mrytle, kneeling in cat poop, eradicating my garden of unwanted and sometimes poisonous vegetation that I realized I really needed to take a shower! But it was also the moment that I knew I had found peace of mind like I never had before and I needed to do something about it. So, I decided to write a book and share it with the rest of the world so everyone could finally experience the same euphoria. The book is entitled "Living LIfe One Weed At A Time." Let me be clear that you can't possibly reach this feeling of unparalleled satisfaction every time you strap on your nifty little visor and head outside, but my book will help. The gardening community already knows this feeling by it's proper term, 'Weedus Orgasmus.' "Hey, Bob, why are you writing a book on weeds?" By asking that question, you're simply not paying attention. It's quite simple. There is absolutely nothing more to be said about cats. Weeds are a relatively new topic for authors. Now get with the program.

Take a look at what some readers are saying about "Living Life One Weed At A Time.'

"Bob , I read your book and it actually made me want to move out of my studio apartment and buy a house just so I can have some weeds to pull! Thanks for giving me my life back!'

"I used to be an uptight, neurotic workaholic but then I discovered the joy of pulling weeds and now I'm a relaxed, well adjusted adult...with really dirty hands. Thanks Bob!"

"Hey moron, I bought your book thinking it was about how to harvest cannabis! I want my $12.50 back, dude!'

I want you to experience the utter joy of cleansing your lawn or garden thus providing it with the opportunity to grow fully and prosper uninhibited. You'll marvel as the other plants seem to rise tall and gain confidence knowing the unwanted guests are gone forever. Pulling a dandelion or a wild fern from the ground by the entire root provides a feeling of elation so powerful that you'll want to run and show your neighbors (try to resist this temptation). It's kind of like the gardeners version of deer hunting. You can't wait to show off your kill, or pull, in this case. Granted, you probably aren't going to mount the head of a dandelion and plunk it on the wall of your den, but you get the idea.

Everybody wants to experience that fleeting, sometimes elusive feeling of accomplishment. In my book, I'll explain the instant gratification you get from the simple act of pulling weeds. You'll never again look at your garden in quite the same way.

Sure, some of your neighbors will become angry and irritated because your garden will put their little patch of thistle to shame. Prepare yourself for the invitations to the barbecues to stop coming. You might also be shy a few birthday and Christmas cards as well. Trust me, it all stems from jealousy! But, lest you think I'm just going to leave you high and dry when that happens, be on the lookout for my next book, "Delicious Recipes For Nasty Neighbors Made From Poison Ivy!"

Now grab your visor and go for the root!

MOM? MOM? COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE

2008-07-05T18:05:00.003-04:00

My sister and I have had several rather vocal arguments in the past, many of them only materialized because she’s really, really annoying. But, she is the oldest so she has to be…it’s the law.

When my mother passed away I thought the biggest problem we would have would be deciding who would get mom’s neat little Julia Childs autographed food processor. I was wrong. We had bigger fish to fry as it turned out.

My mother was cremated in Chicago and after the service, Sal and I returned to New York. It was only then that we realized something was missing: MOM! I thought my sister had her and she was under the impression that mom was with us. One of us was going to lose but being the mature adults that we are, our phone conversations regarding the topic remained quite civil.

Bob: Sal, are you sure you don’t have her?
Sal: Wouldn’t I know it if I had her, you moron?
Bob: Hey, who are you calling a moron? Who’s the one who threw up in the backseat of dad’s
car on prom night and then tried to blame it on the dog?
Sal: Oh, yeah? Well at least I had a date.
Bob: Jerk!

I had a horrible thought cross my mind and it was making me physically ill. Lord, please tell me mom didn’t get thrown out with the closet debris? You see, Michele and I had some work done to enlarge our closets and…I can’t even think about it. But in fairness how would a contractor be able to tell the difference between a shoe box containing Pro Keds from one containing human remains? OK, maybe the “Crematorium” label on the box might have helped, but contractors are busy people. They don’t have time to read. Still, the thought of mom nesting in some dumpster between a bunch of old Dinty Moore cans and an empty 12 pack of Corona beer was a little disturbing. I had to calm down. It was time for me to get a grip. The most important thing now was for me to find a way, any way at all, to blame this on my sister.

The flashbacks were running rampant. I thought of the time my mother grounded me for a month when I traded my grandmother’s false teeth to Tom Klute for a pocket knife (including three blades and a corkscrew). Then there was the time when I was seven and I ran into my parents bedroom at eleven o’clock on a Friday night after hearing some interesting noises and yelling, “Fire drill, everybody out!” I’m sorry, mom.

Misplacing a mother is not like losing a Blockbuster video or a library book. The guilt can be overwhelming. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Bob, when you lose a box containing a cremated parent, there are no late fees. The fines don’t keep accruing every day. That can run into a lot of money with a book or a movie. What’s the big deal?” That’s a fair point but given the choice I’d still rather lose ‘National Lampoon’s Vacation’ than my mother. I’m sure you understand.

A few days had passed when I got a call at work from this frantic woman whose voice I almost didn’t recognize. “I found her! She’s OK! Well, she’s still dead, but she’s here. All of her!” It took a moment to sink in. It was Michele and she had finally located my mother. “Where was she?” I asked. “It’s the funniest thing,” she said. “You’ll laugh.” “I don’t think so,” I said. “Where was she?” “She was under the steps, next to your weights. Isn’t that ironic? She’s deceased and she still can’t get away from dumbbells.”

Whew, what a ride that was. Mom, I’m so glad you weren’t in the dumpster or mistaken for plant food or kitty litter. I promise to never let you out of my sight ever again. I found a great place for you. From now on you're going to be right under our bed. Won't that be great? Well, as I think that through, maybe the guest room would be better. That way you can have your own pillow and none of the cat hair. I love you mom and don’t worry about a thing because somehow you know I'm going to find a way to blame this all on Sally. It’s the law.

MEAT DRIPPINGS AND GOOSE NO MORE

2008-06-29T07:04:00.003-04:00

So, I woke up and my foot felt like it had just been run over by an Amtrak train with a bunch of sumo wrestlers on board. I thought maybe stubbed a toe before I went to bed, or possibly kicked the wall in anger because Michele asked me to do something totally unreasonable like dry the dishes. All I knew was the pain was excruciating and I couldn’t take it another minute. Who do you see when the pain is so intense that driving rusty spikes through your forehead with a ball peen hammer sounds like a vacation activity? Obviously, you would see... an herbalist! I got his name through a friend of a friend who knows somebody who once lived next door to his niece’s baby-sitter.

After and hour and a half with him, I walked out with orders to try some dandelion root, elevate my foot for long periods, try yoga and always think good thoughts. Then, rinse and repeat. Oh, and meditate.

It was time to take some drastic action. An action so distasteful that the mere mention of it might make you, the reader, scream. It was time to bring my HMO into the picture and see my primary physician. Just the thought made my skin crawl which is unfortunate because I’m pretty sure that skin crawling medication is not covered on my policy. But this pain in my foot was so intense that the word ‘hacksaw’ entered my mind on more than one occasion.

So, how are you doing, Bob?” Dr. Cho asked. “Fine,” I said. “Now cut off my foot and let me get out of here.”

Dr. Cho: Does it hurt here?
Bob: Yes. It hurts to look at it.
Dr. Cho: Hmmm, Do you drink alcohol, Bob?
Bob: Of course I do. Have you seen the price of gas recently?

After gently poking and prodding and silently making notes in his chart, I had to ask the question. “Doctor, when you’re six inches deep into a kid’s ear canal with that magnifying thingie, do you ever say to yourself, ‘God, I should have gone to law school?”

When he was done checking blood pressure, sticking me with needles and making me feel like a sissy, he finally got around to concluding unequivocally that I might perhaps possibly have a case of gout, maybe, and prescribed an anti-inflammatory. He then handed me a list of foods I can no longer have. The list included anchovies, mincemeat, herring,sardines and goose. I’m guessing there are ample amounts of people who fake having gout just to AVOID those foods!

“Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought gout was for old people. I’m not quite ready to wrap myself up in a crocheted afghan, sit on the front porch with my father-in-law and yell at kids to get off my lawn.” “Calm down, Bob,” he said. “It’s a dietary thing that has to do with too much uric acid in the system. It’s easily correctible through a change in diet.

“I would say no alcohol for a few weeks and see how your foot reacts,” he said. I swallowed hard and asked him, “Certainly you’re not talking about happy hour or anything like that, are you?” Pulling his half glasses down to the tip on his nose making sure to establish eyeball to eyeball contact with me, he said very s-l-o-w-l-y, “Of course not, Bob. Let me be clear on that. You may have all the beer you like during happy hour. That doesn’t count. Everybody knows that. I’m strictly talking about before or after happy hour. It’s in all the medical books. You can check it out.” “OK, OK, I get he idea, but what if I swear off mincemeat and herring instead?” Until that moment, I had never actually seen a doctor throw his clipboard on the ground and slam the exam room door as he left while muttering something about law school.

Today, I’m proud to say that I have not had a recurrence of gout in three weeks. I have to attribute this to my new change in attitude as well as a change in diet. I’ve completely sworn off mackerel and tongue, which was pretty easy seeing as how I never started eating them in the first place. So take some advice from your old buddy Bob. Should ever develop a case of gout, make sure you have at some dandelion root every day with a cold beer...but only at happy hour.

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

2008-06-22T17:44:00.003-04:00

Whenever Salvatore, my well documented ninety- year old father-in-law comes up from Florida for a visit, he requires a home health aid to do all the essential stuff like look for his teeth, warm his prunes and help him set up the Twister board.

I'd like to take a moment and say good bye to Holly, the latest of that profession to buckle under that enormous pressure. Just in case you're keeping score, Holly, there were six highly qualified people before you who also turned in their badges, so don't feel bad. Normally they last a week or two and if memory serves correctly the all time record is eighteen days but, unfortunately, that particular aid is now spending her days in a padded room, drooling and drawing carving knives with crayons on her notepad.

What is it about Sal that makes aids as well as the rest of the world so uncomfortable? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when he's not busy napping he likes to touch people, most of them strangers and all of them women. Even in the supermarket he still does the old 'squeeze the melon' test. The only problem is the 'melons' he's reaching for are in the frozen food isle and they're attached to actual female bodies. Did I mention that my father-in-law has been permanently banned from Price Chopper?

Let's take a closer look at the time line and see if Holly may have overreacted, OK?

Day #1: Sal asked her if she wouldn't mind clipping his fingernails. She thought nothing of it and went to get the clippers. When she came back in the room (kitchen) there he was...naked. He claimed he didn't want to get any clippings on his clothes.

Day #2: Michele asked Holly to help him write a letter to his girlfriend, Anna, in Florida (age unknown due to lack of carbon dating evidence). He seemed to be doing quite nicely all by himself and when Holly took a look at the finished product, she noticed a passage that read "I can't wait to get back and slip my hand underneath your knee high stockings." Trust me when I say there are a few things no son-in-law, daughter, home health aid or any other human ever needs to know about and that's one of them.

Day #3: This was the day the wheels fell off. I was getting ready to go out and cut the grass when Sal started getting antsy. Holly was preparing his peaches and Miralax when he told me to hurry up and go outside. Meanwhile Holly was making violent gestures in the background begging me not to leave her alone. I assured her everything would be fine and went on my way. No more than a few minutes later, I saw her car peel out of the driveway. I managed to flag her down and after seeing her face muscles all tightened and her eyeballs practically bulging out of her head, it became pretty obvious that time had run out on her patience meter. "He kept pinching my butt," she told me. "I know. I'm sorry about that. He thinks you're Leah Remini from King of Queens. What exactly did you say to him?" She took a deep breath and said, "I slapped him, plopped him on the toilet and told him to wait until his brains came out and then flush them."

Well Holly, the votes are counted and you'll be happy to know you did not overreact. We want to thank you for giving it a shot. Please be aware that Sal means no harm, he's just a ninety-year old horndog. It was nice almost getting to know you. Michele and I hope your therapy goes well and, by the way, should you ever worry about running into Sal in public, two words: Price Chopper.

JUST SAY NO TO MANSCAPING

2008-06-16T16:32:00.002-04:00

Guys, we need to get on the same page here, OK? Women taking tweezers, scissors, pluckers or any other object intended to remove hair growth from our bodies is unacceptable. Can we agree on this?

We have no choice but to reach down deep within ourselves and somehow muster the courage to tell our spouses that we are perfectly capable of grooming ourselves.

Michele asked me if she could 'trim' my eyebrows the other night before we went to dinner. When she was finished, I was the proud owner of one and a half eyebrows! I peered in the mirror and it took me a few seconds to come to terms with the fact that I was now deformed. I suggested we go someplace with really dim lighting or, better yet, someplace that is currently experiencing a power outage!

Ladies, when we agree to let you prune us, we can instantly sense when something's gone awry. As you work feverishly to fix the problem, you bite your lower lip a bit and start to swear under your breath. Something has gone horribly wrong and the more you try to rectify the problem, the worse it becomes. You would probably have better luck getting a one week old red wine stain out of a pillow case than making us look human again. I wound up going to work the next day wearing a Band Aid over my eye and told everyone that it was poison ivy. They weren't buying it.

Although it's true that there are still some men who would rather beat themselves repeatedly over the head with a ball been hammer until rendering themselves unconscious rather than to charge up the ol' Norelco, these men are in the minority. It's you that I speak to when I say if you want to grow ear and nose hair long enough to snarl a chainsaw, then at least do something useful and toss some potato seeds in there and do your part to fight world hunger. Yes, it's a rare man to has to put 'pluck nose hairs' on his "To Do" list.

Michele has been grooming me for a number of years and up until the eyebrow incident I've just sat back and taken it but those days are over. Now, I'm encouraging the rest of you gentlemen to support me as we march for our grooming freedom. We simply must unite and the time is now!

So, let's take an oath men. Raise your right hand and repeat after me:

I will not allow my well meaning spouse
(I will not allow my well meaning spouse)

To pluck, pull or tweeze
(To pluck, pull or tweeze)

Any hair currently residing on my body
(Any hair currently residing on my body)

And if I ever weaken
(And if I ever weaken)

And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon
(And end up looking like the creature from the Blue Lagoon)

Then while my wife sleeps
(Then while my wife sleeps)

I shall grab my Magic Marker
(I shall grab my Magic Marker)

And, well
(And, well)

Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?
(Does the name Andy Rooney ring a bell?)

MY SUMMER VACATION

2008-06-12T17:57:00.001-04:00

I picked up copy of The Sun the other day. In this particular issue the big bold headline was, “MAN HOLDS STORE MANNEQUIN HOSTAGE: THREATENS TO BLOW HER BRAINS OUT.” I also noticed an ad they were running that read, “We pay money for stories. Be a Sun reporter. No experience necessary.” I liked that idea, especially the part about no experience necessary. That’s my best thing. So, I thought I might submit a paper I wrote in the second grade entitled, “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.”

We were traveling from Chicago to a place called Meadville, Pennsylvania to see my grandparents. For you non-historians, Meadville is not where the mighty Casey struck out; it’s where technology struck out.

We stayed at the Ro-Ho-Cho Motel and I must say that the view we had from our room of the ice machine was the reason the Lord invented post cards. Couple that with all the marvelous things my grandmother could do with her false teeth and, well, the trip was just a couple of inches shy of Nirvana. But, unfortunately, this year I didn’t quite make it all the way and so my paper began.

My father, tooling down some dirt road in Ohio singing Tennessee Waltz at the top of his lungs, suggested that my sister and I play a game in the backseat. I think his exact words were, “Kids, why don’t you play the game called, “See who can throw the other one out of the car first.” My sister won.

I got picked up by this farmer plowing his field who was totally convinced that I was the baby Jesus sent from Heaven to pray for his freshly planted corn crop. He took me inside to meet the ‘Mrs.,’ and as soon as she laid eyes on me, the funniest thing happened. Her arthritis, bursitis, laryngitis as well as the dandruff that had been plaguing her for years mysteriously vanished. The next day, with the full intention of adopting me, they loaded me on the tractor and took me down to Balls, the local bowling alley, where the town judge, who moonlighted as a custodian was busy disinfecting bowling shoes. I tried to tell them that they were making a big mistake. I said that I was just a six-year old kid who got tossed out of the car by my sister at my father’s urging. I tried to convince them that I was part of a loving, nurturing, wonderful, nuclear family, but they wanted no part of it.

The next day, the local paper ran the headline, “Farmer Drover and wife adopt the Baby Jesus. Good corn crop all but Guaranteed.”

Days passed and neighbors became more envious of my presence in their little town. Every night when I went to bed they would take turns climbing through the window begging me to help them out. Many were on their knees, face to face with me, tears streaming down their cheeks, tugging on my pajamas, pleading their needs all the while spitting the remnants of that night’s squirrel dinner on my forehead.

Finally, I was able to sneak out of the Drover’s place late one night and head back to the main road. I knew that my family would be returning home to Chicago and I was hoping that if they hadn’t already passed, they might stop if they saw me. Then in the distance I heard a disturbingly loud muffler noise and the sound of an equally obnoxious country song blaring on the radio. I was in luck. They stopped. Mom said that she felt terrible about not turning around and picking me up but added, “You know how your father gets when he wants to be someplace.” Then they asked me what I did and I told them that I stayed with this old farmer and his wife. It was at that moment that something strange happened. The muffler started purring like a kitten, my father’s cigar fell into his coffee cup and the country music station just vanished from the air!

We had been home for about three days when my mother heard a story on the news about this town in Ohio that had a miracle corn crop, prompting the President to proclaim it “Corn Capital of the World.” I thought, “Hey, that’s neat. I was just there.”

Yeah, it was a summer I’ll never forget and believe me I’ve tried. But when I got my paper back I got the shock of my life. There was a humongous red “F” sprawling the full length of the page. “Oh no,” I thought. “I’m going to get killed. I just failed my very first paper of the school year.” Then I looked up as the principal came strolling in. He said he was there to unveil the school’s new grading system. “Boys and girls, from this day forth the new grade scale will be as follows: A = abhorrent; B = below average; C = commonplace; D = dismal; and F = fantastic.” Wow! Double Wow!

When I submitted the story to The Sun, I got this response: “Thank you for writing to The Sun. Unfortunately, the story you submitted has already happened to one of our staff members. However, if you should ever run into Jimmy Hoffa enjoying a peanut butter and banana sandwich with Elvis in the French Alps, let us know. And remember, if you subscribe today, you can get 50% off the newsstand price. Sincerely, The Sun.”

THE SUMMER OF THE SIDEWALK

2008-06-08T07:22:00.003-04:00

OK, guys, let's get it done. I just know this is the summer my sidewalk will be fixed. I have been assured by the boys down at the Department of Public Works that repairing my sidewalk is 'on the docket.' This, by the way, is government speak for "I'm being fitted for a new hard hat right now and don't have time to listen to your sniveling."

Here is the entire sidewalk story, condensed into little bite sized portions. There is a block of sidewalk outside my house that has somehow sunk to dangerous depths. At this very moment I'm sure thrill seekers and parasailers are scoping it out for their next adventure dive.

During the time of our last local elections, I got a chance to meet and chat with many of the fine, upstanding politicians of all shapes, sizes and mindset as they came by merrily ringing my door bell acting like they had known me since birth. Politicians are very good at that sort of thing. But it was Mary Solomon, our 6th ward council person, who's conversation I remember the best. I told her about the sidewalk and to her credit, she didn't promise me anything she couldn't deliver. I think her exact words were, "Sidewalk, smidewalk, are you going to vote for me or what?" She clearly won me over.

I explained to her that two years ago a big Oak tree in the parkway came tumbling down as a result of a major storm and it still hadn't been replaced. Then I got on to the more pressing issue of the unlevel and dangerous sidewalk. I said my ninety year old father-in-law trips on it daily, always landing face first in my freshly watered English Ivy garden. Oh sure, my neighbors get a kick out of it but I'm the one who has to hose him off.

Bob: Mary, what can we do about this?
Mary: Actually (eyes light up) I can get you a tree!
Bob: What?
Mary: I can get you a tree but the sidewalk season is over.
Bob: The sidewalk season is over? I didn't know there was a sidewalk season.
Mary: Oh yes. It's very clearly defined. We have meetings about things like that.
Bob: But, it's still tree season?
Mary: Yes, I'm sure it is. We got called into special session last week on that very
subject. I've gotta go. Remember me on election day. Bye.
Bob: Mary, be careful on my side...(KERPLUNK!)

I really do think some progress is being made. I'm noticing a lot of chalk markings on the street with arrows and circles and initials. That's got to be a good sign. Although, it has crossed my mind once or twice that some of those initials you see in the street in front of your house may be nothing more than code for the amusement of Department of Public Works employees. For instance, I've got the letters 'C.C.O.' scribbled in the street in front of my house. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that C.C.O. really stands for Crazy Cat Owner or 'G.T.N.P.' means Goes Topless - Not Pretty. Sometimes, I'll see what appears to be a complicated chalk written grid in the street almost resembling a hopscotch pattern. But, to their defense, I'm pretty sure I can count on one hand the amount of times I've actually seen a group of them taking time out to play hopscotch, but let's be honest, the temptation is always there.

So, guys, if you could possibly find it in your heart to save me a smidgeon off cement, I, along with my English Ivy and my father-in-law, would be eternally grateful. Oops! Gotta go look out the window. It's opening day of tree season. Thanks Mary!

I CAN'T...REMEMBER

2008-06-02T18:55:00.002-04:00

Michele came home with two movies and asked me if we had already seen either one or both of them. I couldn't remember. We watched one and for the entire length of 'The Cooler,' we weren't sure if we had seen it. Why is this happening? It's the economy, my friends.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. "Bob, normally you don't make a ton of sense but now I think you might have slipped of the pier for good." Please allow me to explain.

We're rapidly becoming numb to the whole money flying out of our wallet phenomenon. We keep hearing reasons why everything is costing more and we just accept them because there's nothing we can do.

Believe me, I've given the subject a great deal of, um, oh what's that word...oh yes...thought. I've stood there fuming while squeezing the nozzle at the gas station until I realized that I was helping to ensure that a retiring oil executive somewhere would have a nice cushy golden parachute as a result of my contribution. Please pardon me while I experience some severe intestinal reversal.

As a result of the high gas prices, everything else is being affected as well. Have you checked your grocery bill recently? As we all know most of the food we buy today is made from the finest 10W30 motor oil. Even the price of lettuce is not immune to the rising prices. Why, you ask? Lettuce is grown on farms and people called farmers live and work on the farms. They need the finest navigational devices to maneuver the fields don't they? What if they went to the wrong quadrant and started picking cauliflower? Yuck! And, of course, their children need the latest electronic games just like any other normal kid, don't they? Hey, c'mon, Grand Theft Auto's aren't cheap, but obviously the expensive price tag is offset by the educational value they hold for our children. The kids on the farm are no different than the average urban dweller, except for maybe their straw hats and the bamboo fishing poles. When they're not milking cows or bailing hay, they need to be texting their little farm buddies and playing Metal Slug 7 just as any other normal kid. We can't blame the farmer for passing on these expenses to someone, can we? After all, we're getting a salad out of the deal.

The technical name for this economic trend is 'Horse Hockey,' and it has left us battered and broken and, make no mistake, we are pre-occupied with it. I now find myself using only half a napkin and throwing used dental floss in with the white wash. Our minds have gone to a state of mush. Our ability to concentrate and remember even the simplest of things is gone and no amount of Gingko Baloba can help us out. It might be somewhat comforting to know that no one is immune from this inability to concentrate and remember. It's even affecting important business decisions made in the boardroom.

Brad: Chad, I'm sorry to have to tell you this and believe me, I never wanted
to have to do this.
Chad: I don't like the sound of that. What is it?
Brad: I, well, um, I...can't seem to remember.
Chad: How about some lunch?
Brad: Yeah, sure. You buy.

All we can do is continue to hold our heads high. As soon as prices begin to fall and the economy regains some semblance of normalcy, we're all going to feel better and our memory will slowly but surely start to return. In the meantime, what do you say we all see a movie we've probably seen before and then enjoy a...um, what do you call those things...oh, yeah, salad.

THE MID-LIFE CRISIS

2008-05-29T16:08:00.003-04:00

Let's get right to the mailbag, shall we?

Dear Bob;

My name is Bill and I'm 46 years old. I really want to buy a 1976 Camaro, the same car I had in high school. My wife thinks I'm nuts. She says I'm having a mid-life crisis. Please tell her she's the one who's nuts. Well, I have to go to the tanning booth now and then over to the gym and stand by the weights and primp. Thanks for telling my wife she's wrong.

Dear Bill;

Earth to Bill. In my humble opinion sir, you need to be sedated...for about ten years. Camaro, tanning, primping, gosh, I can't find anything there that resembles a mid life crtisis, can you? Wake up and smell the Geritol!

Bill, I'm not saying that you should start wearing black knee length socks with sandals or even strap on a visor while gardening but, for God's Sake, man, get a grip!

Listen to me and listen good. I know a thing or two about the old mid life crisis. It's like we're trying to convince our brain that we're twenty-one again. Our brain knows better, Bill. Truth be told, what we believe to be hormones are nothing more than placebos. The technical term is placeonomes (pla-see-nomes) and they're sole purpose is to make us look stupid! The actual hormones passed away years ago. Check any scientific journal if you think I'm making this up. Don't give in. Walk away. There's still time.

Of course it's only natural to want to recapture some of your youth. Remember Jello shots? Remember trying to convince that waitress that not only were you independantly wealthy but that no Lipizzaner stallion could hold a candle to you anatomically? Remember trying to convince strippers that they were wearing entirely too much clothing? Bill, that was all the work of the hormones and people laughed at you. The years have changed us, matured us, if you will. Now instead of having neat cars and youthful charm, we have nose hair and liver spots. It's OK, accept it.

Think back to when you were newly married. I bet you thought your bride looked great in her gown. I'm also willing to bet you thought that dress would look even better crumpled up in the corner, didn't you? Why did you think that way? It's because you're a man and your hormones were raging. Those nasty little placeonomes are trying to convince your brain that you're not ready for Walker,Texas Ranger and Wheel of Fortune. You're ready, Bill. Let it go.

First it's going to be the Camaro, then it will be the eight track player. From there it might escalate to doing something really embarrassing like calling guys "Dude," or even worse, stuffing the front of your pants with a roll of Kleenex.

So my friend, in conclusion, I strongly suggest that you take a few deep breaths, cage those placeonomes and behave more like a forty-six year old man should. Instead of the Camaro, you might want to buy something a little more practical like a motorized cart. They come in handy for those extensive and exhausting supermarket jaunts. Also, please continue going to the gym but this time really try pushing the envelope and actually lift some of of those weights.

Thanks for the letter, Bill, and just one more thing: whatever you choose to do, please no speedos!

Best of luck,

Bob

SAL'S ESTATE PLANNING FOR DUMMIES

2008-05-27T17:33:00.002-04:00

There I was cowering in the corner starring up at a billy club anxiously being tapped by his shaking hands. His trifocals were hanging on the tip of his nose and he was wearing his moldy green robe, last laundered about the time we heard the words, “I will resign the presidency effective noon tomorrow.” He was my father-in-law, Salvatore, and he had a point to make.

After spending the last few (joyous) years in Naples, Florida, Sal, now ninety years of age, has returned and is ready to set the record straight as to where he wants his money to go.

Sal: I’m going to leave all my money to my three kids and you’re not one of them.
Bob: Put the club down, Sal.
Sal: I didn’t like you very much at first but my daughter doesn’t seem to mind you.
Bob: I’m glad I finally won you over.
Sal: Get me a towel. I wet my pants.

He’s made it abundantly clear that when he dies, and he never will, his money is going to his kids. So far so good but what follows is a bit strange. According to the will, they must put every penny of it in an interest bearing account and NEVER TOUCH IT. It must be kept there and then passed down to the next generation when they turn out the lights for the final time. Ah, but wait, they can’t spend it either. They have to do the same thing and on and on it goes. In other words, the money must never be spent…by anyone! After all, that would be wasteful!

A few questions arise from this. One that comes to mind immediately is, “Is he sniffing glue?”

Michele: Bob and I don’t have any kids, dad. Who would you suggest we
leave the money to, our cats?
Sal: You’re gonna out live the cats, aren’t you?
Michele: Hopefully.
Sal: Why would you want to leave money to dead cats?
Michele: What?
Sal: Is dinner ready yet?

Sal lived through the great depression and I guess he wants to make sure that his kids share the same experience.

In his new book coming out soon entitled, How To Work All Your Life, Save Your Money and Never Enjoy Any of It,” you will marvel at some of the sound money saving strategies. For instance:

• Reuse stamps (soak them for a half hour at room temperature, then re-glue)
• Rinse out paper towels (to totally dry, place in microwave for fifteen seconds)
• Steal toilet paper and pens from doctor’s offices
• Grow a garden and sell tomatoes to neighbors (not the real good ones, however)

I’m only the son-in-law so it wouldn’t be wise for me to get in the middle of a discussion on wills. I am also not in a position to throw stones. I remember my own father was very specific about the distribution of his assets. was to get his prized paint roller and the dryer vent. My sister got everything else. Bitter? Who me?

So, Sal, it’s your money. Do with it what you want but please remember that from what I’ve been told, billy clubs make really neat firewood. Now go change your pants.

STOP THIEF AND DROP MY BRIEFS...SLOWLY

2008-05-19T16:04:00.002-04:00

It was 2:45 AM. I had just gotten out of the shower and began to dress for work when I reached in my underwear drawer and found much to my horror (scary organ sfx.) a handful of NOTHING! My hand groped and groped but came up empty. How could this be? I just did a wash two days ago. I became nervous as I peered, naked, behind closed doors and under sofas thinking the retched underwear thief may still be lurking somewhere just waiting for a chance to strike again.

I had no choice but to wake up Michele and tell her that I had no clean underwear. I insisted that she remain calm in case the thief was still snooping around. I told her to dial 911 immediately if she heard any strange noises. The next thing I knew there was a book ironically titled The Power of Healing headed straight for my forehead at a speed at 40 miles per hour. She wasn’t buying the underwear thief theory, but I wasn’t about to give up. I couldn’t possibly have run out of underwear yet, could I have?

I say we need to catch these repugnant social outcasts and expose them for the mentally twisted perverts they are! Every card carrying American that has ever washed clothes deserves protection from these vermin!

This was a major dilemma for me but I placed an index finger on my cheek, squinted and let out an audible ‘Hmmm,’ as I contemplated wearing one of my wife’s thongs to work. I decided against that because what would happen if I fell down the stairs at work after tripping on my headphones? I would end up in the hospital with my clothes off and the emergency room personnel would be starring at a grown man wearing a several sizes too small thong! They would then take a picture and send it to my program director, who, in turn would post it on Youtube. Instead, I peeked into the hamper but just couldn’t bring myself to put on a pair of slightly less than freshly laundered underwear. I opted instead to wear my swimsuit under my jeans although in retrospect I must admit that the urge to reach for sun tan lotion and play Jimmy Buffet songs all morning was overwhelming. I did entertain for the shortest of moments freewheeling it but all that ran through my mind was the clanging around of Woodstock chimes on a windy day.

When I got home from work, I slowly opened the drawer again, but nothing else appeared to be missing. However, in the event that this weirdo should strike again, I’m going to make his life a living Hell. I have moved my underwear into the crisper section of the refrigerator. I crammed them next to some limp orange things that might have been carrots at one time.

Rest assured that I’ve been setting traps. I’ve installed mini cams in all dresser drawers in the house and I strongly suggest you do the same thing. At the very least, I heartily recommend that we all videotape the contents of our underwear drawer, strictly for insurance purposes.

A LESSON IN CRYING

2008-05-14T16:17:00.001-04:00

I was talking to a female friend recently and she asked me why men don't cry? I assured her we do cry, just not in the same way as women do. Our emotional scales are completely different. I think I shocked her when I said it's the men that don't cry that I worry about.

In an effort to learn more, I paid a visit to Anita Waters from the world renowned American Institute on Crying. She basically told me the history of crying. She said that women invented it but Chicago Cubs fans made it fashionable. As I was busily taking notes, she mentioned something that stopped me dead in my tracks. It seems that little appendage we hide behind our zipper acts as a clotting mechanism to our brain and consequently we're unable to process thoughts as women do. I was enraged by that and was quick to point out that there were actually a few brief moments of every day when we aren't thinking of sex at all. These are generally moments when we're napping. She scolded me saying this had nothing at all to do with the actual sex act but was simply a testosterone overflow thus detouring our brain away from a socially acceptable way of thinking. Personally, I'm guessing Ms. Waters has never even seen the appendage she speaks of, but it still would explain several things.

It's because of this, for instance, that men can not tear up at the sight of a Labrador Retriever nursing her nine puppies. Women will nudge us in the ribs, tears flowing, and ask, "Isn't that beautiful?" We'll respond with, "Yeah, that's cool," but really we'll be thinking about how Bob Barker used to close 'The Price Is Right' every time.

Ladies, if you've ever accompanied your man to a ball game, you've probably scratched your head and wondered why he gets a little misty when he eyes that first beer vendor. It's his appendage blocking the accepted thought process. Conversely, we scratch our useless little heads when the floodgates open for you upon noticing a shoe sale at Macy's.

What I have learned is that our emotional highway travels a much different terrain. I'm sure the entire adult population tears up every time we pull up to a gas pump these days, but these are tears of anger, not joy. On issues of sadness, men and women seem to pretty much agree. But ladies, I'll let you in on something here. When we cry listening to your John Mayer album, we're really crying because cutting off our ears would seem a bit extreme.

As women, you unleash the waterworks when you hear of a long time girlfriend finally getting engaged. What does a man do when he hears that a long time male friend finally got around to popping the question? He'll buy him a keg and throw his head in his armpits and give him a friendly dutch rub. See the difference? It's the appendage. But show us a bright and shiny John Deere lawn and garden tractor with a zero turning radius on sale at Home Depot and there had better be a large bucket close by. We'll also open our entire emotional suitcase when we see a military plane returning from combat duty or possibly upon a successful tune up on our Camaro. All we ask is that you understand our shortcomings. We are physically incapable of allowing our chin to quiver even the slightest when the bride and groom dance for the first time as husband and wife or, for that matter, when someone is voted off American Idol. I'm sorry. It's that darn appendage.