And this, then, is why you haven’t seen a ‘Reality Check’ lately

I’ve been putting this off for a while now, but eventually I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get it over with. So here goes.

Some of you have written asking why my column hasn’t appeared recently in either the print or online editions. The answer is actually pretty personal, but you, dear reader, have stuck with me through the years and I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the issue.

A while back, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, while remaining lovely, decided – just short of our 15th anniversary – that she no longer wished to be Mrs. Taylor. The details aren’t important; the point is she moved out with the dog, cat, her teacup collection and half the photo albums.

I know, I know; I was surprised as well.

It has taken me some time to come to grips with the situation and I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely “over it.” But I have made up my mind to move on. As any of you who have been through this personally already know, this is easier said than done.

At first there were all the little things I had to get used to. For instance, all household chores now fall to me. Everything from the laundry to the dishes to vacuuming up the spilled seed from beneath the bird cage … if I don’t do it, it don’t get done. The Laundry Fairy has left the building.
Then there’s the empty house; I’m still not used to that. The silence. The way the hours seem to stretch on into forever some days. The list goes on, but it all pretty much reads like a bad country and western song and I have nothing new to add to that gloomy litany.

But the hardest part has come only recently, since I’ve begun “dating” again. Now, I haven’t dated in nearly three decades and I stunk at it even back then. It would be a gross understatement to say that – when it comes to romancing a stranger – I am out of practice.

Since I work in large part from home, I meet very few eligible ladies. Those I do meet are work-related encounters – interviews, photo shoots, and so on. Not exactly a quiet, candlelit dinner with a nice Bordeaux and intimate conversation punctuated by soft violin music.

So I decided to move my search for female companionship into the 21st Century by going online. Yeah, I know there’s a certain stigma about online dating services, but it beats sitting around waiting for Princess Charming to find me.

In the weeks since posting my profile, I’ve met a few nice girls and talked with them via email and over the phone. I’ve even met a couple face to face. So far nothing’s “clicked,” but at least I’m out there giving it a shot.

I’ve got to admit, it still feels weird to me. Real weird. But it’s something to do, and right now, that’s a good thing.

More importantly, it’s given me something to write about. In the weeks ahead, I plan to address the whole middle-aged dating thing in more detail. The topic worked for Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex in the City,” yeah?

So who knows? This could be the start of something wonderful.

As always, I remain hopeful.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Please stop me if you’ve heard this one before

Before my grandfather died I used to love spending Sunday afternoons at the country home he had for 40 years or more shared with my grandma. It was a big old sun-filled place with lots of rooms, odd angles and even a root cellar (which, it was discovered after my grandpa’s passing, was filled with Mason jars stuffed with money! He had been secreting them away down there for decades.)

The reason I visited wasn’t the house, though, or even my grandmother’s Sunday dinners, which were the stuff of legends.

I went for the stories.

As I’ve mentioned in this column before, my grandfather could spin a yarn to make Twain (Mark, not Shania) jealous. It was in his living room that I learned my appreciation for the storyteller’s art.

But even when I was a fairly young man, grandfather was getting old. Like most old men, he tended to forget what stories he had related before, and my visits often involved three or four “re-runs” before he would happen on a new tale, one I’d not heard before.

I didn’t mind; his stories were as good the second, third, or even fourth time around. They held up. My grandmother might have disagreed with this assessment, but that’s just the nature of married life.

When I was young, I never really understood how he could forget that he had just the week before told me all about “The Day the Still Exploded,” or “The Day I Shot an ‘Alligator.’” (He never titled his stories, but in the years since, I have.)

I couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t keep track of what he had said and not said.

I can now.

I’ve been writing this column for nigh on (“nigh on” is what we geezers say when we mean “nearly”) 20 years. That adds up to well over 1,000 columns – as many words as one of Stephen King’s “short” books.

That’s over 1,000 stories, most gleaned from my own life or the lives of those around me.

When I sat down this morning to write this column, I had a topic in mind; a story about the time my son (then 15) swiped the family car to go joy riding in the middle of the night. But as I started hammering out the words, they all seemed somehow too familiar. Had I written this column before? Years ago, maybe?

I just couldn’t remember. I looked through all my old paper files, but couldn’t find it there. Considering the state of my files, that proves nothing. I checked my backup drive, found nothing there either.

It’s a good story, and funny, I think. I’d like to share it with you. Maybe next week. If I remember. Or maybe I’ll tell it to my grandson.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.