Getting to know all about you

I like women. A lot. I’ve conducted a lifetime’s study of them, in fact. I’ve observed how they move, speak, smell, work, listen, love.

It’s a fascination begun when I was only six, when Mary Marie Wisniewski kissed me on the cheek in one of those cement barrels you used to see on elementary school playgrounds. The ringing of the recess bell cut short that particular study session, but I’ve been going at it full tilt ever since.

So far, the study – conducted over 57 years (and counting) – has included five wives and a large assortment of girlfriends, “just friends,” relationships, ships-which-passed-in-the-night, co-habitations and associations which are either undefinable or unfit for inclusion in a family newspaper.

Like any reputable study, mine also has had a control group: women who didn’t want anything to do with me. This latter group was larger by far, which becomes easier to believe once you get to know me. I studied the control group women, too, in hopes of learning the secrets of what Betty Friedan referred to as “The Feminine Mystique.” And yes, I read Friedan’s book of the same name, which only goes to show how serious my study has been.

Just lately I’ve been going over all my years of careful research, tallying the data, correlating the positives and negatives, the plusses and minuses. And it turns out what I’ve learned about women is this: zilch. Nada. Nothin’.

I still have no idea what makes women tick, why they do what they do, why they say what they say.

Some researchers would say mine has been a wasted life. I’m not so sure. The study, after all, was … well … fun. And continues to be so. Even if I never see any tangible results, I’ll consider it time well spent.

Still, there are some things I would really like to know before I’m too old to care anymore. I’m being serious here, or as serious as I get.

These aren’t “big questions,” just little things that have haunted my mind since that first ephemeral kiss in the cement barrel.

If any female readers care to help me out with this, I would be forever appreciative. The newspaper usually sticks my contact info at the bottom or top of this column, but just in case, you can email me at MTaylor325@gmail.com. That goes straight to me and nobody else will see it, so please, be honest.

Question 1: How the hell do women fold fitted sheets? You know, the ones with the elastic in them that go underneath the person sleeping? The Lovely Mrs. Taylor can fold one of these turkeys in six seconds flat. She’s tried to show me how to do it a dozen times, but it just doesn’t happen. It’s like some inexplicable laundry origami that only women can master.

Question 2: Why must sheets be folded in the first place? Now that I’m living on my own, I just stuff all the sheets of a set into one of the pillowcases and toss ‘em on a shelf until needed. Yes, they are a bit wrinkly when I put them on my bed again, but who’s gonna see them? Hiding the wrinkled sheets is what the comforter is for.

Question 3: And while we’re on the topic of bedding, what’s with all those extra pillows? Mrs. Taylor made sure I had a dozen decorative pillows when I moved into the little lake house. I have to throw them on the floor when I go to bed at night just to return them to the bed the next morning. Why? Another mystery.

Question 4: Why do women so often think they’re fat? I know many attractive women and they all think this. Well, there are a few who think they’re perfect, but frankly, I usually find the personalities of these to be intolerable. At any rate, whatever societal pressures are causing this delusion need to be changed, like yesterday. Mrs. T weighs about 19 pounds and she thinks she’s ready for sumo wrestling classes.

Question 5: Do women understand men any better than we understand you? Do you know what we think? (Actually, if true, this might explain a lot about the problems I’ve had with past relationships.)

Question 6: Does the perfect Valentine’s Day gift exist? I bomb at this every year and I would, just once before I die, like to get it right.

Question 7: Do women really like the movies they show on the Lifetime and Hallmark channels? Or is this just something you make us sit through when you’re angry over a forgotten anniversary?

And I guess that’s it. If I had the answers to even these few questions, I might consider my life’s work worthwhile.

C’mon, help a fella out.

Barbie’s resume is one big, fat lie

I’ve written about Barbie before. Once when my daughter was 10 years old and again when my oldest granddaughter was the same age. They both went through their “Barbie years,” and both times it nearly landed me in the poor house.

Barbie’s companionship is not for the faint of heart or the light of wallet. Everything about her screams “future trophy wife who’s definitely comfortable living in a style to which guys like me can afford only on a doll-sized scale.”

She drives a “dream car.” She lives in a “dream house.” She hangs out with Ken, the “dream date,” who not only does not speak, but lacks the anatomical equipment which might, on occasion, prompt Barbie to lie about having a headache. He’s the perfect match for that narcissistic little minx.

I’m probably skirting the edges of misogyny here and for that I apologize. But I just don’t like Barbie. I never have. I resent her. She gets all the breaks and never seems to work for any of them.

Despite the fact there is absolutely no record of Barbie’s school years – no diploma, no transcripts, no paperwork showing she was ever a member of the National Honor Society – she has had over 200 careers since 1959. That’s right, 200 different jobs, most of them either fun or glamorous in some way.

I know this because of an article I clicked on while wasting my morning on Facebook instead of writing this column, which is what I should have been doing.

In the past 60 years and with no special training, Barbie has been employed as an astronaut, news anchor, firefighter, pilot and soccer star. She’s even worked as a politician, the only job for which she may actually be qualified. Possibly even over-qualified.

Now somehow – though she does nothing but shop and lounge around her “dream pool” with Ken and Skipper – Barbie has developed a partnership with the real-life National Geographic Society. This has opened up to her jobs such as wildlife photojournalist, polar marine biologist, conservationist and even entomologist.

I subscribed to the National Geographic magazine for 20 years and they never offered me so much as a manure-hauler position at the organization’s annual Yak Fest picnic.

If that weren’t enough to explain my lifelong dislike for this 11-inch-tall piece of plastic responsible for giving generations of young women serious body image issues, her newest “job” is that of astrophysicist. That’s right, somehow Barbie is now qualified to work side-by-side with Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking. (OK, not Stephen Hawking, but only because he’s dead.)

How did Barbie land this cushy, high-profile gig? Did she spend 15 years paying off her student loans? Heck, no! I did, but you don’t see NASA beating down my door. Well, OK, admittedly, NASA doesn’t have a lot of use for an English major, but still.

The Astrophysicist Barbie – coming soon to a store near you – comes complete with a telescope, star chart and (of course) a fashionable T-shirt featuring a graphic of a nebula. Let me tell you something, Barbie, it takes more than a 4-inch refractor scope to make an astrophysicist.

I don’t know what that “more” might be, but that’s because I don’t know anything about astrophysicisting. But neither does Barbie. That’s my point!

Just dressing up in a lab coat isn’t enough.

Mattel, the evil corporate overlord that created Barbie in the first place, says Barbie’s latest careers are designed to inspire young girls to strive for greatness, to reach that unreachable star.

Personally, I think it cultivates even more unrealistic expectations in girls. Now, not only is little Suzy expected to maintain a perfect physique that exists nowhere in nature, she’s expected to somehow earn multiple PhDs in fields generally requiring years of laborious study.

And she’s supposed to do all this while balancing her extensive social life, her fashion career, her relationship with Ken … the list goes on. And who’s going to keep little Suzy’s Dream House clean while she pursues her career? Ken? Fat chance. He’s interested in nothing but surfing and trying to hide the fact he’s anatomically incorrect.

No, this whole Barbie “dream world” has to stop and stop now. Or at least before my youngest granddaughter, now only 3, hits her Barbie years.

As God is my witness, I’m not buying another Dream House.

Let’s send these pickles to Mars!

When it comes to neighbors, I struck the mother lode.

I moved into my little lakeside cottage last fall. It had everything I was looking for. Appliances that work and a view of the lake, amazingly at a rent a writer can afford without resorting to the horror of finding a real job.

John and Susan live one door to the east and Aaron just to the west. They’re three of the nicest folks I know; fun, interesting, helpful, considerate.

But of the three, it’s John I find most fascinating. He and Susan (who doubles as my landlady) are both retired, so they drop by from time to time just to chat. I’m always glad to see them.

Before I go on with this story, it’s important I mention John is a very intelligent guy. He worked as an engineer and was instrumental in developing NASA’s Mars Rover project. I don’t know if that makes him a rocket scientist, but on his worst day he’s still a helluva lot smarter than I’ll ever be.

His engineering and science roots run deep. Stuff like badly-rigged wiring (of the sort the cable guy left laying all over the yard), drippy faucets, squeaky pumps and, well, basically anything done in a haphazard manner drives him flat-out bonkers.

Despite the fact John is undeniably smarter than me, I’m still reasonably well-educated, well-read and (as Garrison Keeler used to say) above average, if only slightly. So you’d think between the two of us, we could open a jar of pickles. You’d be wrong.

Yesterday I was sitting on the porch reading when John dropped by with the pickles. Some kind of fancy, spiced dills of the sort retired NASA engineers can afford. They looked good. But John had been unable to get to them, owing to the fact the lid had been (I assume) screwed onto the jar personally by Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime and then sealed with a welding torch.

“I tried running hot water over it,” John said. “Nothing.”

At last. Here was my chance to return the neighborliness I’ve been enjoying since last fall. Also, if I could twist the lid off with no visible effort, word might get around that I’m still young, strong and virile. A lie, yes, but what the heck.

Some of us fade more reluctantly than others.

“Let me give it a try,” I said.

Trying to maintain a composed expression, I twisted the lid. Or tried to. Slowly, my face revealed in ever-increasing measure the strain under which I was laboring. Words not printable in a family newspaper passed my lips.

“Well, ----,” I said. “This ------ is really on there!” (See? I told you the words weren’t printable.)

We went inside so I could run some more warm water over the lid. It hadn’t worked for John, but maybe my water was warmer.

The lid remained doggedly affixed to the jar. I tried using one of those grippy silicone pads developed specifically for opening stuck lids. Again, nothin’. I’ve wrangled some seriously stuck lids with those silicone pads and couldn’t believe it wasn’t working this time.

I began to suspect the people at the fancy pickle company were not only fancy, but sadistic. What sort of sick, twisted individual would grow, pick and process pickles that looked so utterly delicious and then seal them in a container more formidable than that cave from which Indiana Jones swiped artifacts?

I half expected arrows to shoot from the cupboards or a big, round stone to roll out of the bathroom and chase us around the lake.

Still I remained undaunted. I grappled, I gripped, I grunted. I continued to swear under my breath, which almost always works in these situations.

And yet, nothing.

Thoughts of my toolbox, and of the ball-peen hammer it contains, began to float through my mind. Maybe John and Sue wouldn’t mind picking shards of glass out before snacking on these elusive cukes.

And then I noticed the all-but-invisible plastic safety seal covering the lid.

I peeled it off with a paring knife, after which the jar opened with ridiculous ease.

So. A rocket scientist and a college educated writer. Outsmarted by a jar of pickles.

There might be a moral to this story, but if so, I’m not wise enough to know what it is. Ask John, maybe he knows. He worked for NASA.

Have grandchildren, will travel

Aaaahh. That’s better. The house is empty, quiet, clean.

My daughter and two of my younger grand-monsters left an hour ago, following an impromptu weekend visit. It’s not beach weather yet, so we spent most of the time – other than a couple “nature hikes” – indoors.

Ari and Juniper are 4 and 2, respectively, and despite being preternaturally cute, they’re essentially rabid chimpanzees hopped up on powerful amphetamines. That doesn’t mean I don’t love them, I do, but there are moments I’d happily abandon them both in the middle of the Gobi Desert with a canteen full of cold water and instructions to get in touch once they graduate college.

The crazy thing is, ten minutes after Aubreii’s soccer mom van pulls out of sight at the end of the visit, I start missing them.

They’re gone now, back to Detroit. I won’t see them again for three or four weeks. I’m not worried; summer’s coming and I live in a lakeside cottage. They’ll be back. It’s both the curse and blessing of having a place on the lake.

But if I’m to be completely honest (which I am, once in a great while), I admit it’s mostly blessing. I’m crazy about my kids, grand-kids, even a couple of my ex-wives. Sure, they blow in like Hurricane Katrina and for a few days my generally placid home is transformed into a combination jungle Jim/Indianapolis 500 racetrack.

Then they leave and I restart the process of waiting to see them again.

In the sudden silence following the kids’ most recent departure, I got thinking how lucky I am, to have close family. This in turn got me thinking about guys my age who don’t have big families. They never know the joys and tribulations of extended grandchild incursions.

It’s an experience everyone should have, at least a few times in life. Which is why I’m starting a new service designed to help family-deprived older folks get in on the fun.

I’m thinking of calling it “The Grandchild Experience” or “Toddlers by the Day.” Something like that.

Now, I realize there are probably child labor laws that would prevent me from putting any of these three-foot-tall slackers to work in anything resembling a real job. So, I’m a bit limited there.

But I figure I can provide almost all the experience of having grand-kids over without the bother of finding (and possibly having to pay) actual children.

It would work like this. For a reasonable fee (I’m thinking around $299.95), my crew (“Team Todder” or something like that) would come to your house and set up an elaborate system of hidden speakers. Once in place, I’d begin streaming audio over this home-wide audio setup. This would be completely controlled by me; there would be no “mute” or “volume down” buttons available to the homeowner.

For three days, I would broadcast, at top volume, the fingernails-on-chalkboard voices of kids demanding drinks of water, Popsicles, more pancakes, and access to various tablets, cell phones and TV remotes. No matter how many times the faux-grandparent yells no, the demands would continue. Interspersed with these requests would be frequent screams of pain, rage, or simple discontent.

The front and back doors of the home would be fitted with a device that holds the door half-way open at least 20 minutes out of every hour to allow heat out and cold, flies and mosquitoes in.

The Deluxe Package ($399.99, plus 10-percent for holiday weekends) would include the following authentic grandchildren details:

- A minimum of 20 square feet of sidewalk covered with chalk.

- Four different colors of Play-Doh, squished into the carpet.

- 63 Crayola crayons, secreted at strategic locations throughout the house, mostly under furniture.

- Red Kool-Aid stains on any light-colored fabrics, including dry-clean only down comforters.

- Roughly 3 pounds of beach sand, pine needles and miscellaneous detritus spread across every flat surface.

- Individual room “fresheners” scented like overdue diapers.

Those willing to spring for the Super-Special-Deluxe package ($550.00) could also look forward to at least one broken lamp and two missing TV remotes.

With summer coming, my schedule is bound to fill up quickly! Get your reservations in now and enjoy that Grandchild Experience for yourself!

Crossing the line isn’t always pretty

There are moments in life when everything changes. Graduation, marriage, the birth of a child, the first time a loved one dies; even something so trivial as getting a first driver’s license or first apartment can mark the beginning of a new chapter in life’s story.

It can be scary. To pass each of these milestones is to forego the likelihood of ever going back. Life, after all, offers no rewind button.

That being the case, you’d think people would be careful about the choices they make. And maybe some folks are careful. Others, like me, less so. If you want proof, I can give you the numbers of my ex-wives. They’ll set you straight.

I rarely even realize I’m at a crossroads until it’s already miles behind me and the damage is done. It’s a personality flaw (one of many) that has made for a turbulent, if interesting, life.

As a kid, these defining moments came and went with jarring regularity. My family changed addresses more often than most people change socks. It was rare that we lived at a single address for more than a year or two.

Both my parents had that old “wandering bone,” as the Creedence tune goes. I don’t know how old I was before I realized some kids lived in the same house and town from birth to the time they moved away to college or got married.

I’m sure there’s a sense of comfort in that, of permanence. But I never envied those kids. When you grow up nomadic, you get used to it. I did, anyway. It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I began to wean myself from that Gypsy lifestyle.

I tried to settle down. Then tried again. And again. I’m still trying. To be fair, my efforts are improving. Those life-shaking moments come less frequently nowadays, due, I suppose, to my age.

I consider myself middle-aged; that’s entirely accurate, assuming I live to be at least 126, which is what I have planned. I suppose I’d settle for 120, but anything short of that and I want to speak with a manager.

At any rate, these watershed moments, though rarer than they were in the past, do still happen. I had one just last week, in fact. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but now I’m thinking maybe it was.

It was a Thursday evening and I was about as skanky as a human being who hasn’t been confined to a medieval dungeon can get. Hadn’t showered in three days, hadn’t shaved. When you work from home, personal hygiene becomes a matter of choice, rather than necessity. When you live alone, this is even more true.

I was fashionably attired for the evening; fuzzy pants, a T-shirt bearing evidence of the previous evening’s lasagna, old house slippers that look as if they’ve spent a year or two beneath a rock in a riverbed. I was, basically, all set for senior prom.

My mountaintop hermit ensemble and questionable smell were just fine for the evening I had planned: sitting in my easy chair with a good book and maybe some wine.

And then I remembered the ice cream shop is only five blocks away. I hate it when I remember that, especially after I’ve settled in for the night. Yet it happens more often than you’d believe.

Now, I do have a closet filled with laundered, ironed clothing, some of it stylish even. I could have changed into something more suitable for public consumption. Five years ago, this is exactly what I would have done.

Five years ago, I was still vain. I have no real reason to be vain, either then or now; I’m neither ridiculously handsome, nor brilliant, talented or personable. In truth, I’m just kind of average, as are most people. (Hence the word “average.”)  Yet somehow, I’ve managed for decades to convince myself I’m a dead ringer Brad Pitt during his “Thelma and Louise” days. There’s absolutely no evidence to support this delusion, but I’ve arduously maintained it anyway.

And part of that artificially inflated egomania was that I never left the house unless I was showered, shaved and shiny as a new penny. Just in case I was mobbed by legions of adoring fans. (This has yet to happen, but hope springs eternal.)

But there I was, skulking out the door and into the early evening chill looking for all the world like an escaped mental patient and smelling like a wet dog bed.

Who would see me, I reckoned. I’d be in the car. Besides, I’ve shopped at Walmart; I know there are lots of folks who walk around looking like I did on a regular basis. It’s not like there’s a law against it, right?

It wasn’t until I was at the drive-through window that I began to fully appreciate the line I had crossed. My Brad Pitt days were now irrevocably behind me; my Walter Matthau days lay ahead.

I suppose I should feel depressed by this rite of passage, but I don’t. It’s actually a bit liberating, this first small step into grumpy old man-hood.

All my life I’ve managed to roll with the changes and monitor my journey only through the reflection in the rear-view mirror. It’s probably too late to change now, even if I wanted to. I’ll just have to hope I can dodge those legions of adoring fans, at least until I’ve had a shower.

My super-chimp is just the beginning

Read an article the other day about some geneticists in China who have successfully spliced human genes into the brains of monkeys.

I’m guessing those Chinese scientists have never seen the “Planet of the Apes” movies. If they had, they would know there’s no way this is going to end well. It’s only a matter of time before Charlton Heston winds up kneeling on the seashore in front of a half-buried Statue of Liberty while damning everyone at NORAD to hell.

Naturally, most of those commenting on the article were (surprise! surprise!) outraged. An outraged person on Facebook! I mean, what are the odds?

I was a little outraged myself. I don’t, after all, relish the idea of whiling away my golden years picking ticks off the backs of my simian overlords. Likewise, I wouldn’t want those bloody baboons to cut up my brain. (And you just know they would, given half a chance.)

At the same time, while reading the article I couldn’t help but be impressed by the science behind the experiment. Suppose those scientists really do succeed in creating a better, slightly smarter monkey?

There are some who say this experiment was already successfully carried out on a large scale years ago; they point to Washington and Lansing as proof of this theory. Others contend this assertion is insulting to monkeys. But when it comes to politics and primates, I believe exactly what you believe, so let’s keep those emails friendly, kids.

What I find exciting about the experiment is it brings me one step closer to achieving a life-long goal: to own a pet monkey. I’ve wanted a pet monkey since grade school.

Believe it or not, they were once advertised in the back pages of comic books. For $13.95 plus postage the company would ship any kid a (mostly) live baby monkey. If there were rules or regulations governing this practice, nobody paid any attention to them.

My guess is the life expectancy of those baby monkeys was about two weeks. Others were no doubt released into the wilds of West Michigan when their owners realized how much fun it is to change a monkey’s diaper four times a day.

But a genetically-enhanced monkey? One that could be taught to use the little chimp’s room? One smart enough to NOT fling its feces on the lace curtains? Now, THAT might be fun, even without a funny hat and miniature bicycle.

The altered Chinese monkeys aren’t anywhere close to that, sadly, but you’ve got to remember, this is just a first effort. It’s only a matter of time.

Much as I want one, I won’t be first in line to make a purchase. I’ll wait to see if any other owners get their noses bitten off first. If there have been no gruesome monkey-related fatalities after six or seven months, I’ll dig out the credit card.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize there’s a lot of stuff – besides monkeys, I mean – that I wanted as a kid. Like the simian pets, most of this stuff also was advertised in the back pages of “Superman” and “Dr. Strange.”

Back then I had a cash flow problem; most fourth grade kids do. So many of my heart’s desires went unfulfilled.

Lord knows I’m no millionaire now, but I do have a few more bucks than I did as a child. Why should I settle for a super-chimp when I can afford to fill my shelves with the “stuff” I could once only dream of?

Shrunken heads, for instance. I always felt I needed a shrunken head. They looked very real in the pages of the comic books. At the time, I assumed they were authentic, human heads, writ small for the convenience of savvy consumers. Now I’m not so sure. But I’d like to find out once and for all.

X-Ray Specks. I actually dropped two weeks’ allowance on a pair of these. The actual item, when it finally arrived, left much to be desired. They did elicit a wonderful reaction from the girls whenever I wore them on the playground, though. (Sexual harassment laws were laxer in those days.)

Weight gain formula! Because I was tired of getting sand kicked in my face at the beach. Not sure what I’d do with a jar of it these days. Not eat it, that’s for sure. Alas, my “too skinny” days are behind me.

So much great stuff. So little time. But if things go well with my talking super-chimp, I’ll be keeping the FedEx guy busy for months.