Horses – the farther I get the better they look

Went to the county fair a couple weeks ago. I love those things. The animals, the rides and of course, the Holy Grail of fair food – the corn dog.

But today I want to talk about the Holy Grail of fair animals – the horses, of courses.

As I was wandering through the stalls eating my corndog (you have to put your sense of smell on hold to do this with any success) I couldn’t help but be impressed by the magnificent draft animals on display there. They loom over their stable mates like ancient kings, gazing down on the peasants in the courtyard below.

Personally, I’ve never been comfortable with any mode of transportation that doesn’t come with a brake and ignition switch, although there was a time (one time) in my life when I gave a horse a chance. That experience is why I now feel the way I do about them.

It was the summer of 1973, and I was dating a red-headed, freckle-faced farm girl named Beverly. Her folks owned a spread in what was then a rural part of Rockford. There they raised Arabians; a breed I have since learned is prone to going off the deep end for no apparent reason. (Breeders call Arabians “spirited.” I prefer the term “nuts.”)

I loved horses best from a distance even back then, but somehow Beverly talked me into actually climbing onto the back of a twitchy, nervous mare. I wasn’t crazy about the idea and could tell the horse didn’t like it much either.

It shifted from side to side, kicking up little clouds of dust as its steel-shod hooves thumped the earth in an anxious tattoo.

Bev mounted another, smaller horse, easing into the saddle with the familiar grace of long practice.

“OK,” she said. “To make him go, you just make a clicking noise with your tongue and shake the reins a little bit. You may have to kick him gently in the ribs, too.”

The idea of kicking – even gently – an animal that could crush me like a bug seemed incredibly unwise, but I continued to listen and nod as Bev showed me what to do with the reins to make the horse turn left or right, slow down, speed up, and so on. When she was convinced I understood the basics, we moved our horses out of the corral and into an adjacent field.

The sun was a warm, yellow marble suspended in a wide, cerulean sky. A temperate breeze blew across the field, carrying the scent of bayberry and cinnamon, August’s heady perfume. The field was alive with the somnambulant hum of insects going about business of their own.

Our horses plodded along at a sedate pace and I began to relax, to enjoy the experience.

And then the idiot animal spied an old tractor tire lying in the weeds, decided it was a rattlesnake, and shot off toward a nearby road (Northland Drive) at full gallop. My mind raced through the instructions Bev had delivered earlier. In my panic, I was making clicking noises, yanking on the reins, and kicking the horse in the sides – all simultaneously. In truth, its erratic behavior was due as much to “operator error” as to any inherent craziness on the horse’s part.

As I clicked and kicked, the horse dashed across the road. Car horns blasted, brakes squealed. I squealed.

The horse finally came to a rest in front of a small house on the far side of the road. I began my clumsy dismount, anxious to get back on feet I had some control over. I was halfway off the beast when a little old lady came barreling out of the house waving a broom over her head.

“Get that horse outta my yard!” she shouted, broom waving madly.

The horse complied by shooting back across the heavily-trafficked road as I hung off one side of the saddle, left foot stuck in the stirrup, right foot dangling madly off into space.

Horns blasted, brakes squealed.

Bev was waiting. As the horse cleared the road, Bev slid off her mount like a ballerina executing a flawless pirouette, and grabbed the flapping reins of my horse. The mare immediately quieted and I was able to free my foot from the stirrup.

I pretended my tears were caused by the wind, rather than terror. I’m not sure Bev bought it, but she pretended to.

In spite of it all, I still love horses. From a distance.

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

Rejection is a dish best served from a safe distance

When I began dating again, several months back, I was afraid of rejection. I know, I know, I seem so incredibly cool and full of self confidence (full of something, anyway), it’s hard to believe I would be fearful of getting shot down by a member of the fairer sex.

It turns out I had nothing to worry about. Oh, I’ve been shot down on a couple occasions, but the experience wasn’t nearly so terrifying as it had at first seemed. Rejection is nothing to be afraid of. Nobody is a perfect match for everybody, so there are bound to be a few encounters where things just don’t work out.

The hard part is not in being the “rejectee” but in being the “rejecter.” At least that’s how it’s worked for me.

There is no good way to tell a woman you’re just not that into her.

Most women are smart enough to figure it out by the end of that first date. I’m not sure what non-verbal cues I’m sending under those circumstances, but they must be fairly obvious.

I have had a couple dates, however, who needed to be told in plain English that a romance wasn’t gonna happen. That’s the part that isn’t easy.

A favorite “it ain’t happening” message involves no words at all; just a gentle pat on the back during the “goodbye hug.”

The pat says, “Thanks for coming. It’s been fun. But I don’t see us living in the little white house with a picket fence any time soon.”

Caution must be used with this one, however, as a hug without the back pat sends a different message entirely.

If the back pat doesn’t work, you can fall back to the standard, “It was fun, thanks. I’ll try and get hold of you later this week, but my schedule’s pretty full.” Translation: please forget my phone number.

Another good one is, “Thanks for coming. I had a good time. A girl/guy as great as you is sure to find someone perfect real soon now!” Ninety-seven percent of all girls (and at least 50 percent of guys) get the meaning of this one right away.

I’m thinking about this because of a date I went on a while back. I hadn’t seen a photo of the girl I was meeting, but she assured me on the phone that I “wouldn’t be disappointed.” We met for drinks and she was right, I wasn’t disappointed. She was cute, intelligent, personable, and appeared to have all her teeth.

And I felt nothing for her. Not one thing. It was like having lunch with my sister. Maybe it was incompatible pheromones, or maybe somewhere deep in my subconscious she reminded me of my great aunt Ruth. I don’t know. But I do know there was no “chemistry” happening there at all.

When we said goodbye, it was with a small, friendly hug. I told her what a good time I’d had, and patted her on the back. She smiled and said we should get together again soon.

All the way home I agonized over how I was going to let her down easy. The phone was ringing when I walked in the door; it was her.

“I just wanted to thank you again for lunch,” she said. “But, you know, I just didn’t feel it for you. You’re a great guy. I’m sure you’ll find someone perfect soon.”

I told her I had prepared an almost identical speech. We laughed about it, talked for a while, and decided to remain friends. She’s the first female “just a friend” I’ve had since high school. She calls or texts me every so often and we chat. It’s great. No pressure to impress, no romantic boogieman peering around the edge of every comment.

Why can’t real dates be like that?

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

Eat like a man, but keep the emergency room number on speed dial

I had my first single dinner yesterday. Not the first dinner I’ve eaten since being “re-singled,” but the first that was typical of what a single guy eats.

The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor used to shop for groceries every week, whether we needed any or not. She would clip coupons, peruse grocery store circulars, find the best deals.

She “stocked up.”

When she left, months ago, the food remained, and there was a lot of it. Since then, I’ve mostly eaten at restaurants, when I remember to eat at all. When I did eat at home, I would just pull something from the cupboards, heat it up and chow down.

The easy-to-prepare stuff went first. Microwave pizza, burritos, White Castle sliders … these lasted about a month. The various bags and boxes of Fritos, barbecue potato chips and Cheese Nips – the sort of thing you eat with microwaveable food – lasted about the same amount of time.

Then a couple months back I started emptying the freezer. Hamburger, some chicken breasts, even the fish that had been in there since the kids were little; this stuff got me through another month.

If I could thaw it and grill it, it got eaten.

A while back, I noticed the cupboards seemed less crowded than they had been in the past. All of a sudden, I could locate a can of refried beans without digging around in there for a half hour. The creamed corn was no longer buried behind boxes of Louisiana Style Rice & Beans and stacked tins of kippers in mustard sauce.

I made Hamburger Helper. The box had been in the pantry since the Reagan administration. And like the Reagan administration, it was dry and hard to swallow. (You Republicans know this is a humor column, right? So no hate mail, please!)

I ate the tins of tuna and kippers in mustard sauce. I ate the creamed corn. What was left wasn’t always what I was in the mood for, but it was food.

Then yesterday after work I decided to whip up an early dinner before going on my nightly bicycle ride. I hadn’t eaten lunch or breakfast and was pretty hungry.

But like Old Mother Hubbard, when I went to the cupboard, it was bare. I tried the box of Saltines in the back, but what had once been white, crisp crackers had transmuted into something resembling an eighth-grader’s science project. At any rate, it didn’t appear edible, except by bacteria, apparently.

I checked the freezer. Behind the ice trays lurked a mysterious lump of gray-green stuff that might once have been a Johnsonville brat.

Wrapped in waxed paper and frozen to an ice cube tray were six slices of pastrami. On the bottom shelf was a zip lock bag containing four small pieces of freezer-burned garlic bread.

I placed the pastrami – which now had the consistency of shoe leather – atop the slices of garlic bread and topped it with some shredded cheese (which, amazingly, had not turned green). This I baked in the oven for 20 minutes, until the cheese melted and the other components thawed.

I actually drank a nice glass of Pinot Noir with this culinary repast. I needed the wine to wash away the taste of freezer burned meat and stale bread.

It wasn’t good, by any stretch of the imagination, but it didn’t kill me, either.

Tonight, for the first time in over 20 years, I’m going grocery shopping by myself. If I have to eat like a single guy, I’m at least getting some TV dinners and Ramen noodles.

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

The ‘X-factor’ easy to spot in online dating

In the months since I’ve been “re-singled” I’ve learned a lot about dating, romance, and the bizarre dichotomy that rules the online singles scene – that gulf between reality and perception. People, especially newly-single people, rarely see themselves or their dates in a clear, unadulterated light. Everything either hums and glows with promise or pales behind the gray curtain of recent sad experience.

Navigation within the world of online profiles requires more translating skill than could be provided by the Rosetta Stone, Urim and Thummim, and the Berlitz people combined. It’s a labyrinthine landscape of half-truths, misperceptions and outright lies.

There are areas, however, that can be easily understood, even by fools like me. The most notable of these is the section – included at most dating sites – where the member lists the traits he or she would like to see in a potential suitor. It is here that the B-factor (“B” being “bitterness”) floats to the surface for all to see.

The B-factor can tell you everything you’d ever want to know – and lots you would not – about an individual’s former relationship.

For instance, a high B-factor woman’s profile might read as follows:

Loving, caring woman with a great sense of humor seeks man who knows how to do something – anything – besides sit on his fat butt all day watching ESPN. I need a man who won’t forget our anniversary and will bring me flowers even when he hasn’t spent the whole night out at some two-bit dive with “the boys.” If your mother is dead, that’s a big plus!

A high B-factor man’s profile might look like this:

Look, I got a job, a car and most of my teeth – what’s a guy got to do to hook up around here? Looking for a woman who enjoys fishing, hunting and thinks a fun Saturday afternoon consists of helping me detail my 1964 Mustang. I want a woman who enjoys quiet nights at home, cooking and cleaning; someone who hates to spend money on stupid things like shoes when she already has a closet full of ‘em, for crying out loud! If your mother is dead or living in another country (preferably one that will never grant her an exit visa) that’s a big plus!

You read enough of these profiles and it gets real easy to spot the B-factor folks. Then there are the H-factor singles; those who have been (H)urt big time by their former mates. Their self-esteem and confidence is at an all time low.

They sound like this: There must be someone out there for me somewhere, right? Looking for someone with a kind heart, sweet disposition and great morals that would never, ever, ever break my heart. Must be able to provide three references from previous lovers stating that you didn’t break their hearts, either.

The X-factor (“X” being the last letter of the word “seX”) folks have a hard time hiding their true intentions, though they do try.

Their profiles read like this: Great-looking guy seeks beautiful, thin, well-proportioned woman for long walks on the beach, maybe that stretch of beach near my house – you know, the one down there by the motel? Yeah, the beach is especially beautiful there on a moonlit night. Ability to commit to long-term relationship not particularly important.

I don’t mean to denigrate the online dating scene here, folks, really. Despite everything, it’s worked out pretty well for me so far. Why? Because there are a handful of SPWNEDI-factor people out there. Those Single People With No Especially Debilitating Issues.

They’re rare, but they are out there. And they make it worth the effort of sorting through the X’s, H’s, and B’s.

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

Spotting ‘types’ at the public library isn’t too tough

I spend a lot of time at the library down the street. It’s a nice facility, completed this past spring.

They let me work there all day, no questions asked. I used to work from home, back when I had a dog, cat and occasional person to look after. These days I’m on my own, and the house seems big and empty.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself here, really. I’ve gotten used to having the place to myself; it’s not so bad. But it does get a bit boring having nobody to talk with but the finch. Finches are notoriously dull conversationalists.

So I hang at the library.

Being there so much, I’ve started to develop a skill generally seen only in librarians: I can tell what sort of book a person is going to pick out just by looking at them. It’s true!

There are a few “types” anyone could figure out. The fat guy wearing a Batman T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops; you just know he’ll head straight for the science fiction section. Likewise, the mousy, middle-aged woman dressed like a Mennonite will covertly browse the Harlequin romances for a while before picking out something featuring a bare-chested Fabio type on the jacket.

Like I said, those types are easy. Not all are. Teenage girls, for example, fall into several sub-types. There are the athletic girls, who check out biographies of other athletic girls. Teen hotties beeline for the magazine room, where they peruse recent issues of “Cosmo” or “Sassy,” depending on age. And Goth teens (there are still some of ‘em out there!) skulk up and down the stacks looking for anything from Anne Rice or whichever author has penned the latest popular vampire tome.

Teenage boys fall into similar sub-types.

Little old ladies are fond of mysteries, especially serials featuring a female protagonist. They regularly ask the librarian to suggest a book and are therefore favored by the women who work behind the counter. Librarians are just like the rest of us – they’re dying to share their opinions with someone willing to listen.

Little old men go in for historical epics. Wars, from Civil to Desert Storm, are popular fare with guys 65 and up. Biographies of Winston Churchill and Roosevelt are always on the library’s waiting list.

Guys wearing ties get books on either business or religion. Men in Carharts frequent the “how to” aisle. Ladies with reading glasses hanging around their necks on little gold chains go in for true-life stories about women who have overcome a) drug addiction, b) alcoholism, c) abusive parents, d) depression, or e) missed episodes of “Oprah.”

Young kids are the only “type” impossible to predict. They’re happy with pretty much anything. Every book is a wonder to them and they’re years away from falling into anything resembling a reading rut.

It’s hard not to envy them as they tear through the shelves, poring over novels, poetry, biographies, comics. Children are the only truly omnivorous readers.

But maybe it’s not too late for the rest of us to step outside our habits and read something we usually would not. I’ll start the ball rolling.

Let’s see, what’s Oprah recommending this week?

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

It’s never easy leaving the place we love most

I keep trying to tell myself I don’t mind losing my house. Like a lot of Americans in these troubled times, I will soon join the unfortunates who – for whatever reason – are leaving behind the one earthly possession they most treasure.

In my case, the loss of my beloved domicile is the logical extension of The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s departure earlier this year. When she left, she took with her the second income that made continued ownership of our little country estate possible.

In short, I just can’t afford it on my own.

My mother would have heart palpitations if she knew I was discussing (gasp) financial matters in a public forum. But folks, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in this predicament.

Whether due to spousal departure, job loss, health issues, or just this rotten economy in general, thousands of people across the country lose their homes every week.

Not that I’m actually “losing” mine, at least not yet. But I am putting it up for sale. The odds of it selling before I’m forced to strike some sort of unhappy bargain with the bank are not good, however.

The bank, I should point out, has been great to work with on this, and no, that comment’s not intended as irony or cynicism. They don’t want to see me lose my home any more than I want to lose it. But they are in the business of making home loans, not “home gifts.”

Anyway, I’m calling the Realtor tomorrow and listing the place. It’s going to be tough, in large part because it’s the only home I’ve ever lived in for more than a few years in a row.

As a kid, my family moved so often it would have made more sense for us to reside in a covered wagon with cabalistic symbols painted on the sides. My dad could have sold snake oil while mom played the tambourine. We were like a military family without the military.

The practice of regular relocations followed me into adulthood. I’m not sure why. I think by then I was simply used to the idea of moving every couple years.

When The Former Mrs. T and I moved to our little house in the country, I reveled in the fact it was the last move I would ever have to make. For the first time in my life, I would put down roots and really be part of a community.

But life, apparently, has other plans for me.

The house – once upon a time “our” house – and all the dreams that went with it, will soon belong to someone else. I’m trying to not whimper like a wet kitten here, but it ain’t easy.

I wonder; will the home’s new owner know how many times I had to cut the molding in the upstairs bathroom before it matched up properly? Will he or she like the colors The Former Mrs. T chose for the living and dining rooms before she lit out for parts unknown? Will the home’s new occupant appreciate the dozens of trips we made to nearby farmers’ fields to “pick rocks” with which to landscape the back yard?

The answer, of course, is no.

All these things will be no more than memories. Eventually, even the memories will fade.

Life, we’re told, is defined by change. In every important way, life is change.

Just this once, I wish it wasn’t.

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

Is there anything but socks that a modern cell phone can’t do?

I broke down and picked out a new cell phone the other day. My contract was up and in order to keep me locked in like a 1950s housewife, the phone company offered to give me a way cool phone at a low, low price (after mail-in rebate, of course).

The phone is one of those touch-screen jobs, with only a couple “real” buttons on it. Lacking the usual bevy of buttons, the phone looks deceptively simple to operate. I like simple.

The girls at the phone store, Kimmi and Monique, both use the same model and raved about it at length.

“It can do anything,” Monique enthused.

“You can go on the Internet, get your email, and even watch TV!” Kimmi said.

“It will do everything but wash your socks!” Monique added.

“Do you have one that will wash my socks?” I asked. Since the departure of the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor I’ve discovered that laundry is not as much fun as it at first appears. A phone that would wash my socks would be a welcome addition to my collection of consumer electronics.

They do not, it turns out, make a sock-washing phone.

But considering all the other stuff the SUHX-500* can do, I was willing to continue doing my own laundry, at least until I can find a new Mrs. Taylor.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Monique proceeded to go online to set the phone up with my existing service. Because the SUHX-500 can do so many wonderful things, setting it up took a loooooooong time. I perused other cell phone models, accessories and the dozen or so informational pamphlets lying around the store. My beard grew longer. The sun passed across the sky a few times. Summer turned to autumn, autumn to winter. (In other words, time passed.)

Finally Monique returned with my new phone, all charged up and ready to make my first call, which I tried to do as soon as I got to the truck. Turns out that – because the SUHX-500 can do so many things – I now have to navigate through a series of menus just to get to the on-screen, virtual “dialer,” then I punch in the appropriate ten digits, then press “send,” then press “yes” when my SUHX-500 asks me if I’m sure I want to make a call. I went through the menus. I opened the dialer. I punched in the appropriate ten digit number. I hit send. So, yes you stupid phone, I am sure I want to make the call.

Sorry, I’m ranting.

I grew up in an era when the family phone (there was only one) was leased from Ma Bell (look it up in the history books, junior) and it did one thing – make phone calls. It was heavy, built like a tank, and almost as attractive.

You couldn’t use it to watch TV, surf the Web (which Al Gore had yet to “invent”), or listen to digital music files.

But it never, ever asked if I was sure I wanted to make a call.

Our gizmos and gadgets get smarter every day, while we poor humans remain about the same. I saw those “Terminator” movies; I have a feeling this is all going to end badly.

* Not the phone’s real model number. If they want free advertising here, they can pay me up front and I’ll give them a rebate form good for 10 percent back.