Want the perfect family this holiday season? Rent ‘em

I was talking with Angela, the girl who cuts my hair, the other day. It turns out we’re both going to be spending Christmas day alone.

Now, before you start feeling all weepy for me (or Angela), let me just say, it’s not so bad. I’ll be celebrating the holiday with the kids the day before Christmas and with friends a couple days after. But Christmas morning I’ll be flying solo.

I thought about asking Angela to join me Christmas morning, but she’s cute and younger than the socks I usually wear; I was afraid she’d take my invitation the wrong way. Too many people already think I’m a dirty old man; I don’t need to add Angela to that list.

At any rate, Angela (or maybe it was me, I don’t remember) came up with a good idea for dealing with solo Christmas mornings – rental families. This is the perfect time for a business like this to take off in a big way. The economy stinks, people are looking for work, and a lot of guys – like me – have been recently dumped and could use some company come December 25.

I envision it like this: For $100, say, you could rent a spouse. She would show up at the house early with “bed-head” and wearing an old robe. She would fix some coffee and maybe a couple eggs, and then wake you up with a cheery, “C’mon sleepyhead, Santa’s been here!”

You’d go downstairs together, turn on the tree lights, and then open presents.

“This isn’t what I asked for at all,” the rent-a-wife would say. “Don’t you remember? I asked for the green sweater. This one is blue! Did you at least save the receipt this year?”

It would be exactly like having a real wife in the house, only the coffee would be better.

Rent-a-kids also would be available at $50 each, so for $350, you could share Christmas morning with a nice, Catholic family like the one you grew up in. If you’re not Catholic, you could save a few bucks and rent just two kids, or even one, if you’re a yuppie.

The kids would dutifully scream excitedly over good presents and moan about the “gift” pajamas sent by Aunt Marge. They would shred wrapping paper with the fervor of rabid weasels disemboweling a bunny rabbit. The boys would make fun of the girls’ “stupid” gifts of tea sets and Barbie dolls, while boasting about their own Tonka trucks and GI Joe’s.

All of the children would complain bitterly that Santa did not, yet again, bring them either an iPod or a PlayStation.

The youngest child would spill eggnog down the heat register and the oldest girl would sob inconsolably after discovering the batteries for her remote-control Barbie Dream Car are not included and all the stores are closed.

But it won’t all be one-sided; your rent-a-family also would have presents for you. These would, however, consist of a garish holiday tie featuring Garfield in an elf’s hat and a pair of slippers shaped like the head of an antelope – pretty much what your “real” family would have purchased, if you had one.

By the time your rent-a-family leaves, sometime after 1 p.m., you’ll be happy to spend the rest of the day on your own, eating Chinese food and catching a flick.

Of course, as good as this idea is, maybe I’m coming at it from the wrong angle. So, if there are any single moms with a lot of kids out there who need a husband Christmas morning, I’m available. One-hundred bucks gets me sitting around the tree for two hours pretending I like the Garfield tie; for $150 I’ll even make the coffee.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Filling up these days is not a gas gas gas

I just had a birthday, so I feel comfortable slipping into “old codger” mode for a bit. Old codgers, as you are no doubt aware, spend a great deal of time complaining about how much better life was in the “good old days.”

Sugar was sweeter, skies were bluer, grass was greener … blah, blah, blah. It’s one reason old codgers frequently wind up in nursing homes; nobody not on the payroll is going to listen to them babble on like this. Sure, other old codgers might seem to be listening, but what they’re really thinking about is whether cream corn is on the menu again tonight.

At any rate, I’m going to risk commitment to the nursing home and do a little codger-ing myself this week.

When I was a kid (which is how all old codger proclamations begin) gas stations (which were called “service stations” because they actually provided service) were totally different than they are today. You pulled in and at least two guys in coveralls would descend upon your car; one to pump the gas, the other to check your oil, water, tire pressure and the fitness of your car’s various belts, hoses and wires. If something needed fixing (and, admittedly, sometimes even if it didn’t) the mechanic (they weren’t called “service technicians” back then) would fix it for you.

The customer would remain in his or her car, warm, dry and listening to “Moon River” on the AM radio.

It was a good system and the station with the best service usually got the most customers.

I was thinking about this the other day when I went to gas up my gun-boat (an old Mercury the size of a tennis court and the quintessential codger-mobile) at a gas station in Saugatuck. I won't say which brand of gas it was, but it rhymes with "swell", "smell", and not coincidentally, I think, "hell."

Rain was pelting when I pulled up to the pump; that sleeting, soggy, late-November precipitation that so plagues Michigan this time of year. No attendants came running out to fill my tank, but since that hasn’t happened in years, I wasn’t really expecting any.

I stepped out into the downpour, lifted the frigid nozzle from the pump and stuck it in the appropriate receptacle. I pushed the “regular” button. I squeezed the handle. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Still nothing.

A disembodied voice blared from an overhead speaker: “Pump nine is prepay only!”

I looked up into the pouring rain. “What?” I said.

“Pump nine is prepay only!” the voice repeated, somehow managing to sound bored and condescending at the same time.

I replaced the nozzle and trudged the 20 yards to the station’s entrance. I waited in line while the three people in front of me decided which lottery tickets and cigarette brands they wanted. Finally, it was my turn.

“I need to fill it up,” I said. “But I don’t know how much it will be. How can I prepay?”

The kid at the counter, who had obviously heard the question before, explained that I could leave a whole bunch of money, then trudge through the rain a second time to get whatever change I might have coming. I left $60, walked back into the stinging sleet, and stuck the nozzle in the tank.

This time gas came out, but sloooooowly. Why, I wondered, would they set their pumps so the gas flowed so slowly?

The answer came two seconds later, when a small box bolted to the pump began blaring out advertisements for the fabulous specials on Ho-Ho’s, Ding-Dongs and Twinkies being offered inside. The sound quality from the tiny speaker was terrible, but very loud.

For several minutes I stood in the rain, getting wetter, madder, and old codger-ier. As soon as I figured I had enough gas to get me home I gave up, though the tank was far from full. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Calling upon the patience of Job and the pacifism of Gandhi, I managed to resist pumping an extra gallon or so into the small speaker box, which was now shouting at me about how important my “shopping experience” was to the station’s management.

I’m thinking of staging an Old Codger’s Rebellion and wresting control of American business from the young and putting it back in the hands of geezers, where it belongs. I wonder if the AARP would give me funding.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

There’s something about a free T-shirt that makes people crazy

It has been years since my last monster truck rally; a dozen, maybe. I care about monster trucks almost as much as I care about who wins this season’s American Idol, which is to say, not at all. But my sons Jordan and James both loved ‘em, James especially. So once or twice a year we’d go.

Monster truck rallies, for those of you unfamiliar with pork rinds or chewing tobacco, feature large, heavily modified pickup trucks rumbling over smaller, less testosterone-infused vehicles. They’re loud, smelly, crowded affairs, and a lot more fun than I’m making them sound here.

Monster truck rallies are, for the most part, a “guy thing.” There’s a lot of shouting, jostling and other rude behavior that most guys keep under wraps when their wives are watching. Occasionally, there’s even a fight or two. Just guys—drunk, redneck guys for the most part—doing what guys do.

Now, I consider myself to be an urbane, sophisticated man about town, so I try to avoid inebriated hand-to-hand combat with guys named Bubba as often as possible. But sometimes, a situation arises that so threatens the very fabric of civilization that I just have to make a stand.

Such was the case when I fought over the T-shirt.

The T-shirt was shot in my general direction from a T-shirt-shooting cannon while crews were busy dragging a recently-capsized Ford F250 out of the arena. They do stuff like that at monster truck rallies to fill in the few quiet moments between Yugo crushings.

The T-shirt tried to sail over my head and into the bleachers behind me, but at the last second I leapt up and snagged it. No right fielder making the winning World Series catch ever felt more satisfaction than I did as I pulled that shirt out of the air.

But as I did, the guy sitting directly behind me tried to grab it out of my hand! I turned around, thinking he might be kidding. I had caught the shirt, fair and square, after all.

He was a big guy, hairy beer belly protruding impressively over his belt and from under his wife-beater T-shirt. And he wasn’t kidding; he intended to steal my T-shirt with a stadium full of monster truck fans watching the misdemeanor unfold in real time on the Jumbo-tron screen.

Now, I cared no more about that T-shirt than I did about monster trucks or American Idol, but there was a principle at stake here! I refused to let go. I pulled. He pulled. We pulled.

It soon became apparent he wasn’t strong enough to pull the shirt out of my vise-like grip. Sadly, I wasn’t able to pull it out of his. So we sat there, the two of us, hanging onto our corners of the T-shirt. For 90 minutes. Every so often, one of us would give the thing a half-hearted tug, like a dog wrestling for a rope he’s grown tired of.

Neither of us said a word, we just hung onto the shirt as monster trucks continued to do their thing in the arena below.

Eventually, the last truck rumbled out the door. The guys hawking cotton candy and $4 bottles of water called it a day. And still the big guy and I maintained our stubborn grips.

I realized one of us was going to have to give it up. Either that or we’d wind up spending eternity together, joined at the shirt. I decided I could probably do better by way of a life partner, so I let go my end. Bubba shambled away in triumph, the horribly mangled T-shirt dangling from his fur-knuckled hand.

There’s a moral here somewhere, but being the kind of guy who enjoys monster truck rallies, I have no idea what it is.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

There’s actually some comfort in hearing that final coffin nail hammered home

Earlier this year my wife left me. Then I lost my house. Last week, I finally hit the Trifecta of bad luck – I was fired from my job.

It wasn’t my fault, or the fault of the newspaper I was working for. The economy stinks, and they simply couldn’t afford me anymore.

Management was exceedingly nice about it; I should point out, and did everything they could to make the whole affair a little less devastating. It’s a great company; the best I’ve worked for, and I have nothing but good things to say about the folks there.

I’ll miss ‘em.

But I’m still unemployed. And, as many of you already know from sad experience, this is not a good time to find oneself without gainful employment.

So, the wife, the house, the job … if I knew three chords I’d write a country-western song. Seriously, I’m starting to feel like a character from a Steinbeck novel here!

If it weren’t for the fact I now have nothing left to lose, I’d be bummed out. But, other than my health (knock on wood) everything I thought important a year ago is long gone.

It may be that I’m still in a state of shock, but the whole thing is actually a little liberating. I have nothing left that can be taken from me. I can’t help but wonder; at some point did Job finally throw up his hands and laugh at his situation? The Bible doesn’t report this event, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.

I mean, there’s only so much that can happen to one person in a short amount of time before it becomes impossible to miss the flat-out irony of it all.

So I’m not going to panic or pout. I’m going to file my unemployment claim, dust off the resume, get a good haircut, polish my shoes, pray, and start looking for work. Eventually (the unemployed bum says with crossed fingers) I’ll find something.

And when I’m not hunting for a new gig, I’ll do what everybody I know has been telling me to do for years: work on The Book. “Starving artist” sounds so much better than “unemployed bum,” don’t you think?

I’m not sure yet what the book is going to be about, but trust me, it will be fabulous! So much so, in fact, that you’re not only going to want to buy a copy for yourself, but several additional copies for friends and relatives.

Why? Because “successful author” sounds even better than “starving artist,” that’s why.

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

Scorpions, tarantulas and beer – they go together better than you may think

I had my first beer the summer I turned 15. I had my second beer 57 seconds later. My third beer I didn’t have until I was in my late 20s and even then I wasn’t sure I liked it.

But that first beer was wonderful.

It was late August and I was living in Phoenix. My mother had decided a few months earlier that we should move there for the clean, dry air. The Arizona Tourism Council brochures neglected to mention the dust storms that blow through that godforsaken city every few weeks, turning the air into the breathable equivalent of a kitty litter box.

It was sweltering that summer. My Michigan physiology was not adapting well and I spent most days trying to find shady spots near the apartment complex’s swimming pool.

I had made one friend, Morgan, an Apache that had been adopted off the reservation by a white family. I thought he was cool because he looked like a character out of a John Wayne movie, he thought I was cool because I thought he was cool.

We spent most of that summer hanging together; with Morgan teaching me about life lived on the edge of the desert. We caught lizards, climbed trees, built forts, and did the stuff boys did before the advent of Play Station III.

So I was a little surprised by Morgan’s reaction when I told him I was going into the desert to find insects for a science class project.

“You’ll get lost out there,” he said, “or stung by a scorpion.”

“It’s right across the road,” I said, pointing to the miles of empty saguaro-studded sand only four lanes of blacktop away. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance. If I walked toward them I was going away from home. If I walked away from them I was headed back. I figured.

Morgan was worried for my safety, but he didn’t offer to serve as my faithful Indian guide. Fifteen-year-old boys have a strong survival instinct and, unlike me, Morgan wasn’t an idiot.

Butterfly net in one hand and canteen in the other, I crossed the road and stumped boldly into the trackless wasteland.

Seven hours later, my canteen long empty, I stumbled onto a dirt road, the first sign of civilization I had seen since wandering too far west of the four-lane blacktop.

My throat was an arid tube with a dry sweat sock stuffed in it. My sunburn had gone from bright pink to an alarming shade of red. I had been seeing honest-to-goodness mirages for hours, shimmers on the desert floor that looked for all the world like cool ponds. They remained elusively out of reach.

I sat by the side of the road for a good hour, falling slowly in and out of consciousness, before the battered pickup truck rumbled to a halt beside me. Through the cloud of dust it kicked up I saw an old fellow – what down there they call “desert rats” – stick his head out the window.

“Need a lift, son?” he said.

I did. More than that, I needed a drink. All the desert rat had was beer, a warm six-pack nestled on his front seat.

I drank one beer, opened the passenger door and was sick by the side of the road. I drank another and kept it down.

Morgan was waiting for me back at the house, sipping a cold Coke and talking with my sister. He gazed placidly as I stumbled from the pickup and dragged myself inside for a shower and sleep.

The next time Morgan gave me advice about the desert, I listened.

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

I’d like to know who put the cat in charge

I've never been fond of cats. Oh, there have always been a couple around the house, owned either by the kids or the former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, but we never had much to say to each other (the cats and me, I mean).

The cats did what cats do: eat, sleep, and slink around like they’ve been up to no good and are worried their probation officers might find out. Cats are the nickel and dime criminals of the animal world. If animals used money, cats would be in charge of under-the-counter, high interest loans and the occasional arson job.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t actively dislike cats; I just don’t have much use for ‘em. It’s always been an uneasy truce between me and the house’s feline populace; they use the litter box, I try not to step on anyone’s tail.

So when the Siamese left last spring with the former Mrs. T, I didn’t miss him. I missed the dog, but he was my friend. The cat was just, well, a cat. I missed him no more than I would one of the squirrels that take up residence in the attic every winter.

Which is why my answer was “Not interested” when, a few weeks ago, Rose called to say she’d found a kitten in the woods behind her home.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said.

“Not interested,” I said.

“She needs a home,” Rose said. “She’s so tiny, just a few weeks old.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“I can’t keep her,” Rose said. “The dogs would eat her.”

“That’s what dogs do,” I said.

“Listen,” Rose said. “Can you hear her meow?”

I could. It was annoying, even over the phone.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said again. “You’re all alone there at your house.”

“I like being all alone.” This is a lie, but Rose doesn’t know that. “I do not want a cat. I won’t take it, Sam I Am.”

I have a will of granite in such matters and made up my mind then and there that there was no way I was getting suckered into taking that kitten.

Rose delivered the singularly unattractive ball of fuzz the next day, along with a litter box, several cans of food, and an eye dropper. She was too young to be without a mama cat, so I was forced to feed her “kitty formula” by hand, using the eye dropper – six times a day, or she would meow her fool head off and make me crazy.

I kept her warm. I kept her fed. By way of thanks, she clawed my legs, my arms, my face; she peed on my hardwood floors.

The vet said she was only about four weeks old. That was three weeks ago. She’s now eating canned food and using the litter box in the manner for which it was intended. But she’s still a cat, and takes even greater delight – if that is possible – in clawing me up every chance she gets.

It’s all in fun, the vet says. It’s what kitties do. It’s the way they play.

Meanwhile, I look like a cube steak that’s been run through the tenderizer one time too many.

But somehow, Sofa King (my grandson suggested the name) has won my heart, the little rat. She sits on my lap while I’m reading at night, content to purr and snuggle, occasionally taking a swipe at my wrist, just to remind me who’s in charge.

I never thought I could care for a cat – as anything other than a possible emergency food source – but look at me now; whipped into submission by a 13-ounce fuzz ball. It’s unmanly.

But like most kinds of love, when it happens, it happens. We all need to be needed, I guess, and some things we just don’t control.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somebody’s out of kibble.

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

I predict this column will anger a lot of ‘God-gifted’ psychics

I’ve mentioned here before that I love The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Not those lame-o rip-offs that some unscrupulous supermarkets have been pushing in recent years, but the real Almanac, the one featuring Benjamin Franklin and Almanac founder Robert B. Thomas on its cover. The one that – as of last year – was on issue number CCXVII (which is Roman for “older than Clint Eastwood”).

Growing up in big cities (Detroit, Grand Rapids, Phoenix, Indianapolis, etc.) I had little contact with the world depicted in the Almanac. I was in my teens before I realized carrots weren’t manufactured from long chain polymers in a factory in Queens.

But once I moved to my current home in the bucolic Michigan countryside, I moved with all my heart, might, mind and soul. I planted a garden. I walked and rode my bike alongside miles of corn, beans and ‘taters. I did everything but buy an Amish hat and plow my back forty (feet, that is) with a horse.

I learned a lot, and one of the first things I learned is that folks around here read the Almanac, even those who don’t farm. So I did, too. Sure, there’s plenty of advice for farmers in there; planting tables, frost predictions and so on. But there’s also stuff for reformed city slickers like me.

But the best part, in my opinion, is the advertising section in the back. One thing you can say about the Almanac – they will accept anyone’s advertising dollar. In this economy, you can’t blame ‘em.

The best ads are from psychics. The word “psychic,” as you may be aware, is derived from the Latin “psychulorum,” which loosely interpreted, means “fraud.”*

There are pages of ads from psychics anxious to help with everything from your love life to your problems with the IRS.

“Sister Chloe” is one of my faves this year. Not only is she – according to her ad – “God-gifted,” she can predict the past, present and future. Now, I’m no psychic, but even I can predict the past and present!

It’s getting clearer … clearer … yes! I predict that this morning I had Corn Chex for breakfast! I’m now eating a baloney sandwich for lunch!

Amazing, eh? Predicting the future is a little tougher, but Sister Chloe can do it, for a price. Same goes for Rev. Dr. Black. Not only a reverend, but a doctor as well. If you can’t trust a reverend doctor, whom can you trust?

In fact, about half the psychics listed in the Almanac classifieds are doctors, reverends or “sisters.” Most of the rest are “God-gifted.” (God, apparently, hands out psychic talent like Halloween candy.) That makes it tough for Martha. Martha boasts no medical or religious credentials, she’s just plain Martha. But she does guarantee immediate results! (She does not specify what those results may be, however. The psychic world is a mysterious thing.)

They all claim to be able to remove spells, hexes, voodoo, hoodoo, bad luck, sickness and even lawsuits! That’s cool, but personally, I’d like to get in touch with the folks who cast those hexes and spells in the first place.

Halloween’s coming, and I have enemies.

* OK, I made that up. The only Latin I remember is from morning mass in fourth grade. Dominoes and biscuits, I think it was. Something 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.