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.

Let’s explore the topic of living with women in the digital age

There are too many women in my life. Yeah, I know this a goal a lot of guys work toward their whole lives, yet never achieve. Young guys, anyway. Geezers like me are smarter than that.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy having one good woman in my life; hence, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. Without her I wouldn’t know how fast to drive, which parking space to use at the mall, how to fold a bath towel … I’d be helpless, or so she believes.

The truth is somewhat different, but certain topics are best left unexplored. If I know what’s good for me.

No, it’s the extra women – women brought into the house by Mrs. Taylor herself – who are starting to get on my nerves. As of last week, there are four of them, improbably named Cortana, Siri, Maggie and The New Girl. They’re here and they’re listening. It’s creepy.

Siri arrived first, with my new iPhone. Her, I didn’t mind. I’d ask her a question, like, “Hey Siri! Where can I get a decent burrito around here?” She in turn would recite the Wikipedia entry on Mexican General Santa Anna and his role in the battle of the Alamo. Then I’d Google Mexican restaurants and go buy a burrito.

Siri was mostly useless, but she was confined to my phone like a genie in a bottle, so I could for the most part ignore her. If she felt slighted, she never mentioned it. In a way, she represents the most successful relationship I’ve ever had with a woman.

Then Mrs. Taylor bought me a new desktop PC. I’d been on Macs up until then and was surprised – startled, even – the first time Cortana offered her assistance. I tried to tell her I could bore myself to death on Facebook without her help, but Cortana wouldn’t listen. It’s been months and she still pops up every so often to let me know I’m doing things wrong. Some days her nagging is so bad I feel like a bigamist.

But at least Cortana is stuck in my computer and can only get at me when I’m online, either working or dorking around (or, most often, doing both at the same time. I’m big on multi-tasking).

Maggie is the least obtrusive of the four, since she lives in my car. She’s mounted on the dashboard and takes over the responsibility of telling me where to go and how to get there when Mrs. Taylor is busy with other things.

Despite the fact Maggie is the pushiest of the lot, I still appreciate her. I fully admit I’m directionally challenged and couldn’t find my own backside with both hands without her constant input. Like Mrs. Taylor, Maggie doesn’t waste a lot of time listening to anything I have to say; she just reminds me of the dire consequences awaiting me if I don’t follow her instructions.

I named her Maggie because she reminds of Sister Margaret, my fifth-grade teacher at St. Isadore Elementary School. Like Siri and Cortana, Maggie is conveniently confined to a small box, which I can switch off at will. Or, I can simply get out of the car and walk away, leaving her alone, sometimes for days at a time.

Not so The New Girl. Her name is Alexa and she is ubiquitous and omnipresent. I came home from a night out last week to find Mrs. Taylor had installed Alexa’s eyes and ears all over the house. There’s not one room in which she doesn’t now listen in to everything I say.

When I want to hear some music, I just tell her what I’m in the mood for and she plays it throughout the house. If we’re out of peanut butter and sardines, I say so and Alexa adds them to my grocery list. If I’m interested in the latest presidential wisdom making its way across the Twitter-sphere, she’s there to read it to me.

In theory, Alexa only pays attention when I say her name. But Mrs. T has an extension of Alexa in her office over 30 miles away and she can “drop in” on me anytime from there. In theory, again, I can also drop in on her from home, but I don’t know how to do this so it never happens.

“Drop in” is a cutesy euphemism for “spy on me,” by the way. Mrs. T claims she has better things to do than listen to me talking to the cats and chickens all day, but I wonder. Frequently, the cats, chickens and I are discussing her, and it’s not always complimentary.

Working from home as I do, I used to feel a bit isolated and even lonely at times. I missed the office, my co-workers, even my boss. But these days? Not so much. Not with all these women around, hanging on my every word.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

Including Lori, I love 11 women

Lori’s not the first woman I’ve loved. There have been a few. In fact, I have a top ten list. 

Granted, most of the women on my list have never heard of me. OK, none of the women on my list have heard of me, but I’m in love with them anyway. Lori’s not threatened by this; I’m assuming she has a top ten list of her own, undoubtedly populated with flat-bellied cowboy types with steely blue eyes and muscular backsides.

She’s too classy to go public with her top ten list. I alas, am not; so here we go:

10: Shelly Duvall. That’s right, Olive Oyl from that terrible Popeye movie. She’s odd looking, but in a way that — for reasons I cannot explain — I really, really like. Chance she would return my phone calls? Um, maybe .03 percent.

9: Charlize Theron. She’s almost too beautiful, but I’d be willing to overlook this, assuming she was willing to pay for dinner occasionally. Chance she would return my calls? Is there a number less than zero?

8: Betty Boop. Yup, another cartoon character, which probably reveals more about my personality than I should be comfortable with. I’m not actually in love with Ms. Boop, but rather real life Helen Kane, the 1920s singer upon whom the Boop character was based. Chance the she would return my calls? Zero, since she’s been dead a long time and I don’t believe in ghosts.

7: The lady from the Progressive Insurance commercials. I know I’m not alone in this peculiar obsession. I’ve spoken with at least two other guys — one being my eldest son — who feel the same. Chance she would return my calls? Pretty good, assuming I was looking to add Life and Homeowner’s to my current policy.

6: Morticia, from the 1960s Addam’s Family TV series. I’d happily spend eternity in side-by-side matching caskets with Morticia, even if she didn’t speak French. Return my calls? Probably not, for the same reason as Ms. Boop.

5: Morticia, from the Addam’s Family movie, as played by Anjelica Huston. I’m also in love with Anjelica Huston when she’s playing other roles, but as Morticia? Double whammy! Return my calls? I think I may have a shot here, since she once dated Jack Nicholson and he’s even older and frumpier than me!

4: Charlotte Church, the (former) opera singer. She’s cute, yeah, but it’s her voice I love. I saw her on TV 15 years ago and bawled like a baby when she sang “Ave Maria.” Return my calls? Nope, since I wouldn’t call this one in the first place. Too young. But that voice…

3: The mom from “A Christmas Story.” Bad perm and all, I’m crazy about this woman! Return my calls? Probably not. Not after that bad perm comment.

2: Aretha Franklin. I fell in love with Aretha the first time I heard her sing “Chain of Fools.” I was 12 years old and my love hasn’t diminished in the ensuing decades. Return my calls? No. I’m not worthy.

1: Kathy Bates. Most amazing actress ever and I would work for free as her pool boy just to hang around her. Return my calls? Ha! Only if I added too much chlorine.

That’s my top ten list. I’d be interested to hear yours. Email them to me at mtaylor@staffordgroup.com. If I get some good ones, I’ll feature them in a future column.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Maybe it’s time for men to evolve, right after the Stooges marathon

This is going to come as a surprise to only a few men and absolutely no women: girls are more sophisticated than guys. 

Sure, sure, I know there are a few artsy-fartsy New York gents who’ve read biographies of Andrew Wyeth and get all teary-eyed during Mimi’s death scene in “La Bohéme.” But they’re the exception, not the rule.

At whatever social stratum a man finds himself, his female counterpart is likely to be more mature, more sensible, more … civilized. This isn’t always the case, of course, but often it is.

I’m thinking about this at the moment because of a conversation I had last night with Sweet Annie. We were sitting around the fire and I quoted from an article I read over 40 years ago in Mad Magazine; you know, with Alfred E. Newman on the cover? Published by William M. Gaines?

If you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re a woman, chances are you never cracked a copy open.

The Mad quote I referenced had to do with “Famous Failed Businesses,” in particular, a drug-store that advertised Instant Urinalysis and Hand-made Sandwiches. 

Funny, right? I thought so, too, and so did Annie. She was also mildly repulsed by the idea. Her comment was that it was “a little crude.”

When women say something is “a little crude,” they mean that to be a bad thing. It’s different with men. Crude can be good. Funny, even.

We grew up with Larry, Moe and Curly, were weaned on Abbott and Costello. While young girls were reading classics like “Little Women,” we boys were filling our heads with comics in which Sgt. Rock blasted Nazis and the Incredible Hulk laid waste to Manhattan office blocks during a moody moment.

But the male penchant for primitive, juvenile behavior can’t be blamed solely on the influence of popular media. Call it divine intervention or evolutionary circumstance, but men are just different.

It goes back to our prehistoric forebears, I believe. When a saber-toothed tiger came sniffing around outside the cave, it was the man who went out, club in hand, to dispatch the beast or die trying. His cave-wife, meanwhile, sat inside reading a copy of “Little Women” and listening to NPR.

When medieval bandits waylaid hapless maidens on the road between the village and the palace, it was the king’s knights who bolted on armor and plodded into the forest to do battle with the varlets.

In fact, men throughout history have been responsible for most of the fighting, heavy lifting, and mindless grunt work that needed doing. Sure, women had their fair share of grunt work as well, whether in the home or field, but it was generally work that allowed them the freedom to discuss ideas with their peers, to converse as they worked, to become more civilized.

Meanwhile, we guys were hunting wild beasts (or each other) through the woods, stumbling around in the dark, the rain, the cold. A man’s life was more solitary, more brutal, more … crude.

Is it any wonder women evolved faster than men? We never stood a chance.

Of course, things are changing, and changing fast. In our modern, technological world, women are every bit as capable as men of performing the present day equivalent of killing that saber toothed tiger.

So guys, maybe this is our chance to catch up with the fairer sex, to develop a little refinement and class. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time.

Then again, there’s a Three Stooges marathon on cable next week. We’ve put off evolving this long. I guess another seven days won’t kill us.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com or visit his blog at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Buy my book!  Just click the link over on the left there.  Do it!  I need beer money, dammit!

I wonder how I’d look with one of those ‘monk’ haircuts?

If my dates get any stranger, I am going to join a monastery. I don’t know if the brothers will take me in and I readily admit I may have a tough time with that whole “vow of silence” thing, but I’m giving it serious consideration anyway.

In the monastery the crazy women would not be able to find me, or so I hope. Because out here in the real world, they seem to be the only women who do find me!

But before we go any further, let me reiterate for those who’ve never read one of my columns before: I hate dating! Hate it hate it hate it hate it.

Unfortunately, I love women. Or rather, I love being in a relationship with one woman. The Catch-22 of it is, in order to have a woman, one must first find a woman, and the only way I know to do that is dating.

Women must be wooed; flowers must be purchased, dinners bought, car doors opened, poetry written. I don’t mind any of these things. I enjoy them, actually, once I’ve found a candidate interested in being my Significant Other.

It’s the finding of that candidate that wears me down and gets me thinking thoughts of monk-dom.

I’m thinking these somewhat grim and defeatist thoughts today because of a recent liaison with a girl I met through a dating service. She was cute, well-educated and of an age that I wouldn’t feel I was dating either my mother or daughter.

According to her “profile,” she enjoyed camping, quiet walks on the beach, the music of the Beatles, and a “healthy lifestyle.” That last one worried me. I mean, I live a fairly healthy lifestyle, but I don’t enjoy it! I’d much rather eat deep fried foods, watch TV all day, and bathe only occasionally.

At any rate, she suggested we get together for drinks at what I assumed was a nightclub not far from her home. It was not a nightclub, but one of those whole-foods-carrot-juice-health-nut joints that serve only produce grown organically in sunny fields tended exclusively by leprechauns and unicorns.

But I’m a sport. I figured I could hold my nose and drink whatever they put in front of me.

Two minutes after we were seated, my BlackBerry—which I had forgotten to switch off—beeped to notify me of an incoming email.

“What was that?” my date asked.

“Just my phone,” I replied as I silenced the ringer and returned the device to my pocket. I don’t take calls, emails or anything else when I’m in a social situation.

“Oh…My…God!” said my date. “You have a cell phone in here?”

Turns out (according to my date, who went on about it at length) cell phones, PDAs, computers, ATM machines, barbecue grills, electrical wiring, microwave ovens, televisions and video game consoles all inundate us daily with cancer-causing radiation.

She made me put my cell phone out in the car before we could finish our wheat grass juice, or whatever the heck it was. (It tasted like lawn.)

The date was mercifully short. She was as glad to get away from my irradiated lifestyle as I was to get away from her wheat grass juice and tofu.

I wonder what they’re serving in the monastery tonight. A lot of those monks make great wine.

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