Who’s your daddy? Not me, that’s for sure

Despite much masculine posturing to the contrary, the male ego is a delicate, fragile thing. Mine is, anyway. Like most guys, I usually pretend I’m above the opinions of others, that my self-confidence is an unassailable rock upon which the tides of opinion beat ceaselessly without creating the merest hint of erosion.

That’s baloney, of course; everybody wants to be liked. My guess is even Saddam Hussein’s feelings were hurt when people made fun of his moustache (which they did, a lot, though probably not while he was in the room).

But guys being guys, we do our best to bandage over our emotional ouchies, shrug off the baggage, and get on with life while doing our best to emulate Sylvester Stallone in any Rambo movie. Usually, I’m as good at this ego shell game as any man, however, last Thursday I got blindsided, but good.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor was holding her annual yard sale, an event on a par with any major New York fashion show in terms of complexity, presentation and prep time. The only things keeping MTV from covering Mrs. T’s sales are the lack of a margarita fountain and a lip synch performance by Hannah Montana.

At any rate, her yard sales are legendary and people come from near and far to haggle over the junk she puts out there every year.

But to the point (yes, there is one, though I’m already having a hard time remembering what it was—male ego, that’s it): I was sitting on the front porch putting the finishing touches on last week’s column while Mrs. Taylor tended shop beneath a large beach umbrella, making change, answering questions, chatting with the neighbors. From the porch, I could see folks in the front yard, but through the screen, they couldn’t see me.

An attractive young lady in a brown sweater approached Mrs. T’s “checkout” table with a few books, a puzzle and an “almost new” carton of Lincoln Logs. While Mrs. Taylor was tallying up her purchases, the woman said, “Does Mike Taylor live here?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. T.

“I thought so,” she said. “I saw him mowing the yard a few weeks ago. I love the Guinness Brothers.” (The Guinness Brothers is the name of the little bar band I play in on the weekends. Not the best band in the world, but we don’t charge that much, so it all balances out.) “They’re really good,” the woman added.

Mrs. Taylor made a non-committal grunt. She knew I was eavesdropping from the porch and figured my already inflated ego could do without additional excitement.

“My husband and I go see them every chance we get,” the woman continued. “They’re our favorite band. We both read his column in the newspaper, too. He’s so funny.”

“Umm-hmm,” Mrs. T said. She later told me that, even from out in the front yard, she could hear skull bones shifting under the rapid expansion of my head. I have to admit I was feeling pretty pleased with myself at that moment.

Then it all came crashing down.

“Well, anyway,” the woman said, as she tucked her purchases into a canvas bag. “Tell your father we’re big fans.”

Father.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor didn’t bother to correct her. She just sat there under the beach umbrella wearing a Mona Lisa smile, listening to the sound of my head deflating.

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

The real education takes place during summer vacation

A couple weeks back one of my fellow columnists, Kathy Runyan, wrote a piece in which she implied that, deep down, most kids would rather be in school than on summer vacation. Now, Kathy’s a good friend, a very sweet lady and—in my opinion—the best columnist since Erma Bombeck, but she’s also obviously a little crazy.

Either that, or a girl.

I remember hearing rumors, back when I was toiling away at St. Isadore’s Elementary, that some girls actually liked school. We didn’t have the term “urban myth” at the time, but I assumed it was something like that; a fairy tale invented by girls to further distance themselves from the grimy, skin-kneed rabble that is prepubescent masculinity.

Whatever the case, I do know there are no schoolboys who pine for the chalk-dust-smelling confines of the classroom during summer’s long, temperate months. The school year is a time of vacant stares, watched clocks, irrelevant memorizations and flickering fluorescent lights.

Summer vacation, for a boy at least, is when the real education happens.

Remember that writer, Robert Fulghum, most famous for his book “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”? Well, all I ever learned in Kindergarten was that I prefer chocolate milk to white, and that you really can eat paste.

The things I really needed to know I learned during summer vacation.

For instance:

- Nothing feels as good as June grass against your bare feet. But there are boards with nails in them out there; care must be taken.

- Crawdad pinchers don’t really hurt that much, but it takes courage and faith to discover this fact for yourself.

- Grapes you pick yourself from wild-growing vines taste better than those you buy in a store, even though they have huge seeds in them and are frequently a little sour. Same goes for strawberries.

- A bicycle can go just as fast as you imagine it can go, and as far.

- A book read in a tree fort on a sultry July afternoon is infinitely superior to any book assigned by your teacher—even if it’s the same book.

- If you lie on a hillside beneath a star-littered night sky and gaze upward long enough, you will see God.

- Like grapes and strawberries, watermelon from the neighbor’s garden tastes better than watermelon from a store. But it also tastes better to your neighbor; don’t expect him to give it up without a fight.

- Skateboards are fun. Sidewalks are hard. It’s the same with life.

- If you sneak one cigarette from your father’s pack on the bedside stand, it won’t kill you. Unless you’re caught.

- Trains, not books, are the preferred transportation of the imagination.

- In the summertime, you sometimes become aware of air, even when there’s no scent upon it but the veiled aroma of faraway times and places.

- Life—despite sour grapes, boards with nails, and the distant shadow that is the resumption of classes in September—is good.

Oh, school serves its purpose, I suppose. We must learn to read and write, after all. But it’s during summer vacation that we learn the things worth reading and writing about.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or petitions to increase the length of summer vacation, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

No fear of flying here; not until the last few feet before touchdown

I was talking with my buddy Jim this past weekend. Jim’s the one friend I have with real money, but he’s such a nice guy it’s hard to hate him on that account. Also, he’s a “self-made” man who worked hard to get to the place he’s at today.

Because of his financial means, Jim has done a few things in his life—extended trips to exotic locales, dramatic liaisons with mysterious foreign women, stuff like that—that schmucks like me just dream about. The life he’s lead makes him interesting to talk with and I do so whenever circumstances permit.

At any rate, the other night we were having a couple drinks at a Lakeshore club with Jim’s new girlfriend, who, by the way, is a total hottie. But I still don’t hate him. Really. Okay, maybe a little.

The conversation flowed from the weather to travel to work to planes, trains and automobiles. At some point I mentioned how much I love to fly; not as a passenger, but as a pilot.

I’m not a pilot, but I’ve taken flight school twice and soloed out both times. This means I’ve actually conned some instructor into repeatedly letting me take his $20,000 Tomahawk 3,000 feet up, by myself.

It’s an exhilarating experience, and one I drop into conversation whenever I can because I think it makes me sound cooler than I really am. But like I said, I’m not a licensed pilot; I’ve never had the discipline (or math skills, probably) to complete ground school. Still, all things considered, I have logged a lot of flight hours.

Now, unlike most people, my buddy Jim reads this column and so is aware of my well-documented fear of heights. How can I fly a plane, Jim asked, if I’m afraid to climb above the fourth rung of a step ladder?

I had to admit I didn’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it much before, and on the surface, the dichotomy does seem illogical. I get light-headed if I so much as stand on a second-story balcony and look down. Or up, for that matter. Yet I can climb into a fragile little two-seater and fly low-level banks around corn silos without batting an eye.

It doesn’t make sense, Jim said.

I agreed, and the conversation moved on.

But later, his comments got me thinking (which I do, from time to time, despite all evidence to the contrary). And after much mental wheel spinning, I think I’ve found the answer: I’m not afraid of flying, but I am afraid of landing. As soon as that ground gets within 100 feet or so from the plane’s landing gear, I start feeling faint. My palms sweat, my heart beats double, then triple-time, my vision blurs … trust me, there’s a reason my instructors have wanted to solo me out—they didn't want to die with me during the landing.

So it’s not heights I’m afraid of, I’ve concluded; it’s heights that aren’t high enough. As usual, I blame my Catholic upbringing.

Let me explain. As a Catholic, I was raised to believe that if I perform an “act of contrition”—basically, ‘fessing up for my evil deeds and asking God’s forgiveness in the moments before I die—I’ll go straight to Heaven. Otherwise, I get what’s coming to me, and that ain’t good.

Unfortunately, my list of evil deeds has grown somewhat extensive over the years and a fall of less than 1,000 feet would never give me time enough to run through them all before entering the afterlife. So, ladders, rooftops, balconies; they’ll all continue to make me nervous.

If I do one day die in a fall, I just hope it will be from a high enough vantage point. A low-Earth orbit would be good.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or ground school “cheat sheet” sources, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

There may be money in a wrinkly face

I’m going to start tanning again. I’m aware of the health risks and I know that, over time, it’ll make my face look like an old leather handbag—more than it does already, I mean. That’s the whole point; I want the wrinkles.

Why? Because I keep up on the latest technology news and in the near future, my crinkled face is going to be worth a fortune.

It may take a while to hit the U.S. market, but in Japan, vending machines are already being developed that actually scan a customer’s face for wrinkles, crow’s feet, skin sags and other signs of aging, before dispensing cigarettes or other “adults only” products. No, I’m not kidding.

It works like this: The customer stands in front of the vending machine’s digital camera, which then compares what it sees to a database of “geezer characteristics.” If enough match, out pop the smokes. If, however, the customer is some baby-faced teen trying to make an illegal buy, then lights flash, sirens blare, Godzilla comes stomping through downtown Tokyo—I don’t know. But I do know the customer gets no cigarettes.

If this takes off, the same technology could be used in vending machines to dispense beer, wine, “Playboy” magazines, DVDs of classic “Matlock” and “Murder, She Wrote” episodes and other stuff intended for grownups only.

And when that happens, a wrinkly face like mine is going to be valued by those youngsters who only wish their skin were a craggy mask of lines, sags and age spots. My crumpled visage will be a passport to a plethora of products unavailable to the smooth-skinned kiddies of the world—unless they’re willing to fork over some serious cash, that is.

That’s right, if the price is right I’ll happily let junior stand behind me while the vending machine scans my Shar-Pei-like complexion and dispenses a pack of Camels or Marlborough Lites.

Maybe I could even sell close-up photos of my face printed on cardboard. Teens desperate for a smoke could buy one, punch a hole in either side, attach a piece of string, and wear it like a mask. Even if they didn’t fool the vending machine, the masks could still be used to frighten toddlers on Halloween. Ooh, look out for the wrinkly monster! Scary.

On the downside, as this technology gets popular, it’s going to absolutely kill the cosmetics industry. Anti-wrinkle cream will go the way of the dodo; nobody will want to look younger anymore. If anything, they’ll want to look older.

In fact, now that I think about it, I should probably start developing a cream that creates wrinkles. I’ll be rich!

I can see the commercial now…

Two teenagers sitting on a park bench. One is smoking, the other is not.

TEEN ONE: Hey Joe! How’d you score that Camel?

TEEN TWO: Piece of cake, man. Just bought it from a vending machine, thanks to the miracle of Geez-ex! The only face cream guaranteed to add years to your appearance!

The camera zooms in to reveal deep lines beneath TEEN TWO’s eyes.

TEEN TWO: It really works!!

If I can also come up with a cream that grows back hair and potbellies, I’m gonna be a millionaire, baby!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or offers to buy stock in his new cosmetics company, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

It’s hard getting used to the new wife

I’m dealing with a difficult situation this week and have no idea how to handle it. I’m hoping some of our female readers can advise me. The problem involves The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, or more specifically, her hair.

But first, a little history: The Lovely Mrs. T and I met over 15 years ago, when she was just a few years out of school and I was, well, pretty much what I am now, only thinner and less wrinkly. From the moment we met, our personalities clashed like fire and ice, night and day, Mothra and Godzilla.

Somehow, we wound up together anyway. God may not play dice with the universe, but he does enjoy his little joke from time to time.

It took a while, but eventually I figured out I was crazy about Mrs. T, despite her (or, if you ask her, my) obvious character flaws. Being a man, one of the things I found most attractive about her was her hair. Her long, curly, Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman hair.

Mrs. Taylor, on the other hand, hated her hair. A day did not go by that she failed to mention this fact. Despite numerous compliments on her “do”—from men, women, even children—Mrs. T was convinced she had lousy hair and no amount of evidence could persuade her to believe otherwise. This is something hardwired into the female anatomy, I think; my daughter suffers from similar negative hair delusions, despite a head full of golden locks that would make Raponzel jealous.

In short, it’s a chick thing.

But back to my problem (other than being the sort of guy who makes politically incorrect statements like “it’s a chick thing,” I mean).

Last week, Mrs. Taylor came home from the beauty salon sporting a new haircut. At least, I think it was Mrs. Taylor. I can’t be sure. The woman who drove her jeep up the driveway looked a little like Mrs. T, but not a lot.

Gone was the luxuriant, wavy mane, gone the chestnut-hued tresses, gone the striking halo of curls. Instead, Mrs. Taylor’s head supported a covering of honey-blonde, straight hair. Ruler-straight. Laser-straight. Really, really straight, really, really blonde, hair.

I don’t know what miracle of cosmetological alchemy was worked upon her head, but I assume it involved animal sacrifices and full moons.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor was utterly and completely transformed. Seriously, I have never seen a haircut make such a dramatic difference in a person’s appearance.

“Well,” she asked, “what do you think?”

What I was thinking at that moment was duh-uh. I believe that’s what I said.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Duh-uh,” I said again.

“I like it,” she said.

Slowly, my powers of speech returned. “It sure looks different,” I said, all the while thinking I hate it! Oh, heaven help me, I hate it more than “American Idol” and Pauly Shore movies!

“I like it,” Mrs. Taylor repeated.

“Yeah, me too, I guess,” I lied.

Now that some time has passed and I’m getting somewhat used to her new hair, I have to admit it does look nice. Just … different. Waaaaaaay different.

It’s been a week now and I still feel like I’m cheating on my wife.

She’s happy with the look, though, and really, that’s the important thing, all male oinkery aside.

I’m just glad we can’t afford a plastic surgeon. I really love Mrs. T’s stubby, little nose.

She hates it.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or complaints about the “chick thing” comment, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

AAFDA the answer to Gremlin Days

Ever have one of those days when nothing seems to go right, when even the simplest task seems insurmountable and every little speed bump looks like Kilimanjaro?

Sure you have. Everyone has days like that. Days when the hammer hits the thumb more often than the nail, when the snow starts to fall as you pull into the golf course parking lot, when the last $60-off iPod is sold seconds before you arrive at the big box store.

Over the years—owing in part to the fact I seem to have more “gremlin” days than most folks—I’ve developed a system for dealing with them, a five-stage process I call AAFDA (Annoyance, Aggravation, Frustration, Disbelief, Acceptance).

Last Friday was an AAFDA day. It went like this:

STAGE ONE: Annoyance—The drive to my weekend job (marine biologist) took about an hour. As I was arriving at the job site, all the electrical systems in my usually reliable truck went kablooey. Pulling into the job site parking lot, the engine died as well. I turned the key, but nothin’. No click-click, no vroom-vroom, no grinding noises.

Nevertheless, work waited. I opted to deal with the problem when the evening’s job (cataloging Organ Pipe corals off the shores of Papua, New Guinea) was finished.

STAGE TWO: Aggravation—Ten minutes into the job (see coral thing, above) a key piece of equipment broke, an 18-inch subwoofer that costs about $200 to fix. My pay for Friday’s job was $150, leaving me $50 in the hole. (Why I need an 18-inch subwoofer to catalog coral is difficult to explain; just run with me on this one.)

STAGE THREE: Frustration—We finished up around 2 a.m. and, along with a couple co-workers who know something about cars, we investigated the dark recesses beneath my pickup’s hood. It was raining, of course. No car has ever broken down on a beautiful day at the beach alongside the Texas Bikini Auto Mechanics Team’s tour bus.

After much prodding, poking, wrench turning and rain cursing, the consensus was: The truck was broken. Probably the a) alternator, b) battery, c) ignition coil, d) plug wires, or e) bad karma.

A couple co-workers offered to drive me home, which lead to…

STAGE FOUR: Amazement—Dripping wet, exhausted, cold and disheartened, I squeezed into the back seat of my co-worker’s minuscule, compact car, a space better suited to a gerbil than a human being.

As I struggled to find a place for my knees, other than on either side of my face, a sound like ripping cloth filled the car’s interior. As it turned out, the sound was ripping cloth—the seat of my pants splitting gleefully up the seam. My co-workers, cultured gentlemen that they are, laughed until Mountain Dew shot out their nostrils.

STAGE FIVE: Acceptance—The ride home was a long one. The guys waited in the driveway, hi-beam headlights blazing, as I walked, tattered butt in hands, to my front door. My head held proudly erect, I turned and waved goodbye, using at least one finger.

They drove off laughing, anxious to find someone with whom to share the story. (This turned out to be everyone, as I discovered the following evening.)

But I no longer cared. I had reached the final AAFDA stage—acceptance.

Climbing into bed beside The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, I settled in for a good night’s sleep, confident the next day would be better.

“How was your night?” Mrs. T asked drowsily.

“The usual,” I said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, drifting back to sleep.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the name of a good tailor, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Year ‘round storm windows sound like a pretty good idea

I’ve mentioned my irrational fear of heights a couple times before in this column. My acrophobic tendencies, one might think, would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground at all times. One would be wrong.

For whatever reason, I find myself in elevated circumstances on a fairly regular basis. Whether installing Christmas lights, trimming branches or repairing loose roof tiles, I wind up distanced from Terra Firma all too frequently.

Usually, the space between the ground and my trembling body is restricted by the height of my 10-foot ladder. This is a good thing, since I can survive a fall of 10 feet or less. I know because I’ve unintentionally tested the theory on numerous occasions.

A fall from the ladder leaves me bruised and embarrassed, but alive. It also provides about a week’s worth of amusement for The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, who does her best to hide that amusement, but fails miserably.

Last week, however, the ladder was just my jumping off point on a journey to the roof, a place I have no business being. The roof in question covers the front porch, not the house proper, and is only about 12 feet off the ground at its peak. Climbing onto that roof is the only way to get at the second-floor storm windows.

These windows look out from my office. Usually, I just leave the storm windows in place throughout the summer and abide the Hades-esque temperatures. This year, I decided to remove the storms, open the windows and—come July—enjoy a little breeze like a civilized person.

It took me several days to get my courage “screwed up” for the journey roof-side. I stood in front of the house, gazing up at the porch’s gently sloping roof, repeating the mantra, “You can do this. It’s not that high.” Eventually, fool that I am, I started to believe it.

Being a careful planner and forward thinking guy, I waited for a cold, windy day to head topside. Mrs. Taylor held the ladder for me as I made my shaky way up the rungs. Heart in throat, I stepped onto the roof and edged cautiously toward the peak.

From somewhere below, Mrs. T announced her intent to “run to the grocery for a sec” to pick up some milk.

“Hurry back,” I said. “I’ll need you to hold the ladder so I can get back down again.”

Even from the rooftop, I could hear her eyes roll.

As Mrs. Taylor pulled out of the driveway, the rain started to fall. Just a mist at first, it soon grew to a steady downpour. The roof, old and moss-covered, took on characteristics most often associated with skating rinks and Teflon frying pans.

The screwdriver I’d carried with me—a key component to removing the windows—slipped from my pocket and rolled over the edge. It seemed to take a long time to hit the ground.

The light jacket I’d chosen earlier in the day was not waterproof, a fact now apparent. Angry, April winds levered the rain into near horizontal whips that cracked against me like pelted gravel.

As if to prove that even God enjoys a good joke, a jag of lighting split the sky and thunder shook the foundations of Heaven itself. The storm windows rattled in their casings.

There have probably been wet kittens more miserable than I was at that moment, but maybe not.

Eventually, the lights of Mrs. Taylor’s jeep appeared through the haze; I was glad to see them. Stepping from the jeep, she said, “What are you doing up there in the rain?”

Several answers occurred to me, all of which contained words I don’t usually use when addressing the woman I love. Instead of voicing them, I instructed her to hold the ladder while I belly crawled, feet first, toward it.

It’s a week later and the storm windows remain in place. I think this may be the year we finally get central air.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or advice to stop being such a chicken, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.