‘Mike Taylor Stadium’ has a really nice ring to it

If you wait long enough, a lot of life’s problems will solve themselves. That has been my experience, at any rate.

As evidence, I offer the cans and bottles in my garage. There are (or were) hundreds of them.

Some once provided a home to 16 ounces of Diet Coke, Mountain Dew or orange soda; others had the happier job of housing inexpensive, domestic beer. And a lucky few were once filled with Guinness, Harp or Oberon (real beer drinkers will recognize those names).

The point is, there were a lot of ‘em out there, cluttering up an already cluttered garage.

That never used to happen. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone else used to return all the empties when she did her weekly grocery shopping. These days I’m on my own.

At first, it didn’t seem like much of an issue. I am capable of returning a few cans. I went to college, even passed a few classes. Surely, I reasoned, returning deposit containers was a task that fell comfortably within the confines of my skill set.

Yet the bottles and cans continued to accumulate. Mrs. You Know Who had a plastic container out there that she filled and returned each week. It filled up in a matter of six or seven days. For the next week or two I continued to carefully stack empties on top of the full container, building a glass and aluminum pyramid to rival anything ever constructed by Pharaoh’s slaves.

Eventually the construct reached critical mass; that point at which no more cans could be added without upsetting the entire structure. I added more cans anyway, with the predictable outcome; the entire thing collapsed, spilling cans and bottles across the garage floor.

Over the following couple weeks, amid the litter of scattered cans, I rebuilt the pyramid until it once again reached the point of collapse. Then it did collapse. I started over again, kicking containers to the side to maintain a narrow passageway from the garage door to the container, now hidden beneath the ever-growing pile of empties.

It wasn’t long before squirrels discovered the landfill-like mound and set up homes there. Homeless persons traveling through town sometimes spent the night sheltered beneath the protective dome of glass and aluminum.

I made up my mind to – this week for sure – return the empties. Then I didn’t. I again made up my mind, and again I didn’t follow through. This process repeated itself week after week.

Then one night I saw a special on “Nightline” in which a representative from the aluminum industry complained of a shortage of recyclable cans. He hinted that the scarcity might be part of a terrorist plot to disrupt the country’s soft drink production and leave Americans too weak from a lack of sugar to fight back when enemy paratroopers began dropping from the sky.

Only I knew the truth.

And then the volleyball players showed up, members of the local high school team. They were collecting cans to raise money for new jerseys. Did I have any, they asked.

I could almost hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” playing in their heads when I opened the garage door and six months worth of booty rolled out into the driveway.

The following week, the volleyball team cruised past my house wearing their new jerseys, riding in the team’s new bus, the one equipped with a flat-screen television, hot tub, and personal masseuse. I hear they’re thinking of naming the school’s new sports complex after me.

I’ve also been saving my old newspapers for recycling if anyone has a semi trailer and a desire to pay off their mortgage.

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

Ladies: Marry me now before I start howling at the moon

A month ago I would have made the perfect husband for someone. I’d probably still be pretty good at the job, but not as good as I would have been a month ago. And a month from now, I’ll likely be even worse.

What I’m saying is, ladies, it’s probably a good time to get those marriage proposals to me, because I’m sinking fast. I know this because of the dirt on the dining room carpet.

Maybe I’d better back up a bit and start over.

The Former Lovely Mrs. You Know Who was a neatness fanatic. Our house was spotless, 24/7, due not only to her enthusiastic daily cleaning regimen, but also to the years of training she put into me.

Like a puppy eager to please, I learned to leave muddy shoes on the doorstep, to fold the bathroom towels two times, horizontally, before hanging them squarely on the rack. I learned to stack used cups on the proper “to be washed” section of the kitchen counter, rather than leaving them wherever I last drank from them. I learned to drop dirty socks into the hamper instead of leaving them stuffed in my sneakers.

In an effort to pacify the Former Mrs. T, I learned all these tricks and about a million more just like them. I wasn’t always happy with the training regimen, but one makes sacrifices for the sake of domestic bliss, or if not bliss, then at least tranquility. (I know there are about a zillion husbands out there reading this right now and thinking, “You got that one right, pal!”)

Then one day the master was gone.

At first, like a puppy, I wandered around the empty rooms whining, not sure exactly what happened. Like a puppy, I was a little scared and lonely.

But slowly, things changed. I realized I wasn’t a puppy anymore, but a big dog. (And yeah, I realize there’s more than one way to take this analogy – I’m running with it anyway.)

I could come and go as I pleased, no longer tethered to my master’s leash. If my collar was feeling snug, I could just chew it off and nobody would yell Bad Dog! Moreover, with the master gone, the house was mine!

OK, enough with the dog analogy. The point is, I slowly came to realize I could fold the towels any which way and there would be no repercussions, no remonstrations. I could walk through mud, cow pies and pools of battery acid, then tap dance on the flippin’ sofa if I took a mind to. I could (gasp!) leave my empty coffee cup on the end table for days and nobody would say anything about it!

I know it’s hard for you long-time bachelors to understand the feeling of liberation that accompanied these epiphanies, but lemme tell ya, it was pure ecstasy.

Of course, like any good dog (I know I told you the dog analogy was over. I lied) I retained most of my training, but it is fading fast. Six months from now, I’ll undoubtedly be more or less feral, running through the woods, howling at the moon and living wild and free on a diet of murdered woodchucks and creek water.

So any woman interested in marrying me better do it quick, unless she wants to start my training over from Ground Zero. So far I haven’t tap danced on the sofa while wearing muddy shoes, but the idea is now in my head; it’s only a matter of time. Yesterday, I tracked dirt onto the dining room carpet after working in the garage. The dirt is still there and I’m feeling no pressing urge to vacuum it up.

The kibble the master left behind is almost gone. There was a full moon last night and I found myself in the back yard, gazing up at it through the lattice of maple leaves, and wondering how a woodchuck might taste.

Owrhooooooooo!

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

‘Man Hints from Mike’ is going to make me rich and famous, just wait and see

Remember that “Hints from Heloise” column that used to appear in every other paper in America? If you’re a guy, chances are you just said, “No.”

“Hints from Heloise” was – or maybe still is, I don’t know – a column straight out of the 1950s, when wives stayed home and toiled in the domestic vineyard while their husbands left each morning for the office, plant or factory. It was – or is (I guess I should check … yup, still appearing in papers; thank you Google) – a column dedicated to sharing house cleaning tips with the remaining few stay-at-home moms and wives across America.

I was a single parent during much of the time my kids were growing up. As such, I felt it was OK for me to read Heloise. After all, I too had grass stains to get out of my son’s blue jeans, and was just as responsible as any mom for providing the weekly snack for my daughter’s T-ball team.

On more than one occasion, Heloise was a life saver. But ultimately, her column is geared toward women.

And that’s given me an idea. As a newly-singled guy, I’ve been re-learning the ins and outs of maintaining a reasonably clean home. The kids are long gone, but I’m a big enough slob to make up for that. Still, my home is clean.

Why? Because – one chore at a time – I’m coming up with inventive “man tricks” for keeping the place off the Health Department’s most wanted list. I’m thinking I could share those tips here and maybe get as rich and famous as Heloise in the process.

Me getting rich and famous would make three out of four of my ex-wives completely nuts, so I have more motivation than I really need.

At any rate, let me try a few of ‘em out on you here. Tell me what you think.

LAUNDRY: Women (including Heloise) insist on separating whites from darks. This is not necessary. Instead, just dump all the laundry into one big machine, add the detergent, then add some salt; regular table salt works just fine. I don’t know why, but the colors don’t bleed over into the whites. OK, maybe they still bleed a little, but not enough to bother most guys.

But do try to avoid mixing red sweaters and white jockey shorts, unless you want guys wondering about your pink underwear when you go to the gym.

VACCUMING: For the first few weeks after my most recent wife exited, I had no vacuum cleaner; she took it with her, along with the dog, cat and good dishes. Fortunately, she left the leaf blower.

An electric one works best, unless you don’t mind your whole house smelling like leaf blower exhaust. Start by opening the front door, then take the leaf blower to the opposite end of the house, switch it on, and watch the dust fly!

DUSTING: OK, after you’ve vacuumed with the leaf blower there’s bound to be dust settling on pretty much every flat surface in your home. No problem; just take the leaf blower to the back of the house again and repeat the process, this time blowing off the tops of tables, counters and so on.

It’s a good idea to toss any loose knick knacks and bric-a-brac into a box or something before you begin, depending on the power of your leaf blower. But hey, you’re a guy. You shouldn’t have knick knacks or bric-a-brac (whatever that is) sitting around your house anyway.

Any large objects (like empty beer cans) accidentally blown into the front yard will likely be collected by neighbor kids. That’s like getting free trash pickup! Another bonus!

Using my “man tips” a single guy can have his house clean and ready for Saturday “date night” in less than an hour.

And that’s my first “Man Hints from Mike” column, sure to be picked up for syndication any day now. I can’t wait until I’m rich and famous. I’ll be able to hire someone to clean this dump.

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

If one more person tells me they’re ‘ROFL’ I’ll leave and never ‘BRB’

I’m a dinosaur. I’ll admit it. I’m proud of it, in fact. I am, apparently, one of the last people left alive who can communicate without symbols, acronyms or computer-generated “smileys.”

Since getting my new cell phone a couple months ago, I have learned to text nearly as fast as I type (which is pretty darn fast, lemme tell ya).

Now, many of you fellow dinosaurs out there no doubt wonder what the point of “texting” is, anyway. Why type a message when you could just call the person and say the same words out loud and in less time?

That’s a good question, and the answer is “search me.”

But the fact is a lot of people – mostly people 30 years old or younger – text a lot. My daughter texts me a dozen times a week, as do my son and stepson. And when they text me, half the message is in the language of “texteeze.” (Since I just invented the word I can spell it any way I choose!)

Texteeze is a language devised by young “texterz” (another word I just made up – yes, I like the letter “z”) to facilitate faster messaging on tiny, cell phone keyboards. Words like “you” are abbreviated to “u” and so on.

Words like “two,” “too,” and “to” are all expressed the same way – with the number “2.” Likewise, many other common phrases are truncated, abbreviated, or hammered into acronyms.

Thus, a message sent from President Obama’s Blackberry to Russian President Vladimir Putin’s iPhone (for instance) might read something like this: “Vlad! Pushed button! Oops! :( 2 many nukes 2 count. Off 2 bunker. BRB. ;)”

Putin’s reply might read: “ROFL! No, really. LMAO! UR such a joker! Hey, whts tht sound? Gotta check. BRB.”

Somehow, the situation’s fundamental gravitas is diminished. But that’s where the language is headed, mark my words! (“Mark my words” is a phrase we dinosaurs like almost as much as we do the letter “z.”)

All these little texteeze abbreviations also are rampant in the world of email messages. I get emails every week filled with ‘em, sometimes to the point that the message is all but indecipherable (at least by me).

For instance, my daughter sent me an email last week that read, “? @TEOTD or later 2nite could u CI w/me? WYWH! TTUL.”

What she meant was, “I have a question for you. At the end of the day or later tonight could you check in with me? Wish you were here. Talk to you later.”

It took me half an hour to figure out what my daughter was saying. By then she had tired of waiting for my reply and had simply made the voice call to tell me what she wanted.

As much as I hate texteeze, I hate “smileys” even more. If you have something to say to me that you think is funny, just say it! I will either laugh (if it’s funny) or won’t (if it’s not). I don’t need a symbol like :) to tell me how I’m supposed to feel about what you’ve written.

If you’re just kidding when you tell me I’m a putz, then say so, don’t just append a ;) to your comment and hope I’ll know what it means.

Oh, I know I’m fighting a losing battle here. The future (and the future of the language) belongs to the young, not dinosaurs like me. I may be TBE (Thick Between the Ears), but even I can see the shape of things to come.

Younger readers probably don’t see the problem here, but for dinosaurs like me, it is TEOFTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It).

CU.

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

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.