There’s plenty of wisdom online—or is there?

Is there anything you can’t get online these days? That’s a rhetorical question; there’s isn’t. Anything you can’t get, I mean.

You can buy everything from cars to shoes to surgical procedures online. I met my fiancée online. I took my cat to get “fixed” yesterday, at a veterinary office I discovered—you got it—online. When I want to talk with my kids or find out if any of them have recently gotten married, divorced or convicted of a felony, I go online to their Facebook pages. The kids tell me nothing; they tell the world everything.

I pay my bills online, or rather I go online to explain to my numerous creditors why I am not paying my bills this month. The only bill I’m never late with is my Internet bill, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to contact all the other people I owe money to. (At this point, I could launch into a diatribe on how much fun it is to be unemployed these days in Michigan, but why? Most of you know already.)

At any rate, I’ve grown used to handling everything, from research to romance, online.

But even I was taken aback last week, when after dining at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant (all you can eat buffet; only seven bucks!) the waitress delivered my bill, along with the requisite fortune cookie.

Now, I love fortune cookies. I choose to believe everything printed in red on the little slip of paper inside them, including my lucky numbers. Some even have Chinese-to-English translations printed there, the idea being that if you eat enough Moo Goo Gai Pan, you will eventually be able to speak fluid Cantonese. (“Gung ho fat choy” for instance, means—if memory serves—“You are one gullible Yankee!”)

The fortune in this particular cookie, however, contained something more—a web address. Following the fortune: “You will win success in whatever calling you adopt” (proof positive that fortune cookies are not always right) was printed: “Want more? Visit: www.myfreefortune.com.”

Naturally—as I always do whenever an anonymous company tells me to visit their website—I rushed home, switched on the laptop, and checked it out. I shouldn’t have.

It turns out fortune cookies aren’t the infallible predictors of future wealth, health and happiness they claim to be. The fortunes contained within are not inscrutable prophecies dictated by a wise old monk sitting on a satin pillow in some cookie factory in Xi’an, as I had always imagined. Fortune cookies, it seems, are not even Chinese in origin! They might be Japanese, they might even be American. Apparently, there’s some contention over the issue. But they’re definitely not Chinese.

And they’re most assuredly not written by a wise old monk.

I was so bummed! For the past 40 years, I’ve been basing all my major life decisions on the advice put forth in fortune cookies! Now I discover the fortunes are simply made up by some surfer dude in a factory in San Francisco?

That fortune cookie company better hope I can’t find a good personal injury attorney online. I predict I’ll be able to retire on the settlement money!

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

I’ve finally found my dream job, again

I’m thinking of retiring from the column-writing game. I’ve been tempted to give it up only once before, when I learned that the American Tasting Institute (there really is such a place) has full-time employees who do nothing but taste stuff, then report on whether they like it. Near as I could tell at the time, it was the only job easier than writing a column.

Turns out there’s one easier still, and I’m thinking of applying.

The job? In-house human bed warmer, and no I am not kidding.

I would have to move to the United Kingdom (some folks call it England or Great Britain—the Queen should make up her mind on this one; the whole thing’s been ambiguous too long). That’s where three Holiday Inn hotels currently offer the service.

As I understand it, the human bed warmer climbs between the client’s frosty sheets and lies there until the temperature of the bed reaches 68-degrees, at which point he or she vacates the premises to be replaced by the hotel guest.

The article I read on the subject didn’t mention how long it took for the sheets to reach the proper temperature; I’m guessing that would depend on the size of the human bed warmer, her fat-to-lean ratio, and whether she was post-menopausal and experiencing hot flashes.

Whatever the case, this does not sound like a job for skinny young girls. I, on the other hand, would be perfect for the gig! Not only am I slightly fat, but I sport more body hair than your average wildebeest. According to at least one woman who should know, sleeping next to me is like curling up with a silverback mountain gorilla that’s been jogging through the rain forest in August. (Although the woman I’m thinking of may have been referring not to heat, but odor.)

Regardless, I’m sure human bed warmer is a job I could handle. Not only am I imminently qualified with regard to heat-producing potential, but there are few things I’m as good at as lying about all day. Why, Superbowl Sunday alone I maintained a prone position on the sofa for six straight hours and nobody was even paying me! I did it for free, fool that I am.

I could have lasted longer, but I had to get up for beer ingestion and release a couple times.

I also should mention on my resume that I fall asleep easily, but rarely stay asleep for more than a half-hour. So I could move from bed-to-bed ‘round the clock, never having to take a break. Thirty minutes of shuteye here, 30 minutes there; that’s all I’d ever need. A couple meal breaks throughout the evening and I could “work” indefinitely.

At just under 30 minutes per bed, I figure I could service nearly 50 beds in a 24 hour period. That’s a full day’s work in anybody’s book.

The only thing I can think of that might keep me from fulfilling my new career dreams is this: I don’t wear pajamas. Never have, never will.

This, I’ll admit, could be a concern for some of the hotel’s more fastidious guests. It could also make my trips from room-to-room, um, interesting, though I suppose I could throw on a robe while traversing the hallways, if management insisted.

I could probably write more on this topic, but if I’m ever going to land the job, I should probably get down to some serious training. Zzzzz.

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

Me and the beer can lady; it’s gonna get ugly fast

I finally had it out with the beer can lady. The throw-down was a long time coming and in the end, nowhere near as satisfying as I had hoped it would be.

It started over a decade ago, when I moved to Lakeview, the tiny hamlet north of Grand Rapids where I would spend the next ten years of my life. The town, as I’ve mentioned before, grew on me in that time, and I was sorry to leave it when I relocated to Ada a month ago.

In the ensuing weeks, I’ve made the drive back and forth a dozen times or more, each trip hauling a couple loads of dishes, bathroom stuff or clothing in my dinosaur of a car. I could have rented a U-Haul truck three times over for what I’ve spent so far in gas, but I’m far too clever for that.

It was during my last trip that I finally had it out with the beer can lady.

It’s a tale that, like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, “grew in the telling.” Or it will, once I tell it. And heavily embellish.

The beer can lady always hated me. She works at the town’s lone grocery store, back in the room where they store the returnable cans and bottles. Unlike most stores which now feature automated can return machines, the grocery in Lakeview still hires a (omigod, how archaic!) human to do the job.

It works like this: I take my empties for the week to the store, toss them in a cart (or carts, if my sons have been visiting), wheel them to the back of the store and turn them over to the beer can lady. She counts ‘em up and prints out a little receipt which I must then sign (first and last name, just in case I’m some kind of beer can forger or something) and take to the checkout.

It’s a good system, far better than the machines at other stores. You leave the store without all that sticky goop on your hands, and a job is provided for the beer can lady, who, I’m guessing, could never find work elsewhere because she’s so flippin’ mean.

She really is. I’m not sure if she’s mean to everyone, but like I said, she’s hated my lousy guts for ten years and hasn’t missed a chance to show it. And the other day as I was returning what will be my last beer cans ever at that store, I asked her why.

Why has she given me dirty looks every time I drop off cans and bottles? Why does she never say thank you? Why does she always count my cans so slowly, like she thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her?

Why does she hate me? Why, beer can lady, why?

That’s exactly how I asked the question: “Why do you hate me?”

I asked boldly enough, knowing I never would have to face her again. I asked and—for the first time in ten years—the beer can lady looked at me and … smiled. I could tell this was a question she’d been waiting for, hoping for. She wanted to answer me.

“You always bring your cans back in plastic garbage bags,” she said. “The sign says to use paper.” She pointed to the sign, a 3-by-3 inch card taped near the storage room’s entrance. I’d never noticed it before.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was personal.”

“Nope,” she said. “The plastic bags are just a lot messier. This ain’t a fun job to begin with. I wish they’d get one of those machines.”

It’s almost a shame I won’t be seeing the beer can lady again. I’d like to make amends, start using paper instead of plastic. Maybe even rinse the cans out, like the ex was always trying to get me to do. I could even learn her name, so I wouldn’t have to call her the beer can lady.

The fancy machine at my new neighborhood grocery works faster and doesn’t hate me. It doesn’t think about me at all, in fact. I think I’m already starting to miss the beer can lady.

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

I have too many friends and not enough enemies

Hugga, BT and The Prez—my three best friends from high school—have talked me into going to our upcoming class reunion, number 30-something, I think. I’m not sure why we’re bothering. The four of us have remained close over the long years without any formal reunion hoo-hah; the rest of our graduating class we barely know, or in my case, knew.

My high school career was not distinguished. I skipped so often my 12^th grade history teacher began referring to me, on those rare occasions I showed up for class, as the “prodigal son.” I’d mention his name here, but as I saw him only rarely, I can no longer bring it to mind.

Same goes for most of the rest of my fellow students.

I do remember one kid; he had crazy hair, ala Nicholas Cage in “Raising Arizona.” His hobby was taxidermy and he had a stuffed bullfrog mounted to the dashboard of his Chevy. It might have been posed there with a tiny banjo, but that may just be my memory embellishing the facts.

Then there was the dazzling blonde girl who wore a little silver spoon on a chain around her neck. I was pretty naïve back then and had no idea what that was all about. She had a lot of nervous energy, but I never made the connection until decades later.

These days she’s probably a retired Los Angeles super-model. Or a grandmother. Or both.

And Mady Cody, now there’s a name I remember. We had an art class together and I was madly in (unrequited) love with her. She had a boyfriend in college; girls like her are born with a boyfriend in college. We sat together and talked every day, but I never told her how I felt. She was the little red-haired girl to my Charlie Brown.

Hugga, my friend mentioned in paragraph one, was also in (unrequited) love with her. There was no rivalry there because we both knew she was too good for either of us.

I’m hoping she doesn’t show up at the reunion. As it is, she remains in my mind the ineffable ideal of what a girl should be. If I see her again, I’ll no doubt witness those ravages of time that seem to plague everyone except, ahem, me.

I’m not sure I want reality intruding on my fantasies.

Speaking of fantasies, I’m going to have to come up with a new one to explain everything I’ve been doing since high school. Or maybe not been doing would be a better way to put it.

Reunions—from everything I’ve seen in movies—are supposed to be a time when you return home famous, rich or much-honored, and then rub your former enemies’ noses in it. This isn’t going to work for me as I’m neither rich, famous nor honored. Also, I skipped school so often I never really cultivated any enemies.

On the plus side Anne, my fiancée, will be attending with me, so at least I’ll be with the prettiest woman there. I just wish I had some enemies to make jealous with that fact. All I have are friends, the sort that are happy for my good fortune.

Where’s the fun in that?

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

Getting to know you, getting to know all about you

I know people. Two people. Dianne and Bobby. Dianne works at the bank where I just opened a new checking account and Bobby recently repaired my stupid dinosaur of a car.

Other than D and B, I don’t know anybody, at least not in my soon-to-be new neighborhood.

For the past 16 years, I’ve lived in Lakeview, a bucolic Northern Michigan town surrounded on all sides by mile after mile of tilled fields, woodland and meadows. Of the 1,900 souls who live within the village limits I, over time, got to know 1,887 of them. The three Smith sisters—who may or may not comprise a witch’s coven depending on whose stories you believe—I never really met.

Many of the town’s residents are farmers, plumbers, drywall installers or employees of the village’s only factory, the brass works. There also are a couple doctors, two chiropractors, two dentists and two mechanics, of which only one is any good.

I know them all, by name. I know their kids, their wives, the names of their dogs. I could probably tell you what many of them had for breakfast this morning, or at least hazard a guess.

It is a small town and one I’ve loved long and often.

But I’m in the process of moving away from there. My stuff, what remains of it, is traveling one dinosaur-car load at a time to what will be my new residence in my fiancée’s town, near Grand Rapids.

And other than Dianne and Bobby, everybody here is a stranger. Moreover, there are a lot more than 1,900 people living here. It ain’t Manhattan, but it’s bigger than my old hometown, by quite a bit.

Lakeview boasts a grand total of three restaurants, not counting the McDonald’s, which nobody counts because it’s located on the county road and not downtown, like a proper business should be. Also, it’s a chain.

My new town, on the other hand, has more restaurants than I can count; you can even get Thai food. At night.

I really like that. I like that I can buy a pair of jeans or a DVD without driving for an hour first. Convenience is a whole new experience for me.

But I’m already spending a lot of time here, and frankly—despite being able to see more of the woman I love—I’m feeling a little lonely. The town’s just too big. You can tell a town is too big when you pass someone on the sidewalk and they don’t say howdy. That’s happened to me here. Twice.

The folks aren’t unfriendly, exactly, they’re just…city. Suburb, at best. Whichever, they live close enough to the city that they’re always a little apprehensive about being mugged or buttonholed for spare change. So they don’t make eye contact, they don’t wave, and they don’t say howdy.

That’s why Dianne and Bobby are so important to me. Dianne (Founder’s Bank) and Bobby (Tuffy Muffler) both know my name. Dianne’s a great teller and Bobby’s a very good mechanic. (He got my dinosaur running, a feat only slightly less miraculous than turning water into wine.) Even if they were both lousy at their jobs, I’d be thinking kindly of them at the moment.

Here in my soon-to-be new hometown, they’re the only friends I’ve got.

Hopefully, that won’t last forever. I plan to start saying howdy to everyone I meet, whether they say it back or not. A change is gonna come, baby, and it’s got to start somewhere.

It took me 16 years to meet everyone in my old hometown; there are ten times more people living in my new one. I’m up for the challenge. So howdy there, stranger. Put ‘er there.

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

It’s hard to answer the ‘hard questions’ in a relationship

And now I find myself in a relationship. A serious relationship. How serious? Well, we’re talking the “M” word, probably in May.

I know, I know, it seems pretty darn quick to me, too, but I’m crazy about her and we’re both anxious to begin our life together. At my age, I figure the sooner the better; I only have so many good years left.

In fact, were it up to me, we’d be on a plane to Vegas right now. I’ve always wanted to be married by an Elvis impersonator.

That’s not going to happen, though, because my fiancé is smarter than I am, far classier, and considerably more cautious.

In addition to being smart and cautious, she’s also a bit of an academician; she doesn’t do anything without thoroughly investigating the pros, cons and neutrals of a situation, and much of her investigative process involves the reading of authoritative books.

I have no problem with this. I think it’s a good idea, in fact. Problem is, she also wants me to read these books. Worse still, she wants to discuss the books after we’ve read them.

Now, there are no cheat sheets for relationship books, no Cliff Notes. (I checked.) In order to discuss them intelligently, one must actually read the things.

As a man, the idea of reading about—much less discussing—relationships causes me to break out in hives. I shiver all over and lose muscle control; I see black spots swimming in front of my eyes.

The love of my life doesn’t care. It’s important, she says. It will help us understand the challenges ahead of us, she says. Do it or you’re back to doing your own laundry and eating Ramen noodles, she says.

That last one usually gets my attention.

And so I’ve been reading the books. The latest is entitled “The Hard Questions” and it hurts my head every time I crack the cover. The narrative itself is tolerable enough, as such things go; but more than half the book is in quiz format—questions the intended and her man are supposed to answer, and answer honestly.

Some of the questions are obviously intended for younger (at least younger than me) readers. “Will we have children together?” for example. Answer: “Not unless Immaculate Conception comes into play at some point.”

Here are a few other questions the book poses, along with my responses:

“Are we each happy with our overall health?” Answer: “Baby, I’m 54. Every day I drag myself out of bed without a walker is a good day.”

“What if one of us is attracted to someone else?” Answer: “Again, I’m 54. I’m no genius, but I have learned to keep my trap shut about some things.”

“How do we decide how to spend our money?” Answer: “I’ve been married before, sweetheart. Here’s my paycheck. Try to keep the lights on.”

“Do we need to change our wills now that we’re planning to marry?” Answer: “No, you just go ahead and keep the box my stuff is in. Nobody else wants VHS tapes of the original Star Trek series anyway.”

“What do you like about my family of origin?” Answer: “Your dad didn’t follow through on his threat to beat me up when we told him about the wedding plans.”

My fiancé loves me, which is great because I feel the same way about her. Also, it helps her to accept the possibility I’m only skimming the chapter headings.

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

For five bucks, you too can listen to me talk about nothing important

It’s happened again; they’ve asked me to speak in public. Last time it was to a bunch of grade school kids, and even that scared me to death. This time it’s to a singles group. Grownups.

Apparently, the collection of columns I've come to think of as the “Break-up Essays” caught the eye of Marie, a local singles group leader. I wrote those essays several months ago, while dealing with my sudden, unanticipated bachelorhood.

Some are sad, some funny; in some the anger and hurt I was feeling at the time is barely veiled beneath a thin veneer of humor. At least I hope the hurt and anger is veiled; that was my intent.

These days—thanks to time, crazy good luck and an amazing, wonderful woman named Anne—life is again good. It has been for a while. And it’s looking to get a whole lot better.

At any rate, Marie sent me an email last week asking that I share my experiences with her organization’s membership.

She offered me money.

I hate public speaking, but I really like money, or rather the things money can buy, like next month’s allotment of Ramen noodles. So I have—tentatively at least—agreed to address the singles group.

Problem is, I have no idea what I’m going to say. The elementary kids were easy; they wanted to know where I grew up, who my favorite writers are, and whether I had any kids of my own. I’m guessing the singles group is expecting something a bit more enlightening.

According to the group’s Website, most of the previous speakers (they host one every Monday) are experts on one thing or another. Psychologists, sociologists, guys who have written self-help books on dealing with divorce…then there’s me, a humor columnist who don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’. I couldn’t feel more confident.

Yeah, I could.

I have to speak for 45 minutes, followed by a Q&A. I’m guessing the Q&A will be easy because everyone will be sound asleep by then. If I’m lucky. If I’m not, the singles group members will be outside keying my car, angry about having forked over five bucks to listen to a doofus who don’t know—as I mentioned earlier—nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’.

I know if I paid good money to listen to me, I’d be out there keying my car right along with ‘em.

I mean, five bucks man! You can see a movie for that—if you go to a matinee at a theater that shows flicks from years ago. You could see When Harry Met Sally, and that offers more wisdom about relationships than I’ll ever be able to provide.

But it’s not just the money; even if these folks were getting in for free, I’d feel I was cheating them somehow. I am, after all, an expert on absolutely nothing, unless you count my rather extensive knowledge of beer and burritos. I could speak on that, but I’m not sure that’s exactly what they’re paying me for. More importantly, I’m not sure if they’re paying me before or after I speak. (I’m hoping for before, otherwise I may be forced to shoplift next month’s supply of Ramen noodles.)

So what will I talk about? I have a few ideas, none of them good. I’m hoping something will come to me between now and the date of my speaking engagement.

If not, I’ll just bring along my DVD of When Harry Met Sally and we can all watch that together.

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