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.

Maybe I can get Tiger’s ghost writer to help with my new book

I am so glad Susan Sarandan and Tim Robbins broke up. I know, they seemed like a nice couple and have been married a long time. And divorce – brother do I know it – is not a pretty thing.

But their Hollywood split has served a larger purpose; namely, it has briefly focused media attention away from Tiger Woods. That can only be seen as a good thing.

For weeks, the little news ticker running down the right side of my laptop’s screen has served up story after story about Mr. Woods’ latest dalliance. For some reason, “news” folks just can’t seem to get enough of heavily-augmented girls “coming clean” over their brief, torrid affairs with the famous duffer.

When did golf get sexy, anyway? Wait a minute; I think I can answer that one myself – when golfers started earning millions, right?

Anyway, the news (and I use that term ever so loosely) just wouldn’t let up about it. One show actually interviewed the mother of one of the girls with whom Tiger allegedly shared a Motel 6 evening. I’m guessing the network gave mom a couple hundred bucks as compensation for divulging the intimate details of her daughter’s life.

It does my heart good to see a family working together like that.

The upshot of all this is that people who had no interest in Tiger Woods the golfer have developed all kinds of interest in Tiger Woods the philanderer. He’s more famous than ever. If he decides to write a memoir detailing his experiences in the bedroom, he’ll be richer than ever.

And that, dear reader, gave me an idea. Like the Grinch’s plan to steal Christmas, it’s an awful idea, a wonderful awful idea! (It’s possible the idea formed because my shoes were too tight, or it could be that my head wasn’t screwed on just right. But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that my wallet was two sizes too small.)

In an effort to remedy this diminutive wallet situation, I plan to announce to all the residents of Whoville that I have, in fact, had numerous affairs in the past five years.

I haven’t, but I plan to say that I have.

I intend to pay several cocktail waitresses, flight attendants and elderly Walmart greeters to claim they joined me in seedy, illicit trysts. Sure, it’s going to cost me plenty to convince these nice ladies to lie, but I’ll make that money up a hundred times over after my first appearance on Oprah.

After I’m absolutely sure everyone in America has heard about my nefarious liaisons, I’ll hold a press conference and tearfully declare how sorry I am. I also will use this moment to announce the publication of my upcoming book, “I Am So Sorry, America!” soon to be a major motion picture starring Jack Nicholson as Mike Taylor. Also starring Heather Graham, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Natalie Portman and Susan Sarandon as the accommodating Walmart greeter. (I intend to hang around the set a lot during filming.)

I realize it’s going to take me a bit longer than it did Tiger to generate the media attention necessary to pull this off. After all, he’s Tiger Woods, I’m nobody. But I went golfing with my son four or five times this past summer and I’m getting pretty good. All I have to do is win a couple PGA tours. How hard can it be?

Watch for me on Oprah.

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

It’s hard to be mysterious when your whole life is online

I’ve found someone.

There, I said it and I’m not sorry.

As many of you regular readers already know, I’ve been wife-less for just under a year now. The past ten months have been one long series of failed dates, flirtations, brief romances, and disastrous relationship maneuverings that I hope to never live through again.

Though my column during this time has occasionally veered into Carrie Bradshaw territory (the fictional columnist portrayed by Sarah Jessica Parker on “Sex in the City”), I am not an expert in relationships. In fact, when it comes to relationships, I am an idiot. Yes, I’m also an idiot about other things but we’re talking relationships here.

I can’t “read” women. I like them, but don’t understand them. Any man who thinks he does is an even bigger idiot than me, and that’s saying a lot.

So I’m glad to have found someone. Real glad. Even though she’s the sort of woman I understand least—intelligent, self-possessed, determined, confident, patient, beautiful … I could go on listing her attributes, which are legion, forever, but some of you would no doubt begin to feel a little nauseous. Sorry, new love makes people mushy and a bit tedious, except to each other. I’ll try to dial it back a notch so you won’t be tempted to toss your cookies here.

I’ve put off writing about her because to do so somehow makes the whole relationship “official,” at least in my mind. Once I share something with millions of readers (well, thousands, at least…maybe hundreds…OK, you 23 folks know who you are) it’s hard to turn back. If it doesn’t work out between us now, I’ll look like a fool, and not for the first time.

But it is going to work out. I love her, she loves me. I like her dad, I like her kids, I like her grandkids. I wish she had a better car, but true love rarely comes that neatly packaged.

In the time we’ve spent together, we’ve learned a lot about each other; favorite movies, religious preferences (both Catholic—whew!), favorite authors, shoe sizes, most embarrassing moments, and so on. I’ve found out quite a bit about her, and that’s good.

What’s bad is what she has found out about me. See, my life, for the past 20 years or so, has been chronicled in these columns, most of which are available online at various locations, like http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com.

Over the years, I’ve written about my failed marriages, my inability to perform household repairs without incurring major injury, my inept management of financial affairs…every flaw I have is right there for anyone to see! And see she has.

I’m guessing it took her awhile to read through all those old columns, but she is nothing if not meticulous and systematic. Thanks to my online history, I have virtually no secrets from this woman!

You can imagine the disadvantage this puts me at. I would love to embellish my past in an effort to make myself sound better and more attractive than I really am, but nooooo, all she has to do is click that mouse and the truth is right there in black and white.

One keyword search for “love”, “marriage”, or “beer” and she knows more about me than I want her to.

It’s too late to change the past. But, just in case she stumbles on this column, I’d like to state for the record that I am an ex-astronaut who left NASA because the constant shuttle missions were taking too much time away from the management of my multi-million dollar estate and all the work I do with the homeless, orphans and abandoned puppies.

Honest.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com. Fun LOCAL events covered by Mike Taylor online HERE!

I would give a lot for some of my mom’s fruitcake this Christmas

Fruitcake. It’s the one substance guaranteed to ruin what might otherwise be a happy holiday.

Yeah, I know there are people who love fruitcake. There also are people who enjoy Pauly Shore movies and the singing of Michael Bolton. This does not make any of those things—Shore, Bolton, or fruitcake—good.

While I have always felt free to express my dislike of Shore and Bolton, I was, for decades, forced to pretend I enjoy fruitcake. Why? Because I’m Irish, Catholic, and every year at Christmastime, my mother would make me one of those god-awful bricks of dough and pickled fruit. And when a good Irish Catholic boy’s mother presents him with a fruitcake—or any gift—the aforementioned Irish Catholic boy pretends he likes it, no matter what. It’s the law.

The holiday fruitcakes started coming the first Christmas after I married Wife Number One and moved out of the house. Wife Number One loved my mother’s fruitcake, and made the mistake of telling her so, thereby ensuring we would receive one each and every Christmas thereafter.

This was not a problem for so long as I was married to Wife Number One (five years, as it turned out). But when we went our separate ways, the fruitcakes kept coming.

This left me in the unenviable position of either a) eating the fruitcake myself, which was unthinkable, or b) throwing away perfectly good food, also unthinkable. There were—or so I had been brought up to believe—starving children in China who would sell their oxen for just one bite of my mother’s fruitcake. In later years it occurred to me that those starving children could just eat the ox if it came to that, but at the time the argument seemed plausible.

Faced with these choices, I would usually eat one small slice of fruitcake, heavily laden with Cool Whip to mask the flavor, just to assuage the guilt. What was left I would wrap in aluminum foil and place on a back refrigerator shelf. There the fruitcake would sit, week after week, month after month. Eventually, usually by July or August, I would toss out the moss-covered block, all the while mumbling to myself about what a shame it was that the fruitcake had gone bad.

This went on year after year after year. My mother lovingly crafted her fruitcake and gave it to me with a satisfied smile, secure in the knowledge that she was bringing some happiness into the life of her eldest son.

Then I ruined everything. After nearly 30 years of silence, I broke down and told my mom how I felt about fruitcake. Honesty, I decided in a moment of pitiable self-delusion, was the best policy.

“Oh,” my mother said, doing her best to hide her disappointment, “why didn’t you tell me?”

A fair question, but impossible to answer. I shrugged. That year my mother gave my fruitcake to my sister.

That was five years ago and I haven’t had a fruitcake in my house since.

I wish I had one this year. Shortly after I shared the truth with my mom, she stopped baking fruitcakes altogether. Then she stopped cooking, washing, cleaning house, dressing herself … the doctors said it was Alzheimer’s.

The drugs slowed it down, but not enough. When I visit her this Christmas, she won’t know who I am. She doesn’t know who she is. It will be a miracle, and not a kind one, if she’s still here next Christmas.

This is the woman who taught me to tie my shoes, who bandaged my scraped knees and made homemade chicken soup to battle my colds; the woman who spent the best years of her life making sure my life was good.

And I couldn’t pretend for just a little while longer that I loved her fruitcake.

If she could give me one this year, I swear I’d wake up Christmas morning, eat the whole damn thing, and count myself lucky.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com. Fun LOCAL events covered by Mike Taylor online HERE!