Antique Man

My desire for the ultimate in manly thrills has grown. Classic bowling reruns, on ESPN2, just don’t do it for me anymore. Searching for a new level of adrenalin pumping excitement, I recently spent lunch doing recognizance at antique stores.

One of the first things I noticed was a lack of other men in most shops. Several shops had male curators but none shopping. I obviously had ventured into uncharted waters.

Secondly, women would make only brief eye contact. With a scared little smile they averted their eyes and quickly moved away. I wondered when the fog would appear, accompanied by tension-building music.

I followed this older woman a little way toward one shop. Before she could even reach the door, she shot me a number of those looks over her shoulder. It was as if she thought I was some perverted philanthropist. I could just imagine her thought bubble reading, “He’s going to force a thong on me!”

I suppose she really tensed up when I followed her into the first vignette.

As I entered to look things over, I was thinking only one thing. I wanted to see if those legs went all the way up. It was such a nice looking piece. As I was peeking underneath, I thought, “How could she think I was a pervert?” I’d have jumped on that table right then and there if it wasn’t for all the numbers to the left of the decimal.

I did mention I was looking for a breakfast table, didn’t I?

At the next store, I got out of my car at the same time as another lady. Heading to the front door, she struck up a conversation with me. Considering my last experience I thought this either demonstrated the truly friendly character of this part of town, or it was merely nervous chatter until she could get inside. Once there, she’d alert the others to my widely spreading perceived criminal mind set.

However, it was here I spotted something fascinating. Another guy.

My inner stalked-female immediately arose and silently screamed, “Perverted philanthropist!” Taken aback by this unknown characteristic, I fanned myself rapidly with both open hands and billowed my shirt a time or two seeking to cool off.

I watched him thinking he might be a true Antique Man, something anthropologists heretofore had only speculated about. He was checking out objects on the walls of each grouped setting. Those things standing on the floor simply didn’t interest him. He apparently was looking for some small intimate piece.

Then it struck me. Here was no Antique Man. This was Messed Up Man.

As sure as modern antique production was thriving, here was a man who had messed up in his relationship with a woman. Finding him here, I knew he must be in terribly deep.

While trying to appear like the suave Antique Man, he was actually looking for something to save his fanny. I pitied him, knowing his was a tough row to hoe. He was still searching as I left the shop.

Heading to the car, it occurred to me that I had just witnessed a life lesson. Here was a man who had wronged someone and in his obvious spirit of contrition was seeking the thing he knew she would like. Something unique. However, this poor soul was confusing unique with expensive.

Guys, here’s what we can take from this. When you mess up with a woman, go to an antique store. It’s a mind clearing experience. Looking at just a few prices, you’ll quickly come to your senses telling yourself that a card and some flowers will hurt you a lot less and will do just as well.

Start the expensively unique habit and you’re liable to have to get a second job no matter how well off you are right now.

Remember, it’s the simple thing she’ll truly appreciate. Wouldn’t you agree that there’s not much simpler than one of those thongs?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Back to School

The very pillars of our communities are lying to your children. They’re being two-faced in our newspapers and on the television. I’m not talking about the cross-dressing, cabaret-singing tendencies of some our public figures. It’s far more serious than that.

Through my astute powers of observation, I have discovered with all certainty that teachers are lying about being glad to be back in school. Contrary to what you may have heard recently, teachers are already starting to be dragged down by their jobs. Here’s how I can tell.

I live 35 miles from the office. On a good day I can make it in 35 minutes. I know what you’re thinking. On the contrary though, with an imagination like mine, I’ll have a great explanation if I do get pulled over. I continuously prepare to be spontaneous.

This week, however, traffic patterns have changed. On Monday, though there was decidedly more traffic. The commute went off without an episode. With Tuesday came a slight case of vehicular constipation. By yesterday, I thought the expressway (a cross-country oxymoron) would shortly become a used car lot. Traffic was moving so slowly the effects of deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream were starting to wane.

Why this sluggish difference? Both city and county schools were back in session. And who makes up the majority of drivers within the schools? Teachers and cafeteria ladies.

Now we can dismiss the cafeteria ladies right off. They look forward to their job. To them, every day is a culinary challenge. It’s, “What can we add to the meatloaf today allowing us to call it something different?”

For the record, ketchup does not go on good meatloaf. A good meatloaf will stand on its own. Not literally. Unless it’s been in the refrigerator for about twenty days. At that point, it might not only stand but it might walk to the door, knock and request to be let out.

With the cafeteria ladies eliminated, that leaves only the teachers. They’ve been on the news, all smiles with a joyful tone in their voices. I’m here to tell you it’s all a facade.

Think about it. They’ve been lying around the house for two, two and a half months, not doing jack. Getting up at 1:00 P.M.. Staying in their robes all week. Saving on deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream because they don’t have to get cleaned up but once a week during the summer. All the while they’re still pulling down a paycheck. They’re thinking, “Is this a great country or what?”

Then one day, August shows up at their doorstep and says, “Party time’s over. Get your tookus off the sofa and get back to school. It’s time to get back to work.” Reality bites hard for teachers.

With that, the cycle starts all over again. They go through their own personal pep rallies getting psyched to deal with the psycho’s, er, students. They rally their intestinal fortitude to believe they’ll actually make a difference. They also buy cases of antacids for when that fortitude sours, usually sometime during the first week back.

Thus, the rest of the working populace has to deal with distraught teachers during rush hour.

It doesn’t have to be like this. I’ve got the answers right here.

Elementary schools should start when they did back in the good old days. First bell at 8:25. Tardy bell at 8:30. With school starting at that time teachers don’t have to be at work until 8:27. That gives them an ample three minutes to make it from the parking lot to their class rooms.

Six periods of classes and turn the kids loose at 3:00. It worked for millions of kids for millions of years.

For crying out loud, bring back recess and have it every day, too. Recess is where you’ve got six or eight classes of kids shrieking and running with delight. Off to one side the teachers huddle together, “networking.” That’s another word for “dealing.” Whoever’s turn it was to bring the “diet pills” that day would be doling them out.

Now don’t be judging. Teaching is a tough job. Just try volunteering as a substitute. There are times when they need something extra to get things accomplished during those long afternoon classes.

I know there are days when I wish I had a little something extra. If we only had recess.

For high-school students, isn’t it blindly obvious by now, with all the studies concerning their biological clocks?

Have them show up for classes starting at 10:00 P.M. After all, that’s the beginning of their peak waking hours. Now instead of surfing the web, talking on their cell phones and raiding the fridge at all hours of the night, they can be learning the three R’s. Parents, please remind them those aren’t Rapping, Ripping and Raving.

Schooling during these hours will cause teachers to feel more fulfilled. They’ll be dealing with a class full of wide-awake students instead of semi-comatose blobs who might show up during daylight hours.

Here’s how all this affects you and me. With all the teachers and students who drive going to school at these hours, 3/4 of the extra rush hour traffic will be eliminated. Thus it will flow more smoothly and once again, I won’t be required to reapply deodorant once I get to the office.

The actuality of this happening though is about as likely as Donald Trump getting up and saying, “I think I’ll try on this chiffon mini and belt out a few Barbara Streisand numbers before I head to the office.”

This being the case, there’s only one group truly happy that school is back in session. Stay-at-home moms. They can now nap till 1:00, stay in their robes all day and save on deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream.

Their only thought upon contemplating the beginning of nine months of school is, “Is this a good country or what?”

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Rodeo, Racing and Reins

I once rode bulls in the rodeo. Yeah, I've bucked and busted on some of the orneriest creatures around. Trying to stay on for eight seconds, all for the glory of that buckle, had its ups and downs. As it is though, I’d never trade those experiences for anything.

Okay, so it wasn't a bull. It wasn't even an animal but it threw me nevertheless. Shopping carts could have their own rough-stock event at any rodeo. If you don't keep yourself centered on them, they'll throw you like second place at the local beauty contest pitching a hissy. Let me explain.

My wife, Marilyn, and I were doing a little shopping down at the Wal-Mart. We were there to take advantage of those ever falling prices. Knowing there was a passel of things on her list, I got a basket.

Gentle Feeders, if you're ever out shopping and from somewhere a few aisles over you hear a distinct human-made racing-engine noise, chances are it could be me. Pushing a shopping cart is a game, a competition even, for me.

There's nothing quite like the thrill of racing your cart down an aisle toward the turn. As you head into the corner, the wheels start squealing as the rear end breaks loose a little. That’s down right exhilarating!

Or rolling along in a pack of carts you catch a rookie, usually a small child of seven or eight, not paying attention. You nudge his basket a little when you pass him, sending his front end into the display of Vienna sausages made to look like the Eiffel Tower. As the little wieners come crashing down, his mother turns and scolds him, while he's pointing and saying, "But Mom, it wasn't me!"
Meanwhile, you're hightailing it off to the next aisle.

As the shopping trip draws to an end, you start to anticipate the race to the check-out. As you make your move you lower your head, for aero-dynamics, and rush the cart forward. It's especially helpful if you can imitate the horn on a fire truck. Folks will be turning around wild-eyed and bolting from behind their carts. You may even run an elderly couple slap into an aisle-end display of various nuts.

I need to mention here, though, that care should be taken when dealing with the elderly. I once had a ninety-year-old heave a bottle of vitamin E at me while coming after me with her walker. Never underestimate the skill of your fellow competitors.

After making our selections on this fateful day, we made our way to the checkout area. Ran six old codgers into the pet supplies aisle trying to get there.

Like most people, I wanted to find the shortest line. Scanning the various check-outs I spotted an opening. One of the front-line registers had but two folks and each one had a jar of pickled pigs feet. I jerked the cart around 90 degrees and started to run. You’ve got to be quick or other fools will cut you off before you get there.

As I saw my victory just a few yards away, I decided to "pop a wheelie." Yes sir, I pulled the front wheels up to be cool.

However, cool was not what I felt a moment later.

Why do they wax the floors up around the checkouts? I don’t know, but I'd like to choke the one who did it.

Once the front wheels came up they just kept a-comin'. My knees hadn't hurt that bad in ages.

In one fluid movement, though, I immediately popped back up and never looked back.

You don't look back at the crowd when you've been thrown by a shopping cart. You don't want them to see your face. What pride you might have left would shrivel up as it fried away on your reddening cheeks. You don't want to see them shaking their heads as if to say,"What a doofus! He oughta know better, as old as he is."

Evidently Marilyn didn’t want her face to be seen either. At least not with me. I found her out in the car after I’d paid for everything. Her boldly outlined thought-bubble was too big to be contained within the interior of the car. In it were the italicized words, “What two-bit circus did you escape from?”

Those quiet times on the ride home can give you a lot of time to reflect on your most recent actions.

I've been put on restriction at Wal-Mart and other stores. Not by the stores but by Marilyn. When we go shopping now, I have to keep all four wheels on the ground.

You know, a guy just can't have fun anymore.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Digitally Re-mastered

You’ve fluffed your pillow, said your good nights and gotten into your favorite position. You reach over and turn out the light. A final sigh passes over your lips, the benediction to another day. Quietness falls on the darkened room like coolness from the breeze of the ceiling fan. Then you hear it.

Phwheeeet. Phwheeeet. Phwheeeet. The nose whistle.

It’s one step down on the annoyance scale from the incessant buzzing of the mosquito that somehow manages to get locked in your bedroom.

If you’re the culprit, you can take care of it straightway with the digital nasal realignment.

However, if it’s your partner and they are unaware of the problem, let me suggest you approach them gently. Tact and tenderness are strongly urged at this point. They may be overly tired and therefore cranky if their attempt to fall asleep is interrupted. Gently tap them on the arm and, in your most caring voice, ask them if they would mind you preforming the digital nasal realignment on them. They’ll most certainly appreciate your offer.

Sometimes these things can crop up after both of you are asleep. One will wake up and hearing this, will be unable to get back to sleep. They lay there thinking, “Surely it will go away soon.” As time drags on and they consider their alibi for the impending homicide they decide something must be done.

Here’s something to remember at this point. Don’t take it personally if the offending party is a bit edgy once woken up.

I was cranky once after being awaken and accused of being an accomplice to this. Once.

Marilyn nudged me from sleep and said, “Listen. There’s a nose whistle loose in here,” referring, of course, to me. Feeling wrongly accused I asked in a huff, “What d’ya want me to do about it?”

That was the beginning of one of those male epiphanies.

No sooner had those words escaped my mouth than I knew it was exactly the thing not to have said at the time. I slowly turned over to see what was up and my nose whistle nearly ran over itself trying to get to the bottom of my lungs as I inhaled suddenly. I was disturbed at the sight of two unhappily glowing green orbs where my wife’s eyes should’ve been. With a quivering voice I asked, “Your finger or mine?” I fainted dead away as those orbs quickly came toward my face.

Here’s the sad thing, though. One of our cats has a terminal case. At this time there is no known cure for the feline form of this affliction.

We’ve been unable to make her understand how annoying this is to us. Of course, with her air of superiority she doesn't see anything as being wrong.

We’ve tried to get her to quickly take a deep breath in hopes of dislodging the causative factor. All that exercise did was to make me extremely lightheaded with all the quick, deep breaths I took while demonstrating.

To her credit, the cat did come over to get a closer look after I’d fallen out on the floor. To my utter displeasure the nose whistle followed her.

I’ve had other ideas about how to cure her. They all somehow end up with the ASPCA hauling me off to a public shaming.

There is only one thing that prevents me from preforming the quick fix on her. There is an inordinately disproportionate ratio between finger size and nasal openings.

Then there's the story I'm going to have to come up with to tell Marilyn when she asks me about the flared nostrils on the kitty.

I'm almost positive the ape-nose look would be temporary. You think?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski