FISHY STORY!

FISHY STORY!

This has been a bad week for people like me who get their medical news from USA Today. A few days ago I read about a scientist who claims pecans (my favorite) may not be as healthy to consume as previously believed. Just when I think I’m eating the right stuff, some nut comes along and ruins everything.

It was plenty confusing when coffee was reported to be bad for us, then good for us. Researchers were sure it caused heart attacks, but it prevented strokes—except for decaf, which not only caused strokes, but was related to diabetes. I’m sure I got that all wrong, but so what. It’s all going to change soon, anyway.

I was so baffled a few years ago about whether or not peanuts were good for me that it actually drove me to start drinking. That was a good thing because they said alcohol helped your heart, but it ended up as bad news because then they said it wasn’t the alcohol that was beneficial, but the grapes. And I had been drinking beer. 

A health alert this week took the cake. Cake, by the way, is not good for you, unless it’s chocolate, which has aphrodisiac qualities. But chocolate also has caffeine, which is bad for you (unless it’s the same amount of caffeine that was good for you if you were drinking coffee before August of 2007.)

It was this week I learned that some salmon contains way too much mercury. Ever since the first report several years ago that salmon had beneficial Omega fatty acids, I’ve been chowing down on anything that swims upstream to die: Coho, Chinook, King, Alaskan pink and sockeye. I have eaten smoked, fresh and canned salmon. If my heart wasn’t bright red before, it is now.

Then I saw this headline last week in USA Today:

FARMED SALMON MORE DANGEROUS TO EAT THAN WILD SALMON

Of course, statistics about what’s dangerous can be misleading. Maybe some of those people fishing for wild salmon were eaten by bears. That’s the kind of data that gets lost in those fancy university studies.

But no, farmed salmon is apparently worse for us. At least today. So I decided to adjust my diet accordingly. In the supermarket it’s hard to tell wild from farm-raised. They all look pretty dead to me.

My doctor said I could eliminate salmon from my diet altogether and opt instead for fish oil pills, which apparently aren’t made from fish at all, but are made from Docosapentaenoic Acid. Let’s see. Lox and bagels or Docosapentaenoic Acid and bagels? There are no easy choices in life.

By the way, I never believed the marketing claims that eating fish regularly was good for your memory. When I was in high school I ate fish sticks three days a week and tuna sandwiches on weekends. Then I went to college where I spent half my waking hours looking for my car, my spiral notebook or my wallet.

I also couldn’t find a date.

I’m getting hungry writing about all this food. I think I’ll have smoked salmon on a bagel and for dessert, a handful of chocolate-covered pecans. See you next week…if I live that long.

A COLUMN ABOUT NOTHING

Every night at dinner my wife and I ask each other, “What are you doing tomorrow?” I’m not sure why we do that. We never to listen to the answer. In the morning we repeat the question. Then later that night when we both arrive home, we ask again: “So…what did you do today?” We get the same response as before, but it’s always fun to hear it for the first time.

We are both retired from full-time work, yet my wife is still constantly busy. She always has something to do. I, on the other hand, sometimes have nothing to do. I mean NOTHING. Honestly, I look forward to that.  I try to run every errand the day before it’s scheduled, take care of any obligation related to my part-time work at WISH-TV, and make sure my column is written early. Then I can wake up in the morning and when Mary Ellen says, “Tell me again, what are you doing today?”  I can say: nothing. And when she gets home at 6:00 p.m. and asks, “What did you do today?” Once again, I can say: nothing, or better yet, absolutely nothing.

My friend Bob is retired. I often call him, but he’s seldom home. I figure he’s doing something. So, just this morning, when I successfully managed to have absolutely nothing to do, I called him.  “Hey, Bob. I can’t believe you’re home. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, what about you?”

“Hey, that’s exactly what I’m doing. And I thought I was the only one who was that lucky.”

“Dick, when I say nothing, I don’t literally mean nothing. I’m paying some bills, doing a couple loads of laundry, cleaning out the car. You know, nothing, really.”

“You call that nothing? That’s something. Don’t you know anything about nothing? Now, I am really doing nothing.”

“Look, are you bored, Dick? Do you want to do something?”

“No, Bob, that’s the whole point. I want to have nothing to do with you.”

“Well, you don’t have to get nasty about it.”

I had had enough of Bob. I called my wife. She always wants to know if I’m up to something. “Mary Ellen, it’s me. I wanted you to know I am home right now and I really have nothing to do.”

“You’re at home where the lawn needs to be mown, the back deck needs to be washed, and the garage needs to be cleaned… and you say you have nothing to do? I’d like you to get all that done before I get home tonight. Now go do something.”

Mary Ellen kind of put a damper on the whole darn day. Now, all of a sudden, I have like nine things to do. I guess I better get started on my chores.

I might as well. After all, I have nothing else to do.

HABITUAL BEHAVIOR

Mary Ellen and I have been happy together for so long that we sometimes forget how much we annoy each other, so on the trip back home from our recent vacation, it was time catch up on our bad habits.

For example, I told Mary Ellen that she is a relentless pointer. She points at everything. “See that pretty house,” she’ll say, and then she points at it; or, look at that sunset (she points, like I don’t know where the sun is); “Your turn signal is on,” and then  she directs her finger at the blinker. Really, is that necessary?

 “Dick, I thought you liked it on a vacation when I pointed things out.”

”I do like it when you point things out, I just don’t want you to point at them.”

Then I told her that it drove me nuts that everything we saw, she called “pretty.”  Pretty sunsets, pretty mountains, pretty houses, pretty lakes, pretty much everything. Then she gave me a look that pretty much ended that conversation. Except now it was her turn…

 “I never really told you this, Dick, but it drives me crazy when we go somewhere to eat, as soon as we sit down, you pretend you have to go to the restroom. What you are really doing is walking around the restaurant inspecting other people’s food.  Other than the Board of Health, who does something so weird?”

“Okay, I admit it. When I see it on another person’s plate, I get a better idea whether I should order it. 

"I don’t think that is so odd.”

“That’s not the odd part. It’s asking for a taste that’s a little peculiar.  And, here’s another thing you do. You are so impatient that after we order you keep looking around to be sure that no one who came in after us is served first.”

“Wait a second. I remember a few years we were somewhere and even you were complaining that we were supposed to be next.”

“Dick, you do realize the difference between the emergency room and Applebee’s, right?”

“Anything else, Dear?”

 “Yes. When you order, you make a dozen substitutions. The other day we went to a pub and you ordered their signature baked ham sandwich. But instead of ham you wanted corned beef, and instead of mustard you wanted thousand island dressing. Then you substituted sauerkraut for the cole slaw. 

Why didn’t you just order a Reuben?”

“I don’t like Reubens.”

“And, finally, as soon as we are served, the first thing you do is ask if you can taste my dinner.”

“Now wait a second, that isn’t so unusual.”

“It is when we’ve ordered the same thing.”

As we made our way back home through Michigan, Mary Ellen and I placed a little wager on who could go the longest without lapsing into one of our annoying habits. When we exited the highway toward a quaint little town, Mary Ellen abruptly sat on her hands and said, “Oh Dick look at that pret…pret…CUTE  little café on your right. Let’s eat there.”

Mary Ellen thought the lunch was fabulous, but I couldn’t say. You see, I really wanted to win that bet,  so I stayed in the car.

BLIND TEST

As I mentioned in a previous column, my wife was away for a week recently and I knew I would have some problems in the kitchen. I had no clue how to operate the microwave or turn on our new dishwasher. One night, I kept answering my cell phone until I realized it was the fridge making a ringing noise because the door was left open.

I had occasion to drive my wife’s Toyota Prius while she was gone and I had no idea how to use all the high-tech controls on the dashboard. I wanted to listen to my favorite radio station, so I turned to what I thought was 90.1. The station did not come on, but it sure got hot in the car.

When Mary Ellen returned from her trip, she asked if I had kept to my diet. I admitted that I had gone to two all-you-can-eat buffets and I consumed too much because everything looked so good.  That was the wrong thing to say. Apparently Mary Ellen read an article on the plane that one way to lose weight is to eat your meals while blindfolded.  In several experiments, people who had their eyes covered ingested 22 percent fewer calories. That number was actually much higher, but researchers decided not to count all the food that fell on the floor or dribbled down people’s shirts.

The theory behind this is simple. When you can’t see what’s on your plate, scientists say you’re “more apt to listen to your stomach.”  I am someone who does listen to my stomach, and so does the entire congregation at the Heartland Church on Sunday mornings.

When subjects were taken to an actual restaurant (rather than dining in the lab) and then blindfolded, they finished about half of what was on their plate—unless they peeked and saw they were in Chipotle. Then they consumed 100% less.

I wanted to test the theory of not viewing the food I ate for lunch the next day while my wife was out shopping. When she arrived home, I told her that I had been doing a little experiment on to see if this calorie-reduction plan was legit. Mary Ellen looked at the ketchup all over my face and  shirt and said: “Okay, now tomorrow see what happens when you eat blindfolded.”

Researchers also claimed that cutting off any one of your senses enhances the taste of food, which leads to less consumption of unneeded calories.  I wondered what effect it would have to wear earplugs.

 “

This is crazy,” said my wife. “Covering your ears will not make you eat less.”

“It’s worth a try, Mary Ellen. What are we having tonight?”

“Well, I’m making your favorite: oven-fried coconut chicken, twice-baked potatoes and creamed spinach.”

“I wish you had waited until I put in my earplugs to tell me that.”

“Why?”

“Because that sounded really good.”

The bottom line is that I have tried covering my ears, my nose and my eyes and I have not really lost any weight. Next week, I’m going to try something I should have thought of before: I’m going to try covering my mouth.

AUTO NEUROTIC

I purchased a new car last week, the first in almost 10 years.  It comes with a 250-page instruction book, plus three additional manuals to guide you through the high-tech accessories, but there is no key. I always liked the idea of having a key. “Hey, Dad, can I have the fob to the car tonight?” Sorry, that doesn’t have the same charm.

The car also comes with Bruce, the sales guy at Hyundai, who said he will “always be by my side.”  He didn’t literally mean that, but he did give me his cell number in case I had any problems. Unless, of course, the problem includes using the Bluetooth cell phone technology, in which case I could drive back to the dealership. That is, if I remember how to start the car.

Bruce was very patient with me.  He told me that “before you bring this baby home, you need to know how to take care of her and understand exactly how she operates.” This is pretty much what Mary Ellen’s father said to me the night before our wedding. 

My new steering wheel has 12 buttons on it. That’s more than a corset from the Elizabethan era, and probably just as difficult for an inexperienced guy like me to manage. There are also four buttons on the rearview mirror, including a garage door opener, which Bruce told me I would have to sync with my old garage door opener. Or was it my computer? No, maybe it was my smart phone. No matter.  When he said sync, I knew I was sunk.

One of the apps I can purchase for my smart phone allows me to disable my car if someone steals it. But why not just call the guy?  After all, he has all this new Bluetooth stuff in the car now.  Let’s see if he can figure it out. There are lots of ways to thwart a crook.

“Hello?”

“This is Dick Wolfsie. Who is this?

“Oh, hi, Dick! I’m Joe. How are you?

“Why did you steal my car?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was your car.”

“This sounds like a Seinfeld episode.  Now, I’m going to tap this little app and disable the vehicle. Then I have another app that tells me exactly where the car is.”

“Okay, but this is a pretty bad neighborhood. You won’t have any wheels on this vehicle when you do find it. By the way, this is a great car, but why didn’t you opt for the on-screen GPS? It’s hard to avoid the police without it. Anyway, I’m outta here. Thanks for the ride…and all that loose change.

Hyundai also provides assistance if you have a crash and your air bag inflates. The brochure says that within minutes “help will be on the way.” I don’t know what kind of help an automobile manufacturer can provide in a situation like this,  but I’m hoping they send a paramedic or a neurosurgeon, not some  guy from body and fender repair.

I’m so dense I never know whether something is really broken or if I’m just stupid.  Last night I stayed up until 4:00 a.m. reading about the camera that is mounted on the back of the new Hyundai. I memorized every word so that in the morning I’d remember how to adjust the lens angle, and fiddle with the contrast and brightness.  

I did forget one thing: I hadn’t ordered that accessory.

DRESSING FOR SUCCESS

I’m always disappointed with salad dressing. It’s either too thin or too thick. Some are too vinegary, some are too oily. I must have 25 opened bottles in the fridge. And another 20 unopened in the pantry. In restaurants, I always ask for the dressing on the side, and I request two or three different kinds. Maybe if I combine the lite honey mustard with the raspberry vinaigrette?  How about half French and half Thousand Island? Yuck. Nothing works.

My sister, Linda, who lives in New York, is an awesome cook. Whenever we visit and she prepares a meal, the salad is tossed with the most delicious dressing imaginable. And maybe it’s my imagination, but for 35 years she has avoided telling me how she makes it.  I’ll say during dinner, “Linda, you really have to give me the recipe…”

“Sure, remind me before you leave,” Linda says.

Then, as we are leaving, she often conveniently brings up things like pressing health issues in the family, stuff I really don’t want to talk about. The whole thing is very suspicious. Maybe the recipe is a family secret.  Wait a second: it’s my family, too. 

Recently my wife asked me for the 1,000^th time, “Aren’t you going to eat your salad?” That was it.  I called my sister and told her I wanted to know what was in her special creation and I wanted to know NOW.

“Look, Dick. The reason I never gave you the recipe is that I really have no idea what the exact proportion of ingredients is.”

“How could that be, Linda?  It has tasted exactly the same every year since 1976 when I first tasted it at your wedding reception.”

“I know. It really keeps.  I probably made way too much.”

“Seriously, Linda, nothing lasts 35 years.”

“It actually lasted 25.”

“I’m not talking about your marriage. I’m talking about the salad dressing.”

I pressed her again for details. Finally, after further cajoling, I received this email:

LINDA’S SALAD DRESSING

2 T sugar (NOT artificial sweetener)

2 T ketchup (NOT chili sauce)

1 T Durkee Famous Sauce (Do NOT substitute)

3 T apple cider vinegar (NOT red wine vinegar)

1/2 cup of vegetable or canola oil (NOT olive oil)

Put in blender (Do NOT whisk)

Well, first of all, this was the most hostile recipe I had ever seen, and I think an entire cookbook like this would be very intimidating for people who wanted to just have some creative fun in the kitchen. I prepared the dressing exactly as Linda instructed, and I even called her to be sure I had the blender on the right speed. All Linda said was, “NOT puree.” By the way, growing up, she had a very positive attitude.

I am very proud of my finished product. I have drizzled it on my salad every night for the past week. I decided to ask Linda for the recipe for her fabulous Chicken Marsala. She told me she really didn’t have the specifics for that one, either, but she said that when Mary Ellen and I come to New York next month, she’ll serve it to us. I said “No thanks.” I seem to remember that’s also what we had at her wedding.

BLIND TEST

My wife was away for a week recently and I knew I would have some problems in the kitchen. I had no clue how to operate the microwave or turn on our new dishwasher. One night, I kept answering my cell phone until I realized it was the fridge making a ringing noise because the door was left open.

I had occasion to drive my wife’s Toyota Prius while she was gone and I had no idea how to use all the high-tech controls on the dashboard. I wanted to listen to my favorite radio station, so I turned to what I thought was 90.1. The station did not come on, but it sure got hot in the car.

When Mary Ellen returned from her trip, she asked if I had kept to my diet. I admitted that I had gone to two all-you-can-eat buffets and I consumed too much because everything looked so good.  That was the wrong thing to say. Apparently Mary Ellen read an article on the plane that one way to lose weight is to eat your meals while blindfolded.  In several experiments, people who had their eyes covered ingested 22 percent fewer calories. That number was actually much higher, but researchers decided not to count all the food that fell on the floor or dribbled down people’s shirts.

The theory behind this is simple. When you can’t see what’s on your plate, scientists say you’re “more apt to listen to your stomach.”  I am someone who does listen to my stomach, and so does the entire congregation at the Heartland Church on Sunday mornings.

When subjects were taken to an actual restaurant (rather than dining in the lab) and then blindfolded, they finished about half of what was on their plate—unless they peeked and saw they were in Chipotle. Then they consumed 100 percent less.

I wanted to test the theory of not viewing the food I ate for lunch the next day while my wife was out shopping. When she arrived home, I told her I had been doing a little experiment to see if this calorie-reduction plan was legit. Mary Ellen looked at the ketchup all over my face and shirt and said: “Okay, now tomorrow see what happens when you eat blindfolded.”

Researchers also claimed that cutting off any one of your senses enhances the taste of food, which leads to less consumption of unneeded calories.  I wondered what effect it would have to wear earplugs.

“This is crazy,” said my wife. “Covering your ears will not make you eat less.”

“It’s worth a try, Mary Ellen. What are we having tonight?”

“I’m making your favorite: oven-fried coconut chicken, twice-baked potatoes and creamed spinach.”

“I wish you had waited until I put in my earplugs to tell me that.”

“Why?”

“

Because that sounded really good.”

The bottom line is that I have tried covering my ears, my nose and my eyes and I have not really lost any weight. Next week, I’m going to try something I should have thought of before: I’m going to try covering my mouth.

NOT A HUMOR COLUMN. JUST THE PASSING OF ANOTHER SPECIAL LADY

PAPER TIGER

Betty Weesner had the same job for almost 60 years and never got a promotion. She would have complained to the boss, but she was the boss—both the editor and the publisher of The Republican, the oldest newspaper in Hendricks County. One hundred seventy years old to be exact. Betty always liked to be exact.

Betty passed away last week at the age of 90.

Since 1890, The Republican has had only three editors. When I reached their office to send my condolences, her long-time assistant Betty Bartley said, “Yeah, some newspapers have that many editors in a year.”

Betty Weesner started her career at The Republican in the late ’30s—when she was 10—writing school news. The editor was a crusty old journalist who also happened to be her father. The publisher was a crusty old journalist, too. (Also her father.) “My dad paid me a dollar a week.  I was in it for the money,” she once kidded me.

In the 1950s, she graduated from the IU School of Journalism (rare for a woman at the time) and took over for her dad in the mid ’60s. The tiny storefront on Main Street in Danville has housed the newspaper for more than a century, having moved from a couple of other locations over the years. During Betty’s 60-year career as editor, she didn’t miss a single issue, even battling snowstorms to make her deadlines. “People love their local paper,” she said. “When we mess up, we hear about it.”

The old building is chock-full of, well, everything, but mostly stacks of newspapers going back decades. There’s also an old linotype machine and wood type from the Civil War.  Up until just a few years ago, the paper was laid out the old-fashioned way by cutting and pasting news copy onto story boards, then sending the proofs off to the printer. They went digital about five years ago.

Betty’s view of what was worthwhile for her publication echoed her father’s philosophy. He was once asked why Lindbergh’s crossing of the Atlantic was not reported in The Republican back in 1927. “Because Lindbergh was not from Hendricks County,” said the late Edward J. Weesner. Betty had a more lax policy. “If you want to get in The Republican you have to either be born in Hendricks County, live in Hendricks County, work in Hendricks County or get in trouble in Hendricks County.” I once asked her to print my humor column each week and she pretty much told me that unless I was thrown in the local pokey, she couldn’t justify putting my name in her newspaper.

Betty believed in local newspapers. “They confirm the gossip you’ve heard all week,” she once told me. She was an influential force in the community for decades and still covered town council news until just a few years ago. Even from her nursing home the last few months, she read each issue, occasionally pointing out a typo, but she was more apt to praise her tiny but loyal staff for their hard work.

In 2007, I interviewed Betty for my TV segment. The story earned an Emmy award.  I went to Danville to tell her about the honor, but she said she still couldn’t mention me in her weekly Edition.“But it’s only noon,” she told me. “Plenty of time for you to still get arrested.”

INSULT OF HEIGHT

 

Most people stop growing in their late teens or early 20s. I was stunned the other day to learn that President Obama’s annual physical indicated he had grown over an inch since taking office. His doctor said there was no explanation for this. The Democrats said it was Obamacare.

Of course, seniors do not usually get taller. Just the opposite. One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons is an elderly woman tracking her husband’s height with pencil marks on the inside of a closet door, just like our parents did when we were kids. Sadly, the lines on the door suggest the man had gradually been getting shorter.

Recently I went for a medical procedure that required a brain scan. A nurse called the next day to say that after examining my head for 15 minutes, they were pleased to report they didn't find anything. I guess this was good news, but they need to find a better way of presenting that information.

While I was there, I was also weighed and had my height measured. Now, my father was six feet tall and my mother was barely five, so I always calculated I was right in the middle, at 5' 10". (You can see now why I didn’t do well in math.) For almost 55 years, on my driver’s license, my passport and all medical questionnaires, I listed myself as 5' 10". It not only made me feel tall, but it made me seem trim according to the weight chart. If I gained a few pounds, I just told myself I was taller. I found this easier than cutting back on pie.

The nurse reviewed the stats:  "Blood pressure, 123 over 80; height 5' 8", and weight 170. Very good, Mr. Wolfsie. Please step over here and…

"Whoa!  How tall did you say I was?"

"That would be 5 feet, 8 inches—in your socks, which adds a little, of course."

"Look, first of all, I'm 5' 10". Okay, maybe 5' 9 1/2", and second of all, these are expensive nylon socks, and very thin."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Wolfsie. Please grab one of the blue gowns off that hook on the door…if you can reach it."

That night when I got home, I asked my wife how tall she thought I was. "Well, let's see, when I'm in heels, I'm taller than you, and I'm 5' 7", so I guess I'd say you are 5' 8". And you're just about as adorable as can be." 

"But when we got married, I told you I was 5' 10". You should have said something,

"I figured you just rounded it up from 5' 7." You did the same thing with your math SATs. By the way, I also didn’t believe that 170 number you threw at me—not by a long shot.

“You think I lied about my weight?”

“Oh, I thought that was your IQ you were bragging about.”

The bottom line is I have to admit either I’m a pathological liar and need some expensive counseling or I am—and this is tough to admit—shrinking. It's going to depend on which one is covered by Medicare.

HOMELAND SECURITY

I was watching an episode of House of Cards one afternoon and suddenly the TV’s sound went off.  I pushed every button on the remote. Nothing worked. It was time to get out the manual. Every troubleshooting guide begins with the assumption that some people are totally clueless.

1. Does your house have power?

2. Is your unit plugged in?

3. Is the switch in the ON position?

4. Are you taking all your meds?

Those are the only four things I can effectively troubleshoot. After that I skip right to the 800 number. I am convinced that people who answer these calls are just the Turkey Hotline folks who have nothing to do the other 51 weeks of the year. I called our cable company and, incredibly, got a live representative very quickly.

“This is Dennis. May I help you, Sir?”

I explained the problem I was having. To help me, he required my PIN number, but I couldn’t remember where I had written it down.

“In that case, I have to ask you a security question you provided us. Who is your favorite movie actor?”

Oh, no.  Was that really the security question I had given them? I was drawing a blank.  “How about Johnny Depp?”

“Not the right answer. Sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am. That was way before I saw him as Tonto in The Lone Ranger.

“Look, Dennis, could you ask me my wife’s maiden name, instead? How about my favorite superhero? Where was I when Kennedy was shot? Come on, work with me here.”

I wondered if it was possible that it was Mary Ellen who had signed up for cable and answered the security question.  I asked Dennis to hold while I called Mary Ellen on my cell phone.

My wife was in an important meeting, but I was desperate. “Could you interrupt her?” I pleaded with the receptionist.  “I have an urgent question.  Please ask her who her favorite actor is.”

Apparently, Mary Ellen did not believe that I would bother her at work for something that stupid. “That can’t possibly be my husband on the phone,” she told the secretary.  “Just to be sure, ask him the name of his first pet. Make sure he says Slowpoke.”

Well, I blew that question, too, because I answered Bosco, who was my first dog. I forgot about that silly turtle I got when I was four.

Thankfully, I finally remembered that I had written the PIN number on a piece of paper and taped it to the back of the TV.  The cable company then did some kind of a reset and sure enough, the audio was back. But it was driving me crazy that I could not remember who my favorite actor was, so I asked Dennis to tell me who I had picked.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Sir. That would be a breach of security.”

“Wait a second, you’re not allowed to tell me who my favorite actor is? That’s crazy.”

“Well, I suppose I can, but first I need to ask you a few security questions…”

LOSING AN OLD FRIEND

 

Anna Weisenberger was not an old friend.  But, she was my oldest friend. She passed away last week at the age of 109.

Our relationship began with a call in 2006 from Bob Haverstick, my buddy who headed up Never Too Late, an organization that granted 2,000+ final wishes to seniors.  Anna’s request was to meet me in person.  She had been a fan of my newspaper column and watched me on TV. When Bob heard the wish, he said to her: “We can do a lot of neat things for you in this organization. Can’t you come up with anything more exciting than that?”

Several months later, I joined Anna and her friends for a party at the Lawrence Community Center in Indianapolis where dozens of people gathered for Anna’s centenarian celebration along with a little square dancing.  Friends also attended her 101^st and 102^nd birthday in a similar theme, but at her 103^rd birthday, Anna was clearly finding all the excitement a bit tiring. “Maybe we should just do this every two or three years,” she told me.

Bob and I visited her several times at her home, often bringing her favorite lunch, a fish sandwich from McDonald’s. One time she requested a corned beef sandwich from Shapiro’s, Indy’s well-known restaurant famous for its tasty soups and sandwiches.  A trip to Shapiro’s was not convenient that day so we picked up corned beef from another eatery. Anna was grateful, but before we left she whispered in my ear, “I know that wasn’t from Shapiro’s.”

I once asked her about her husband, who passed away back in l987. They had been together 57 years. “Did you ever consider marriage again?”

“Heavens no,” she said. “I think once was more than enough.”

My favorite of her remarks followed another luncheon date.  As we walked to the door, she was commenting on some of my recent columns. “I want to give you a little friendly advice,” she said. “Be careful: you’re giving your wife all the funny lines.”

A voracious reader and grammar buff, she would occasionally red-line one of my sentences and she questioned some of the phrasing.  She once spotted a typo.  I mentioned this to Heidi, my proofreader, who seldom misses my goofs.

“That’s a really good catch,” said Heidi. “Who spotted  it?  Your wife? “  Some ambitious newspaper editor? I’m dying to know who has a sharper eye than me?”

“It was my friend Anna. She’s 103.”

Anna sent me emails on a regular basis with her critiques.  When she was 94, her family gave her a computer and she took a class to learn how to use it.  “It’s easier than calling the grandkids,” she told me.

When she was in her early 90s, Anna advised her neighbors not to worry if they didn’t see her driving around in her Buick.  “I didn’t die, she told her neighbors, “The car did.”

When I paid my last respects at the funeral home in Westfield, I heard more than a few people say that living to 109 was not something they aspired to. Anna would have concurred. She lived her last five years in a nursing home where they took wonderful care of her--but I know she missed her independence.

I can hear her saying:  “I think 104 years was more than enough.”

PLEASE GO AWAY

PLEASE GO AWAY

My wife and I were planning a trip to Florida to visit Mary Ellen’s old high school friend, but Joy’s husband was unexpectedly called out of town on business. Steven and I usually play golf together, so I was a little disappointed. But a change in scenery and time to read on the beach still sounded enjoyable.

“You’re still welcome to come along,” said Mary Ellen when she heard the news about Steven’s absence.As you’re reading this, please try to say the sentence, “You’re still welcome to come along,” about six different ways, and just try to make it sound like I really was still welcome to come along.

“Well, do you want me to go with you? “ I asked my wife point blank. I had put Mary Ellen in an awkward position.  My wife always tells the truth, which in this case would probably hurt my feelings, but at least we’d save on a plane ticket.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to join me…” she began, “but don’t you think it would be good for our relationship to spend a little time a part?”Now it was me who was in an awkward position. Suppose I said, “Yes, that’s a good idea, Mary Ellen.”

“

You’ve never mentioned this before, Dick. How long have you felt this way? Maybe we should have taken separate vacations way before this. I thought you liked my friend, Joy.”

Or I could have said: “No, I’d still like to go.”

“And what are you going to do all day while Joy and I are talking about old times? I don’t want you to be grumpy the whole trip and feel ignored. I certainly would be okay if you visited one of your old friends without me.”

“Okay, how about my friend Erik who lives in Paris?” (Heh heh, that was a good one. I wish you’d seen the expression on her face.)

The bottom line is that Mary Ellen is off to Florida and I get to stay home and be a bachelor for a week. That, of course, is one of the dumbest expressions ever uttered by a married man. There’s only one thing I would want to do if I really were a bachelor for a week, and I think you know exactly what I’m talking about: I want to eat my dinner standing up at the sink.

My biggest concern when my wife leaves is that I have no clue how to use our TV remotes. We have one for Apple TV, one for the DVR, one for the VCR and one for regular TV. Mary Ellen told me to gather all the remotes in the house and practice. “How are you doing?” She asked, as I fiddled with each device. “Did you successfully change any channels?”

“No, but I opened and closed the garage door six times.”

I hope Joy and Mary Ellen have a good time together. I also hope Steven and I see each other soon. I sent him a text inviting him to come here to play golf, just the two of us. I also told him he has a standing invitation for dinner. 

BREW HA HA

BREW HA HA

I like to read newspaper articles containing the words "exercise" or "workout" in the headline, hoping that new research will prove the whole thing is a big waste of time or is actually bad for you. They keep changing their minds about the pros and cons of coffee—so you never know.

The first real review of the benefits of exercise was in the early 1900s when a scientist divided people into two groups to compare their relative health.  Half exercised daily or had jobs that required physical exertion. All those people are dead now. So, there you go.

A new study claims that people who drink beer are more apt to exercise on a regular basis.  This seems counterintuitive. I know, because I was sitting at a counter having a brew when I read about it. Maybe this is how people get six-pack abs.

Scientists caution people not to misunderstand these findings. For example, a jogger might assume that a positive correlation between exercising and drinking serves as an excuse to overindulge. This could result in a serious running problem.

The volunteers for this study were asked to install an app on their smart phone so they could document when they imbibed and when they exercised. This generated some false data because after a few drinks a lot of the subjects clicked on the wrong icon and ended up playing a really lousy round of Angry Birds or Pac Man. According to the report, people drank much more than usual on the very day they went to the gym…which may explain why I can't remember the last time I exercised.

Lab animals have been used to more carefully study the connection between exercising and alcohol. Apparently rodents were much more interested in a little booze after spending the day in a rat race. Sound familiar?

Just as you should carefully select the proper wine with food, I’d suggest careful attention to your choice of libation during your workout routine. If you are jumping rope, opt for a nice, hoppy ale. A cold draft seems appropriate while running a winter marathon. If you are trying to add some bulk to your frame, then enjoy a hearty stout. Attempting to break a world record for push-ups? A Guinness, of course. Okay, that was way too many examples.

In more news, a pub owner in Wisconsin is starting a weekly meet-up called Butts and Beers where he sponsors group aerobic activities, then provides his customers with a wide selection of local brews. His big annual shindig is a 5K run, but it’s only a hundred-yard dash. (The K stands for Keg.)

Finally, a new drink called Lean Machine is currently being marketed in California, touted as a “recovery ale.” It's supposed to be a substitute for Gatorade or Powerade, but it’s basically beer with a bit less alcohol and some added sodium.  A growing number of fitness buffs in LA are drinking this stuff just to be hip.

Who can resist beer pressure?

THE WHOLE TRUTH

My wife says I’m not a spiritual person but I believe I could be someday. I mean, you have to have faith. The most spiritual thing I do is shop at Whole Foods, a supermarket that caters to people who opt for a diet that is organic, pure and chemical-free. However, I prefer food with preservatives. It’s cheaper than a face lift.

My wife is really the big fan of this store, and whenever we are headed in that direction, she says, “Let’s stop at Whole Foods.”  Sometimes we don’t even go in. We simply look in the huge window and watch people shop and eat vegan pizza. It’s all about the journey, isn’t it? See, I’m getting more spiritual already.

Over the years, Mary Ellen and I have shopped at various supermarket chains. I don’t like buying eggs and milk in the same place you can buy snow boots, an unassembled chest of drawers and treadmills, like Super Target or Meijer. They’re really Half Foods.  But at Whole Foods, almost everything on the shelves is edible, except stuff that is fat-free, gluten-free or sugar-free…which, come to think of it, is almost everything.

Last week, I bought an organic bar of soap, wrapped in clear shrink-wrap. When I got out of the shower the next morning, I told my wife that I didn’t think it lathered very well. “Is it because it’s organic?” I asked Mary Ellen.

“No, it’s because you just washed yourself with a wedge of cheese.”

Mary Ellen’s shopping list is a model for all Americans who want to eat healthy. She buys skim milk, low-fat cottage cheese, broccoli, skinless chicken breasts, and granola. When I have a chance to shop on my own at the traditional chain stores, I smuggle in the white bread, hard salami, doughnuts and the frozen creamed spinach soufflé (which sounds healthy, but it contains an alarming 27 grams of fat). When we go shopping anywhere together, I’m on a very short leash and the chances of getting any treats are zero—even if I beg. I wish my wife would treat me more like a dog. I deserve it.

All the magazines at Whole Foods promote a healthy lifestyle. The words “yoga,” “yogi” or “yogurt” are always somewhere on the cover. One that caught my eye was called Spiritual Re-awakening. If you turn the magazine over and then upside down, it reveals a totally different publication called The Road to Renewal. I thought this was another approach to reaching nirvana, but it may have been a subliminal reminder that your subscription is about to expire.

The alternative cover has a headline revealing an article with a check-list for what to take on your next journey.  Already feeling my otherworldly side, I predicted they would advise bringing a positive attitude, a degree of self-reflection and a measure of introspection. Actually, the top three were underwear, white socks and sandals. These were items to take on one of the several dozen mind/body retreats they were offering around the world, and at a very lofty price, I might add.

I guess you can be a new-age, Whole-Foods-shopping, transcendental-meditation-loving, yoga-practicing, Buddha fan, and still believe in capitalism in the real world.

That’s the spirit.

 

BRUSH WITH FAME

Mike and Glenda Carmichael of Alexandria, Indiana, have been married a long time, but they still have a ball. In fact, they’ve had this ball for nearly 40 years. A paintball, that is.

You’ve probably seen or heard about it, but as a TV reporter, I will soon have the honor of covering this story again. And covering is exactly the right word.

It all started in 1977, when Mike and his three-year-old son, Michael Jr., painted a baseball that was sitting on a shelf in their garage. Mike thought it would be a fun pastime for his family to continually repaint the ball to see just how big it could get. Fast-forward four decades and almost (key word: almost) 25000 coats of paint later and we now have a 4,500-pound sphere of paint, so big it sits (hangs, really) in a nearby barn. Yikes! And there is no end (or circumference) in sight. How big is it? Well, as you will learn by the end of this column you will be able to see it… and then you’ll believe it.

When I first did the story on TV back in the ’90s, Mike’s venture was a mere roadside oddity and to know about it you really did have to pass by his little rural road in Madison County. After the segment aired, everything snowballed, er…paint-balled. Since then, Mike has been featured on numerous national travel shows, CBS This Morning, and a page in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. And, of course, The Guinness Book of World Records.

But now with Facebook and Twitter, the word—and the paint—have really spread. “I’ve had people drive all the way from Canada just to paint the ball,” says Mike, whose detailed records show painters from almost every state. Also logged are the different colors in each layer (there are 20 choices) and the name of each person. “Sometimes and entire family wants to paint the ball,” says Mike. “It’s cheaper than a day at Disney World.” Mike’s wife, Glenda, is responsible for more than 8,000 paint coats, a feat for which she is openly proud. “It’s more fun than vacuuming, and you feel like you have accomplished something.” You have?

There have been celebrity painters, as well.  The Oakridge Boys put on a couple of coats along with Bill and Gloria Gaither, and they all sang a few tunes in the process. That process, by the way, takes about 10 minutes if you go it alone, but many families, each member equipped with his or her own provided roller, can knock off a coat in just a couple of minutes. To ensure that no one “misses a spot,” there is a mirror under the ball to see those hard-to-reach places. The ball is not a perfect sphere. “In fact,” admits Mike, “it’s kind of lumpy.”

To paint the ball, Mike asks that you make an appointment, but has welcomed a few unannounced visitors. “It’s hard to turn down someone who’s travelled hundreds of miles just to get a photo of themselves panting the ball.”

On Saturday morning, January 23. on WISH-TV’s Daybreak, I will be painting the 25,000th coat. How interesting will that be? About as interesting as watching paint dry.