The Sammich Debate Rages On

My book, Just Make Me A Sammich, is not even out yet (release date November 3) and already the title is creating controversy and renewing the debate over the woman/man sandwich making decision. I choose this title because Sammich-making is a running joke throughout my blog and my book is a collection of my favorite blog posts.

I wrote a post earlier this year on this topic which was supposed to end all conflict on the matter.  I said if men would be more polite in their request and women would be more accommodating when their man was hungry (or hangry – anger caused by hunger), then the result would be more sex. Very hot “sammich sex”. That post could even be considered good “sex therapy”. (They call me Dr. Love, they call me Dr. Love).  But now unfortunately, all that good work is gone and the controversy is back.

Recently I made a presentation at a conference for work. I briefly mentioned my book at the end.  Of course the next day no one remembered anything I said in my presentation, they were all talking about “that sammich book”. I sat with a group of customers at lunch. We were supposed to be talking about very important factors in the trucking industry, but of course as soon as I arrived, the topic turned to sammiches.

One woman at the table chimed in, “I believe a husband should treat his wife so well, that he should not even have to ask her for a sandwich. She should want to make him sandwiches.” This confirms my contention that this sammich-making stuff is very important to women.

The guys at the table quickly became mute and looked to me for a response.  I had none. I politely nodded in agreement because this woman is totally correct, men should treat their wives better. But unfortunately, guys are not going to do that because it takes time, effort and skill. And let’s face it, that’s just too much work. Men are just too lazy, and besides, an effort like that takes time away from more important things such as watching football and playing golf.  Of course we got the skills, we just choose not to use them.

But the sammich-making stuff is important to guys also.  I was at a party and Steve was bragging about his new, smokin’ hot girlfriend, who would be arriving soon.  When she got there, I was confused because she looked like a “plain-Jane” to me.  I pulled aside Steve’s friend Tony and asked for an explanation.

“Oh yeah, she’s hot. All the guys want her, she’s a real “sammich-maker”, Tony explained.

“What? I heard of baby-makers, but a sammich-maker?”, I asked.

“Oh yeah, she works at Subway and the woman is an expert sandwich maker.  

She knows how to use “all the toppings” if you get my drift”, he said.

Then I get home and turn on the television and I see Dr. Phil saying:

“On today’s show, we try to help this couple deal with a disagreement over the sammich-making responsibilities in their marriage.  Paul manages a real estate office. When he comes home at night, he’s hungry and wants his wife to make him a sammich, but his wife Sabrina, a real estate agent in that office, says she’s the one that works hard to sell the houses, and Paul can make his own d@#n sammich.”

Paul: She’s my wife. It’s her duty to make the sammiches!

From the more liberated side of the audience: Boo, boo, hiss, hiss, pig – rabble, rabble, rabble.

Sabrina: You sit on your fat a$$ all day, while I do all the work. You should be able to at least make your own sandwich.

Dr. Phil: Sabrina, what are you usually doing when Paul gets home and wants his food?

Sabrina: I’m doing important stuff like watching “Real Housewives of New Jersey”

Less liberated side of the audience: Boo, boo, hiss, hiss, slacker, rabble rabble, rabble.

Dr. Phil: Oh $h!+!  Ladies! Ladies! Stop the fighting! Put the chairs down now! You are not on Jerry Springer!  Don Ake you are an idiot, you stupid sunavabitch. Look at what you have started.

I think I need to reiterate that sammich-making is a personal decision that couples need to decide on and what happens between the sheets, the sheets of bread of course, should remain private and not be discussed publicly. Of course I know men and women will discuss the intimate details with their closest friends.

Jack: Carol made me a sammich last night that was mind-blowingly good. 

Man, it was so awesome and she used only natural, organic, ingredients.  And get this, we didn’t use any condiments!

Bill: No condiments! Are you kidding me? Nothing between the meat and …...

Jack: Oh yeah, it was a totally organic experience.

And then on the other side…...

Sue: I made Rick a sandwich on Tuesday.  He was extremely hangry, so I tried to help him out. 

Becky: You actually made his sandwich for him? Do you think it was worth it? How do you feel about all this?

Sue: Yes, I ended up with mayonnaise all over my face, but it was worth it to me to please Rick in that manner.

Becky: Ewww, I hate the taste of that stuff.

Sammich - star of the front cover!

Ironically I was inadvertently drawn into the controversy because I literally had to ask my wife to make me a sammich to be used in the photo shoot for the cover of my book.  She did this for artistic reasons and did a fantastic job (see photo).  The Sammich became the star of the photo shoot instead of me, which of course made me very jealous.

So again, the book is not about sammiches.  It’s about the absurdities in relationships, life, work, celebrities, sports, and other things that I find amusing. It will be here in just two weeks!  

Buy the book now: Just Make Me A Sammich 

Get A Flu Shot This Year Or Get Screwed

It’s autumn! Time for colorful leaves, football, and of course, getting your flu shot. Every year at this time we are told we must get a flu shot. We are told this by people saying “We are competent, scientific, medical scientists, educated in science, so we know what we are talking about. You must get the flu shot or you will get sick, very sick.  If you get the flu, substances will shoot

out your bodily orifices in colors you never imagined possible. So get a flu shot, get it right now! ”

We are also told the flu shot is extremely effective in preventing the flu, because these scientists have carefully selected the targeted viruses for this year’s vaccine using the most intelligent, supreme, computer models available.  They of course cannot reveal the details of this process without having to kill you, but if you really want to know what it is, it has been posted online by Chinese hackers.

So last year, I dutifully headed this warning and drove 12 miles, filled out paperwork, stood in line, and had a needle poked in my arm by a nurse who wasn’t even “hot”.  And then in February I ended up getting a bad case of the flu.

It seems last year’s flu vaccine was not at all effective, because it had targeted the wrong viruses.  The Center for Disease Control was forced to admit its “sophisticated computer model” was really a guy named “Phil” who sits over there in the corner, and that Phil had in fact “guessed wrong”.

They then put out a statement which read:

“Our bad, we could have guessed wrong or maybe the virus just mutated.  We’re not really sure.  We did say you would get real sick if you were infected by the flu virus, and we were right about that. So we do know what we are talking about.  If you get the flu, please try to refrain from dying because that makes us look bad, oh so bad, and stupid.  And remember, we use science, lots of science.”

So after last year debacle, I was very interested in the flu viruses chosen to be included in this year’s vaccine. The first one is called “A California”.  I think a California-type virus doesn’t sound too bad at all.  It is probably a laid-back, hippie-type virus which lacks focus and commitment.  It would rather be hanging out at the beach catching some waves, than causing disruptions in your body.  When confronted by your immune system, it would say “Dude, okay I leaving now. Stop attacking me bro”

The second virus included in this year’s vaccine is the A Switzerland.  This would seem like a gentle, peaceful, virus which might cause a very mild case of the flu.  You could not imagine a Swiss flu causing a war in your intestines. And when confronted by your antibodies, this virus would quickly sign a peace treaty and leave you alone.

However, the third virus targeted by this year’s vaccine is cause for extreme concern.  It is the dreaded B Phuket virus (this is the real name of it – this is true).  I fear that if you contract the B Phuket virus, you will literally be Phuked.  Rest assured, this is a virus with an attitude, a bad-ass attitude, and it isn’t going to care how bad it makes you feel.

The B Phuket is going to rage through your body like a madman.  You are going to get ill, very ill. You are going to feel Phuking awful. You are going to want it to Phuking stop. This virus is going to travel throughout your body shouting Phuket, Phuket, Phuket all!  You will run a dangerously high fever, because the virus is going to make you Phuking hot.

And a virus with an extreme, bad-ass attitude is guaranteed to literally give you a bad ass.  It will produce a nasty case of the Phuking shitz.  Your colon will soon catch fire and explode like fireworks on the Fourth of July.    It will be a Phuking awesome display as flames and smoke pour out of your backside. The air will be thick and the odor Phuking intense.  Your neighbors will call the EPA about an unknown toxic substance in the air. Your can of Glade will be cowering in the back corner of your closet. Your intestines will be Phuked up, yes they will.

Your immune system by itself is no match for a virus with an attitude this horrid.  When your antibodies show up to confront it, it will shout “Phuk you! I’m the Phuking Phuket virus and I’m telling you to Phuk off right now. Phuket, Phuket, Phuket!” This is going to scare the fizz out of your blood cells, who will take the next yellow river ride out of town.

That’s why I am so alarmed about the Phuket virus. Let me tell you, I want that Phuking flu vaccine and I want it Phuking now!  I am not a medical professional, but I am recommending everyone get the flu shot this year so you don’t get that Phuket virus.  And be sure to remember to tell the nurse you came there so she can Phuket you.  I’m sure she will then be extra gentle with that needle.

I’ve warned you – consider this a public service announcement.

Is Mr. Clean Really A Dirty Guy?

I was alarmed by a very disturbing advertisement in my Sunday newspaper.  It said that Mr. Clean multi-purpose cleaner had now been combined with Gain laundry detergent.  This apparently was done to improve the scent of Mr. Clean because there was a “Love at first Sniff” sticker on the bottle.

This is indeed troubling because it raises an important question: Why does Mr. Clean need to smell any better? After all, he’s Mr. Clean isn’t he? If he’s so clean, he should smell fabulous already. So what is the purpose of mixing him with Gain? What is this so called “Mr. Clean” trying to cover up? You may experience “love at first sniff”, but I smell a rat. A dirty rat.

This is even more suspicious in light of the rumored scandals involving Mr. Clean over the years.  First there was the allegation of a dalliance with Mrs. Butterworth.  Mrs. Butterworth was known for being promiscuous and pinning her lovers under her by using her famous “pancake position”.  Very few of the male advertising icons could resist her sweet, sticky, goodness.  After these trysts, many of them were found stuck to the bed, covered in Butterworth’s syrupy goo.

However, even though Mr. Clean was seen entering a hotel with Butterworth, he exited a short time later spotless, even disinfected, with a big smile on his face. Somehow, someway, he was able to wash off all the grime and residue. How he was able to do this and what type of substance he used, is still a mystery.  When asked about it, Mr. Cleaned waffled on his answer.

Then there was the incident with Aunt Jemima. Jemima was also sweet and gooey and this had all the makings of a huge scandal. The rumors gained credence when Mr. Clean appeared with a noticeable black eye, reportedly the result of an altercation with Uncle Ben.  However, advertising agency executives fearing the onslaught of negative publicity, rushed in to concoct a story, explaining that Clean and Ben were fighting over prime advertising spots on Monday Night Football games, and not Aunt Jemima.  Nothing was ever proven otherwise.

Finally, there was the time when Marie Callender allegedly walked in on Mr. Clean and Betty Crocker going at it on the kitchen table.  The location made total sense since both of these icons do their best work in the kitchen.  Crocker said they were just testing the table to see if it was sturdy enough to hold all the side dishes she was going to prepare for a meal that evening.  Clean said Callender was fabricating the story because he had rejected her attention. He said he had no interest in Marie because he found her to be a “cold woman”, even frigid at times.

These alleged scandals were big news when then hit, but they faded away over time.  Mr. Clean was still considered extremely clean.

A few years ago Mr. Clean’s advertising agency attempted to improve his appearance and image by giving him a make-over. He had been a “tough guy” wearing an earring, long before it was fashionable and guys who shave their heads are a bit creepy, no? They softened his image, reportedly to make him more acceptable and pleasing to the modern woman. So they sent him to the spa for an eyebrow trim, facial, exfoliation, waxing, and mani/pedi. Well, la-di-frickin-da!  But maybe the real reason behind this action was to insulate Mr. Clean from these past scandals.

And now they feel Mr. Clean’s natural, manly, scent needs to covered-up by Gain.  What are you hiding Mr. Clean?  What stench are you trying to mask? This is a scandal of epic proportions. Yes, I am saying there is a chance that Mr. Clean is in fact, “dirty”.

I know this possibility seems outrageous. I know that if proven true, it will be painful to accept. However, based what has happened to other advertising figures and celebrities over the past year, we must at least consider that it could be true.  Hey, Hey, Hey, think about this the next time you enjoy some pudding, gelatin, or a made-fresh submarine sandwich.

In light of this obvious attempt to sanitize an already supposedly “Mr. Clean”, I think the Crocker incident should be reexamined.  Around nine months after the kitchen table incident, Betty Crocker gave birth to the Pillsbury Dough Boy. At the time it was naturally thought that Bib – the Michelin Man, was the father.  Bib and Betty were involved in a very public relationship at the time. The Dough Boy, being all white and puffy, does resemble the tire guy. And it was also well known, in one of the most incredible, stupendous, ironies of all time; that Bib preferred not to use rubbers. And of course, nothing says you loved him, like something in the oven.

I think a yeast sample and an appearance on the Maury Povich show is called for to determine who fathered Popin’ Fresh (ironically his name describes what got the sub sandwich guy in trouble).

I demand a complete, thorough, investigation.  But not by Congress, they all need to be soaked naked in Gain for about a month. No, I am calling on the authorities to bring in the most qualified advertising icon for this job, Toucan

Sam ("Follow my nose! It always knows!") to determine if a cover-up exists. I hope I am wrong about Mr. Clean, but something really smells about this situation, and it isn’t the Gain.

   

Not An Afternoon Delight

I was busy working in my home office one afternoon when I was interrupted by the doorbell. I scurried downstairs to find my neighbor, Hot Carla, standing at my door, appearing somewhat distraught.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need someone to talk to”, she explained.

I hesitated before I nodded, because I had work to finish and of course I was a bit uncomfortable being alone with Hot Carla in my home. I mean this is Hot Carla, and well, you know. But I invited her in since it seemed like the neighborly, Christian, thing to do.

She thanked me and assured me the discussion would not take long.  I discretely took a peek at the clock. If the discussion took 30 minutes, I still had time to finish my work on time. More importantly, my wife wasn’t due home for another hour and obviously Hot Carla had to be long gone by then.  As she moved past me, I took note how much perfume she was wearing to determine if I needed to deodorize the room after she left.

I directed her over to the loveseat and motioned for her to have a seat, and I swear she had in fact started to sit. I turned my back, walked over to the far end of the couch and sat where there would be a full six feet of space between us.  But apparently Hot Carla does not like people to be far apart when discussing personal issues, because she had not sat down on the love seat. She waited until I sat down on the couch, then she kicked off her shoes and sat down right next to me.  And “sat” is not the optimal term; because she pulled her feet up off the floor behind her. So I guess she curled up next to me on the couch.

Now this is not what you think (If it were, I wouldn’t be blogging about it. And you are all totally disgusting for even going there). Hot Carla’s father was ill and she needed some fatherly advice.  She would typically be able to get that advice from her father, but obviously not in this case. So I was serving the role of “father-figure”.  When young, attractive, women start valuing your paternal wisdom more than other male-type functions that you are willing to perform, you know you are traveling down the hill, not up it.  This realization is one of those that is both uplifting yet disturbing at the same time.

Like many beautiful babes, Hot Carla is oblivious to how hot she really is and what affect this sitting arrangement might have on me.  So Carla’s intentions are innocent, she just wants to be this close when discussing very personal matters.

Now I know the guys out there are wondering how Hot Carla is dressed since she is “curled” inches away from me on the couch.  I can say that it was summer, it was hot, and Hot Carla was dressed for coolness and comfort.  So in the way of clothing; not much. She looked so hot I think I noticed some wisps of smoke emanating from her body.  Carla may have been dressed to stay cool, but suddenly it was sweltering where I was seated and I was seated way too close for comfort.

Now you might accuse me at this time of having impure thoughts, but this is absolutely not true. My thoughts were in fact totally pure --- in the undiluted sense of the word.  Even so, I was able to overcome this daunting obstacle.  It takes a skilled listener, with amazing super powers of concentration, to perform under these circumstances. You must keep your mind and all your bones totally under control.

So I listened intently and was able to offer Hot Carla some good advice.  However I was concerned that if the advice was too wise, and her father did croak, these meetings might become more frequent. At times she came close to breaking down in tears. I did keep glancing at the clock to make sure we did not go over the “allotted” time.

The conversation was winding down.  It had been a success. I had been able to help this damsel in distress by comforting her and providing the guidance she so desperately needed.  Just call me Sir Ake-A-Lot. We must have been discussing something very important at that moment, because I failed to hear any noise in the garage.   By the time I heard the door open, it was too late to jump off of the couch and  propel my body through the air and onto the loveseat, which I swear I would have and could have done if I had only time.

In some cruel twist of fate, for some still unknown reason, my wife had decided, without warning I might add, to come home half-an-hour early that day.  She had never done this before. I mean who leaves work a half hour early for no good reason? Who I ask?  And yet there I am sitting on the couch with a shoeless, Hot Carla, in all her hotness, curled up next to me, as I greet my wife.

I look totally guilty of something, but I am totally innocent. The challenge is to try to maintain your composure and a believable facial expression, under extreme duress. It wasn’t so much deer in the headlights as it was buck caught in a compromising position. I resist the urge to immediately jump off the couch.
Instead I slowly rise up and move as carefully as an infantryman through a minefield, putting as much space between Carla and me as reasonably possible. At this point, one wrong move, one wrong look, or one wrong word, could cause an explosion of epic proportions.

“Carla’s father is ill”, I blurt out in attempt to diffuse the situation.  Fortunately Carla’s face communicates the severity of the situation.  It would have been a great time to unleash those tears. I know I wanted to cry right then.   But it does help that Carla does not recognize how things really appear. She is sweet, but rather blunt, and I could imagine her saying to my wife, “Don’t worry honey, we weren’t £*€!ing, we were only talking.” My wife offers her sympathy and engages in some polite small talk.  Since I don’t sit back down, fortunately Carla realizes the conversation is over and I walk her to the door.

Of course now there will be no comforting hug as we part. I do know it would have been a polite, platonic, neighborly, type hug. The kind of hug you would give your sister (if I had a sister) and I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. As I return, it seems the room temperature has dropped about 70 degrees.  I don’t say much the rest of the evening, and surprise! - - -  I lived to blog about it.

But once again, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m striving to use my special powers and skills for noble purposes. I’m giving of myself to promote love, peace, and the betterment of humanity. For the record, I want to state again that I am totally, totally, innocent. Really, really, I am.  I was just trying to do the right thing, and the wrong thing happened …… again.

Nurses Need To Wear Undergarments

A hospital near me made the news by instituting a new, strict, dress code which applied to both health care workers and office personnel.  One rule which drew interest was: “All employees must wear underwear.”

Since I had just posted my “Just Say No To Going Commando”, I decided to join the debate to add some frivolity to the discussion.

I posted this comment on the discussion thread of the local newspaper:

Don Ake: Older people should never go commando anywhere - http://akespains.blogspot.com/2015/06/just-say-no-to-going-commando-ruu.html

This was responded to by a woman named Shelley (name changed)

Shelley: Speak for yourself. It’s the height of arrogance for anyone to believe they can tell everyone how to dress. By the way, I’m a boomer, and I dress exactly the way I want.

Apparently Shelley thinks my “commando” post is a serious commentary on dress codes. I’m assuming she dresses “the way she wants” is because she is not working (all companies have some dress codes) which is why she has time to engage in stupid arguments with people on the Internet.  But hey, she has attained the rank “Top Commenter” status on this particular message board so who I am to argue with her?  Who am I indeed?

However the seriousness and passion of her words reveal the existence of a rather large chain visible at the end of her comment. Unfortunately, if I see evidence of someone’s chain, it is almost impossible for me to resist the urge to yank it. (This even included former bosses, which incidentally didn’t help my career much). So I respond with:

Don Ake: Please don’t go commando Shelley, save yourself and all of us by making the wise choice.

Shelley: Like I said I do what I want. Whether I go commando or not is none of your business. Do us all a favor, and keep your generalities to yourself.

She still doesn’t realize I’m being silly. So ….. (yank, yank)

Don Ake: I can tell you are wearing panties because somehow they have gotten in a bunch. I am just performing a public service and trying to help you out.

Incredibly I must have been winning the argument, because “Nancy” (Another “Top Commentator!) joined the discussion in defense of Shelley.  And interesting enough, she is from Nova Scotia.  Why Nancy is so concerned about a hospital dress code in Ohio is baffling.  And I know she is wearing underwear, because you need to keep them beavers warm in the Great White North.

Nancy: Don Ake, No one asked or wants your help. Mansplaining isn’t it making it any better.

Now I take great exception to the mansplaining (talking down to women in a patronizing manner) accusation. For the record: I display the same arrogant, superior, know-it-all, attitude no matter who I am explaining something to. Man, woman, black, white, old, young, it is done exactly the same way!  Uh wait, that didn’t come out the right way…. Um, maybe it is the truth though.

Now if Nancy wants to join in, I am fully capable of engaging two women at the same time. No, I mean I can handle two women at once.  Uh, I guess what I really mean is that I can yank two chains simultaneously.

Don Ake: Oh Nancy, I think you have the same problem as Shelley. I suggest you debrief and then rebrief for the benefit of everyone you encounter today. And I do not mansplain. I am so brilliant that I must spread my wisdom everywhere!

Nancy: Don Ake, The only thing I see on this page that needs rebriefing is a big, shiny, bald, head.

Now I must really be dominating this argument if first I am accused of sexism and now she is attacking my appearance.  However Nancy appears to be young and cute and when a hot babe criticizes your appearance at my age, it does sting a bit. All the more, if in fact, she is not wearing any panties.  But she did notice my big head and you know what they say: big head, big ….. , whatever.

Don Ake: Nancy, For the sake of all humanity, unbind your panties woman, set them free! You and everyone else will be better for it.

And now it was time for Shelley to jump back on top of me, er I mean respond …

Shelley: Obviously Nancy, Don is a mysoginist (sic). He thinks his opinion is more than what it is, his opinion.  He has yet to learn his opinion only matters to him.  He also has an inflated sense of his own intelligence.

At this point I am laughing out loud.  It is difficult to have an inflated sense of intelligence, when I am being ridiculous.  However, I am intelligent enough to know when someone is being ludicrous and yanking my chain, unlike some people I know who have attained the esteemed rank as “Top Commenter”.

As far as being a misogynist, I want to say for the record:  I have never massaged a Miss and do not plan to do so in the future.  Of course if she is of legal age and needs a massage for medical reasons or to save her life, I may make an exception.

Her uniform needs to be "complete"

Furthermore, while the hospital’s dress code may be excessive, I do want the medical workers there to wear undergarments.  It is essential to provide a hygienic environment. Even more importantly, if I’m at the hospital for something cardiac related, I need to be sure the young, hot, blonde nurse attending to me is wearing panties.  If there is any indication, any at all, that she is going “au natural” under her uniform, this is going to end and it’s going to end very badly.

Bad Volleyball – Extremely Bad Volleyball

I was lounging peacefully on the Florida beach during my recent vacation, when I was startled by a young woman sprinting after an errant volleyball.  The resort had a volleyball net set up on the beach, but this rolling ball was quite a distance away from it.

The volleyball court was a popular attraction and the previous day I had witnessed a very spirited, competitive, game. I took particular interest in several of the bikini-clad players who were able to successfully strike the ball despite the obvious obstructions in front of them.  I greatly admired their athletic prowess and effort as their hot, sweaty, bodies glistened in the afternoon sun.  I imagined being out there with them, running, grunting, and uniting in perfect harmony with them to achieve volleyball greatness.

However there had been no games today due to the extreme heat, but now apparently there was some action.  I watched as the woman, about 20 years old, secured the ball and walked back to the court.  On the other side on the net was a man in his 40’s, which I assumed was her father.  She hit the ball over the net; it hit the ground before dad could get to it.  He picked up the ball and then struck it as hard as he possibly could.  This time it careened far to the right, toward the ocean.   The young woman dutifully ran after ball again.

When she returned, her brother, a very skinny teenager, had joined the contest, teaming up with her against dad. And then this odd match fell into a very predictable pattern:

Dad wallops the ball far over the boy’s head. Boy runs after ball.  Boy trots back to court and tries to hit the ball over the net.  Skinny, wimpy, nerdy, boy is not strong enough to get ball over net.  Ball goes under net. Dad picks up ball and “Pow!” There goes the ball flying down the beach again.  This sequence was unbelievably repeated over and over.

This was bad, awful, disgusting, volleyball.  It was the worst volleyball I have ever witnessed.  It may have been the worst volleyball match in the history of the sport.  It was an outrage. It was a disgrace to the sport.  At one point I

The scene of the "crime" and it was criminal.

wanted to walk out onto the court, raise my hands in the air and scream: “For the dignity of the game of volleyball and for the sake of good volleyball players everywhere (especially if they wear bikinis), please stop!  I implore you: please, please, stop. Please stop it. You are awful at this, you will not get any better. Please stop now. Go play Canasta, Parcheesi even, but not volleyball. You’re bad, oh so #^¢πing bad!"

But I didn’t. Instead I began laughing. Not the “I’m laughing with you, not at you”. Not the “I am so amused”. Not even the “that’s cute”. No, this was a mocking laugh. I mock you, I mock you so very, very, much. Your volleyball is so utterly bad that an overweight, middle-aged, guy lying on the beach is mocking you. Yes, you are that bad.

And I could mock them. Because they were so bad that if you cloned me twice (I know this is a scary thought.  The world can’t handle even one of me, so three would be disastrous. I think that is why my parents stopped having sex after I was born.) and I could play them 3-on-3, I would win 21 to 0, even in my present physical condition.

Yes, I would still beat the tar out of team Goofups every game. I wouldn’t even have to dive like those pro beach volleyball players.  But if I did dive, they might have a chance because I would get sand in my crack and at my age, my crack is huge. Which means it might take a team of trained wipers days to remove the sand and I would have to forfeit the match.  But that is the only way these ne’er-do-wells could defeat me.

Sand in the crack can be a big problem for beach volleyball players. One of the bikini girls experienced this the day before and had to shake vigorously to remedy the situation.  I was very disappointed that her team members did not

I'm always ready to respond to
 situations such as this.

try to help her out.  Rest assured if I was her teammate, I would gladly lend a hand to remedy the situation, because that’s just the type of guy and dedicated teammate that I am.  

Now you might believe that I am an insensitive cad for making fun and laughing at a father and his children sharing a special vacation moment which they will cherish all their lives.  But, but, Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  Oh excuse me; I was just thinking about that stupid guy wailing aimlessly at that volleyball again.

But even in the midst of this horrible volleyball, something magical, even miraculous happened.  They had a volley where the ball actually cleared the net three times. Three times! And with that, the trio declared victory and mercifully ended the match. I was actually happy for them and glad I could now resume my beach-induced coma, at least until the bikini-oriented matches resumed later that day.       

I Went Hunting in the Bushlands

Sometimes men have to do things they don’t really want to do all for the benefit of their marriage.  Okay, many times we must do these unpleasant things.  All right, often it seems that marriage can be just one uncomfortable thing after another.

Recently, I did something for the first time in my life in an attempt to please my wife.  I actually went to a nursery and landscaping store to buy some shrubbery for my wife’s birthday.   Now you must understand I am not a horticulturalist.  I am probably a horti-counterculturalist.  I am not interested at all in bushes or shrubs.  I don’t even notice them unless they grow so much they get in my way or they start to die.  At which time I say astute things to my wife such as, “That shrub needs trimmed,” or “That bush looks likes its dying; maybe you should do something.”

So, why did I find myself anxiously looking over a large selection of greenery?  Two years ago the township decided to clean the drainage ditch at the side of our yard for the first time in 19 years.  They came out one day without warning and completed the task.  They had the option of clearing all vegetation within five feet from the ditch to give their equipment proper clearance.  Fortunately, to get to our ditch they could have gained access by clearing only about a foot of foliage.  Unfortunately, they decided to take the whole five feet.

My wife had spent years getting that part of the yard just how she liked it.  It was beautiful, even to a horti-counterculturalist like me.  My wife was livid.  She wanted to scream at our trustees.  Of course, screaming wouldn’t bring back the plants and such, so I offered to pay for professional landscapers to redo the area next year.

But my wife didn’t take the deal.  Probably a combination of principle (Why should we pay for someone else’s stupid behavior) and personal feelings (This is my yard and I will deal with it.)  However, what was left of the bushes and shrubs after the township massacre started to regenerate.  Just like when we suffer a setback in life and think the situation will be horrible forever, it does get better over time.  In this case, the bank actually started to fill in wonderfully.  It looked great except for two noticeable gaps.

Of course, men are great for closing gaps.  We don’t like gaps.  Gaps are bad.  So, I made the decision to buy my wife some shrubbery for her birthday, and thus I stood in the middle of this garden store with nary a clue as to what I needed.

Fortunately, Brad soon appeared to assist me.  Brad was a handsome, strapping young lad, and I’m sure the local women enjoyed having Brad tend to their bush and shrub needs.  But Brad was not just “beefcake,” he was very knowledgeable about his products.  Of course, my questions were limited to, “How big does that one get?”  I selected a holly-type bush, and Brad suggested I get a male and a female.  Apparently, these plants engage in some type of procreating activity.  Who knew?  I must have missed that lesson in biology class.  I had no idea how they accomplished this, but they must do it after dark because I have never, ever, witnessed this hot action and am sure I would remember if I had.

So, I got the two holly “love” shrubs and bought a Korean type plant just in case my wife did not like the other selections.  You

might say I bought the third plant literally “to hedge my bet.”  Har, har, double har!

When my wife saw the bushes, she was not pleased.  We have our own domains in this marriage, and by my purchase, I had crossed into my wife’s landscaping territory.  I knew that was a risk but thought that I had the benefit that it was a birthday gift going for me.  I was wrong.

She looked scornfully at the holly plants and said I wasted my money because she could easily transplant some from her mother’s yard.  I’m thinking, “If this was so easy to do, why wasn’t it done at any time in the last two years?”  Of course, I don’t say this out loud because you don’t stay married for 30 plus years by actually saying every thought that comes to mind.  Do you?

I had prepared for this outcome however.  I had told Brad that my wife might not like my choices, and he assured me the shrubs could be returned if not damaged.  So, I calmly presented the receipt to my wife and encouraged her to take them back and get what she wanted.

Secretly, I hoped that she would keep them.  I had made the trip to the nursery, and I had actually put some effort into my choices.  In addition, for some strange reason I was growing fond (har again!) of the Korean one.  Now there would have been a time that I might not have wanted my wife to interact with that plant-stud Brad, but it wasn’t an issue now.

I believe after the shock wore off, my wife realized that I had tried to do a good thing, and she decided to plant the bushes.  She ignored my advice not to plant the Korean one on the north side of the property.  My concern was that a North Korean plot would turn into a communist plant, and I knew from old movies how damaging a communist plant could be to your operation.

So my wife is happy.  I am happy.  And the bushes appear to be enjoying their new home.  I don’t know if the male and female have engaged in, well, nature type activity yet, but I’m sure they will when they get to know each other better and the time is right.

This first appeared as a guest post on my good friend H.L. Gibson's webpage  http://hlgibsonauthor.com/ Please check it out sometime!