Dogs Don’t Get Depressed

My wife has been asking me for years to write an animal story. I just haven’t gotten around yet, kind of like fixing the gate. So when the time finally came around, I told her I could write her a tender story filled with despair or a weary story laced with hope; what's your pleasure? 

            When I was single, I would get depressed. Friends would say to me, "why don't you get a dog? You know dogs are never depressed." I would ask them, "why's that?"  Is it because their brains are smaller?" What could I possibly learn from a dog? I didn't know why, nor would they be my friend. I thought, what kind of advice could a dog give me?  "Have you tried lying in the sun until you are boiling, then go lay in the shade? Feels pretty good."  How about eating your dinner so fast you don't know what happened.”

            Then I met my wife Linda, a true animal lover. She has owned dogs, cats, rats, hamsters, birds, lizards and worked at a zoo. She has handled hissing cockroaches and tarantulas and let snakes drape over her body.

            Fast forward a year later; I brought home a puppy Labrador retriever for my wife Linda's birthday. This made her very happy and the dog happy. That dog has never been depressed, even thirteen years later. Now we have three dogs, the last two she found abandoned, and now they are not depressed. They live a life that looks pretty uncomplicated in fact; they only appear stressed when the gardener shows up with the leaf blower.

            My rule is relatively straightforward with dog ownership; if you are not giving them attention, then don't own one. When I reflect on the dogs in my home, I can tell you how each one taught me something about life. Riley, my 110 pound Labrador, has taught me that no matter how tired and worn out you may feel, she can still chase the Frisbee one more time. She is saying, don't be a quitter, I can go all day. What's your issue?  Starr, my four-and-a-half-pound Chihuahua, teaches me every day that there is nothing better than a cool breeze in the face with your head out the window. She is saying, be here right now in this moment. Tucker, my thirteen-pound mix of terrier and Chihuahua who loves to ride in my truck but is so ready to go back home as soon as we get to our destination. What he is saying is, "it's all about the journey, stupid. "

            Some dogs make you wonder why you brought them into your life. Some bark all of the time, others chew your wife’s 300 hundred dollar boots, and worst yet, some pass foul gas in your bedroom.  There is such a rise in dog ownership because they can feel a void in your life. Getting unconditional love every day is something that is so needed in our society. So next time you come home from a hard day at the office, get ready for the love machine that waits at your door. Give them some attention, and hopefully, the love bomb you get in return takes the edge off.

How to Beat Down the Car Lot Zombies

         Choosing and buying a car is a task that requires a game plan to take on the bloodthirsty sharks that work on car lots. If you get caught up in their selling spiel, you could be impulse buying within the first twenty minutes. Trust me, when I bought a chopper motorcycle instead of the car, my friends didn't understand, my parents felt shame, and I crashed it in the front yard.

            You will find out very shortly that there are hundreds and hundreds of car makes and models, and choosing one will send you into a slobbering fetal position. For instance, Ford Motor Company had brought back the Taurus model just when you thought they put it out to pasture along with the Mercury Sable. Now I read that Dodge has revived the Dart. The damn Dodge Dart. What inspired Dodge to bring this relic back from the dead? It was never sexy or chic to own, and now Dodge will hawk it again to the non-sexy and non-chic people.

            I hopelessly took a car personality test, thinking this might be a helpful tool for my dilemma. What you end up doing within almost every quiz is, buy an SUV because it solves every situation and practical notion you may have. I don't want to be a soccer mom, so I had to lie on these tests. I got it to reveal that owning a Jaguar was the car most suited to fit my debonair personality.

            After you try to sneak onto the lot, it takes less than one minute before the salesperson smells the blood and walks towards you like a carnivorous zombie.  Getting to look without being escorted by this conniving scoundrel with their list of canned responses and reactions is not allowed.  It's their job to be pressuring and irritating; otherwise, they wouldn't be following the code of ethics of car salespeople.

            My game plan was to bring my wife along to help me deal with the relentless sales banter. She also has the gift of gab and keeps them distracted long enough for me to wander off and check the sticker prices and interiors. After we test drove a few different models, they eventually wanted an answer from us about which one we wanted to buy. In my past experiences, I would tense up, and then the weasels would start eating at my flesh. My secret weapon, my wife, automatically threw out the most ridiculous low price to see their reaction. Of course, their first response is to recoil and reply, "He would lose his job if it were sold for our asking price."  She proceeds to tell them to ask their manager. They take the long walk back to the showroom to find the guy with the most expensive clothing.

            Outcomes Mr. Manager with coffee-infused breath leading the way with his cheesy grin. After a little small talk, he asks if we have a trade-in.  "Sure, we have a 2001 Mercury Sable with $150,000 miles", we reply. This wasn't the answer he wanted to hear because the smile left his face, and it looked like he suffered from acid reflux. On and on, the banter went, with prices being thrown around like we were on the "Price is Right."

We were prepared to walk away because they could not swallow the last thousand dollar difference. Mr. Manager even pulled out a piece of paper he called "the invoice" for the car we wanted and tried to prove to us his cost.  My wife's reply was, "you didn't pay that much. You probably paid pennies on the dollar at an auction." We began our walk back to our car, and the salesman asked for our phone number. My wife's reply, "No, you had your chance to sell us a car. Why do I want you begging me on my phone?" I had a little sympathy for him; he was trying every trick in the book.

            The saga ends with us purchasing a new car at another dealership using the same tactics. There was the same relentless chit-chat, but this time the manager couldn't take the wheeling and dealing and caved to my wife's hardball tactics. The lesson of this story is that you have two choices. One, try your best, but if you don't play rough, you might buy a Dodge Dart. Two, show no mercy to the zombies and beat them down like in the movie, "Night of the Living Dead."

Quest for Fire

I rented an older film entitled "Quest for Fire" the other day, based on the two thumbs up review that some friends had given it. The film takes place in caveman times, at least a few million years ago.  Raquel Welch wasn't in this movie, and no dinosaurs were walking around devouring people. The filmmaker tried to be less hokey and a little more authentic because the humans didn't speak English and had messy matted hair and dirty, greasy faces.

          The plot centers around the fire. If your posse of peeps possessed a campfire, then you were keeping up with the Jones's. The fire was like gold, and other cavemen and women wanted to get their hands on it. This particular group had their fire go out, so they had to search the world over for fire and bring it back to their tribe.

            Based on this film, I see how the fascination with fire must have started back in those rough times. At an early age, I was lured to the power of fire. I think most children have some time in their life have experimented or been captivated by the essence of fire. I look back and believe that my interest was more of an addiction. A can of lighter fluid was my whiskey, and a book of matches was my drug. I guessed when your dad smoked, a book of matches wasn't too hard to find.

            My favorite thing to burn was plastic. The hot bubbling and dripping plastic, the smell and smoke, was so intoxicating and beautiful at the same time. I specialized in burning army men. I didn't give preferential treatment to the Americans over the German soldiers. I had no mercy for either one. I tended to pick the soldiers with the most useless poses or those that already had their heads put in the pencil sharpener. I would design a whole scenario and storyline that ended with a giant inferno.

            Of course, one of my favorite holidays was Independence Day, the 4th of July, firecracker day, smoke bomb day. Fireworks were legal in our county then, and I would spend every penny I had to buy anything that sparked, smoked, and exploded. I loved lighting them and anticipating the display of gunpowder igniting. Firecrackers destroyed every plastic model I ever built. I think the reason I built them was to blow them up eventually. I couldn't save my firework stash until the night of the 4th.  I depleted my stockpile well before we set off our family box.

            The fascination with all this fire lost its appeal on a hot summer day. While at a family visit with a relative, I wandered off to light a box of matches that I acquired. I snuck off around the side of the house and began lighting them one by one; I was getting my fix. All of a sudden, I heard voices in the front yard, and I panicked. I threw the matches to the ground and walked around to the front.  It was my uncle and his daughter ready to run an errand. We exchanged "hi’s," and I acted cool as ever. They got into their car and began to pull out of the driveway when my cousin yells out, "Daddy, something's burning!" I kept walking into the house like I didn't hear those words.

            Between her yelling and the smoke rising into the air, panic had reached the families in the house. Everybody came running out to see what all the excitement was about. Someone yelled to call the fire department. Meanwhile, I was still acting cool like an assassin who just shot the government dignitary.

            I followed the crowd outside the house. I never felt so relieved when I saw my uncle put the fire out with a garden hose. The side of the house had a slight amount of smoke damage.  A juniper bush had burned in the blaze and caused a short amount of high flames. After the fire was out, my uncle found the book of matches and announced, he had found the evidence. My brother gave me hell because he knew I did it, but I denied all accusations of the crime.

            The incident seemed like it was soon forgotten by most of the families, and they resumed their get-together. I didn't soon forget it, and I felt sick and ashamed of my pyromania. Fire was never the same after that day. I still flirted with it now and then, but the days of torching all my toys and endlessly lighting matches were over. My quest for fire was satisfied, and it was time to find new and dangerous things to do, like chemical reactions.

The Naked Nudist

It had been years since I stepped inside a gym. I was now the proud owner of a gym membership thanks to my big mouth declaring my New Year’s resolution of shedding twenty pounds. 

            I lifted a little weight on day one, gyrated around on some electronic monkey bars and road on a bicycle that went nowhere. After this incredible display of athleticism, I wandered into the locker room to cool down and shower. As I sat there on the bench, proud and sweaty, I became surrounded by fellow gym members in various states of disrobing. It was an awkward moment because I don't know how to act in front of naked people besides my wife. I know it was just a bunch of guys, but I don't want to be caught looking at something that I shouldn't be looking at, whether it's shyness, shame, or guilt. Who knows why, sounds like something for Dr. Phil to dissect.  I can't speak for other people, but situations involving nudity outside the bedroom or doctor's office have been an uncomfortable experience.

            My first recollections of nudity were at the age of six at the neighborhood swim center. The old men in the locker room would yank their britches down and shed their clothes with no hesitation. My brothers and I would laugh at all their mounds of flesh and hair, not realizing that those guys didn't give a damn what we thought. A few years later, some of the neighborhood girls would show and tell as I would gander and take mental notes.

            The years progressed without seeing much nudity until my grandmother’s neighbor decided to walk around topless in her backyard. That was quite the show for five of us boys to fight over and who got to look through the hole in the fence. We were voyeurs and peeping toms, but I think she knew because of all the clamoring and ruckus we created for that one golden moment.

            As a young man, all of eighteen with no girlfriends on the horizon and still much of an awkward and shy person, I tried to find out where all the naked people were at. I knew about striptease establishments, but I couldn't find myself in one of those joints sitting along with other men ogling naked women and pretending they are gynecologists.

           I always heard about a nudist colony in the mountains near my home. I called them up, and they invited me down for a tour, or they could send me a color brochure in the mail. I opted for the color brochure, and when it arrived, I was utterly disturbed by what I saw. This place was closer to a family summer camp than a Playboy resort. I didn't want to see moms, dads, and children playing naked volleyball.   

            I often heard guys talking about a nude beach that was in a secluded area. I was going to go there by myself on a reconnaissance mission. I found the place, parked my car, and trekked down to the beach in my clothes, just in case wild dogs were loose. There weren't more than ten people laying about like lizards in their birthday suits. I sat my belongings down a good fifty yards away from fellow nudies. The closest to me were a couple who looked to be in their thirties, blond and without body hair, possibly Scandinavians. We acknowledged each other's presence and waved. I wiggled out of my clothes while lying down, looking like an earthworm on a hot sidewalk.

            I laid there with dark sunglasses and sneaking peeks at the small selection of sunbathers. I ended up falling asleep for a while until I heard the laughing of people playing in the water. It was the Scandinavians frolicking in the ocean, being free, careless, and fully nude. It was fascinating, weird and I wanted to be like them. I got up but wasn't going into the cold water, so I casually eased into a jog along the shore. I was free, a hippy child, and didn't feel like a pervert as I jogged. I soon left and thought that maybe I would be back someday but with a girl and sunscreen.

            I never did return, and it was the last time I was naked outside except the one time I went streaking in my backyard. Unless you are a doctor, a nude model, or a Scandinavian nudist, the naked body seems to have a peculiar effect on those who still have their clothes on.

Fashion Crisis

                  A friend sent me an email that read, “More Walmartians." I could only imagine what was about to appear before my eyes. I do shop at Walmart now and then and find the prices to my liking. Who doesn't want to buy a ten-foot inflatable Santa Claus for twenty-nine ninety-nine? I am familiar with the unflattering pictures of people that shop there, clearly not what the folks who run Walmart want to be known for. I haven't seen any silver spandex hot pants and purple mow hawks when I have been there, but I guess I've not looked hard enough.

          Over the years, seeing the way people dress in public is not as shocking as it once was. I am no longer disturbed by seeing men wear black socks and sandals with high-waisted Bermuda shorts.

            I've been to sporting events where the only dress requirement is underwear.  When grown men paint their bare-chested bodies then get staggering drunk while thinking they affect the game, we as a society are descending. Have you ever gone to a gambling casino then found yourself in the nickel slot area and wondered why people would wear their pajamas with cowboy boots?  Have you ever been to any coffee shop at 2 am?  How about a fast food joint on a Sunday night? These folks throw on whatever clothes are lying about, no matter how uncolor coordinated and wrinkled they are.

          Who cares anymore? The fashion police have lost this battle, and now the inmates are running the joint. Wear your muumuu with a down jacket to the grocery store. Put on your rain boots when you go out for dinner. Baseball hats are now required for everybody who hasn't washed their hair in two days. Most men over seventy should wear one-piece jumpsuits just because it makes sense.

            I have my battles with my wife about style and fashion sense. I see nothing wrong with wearing green pants with a green shirt. The one combination that sends her over the edge is beige on beige.  I find beige the most politically correct color and can be worn for any occasion.

          In addition, sweatpants should be considered everyday clothes no different than women who wear nothing but black stretch pants. Tee shirts should never be retired until large holes distract from the important messages they are displaying. I'm trying to meet her halfway about my wardrobe choices. I even agreed not to wear the clothes that had been lying on the floor for a few days. These are small steps for me, and someday I might even tuck in my shirt. 

The Recliner, Man’s Real Best Friend

       I was at the mall following my wife around. She knows this is one of my most loathed activities on this planet. She was tired of my moaning and groaning, so she dragged me into a couple of shops that I might like. One was Victoria's Secret, and the other was Brookstone. Victoria's Secret was okay until I got shot down for one of my suggestions of skimpy lingerie.

        After the VS experience and paying forty dollars for her bra, I knew I wanted to get out of this mall. One last stop to Brookstone, which is a store that specializes in unique and quirky electronic stuff. Right in the front was the recliner display. I threw my torso into this unit and started playing with the remote control. I could massage my whole body with the touch of a button, even my feet and my head. I sat in the chair for half an hour and didn’t care what all of the looky-loos were thinking. I was a new man when I pried my body out of the chair. The unit is a little pricy, around $3000. I am considering it because I would always be happy staying home.

Where Old French Fries go to Die

            If a forensics expert or a detective ever needs to find out what type of person I was, they will have to look no further than under my car seat. There lies my life with the wreckage and carnage of fast-food restaurants and office supplies. It is where old French fries live out their remaining days, packets of hot sauce and ketchup can age gracefully, and ballpoint pens can always have a home.

         The forensic expert will know right off I was not a tidy man or even the tidy bowl man who looked pretty dapper in those TV commercials. The detective would realize I was careless with my belongings and had a blatant disregard for hair combs. The array of fast-food remnants can say two things; I was a single man with no intention of packing a nutritious lunch or a ravenous slob who ate with unbridled joy. Okay, I am a slob but not a glutton, and I admit I haven’t mastered the art of eating and driving simultaneously.

            I was driving by one of those fancy-schmancy car wash joints the other day, you know, the ones where you can get a decaf vanilla latte along with jasmine air freshener. A traffic jam of cars waited in line happened because they might have offered a discount for wheel cleaning, or maybe the vacuum cleaners were overrun with dog hair. I know my car was filthy and much lived in due to the driving aspect of my job. The accumulation of my life's waste and debris in the car was something that I needed to handle. A friend suggested a tent needed to be put over my vehicle and fumigated, then a hazmat crew needed to come in and surgically clean it out.

            I agreed to tackle the job myself after seeing the line at the car wash. It’s actually a gift boutique and coffee shop disguised as a car wash to entice the fringe customer. Who is the fringe customer, and who needs a vanilla latté and some artwork when they go there? I felt it was time I broke out the car wash super package of cleaners that I received for Christmas a couple of years ago. There are liquid concoctions and brushes for all parts of the car for a complete makeover. Now I know why people wait in line for hours to get their vehicle pampered at the hoity-toity car wash joint. It took me five hours to get my car clean enough to reach the level of cleanliness that looked like I paid to have it done.  I can't say it was fun or even resembled any form of pleasure.

         Having a clean car is overrated because I love to eat French Fries right after getting them from the drive-through window. Some of those fries will find a place in my car that, when discovered, will bring back fond memories of our time together.

When Did Beer Become Wine?

         Now there are such things as beer snobs. I loathe beer snobs.  When did “free and cold” get replaced as everybody’s favorite beer? Is there any sacred ground left on earth? We now live in an age when it seems all food and drink has to be gourmeted or enhanced. It was like when pizza went off the deep end. Now pizza joints will put any damn thing you want on it, such as cookies or a fried egg, and charge you a good chunk of change. 

         You look in the beer aisle nowadays at your local super-duper market, and you are faced with a wall of choices that baffle the mind.  I am an average guy who doesn’t have time to try every swill that some pothead invented in his garage. Now it is on the shelf with a fancy-schmancy label and a price that says, “I am higher priced because I made this with ultra-super-secret  hops.”

            I offered a beer to one of these snobs at a poker game, and the little snoot asked me if it was an IPA? IPA stands India Pale Ale.  It is a beer with a weird aftertaste like a bar rag or stale beer nuts. I told him it wasn't an IPA, but it was cold and tasty, and I would even pour it in a clean glass for him. Again he asked what type it was, and I read the bottle, and it said it was a pilsner. He said, "No, thanks, I'll have some wine." Have your wine, and I hope it gives you mouth warts.

         Okay, I get it; some folks thought years ago that beer needed some more sophistication. The traditional brewers were giving us too much of the same thing. Then along came imported beer with its exotic names and fancy taste. Sure it was good, but you could buy twice as many American suds for the same price. Maybe it is the generational thing where you don't want to drink what your dad drank. He probably drank Schlitz from a large can, and that thought brings back images of his shameless extended beer gut. Sorry pops, they didn't have light beer when you were knocking them back in the 1960s.

         Along come some guys who wanted us, beer drinkers, to expand our minds and our palettes. They started making batches of experimental formulas and told us you would be hip if you drank their brew. I saw a bottle of beer on the shelf that said it had oatmeal and blueberries in it. Why is Quaker Oats making beer? What's next? A1 Steak sauce will introduce a beer that has real meat inside?  This indignity should be outlawed and banned in most states and can only be sold on the east coast in limited quantities.

        For me, drinking a beer is more of a social experience, not some sipping and swirling and sniffing adventure.  Drinking beer at the bowling alley or after a softball game and at a concert with a girl on your shoulders is what I associate it with.  Okay, maybe not the girl on the shoulders, but a lot of other good times like hanging with some chums and eating hot wings.

         Beer has always been the one thing that most adults can say they tried. You can  remember the last time you had a cold one with a buddy. Beer is your friend, not some hoity-toity high-minded freak show who can't lower himself to drink what you are offering.  So next time when you see a super sale on Pabst Blue Ribbon, throw down some cash, lower your expectations and call up some cohorts. I will guarantee you won't have to have any Chablis wine chilling in your refrigerator.

Florsheim Dress Shoes on the Treadmill

 It had been years since I stepped inside a gym. I was the proud new owner of a gym membership, thanks to my big mouth declaring my New Years' resolution of shedding twenty pounds.

          Day one, I lifted a little weight, gyrated on some electric monkey bars, and rode around a bicycle that went nowhere. After this incredible display of athleticism, I strutted into the locker room to cool down and shower up. As I sat there on the bench, proud and sweaty, I became surrounded by my fellow gym members in various stages of disrobing. It was an awkward moment because I don't know how to act in front of naked people besides my wife. I don't want to be caught looking at something I shouldn't be looking at, whether it was shyness, shame, or guilt; who knows why? It sounds like something for Dr. Phil to dissect.

            Once you are inside the theatre of pain, you can quickly size up the patrons into four types of exercise patrons. First on top of the food chain are the Gods and Goddesses, the Adonises and Venuses'. They are buffed and usually tanned with a hint of orangeness to their skin, and their clothes seem to be undersized in all the right places. There are tattoos of barbed wire around biceps and mysterious scripted messages on the women's lower backs. They have their area in front of the workout mirror and large weights where no wimps are allowed.

            Second are the socialites; they are there to meet and greet and not be inconvenienced with sweat and body odor. They bring their cell phones to declare their status on their Facebook page and Twitter account about how many steps they did on the Stair Master. The males in this grouping are constantly working on their moves at the juice bar, and females wear shorty shorts with messages stamped on the backside. Sure they draw attention, and most men stop pumping iron, and other women sneer. I think of them as the gym cheerleaders.

            The third is the average every day, Joe Smoes. They are there because they feel guilty about munching down pizza and swilling some brewskies down at the Chucky Cheese pizza joint. They want to get through their workout as fast as possible while jamming to tunes in their earphones, mouthing the words, and playing air guitar. They get their workouts done, get home, sometimes shower, and must always eat something because the guilty feelings they once had are now gone.

            The last group is my tribe. We are the leftovers, the newbies, the guest pass coupon people, the clueless, and the lazy. We wear stained sweatpants, cutoff jeans, and our work clothes. The guy next to me was wearing Florsheim dress shoes on the treadmill. I saluted him as one of my own. We sometimes cause a scene like when we drop a stack of weights that is extremely violent sounding followed by dead silence.

            If I work my way up into the Joe Smoes, I will have to get upgraded sweatpants and learn to control my flatulence in the yoga class. Once I put a good solid year into bodybuilding and take off my shirt while I mow my front yard, the socialites will have to accept my charisma.  After three years, and I have continued to pay my gym fees, I can start working out in front of the wall mirrors.  I will probably not get the tattoos, but my pale and hairy skin could use a tan and some manscaping.

Leonard Nimoy, Walmart and Alien Abduction

           I recently went to a UFO convention out of curiosity and with the hope of learning something profound. I attended with the preconceived notion that a legion of Star Trek fanatics, new age pontificators, alien abductees, and people who swear spaceships are part of an ongoing conspiracy would be in attendance. When I saw all of the above and more, I was not let down. I left with the impression that a UFO convention is a gathering I would categorize as fringe entertainment in line with professional wrestling, Civil War reenactments, and lingerie football.

The convention is like a smorgasbord of twisted brains, certifiable kooks, UFO junkies, and gawkers like me. I thought Halloween brought out the ET outfits, but this gathering had folks who felt inclined to don the big head and bug eyes. In addition, I don't know why Spock impersonators were present, but I am sure Leonard Nimoy somewhere wishes he received a dollar every time someone flashed the "go in peace and prosper" hand gesture.

Let's review three of the scenarios presented at the convention. Premise one: aliens are abducting people for interrogation. This has been going on for many years, with a growing population making a claim. Premise 2: Aliens have infiltrated themselves into everyday society to report on us. Premise 3: There is a massive government cover-up of a lot of unidentified aircraft.

To further breakdown here they are, Premise 1: Aliens are abducting us. This usually happens in our sleep and then sent to an unknown location to be interrogated, tortured, and probed. It seems to be a common theme to be explored, but I can't imagine why. So, the aliens want to inspect our orifices to find out what's going on inside. This doesn't add up to me because you think once you probed one, you probed them all. Maybe they want to gather some cells to do some cloning. The reason is that they want a variety of slaves to wait on them. Logically, this makes a little sense, but the question looms: If these guys traveled all this way to poke, prod, and clone us, you would think they invented a robot instead? If I own a robot slave, put an order in for me.

Premise 2: Aliens are infiltrated into our society. I can accept that aliens are being implanted into society because this would explain a lot of unsettling behavior. I am not talking about the folks leading their marching band down the road or the shoppers in Walmart with capes, spandex jumpsuits, or silver hot pants, not even the people who go on the Bachelor television program and start fistfights. As weird as this behavior may appear, it cannot explain heinous crimes and mayhem. It must be the alien brain misfiring and going bonkers. Maybe they are the quiet and inconspicuous types taking copious notes sitting in coffee shops all day long on their laptop.

Premise 3: A massive cover-up exists about alien spaceships, and the government has some of these aircraft. Granted, there are plenty of visuals of unexplained things in the sky, but why the cover-up? To this day, I have not seen one clear, high-resolution, slam dunk proof of these flying ships. Does every picture look like your drunken uncle shot it at a picnic? Does every video clip look shaky or so far away that it could be a paper plate from the same picnic drifting through the sky? If the government is covering up something, why doesn't this get eventually revealed? This kind of cover-up would be a rare feat. Aside from who shot JFK what else hasn't been disclosed? The government is too big, and too many whistleblowers want to cash in on their secrets to the National Inquirer.

As you can see, I am a skeptic and will need a lot more proof to buy-in. The alien abduction stories are pretty entertaining, but I will never believe that an alien-being needs to capture us in our pajamas. Nor do I think the government is hiding alien craft to keep us from freaking out or conducting secret missions to Planet Nimrod. But I believe aliens may be the ones who run social network sites because they own all of your personal data to brainwash us as slaves.

Toenails For Love

        The old saying, "a happy wife means a happy life," translates as; hey husbands, keep your spouse pleased, and you might receive some lovey-dovey, hanky-panky, and silence during the football game. This also includes begrudgingly perform tasks to be able to experience little favors in return. Going to a chick flick and buying her women's hygiene products at eleven at night in a convenience store may be part of the deal.

My wife finally coerced me into going for a pedicure because she couldn't take the constant jabbing of my toenails in bed. I resisted as long as I could until she used the threat of “no sexy times” for me. She tried to insist on how enjoyable the treatment can be, and other men have to go, "Baloney, no man would be caught dead in one of those joints," I'd say. The moratorium on snooky-nooky turned out to be my new reality, so off I went to Ms. Kim's Salon.

If the word got out in the neighborhood that I went to a nail shop, the menfolk would be whooping like a bunch of crazed zoo monkeys. I entered the establishment and quickly scanned the place to see if I recognized anybody. My wife acted like a kid in a candy store. "Honey, you can get your hair cut and a mani-pedi all in one visit," she enthusiastically announced to me and all of the other patrons. My preconceived notion of the place smelling like feet and polish removal chemicals was not validated because tropical flavors permeated the air space.

I lowered my baseball hat, and Ms. Kim took my arm and sat me in a reclining chair. This turned out to be no ordinary recliner; the unit had a built-in tub for the feet, a massage remote for assorted vibrations and heat. I sunk into the big comfortable throne, with the salon girls giggling as I submerged my size thirteen feet into the warm water bathtub. Sitting next to me were other women, except a teenage boy getting his feet worked on. I asked him if he got dragged in here too, but before he had a chance to answer, his mother chimed in, "he likes this outing."

I couldn't whine that this didn't feel comfortable and soothing even though I knew this was a trick for me to return. My pedicurist handed me a glass of champagne, sweet and cheap, but I slurped the bubbly liquid down anyway. I sat back and pondered, we as husbands are not supposed to be pampering ourselves with beauty products and getting dolled up. We are hunters, not dancers and prancers. As the experience progressed, I felt pain, some laughter, and almost tears when the tools were used on my tender toes.

Fortunately, a smattering of men's magazines to choose from laid on a rack, so I asked for one and diverted my attention to a sports publication. I thumbed through the articles until I became locked on to a piece about a guy up in Alaska who was a six-time dog sledding champion. There is a big race every year where dogsledders from all over the world enter this thousand-mile trek across the Yukon. I was in awe of these frontiersmen who endured this odyssey for a meager prize and free Alpo.

The journey from the nail shop to the parking lot in disposable flip-flops to secure my clear acrylic became a hideous spectacle that Linda found to be humorous. I thought about those guys in the great white north bundled in parkas and boots when I sashayed in flimsy little sandals to my car. Oh well, we all can't be Commodore Perry who explored the Arctic. Some of us have to be good husbands no matter what it takes.