RETURN TO SENDER

For the last few years, I’ve been getting regular notices from companies thinking that I must be having trouble either performing sexually or losing my hair or having difficulty entering and exiting a bathtub. Although I found them invasive and disturbing at first, (how dare they question my sexual prowess), sadly I miss them because, apparently, in their eyes, I’ve advanced to a new stage. While opening my mail the other day, I went flush and possibly dribbled in my pants a bit when I read with horror what the sender, Global Burial Plots,  had just sent me. They claimed to have ‘an ideal location for my eternal rest.’  So, in a matter of weeks, we clearly have a brand-new definition of the word ‘stiff.’

One of the most popular tricks they use is to start invading your mailbox long before you’ll ever actually need their services. That way, when the time comes, you’ll be all too familiar with their offerings. Pretty shady, huh? I think it was right around the time that two fellows named Woodward and Bernstein were looking for a story idea and wondered if there may be any shenanigans going on at The Watergate Hotel that I got my first mailing from AARP.  I raced to the bathroom and checked  the mirror for any stray grey hair, which was really weird because I was nine. I quickly found out that that mailing would be the first of what would be approximately  eight-thousand I would get weekly from them. And, yes, if you’re wondering, they do use the same marketing firm as Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Here’s the exclamation point: Nine years ago, it seemed like every time I went to the mailbox, I had some version of a flyer from The Acme Window Cleaning Company. At first, I thought how silly is that? I’m perfectly capable of cleaning my own windows, thank you very much. Then I realized,  ‘wait a minute,I don’t even have any windows.’ And, pay attention here: after a few more weeks and a dozen or so more mailings, full color and glossy, I might add, I felt I had no choice but to go out and buy some windows, just so I could get Acme to come over and clean them! Very impressive. Take a bow, Acme Window Cleaning Company!

So, yes, I was mildly troubled by the whole Global Burial Plot thing, but I’ll survive…I hope. As we have learned here extremely seasoned marketers can turn these things into self-fulling prophecies and I’m sure you can see how that could spell doom for me in this particular case. No sir, I’m going  to stand strong on this one. After all, it’s only a silly piece of junk mail and I’m certainly not going to let it control me. I’m better than this, by golly and I’ll make up my own mind as to what I will and will not do. So there!  I only hope that you, the reader,  feel as empowered and in control of your life as I do at this very moment.  Thank you for letting me share. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got some prime subterranean real estate to purchase.

RETURN TO SENDER

For the last few years, I’ve been getting regular notices from companies thinking that I must be having trouble either performing sexually or losing my hair or having difficulty entering and exiting a bathtub. And although I found them invasive and disturbing at first, (how dare they question my sexual prowess), sadly I miss them because, apparently those days are over.  While opening my mail the other day, I went flush and possibly dribbled in my pants a bit when I read with horror what the sender, Global Burial Plots,  had just sent me. They claimed to have ‘an ideal location for my eternal rest.’  So, in a matter of weeks, I guess we have a new definition of the word ‘stiff.’

If memory serves correctly, I think I got my first mailing from AARP around the time that two fellows named Woodward and Bernstein were looking for a story and wondered if there may be some shenanigans going on at The Watergate Hotel.  I completely freaked. I  remember racing to the bathroom and checking the mirror for any stray grey hair. It would be the first of what would be about eight-thousand I get a week from them.  If you’re curious, yes, they do use the same marketing firm as Bed, Bath & Beyond.

These marketers are very sharp. They know that if they keep bombarding you with the same general literature,  it’s only a matter of time before you start questioning yourself. Once you do that, they’ve hooked you. Game over. You have fallen right into their spell. Just how good are they? Nine years ago, it seemed like every time I went to the mailbox, I had some version of a flyer from The Acme Window Cleaning Company. At first, I thought that was silly, I’m perfectly capable of cleaning my own windows, thank you very much. Then I realized,  ‘wait a minute,I don’t even have any windows.’ And, pay attention here: after a few more weeks and a dozen or so more mailings, full color and glossy, I might add, I felt I had no choice but to go out and buy some windows, just so they could come over and clean them! That’s very impressive. Take a bow, Acme Window Cleaning Company!

So, yes, I was mildly troubled by the whole Global Burial Plot thing, but I’ll survive…I hope. Often times extremely seasoned marketers can turn these things into self-fulling prophecies and I think you can see how that could spell doom for me in this case. No sir, I’m going  to stand strong on this one. After all, it’s only a silly piece of junk mail and I’m certainly not going to let it control me. I’m better than this, by golly and I’ll make up my own mind as to what I will and will not do. So there!  I only hope that you feel as in control of your life and as empowered as I do at this very moment.  Thank you for letting me share. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got some prime below ground real estate to purchase.

POST BINGE DEPRESSION

Congratulations! You have finally finished watching an entire six season one-hundred-episode series on Netflix. Way to go, champ! Take a victory lap around the living room.  What a great accomplishment.

But, wait…you’re sad. You feel disoriented, lost, alone. What is it? It’s like you’ve been tossed from a speeding bus and eventually rolled  to rest on the side of the road…in the bushes…next to a deceased deer carcus. Who among us hasn’t experienced that feeling at one time or another? 

The medical term is Post Binge Depression or PBD. Why do we experience it? To help explain this phenomenon more accurately, I went right to the top and asked  my friend, Sparky. In my mind, there’s no one more qualified to elaborate on the subject than this little couch potato. By way of background, Sparky is employed as a part-time sandwich board man for Poncho’s Pawn Shop, Taxidermy & Deli in Poughkeepsie, NY. He is generally paid in Boar’s Head cold cuts which, on a good week, could possibly include the always in demand quarter pound of Head Cheese. This fairly lucrative six hours a month position allows him the freedom of being home for days at a time crunching those sofa cushions.  In his studio apartment he has 12 televisions, approximately 120 steaming services, (a few of which are even paid for) 6 laptops, 8 tablets and, yes, you would be correct, zero girlfriends.

I first asked him why someone would spend endless hours inhaling an entire series with fictional characters that has no actual connection to reality to which he responded, “What else am I going to do, the dishes?”  That was an excellent point, I must admit.

Sparky explained that the sad and empty feeling most people experience after finishing a binge is that throughout the series, the characters have invited us into their lives, into their world. When the credits roll for the last time, we end up having no choice but to re-enter reality, which can be pretty traumatizing. We are left with an empty feeling and nothing left to show for it except the knowledge that the cat hasn’t been fed in 72 hours and is really, really pissed.

What’s the solution?  Sadly, Sparky admits there really isn’t one. He did say that it might be best to get involved in another series right away. It’s the ‘I’m going to quit smoking…right after another pack’ theory, but it does stave off the loneliness at least for a little while. 

I asked if re-watching a series would help in any way and he looked at me like I had 3 heads. He said that would drive him crazy because, as he reasons, having already seen it, he would obviously know, for instance,  that Mario was eventually going to get run over by the bulldozer and buried in the landfill next to all the other members of his family and, secure with that knowledge,  he would have no way of letting Mario know in advance to warn him. “There is no way I could change his fate having no way to get ahold of him,” he blubbered as tears started streaming down his cheeks.  By the way, this would be a good time to let you know that Sparky has driven his last two therapists into therapy themselves. Quite a feat, no?

Okay. So Sparky hasn’t been a world of help but at least we now know that there is an actual medical term for how we’re feeling. So, grab that bowl, put your feet up and immerse yourself one more time.  Oh, but, first, probably a good idea to feed the cat.

DEPT. OF CINEMATIC SECURITY

So, let me get this straight: A guy hides a box of potentially explosive Milk Duds in his Hanes Briefs. It goes undetected at the movie theatre and, as a result, he gets to waltz right in and see the movie of his choice with Non-Concession Stand Purchased Snacks (N.C.S.P.S.)? How can this happen in the year 2021?

Enter Billy Bob Smoot, the Head Ticket Taker (H.T.T.) at Sticky Floors Cinemas. “Nobody sneaks in nothing,” says the highly respected cinema employee. When I interviewed him, I reminded him of the double negative in his statement but he just scratched his head and instructed me to bend over and spread ’em.

Billy Bob’s record is spotless when it comes to Foreign Snack Detection (F.S.D.) “If that Snickers bar comes from CVS Pharmacy, I’ll snag it,” he said emphatically, adding, Besides, we don’t even sell no Snicker’s, I think.”

As cinemas begin to re-open, other chains are well aware that they’re going to have to shore up their F.S.D. Department. They claim to be doing their best to track down and prevent the N.C.S.P.S. from ever getting into the actual theatre, but still, to date, nobody can match the efficiency of Billy Bob Smoot at Sticky Floors.  

Will we soon be needing full body scan machines as we enter the movie area? Will we have to create a ‘movie watch’ list for repeat offenders? These are just some of the, as yet, unanswered questions. Interestingly enough, it’s the effortless way in which Billy Bob hones his craft that brings high praise from many in the business including Richard China, the former Head Ticket Taker H.T.T. at competing theatre, Reels, who claims Mr. Smoot just isn’t displaying the toughness needed for such a high-pressure job, he’s seems to have a sixth sense for detecting culinary contraband.

Mr. Smoot, not known for humility responded eloquently with, “Hey, nobody’s ever snuck in squat on my watch so shut up and bite me.” For the record, Billy Bob invites, in fact, challenges anyone to try and sneak in his theatre with any kind of edible or potable contraband. “I’ll find it, by golly. Even if it’s a single M&M stuck between the butt cheeks. “I’ll sniff it out, remove it and then stomp on it!”

Still, there remains a small segment of theatre goers that remains extremely annoyed by what they describe as a ‘tedious and pointless effort to eliminate harmless minutia while creating painfully long lines and broken spirits.’ They insist that as long as they feel safe and comfortable in the theatre and the previews don’t include anything with Borat or Adam Sandler, there shouldn’t be any concerns. However, this opinion is not shared by the majority of the cinema buffs in this country who feel that there are certain snacks when taken in combination, that pose a serious threat to anyone who steps inside a theatre, no matter where they were purchased. The prime example they are quick to point out is Milk Duds and Cherry Coke. There is overwhelming evidence that says Milk Duds consumed in large quantity over a short period of time, taken in conjunction with a product with such massive amounts of carbonation properties like a cherry Coke, can yield disastrous results for anyone sitting close by when the intestines erupt without warning. “Believe me, it’s not pretty and the last thing we need in this country is panic in a movie theatre,” says Mr. Smoot.

You should know that the tight security measures in place at Sticky Floors are the result of many grueling hours of Contraband Training (C.T.) that all ticket takers must endure. Each candidate works alongside a highly trained Raisinets sniffing canine, who won’t relent until every single nut is licked and devoured. 

So, as Mr. Smoot says, “Don’t be afraid to come to the theatre, unless you’re a contraband carrying goober! My name is Billy Bob Smoot and I wear a name tag!”

THE LISTMAKER

People come up and ask me all the time, “Bob, what the heck are you doing?” Most of the time my response is, “I’m making a list.” If I had to single out one thing that makes my adult life easier it could be summed up in one word: beer. But, other than that, my lists are the most important things to me.

My wife, Michele, taught me the secrets of making lists years ago and to this day, I haven’t forgiven her. Lists are important because without them, you would have no reference point at the end of the day as to what a complete failure you really are.

I’ve learned that it’s always a good idea to cross off an item as soon as you’ve completed it.  Doing so has a couple of advantages; 1) It gives you a feeling of accomplishment, and 2) Umm, please refer to #1.

It’s important to remember that we’re not miracle workers and we’ll never complete everything on our lists every single day. One secret that I’ve found over the years is to put stuff on the list that you know you’ll do just so you can cross it off. One that works for me is ‘breathe.’  It’s easy to do and easy to cross off.

The value of making “To Do” lists can’t be underestimated but, in order to maximize their effectiveness, I caution you to write legibly. I had a very close call the other day when I wondered why in the world I would want to ‘prune the sheets.’

I have also learned to use lists to my advantage. Making a list is easy; it’s the actual execution that’s the difficult part. For instance, I have had on my list for four months ‘buy car.’ Now, buying a car is not something I want to do because I’m cheap. Consequently, I keep seeing ‘buy car’ every day on my list. I finally figured out a way around it. I simply removed the word ‘buy’.  Now whenever I pull out my list, I just see ‘car,’ which could mean anything. So, I wash the one I have and cross it off. Make the lists work for you!

Trust me. Making lists makes you a more productive person and the practice also works to improve your time management skills. This leaves you with more time to do the things you really want to do; make more lists. As Michele always says, “Anybody can do things, but if you don’t have a list to tell you what to do, you may not be doing things that are on your list!”

DON’T BRING ME DOWN

For some reason, I’ve dealt with more than my share of miserable people lately and I don’t like it. What ticks inside a person that makes him consistently miserable? I don’t have enough coffee-stained shirts, M. Scott Peck books or degrees hanging on the wall to answer that one. But I do know this: it’s never their fault! Someone, somewhere along the line has done them wrong and we’re going to listen to all of it even if they have to strap us down. I know what you’re saying. “Bob, please help me. Miserable people make me sick. What can I do to rid my life of these vermin?” We need to unify. We need to band together and stop the madness.

First of all, misery loves company. We need to stop being co-dependent. If we don’t give into them, they will eventually leave us alone. As a wise old exterminator once told me as he was casually putting a mouse in his pocket, “Take away their food source and all you have to do is clean up the crap on the floor.” 

It’s time to take our lives back and we have the power to do that. Are you with me?  When a miserable person asks us how we’re doing with the hopes of hearing that our lives are crumbling faster than a six-month-old Keebler cookie,  take a deep breath and respond with the old, “Couldn’t be better,’ or “If I were any better, I’d have to be two people.” They hate that. They don’t want to be the only person on the boat who sinks. We’re taking away their food source.

Also, remember, as I wag my finger, there is no prescription available for the condition known as ‘miserable’, only clinical depression can get your doctor to break out her pen. Unfortunately, and how’s this for irony, by letting a miserable person get to us, we’re the suckers running to the pharmacy for Prozac!

We’ve tried comforting them and it never seems to work. Strangely enough, when we do try to offer even a modicum of advice and it fails, we become the enemy. This REALLY stinks because then not only do we have a miserable person on our hands but an angry, miserable person as well.

Was it something that happened in their childhood that makes them so miserable?  Probably, but we don’t care about that because our parents made us ride in the trunk and we’re not miserable, right? Aren’t there enough N.M.’s (non-miserables) that we can befriend? We wouldn’t go to the supermarket and buy a grapefruit that’s been bounced around like a basketball, would we? Of course not. We would put it back for the miserable person to buy. See, now we’re getting it.

So, again, we need to band together on this. Let someone else more qualified deal with these unhealthy human beings. Finally, remember, in your next encounter, be nice, be brief and in no time at all, you’ll be washing the floor for the last time.

PLEASE PASS THE PEPPER

I received an e-mail at the radio station the other day from a woman named Sandy who broke her own cardinal rule when she went on a date with a co-worker. She said she was immediately intrigued by Darrin for his unique ability to get food out of vending machines using a combination of paper clips, magnets and rubber bands. 

The date was progressing nicely although she wasn’t terribly thrilled with his choice of dining establishments. The crowning blow, however, came between bites of his Double Bacon Cheeseburger (complete with soft drink and antacid). He smiled, laid his hand on hers and blurted out those three words destined to kill a relationship of only two weeks:  ‘I love you!’ To make matters worse, now her hand was full of grease from his French fries. Yes, we’re sorry to say that Darrin had become the latest, but certainly not the last member of the dreaded “I Love You Too Soon Club (ILYTSC). She mentioned that she obviously didn’t respond in kind because she barely knows him and has never even seen him naked.

Why do men say ‘I love you’ too soon in a relationship? For the answer to that we sought out the expertise of Niles Fletcher. Niles calls himself the first cousin of psychoanalysis. We call him a bartender. He works at the infamous Rusty Tap and thinks Freud was cool but he’s still kind of freaked out by that whole Oedipus complex thing. Anyway, we asked Niles why it’s generally the man who offers up the premature ‘I love you.’ He told us that women, as a rule, do something called thinking before they speak; a concept still foreign to many men, especially inebriated ones. He continued, “The words ‘I love you’ can take on many meanings for men ranging from “Gosh, I sure would like to inspect the fruit that’s hiding so delicately beneath your sweater,” to “May I borrow seventy- five cents for the pool table. I called ‘next.’

Niles shocked us when he said that sometimes men say ‘I love you’ because they simply can’t think of anything else to say. Example:

Susan:  So, what’s new, Brad?

Brad:    I love you!

Susan:  Take me home now!

A better way to handle that, might be

Susan:  So, what’s new Brad?

Brad:    I had the flu last week but I didn’t throw up.

Susan:  My God, you’re strange.

See the improvement? 

Niles suggests that whenever guys get that ‘I love you’ moment in their head after four weeks of dating, it’s best for them to bite their lower lip, count to three and say, “Please pass the pepper.” In all his years of bartending, he can’t recall one instance where a relationship ended over pepper.

And, guys, as an extra added bonus, let me include Niles checklist. Please refer to this if YOU would like to someday be on the receiving end of an ‘I love you.’

1)  Do you drool?

2)  Do you adjust yourself and snort in crowded elevators?

3)  Do you EVER leave the house wearing sports jerseys of your favorite team?

4)  Have you burped the alphabet EVEN ONE TIME since you turned eighteen?

5)  Do you save haircuts for special occasions…like Thanksgiving?

If you answered ‘Yes’ to any of the above, you’re in serious danger of never hearing the words “I love you,’ from a woman or any other living thing, for that matter.

So, good luck guys and stay strong. Don’t end up being the next member of the ILYTSC. When you’re feeling weak and vulnerable, always try to remember, ‘please pass the pepper.’  

THE GALLAGHER MEASUREMENT

Don’t ask me how but I recently found myself at a socially distanced cocktail gathering with some very self-absorbed high-flatulents. Notice I didn’t say ‘party’ because that would infer a festive time, which this was definitely not. One glance around and you could just tell that everyone in the room had all the answers to all of the world’s problems. If only someone would ask.

I spotted a man standing by himself, hugging a folded Wall Street Journal in his armpit, sporting a fire engine red bowtie with matching red socks and holding his martini glass with pinky fully extended. I guess that would explain why nobody wanted to chat with him. I went over to him and said, “I see Red people.” It was an attempt at humor on my part that fell far short of its mark. He still managed to force a fake laugh and we had a nice elbow bump.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, he immediately dove into a huge diatribe about political polling. My brain shifted into overdrive. He was definitely a challenge but I was up to the task. He needed to be brought down a few pegs and I was just the man to do it. Please know that the subject of polling rarely enters my mind. I give that about as much thought as I do thinking about changing my sheets. But, what the heck, it was time to go to work.

After listening to him drone on for what seemed like three lifetimes, about how he hasn’t trusted the science of polling since 1948 when it was predicted that Dewey beat Truman. I nodded in agreement when, truth be told, I’ve heard of Dewey before but I thought he was the shortstop for the Brooklyn Dodgers. I kept that one to myself.

I informed Mr. Red that I had spent the last few months studying the various measures used in collecting data (this is what is known as bullshit!). I decided to dive right in the deep end saying, “Obviously, you’ve heard of The Gallagher Measurement, the gold standard of all polling devices.” His response: “Of course I have.” Bingo, baby!I went on to explain that The Gallagher Measurement states that all facets involved in the inquiry into public opinion must be run through a figurative colander and what leaks out the bottom might possibly reach an accuracy level of 40%. e nThe gentleman nodded in the affirmative.  I was pleased. I also threw in for good measure, ‘We can’t forget about the breakoff rate.” What came out of his mouth next was pure gold: “Yes, but you can’t talk about any of this without factoring in oversampling.’ I think the Gallagher Measurement makes that pretty clear.” Oh my God, I think I just wet my pants! He just mentioned the Gallagher Measurement!

 I really needed to get the Hell out of there. My luck was going to run out sooner or  later. It was going so well and my point had been made…in spades. He thanked me for the inspiring conversation and I was off to the bar where I high-fived the wall and ordered a well-deserved Bud Light.

As you might have guessed by now, there is no such thing as The Gallagher Measurement but some people just need to be knocked off their pedestal once in a while. I chose this particular chap because anyone who wears a bright red bowtie with matching socks and extends a pinkie while holding a Martini, was clearly ripe for the picking! Sir, you’re going down!

The lesson: The more people want to appear that they know it all, the less likely they are to actually make the final cut for Jeopardy. Wheel of Fortune, maybe. Don’t be afraid to give it a try some time when the opportunity presents itself. You’ll be smiling for a week! Just make sure you’ve got a spare pair of shorts!

ROOTING FOR CARLI

I recently ran into my friend Carli, whom I had not seen for several years. If memory serves correctly, it was probably even before President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky got, um, acquainted with one another. Yes, I know, I’m great for keeping in touch.

Carli looked and felt great. She told me that she had dropped a ton of weight during the last fifteen months. But it seems that when she lost the pounds (an amount she equates to about the size of a Cadillac Escalade) she also lost several of her thin friends and couldn’t figure out why. Carli, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you but your ‘friends’ have been using you and it stinks! You have my permission right now to go spike their Latte Frappuccino with that stuff that floats when you open a can of broth. Just make sure they’re not standing by your Josh Groban CD collection at the time. It will get messy.

Wouldn’t a true friend be thrilled that someone in their circle would be able to accomplish such a feat? Carli, these people are not your friends and they have no more use for you because now you look better than they do. You have become a serious threat to them. They were using you as an accessory to make them look better but that accessory no longer works for them. Go punch them in the nose right now. I’ll wait! These are disingenuous predators. They are shallow people and no one needs that. I told her that I know the type and exactly how they behave because I used to be shallow and insecure once myself. She nodded in agreement and said she remembered. Sometimes Carli can be a real jerk.

The shallow person will start out by paying you a few obligatory compliments but before you can say ‘transparent sleezeball’ the conversation immediately turns back to them.  “Candi, it’s amazing how the sagging skin from your matronly arms doesn’t drag on the ground anymore. OH, MY GAWD, YOU HAVEN’T SEEN MY NAILS! TAKE A LOOK AT THEM! I love the woman who did them and I didn’t pay full price because, it was like, my boyfriend changed the muffler on her father’s car and it was like, OH MY GAWD, for sure, let’s do it. By the way, how do you like MY SHOES?”

Carli’s ‘friends’ didn’t seem to mind when she scored higher on her SAT’S. They also seemed legitimately happy for her when she won that essay contest with a marvelous entry entitled, “Yes, I’m a virgin but nothing’s permanent.” Why didn’t those accomplishments bother them? Because they’re shallow, that’s why. Things like high scores don’t matter to these people. You can’t see SAT scores. Perfectly quaffed chartreuse hair is what really matters.

Today, Carli can perform the near impossible task of waltzing right by the KFC on Main Street without breaking a sweat. I’m rooting for you, girl. Keep me posted on your progress and don’t give in. And if you’re ever in the mood for a little fun, remember these important words: revenge is a dish best served with the fat from chicken broth. 

THE BED

 

Okay, so we are now the proud owner of a nifty queen-sized  bed for the spare room, obtained from my  sister-in-law.  We are also the proud owner of a 40-inch TV also from sis-in-law. If you can’t see where this is going, then you haven’t been married all that long. Michele told me that it would make a perfect bedroom for…me! I think she was joking but there is that slight area of doubt that has me a tad concerned.

Before we moved into our current townhouse, I had occasionally taken up residence in what we will call ‘Bedroom #2,’ for purposes of convenience, i.e.; my penchant for thrashing and sprawling out generally resulting in some light bruising of my wife’s torso.

Although, truth be told,  I don’t really mind being demoted to ‘bedroom #2’ yet again, however there is another greater concern of mine and that is who will the cats choose to sleep with? I’m not sure my ego could take that hit. I liken it to my teenage break up with Sara Gates. She dumped me and that was bad enough but what made it worse was wondering who she dumped me for. It had to be a classmate of mine and how could I, as a young, healthy and hormonally driven male accept the fact that a young woman would find another young man more desirable than me?  I was secretly hoping that she left me for the head cheerleader, Allison, but it was not the case.  If you’ll pardon the clumsy analogy, that way it wouldn’t have been the ride she didn’t like, but rather that particular mode of transportation. I could have lived with that, but no.  It turned out to be Jim, a senior who played 2nd string on the Junior Varsity football team! That one hurt. I got dumped for a guy who wasn’t fit to carry water for the big boys and also was continually  late for JV practice because he couldn’t figure out how to put his shoulder lads on? So, you see, my ego has been bruised enough. Bad enough to be eschewed by another human being but from felines who I rescued from the shelter where I had to provide such invasive personal information as my name and phone number? Please…no.

For that reason, I’ve been purposely delaying setting up the bed and mounting the TV. Meanwhile, I swear I’m getting looks from the boys and they’re telling me, ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

Yup! I’ve got a dilemma of epic proportions on my hands. Michele is clearly their favorite because she takes the time to toss their silly catnip mouse around and brush them incessantly.  I need do some catch up and need to do it in a hurry if I have any hope of the boys choosing my pillow as a cat hair depository.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. It was off to PetSmart where I asked the clerk what toys I could get that would leave my wife in the dust? The alert clerk, with eyes suddenly as big as silver dollars, brought me over to the ‘Premier’ section. I ended up getting 2 six-foot cat trees (complete with cashmere covered, catnip flavored branches) a pop-up peek & play tent and a catnip 24 Karat…thingy that kind of resembled a dildo. But I was assured they would love it. Total cost of my attempted bootlick: $392.58.  Take that Michele!  When I got home, the boys briefly awakened from their nap, yawned in unison and proceeded to fall back asleep.

I have no results to report as of now, only hope. If, when all is said and done and the room set up, the boys still choose to slumber with my wife, in her bed, I promise I will make every effort to behave like an adult. However, should I fall short of that, I’m actually hearing good things about snails.