Hair Today, Gone To Maui

Dear Abby,

I have women issues. Can’t seem to have any long-term relationships. There are never any red flags, no odd behavior, no “it’s not you, it’s me” speeches, just an unannounced vanishing act. What’s a guy to do?

Signed,

Frustrated in Fullerton

Unfortunately, I once again (heavy sigh) find myself alone. I’ve never been one to mope, but I’m starting to think I’ll never find (and keep) “the one.” And try as I might to be a desirable partner, I can’t seem to keep a relationship with a woman going. Oh, I briefly flirted with the idea of “switching teams.” This was quickly dismissed.  Sharing my innermost thoughts and dreams with another man just don’t float my boat. So here I am, sitting in the dark at the keyboard trying to self-analyze just what went wrong for the umpteenth time. 

Was I really doing my best to be a desirable partner? I thought so. I was generous with my time and money, never cheated and showered her with praise her every time we met. I wasn’t jealous when she spent time with other guys, waited patiently when I showed up and she wasn’t ready, and always tried to keep the conversations intelligent and current, but also wouldn’t avoid the deep subjects. I made a point never to bash or compare her to my ex’s, and when I called and said I was coming I always kept my word. I encouraged her to be herself and if she wanted to experiment a bit, well, hey, I was all in.  So what gives?

I guess in the end we just wanted different things. She wanted bigger and better and I was happy with the status quo. I’m sure the age difference was a factor. I couldn’t really expect a 21-year-old to hang with a 61-year-old man for long. She wanted to climb mountains, I was into naps. Pipe dream at most. But when we were together I felt so special, like I was the only guy in her world.  

I miss her a lot. The thought of having to find a woman to replace her sends my anxiety levels through the roof. But in the end I will. I always do.

My wife is always supportive when I go through a crisis like this. And I love her for it. But she says I am starting to look shaggy so I’d better find a new hairdresser.

New relationships are always so challenging. It’s all a matter of trust.

K.G.

No Vain, No Gain

Disrobing in front of a full-length mirror is like slowing down at the scene of an accident. No matter how hideous it is… you just have to look.  -K.G.

It’s one in the afternoon, 89 degrees outside, I just finished a six-and-a-half mile run over the rolling hills of Fullerton, California, and I’m sweating like a gray-haired pig in a sauna. Crazy you say. I would give you a high-five if I could catch my breath long enough.

I absolutely hate exercising. There, I said it. It sucks bugs. I would be much happier laying on the couch in my Sponge Bob undies with a tub of Rocky Road balanced on my stomach and a slightly stale (like ‘em with a little snap) box of Red Vines clutched between my chubby little fingers while binge watching Project Runway.

Why do I torture myself, you ask? After all, Walmart sells clothes in larger sizes and black compression socks are kinda in. I often ask myself this same question. It’s all vanity. There. I said it again. I plan to be buried in a pair of skinny jeans and a slim-fit V-neck tee. If you don’t see my feet, know that I’ll be rockin’ some righteous Chucks when I hit the pearly gates.

I’ve been reading about a new pill that tricks your muscles into thinking they just worked out; burns fat without leaving the couch. Can I get an Amen for that? And if you exercise while taking these miracle pills the effect is amplified. So if you go to the fridge for a beer, and to the bathroom say, twice an hour, before you know it you’d look like that guy with the abs who’s shacking up with Sophia Vergara.

Science is so much fun. Way more fun than exercising. I assume cloned new bodies won’t be far off. Think I’ll stretch out on the sofa with a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Boom Chocolatta and watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

K.G.

Water, Water Everywhere, but not a Drop to Drink

“California’s so dry…someone snatched my bottled water but left my iPhone.”

-Unknown

 

In case you haven’t noticed Southern California is in a drought.

As I stand by helplessly and watch my lush, green lawn turn a beautiful shade of Jerry Brown, the whole drought thing is starting to hit home. I wrote about this a while back when it wasn’t such an issue; a rather dry, tongue-in-cheek look at our water woes. Well, the tide (okay, no more puns) has now turned. Water wasting has become a serious offense. You may soon be given ten to life for overindulging your begonias or hosing down your BMW.

This is not good news for me. Not because the ol’ Beemer is getting dusty (don’t own one), but because I love long, hot showers. In my opinion, the Wild West wouldn’t have been so wild if there were hot showers. I do believe the water heater is man’s second greatest invention. The first is obviously the BLT. I mean, who doesn’t like a good BLT on sourdough with mayo?  Am I right?

Come to think of it, why aren’t we discussing H2O *pipelines? Canada has all that ice they’re not using and we’re parched. Seems like a no-brainer to me. Forget the oil. Who wants to get in a car with someone who smells like woolly mammoth roadkill?  Here’s an idea. Maybe we could trade them a few dozen used movie stars for some water.

*Could someone please begin a Kickstarter campaign for a pipeline? The whales and dolphins are all set. Let’s save the Dove. I’m talking soap here. Without water, soap is basically useless unless you want to vandalize the windows on someone’s Beemer or stop your kid from mouthing off.

On the positive side, the ocean is nearby. If you don’t mind a few Great White sharks, a gang of neoprene-clad, over-possessive surfers, and a few gooey tar balls, there’s a huge salt water bathtub just up the road. And if that doesn’t wet your whistle (sorry), most grocery stores still provide free handy wipes at the front door. Who doesn’t want to smell lemony fresh?

All this water talk has made me thirsty. Think I’ll strain a little Crystal Geyser through some Starbucks Italian roast and then hit the shower.

Have a good, long soak. You’ll feel better.

K.G.

Quirks, Quarks and Quotes

I'm no Einstein.

-Albert Einstein

My wife refuses to acknowledge expiration dates on food. She would eat a week-old dead possum as long as it wasn’t pink inside and she had some A-1. I, on the other hand, have a hard time eating yogurt that still has a few good days left before retirement. I know this is silly. It’s already spoiled milk, right?  How much more rotten can it get?

We both have our quirks. She loves mangos, papaya, kiwis. I consider any fruit that hasn’t been cubed, drowned in syrup, canned and labeled “cocktail” some sort of alien life form.  She doesn’t appreciate slightly ajar cupboards, drawers or open closet doors. Some childhood Boogeyman thing maybe? Not sure on this. I’m positive I close them… most of the time. She says I don’t. I’ve decided we must have a poltergeist because I’m also missing some socks.

I think it’s great that we are different. She watches Dancing with the Stars and occasionally I watch it with her. I do this so she will watch the shows I like which revolve around bubble theory, quarks and quantum physics. Unless Heidi Klum is on. Project Runway trumps the string theory any day.  Quizzically, she also loves Moonshiners. I don’t get shows where subtitles are required for people speaking English. Okay, I did like Honey Boo Boo so there are always exceptions.

Being around someone who likes everything I do would get on my nerves after a while. I mean really, I don’t even like myself most of the time. My wife has opened so many new doors for me. Encouraged (forced in some cases) me to crawl out of the box and if not smell the roses, at least point at them from across the street. She took me to Italy with her as a piggyback honeymoon/work trip. It was one of the best experiences of my life. Only had two or three panic attacks the whole trip and she didn’t have to chase me down even once. Ah, the memories.

Who’d have thought the fourth (yikes, guess I’m a slow learner) trip down the aisle would be the one. Finding your sole mate (little pun ‘cause we both love shoes) is magical. Quite frankly I thought it was a load of Hollywood hooey, but what do I know. I though Arnold Schwarzenegger was a good actor.

K.G.

I am Iron Man

First off, this has nothing to do with comic books, Black Sabbath or Ozzie Osbourne, so if you're a comic geek or metal-head, I apologize. Not that I have anything against you, you are probably all really nice guys.

This is self-examination, if you will. A peeling back of the pungent layers of my psyche to expose what makes me tick. I'm saying this in the most literal sense. Truth be told, I'm not Iron Man. I dare say if I was a super hero I would probably be Cool Shoe Man or Shopping Mall Guy. As I've said previously, I'm totally in touch with my feminine side, which poses no problem unless called upon to listen empathetically to a friend, at which time I'll generally fidget, look at my watch and start thinking about what time the mall closes.

As some of you may know, I recently re-entered the work force. My days of doing it my way (i.e. sipping Pina Coladas by the swimming pool while listening to Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits) came to a screeching halt. Okay, I was actually drinking coffee while lying on the couch in my boxers, but why get technical.

After working for a few months, I've come to appreciate just how difficult work is, but I can’t complain. No. Really. I can’t. I'm surrounded by coworkers half my age and the last thing I want to do is look or sound like a wussy. Sometimes it’s hard work being so vain.

Occasionally, I must resort to some sleight of hand like the James Brown deadlift. When picking up something heavy I shout out, “Ow, somebody hep me… please." This not only covers a multitude of grunts, but also any escaping gas.

On the upside, I've become quite familiar with chemicals required to dispatch ants, roaches, bed bugs, rats, mice, gophers, etc. Not only does this make me popular with the customers, but it fills my brain with a plethora of valuable information should I ever want to do someone in (wifey, beware) without leaving any pesky Internet searches for the Forensic Files guys to find. Work can be cool and have future benefits.

On the downside, I'm on my feet all day. This presents a shoe dilemma. Should one go for comfort or style? I'd generally go for style every time because the wrong shoes can spoil even the sharpest outfit. After the first few days I caved. Don't get the wrong idea, I’m not wearing nurse-white Dr. Scholl’s, but I have ditched my B&W Converse for a sweet pair of Brooks running shoes in a metallic hue (metallic is a neutral, just ask Clinton or Stacy from WNTW) and am very pleased with the result. I guess maybe you can have it all. 

K.G.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

“Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.”

-Thomas A. Edison

 

“Jazz isn't dead. It just smells funny.”

-Frank Zappa

Recently, I went to the funeral of my aunt. She lived to be 102. Crazy, right? Hard to imagine living that long.

It got me thinking about the marvels she witnessed during her lifetime. When she was growing up the term “Fast Food” meant something you had to run after to catch. And prior to the internet, browsing actually meant using your legs to walk around. Kind of like exercise.  Barbaric, I tell you.

We are so blessed. We live in a time where 7-11 sells pizza, a tall Starbuck’s coffee is still slightly less than a gallon of gas, and we are able to genetically scramble our food so the bugs won’t eat it. Just spitballin’ here, but if they won’t eat it, should we?

I have a few ideas of my own all you rocket scientists should be working on.

1. Tweak my Cap’n Crunch so it won’t get soggy in milk. All the once wasted cereal would go a long way towards solving the hunger problem.

2. Rearrange my* dog’s genes so he will take himself for a walk and clean up his own business. People would have so much time on their hands they would be free to tackle such pressing issues as world peace and stuff.

*Okay, I don’t have a dog. I think my wife’s words were “Over my dead body,” so as soon they genetically mutate one to fit in my wallet… woof.

3. Modify pizza cheese so it won’t stick to the roof of my mouth like mozzarella napalm. This seems like a no-brainer. I’m surprised the military hasn’t made a bomb out of hot pizza cheese.

4. Make a banana that turns into bacon when it rots. Oh, yeah. Bananas would be flying off the shelves. This would turn around the economies of many third world countries.

5. Create a chicken with four wings. I really like chicken wings.

K.G.

Low T, Mr. T and Xylophobia

As one grows older, time whizzes by like the 90 seconds it takes me to wolf down a super-sized bowl of frozen yogurt and less like waiting in line at the DMV. Funny, but when you’re young, older seems to be where all the action is.

Note to anyone under 25, being a grown-up has its perks, but mostly kinda sucks. Not for the squeamish.

But I must admit that as I’ve grown older I have become somewhat wiser. You notice I said somewhat. Even very cool older people (such as Mr. T and me) do foolish things. This newfound wisdom brings forth semi-serious introspection. You can travel through the worm hole to a place in time before hair sprouted from the most awful places and ears morphed into something resembling a wrinkled baby pachyderm. This look back has given me a basic understanding of how I became the creative, anxiety ridden, shoe loving writer I am today.

Caution: I do this mental reboot of my life with the help of a personal power trio of professionals (wife, therapist, and psychiatrist) assisted by a  mood-swinging back-up band, the pharmaceutical manufacturers of America. Do not try this at home. It may cause one to regrow mullet or search thrift shops for day-glow-orange tube top.

My mother had two desires for me; to be a dancer and to play the xylophone. What the !!!**@@ was she thinking? Okay, anyone who knows me at all knows I don’t dance. I make Seinfeld’s “Elaine” character look like Miley Cyrus.  As for the xylophone…. Please! Did anyone ever get a hot chick playing the xylophone?  My mother did introduce me to books, though. I am and have been an avid reader since childhood so I thank her for that, but am grateful not to be lugging a xylophone over the sand dunes to a singalong around the beach fire pit.

Being the second of four boys I had the feeling she sometimes wished one of us had been a girl. Well, she didn’t get that wish. Instead she got me.

Not into sports as a spectator or participant; fast cars or monster trucks do nothing for me; and I will not leave the house with clothes that don’t match unless as a fashion statement. But I do love to shop, am a shoe-aholic, never miss Project Runway (Heidi Klum….grrrr) or America’s Next Top Model. So as you can see, I am in touch with my female side.  Oh, I also watch The Walking Dead so I do have a smidge of testosterone.

K.G.