A buddy of mine asked his readers for Christmas stories on his blog The Dick Summer Connection … and among the many responses he received, this one jumped right off the page. Most guys have experienced something similar, although I would hope less extreme. Dick said I could share the story, so from my house to yours, here’s Bill Ervolino’s house. Whew!

 I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees. So, I was wrong. Sue me.

I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation. “I know these family things can be a little weird,” I told her, “but my folks are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve.” “Sounds fine to me,” Karen said. Read the rest of this entry

Part of almost every guy’s wiring leads to the bone in his head that generates perpetual kidhood. A few somehow received only bone fragments and are old men by thirty, but I’m not interested in exceptions, only the rule. Most women’s wiring is more complex than ours and frequently shorts out at this level of operation, so I’ll leave them off the circuit board for a while, too … do not pass ‘go’, do not collect $200.  What I’m referring to are basic guy things like a fascination with flashing lights, digital readouts, switches that go click and cars that go fast!

Some guys can sit for hours, staring at row of colored lights with the same fascination a child has for the shiny new quarter his Read the rest of this entry

I have a birthday coming up in a week or so and I’ve been reflecting upon my life, as we all do from time-to-time. It’s just that after a certain age those times occur more frequently … especially as you near the annual celebration of your parents’ fecundity.

It occurs to me that I’ve had three great women in my life: One who taught me what was possible, one who showed me what I didn’t want, and one that helped me find what I really needed. Most guys are lucky to experience even one great woman, so I guess I’ve been blessed with more than my share! They were all significant influences in making me the man I am today so if you have any complaints, in a few paragraphs, you’ll know who to blame. Read the rest of this entry

Back when I was still trying to figure out which end of my body my head was on, if anyone had suggested that someday I’d be sleeping with a grandmother I would have told them they were as mad as a hatter. The world certainly rotates in a different direction at twenty then it does at sixty-something. Here I am in the ‘something’ category, merging wrinkles under the covers with a lady of  grandmotherly persuasion and loving every minute of it. Somehow, she just doesn’t fit my lifelong image of a cotton-haired little old lady shuffling around the kitchen with a bowl of Farina in one hand and a rubber spatula in the other.

It’s amazing how ageless age can be … and therein lies the rub! When it comes to femmes fatale, with soft curves and jiggly things, let’s establish right up front that guys never stop looking. As long as they are still drawing breath, their last drop of testosterone is routed to their eye sockets even before their hearts and lungs. I know women look too, but I won’t pretend to know very much about it. If I had any real understanding in that area, my premarital youth might have been squandered more effectively … and I would most certainly be a headliner in Guinness’ Book of Records.

Now don’t confuse looking with shopping, those are two different things. Looking is just what it says, although the criteria can vary widely as you’ll soon see. Shopping means that you probably intend to take something home, and unless you shop carefully, you might end up paying a considerable price! It wasn’t until I was around forty when I realized why they call the years from that particular mile post to infinity ‘middle age.’ Only a portion of the term involves longevity. The rest has to do with who and what a guy is comfortable ogling.  Not only is the suitability of the oglee age-related but as the mileage on the ogler’s odometer changes, so does his view of the road.

Men-in-waiting, such as high school and college boys, most often limit their lusts to young ladies near their own age. An ‘older’ woman of twenty-five or thirty nudges them toward ‘Mrs. Robinson’ territory (Coo coo ca-choo), and whether or not they know it they are beginning to shop, squeezing fruit to see what the stand has to offer.

As manhood overtakes him a guy becomes more careful about the shopping experience; he is beginning to realize he might want to buy something. While locking the keys outside the car may be an endearing quality during dating, he may not want to explain the purpose of a door handle to his wife for the rest of his natural life. He is now looking at the whole package … seeking the perfect blend of brains, beauty and body parts!

Once firmly anchored by the bonds of matrimony and with a few temporal miles on their tires, something strange happens. Guys may begin to observe the female form in a way that now disassembles the ‘package’. They have arrived at a point in life where they can appreciate parts … some like casabas while others prefer different diversions like ‘wheels’ and buns. I’m a leg man myself, although I’m a sucker for a slight overbite or a certain glide in a lady’s stride that we of the male chromosome just aren’t hinged to perform. The age range for the recipient of this ocular attention broadens as well.

When I crossed over that proverbial middle age marker, I discovered a world of wonder that ranged from nubile twenty-somethings to feminine preserves of sixty. If you’re not going to buy anything, the world is a Wal-Mart! As my own years continue their forward march so does my age range of suitable subjects, although quality parts are getting harder to find and entire packages are fewer and farther between.

Looking has nothing to do with connubial bliss or with loving one’s spouse. It’s just what guys do. These days, I find myself enjoying a fuller appreciation of womanhood than ever before, all the while maintaining the creative detachment of a sculptor chiseling a statue or a painter capturing the beauty of nature … especially if he jiggles his canvas a little!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

As I approached the drug store checkout I was greeted by the biggest, brightest smile to dazzle these eyes in 30 years. It could have lit up Detroit for a week! The owner of that particular row of  pearly whites was a young lady who, just for a twinkling, tweaked my twenty year old and transported me out of my 200,000 mile carcass.

The trip was over as quickly as it had begun when I placed my bottles of pain pills and Centrum Silver on the counter. “Do you have one of our Health Saver cards, sir?” she asked. “Somewhere,” I replied. “Maybe you can look it up in your computer.” “I’d be happy to but you should carry it with you” the teeth advised. Just what I needed … a lecture from a kid whose grandfather was probably around my age. Funny, but suddenly she looked even younger, especially with that gold ring in her left eyebrow.

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking?” I inquired, with a slight edge to my tone. Cool. I could still roar! Well, maybe a pushy purr. “You know how fat my wallet would be if I stuck everybody’s discount card in here?” Several bats escaped as I opened my leather filing cabinet. “I manage … no problem” she said with child-like innocence, hoisting a satchel that passed for a purse with one hand and punching the computer with the other. It all happened in the space of a wink and a smile, but it got me thinking.

I wonder if women appreciate how lucky they are to carry purses. When you come right down to it, they’re just big, portable pockets but oh-h-h the amount of stuff you can stuff inside! I’ve always been amazed that more women don’t actually buckle under the sheer weight of all that convenience.

Behold the guy, on the other hand, with only a thin, folded slab of animal hide supplemented by small cloth pouches sewn into his trousers … limited in practicality by any number of factors, ranging from capacity to dignity. Ever slip a ten-function Swiss Army Knife into your pants and have women greet you with a smirk that asks, “Got something in your pocket fella’ or are you just glad to see me?” To make matters worse, a guy has to sacrifice one pocket to store his wallet and leave enough room in the rest so he can get his hand in to take things out! To make matters worse, clothing designers are starting to eliminate some shirt and rear pockets completely in the name of style.

While we don’t carry the same number of items women do, I’ve often wondered whether that’s because guys don’t have to or because we can’t. In my wallet, for example, I have a couple of credit cards, motor vehicle documents, some permits, an insurance card, a bunch of receipts and some pictures that I frequently sit on but rarely see. Oh … once in a while there’s a little money in there, too.

Looking into a woman’s purse, on the other hand, can be an adventure. Did you ever see the movie Journey to the Center of the Earth? I took the trip once, right after I noticed my wife spending an eternity rummaging around in her bag just to extract something simple, like lipstick. Stuff expands to fit the space, so I was comfortable assuming that the combs, brushes, mirrors, things in tubes, various sharp pointy objects and other unidentifiables, plus a wallet with the usual contents, was typical. When ads say that something fits “conveniently into pocket or purse” they have no idea what they’re talking about … those are two different containers!

By the way, have you noticed how men either fold their money into a money clip or press it neatly into their wallets, while women just jam it randomly into their purses? I’ve always wondered how money got so wrinkled when it starts out at the bank looking so ironed. After taking my dark, mysterious journey into the unknown, I also wondered if there might be a more efficient way for women to reclaim objects from the nether regions of pursedom. Thus my short-lived Purse Tag Retrieval System (PTRS) was born.

It was a really simple idea: Just attach a piece of string to an object inside the purse, lead it out over top and place an identifying tag on the other end. Repeat this action for every item inside the purse. Then when the lady wants something, she merely pulls the appropriate string and voilà!

There were two keys to successful deployment of the PTRS system. First, it was important to keep the strings from tangling … second, and I must emphasize this, it was even more important not to get caught. Failure on this second point could necessitate quickly engaging another system, the PART (Pivot and Run Technique) taught to me at my Father’s knee.

I’ve wondered about all kinds of things through the years but boundless experience has made me a good learner. While it’s always fun to reminisce about certain aspects of pre-seniorhood, I’ve ultimately learned to keep my hands in my pockets and not to toy with the clerk.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

We signed some holy papers, promised in front of God and about eighty-three broadly grinning, teary eyed people to love, honor and cherish one another [Vigi still insists the word "obey" wasn't in there] … then each slipped a wedding ring onto the other’s trembling fourth finger of the left hand. If you start counting from the pinky, or don’t count the thumb as a finger, everything changes but the ring still winds up in the same place.

To some it’s a universal symbol of never ending love and devotion, while others treat it simply as another piece of jewelry that is worn like a watch or bracelet … and may even, occasionally, get tucked into a pocket or purse during unspecified extracurricular activities. Most women wear it with a measure of contentment, watching it grow smoother and thinner as details disappear with the passage of time. Most guys wear it dutifully, periodically contemplating the permanent groove it etches into that fourth phalange as their own circumference increases and that of their wedding ring does not.

There are two occasions when the ring can be a symbol of sadness: Customarily, when it migrates from the left hand to the right upon death of a spouse and stupidly, when some dufus takes it off in a bar or similar setting. The latter occasion is particularly pathetic because the offending party is not only intending to violate the honor and trust that was once vowed at the altar but, if it’s a guy, he’s also clearly ignorant of the magical power that ring has to attract women … nearly as great as its power to manufacture immeasurable amounts of guilt. Nonetheless, a wedding ring is a babe magnet! If you don’t believe me, just walk into a singles bar sometime and notice who is drinking alone and who is making small talk through a big nervous smile.

I once interviewed a group of women who expressed a strong preference for married men. The most common reason given? “Because they’re safe. You know you don’t have to get involved.” I have no idea why men might be attracted to married women, unless they’re filthy rich … that wasn’t part of my assignment. Either way, the Seventh Commandment has taken quite a beating for a long time!

What happens on your finger often reflects what’s happening inside in your head. I’ve worn two wedding rings during my lifetime and, looking back, they receive mixed reviews. To avoid eye-glazing detail, suffice to say that my first wedding ring ended up in a shop that had a “We Buy Gold” sign on the door. It netted thirty-five bucks. The second one has never left my finger since it was originally installed nearly twenty-five years ago … except during surgery. Even then, Veege and I touched fingertips and slipped the ring onto her finger from mine and back again in the recovery room.

Both of us have always attached great importance to preserving the tangible expressions of the emotional bond we share. Notice I didn’t say “the love we share” … that’s something different, though it’s all part of the same package along with romance and other aspects of sharing one soul and one spirit. It may have great importance, but I don’t love my ring … I love my wife.

There is one tangible expression that still remains unexpressed and, not coincidentally, it too encircles the fourth finger of the left hand. When we became engaged, I couldn’t afford a proper-size diamond so, on the advice of a friend, I gave Vigi a rather elegant birthstone ring instead … along with the promise that on our twenty-fifth anniversary I would exchange it for a diamond. Although she has tried several devices to let me off the hook, to me that’s like the fat guy waving his dish in the air while turning down a second chunk of chocolate cake. With only a few months to go, dinner is over … and dessert has begun!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.