Yorkies, Kids, and Writing Don’t Mix
You may have read before that my wife and I are President and Treasurer for a national Yorkshire Terrier rescue group. Our home is the headquarters and we spend way too much time toiling for no money, the very definition of volunteerism.
Our Yorkie collection started off with Toto sevens years ago when my wife thought the breed was cute and she needed someone to keep her company after she was forced to retire. A few months after he arrived came the now familiar argument that Yorkies need a companion dog, so a couple of years later we got Dottie.
We were all getting on pretty well except for Toto’s need to reestablish his perimeter on occasion by tinkling on a corner or two, and Dottie’s response to him of whizzing in the middle of the carpeted area of her choice.
We’ve never had to guess where she’s gone potty because she makes sure it is a spot where we always step in our sock feet. There’s nothing grander than squishy warm toes first thing in the morning.
We fostered a few pups that went on to happy homes, but our luck was to change when a transport from Toledo to the Illinois border put an adorable 5-pound Yorkie girl into our truck. Sadie Sue charmed us both by rolling over on her back on the puffy pillow her surrendering owner supplied and begging for a tummy rub while giving adorable little Yorkie kisses in return.
My wife said she’d like to keep this snuggly bundle and hoped the new home she was going to wouldn’t work out. That old saying about being careful what you wish for because you might just get it came to mind.
Alas, Sadie’s new mom said sweet Sadie was nipping at her young children and could someone take her. Mary and I jumped at the offer figuring the noise and confusion on an older dog, she was 11, was too much for her and the atmosphere of our calm home would be a refuge.
Hah, Sadie was transformed from cute to she-devil somewhere near Port Clinton. She nailed Mary three times before she learned that Sadie doesn’t go for anything unless it’s on her terms. The one really big no-no is to approach her bed when she’s sleeping. She lashes out like a miniature shark at a feeding frenzy.
We’ve made our peace with Satan Sue and she’s calmed down some allowing us to bathe her as long as we do it very quickly.
Not satisfied with the temporary the truce my wife found another poor soul to fix. She heard about a pitiable fellow weighing 4 pounds and with the sweetest face ever. He couldn’t keep food down, but was otherwise healthy.
Louie made his way to our home and he is a snuggly little guy. He also pukes everywhere all day long. He’s tossed his cookies on my wife, our bed, the carpets, couch, my pants, and an assortment of rugs. I now know how a swallowed goldfish feels. It’s nothing but hurled chunks and spewed Purina as far as the eye can see.
Louie, Louie won’t be getting much better so it’s doubtful he’ll ever be adopted. We’ll keep the wee fellow safe as possible and hope he retains more then he up-chucks.
The complicating factor in all this is the three days a week we have our favorite (he’s the only one right now, but we’d never tell him that) grandson and he is normal in that he resembles the Taz. As the kid runs about screaming at the top of his lungs, Louie vomits, Sadie barks like a seal, Toto attacks the buttocks of anyone attempting to leave the house, and Dottie scratches at the back door every 15 minutes trying to find the imaginary rabbits under the shed.
This is my writing environment. The slightly manic tone I use is the result of my writing as quickly as possible during brief lulls in the mayhem and the consequentially tenuous grasp I have on my sanity from the din. It would be easier to concentrate during a prison riot.
I just wanted to explain where I’m coming from in case I suddenly move to Tulsa. Or Tibet.

Wife’s On A Diet, Not Me
My darling wife went on a diet about 4 months back because she was feeling a little fluffy, as in “ewe’s not fat, ewe’s fluffy.” Anyway, the great thing is she didn’t make me go on her starvation regimen with her.
I get to eat whatever I want and, since my tapeworm keeps me thin, I haven’t gained an ounce.
My RDA now consists of frozen pizza, chili and hot dogs, potpies and rice, chunky soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with bread and butter pickle slices, and the occasional burger and fries.
You’d think I be tired of this menu by now, but trust me, this is every guy’s dream come true. I’ll bet you thought we yearned for macho adventure or sex. Hah. I actually spend many a blissful moment fantasizing about which pizza crust, crispy thin or obscenely thick, I’m going to eat all by myself for supper.
I do feel sorry for my wife. She has to eat lawn clippings covered with non-fat, no sugar, no flavor dressing. She does get to have some tasty supplemental drinks and snack bars, but they are really tiny. The snack bar approximates a Chicklet.
How do I keep my figure, which is admittedly somewhat distorted by wear and tear, while eating a Bacchanalian feast? It’s not exercise. I haven’t worked out since Bush Senior was in office.
It must be the genes. All my siblings look like refugees from Bangladesh, so it must be dear old dad that blessed us. My mom comes from a long line of heftier Saxons, so we dodged the bullet on that one.
One positive feature of our dual diet plans is it’s pretty inexpensive feeding me. I love the cheapest hot dogs made from pork, chicken, and road kill. I get chili and soup on the 10-cans-for-a-buck special, and frozen pizzas go on sale all the time.
On the other hand is my wife’s diet, she has lost over 40 pounds in a few weeks, costs enough to feed a large Bolivian village for months. I’ve never come to terms with the whole theory behind spending a fortune for food that makes you skinny. It’s like buying water that dehydrates you or medicine to make you sick.
I’m encouraging my wife and praising her phenomenal success. As long as she sticks to the deprivation routine I’m enjoying mealtime. I feel like a kid getting his mega dose of sugar disguised as cereal on Saturday morning. The cartoons are just frosting on the cake. (I eat cake, too.)
Once she reaches the maintenance stage of the plan, I’ll probably have to start eating healthy again. It’ll be boiled vegetables and low-salt turkey everything. No more pizza slices for bedtime snacks, nuked hotdogs for lunch will be a memory, and people will be able to get near me without the chili intake. Bummer.
I’ll continue my triglyceride-rich, low-density cholesterol, MSG, and salt power feed as long as possible. After all, how often to husbands get to gorge themselves on the foods we really like? I’m just carbo-loading for that dreaded drought every man fears when sensibility and the persuasive influence of a woman gets him onto a heart-wise, colon-pleasing course for long and happy life.
At least, it will seem like a really, really long life.
Men don’t die younger than women because we are less adverse to dangerous behavior or because of some evolutionary imperative.
We just can’t take another salad without a steak hiding in there somewhere.

Hooper Awards
When I heard my column had been nominated I figured I better be prepared for my big win at the 2006 Osman C. Hooper Newspaper Show by writing my acceptance speech. This extravaganza is sponsored annually by the Ohio Newspaper Association for outstanding reporting, column writing, photography, and other journalistic functions.
In satisfying their primary function of promoting excellence, they choose my column for third place in its category. To be honest, there were only three nominees, so I had to end up in there somewhere. The nice thing is at long last I didn’t get a “Participant” ribbon.
In keeping with the tradition of trying to appear humble by thanking those who contributed to the winning of an award, though they weren’t the ones up all hours of the night, half-drunk, trying to think of something funny to write about, I’d like to share the speech I wrote and would have delivered, if I’d been invited. (A wise decision on ONA’s part.)
“Ladies, gentlemen, and those who didn’t vote for me to get first place, I would like to start by thanking my mother-in-law who suggested I send in some samples of my semi-coherent scribbling to the Amherst News-Times. She saw talent and told me I could only find success by risking failure. (Like dating before I got married didn’t make failure familiar enough.)”
“I must thank my long-suffering wife for having a infinite sense of humor especially when I wrote about her foibles. Her patience, support, and numerous peccadilloes have inspired me when I’ve slammed face first into writer’s block. The fact that she keeps me broke makes up for all the things I’ve ever written about her.”
“I also wish to acknowledge all those bad drivers with that deer-in-the-headlights stare who’ve gone out of their way to test my sanity, tried to run me into immovable objects, and kept me guessing about their sobriety when they stop several times before actually turning. Their curb climbing, solid yellow line violating, no turn signal, 30 miles per hour under the speed limit, and general mayhem behavior has given me never-ending material for columns and a bad case of acid reflux.”
“To my father, whose somewhat suspicious decisions nearly resulted in my demise a few times, but taught me to persevere; thanks Dad. I know he would have been proud. Well, maybe totally shocked knowing how many times I’ve given myself electro-shock treatments while working with live house wiring would be more accurate, but he would be pleased.”
“I should thank my mom, who taught me many of the housecleaning and homemaking processes that have turned me into an obsessive-compulsive that picks up microscopic nit-wads from the floor because every speck of lint bothers me. I also have the most organized desk in existence and I faithfully rotate my socks and underwear. I am my own best source of material and someday I hope to afford some intensive therapy.”
“Finally, I wish to express my eternal gratitude to my editor, Kathleen, without whom there would have been no “The Odd View” column. Her ability to input my column into the printing system one-handed while holding her nose with the other has made this night possible.”
“Thank you all, goodnight.”
Note to self: Look unassuming while leaving the dais during a deafening round of applause. (It’s my fantasy. I get to make up any ending I want.)
In a moment of uncharacteristic decorum, I would like to thank everyone that reads this column. I deeply appreciate the kind words and the references to columns or passages that have given you a moment of laughter or even a smile. I’m pleased that something good comes from this space.
I also take cash and checks.

Medical Profession Needs To Be Honest
I just spent an hour last week in radiology getting some nice 8x10s of my esophagus and chest. At least, that’s what they told me. I’m pretty sure they took a couple of scans of my wallet while they had me captive.
Another aspect of the procedure that seemed out of sorts is that all the technicians and doctors were behind lead-lined glass or wearing those 80-pound x-ray vests. Meanwhile, I’m pinned between a revolving table and a one-eyed monster spewing God-only-knows what at me while gulping barium. They tell you it all low dose and very safe, but have you ever seen a single bug, or so much as a fungus anywhere in an x-ray room?
I believe medical persons are being perfectly honest when they say they’re just practicing at the part of medicine that deals with the information they give us. We’re not getting the lowdown of what’s really about to happen to us. They should at least give us fair warning.
For instance, I had a colonoscopy five years ago. Like every other soul fated to undergo this procedure, I was sent home with a gallon of Go-Lightly. Now, anyone who’s taken Go-Lightly knows you go any way but lightly. It’s pretty much 12 solid hours of that bathroom scene from “Dumb and Dumber.”
You sweat, you curse, you beg. Finally, the jug and your body exhausted, and your insides completely cleansed, you’re ready for the six-foot stainless steel, looks like those Martian probes from “War of the Worlds,” invasion of your colon.
Revealing their sense of humor post-procedure, the nurse or tech will tell you that you may be a bit gassy. Telling me I might be a little gassy is akin to telling a zebra he’ll have stripes if he leans against a freshly painted fence. I’m pretty much a 24/7, blowout party noisemaker. Not even my long-suffering wife noticed any difference.
This takes me back further to a series of kidney infections I had the good fortune to contract when I was a teenager. Those of you, mostly women, will know that this is an unpleasant condition to start with. Taking a tinkle burns like you’re passing lava.
Medical science’s answer to this embarrassing malady: pills that turn your urine orange. I’m not talking about a tinge of color, but florescent, day-glo, flaming red-orange. It’s particularly noticeable in the men’s room where all secrets are revealed.
The only positive aspect of this human soda pop dispenser impersonation is you’re guaranteed an empty urinal on either side of you. Incidentally, that was my nickname in high school for a time, “Orange Pop.”
Yet another indignity I’ve had to suffer was in the operating room just before my vasectomy. They’d told me to shave thoroughly, which I did to the best of my ability and, of course, it wasn’t good enough.
I’m guessing this is how medical professionals like to have a little fun. They have you to do the initial de-thatching just so they can picture you in that most ungentlemanly position trying desperately not to given yourself the vasectomy.
Then, splayed out like bug on a windshield, they shaved me again, and naturally, the pretty young surgical assistant did not do the honors. The male nurse with the cold hands drew the short straw, pun intended.
All I ask for is a little honesty. Of course, if they told me what was actually going to happen, they never get me near a hospital.

Backyard Mechanic A Thing Of The Past
For those of us who’ve been around a number of decades, one of the most obvious cultural changes of the last 30 years has been the near extinction of the backyard mechanic. (If I were a Corvette, I’d be an antique worth millions, even with the needed bodywork.)
My father and his mother pulled an all-nighter back in 1959 swapping engines between a wreck and a near wreck, so he could get to his first day of employment at Ford Motor in Lorain. That’s how easy it was to literally build your own beater.
Pop the hood on any car built in the 1950, 60 or 70s and you’ll be able to see the engine block, all the accessories, and acres of empty space. Lift the hood on a new Hyundai or a Cadillac and you’ll find things scientists haven’t identified yet.
Auto manufacturers have gone to extreme measures to make certain no one can work on their cars at home. You just take the deed to you home and your first born to the dealership praying they don’t ask for a quart of blood, too.
My father was from the old school that said you never pay someone to do something you’re perfectly capable of screwing up yourself. He taught me everything I used to know about tune-ups, oil changes, and replacing those parts that have a proclivity to fall off automobiles.
That knowledge base is now mostly worthless. The only thing one might be able to do for a tune up is to change the spark plugs, if you can find them. There are no longer condensers, rotors, or points that you can change yourself for about $10.00. I’ll bet most of those reading this have no idea what I just referred to.
These old analog parts have been replaced by solid-state electronic ignition module that costs hundreds of dollars when it fails. A mechanic needs diagnostic equipment costing thousands, and a live chicken, to even determine if the ignition module has died.
Changing the engine oil every 2,000 miles is completely passé. A modern car can go 4000-7500 miles between changes without concern except by your neighborhood Quickie-Jiffy Lube that really misses your business. If that isn’t enough, the manufacturers have made this simple chore a nightmare. I have a 1998 Corvette that you can’t access to the filter or drain plug without a hydraulic lift. I’ve only seen the underside of the engine once when I shelled as much at the dealership for 6 quarts of oil and a filter as the payments on my first new car in 1975.
I also have a Ford that refuses to drain all the engine oil until I remove the filter. Then, an Exxon Valdez size slick flows across my garage floor while I throw newspaper and sawdust at it. I suspect this design flaw is intentional to dissuade us do-it-yourself masochists from saving a buck.
Finally, there’s the automotive industry’s state of the art component design that makes repairing or replacing even the most minor part impracticable. The component design is the conspiracy theorist’s proof that they aren’t paranoid. Component design was advertised as a means to streamline production and lessen costs. What it’s done is hastened the demise of the home mechanic.
Here’s how it works. The “Check Engine” light comes on in the information center. You look in the owner’s manual and are greeted by a skull and cross bones, and several biohazard symbols. You are warned that severe damage, catastrophic danger, and several plagues will ensue if you don’t run immediately to the place that sold you the latest in driving safety and have it diagnosed.
After being ignored for several hours in the customer service lounge, a jail cell with windows, you are informed that dealer only components with names the service representative is making up as he speaks to you, will need to be serviced or replaced.
Even if you could figure out what wasn’t functioning, you can’t buy the part, or you need to “reprogram” it. Reprogramming is necessary because the original programmers thought they were writing a video game.
So, welcome to the 21st century. Enjoy your new car, just hope it never breaks because you aren’t fixing it. And, don’t forget to take your firstborn’s birth certificate with you to the dealership if it does. They’ll have a notary public on the premises for your convenience. They have cookies, too.