I’m okay with artificial flowers. I don’t mind artificial turf. Who can argue with artificial intelligence? (Apparently, not even the people on Jeopardy.) Honestly, some of my friends are kind of artificial so it would be wrong for me to object to anything that had that label.
However, this headline did catch my attention: ARTIFICIAL MEAT IS SIX MONTHS AWAY. I almost choked on my reduced-fat Hebrew National Hot Dog. This announcement comes from research at the University of Maastricht in the Netherlands. The institution used to be called Rijksuniversiteit Limburg, but even the Dutch couldn’t pronounce that so now they’ve shortened it to UM. You hear a lot of students saying, “I’m going to UM, a really cool college.” Which is what every undergrad says when you, um, ask them where they are studying. By the way, Holland is an odd place for this kind of research. The Dutch make their shoes out of wood when they could have chosen leather. Is this who we want developing a tasty substitute for meat?
The article reports that scientists are growing synthetic sausages from “pig cells fed by horse serum,” and what a catchy phrase that will make on the package. It has a better ring to it than Johnsonville Fakes. This is obviously not an option for vegans or vegetarians. It’s for people who enjoy meat, but prefer that what they eat has spent its entire life in a test tube, not chewing its cud and emitting greenhouse gasses. I have been informed that these gasses come mostly from the cows burping. Somehow, I thought you’d be relieved to hear this.
Savvy marketers are gearing up for a media blitz to embarrass real carnivores into trying what they plan to call a Vitro Burger. The ad agency has already started spreading rumors that the most popular McDonald’s menu choice has dead cow in it. This approach was persuasive in focus groups, especially with people who still question the President’s birth certificate and the moon landing.
One scientist admits that right now the meat they are making is generic looking, but in his words, “I’m hopeful we can have an actual hamburger in less than a year,” which is also a commonly heard phrase from people in line at the Burger King drive-thru. Creating this first artificial burger will cost about $350,000, but that does include a soft drink and a small order of fries.
Apparently, the color of the “meat” is kind of a pasty white due to the lack of blood. The result is the product doesn’t look very appetizing. I could see where that might hinder sales. I totally lose my appetite when my food doesn’t look bloody.
The corporate chefs promoting this new creation are suggesting the faux burger be served on a gluten-free, low-carb, no-sodium bun. Is there any actual food in this sandwich? I’ll eat anything, but it does have to be something.
If my friends want to go to a restaurant that offers bogus beef, I’ll simply refuse to eat that artificial stuff. I’ll just have a Diet Coke, thank you.

BREAKING BAD
My family has been attending a new place of worship on Sunday mornings, and we think we have found the perfect spot. The Unitarian minister is engaging. The congregation is warm and welcoming. Even the coffee is good after the service. In fact, I wouldn’t fix a thing.
More to the point, I can’t fix a thing, yet that’s exactly what they asked me to do. Last week, there was a sign-up sheet posted for some terrific social networking opportunities, like movie nights and a pitch-in-dinner. My wife and I wanted to be involved in several of these activities, but while jotting down our names on a sheet, I noticed a man in a beige sweater motioning me over to his table. He was inquiring about who had certain skills to assist in some projects to spiff up the church grounds.
“Say, Dick, can you help us replace some broken windows?”
“Sorry, I don’t have a clue how to do that.”
“Any experience with electricity?”
“Bulbs. I can change bulbs.”
“How about plumbing? Can you assist with that?”
“I don’t have a prayer.”
I had to be careful. I used to belong to a temple back in New York. Jewish people have a blessing for everything and I didn’t want to find out that I did have a prayer for plumbing.
“How about just cleaning?” he asked.
My wife was on my side with this one. “He doesn’t even know how to do that at home,” she volunteered. Mary Ellen loves to volunteer. What a trouper.
I know that the Lord works in mysterious ways. But why did he have to make repairing things such a mystery to me? Growing up, everyone in my family was more adept at this kind of stuff. My father, for example, could fix anything. He’d go downstairs to his workshop with the broken cuckoo clock or an electric can opener on the fritz and an hour later emerge from the basement to flaunt his success. How about some credit for me? Where would Dad have gotten his glory if I hadn’t busted this stuff to begin with?
My mother was also skillful at repairing things. After all, she fixed dinner every night for 30 years. I had a sleazy uncle who coached football and bet on his own games. He fixed most of them. My brother was always in some kind of a fix. And my sister? Well, she spent most of her free time fixing up her unattractive friends. Even our dogs were fixed. Fixing is in the Wolfsie blood. The problem is I don’t have the patience to address repair issues and then I get very down on myself. My blood must be Type A… and negative.
I used to have a great handyman. He installed our ceiling fan, rescreened the porch and patched up the leak in our roof. He charged $50.00 an hour “…unless you help me,” he’d say, “then it’s $65.00.” Now that he’s gone, my wife’s favorite expression is, “You need to call somebody.” So I call the plumber, the electrician, the roofer, the computer repairman. I can’t fix anything. That’s why I’m broke.

WEIGHTY DECISION!
.

Mary Ellen casually mentioned to me the other night that I had a pathetic looking chest. While I suppose your better half is permitted to assess your upper half, I’d suggest not responding in kind. She thinks my body lacks definition, but I disagree. You can look it up in the dictionary under scrawny. Women are definitely more interested in men having muscles than a sense of humor. No female has never said: “I wish Matthew McConaughey would put his shirt back on and tell more jokes.”

I used to go to a gym to play racquetball, and I’d see men and women fine-tuning their physiques, yet I wasn’t inspired to fiddle with my own. Never really interested in the pure pursuit of brute strength, I would watch weightlifters during their routine. They’d pick up a heavy thing, then they’d put it down again. Such indecision.

After this stinging critique of my body, I read in Prevention magazine that when you reach 45 years of age, you begin losing one percent of your bone density and muscle mass every year. Old photos of me from high school show there was very little mass to start with, although some did roll in across my midsection in the early ’80s. Density? I asked Mary Ellen about that, but she said not to worry, that I’m as dense as I’ve ever been—and she’s not one to just toss out compliments.

I was embarrassed into starting a moderate body- building regimen. I don’t go to the gym to work out, however. I do everything at home, in the reclining position, while watching cable news in the evening. Why didn’t I think of this 15 years ago? I still wouldn’t like Sean Hannity, but at least I’d be buff enough to throw king-size pillows at the TV from a prone position. Some of my other favorite moves are curls, extensions and squats. There are two techniques I don’t perform: abductions and snatches. I don’t need any more legal trouble after getting caught walking out of Dick’s Sporting Goods with a set of free weights. Hey, that’s what the sign said.

I’m making progress. Thursday I ”bed-pressed” a hefty amount: 18,000 grams. It sounds impressive when counted the way the British do. I took one really heavy dumbbell and managed to hoist it over my head. When I put it down, the dog scooped it up in his mouth and buried it outside.

Mary Ellen, who regularly works out with a trainer, says my new resolution to lift things is a good sign. She’s hoping it will carry over to lifting a finger around the house to help. Or picking up the check when her brother and sister-in-law come to visit. As for me, this has all helped lift my spirits. I can now hold a six-pack out in front of me, arms parallel to the ground, for an entire TV commercial.

A few days ago, one of my macho neighbors helped me lug a huge barbell up to the second floor of our house. My hope was that after a few months working out with some of the lighter weights, I would one day be able to lift this new behemoth all by myself. Mary Ellen thought it looked ugly in our bedroom. So she took it down to the basement.

FOND MEMORIES

I hired a tutor to teach me about the intricacies of Facebook, blogging, and tweeting. The original plan was to take a class on all this, but I get very distracted in large groups and can’t concentrate. This is what happens to me in a movie, which is why I’m still not sure why Colin Firth was in drag at the end of Mamma Mia!

Christine, my able instructor, spent a great deal of time with me. She discussed privacy settings and asked if I was okay just having friends, or whether I wanted to have communication with people who were friends of friends. I went for broke and opted for friends of friends of friends because before computers, that’s the very method I used to select a doctor to do my first colonoscopy. Oh, and find a wife.

At one point, Christine asked me to publish something on my Facebook wall, just to give me an idea of how the process worked. For lack of anything prepared, I typed the following:

Thanks to Facebook, I have located three old high school girlfriends. Two of them don’t remember me.

Proudly, I hit the enter button and made my note visible to all 1,600 friends, few of whom I really know, but Christine assured me that this is just the kind of juicy tidbit that people who surf the Internet are looking for to liven up a dreary day.

Of course, there was no truth to what I had written on my wall. Trolling for old squeezes online would be frowned upon by Mary Ellen. So would my downloading questionable content from websites that she believes would have a detrimental effect on our marriage: do-it-yourself home improvement projects.

Within minutes, my Facebook page was abuzz with commentary about my post from former classmates. “Post,” by the way, is a new term I learned, and I’m trying to get the hang of using. Christine will be so proud.

So here are some of the posts that were posted in response to my post:

Dear Dick,
I was an old girlfriend. Can you find out how the others managed to forget you? God knows I’ve been trying for 45 years. Charlene

Hi, Dickie,
Try not using your maiden name. Ginny

Hello, Dick,
I’m not 100% sure, but I think we went to the Senior Prom together. Does that make you feel better? Barbara

Wolfsie,
Your name rings a bell. Oh yeah, you used to copy my homework, steal my pen and call me chubby. Gee, thanks for reminding me. Andrea

Dick,
We graduated in l965. We’re lucky we even remember high school. Carol

Hi, Dick,
I remember you very well, but we never went out. Maybe it’s the dating part that makes you so forgettable. Sara

I was a little embarrassed about all these responses suggesting I didn’t make much of an impression on women, but I hadn’t progressed far enough in my instruction to know how to delete them, so I called my Facebook coach….

“Hi Christine, it’s Dick Wolfsie.”

“Who?”

There is a mouse living in the Wolfsie kitchen. At least one. The dog knows it; the cat knows it. And my wife knows it. We’re just trying to hide it from the neighbors.

We’ve had critter problems before, but there’s a big difference between having mice in your kitchen and having, let’s say, a woodchuck in your backyard. Having a woodchuck is something you can mention at a cocktail party and someday those very same people will flock to your backyard for a cube steak cookout or sit in your kitchen and gorge themselves on your homemade guacamole. The fact that you have woodchucks does not diminish your stature in the community one bit or call into question your worthiness or cleanliness as a neighbor. This is not true of mice.

In fact, when news gets out you have woodchucks, people will call to chat about it. Some will suggest you tolerate the chucking. I mean how much wood…never mind. A few folks may actually come over with beer to observe the woodchucks at work. What you thought was a real problem, will make you the talk of the neighborhood.

“Say, did you hear that Dick Wolfsie has woodchucks?”

“No, is that right? Well, leave it to an east-coaster like Dick, a man of the arts, to do something big and dramatic.”

This is not the same reaction you get when word leaks out you have mice.

“Have you heard that Dick Wolfsie has mice?”

“You’re surprised? He’s from New York. And he’s in television. Who knows what else is going on under his sink?”

Before I go any further, let me be honest and tell you that I’m not sure we have mice. I am sure we have one mouse, but despite my wife’s insistence that we are infested with the creatures, I believe it is the same mouse every time. Debating this point has become almost surreal…

“Dick, I think it’s several different mice. The first one seems nervous and shy. The other one is aggressive and dominant. And there’s this one under the kitchen sink that just seems lost.”

“Mary Ellen, please don’t do this. If you assign rodents a personality, it will make it that much more difficult to get rid of them.”

“What do you mean by ‘get rid of them’? Look, Dick, I want you to get rid of the mice, but I don’t want you to ever tell me you got rid of them. I do not want any information about this. I hope this is clear.”

“You don’t want any specifics on how they died?”

“Do NOT mention the word ‘die’ in this house. Go Google ‘mouse’ and see if there’s some catch and release program you can sign up for. Maybe there is a mice relocation project. I do not want to hear about how any mouse succumbed to some sick, barbaric trap that you bought at Home Depot. And you be nice to Seymour, especially.”

“Mary Ellen, please don’t give them names. This is just making it worse when I have to…well, you know…”

“Too much information! Too much information!”

So I took care of things. We no longer have any mice in our kitchen and I am pleased to say that Mary Ellen chooses to see me as benevolent and kind. She’s convinced—and rightfully so—that I was humane and civilized in my task.

But the cat hasn’t spoken to me in a week.

FOND MEMORIES

I hired a tutor to teach me about the intricacies of Facebook, blogging, and tweeting. The original plan was to take a class on all this, but I get very distracted in large groups and can’t concentrate. This is what happens to me in a movie, which is why I’m still not sure why Colin Firth was in drag at the end of Mamma Mia!

Christine, my able instructor, spent a great deal of time with me. She discussed privacy settings and asked if I was okay just having friends, or whether I wanted to have communication with people who were friends of friends. I went for broke and opted for friends of friends of friends because before computers, that’s the very method I used to select a doctor to do my first colonoscopy. Oh, and find a wife.

At one point, Christine asked me to publish something on my Facebook wall, just to give me an idea of how the process worked. For lack of anything prepared, I typed the following:

Thanks to Facebook, I have located three old high school girlfriends. Two of them don’t remember me.

Proudly, I hit the enter button and made my note visible to all 1,600 friends, few of whom I really know, but Christine assured me that this is just the kind of juicy tidbit that people who surf the Internet are looking for to liven up a dreary day.

Of course, there was no truth to what I had written on my wall. Trolling for old squeezes online would be frowned upon by Mary Ellen. So would my downloading questionable content from websites that she believes would have a detrimental effect on our marriage: do-it-yourself home improvement projects.

Within minutes, my Facebook page was abuzz with commentary about my post from former classmates. “Post,” by the way, is a new term I learned, and I’m trying to get the hang of using. Christine will be so proud.

So here are some of the posts that were posted in response to my post:

Dear Dick,
I was an old girlfriend. Can you find out how the others managed to forget you? God knows I’ve been trying for 45 years. Charlene

Hi, Dickie,
Try not using your maiden name. Ginny

Hello, Dick,
I’m not 100% sure, but I think we went to the Senior Prom together. Does that make you feel better? Barbara

Wolfsie,
Your name rings a bell. Oh yeah, you used to copy my homework, steal my pen and call me chubby. Gee, thanks for reminding me. Andrea

Dick,
We graduated in l965. We’re lucky we even remember high school. Carol

Hi, Dick,
I remember you very well, but we never went out. Maybe it’s the dating part that makes you so forgettable. Sara

I was a little embarrassed about all these responses suggesting I didn’t make much of an impression on women, but I hadn’t progressed far enough in my instruction to know how to delete them, so I called my Facebook coach….

“Hi Christine, it’s Dick Wolfsie.”

“Who?”