Please let Lindsay Lohan sleep

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Leave it to Lindsay Lohan to give naps a bad reputation.

As a dedicated nap taker, I now fear that my slumber will be violently interrupted by a "concerned" party who jumps to the conclusion that because my eyes are shut in the early afternoon and I am not responding to extraneous noises, then I must be dead or very close to it.

Perhaps I shouldn't be blaming the troubled actress, who lately seems to be responsible for every traffic mishap, nightclub fracas and shoplifting incident in Los Angeles. Instead, I'll channel my anger toward the producers of her latest film. Their anxiety over Lohan's sleep habits recently made the CNN newscrawl. There it was, running right to left under Wolf Blitzer's torso:

"Lindsay Lohan's nap scares producers."

According to various news reports, Lohan was working all night filming scenes from Liz & Dick, a Lifetime movie starring the actress as Elizabeth Taylor. She left the set at 8 a.m. to get some shuteye and didn't answer when film personnel knocked on her Ritz-Carlton hotel room door several hours later. Note the phrase, "several hours later." Normally, several DAYS later would be cause for alarm. But if you are Lindsay Lohan, your handlers fear the worst if you spend more than five minutes in the bathroom. So they decided to rouse her from her nap by summoning paramedics. If I chose this tactic every time I thought my teenage daughter had overslept, paramedics would live in our house.

Lohan was fine; she was suffering from nothing more than temporary hearing loss, deep sleep or an affliction known as "too lazy to answer the hotel room door," which affects millions, me included. Everybody with a stake in Lohan's career was relieved -- with the possible exception of employees at website TMZ, who become positively giddy any time a celebrity is at death's door and probably rewrite Lohan's obituary daily.

The producers of Liz & Dick should be taken to task on two fronts: I'm no actor but I'm sure one needs proper rest to portray a film icon who suffered from, among other things, a benign brain tumor, skin cancer, congestive heart failure, dysentery and phlebitis. More important, a nap should never be construed as dangerous and NEVER should be interrupted. Ask any man.

I am a religious power napper. Almost daily at approximately 1 p.m., I turn off my cellphone, exit my email program, recline my chair, prop my feet on the desk and enter Dreamland. In case you're wondering, I work from home. Power napping in an office cubicle or behind a reception desk is not recommended.

My naps last between 10 and 15 minutes, which means I'm always awake before anyone calls 911 or starts looking for a battering ram. Yet, like Lohan, I have also been known to "nap" for several hours, particularly after a grueling evening. When this happens, everyone in my family is given strict instructions. No running through the house, no yelling outside the bedroom, and no barking, whimpering or scratching at the door. Yes, even the dog knows the rules. I awake when I am darn good and ready and I always feel ready to seize the rest of the day. Isn't that the purpose of a nap for everyone, Lohan included?

Lohan could have avoided all this panic surrounding her sleep schedule had she set an alarm or requested a wakeup call. Granted, hotel bedside clocks can be crazy confusing, with alarm choices that include "radio," "CD," "iPod" and "ocean waves," a selection that plunges me deeper into sleep. A phone call to hotel staff is far easier particularly when you bed down in a Ritz-Carlton, a chain known for basically doing whatever its guest desire. A Ritz employee in Denver once told me that the staff made a snowman for Kobe Bryant just so he could take photos of it for his child. If Lohan had asked the Ritz staff to tiptoe into her room and tickle her feet with an ostrich feather, the general manager would have asked what type of ostrich she preferred.

Clearly, Lohan must be handled delicately right now. Get her a designated driver, show her how to shop online and tout the merits of staying home at night. But please let her nap uninterrupted. Naps are refreshing, therapeutic and perfectly harmless.

They are also legal and of absolutely no interest to TMZ.

The Caesar salad will be $10,000

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

If you dine out regularly in large metropolitan areas, odds are excellent you will eventually encounter a famous person sitting nearby. My recent celebrity sightings include Chris Noth from "The Good Wife" and "Sex and the City" in a Manhattan tavern, Jay Leno in a Las Vegas California Pizza Kitchen and British funnyman John Cleese in a Chicago Pan-Asian establishment.

Embarrassing as it is, I often find myself staring at the celeb, wishing I could pull up a chair and join both the meal and the conversation. And because celebrities are usually quite wealthy, I'm confident I won't have to extend my arm when the check arrives.

Unless of course that celebrity is running for the nation's highest office. With the election season in high gear, be prepared to get stuck with a bill that includes one, and possibly two commas, if your meal companion is named "Romney" or "Obama." Worse, you may still walk away hungry.

Case in point? Mitt Romney supporters recently paid $2,500 each to nosh on teensy hamburgers, aka "sliders," at a Chicago fundraiser.

Sliders? Seriously? I have consumed about 500 sliders in my life, most between 3 and 4 a.m., courtesy of the White Castle hamburger chain. Are they delicious? Absolutely. Nutritious? Highly doubtful. Filling? I would need to eat 20. And if I did, I would pay $13.60, as the price of a slider at my neighborhood White Castle is 68 cents. Cheese is an extra 16 cents. Note to Romney: Should you win, please don't raise the price of sliders to $2,500 even though some are willing to pay it. Most Americans are still trying to stomach $4 gas.

President Obama knows a thing or two about raising bucks through burgers. If he's not collecting $40,000 a plate from Hollywood's elite for a dinner at George Clooney's house, he's willing to dine with ordinary citizens if that's what it takes to pad his campaign coffers.

For the past several months, my web browser has been tempting me to click on a "Dinner With Barack" ad. Finally, curiosity got the best of me and, upon clicking, my PC magically transported me to the Obama campaign website. Yes, it was true. I could actually have dinner with the president if my entry was deemed worthy by the president's reelection team. I could even invite "a guest of my choice." There would also be "four other grassroots supporters" in attendance, according to the site. In other words, no Republicans or fans of Fox News.

The ad featured a photo of the president, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened, sitting at a table with Judy and Mitch Glassman, a Cambridge, Mass., couple who were among the winners of the previous contest, held in March. Either the waitress hadn't arrived with menus or nobody was hungry because there was nary a morsel of food on the table. Not even a slider. Instead all three were having water. The Glassmans also had small glasses of what could have been soda or a nice Chianti.

The president's next dinner contest ends June 30, so time is critical. Those wishing to include a contribution with their entry can choose from amounts ranging from $5 to $500. They can also put an amount of their choice in a very large, prominently displayed box marked "other." Yet the website clearly states that donating to the Obama campaign will not improve your chances of winning. Riiiighhht! And throwing bloody fish guts into the ocean won't necessarily improve your chances of catching a shark.

The mother of all meal invitations -- and meal checks -- occurred recently when an unknown individual ponied up $3 million to join billionaire investor Warren Buffett for lunch at a Manhattan steakhouse. The price was actually $3.46 million; I assume the $46,000 is the waitress' tip.

Buffett has been doing this for 13 years, with all the proceeds going to the Glide Foundation, a San Francisco-based charity he supports. The winning bidder gets to invite up to seven friends, but I doubt they will get a word in edgewise. If I had just shelled out $3 million for a meal, I'd take control of the conversation before the breadbasket arrived. First question? "Mr. Buffett, I'm a little short on cash right now. Do you know of any investments with a return of 300,000 percent?"

So why do people pay exorbitant amounts to dine with the rich and famous? Money manager Ted Weschler might know. He was Buffett's winning lunch bidder in 2010 AND 2011, paying a combined $5.3 million for two meals. Weschsler now works for Berkshire Hathaway, Buffett's company.

So if you see somebody hovering near the sliders at another Romney fundraiser, take a good look. It might be his running mate.

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Not Doing It At All

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

On Father's Day, all dads need to be keenly aware of a very ominous phrase:

Do It Yourself or "DIY" if you are texting.

I'm warning fathers everywhere because many of us, instead of choosing to spend the day playing golf or taking the easy road and WATCHING golf, may opt to tackle that home improvement project we have been putting off since 1987. Maybe it's something as simple as trimming the bushes or painting the porch railing.

Or maybe it is something a little more expansive, a project that will cement our status as the coolest guy on the block because we did it all by our lonesome, saving hundreds of dollars in the process. Neighborhood wives will look at our handiwork, glare at their husbands and say, "Why can't YOU do something like that?"

The DIY label is dangerous because it lulls us into thinking we can actually accomplish something on our own. Usually it is something we have no business attempting. Over the years, I have gone to hardware stores and seen DIY slapped on brochures telling us how easy it is to build a backyard deck. I've seen it on satellite-dish installation kits. Several of my neighbors have dishes, allowing them to receive whatever sporting event is currently occurring on the planet, including senior citizen cricket matches. I thought installing my own dish would be relatively simple until I Googled the subject and realized I could not proceed until I first calculated my azimuth and elevation coordinates, both of which were necessary for aiming the dish toward a satellite floating somewhere in space.

Last September, a 6-ton satellite fell into the Pacific Ocean. At least that's where NASA thinks it fell. No evidence has actually been found. If the space industry's brightest minds can't locate a satellite, how am I supposed to find one? That's why I chose cable instead. The toughest thing to locate when you are a cable customer is the repairman.

When I purchased a swing set for my kids, the salesman said I could hire a three-person crew to install it or I could do it myself. Choosing the latter meant that a truck would dump a large load of lumber and some screws on my driveway and then speed away before I could ask, "Is this the top beam or the bottom?" I wisely employed the crew. Looking back it was probably the best 300 bucks I have ever spent. Defending myself in a lawsuit from an irate parent whose kid was unlucky enough to be on the slide when it collapsed due to my swing set installation ineptitude would have been significantly more expensive.

I found the ultimate DIY project last week while doing some online shopping. Dads, if you wake up on Father's Day and decide this would be a perfect day to become more eco-friendly, then fire up eBay and search, "Wind Turbine Installation Kit."

There, for just $649, a seller will provide you with everything you need to erect one of those oversize windmills in your backyard. According to the American Wind Energy Association, wind currently provides 2 percent of the United States' electricity. But that number could swell to 2.0000001 if a few of us dads put down our Budweisers and exercise a little initiative. Say goodbye to those skyrocketing electric bills, gentlemen; all we'll need keep our beer cold will be a nice steady breeze.


The kit included the following: reinforced fiberglass wind turbine blades, some quadruple layer neodymium magnets, 11-pound magnet wire, a heavy-duty bridge rectifier, some crimp-on ring terminals and a few splice connectors.

Any questions so far?

Oh, sure, we might encounter a few hiccups along the way. But that's what neighbors are for, right? Just walk across the street, find another dad and say, "Jim, can you spare a few minutes to help me align my wind tower?"

Don't count on it. I once asked my neighbor to help me install a ceiling fan and I could almost see the gears spinning in his brain as he struggled to concoct a reason to say no. He relented and helped but it took five hours and I still have yet to experience two of the speeds on my alleged three-speed ceiling fan. Suffice it to say that neither of us have decent wiring skills.

So, dads, before you embark on some technical mission that could result in, at best, a steady stream of profanity and, at worst, paramedics being summoned, remember that some things can be accomplished in solitude more easier than others.

Speaking from experience, I know it takes very little effort to lie in a hammock all day.

Warning! This program is rated NSFCPP

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I have come to the conclusion that all programming, be it movies, television shows or even content coming from our home video cameras, needs a new rating classification. I call it NSFCPP: Not Suitable for Certain Public Places.

This idea first began percolating 10 years ago when I had LASIK surgery, a brief and relatively painless eye procedure that gives patients 20/20 vision providing they don't mind having a total stranger peel back their corneal flap, causing temporary blindness. Try finding that little-known fact on a LASIK website.

When I entered the waiting room, eight other patients sat in a semicircle, anxiously anticipating their turns. Their soon-to-be altered eyes were glued to a lone flat-screen monitor. On the screen, I saw a rapidly twitching eyeball and a surgical instrument hovering next to it. Then I saw the tool pluck an edge of the cornea and actually lift it. I turned away but not before putting two and two together.

The eye belonged to the patient who had just entered the surgical room. All the other patients were witnessing what was about to happen to them. The macabre scene made about as much sense as running a loop of Evel Knievel's Caesars Palace motorcycle crash in a Harley-Davidson showroom.

Two years ago, I was summoned for jury duty. While I didn't get picked to serve on an actual jury, I did spend an entire day in a waiting room where a lone television was showing "The Jerry Springer Show." Many of the potential jurors were gearing up for their duties as deliberators of justice by arguing whether the man on screen was a "scumbucket" or a "dirtbag" for cheating on his wife. I'm sure that made for interesting voir dire proceedings.

"Mr. Johnson , will you be able to render a fair and impartial verdict?"

"JER-RY, JER-RY, JER-RY!"

"Thank you. You are excused."

Just last week, I sat in my broker's office, awaiting his arrival. Glancing at my watch, I vaguely heard somebody discussing bathroom remodeling.

I looked up and saw the discussion was coming from the overhead TV monitor, which was tuned to HGTV, the Home & Garden network. I found that strange considering U.S. financial markets had been open for two hours.

"How come CNBC isn't on?" I asked the receptionist. "Or Bloomberg Television? Or something finance related?"

"We used to have CNBC," she replied. "But it was upsetting the clients."

Bravo, I thought. At least somebody agrees with my NSFCPP concept. In a world where entire countries are teetering on bankruptcy, why let an elderly investor watch his retirement nest egg lose 30 percent of its value in the time it takes his broker to visit the restroom? Better to watch programs where a half hour is spent discussing proper begonia placement.

Whatever happened to Muzak in public facilities? Nowadays, instead of listening to a Captain & Tennille song on an elevator ride, we are forced to watch CNN on a 2-inch television screen. If that day's news contains a story about a high-rise elevator cable that inexplicably snapped, so be it.

The motion picture industry has a rating system that warns me about potentially offensive content. I can install a V-chip in my home television to block programs that I don't want my children to view. But if an airline wants to show "Alive" as its in-flight movie, I have two choices: close my eyes for the flight's duration or endure a film about a plane crash on a snowy mountain and survivors who resort to cannibalism.

So if you work in a public institution and there's a television, LCD monitor or Jumbotron in your midst, give some thought to what should and should not appear on screen. Below is a partial list of public facilities and corresponding programs that should carry my new rating:

Grocery stores: The entire Food Network.

Doctors' offices: "House M.D.," "Grey's Anatomy," anything starring Dr. Oz and all C-SPAN debates where the subject is health insurance.

Gas stations: Any news footage from the Middle East. I don't need to be reminded why I'm paying $4 a gallon

Hardware stores: All home improvement shows. Some of us will NEVER be able to build a patio deck in two hours no matter how easy the host makes it look.

Public schools: All monitors should be removed immediately. Kids today watch too much television.

Wrigley Field: Sports bloopers. Yes, they are entertaining but bear too close a resemblance to what is actually taking place in front of the spectators.

Put up your #dukes and tweet like a man!

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I recently drove past my old middle school, stopping to gaze at the faded brick, the worn asphalt and the large grassy playground field, which doubled as an Ultimate Fighting octagon.

The playground was where all disputes were settled. Some quarrels occurred spontaneously; a hurled insult, a return verbal jab and suddenly two bodies were grappling on the turf, surrounded by a crowd of seventh-and eighth-graders shrieking, "FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!"

Other battles involved lengthy hype and buildup. A first period disagreement lead to a threat of, "meet me on the playground at three." Such challenges spread through the school like wildfire, ensuring a much larger audience when the main event rolled around. I often regret that I wasn't savvy enough to sell tickets for those bouts. I could have made enough to pay for an entire year's worth of school lunches.

The fights themselves rarely lasted more than two or three minutes and always ended in identical fashion: the loser face up on the ground with a knee pressed against his chest and the knee's owner screaming, "Had enough? HAD ENOUGH?"

And with that the two participants went their separate ways. They would frequently be seen eating together in the cafeteria the following day, as if the brawl had never taken place. How simple.

Of course that was before the days of Twitter, where hashtags and @ signs have replaced fists and knees.

Hardly a day goes by when I'm not reading about a "Twitter feud" between celebrities who really should have better things to do with their time and their cellphones. Politicians Twitter feud with students, rap stars feud with country stars and Keith Olbermann feuds with everybody. The most recent feud involved Almost Vice Presidential Daughter Bristol Palin, who tweeted her opposition to gay marriage and immediately found herself taunted at the virtual playground by the likes of "Jersey Shore" star JWoww.

If those two settled their dispute on a playground, I would be first in line for a ticket. Better yet, I would install bleachers.

Why are Twitter feuds so popular? Unlike playground brawls, they don't appear to have winners. The sparring continues until one of three things occur:

Another celebrity enters the fray, prompting one of the original contestants to shift his or her rage.

The opponents runs out of verbal jabs that can be delivered in 140 characters or less.

A participant gets a cellphone bill and realizes that Twitter feuds can be expensive. (After this year's Grammy awards, rap star Chris Brown was feuding simultaneously with singers Miranda Lambert and Michelle Branch, along with "Modern Family" star Eric Stonestreet. He soon may be feuding with his accountant.)

The Biography Channel's website recently asked viewers which celebrity they would most like to Twitter feud with. Mel Gibson came out on top with Glenn Beck, Donald Trump and Charlie Sheen jockeying for second place. New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady also garnered votes, yet I can't figure out what he has done to prompt such rage other than he's rich, successful, good looking and married to a supermodel.

Wait, now I'm ticked off. But chances are I will never meet Prince Tom and therefore can't challenge him to put up his well-manicured hands and fight.

Which is precisely why Twitter feuds exist. Twitter remains a quick, easy way to let somebody feel your wrath. True, I can't slug Brady at the playground but I can taunt him via the Patriots' Twitter site. (Brady himself doesn't appear to have a Twitter page.)

"@Patriots No wonder #Brady looks so good. 18 mil a year buys a lot of hair gel"

I feel much better now. In fact, I feel so good that perhaps it's time for me to settle some old scores. True, my feuds will not be followed by millions or pasted into the bodies of national news stories. Some of my opponents may be dead or, like Brady, without Twitter accounts. But if my old high school drama teacher is alive and near a Smart Phone right now, I have a message: You can run but you cannot hide from my tweets.

"Should have cast me in #TheKingandI. #otherguycantsing"

While I'm at it, it's time to get in the face of the opponent who prevented me from qualifying for the Illinois state tennis tournament in 1979.

"Wouldn't you feel better admitting that the ball was CLEARLY in? #liarliarpantsonfire"

Finally, here's one for the David Letterman talent scout who rejected me for a spot on the show 12 years ago:

@Late_Show Pretty please, can I have another chance? #muchfunniernow"

OK, that's not very vicious. But if it doesn't work, I have a message for David Letterman and his entire staff:

Meet me on the playground at three.

Your baby can now get the celebrity treatment!

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Last week, as I sat munching the remains of a soccer ball-shaped cake made in honor of my daughter's 10th birthday, I wondered if I had failed as a father.

When she entered the world a decade ago, her arrival and the events leading up to it were met with virtually zero fanfare. Unlike Bill and Giuliana Rancic, I did not let a camera crew film our obstetrician conducting the first ultrasound. Unlike Jessica Simpson, my wife did not pose nude for a magazine during her final trimester. Unlike Beyonce and Jay-Z, I did not announce our child's birth via a rap verse. And unlike Hillary Duff, I did not share exclusive details about our first "date night" after our child was born. For the record, Duff and her husband attended a Coldplay concert. I think my wife and I went to Taco Bell.

How could I have been so selfish?

I have no doubt that my little girl was every bit as cute, special, precious and amazing as Beyonce and Jay-Z's little girl. For a while, I actually felt sorry for their daughter because she didn't appear to have a last name. She was simply "Blue Ivy." Eventually I learned her surname was Carter but by that time I had taken to calling her Blue Ivy Z.

The fact is, babies born to noncelebrity parents like me get the shaft. Paparazzi yawn, Twitter doesn't crash and the only people on the Internet who will leave a comment or share the news are members of our immediate families. Yet, when Simpson gave birth to daughter Maxwell Drew Johnson on May 1, US Magazine called it BREAKING NEWS! More than 10,000 readers "liked" the article on their Facebook walls. Nearly 1,500 tweeted about it including Simpson herself, who also found time to post a birth announcement on her website. I do admire her stamina; when my kids were born, updating a website was the last thing on my wife's mind. First, she would have had to create a website and trust me, there wasn't enough room in the delivery room for my wife, myself, an obstetrics team and a web designer.

Why can't celebrities just quietly have their kids and then shut up about it? Why can't media outlets lump the arrival of a famous son or daughter in with all the other birth announcements? Imagine seeing Blue Ivy's name and photo with a quick blurb about her parents (he's a world-renowned music mogul, she's a world-renowned music mogul) right after the couple from Rockaway, N.J., (he's an insurance salesman, she's a bank teller) announcing the birth of their fourth child.

If the media aren't willing to tone down baby news, and if celebrity parents continue to grant interviews about colic, naps and poop, then I feel every baby should be given the star treatment. I have taken the liberty of creating a press release, normally reserved for famous mommies and daddies, and am making it available to all parents. Simply fill in the blanks and send it to every media outlet you can think of.

(Name of mother) and (name of father, boyfriend or sperm donor) proudly welcome (Name of baby. NOTE: Use back of form and be prepared to explain if baby has an uncommon name. Coldplay singer Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow needed two pages to state that yes, their daughter is really named "Apple"). (Baby name) entered the world on (date) after (explicit story about fertility treatments or where conception occurred), weighing in at (weight in pounds and ounces. NOTE: Large babies typically result in hurtful comments via the Internet. Proceed with caution).

(Name of baby) will reside in (Insert hometown. Insert two towns if parents have already split). For further information contact (name of nanny).

Incidentally, I just read that Snooki from "Jersey Shore" is expecting. While I have my fingers crossed that she will carry, deliver and raise her child in silence, that seems doubtful considering the headline that appeared in a recent New York newspaper:

"PREGO SNOOKI: NO BOOZE AND LESS TANNING FOR ME!"

Burying Barbie...and other depressing parental duties

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am a firm believer in the "Death Comes in Threes" adage, not only for celebrities but also for children's toys. It happened again recently.

First to expire was the backyard plastic pool. Nobody could say it didn't have a long, happy life. From its birth in 1998 when my oldest child turned 1, until 2007 when my second daughter mastered freestyle just enough to swim at the park district pool, it was the highlight of summer. Fill it up with a hose and in minutes it provided refreshment for as many as four squealing kids. I sometimes used it to cool off after a particularly rigorous lawn-mowing session. Sure, my legs protruded over the edges, but who cared? It's hard to be uncomfortable when your children howl in delight as they dump buckets of water on your head.

For the past five years, the pool remained in our basement on life-support systems. My wife and I knew we were done having children, yet we couldn't bear to permanently drain it, so to speak. Maybe we could find a neighborhood toddler to invite over on a scorching afternoon. But where are those little tykes? All the kids in our neighborhood are now interested in cars, makeup and members of the opposite sex. This past week, I faced the inevitable and dragged the now-moldy aqua oval to the curb. I said a silent prayer, thanking it for all the happiness it had provided.

While I grieved, death struck again. This time the victim had a name and it was Barbie.

My youngest, during her annual room-cleaning ritual, announced she no longer played with her collection of dolls that ranged from the original, perfectly normal-looking Barbie to the punk-rock Barbie with multicolored hair and a rebellious sneer.

"But what will happen when your friends come over this summer? Don't you want to dress them up and have them talk to each other?" I asked. "What will you do instead?"

She briefly glanced up from her video game, giving me the answer in the process.

Now I had to once again huddle with my wife and make a decision. Gently place the Barbies alongside the pool and wait for the trash collector or hope for a miracle cure via a garage sale or eBay that could breathe new life into their worn-yet-loved plastic parts? It's a dilemma we have yet to solve.

Death paid its third visit last weekend, when I attempted to inflate the water slide purchased at Toys R Us just three years ago. Calling this thing a slide is sort of like calling the Spider-Man float in the Macy's parade a balloon. This was not a slide one could blow up using one's lungs. Instead, it came with an electric air pump and an installation DVD. Apparently the slide manufacturer thinks everybody's backyard has a DVD player nearby.

When fully inflated, the slide rose more than 15 feet into the air, sending water cascading over the sides and soaking the lawn in the process. It weighed nearly 100 pounds and caused my back to scream as I unfurled it in the yard - but once inflated, it provided hours of entertainment. Not once did I sense it would succumb to the "We're too old for this thing" fate.

This year, the ritual began anew. I lugged the slide up from the basement, hosed off the spider webs, secured it with eight (yes, eight) stakes and flipped the air pump's power switch. The slide began to rise.

That's when I noticed the impending signs of death.

The slide ascended to about 11 feet and then tried in vain to go higher. It gasped, attempting to hold more air, but it was no use. It stayed three-quarters high, unable to accommodate two girls already in their bathing suits and watching silently. Finally one spoke.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I think there may be a hole somewhere," I said.

Closer inspection revealed that there were actually many holes. A disease called "overuse by growing (and weightier) kids" had infected the slide's innards. Patches would do no good.

"I can go buy another one and be back in half an hour," I told my daughters.

They looked at each other, making a silent sisterly decision.

"That's OK. I think we've outgrown it," my oldest said.

And with that they went inside, changed out of their bathing suits and called friends. I was left sitting in the backyard on the swing set. It was 14 years old and starting to creak. It also represented the last reminder of childhoods that disappeared far too fast.

I gazed at the wooden structure and spoke.

"Stay a little longer. Please?"

The Wife: A True Musical Oddity

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I heard the lyrics as I prepared steaks on the grill one warm Saturday evening. They were coming from the Adult Alternative music channel that I'm forced to pay for each month as part of my cable package. For the record, I'm also paying for Metal, Contemporary Christian, and Toddler Tunes. All three are excellent choices when I'm tired and want guests to leave.

The band's name was Ween. While the singer sounded British, Ween is actually an experimental American rock band, according to Wikipedia. The song was entitled "Your Party."

We had the best time at your party

The wife and I thank you very much

Had the late Dick Clark ever featured this song on "American Bandstand," I would have panned it for obvious reasons: It didn't have a good beat and I couldn't dance to it. What did intrigue me was the singer mentioning his wife. It's not a word often heard in song lyrics. Kenny Rogers sang about his "Lady," John Lennon crooned over his "Woman" and artists from Michael Jackson to 'N Sync have immortalized their "Girlfriend" in song. But rare is the tune that contains the common word for female partner in a marital relationship. Rarer still is use of the word in a positive or even neutral context.

Want proof? Google "lyrics containing wife." The results are slim. When I searched the phrase, the first hit came from The Who's "My Wife." Here's a sample:

My life's in jeopardy

Murdered in cold blood is what I'm gonna be

I ain't been home since Friday night

And now my wife is coming after me

Not exactly the most glowing tribute to a spouse.

Next on the list was a ditty penned by singer/songwriter Jonathan Richman called "When I Say Wife."

When I say 'wife'

It's cause I can't find another word for the way we be

But 'wife' sounds like you're mortgaged

"Wife" sounds like laundry

I wonder how Richman explained to his wife that he equated her with a pile of dirty underwear.

Rapper Ne-Yo chose to use "wife" as a verb and what I think is an adverb in his song, "Wife Her."

Even when you get locked up, you can call her up

She's there for you. That's the kind of girl you need.

One that you can wifey.

Don't wait too late. You'll miss a good thing.

Go and get the ring. And tell her that you wife her.

Huh?

From there, the Google hit list deteriorated into song parodies containing "wife." With apologies to my wife, I found musical comedian Tim Hawkins' spoof of Green Day's "Time of Your Life" hilarious.

Hey honey, have you gained some weight in your rear end?

That dress you wear reminds me of my old girlfriend

And where'd you get those shoes? I think they're pretty lame

Would you stop talking 'cause I'm trying to watch the game

If you're a man who wants to live a long and happy life

These are the things you don't say to your wife



I did find a few sappy wife tributes but even those aroused suspicion. Frank Sinatra sang a sweet ode to his marital companion with "I Love My Wife."

If rosy lips invite me

Well, that's life

But just in case, you couldn't guess

I love my wife

I'd get all misty were it not for the fact that Ol' Blue Eyes recorded the song in 1976. By that time, he was on wife No. 4.

Finally, there was the Climax Blues Band's 1980 hit simply called "I Love You."

You came along and stole my heart when you entered my life

Ooh babe, you got what it takes so I made you my wife.

Nice, but the singer also mentioned that he'd been drinking lots of beer and the woman who would become his soul mate picked him up off the floor.

I am not a songwriter or a poet, but I know when a void needs filling. It's time for airwaves and iPods alike to include some positive songs about a man's spouse and label her accordingly. Some guys, myself included, are happily married. Now we need to relay those feelings in song. Here's what I have so far:

I was gazing at my WIFE one night while making dinner

That girl, my WIFE, she's a real winner

Just thinking 'bout my WIFE, I lose focus, get the shakes

That's why it's her fault that I burned the steaks

Nobody ever said good songwriting was easy.

Knowledge x Weight = Diploma

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


I am seriously considering steering my 15-year-old daughter toward a career in orthopedics. How else will she treat the chronic spinal condition that she is developing as a product of our nation's public school system?

There are multiple reasons for her poor posture. She is a teenager so, by law, she is required to slouch at least 90 percent of her waking hours. Her calcium intake is poor, unless one considers Milk Duds a source of that bone-strengthening nutrient. She also would stand much straighter if she weren't constantly stooping down to search for whatever article of clothing is crumpled under her bed.

Her stance, nutrition and slovenly nature are all correctable. But her impending spinal curvature will not cease unless one of two things occurs:

She commits all her school textbooks to memory.

She stops reading altogether.

Unfortunately, neither is going to happen - even though I'm sure she would be thrilled if I suggested the latter. As a result, she continues to trudge her high school corridors each day carrying the weight of a small boulder on her back.

On a recent morning, I sipped coffee and watched her amble down the driveway to catch her ride. Her backpack was slung over her right shoulder, causing her to tilt precariously in that direction. Her best friend, Haley, waited at the end of the drive, tipping violently to the left since she chose that shoulder for her backpack. Standing together, they looked like teenage Siamese twins who had just been separated.

That afternoon she came home and dropped her backpack on the floor, causing small dishes to shudder in our pantry. I picked up the backpack and was convinced I heard my hernia popping. Once the pain subsided, I retrieved our scale from the bathroom, simply because I wanted to answer the following question: What is the weight of a good public education?

As I reached into the bag and pulled out each book, I channeled my best ringside announcer voice. "In this corner, weighing in at 4.4 pounds, the master of mathematical mayhem, ALGEBRA AND TRIG! And in this corner, tipping the scales at 5.2 pounds, the phenom of earthly phenomenon, WORLD GEOGRAPHY AND CULTURE."

"Dad, you are totally weird."

"And in this corner . . ."

"Dad, there are only two people in a boxing match."

"Quiet, I'm on a roll. Weighing in at a paltry 3.65 pounds, the syllabus of all things Spanish, EN ESPANOL!"

"I'm going to Haley's to study."

"Great. Ask her how her sciatica feels today. And in this corner . . ."

The biology and literature books weighed five pounds apiece. All told, my daughter's textbooks added an extra 25 pounds to her 115-pound frame. No wonder she chooses to buy lunch in the cafeteria rather than bring a brown bag from home. Why make things worse by lugging an apple around?

That night I lay in bed reading my Kindle, which holds 3,500 books and weighs 8.3 ounces. Not pounds, ounces.

"She's going to have shrunk 6 inches by the time she's a senior," I said to my wife, "Her prom dress is only going to need one shoulder strap because the other shoulder won't exist."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, hasn't the public school system ever heard of electronic books? If every kid owned a Kindle, a Nook or something similar, they might stand a chance to reach their full height. At the very least, the basketball team would improve."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I dunno. Call the principal?"

"You do that, honey."

The next day I did in fact call the principal, who wholeheartedly agreed with my concerns.

"I picked up a book the other day and wasn't sure if I should defend myself or read it," said Dr. Thomas Trengove, principal of her school since 1993.

Trengove said the "weighty" book issue is on administrators' minds. But, like all book publishers, textbook purveyors equate electronic books with shrinking profit margins and are therefore resistant to cramming an entire physics book onto an iPad. Trengrove predicts the conversion will eventually happen but, until it does, his school orders duplicate books for kids with back problems. One set stays at school while the other remains at home.

I can only hope textbook companies come to their senses. For I have another daughter who will enter high school in five years. Based on her current growth rate, her pediatrician said she could be 6 feet tall.

Or 5-foot-7 if she studies really hard.

Keeping golf legal: notes from a recliner referee

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I sat in my recliner watching millionaires swing golf clubs. I swore I could hear my wife rolling her eyes.

"I can't believe you are watching golf," she said, echoing a statement made by millions of wives every weekend.

"This isn't golf, honey. It's the Masters, the granddaddy of golf tournaments," I replied. "And I'm not watching. I'm officiating."

"You look like you're sleeping. What do you mean, you're 'officiating?'"

"I'm looking for rules violations. If one occurs, I will report it."

"Well I'm going shopping. Have fun napping, I mean refereeing, or whatever it is you say you are doing."

Doesn't my better half realize that televised golf has become interactive? That it's up to middle-age husbands like myself to keep the game's integrity intact by exposing possible criminal activity among the links' elite? It's a responsibility we take seriously. If not for us, Irishman Padraig Harrington would not have been disqualified from a 2011 tournament for moving his ball a fraction of an inch when marking it, a clear violation of United States Golf Association Rule 20-3a. Dustin Johnson might own the 2010 PGA Championship were it not for a La-Z-Boy marshal who, in between siestas, saw that DJ had done the UNTHINKABLE by grounding his club in sand (USGA Rule 13-4). In each instance, there was no grand jury, depositions or bench trial. Both players were found guilty in the time in takes to make a phone call and rewind tape. Judge Judy moves slower.

Don't get me wrong, I don't carry a rule book when I play. Quite the opposite. I still adhere to the "if it's less than 2 feet away, it's good" rule. But I also don't play for a million dollars each time I tee it up. I once won $25 - but only because, on the final hole, my eight beat my neighbor's nine.

Now, as I sat in my chair watching Masters third-round coverage, I wondered who I would call if I saw an infraction? I dialed directory assistance.

"Business or residence?"

"Uh, business?"

"Name?"

"Augusta National, 18th hole, TV tower, Jim Nantz, "I said, hoping to speak to CBS' lead golf announcer.

"I only have a listing for Augusta National."

"Fine."

A sweet, very Southern female answered on the second ring.

"If I saw a rules violation, who would I talk to?" I asked.

"I'll transfer you to our communications office," she replied.

A communications representative took it from there. "You'll need to talk to the rules committee," she said. "Please hold."

Less than two minutes on the phone and already I was about to talk to the rules committee? DURING the Masters? This was easier than I thought. As I waited, I assumed a phone menu would kick in. "For putting infractions, press one. For hazard infractions, press two. For anything John Daly related, dial 911."

Instead, I spoke to another communications official who told me, in no uncertain terms, not to use his name in print.

"The chairman is the only person who speaks for the club," he said.

"I just want to know what happens if somebody calls in with a rules violation? How do you separate the serious calls from the crackpots?" I asked.

"When these calls are received, all are taken seriously," he replied.

Suddenly I felt like I was talking to an airport bomb squad member.

"All are forwarded to the tournament office and looked at closely by our tournament committee," he continued. "If necessary, a conversation would take place with the rules committee."

"Has anybody called in yet?" I asked.

"Not that I'm aware of."

Impossible, I thought. With a green jacket and so much prestige on the line, somebody must be cheating a little bit. I moved my chair closer to the television. Wait a minute, did I just see Bubba Watson clean his ball illegally? I often clean bits of sand, tree branches, cart-path gravel and condominium brick off my ball, most likely violating USGA Rule 21 in the process. I reached for my cell.

No, Watson appears legal. Good thing, since he ended up winning the tournament. Now the camera was showing Tiger Woods. He was in the rough. Wait a minute, did he just improve his stance? I reached for the phone again.

Then I put it down. All this officiating was making me tired. I dialed the USGA office in Far Hills, N.J., and left a message.

"Please consider adding the following rule: 'Play is temporarily suspended if rules officials feel the need to nap.'"

Don't Drink The Water - Become the Water

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Over the years, I have had several bit parts in commercials. In actor's terms that means, "blink and you will miss me."

I was the guy in the local Chevrolet spot who said, "New or used. We're ALWAYS making deals." I was the dad in the John Deere Insurance ad who taught his toddler son how to play the piano while mom looked on and smiled approvingly. (Years later, I still can't figure out the correlation between piano lessons and life insurance). Finally, I was the infomercial spokesman who said, "If the only thing standing between you and a new vehicle is a lower monthly payment, then call Drop the Payment RIGHT NOW!"

As video technology accelerates and flat screen monitors appear seemingly everywhere, the casting calls have been getting weirder. Recently, I auditioned to be the guy who appears on the gas pump screen when you begin filling your tank. I have to admit, every time I see that guy, I have an overwhelming desire to toss a lighted match directly at the pump. I prefer to purchase gas in silence; I don't need some perky Gen Y dude saying, "Hi, welcome to Shell. It's good to see you."

Incidentally, I didn't get the part, probably because I improvised dialogue during the audition. I doubt the producers were impressed when I said, "Hi! It's $4.50 a gallon today. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Talking gas pump guy paled compared to the next audition I received in my inbox a few weeks ago. The spot was for the Oklahoma City Water Department. The role called for someone "lovable, funny and spontaneous. An actor with good comic or improv skills is mandatory. He needs comedic chops, but also depth."

So far, so good. After all, I'm an actor. I can certainly fake the lovable and funny part.

Then I saw what role I would be auditioning for.

Water.

That's right, I would be using my comic and improv skills to portray H2O. At least I was auditioning for the lead role.

Like any actor, I tried to "immerse" myself in the character. What does water sound like? Should I gargle during the audition? Open my throat and slam a bottle of Evian? Should I arrive with wet hair, thereby showing the producers that water is with me at all times?

I sought advice from my Facebook friends, who were only too happy to help.

"Be positive. Think 'glass half full.'"

"Do they know your sense of humor is 'dry'?"

"Make it shoot out your nose. That's always funny."

It didn't help that this audition had no script. Like many potential roles that come my way, I am expected to "create" the part rather than read the part. As a result, I get some strange suggestions from casting directors.

"We're looking for a Will Ferrell/Jim Carrey/Ben Stiller type," one director recently said.

"So you want me to impersonate Will Ferrell or Jim Carrey or Ben Stiller?" I asked.

"No. We want you to be Greg Schwem . . . with a little bit of those guys thrown in."

Okaaaaaay.

So now I was faced with creating dialogue for water. I stood in front of the mirror and summoned my inner liquid.

"Without me, you will die." No, too depressing.

"Hey kids! Put me inside a balloon. Fun fun fun!" Not believable enough. Maybe water feels trapped inside a balloon.

"Ever wonder where I go when you flush me? Right back into the Oklahoma City drinking supply!" True, but kind of gross. I can't imagine Will Ferrell saying that.

Then I switched to method acting, opting to become water instead of speaking like water. I crouched down and began shaking violently. My wife passed by my home office, screamed and reached for her cell.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Dialing 911. What is the matter with you?"

"I'm water boiling."

"What do you mean you're boiling water?"

"I'm not boiling water. I'm pretending to be water boiling. It's for an audition."

"Why can't I have a normal husband?"

Finally, after an hour of imagining myself as water in every conceivable form, including being shot from a fire hose, I was ready to accept the audition. Then I read the last sentence of the email:

"Do not submit if you cannot attend auditions in Norman, Okla. No exceptions!"

And, just like that, my dreams were crushed. Again. But if anybody from the Chicago Water Department is reading this, give me a call.

I'm much cheaper than Ben Stiller.

Time to fill out your presidential bracket!

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

My favorites choked, my dark horses stumbled and I watched helplessly as my NCAA bracket literally folded itself into a paper airplane and flew into my office garbage can before the Sweet 16 was even solidified.

Still, like millions of Americans, I remain excited as March Madness reaches its crescendo. I enjoy beginning conversations with "Who do you have left?" I revel in sitting in my favorite chair watching nail biters among teams from schools I could never find on a map (quick, somebody type "Xavier" into my GPS). The NCAA tournament is a yearly passion I share with, by some estimates, 30 million Americans who faithfully fill out brackets.

Yes, we Americans do love our sports, as evidenced by this year's staggering Super Bowl ratings and college basketball's increasing popularity. We also love our reality shows. More than a decade after launching, American Idol and Survivor consistently garner top 10 ratings and Dancing With the Stars, Fear Factor and The Voice show little signs of losing steam.

What we don't love is voting for future leaders. Just look at the paltry 20 percent turnout for the Illinois primary election. Other states reported similar dismal figures.

Somebody needs to figure out how to put a little excitement back into our electoral process. Seriously, why can't we just skip the glut of campaign ads? Do away with the town hall meetings and the pancake breakfasts. Instead, let's choose a president using activities that intrigue us: sports and reality television. Sure, some rules would have to be tweaked, but it could work. Picture this:

Exactly one year before the November general election, a seeding committee that comprises two ex-presidents, one unemployed autoworker, a soccer mom, Sharon Osbourne and the winner of a new show called So, You Want To Pick The President, convenes and establishes the Presidential Bracket. Preferential seeds are given to anyone crazy enough to be making a second run for office. So put Mitt Romney at the top and seed Ron Paul second. Rick Perry gets the third seed because he looks dangerous. Newt Gingrich goes fourth; anything lower and he would complain that his paltry seed was the result of a vast media conspiracy.

Now fill in the remaining slots with Bachmann, Santorum, Cain, Pawlenty, and Huntsman. In the first round, candidates don't battle the entire field but their sole bracket opponent via a series of nationally televised challenges that combine the best of politics, athletic contests and crazy reality stunts. Let the water cooler conversation begin!

"Romney versus Perry. Who do you like?"

"I was going to go with Romney after the foreign policy debate, but Perry kicked his butt in cockroach eating. Now I'm having second thoughts."

"Me, too. Better wait until tonight when they dance the rumba with celebrity partners."

"By the way, did you see Ron Paul singing Stevie Wonder on Fox last night? I was impressed."

Once all contests have been completed, everybody makes their first round picks via their home PCs, thereby eliminating that annoying problem of trudging to their local grade school or church to cast votes. CNN's Wolf Blitzer and Jon King breathlessly tally the results.

"Jon, we are seeing some real surprises tonight. Who would have thought Bachmann, a political unknown just six months ago, would be crushing Pawlenty?"

"I agree, Wolf. I'm guessing it was either her views on gay marriage or her victory in the weight-loss challenge that turned the tide."

With the field whittled in half, America takes a breather and surveys the remaining options. Huntsman is out, so do you support Santorum? He aced the Minute to Win It challenges but looked shaky when playing Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grade Liberal? Romney shined on Real Businessmen of Massachusetts but his health-care plan and his free-throw technique are suspect. Then there's this election's Cinderella story, Herman Cain. Still in the hunt and surging in popularity after touting his economic policies while winning a cross country race with his partner, Snooki from Jersey Shore. Everybody pick again!

Eventually only one candidate will be left standing. Maybe it's Romney. But he won't learn of his victory by watching election returns. Instead, he'll be standing alone on a mountain top when Republican National Committee Chairman Reince Priebus approaches him and utters a single line:

"Mitt, will you accept this rose?"

An ad campaign with no end in sight

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

My cursor hovers over the "cancel" button. A simple click and I will save anywhere between $200 and $300 per month. If fingers could talk, they would be screaming, "Do it. Do it NOW."

But my brain won't send the downward movement to the fingers. The brain is saying, "Beware. There will be consequences."

The brain is overly cautious because I am considering canceling my monthly payment to Google. And, quite frankly, the idea of crossing Google scares the heck out of the brain, and every other part of my being.

For the past few months, I've been experimenting with Google AdWords. The concept is simple: I create a two- or three-line business ad that appears to the right of Google search results. When somebody searches for something related to my business, hopefully my ad appears and the inquisitive user clicks on it. Somebody at Google (I assume an intern) actually keeps track of the clicks and charges me for each one. I can see the results via a series of indecipherable pie charts and spreadsheets that a senior Google employee dreamed up.

This is the problem with doing business in cyberspace. Sometimes one must make assumptions as in, "I ASSUME nobody is royally screwing me." I'm not accusing Google of any financial hanky-panky, mind you. It's just that after a few months of this "pay per click" marketing campaign, the only thing I can say with certainty is that Google is making a monthly profit off me. An actual customer has yet to step forward and admit that yes, they found me by clicking on my puny Google ad.

So now I'm faced with the frightening dilemma of whether to cancel my AdWords account or, to put it more bluntly, fire Google. Normally I would not give this a second thought. Over the years I've fired accountants, stock brokers, building subcontractors and mechanics. All were let go for the same reason: I wasn't satisfied with the service they were providing.

Unfortunately, my bricklayer does not wield the same power as Google, a company that more or less controls the human race due to the vast amount of knowledge it has accumulated and seems to have no trouble sharing. Want to see somebody's backyard? Google Earth at the ready. Who knows? Maybe Google's satellites can catch the homeowner when she is sunbathing topless.

Any desire to build a weapon out of Christmas lights and a kitchen sponge? Chances are Google has a recipe and can even point you to the closest hardware store in case you are missing a few ingredients. Purchase them with the handy Google wallet and share your creation with foreign bad guys using Google Translate.

This is precisely why I do not want to upset anybody at Google. For if I hit "cancel," I can only imagine what might happen:

An alarm bell will sound in Google's Mountain View, Calif., headquarters. Immediately my photo will appear on all employee screens as well as in the Google cafeteria. From there, Google will commence the drill it practices daily. One employee will find my credit card numbers and "accidentally" purchase $250,000 worth of non-returnable lumber from Oregon. Certainly Google knows my address so the delivery truck will have no trouble finding my house and dumping the contents on my front lawn.

When I step outside to complain, Google cameras will stop photographing the topless sunbather and instead videotape my screams, rants and uncontrollable crying. The video will immediately be uploaded to YouTube (conveniently owned by Google) and placed on the home page with the title, "WATCH THIS VIDEO AND THE SCREAMING GUY WILL SEND YOU A FREE IPAD!" My cellphone number will scroll across the screen throughout.

Once I realize Google workers are behind this, I will contact them, most likely from a pay phone. After a lengthy hold time, featuring a recorded message that repeatedly says, "Thanks for contacting Google. We already know why you're calling," a Google operator will inform me that all of this shenanigans will stop if I extend my AdWords account for another month. Or, better yet, sign up for the "five year, direct withdrawal from your back account" plan.

Now my cursor is moving away from the "cancel" button. Instead it goes to the "search" box. I type my own name.

Do I hear a sinister laugh coming from my computer speakers?

Age is nothing more than an intricate equation

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


The child sat in the grocery cart, happily eating breakfast cereal as his mother transferred items onto the belt. I stood behind them, waiting to scan my purchases: a 12-pack of Diet Coke, coffee filters and a bottle of salad dressing.

"How old is he?" I asked.

"Twenty-two months."

"Nice." I replied. "Don't believe everything you read about the 'terrible twos.' They aren't so bad."

"But he's not two. He's 22 months."

"Sure. Whatever."

Grocery mom didn't realize it but she had just risen a notch on my personal annoyance meter. She was now somewhere between idiots who press already lit elevator buttons and morons who yammer on cellphones in rest room stalls. A simple age inquiry should not require long division. Once a baby turns 1, he or she is ONE. When said baby is 22 months, the age is still one or "almost two."

The conversation ended there. She returned to the belt while I gazed at the latest Whitney Houston conspiracy theory screaming from the supermarket tabloids. The 20-whatever-month-old boy switched from Cheerios to Goldfish.

When I returned home, my wife was in the kitchen. "Did you get the lettuce?"

"The what?"

"I asked you to get a head of lettuce right before you left."

"I didn't hear 'lettuce.' I heard 'salad dressing.'"

"Well it's not surprising, "she said, half-jokingly." After all you're almost 50."

"So what?"

"So that's a half century. Turning 50 is a big deal."

Apparently so, as the subtle reminders are already trickling in. My insurance agent calls more often and sounds almost giddy as he casually tosses out phrases like "long term care insurance." Ditto for the lawyer who prepared my will. My doctor discusses uncomfortable procedures more frequently and more graphically.

I'm sorry, but I'm not in the "big deal birthday" camp. On Sept. 26, I want to awake to nothing more than a few birthday greetings from my Facebook friends. I want to avoid flying that day so a TSA official won't glance at my license, amusingly cock an eyebrow and say, "Please put your laptop in a separate bin. And by the way, happy birthday!" I don't want the entire staff at T.G.I. Friday's to break into song as they parade my fajitas to the table. Yes, I'm 50. Nothing to see here. Can't we move on?

We can, but only if I can make my age as uninteresting and complex as possible. So, as annoying as it is, I'm going to become grocery mom. When somebody asks my age, I will answer in months, not years. Want to know how long I have been on this Earth? Be prepared to have a calculator, an eraser or the latest accounting software nearby.

I've already begun testing my theory that a person's age becomes trivial when math is involved. The other day I took my 79-year-old father to breakfast at Denny's. Upon receiving the bill, I summoned the waitress.

"I think there's been a mistake," I said and then pointed to Dad. "He should get 20 percent off because he's 948 months old."

"Excuse me?"

"Happens all the time. 'Dad, just the other day didn't somebody say you didn't look a day over 828?'"

"Yep," said my father, only too happy to be part of this experiment. "And since I quit smoking, some days I feel like a 420-month-old trapped in the body of somebody who's at least 984."

"Who knows? You might be the first one in this family to reach 1260!" I said.

"I'll get the manager," the waitress replied and scurried away.

Next, I called my dentist to schedule an appointment.

"How long has it been since your last checkup?" the receptionist asked.

"I don't know. I've slacked off a little. I think it's been about 28 months."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm sorry. Twenty-nine. But I haven't had a cavity since I was about 156."

"Why don't you just call us when something hurts?"

"Sounds good to me."

Finally I called my insurance agent.

"Hey Mike, refresh my memory. Does my term life policy expire when I turn 660 or 672?

"When you're 660," he replied instantly. "That would make you 55."

Okay, so it doesn't work on everybody. But I'm still not buying long term care insurance. Even if I live to be 1800.

I Owe My Sanity to Google

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

Whenever I fly, I always scan the passengers boarding the plane and wonder if there is an air marshal in my midst. Is it the gray-haired gentleman carrying the briefcase and texting incessantly on his smartphone? Or is it the twentysomething female watching "Eat Pray Love" on her iPad? Maybe it's the teenager bobbing his skull to whatever is emanating from his headphones. I don't know what the age qualifications are to be an air marshal these days.

Once the plane takes off, I lose interest in my personal game of "Who's Packing Heat?," preferring instead to take advantage of Wi-Fi, should the plane offer it. I now can honestly say that an Internet-equipped airplane saved me from a possible encounter with an air marshal.

The incident occurred shortly after I boarded a flight to San Francisco. Somewhere over Iowa, my seat began vibrating. Gently at first and then more violently until I was forced to hold onto my half empty Diet Coke can to keep it from tumbling on to the floor.

I felt the shaking in my back, then my rear end. Finally my whole body seemed to be one giant tremor. During my first visit to Southern California, I had the dubious distinction of experiencing a minor earthquake. The shaking lasted less than five seconds and I quickly dozed back to sleep but not before thinking, "Californians are such wimps. I can't believe they whine about these things."

But seat 21F felt like being stuck in the middle of a magnitude 9.0 catastrophe. Eventually I realized the source; a foot from the passenger behind me. I hadn't seen that much twitching since Herman Cain was asked a foreign policy question. I am a fairly tolerant flier, but this was too much. I raised up slightly, a necessary maneuver when turning around in an airplane seat. Peering over my headrest, I saw a balding man in his early 30s. He was clearly expecting the confrontation and had his response at the ready.

"Sorry dude. I have restless leg syndrome."

And with that, he returned to his Kindle and his happy foot. Meanwhile, it took all my willpower to avoid replying, "That's weird. I have 'Punch a Guy in the Face Syndrome,'" which surely would have gotten an air marshal's attention.

Restless leg syndrome? What is that exactly? With 250 passengers packed like sardines in a tin can for four hours, who isn't restless? Why is this guy the only one demonstrating?

In situations like this, it pays to have Google at your disposal. I quickly typed "restless leg syndrome" into the search box and discovered that, yes, there is such a malady. It has its own website and even a foundation although both sites refer to it as "restless legs syndrome." Plural. Thankfully, this guy seemed to have the singular version.

Reading further, I discover that RLS is a lifelong condition, runs in families, affects women more than men and makes sleeping and traveling difficult.

For whom, exactly?

Realizing there were three more hours to go, I Googled, "What to do when sitting near somebody with restless leg syndrome?" I received 10.7 million hits and was prepared to read all of them if it would make the shaking stop. But I couldn't find any suggestions for me. Instead, all the articles focused on the restless leg's owner.

I donned headphones and began watching a YouTube video, entitled "How To Cope With Restless Leg Syndrome." Maybe there was something I could suggest to him. The narrator said to try, among other things, magnesium supplements, warm baths, knitting and massages.

So much for that idea. I'm happy to talk to strangers on planes, but massages are out of the question. I glanced at my watch again. Only two hours and 57 minutes to go.

I continued watching and was heartened to hear the narrator say the shaking would probably go away. Miraculously it did, just moments later. I glanced back and discovered the passenger had fallen asleep. I was now free to resume my flight in peace, thanks to a little patience and a thirst for knowledge as opposed to confrontation. If he woke up and started twitching again, I vowed not to go ballistic on him, as I now know that RLS is something that cannot be controlled easily.

Besides, who knows? The guy might be an air marshal.

Birthday wishes for the hard of hearing

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


I have recently been made aware of how loud certain sounds can be, right down to the exact decibel.

For example, I now know that normal speaking volume is between 60 and 70 decibels while whispers hover between 20 and 30 decibels. I know this because a recent USA Today article detailed how Virgin Atlantic Airways hired a "whispering coach" to instruct crew members in the fine art of softly waking first-class passengers on flights between New York and London. Note to coach passengers: The article stated you will not be receiving similar courtesy, so be prepared for a Virgin Atlantic flight attendant to scream "RISE AND SHINE!" in your ear should you ever doze off over the ocean.

I also know that the average rock concert emits noise volumes somewhere between 110 and 140 decibels. I obtained that information while researching my soon-to-be-15-year-old daughter's sole birthday desire: a pair of hip, trendy and, oh yes, very expensive headphones. When I was her age, I too listened to music via headphones. Of course this was only because I got tired of the inevitable knock on my bedroom door and the command that followed. Both came from my father.

"(Naughty Dad word) TURN IT DOWN!!!"

I rarely heard him as I was too busy listening to my steadily growing collection of vinyl albums. Anything by Journey or Styx really seemed to amplify his blood pressure. Eventually I saved enough cash to purchase a pair of oversized headphones with a black, coiled cord that stretched from my bed across the room to my Radio Shack all-in-one AM/FM stereo with cassette recorder/player. The stereo cost $250; the headphones were 20 bucks.

My daughter's headphones were priced around $300, stereo not included. But who needs a stereo today when you can cram an entire record collection into an MP3 player the size of a matchbook? Gone are the 4-foot speakers that could double as loveseats if flipped on their sides. Today it's all about the headphones. With the proper set, headphone manufacturers insist the listener can clearly make out the triangle AND the piccolo in any of Mozart's symphonies. Don't believe them? Just ask the music celebrity hired to appear in the ads.

And, of course, the last thing I want is for my precious teenage daughter to be deprived of listening to music in the exact vein as internationally renowned rap moguls and rock stars. I was ready to pull out my Visa card.

Then I saw the "safety tips" link on one manufacturer's website.

A pair of headphones shouldn't come with a word of caution, I thought. Warnings are reserved for other products. Extendable ladders, power tools and semiautomatic weapons come to mind.

But headphones?

I clicked on the link and discovered that listening to anything over 85 decibels can cause gradual hearing loss. A handy chart detailing various noise levels accompanied the warning. According to the chart, a food blender's noise level is between 85 and 90 dB.

Now I began getting nervous, knowing full well that most folks probably don't listen to music at margarita mixing levels. Furthermore, does anybody consider a blender to be loud? My dad never stormed into the kitchen and screamed, "(Naughty Dad word) STOP PUREEING!" Surely today's headphones are capable of more.

But how much more? Even though the site listed the noise levels of a garbage truck (100 dB) and jackhammer (110 dB) nowhere did it mention the potential eardrum-splitting capabilities of its product. Imagine that? Instead, it reminded visitors that the headphones currently come in "new limited edition colors" including purple.

I nixed that idea immediately. "I don't want her looking like a bruise," I told my wife.

I found my answer at headphoneinfo.com, proving once again that there truly is a website for every subject in the universe. According to the staff, the headphones in question topped out at more than 110 decibels.

That meant they were not only more costly than the price of a live rock concert, but could be louder. Unless of course your idea of "rock concert" is Neil Diamond.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked my wife.

"We'll just tell her to turn them down if we think they are too loud," she replied.

"Wouldn't she rather have a blender?"

"Very funny."

So now I'm preparing for the inevitable: screaming at my daughter from three feet away and warning her that her 15-year-old ears will soon function like 85-year-old ears if she isn't careful.

I already know what her response will be.

"What?"

Thou Shalt Play Nice When Playing Words with Friends

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I have recently begun playing Words With Friends, the online letter game that is addictive, infuriating and biblical, all at the same time.

The latter is true because success in the game seems to be driven via Matthew 7:12: "Do to others as you would have them do to you."

Words With Friends is nothing more than Scrabble played against an unseen opponent. Or opponents, which is part of its appeal. You can play as many games as you like simultaneously and there is no time limit to each one. Form a word, sail around the globe, return, do some laundry and make your next move. No problem. Better yet, no Uncle Vernon drumming his fingers on the game table and saying, "For cripes sake, I ain't getting any younger here. Play a tile!"

Words With Friends received a recent notoriety boost when Alec Baldwin was kicked off an American Airlines flight for refusing to turn off his cellphone. Reports circulated he was playing Words With Friends, even going into the plane's lavatory to make his next move. I don't blame him; I often do some of my most creative thinking in the bathroom.

On a recent Friday night. I was alone in a San Antonio hotel room playing four games at once. Suffice it to say that I'm not the world's most exciting guy when traveling on business. Sometimes I think Apple should disable all apps on weekends, thereby encouraging its millions of iPhone and iPad users to actually venture outside. Who knows? Maybe we will learn new words in the process. For example, "ennui," defined as "a feeling of utter boredom, weariness and discontent."

My first game was with Andrew, a fellow college alumnus. Four moves into the game, he played "trope," acquiring 28 points due to the triple letter/double word placement on the board.

Words With Friends does not allow players to score points with profanity. Swear words are reserved for its chat feature.

"What the (naughty word) is a trope?" I typed.

"Dunno. Heard it in some discussion section in college," came the reply.

According to Wikipedia, "trope" can mean "a literary technique, plot device, or stock character, or more generally a stereotype."

Armed with that knowledge, I immediately negated his lead with a new word of my own: "tropes."

"Take that (another naughty word)," I typed.

As Andrew pondered his next move, I navigated over to a game with business acquaintance Linda, who had just put the match out of reach with "qi" for 68 points. I assumed Linda suffered from dyslexia.

"I've heard of IQ but not in reverse," I typed exasperated.

"It's a word. Somebody played it on me once," she typed.

For the record, "qi" has two meanings. The first is "the circulating life energy that in Chinese philosophy is thought to be inherent in all things." The second is "a great word for vengeful Words With Friends players."

This is where the Book of Matthew entered my game with Andrew. I returned and saw it was my move. Since Linda was nice enough to introduce me to qi, I decided to polish my halo and do the same to my college buddy. Seeing a "q" in my bevy (good word, eh?) of letters. I quickly played "qi" and fired off a message.

"It's a Chinese philosophy word."

Andrew immediately used my "q" to form "qat." Then came the reply.

"It's some sort of drug."

He was right. "Qat," often spelled "kat," is apparently an East African shrub chewed if your goal is to get high in East Africa.

This time I didn't type a profanity. Instead, I yelled one, loud enough to be heard by tourists visiting the Alamo.

I went zero for four that evening, humiliated by combinations of two- and three-letter words that I could neither pronounce or even recognize. I'm seriously considering storming into my university's admissions office and demanding a refund for my journalism degree. Surely one of my distinguished professors should have mentioned that words such as "zu," "zax," "qis" and "waqf" do exist.

But first I had better stop at church. I need forgiveness.

The Unsolved Case of the Missing Lids

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

The other day a famous Jerry Seinfeld comedy bit popped into my head as I was cleaning my kitchen. It concerned the mysterious disappearance of socks.

"How many times have you done a big (load of) laundry?" Seinfeld asks the audience. "Go to the dryer, take out your socks, count 'em up . . . one of 'em got out."

I would like to extend an invitation to Seinfeld to come to my house, barefoot if he wants, and explain what's been happening to my food storage lids.

These days there is no such thing as a properly packaged leftover in the Schwem household and that's not because our family licks our plates clean, demands seconds, devours those and gives the crumbs to the dog lurking underfoot. We clear the table every night, scrape what wasn't eaten into plastic containers of various shapes and prepare to neatly stack them in the fridge, smug in our belief that we will have a full, easily microwaveable dinner on one of those upcoming evenings when the kids have to be in five places at once.

Unfortunately, that's where this "Leave it to Beaver" scene ends. Whoever is on cleanup duty spends the next 30 minutes loudly rummaging through every drawer in the kitchen, trying to assemble a food storage jigsaw puzzle. Why won't Lid A fit on Container B and what the heck happened to Lid B in the first place? Eventually we give up and cover each container with sorry substitutes such as plastic wrap or tin foil.

Lids are sort of like computers: You have to get new ones every few years. The difference is, my computers don't randomly disappear. Is it due to carelessness, or am I a victim of lid piracy? Should I begin frisking my houseguests before they leave or simply ask them to empty their pockets to prove they are not about to abscond with the round lid that fits a 16-ounce container, the rectangular lid that seals the 8-ounce container or worse, the square interchangeable lid that fits multiple sizes! That one vanished mere days after we purchased it and my father in law has been acting extremely guilty as of late.

Unexplainable lid departure is apparently not a problem that is exclusive to me. Just for the heck of it, I searched "food storage containers" on Amazon and quickly found a 104-piece set from the Imperial Co. Amazon even offered gift wrapping, in case I decide to surprise my wife on our anniversary.

I wasn't concerned with decorative packaging; instead, my eye went immediately to the words on the box: "Storage containers. 104 piece set. Including lids."

The "including lids" phrase was all the evidence I needed. Imperial chose to make lids an actual selling point, proving that food covers are hot commodities. A set of lids should be a given, not an upgrade. You don't purchase a "2012 Honda Accord. Including tires." Know why? Because nobody ever goes into their garage and says, "What happened to my tire? I'm sure it was here last night."

I remember those wonderful days when we, too, had a complete set comprising 15 containers and lids. Now we have 13 containers and two lids.

"Just buy a new set," my wife said.

"No way," I replied. "That wouldn't be fair to the existing containers. Their feelings will be hurt."

And with that, I logged onto eBay and searched "lids for food storage."

I was in luck! Somebody in Russellville, Tenn., was selling single lids for six and eight quart containers. Furthermore, the seller had five available. This person was a lid celebrity.

The price for one lid? $11.66 plus shipping.

The 104-piece set cost $14.99.

Chagrined, I logged off eBay, returned to Amazon and donated $14.99 to the Imperial Co. I should be receiving 104 lids in two to four days. Leftovers will be fresh again, at least for the near future.

Coincidentally, Jerry Seinfeld will be performing in my town next month. Jerry, if you're reading this, come on by and I'll help you write a new bit about this missing lid phenomenon. You can even have dinner with us.

Just don't expect to leave with any leftovers. For your troubles, I'll give you a sock.

A Password for the Ages - and the Aging

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am staring at my computer screen reading and re-reading the four words that confound me the most whenever I surf the Internet:

"Please enter your password."

I had become a member of this online shopping site just three days ago, creating the obligatory password in the process. I took the advice of cyber experts who warn us not to duplicate our passwords and fashioned something entirely new. However, I failed to take the advice of cyber experts who also suggest we write the password down somewhere.

"I'll remember it," I thought. "It's my first Little League team followed by the year I began playing baseball. Badgers1973."

Now, as I continue to type the password into the box and hit "enter," only to be stymied by "Incorrect Password," I am second-guessing myself. Is this the right password for the right site? It's a question I'm asking myself more frequently these days. Does "funnydad49" allow me to book tickets via American Airlines' website, or is that what I use to check my Google mail? Does "3472" unlock my phone or raise and lower my garage door by means of the electronic keypad outside my house? Is "cyberdork871" my Apple ID that lets me shop in the iTunes store through my iPad or is it the code I created for my home wireless network that lets the iPad talk to the iTunes store?

As I approach the half-century mark of life, my eyesight and my memory skills are deteriorating at alarming rates. Bifocals help the former, but there is no medical remedy for password absent-mindedness. My phone contains an app called Password Keeper that promises to store all the passwords I have created, but I'm not using it for one simple reason:

The app is password protected. I'd need a password to retrieve my passwords.

If you are among those people mentally exhausted due to the jumble of word and number combinations swirling around your brain like lottery balls, take heart. I'm creating a new social network and I'm inviting you to join. I won't reveal all the details, but here's an elevator pitch in case any venture capitalists are reading.

The network will be called OurPassword and sign up is free. Once you have established an account (you won't need a password to do so) I will send you the single password that all members use. Let's say that password is "FAILEDGEEK100." That becomes your password for EVERYTHING you do on line. If you forget the OurPassword password, just seek out another member. OurPassword may never rival Facebook in terms of participants, but I'm confident somebody will be nearby. Imagine sitting at your desk and being unable to make an online dinner reservation because your OpenTable.com password escapes you. Just shout, "Is anybody here a member of OurPassword?" I guarantee that, within moments, somebody will glide over and whisper in your ear, "FAILEDGEEK100."

There is one qualification before joining the network. You must first prove that you have been locked out of at least three different websites because you couldn't remember your password. Just snap three photos of your computer screen containing the message, "PASSWORD FAILED" and send them to me as evidence. I'm doing this for security purposes; I don't want this singular password to get into the hands of hackers. By showing me that you are consistently forgetting your passwords, you are also proving you do not have the intelligence to hack. Besides, hackers aren't usually middle aged and suffering memory lapses. From what I've read, hackers are twentysomethings who still live in their parents' basements and whose only friends growing up were a laptop and a poster of Steve Jobs.

I promise I will never change the password, for that would defeat the purpose. Still interested? Stay tuned because I will reveal more details later. Right now, my deadline is approaching and it's time to upload this column to my editors. I just need to log in to the server and then enter my pa . . .

On second thought, maybe I'll just fax it.

The Robot Is In The Driveway

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2011 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC


My hometown of Chicago is extremely quiet and boring in February with the exception of two events.

The first is a massive surprise snowstorm that will begin precisely at 7 a.m., just as thousands of commuters are headed to work. The blizzard will taper off around noon, but, like the eye of a hurricane, return with a vengeance several hours later. By this time everybody has reached their offices, only to discover they are closed for the day and there is nothing else to do except turn around and head home.

The second is the Chicago Auto Show, a spectacle that brings masses of car enthusiasts to McCormick Place, where they gawk at the latest and greatest automobiles, most of which are identical to last year's models except with higher sticker prices due to one upgraded feature, typically a sturdier cup holder.

I attend the Auto Show whenever I'm in the market for a new car. This is in sharp contrast to most Auto Show attendees, who go merely to get out of the cold. Once inside, they can also feast on $8 dollar hot dogs and have their pictures taken with bikini-clad women who make their living saying, "Things get hot and heavy, when I'm inside my Chevy" forty-eight times per day. This year, however, I will be attending for a different reason. Our society is getting ever so close to a new form of transportation and I want to make sure it's designed correctly.

I'm talking about the driverless car.

No, that's not a misprint. General Motors, Audi, Volkswagen and BMW are among the manufacturers that envision the day when cars will drive themselves, leaving occupants free to do what's really important in a vehicle: composing text messages and applying makeup. Also hoping to catch a piece of the autonomous car market is none other than Google, whose top geeks have apparently finished compiling information on everything in existence and are now seeking new challenges. Search "driverless car" on YouTube and marvel as Google fellow and former Stanford University professor Sebastian Thrun explains how a prototype car sans driver recently drove 140,000 miles while stopping at toll booths, parallel parking, avoiding deer and even navigating the crooked streets of San Francisco. I've already shown the video to my 14-year-old daughter and said she will face similar tests when she takes driver's education. (Might as well scare her now, right?)



I was disappointed that the video did not show the vehicle in a car-pool situation. My wife and I spend half our waking hours idling in driveways waiting for some kid to emerge from a house carrying a sports bag large enough to hold an acre of AstroTurf. The computer that operates the driverless car needs to know what awaits it. At this year's Auto Show, I plan to seek out the engineers behind this technology and insist that autonomous cars are equipped with appropriate car-pooling features. Among my requests:

The car must be able to "sense" when one of the kids is darting through the house looking for cleats and notify everyone else, via text message, that the car pool is now running eight to ten minutes late. Might as well notify the opposing team, too.

The car must immediately emit a warning light when somebody in the rear seat drops a sandwich, thereby ensuring a cheese slice won't be discovered six months later.

The car must be immune to odors emitted when one occupant decides to remove a piece of equipment, a kneepad for instance, after practice. Until my kids started playing sports, I never realized knees could smell so bad.

The car must receive only one radio station: National Public Radio. With no driver in the front seat, who's going to keep the occupants from reaching forward and blasting the latest single from a foul-mouthed rapper?

Finally, the car must trust its on-board navigational system and not succumb to suggestions from the occupants such as, "Turn left, I mean right, NO LEFT," "I think that's my house" and "You just passed it."

Please notify me when these features are in place. I'll be at the Chevrolet booth, posing for a photo.