It pains me whenever my wife goes out and buys any type of new electronic device. This is because she, being probably the most electronically-challenged person on the planet, will be totally dependent on me to figure out how the thing works.

For instance, a few years ago she got a portable DVD player as a Christmas present. My wife has a bit of a streak of independence, so, as she is usually wont to do, she struggled on her own for a whole afternoon trying to figure out how to get the thing to work. Afterwards, she turned to me in despair. I looked at the player for a few seconds and flicked a switch on the side. The device immediately came to life and began playing the disc that was loaded into it. “See this right here,” I showed her. “That’s the ‘on’ button”

“Oh”, she replied, “I didn’t get that part.”

I bring this up because last week she came home with a new contraption to totrure herself with- a small digital camera. This time, however, she had no delusions of being able to figure out how to operate this one on her own.

So I whipped out the quick start guide, showed her the basic controls, being careful to point out the location of the “on” button, and off she went merrily snapping shots of just about everything that even vaguely captured her interest, even down to the stack of last week’s newspapers.

Then, it came time to upload the newly taken images onto the computer, a task which, to her at least, was as daunting as finding proof for the Unified Field Theory.

I showed her the few basic steps for this, which pretty much amounted to drag-and-drop, and off I went to my own business of watching classic episodes of the Hooters Annual Bikini Contest on hulu.com on my own laptop.

I had barely gotten through the opening credits before I herd her call from the other room. “The picture of my ring came out blurry!” she lamented. “Help me!”

Getting a good, sharp picture of such a small object I knew would be somewhat of a challenge with this particular camera. After all, this type of camera was not the equipment of, say, a crime scene investigator. Still, I knew I had to at least make an attempt at solving this problem, and to do this i needed to go beyong the Quick Start guide and into the User’s Manual.

The CD that came with the camera contained versions of the manual in quite a few languages, including some that I’m sure have been dead for centuries. Fortunately, English was one of these- surprising given that it’s the official tongue of the country of purchase. However, I was grieved to discover that the manual for this puny little camera seemed to have more pages than a bill being debated in Congress.

This manual I’m sure covers how to take just about any kind of picture imaginable, that is, except how to photograph small objects so they don’t come out all washed out and blurry.

So, I, the Great Tech Whiz-kid of the house, (by default since no one under the age of fifteen lives with us) was stumped on that particular question.

This did not stop her, however, and about every five minutes or so for the rest of the evening I had to answer one after another desperate plea for help. By the time I was done, I was qualified to tech a college-level course on how to operate this particular model of camera.

I still don’t know how to take a picture of something that remotely resembles my wife’s ring, but someday I will. I have to; I don’t think I’ll get through a single episode of the Hooters’ Bikini Contest until I do.

When you get to the age where you are officially over the hill, there’s two things for sure that happen. One, gravity works a lot better. (This is true for both sexes.) Secondly, doctors start performing more and more tests on you so that they can better monitor your slow but sure demise.

During my last annual physical, my doctor informed me that I was now at the age where I should get a colonoscopy for precautionary measures. Now, the procedure itself didn’t seem so bad, but the preparation sounded like sheer hell. They put you on a diet where the delicacies are chicken broth and popsicles (and even then cherry is taboo), and you spend all day on the throne. You become, as Larry the Cable Guy puts it, “King of the Poopers.”

He referrerd me to a specialist who performs these procedures, and I managed to ignore the messages from the nurse who called several times to schedule the appointment. I could not, however, ignore my wife’s encouragements to get the deed done. I must say, she looks out for my health a lot more than I do myself. I like to think it’s because she loves me so much, but I really believe it’s just a sign that I’m not carrying enough life insurance.

I managed to procrastinate for about six months, but, seeing that my lady wouldn’t let up, I finally caved. Today was the big day. So, yesterday was “the prep”. The instructions are to drink a half gallon of this concoction that’s supposed to clean you out. I hadn’t drank so much fluid so fast since I was on the eight man keg team for my college fraternity. I felt like I had swallowed Lake Ponchartrain.

That wasn’t the worst part of it, though. That evening, it was our turn to work the bingo for the Knights of Columbus. I have a ritual for this duty. I start off in the kitchen cooking the cheeseburgers. Being the chef, I always treat myself to a nice big double cheeseburger, smothered with fried onions, mustard, and lettuce. So here I am cooking and smelling these cheeseburgers, denied my usual pleasure. I glance back to see my wife at the other end of the kitchen, snickering as she prepares the popcorn (which is my normal desert, another pleasure that I am denied on this particular evening).

So today I go through the procedure, and I’m given a clean bill of health. That doesn’t surprise me, given the special high fiber cereal that she always feeds me for breakfast. It tastes like I’m eating pine bark mulch with a few nuts tossed in.

On my way out, the nurse warns me to consume light meals for the next day or so. Screw that; I made a beeline out of the clinic straight to Logan’s Roadhouse for a big steak and french fries.

Having endured this ordeal, I think that I’m going to go out and get a supplimental life insurance policy. That way I ought to be able to smoke and drink to my heart’s content, and avoid the doctor’s office without my wife’s objections.

What can I say? I like to live my life according to the lyrics of Jimmy Buffett songs. There’s one that goes:

“I’d rather die while I’m living than live while I’m dead.”

Today’s blog post is going up a little later than I had planned. Let me explain why.

I woke up at 6 AM, early for me on a Saturday morning. I contemplated the day ahead as I enjoyed my coffee and newspaper. It was going to be a great one. There was no customary honey-do list waiting for me on the kitchen table; the grass didn’t need mowing; nothing around the house needed fixing. The only item on the agenda was my blog post, which I could knock out by eight. I smiled, realizing that I had the rest of the long day free to puruse whatever mindless activity I fancied.

A few things came quickly to mind. I could catalog my CD collection; I could waste a few hours on the Internet searching for some good jokes about various types of people and animals who walk into a bar. Saturdays like these come to my house about as frequently as a total eclipse of the sun. Man, I was in tall cotton!

My wife had mentioned to me that she was planning to rent a cleaner to do some carpets. Sure, babe, I figured. Go ahead and knock yourself out while I retire to my man-cave for the day. Little did I know that she had an ulterior motive. After nearly twenty-five years of being married to her, it was my own fault that I didn’t see it coming.

Returning with the cleaner, my lovely bride casually mentioned that she might need “a little bit of help.”  OK, what husband who values his marriage could turn down a request like that? So, she starts juggling the various bottles of chemicals that they sold her and going through the instructions with that puzzled look like she was trying to figure out how to decontaminate a chemical weapons storage bunker.

Right about that time, my hopes for a relaxing day sank faster than a Sopranos’ victim in his concrete boots. Hubby in shining armor to the rescue!

Several hours later, I had successfully completed the task. Great; there was still enough time left in the day to find at least a few good bar jokes on the web.  Then, over our late lunch of leftover pizza, she made the comment that she would also like to wash the cars.  My last little bubble of hope went up in flames like the Hindenberg. 

So, now it’s 5 PM. The CD’s sit uncatalogued and I don’t have any new jokes to tell at the party tonight.

Babe, please don’t give me false hopes again next Saturday. Just leave me the honey-do list on the breakfast table.