Having benefited all my life from pre-stained, secondhand couches, I had never actually been inside a real furniture store, so I was a little uneasy. I didn't have a clue what a new couch might cost, but I figured we could probably pick up a decent model with mid-range absorbency for, oh, $19.95 or so. I knew we were in trouble, however, when we walked through the front door and were greeted by a sign that read 'Free Hyundai With Any Purchase.'

The first couch we looked at cost $47,000. My wife started to get a little nervous, but told me most places have a 'scratch and dent' section somewhere with reduced prices. I suggested a scratch and sniff model, but she reminded me that our current couch already qualified with no scratching required.

It was all a little overwhelming, but as luck would have it we happened to be shopping in February, a month our forward-thinking Presidents, Abe and George, set aside long ago for the sale of low-interest furniture in honor of their birthdays, so there was some hope.

Out of nowhere a salesman appeared and stuck out his hand. "Hi, folks, I'm Carl. What kind of unit are you looking to take home today?"

Unit? This started to take on a familiar feel. Suddenly all my furniture store anxieties dissolved like a fast-acting suppository. I was back in my element.

My transformation was quick. I let out a dissatisfied sigh, slumped on the arm of the nearest sofa, and reached to pull a cigarette out of the inside pocket of my jacket before I remembered I don't smoke. My hand came out holding a pack of orange Tic Tacs, which I confidently shook at Carl.

"I don't know," I answered, shaking my head as I gazed at the sea of couches around me. "What CAN you show us, Carl?" My wife gave me the same confused look I got the day I asked her to marry me. "We're looking for a newer pre-owned model, Carl. Emphasis on 'pre'."

"Ah, bargain shoppers. I like that," Carl said. "Follow me, I have a terrific unit that we just took in yesterday. I think you'll love it."

"We'll see about that, Carl." My wife gazed at me quizzically, wondering where her real husband went.

Carl led us to a decent-looking couch sitting in the back corner of the showroom. "Isn't she a beauty?" he asked. "This baby is the couch of your dreams. It's last year's model and was owned by a sweet old lady who used to sit all day and knit scarves for her grandkids. It's like new!"

"Is that so?" I asked as I slowly walked around the couch, running my fingers across the fabric. I squatted down in front and let my countless hours of watching CSI go to work. My hands felt their way across the cushions as I tilted my head and nodded slowly. I glanced up at Carl. "Little old lady, huh? The angle and depression of these buttock imprints would indicate an adult male, I'd say approximately 325 lbs." I turned back to the cushion and squinted. "He wore Wranglers, size 52 waist. There's a faint Copenhagen ring on the left side. Longcut, wintergreen flavor."

Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Carl's forehead. "Really? Uh...there must be some mistake."

"Can you open her up for me, Carl?"

"Sure thing." He nervously lifted one of the cushions and I immediately spotted it. Wedged into the crevice below the arm was a fragment of a potato chip. I pulled it out and held it a few inches from my face, turning it slowly for full inspection. I took a few sniffs and touched it lightly against my tongue. Shaking my head, I turned to Carl.

"Do you know what this is, Carl?" I asked. "It's a Limited Edition Crunchy Dill potato chip, manufactured by Pringles and discontinued in the year 2004." I flicked the piece of chip in Carl's direction. "Last year's model, huh? I think not."

"Um...uh..." Carl stuttered.

"Come on, honey, let's go. Sofa Sultan's offering free delivery and no payments until 2084."

"Hold on, now!" Carl pleaded. "Let me talk to my manager and see what we can work out."

I smiled and nodded. "You do that, Carl."

So, we wound up with the 'couch of our dreams'. We didn't get the Hyundai and the cat's been depressed because she no longer has anything to lick, but at least our children can sit without the aid of the fire department.

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He excused himself to move my cart, so he could reach the rice cakes. Rice cakes! Man-purse! Rice cakes! I wanted to shake him by the shoulders and say "What did they DO to you, man? Dude – a man-purse? Do you think this is 1970? Do you think this is the Renaissance Faire? This is the cereal aisle. Have some self-respect."

I should talk. In my twenties, I was called "effeminate" by a stranger in a restaurant. True story. I was halfway through my enchilada when a man in another booth leaned over and informed me that I was effeminate. (He had been drinking). He based his opinion, apparently, on the fact that I was eating a meal in public with my mother, and also the fastidious flourish with which I brandished my fork.

Luckily, I was possessed of a powerful cool in my twenties, and simply turned to my refried beans. Had this happened today, with my temper rendered less steady by a decade raising children, he might have worn my effeminate fork home.

But it's true, I have always been a little precious with my cutlery. Plus, I don't watch sports. I don't eat steak. I don't drink beer. I like to listen to classic literature while I drive to work (Mr. Darcy and Ms. Bennett are parrying for each other's affections this week on disc six). So I am kind of an authority on effeminacy.

Man-purse dude was not gay, though. No gay man would have worn a suede man-purse with those shoes.

But I can't imagine what he had to carry that was so cumbersome he needed a man-purse. A tub of fine-wrinkle reducing cream, maybe? A hardcover copy of "Confessions of a Shopaholic"? See, there I go again, mocking the masculinity-challenged, when I am not exactly Stanley Kowalski myself.

At least I did not call rice cake boy "effeminate" to his face, even though, clearly forkless, he was no danger to me. A guy on a rice cake diet throws one punch, maybe two, and he's done. But he got me thinking about the very different ways we men define manliness.

Handshakes are a big deal to some. Some guys will crush your mitt to make sure you know just how manly they are. This smacks of insecurity to me, though. I always want to frisk them for rice cakes.

But then a guy who hands you the limp fish is not even trying. The middle ground is best, I think, a firm but modest handshake which says "I'm a man, and I could kill you with the paper umbrella from the frilly drink you undoubtedly order when you are out with the little woman, but I don't have to prove it with this squeeze."

You could argue that Mr. Man-Purse was so secure in his masculinity he didn't care what other people thought. Fair enough. But go with me here — unless you work for the Pony Express, lose the satchel! God gave you four pockets for a reason: keys, wallet, phone, mascara. (Ha ha, look at the manly way I kid this guy! I like him more every minute.)

Look, men have crossed over into many formerly-feminine domains already. Earrings. Hair coloring. Watching "Grey's Anatomy" with the sound on. Fine. But come on, not handbags!

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Mom spent a good portion of her family budgeting time clipping ads from the newspaper. We knew not to wander too closely to her at the time those scissors were snapping. Otherwise, we'd end up with an impromptu, one-sided haircut.

Then we'd have to sneak up to her on the other side in hopes of an even trim. There was the risk of a nipped ear, of course. Fortunately, Mom had just clipped a coupon for bandages.

She jammed the 25-cents-off bandages coupon into the proper category of her packed accordion folder, which appeared ready to explode from overcrowding, and was ready for a trip to the grocery store -- which she would have done if it had been double coupon day. It wasn't, so I taped an expired aspirin coupon to my ear instead.

I probably would have been born a year earlier, but Mom and Dad were hoping the obstetrician would run a second-kid-50-percent-off deal before starting a family. The doctor didn't, and that's why there are no twins in my family.

We didn't have a lot of money growing up -- which turned out to be excellent training for adulthood, by the way. I don't have a lot of money now that doesn't belong to somebody else. I know because every month I'm writing checks and mailing them off with the other kind of coupons.

When I bought my car, I was pretty excited when the dealer said I'd be receiving a coupon book in the mail. Then it came -- two books, to be exact -- with a coupon for every month, but not a discount in sight. These were not the kind of coupons littered about the bottom of my briefcase and lining my coat pockets.

It's the deals for which my scissors and I search. I was trained from birth never to buy anything at retail, and I remain a cheapskate to this day. A house just isn't a home if there isn't a place or three to clip and stack save-a-buck offers and free sandwich deals.

True, my bookstore coupons come by e-mail. There's an ice cream place that zaps me monthly deals. And one restaurant sends me a Web link to a buy-one-get-one dinner every year for my birthday. Just click and print. You still have the piece of paper in your hand, and clicking lessens the chances of cutting off the ears of stray kids.

It's not the same. How do you know you're cutting your shopping bill without scissors cramps and a touch of ink on the fingertips?

Nothing beats settling into an easy chair -- I bought mine with a coupon -- packing yourself in with wads of newsprint and splashy inserts, a pair of scissors and an organizer held together by rubber bands. I'm not even interested in some of products I clip. It's the thrill of the hunt. I figure somebody I know could use a combination nose hair trimmer/garden trowel if it's 30 percent off. I have the coupon.

And if the Friday night date falls through, cozy up with the organizer and fish out all the expired coupons.

I'll probably do so this week. I just clipped a trial box of trash bags.

www.tribune-chronicle.com

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'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, except my poor, ol’ spouse.
My stockings were hung in the bathroom with care,
‘Cause he’ll turn on the water and not see them there.

The children were nestled in their own homesteads,
While visions of guest rooms danced in our heads.
And I in old PJ’s and he glad for hair in his cap.
Had just settled in for a long winter’s nap.

When from my side of the bed there arose such a clatter,
He sprang up and shouted, “Geez, what’s the matter?!’’
To the window I flew with my midnight hot flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

When, what to my failing eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
Oh just great, I whined. Talk about double whammy
Finally meet Santa and my face is all clammy.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
So I whistled and shouted and called them by name!
"Now Dasher and Dancer! Keep my shrubs away from Vixen!
“Hey Donner, I’m sweating! Who cares about Blitzen?

Get off of that porch! Don’t sue if you fall!
I’m feelin’ real cranky. Now dash away all!’’
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and damage caused by each little hoof.

We both went downstairs and were stumbling around,
When down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot.
“That’s new carpet!’’ I said. “Don’t track in your soot!’’

A huge sack of toys he had flung on his back,
Thinks he’s still 25. Someone give him a smack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
They annoyed me like crazy. Please pass the sherry.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
So I begged: “Take me home. I’ll cool off in that snow.”
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
“My wife’s like you. Ho. Ho. Why punish myself?’’

He had a broad face and a round little belly,
“Try Jenny Craig,’’ I sniffed. “And that pipe is real smelly.’’
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And putting his thumb to the tip of his nose,
Gave a nasty sign and up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But he exclaimed to my husband as he drove out of sight,
"Good luck to you, buddy. You’ll need it tonight!’’

http://www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/boomergal

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In our Florida senior retirement community where the average age is coma, the highlight event of the year is the Super Senior Men's golf tournament, for players 75 yrs. or older.

This Fall the men went at it for two days and finally whittled down to two gents, Herbert, 76 yrs., and Twongey, who was 83 yrs. old. They were all tied and the young Pro running the tournament called for a putting "playoff", as the term "sudden death" is not too popular here!

There were over 2,000 spectators ringing the green when Twongey sunk a 10-putt to gain the win. A large cheer went up when the ball dropped into the cup, and in all the excitement, Twongey's 82 yr. old girl friend, "Wrinkles" Kelley, got so carried away that she ripped off all her clothing and attempted to streak the 35-yd. wide green!

I say 'attempted' because Miss Kelley was using a walker!

I was in the crowd and I noticed that after "Wrinkles" stumbled by some of the fans, a few men and women standing on the fringe fainted! And after she got past me I understood why -- it seems that on her right buttock she sported a facial tattoo of Mick Jagger, (as if she didn't already have enough wrinkles!).

Anyway, it took her about a half-hour to complete the journey before she collapsed into the waiting arms of our emergency squad. They carted her off to the local hospital where she had to be treated for a horrible sunburn, while good old Twongey hit the bar at the 19th hole of the clubhouse for a few quick pops, before loyally heading to the emergency room to console his suffering fiance.