Case of the Missing Sansabelts

One of my elderly neighbors regularly falls asleep behind the wheel of his Cadillac. Fortunately he's parked in our parking lot. When I wake him up to see if he's okay he says, "I'm just resting his ticker for the hike." His apartment is on the fourth floor. Our building has no elevator. Yesterday he seemed particularly embarrassed to be woken up again. I quickly thought of some neighborly conversation to ease the tension. I asked if his tap water was as brown as mine last week. It was. He in turn asked if I'd caught wind of his stolen pants. Say what?

He explained that the missing slacks were last seen in a Klinke Cleaner's bag hanging on the doorknob inside his locked apartment. Having just finished a winter power walk, sweat was beginning to bead up under my earmuffs. Did I look guilty? Turns out his lead suspect is our landlady, Betty. He says she gained entry with her master key and made off with the goods. I was trying my best to be sympathetic to my neighbor's plight but doubted a small woman had a motive for stealing an overweight senior's Sansabelts, even if they were Klinke clean.

He sweetened the deal. In addition to the pants, he was missing some Equal packets. I tried to piece the evidence together in my mind -- overweight man, missing pants, artificial sweetener, it all seemed connected somehow but still didn't explain why I was standing there in the cold parking lot sweating over this. He continued to make his case. Seems he had taken two packets of sweetener out of the box in the cupboard and placed them on the counter for his cup of coffee. He then left the kitchen to go to the bathroom. When he returned the Equal packets were gone. Which is where I wanted to be at this point as the sweat was now running down my forehead into my eyes.

Sensing my uneasiness, he suggested we lean up against his Caddy. I said I wished I could but had to get back to work. So he shifted his weight and continued. He is so sure that Betty is regularly breaking into his apartment, stealing and/or moving things around that he called the building owner to complain. My neighbor believes the only reason the owner didn't take action is because, "He's always pickled by 3:00 in the afternoon." I assumed this was the end of the story, case closed. "That's when I called the police," he said. Okay, now we're getting somewhere! But to his surprise, even the police couldn't help. I suggested that maybe with budget cuts they aren't giving priority to cases involving missing slacks, even if they are the more expensive Sansabelts with the patented expandable waistband. He reminded me they weren't missing, "They were stolen!" Poor guy. I knew that even Crimestoppers wouldn't take his case without a police report. He just stood there looking hopeless.

So as I turned to leave, I mentioned that I had alot of change that I kept in a milk jug in my apartment... did he think this would be an easy target for Betty? "Join the club!" he said and reached out happily to shake my hand. Apparently, having any degree of suspicion about Betty makes me a believer. And we'd now be working as an undercover team to take a bite out of crime. But I don't think this is a case that can be solved overnight. My neighbor may have to closely guard the Equal packets, and keep his pants on.

- Submitted by a concerned neighbor and undercover brother

Family Cures For Winter Blues

The mid-winter blues didn't come out of the blue. Driving back from Milwaukee I realized the earth and sky had both been the same shade of gray for as long as I can remember. Even my bright blue VW bug is that same gray color after being covered with white road salt and then darkened with road grime. You'd think after a half century of living in Wisconsin I'd be used to winter. But it's still depressing to think the only color we see outside besides gray is yellow snow. And with my current workload, the only green space I can get to is the mold growing under my bathroom sink. Why mold is also growing inside my right ear is currently boggling the medical community. After prescribing antibiotic eye drops for my ear problems, they sent me to the drug store for a more unorthodox treatment. I don't need a prescription, just the nerve to ask the female pharmacist how best to dispense three drops of jock itch treatment into my right ear. Adding to the winter of my discontent is my annual sinus infection. Last night I tried the saline pot the ENT nurse told me to pour into one nostril so it would come out the other. My sinuses were so plugged that the salt water came out my left eye. I miss having Mom's advice on health issues.

Dad comes up with some great cures though. In fact, he invented saline sniffing as a cold and sinus treatment. Some of Dad's other medical cures include Crazy Glue for cuts, chlorine bleach for skin problems, and who could forget his cure for teeth stained from years of pipe smoking and blackjack gum chewing, the ever popular brushing your teeth with Comet. I imagine the taste is worse than having your mouth washed out with Dial soap. Mom introduced me to that practice after my creative use of some of the words you can't say on TV. Fortunately Dad's teeth enamel was saved when he showed off his brighter smile to his dentist who immediately put a stop to it.

I suspect my family’s desire to find creative healthcare solutions may be genetic. I shave with women's cold cream, use fruit-infused shampoo on my entire body, and put Vaseline soaked cotton balls in my ears to keep water out while showering. It may also be compounded by Seasonal Affect Disorder. My older brother uses a special light to beat the winter blues while reading the newspaper. As a kid he devised an ingenious system to avoid second hand smoke on long road trips in the station wagon. He’d put his jacket over his head, shove his face into the armpit, and feed the sleeve out a crack in the window for his own steady supply of fresh air. But Dad is still the father of invention. When I saw him last night for dinner, he pulled out a tube of VO5 hair dressing and carefully applied a glob to the inside of each nostril. "A little dab will do 'ya?" I declined despite his claims that it’s a “wonderful moisturizer.” I guess winter in Wisconsin inspires us all to adapt as best we can. Some families are just more inspired than others.

- Submitted by a winter and family survivalist

The Barber of DeVille

Growing up in the middle of five children, my marketing director father was always coming up with new ways to stretch the family budget. Corn meal mush for breakfast was re-branded as, "breakfast pizza." And white bread with butter and sugar on top was pitched as a delicious alternative to Twinkies. So, it wasn't long before Dad realized he could save big money by cutting our hair himself. While my siblings reluctantly went along with this idea, I was a bit too style conscious, even at a young age. Still, Dad lured me in with the promise of a mohawk if I agreed to come back and let him "butch" me before dark.

As we lined up for that first appointment we soon realized Dad's barbering technique, along with the electric clippers, came from the regular trimming our family dogs, Pupper and Molly. I probably don't need to tell you which end of a long-haired English Cocker needs clipping the most. But we followed him as he grabbed a kitchen chair and an old sheet and set up shop in the backyard. Dad said he'd have better light out there and we could relax. Relax? Even during this pre-texting era, the neighbor kids had spread the word and were gathering to watch and laugh. I knew the real reason we were outside was so Mom wouldn't get upset about us tracking hair onto the living room carpet. But Dad always gave things a marketing spin with added benefits for the target audience. And at home we were the target audience.

I guess it's only natural that I gained some of his marketing insights. So, when my friend Sam announced after school one day that his mom had given him four dollars for a haircut, I sprung into action and sold him on the idea of letting ME be his barber and splitting the profits. How hard could it be? Well, easier if Sam could sit still. Squirming while under the buzz of an electric clippers can be hazardous to your ears. I'd learned this lesson the hard way with Dad. But before Sam could protest the sight of blood, I'd managed to cut perfect "white walls" on either side of his head. This made it look like he'd gotten his money's worth and/or had his ears lowered. So, after putting a ruler on his neck and cutting a perfect straight line above the collar, I handed Sam a bandaid and we were off to enjoy pinball and ice cream on his mom's four dollars.

Thanks to this joint venture, the clippers buzzed every few weeks and we enjoyed our just desserts. It was the perfect scam -- until Sam's mom started to notice a hair shelf thickening about a quarter of an inch above his ears. Knowing that the boy's father was going to the same barber and getting fine results she questioned his new look. And when the style I'd given him grew into something resembling a German Army helmet from World War II, he confessed, my mom was called, and just like that, Hair By Jeffrey was out of business.

It was a bloody shame, too, because I'm sure that with a little more practice I could've learned to layer hair without taking skin with it. Our fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Ross, still probably wonders why Sam wore bandaids on the tops of his ears that year. But Dad and I understood perfectly. And I learned that the service outcome is of critical importance to running a successful small business. While Dad's innovative ways to stretch the family budget eventually afforded him the opportunity to buy his dream car, a gently used 1964 Cadillac DeVille.

- Submitted by a creative marketing executive who cuts his own hair