Mother’s touch enough to get you back in the saddle

<p>“My wife doesn’t understand me.” It’s a common complaint uttered by men sitting in bars. Of course, that’s not where I picked it up. I probably overheard it at the barber shop.</p><p>My problem is that my wife does understand me. Heidi, my proofreader, is also on to me. I try so darn hard to be misunderstood, but all women have my number. I’m so clueless, I don’t even know what my own number is. How the heck did they get it?</p><p>The best example is my frequent assertion that after writing more than 1,000 humor columns, it’s time to quit. Whenever I fail to come up with a new idea for my next column, I climb the stairs from my basement office with a long face, slump into a kitchen chair and let out a huge sigh. “I’m out of ideas,” I tell Mary Ellen. “There is nothing left to write about.” Last week I added that Dave Barry and Art Buchwald both had nervous breakdowns due to the pressure. That last part isn’t true, but my wife is not a Googler, so I may get away with it.</p><p>At this point I wanted Mary Ellen to say something like: “Dick, you are creative. Don’t let a little writer’s block get you down. Something will come to you. It always does.” But no, instead, I got: “Maybe you’re right. Just tell all the newspapers you’re quitting.&quot;</p><p>That’s not the way my mother would have handled this. When I was a kid and felt overwhelmed by Spanish or geometry, Joan would be supportive and motivating. She’d tell me I could do anything if I put my mind to it. Then she’d cook my favorite meatloaf dinner. Why can’t my wife treat me more like a child?</p><p>I can’t do what Mary Ellen’s proposing because I don’t really want to stop writing this column (and she knows that), but it would make no sense to argue with her. Remember, it was my stupid idea to begin with.</p><p>So I decided to call Heidi, my proofreader. I knew she’d be more encouraging. “Heidi, it’s Dick. I can’t write another column. I’m hanging it up. There are no more original ideas.”</p><p>“You’re right. There’s probably nothing funny left to say. It’s been pretty obvious the last few weeks.”</p><p>“Wait a second. Aren’t you going to tell me that I’m incredibly prolific and I will eventually come up with a topic, just like I always have for 20 years? You must have something else to add.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah! Don’t forget to put that last check in the mail.”</p><p>I even texted my sister in New York. Her response: “Oh well, one less thing in my inbox each week. How’s the weather out there?”</p><p>Finally, I called Bob, my best friend. He and his wife are big fans and read my stuff every week. Cathy answered the phone and I told her I had probably written my final column. After all these years, I felt I had covered every topic.</p><p>“Oh, Dick, why don’t you give it some time and something will come to you,” she said. “You have a great imagination. I know you can do it.”</p><p>“Wow, thank you, Cathy. That’s the kind of support I was looking for.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? We’re having meatloaf.”</p>