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The old man and the see if we can get him to pick up a fake hooker

Michael Leave a comment

“An 86-year-old widower on his way to pick up a headstone for his late wife’s grave was cited today for soliciting a prostitute.  Dayton police had a decoy out today in an ongoing effort to get johns off the streets, according to officials.  The man told police he was lonely, and that’s why he was looking for a prostitute. He was cited, but not arrested because police said they were worried about his age and the man’s depression.”  [whiotv.com-12:49 p.m. Thursday, May 2, 2013]

We would tell you more but that was all there was of the story.  There should be more!  It begs for more.

  • What kind of decoy does one use to entice an 86 year old to attempt to pick up the lady and presumably offer money for sex?
  • How long has the wife been gone?  Was this a newly needed headstone or one he had to save over many years to purchase?
  • Why was the man depressed?  Was he depressed because he was caught?  Because he misses his late wife?  Because when he found out just how much a happy ending cost nowadays, he realized he’d hadn’t yet saved enough for the headstone?
  • How did the decoy and her handler decide to target an 86 year old?  Was it close to the end of the shift and they hadn’t scored as well as they planned and said “screw it, he’s still a man; go shake your wahoo at his winkie and see what comes of it?”

Last year we proposed that by the time a he or she gets to be in his or her eighties that he or she is due whatever is gettable in exchange for a lifetime of putting up with the world. (See “Entitlement Programs,” March 29, 2012).  If an 86 year old wants to pick up a hooker his only concern should be that of his missus, dead or alive.  He shouldn’t have to worry that it’s a hooker cop.

It took some digging but we eventually found out that the man had only recently lost his wife of 55 years and his daughter as well.  When the decoy approached him he offered her a few dollars to sit and talk with him.  Apparently talk was all he has left since the cancer that he suffers doesn’t allow for sexual activity.

We said back then that today’s eighty-somethings have done it all with more class than their elders did because they had to, and with more class than their youngers will because they can.   You just can’t find a no-class 86 year old.  Why did someone in a position of authority have to try to out-class a lonely old man.  Maybe those police should have followed the example of Andy Taylor of Mayberry and makes themselves available to serve however is needed.

The real Andy Griffith said, “I firmly believe that in every situation, no matter how difficult, God extends grace greater than the hardship.”  Sometimes it takes someone down here to be the vessel of that grace.  Maybe that’s why some of the better ones get to hang around for 80-plus years.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

Accessories For Your Accessories

Michael Leave a comment

Everybody with a cell phone, please raise your hand. If you have a case or holster for it, keep your hand up.  A blue tooth or earbud/mic combo, please continue holding your hand up.  If you have more than one charger as in house and car or house and office, please keep your hand raised.  Continue to hold your hand up if you have removable chip, stick, or minidisk for data and pictures.  And lastly, if you have a car mount, keep your hand up.  Is your hand still up?  Congratulations, you have fallen victim to the accessory demons.  It’s ok, we have also.

We first found the accessory demon in the Sunday advertising supplement some months ago.  It wasn’t enough to have a tablet or iPad or reader, with or without a nice protective case and ear phones to listen while you read or write or sort pictures.  Nope, that was when we saw, and even on sale, the iPad pillow.  Yes, it is possible now to read or write or sort pictures with or without listening to music while not having to hold said device.  Plop tablet in pillow, plop person on couch, plop pillow on lap, now veg.  In hands-free comfort – except for the touch screen sweepy finger.

The device demon does not live just in the electronics department.  All those with a barbeque grill, please stand up.  If you have a thermometer, a grill light, a three sided grill brush, an electric starter for gas or charcoal, a chimney starter (charcoal only please), an aftermarket rotisserie, a smoker box, or a fish, vegetable, corn on the cob, hot dog, chicken or pizza specialty holder, please remain  standing.  We thought so.

Are there any campers out there?  We recently saw a tent advertised featuring 2 rooms, sleeps eight, and two rear closets, available for the low, low price of $179.99. (Neither of We’s bedrooms has two closets!)  On the same page or following pages we saw the air mattresses, pillows, camp stoves, lanterns, mesh chairs, folding tables, coolers, and canopies that, for only 2 people, added up to another $410.  Apparently getting away from it all is cheap.  Getting away fully accessorized isn’t.

Someone out there in the world of long ago, when the book was first invented, said to him or herself, “Self, I think I’ll invent the book mark.”  That marketing master’s descendants have never given in.  With each invention comes the accessory.  The best of them invent the “can’t live without” accessory.  Many have thought they could beat the accessory demon by not accessorizing their accessories.  They would put their phones on a nearby table when not in use and hold them in their hands to the side of their face when using it.  That they would gauge the heat of the charcoal by holding an open palm six inches above it and the doneness of the burger by touch.  That they would camp under the stars on a bed of pine needles.  Yeah, right!

The only way to beat them is to give up our phones and tablets and grills and tents and everything else we can’t live without.  Once you figure out how to do that be sure to write about it.  We’ll read your report on our tablet, the one in the protective case, with the detachable keyboard and snap on night light, the one over there on the table next to the MP3 player we’re downloading music onto. Uh huh.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Did we mention the bell, basket, lights, and speedometer for the bicycle? The over-shower organizer, tissue holder, shower gel dispenser, or talking scale for the bathroom? The steamer for the closet? The four-way lug wrench for the car? Wait, we’re not done! How about the electric coskscrew? The power juicer? The Clapper!? Ok, we’re done.

 

 

Save for the Children

Michael Leave a comment

Way back on our first post we warned everybody that we would not be politically correct.  It takes much too much effort to worry about which word du’jour one is using to describe which group du’week.  If we’re speaking to a friend we already know what he or she wants to be called.  Usually, it’s friend.  Otherwise, we call ‘em as we see ‘em.  But, we aren’t mean, we aren’t cruel, and we don’t attack.  We’re now a bit concerned that we aren’t the only ones who find all this searching for just the proper noun tedious.  We’re not so certain we’re ready to give up solo possession of our serendipitous stance.

We recently saw on TV a promo spot for an upcoming premiere one of what cable networks pass off as reality shows.   This show is the one about the two little people who were recently married and have been struggling to have children.  Rather than give up a lucrative television career, they decide to adopt.  We might be a little bit off with that synopsis but it should be good enough so that you don’t confuse this little people couple with the other little people couple who already have a whole family of all size peoples.  We don’t think they’re on TV any more except for perhaps afternoon reruns.  But we digress. In the promo the announcer announces that these little people are ready to embark on their next life-changing voyage as they prepare to adopt a Chinese baby.  What happened to Asian?  We thought we weren’t supposed to call any of those people by whatever country from which they hail but to wrap them up into the all-encompassing “Asian” sobriquet.

But here is where we get somewhat serendipitous.  Rather than us sitting on our respective couches and having a time at what to call people, we instead became concerned for all the children who were now not going to get to be television stars.  Those are all the babies in this country who could use an adoptive home.  Could we not find room on a reality show for the reality of who knows how many children living in the same country as the little couple who also need parents?  Or has it now become politically correct to prejudicially prefer foreign orphans.

These two are probably going to make pretty good parents.  They are both well educated, well spoken, well raised individuals with good jobs and an extra gift of gab sufficient for getting themselves a TV show that follows them through their normal days.  Some unfortunate American (Asian American, African America, Austrailian American, European American, or Native American) child could do worse.  But we’ll never know since their plane has already landed on the other side of the world.

We don’t know how many children are waiting for adoption, here or there.  In researching for this post we weren’t able to uncover a consistent number.  We found many adoption services and they are all ready to talk about adopting children with special needs, about lesbians and gays adoption assistance, about the rights of foster parents after adoption, and about barriers to and remedies for minority and transracial adoption.  We found little about the children.

So while these pseudo-celebrities follow the footsteps of bona fide celebrities into the adoption arena, those close to home continue to be shuffled among foster homes, are forced to trade school appearances for court appearances, and grow up secure in the knowledge that not even little people want them. Sorry, that might not have been politically correct.

You can always tell a union member by his or her car.  It’s the one with the bumper sticker that says, “Buy American.”  Perhaps that should go for the kids also.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Take a Letter

Michael Leave a comment

For the second time this month we get to say that regular readers know that we have from time to time umm, expressed our displeasure at the service we’ve received from those for whom providing a service is their job but we are breaking from that refrain and saying what a terrific week, and often at the hands of others, that we’ve had.

It’s been a busy week for us at work, both of us extending a bit from our regular routines.  Yet we managed to get through another week at our workplaces where there were plenty of opportunities to confirm that there is a reason it is indeed called work.  Some people actually smiled.

They smiled so much so that we actually got to the weekend not completely needing it to be 12 days long to provide our requisite rejuvenation to start again on Monday.  The normal number of days should suffice.  And although the weekend held quite a few opportunities for people to amaze us at their poor choice of profession, they often did just the opposite.  Saturday morning we were wandering, and apparently looking every bit the part, around a not so nationally known home improvement store. Unfortunately there are only 15 of these centers but at every one we hope there were employees just as BUSY as BEAVERS at finding what their customers needed as they were at the one we visited.  We had at least 5 people come to us and ask if we needed any help finding anything.  And it wasn’t that robotic-like inquiry.  These people really wanted to help.  So much so that the first one who asked us actually did help us find the odd wall treatment we were looking for and expressly went then to look knowing if we didn’t see it right off, there would be someone to direct us.

We got to end our weekend on just as high a note as we were wandering, and this time we really did know to where, around a furniture showroom looking for some occasional tables.  As usual when entering one of those types of stores we were greeted by a commission based sales person and when we said we were just looking he went away.  Just like that.  And let us look.  When we found that we needed help we sought him out and as we were transacting our business found him to be such a personable person that we were ready to invite him out for a banana split.  No, we really didn’t, but we did find that he offered his suggestions based on what we told him we were looking for, the space they would fill, and purpose served and not on what was on hand, in stock, and not on sale.

So we had a couple good store visits.  What has any of that to do with the title of this piece?  Well, that’s the piece to end all pieces when it comes to customer service.  You’ll recall that we mentioned in the recent post, “Paging Doctor Bombay,” that we were at the doctors recently.  Actually for the two weeks before that piece was posted to about another two weeks from this one, Both of We will have made ten visits to various doctors.  It’s the time of year to have everything from head to toe checked on so we’ve out there visiting everyone from eye doctors to foot doctors.  And it was the foot doctor who threw us for the proverbial, and if we were young enough, the literal loop.

In “Paging Doctor Bombay” we proposed that a physician with a sense of humor would have the best bedside manner.  Maybe not a sense of humor as much as a sense of human.  Someone who has been where we are and knows the healing power of kindness.  In fact we ended with the supposition that “a cheerful heart is good medicine.”  She of We may have found our Doctor Bombay.  It was during the past week about 4 days after visiting the podiatric Doctor Bombay that She of We emptied her mailbox on the way into her house.  She noticed among the pile the sort of envelope that announces by size and shape that it is either an invitation to some event or a thank you from some other.  It was the thank you. But not a thank you for a gift she has presented to any one or a service she had rendered at any time.  It was a thank you from that very foot doctor.  “Thank you for allowing us to participate in your care.”  There was more.  And not just there was more that was written but that there was more.  It was written, as in hand written.  A doctor, taking the time to hand write a thank you note to a new patient.  Letting her know that regardless of what others in the health care business might think, it is a business and one that lives or dies on the service that is rendered.

That was enough to take both of us back more than a few steps and be amazed that there are people who recognize that without customers, there is no business.  Not clients, not consumers, not patrons or visitors or users.  Not even patients.  Customers.  Customers deserving of customer service.  And a thank you for being one.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

 

Cymbaling Rivalry

Michael Leave a comment

Often enough we find ourselves reading articles in the paper about the death of a well-to-doer who leaves his or her fortune to the children.  Most of the time the children are well into adulthood but never outgrew the petulance of spoiled rich kids.  All too often among the often enough, the children left behind are unhappy with what they inherited.  They may not have been around for earning it but that doesn’t stop them from expecting it.  Battle lines are drawn, bad manners invoked, lawyers called, and siblings who had little to do with each other begin to publicly denounce each other claiming that Daddy planned on changing the will but just didn’t get around to it.

So it was refreshing that we read about a pair of siblings who didn’t resort to the courtroom to solve their issues and in the process created double the good stuff that the family was known for.  Refreshing, but sad for we learned of the story of these siblings on the death of the younger.

If you have ever been on the instrument side of a band – concert, jazz, marching, or garage – you have probably grabbed a stick and started tapping on a drum.  As your boldness grew, you aimed that maple rod and patted out a beat or two on the shiny disk delicately balanced on its stand.  And the tone was nothing like what you expected.  Chances are you just experienced your first Zildjian, or perhaps Sabian. Certainly one of the two which are the two biggest players in cymbal-dom.  In fact, Zildjian is so synonymous with cymbals that the name means “Son of a Cymbal Maker” and was bestowed on the family by the royals of 17th century Constantinople when the first of the cymbal makers discovered a metal mix that resulted in unequaled musical tone.  And for 260 years the Zildjians were the best at making what they made.

For almost all of those years the mantle of maintaining the family’s place in philharmonic peerage, and the family secret to make the alloy from what those shiny disks are cast, was passed each generation to the oldest son.  That was until Avedis Zildjian passed in 1979. He had two sons, Armand the oldest, and Robert who had been running the company.  It may have been because of Robert’s heavy involvement with the family business that Avedis did not leave the business, and the family secret, to Armand; rather he left them to both.  In keeping a bit of the tradition, he left controlling interest of the company to the elder brother.

Here is where in soap operas and the real reality of the 21st century that lawyers would be summoned.  Brother would stand against brother and destroy the work of generations and the joy of the masses.   But in the coolness that goes to show that brothers can still be brotherly, the two decided to split the company, Armond maintaining control of the Zildjian name and the company that bears it and Robert getting the family secret but not permission to use the family name to work his mastery at a new company.  That company would become Sabian. (Robert was still a strong family man and gave his new company his family name.  Sort of.  He came up with the name by taking the first two letters of his three children, Sally, Bill, and Andy.)     

And it went that instead of one brilliant cymbal maker, the world got two.  And instead of a divisive family battle with no one a winner, the world gets a lesson that rivalry, even the sibling kind, isn’t always a bad thing, it’s just a thing.  It’s just a shame someone had to die for that lesson to be learned.   

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Get In Line

Michael Leave a comment

Regular readers know we aren’t good waiters. Lines do not thrill us. Some people find themselves very comfortable standing still behind tens of other people also standing still. We don’t. We especially don’t want to be behind many other people waiting to eat. Just a few days ago we got to combine our displeasure of waiting with our dislike for lines.

It was over the weekend that we were at one of our favorite things, a springtime maple festival. Being in the American north east we are surrounded by maples. Trees in general take up almost every square foot of land around that hasn’t already been turned into Class A office space or $300,000 McMansions. (Has anyone else noticed that nobody ever builds Class B office space? What if we don’t want private elevators, multi-zone climate control, and integrated security/entertainment software? But that’s a post for a different day.)

We were saying, trees in general are big here. And among them, oak and maple top the list. You can’t get anything out of an oak except some really cool shade in the summer and habitats for little woodland creatures all year long. And a lot of maples will never yield more than solid wood furniture. But the sugar maple has that special something running through its veins, if it had veins for anything to run through. And that something is sap and with enough sap you get syrup and with syrup you get the classic Maple Festival. If it’s indeed a classic, you have hot, homemade pancakes. With pancakes made out of freshly milled flour and fresh boiled syrup you get lines. Lines of well over a couple hundred people long waiting for hours to get to the pancakes to pour the syrup over. We don’t understand it.   We’ll buy the flour and the syrup and have our own. And while everyone else is standing in line, we’ll visit the hundred or so vendors that show up with the handmade crafts to sell while the festival folk sell their handmade syrup. We like it. We buy it. We just don’t want to stand in a line for it.

Yet many do. And as we were driving ourselves home that afternoon we started to wonder, just what would we be willing to stand in line for. We’ve never stood in line for tickets to concerts or theaters or sporting events. We’ve gone to many but we don’t pitch a tent the night before to get the best seat. With a few exceptions, the best seat is usually the one in front of the television anyway. We’ve never stood in line for a store to open on Black Friday. We would stand in line to go back to bed the day after Thanksgiving but not to buy one. We once stood in line to get three (yes, three) autographs of three (yes, three) hockey players. If we were so fond of baseball or opera or professional badminton we might have once stood in line for autographs of their great ones but we aren’t so we didn’t and even for hockey we might not again.

Some lines you have to stand in. You’ll never board a plane without first standing in line at the security checkpoint and then again at the gate boarding ramp. If you didn’t print your boarding pass at home the day before add the line at the ticket counter to get one of them before you hit the other two. And if you check baggage through there are lines to check it and then to wrestle it off the conveyor belt. With luck, you’ll never have to stand in the line to determine where they lost it. Airports are not happy places for people who don’t like lines.

And what about you? Line stander, line jumper? Line aficionado, or line abhorrer? Oh, did we mention that in order to get to that festival with the line of people waiting for their pancakes we had to wait in line for the shuttle to take us to the festival grounds? We had no choice; it was either that or walk 3 miles from the parking lot. We know where to draw the line.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Paging Doctor Bombay

Michael 1 Comment

Both of We were to the doctor recently.  We made a discovery there.  Independently, and without even chatting with each other until we were both on familiar barstools, we mean familiar ground, we decided on our perfect doctor.  As kindly as he may have been in prime time, we don’t want Marcus Welby.  As hard as he worked to save his patients, we don’t want Hawkeye Pierce.  As smart as he was, we definitely don’t want Doogie Howser.  No, we want Dr. Bombay.

Everybody remembers Dr. Bombay from the Bewitched television series from the 60’s.  Even those not born until the 80’s remember Bernard Fox’s character, Dr. Bombay, the literal witch doctor who tended after Samantha and her bewitching relatives.  There’s our perfect primary care physician.  One who can shrug off what happens to patient number 4 in the scenario that 3 out of 4 make a complete recovery.  One who understands that medicine is not an exact science and knowing how to care for his patient isn’t brain surgery.  One who heeds the adage, laughter is the best medicine.  Even if it isn’t covered by most health plans.

A few years ago He of We’s doctor gave him a year to drop 20 unnecessary pounds. No reason, no plan, no sympathy.  Just do it.  A year later, without referencing the previous year’s instruction, his doctor gave him a year to lose 30 pounds.  Dr. Bombay would have remembered.  Dr. Bombay would have popped in every few weeks to see what progress was being made and would have brought along his favorite weight loss device, exercise routine, or diet modification.

We can see Dr. Bombay having that discussion.  He would pantomime his upper body rocking back and forth as he works out on his elliptical machine and swinging his arms about as he swims across the room.  And then he would end it all with “And keep up with the fiber.  If you can’t hold back on the breads, at least eat healthy. Wot, wot, don’t you know?”

The supporting cast needs to be of good humor also.  She of We’s doctor’s nurse was busy with her preliminaries at her appointment.  She began quietly professional.  That’s euphemistic for cold and unfriendly.  Take the blood pressure, take the pulse, take the temperature.  Normal, normal, normal.  “How old are you? What drugs are you taking? None! Really!  How old are you?  No wonder you’re normal.”  We made up that last line, but she did smile.

That’s when Dr. Bombay would have stepped into the examination room and began to try to pick up the nurse.  And there is where some things are going to have to remain the realm of television fiction.  But other than that there are lots of things that our students of Hippocrates can learn from Dr. Bombay, like a cheerful heart is good medicine, and that we all put on our paper gowns one leg at a time.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

The Ambassador and the Triscuit Inspector

Michael Leave a comment

Recently we stayed a few days at a Sheraton hotel.  At most Sheratons there is a club suite for the Starwood Preferred guests.  Go to the web-site and sign up and after the first stay or two you move into the preferred category or most touring stays will add you to that list.  It’s not a terribly exclusive club,  no more than many hotel and airline members-only clubs.  But this one was different.  This one came with a host who falls into the “Now that was an interesting person” category.  You decide how to define interesting for yourself.

Our host for our evenings at the Sheraton was a former Triscuit Inspector.  We don’t know if he actually had a numbered slip that he popped into each box or a personalized stamp that emblazoned the inner seal so we can’t go into the archives to confirm that but that is what he told us.  For years he worked at the local Nabisco plant as the Triscuit Inspector right up until they closed the plant and he had to make a decision as to how he should earn his keep until Social Security took over.  Since this story takes place in the general area of Niagara Falls he thought tourism.  And quite logically.  So now for the past while he has been the Sheraton’s Starwood Suite host and sees that the cracker plates are full (we didn’t notice any Triscuits), the cheese platter is balanced, and the beer and wine are cold and chilled respectively.  But what makes him interesting wasn’t the Triscuit background or his ability to keep the yellow and white cheeses equalized.  It was his willingness to share his background and his stories of when he worked at Nabisco, where to find the cheapest wines in town, and where the best smoke-free slot machines are in the casino.

Interesting people always find us. We already spoke of our tour guide in Puerto Rice who regaled us with stories of real life on the island, his life. We saw his home town, heard tales of his family, were told of his wife’s cooking, and saw his favorite beach.  All that while he managed to extract tales from those he was touring.  Another interesting soul from that trip was our hotel’s lobby ambassador.  Do resorts still have such a character, the cross between concierge and man on the street?  Not a day went by except the one he was off that we weren’t greeted by name by this giant of a man who split his life between Puerto Rice and New York and was a diehard Giants football fan but took a Steelers wrist band from us and wore it at least while we were still there.

It was also on that trip that we found the artist in his gallery in Old San Juan telling the tale of how his wife came to visit her sister six years before and still hadn’t gone home.  So he painted each town with his stories in each.  We made sure to bring a piece of his back to grace a wall.  There it joins two local artists’ works.  Both of those artists have gone from favorite artist to favorite story teller to favored member of our circle.  We spend much time when we see either of them at shows and we can now pick out the one’s husband who is a shadow in every piece she does and know what room of his grandmother’s house the other used as a mental model for the window in the painting that becomes a window to his memories of her backyard, real and imagined.

There are many, many others. Most people have their favorite people who aren’t necessarily a part of their circle but make the circle more interesting.  We’ve been blessed that almost everywhere we go we can find that person and eventually find him or her again.   The pleasantries are shared, new stories are spoken and heard, and ultimately our circle grows.

So if you should be travelling in the Niagara Falls, NY area and you happen to stop into the Sheraton there, make your way to the Starwoods Suite and ask to speak with the Triscuit Inspector.  Grow your circle a bit too.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Move Along Please

Michael Leave a comment

We’re starting to notice something in the stores that we’re patronizing.  There are crazy people out there.  Allow us to explain.

Just a few days ago we were in a grocery store.   Not one of the mega marts that has everything from fresh dragon fruit to Lint Lizards.  This was a much smaller version that had everything from soup to nuts as long as you didn’t mind the canned variety of either.  It’s not unusual in either version’s produce section for people to shake, sniff, thump, or rattle the offerings in search of the freshest of the fresh, or in mid-March to find the least out of season depending on the origin of the well-travelled fruit or vegetable.  And at the meat display one will check out the marbling of the well fatted full grown steer.

On our trip to that store on that day we were in search of ground beef.  Not much you can tell from ground beef that isn’t on the label – its pre-grinding primal cut, fat content, weight, price, and the date ground, hopefully matching the date to be purchased.  Yet there in front of the entire display of ground beef, shopping cart angled to extend across the complete linear footage was a lady carefully examining each package of ground beef.  Well, perhaps not each package but several of them, and each of them quite carefully, looking them over as if to determine that the fat content printed on the label wasn’t what her eyes were able to discern.  We wanted to say “Move along lady, it’s all from the same cow and whatever you’re making isn’t going to be that fabulous or you’d be up at the other end where the cows are a little more put together. “  But we didn’t and eventually she found one that had the color, size, shape, or fat content of her liking and we snagged ours.

It was on that same trip that He of We decided it was time to spend a couple of dollars on our retirement plan, also known as the Power Ball.  So he stopped at the window where some young man was robotically entering the numbers of the daily number players into the state lottery computer and exchanging “Sure Thing” dollars for “Can’t Miss” numbers.  The line moved quickly, most of the hopefuls hanging their hopes on the quick pick versions of their numbers du jour.  And then there was just one in front of He of We.  And that one began with “Gimme Big Four, 1-2-3-4, fifty cents straight, 40 times,” and the young man punch the number in once, hit the quantity for 40 and we waited while the machine printed out 40 identical tickets.  “Anything else?”  “Yeah, gimme the Daily, 1-2-3, a buck straight, 40 times.”  Again we waited for the little machine to gasp out 40 more identical tickets.  “Anything else?”  And this was when He of We said “No, you’ve reached your limit.  Are you trying to make certain that if you should in your wildest fantasy actually hit both of those numbers that by spreading out your 60 dollar wager the IRS won’t figure out you’ve won around $20,000 because you did it 50 cents at a time!?  Now, move along please.”  Well, actually He of We just thought that and breathed a sigh of relief when the big spender asked for one more pick but more conventionally taking just the one wager and then passed a handful of bills to the still robotic young man.

Yet another shopping outing of ours put us into the main aisle of a national chain of stores that claims to provide items for the bedroom, bathroom, and other rooms beyond those two.  It seems odd that almost half of the store is dedicated to kitchen items and that kitchen isn’t in the store’s name but then we didn’t name that store so what do we know?  In that main aisle we stopped to peruse one of the several clearance shelves.  It is quite thoughtful that the store tags its clearance items with the reason for the item being on clearance.  ‘Last one,’ ‘demo,’ ‘returned,’ ‘only 1 of a pair.’  All very helpful.  But one of their reasons was “broken.”  It was there that we noticed that many of the items on the shelf were tagged with that very reason.  A clock was broken.  A storage box was broken.  A lamp was broken.  It would seem that if an item is broken, that to sell it means the store doesn’t place much value on its customers’ intelligence.  It’s almost as it they are saying, “If you make it cheap enough, people will buy anything.”  And from the picked over look that the clearance section had, it seemed that many people had at least semi-seriously considered many of those items before deciding to move along, with or without encouragement.

So we’ve noticed that not only are the customers getting a little batty but so are the shopkeepers.  Actually we don’t mind a little insanity in the shopping place.  It makes for some lively dinner conversation and provides us with a bit of caution to not be too batty out there ourselves.  But then, as long as you don’t dally and keep moving along, not many will notice.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Too Much of a Good Thing

Michael Leave a comment

Don’t you just love it when one of life’s questions finally gets answered?  When that thing that has never been at the forefront of thought but always hovering around the subconscious is finally resolved? When you can finally say, “Oh, yeah.”

Both of We have three children.  All three of the Little We’s are in their 20’s, gainfully if not ideally employed, with their own cars, clothes, gym memberships, monthly bills, and spending money.  Three children, two families, one burning life’s question.  Do we do too much for our children?  Sit back and let us tell you She of We’s story.

Number Two Son of She was at the airport.  Just a matter of days ago he was flying west to embark on a weekend away as young ones are now so inclined to do to visit strange cities where the strange inhabitants have a curious habit of dying their river a strange green.  But that’s a tale for a different day.  This one begins and ends at the airport.  Our airport.  The departing city.

This story began several trips ago that Number Two Son of She takes with some regularity.  They are almost always by plane and almost always end up with him missing the last leg of his journey leaving whoever (three guesses) was assigned to collect him at the local airport stranded at the airport.  But it was a habit and one that that seemed would forever end with whomever (three guesses) stranded at the airport or waiting for the call that he is finally about to board a plane home and would be there sometime within the hour or two.  So it wasn’t that He of We would not have expected Son of She to be calling She of We, but not so soon.

But sooner rather than later the call did come and with it came our life’s question, do we do too much for our children. A call that began sort of innocently with a seeming innocent question.  Did She of We have Son of She’s spare car key?  No, but why?

It seemed that after years of explaining, rationalizing, cajoling, complaining, and persuading, She of We convinced Son of She to drive himself to the airport and deposit his car in one of the long term parking lots ($8.00 per day, no hourly rate).  So convinced was Son of She that he actually discovered another traveler among his friends to the very same destination for the very same duration and offered him a ride to and from the airport.  Presumably for the low price of $4.00 per day.  No hour rate.  And off for the airport they set, their sights set on the gate labeled Extended Parking.  They must have not set their sights so high as to see the overhead sign not reading Extended Parking, rather they entered the parking mecca at the gate labeled Short Term Parking ($2.50 per hour, maximum daily rate $25.00).

Yes, he finally was convinced.  Son of She, finally convinced that he could drive himself to the airport did just so, and shortly after his arrival there made the call to She of We.  It was the call from the airport relating this very tale.  But the tale was not told just for its entertainment value.  It concluded with a request for her to drive 20-some miles to the airport with his spare key so that she could move his car into one of the long term lots that she had so often spoke of. And shortly thereafter was the call from She of We to He of We with that question, do we do too much for our children?

Do we?  Daughter of He still lives at home in the very room she shared with her childhood stuffed animals.  And is still sharing.  Number One Son of She resides in a second house of hers that could be rental income but is serving much better as Son Cave as he manages his own growing contracting company.  Number Two Son of She recently purchased his own house, able to convince the mortgager that he was good for it because he is one of the gainfully employed, his gainful employment at the favor calling of She of We who realized long before he what kind of job he would otherwise land with an undergraduate political science degree.

And still they ask.  And still do we.  Do we do too much for our children?  For the record, She of We did not make that journey yet we still wonder.  And we wonder that it is a wonder that someone thought it was quite reasonable even just to ask.  And there probably is the answer.  Maybe.  Possibly. Sort of.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?