Running on Empty
Humans, like automobiles, are not designed to survive the test of time. Maintenance must be performed, parts sometimes need to be replaced, and when that day of reckoning comes, our chassis are often dragged away and piled up in a field full of broken bodies.
While people are not machines, I contend that there are striking similarities between motorists and the cars they drive. Consider the photo that accompanies this byline. In automotive terms I might be described as a high miles clunker with noticeable body damage, modestly priced to sell, and open to any reasonable offer. My present vehicle, a 2001 Dodge Stratus, is indeed my four wheeled twin.
Presently, my primary means of transportation is having issues with its gas gauge. Regardless of how much fuel I have deposited into the car, my gauge readings appear to be more rumor than reality. One moment the little red meter stick shows full, the next I am trudging down Williamson Road with a one gallon spouted container in tow. Growing weary of these surprise hikes I attempted to have the car repaired, however, the problem kept coming back like a sack of White Castle burgers.
Over the years I have run out of gas a stunning amount of times. A prodigious collection of plastic red gas cans adorn my basement shelves. On one occasion, when a dry tank sent me on an impromptu journey, I was picked up in Jupiter, Florida by a Good Samaritan in a pick-up truck towing a bass boat. With no room in the cab, I placed myself behind the wheel of the vessel and pretended to navigate that boat straight down I-95 to the nearest filling station.
A week later, following a particularly hideous sales day, I noticed my fuel gauge rising and falling like the Dow Jones after an election and began to fear the worst. Thankfully, I spotted a gas station in the distance and prayed that fumes might carry me to the pumps. Sputtering as I entered the station parking lot, I felt the car give out underneath me. It felt like I had four flat tires! Not even I could be that unlucky. No gas and four flat tires?
Lurching through the lot I spied four fellows standing by the pumps, waiving their arms wildly and screaming in my direction. Were these service station attendants guiding me in for a landing? Were these gentlemen alerting me that my tires were flat? No, it turns out that these men were cement contractors who had just finished paving the parking lot and I was steaming through a full day of their work.
Anxious to see why the workers looked so upset, I parked, and placed my left foot out of the car to investigate. It became apparent to me that something was amiss when my foot sunk two feet down into the soggy cement. If my memory of high school Spanish class serves, one of the inflamed laborers made a very uncomplimentary remark about my mother and the other three were near tears.
Fearing reprisal for the destruction of their achievement, I tried to step back into the car and make a hasty get-away. When I lifted my leg to extricate my foot from the hardening goop, my shoe came off and was quickly sucked up in the thick jaws of the setting concrete. Forsaking my footwear for safety, I climbed into my vehicle and plowed through the ruined job, my victims aghast at what they had just witnessed. Ironically, the tire tracks formed a large semi-circle, a smile (if you will) in the decimated construction.
Like my listless, dry tanked alter-ego, I too have been struggling to keep running. Gassed and void of energy, it was suggested that I subject myself to the horrors of a sleep clinic to help discover the reason for my impending collapse. One restless night hooked up to an array of colorful wires gave me my answer. It seems that I stop breathing an average of forty-four times an hour when sleeping, which certainly explains why I stumble through each day like a tranquilized circus bear.
Next week they will strap a breathing device on my head which will make me look like a vacationing snorkeler who has been separated from his tour group. I am really looking forward to that and promise to provide pictures here if possible.
Until then, my twin and I will continue to wobble around Roanoke not knowing how much we have left in our tanks. I’ll be the one with a gas can in one hand and a five hour energy drink in the other.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The End Is Near
For most people, turning fifty-three years of age is NOT the end of the world. Aside from the usually body aches and thoughts of retirement, few of us fret over such a benign number. However, if your date of birth is December 12, 2012 (like mine) the ancient Mayans have predicted a rather serious kink in your birthday celebration.
According to the Mayan calendar the world will end on either December 12, 2012 or December 21, 2012. I am not sure why, but there is some debate regarding which date will spell the end of mankind. Was the Mayan prophet who forecasted our demise dyslexic, inverting vital numbers which will determine our fate? Either way, I wouldn’t make plans for New Year’s if I were you.
The Mayan calendar (which resembles a big old pizza with a face in the middle) stops on the year 2012 leading researchers to believe that this was the ancients’ way of telling us not to buy ripe bananas. Maybe they just ran out of paper? Maybe the guy who was chiseling the calendar in stone got a cramp and was sacrificed to the record keeping gods? I don’t recall these Mayans predicting a rise in gas prices or warning us about Bernie Madoff, so why should we lend any credence to their foretelling now?
Whenever any form of prognostication is being discussed, Nostradamus, the fourteenth century mystic, always seems make an appearance. Being dead for a few hundred years never seems to deter this chap from putting his visionary two-cents in. He too believes that the earth will cease on or near the Mayan’s prescribed date. For those of our readers who don’t get The History Channel in their cable package, Nostradamus’s method of divining the future was to stare into a bowl of water and envision events yet to come. Similarly, I have stared into a bowl of water many times in my life and have failed to portend any visions of the future. I have, however, bargained with a higher authority promising that I would never drink tequila again if, somehow, I was temporarily empowered with the ability to lift my head out of the aforementioned bowl.
Conceivably, Nostradamus could have experienced clouded conditions when foreseeing our impending doom. Suppose, one evening, Mrs. Nostradamus substituted a bowl of clam chowder in place of the prophet’s favorite tureen? A diced potato mistaken for the anti-christ might make quite a difference in the accuracy of his prognosis, I dare say.
Another apocalyptic theory, also pointing to December of 2012, centers around the alignment of planets on the prescribed day. Still another speaks of dangerous solar flares causing significant damage to our little blue planet. There is even a movie entitled “2012″ that depicts incredible disasters and the destruction of landmarks all over the globe, including in New York, which seems to always be obliterated in films of this type. Why do these Hollywood studios always pick on New York? Isn’t bad enough that New Yorkers have to live next to New Jersey?
In preparation for the upcoming annihilation, I have been giving some thought as to how I will spend my fifty-third birthday amidst the devastation. Rising at my usual hour (7 a.m.), I will shower, let the dogs out and turn on Headline News. If Robin Meade does not announce that the world is ending, I might have a bowl of cereal in celebration. I am a big fan of Robin’s. She often makes me late for work, my thoughts hopelessly lost in her loveliness. I once mentioned my unwavering passion for Robin to a friend who thought I had said Robin Reed instead of Robin Meade. While the “Dean of Roanoke Weather Forecasters,” is a fine fellow and a local icon, I have never found myself gazing into his eyes as he analyzes a low pressure system closing in on Covington.
Should Robin fail to deliver any good news, I will let the dogs back inside and relax in my recliner. I always said that I wanted to be buried in my recliner, remote in hand, and on that particular day, I just might get my wish.
Hopefully all of this nonsense will pass with a Y2K whimper, and the world will continue moving forward until another extinct civilization predicts an enormous global cataclysm. Just in case, I will be checking with Dairy Queen on the quick availability of an Armageddon-themed ice cream cake with fifty-three candles. There is no sense in waiting until the last minute.
For most people, turning fifty-three years of age is NOT the end of the world. Aside from the usually body aches and thoughts of retirement, few of us fret over such a benign number. However, if your date of birth is December 12, 2012 (like mine) the ancient Mayans have predicted a rather serious kink in your birthday celebration.
According to the Mayan calendar the world will end on either December 12, 2012 or December 21, 2012. I am not sure why, but there is some debate regarding which date will spell the end of mankind. Was the Mayan prophet who forecasted our demise dyslexic, inverting vital numbers which will determine our fate? Either way, I wouldn’t make plans for New Year’s if I were you.
The Mayan calendar (which resembles a big old pizza with a face in the middle) stops on the year 2012 leading researchers to believe that this was the ancients’ way of telling us not to buy ripe bananas. Maybe they just ran out of paper? Maybe the guy who was chiseling the calendar in stone got a cramp and was sacrificed to the record keeping gods? I don’t recall these Mayans predicting a rise in gas prices or warning us about Bernie Madoff, so why should we lend any credence to their foretelling now?
Whenever any form of prognostication is being discussed, Nostradamus, the fourteenth century mystic, always seems make an appearance. Being dead for a few hundred years never seems to deter this chap from putting his visionary two-cents in. He too believes that the earth will cease on or near the Mayan’s prescribed date. For those of our readers who don’t get The History Channel in their cable package, Nostradamus’s method of divining the future was to stare into a bowl of water and envision events yet to come. Similarly, I have stared into a bowl of water many times in my life and have failed to portend any visions of the future. I have, however, bargained with a higher authority promising that I would never drink tequila again if, somehow, I was temporarily empowered with the ability to lift my head out of the aforementioned bowl.
Conceivably, Nostradamus could have experienced clouded conditions when foreseeing our impending doom. Suppose, one evening, Mrs. Nostradamus substituted a bowl of clam chowder in place of the prophet’s favorite tureen? A diced potato mistaken for the anti-christ might make quite a difference in the accuracy of his prognosis, I dare say.
Another apocalyptic theory, also pointing to December of 2012, centers around the alignment of planets on the prescribed day. Still another speaks of dangerous solar flares causing significant damage to our little blue planet. There is even a movie entitled “2012″ that depicts incredible disasters and the destruction of landmarks all over the globe, including in New York, which seems to always be obliterated in films of this type. Why do these Hollywood studios always pick on New York? Isn’t bad enough that New Yorkers have to live next to New Jersey?
In preparation for the upcoming annihilation, I have been giving some thought as to how I will spend my fifty-third birthday amidst the devastation. Rising at my usual hour (7 a.m.), I will shower, let the dogs out and turn on Headline News. If Robin Meade does not announce that the world is ending, I might have a bowl of cereal in celebration. I am a big fan of Robin’s. She often makes me late for work, my thoughts hopelessly lost in her loveliness. I once mentioned my unwavering passion for Robin to a friend who thought I had said Robin Reed instead of Robin Meade. While the “Dean of Roanoke Weather Forecasters,” is a fine fellow and a local icon, I have never found myself gazing into his eyes as he analyzes a low pressure system closing in on Covington.
Should Robin fail to deliver any good news, I will let the dogs back inside and relax in my recliner. I always said that I wanted to be buried in my recliner, remote in hand, and on that particular day, I just might get my wish.
Hopefully all of this nonsense will pass with a Y2K whimper, and the world will continue moving forward until another extinct civilization predicts an enormous global cataclysm. Just in case, I will be checking with Dairy Queen on the quick availability of an Armageddon-themed ice cream cake with fifty-three candles. There is no sense in waiting until the last minute.
Monday, October 26, 2009
What's in a Name?
Have you ever Googled yourself? For those of our readers who are not computer savvy, please understand that I am referring to the Internet search engine site "Google" and not some un-savory action that might be considered offensive in the public arena. By simply typing your name into Google's search box, you can not only learn a great deal about people who share your name, but you can learn about yourself as well.
Among the legions of Jon Kaufman's throughout America are, the owner of a Baltimore Animal Hospital, a writer for the Wall Street Journal, an adventurer who arranges safaris in Africa, and the bass player for a Vegas lounge act called "The Laymen." Along with these active gents, there is also some local flavor provided by a person known by a similar moniker.
Last week I was approached by a person who asked if I was Dr. John Kaufman, the prominent Roanoke area Dermatologist. This was not the first time I had been confused with the good doctor. Upon moving to the Roanoke Valley area in 1983, it took me several weeks to connect phone service in my tiny Salem apartment, leaving my office phone as my only link to my home in New York. My friends, curious to see how I was faring south of the Mason-Dixon Line, tried to contact me by way of directory assistance and were told that the only listing for that name was a Dr. John Kaufman. What followed was a barrage of late night calls to my medical namesake from a group of drunken Long Islanders. When I later asked these friends why they didn't realize that Doctor Kaufman was a completely other person, my buddies explained that they though I might have trouble meeting girls (obviously, they knew me well) and that listing myself as a doctor in the directory was possibly my pathetic attempt to deceive the local females. Luckily, I later met Dr. Kaufman and found him to be a very nice and patient man. Previous to our meeting I had experienced nightmares in which the doctor had hunted me down and removed a mole from my nose with a rusty bottle-cap. Safe from my dreams, I was able to rest easy.
Years ago Dr. Kaufman's home apparently sustained a sizable amount of devastation due to a fire. I remember reading that there was somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars in damage to the property. The same day I was besieged by phone calls asking me about the flames that had ravaged my home. I explained to all of those concerned well wishers that my house was still intact and that in order for my residence to incur fifty thousand dollars worth of damage, it would first have to burn to the ground, then rebuilt, and then burned to the ground a second time.
Coincidentally, my sister Laura met Dr. Kaufman once while attending a medical convention. Upon noticing that the person before her was wearing a badge reading "Dr. John Kaufman- Roanoke, Virginia," Laura (amused by the coincidence) announced that she had a brother named Jon Kaufman and they he lived in Roanoke as well. I can only imagine the dread felt by the doctor, as the specter of me darkened his door once more. Laura reported the doc to be very pleasant and was seemingly painfully aware of who I was.
Cruising through the pages of people sharing my appellation, it became clear to me that I was likely a lower form of Jon Kaufman, a bottom-feeder far less accomplished than a great many of the same name. Google images even had a far better looking bearded fellow named Jon Kaufman who's photo was posted directly above my Roanoke Star Sentinel headshot, conjuring up a kind of "before and after" example often seen in advertisements for plastic surgery.
Apparently, it is easier being me than I thought it was. Some of us are downright successful! Perhaps there is hope for me yet? Maybe another Jon Kaufman will do something notably moronic and bump me closer to the middle of the pack?
A British playwright once wrote "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Easy for him to say, I am pretty sure that he is at the head of the Google line of successful William Shakespeare's.
Have you ever Googled yourself? For those of our readers who are not computer savvy, please understand that I am referring to the Internet search engine site "Google" and not some un-savory action that might be considered offensive in the public arena. By simply typing your name into Google's search box, you can not only learn a great deal about people who share your name, but you can learn about yourself as well.
Among the legions of Jon Kaufman's throughout America are, the owner of a Baltimore Animal Hospital, a writer for the Wall Street Journal, an adventurer who arranges safaris in Africa, and the bass player for a Vegas lounge act called "The Laymen." Along with these active gents, there is also some local flavor provided by a person known by a similar moniker.
Last week I was approached by a person who asked if I was Dr. John Kaufman, the prominent Roanoke area Dermatologist. This was not the first time I had been confused with the good doctor. Upon moving to the Roanoke Valley area in 1983, it took me several weeks to connect phone service in my tiny Salem apartment, leaving my office phone as my only link to my home in New York. My friends, curious to see how I was faring south of the Mason-Dixon Line, tried to contact me by way of directory assistance and were told that the only listing for that name was a Dr. John Kaufman. What followed was a barrage of late night calls to my medical namesake from a group of drunken Long Islanders. When I later asked these friends why they didn't realize that Doctor Kaufman was a completely other person, my buddies explained that they though I might have trouble meeting girls (obviously, they knew me well) and that listing myself as a doctor in the directory was possibly my pathetic attempt to deceive the local females. Luckily, I later met Dr. Kaufman and found him to be a very nice and patient man. Previous to our meeting I had experienced nightmares in which the doctor had hunted me down and removed a mole from my nose with a rusty bottle-cap. Safe from my dreams, I was able to rest easy.
Years ago Dr. Kaufman's home apparently sustained a sizable amount of devastation due to a fire. I remember reading that there was somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars in damage to the property. The same day I was besieged by phone calls asking me about the flames that had ravaged my home. I explained to all of those concerned well wishers that my house was still intact and that in order for my residence to incur fifty thousand dollars worth of damage, it would first have to burn to the ground, then rebuilt, and then burned to the ground a second time.
Coincidentally, my sister Laura met Dr. Kaufman once while attending a medical convention. Upon noticing that the person before her was wearing a badge reading "Dr. John Kaufman- Roanoke, Virginia," Laura (amused by the coincidence) announced that she had a brother named Jon Kaufman and they he lived in Roanoke as well. I can only imagine the dread felt by the doctor, as the specter of me darkened his door once more. Laura reported the doc to be very pleasant and was seemingly painfully aware of who I was.
Cruising through the pages of people sharing my appellation, it became clear to me that I was likely a lower form of Jon Kaufman, a bottom-feeder far less accomplished than a great many of the same name. Google images even had a far better looking bearded fellow named Jon Kaufman who's photo was posted directly above my Roanoke Star Sentinel headshot, conjuring up a kind of "before and after" example often seen in advertisements for plastic surgery.
Apparently, it is easier being me than I thought it was. Some of us are downright successful! Perhaps there is hope for me yet? Maybe another Jon Kaufman will do something notably moronic and bump me closer to the middle of the pack?
A British playwright once wrote "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Easy for him to say, I am pretty sure that he is at the head of the Google line of successful William Shakespeare's.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
In Search of Comedy in the Sales World
Everyday is an adventure in the world of outside sales. Whether it is a customer assailing your lineage or hoping that a comet will strike earth the day before you are scheduled to spend some time with your boss, one never knows what challenges a new day will bring.
Generally a typical sales day falls into one of three categories; success, comic, frustration and the catastrophic. Ninety percent of a sales person's life is spent in category number three, frustration. The daily, soul dampening siege most salespeople endure equates to an average citizen allowing a bucket of fish guts to be deposited upon their head each and every time that person speaks. Success and catastrophe each carry approximately two percent of a peddler's days on the street, accounting for the occasional large commission check or, perhaps, the slow torture of "corrective action" administered by a micro- manager who lacks the sales skills to persuade Tommy Lee to add another tattoo.
What inspires most salespeople to return to the trenches and continue their daily march to the grave? The answer lies in those rare fleeting moments of comedy that infiltrate their day. To pause for a laugh amidst a stormy sea of rejection is always a welcome respite.
Once, a rookie co-worker of mine (let's call her "Katie") was asked to present a proposal to a large group and brought me along to the meeting for moral support. She was extremely nervous about the presentation and had stopped at home to eat something before the meeting fearing the possibility that her stomach might begin growling during her sales pitch. Surrounded by interested prospective customers, Katie took off her coat and launched into her proposal only to realize that, in her haste, she had forgotten to remove the frilly apron she had worn during her lunch to help guard her business clothes. What followed was a brief, awkward silence and a question from the audience as to whether Katie had whipped up some cookies to bring to the meeting. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh and the tension subsided. "Katie Homemaker" (as she was now known to the group), finished her presentation and secured the sale.
Years ago, in the early days of cellular phones, I was asked to travel to some rather remote areas to drum up business for this new and exciting technology. One such trip steered me up a long, winding dirt road where a group of loggers were seeking some sort of communication to their home base. Dressed in a three-piece suit I met the loggers atop a mountain somewhere near Gretna. Previous to exiting my car I saw something and caused me to pull my left foot back into the vehicle with great haste. Standing before me was a solid black, mutant German Shepherd mix the size of a small horse. Normally I have no fear of dogs, but this brute was clearly sizing me up as an appetizer. When the loggers came over to greet me the beast ran off into the forest and I slowly emerged from the car. I engaged the loggers with the usual talk about price and coverage until I felt something pushing into my back, nearly knocking me over. I slowly turned to investigate this disturbance and found the black dog standing behind me holding a dead, bloody raccoon in his mouth, offering the carcass to me as a kind of gift! The loggers noticing the look of horror on my face fell over each other laughing, commenting that the dog must really like me to bestow such a thoughtful token. As you might imagine, my dry cleaner gave me the oddest look when I brought that suit in to be cleaned. It was as if he was trying to remember my features just in case he was prompted to describe my likeness to a police sketch artist.
Another appointment brought me to a small farm near Salem, when the wife of an elderly farmer called me about a cell phone for her husband. Unable to reach him when he was out in the fields, the woman wanted a phone that would be loud enough for her hearing impaired spouse to heed over the rumble of a tractor engine. I explained that I could provide a portable phone that vibrated and that if her husband kept the handset in his chest pocket, he would be able to "feel" the call. Sold on the feature, the woman set up an appointment for me to meet her husband and bring him a phone.
The following is a brief one act play depicting my conversation with the farmer.
Scene: A small farm in Southwestern, Virginia. A nattily attired salesperson rings the doorbell of a farm house. The farmer answers the door.
Farmer: Good morning young fella.
Salesperson: Good morning sir, I am Jon Kaufman from GTE.
Farmer: You say you want something to eat?
Jon (puzzled) No sir, I am from GTE the mobile phone company.
Farmer: Son why would I want to mobile home, when I live right here in this farmhouse?
Jon (feeling like he had somehow been transported back in time and deposited into and Abbott and Costello sketch). No sir, I spoke to your wife about a cell phone.
Farmer: I am not interested in selling my home.
(The farmer steps back and shuts the door.)
Curtain.
It is little stories like these that keep me beating the bushes for sales. You never know what is behind the next door. Fellow salespeople, take heart in these trying times, you are not alone out there. Somewhere a comic moment waits to brighten your day.
Everyday is an adventure in the world of outside sales. Whether it is a customer assailing your lineage or hoping that a comet will strike earth the day before you are scheduled to spend some time with your boss, one never knows what challenges a new day will bring.
Generally a typical sales day falls into one of three categories; success, comic, frustration and the catastrophic. Ninety percent of a sales person's life is spent in category number three, frustration. The daily, soul dampening siege most salespeople endure equates to an average citizen allowing a bucket of fish guts to be deposited upon their head each and every time that person speaks. Success and catastrophe each carry approximately two percent of a peddler's days on the street, accounting for the occasional large commission check or, perhaps, the slow torture of "corrective action" administered by a micro- manager who lacks the sales skills to persuade Tommy Lee to add another tattoo.
What inspires most salespeople to return to the trenches and continue their daily march to the grave? The answer lies in those rare fleeting moments of comedy that infiltrate their day. To pause for a laugh amidst a stormy sea of rejection is always a welcome respite.
Once, a rookie co-worker of mine (let's call her "Katie") was asked to present a proposal to a large group and brought me along to the meeting for moral support. She was extremely nervous about the presentation and had stopped at home to eat something before the meeting fearing the possibility that her stomach might begin growling during her sales pitch. Surrounded by interested prospective customers, Katie took off her coat and launched into her proposal only to realize that, in her haste, she had forgotten to remove the frilly apron she had worn during her lunch to help guard her business clothes. What followed was a brief, awkward silence and a question from the audience as to whether Katie had whipped up some cookies to bring to the meeting. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh and the tension subsided. "Katie Homemaker" (as she was now known to the group), finished her presentation and secured the sale.
Years ago, in the early days of cellular phones, I was asked to travel to some rather remote areas to drum up business for this new and exciting technology. One such trip steered me up a long, winding dirt road where a group of loggers were seeking some sort of communication to their home base. Dressed in a three-piece suit I met the loggers atop a mountain somewhere near Gretna. Previous to exiting my car I saw something and caused me to pull my left foot back into the vehicle with great haste. Standing before me was a solid black, mutant German Shepherd mix the size of a small horse. Normally I have no fear of dogs, but this brute was clearly sizing me up as an appetizer. When the loggers came over to greet me the beast ran off into the forest and I slowly emerged from the car. I engaged the loggers with the usual talk about price and coverage until I felt something pushing into my back, nearly knocking me over. I slowly turned to investigate this disturbance and found the black dog standing behind me holding a dead, bloody raccoon in his mouth, offering the carcass to me as a kind of gift! The loggers noticing the look of horror on my face fell over each other laughing, commenting that the dog must really like me to bestow such a thoughtful token. As you might imagine, my dry cleaner gave me the oddest look when I brought that suit in to be cleaned. It was as if he was trying to remember my features just in case he was prompted to describe my likeness to a police sketch artist.
Another appointment brought me to a small farm near Salem, when the wife of an elderly farmer called me about a cell phone for her husband. Unable to reach him when he was out in the fields, the woman wanted a phone that would be loud enough for her hearing impaired spouse to heed over the rumble of a tractor engine. I explained that I could provide a portable phone that vibrated and that if her husband kept the handset in his chest pocket, he would be able to "feel" the call. Sold on the feature, the woman set up an appointment for me to meet her husband and bring him a phone.
The following is a brief one act play depicting my conversation with the farmer.
Scene: A small farm in Southwestern, Virginia. A nattily attired salesperson rings the doorbell of a farm house. The farmer answers the door.
Farmer: Good morning young fella.
Salesperson: Good morning sir, I am Jon Kaufman from GTE.
Farmer: You say you want something to eat?
Jon (puzzled) No sir, I am from GTE the mobile phone company.
Farmer: Son why would I want to mobile home, when I live right here in this farmhouse?
Jon (feeling like he had somehow been transported back in time and deposited into and Abbott and Costello sketch). No sir, I spoke to your wife about a cell phone.
Farmer: I am not interested in selling my home.
(The farmer steps back and shuts the door.)
Curtain.
It is little stories like these that keep me beating the bushes for sales. You never know what is behind the next door. Fellow salespeople, take heart in these trying times, you are not alone out there. Somewhere a comic moment waits to brighten your day.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Love at First Byte
The relationship between human and machine is a delicate one. Regardless of the contraption, people tend to bond with inanimate objects, often assigning names and mortal characteristics to the widgets which spur their devotion.
Until recently I had never developed an affinity for a daily tool which aided lifestyle. Never have I grown an attachment for an automotive vehicle, in fact, my wife Janet refers to me as "Jon the Car Killer." Over the years I have managed to obliterate every car I have ever owned, destroying engines, transmissions, electrical systems and anything else that might turn bad under the hood. To me my car is a machine that transports me from point A to point B, a soulless, nameless future victim of my neglect. Add the well known fact that I can't take a spin around the block with losing my way and you can understand my hesitance to personalize anything with four wheels.
All that changed when Carmen entered into my life.
Carmen was my very first GPS system, a benevolent chaperon who gently guided me to places I would have never dreamed of reaching on my own. My feelings for Carmen were both passionate and genuine and, over time, blossomed into an emotion even more beautiful, even more rare, dare I say it, could it be love?
During our salad days, Carmen and I would glide the through the countryside, bereft of worry, reaching each destination without incident. Then, as suddenly as our affair began, things began to sour. Carmen became aloof, often failing to remind me of critical turns in the road, propelling my being into the unknown with only my wits to guide me (i.e. unarmed). One afternoon, during a routine drive, Carmen experienced a kind of latitudinal breakdown, hysterically repeating "RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING," until I nearly propelled us both off of Windy Gap Mountain! Something was amiss, had gotten too close too fast? Could there be someone else?
Returning home, I engaged Carmen in the driveway and suggested that it might be best if we saw other devices. Following the usual screaming and tears that follow any break-up (my eyes are still a tad puffy), I decided to pass Carmen along to my son Will, who, much to his dismay, had inherited the "Where the heck am I, and how did I get here?" gene which has plagued countless generations of Kaufman males. Clearly, it was time for the two of us to move on.
Like many lonely hearts, I sought refuge on the Internet, scouring sites for a new travel mate. Still reeling from my ill fated romance, I carefully browsed through the electronics sites searching for "Ms. Right-turn." Disheartened and ready to accept a life of solitary travel, I nearly called it quits, deciding to check one more site before turning in for the evening. That is when I first saw her. Sleek, bright, dressed in 3-D color, and on sale, the Garmin Nuvi 205 was a smoldering sliver of satellite technology that set my bruised heart aflutter. Immediately I placed the order and when my new device arrived, I could barely recall Carmen's name. I felt ashamed, yet strangely excited. Once the batteries were fully charged, I began to explore my new companion's menus and features.
In addition to the usual voices available on all GPS systems, I discovered that my Nuvi could also accept downloads featuring celebrity and other voices. Launching my browser (not a euphemism), I rushed into a site and purchased the voices of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Yoda, Stewie from "The Family Guy" and a female voice named Jill.
Funny at first, the sitting Governor of California, became tiresome, rudely calling me a "punk" each time I failed to turn at the proper time. Yoda was difficult to understand due to his inverted sentence style, scolding me with the phrase "Turn you did not, lost we are!" Similar to his character on the show Stewie is just a mean little cuss who had no patience for my on-road bungling as well, demanding "DO AS I SAY, YOU IDIOT!" with every wrong turn. If I wanted to hear that kind of debasement I would have brought Will along for the ride.
This brings me to Jill. Jill was one of two female voices available and, candidly, I am more used to a woman yelling at me in the car than an action movie star, a wrinkly old puppet or an ill-tempered talking baby. The other female option was named Sadera, advertised as Jill's hot-blooded sister. Sadera's profile carried a red stamp touting "illicit material," along with provocative photo. Given my struggles with navigation, I decided to pass on Sadera and forgo any possible distractions she might inspire. Jill was my girl.
Immediately, Jill and I were a perfect match. Her soft voice eased me through every inter-section and, when I began to wander aimlessly, Jill would quietly purr "Baby, did you lose you way again? Let's get you moving in the right direction."
Finally a machine that understands me! Recovered from my brief assignation with Carmen, I have undeniably found my wayfaring soul mate. It was love at first byte.
The relationship between human and machine is a delicate one. Regardless of the contraption, people tend to bond with inanimate objects, often assigning names and mortal characteristics to the widgets which spur their devotion.
Until recently I had never developed an affinity for a daily tool which aided lifestyle. Never have I grown an attachment for an automotive vehicle, in fact, my wife Janet refers to me as "Jon the Car Killer." Over the years I have managed to obliterate every car I have ever owned, destroying engines, transmissions, electrical systems and anything else that might turn bad under the hood. To me my car is a machine that transports me from point A to point B, a soulless, nameless future victim of my neglect. Add the well known fact that I can't take a spin around the block with losing my way and you can understand my hesitance to personalize anything with four wheels.
All that changed when Carmen entered into my life.
Carmen was my very first GPS system, a benevolent chaperon who gently guided me to places I would have never dreamed of reaching on my own. My feelings for Carmen were both passionate and genuine and, over time, blossomed into an emotion even more beautiful, even more rare, dare I say it, could it be love?
During our salad days, Carmen and I would glide the through the countryside, bereft of worry, reaching each destination without incident. Then, as suddenly as our affair began, things began to sour. Carmen became aloof, often failing to remind me of critical turns in the road, propelling my being into the unknown with only my wits to guide me (i.e. unarmed). One afternoon, during a routine drive, Carmen experienced a kind of latitudinal breakdown, hysterically repeating "RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING," until I nearly propelled us both off of Windy Gap Mountain! Something was amiss, had gotten too close too fast? Could there be someone else?
Returning home, I engaged Carmen in the driveway and suggested that it might be best if we saw other devices. Following the usual screaming and tears that follow any break-up (my eyes are still a tad puffy), I decided to pass Carmen along to my son Will, who, much to his dismay, had inherited the "Where the heck am I, and how did I get here?" gene which has plagued countless generations of Kaufman males. Clearly, it was time for the two of us to move on.
Like many lonely hearts, I sought refuge on the Internet, scouring sites for a new travel mate. Still reeling from my ill fated romance, I carefully browsed through the electronics sites searching for "Ms. Right-turn." Disheartened and ready to accept a life of solitary travel, I nearly called it quits, deciding to check one more site before turning in for the evening. That is when I first saw her. Sleek, bright, dressed in 3-D color, and on sale, the Garmin Nuvi 205 was a smoldering sliver of satellite technology that set my bruised heart aflutter. Immediately I placed the order and when my new device arrived, I could barely recall Carmen's name. I felt ashamed, yet strangely excited. Once the batteries were fully charged, I began to explore my new companion's menus and features.
In addition to the usual voices available on all GPS systems, I discovered that my Nuvi could also accept downloads featuring celebrity and other voices. Launching my browser (not a euphemism), I rushed into a site and purchased the voices of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Yoda, Stewie from "The Family Guy" and a female voice named Jill.
Funny at first, the sitting Governor of California, became tiresome, rudely calling me a "punk" each time I failed to turn at the proper time. Yoda was difficult to understand due to his inverted sentence style, scolding me with the phrase "Turn you did not, lost we are!" Similar to his character on the show Stewie is just a mean little cuss who had no patience for my on-road bungling as well, demanding "DO AS I SAY, YOU IDIOT!" with every wrong turn. If I wanted to hear that kind of debasement I would have brought Will along for the ride.
This brings me to Jill. Jill was one of two female voices available and, candidly, I am more used to a woman yelling at me in the car than an action movie star, a wrinkly old puppet or an ill-tempered talking baby. The other female option was named Sadera, advertised as Jill's hot-blooded sister. Sadera's profile carried a red stamp touting "illicit material," along with provocative photo. Given my struggles with navigation, I decided to pass on Sadera and forgo any possible distractions she might inspire. Jill was my girl.
Immediately, Jill and I were a perfect match. Her soft voice eased me through every inter-section and, when I began to wander aimlessly, Jill would quietly purr "Baby, did you lose you way again? Let's get you moving in the right direction."
Finally a machine that understands me! Recovered from my brief assignation with Carmen, I have undeniably found my wayfaring soul mate. It was love at first byte.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Alternatives in Retirement
Getting old is a frightening proposition my friends, and with each passing day comes another reminder of what lies ahead. Every morning I look into the mirror and wonder "who is this relic before me with grey hair growing out of his ears?" Sadly, my fading reflection does not answer, staring back at me with the same anguished expression that I project.
A few weeks ago I traveled back to my native Long Island to visit with my sisters (Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally), nephews and nieces for a few days. During a Saturday luncheon (arranged by my younger sister Sally and held in her home) the table conversation got around to the subject of age and retirement, a topic which had not previously been discussed within this particular group.
Laura mentioned that she had recently received an email about a woman who had conceived a novel retirement choice, offering an alternative to the standard assisted living option. The woman suggested that one could simply live on a cruise ship for the rest of one's days, enjoying the benefits that these sea-faring hotels have to offer. She would have a nice view of the ocean from her sea-side room, feast on the endless number of buffets aboard, meet new people every fourteen to sixteen days, and visit the ship's doctor for any pressing medical needs.
"This plan was brilliant", I thought picturing Janet and I on an endless voyage. Never again would I need to worry about cleaning my room (actually I rarely worry about that anyway), running to the Getty Mart for milk and beer, or have to pay personal property tax on a car which has been sitting idle in my driveway for three years. When it came time to shuffle off this mortal coil and join the choir invisible, a few stewards could guzzle a cheap bottle of wine in my honor, mutter a brief prayer or a bawdy maritime-themed limerick and hoist my lifeless mass overboard, avoiding that whole funeral and graveyard scene.
As the afternoon became evening, the Kaufman siblings began to explore other retirement options, perhaps more suited to our lifestyles. Rather than spending the rest of our lives chewing Dramamine and smelling like halibut, several of us thought we might try a similar approach to the cruise tactic, but on land. Perhaps a senior friendly, warm climate location like Las Vegas would suit?
Imagine a tribe of sibling retirees establishing squatting rights at the Bellagio! Many of principles created in the cruise model would still apply; Huge buffets, nightly entertainment, lavish surroundings and bus loads of white-haired nickel-slot playing friends arriving daily. We just trade sand for waves, that's all! The five of us could pool our Social Security money every month, select a family member to drop a bundle at the casino and, BOOM, we all receive free lodging and a complimentary bottle of champagne courtesy of the management who generally takes a shine to incompetent gamblers. With a little bad luck we could outlast Wayne Newton's run on the strip.
Naturally there are some holes in this "Vegas invasion." After a while, we would no doubt be summarily tossed from hotel grounds forcing us to seek shelter elsewhere. Considering the amount of hotels in Sin City, our wandering tribe might be able to stretch our adventure out for a few years, but what then? Reno and Atlantic City would certainly have caught wind of our flock of geriatric nomads and ban us from properties as well.
No matter how we sliced it, it seemed as though the specter of old age still yawned before us. I see my sisters as I have always seen them, not as aging women, but as the same beautiful, funny and intelligent people I grew up with. Although we spoke of our twilight years, I could not help but feel a burst of youth that afternoon, for as long as we all age together we will remain as we always were; a family.
The next morning, the man in the mirror was smiling back at me. Thank you Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally!
Getting old is a frightening proposition my friends, and with each passing day comes another reminder of what lies ahead. Every morning I look into the mirror and wonder "who is this relic before me with grey hair growing out of his ears?" Sadly, my fading reflection does not answer, staring back at me with the same anguished expression that I project.
A few weeks ago I traveled back to my native Long Island to visit with my sisters (Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally), nephews and nieces for a few days. During a Saturday luncheon (arranged by my younger sister Sally and held in her home) the table conversation got around to the subject of age and retirement, a topic which had not previously been discussed within this particular group.
Laura mentioned that she had recently received an email about a woman who had conceived a novel retirement choice, offering an alternative to the standard assisted living option. The woman suggested that one could simply live on a cruise ship for the rest of one's days, enjoying the benefits that these sea-faring hotels have to offer. She would have a nice view of the ocean from her sea-side room, feast on the endless number of buffets aboard, meet new people every fourteen to sixteen days, and visit the ship's doctor for any pressing medical needs.
"This plan was brilliant", I thought picturing Janet and I on an endless voyage. Never again would I need to worry about cleaning my room (actually I rarely worry about that anyway), running to the Getty Mart for milk and beer, or have to pay personal property tax on a car which has been sitting idle in my driveway for three years. When it came time to shuffle off this mortal coil and join the choir invisible, a few stewards could guzzle a cheap bottle of wine in my honor, mutter a brief prayer or a bawdy maritime-themed limerick and hoist my lifeless mass overboard, avoiding that whole funeral and graveyard scene.
As the afternoon became evening, the Kaufman siblings began to explore other retirement options, perhaps more suited to our lifestyles. Rather than spending the rest of our lives chewing Dramamine and smelling like halibut, several of us thought we might try a similar approach to the cruise tactic, but on land. Perhaps a senior friendly, warm climate location like Las Vegas would suit?
Imagine a tribe of sibling retirees establishing squatting rights at the Bellagio! Many of principles created in the cruise model would still apply; Huge buffets, nightly entertainment, lavish surroundings and bus loads of white-haired nickel-slot playing friends arriving daily. We just trade sand for waves, that's all! The five of us could pool our Social Security money every month, select a family member to drop a bundle at the casino and, BOOM, we all receive free lodging and a complimentary bottle of champagne courtesy of the management who generally takes a shine to incompetent gamblers. With a little bad luck we could outlast Wayne Newton's run on the strip.
Naturally there are some holes in this "Vegas invasion." After a while, we would no doubt be summarily tossed from hotel grounds forcing us to seek shelter elsewhere. Considering the amount of hotels in Sin City, our wandering tribe might be able to stretch our adventure out for a few years, but what then? Reno and Atlantic City would certainly have caught wind of our flock of geriatric nomads and ban us from properties as well.
No matter how we sliced it, it seemed as though the specter of old age still yawned before us. I see my sisters as I have always seen them, not as aging women, but as the same beautiful, funny and intelligent people I grew up with. Although we spoke of our twilight years, I could not help but feel a burst of youth that afternoon, for as long as we all age together we will remain as we always were; a family.
The next morning, the man in the mirror was smiling back at me. Thank you Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Bad Trip, Dude
I am not a big fan of summer. Width challenged people (like me) normally don't fare well in toasty climates, often producing enough perspiration to drown a small child. Aside from my prodigious glad secretion, I am apparently considered quite a delicacy in the insect world, providing a veritable buffet for anything that hovers. There is no way for me to escape the horrors of the season, not even when on vacation.
In the past, Janet, Will and I have experienced a mix bag of family summer excursions. Like most families, all of us have specific stipulations when negotiating family getaways. While Janet considers any location north of the Mason-Dixon Line a frozen, inhabitable wasteland, Will is game for any destination as long as he can bring a friend along to buffer the strain of being with his parents twenty-four seven. Boarding an airplane is not an option for me (fear of being identified by my dental records), limiting our options substantially.
Frankly our luck has been quite thin when attempting family travel. One year we drove half-way to Myrtle Beach and were turned back in Laurinburg, NC due to adverse weather conditions. The following summer we made another run at Myrtle, but our vehicle gave up the ghost in Burlington, NC. The next year we voyaged to Disney World (successfully avoiding most of the deadly state of North Carolina), only to snap a timing belt twenty miles outside of Orlando. This short list of failed treks pale in comparison to the time Janet and I endeavored to leave the country and canter off to Mexico.
Employed by a since failed communications outfit, I (along with my peers) was presented with a free, all expenses paid five day holiday to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, a lovely resort area on the Yucatan peninsula. All meals, drinks and activities were covered in the package and Janet and I preparing excitedly for the charter flight that would carry us to paradise. Note: Although I often sprout chicken feathers when air travel is mentioned, the miser in me found this "free everything" concept too difficult to overcome. Dramamine was purchased and my dentist was notified (just in case).
On the day of the flight, we would drive down to Raleigh, NC and depart from the airport with the rest of our charter group. I thought "North Carolina AGAIN, what kind of fiendish trap have they fashioned for us this time?" Nervously, I put the car in gear and set off in search of Raleigh.
The first leg of the trip went smoothly as I traversed 220 South and cruised by Greensboro. Swearing that Raleigh was west of Greensboro, I turned on to Interstate 40 and proceeded to ignore every road sign I passed and Janet's assertion that we were going the wrong way. Finally, when I saw a sign reading "Knoxville 78 miles", I exited the road and began to swim in my own aforementioned exudation. The flight was scheduled for departure at 12:30pm, my dashboard clock read 11:05, and we were at least two hours from Raleigh. Those wicked Carolinians had managed to impede my progress once again, this time by cleverly moving Raleigh to the eastern side of the state!
Janet remained completely calm as slammed my head into the dashboard. Janet, I might add, is the best person in the world to be with during a crisis. In battle, you would want Janet sitting next to you in a foxhole, conversely, in case of war I am designated as a hostage.
Barreling down the road at break-neck speed I weaved my way through traffic as my business cohorts tried to delay the flight. Russ, a quick-minded, jittery fellow with the disposition of a Poodle, raced to the check in counter and began to stall. Russ told them that I was elderly and was on my way to the terminal in my wheelchair. Failing do be moved by Russ's story, the crew began boarding the passengers. Not to be deterred, Russ spun another tale, this time I was of Mexican national and I was traveling my homeland to see my dying Jose brother for, perhaps, the last time. Boarding continued without delay and Russ was getting desperate.
Janet and I were closing in on the airport when the crew closed the doors of the aircraft and prepared for take off. Russ, my hero, determined to "leave no sales manager behind" sprang from his seat, dashed past a group of flight attendants, spotted an open cockpit door and parked himself in the pilot's seat! Presently, a stunt like that would have earned brave Russ in a first class suite at the Guantanamo Hilton, yet he remained behind the controls until security was summoned to the plane. Back on the road, Janet and I had reached the airport grounds and began jumping speed bumps "Dukes of Hazzard" style, I dropped poor Janet off at the gate off with eight pieces of luggage and sped off to the parking garage.
We boarded the plane to the catcalls of everyone aboard and Captain Russ was released by his captors, shaken, but uninjured.
In a few weeks Will, Janet and I are planning another trip. Steering clear of the dreaded state of North Carolina, we are heading to our nation's capital for a few days of sightseeing and relaxation. If the Department Homeland Security decides to raise their terror alert rating a notch or two during that time period, you will know why.
I am not a big fan of summer. Width challenged people (like me) normally don't fare well in toasty climates, often producing enough perspiration to drown a small child. Aside from my prodigious glad secretion, I am apparently considered quite a delicacy in the insect world, providing a veritable buffet for anything that hovers. There is no way for me to escape the horrors of the season, not even when on vacation.
In the past, Janet, Will and I have experienced a mix bag of family summer excursions. Like most families, all of us have specific stipulations when negotiating family getaways. While Janet considers any location north of the Mason-Dixon Line a frozen, inhabitable wasteland, Will is game for any destination as long as he can bring a friend along to buffer the strain of being with his parents twenty-four seven. Boarding an airplane is not an option for me (fear of being identified by my dental records), limiting our options substantially.
Frankly our luck has been quite thin when attempting family travel. One year we drove half-way to Myrtle Beach and were turned back in Laurinburg, NC due to adverse weather conditions. The following summer we made another run at Myrtle, but our vehicle gave up the ghost in Burlington, NC. The next year we voyaged to Disney World (successfully avoiding most of the deadly state of North Carolina), only to snap a timing belt twenty miles outside of Orlando. This short list of failed treks pale in comparison to the time Janet and I endeavored to leave the country and canter off to Mexico.
Employed by a since failed communications outfit, I (along with my peers) was presented with a free, all expenses paid five day holiday to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, a lovely resort area on the Yucatan peninsula. All meals, drinks and activities were covered in the package and Janet and I preparing excitedly for the charter flight that would carry us to paradise. Note: Although I often sprout chicken feathers when air travel is mentioned, the miser in me found this "free everything" concept too difficult to overcome. Dramamine was purchased and my dentist was notified (just in case).
On the day of the flight, we would drive down to Raleigh, NC and depart from the airport with the rest of our charter group. I thought "North Carolina AGAIN, what kind of fiendish trap have they fashioned for us this time?" Nervously, I put the car in gear and set off in search of Raleigh.
The first leg of the trip went smoothly as I traversed 220 South and cruised by Greensboro. Swearing that Raleigh was west of Greensboro, I turned on to Interstate 40 and proceeded to ignore every road sign I passed and Janet's assertion that we were going the wrong way. Finally, when I saw a sign reading "Knoxville 78 miles", I exited the road and began to swim in my own aforementioned exudation. The flight was scheduled for departure at 12:30pm, my dashboard clock read 11:05, and we were at least two hours from Raleigh. Those wicked Carolinians had managed to impede my progress once again, this time by cleverly moving Raleigh to the eastern side of the state!
Janet remained completely calm as slammed my head into the dashboard. Janet, I might add, is the best person in the world to be with during a crisis. In battle, you would want Janet sitting next to you in a foxhole, conversely, in case of war I am designated as a hostage.
Barreling down the road at break-neck speed I weaved my way through traffic as my business cohorts tried to delay the flight. Russ, a quick-minded, jittery fellow with the disposition of a Poodle, raced to the check in counter and began to stall. Russ told them that I was elderly and was on my way to the terminal in my wheelchair. Failing do be moved by Russ's story, the crew began boarding the passengers. Not to be deterred, Russ spun another tale, this time I was of Mexican national and I was traveling my homeland to see my dying Jose brother for, perhaps, the last time. Boarding continued without delay and Russ was getting desperate.
Janet and I were closing in on the airport when the crew closed the doors of the aircraft and prepared for take off. Russ, my hero, determined to "leave no sales manager behind" sprang from his seat, dashed past a group of flight attendants, spotted an open cockpit door and parked himself in the pilot's seat! Presently, a stunt like that would have earned brave Russ in a first class suite at the Guantanamo Hilton, yet he remained behind the controls until security was summoned to the plane. Back on the road, Janet and I had reached the airport grounds and began jumping speed bumps "Dukes of Hazzard" style, I dropped poor Janet off at the gate off with eight pieces of luggage and sped off to the parking garage.
We boarded the plane to the catcalls of everyone aboard and Captain Russ was released by his captors, shaken, but uninjured.
In a few weeks Will, Janet and I are planning another trip. Steering clear of the dreaded state of North Carolina, we are heading to our nation's capital for a few days of sightseeing and relaxation. If the Department Homeland Security decides to raise their terror alert rating a notch or two during that time period, you will know why.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Lost at Home
Every family has a member who is the essential cog in the household machine. My mom was that person when I was growing up. Through any crisis situation my mom remained steadfast, without even a hint of panic. Though she often would strike a Machiavellian pose, professing that she "rather be feared than loved," Mom was in fact a soft-hearted matriarch who loved her brood unconditionally.
On several occasions, my mother was briefly hospitalized with chronic lower back problems, leaving my father, sisters and I to fend for ourselves in her absence. Although a palpable void was apparent to all, everything ran rather smoothly until Mom's return.
Like my mom, my wife Janet is the captain of our family vessel and similar to my mom, she runs a tidy ship. A former gymnast who spent years hurling her body hither and yon, Janet also has issues with her lower back which will require surgery within the next few weeks. Unlike my mom, who had four brilliant and capable daughters and a loving husband with an abundance of household skills to keep the boat afloat, Janet has only me, my son and three goofy hound dogs to bridge the gap until she regains full mobility.
Adrift in uncharted waters and void of any domestic skills, Will and I struggled to decide which one of us was proficient enough to step up and fill Janet's shoes. (Note: Had our dogs been blessed with opposable thumbs we would have invited them into the conversation, however, we felt that we had to draw the line somewhere.). We proceeded to compile a list of "Pros and Cons" describing our strengths and challenges, opting to explore this matter scientifically.
My list of "pros" included age and experience and we agreed that Will's "pros" were youth and strength. So much for the short list of positives. The discussion regarding our weaknesses became a lengthy volley with each candidate recalling tales of the others inadequacy.
Being male, the first topic we debated was food. Clearly (I thought) I would have an advantage in this category. Aside from a few dishes he can actually create, Will's culinary experiences normally begin with our hungry boy shouting his order at an electronic menu, and ends by driving to the second window for pick-up. Pulling from his historical data bank, Will then reminded me that I was the guy who once set himself on fire while making spaghetti. This was a difficult point to dispute as I had nearly incinerated myself when the bottom of my t-shirt touched the stove eye as I reached for pasta in the cabinet above. As flames rose towards my chin, I discovered the true function of our sinks sprayer attachment (I always wondered what that thing was for) and doused the inferno inches from my beard. Will 1 Dad 0.
Cleaning was next on our list, a chore foreign to most men and Will and I are no exception. If not for Janet, our home would be considered a bio-hazard and would condemned by the City of Roanoke if the Sherriff's deputies could fight their way past a twenty foot ball of dog hair to serve the subpoena. Recalling that Will had once tried to help his Mom clean the house by firing up a gas-powered leaf blower in our living room (and setting off all of our smoke alarms in the process), it became clear that I would be manning the mop and vacuum. Will conceded his case without rebuttal. Will 1 Dad 1
The next topic considered was dog care and maintenance. To our pack Janet is the sun, the moon and the stars. The dogs see Will and me more as temporary boarders, occupants in the postal vernacular. Responding only to their mother's voice, Shiloh, Roscoe and Mya will often turn a deaf-ear to anyone who tries to summon their presence, opting to await official word from the top. Hounds are rarely in a hurry which is precisely the reason I love them. In comparison my dogs make me look "dynamic!"
Will argued that he would be a better choice for this detail due to his standing in the household chain of command which is as follows..
1. Janet
2. The dogs
3. Will*
4. The fish
5. Me (I used to occupy the sixth slot until the lizards passed away).
*Will was in the number two spot until age five, when he jumped on the back of Tara (our since departed Coonhound) and rode her around the house like Roy Rogers.
We quibbled on through the night about who would handle Janet's work during her convalescence yet, in the end, agreed on only one thing. We concurred that neither one of us could handle half of the stuff Janet does on a daily basis, and that the scope of her work stretches from the obvious chores to the little unseen tasks that both of us have either never considered or have always taken for granted.
Relax and recover Janet, with a little luck and a metaphorical can of WD-40, the family machine just might survive the calamitous care of your two favorite men, however, I bumped up the homeowners policy just in case. Rest well.
Every family has a member who is the essential cog in the household machine. My mom was that person when I was growing up. Through any crisis situation my mom remained steadfast, without even a hint of panic. Though she often would strike a Machiavellian pose, professing that she "rather be feared than loved," Mom was in fact a soft-hearted matriarch who loved her brood unconditionally.
On several occasions, my mother was briefly hospitalized with chronic lower back problems, leaving my father, sisters and I to fend for ourselves in her absence. Although a palpable void was apparent to all, everything ran rather smoothly until Mom's return.
Like my mom, my wife Janet is the captain of our family vessel and similar to my mom, she runs a tidy ship. A former gymnast who spent years hurling her body hither and yon, Janet also has issues with her lower back which will require surgery within the next few weeks. Unlike my mom, who had four brilliant and capable daughters and a loving husband with an abundance of household skills to keep the boat afloat, Janet has only me, my son and three goofy hound dogs to bridge the gap until she regains full mobility.
Adrift in uncharted waters and void of any domestic skills, Will and I struggled to decide which one of us was proficient enough to step up and fill Janet's shoes. (Note: Had our dogs been blessed with opposable thumbs we would have invited them into the conversation, however, we felt that we had to draw the line somewhere.). We proceeded to compile a list of "Pros and Cons" describing our strengths and challenges, opting to explore this matter scientifically.
My list of "pros" included age and experience and we agreed that Will's "pros" were youth and strength. So much for the short list of positives. The discussion regarding our weaknesses became a lengthy volley with each candidate recalling tales of the others inadequacy.
Being male, the first topic we debated was food. Clearly (I thought) I would have an advantage in this category. Aside from a few dishes he can actually create, Will's culinary experiences normally begin with our hungry boy shouting his order at an electronic menu, and ends by driving to the second window for pick-up. Pulling from his historical data bank, Will then reminded me that I was the guy who once set himself on fire while making spaghetti. This was a difficult point to dispute as I had nearly incinerated myself when the bottom of my t-shirt touched the stove eye as I reached for pasta in the cabinet above. As flames rose towards my chin, I discovered the true function of our sinks sprayer attachment (I always wondered what that thing was for) and doused the inferno inches from my beard. Will 1 Dad 0.
Cleaning was next on our list, a chore foreign to most men and Will and I are no exception. If not for Janet, our home would be considered a bio-hazard and would condemned by the City of Roanoke if the Sherriff's deputies could fight their way past a twenty foot ball of dog hair to serve the subpoena. Recalling that Will had once tried to help his Mom clean the house by firing up a gas-powered leaf blower in our living room (and setting off all of our smoke alarms in the process), it became clear that I would be manning the mop and vacuum. Will conceded his case without rebuttal. Will 1 Dad 1
The next topic considered was dog care and maintenance. To our pack Janet is the sun, the moon and the stars. The dogs see Will and me more as temporary boarders, occupants in the postal vernacular. Responding only to their mother's voice, Shiloh, Roscoe and Mya will often turn a deaf-ear to anyone who tries to summon their presence, opting to await official word from the top. Hounds are rarely in a hurry which is precisely the reason I love them. In comparison my dogs make me look "dynamic!"
Will argued that he would be a better choice for this detail due to his standing in the household chain of command which is as follows..
1. Janet
2. The dogs
3. Will*
4. The fish
5. Me (I used to occupy the sixth slot until the lizards passed away).
*Will was in the number two spot until age five, when he jumped on the back of Tara (our since departed Coonhound) and rode her around the house like Roy Rogers.
We quibbled on through the night about who would handle Janet's work during her convalescence yet, in the end, agreed on only one thing. We concurred that neither one of us could handle half of the stuff Janet does on a daily basis, and that the scope of her work stretches from the obvious chores to the little unseen tasks that both of us have either never considered or have always taken for granted.
Relax and recover Janet, with a little luck and a metaphorical can of WD-40, the family machine just might survive the calamitous care of your two favorite men, however, I bumped up the homeowners policy just in case. Rest well.
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