Made a Man Cry Today
It’s a rather long story, but last year did not go well with the fellow who cut grass for me and my neighbors, (let’s call them) the Smiths and the Johnsons.
His work was shoddy. There were times when he didn’t show. He once told me he’d cut my hedges for $180 and then charged me $350. (He also told me I shouldn’t attempt this work myself due to it being tricky business — because wood is alive and can feel pain.)
I overlooked the BSing because I initially took it as more quirky and dimwitted than deceitful. I overlooked the shoddy work because of some combination of kindness and I-need-someone-to-cut-the-grass-and-he’s-here-ness. Make your own judgment about the ratio. (But, in an effort to be honest in the face of human foibles, perhaps I should suggest that you withhold that judgment ’til the end of the story.)
Then grass guy had a blow-up with my neighbors, the Smiths. Nutshell: Grass guy was rude and argumentative. He dropped F-bombs. He called the good and kind and dear-to-me Smiths “the jackasses of the street.” This ding-dong of a 20-something-year-old very nearly came to blows with a man in his late 60s who has, in recent years, undergone knee surgery, back surgery, arm surgery, and heart surgery. Luckily another neighbor stepped in before it came to that.
I decided I would not have grass guy working for me anymore. But, since the scene occurred at the very end of grass-cutting season, I had not yet told him that. Well, he came by today to tell me he’d be back to cut grass again. Upon which, I explained, very politely, that I would be doing it myself now since I have more time and am trying to save money.
I tried to leave it at that. To be polite. To spare his feelings. To put it on me.
But he wouldn’t go away. He stayed at my front door, arguing with me, cajoling me, bugging me, bugging me, bugging me and repeatedly asking if there was some other reason.
I eventually told him that I hadn’t been all that pleased with his work. And I told him I also knew about what had happened with the Smiths.
He, of course, told a dramatically different (ahem, preposterous, ahem) version of the tale. Among quite a bit of other ridiculousness and lies (which I will not go into here to spare you the tedious details of a conversation with a world-class BS-er, who could, in my grandfather’s words, “Talk the latch off a sh*thouse door”), he told me he had apologized to the Smiths and that they had already hired him back to cut their grass this year.
He left my house. I called another of his ex-clients, the Johnsons, to say, “Guess who was just here?” And Mrs. Johnson says, “Yep. He’s here now. He’s around back talking to Mr. Johnson.” The Johnsons feel exactly the same way as I do about how he treated the Smiths. And they told him pretty much the same thing, that they would not be needing his services.
Meanwhile, I called the Smiths. They have not hired him back to cut their grass this year. (Mr. Smith’s actual response, for those who might like a bit more detail, was a roar of laughter and, I quote, “If he shows up here with a lawn mower, I’ll weed his whacker with a weed whacker.”)
And so, in the end, we all said No to grass guy today. He did, finally, shut up and walk away — in tears. Mrs. Johnson told me he had cried in front of them. And I saw him walking back down the street, wiping his eyes.
I’m honestly not sure if the tears were crocodilian or real, but it is hard to see a man cry. Harder still to feel somewhat responsible. I care about people’s feelings. I do not like conflict. And, so, as I watched him cry, I felt kind of bad. I felt uncomfortable. And I felt a little guilty that I laughed so hard.
So, anybody know where I can buy a cheap electric mower?
The Scoop – in Today’s Post-Gazette
If you’re in Pittsburgh, check out today’s Post-Gazette. Gary Rotstein shared one my of my Life Preserver tales, The Scoop, in his column this morning.
Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day – Driving Tips Book
Remember when you got your license? Of course you do! Learning to drive is a milestone in any teen’s (and parent’s) life.
My new book “Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day” welcomes new drivers to the open road with wisdom and humor. Blending useful driving tips, advice, and lessons learned with imagery that captures the adventure of cars and driving, this book tells a new driver, “Be safe. I love you!” A fun and informative gift for teens that parents will appreciate, too.
{Note: I have to thank a friend of mine for writing the above book description for me. Funny how I’ve spent my career helping other people promote themselves and their products, but, when it came to my own, I had trouble putting it into words without feeling as if I were being an obnoxious braggart.}
This book was a labor of love, inspired by my own nephew turning 16. Should you be so inclined, it’s on sale at amazon.com.
A few excerpts:
Baked Potato Soup
On this cold and wintry day, I’m preparing homemade Baked Potato Soup, one of my favorite comfort foods. I highly recommend you try it sometime.
Now, before you let yourself feel some sort of inadequate next to the wonderment of my ambition, any speculation of culinary skill, or an image of me that includes a cute apron and matching spatula . . . consider the following:
- The idea to make this soup came to me because I noticed that the potatoes in the cupboard were close to growing ears and feet.
- I was pleasantly surprised to find a hunk of onion in the veggie drawer. And it was about the right amount of onion . . . until I finished cutting off all of the dry and/or rubbery bits.
- Instead of bacon, I used turkey bacon. Instead of sour cream, I used yogurt.
Multiple Choice:
I chose the alternatives above because:
A.) I only buy super-nutritive and planet-responsible foods like vegetables grown in natural sunlight while listening to Enya and meat from non-methane-producing cows.
B.) I did not feel like going to the grocery store to get the right things.
- Sharp cheddar cheese is the perfect choice for this recipe. Yep. I chopped up some nearly stiff slices of swiss foraged from the back of the lunchmeat drawer. Then, I tossed in a bit of parmesan that I’m still not sure about.
- Had no chives, so I used parsley and dillweed. Parsley because, you know, it kind of looks like chives. Dillweed because it’s the funniest thing in the spice rack.
- I did not parboil the potatoes. (I’m not 100 percent sure I know what parboil means.) I just dumped everything into a crock pot and turned it on.
- First, I had to go get the crock pot, from where it has been sitting in the basement, just inside the door to the garage, since Thanksgiving.
- Yes, Thanksgiving 2013, and, yes, it was clean. (But these are not unreasonable questions.)
With any luck, when I sit down to eat this, um, variation of Baked Potato Soup, I will not just spit it out with a grimace and a gag. ‘Cause then I’d probably have to get up off the couch to go change this lovely sweat pants and T-shirt ensemble.
Happy Friday. Bon Appétit!
Super Bowl Commercials
Okay, I watch the Super Bowl because I like football. And it annoys me that it has become an advertising show interspersed with a few minutes of football. There was a time when the few commercials run during the big game became a sort of delightful surprise. But, as too often happens when advertisers discover a spark of cool (and misinterpret its appeal), Super Bowl advertising has become an overdone, over-hyped display of the mostly weird.
My 2 million cents.
Bruce Willis Honda Hug Commercial
Hi, we’re Honda. We sell cars. But we spent a trunk load of money on a commercial to say that what’s really important isn’t a car but to watch the Super Bowl with people you care about and give them a hug. Oh, and here are two guys who will make that potentially sincere message feel silly and odd.
T-Mobile (Simple pink background with text.)
“Maybe next year we’ll hire a big celebrity.” Loved it. Brilliant.
Coke/America the Beautiful
I get and like America’s melting pot personality, and I appreciate Coke’s world view. They did it so well with “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” But America the Beautiful? Hmm. For Coke’s global audience, isn’t that a tad rude? And for Coke’s American audience, wasn’t that a little preachy, bordering on unpatriotic?
Bob Dylan for . . . (was it Chevy?)
“Nothing is more American than America”? Huh. Also, nothing is more sliced and bready than sliced bread.
Budweiser Puppy-Horse Commercial
I almost loved it. But I wouldn’t have picked “Puppy Love” as the theme song. (Are the dog and horse “best buds” as the clever tagline says or are they in love?)
Were I the creative director, the friendship between the horse and dog would have brought the farmer and dog breeder together. (Wouldn’t that have been better than, as one friend put it, a carjacking?)
Pistachios
In a word, Wonderful. One of the few ads in which using a celebrity meshes perfectly with their existing advertising campaign. And Colbert was his normal, deadpan hilarious self. (Pistachio!)
Matrix Car Commercial
Today, I am going to turn Nessun Dorma (one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written) up loud and hope that Pavarotti can help me forget I ever saw/heard this commercial. (Also, interesting, using a song about not knowing a name to run a commercial for which I cannot remember the brand.)
Go Daddy’s Muscle Men Running to Tanning Salon
I thought this one was fun—and a much more appropriate campaign for the Go Daddy target audience than their previous ads aimed at those needing a domain name for a porn site.
Cheerios Little Brother and a Puppy
I still don’t have any idea why people are so upset about the depiction of this mixed race family. But I’m never a fan of portraying children as manipulative little brats who get their way.
Butterfinger Candy Ménage
Saved the worst for last. Creepy concept. Creepy people. And the worlds worst marriage therapist.
P.S. If the name of your candy bar includes the words butt and finger, perhaps you should avoid the deviant sex analogy?
The Scoop
A clean out fever sometimes strikes my Mom. Over the years, I have trained her to wait a tick before tossing or donating, to give me a chance to peruse and scavenge. If I had saved nothing else over the years, I am glad I got my hands on this ice cream scoop.
This is the ice cream scoop my Dad used when we were kids. (Dad is fine by the way; he just got a new scoop.) But this is the one he used when he’d make us special sundaes or ice cream cones. It was an event that made us happy, in part, because, well, it was ice cream but also because serving ice cream was something my Dad got such a kick out of. He’d put joy and creativity into the effort. And he had a system.
I can picture it. Clear as day. My Dad, standing at the kitchen counter, looking down at me, smiling. He’d fill a small cup with warm tap water and dip the scoop in the water before digging into the ice cream, explaining, teaching, sharing a secret, this makes it easier to scoop.
Dad making ice cream sundaes or serving up ice cream cones was a tradition in our house, and everybody who has ever visited has had at least one of them.
There was a time when an ice cream shop up the street went up for sale, and there was talk in the house that maybe he should go into business. I was much too young to understand having a job or being the bread-winner or the risks of small business, but it made me sad that he didn’t do it.
Even very young humans are astute enough to recognize the things that make other people happy and to feel something, even if we don’t yet know the words regret or sacrifice, that feels a little sad, something that is a little less than perfect about being a grown-up.
Flash forward to me as an adult, and this same ice cream scoop reminds me of when my nephew Alex (now a 6-foot-something 16-year-old) was a tiny little human. My brother was in the Navy and his family was in town for a rare visit. We gathered at my Mom and Dad’s house. It was the first time I’d been around Alex that he could talk and walk. He was about 3 years old.
I walked from the dining room to the kitchen with a promise of getting him some ice cream. He came dashing in behind me, saying, “Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something.” I was at the kitchen counter, holding this scoop, looking down at him, smiling.
He told me to get a cup of water. He told me that if I dipped the scoop in the water, the ice cream would be easier to scoop. He added, oh-so-proudly, “That’s how my Dad does it.”
One of my favorite sweet, funny Circle-of-Life moments.
So, yeah, things are just things. But some things, unremarkable, everyday things, are more than utilitarian. They are memory triggers. Every time I use this scoop or even just see it in the utensil drawer, I feel a little jolt of happiness. I also feel a bit covetous and secretly lucky to be the kid who stayed in Pittsburgh and got the best hand-me-downs. This ice cream scoop is a mini-life preserver.
And, that, my friends, is my rationalization. Sometimes, winter doldrums and grown-up worries are easier to bear — if you eat a little ice cream on a Wednesday.
Rooting for Peyton
When it comes to the Super Bowl, it’s more fun to have a horse in the race. This time, mine’s a Bronco.
Let me state right up front that I’m from Pittsburgh, and Terry Bradshaw is and always will be my favorite quarterback of all time, but Peyton Manning is my favorite active QB. And not just this week; I’ve been saying that for years.
Why?
- I like Peyton Manning because he’s a great player who makes for some really exciting football.
- I think he’s hilarious. If you haven’t seen him on Saturday Night Live, google for video. If you haven’t seen his commercials, move out of your cave.
- I like him because he does a lot of work for charity.
- I like him because he is humble and self-deprecating. He’s a good sport.
- I like him because he wears his heart on his sleeve.
- I like him because Tony Dungy likes him.
- I like him because family dinners at the Manning house are rowdy and hilarious but also loving. They hug a lot. They laugh at farts. And post-dinner charades are epic.
Okay. I’ve never actually had dinner with the Mannings. And I can’t back up what are, obviously, my own inferences about a man I’ve never met. But I am also rooting for Peyton Manning because of one undeniable fact: He’ll be in MetLife Stadium on Sunday.
Despite major surgeries – on his neck. Despite lingering nerve damage – in his throwing arm. He’ll be there.
He’ll be there despite a kick in the teeth from the people who knew his work ethic best. Jim Ersay won’t be in East Rutherford on Sunday. But Peyton Manning will be there.
I want the Broncos to win — not just because I’m a Peyton Manning fan but also because it would be a life preserver moment. I’d like to see that, sometimes, that’s how Life works.
I’d like to see perseverance and courage pay off. I’d like to see the odds beaten. I’d like to see Ersay’s kiss-butt public relations dance. I’d like to see the Broncos’ faith rewarded. I’d like to hear their quarterback talk about a great team effort. I’d like to see him have that chance to be gracious and proud and happy.
I’d really like to see the nice guy finish first.
And then go get a Super Bowl ring sized for his middle finger.
Richard Sherman, May I Call You Dick?
I once dropped an enormous F-bomb in the midst of a heated softball game. A reporter and cameraman were not in the stands that day. But my parents were. It is difficult, even now, all these years later, to share what they said to me after the game, but I can tell you, they did not say, “Well, you played well, so we’re still thrilled to be your parents right now.”
True, an amateur softball game cannot compare to an NFL playoff game, but that’s not my point.
When I saw Sherman’s outrageous outburst following Sunday’s NFL playoff, I thought it was surprising (and kind of hilarious). I thought, “Boy-oh-boy-oh, this guy is going to be mortified once he calms down.” And I thought, “The media is going to have a field day with such a blatant display of poor sportsmanship.”
But he isn’t. And they haven’t.
His explanation has been, well, less than apologetic. (“I’m most sorry about the coverage this has received.”) Many are standing up for him. (“That’s the kind of guy I’d want on my team.”) And the Beats commercial featuring him rolling his eyes about his bad image has begun to run more often.
What the heck?
Despite what the talking heads seem to be implying in their coverage of negative reaction among fans, I am not a stupid, single-minded automaton who can’t understand the situation.
Guess what, regular folks know that competition can be emotional, that spirits run high when your adrenalin is pumping. We’re actually quite capable of understanding why Sherman lost his mind. We’re even capable of feeling bad for him that it happened in front of a reporter and a cameraman.
(Oh, and btw, most of us don’t make millions doing what we do, but we all face challenges with far greater consequences than a trophy. Just sayin’.)
Humans — regular or famous — are silly, emotional, passionate, imperfect creatures. We all make mistakes. We take our turn being stupid or angry or mean or thoughtless. But some of us? When we screw up, we acknowledge our mistake and aspire to do better. It’s likely the main reason our species has continued to exist.
Mistakes make us human. Admitting our mistakes and trying to do better makes us lovable. Acting as if you are exempt from the endeavor has the opposite effect.
And that is why people like me will carry on, knowing what’s really important in life, and understanding football quite well enough, thank-you-very-much. For example:
- This Sherman fellow is just one man among fewer than 1,700 players in the football world (and 7 billion people in the real world).
- Sherman is only 25 years old, with time to learn.
- The Seahawks team doctor has stated that Sherman’s aggressive behavior stems from having a tiny penis.
- I shouldn’t have written that last bullet. I need to be a better person.
- Let’s go, Broncos!
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Heartbleed Brainbleed
Call me old. Call me a curmudgeon. Call me old-fashioned. But I don’t believe technology can replace human assistance. I also don’t believe we will ever be a paperless society. Here’s one reason why.
1. Heard about heartbleed virus.
If you haven’t, check out this link. You can type in a website address to see if it’s at risk. If there’s a risk, change your password for that site — and for any site where you have used the same password. And, yes, Last Pass is trying to sell you their service, but the website checker is free and easy to use.
2. Used the site mentioned above to start checking the websites that I use.
3. Discovered that lifelock.com was a “possibly” infected site. Yikes!
4. Went to lifelock.com to change my password.
5. Could not remember the password (because I made it a really complex one, of course).
6. Used the site’s “forgot your password” feature. Got a pop-up saying an email had been sent and that I should contact customer service if I did not receive the email.
7. Checked email, including spam folder, etc.
8. Waited. Checked email again.
9. Waited. Checked email again.
10. Called customer service. Explained. She gave me a temporary password.
11. Tried to log in with the temporary password. It didn’t work.
12. Called customer service again. Different rep gave me a temporary username — which was the exact same series of letters and numbers as the temporary password the other rep had given me (so, yeah, perhaps technology could replace a few people, but . . .) — and a new, different temporary password. The second rep also emailed the information to me.
13. I got logged in and changed my password to something that included lower case letters, capital letters, and numbers. It didn’t work — because I didn’t include a symbol. (The symbol I want to use does not exist on a keyboard.)
Whew. That was for ONE website. I’ve spent most of the morning navigating websites in search of the “change password” button. My brain is spinning like a Mac rainbow dot trying to recall every site I’ve ever used. And I’ve grown a tumor or two on the right side of my cerebral cortex trying to come up with complex passwords. If I now need a unique password for every site I use, you know and I know, I won’t be able to remember half of them by this evening.
So, I need to write them all down on a piece of paper.
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April 14, 2014 at 3:55 pm Leave a comment