Great 4th of July Memories

I imagine that most Midwestern baby boomers, around my age, have similar summer memories as I do.

It doesn't take much to take me back.  The thick, sweet smell of fresh cut grass.  Picnics by the lake, with the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling over charcoal briquettes.

Homemade, hand-cranked, peach ice cream and ice cold fresh squeezed lemonade.  Afternoon softball games.  Fresh picked, sun ripened blackberries, laden with thick, sweetened  fresh cream. Cold fried chicken and warm potato salad. Drive in movies. Twilight games of Kick the Can or chasing fireflies under starry skies on a warm summer evening. Corn on the cob and corn dogs at the State Fair. The list goes on forever and appears to be mostly food related.  Hmmmm.  There is no denying that I love to eat.

Summer travel was also the same for most of us in the 60s.  Vacations seemed to be centered around visiting relatives in distant states or traveling to state parks and monuments.  With two parents and 4 children packed into one large Pontiac sedan, it was all we could do to keep from killing each other along the way.  If we weren't playing those ridiculous travel games, we were fighting, or complaining about being hot or bored. 

Our parents let us travel in ways that would get them arrested today.  Seat belts were not fashionable and were often tucked away, under the seats. We would take turns hanging our feet out the window to cool off. When were were too tired to complain or fight any longer, we would spread out to sleep off the travel. One kid had to sleep sitting up, jammed on the bench seat between both parents in the front seat, while another layed "over the hump" on the back seat floor, one in the back seat window ledge, and another across the back seat.

My parents preferred staying at Best Western motels, and all any of us kids ever wanted was air conditioning, a color TV, orange soda pop, to eat out in restaurants, and of course, a swimming pool.  In a addition to the traditional question of "Are we there yet?", was a constant  vigilance, on our part, on helping our father secure adequate lodging each afternoon of our trip.  Anytime after 2:30 in the afternoon, we would point out every motel that met that criteria as an acceptable place to hole up.  This constant need of my father's to "make time" or "put in distance" was significantly cutting into our "swimming time"!

4th of July always seemed to be a special time as we were growing up. As young children, I can remember running through the streets, at twilight, with sparklers in hand.  Dad would help us light up the "black charcoal snakes", pop bottle rockets and roman candles.   Later  in the evening, we would all wrap up in cozy blankets and watch a spectacular Disney like  fireworks display in the sky.

We didn't really have access to fire crackers and cherry bombs until 7th or 8th grade.  By then, every kid had heard the urban legends of the multitudes of "bad boys" who had lost fingers, hands, and, for God's sakes, even whole limbs because they played with these "miniature" pieces of dynamite without proper care and supervision.    

Most of my Independence Day celebrations have now blended into one extended memory. All except for one special 4th of July that no one in my family will ever forget.

One summer, when I was 13 and living in Colorado, I spent my entire life savings purchasing every imaginable form of fireworks available for sale in both Colorado and Nebraska. Sky Rockets, cherry bombs, M-80s, firecrackers, roman candles, etc. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that I was planning my own special fireworks display that evening and  all my family, friends, and neighbors came over to watch what was supposed to be a long drawn out fireworks event throughout the evening.

They all lined up in lawn chairs in our front lawn waiting for the event.  I had been storing all my fireworks in my dresser drawer and it was packed so full and tight, that I simply brought my entire dresser drawn down the the front street curb.

Though I can be a little dramatic at times, I spared the speech and simply got everyone's attention by lighting the very first bottle rocket to inaugurate the event. To my surprise, sparks from the bottle rocket flew into the dresser drawer packed with all the other fireworks, and lit everything on fire.

In a flash of fire, and burst of black smoke and thunder, everything went off. Roman candles flaring, firecrackers crackling and snapping, M-80s exploding and bottle rockets shooting off in every direction imaginable. Astounded, but frightened, everyone jumped out of their seats and ducked behind their chairs, bushes, fences, trees – whatever cover they could find!

Although my dresser drawer caught on fired and was burned, nobody was injured. The entire event lasted only a few minutes but was spectacular!

I Hate Doing Things Twice

Lately, I have been wondering what I would do with all the free time I would have in my life, if I only had to do things once, instead two or three times, to get things right.

Let me clarify.  As I have recently examined how I spend my days, it appears that I have to "re-do" many tasks that I think are finished.  My life is complicated and busy enough to begin with.  In fact, I have a 16 page, "To-Do" list that helps me track my various business, charitable, and social interests.  

I usually start off each week with a general idea of where I intend to invest my available time and effort.  The plan is based on commitments, interest, momentum, priorities, time lines, and window of opportunity.  However, what continues to catch me off guard is that, when I plan my days and weeks, I forget about allotting time for unforeseen circumstances, initiated by others, and even more, for the need to revisit tasks that I thought were completed and already crossed of my to-do list. 

As I have been pondering this issue of late, I realize that I arrive here because of a couple of key factors.  It all boils down to communication, competence, trust, and follow through.  While it might not all be my fault, it might be my responsibility, even if these are difficult considerations to assess and address.  

If I want to make things better, easier, and better for my life, then I will have to do a better job communicating from day one, and assessing other people's ability to understand what is involved, trust in their competence, and ability to follow through as we agreed and when we agreed.  There are no short cuts.  

When it comes to communication, I have realized that its important to communicate to all involved, up front, to make sure all concerned have a chance for input, to be fair, so that any stragglers cannot derail the momentum of a task downstream.

I make mistakes because I am in a hurry, and don't consider all the "pros" and "cons" of an issue carefully, before I make a decision.  Its this "buyers remorse" or additional input that complicates issues and pushes me to revisit my decisions and tasks.  If I commit to this vetting earlier in the process, I will probably save myself a lot of anguish.

Of course, trusting others to do their part is equally frustrating.  Especially if you are unfamiliar with them.  

For example, I recently purchased a new bed.  The salesperson and I arranged to have it delivered on a certain date, but he needed to check with shipping, etc and he agreed to call me, by a certain date, to verify the information, and tell me for certain that the bed would be delivered on a certain date, and at a certain time.  I expected him to do this, but he didn't call me on the date he told me he would, and he hasn't called since either.  

The delivery date is approaching fast. Now, I find myself having to track him down to be certain.   I don't know if the bed is coming or not.  I don't know how to schedule my day. He has not been back to work and others at the bed store cannot seem to understand the paperwork.  When I call, he is on the phone and they say he will call right back.  He doesn't.  I call back and he is now at lunch. They will take a message.  No call.  When I call again, he has gone home for the day. What should have been a simple transaction has turned into a situation where I feel as if I am stalking the salesperson to get a simple answer, and I am spending far too much time stressing about it.

The bed example is just one little item that needs "re-doing" several times in my life.  But it is symbolic of why I feel tired a lot.  I am sure I'll get it sorted out today and everything will be fine.  But what would I have done with all the extra time I would have had if things had worked out as planned?  Ah, well, I guess that's life!

Speaking English with a Foreign Accent

I have this really stupid thing I do when conversing with people, if English is not their primary language.  It seems, I immediately "dumb down" my dialogue to simple English words and broken sentences, and speak with a quasi synthetic accent of their native tongue.

I realized this not long ago when I was speaking to my housekeeper.  She is from Guatemala and has a decent understanding of English, but prefers to speak in Spanish.  When she does speak to me in English, its filtered through a thick Latin accent.  I, on the other hand, have an adequate Spanish vocabulary, and can speak marginally fluently, even if I occasionally have difficulty conjugating my verbs.   When I get lost, or don't know what something is, I can point or mime my way through it. 

But naturally, when I speak with her, I still use my broken English, and mimic her accent, as if by some ludicrous logic, this will help her understand me better.  Its a pointless exercise and a typical lazy American gesture.  However, I can't help but rationalize that it  improves our communication and somehow helps me bond with her.

On deeper reflection, I realized I was accent filching more often than I thought.

On another occasion, I went to lunch with a group of friends. We intended to try a new restaurant, and I called ahead to make reservations to assure that we would get a good table at the time we wanted.  When I got off the phone, I was asked if the new restaurant was French.  "Yes", I replied, "Why do you ask"?  "Because", they said, "You quickly adapted a French accent on the phone."  Oh my God!

The restaurant proprietor who took my reservation did indeed have an indiscernible French accent, and as I have now mentioned, I have a tendency to slip right into those situations without realizing it.  We were having a bit of an issue understanding each other and I automatically started conversing with my rendition of a derivative, thick, French accent.  Similar to the discussions I have had with my housekeeper, I assumed that my accent would help him better understand me, even though I was still speaking in English.

"I would like to reserve a table for lunch today" was intercepted and volleyed back to me with a "Yes, we serva lunch today".   I shook my head, and when my followup, clarification comment, "I would like to make a reservation for four people four lunch at noon with a table near the window" struck out, it was quickly condensed to  "You speaka English? Four people, eat lunch, 12 O'clock noon, today".  I mouthed this into the phone, in a bastardized  Spanish/Italian/French combination, as if its mere utterance would click a light bulb on in his head and he would now recognize me as a fellow Frenchman.  To appreciate the full measure of my indiscretion, imagine that my accent was as bad as that of the famed Peter Sellers portraying Chief Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther series of 70's.  I sure hope he wasn't offended.

While we are off topic for a moment, I love this scene where Inspector Clouseau is looking for a room but the innkeeper has difficulty understanding his accent.  The additional video is just a tribute to the comedy inspired by Sellers and his character.

Clouseau: Do you have a REUM?
Inn Keeper: I do not know what a REUM iz!
Clouseau: Zimma
Inn Keeper: Ahhh.. a RRRUUUMMM!
Clouseau: That is what I have been saying you idiot! REUM!

Just to be clear, my accent pilferage issue isn't just limited to Spanish or French. I am prone to the same faux pas whenever I travel abroad.  The country is irrelevant. Canada, England, Scotland, Ireland, etc., in fact, I don't even have to  leave the country to make a fool of myself.  I can just go to the South or the Northern Midwest and I start right in with the "you'alls" and "aboots".

While I realize that my accents are a little foolish and don't help communication or really make me appear native, I also know that I don't do it on purpose and that I am not alone in this transgression.   Hollywood has has taken its shot at making fun of this showcasing it in both film and television.  If you need proof, watch almost any episode of I Love Lucy.

Airline Travel

I still remember how exciting airline travel was when I was a kid.  Our family never traveled by air for vacations, as the cost was probably out of reach for us.  Family vacations were either road trips to visit the relatives or camping trips.  Flying was reserved for when we moved from one city to another, which was often, and the cost was covered by the company my father worked for.

There was an allure to flying in the 60s.  It was special.  We held our airline captains and flight attendants, in their snappy pressed jackets, with little wing pins on their lapels, in high regard back then.  Passengers also dressed up in their Sunday best to travel.  We so marveled at the miniaturized meals served to us on fine china that we didn't mind the cigarette smoke wafting through the aisles.  The experience was as much like an amusement park adventure as it was an expedient mode of transportation.  Ahhhh! 

So what happened? 

As a million mile traveler, I have traveled so often by air for business that I really dread flying anywhere that I don't have to.  Similar to George Clooney's character in his recent film, Up in the Air, there was a time in my life that I was in the air every week. 

The continual threat of terrorism, an uber painful economy, airline mergers, bankruptcies, and diminishing services have contributed to the loss of flying's appeal. I frequently find myself driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles instead of facing my own airport anxiety.  

However, sometimes, flying is the only realistic option, like it was last weekend.  An occasional quick round trip to L.A. is a good lesson for me on how to embrace those irritating annoyances, take a deep breath, and learn to relax.

From the get-go, there are so many issues to resolve and questions to answer. After adjusting my meeting schedule multiple times, I was finally able to zero in on the flight days and review airline, flight, payment, and class of service options.  While major airlines like United and Alaska still offer First Class cabin service, their flights are often compromised and they have limited flight options.  Besides, as much as I prefer to fly in first class, I only  do so when I can use points, and I can handle coach for a fifty minute flight anyway.   

California is well served by Southwest these days and they have done their best to make checking in and boarding more efficient and less stressful.  I was able to pay a small extra fee and actually check in and issue my boarding pass 36 hours in advance instead of the usual 24 hours.  Its important to me to get in that first group of A-1 to A-30 so that I can board the plane early enough to pick a comfortable seat and stow my luggage on board.

Security is another reality all together.  Administered by the Transportation Security Administration (TSA), it is as clumsy and awkward as ever.

It was early when I arrived at the airport.  I had a 7 am flight and I was tired.  So I immediately headed for the Starbucks and thought I was a lucky soul that in spite of the crowds of people around me, no one was in line.  I rushed right up to the counter and was able to purchase my venti black coffee.  I gasp at the $4.17 price that would have been $1.95 or less anywhere else.   But it is like a security blanket and I can handle any unforeseen crisis ahead as long as I am caffeinated. 

With cup in hand I prepared myself for the long snaking security lines, making sure that I have my drivers license and boarding pass ready before I move into position.  As I am juggling my cup of coffee to get my documents ready, it dawns on me what an idiot I am.  The reason the Starbucks line was empty was because it was on this side of security and I would not be able to bring it through.  Still piping hot, Into the trash it goes.  What a waste.  Drat!

I survey the security lines and the dazed travelers shuffling through them. The TSA now has the good sense to divide us up into (1) Special Needs Travelers; (2) Experienced Travelers; and (3) Casual Travelers.  The only problem is that they have the three lines with only two agents and one agent is handling both the casual traveler and the experienced traveler line. They have bungled it again.  Even on my worse day, I probably don't qualify as a special needs traveler, and would be embarrassed to try.  Even so, there are only two wheelchair bound travelers in that line and it will probably take 15 minutes each to move them through.   

There doesn't seem to be any advantage to me entering the experienced traveler line  either, because the agent is just going back and forth between the two lines.  Furthermore, it  appears that only experienced travelers seem to know they are the only ones eligible to be in the line.  You can tell that casual travelers are intermixed by what they are waring, the way they handle their luggage, documents - everything about them screams novice.  I guess it subjective to begin with, and my coffee faux pas of the morning probably disqualified me as well, as I should have known better.   Hope no one witnessed that.

The key is not so much which line you get in to enter the security check point.  No, the security line you get in to have yourself and your possessions scanned is much more critical.  You have to have a keen eye to size up all the travelers in front of you.

I have done this so many times.  I know what shoes to wear, how to pack my luggage, how to break it down to quickly to remove my computer, quart-sized bag of toiletries, shoes, jacket, miscellaneous electronics and other metal objects.  I load them on the conveyor belt, separated in the proper plastic buckets, in the order I wish to retrieve them on the other end. This way, I can slip my shoes back on, pocket my iphone, open my luggage and shove my toiletries and laptop back in in 15 seconds flat, all the while why shaking my head at all the other poor suckers.  Its a rare and valuable skill I am rather proud of my ability to perform.

I look around to see some of the casual travelers I avoided.  They seem to be plugged with metal, are being patted down, have no idea how to breakdown their strollers, disrobe, etc.  One flashily dressed woman has knee high 5 " heeled lace up boots.  Good lord!  She'll be there for 10 minutes.

I keep hearing about how they are deploying more of the new full body scanners to speed this process up.  I pity the poor TSA agent that will have to scan and observe my naked body with all its parts mushed and pushed up against everything.  

I am already racing off to merge into to groups of zoned out travelers who insist on  blocking left lane travel on the moving sidewalks, walking down the Concourse, starting and stopping suddenly, 5 abreast at a slow and inconsistent pace, dropping their luggage, and blocking everybody behind them.  Yes, this is what I love about the airport.

I can't wait to get on board, and avoid eye contact with the other travelers; part of my strategy to select a good seat.  No body likes to sit next to the fat guy, and that includes me.  However, when I am the fat guy no one wants to sit next to, I use every trick I can to put an empty seat next to me.  I sit next to the window, puff my body out (as if it needs any additional puffing),  spread out my personal belongings, cross my legs, with my right  shoe right up in the middle seat area, spread my arms, open a large newspaper, pull down the middle tray, and put something on the middle seat.  What a theatrical routine!  An elaborate rouse that flight attendants and other experienced travelers can see right through.  All to get a little more space without paying for it.  But this is war and there is no room for the meek.

If the flight is going to be pretty full, I look for a small child or a small framed woman and move in next to one of them.  Another good option is to look for a young couple in love.  Guys usually prefer to sit next to the window or the aisle so I can sit next to the woman in the middle seat who will spend most of her time leaning into her boyfriend.

Yep, if you can handle security, casual travelers, boarding and the actual flight, in coach, then lost luggage, car rentals, delayed and canceled flights seem like child's play.  If you can't then its best to drive or pop a few valium, cause you are going to need it! 

Drive At Your Own Risk

I can still remember how excited I was to get my learner's permit and ultimately my driver's license.  It was my passport to freedom.  What suburban American teenager doesn't dream of the day their parents hand over a set of keys and allow them to take the family vehicle for a spin?

I was no different.  The odds were already stacked against me as the driving age was 17 in New Jersey.  I was one of those unfortunate kids that didn't turn 17 until the fall of my senior year.  I really appreciated my older friends and envied their freedom. It felt like I was a year behind everyone else, but when that day finally came, I couldn't be happier to run the family errands.  "Sure mom, you need a quart of milk?  I'll run to the store and get that for you.  Be back in a few hours!"

Like anyone else, I started off as an ultra careful, and well behaved neophyte.  I drove the speed limit, regularly checked my side and rear view mirrors.  The radio volume was always tuned to an acceptable volume, and I wouldn't have dreamed of pulling out of the driveway if my hands were not at the "ten" and "two" o'clock position.

Oh, those were the days my friend!  What I first recognized as a privilege, morphed quickly into a "right" as I gradually transitioned into another sloppy road zombie.

My long forgotten right of passage, evolved from youthful romps and spirited getaways into a necessary mode of transportation, and my attitudes and experiences changed along the way as well.

Nowadays, I barely even look in the side view mirror during an entire voyage, with my my left elbow slung out the window and my right hand resting on my knee.  With power steering, I don't need anything more than the "tips" of one or two fingers on the wheel at anytime.  After all I am only driving down a freeway at 75 miles per hour, in a two ton Range Rover, with thousands of other drivers.  What could happen?

Just the other day, like Jekyll & Hyde, I became one of those crazed lane changers in my effort to get home. Geez!  Someone in front of me is going 45 mph, but cars are whizzing by in the lanes to my right and left.  Its not safe yet, so I wait for my chance.  Quick!  Now. Now. Now!  Success!  I am now in the faster lane to my right.  Victory is mine.  But wait, what is this? Traffic is now slowing ahead.  Damn!  I am stuck again and turn to my left to see the slow poke that I was just behind go past me. Argh!

Sometimes I am amazed that I even get home in one piece.  More than once, I have actually pulled up in my driveway without recollection of the past 15 minutes on the road.   Simply on some sort of auto pilot, my eyes, hands, feet and body are doing the job, but my brain was elsewhere. And even as I write this, and disclose to whomever is reading, I still believe I am one of the good drivers.  You heard me right.  I am one of the good guys on the road.  Its the other guys who are idiots.  Can we talk?

As bad a driver as I might be, the others I am forced to share the roadways with are far worse. I witness atrocities daily and always consider it a miracle when I get home alive and in one piece. So, I have summed up the other drivers and their driving practices into a few different categories.  These are some of the notorious examples of bad driving I have experienced:

1. Not Paying Attention Drivers.  I have seen seen women putting on makeup, drivers, with their heads turned, eating food, checking on small children and pets, or trying to read maps.  I even saw a person once playing an oboe that was in their lap as they were about to drive through the Caldecott tunnel!  Unbelievable.  Even though California bans "non hands-free" use of cell phones, it is not illegal to text while driving.  The $50 penalty doesn't seem to stop most people from ignoring the law.  Their incessant calling and texting ensures their erratic driving and requires that I be even more of a defensive driver while eating, singing and texting myself!

2. Driving Like A Maniac. This group includes speeders and the ambiguous lane changers. The guys that are always weaving and bobbing from lane to lane.  No one is ever moving fast enough for them.  They always think the other lane is moving faster until they shift into it.  Then it becomes the slow lane and they need to move back.  God forbid they move back a full car length and their trip takes an extra 5 seconds.

This group also includes motorcyclists.  If they have aircooled engines, they are permitted by law to weave between cars to keep moving forward.  But I have seen them weave and drive "between" lanes and between cars at 75 miles per hour.

Maniacs are also the guys, who when entering the freeway expecting everyone to yield to them as they merge instead of the other way around.  If they are the guy on the freeway, they will be the first to cut you off.

But be careful.  They can be hot blooded!  Years ago, one of them cut me off, and as I sped to catch up with them and possibly "flip them the bird", the driver pointed a revolver at me, and I hit the breaks fast.  Crazy!

3. Angry and Inconsiderate Drivers.  These are the guys who are always slamming on their horns if you don't accelerate in less than 1 nano-second after a green stop light flashes.  These are also speeders.  They don't use their blinkers unless they turn them on AFTER they have changed lanes. These guys are also the drivers that will merge at the last second.  Even if "Merge Ahead" signs are well posted, they go racing past all the people who are properly merging and expect someone in the very front to let them in at the last second.  I wouldn't be the first person to get frustrated and actually risk damaging my car to block them from merging at the last second. 

4. Shouldn't Be On The Road at All.  These are generally super senior citizens who haven't been inside a DMV for years and keep getting automatic license renewals.  Sometimes the poor dears can't even see over the steering wheel.  They are our parents and grandparents, and we love them, but, their driving days are nearing an end.  They are often so cautious that cause backups when they are driving 35 miles per hour on the freeway.  They start and stop very slowly.  This group also includes drivers whose vehicles shouldn't be on the road.  They drive some aging rust bucket will holes in the floor board that make the Beverly Hillbillies' vehicle look like a brand new limo.

5. Dear in The Headlights Drivers.  These are all the drivers who short circuit whenever they encounter something out of their normal routine.  They don't know how to adjust their driving in rain or fog.  They become the "lookie-loos" when there is an accident. 

Hopefully I haven't fightened anyone too much.  The question I put forth is this.  Are you safer being in my vehicle while I am driving or on the road next to me?

Music, Memories, & Moods

Isn't music the most wonderful, interesting phenomena?  Every culture on earth has some version of it, and it plays an important part in most people's lives.

A magical collaboration of notes, melody, rhythm, and poetry, we have created millions of songs for ourselves out of just seven notes.

I can still remember my indoctrination to music growing up in our household. We had one of those immense consoles in the living room, which was more furniture than music maker.  It was nothing more than an over grown record storage cabinet with a turntable, accented in a lovely authentically recreated antiqued Spanish revival alder wood motif.  The only other access to music we had was my older sister's portable turntable in a case and the am radio in our car.

My parents had purchased all of the music we had, and they were mostly Christmas albums by Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, or a collection of soundtracks  like The Music Man, Marry Poppins, and My Fair Lady.  That's what I used to play when I came home from school, while my friends were raving about this new group called the Beatles.  Hind sight is so 20/20.  If my parents could have only read the cues.

I still remember when I was a young teenager, and my father, returning from a trip to New York, brought me my very own portable transistor radio.  At the time, that radio meant every thing to me.  No more than a cheap plastic throw away toy, I thought it was the most wonderful, thoughtful gift in the world.  I imagined him walking the streets of New York, going from shop to shop to find the perfect gift for me.  I never considered for a moment that he probably picked it up at an airport kiosk while he waited for his luggage. 

It didn't matter.  I loved that radio, and I loved my father for giving it to me.  I plugged the little single ear piece (it wasn't stereo) into my ear every night as I lay in my bed to the sweet sounds of the only station it picked up.  I can't remember the station, but I remember they played the song Hair from the Broadway musical every night around my bedtime.  The only other songs I can recall  are Maggie May from Rod Steward and Signs Signs from the Five Man Electrical Band.   I would turn that volume up as loud as it would go and rock out!  "Signs, signs, everywhere a sign, breaking up the scenery, losing my mind.  Do this, don't do that, can't you readddd the signnnnnn?"  Such a social commentary on how people are judged by their looks and wealth.

We have certainly come a long way from then and the world has made it far easier to purchase, organize, access, and play our favorite tunes whenever we want. Since my early teen years, I witnessed the progression from 45 singles to full blown LPs, 8 tracks, cassettes, am radio, stereo, digital mp3, CD, DVD, ipod, itunes, and now I play my favorites from my iphone.

I find it fascinating that music can either compliment or establish my mood.  Whether I am melancholy or in the mood to rock out, I can accentuate those feelings by accessing certain favorites that reflect those genres.  Or, better yet, I can create certain feelings that I want to experience by doing the same.  I can put myself in a "mellow" mood, by playing my mellow music.

Finally, I can bring back certain memories simply by playing key songs from my past.  I am not certain how these songs became so pivotal in my life, but by playing them now, I can actually dive back into specific times, places, events, thoughts, feelings,  and emotions that I had at critical points in my life.  That's what the song Signs Signs does for me for example.  As I listened to it again, a flood of teenage boy memories, both good and bad, rush back into my conscience.  

I have specific songs that can bring back memories of several specific periods in my teen years, college years, Baskin-Robbins work days, Church group days . . . well you get the point.  Every now and then, when I am feeling nostalgic, that is exactly what I'll do.   

In fact, all the music I have stored in itunes, my ipod and my iphone are organized by "mood setting" genres.  I can select Broadway show tunes if I want, for Sunday morning coffee.  I have divided my soundtrack scores into "regular" and "haunting".  I really love what I term  "haunting" music, like the soundtracks of Meet Joe Black by Thomas Newman or Edward Scissorhands by Danny Elfman.

Then there are the times, I just want to feel pumped up by the simple oldies tunes of the late 50s and early 60s or just rock out to the Eagles, Savage Garden, or Queen.  

I look forward to walking my dog every day.  She is in her own world, happily trotting and sniffing everything in sight, while I am in mine.  With my iphone in my pocket, ear plugs in place, and play button pushed, I am off in my own special world.  If you ever see me walking, you may be able to guess what genre I am listening too by just watching me walk.  I'll have to keep that in mind. 

Can I Be Perfectly Honest?

When are "white" lies, or for that matter, any lies acceptable?

I am positive that if we admitted it to ourselves, we would realize that we have all lied at one time or another, and will most likely do it again. Whether a "white" lie, an exaggeration, an omission, manipulation or a full out bold-faced lie, once you get started, its difficult to turn tale and walk away.  We all tell lies to get what we want, to get away with something, and even to make another person feel better.

Most lying is usually spontaneous and unconscious rather than  cynical and calculated. According to Robert Feldman, a psychologist at the University of Massachusetts, and author of  The Liar In Your Life: The Way to Truthful Relationships, the average person lies approximately 3 times in every 10 minutes of conversation.  However, his research measured only the frequency of narrow, explicit, verbal lying.

I have recently discussed this subject with several of my friends and each of them told me right off the bat, "I don't believe in lying.  I don't like liars, and I never lie."  I was intrigued.  I referred to Mr. Feldman's research and responded, "Really? Never?"  Somebody has to be lying if we average 3 lies per 10 minutes.  Perhaps the politicians are carrying the brunt of it. After all, "How can you tell when a politician is lying?"  Answer: "When his lips move."  Upon further reflection, "Oh," they clarify, "Well I certainly will lie in order to spare a person's feelings, that is, unless they absolutely want me to tell the truth."  There we go!  Its been 3 minutes and we have lie #1.  Its a slippery slope.
    

I can't even begin to count the number of times friends and associates have started a conversation with "Truth be told", "Honestly, or "Can I be honest for a minute?"  You get the point.  What???!!  If you have to ask my permission to be honest at this special moment, what have you been the rest of the time????

Listen.  I'm no saint.  I utter those same phrases, from time to time, no matter how much they make me cringe.  But do we really need to utter a disclaimer to notify a person that we are not lying at the moment?  Do we really lie that often?

One of my favorite skits is from a character called "Penelope" on Saturday Night Live.  The character, created and portrayed by Kristen Wiig, is an out of control habitual liar.

Our sweet, innocent children certainly start out in life telling the truth.  In fact, they can be a little too honest, until we teach them otherwise.  They are not afraid to to boldly, and sometimes very loudly, announce in public "that man has bad breath" or "why does that woman have whiskers on her chin?"  Out of the mouth of babes, right?  So we train them in social etiquette.

Children have enough difficulty distinguishing between truth and fantasy, without  us complicating matters even more.  We continue the legacy of Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, because its fun, sweet and tender.  Then, somewhere along the way, they learn about the Boogey Man, and fear monsters under the bed.

I remember being told as a child that little boys who lied would end up in hell.  I was scared straight (sorta).   But I was also told that an apple tree would grow in my stomach from swallowing the entire apple I just ate, seeds and all.  So how are we supposed to, as children, distinguish from fairy tales, harmless kidding and fibs, to bold face lies?  No wonder we are confused.  No wonder we lie.

How different would the world be if we were regularly called on our lies as adults like we were as children? Who among us hasn't, at least once in their life, "hacked and coughed" into the telephone, and put forth an academy award winning performance to call in sick at work when they really weren't?  Wouldn't it be a shock if the response on the other end of the line was "Liar ...Liar...pants on fire...sitting on a telephone wire!"

Now, I am a big supporter of "white lies" when it spares a person's feelings.   Especially if the consequences are immaterial and more of a self esteem issue.  Basically, I don't think most people really want to know the truth on self assessment issues, in spite of their passionate pleas and demands. 

Years ago, I developed my own catch phrase as a way of circumventing some of these difficult conversations, and ultimately it became a routine expression.  I would use it to answer anyone seeking my opinion on a matter.  Since I felt my opinion didn't really matter anyway, I would express myself with a "You must be so proud."   I would say that if I really liked their painting, film, hair cut, or whatever, and I would say if it wasn't my cup of tea as well.  The point is, it didn't matter what I thought.  They were only fishing for a little support and ultimately, could interpret my comment anyway they saw fit.

Yes, the truth is, most of us just can't handle the truth, so why put each other through that.

Who can forget one of the most memorable, and oft quoted, scenes in cinematic history as Jack Nicholson barks out to Tom Cruise in the courtroom drama of the 1992 Hollywood blockbuster A Few Good Men, "You Can't Handle the Truth"?

So whether we admit it or not, we lie to ourselves and we lie to others.  Whatever methods we choose, we lie to protect ourselves and our interests and we lie to protect others.  We posture, bluff, and fabricate.  We omit, embellish, and remain silent. We overt our eyes and turn our heads away. We falsely smile in support and sometimes we just plain deceive.  We lie because no one calls us on it.  I rest my case.  This is the truth.  Can you handle it?

Objects In The Mirror May Be Larger Than They Appear

Objects In The Mirror May Be Larger Than They Appear

Is it possible that I am not as attractive, in shape, or as young looking as I think I am?  On second thought, don't answer that!

On a recent shopping trip for new shirts, I came face to face with a reality that I would prefer to ignore.

As my shirts and pants have gotten snugger over the past several years, I have had a tendency to blame the high cotton fiber count in my clothing, along with my washer and dryer, for shrinking the material beyond use.  I suppose that deep in my subconscious, I know that extra helping of buttered potatoes was partially to blame, but that was only a fleeting thought.

No, on careful review, the problem was definitely a conspiracy perpetrated by  clothing manufacturers and retailers alike.  The problem with men's clothing, sold in the USA, is that the manufacturers have been lying to us for years, and we were grateful!  They  made our shirts and pants roomier and roomier, while keeping the same "size" labels, so that we can pretend we haven't gained a pound since high school. 

I found a few shirts I liked, and ducked into a dressing room to model them in front of the mirror.  After getting over the painful realization that the "L" size was now a little too tight fitting,  I was even more traumatized to acknowledge that the "XL" label was really an "XXL" size shirt.  This ingenious marketing madness had been feeding my delusions for years, and in my view, was just as responsible for my increasing girth as that extra piece of pie was.

I wondered to myself, "Who else has been lying to me"?

Label aside, I couldn't help but notice how sleek and trim I still looked in my new shirts.  I thought to myself, "Wow!  This really isn't too bad". These shirts appeared to slim me down.  I looked pretty damn fine.

O.K. - O.K.  That illusion was short lived.  My mirrors back home were not as generous to me.  I looked like a tube of Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh pastry.  If someone had slapped me against the edge of a counter, I could not be responsible for what might pop out!

How could I gain so much weight during the drive home?  Its those frickin' dressing room mirrors!  Damn their trickery!  I always forget that clothing merchants use those convex mirrors that make you look thinner than you are.  I really should get those installed at home.  Would do wonders for my self esteem.  In fact why not make them mandatory everywhere!

As brutal as my home mirror images were, they were mild in comparison to the full blown snapshot assault of recent photographs.  I just can't look, in real life, as big as I do in photos . . . can I?  The problem must be implicit within the camera.  Its certainly easier to blame the digital camera maker, as I have with clothing manufacturers and convex mirrors.  Anything is better than taking responsibility myself.  Yes, that's it!  My camera is a Japanese brand, and is somehow exaggerating and distorting my images.  O.K., so maybe that is just one more fantasy. But remember, before you challenge this, it was the Japanese that made us children believe that an ordinary  size, fake looking, puppet moth was actually the giant monster, Mothra, terrorizing Japan through camera craftiness.

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Truth be told, I have pretty good self esteem and healthy dose of self respect, but I  must say that I look like the "before" picture of almost any diet program or reconstructive surgery ad.   I can certainly shrug off the natural effects of aging.  I am comfortable with my age, and there isn't much one can do about the effects of age anyway, save a good plastic surgeon.   But couple that with the  extra poundage, and, I just think photos depict me differently than the way I think I actually look.

Believe it or not, when I look at myself, I still see a teenager.  Quite frankly, that's what I see when I look at any of my family or long-time friends as well.  I only see their "inner self".  I don't see  age or weight.  I don't see the dark circles under my eyes , the loose skin or receding hair line.  I still see and feel like a seventeen year old youth. 

I modeled briefly when I was in my twenties.  I remember all the tricks they used, to make us look better than we did in real life.  In addition to carefully crafted lighting, and makeup, they pinned and taped our shirts behind us so that the material was taught against our bodies.  No chance for a "puffed out" look caused by air or extra material.  We learned how to draw energy to our faces, puff our chests out, and twist our trunks - shoulders back, head straight.

These pictures are proof that cameras used to work correctly.  How self indulgent is that? (Left) is when I was 27, during my brief modeling days.  I certainly didn't have abs like  Taylor Lautner, but was in pretty good shape. (Below Left) is from when I was 44 and still in pretty decent shape,.  It was hard work to stay fit, but I was focused and had the time. (Below Right) is from when I was 51 (in late 2008).  It is actually one of the better pictures of me.   II know it's just a head shot, compared to the other two, but the entire body didn't fit in the space allowed. I need to get back on that treadmill and eat right!

                           
So I am older and more "filled out" now.  I am really O.K. with  that, but occasionally its fun to look back and remember.  I am no longer a teen, or even a young man, and no amount of camera trickery or body twisting can help, short of a good photo shop effort.  But as much as I love my life, and my 50's, I still have a bit of an ego, and I know that I can, and should do something about my weight.

But in the meantime, since cameras can't capture a person's spirit, and only document our "shells", I prefer not to be needlessly photographed until I take off some of my weight.   I am just not photogenic right now.  Maybe its unrealistic and vain, but I know I am not the only one who feels this way.   Are you with me fellow chunkies?

There was this great creepy film starring Robin Williams called One Hour Photo.  In one of his narratives, he discusses how photo albums don't tell the entire story of a person's life.  We leave things out.  His character, Seymour Parrish, observes that we only snap photos of the good times, our best moments.  Birthday parties, weddings, vacations.  Nobody uses a camera to document a fight with a loved one.

So, since cameras can't portray the way I feel inside, lets pass on the photos for now.  So wrong!  I know.  I should get over it.  It is a part of me, but if I have to have a photo taken, I would prefer to at least make an effort to improve the conditions.  Lighting, angle, etc.  And, regarding the weight issue, in my defense, the rule of thumb is that the camera does add ten pounds.  This is one of the reasons models and actors always look so small and malnourished when you see them in real life.

One of my favorite references to this, is an old episode of the NBC comedy, Friends, called "The Prom Video".  The group of friends are watching Monica's old prom video.  When Monica first appears in the video, we see the younger, quite heavier, version of her.  In response to Joey's horror, at seeing such a fat Monica, she responds with "Shut up! The camera adds 10 pounds.  Chandler, who can't help himself, jumps in with, "Ah, so how many cameras are actually on you"?

My other favorite "weighty" video is the MadTV "Oprah - Fat Camera" skit.  It revolves around the Fat/Skinny Oprah and her request to use her special "thinning camera".  Is she . . . or isn't she?

Well, its obvious that January's coconut cupcake diet hasn't helped me much, and I don't own a "thinning camera".  I suppose if I spent as much time exercising as I do developing my posts,  I would be able to throw away my rose-colored glasses.  I wonder how many calories a person actually burns typing and staring at a monitor.

Why are Politics and Religion Conversation Killers?

I have always been curious about the old adage about not discussing politics, religion, or money in polite conversation.  The question of the day is . . . if you can't discuss these issues with family, friends, or acquaintances, where and when is this discussion appropriate?

Truth be told, I can enjoy a little gossip, just like anyone else, especially if its not hurtful, but I am far more interested in people's ideas, opinions, and feelings on issues.

Whenever I meet someone new at a social gathering, the conversation usually gravitates to what people do for a living.  I suppose that is the easiest and most comfortable form of conversation.  Since most of us spend at least 40 hours a week working, we begin to believe that our work is actually who we are.  But our careers are just another channel to express ourselves.  Its our beliefs, and more importantly, our actions that truly define us.

Not that there is anything wrong with discussing a person's career, but don't be surprised if I start to glaze over.  Its the same way my casual friends feel when I get on my soap box to discuss  metaphysics.

While I have so many friends in the film industry, or whom are lawyers, insurance brokers, real estate agents, etc., I have never had the good fortune to meet a self disclosed international spy, ninja, or someone who has walked on the moon.  They might have some interesting and fun party stories!

So aside from meeting those with truly interesting careers, I am much more interested in a person's thoughts about what is happening in the world around us.  When I meet a new person, instead of asking, "What do you do for a living?", I'd rather ask "So what do you think the meaning of life is?".  Kind of bold.  I did that once when I was meeting with a young sales person who worked for me.  Scared the crap out of him.  It took him so off guard, he needed a few minutes to collect his thoughts, but we had a great conversation after that.

I want to know if people I meet are living out their dreams.  If they could do it all over, what would they change?  If money, education, timing, etc were not issues, what would they really like to be doing for a living? 

So what are our reservations about sharing our deepest personal ambitions and dreams with one another?  Are we simply afraid to share and be vulnerable?

Politics and religion are massive forces, collectively shaping and driving the world we live in.  They seek to influence our behavior on all fronts.  You can't turn on the TV or pick up a newspaper without reading a political or religious referenced story.  But they are no more than a collective of people with similar ideas, and traction to take action and implement them.

So why in the world  are we afraid to discuss our political and religious views with one another?  Are we so certain our beliefs are right, that we are afraid to see an issue from a different perspective?  Really?  Even if that person is some we really respect an like, or dare I say, love?

There are too many horror stories about family gatherings that end up as World War III once too much liquor has been served up along side these topics.  What is really sad is that if we can't share our thoughts, ideas and perceptions in a group we are close with, what does that really say about our relationships?

Why do we always have to be right?  We may not always agree, but that doesn't make an opposing view wrong.

We can't discover the the things we have in common if we are afraid to peaceably share and discuss the issues that are the most significant influences in our lives. The sooner we all realize that we are connected and cannot be unconnected, the sooner we can discover and celebrate all that we have in common.  Humanity can evolve.

What Was Your Name Again?

One of the unfortunate side effects of growing older is partial memory loss. I have forgotten where my car keys are, what I ate for dinner yesterday, and even my train of thought occasionally. But the most annoying form of memory loss for me, is when I can't recall a person's name in public.

I'd like to think the reason is that my brain is so full of revolutionary, world changing ideas, that there is insufficient memory capacity for incidental recollections like Latin plant names or the periodic table of elements. Don't the names of occasional friends and acquaintances fall into that category as well? I mean, just like knowing the capital of each state and its chief export, how often does one need immediate access to this information?

However, I suppose it could be equally argued, that in spite of my large head, I just have a thick skull, and a small brain as well. This has been suggested to me quite often in the heat of battle. But I forget who suggested it, because thankfully, there is no room at the Inn for those types of memories either.

To look at it another way, my memory access is like the way I manage my "computer screen desktop". I keep all my current file icons, the files I am regularly working on, on the screen so I can access them easily. They are organized in an orderly system, and I know where everything is. These are the files I need to access frequently. Everything else gets filed in folders and sub folders in my "Documents" file on my hard drive.

When it comes to greeting people, feelings get involved, and while some may forgive a temporary lapse of recollection, others will be hurt. Its just plain difficult to forget the super charismatic, those that are important to us, or people we have regular contact with. So, while I can recall that the atomic symbol for Gold is AU or Silver is AG, I clearly love gold and silver,  and can remember those from 7th grade science. However, if I ever run into Ruthenium or Bohrium on the street, I am in trouble.

On too many occasions lately, I have run into people that I know very well, but fumble as I search for their name when greeting them. I can instantly become the most astute listener as I hang on to their every word for some glimpse of recognition.

I ran into a few old friends recently and felt some embarrassing discomfort when I came up short with their names.  While they both greeted me with a smile and "Hi Randy", I was horror struck as I extended my hand to shake theirs.  I even think I smelled a faint burning smell as my brain was speeding through the possible list of names in my head. I virtually had only seconds as I reached out in slow motion and started very slowly to say, "Hey. Its good to see you . . . (nope nothing was coming to mind and I needed to complete the greeting) . . . guys.  Damn! My brain failed me again. What am I supposed to do now? Are they suspicious? Do they know?

So, paralyzed with fear, I begin to over compensate. Because even though I can't remember their names, I remember them, and just about every time we have ever been together, so why, why, why has my memory betrayed me?

I begin to introduce meaningless trivia into our discussion that points to the fact that we are close friends. Reminiscing about past encounters, and mutual friends. I think its working. They are smiling and laughing.

But just when I think all has gone well, it suddenly gets awkward again. I forgot that I am not alone. Its clear we are starting to exceed to 2-3 minute allowable greeting period, and social custom dictates that I introduce my companion to them. Oh God!  I am having a meltdown. Why didn't I just say hello and walk away.  I am back in the danger zone and there is no escaping it now.

For a brief second, I can sense their discomfort, and I wished that they would just introduce themselves, or that my companion would step up and do so. That would make it easier for everyone.

Well, I needed to do something, so I did the best I could and acted a little ditzy. "Oh by the way, I am not sure if you guys have met".  Before I could get much deeper into it, and stumble into anymore awkwardness, they introduced themselves to each other. Bingo! It all came rushing back to me in torrents.

It was time to bring this encounter to a successful close.  So, with all the necessary information in hand, I did what any self respecting faker would do. I began to over compensate. Oh yes!  I threw in their names, as often as I could, right up until the end of the conversation. If it wasn't clear in the beginning, it was clear in the end - that I knew them well!

Epilogue

What is so surprising to me now, is even though I can recall the entire conversation with this couple, I still can't recall their names.  Oh well.

Just A Cup of Joe, Black Please.

I was at Peets Coffee & Tea yesterday morning, waiting to have coffee with my younger brother.  As I stood in line, behind a bunch of sleepy-eyed coffee junkies, painfully listening to their orders, I wondered, "Am I am the last person on earth who still appreciates a plain mug of black coffee"?

There I was, yet again, stuck in a line behind a bunch of complicated coffee requests. We had all arrived about the same time, but the other patrons inched through the front door seconds ahead of me.  I  could just tell that the "soccer mom" was going to order more than one drink, and it wouldn't be pretty!  I thought briefly about making a run for it, to squeeze in ahead of her, but I was already outflanked by the others anyway, so why not just relax for a change.  Too bad there isn't a "Black Coffee Only" express line.  But I have issues with express lines as well! 

As I get closer to the register, I listen to the barista  shouting out the finished orders as he places them on the counter.

"Medium, Nonfat, Half-Caf, Low Foam, Cinnamon Spice Mocha"

"Large, Double Shot Vanilla, Decaf, Caramel Macchiato, Light drizzle"

"Small, Dark Chocolate Caramel Mocha Freddo"

Where's the frickin' coffee? These weren't cups of coffee.  They were liquid candy bars.  These places aren't called Starbucks Liquid Candy Store or Peets Emulsified Desserts.  No!  They are coffee houses, and I thought the point was to infuse some caffeine into our bloodstreams. The people picking up their drinks certainly looked like they could use a pick-me up.  Dazed and zombie-like, they looked like they couldn't remember their names let alone a nineteen syllable coffee drink.

When it was finally my turn, my order seemed a little underwhelming.  "Large Coffee, black please, no room for cream".  The clerk looked at me quizzically, as if to say "really . . . you stood in that long line for this"?

My order was efficient and fast. I wondered if there is some college course that offers the ins and outs of proper drink ordering.  Lets see, what do you need to remember?  Drink size, full fat, low fat, or non fat milk, lots of foam or light foam, syrup flavor, number of pumps, caffeine or decaf, whip or no whip.  I am already dizzy. The options seem endless.  And don't get me started about Starbucks.  You need a special manual just to navigate through their sizing selections.

I remember having my first cup of coffee in 1971, when I was around 14 years old.  We often visited my grandmother during the summer and when all the relatives gathered, they always seemed to be holding a cup.

It seemed like such an "adult" thing to do.  Drink Coffee.  I so badly wanted to be an adult.  So I had my first cup of coffee that summer.  It wasn't very good.  But it was interesting and it was hot, and I even liked the way it warmed my hands when I cupped the mug.  In those days, everybody drank Folgers and Hills Brothers at home.  Coffee on the go was purchased at places like 7-11 or McDonalds, and served in flimsy styrofoam cups with non-fitting, plastic lids with those little fold-back  pieces of plastic that covered the drink opening.  Decaf was otherwise known as Sanka.  We have come a long way! 

My grandmother was semi-amused and offered to doctor my cup up with lots of sugar and cream to make it taste better.  Granted, this is the woman who used to give us kids melted butter for our sore throats.  Mmmm - butter!  But I was no kid.  I was en route to my manhood and wanted to follow the ritual correctly.  If the adults were drinking coffee black, so was I.

Kids drinking sugar and fat infused coffee is probably how this whole fancy coffee drink movement got started in the first place.  

My first cup was black and I still drink it that way today. No over priced, high calorie count, yuppified coffee drink for me.  I love it black.  I love it hot.  And most importantly, I love it strong!

For me, a great day starts with an early morning, with the sun coming up, and a hot cup of French-press, French roast coffee!  Today's version of a plain cup of Joe.

What I Learned From My Dog

My dog, Shannon, is a very big part of my life, but she is more than just a companion. She has taught me many important things about life. Sweet, funny, loyal, smart, opinionated, assertive, playful and strong are just a few of the adjectives that describe her.

Like most dogs, she has certainly been instrumental in reminding me about the value of unconditional love, loyalty, curiosity, self confidence, focus, and the importance of play. However, what impresses me most is what I have learned about selling from her.

Shannon truly lives a grand life, a dog's life. She gets two square meals a day, overstuffed beds - for sleeping in every room of the house, an hour of exercise a day, way too many treats, peanut butter filled bones for her teeth, regular grooming visits to the local doggie spa, and lots and lots of play time.

One of the reasons she gets better than the average, high quality play time, is that she is a master sales person or is that sales dog?

At last count, I know she had a vocabulary that recognized at least 35 words.  However, what is so amusing to me is not what words she can recognize, but rather how much she can communicate her thoughts and wishes, nonverbally, with her face and actions.

Shannon is at best, very communicative about who she loves and who she loves to be with ! When friends visit, she is the first to greet them at the door, jumping up and down, squirming, wriggling her tail, and jumping up to smack a big kiss, with a big wet tongue, right on your face. I don't remember the last time any person acted in this manner when I showed up at their house. And God forbid, I certainly don't recall anyone piddling on the floor with excitement to see me. If you think you might have, perhaps that is best kept a secret.

She is also great at letting me know when she needs to relieve herself. No barking or jumping up and down. She just quietly walks to the door and stares at me, I dare say with a bit of contempt in her face, as if to say "Hey, can you see me standing here patiently by the door? Get off your butt and let me out." I swear I can see her eyes roll.

If I am nowhere near the door when she needs to go outside, she has a way of running up to me, wherever I am, and engaging me in a way that I just know what she needs. Its reminiscent of the old Lassie episodes I watched growing up. You know, the ones where Lassie would come running up to the farm house door, barking at Timmie and his mother, June Lockhart. "What is it Lassie?", she would ask. Timmie would look at Lassie straight in the eye, and say, " I think Lassie is trying to say that grandpa has fallen off the tractor in the apple orchard and can't get up. She wants us to follower her." Yeah, something like that. :)

With a twitch of her eyebrows, gulp, smack of her tongue, or a simple glance, who can't tell from this video, that she wants the Lorna Doones on the plate?

Shannon has a simple procedure for letting me know she is ready to eat.  She runs to her bowl and just stares at it.  If I don't immediately respond, she interprets my lack of action as confusion.  She then nudges the dog food canister to indicate that I should put some of this into her bowl and then back off.

She loves to swim, run, take walks and chase after balls, after all, she is a lab. When it comes to anything remotely resembling exercise or play, this is where her mastery of the traditional 7 Steps of Selling comes in handy.

How To Get Me to Throw Her Ball . . .

Step 1 - Prospecting

When it comes to finding a prospect, she only has two choices in our household.  We are both repeat buyers, so she has already pre-qualified us.

Step 2 - Preapproach

She begins by looking for her ball. Once found, and firmly in mouth, she instinctively sizes both of us up to see who might be more receptive at the moment.

Step 3 - Approach

In one situation, I am already in the pool swimming and she wants to both swim and have someone throw her ball. I am the obvious choice. She advances into position.

Step 4 - Presentation

She stands by the side of the pool with her orange ball firmly in her mouth and stares at me. Based on my previous buying behavior, I should understand the pitch. She crunches the ball in her mouth. I have seen it before. However, she is patient with me and figures that a demonstration may be in order. She drops the ball and nudges it to roll in my direction. It plops into the pool and begins to float.

Step 5 - Overcoming Objections

I pick up the ball and place it back on the edge of the pool. I am not buying at the moment. I am relaxing. She is persistent. She nudges the ball again into the pool. She is oblivious to my objection and knows that a good salesperson must be able to take a "no" as many times as it takes until every objection has been overcome. No doesn't really mean no. It just means no until you change my mind. She continues to push the ball in my direction and I continue to just hand it back to her. She knows the first one to speak loses. She can do this all day. But I cannot.

Step 6 - Close

Always Be Closing! She finally wears me down and I throw the ball for her. I resisted as long as I could but she is relentless. I knew that she would not be satisfied with one throw, and that I would have to throw it continually until my arm falls out of its socket. But she wins. Again!

Step 7 - Follow-up

After a good hour of playing in the pool, Shannon later cozies up at my feet with a big sigh to let me know that she had a real good time and is a happy dog. How could I resist her charm?

Are Supermarket Express Checkouts Really Faster?

I had another harrowing experience at the supermarket and felt compelled to take a deep breath and blog about it.  Trust me, its better than kicking the dog!  Only kidding Shannon (my dog).

I suppose it all started in the parking lot. Its difficult enough to get around my town, let alone find a parking space at the grocery store.  The lack of available spaces are directly proportionate to one's lack of time.  Essentially, the less time you have, the fewer spaces there are.

To make matters worse, we have more than our fair share of senior and super senior citizens in our town.  Most of them drive slower than a ride-on lawn mower, but that is a different story!  If you have enough of them navigating the parking lot, slipping into a space yourself can be a  major accomplishment.  

Once inside the store, a quick surveillance reveals that there are no customers in line, and the check out clerks are dazed and staring into space.  Odd I thought, why was the parking lot so full if there are no customers?

I grab my basket and quickly bound down the isles to gather the few last minute things I need.  Racing around the store, I hardly pass any shoppers until I finish and am back at the front of the store.  Where did they all come from?  I am horrified. 

This is the moment every experienced shopper dreads.  Which line to choose?  Hmmm.  Like a military leader, ready for battle on the front line, I size up the enemy.  Carefully, I eye each line for movement.  Evaluating speed and cadence is just as strategic as the number of people in each line.

I narrow it down to a few lines.  One of them is the express checkout line.  Hmm. Two elderly people, a lanky teenager, and a housewife.  Are the senior citizens a couple?  No.  Looks like two separate transactions.  Sketchy.  That could be trouble, but the kid is just getting a pack of gum.  The housewife looks efficient and safe.

The next line over is a full service line and only has three people, but the they have a lot of groceries!  The first one seems like she is almost finished, but the large woman at the end of the line has such an over stuffed cart, I can't believe its not falling out.  I have to decide soon.  Masses of additional shoppers are approaching.

I make my choice.  The express line it is, and I step into place. The requirement is 15 items or less.  I have 16 items, but  2 of them are the same item.  What do I do?  I once heard a rumor that multiple items of the same type only count as one.  Can I be certain that the woman behind me has heard of this same rumor?  What should I do?  Do I lose an item?  Do I try to look distracted, stupid, or confused?  Do I apologize?

I take a closer look at her.  She looks tired and distracted.  She has two children with her acting up.  Perhaps they will break her first and she won't have the energy to challenge my item count.  If a fight breaks out, I am pretty sure I can take her.

I watch the other checkout lines as they seem to be moving at mach 1 speed, while I have fallen into a black hole where time is moving backwards.  How difficult can it be to get through an express lane?   I begin tapping my feet, rolling my eyes, and perfecting my cold stare. Completely useless actions, so I have no idea why I behave this way.

The elderly gentleman seems confused.  Is it possible that this is really the first time he has been in a modern grocery store?  He doesn't seem to know how to slide his credit card through the machine.  He has a hearing aid in his ear and can't hear the clerk's instructions.  Once he finally gets some traction with his card, he asks about discounts and the clerk reminds him he needs to tap in his phone number into the credit card machine to get the discount.  The man remains confused and the clerk handles it for him.  Finally! 

Ok.  Ok. Now I only have three people in front of me.  Shouldn't take much longer.  They are  much more respectful than me, and have far fewer than 15 items each, but I don't have time to review their items.  I am too busy watching the shoppers in the next line over speed through the checkout.  How did that line move so quickly?  The large woman with the over stuffed cart has already moved into position and is placing her items on the conveyor.  I would have been behind her, and I think I can still beat her.  The race is on!

My eyes glance back at the elderly woman in my line.  She is trying to pay for her items, but has opted to pay in cash.  Her nimble little fingers are shaking as she tries to get the exact change out of her tiny red rubber coin purse.  She must be in her 90s.  Funny, she didn't look that old from behind, when I first entered the line.  I twist my body in place and glance at my watch.

Oh well, she is almost done.  She is busy chit chatting with the clerk.  "Hurry Up!", I am thinking.  Don't they know I need to finish before the woman in other line?  Tick Tock. Seconds count! Of course I feel awful and look around sheepishly to make sure no one can hear my thoughts.  This is probably the highlight of her day, and I try to imagine my own mother or grandmother in this situation.  I relax a bit and smile.

Finally, she is on her way and the teenager buys his pack of gum.  Quick, smooth, fast.  He is out of the line in a flash and never looses a beat with his texting.

The checker starts scanning the items from the woman just ahead of me.  Zip, zip, zip.   I am extremely pleased now, as my line is finally moving.  But I am obsessed with the woman in the next line.  Looks like she is done and is swiping her card.  How did that checker get though all those items so quickly.  Who gets the credit?  Was she an overly organized shopper or was that a super checker?  I take a mental picture of the checker and lock it away.  Good to remember her for my next visit.  She's fast. 

My checker is done too.  It was almost a tie.  Then, as the housewife in front of me is swiping her credit card, she suddenly remembers her coupons.  What???!!  She asks the clerk if its too late to use, them.  I know what my answer is!  But the clerk doesn't seem to be able to read my mind, and agrees to accept them.  Damn!  Foiled again by the misleading looking housewife.