When you’re on a beach vacation and approached for the umpteenth time by one of these guys, don’t despair. Have fun instead. Feign interest, smile and then, in faux German, start talking gibberish, gesticulating wildly. He’ll soon depart.
One of my many slightly odd character flaws is that I seem to be a perpetual target for pushy solicitors who don’t know me from Adam and want to sell me some ridiculous product. Some of these guys are so aggressive. Another personal flaw is that I cannot resist messing with them. Something just goes off in my brain that says, “It’s time to have a little fun with this pest.”
I know what you’re thinking: Why don’t you just politely hang up, delete the email or walk away from the guy on the street trying to shove a flyer into your hand? Of course, that’s what a normal, mature person would do. And then there’s me.
While on vacation in Rome, my wife and I were strolling towards the Vatican, when out of nowhere, dozens of street vendors bombarded us, pitching identical guided tours of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Each assured us that his was the absolute best tour and the only one that would bypass the long lines.
My initial strategy was to avoid eye contact, a tactic I realized was futile after the 25th assault. So, I put on my best foreign accent of indeterminate origin and started excitedly pitching to the next vendor MY own incredible guided tour. Every time he described some unique aspect of HIS tour, I exclaimed, “That’s amazing! MY tour offers the exact same feature!” Then I proposed to purchase his tour if he’d buy mine. A tour swap. I wore him down with my friendly but unwavering badgering until he finally shuffled away in utter confusion.
The key is to always feign enthusiasm. You need to appear über excited about whatever annoying offer they’re pushing on you. For example, a while back, a telemarketer told me I was selected to win a fabulous five-night – two-day stay at an exotic tropical resort destination. Sure, most people would have cut them off with a curt, “I’m not interested.” But what is the fun in that? Though I could tell it was a time share pitch disguised as a free vacation, I started shouting to my wife, “Hey, honey, we won two whole days and five whole nights at an incredible resort!”
As the rep continued to read from their script, I gave off obvious buying signals: “Wow! How do I sign up for your unbelievable offer?” When they went for the close, I paused, and said, “I’m not sure those dates will work. Let me see when my parole hearing is scheduled. Hmm, nope. Looks like I won’t be out of the joint for another three years. Sorry.” That wrapped up the call rather abruptly, I must say.
Another intrusion I experience with disturbing frequency is the phone survey. A few years ago, I received this phone greeting: “Good evening, sir. I was hoping you could take just a few minutes to answer a brief survey on how you feel Donald Trump is doing to Make American Great Again.” Oh my, I thought to myself. How could I possibly resist such an opening? “Sure, happy to help. Let me start by saying I think President Trump has been the greatest leader since Adolf Hitler. He did an incredible job of protecting our nation by rounding up those dangerous five-year-old Mexican kids and locking them in cages, where they couldn’t hurt us. And thank God he sent all those nasty Muslims back to Syria.” That’s about the time the caller figures out I’m being sarcastic and interrupts, “Um, thank you. I appreciate your time. Bye.”
I have a special place in my heart for brazen scammers. My column is called View from the Bleachers. So, when a few years ago, a fraudster emailed me in fractured English, inquiring whether he could purchase some bleachers, of course I felt compelled to oblige this potential customer. After all, this could result in a highly unexpected financial windfall. The fact that I don’t actually sell bleachers at this humor website in no way deterred me from my mission. I immediately wrote back – in my own heavily fractured English, “This week we do big special of pink bleachers. I throw in cup-holders free for you, boss. We have deal, yes?” That began a delightful series of emails back and forth until he gave up in frustration. You can read the genuine exchange in my piece titled My Fleeting Friendship with an Internet Scammer.
The next time you get what sounds like a call from the IRS demanding you give them your credit card number or the police will arrest you, relax. It’s a scam. Tell them you will cooperate, then ask if it’s okay if you record this call for police officer Reyes, who is in your living room. >CLICK<
Then there is the classic email scam in which a highly placed Nigerian Prince has died and your name miraculously surfaced, apparently in the Nigerian – American Yellow Pages, as a reputable person to turn to, to help them get the money out of the country by depositing it into your bank account for safekeeping. When I recently received this urgent plea, I waffled, then remonstrated myself: What kind of Good Samaritan would I be if I refused my assistance in their hour of need?
So, naturally, I graciously replied that I would be delighted to help any way I could. I gave them my (fabricated) name, social security and bank account numbers, and just for good measure, I provided a detailed, heartwarming back story about myself, which bore an eerie resemblance to the plot line from Forrest Gump.
When two days later they emailed again to inform me that the social security and bank account numbers I had provided did not work, I apologized profusely, explaining that I had not been wearing my reading glasses at that time. I then furnished new account numbers, which I conjured up using a Ouija board. I never heard from them again. Not even a Christmas card.
So, the next time a phone call from a suspicious number interrupts your family’s dinner to inform you that you’ve won a too-good-to-be true vacation in Cabo, just know that it is. But don’t hang up. Be polite. Hear them out. Then, in a warm, friendly voice, explain, “Before I accept your incredible offer, one question: Do you know anything about CPR? My grandfather just collapsed on the floor and he’s not breathing. What do you recommend I do?” You’ll be back to your dinner in no time. Trust me.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[Author’s note: I meant to publish this article earlier, but I simply could not find the time. There were eleven college football bowl games I had to watch, plus four NFL playoff games. A man has to prioritize. – TEJ]
Like millions of other American males, I love to watch football. My wife thinks it’s a total waste of time. She’d rather watch a nature program or a documentary about Marco Polo. Who would want to learn something when you can spend quality time yelling at your TV over the officiating?
In recent years, there has been a national crisis brewing. No, I’m not talking about climate change or the latest measles outbreak. It’s the bane of millions of wives that their husbands are watching far too much football and totally ignoring the little lady (I’m not being chauvinistic. My wife is truly a little lady at 5’0″).
Recently, this topic became a source of strain in my own marriage. After many heated discussions, we decided to visit a marriage counselor to help my wife work through her silly problem. Below is a play-by-play transcript of how our first session went.
Dr. Robert Taylor: Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Taylor. I understand that there are some concerns you have about your marriage. Who’d like to begin?
Michele: I will. I’m convinced that Tim cares more about football than he does about me.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, care to respond to your wife’s assertion?… Tim? … Tim, did you listen to what your wife just said?
Tim: Sorry, doc. I was just watching highlights from last weekend’s Saints – Vikings game on my phone. Could you believe that non-call in the end zone in overtime? Um, what was the question again?
Dr. Taylor: Your wife feels that you care more about football than you care about her. Care to comment?
Tim: About what?
Michele: ME! And put down your stupid phone. See, Dr. Taylor. This is what I’m talking about. Tim sits back in his recliner every Saturday and Sunday to watch his dumb football games. Tim, in a marriage, we’re supposed to be a team. Do you understand the problem our team is having?
Tim: I sure do. The Seahawks have absolutely no pass defense. They rank 25th in the league. That’s not gonna get them far in the playoffs.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, I don’t think that’s the problem your wife is talking about.
Tim: She could be right. Their pass blocking is equally suspect.
Michele: Tim, for God’s sake, can you hear yourself?!!? The problem is not the Seabirds’ pass blocking.
Tim: You make a salient point. I agree, their play calling is so predictable. But it’s not the Seabirds. It’s the Seahawks.
Michele: I don’t care if it’s the SeaWEEDS! You’re not listening to me. Every weekend, it’s like I’ve lost my husband to that stupid game. What exactly is so important about that ridiculous sport anyway?
Tim: You think football is a ridiculous sport? Might I point out that your parents love to watch curling? Now THAT’S a stupid sport.
Michele: Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about how on weekends you spend more time watching football than you spend with me!
Dr. Taylor: Tim, is that true? Do you even talk to her during these contests?
Tim: I talk with her all the time as I’m watching. I’ll say things to her like, “Did you see that incredible catch?” and “What a horrible call by the official. Can you believe that call?” And “Can you make me a grilled cheese, honey? More cheese than last time, okay?”
Michele: You just don’t get it! All you talk about during these games is football, football, football.
Tim: That’s because I’m watching football. Would you prefer me to provide a commentary on the finer points of Badminton instead? Why would I do that during a football game?
Michele: ARGH!! How about talking to me about something – ANYTHING – other than sports? Like the last book you read.
Tim: I could do that.
Michele: Really? That would mean a lot to me.
Dr. Taylor: And what book was that, Tim?
Tim: I just finished the pro football classic, “America’s Game”.
Michele: Unbelievable! What is so important about watching a bunch of over-sized men pound each other in pursuit of a little ball? I don’t get men’s obsession with this sport!
Tim: It’s football. Men like football.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, what I’m hearing from Michele is that, come weekends, you don’t seem to care about her interests. Am I understanding you, Michele?
Michele: Yes. Exactly. I mean, would it be so difficult for him to take a break from the flat-screen TV and go on a hike with me?
My wife says I never talk to her when I’m watching a football game on TV. That’s not true. Why, just last weekend, we discussed the possibility of her making me another plate of nachos and getting me a beverage. Her reply: Over my dead body.
Tim: I hear you. The center really needs to work on his hikes on punts. Last week, he sent the ball over the punter’s head.
Michele: Dr. Taylor, see what I’m up against? He thinks any game on TV is more important than spending time with me.
Tim: Not if it’s the Dolphins – Bengals game. You can hardly call that football.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, I think you may be missing the point.
Tim: What point? Did someone score? Let me check my phone.
Dr. Taylor: No, Tim, you’re missing Michele’s concern, that you’re so engrossed in football that you forget to focus on her needs. What would happen if, just for once, you turned off the TV and missed a game?
Tim: I believe the answer is obvious. As you said, I’d miss the game.
Dr. Taylor: And so what if you did? Is that so bad? What if you went out for a walk with your wife instead?
Tim: Could I still listen to it on the radio with just one ear bud? She could listen on the other.
Dr. Taylor: Tim, are you willing to make any sort of compromise in your viewing habits in the interest of helping your marriage?
Tim: Okay, okay. I get it. How about I only watch football every other Sunday. And the other weekends, we do a fun outdoor activity together that Michele likes, say kayaking?
Michele: Well that’s a start, I guess. And I do like kayaking. Thank you, honey.
Tim: In fact, how about we start this new plan on February 3rd?
Michele: Let me guess. The Super Bowl is on the 2nd, right?
Tim: Wow! You know when the Super Bowl is?! I think you secretly like football.
(Michele leaps from her chair but Dr. Taylor intervenes.)
Tim: Nice block, doc. You’re a natural.
Dr. Taylor: Well, I did play left guard in high school. (Whispering to Tim) Say, who do you think will win the Super Bowl? I’ve got $100 on the Ravens. Their quarterback is unstoppable –
Michele: Not you too, doctor. Unbelievable!
Dr. Taylor: Uh, um, well. I think we made some progress. Unfortunately, I have to wrap up early. I’m catching the playoff game with a few friends of mine. Oh, and one last thing. Rest assured that everything we’ve discussed today will be held in the strictest of confidence. – that is, unless your husband decides to publish the details of this session in an upcoming blog post.
Tim: I would never do that. Why would you even think such a thing, doc?
Michele: Oh no…..
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Welcome to the future. Behold MIRACLE BOX – an incredible breakthrough technology that will change your world forever. Imagine having a tidy, organized home, where everything is neatly stored away. Now that dream can finally be yours – unless you have young children.
Once every generation, an entirely new product comes along that is so powerful, so game-changing, that it redefines how we live. In the 1920s, it was radio. The 1940s launched television. The 1960s introduced the microwave oven. In the 1980s, we discovered the power of personal computing. And the millennium catapulted humanity into the future with the Internet and smart phone.
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That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Fred McFeely Rogers, aka Mister Rogers. If you asked me to name a hero, he’s the first person that comes to mind.
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” – Fred Rogers
As a child, I never watched Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. By the time his show first aired in 1968, I was 13. For an awkward teenager trying to fit in, Mister Rogers was the least cool show I could conceive of watching. He was an oddball, with that strangely slow way of talking and those goofy puppets (which I later learned he made himself). His manner was too saccharine sweet. A total dweeb.
Many decades later, I have radically altered my stance on Mister Rogers. Today, I think of him as a hero.
Who was this man with the unfashionable cardigan sweaters (all made by his mother) and his blue sneakers? It turns out the character you saw on TV was exactly who he was in real life. Fred McFeely Rogers was born in 1928 in Latrobe, PA. An only child till age 11, he was overweight for much of his childhood and was often picked on because of it. He graduated from Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and became a Presbyterian minister in 1963.
He later attended graduate school, where he studied child development. This led him to producing to several regional children’s television shows and finally to the iconic Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which ran from 1968 until 2001. In his career, he wrote and directed 912 episodes. He composed all the music for his shows and did most of the puppetry. He also wrote dozens of children’s and parenting books on subjects ranging from going to the dentist to coping with bullies.
“As human beings, our job in life is to help people realize how rare and valuable each one of us really is, that each of us has something that no one else has – or ever will have – something inside that is unique.” – Fred Rogers
He received over 40 honorary degrees and countless awards, including being inducted into the TV Hall of Fame in 1999 and being awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2002. Despite all these achievements and awards, Fred Rogers never let it change the person he was. He was always a safe harbor of hope for children who were struggling. Whether they felt marginalized because of their weight, their skin color, a disability, or a cognitive impairment, to Mister Rogers every child was special and unique. He taught that it was our job as parents to help our kids understand their special gifts and to encourage them to find a positive way to express their feelings, especially ones like fear, anger, anxiety and sadness.
Mister Rogers’ shows were not always sunny conversations about rainbows and kittens. He believed in being honest with children. That’s why he dedicated shows to topics that were often especially difficult for kids to cope with, like the death of a parent, divorce, or being the victim of bullying or racism. When Bobby Kennedy was shot, he devoted an entire show to the topic of assassinations.
“I don’t think anyone can grow unless he’s loved exactly as he is now, appreciated for what he is rather than what he will be.” – Fred Rogers
In 1969, when black Americans were still prevented from swimming alongside whites, an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood broke the color barrier.
Fred Rogers is my hero because he was a paragon of the kind of human being I wish I could be more like. He always preached kindness, compassion, patience, and acceptance of people who were different from ourselves. In these tribal times, Mister Rogers’ optimistic world view is the antidote for our culture of cynicism and intolerance. Mister Rogers always saw the individual first. He taught young impressionable minds to understand the importance of lending a hand to others and seeing the good in them despite – or perhaps because of – their differences.
“Knowing that we can be loved exactly as we are gives us all the best opportunity for growing into the healthiest of people.” – Fred Rogers
Although he was an ordained minister and he kneeled by his bed every night to pray for other people, Mister Rogers rarely talked about religion on his show. He talked about giving to others and forgiveness and how to guide people to find commonality with others, regardless of backgrounds or status. I still can’t watch his signature song, It’s You I Like without tearing up.
To the always soft-spoken Mister Rogers, life was not about winning. What mattered was helping others to win, especially those for whom attaining happiness might seem out of reach. This is the constant theme he preached his entire life, whether on TV or off – the importance of being present and doing what we could to make others feel safe to connect with the world around them. Not only to accept other people’s differences but to embrace them and celebrate them.
“Mutual caring relationships require kindness and patience, tolerance, optimism, joy in the other’s achievements, confidence in oneself, and the ability to give without undue thought of gain.” – Fred Rogers
Despite all his fame and fortune, Mister Rogers lived a modest life. He proposed to Joanne Byrd by letter at the age of 24 and she ran to a phone booth to call him to accept his proposal. They were married for 50 years until his passing. He weighed 143 pounds his entire adult life, perhaps in part because of his daily ritual of getting up at 5:30 every morning to swim laps.
For Mister Rogers, it was never about attaining wealth or fame. He once said, “fame is just a four-letter word, and like tape or face or pain or life or love, what matters is what we do with it.” He has taught me (and millions of others) that the measure of our lives is not our achievements, not how much we earn or the number of awards we accumulate. It’s about the person we become – our character – and ultimately the positive impact we make on the lives of others.
“There are three ways to ultimate success: The first way is to be kind. The second way is to be kind. The third way is to be kind.” – Fred Rogers
In the recent movie, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, Mister Rogers (played by Tom Hanks) asks his interviewer – and us the viewer as well – to sit quietly, in total silence, for one minute. He asks us to reflect on the people who have made us into the person we are. It is a powerful moment in the film. It led me to thinking about the many people who have cared for me, picked me up when I fell, and supported me to become the person I am today and how blessed my life has been.
Fred Rogers, passed away in 2003 from stomach cancer at the age of 74, leaving a legacy that will hopefully be passed on for many generations. Looking back, I realize the nerdy TV personality who I once thought was totally lame was in a profound way one of the coolest people I’d ever discover. He’s truly is a hero to me.
As I have repeatedly tried – and failed – to live up to the lofty, unattainable example he set, I often think to myself, in a moment of anger or anxiety or disappointment, what would Mister Rogers say? How might he handle this situation? And in that moment, I slow down, take a deep breath, pause, and become, if only briefly, a slightly better person. Thank you, Mister Rogers.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
My wife and I foster kittens several times a year. Here are some of our recent guests. I know, they all look so adorable. Don’t be fooled. They’re non-stop eating, pooping machines that will turn your house into utter chaos, or as my wife calls it, “happy pandemonium.”
My wife and I run a cat house. We take in girls – and boys – who were living on the streets and require them to do tricks in exchange for room and board. We’re not proud of this. But we can’t help ourselves. Oh, it’s not what you think. No, we’re not running a brothel. Heavens, No! My wife always reminds me, “We’re never doing that again!”
What I meant was that we rent cats. Okay, some people might call it “fostering.” We take in orphaned kittens and we feed them, cuddle them, and teach them tricks like how to chase a string. Our guests stay about five weeks, after which, having (temporarily) satisfied our craving, we send them back to the local animal shelter. But it is an addiction, and withdrawal is no laughing matter. So, after a couple months, we give in and get another fix of furry toddlers.
Our two adult cats, Zippy and Buddy (former fosters themselves), graciously allow us to invite these occasional intruders. I want to keep them all, but my wife says zoning laws prohibit more than two permanent feline residents per household. Apparently, any more than that would cause a level of chaos and destruction that might threaten world peace – not to mention our marriage.
Make no mistake, my wife likes cats – a lot! If she and I were on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean with Zippy and Buddy, and a big wave washed our cats and me overboard, and she could only save two of us – let’s just say, my wife would probably be remarried by now.
While she likes cats, my darling wife absolutely ADORES KITTENS! That’s why she likes to rent, I mean foster them. Our job as a foster family is to play with the kitties and get them used to humans, so that I can fall in love with them and get my heart torn out when they inevitably journey back to the shelter to find permanent homes.
I’ll be the first to admit, fostering kittens is a lot of fun. But it’s also a lot of work. That’s why my wife and I divide up the tasks evenly. I’m responsible for feeding, scooping the litter, replacing said litter, cleaning the ubiquitous poop skid marks off the floor, sweeping the strewn litter bits, and picking up countless bits of shredded paper the kitties create. The above tasks need to be done roughly every 30 minutes. My wife willingly shoulders the arduous chores of patting and nuzzling the kittens and posting adorable photos of them on Facebook.
If I may, I would like to circle back to the part about feeding and scooping. The kittens are often only two weeks old when we receive them. Sometimes they are so tiny we must bottle feed them. But once they can consume solid food (around three weeks), their appetites are insatiable. A litter of six kittens can easily go through eight cans of moist cat food and three cups of dry food in a day. But they poop out roughly five times the volume they consume – something scientists have never been able to explain. With any luck, by the time they are ready to leave us, most of the kittens know how to dutifully excrete their poop within a foot of the litter box.
Our temporary house guests typically overcome their fear of us very quickly. By the second week, they’re routinely navigating up my pant leg, headed for my shoulders. Which brings me to the topic of claws. Did you know that kittens don’t know how to retract their claws? Me neither. I like to wear shorts. Imagine, if you will, self-propelled razor blades covered in fur scaling your unclothed limbs. In no time, I look like a badly abused scratching post – only with far more blood.
Things tend to get a bit complicated when Buddy realizes we have visitors. Everyday it’s the same pattern: He stands outside the door to the guest quarters and whines incessantly until we let him in. He looks at the kitties with an approach-avoidance mixture of fascination and fear until eventually several of them start chasing (and biting) his tail, at which point Buddy freaks out and bolts. Then 30 minutes later, he wants back in again. Go figure.
Kittens are naturally curious and adventurous – especially as they reach four weeks of age. This is when they develop an urge to go walkabout and explore EVERYTHING. They climb, leap, and knock over anything they can get their mouths on. They will play with anything they stumble into – except cat toys, of course. They will entertain themselves for hours, batting around an empty toilet paper roll, a rubber band or a twist tie. And they are masters at chewing on electrical cords, scratching the wood furniture beyond repair, and getting stuck underneath the couch and other impossible-to-extract locations. At this age, they have only two modes: Total pandemonium and coma. There is no in between.
When our short-term residents reach two pounds (around eight weeks), it’s time to take them back to the animal shelter to find forever homes. And this, for me, is by far the most difficult part. Because every time we foster, I get emotionally attached. I always want to keep some. My wife rationally insists we have plenty of cats already. Our negotiation sessions typically go something like this:
Me: Let’s keep all six of them. They’re soooooo adorable. Can we, sweetie?
Michele: No. We already have two cats. That’s plenty.
Me: Okay, you’re right. So, how about we just keep two kittens?
Michele: No. We already have enough cats.
Me: I hear you. Final offer: Let’s keep just one.
In the end, we reach a compromise, by which I mean we don’t keep any. We go through this dance whenever we foster. Every time, I tell myself I won’t get attached, and every time I fall hopelessly in love with every one of them.
By the time you read this, our house will probably be teeming with our next set of furry visitors. I already know my wife is going to say no, we can’t keep any furballs. But I have a plan. I know some embarrassing details from her past that I just might “accidentally” post to her timeline on Facebook – unless she agrees to let me keep one. So, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s totally up to my darling wife. Meow.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook. 
