To Don't List

What I've been doing instead of blogging:

4/15 Filing taxes – Did you ever try to explain blogging expenses as a business deduction?

4/16 Bestest daughter's birthday – Buying flowers, baking cakes, driving her limo. Usual birthday stuff

4/17 Yooper sister's reception – I was emcee, and it always an adventure to have Mom at a party.

4/18 Bestest son's prom – He looked amazing. Sweetest girlfriend even better.

4/19 Yooper family dinner – I unintentionally dissed a new brother-in-law/Pistons fan.

4/20 Repair lawn mower – It runs. Woo-hoo.

4/21 Repair string trimmer – Oh, I mean try to repair it.

4/22 Administrative Professional's Day – Since I don’t have one, and I’m not one, it was a

difficult day.

4/23 Wash truck – It. Was. Dirty.

4/24 Bestest daughter knee surgery – Girl needs coddling. Even Vicodin doesn’t work.

4/25 Bestest son's senior class play – The Boyfriend Project. He played a hippie. Heh.

4/26 Mowing lawn – With a break to help little neighbor boy find mommy.

4/27 Marathon bike ride - Well maybe 10 miles. No hills.

4/28 Writing a list of excuses – You try to come up with 14 in a row.

There are elements of exaggeration in three of them. Take your pick.

Mister

So the title I picked off the menu board at writers group this month was Mister. Enjoy.

Mister

Predictable? Try a hardware store on a Tuesday afternoon.

How many times can you help an old biddy pick out beige paint for her living room? Or explain to a wannabe do it yourselfer the difference between a galvanized nail and a coated one? Mostly you try to let them figure it out on their own.

They all fit into one of a few categories: Redecorating, gardening, home repair, remodeling, and – dating service??

“I need a mister.” The rather frazzled young lady startled me in the middle of sorting paint samples for the umpteenth time.

“Excuse me?” I looked around for hidden cameras. Was she serious? I've heard of meeting people in grocery stores, but this was different.

“I was told this would be a good place to find a mister.” She brushed dirty blond hair back from her face. No, I really mean dirty blond hair.

“Um, well, it is a hardware store. And it’s pretty busy today. I guess this is about as good a place as any to find one.” She musta been reading one of those chick magazines.

"So where do I look?" She seemed really quite anxious.

“Well, they tend to be in almost every department. I think maybe the best thing would be if you were to browse through the store and look for one you like.”

“Oh...but...surely there's a good place to start?” Her big brown eyes looked at me helplessly.

“You could start in the plumbing section." I took her arm and pointed her in the right direction. "There's usually a few of them there.”

“Wonderful! I’ll look there first.” She bounced off, leaving grass clippings in her wake. I shook my head in amazement. Well, Grandma used to say, “There’s more than one way to feather a rooster.”

I got all the paint samples in order, and was just starting to straighten the shovels and rakes when she came breezing around the corner. "I couldn't find any, but I did get these cool knobs for my bathroom faucet. So where should I look next?"

I found this quite amusing by now. Plus she was kinda cute, so I wanted to help her. You know how guys are. "Well, why don't you check over in the hand tools. Maybe you'll have better luck there."

"Oh thank you!" She patted my shoulder and zipped away.

Maybe I should just help her. No, that would be awkward. Besides, I didn't really know what kind she was looking for. And then her bright smile appeared around the corner again. "Any luck?" I was starting to care.

"Nope. Just hammers and wrenches and stuff. Maybe this isn't the right place." Her smile was fading.

"Oh don't give up too easy. Do you know what kind you're looking for?" I turned my full attention to her.

"Just one that works, I guess. Doesn't have to be anything fancy or special."

"Okay, come with me. Let's check out the lawn and garden section."

"Oh you're going to help me. Cool!" Her smile was bigger than ever.

I led her through the white plastic arbor that was the entrance to our lawn and garden area. We walked past the bird baths and garden globes and just as we were by the water hoses and sprinklers she stopped and grabbed my arm. "Here they are. You found them for me. Thank you, thank you!"

"I did? Oh...you wanted a…misting sprinkler for your...flower beds?" I tried to stay cool.

"Yes, a mister. So how does this thing work?" She scrunched her forehead cutely as she studied the pictures on the box.

"Well it can be a bit tricky to get it positioned just right. Look at these instructions." We huddled over the little box trying to decipher the fine print.

"Oh dear, I don't know." She turned those big brown eyes on me again. And I was lost.

"I could come over and help you set this up after work if you want."

She squealed – yes, squealed in delight. "That would be so awesome." She gave me a quick grass-clipping dirty-hair hug. "Give me your phone and I’ll put in my number.”

I waited awkwardly as she punched in the number, and then looked up. “Oh, my name is Missy, by the way. And you are…?”

“Well, um...my real name is Sylvester, but my friends just call me…Mister.”

“Okay then, Mister, thanks for helping me find a…” She stopped and stared open mouthed. Her eyes got even bigger, and her smile split into gales of laughter. Her sound of her glee tumbled through the garden section till every customer there was smiling too.

She was still giggling as she skipped out the door. She got her mister. And her Mister.

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Men Don't Ask

True story, unedited:

6:12, last Friday night. My phone rings as I'm getting my supper at the coffee shop. It's my brother. What could he possibly want? Concerns about Mom? Questions about my sister's upcoming reception?

No. Not quite.

"Hey Mark, I have an unusual request for you."

"Sure, go ahead." This could be interesting.

"Well JT (his wife) and her friends are in Next City Over and they can't find WalMart."

I'm thinking, I can look up the address, or the phone number, or I can tell him where it's at.

No. Not quite.

"So I was wondering if you could call her and explain to her how to get there."

Huh?

He continued. "She tried to explain to me where they are, but it's been awhile since I've been there. She thought if you would just call her..."

I chuckled. Gleefully, I'm afraid. Men don't stop and ask for directions?

What to do, what to do? Oh I know, of course I called her.

She explained which street they were cruising up and down. I told her which street to look for, which way to turn, how far to go past the McDonalds before turning onto WalMart's street.

They found it. She called me later to thank me, and do the sister-in-law chat.

No, the man doesn't stop and ask for directions. But apparently neither does the woman. She just calls her husband to have him ask his brother to call her, take her hand and lead her to her destination.

Way better.

JT, I love you. Thanks for letting me help.

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Scotch

“Scotch.” He sagged onto the barstool like a bag of feed sags onto the floor. I watched his face as I poured him a double. The bottle stayed.

“Got your day in?” A tiny twitch around his eyes told me it was too soon for that question. His beefy fist thumped the bar in exhausted disgust, and he proceeded to answer.

Now as much as I like to tell a story straightforward, the ensuing stream of profanity, vulgarity and obscenity would not better you in any way, and so will be mentioned, but not repeated here. I poured again.

Yes, his day was in. All twenty-eight hours of it. And more to come tomorrow. The tyrannical boss was the subject of his next tirade. I learned three more word combinations. I poured once more.

“How’s the rest of the crew taking it?” A shot in the dark, but I guessed he wasn’t in this alone. I was half right.

To spare your ears, the “women and children” version involved incompetence, irresponsibility, inexperience and idiocy. He had run out of obscenities, and was now recycling. Another pour.

"Sounds like the place would fall apart without you." The weathered face eased just a bit.

A humorless chuckle, followed by good-natured profanity rewarded my effort. He lifted his glass and groused, "Here's to all the #%$&*es and all the *&%^#es. They make us look like geniuses and saints."

"Hear, hear. So what'll you do after this job is done?"

Every line in his face relaxed. There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes gave him away. "Flower beds. My wife and I work in the flower beds. Greatest thing in the world, your hands in the dirt."

He drained his glass, and got up with a crooked half grin. "Time to sleep." He tossed a bill on the bar. A C-note. He waved off my thanks. "You're a good man. You listen."

Do bartenders listen because they care, or to wangle tips? Yes.

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Fun With Consultants

Corporate consultants are fun. No really, it can be very entertaining, to watch a man try to weasel his way into your brain and ferret out bits of information you wouldn't tell your boss, trusted coworkers or even your dog. Heh, three animal references in one sentence.

But he was creative, he really tried. The gentleman who invaded our company for a few days spent maybe fifteen minutes with me. He schmoozed, calling me brave for shaving my head, and told me I don't talk like someone who hasn't finished high school. Then a personal anecdote to establish rapport; "My father quit school in the 4th grade. I was the only one of my family to go to college."

And then he saw the jumping off point to cut to the chase. "What do you think can be done to improve your company?"

Huh?

Sure, I walk around hiding company restructuring plans in my back pocket, waiting for the right outsider to hear my wisdom. I guess I was expecting a more user-friendly approach. How about these questions:

• Which of your co-workers would you like to tar and feather?


• How many Dilbert comics have you thought were about your company?


• Which of your customers could we cast in the sequel to Clueless?


• How could we better extract more money for less product?


• Did you know the glow at the end of the tunnel is really red ink?


• Are you an old fart or will you agree mindlessly to everything I suggest?

Okay, I guess maybe his approach was more productive. But mine would have been way more fun.

And I'm pretty sure there's no latent belligerence in my fictional questions. Pretty sure.

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