Month: July 2022

This one’s for you, John.

I received a text from my friend John today. (Let that be a lesson to you, John. If you text me at 6 a.m., you could end up in my blog.) He paid me a compliment about yesterday’s blog post, which got me thinking.

Have you heard the sayings “you live, and you learn” and “insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results”? They refer to two very opposite choices you can make—learning or repeating a mistake. Sounds like an easy choice. But sometimes…just sometimes…insanity can be tempting.

I was always a good writer in school. But the best teachers never accept “good.” Their goal is to push you beyond what you can do easily. I adored Ms. Abramowitz. When she wrote “eloquent” at the top of one of my papers, I felt honored (after I looked up the meaning of the word). She believed that it was not only important to write well but also to be able to present what you’d written to an audience. She never used the words, but she was referring to “public speaking.”

I was like a vampire. I was a fantastic student if you allowed me to write in the comfort of the night. But if you exposed me to daylight and an audience, I sizzled to nothingness. Ms. Abramowitz pushed us out into the deep water and said “swim.” And I did.

Oh, it wasn’t easy. We did so many presentations that I grew sick of them. Eventually, I figured out the mechanics of a good performance. I stuck with the basics—the same principles from writing. Start out with an interesting introduction, then electrify them with the message, before presenting a conclusion they will be forced to consider.

But, if I was the tortoise in this story (slow and steady), then my best friend was the hare (fast and furious). He was a natural speaker who believed in no preparation. None. I think he was asleep half the time when his name was called to present. But from the moment he popped out of his seat, he became “the” entertainer, dishing out winks, and laughs and punch lines like candy at Halloween. I coveted the attention he got, the way he could backstroke so easily. I decided it was time to up my game.

Remember that scene out of Jaws when Captain Quint gets ripped to shreds? Remember that bloody carnage? I wish my performance was as pretty. Without any preparation—no intro, middle, or end—I sank like a stone. Whatever the opposite of eloquent is, that was me. Ms. Abramowitz gave me a WTF look and asked me to be seated. My credibility was shot. I sat down with the rest of the bums, demoted to the minor leagues.

The next day she cast us out into the deep water again. Lesson time. Do I learn from my mistakes and go back to my successful formula, or do I reach out for the brass ring again? I knew I could do it better because I couldn’t do it any worse. So, there I was in that middle place, learning on one side of me, and insanity on the other. What would I do?

Aw, but you know me, which means you know the end of this story. I’d be in Hollywood or an insane asylum if I’d attempted to walk that tightrope again. For me, taking the long way around was never glamorous, but it got the job done. As I looked out into my audience and gave them what they wanted, I saw Ms. Abramowitz smile. Behind her my best friend was fast asleep. #thisabovealltothineownselfbetrue

Here are Toastmasters’ public speaking tips.

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…and so is my PTSD.

We have a school teacher in the family (thank you for your service, Paul), so I have a lot of sympathy for him right now. School starts on Monday and I know how badly that end-of-summer-vacation feeling can be.  Anyone who’s ever been to school knows that feeling. It’s a horrible time of year for students and teachers all over the world. Sure, there are teachers who truly love to teach and students who truly love to learn. But those people are vastly outnumbered. So when you see someone heading off to school, send good thoughts to those poor, tortured souls who will be spending so much of their days trapped in a classroom with a million other people who don’t want to be there. I used to be one of them. I have the PTSD to prove it.

Do you ever have that dream where you’re late for class, or the one where you’re in bed and you realize you forgot there was a test or that paper was due? Well, no dream could be worse than my reality. I’ve lived that last scenario. I get the shivers every time I think about it. I can still see myself typing a hundred words per minute to get the paper finished, knowing it was already late. By then school was done for the day. I had to track my teacher down and bring it to his home address. Imagine the humiliation. I remember him staring at me threw the gap in the door with those cold, dead eyes, the door chain still on as if he was the one traumatized.  He looked like Mr. Weatherbee from the Archie Comics, and he wasn’t happy to see me.

He wouldn’t even accept the late paper. He gave me an F through the door. Have you ever received an F outside of a classroom? I couldn’t even ask any of my classmates, “Did you see what just happened?” The sun was setting, I was in a dusty hallway of a residential building, and there were no classmates around to share my confusion with. How was this happening?

As I stared at the door that had been shut in my face, my teacher’s words reverberated in my ears: “Keep the paper. You’ll be getting an F.” I wondered what my rights were. I’m no lawyer, but was he allowed to grade me outside of school, or had life become an extension of school? Had I crossed some barrier by trying to transact a school matter outside of a school zone? Had the two zones merged? Would I receive grades everywhere I went going forward?

If I made too much noise at the library, would the librarian walk over and stamp an F on my forehead? If I went to the supermarket and failed to notice that I’d been given the wrong change, would I have to go back to the store and repeat the transaction until I get it right? I know what you’re thinking. This guy has some serious PTSD if he’s still thinking about his school days. I already told you I do.

So, you’re lucky if you only have bad school dreams (an oxymoron if I ever heard one). In a survey about school dreams conducted by Psychology Today, out of 128 respondents, none rated their school dreams as pleasant.

Some described their dreams as going beyond anxiety to a level they identified as panic. The most common school dream themes are (a) missing classes all term and therefore being likely to fail, and (b) being unable to find the classroom.

Try dreaming about Mr. Weatherbee and see if you can make it to school on Monday, you poor, unfortunate students and teachers. But I can’t leave you on a down note. This time of year always generates some very odd back-to-school signs (see below), proving that entrepreneurship is alive and well in America, and if you give someone an inch, they’ll take a mile, or a yardstick, at the very least.

#IbetPaulwouldn’thavefailedme

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And the crowd goes wild.

Picture this. The date for your cruise is 48 hours away. You’ve worked hard to earn some relaxation time at sea. It’s a time to celebrate. You’re so close to being on that ship, you can practically taste those fruity drinks swishing around in your mouth. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.

Up until this week, booking a cruise was no guarantee that you would actually be allowed to cruise.  Standing in the way was a little thing called CDC guidelines, which the cruise industry has been adhering to like barnacles on a hull, specifically the one that says passengers have to show proof of a negative COVID test within 48 hours of boarding. This requirement has made your friendly neighborhood pharmacy the most popular place on Earth. Previously, you only went there when you needed a prescription filled or your supermarket was out of toilet paper. But since the cruise lines were shut down and allowed to reopen, pharmacies have become the go-to spot for would-be cruisers all dressed up and ready to go. Who needs the night club for a little excitement, when the CVS is just down the block?

I’ve been there and experienced the thrill of having my nostrils violated by strangers at the pharmacy. I’ve played the cruise line’s little game called, “So You Think You’re Going to Cruise, Huh?” (patent pending). Never have I seen so many people at the pharmacy with their fingers crossed saying, “Oh, please. Let me pass with a 65!”

Others have bypassed the pharmacy altogether and have opted to self-test (avoiding the overly thorough technician who jams the swab so far up your nose you can feel it tickle your brain). It’s different when you have to do it yourself. I’ve held that cotton swab (and my breath) and said to myself, “Okay, don’t stick it in far, just enough for it to register.” Self-administering the test has worked for me and Donna. But we’ve heard horror stories from people who weren’t allowed to cruise at the last minute due to a bad result. Imagine getting into the red zone, just 20 yards from spiking the football, only to discover that your weekend plans have changed from cruising to watching reruns.

But this week’s headlines have would-be cruisers doing the touchdown dance. On July 27, 2022, the CDC formally announced that it had canceled its cruise ship COVID-19 program, allowing cruise lines to enact mitigation policies on their own. In place of the program, the CDC will instead be providing “guidance.” Forgive me for saying this, but that’s like leaving the mouse with the cheese and asking it, “Now do you promise to be responsible and be a good steward of that cheese and not jam it down your throat and choke the second we walk out the door?”

Every major cruise line has been following the CDC’s voluntary COVID-19 program, so this news is certain to encourage cruise ships to drop COVID testing for vaccinated passengers (unvaccinated passengers will still have to test—for the moment). Even as I type this blog post, cruise lines are reporting changes.

What’s that? Azamara has dropped testing? Uh-huh. And, what’s this? Virgin Voyages and Margaritaville at Sea have also dropped testing? Wait. My phone is ringing. Hello? Royal Caribbean has dropped testing? Wait. My fax machine is spitting something out. Holy Toledo! The S.S. Minnow, the African Queen, and the Love Boat have all announced they will adopt a no-COVID test policy?

CDC’s official statement reads: “CDC will continue to publish guidance to help cruise ships continue to provide a safer and healthier environment for passengers, crew and communities going forward.” In other words, “We’re tired of babysitting you. You are all grown-ass adults. If you want to swim on a full stomach, go do that too.”

Unsurprisingly, cruise stocks jumped after the CDC announcement, and cruise lines are now free to make their own policies regarding vaccination, testing, and quarantine requirements. The changes are expected to allow for more travelers on ships and lower costs for the industry. Pre-travel testing may still be in place for travel to countries that still require it and for longer cruises. I predict wild times ahead.

#honeywhereismycabanawear?

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Colette and Brad’s wedding is about a week away.

For months now, packages have been arriving at our door at an increasing rate (and I think we have finally achieved Titanium Card status with Amazon). Among the items flying through the door are shoes, dresses, tie clips, eyeglasses, shirts, and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! You’d think someone were having a party. Oh, wait. Honey, what’s that date you have circled with on the calendar? Oh, yeah. Colette and Brad’s wedding will be here before you know it.

But don’t tell that to our dogs. It’s unnecessary. They know something’s up. They’ve become so sensitized to our road trips that Donna had to sneak our luggage from the storage room in the middle of the night to keep our impending departure a secret from them. But they still know. Pete’s been giving Donna dirty looks for a solid week (could be he’s also mad she got COVID). The dogs just hate when we leave them. We keep promising them that we’re not going to have a good time without them, but they’re not buying it.

I expect we’ll have a good time. We’d better after waiting this long. (Sorry, Colette and Brad, that wasn’t a dig.) It’s just that we’ve been following this really exciting book series for so long. It’s called “The Life and Times of Colette and Brad,” and we’re almost up to the part of the wedding. (I’m sure it will be way better than The Game of Thrones wedding.) We just can’t wait to find out how many times the grandmothers will cry.

According to The New York Times, there will be approximately 2.5 million weddings this year—the most since 1984. That’s 15% higher than usual, which isn’t unexpected after so many COVID-postponed weddings (the increase in weddings really reflects a pent-up demand more than natural growth). And after all the delays, how are expected brides and grooms being rewarded for being so patient? Say hello to 2022’s supply-chain issues, high inflation, and labor shortages, which have impacted wedding planners, DJs, caterers, printers, and photographers.

Plus, wedding guests are hungrier in 2022, this according to a scientific survey conducted by Food My Mother Would Never Make magazine.

But I’m sure the wedding will turn out fine. You’ve done the hard part already, Colette and Brad—you’ve found each other and had the sense to see how truly right you are for each other. You’ve looked around and said, “Hey, I should get off the carousel now.” Imagine if you’d stayed on. Do you realize how dizzy you would be?

But I think I’ve made enough wedding jokes. After next week, Colette and Brad, it’s going to be nothing but marriage jokes. I’ll leave you with this one:

 A man trudges through the wind and snow. He’s coughing and sneezing. He slips and rips his coat. He’s a mess when he finally arrives at the laundromat. The owner helps him load the laundry into a machine and says, “Your wife must want these clothes cleaned really bad.” The man says, “How do you know my wife sent me?” The owner says, “Because your mother would never send you out in weather like this.”

#I’llbeperformingallweekinmylivingroom

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Even those afraid of heights should plan a visit.

I was flipping through an old photo album (for those born after 2000, photo albums were hard copy books that people used to store photos while we waited for Facebook to be invented) when I stumbled on photos of my first trip to the Grand Canyon. My guess would be 1995. (That’s right, millennials, unless your photo developer put a time stamp on the back of your photo, there was no real way to know when photos were taken. You had to rely on your memory. And mine hasn’t been reliable since before 1995.)  

Anyway, I’d always wanted to visit the Grand Canyon—and the kids were particularly antsy to do something that year—so off we went. We had good friends who lived in Phoenix (Edwin and Iris Perez), about four hours from the Grand Canyon, so we took advantage of their hospitality and began our journey from their home. I didn’t know what to expect. I just knew the basics:

• The Grand Canyon is a big hole—Well, not actually a hole. I knew the canyon had been formed by flowing river water about five to six million years ago. So, it’s more like a long, deep trench. You know when you leave the garden hose on the ground, but you don’t turn it off completely, so water is still trickling out and it forms a channel? Now imagine what that channel would look like five to six million years later. (But don’t imagine the water bill.)
• The Grand Canyon is sizeable—It’s bigger than the state of Rhode Island. It’s about a mile deep, 277 miles long, and 18 miles wide. So, know where your rest rooms are.
• The Grand Canyon is far—From Phoenix it’s pretty much a four-hour straight shot through some beautiful country. You could do it with your eyes closed. But, seriously, don’t do it with your eyes closed. I-17 is curvy at spots and the road must’ve been built at a time when guardrails were considered a luxury.
• The Grand Canyon is high up—Yep, I figured before I actually got to the hole, I was going to have to do some climbing, but I had no idea it would be so much. Phoenix sits at an elevation of about 1,000 feet. The Grand Canyon South Rim is about 7,000 feet high. We weren’t prepared for all the ear-popping, but at least it took our minds off the flimsy guardrails and the deep canyons beyond.

The trip was memorable for so many reasons. A real learning experience, I would say. For example, one of the things I learned is that you shouldn’t expect your compact rental car to ascend to 7,000 feet on a 100-degree day with the AC cranked up to MAX without experiencing some loss in performance. I can’t tell you how many tractor trailers were on my bumper honking for me to put the pedal to the metal or get out of the way. And this was just in a parking lot.

I was also disturbed by all the RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP signs I saw along the way. Why were the trucks running away, and did the drivers think it was a good idea to let them? But once I saw what these ramps looked like, I understood their function—to stop any sharply descending vehicle (not just trucks) by offering them a long runway to climb (for example, in the event of a brake failure), a much better idea than having drivers tuck and roll.

The wildness of the drive made me appreciate the wildness of Grand Canyon National Park all the more. All kinds of tours were available, even a mule ride down to the base of the canyon. But I couldn’t see doing that and having to explain to my ex-wife how I had failed to notice the one mule in the pack with suicidal tendencies. So, we stuck to walking. I let the kids get as close to the edges as I dared, but the absence of protective railings severely limited my daring.

According to Parksexpert.com, of the 63 national parks, Grand Canyon National Park is ranked number two in popularity and is one of the most breathtaking sites you’ll ever set your eyes on. Parksexpert.com offers great information on all the national parks. Check them out before your next trip to a national park.

As for me, I’m still waiting to see what the construction people are building behind my house. I hope it’s not a national park.

#whyareconstructionvehiclesyellow?

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They knocked out our power in the middle of a heat wave.

Rumble, creak, crash. Repeat.

Rumble, creak, crash. Repeat.

A loud soundtrack was playing outside our bedroom window, and it wasn’t the sounds of nature. Some of the folks in my neighborhood are notorious for getting up early to do yard work, but this was ridiculous. I shoved my feet into my slippers, climbed up my ladder, and peeked over my back fence (see video below). A big metallic monster was crushing trees, scooping them up, and tossing them into a dumpster. Had there been a sale at Home Depot?

The large Transformerlike machine I saw is known as an excavator, designed to clear wooded areas like nobody’s business (and here I was thinking I was witnessing a tree-hater gone wild). I’d grown so used to seeing those trees behind my house, which served as a natural buffer between us and the busy street beyond, that I hadn’t even considered that one day a house might be built on that plot of land. (Even now, it’s shocking to think that some starry-eyed homeowner might be counting the days until they can move in behind me.) New neighbors, less trees, more noise? Can you give me a minute to process all these changes?

Of course, I can’t play completely dumb. Out of the almost 9 million people who’ve changed addresses since the start of the pandemic, 28 percent of them have moved to Florida, which is expected to average 845 new residents every day for the next three years. In fact, according to the 2021 Census, the largest net domestic migration gains in the United States took place in Florida (220,890), followed by Texas (170,307) and Arizona (93,026). I have eyes. I’ve noticed a few more people at Walmart. But how long will this unchecked growth continue?

They say the housing market is starting to cool down, but you can’t tell from what I’ve seen. Square stacks of pale, yellow wood are popping up everywhere. I want to tell someone, “I think we’re full up. You can stop now. Besides, the bears are starting to complain.”

If I sound a little cranky, please forgive me. I think my eyes are still stinging with sweat from having lost my AC and having to drag my generator out of the shed to get reacquainted with it.

Oh, did I fail to mention the other thing those big excavators are good for, besides clearing trees? (Trees, by the way, serve to lessen the direct impact of winds during storms. You may have heard of a little thing we celebrate here in Florida called Hurricane Season.) Excavators are great at causing random destruction to power lines and cables. We lost our electricity shortly after the backyard demolition started. And we didn’t get it back until the power company had allowed the land developers to finish playing with the sand pile they’d created. Then a new set of workers moved in, and a new set of sounds took over the backyard.

Buzz, thwack, slam. Repeat.

Buzz, thwack, slam. Repeat.

#youneverappreciateACasmuchaswhenyouloseit

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It was like an episode of Claw and Order.

You never know which wild animals you’ll run into when you venture outdoors in Florida, which is why I always look in all directions before I let the dogs out. (Snakes are such notorious pranksters.)  This morning my dogs furiously sniffed the deck. I had a sneaking suspicion what that meant. I turned my head in the direction of our palm tree and saw nothing. Then I looked again and locked eyes with one of the best camouflage artists I’ve ever seen, the grey cat that’s been living in my backyard. For months I’ve hesitated to name the cat, because our outdoor cameras have spied so many stray cats in the past few years, but this cat seems to have staying power. So, for the sake of this blog I’ll name her Sylvie.

I assume it’s a female cat because nothing seems to phase her (she’s one cool kitty). She’s always just hanging out, never making demands, always playing mind games. I think a male cat would’ve gotten bored and left or gotten his ass beat by a raccoon a long time ago. But not Sylvie. She just sits there, low to the ground, on our retaining wall, making direct eye contact with me, saying, “S’up.” A couple of times, our dog Sophie has practically gone nose to nose with Sylvie, who refuses to back away. But she also refuses to come forward, even when I make imitation cat sounds.

“Meow there. I said me-ow. Me-me-me ow-ow-ow.”

Sylvie stares at me as if I’m speaking in a bad cat accent and she’s trying to read my lips. But I think she’s really waiting for me to commit, like anyone can offer a meow, but it takes a special person to back it up with a treat. I can’t do that.

It’s not that I have anything against cats (even though I’m a devoted member of Team Bow-Wow), or that I have anything specifically against Sylvie (as far as I can tell she’s doing a decent job scaring away the mice and rats, although I did find a few well-hidden critters a month or so ago—perhaps Sylvie let Kramer handle her chores that week). It’s just that we’ve had some bad experiences with outdoor cats.

At two different points, we fell in love with feral cats who visited our house nightly. We named one Ginger Snaps and the other Felix. Don’t ask me who came first. The trauma of their departures has scattered their memories from my mind, plus I still feel huge guilt. Would they have survived if we’d just left them alone? But, of course, we had to interfere. We just couldn’t stand the thought that they might be hungry. Once we began providing them food, that’s when they began to invite their friends.

We shrugged and accepted our role as cat whisperers. We even went so far as to build a cat condominium in front of our house when the temperature dropped below freezing. Bad mistake. We heard unholy screams in the middle of the night and found the cat house destroyed in the morning. There was blood, five different sets of paw prints, and signs of a fight. I imagined that a horrific home invasion had taken place, that the Charles Manson of the cat world had paid a visit to that little house on our porch and evicted poor Ginger Snaps or Felix (I forget who we built it for—I’ll have to check the lease). Or maybe there was bad blood with the local raccoon warlord, who proclaimed that the cat house must go because he feared it would lead to neighborhood gentrification.

Either way, all of our efforts to establish relationships with outdoor cats have ended in utter failure. I can only hope that Ginger Snaps and Felix went on to live better lives after turning themselves in to the local animal control agent. (“Yo! We want to report this ridiculous couple who don’t know what the heck they’re doing.”)

So, you see, Sylvie, that’s why I can’t feed you. I’m a bad seed. One thing will lead to another and before you know it, it’ll be Helter Skelter again.   

#micecrispiesarethefavoritecerealofcats

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When’s it going to stop visiting my house?

People love belonging to clubs. It makes them feel warm and fuzzy to have things in common with those around them. It’s a security thing. The prevailing wisdom is that there’s strength in numbers, the more the merrier, I wanna’ be like Mike…and so on. In most cases, you want to be part of the swanky club because it’s cool or prestigious. But the People Who’ve Had COVID Society is a bad club. Who wants to be in that club? No one. But I think Donna has been a little curious about the membership requirements.

I think it’s perplexed her that almost everyone we know has gotten COVID except for her. When I got it in May and she didn’t, she was relieved. She’s been dodging bullets for more than two years now. But she hasn’t been feeling well since we got back from Arizona, a trip that concluded with a long travel day that had us running from the dry heat into a frigid airline cabin—so it’s easy to understand how she might have come down with something. This morning she tested positive for COVID, which is a little bit of a shocker because for the longest time I’ve viewed Donna as invincible. Even against a hostile mutant virus, I would’ve placed my money on Donna because she’s just so head and shoulders above the rest of us.

Well, her head was burning up and her shoulders were achy last night. She had all the symptoms, but the in-home Rapid Antigen Tests kept telling us, “Nuh-uh. Try again later.” The anticipation was driving us crazy. We made an appointment for a PCR test this morning and that was all it took—a little friendly competition—for the Rapid Antigen Test to finally cooperate and give us the results we suspected: COVID. The bottom line is that Rapid Antigen Tests are a valuable tool, but research has demonstrated that an infected individual will test positive on a PCR test one to two days before an antigen test. 

More than likely, Donna has one of the new subvariants of Omicron. Since BA.5 has been sweeping the nation, let’s go with that one. It’s the most contagious strain so far, proving that my wife deserves nothing but the best. But as Donna struggled to breathe and checked her temperature every hour last night, I too struggled. I didn’t want to renew my membership in the COVID club, so I kept my distance. But you can only do that to a certain point before you feel like a deserter. Ultimately, I slept by her side, taking over the remote as she flitted in and out of fevered sleep.

But what a difference a morning makes. Donna is much less congested today and is moving around much better, so I think she’s already on the mend. But the real question is how long will it be before I go from supportive husband to next COVD victim? FYI: If the tone of my blog changes in the days to come, don’t be surprised if Donna has taken over. #DonnahateswhenIblogabouther

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Some people really love their jobs.

Meet Jeffrey. No, seriously. I want you to find out where he is, go to that location, wait until he shows up, and then meet Jeffrey—because he really wants to meet you (and you may not believe this story unless you meet him). Jeffrey just completed flight attendant training at Southwest Airlines University. And to say that Jeffrey is a little pumped up is like saying that the Flash is a little fast.

We met Jeffrey on a flight from Phoenix to Dallas. (Southwest Airlines’ corporate office and training facility is in Dallas.) He was introduced to us over the passenger address system by one of the senior flight attendants. “Everybody, I want you to meet Jeffrey. He just graduated from flight attendant training, and this is his first OE” (which stands for operating experience). From Jeffrey’s smile I was willing to wager that he was so fresh out of training that he probably had his cap and gown in his flight bag. The flight cabin exploded in spontaneous applause. Then the real party got started. Again, the passenger address system sparked to life.

“I want everybody in the aisle to raise their hands. As part of Jeffrey’s training, he has to run down the aisle and give everyone a high-five. Is someone filming this?”

Like a scene out of The Price is Right, where George Gray shouts “Come on down,” Jeffrey bounded down the aisle slapping as many hands as he could (and, afterward, prompting a good number of people to whip out their hand sanitizers—no reflection on Jeffrey; it’s just the times we’re living in). From the back of the cabin, Jeffrey was then required to bunny hop all the way back up to the front. I expected someone to announce, “For his next fraternity initiation, he will now swallow these live goldfish.” But Jeffrey was let off the hook at that point to began his vital duties of serving us snacks and drinks.

But even before he was introduced to us, I knew Jeffrey had what it takes to be a flight attendant. He was just so polite. As we passed him in the aisle on our way to our exit-row seats, he just kept drifting further and further away in his efforts to allow passengers to get around him.

“Jeffrey, get back here,” announced a fellow flight attendant assigned to complete his training. And, still, Jeffrey, backpedaled and twisted, even announcing to one passenger, “I do have the malleability to let you move around me.” Malleability? I haven’t heard that word since I took my SATs. And he used it correctly. He even recited the exit-seat speech with few stumbles, automatically earning my vote for flight attendant of the year. Later, when Jeffrey served drinks to our section and had two drinks left on his tray, he sweetly exclaimed, “Darn it. I almost got it right.” How do you train someone to be so positive? I’ve never seen someone smile so much on their first day of work. It reminded me of my smile on my last day of work.

To find out why Jeffrey was so happy, we asked one of the other flight attendants about the Southwest Airlines training. The rigorous training program is unpaid, lasts four weeks, and requires students to be housed on-site (a meal stipend is provided). Only students who pass all of their exams with scores of 90 and above are hired and receive a $1,200 bonus (minus applicable taxes and benefit deductions). But I think Jeffrey would’ve done it for lollypops.

As we deplaned, I noticed that Jeffrey hadn’t worn out that smile. If anything, it had widened. He’d completed his first tour of duty in the madcap world of face-to-face customer service. Jeffrey, if you’re reading this, I don’t want to see you in any YouTube videos wrestling rowdy passengers to the ground. (But if you have to do it, I’m sure you’ll do it according to textbook.) Drop this blogger a line (by commenting below) and let me know how your first week of work was. Will they make you wear that training badge much longer? You’ve already earned your wings in my book.

#heySouthwestAirlinesputalittleextrasomethinginhisnextpaycheck

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“I’ll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour…”

While in Arizona, we had the opportunity to get together with Edwin and Iris Perez, longtime friends. I’ve know Edwin for almost 40 years. We had the good fortune of playing together on a softball team we founded in 1985 called the Outlaws. It was an ironic name because the founding members of that team couldn’t have been nicer, all professional guys with aspiring careers. Other teams were sponsored by local pawnbrokers, car repair shops, and sleazy bars. I’m sure they took one look at us on game days and said, “Hey, look who we’re playing today. It’s those polite guys that never spit and always shake your hand at the end of the game. Too bad there aren’t more guys like them. Now let’s go slaughter the chumps!”

I met Edwin in 1984 when we both worked for American Express, back in the day when American Express Travelers Cheques commercials flooded the airwaves with actor Karl Malden warning everyone, “Don’t leave home without them.” He played the tough cop on The Streets of San Francisco with Michael Douglas. I’ve always wanted to play a tough cop. So, when I met with Edwin at the Henhouse Cafe on South Lindsay Road in Gilbert, I grilled him about winning the Funny Photo Caption Contest, which was featured on my blog a few weeks ago (look it up).

Me: Take a seat, punk. We’re gonna’ be here for a while.

Ed: Huh? It’s nice to see you too, my friend.

Me: No one’s coming to bail you out of jail, so quit your begging and fess up!

Ed: What?

Me: Don’t play innocent with me. I know you cheated to win that contest. Now tell me how you did it before I mop the place up with you.

Ed: But you were the one who picked me as the winner.

Me: Don’t try any of your twisted logic with me. Your only hope now is to pray the judge goes easy on you.

Ed: Well, I got the idea for the caption because people are always losing their car keys. And I thought…

Me: You make me sick! But I have ways to make you talk, sleazebag!

Ed: Have you been taking any meds I should know about?

Me: Yeah, you’d like to hit me, wouldn’t you, lowlife?

Ed: Can we get back to the contest so I can get out of here? This is getting creepy.

Me: You’re lucky I got a soft spot for wayward youth.

Ed: Mike, I’m older than you.

Me: Shut you’re lying mouth! Next thing you know, you’ll be saying you’re funnier than me.

Ed: Well…

Me: Alright, slimeball! Time to show your cards. ‘Cause I’m gonn’a make you eat ‘em!

Ed: I do know this one joke. It’s nothing special, but it goes like this: This cop is interrogating this suspect. Finally, the suspect can’t take it anymore. He breaks down and says, “Alright, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” And the cop says, “Really? Well, in that case, explain what the Pythagorean Theorem is all about? Well, you said anything.”

Me: Hmm. That’s, um, funny. So, what’s good on the menu, Eddie? I’ve got a craving for something sweet, maybe a cinnamon roll slathered with a heavy glaze. Who’s in?

The actual conversation may have differed slightly. But you get the point. We ate and we laughed. We reminisced and we laughed. We talked about our wives (who were sitting six inches away from us but might as well have been in a parallel universe) and we laughed. (No, honey, we weren’t laughing at you.) The bottom line is you should visit with or call your friends more often, so it’s less awkward when you have to call them to bail you out.

In the YouTube video below, watch how Ed talks into the tabasco sauce bottle when I offer it to him as a microphone. Only a friend like him would put up with a nut like me.

#IpredictEdwillbeaYouTubestar

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