Window Shopping Perils

I like to shop as much as the next guy. By that I mean I don’t like to shop. That doesn’t mean I have anything against shopping. I understand there are those of a certain genetic persuasion who enjoy it. Quick trips, weekend binges, window...any shopping will do.

I prefer window shopping above actual shopping by a wide margin- about the width and depth of a store’s door. Window shopping means I don’t actually have to go into a store. I make an exception for food.

I often grace the doors of a grocery store, but even there I will window shop. Yes, there have been many times when I have fixed my gaze on something I desired but have overcome my impulse to buy.

That something is almost always Krispy Kreme doughnuts, chocolate iced, if you please. It is never difficult to find those lovely green and white boxes of delight. Kroger is exceptionally diabolical at placing the Kripsy Kreme table where it is impossible to avoid, and if they don’t put it in a place I’d trip over it, I’ll walk around until I trip over it.

Each time I see that table it goes much the same way. I’ll stop and study for a moment, making sure they have chocolate iced on hand. No need to get excited if they aren’t there. I might pick up a box and gaze at it, and then, with a surge of will power and discipline, put the box down and walk away. Or put it in my cart and walk away. Either way, I walk away without ripping open a box and taking a bite. Yes, I'm Mr. Discipline.

So, I can sympathize with those who window shop, like my friend who is a girl, who I'll call M. M was on a Chicago shopping binge doing so much more than mere window shopping when she walked by a window that caught her eye. There was the top she had been looking for. She stopped and gazed at this black, one shoulder top with one full, fitted sleeve as the mist started rising, the lights got brighter and the music started playing. It was love.

She knew it would never work out. He- if you can call a woman’s designer top “he”- was from a different world, a designer store, and she was a bargain hunter. So, after a moment of silent regret, she moved on.

But she couldn’t get him out of her head. She kept thinking about him, wondering just how much it would cost her to own him, how he would feel wrapped around one arm, holding her tight. After a restless night, she decided. She would go back. She would set her limit on what she was willing to give, but she would pursue her dream.

She marched down Michigan Avenue with purpose, not pausing at the designer store door, not tempted by the designer store décor, breezing straight to the designer store tops. She saw him. She touched him. She felt his silk threads. She read his price tag. She stared at him slack jawed. $1,098. She lost her appetite for him.

I understand. Sometimes the calories on the back of the Krispy Kreme box have the same effect on me. But not often.

Manly Communication

Men have been unjustly maligned, and I think I know the culprit. Women. In fact, some women may even go so far as to disagree with what I say. I know, hard to believe. Just goes to show you how intent women are in unjustly maligning us.

For instance, it is common hearsay, started by a woman I am sure, that men don't communicate or, for those who try, don't communicate well. I am here to set the record straight. In fact, I intend to prove, once and for all, that men want to communicate, are open to communication, and often attempt to initiate deep communication, but that women- yes, women- purposefully ignore our attempts to initiate communication.

If you are a woman, think back. -If you are a man, you can go blank here and pick back up at the, “You're welcome,” a few paragraphs down. Trust me, you won't miss anything.- Think back to the time your man was right there in front of you, holding the refrigerator door open, staring into it, with a puzzled, confused look on his face. You knew what was coming. A question. A question along the lines of, “Where is the ketchup?” Of course, it could have been a question about the whereabouts of the butter, the mayo, the mustard or the milk. All those things tend to pick up and move themselves around at random.

Now it is time for some hard truth and complete honesty. What did you think at that moment? What was the thought that went through your head? Be honest. Wasn't it something along the lines of, “You idiot, it is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup, right where it ALWAYS is!”? Yes, of course, you were much too diplomatic to say anything so demeaning. Instead you said, “It is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup, right where it always is,” only implying he was an idiot.

I'm sure you now understand your man much better.

What?! You STILL don't see it?! Okay, let me spell it out.

Your man is not blind. He is not helpless. He is trying to pull you into a deep, meaningful conversation. He knows where the ketchup is. Of course he does. What he is really saying is, “You mean the world to me. What do you want to talk about tonight? Where is the ketchup?”

Yes, every time you've accused your man of being uncommunicative, you should have been pointing that finger at yourself. Shame. Shame on you.

Of course, this isn't just a refrigerator issue. The same dynamics play out in the closet, a toolbox or a pantry shelf when he seems to be looking for a shoe, a screwdriver or the tea bags.

The question is, how should you respond? You want to use this opportunity to engage your man in the way that will be the most meaningful to him, that will encourage him to keep wanting to open these vital lines of communication and will build your relationship to the pinnacle of bliss. What you want to say is, now listen carefully, “Darling, the ketchup is in the door, top self, right next to the chocolate syrup.”

You're welcome.

Real Trouble

In this human life, there will be trouble. It may be financial trouble. It may be physical illness. It may be family problems. It may be any or all of these plus dozens of other troubles and hardships. You never know where it is coming from or when it will arrive, but you can bet it is coming. When it comes, you have no choice; you cope, you push through, you persevere.

I have trouble. Real trouble. I am coping, pushing through, and persevering.

I am living in the most primitive of conditions. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my life is in shambles, in total disarray. A storm came through and my electricity is out. Kaput. Missing in action. That means I have no air conditioning. The horror.

Sure, some people may think they have bigger troubles, but that is just because it affects them. Some have lost roofs, cars and boats. One unfortunate family lost all three to one downed tree. Another house has been split by a tree. But all that happened to someone else, and I am the one who is hot and inconvenienced. Well, not exactly hot. I am at an air conditioned O'Charley's eating a chocolate brownie and ice cream. But I am inconvenienced

It is not convenient for me to be here instead of at home eating an ice cream sandwich. I did that earlier to save the poor thing from melting away in a warming freezer. Of course, it wouldn't have been kind of me to leave its brother behind. I ate that one, too. Trouble requires sacrifice.

As usual, and as trouble will do, this trouble sneaked up on me. It came in the form of a surprise storm. Storms find me an easy target because I don't watch The Weather Channel. They know that and use it against me. Sneaky little wind bags.

This particular storm was even more diabolical than others. She timed herself to inconvenience me to the utmost. She wasn't content to blow in at a time convenient for me. No. She struck right at the end of the work day, making me choose between staying dry by staying put or getting wet while making my I'm-out-of-here-end-of-day dash. I stayed in and stayed dry. Yet another sacrifice.

She didn't hang around long. She didn't need to. Temper tantrums don't have to be long to be effective. She blew through town quickly, leaving the evidence of her temper in the downed trees, electrical lines and fires. And she made sure that I, personally, didn't have electricity.

On top of all that, her denying me my electricity means I have to type this brilliant little piece on the tiny keyboard of my Blackberry. Such deprivation.

Okay, so maybe my trouble is not big in your eyes. How big does my trouble have to be to suit you? How big is big enough? Can't you see that this trouble is big enough for me?

It gave me an excuse to eat ice cream. That is as big as I need.

p.s. Now that I have finished my brownie, the guy next to me is tempting me with chips and dip. That didn't sound quite right. His chips and dip are tempting me. Never mind. I am not tempted at all.

Lost In Kentucky

Sometimes I get lost in thought. It surprises people that I have thoughts deep enough to get lost in, but one man’s deep is another man’s shallow. Let’s just say I don’t like to tread water. Wandering mindlessly in the shallow end is how I ended up at on a dead end road somewhere between Bonnieville and Clarkson, somewhere in Kentucky, just past Little Flock Baptist Church.

You have to appreciate any congregation that names themselves Little Flock. No unrealistic aspirations for them. No illusions of grandeur. No need for a big building fund.

I wish all churches followed this pattern. It would make it much easier to tell what you were getting yourself into. You would know before you even walked through the door how you would be treated at the Self Righteous Christian Church or the Overly Friendly Methodist Church. High Tech Production Second First Episcopalian Church would attract a lot of entertainment fans. There would be less competition for the moniker Long And Boring Sermon Baptist/Christian/Catholic/Take-Your-Pick Church, though it should be one of the most sought.

As I was saying a few paragraphs above, I can get distracted. Such was the case on Mother’s Day. One of my gifts for Mom was a Jerry Clower CD. I was distracted because I was listening to it. I should explain why I was listening to a gift CD, which would make it, in essence, a second hand CD, but I won’t. It’s my story and I don’t have to.

Anyway, I was listening to Jerry and drove right past my appointed turn. It only took me some 30 minutes to notice that I had missed the turn. I’m quick like that.

My choices were to turn around, head to my appointed turn and get back on track, which would have cost me another half hour, or to try a new route from where I was. Since I was where I was and couldn't start from anywhere else, I went with the new route from there, hoping to save a half hour but knowing it would probably cost me twice that. My new, direct route meant making 15 turns on 10 unlined, one and a half car wide country roads.

About 15 minutes into my detour I saw a sign that said, “High Water,” but since I couldn't see any water over the road, on I went. In another 15 minutes, soon after passing the Little Flock Baptist Church, I found the water. It came with a barricade. Impassible water. Time to turn around. Find a new route. Help me phone.

Surprisingly, I still had a phone signal, so I eyeballed a route that looked promising – there were green lines on the phone indicating there were roads there – and headed out.

At one point, a truck in front of me pulled over to let me pass. I suppose he thought I knew where I was going and that I wanted to get there fast. Actually, I was in a hurry to find out where I was going and when I would get there.

In any event, Jerry and I made it to Mom’s for Mother’s Day.

As an added bonus, Mom didn’t have to unwrap the CD. I always have been thoughtful like that.

Speed Dial

There are some traits, some characteristics that, no matter how much you like a person, will rub you the wrong way. Sometimes it is something as innocuous as that fidgety person setting there tearing up the paper napkin - for those of you who have had to put up with those of us who tear paper, or tap pencils, or drum fingers, I apologize.

Sometimes the cause of irritation is as hard to put a finger on as a frog in a pond. Other times you know it is a contrived simile that is irritating you.

Yesterday I was at the doctor's with my mom. The doctor was a leisurely moving gentleman who seemed to have all the time in the world. His chief assistant and nurse was a pinging bundle of energy and intensity who knew he did not. As she flew from room to room and corner to corner, he ambled from area to area. The effect was as if he was a planet slowly moving across the universe and she a wildly rotating moon sort of following along.

At times the planet-doctor would look around trying to locate the wild-moon-nurse and get irritated because she wasn't where she would be if she had stayed on course and on pace – his pace- while the wild-moon-nurse couldn't believe the planet-doctor was dragging his heels so. It's a wonder there wasn't a Big Bang.

You've seen it before. People who have everything in common...except their pace. Their speed dials are set at a different rate of living.

The first time I noticed this was at work. A group of five were to meet with our CFO about some highly important and unforgettable issue which escapes me just now, and were in a pre-meeting to go over the details, i.e., trying to get our story straight. This group was rather relaxed, calmly discussing the remarkably impressive issue of the day, sharing our opinions while enjoying each others company. Then the CFO walked in.

He didn't so much walk in as burst through the door, grab a seat and start talking. He said a quick “Hello,” briefly stated the issue under discussion, and started into his thoughts. He then paused briefly, asked if anyone had any other thoughts, then, before anyone spoke up, said, “Okay, that is what we will do. Thanks.” And he left.

We sat there stunned and someone said, “OOOOkay. I guess that about covers it.” Everyone gave that wide eyed, open handed look that says, “What can you do?” He had been courteous and had offered everyone an opportunity to speak, but everyone felt railroaded. Yet, I had, before and since, witnessed this same group with the same CFO using the same speed, but feeling involved and important.

The difference was that at this meeting our speed dials were on "slow" and his was on “busy.” There was a mismatch and we were irritated.

I say all of that to point out that the reason I got my ticket was that the State Trooper and I had our speed dials set at different rates. I think his setting was closer to his radar gun. With just a slight adjustment on his part, this never would have happened.

Signs of The Age

The World is spending way too much time telling me I am old and on my decent to forgetfulness and oblivion. With any luck I will forget where I am going and never get there. That seems to work for me in my life now, though not when I want it to.

You would think Mr. World has enough other stuff going on that he doesn't need to bug me. Earthquakes, tsunami, wars and pestilence. But no, he has to pick on little ol' me.

Sometimes he is subtle. He leaves little clues to see if I am paying attention. This weekend I stopped at a little place called Broadbents to stretch my legs, hit the restroom and buy a snack of chocolate covered peanuts and almonds – required road food. The hand dryer in the restroom had a hand written sign on it saying, “Hit.” Apparently, there are people who have never used a button controlled hand dryer. I don't know about you, but after, oh, 32 minutes of waving my hands under a chrome vent with no hot air I might try hitting a 3 inch chrome button on the front of the machine, just to see what happens.

There are two points to notice here. First, there is a piece of machinery out there that I am old enough to have used but is antiquated enough to confuse people. Second, I have little patience for young people who can't use something I find easy to use. Lack of patience with young people is the second sign of age, right after a lot of birthdays.

Sometimes, World is less subtle. Eating a relaxed dinner at Joe's Crab Shack, I surveyed the knickknack and brickbat on the walls. Nets, life preservers, lobster traps, water skis, anything to do with water. And there it was. My ski. My at-the-time-state-of-the-art water ski hanging on the wall like a cheap antique. The ski I still have and would still try to use, if any of my friends were still young enough to water ski.

Again, two indicators of age. The prized possessions of my youth being displayed for decoration, clearly implying it is no longer of use, and knowing that my friends prefer a slower, more leisurely pace than a speed boat.

Sometimes World just smacks you in the face. I was lounging around a marina with several friends, waiting for the restaurant to open, when a man came in and asked, “Where is the young guy?” as if neither my friends nor I could be mistaken for young guys. I threw my hands to the sides, palms up, and called him on it saying, “Are you saying we couldn't be mistaken for young guys?” He didn't back down. He simply said, “Not quite,” and walked on.

Here, too, were two age indicators. First, the obvious dis' we received. Second, that we were waiting around for the restaurant to open. Can anyone say, “Early bird?” Can anyone say “Early bird” and not think old?

But it's okay. With age comes experience, and with experience comes skill and wisdom. Unlike many of my younger friends, I know I can hit the button to get hot air.

Or I can write hot air.

Balding Is Perplexing

As I lose more and more hair, I cut it shorter and shorter. Some people think it looks better that way, but the main reason I do it is to reduce the number of long hairs on the bathroom floor. Not that I like having a lot of short hairs on the floor, or any at all, but seeing long ones down there is just too depressing. When they're shorter I don't feel like I have lost as much.

As more and more of my shorter cut hair finds its way to the floor, I'm having a real problem dealing with some very tough questions. Fortunately, none of those questions involve comb-overs.

A former co-worker crushed any thought I might have had about committing a comb-over. I witnessed the horror of his windblown hair popping up like a hinged toupee. Hands full, he nearly knocked himself out with his briefcase trying to pin it down. Those kind of things stick with you.

Most of my questions involve length, or more specifically, how short I really want to go. I could go shaved, with a buzz, or real short but not quite to a buzz. I've gone the real short route once before, right before a job interview.

One of the interview steps was a group discussion with the folks I would be managing. It went well. So well that I overheard one guy say to another, “Do you think we'll have to get a flat-top?” This confused me until I was in front of a mirror. My hair looked like I had jelled it up to a desert mesa. My own version of windblown.

I could go with the shaved head. That kind of appeals to me. I like the idea of low maintenance. At least it looks like low maintenance. Clip it, shave it, and go. They may even have special razors to get from fuzz head to chrome dome faster. I'm just not sure what I would look like totally shaved. Hard for me to picture.

As an aside, having nothing at all to do with this current discussion, and not that I would know, but it is a really bad idea to use duct tape to see what your head would look like shaved. That stuff really sticks to hair. So I am told. And it's silver.

As some of you know, cutting my own hair doesn't scare me as much as it should. I have attempted, sometimes successfully, to repair bad haircuts on my own. In junior high I got a bad haircut and I vowed no one else was going to touch my hair. I cut my own hair from then until I was a junior in college. I kept it quiet because I didn't want all of the guys on the football team bugging me to style their hair.

I could go with a buzz. Not quite bare, but not obviously trying to hide the march of the hairless follicle. That is okay, and I have seen some men, and women, who have pulled it off very well. But to me it feels like a half step. It might look like I can't make up my mind.

I'll think about it while I soak my head. I wonder what solvent works best on duct tape glue.