NOTE: This column ran in 2002.
Looking for a job can be one of the most humiliating, defeating, ego-bursting, frightening, and humbling experiences there is—and that’s just the time you spend in the outer office, waiting for your turn. Things really fall apart when you go through the actual interview. You forget your name, any skills you ever had, any office equipment you can operate, except for a flush toilet, and just why you are there in the first place.
If you have never stuttered in your life you will during a job interview. You will also ramble endlessly with meaningless drivel and use sentences that are totally unstructured. Your laugh will change from something warm and cultured to a hideous shriek. You will forget simple things—like what you did on your last job. You will call the interviewer by the wrong name. You will say something brilliant to the interviewer, like “Just what is it you guys do here?”
Back in another lifetime when I managed the News-Miner’s North Pole office, I often had the pleasure of interviewing people for openings we had for writers or office help. It was the first time I had been on that side of the desk.
I knew what it was like to be the one being interviewed so I gave these people a lot of leeway and extra points and consideration for just being there. One lady I interviewed in North Pole came with her husband. He did all of the talking. He introduced them both and then answered every question I asked. He did quite well. Unfortunately, he had another job in the Air Force and she was too shy to even answer the phone.
Job seekers came in flip flops and shorts, men’s shirts and rollers. One lit up a cigarette during the interview and one of them cried. One, whose name was Amy, was the daughter of best-selling author LaVyrle Spencer. Since I was right in the middle of Spencer’s book “Hummingbird” that was one of the most enjoyable interviews I ever conducted.
These people all wanted one thing: an honest job.
On Sundays I look through employment ads. They go something like this: Administrative Assistant. Must know Power Point, Access, Excel, FrameMaker, Photo Shop, QuickBooks, PageMaker. Ten years experience, master’s degree, ability to supervise 24 employees and handle building maintenance and janitorial staff required. $7.50 hour. No benefits.
(However, if you are a dental assistant you can probably demand the world.)
During our Coldfoot years I interviewed dozens of people and looked at hundreds of applications. Some were clever and funny, but none as great as the actual job application, below, that was submitted to a McDonald’s in Florida. This 17-year-old landed a job because he was so honest, and so funny.
Name: Greg Bulmash
Sex: Not yet. Still waiting for the right person.
Desired Position: Company's President or Vice President. But seriously, whatever's available. If I was in a position to be picky, I wouldn't be applying here in the first place.
Desired Salary: $185,000 a year plus stock options and a Michael Ovitz style severance package. If that's not possible, make an offer and we can haggle.
Education: Yes.
Last Position Held: Target for middle management hostility.
Salary: Less than I'm worth.
Most Notable Achievement: My incredible collection of stolen pens and post-it notes.
May we contact your last employer? If I had one, would I be here?
Do you have any physical conditions that would prohibit you from lifting 50 pounds?: Of what?
Do you have a car? I think the more appropriate question here would be "Do you have a car that runs?"
Have you received any special awards or recognition? I may already be a winner of the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes.
What would you like to be doing in five years? Living in the Bahamas with a fabulously wealthy dumb sexy blonde super model who thinks I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread. Actually, I'd like to be doing that now.
Do you certify that the above is true and complete? Yes. Absolutely.
Sign here: Aries.
Now this is a fellow who takes life seriously enough to know he needs to work but leaves enough space for important things such as cleverness, optimistic good humor and an upbeat outlook. I’ll bet he’s a great employee. I’ll bet he didn’t even sweat during his interview, let alone trip on the way in and get lost on the way out. He probably remembered his name, and could put 10 words together and have them actually make sense. I would have hired him.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Hearts, Romance and Brides in Cages
Monday is Valentine’s Day, which isn't that great because who wants to go out to a fancy dinner on a Monday and have one eye on the clock?
For romantic couples Valentine’s Day is the epitome of holidays. It’s the day of declaration, a day for vowing love forevermore. For old marrieds, like Troy and me, it’s a day for celebration that we made it to another Valentine’s Day.
For a lot of us Valentine’s Day means the Day After Valentine’s Day Sale where they have all that great chocolate 50-percent off.
Many a man has chosen Valentine’s Day as the day to ask the love of his life to marry him. How romantic. This is quite different from the approach used by the people of the Trobriand Islands near Papua, New Guinea. There, a woman simply goes up to the man of her choice and bites him on the arm. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like the biter. She made her choice and he has to marry her.
The ancient Babylonians did it quite differently. There were no old maids because each year all marriageable females were auctioned off. Men bid highly for the most beautiful maidens and that money was used as dowries to go with the less attractive women to entice men to take them. Under this custom there were few unattached females.
I like the custom in ancient Greece and I am going to adopt it. There, women stayed young by counting their age from the date on which they were married rather from the date of their birth. They felt marriage was the true beginning of life and everything that went before was merely preparation. This year I am 46.
Here are some more interesting tidbits:
In many countries in bygone years, courting rituals were strictly enforced to keep the bride’s virtue intact before the actual marriage. And in some parts of the world the methods were extreme. In the Solomon Islands a bride-to-be was kept in a cage, closely guarded, and not released until the time of the wedding. The girl’s parents would keep an unusually sharp eye on their future son-in-law, who had to account for his whereabouts at all times.
In Wales future grooms had to develop artistic skill if they wished to be allowed to visit their brides-to-be. To keep the grooms’ hands busy until the wedding, they had to make wooden spoons with very elaborate and delicate designs for the girls’ parents.
In contrast, nineteenth-century Scottish law required brides to certify their productivity by being pregnant on their wedding day. The law was enforced.
Standards of beauty have changed over the ages as well. Nowadays Americans consider a thin, shapely woman sexy and desirable. But it wasn’t always so. In the late nineteenth century the great American beauty was Lillian Russell, and many a young man sighed over her photographs. This famous singer and actress, at the peak of her career, topped the scales at 186 pounds. The “fat is beautiful” viewpoint still prevails, not in America but in part of Nigeria. Here, when young girls reach puberty, they enter fattening houses, where they spend their time eating almost constantly. When they emerge months later, they appear as "mountains of flesh" and are only then considered truly fit for marriage.
Unusual methods of ending marital bliss have also been recorded. Back in the 1870s, in the city of Corinne, Utah, divorce was made so simple that any man could obtain one instantly. By merely slipping a $2.50 gold coin into a machine and turning a crank, he received divorce papers already signed by the local judge. But only men qualified for obtaining a divorce in this manner. The machine was extremely popular—for a while. Utah statutes failed to back up these slot machine divorces, and they were later declared illegal. As a result many men found they had unwittingly become bigamists.
And on that happy note, I bid you all a Happy Valentine’s Day.
For romantic couples Valentine’s Day is the epitome of holidays. It’s the day of declaration, a day for vowing love forevermore. For old marrieds, like Troy and me, it’s a day for celebration that we made it to another Valentine’s Day.
For a lot of us Valentine’s Day means the Day After Valentine’s Day Sale where they have all that great chocolate 50-percent off.
Many a man has chosen Valentine’s Day as the day to ask the love of his life to marry him. How romantic. This is quite different from the approach used by the people of the Trobriand Islands near Papua, New Guinea. There, a woman simply goes up to the man of her choice and bites him on the arm. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like the biter. She made her choice and he has to marry her.
The ancient Babylonians did it quite differently. There were no old maids because each year all marriageable females were auctioned off. Men bid highly for the most beautiful maidens and that money was used as dowries to go with the less attractive women to entice men to take them. Under this custom there were few unattached females.
I like the custom in ancient Greece and I am going to adopt it. There, women stayed young by counting their age from the date on which they were married rather from the date of their birth. They felt marriage was the true beginning of life and everything that went before was merely preparation. This year I am 46.
Here are some more interesting tidbits:
In many countries in bygone years, courting rituals were strictly enforced to keep the bride’s virtue intact before the actual marriage. And in some parts of the world the methods were extreme. In the Solomon Islands a bride-to-be was kept in a cage, closely guarded, and not released until the time of the wedding. The girl’s parents would keep an unusually sharp eye on their future son-in-law, who had to account for his whereabouts at all times.
In Wales future grooms had to develop artistic skill if they wished to be allowed to visit their brides-to-be. To keep the grooms’ hands busy until the wedding, they had to make wooden spoons with very elaborate and delicate designs for the girls’ parents.
In contrast, nineteenth-century Scottish law required brides to certify their productivity by being pregnant on their wedding day. The law was enforced.
Standards of beauty have changed over the ages as well. Nowadays Americans consider a thin, shapely woman sexy and desirable. But it wasn’t always so. In the late nineteenth century the great American beauty was Lillian Russell, and many a young man sighed over her photographs. This famous singer and actress, at the peak of her career, topped the scales at 186 pounds. The “fat is beautiful” viewpoint still prevails, not in America but in part of Nigeria. Here, when young girls reach puberty, they enter fattening houses, where they spend their time eating almost constantly. When they emerge months later, they appear as "mountains of flesh" and are only then considered truly fit for marriage.
Unusual methods of ending marital bliss have also been recorded. Back in the 1870s, in the city of Corinne, Utah, divorce was made so simple that any man could obtain one instantly. By merely slipping a $2.50 gold coin into a machine and turning a crank, he received divorce papers already signed by the local judge. But only men qualified for obtaining a divorce in this manner. The machine was extremely popular—for a while. Utah statutes failed to back up these slot machine divorces, and they were later declared illegal. As a result many men found they had unwittingly become bigamists.
And on that happy note, I bid you all a Happy Valentine’s Day.
Monday, December 6, 2010
A 1950s Christmas Memory
The size of the family on my mother’s side doubled whenever Harry and Ethel Smith and their brood showed up. Harry was Mom’s baby brother, tall and fit and rakishly handsome with black hair and a grin that revealed strong white teeth. Ethel was short, always happy with smiles and ready laughter. She seemed sort of boneless, like one of those round pork roasts in grocery stores that are held together with white string. As a child, I always thought of her as fat. Later I came to realize she was just always pregnant.
Harry and Ethel had 10 kids, the oldest eight one right after another. There was a lapse of a few years before they started up again and they probably would have had a few more but Harry died of a heart attack one sweltering summer day while working in the woods of northwest Montana. To have the fire of such a vibrant, life-loving man extinguished was a deep blow to the family.
Harry and Ethel lived in an old paint-flaked farmhouse with a front lawn that was kept bare by horses, chickens, goats, and barefooted runny-nosed kids. It wasn’t until the older kids were in high school that the outhouse gave way to a flush toilet in a tiny bathroom Harry squeezed in between the kitchen and back porch. The house was wall-to-wall kids, commotion, laughter, and chaos. It smelled of wet diapers, laundry soap (since doing laundry was a never-ending chore), and good food (since something was always bubbling on the stove).
I loved going there. It was like attending summer camp. Everyone always had a project or something going on. In the summer we rode horses in the river and milked cows and chased down errant calves. In the winter we played cards and jacks, did puzzles and romped in the snow. And we ate. Ethel made the best rolls this side of Heaven, kneading the dough, like she did everything else—with a baby jiggling on her hip.
The year I was eight or nine we had Christmas at Grammy and Granddad's. It was a cold but beautiful sunny day and the snow glinted with diamonds. My other cousins and I had already made a dozen runs with our sleds down the big hill and had been called in to get ready for dinner. Auntie Jane and Mom were fluttering around wondering what to do with all the food since Harry and Ethel were late. All of a sudden, there they all were. Bleeding and bruised and agitated and every single one of them talking a mile a minute. It seemed that Harry had driven the back roads and had missed the corner at the end of a long steep hill a mile away. The car slid through a fence, bounced through the ditch and ended up in a cattail-studded swamp. Miraculously, no one was really hurt.
They had walked the rest of the way, Ethel in high heels and tearfully carrying in front of her a small gaily-wrapped package containing the remains of a teacup she’d intended to give Grammy, and Harry lugging the newest baby.
While the women tended to the cuts and tears, the men took a pickup and a logging chain and went about the business of retrieving the injured car. Personally, I was very interested in the success of getting the car since the trunk was piled deep with presents. Including mine.
We had so much to be thankful for that Christmas day. We were all safe. We were whole. We had each other. That wonderful feeling took over that day, dwarfing everything else. As the subject of the car crash was brought up again and again, the tree didn’t seem as important, nor were the gifts. We were important. Each and every one of us.
This Christmas there are a lot of people who are battered and bruised and bloodied by life. There will be empty places at the Christmas table. In countless homes plates will be salted with tears as heads are bowed to ask God’s blessing.
Life is hard. Life is tragic. Many people won’t even receive the gift of a shattered teacup this year. Others don’t know how they will provide food for their children, let alone presents. Devastated finances, burned-out homes, divorce, illness, death….the list of what can go wrong in a life is endless.
This is a frantic time of year. A time when we strive to be perfect, to give the perfect gifts and to have the perfect Christmas. We spend too much and eat too much and lose track of what’s important. And on December 26 we wallow in guilt and vow that next year it will be different. After two months of glitter and glitz the world suddenly seems ugly and cold and hopeless.
But we are never without hope. And we are never without love. We are surrounded by God’s love and just need to reach out and grab it. He is our hope.
As you come together to celebrate Christmas, please take a few minutes to remember that we are celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. And in him there is hope, peace, love, comfort, joy, and eternal life. There may not have been room at the inn, but there is room in your heart and that’s all he wants—a place in your heart. What a wonderful gift to give our Lord. And what a change it will bring to your life.
I pray that all of you have a very merry, blessed, Christmas.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Perfect Business
Dear Janelle,
I was thinking about you the other day, dear daughter, as you are launching your second "Once Upon a Time" toy store in Seattle's Bellevue Square. I just thought you should know that Lisa and I have discovered the perfect business. Even better than the guy who supposedly set up in a parking lot on city land in London and collected parking money for 25 years.
It's called the Bark Off. As advertised on TV. You have probably seen it. It is, "safe and humane" and stops annoying barking. (Sorry, husbands, not for your wives - it's for the dog.)
The Bark Off is an "ultrasonic training aid" that is portable, has a nifty little wall-mount and uses a nine volt battery (not included). It has two sensitivity levels, high and low, and promises to enable you to "start living a more peaceful life," and who wouldn't like that. The manufacturer declares that it works from 20 feet away and is automatically activated when your dog barks. The dog barks, the doohickey emits a high-pitched screech and, voila!, the dog hears this horrendous noise and thinks, "hey, this barking really must annoy the neighbors. I simply must stop doing it."
I bought one of these in a drugstore, bypassing the television hawkers. I spent $9.99 for it. It isn't a whopping amount of money, just enough that people don't really hesitate. Now, if it was $29.99 I would have balked and decided, nah, I don't need one of those things. Even $15.99 would have made me think twice. But less than $10 - hey, I'll take the gamble.
After I took it out of the package I learned that the Bark Off, sadly, does not work on deaf or hearing impaired-dogs. I said, THE BARK OFF, SADLY,..." Oh, you did hear that.
Well, anyway,... It also doesn't work outside in adverse weather conditions. I live in Alaska. We invented adverse weather conditions. We send them south every chance we get.
So, hmmm, according to everything I've read, the Bark Off doesn't immediately work (give it two or three weeks), doesn't have a little light to show the thing is even working, and, anyway, humans can't hear the high pitched noise. So, for all I know it's just a $10 plastic box that simply ... does nothing.
I like that idea. Invent something that you can't test, can't really tell is functioning, and sell it cheap. Like, maybe, pills you can take to make you a better cook. Like those copper bracelets that were all the rage a few years ago or the magnets you put in your shoes. Do your aches and pains go away because of the magnets and copper, or because you think them away? Viagra -- does it really work or is it the idea and faith that makes it work? That's what Lisa and I want to invent - a placebo with promise that sweeps the country. We'll sell it for $9.99.
In the meantime, I have high hopes for this Bark Off thing.
I was thinking about you the other day, dear daughter, as you are launching your second "Once Upon a Time" toy store in Seattle's Bellevue Square. I just thought you should know that Lisa and I have discovered the perfect business. Even better than the guy who supposedly set up in a parking lot on city land in London and collected parking money for 25 years.
It's called the Bark Off. As advertised on TV. You have probably seen it. It is, "safe and humane" and stops annoying barking. (Sorry, husbands, not for your wives - it's for the dog.)
The Bark Off is an "ultrasonic training aid" that is portable, has a nifty little wall-mount and uses a nine volt battery (not included). It has two sensitivity levels, high and low, and promises to enable you to "start living a more peaceful life," and who wouldn't like that. The manufacturer declares that it works from 20 feet away and is automatically activated when your dog barks. The dog barks, the doohickey emits a high-pitched screech and, voila!, the dog hears this horrendous noise and thinks, "hey, this barking really must annoy the neighbors. I simply must stop doing it."
I bought one of these in a drugstore, bypassing the television hawkers. I spent $9.99 for it. It isn't a whopping amount of money, just enough that people don't really hesitate. Now, if it was $29.99 I would have balked and decided, nah, I don't need one of those things. Even $15.99 would have made me think twice. But less than $10 - hey, I'll take the gamble.
After I took it out of the package I learned that the Bark Off, sadly, does not work on deaf or hearing impaired-dogs. I said, THE BARK OFF, SADLY,..." Oh, you did hear that.
Well, anyway,... It also doesn't work outside in adverse weather conditions. I live in Alaska. We invented adverse weather conditions. We send them south every chance we get.
So, hmmm, according to everything I've read, the Bark Off doesn't immediately work (give it two or three weeks), doesn't have a little light to show the thing is even working, and, anyway, humans can't hear the high pitched noise. So, for all I know it's just a $10 plastic box that simply ... does nothing.
I like that idea. Invent something that you can't test, can't really tell is functioning, and sell it cheap. Like, maybe, pills you can take to make you a better cook. Like those copper bracelets that were all the rage a few years ago or the magnets you put in your shoes. Do your aches and pains go away because of the magnets and copper, or because you think them away? Viagra -- does it really work or is it the idea and faith that makes it work? That's what Lisa and I want to invent - a placebo with promise that sweeps the country. We'll sell it for $9.99.
In the meantime, I have high hopes for this Bark Off thing.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Cones, cones, everywhere!
Dear taxpayers,
I think I've figured out where a lot of Obama's "jobs" money is going. After spending time driving in Washington, Montana and around Alaska this summer I figured it out in one of those light bulb moments that temporarily blinds you into reality.
By my calculations, based upon the number of orange traffic cones I've spotted in my travels, somewhere between 22 and half a million jobs were created in the transportation industry. The jobs entail moving cones. This is probably done at night, when no one will be harmed from the sudden traffic pattern changes, and there are no workers around to ask just what the hay is going on.
My sister Judy and I drove from Spokane to our hometown of Whitefish, which is near Kalispell and Glacier Park. We were headed there to visit relatives and to do a lot of "remembering when." Along the way we picked up our little sister, Becky, who lives in Missoula, hoping -- since she's the youngest -- that she could help us out with the memories.
Judy: "Didn't there used to be a bar over there where that fancy new bank is now?"
Me: "I remember that bar. It had old-time saloon doors. You could hear the jukebox two blocks away. One night when I was driving by there was a brawl out on the sidewalk."
Judy: "You ever go in there?"
Me: "Heck no."
Becky: "What bank?"
So much for helping with the memories. Anyway, I digress. And isn't that an odd word...digress. Why not just admit I'm off on a tangent?
Anyway, I'm off on a tangent. Back to the cones. For miles and miles in Montana -- and we're talking double digits here -- there were cones. The cones would close off the right lane for a bit and then, as if they couldn't make up their minds, would close off the left lane. Then they'd take a break and wouldn't bother to line up at all before starting in again.
There was no work going on within these cones. No trucks, no flaggers, no men in hard hats standing around scratching their behinds and pretending to be bosses. There wasn't even evidence that any work had ever taken place. The road was clear and smooth, except for the occasional lump of furry road kill.
Since then I've been keeping track and have discovered unattended cones all over the place. Thousands of them. Just lined up and waiting for another crew, evidently, to come move them to another site or maybe just walk them to a new spot across the road.
Dear taxpayers,
I think I've figured out where a lot of Obama's "jobs" money is going. After spending time driving in Washington, Montana and around Alaska this summer I figured it out in one of those light bulb moments that temporarily blinds you into reality.
By my calculations, based upon the number of orange traffic cones I've spotted in my travels, somewhere between 22 and half a million jobs were created in the transportation industry. The jobs entail moving cones. This is probably done at night, when no one will be harmed from the sudden traffic pattern changes, and there are no workers around to ask just what the hay is going on.
My sister Judy and I drove from Spokane to our hometown of Whitefish, which is near Kalispell and Glacier Park. We were headed there to visit relatives and to do a lot of "remembering when." Along the way we picked up our little sister, Becky, who lives in Missoula, hoping -- since she's the youngest -- that she could help us out with the memories.
Judy: "Didn't there used to be a bar over there where that fancy new bank is now?"
Me: "I remember that bar. It had old-time saloon doors. You could hear the jukebox two blocks away. One night when I was driving by there was a brawl out on the sidewalk."
Judy: "You ever go in there?"
Me: "Heck no."
Becky: "What bank?"
So much for helping with the memories. Anyway, I digress. And isn't that an odd word...digress. Why not just admit I'm off on a tangent?
Anyway, I'm off on a tangent. Back to the cones. For miles and miles in Montana -- and we're talking double digits here -- there were cones. The cones would close off the right lane for a bit and then, as if they couldn't make up their minds, would close off the left lane. Then they'd take a break and wouldn't bother to line up at all before starting in again.
There was no work going on within these cones. No trucks, no flaggers, no men in hard hats standing around scratching their behinds and pretending to be bosses. There wasn't even evidence that any work had ever taken place. The road was clear and smooth, except for the occasional lump of furry road kill.
Since then I've been keeping track and have discovered unattended cones all over the place. Thousands of them. Just lined up and waiting for another crew, evidently, to come move them to another site or maybe just walk them to a new spot across the road.
At first I thought maybe it was my friend Nardo doing this. I will not divulge Nardo's last name and I made up his first name. Nardo, who lives Outside, likes to collect things and not long ago he accumulated a small grouping of traffic cones. After careful study, he selected a quiet residential street and one night carefully set up his cones, effectively notifying drivers that the street was blocked. He kept track and weeks later the road was still unusable. For all I know, it still is. I think there is a big message in Nardo's experiment. What it is, I don't know, but surely it speaks of a flaw in our societal fabric. The word stupid comes to mind.
Well, I'm not stupid and I'm saying that there are a few million cones out there that are being shuffled and moved, loaded and unloaded, stacked and unstacked, and there is no work going on. Just cone-moving.
Pay attention, people, and you'll see for yourself. And next time you hear BO bragging about the jobs he's creating you'll know the inside scoop. I think the only thing he has created is a whole army of cone people.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
FREE WHEEFEES!
So, there we were at McDonalds and I saw this sign for something free and told your mom to get two. Your assignment, if you accept it, is to go around and capture responses and post them to Utube. It could be really fun. Here's my imaginary scenario:
FREE WHEEFEES!
SPEAKER: Welcome to McDonalds. Ready to order?
HUSBAND: Yeah, we, uh, we’d like two Big Mac meals. Diet Cokes.
WIFE IN BACKGROUND: Tell them we want two of those free WheeFees.
HUSBAND: Can we have two of your free WheeFees, too?
SPEAKER: I have two Big Mac meals with diet Cokes. I don’t understand about the …uh… what are those?
HUSBAND: Out here on a sign it says you have free WheeFees.
WIFE (in background): See if they have one in yellow.
SPEAKER: Free what?
HUSBAND: WheeFees. There’s a sign here that says they’re free. I think they’re from that new Shrek movie.
SPEAKER: I’m new here. Let me get the manager.
HUSBAND TO WIFE: Let’s just forget it.
WIFE: Let’s not. I really want one. They sound cute. The baby could play with them. If not yellow, blue.
MANAGER (on speaker): Can I help you?
HUSBAND: Yeah, we’ve ordered but we also want two of your free WheeFees.
MANAGER: Uh…huh?
HUSBAND: It says here you’re giving them away. We’d like two.
WIFE: Tell him we want three. One for the baby.
HUSBAND: Charlene, shush. ..I can’t hear!
MANAGER: I’m sorry, sir, I can’t understand you. You want what?
HUSBAND: WHEEFEES! It says right here on your sign. They’re free. Free WheeFees.
MANAGER: We don’t have anything like that. What exactly does the sign say?
HUSBAND: Free WheeFees.
MANAGER: How do they spell that?
HUSBAND: W.I.F.I.
MANAGER: It’s WiFi. We have free WiFi.
HUSBAND to WIFE: Oh, it’s pronounced WhyFie. Charlene, it’s pronounced WhyFie.
HUSBAND to MANAGER: That’s what I said. We want two.
MANAGER: We don’t give them away. They aren’t things. They’re for computers.
HUSBAND: Oh. Well, we have a computer and it says here you give them away and we’d like two of them.
MANAGER: It’s for laptops.
HUSBAND: We don’t have a laptop, just a regular computer.
MANAGER: You have to have a laptop.
HUSBAND: So, if we have a regular computer we don’t get free WheeFees…WhyFies… but if we have a laptop, we do? Is that what you’re telling me?
WIFE FROM BACKGROUND: Tell him that’s discrimination.
HUSBAND: That’s discrimination. We might get a laptop sometime so we’d like the free dohickies anyway. Is it some sort of a game thing?
MANAGER: Oh good grief. No, it’s not a game thing. WiFis aren’t things. It’s like… like air…like things floating through the air. Signal things.
HUSBAND (LAUGHING): You’re giving away free air? That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Air is free anyway. (In a lowered voice:) Does Ronald know about this?
MANAGER: It’s not really air. It’s a service thing for laptops. Signals through the air.
HUSBAND: Does this mean we’re not getting the free WheeFees…WhyFies?
MANAGER: Uh huh.
WIFE FROM BACKGROUND: This is wrong, really wrong. It says right on the sign, FREE.
MANAGER: I tell you what, how about I just give you two McFlurries and a Shrek mug. On the house.
WIFE: It’s not right.
HUSBAND: We’ll take it but I think you need to fix your sign. Admit it, you really don’t have free WheeFees at all, do you?
MANAGER: I guess not.
HUSBAND: That’s false advertising.
MANAGER: You’re right. I’m going to come out right now and take down that sign. I’d hate for anyone else to get confused.
HUSBAND: Good idea. I’m glad I could point this out to you. There are a lot of people out here who aren’t as smart as me and could cause a lot of trouble.
-30-
Monday, June 7, 2010
Dogs with fleas, cats with hairballs
Dear Scooter,
When you came down from Fairbanks to visit Grandma and Grandpa you didn't know you'd spend time fussing over a sick dog and spending time at the vet clinic. But the surgery went well and we're still laughing at the reaction of the other dogs when Maggie showed up sporting her new cone. I know Gunner and Ember were snickering along with us.
Anyway, the whole ordeal reminded me that I once wrote a column about taking dogs to the vet. I thought you'd like it so here it is:
When the last fledgling left the nest my husband Troy and I stupidly thought we were done with doctor visits. Ha!
As long as there are any dependents breathing in your house you’re doomed to trips to the clinic. Whether you have a dog, cat, bird, snake, hamster, panther or elephant, someday this creature is going to need professional medical advice. And you’re going to have to get it for them.
It is good, before you head to the vet’s office, to figure out what’s wrong with your droopy pet. But trying to get a cat to tell you where it hurts with words won’t work. You can’t say, “Princess, do you have a sore throat?” Instead you have to push and probe and search. You’ll know when you hit the sore spot. MREAU FSST! Get out the Band-Aids.
Have you ever taken a dog’s temperature? Now that’s fun. When you get the thermometer out they think, oh boy!, a new toy! They go around and around, trying to see just what you’re doing back there with the new toy. Wielding the thermometer, you chase them. You can’t tell them to sit, because that would take away the very area you need access to. And most dogs don’t know the command “Stand!” Really, it’s easier to just feel their nose. If it’s hot and dry they have a temperature.
I hate it when I hear our vet say, “We’ll have to get him to open wide.” Oh sure, let me put my hands in his slimy mouth. You do it. You’re getting paid the big bucks.
When you take a kid to the doctor you make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. With a dog you sometimes have to have a plastic baggie with a stool sample. But first you have to get it, which means traipsing around the back yard or climbing into a kennel. Since frozen samples are a no-no, in the winter when it’s 50 below this means almost having to stay with your dog until it does its business.
Now what do you think your dog thinks when you hunker over the steaming pile and use a stick to scrape some doodoo into a bag? Up ‘til then he thought you were a pretty cool dude or dudette but now, gross and yuk. And you yell at him for licking his private parts in front of company.
For a good time, there’s nothing like a vet clinic’s waiting room. That’s where all the strange beasts gather. Usually they have with them their pet bird, snake, dog, cat, hamster, rabbit or pig.
Personally, I think a perfect reality show would feature one of these waiting rooms. The dog wants to chase the cat who wants to eat either the bird of the hamster. The pig squats and leaves a wheelbarrow full of manure at your feet. And the poor snake is no one’s friend. He and his owner are abandoned on one side of the room while everyone else huddles on the other, keeping one eye on this slithering interloper.
Unlike people waiting rooms—well, except for pediatrician offices—there is a lot of yelling going on in an animal waiting room. SIT! I SAID SIT! NOW STAY. I SAID STAY! GET OVER HERE AND SIT! DAMMIT.... (a lot of pets are named Dammit).,
Of course they aren’t going to sit and stay. Except for on TV your 150-pound Newfoundland has never seen a real live guinea pig, let alone smelled one. He might not ever get this chance again.
Of course there’s always some smarty-pants with a dog that does sit and stay. The owner quietly reads a book while the dignified pedigreed dog lays there quietly observing the fracas. This dog doesn’t need a leash. He makes the other pets look like untamed beasts from Wild Kingdom. They’re all a bunch of goofballs straining their leashes trying to smell the next fellow’s rear end.
Let’s say you’re in the waiting room with Bonzo, your macho 2-year-old Great Dane. In comes some woman with an ugly poodle with an overbite and a tacky pink ribbon dangling from one ear. The poodle’s in heat.
Male dogs aren’t subtle. They don’t say, “Hey there, haven’t we met before?” They can leap over buildings with a single bound. They have one thing on their mind. For Bonzo it’s the ugly poodle. Even without any beer, he thinks she is the most gorgeous female he has ever seen. He’s in love.
You might not think pets give much thought to other pets in the room, other than wanting to eat or play with them. But they do. If you bring in your dog and he has a bunch of porcupine quills stuck in his snout I guarantee most of the older dogs there are snorting and thinking, “Man, are you stupid.”
On the other hand, when Roxanne comes in with a broken leg from chasing the moose out of the yard they are all thinking, “Right on Roxanne! You go Girl!”
All the other pets will know if a dog comes in with worms because he’s embarrassed and looks at the floor. And fleas? You can’t hear them, but every beast in the waiting room is chanting, “Riley’s got fleas, Riley’s got fleas!”
Let’s say Sarah the cat has a hairball. A really big hairball. Her owner carries her in and Sarah hacks a few times. Instantly everyone knows what she’s there for and they snicker. Sarah’s a fur-eater. Gross. She tries to convince them she’s got sinus problems.
The parrot, at least, is honest. He bobs up and down in his cage yelling, “Beak rot! I’ve got beak rot! I’ve got beak rot!” To which everyone thinks, “Ah shut up, you stupid bird.”
And the snake with the Band-aid around his belly? Except for a couple of wide-eyed women who are ready to bolt, no one else is paying any attention to the snake.
When you came down from Fairbanks to visit Grandma and Grandpa you didn't know you'd spend time fussing over a sick dog and spending time at the vet clinic. But the surgery went well and we're still laughing at the reaction of the other dogs when Maggie showed up sporting her new cone. I know Gunner and Ember were snickering along with us.
Anyway, the whole ordeal reminded me that I once wrote a column about taking dogs to the vet. I thought you'd like it so here it is:
When the last fledgling left the nest my husband Troy and I stupidly thought we were done with doctor visits. Ha!
As long as there are any dependents breathing in your house you’re doomed to trips to the clinic. Whether you have a dog, cat, bird, snake, hamster, panther or elephant, someday this creature is going to need professional medical advice. And you’re going to have to get it for them.
It is good, before you head to the vet’s office, to figure out what’s wrong with your droopy pet. But trying to get a cat to tell you where it hurts with words won’t work. You can’t say, “Princess, do you have a sore throat?” Instead you have to push and probe and search. You’ll know when you hit the sore spot. MREAU FSST! Get out the Band-Aids.
Have you ever taken a dog’s temperature? Now that’s fun. When you get the thermometer out they think, oh boy!, a new toy! They go around and around, trying to see just what you’re doing back there with the new toy. Wielding the thermometer, you chase them. You can’t tell them to sit, because that would take away the very area you need access to. And most dogs don’t know the command “Stand!” Really, it’s easier to just feel their nose. If it’s hot and dry they have a temperature.
I hate it when I hear our vet say, “We’ll have to get him to open wide.” Oh sure, let me put my hands in his slimy mouth. You do it. You’re getting paid the big bucks.
When you take a kid to the doctor you make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. With a dog you sometimes have to have a plastic baggie with a stool sample. But first you have to get it, which means traipsing around the back yard or climbing into a kennel. Since frozen samples are a no-no, in the winter when it’s 50 below this means almost having to stay with your dog until it does its business.
Now what do you think your dog thinks when you hunker over the steaming pile and use a stick to scrape some doodoo into a bag? Up ‘til then he thought you were a pretty cool dude or dudette but now, gross and yuk. And you yell at him for licking his private parts in front of company.
For a good time, there’s nothing like a vet clinic’s waiting room. That’s where all the strange beasts gather. Usually they have with them their pet bird, snake, dog, cat, hamster, rabbit or pig.
Personally, I think a perfect reality show would feature one of these waiting rooms. The dog wants to chase the cat who wants to eat either the bird of the hamster. The pig squats and leaves a wheelbarrow full of manure at your feet. And the poor snake is no one’s friend. He and his owner are abandoned on one side of the room while everyone else huddles on the other, keeping one eye on this slithering interloper.
Unlike people waiting rooms—well, except for pediatrician offices—there is a lot of yelling going on in an animal waiting room. SIT! I SAID SIT! NOW STAY. I SAID STAY! GET OVER HERE AND SIT! DAMMIT.... (a lot of pets are named Dammit).,
Of course they aren’t going to sit and stay. Except for on TV your 150-pound Newfoundland has never seen a real live guinea pig, let alone smelled one. He might not ever get this chance again.
Of course there’s always some smarty-pants with a dog that does sit and stay. The owner quietly reads a book while the dignified pedigreed dog lays there quietly observing the fracas. This dog doesn’t need a leash. He makes the other pets look like untamed beasts from Wild Kingdom. They’re all a bunch of goofballs straining their leashes trying to smell the next fellow’s rear end.
Let’s say you’re in the waiting room with Bonzo, your macho 2-year-old Great Dane. In comes some woman with an ugly poodle with an overbite and a tacky pink ribbon dangling from one ear. The poodle’s in heat.
Male dogs aren’t subtle. They don’t say, “Hey there, haven’t we met before?” They can leap over buildings with a single bound. They have one thing on their mind. For Bonzo it’s the ugly poodle. Even without any beer, he thinks she is the most gorgeous female he has ever seen. He’s in love.
You might not think pets give much thought to other pets in the room, other than wanting to eat or play with them. But they do. If you bring in your dog and he has a bunch of porcupine quills stuck in his snout I guarantee most of the older dogs there are snorting and thinking, “Man, are you stupid.”
On the other hand, when Roxanne comes in with a broken leg from chasing the moose out of the yard they are all thinking, “Right on Roxanne! You go Girl!”
All the other pets will know if a dog comes in with worms because he’s embarrassed and looks at the floor. And fleas? You can’t hear them, but every beast in the waiting room is chanting, “Riley’s got fleas, Riley’s got fleas!”
Let’s say Sarah the cat has a hairball. A really big hairball. Her owner carries her in and Sarah hacks a few times. Instantly everyone knows what she’s there for and they snicker. Sarah’s a fur-eater. Gross. She tries to convince them she’s got sinus problems.
The parrot, at least, is honest. He bobs up and down in his cage yelling, “Beak rot! I’ve got beak rot! I’ve got beak rot!” To which everyone thinks, “Ah shut up, you stupid bird.”
And the snake with the Band-aid around his belly? Except for a couple of wide-eyed women who are ready to bolt, no one else is paying any attention to the snake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
