It seems like 10 minutes ago, or 10 weeks ago or maybe even 10 months ago, but the reality is… it was 10 years ago that Huey first started going off to summer camp. Today I dropped off a teenager at the airport to go to his job as a camp counselor for a YMCA camp. While I waited for him to check in, I transported back in time to when that little boy and I did a week together at a Cub Scout Camp.

Back then the Cub Scouts had a program that if a parent helped out for the week the cost of camp was cut in half. A win win for me. My job was basically a volunteer sheepherder. Huey learned how to shoot a bow and arrow, and a BB gun, he played games, sang silly camp songs about baby sharks and performed odd ball skits. But this is not about what life skills Huey learned at camp. It’s about what I learned at camp.

When we arrived at the Cub Scout Camp, Huey was wearing a t-shirt with some inappropriate slogan on it like Don’t eat yellow snow, shorts, sneakers. He could have been cleaner, his hair tussled, which is a polite way of saying dirty and hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, and he still had some breakfast on his face. Come on its summertime.

The first thing I noticed was…

Cub Scouts come in all varieties…

rich kids, poor kids, kids who climb on rocks
tough kids, sissy kids, even kids with chicken pox…

Chicken Pox? Really? Is that the best rhyme they could come up with?
Whereas most of the other cubs were dressed similar to Huey, one den stood out. All of these boys wore crisp-ironed scout shirts tucked into clean blue shorts. Not a hair was out of place. Whereas they all suffered through their share of wiggles, one look from their den leader and all the wiggles were squished like a boot to an exposed earthworm. What mystical power did this den leader have over them? I had to find out.

Heading down to the range I caught up with this older African American woman who wore sensible shoes.

I introduced myself.

“Nice to meet you, Leslie.  I’m Gwen.”

“Gwen, that’s my mother’s name.”

“That’s nice. Are you their den leader?”

“No, I’m just the den mom for the week.”

“We’re from the United Church. I’m their den leader.”

I knew that church. It was in the worst part of town. That area was in the newspaper with gang related shootings all the time.

“My sons were in cub scouts and they went on to be Eagle Scouts. Most of these boys don’t have fathers around, or they’re working 2 and 3 jobs. I work at the church and I think scouting is a good program. We do the scouting as after school care so they won’t go home to an empty house and get into trouble. Boys will be boys.”

“They are so well, good.”

“They have to be. These boys don’t take coming to camp lightly. We’ve had to work all year very had to raise enough money for each boy to come here. It was all or none. We’ve done so many car washes, mowing lawns, selling candy at the markets…”

I interrupted her, my mouth dropped open. “My God you mean those kids selling candy at the market so they could go to camp really were trying to raise money to go to camp? I assumed they were trying to make a fast buck by scamming me.”

That ended the conversation abruptly.

They broke us up into smaller groups. Luckily, we were together with Gwen’s group. So, there we were all thrown together in a sort of humanity stew, put to simmer all day in the sun. In our smaller group we had Lance, Quince, Evan, Jonathan, Logan, Huey, Anthony, his brother Star, Trey and David.

As diverse as this group of boys were, one thing united them in solidarity – Spaceballs, the 1980s Mel Brook classic spoof on the Star Wars saga. That said it appears Spaceballs had become a cult film with 9-year-old boys. At any given moment someone would scream out one of the punch lines, totally out of context, sending the group into unbridled laughter.

 

At camp, this was Pirate Week. All songs, games, skits were pirate themed. The camp leaders wore striped shirts and eye patches and finished every sentence with rrrr. On this first day a chest filled with pirate booty was paraded around. The treasure consisted of candy, plastic weaponry and a black pirate scarf printed with skulls and cross bones. Throughout the week each camper earned gold coins for winning events and good cub scout behavior redeemable on the last day. Immediately that scarf caught Huey’s attention. Every day he eyed that scarf and counted his coins.

On the afternoon of day two, out of the blue, not really because that’s how boys are, two of them starting arguing. Huey gave me that do something look.

“Don’t call me stupid.” Evan said.

“You are stupid.” Star replied.

“Ok you guys, that’s enough.” I said going into PC mom mode.

Gwen looked at me, “That’s really not going to do much good, now is it?”

“No, no not really.” I retreated.

She put the two boys together, knees touching. “Here is your opportunity to say something nice to one another.”

“He started it.”
“I don’t even know him.” Star answered.

“Well you knew him well enough to call him stupid now didn’t you Mr. Cooper?”

You know you are in trouble when you are called mister. She addressed our group.

Lesson #1 – “If you can’t use your words to make someone feel better, not worse, than you don’t need to speak at all for an hour or until you can only think of nice things to say.”

Before the hour of silence was up the two boys apologized, followed by simultaneously grabbing their crouches, shouting “Yes sir, Dark Helmet.” And the battle was done. Laughter prevailed.

The first event was a Regatta, a team building exercise. Each boat had two boys. The object was to paddle across to the finish to collect gold coins. Most of these boys had zero experience in rowing. Immediately the USS Huey started spinning in a circle.

But the boats with Lance and Quince at the helm, were cruising beautifully as if they were rowing for the gold on the Potomac. The Harvard Men’s Rowing Team couldn’t have done it better. Oars up! Oars down in perfect syncopation. Neck and neck to the finish line. It took quite a while before all boats managed to return to the dock. The last boat in had the two brothers. Tired, frustrated this hot pot of stew was ready to boil over.

 

Star lashed out at Anthony, “This is all your fault. It’s always your fault. Everything. Even Dad. Looser.”

Anthony held back the tears until he could hold it in no more and began quietly sobbing. It was like something out of an August Wilson play. I totally freaked out. I hate to say it but this kid was starting to get on my nerves.

“What a cry baby.” I muttered.

 

Gwen was unclipped. She took Star aside and spoke to him quietly before sending him back to join the others.

These cubs knew first hand, more than anyone, the complexity of the 9-year-old psyche. Immediately they surrounded Anthony and tried to console him. Not once did anyone mock another’s tears.

Huey started, “Asshole. “

“HUEY! What the hell? What did you just say? I can’t believe you said that!” I scolded him.

Huey was surprised, “Mom, it’s from the movie.”

Anthony smiled, “That’s right his name is Asshole, Herman Asshole.”

They all giggled. I could tell Gwen did not tolerate foul language but in this instance she pretended not to hear.

Then another boy, “Is there anyone else here named Asshole?’

All the sanctimonious scouts raised their hands. And then in one big healing burst of laughter as they all shouted, “Assholes. I’m surrounded by Assholes!”

Lesson #2 – Be more compassionate and helpful to total strangers without judgment.

Over the course of the week our small diverse group merged together as a team. And ended up being the winning den for the week.

Sadly by the end of the week Huey had not earned enough gold coins to get the beloved pirate scarf. He was very disappointed.

“I can go to the dollar store and buy you one.”

“It’s not the same, Mom.”

Right when he was deciding on maybe something else he noticed one of his new friends was crying because he too was short on coins. He walked over to Star and I saw them counting their coins together. Huey without a second thought handed Star all of his coins.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? YOU WON THEM FAIR AND SQUARE!” I busted out, “When there is so much other crap here you can get that you won’t want in a week?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Huey answered, “That’s okay Mom. Today is his birthday. He deserves it. He just told me he isn’t getting any gifts ‘cause his mom is saving for a new car.” Star thanked him with a hug, took the additional coins and got the prized scarf.

“You okay?”

“Yea.” He smiled. I think he was more than okay.

Lesson #3 – Learn from your kids.

While saying our good-byes a camp counselor came up to Huey and surprised him with a pirate scarf.

Lesson #4 – Good deeds are always rewarded.

With the week over I wanted to tell Gwen how impressed I was with her and with her Cub Scouts. I had never met a wiser person in my life. I envied the power she held with just one look. I thought about driving by that church many times but never quite made it.

Back to the present, Huey was finished checking in and waved good-by.

I rolled down the window, “Don’t forget to text me when you arrive.”

“OK Mom.”

“Don’t forget to charge your phone.”

“OK Mom.”

“Just don’t forget…”

My final camp lesson – “May the Schwartz be with you.”

What is it about this love affair we have with our cars? We care for our cars as if they were living beings, not machines with horse power. We remember our first car, our first kiss in our first car. Cars define who we are, or who we want to be. You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive.

Seven years ago my husband, Benjie, decided to dabble in the “green” driving world and bought a Prius.

As pedestrian as it might have seemed to him, it was better than walking. Alas it’s not easy being green when your heart longs for a gas guzzling sports car. As a compromise, he  did get special wheels; Wheels that cost as much as my car. “You will always tell my Prius from all the rest because of those wheels.” For him these sporty wheels made the difference between a Gremlin and a Ferrari. For me it was more like putting lipstick on a pig, although let’s face it, shoes do make the outfit.  We named our Prius Hermes after the Greek God, protector of land travelers, known for wearing winged sandals.

With every car there is a favorite car story. So in homage to that Prius with the fancy wheels here’s our story.

It all started when I read about an ice skating rink set up on the beach. Perfect. We crammed all five of us into Hermes, the Prius, and drove down to the shore. The setting was beautiful. The ocean breeze was in my face, my arms were spread like I was a bird in flight… and then, I wasn’t.

A newby-kid skater cut right in front of me and I went splat like bird poop on a windshield.

The little boy grimaced, “Sorrrrrry.”

My wrist took the blunt of my fall. I hid the pain and kept on skating. Why? Because I’m a Mom, not a mere mortal. I have super powers like x-ray vision. I can see thru all sorts of crap. C’mon, I can grow humans in my belly!

The day ended and we skated off into the sunset. By now my wrist was in the kind of pain that makes you want to barf. It was so swollen I had to remove the paper wristband from the rink with my teeth because it was cutting off my circulation.

“I need ice.” I whispered to Benjie.

“OH MY GOD!” he exclaimed looking at my plump arm. The gig was up. We went to 7-11 and bought a 10 pound bag of ice and a bunch of plastic bags. I swished down two Aleve with a cold beer and wrapped my arm in ice.  Just get me home. Just get me home!

Hermes was going at a good clip, around 80 mph when suddenly there was a loud clap noise. Did our lucky horseshoe just fly off?

“I think we’ve got a flat tire.” Benjie announced.

With the finesse of Capt. Sully Sullenberger landing his plane on the Hudson, Benjie navigated Hermes across 6 lanes of treacherous traffic on the Golden State Freeway, cars flying on either side to avoid this limping pony until we finally made it to rest on the narrow strip of shoulder.

We were sitting ducks, prime pickings for any hair brain teenager or drunk driver.

Benjie tried to open his door, but the current of traffic was too strong. “EVERYBODY CALM DOWN, I’M CALLING THE AUTO CLUB!!!”

“Let’s play a game.” I said changing the subject.

“How about Charades?” Daisy suggested.

“Charades? How are we going to play charades in the car?” Dewey protested.

A truck rumbled by and shook Hermes like a bucking bronco. “AAAhhh!”

“Mommy!!!”

I rolled my eyes, “Benjie get a hold of yourself! Charades it is. Who am I?” I flapped my one good arm and made a kissing motion.

“That clown fish.” Benjie burst out.

“Nemo!.” Huey answered.

“Right! What’s all that flashing? Daisy who are texting?”

“I’m in a group text, saying good-bye to all my friends. And they’re texting me back that they love me and will miss me.”

Dewy looked confused, “Wait a minute. Why aren’t any of my friends texting me back?”

Daisy said, “Sucks to be you. Guess who I am.” She started her clue by making a stabbing motion then gnawing on her arm.

“The guy from Psycho.” Huey said.

“No.”

“That cannibal guy?” Dewey blurted.

“Clarice…” Benjie said in a Hannibal Lecter voice that gave me chills.

“Stop clowning around!” I barked.

“John Wayne Gacy?” Huey said.
“No that was the pedophile who dressed up as a clown then killed little kids.” I told him.

“Killed kids?!” Dewey said.

The windows were starting to fog up.

“No! Jeffrey Dahmer. Didn’t he stab people then eat them?” Daisy had given up on us.

“Eat people?” Poor Dewey’s curls were beginning to straighten.

“Wasn’t he a cop?” Huey asked.

“No, oh wait maybe he was I don’t remember.” I answered.

Suddenly there was a tapping on the outside of my window. I glanced over and was face to face with a man in a uniform looking in.” “AAAHHH!”

Dewey screamed, “HE’S GONNA EAT US!”

I felt bad afterwards scaring this lovely highway patrolman, so much so that he jumped back and almost toppled over the guard railing. Once he collected himself, “Excuse me. Are you folks okay?”

“Yes, just a flat.”

“I see that, nice wheels.”

Benjie beamed, “See I told you.”

“I’ll stay parked behind you until the auto club shows up.”

We all sat very quietly. All we could hear was the mad crazy clicking of Daisy’s nails on her phone. Then, in a whispered tone, “Yes, I know! I thought for sure it was Jeffrey Dahmer coming to kill us and eat us.”

“Is that our tow truck over there?” Dewey was pointing across the freeway to a tow truck stopped on the freeway heading south. We were heading north. The cell phone rang.

“Yes the guy with the Prius. No you idiot, we’re over here. See I’m flashing my lights.”

Within a few minutes the Cavalry arrived behind us, rumbling loudly.

I realized what a privilege movement is, especially when it’s been taken away. Hermes couldn’t move, I couldn’t move my arm and Benjie couldn’t move to get out. I was just waiting for someone to call out they had to pee.

“Dad, Dad I’ve got this.” Huey my heroic teenage son climbed over his two siblings and got out of the car. He opened the back hatch and began handing me the stuff.

“Ouch!” Just that little movement sent daggers through my arm. “Sorry honey you are gonna have to put them over there.”

I was useless. Huey proceeded to throw our luggage, souvenir bags, stuffed animals everything including my brand new Gucci knock off bag onto the interstate.

“You have the tool?” The driver shouted through the car.

“What?”

“There’s a special tool you need to unlock your special wheels. It’s usually in your glove box.”

“There’s a tool?” I said, but you know what I was thinking… you better have that freaking tool for your freaking wheels if you ever want to use your tool again!

We tore the car apart… He did not have any tool.

“I guarantee you don’t need a tool,” Benjie barked at the man who changes tires for a living.

“Nope you need a tool for these wheels. Can’t change a tire without it. I gotta call another truck and have you towed.”

TOWED!? You’ve got to be kidding me. They shoot horses don’t they?

Dewey had to climb back over his siblings who were not about to give up their spots and sit closer to the freeway side of death.

The second tow truck arrived. “Nice wheels. Too bad you don’t have the tool.”

The officer set Benjie free and we all climbed inside the cab of this new, beautiful flatbed tow truck. We watched him hoist this Prius with the exceptional winged wheels onto the flatbed. It was a $250 Auto-Uber ride.

“This is nicer than our car.”Daisy said.

“No kidding. He must not have kids.”

Sadly, unlike Greek Gods, a Prius does not last forever. Two months later the ticking time bomb battery had run out of time, and we traded Hermes in for a Honda, with sensible wheels.

We named him StrideRite. And now with StrideRite the “auto-mance” is still alive.

Waiting for the plane to take off from Chicago, I couldn’t help but notice the man seated next to me was extremely anxious. He seemed agitated, nervous, fidgeting, sighing, groaning. At one point he dropped his head into the palms of his hands, already wrung dry as if some horrific tragedy was about to befall him.

Now, I know some people are scared to death to fly, the whole idea of possibly falling through the sky for thousands of feet in a fiery ball can be quite unnerving. But this felt different.

I love to fly. Although, when it comes to the TSA, no matter what, I’m always the one pulled aside, buzzers going off, getting patted down, caught carrying too many ounces of liquid. And really, is taking our shoes off necessary? I hate that part the most because no matter what style of shoes you remove, you can never get them back on your feet. Clumsily, I stumble and fall, all because Richard Colvin Reid tried to put a bomb in his shoe back in 2001

I felt terrible for this man seated next to me since he was in obvious distress. Normally I would have reached out to help him, maybe even put my arm around him and said something like, “is this your first time flying? Don’t let the loud rumbling sound scare you. My daughter gets sick and throws up every time she’s on a plane. Is that what’s bothering you?”

I was just about to reach out when a hateful voice popped inside my head. No, no, no! I am not that kind of person. I believe ethnic profiling is despicable. And yet… those thoughts were there and I couldn’t stop them. What was I thinking? You see this man was of middle-eastern descent.

Its always people like me who don’t want to offend anyone who afterwards go up to the police. “I thought it was funny that he was dressed like Poncho Villa going into battle with belts of bullets strapped to his body screaming, ‘stay back!’”

What if he is nervous because he has a bomb? I would never think this if a surfer dude was sweating next to me. I gave him the evil eye. Wait, did he just glare at me? Something was up. “See something, Say something!”

I went into action. I was in 6^th grade all over again… I was Harriet the Spy. From inside my backpack I pulled out my red spy journal that I keep to record everything I see. I began to take notes. Did he carry on any baggage? Does he smell like chemicals? What is that aftershave?

Now what? He was whispering in Arabic or Farsi or something on his cell phone. I tucked my head against the window and whispered into my Apple watch, “Siri, what is he saying?” Then extended my arm out.

“I’m sorry Agent 99. I don’t believe he is speaking Arabic. Do you mean aerobic?”

“It’s Arabic!”    

“Here is what I found on the web, Agent 99.”

I looked at him. He looked at me suspiciously. We both put our devices on airplane mode while the airplane went into flying mode. The man relaxed, leaned back and closed his eyes, but I was still going to keep an eye on him. I nestled into my seat and pulled out my credit card and began to scour for food and entertainment.

The newest James Bond movie, Spectre, was available. A movie, cheese and crackers and a wine, oh make it 2, well 3 wines and I’m ready to relax for the next few hours.

But when I went to place my order my credit card would not slide through. It kept getting snagged in the sliding process. In other words it wasn’t a clean swipe. I kept trying rapidly back and forth, back and forth.

Sorry cannot read your card. Please swipe again.

Oh c’mon you silly swiper!

I flagged down a flight attendant. “I’m so sorry but there is something wrong with this little machine. My credit card keeps getting stuck.”

“Do you have the magnetic strip facing out as it clearly states in the diagram?”

I flipped the card around so that the magnetic strip was facing properly.

“Oh. Thanks you. Problem solved.”

It wasn’t that clear. It’s always in the details.

Zing! The sliding was so smooth that the damn card flew right out of my grasp, landing somewhere between his seat and mine. I could hear it bounce around before landing in the abyss. Shit!

Well I wasn’t about to wake him up. I don’t think it’s a good idea to jostle a suspected bomber on a plane. I jotted it down in my spy journal. So there I sat watching James Bond on my tiny screen, drinking my wine from a tiny bottle placing it on my tiny table. I was starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland.

Watching the movie, I was constantly reminded that my credit card, worse my company credit card, was gone. It was a company card so I couldn’t very well just ignore the fact that it was missing. I tried to be inconspicuous while I looked over at the man still with his eyes closed.

Suddenly he jerked up and climbed over the woman in the end seat and walked up the aisle. Brilliant. I instantly went into action. Tray table up to the upright position; unbuckled my seat belt and bent over to scrounge around. Maybe I got lucky and it fell inside my purse. No. I bent farther down and began rubbing my hand over the disgusting carpet.

I have close friends who are flight attendants so I know what goes on on a plane. I know that people bring their dogs on planes now. I can only imagine what happens when Brigitte BarDog has an accident, and where they have it.

You can bring any species of animal on the plane now. George Clooney had a pet pig. Do you think they would say no to George Clooney if he wanted to bring his pet pig on board? I could be rubbing my hand in George Clooney’s pet pig’s feces right now for all I know.

Or snakes. Let’s not even get started about snakes on a plane. Time was running out. How long was this terrorist going to be gone? I was all the way down on my knees, butt up, where could it have gone?

That’s when it dawned on me. The only things missing from this scenario was the terrorist and his shoes. Oh my God! Not the shoes! I unfolded my body and pulled myself back up into my seat just as he was returning. This could put him over the edge. Don’t the Hindus have strong beliefs about their feet and what touches them?

Can you imagine if he got home and tried to explain this to his wife?

“No honey I have no idea how a woman’s credit card ended up inside my shoe?”

Good luck with that!

“Excuse me?” I said.

He looked at me with his eyebrows pressed together.

“Yes um, there’s something in your shoe.”

“My shoe?”

“Yes, not like a bomb in your shoe or anything like that. I would never think of you having a bomb even though clearly you are from that part of the world that put bombs in their shoes all the time. But I’m sure you’re not one of those kind of terrorist.”

He didn’t say a word just let me continue rambling on. Although he did stare at me with concern. Did this silly American woman put something in my shoe? Is she a terrorist? Is she going to frame me for a crime? Maybe she is a Bond Girl? (Hey it could happen.)

“It’s my card.”

“Your business card? Are you a prostitute?” he asked now much more worried.

“No nothing like that. My business credit card must have fallen into your shoe.”

“You put your credit card in my shoe and now you want it back?”

“Well not on purpose.”

He slipped his shoe off and needless to say his feet were a bit ripe. Do they eat a lot of garlic there? Sure enough there it was! Still questioning how my card got inside his shoe like a Harry Potter trick he reached down and handed it over. There was some kind of condensation on it.

“Thank you.” I smiled. I jotted it down. And we finished the flight in silence.

Of course later when we were waiting at the baggage claim, he was greeted by his lovely wife and a couple of kids. A boy and a girl.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Are you okay dear, I know how you hate to fly.”

“Fine.” I overheard him say.

I waved, “Hellooooo.”

He gathered up his family with haste and moved to the other corner and began speaking in his native language.

His wife kept pointing suspiciously at me and pushing on him, “See something, Say something…”

Hmmmm. It would appear the shoe was on the other foot.

Until next time, Live with Waffletude.

As I mentioned, I have two jobs. When I’m not slinging salsa, I’m a Brand Ambassador for a company that makes cookware. For the first time, I was asked to join the team at the Housewares Show this year. I howled at the moon with excitement. My job was going to be cooking and talking all day long, skills at which I’m quite proficient.

The HS is an extravaganza where you can find every widget, gadget, or gizmo that a cook would ever need, from boiling water to trimming the tops off of quail eggs. All the Who’s Who of my company were in attendance; My boss, Mary; many layers of bosses, even the brand new CEO of all North America (for our purposes Mr. Grant). Mr. Grant came with the added anxiety-inducing bonus of being an unknown commodity. Speculation about him was running rampant.

In this kind of situation, for my job security, I decided to implement a two-part strategy that I had first developed in third grade and have since perfected:

#1 – Don’t bring attention to yourself; fly low, just enough under the radar so not to be seen by higher-ups.

#2 – Partner up with someone with experience and a big personality to hide behind, which supports #1.

Frank was the perfect #2. He is a middle-aged salesman for the company, master of his craft, something right out of a Tennessee Williams play. He makes Ron Popeil look like an amateur carney barker. I needed to find him and get him on board, STAT! With barely one foot in our booth, I was handed a newly developed pan with a heat sensor that selects the perfect cooking temperature. I had never seen nor touched one of these babies before, so if I was going to demonstrate the benefits of this pan I better take it for a test drive. I cranked up the electric stovetop and stirred up the pre-made demo pancake batter. What could possibly go wrong? I make waffles every morning.

Out from behind the fake wall behind me, my boss, Mary appeared. “Look alive. Mr. Grant with the all the bosses is heading over.”

No, no, no. I’m not ready. I’m missing my #2. “But I don’t know this pan.”

“Learn fast.”

I don’t learn fast.

Mr. Grant stood before me, arms folded. “Well you are our first demo of the show. Show us what you know.”

There it was. That moment of dread when the teacher calls on you and you aren’t prepared. I froze. My eyes looked just like the two dollops of batter I had plopped into the pan.

“Well. What do you know?”

I know I wish I could pull a flying pig out of my butt right about now. Instead…

“Well I know this is a new technology.”

Nothing was working. Not the pan, not the stovetop. Nothing!

“I know I am the perfect customer for this new technology since I cook all the time. And I am a very, very, busy, busy mom.” Killing time, I waited for the pan, the technology and my brain to fire up. I flipped the pancakes that were about as appetizing as plaster.

“May I try?” Mr. Grant walked around and began cooking. What do I say? Do I say my true opinion or more of what he wants to hear? I hope they were wrong and he wasn’t at all like Louis XIV executing people at random. He cooked, I agreed, he flipped, he left.

At the same time, Marie Antoinette was screaming from the coffee area, “Get out! You idiot! The machine is ruined! “

Moments later Mary walked over with Frank, my #2, in tow. “Frank, you’re with Leslie.”

Perfect.

“All the bosses were just here. I’m so nervous.” I confessed.

Frank was so reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’ve done a million of these trade shows. I’ve got your back, just as long as I don’t have to make coffee. “

“You said…”

”I’ve never really used that $3,000 machine before so when she asked me to set it up I may have inadvertently put the water where the beans go and shorted it out.”

That could happen to anyone.

Frank was a pro. The coffee incident didn’t seem to sway him at all, his confidence as sturdy as a rock. I watched him in awe the rest of the day, talking to reps about the wonders of a pan he knew nothing about. He spun 5 key words into a whole story of unparalleled success.

At 7:00 the next morning I decided to sneak down to the hotel lobby and grab a quick cup of coffee. The elevator doors open and who should be in the elevator alone? Mr. Grant! Yikes!

“Good morning.” I said. “Are you enjoying the show?”

“Yes.”

It was a long 18 floors down, while I chatted nervously about the pan, the show, the weather, anything.

Frank was waiting for me early at the booth. “What’s on our agenda today?”

“Rice pudding in the pressure cooker.”

“Easy Peasy.”

While I prepared the cooker the pressure was on us to preform for the QVC buyers. I listened to Frank expound about the virtues of pressure cooking. “Many people are afraid of these machines, me included. But not now…”

I was in capable hands. I bent down below to pull out the serving cups.

BOOM!

“IT’S A BOMB! TAKE COVER!” I shouted, and hit the ground. There was a haunting silence as a sugary, milky goo covered my back, the cooktop and QVC.

Who takes the lid off a pressure cooker before its ready?

Frank whispered, “I’ve actually never used one of these before.”

The next morning at 7:15 I waited for the elevator going down to the lobby. When the doors opened, standing inside was Mr. Grant. You’ve got to be kidding me. What do I do? What do I say? What if I fart? I’ve been eating a lot of rich food and my stomach hadn’t been right. We rode in silence. Needless to say, new speculations were running rampant now based around me and Mr. Grant walking out of the elevator every morning together to a packed hotel lobby.

Today, I don’t need to tell you that I wasn’t surprised when Frank, while demonstrating the pans, burned several cups of sugar to a crisp with enough flames and smoke to set off the fire sprinklers in our area.

“Whoa, guess I have the heat up too hot. Don’t worry darlin’.”

Oh shut up.

Strike 3. My #2 failed.

Here it was the last night of the show on which, the company every year hosts a party that is legendary. This had the potential to be awesome, a packed nightclub; a live band; open bar. But remember this was a business affair. I still needed to honor the #1 Strategy.

Then shots came around on a silver platter. One wasn’t going to hurt. We toasted our success, and many successes to come. Many… Mary looked at me, “Let’s dance.”

Part of the Strategy is to follow the boss’s orders. Besides, I love to dance. So off to the dance floor we went.

It’s hard to say, was it the shots of Patron? Was it the 14 year-old girl trapped in me calling the shots? All I know is when the band’s lead singer reached his hand down and invited me up to the stage, I couldn’t say no. Did Courtney Cox say no to Bruce Springsteen? I was Dancing In The Dark in front of the crowded room for all to see until 2 in the morning. And in the end, all I could do was reach my arms out over the crowd and shout “THANK YOU CHICAGO!”

 

The final morning at 7:30 was rough. I was packed and ready to fly home. The elevator door opened and, well, you know…

I stepped inside. “Leslie,” Mr. Grant knew my name? “Have you noticed that no matter what time in the morning it is we always seem to ride in the elevator together?”

“Why yes I have. Its good luck.”

Or part of a new strategy I’m developing.

The door opened, he paused for a second and left. Wait did he just say,

“Kid you’ve got spunk?”

Cheers! And remember every time shot glasses clink a drunk angel gets a new liver!

Till next time, Live with waffletude.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is it just me or have we become a society of sharks? Not the predator type like Shark Tank, but in the sense that we must constantly keep moving or we will die. Why do you think there is an espresso shop every five feet? On the streets, in the markets? They are everywhere! To keep us continually fueled on high-octane caffeine. Starbucks has drive-thru locations like Indy pit-stops.

These are the kinds of things I think about when I’m wide awake at three o’clock in the morning.  Move! Move! Move! Wake up; Ninja Bullet green slime smoothies for all; Kids out the door; Move! Move! Move! Go to work; Pick up kids; Kids to soccer; Kids to baseball; Kids to music lessons; Laundry; Clean the house; Make dinner; Move! Move! Move!

My mother suffered from “Bettyism”. Her work ethic made Betty Friedan, the Grand Dame of the feminist movement, seem more like Betty Crocker with Betty White’s sense of humor. Alas, I can’t help but think being “liberated” is a burden, so much responsibility to constantly achieve, it’s overwhelming. No one wants to be the “slacker.”

That’s not to say I’m not glad for my over achieving sisters of the sisterhood who have been banging their heads against that glass ceiling trying anything to break through, from throwing rocks, to jimmying it open with the stiletto heel on their Jimmy Choo shoe. Now they are free to be CEOs, doctors, and even sit on the boards of big corporations. For the rest of us, I’m just not completely sold on this concept of “having it all.”  It feels more like “doing it all.”

With my kids now old enough and our bank account low enough, I had run out of good excuses. It was time for this minnow to jump back into that shark tank and get a job. But having been on dry land for years, I realized I didn’t have any viable skill sets. Or so I thought. Apparently those years spent trying to convince my kids to taste something new was grooming me for the perfect position. So when my friend asked me to help her launch her new line of salsa I couldn’t say no.

I am a demo girl. (I’m not really a girl, it just sounds cuter.) That said, I’m not one of those ladies that you see in Costco wearing hairnets standing by a worn out toaster-oven either.

“People watching” is a great activity to pass the time while passing out salsa samples. I find the moment I sling on that green apron I become invisible in a Harry Potter kind of way.

Shoppers come in different species:

The Allergist – This is someone who randomly puts food in their mouth. Eat first, ask questions later. I’ll watch while they put the cute little morsel in their mouth, swirl it around like a fine wine and swallow. “That’s very good, but I hope it doesn’t contain cilantro.  I am horribly allergic to cilantro.” (Cilantro is a common herb used in most salsa). Dude, seriously? If I were allergic to anything that could cause me to die I would never put any unknown substance in my mouth. I have some bad news…you are about to blow-up like an inept terrorist.

The Spitter – Taste test failed.  “I don’t like it.” Then, without a moment’s hesitation, proceeds to take the cute sample out of their own mouth and try to place in my hand. “Here, I don’t want it.” “Sorry no returns.” I didn’t even take chewed food from my own kids’ mouths.

The Medusa Effect – Circle around the table looking curiously from the corner of their eye. Then suddenly their head drops, “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t look! Don’t look! Walk away.”

Today I was working in a market in Beverly Hills, where the clientele was the cream of the pretentious crop. The kids were dressed better than me. Women and men were grocery shopping in Prada pumps, carrying little green plastic baskets, dabbling at marketing.

Wearing my invisibility apron, I observed two women walk up to the butcher counter in front of me. They were right out of central casting for the Housewives of New Jersey. I’m guessing in their forties, but it was hard to tell since their faces were infused with Botox and their lips were so filled with collagen it looked like two gigantic red caterpillars sprawled out on their faces. Spindly legs slipped into tight fitting, bold printed leggings with big-heeled ankle booties to anchor them. Oversized t-shirts flopped about like bat wings. Each girl sporting enough booty to make Captain Jack Sparrow launch the Black Pearl.

Characteristically, they talked loudly, chewed gum and spoke with such a distinctive accent that Henry Higgins would have cringed with delight.

“My sista and me are making a fish stew and need loabstas,” Blondey said, marching around the counter to the large tank of lobsters as if she were Ariel the Little Mermaid. “Here, take that one out, check the claaaws. Na I don’t like that one, put it back. Look, this one is already dead,” she said poking it.

“Whadaya care? We’re gonna kill ‘em anyway”, the sister with dark hair said.

“That’s not funny.” Blondey turned back to the butcher who smiled politely. “Don’t listen to her, I’m the chef, she is not. I know my lobstas.” She clunked back around to the front of the counter while the butcher began boxing up hundreds of dollars in crustaceans.

The dark haired sister spoke up, “Shrimp. Get these.”

“Oh my Gawd! You are so stupid. Those are already cooked!” She turned to the butcher, “I told you, don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know anything. I am da chef of da family.” Now, turning, exasperated back to her sister, “You don’t put cooked shrimp into a soup with other things not yet cooked. Am I right? Give us da raw shrimps please.”

“How about squid? Do you mind if we put squid in?”, the now miffed dark haired sister asked.

“Shuwer. I’ll take some squid too. But I don’t want it with da TESTICLES.”

The sister looked at her, tilting her head like a collie. “Don’t you mean tentacles?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I am da chef here. I know fish, okay. You’re just embarrassing yourself. Please stop tawking. Will you please let me do the ordering? I’ll take 5 pounds of squids, but weigh them after you’ve cut off the testicles. I don’t like squid with testicles. Too sticky. Too slimy. Too hairy.”

It was only then that Blondey looked over at me and commented, “Spicy things upsets my insides plumbing, if you get what I’m saying.” She turned back to her sister, “That poor woman, having to work like that. There but for the grace of God go us.” She said shaking her head.

Me?! I’m a girl, not a poor woman! People can be so castrating!

Lucky for me, Ya’ can’t hit a moving target.

Da da, Da da… I think I need a bigger boat.

Till next time. Live with Waffletude.