“Doing the right thing” or “How to get burned”

I'm telling you, I was here first!

I didn’t kill anyone. This is what I’m choosing to focus on at the moment. I’ve come to realize that life is all about perspective. So I’m committed to having a positive one on my most recent mishap.

I had my bi-annual melanoma check-up this week. (Btw, in case you’re a grammarian, I am consciously choosing to keep the “m” word in lower case in order to illustrate it’s powerlessness and insignificance.) Good news though. I’m eight years free of the despicable disease that claimed my father’s life 11 years ago. Feeling relieved and almost invincible, I carefully pulled my tank out of its tight parking spot while being ever so careful not to hit the tree on the rear passenger side. I almost succeeded until I inadvertently clipped a poor unsuspecting Acura on the front driver’s side and dislodged its bumper completely.

I have to admit, I wanted to drive away and pretend the whole thing never happened. But alas, that’s never an option for an uber-responsible neurotic like myself. After scribbling out four versions of an apology note, I finally settled on one and placed it on the crippled car’s windshield.

A few hours later I received a call from the owner, we’ll call him John. He sounded worried and distraught. “This isn’t a tragedy,” I told him. “It’s just an inconvenience. I’m really sorry. But we’ll make it right.”

In the time between leaving the note and talking to John, I’d received a barrage of feedback from friends and family:

“Why did you admit guilt in writing? You should never do that.”
“Did you take photos? I hope you took photos.”
“You really should have called the police. What were you thinking?”
“You’re in big trouble. This guy’s gonna take you to the cleaners.”
“Did you forget all about the Brett MIchael’s affair?”

I should probably explain that last one. About a year and a half ago I was in a minor fender bender with the Rocker’s now wife. There was no damage but in attempting to do the right thing, I insisted she take my name and information. A few hours later, all kinds of vehicle issues emerged that required several thousand dollars worth of repairs. It was a nightmare. And one that I brought upon myself by trying to do the “right” thing. I suddenly shuddered thinking I’d done it all over again.

But after speaking with,John, I realized that he had likely received similar admonitions about trusting an anonymous stranger who was promising to make things right. We were both navigating in unsafe waters. Welcome to America, where doing the right thing is terrifying because it turns you into a potential target for every scammer, swindler and con artist out to ease their own economic woes by taking advantage of yours. It’s really pathetic.

I remembered how my dad used to make business deals with handshakes. Most of the time they went well. The few times they didn’t weren’t enough to sour my dad on the human race. He kept believing in people and trusting what they said.

I guess that’s kind of where I net out on all this. Sure, I could get screwed. The guy could claim everything from a busted carburetor to a bruised hip bone (which would really be incredible since he wasn’t even in the car.) Weirder things than this have actually plagued us these last few years.

But John seems like an honest guy. So I’m gonna trust him and try to repair the damage I inadvertently did. You can’t walk around protecting yourself from everything. Sure, you might get burned once in a while. But I’d rather spend my energy believing in the goodness of the human spirit, even if you have to shake off a few charred ashes now and again.

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Sexy mama!

I found my mojo at the DD drive thru

I am one hot mama! Well, at least that’s what I thought this afternoon as I cruised through the Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru in my sleek, sexy, soccer-mom SUV.

The boy at the window didn’t take his eyes off me. It was flattering to the point of embarrassment. “Wow,” I mused to myself. “I’ve still got it.” Even with my faintly etched crow’s feet, sun-worn skin and all too noticeable forehead crinkles, this handsome young man was totally into me.

He stalled a bit before handing over my fat-free latte and vege flatbread sandwich. I was amused by his all too obvious attempt to delay my departure and giggled girlishly to his delight. Then he leaned out the window in a fetching pose, vaguely resembling a J.Crew catalogue model. I was breathless.

He languishingly passed me my receipt and held his hand over mine for several seductive moments as he gently released a few tarnished coins into my slightly dampened palm. “Oh, and by the way,” he nearly crooned, “There’s a website listed on the bottom of your receipt. If you wouldn’t mind, you can check it out and take a survey about your service today. We’re having a little employee contest.” His smile widened as he stared wantonly into my eyes.

I was stunned silent as the realization obliterated my cheshire-like grin. Wait a minute. You mean…this was…how dare he! My heart sunk to the bottom of my feet. His attraction, his attention, it was all…a ruse, a scam, a con to get me to fill out a survey on his behalf. What kind of competitive, sociopathic child would play on a middle-aged mother’s insecurities this way. I suddenly felt like Mrs. Robinson as she stood naked before her graduate or Amanda Wingfield in the presence of that charming gentleman caller. Dammit. I was old and foolish, and now I had to deal with the painful reality of both of those realizations.

I thought about doing him his requested favor and filling out that on-line survey. Oh boy, would I ever let him have it. I could expose his underhanded trickery, the way he cunningly preyed upon the weaknesses of women’s aging psyches. But then I flashed back to all of the speeding tickets I’d flirted my way out of as a young woman, and the dozens of extra bagels I’d been gifted by smitten elderly deli-men who’d been weakened by my come-hither head tilt and coquettish smile. What goes around comes around, I guess.

Still, it’s hard to come to terms with the whole aging identity thing. Deep down, no matter how old we get, we still want to feel young, vibrant and attractive. It’s easy to forget that when we’re running to and from school, work, and three grocery stores a day.

I’m not talking about being vain or superficial. But a lot of us women tend to disown or discredit that part of ourselves that longs for physical admiration.

The point here is this: It’s okay to enjoy feeling sexy. It’s even okay to remind your husband, lover or partner that you need a dose of positive reinforcement every now and then. It’s even okay to flirt with a kid who’s half your age at the drive thru, provided you realize that his provocative stare and alluring smile are probably more linked to his desire for a good tip or a rave survey review.

Lots to ponder as I blow out way too many candles on this, my 40th something birthdate.

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If crime doesn’t pay, then honesty should be rewarded!

I am too honest. I really am. I’m the kind of person who corrects the cashier at Safeway when she charges me for cheap, ordinary Gala apples when in fact I’ve purchased exceedingly expensive Jazz apples.

I’ve always been this way. I can’t keep things I find on the sidewalk. I never cheated on a test in my life. And I actually feel compelled to return that extra nickel when the young man at Dunkin Donuts makes the wrong change from my $20. (Well, in my register-ringing teens, our pay got docked for every penny we fell short.)

C'mon TJ's. Give me a break.

But today I feel genuinely ripped off. And it’s all because of my insane honesty. I went to Trader Joe’s. (Yes, I’m obsessed about shopping there. I go there at least 5 times a week. But that’s another issue we can contemplate in the future.) Much to my delight, I remembered to bring in my reusable grocery bags. I normally end up running back to the car to retrieve them just as I’m entering the check-out lane.

As you probably know, Trader Joe’s offers a kind of incentive program for bringing in your own bags. Every time you use your own, you get to fill out a ticket for a chance to win a $25 gift certificate. I’ve been entering this weekly lottery for over a year. But much to my chagrin, I have never won. This seems odd to me. For someone who enters as often as I do, I was fairly certain that I would have been victorious by now. And for some reason, I really want to win this. It has taken me a great deal of energy and effort to consistently remember to bring in those dumb canvas bags, and now I want to be rewarded for it.

When they first started the program, they always gave me a ticket as I checked out. But, over time, they have become a bit chintzy with the tickets. I sometimes go weeks without being given one. I know that I could ask for one. But I’m kind of embarrassed about it. I don’t want to seem too needy or competitive. So I generally smile a little less brightly and just head out to the car disappointedly with my cadre of environmentally protective reusable bags.

But today, the gentleman ringing me up actually remembered to give me a ticket to fill out for the auction. My face lit up. I smiled and murmured some hopeful remark about it perhaps finally being my time for the big win. He affirmed my wishful philosophy by reminding me that somebody has to win. Why couldn’t it be me?

I bagged my groceries as he continued to ring up the items in my cart. That’s when I saw it. There was a second blank ticket just barely visible underneath a stack of brown paper bags. “OMG,” I thought. “I could fill that out too and then I’d for sure end up winning.” I unobtrusively palmed the extra ticket and secretly slid it over to me. When the cashier was distracted, I picked it up. (I had already dropped the first one in the little tin at the front door.)

We talked cheerfully and he helped me bag the remainder of my groceries. “Just fill it out and drop it in the tin,” I said to myself. But I couldn’t do it. What if I did actually win and it was under this kind of false pretense? How could I live with myself?

After I was bagged and payed for, I held up the bonus ticket and announced, “Hey, here’s an extra one. I just found it lying up here.” “Thanks,” he said as he collected the still blank ticket. And that was it. He didn’t thank me for my honesty. He didn’t say, “Listen, just go ahead and fill this one in too. It’ll give you better odds for winning this week.” Nothing like that. He just thanked me and stuck the ticket in the register.

I am now certain that that ticket was the winning ticket. I deserved that ticket. I bet I enter this drawing more often than anyone else in the valley. How come I never win? That’s just weird. I’m starting to think it’s all a ruse. Maybe they don’t actually pick a winner every week. Maybe they do it like once every four months or something. Whatever they’re doing, they are pissing me off and I’m one of their best customers.

If Trader Joe’s is going to reward people for protecting the environment, you’d think they’d also want to positively reenforce the kind of honesty I displayed this morning. I mean, being green is one thing. But without good, old-fashioned honesty, this planet is seriously doomed.