Help me. Please.
I am a man of words. I get paid to effectively communicate. But sometimes I don’t know what to say or do.
Like the other day, when I answered my front door. I was busy. I was knee-deep in a million projects around the house, like flipping through the channels and taking a nap. I kept thinking I would get on the treadmill, but the dang thing didn’t just walk down the steps and stand in front of me, so it wasn’t my fault.
I opened the door to find a cute little 7-year-old who was selling Girl Scout cookies. She had pig tails and eyes the size of Donald Trump’s ego. She pushed a box of Thin Mints in my face like I was addicted to them or something, which of course I am.
"Just one, Mister, pwetty pwease?" she said.
This just isn’t fair. This is coercion. What person in the history of mankind has ever stared down a Girl Scout and told her no?
I need Girl Scout cookies about as much as Springboro needs more traffic. Plus, because I’m a dad, I had like $6 to my name and it had to last me the rest of the month.
“Um, gee, I don’t know,” I said. For those of you who are my clients, this is the brilliance you pay so much money for.
I stammered some more and pretended I couldn’t find my wallet. Meanwhile, this cute little girl looked like she was ready to cry.
Within seconds, I started to sweat. After a minute, the little girl could see I was about to crack. They train these girls in the same place murder detectives are trained, I think. And I was an easy collar.
A moment later she walked to the street with all six bucks.
Help me. Please. Sometimes I feel dumbfounded.
Like the time I was in court standing in front of a judge, begging for mercy on behalf of my client. It’s not easy proving that 15 of my client’s friends happened to get him the exact same iPod for his birthday. But I can be so smooth sometimes.
In the middle of all this, the judge looked right at me. He didn’t smile. His eyes didn’t light up. Then he said, “I read your book.”
Okay, thinking back on it, I think that was a compliment. Actually, I'm pretty sure of it. But at the time it sounded like an incomplete sentence, like there was something he wanted to add.
Like, “I read your book…and, boy, that’s nine or ten hours of my life that I’ll never get back. What a waste.”
Or, “I read your book…don’t be quitting this day job.”
But there were no other words. Just the simple statement, combined with the glaring look that judges are famous for, like it was my idea for my client to get drunk and go steal a bunch of iPods.
After what had to be a good hour, with both of us waiting for the other to say something, I finally mustered the confidence to say something like, “Um, gee, I don’t know.”
My client promptly asked for his retainer back.
See what I mean? Help me. Please. Sometimes I’m clueless.
Like the other night when I was at the drug store, where I go about every other day. I swear, I’m 49 going on 79. Doctors see me on their appointment book and immediately call their stockbroker. One of them’s going to name a boat after me.
Anyway, my purchase totaled $5.75. I gave the cashier my $6 and waited a few seconds for my change. But a few seconds soon turned into a few minutes because she was out of quarters. Evidently, two dimes and a nickel were out of the question.
“What’s the holdup?” I heard from behind. Some hotshot mom was flashing a $20 like it was a Thin Mint or something.
“Back off, lady. He’s a dad,” came the response. Woo-hoo, what a comeback! We dads have to stick together like that, you know.
Soon, it became apparent that getting my change was going to be impossible. And I began to wonder, How long are we supposed to wait for a quarter? I mean, what can you even get anymore for 25 cents? I really wanted to leave, but if I did all the other Dads would’ve thought I was showing off.
So I sat there for the longest time, wondering what I should do. Stay. Go. Wait. Leave. I didn’t know what to say or do.
So help me. Please. This seems to be happening all the time.
Someone write a book on this subject.
Just don’t charge more than $6 for it. Unless you hire the Girl Scouts to sell them.