I was watching television the other night and caught one of the heartwarming “CBS Cares” public service announcements. This particular clip featured renowned thespian Chris Beetem, who most recently appeared as Dr. Ethan Copeland on One Tree Hill, dispensing advice to men who are unable to locate the perfect gift for a recipient of the “fairer sex.”
As any embellishment on my part would only detract from the humor, I will instead publish this verbatim transcript of the 17 second TV spot:
“Want to do something special for your woman this Christmas? Schedule a pap smear. Pap smears save lives. Give her the gift that even Santa can’t deliver.”
As if this wasn’t cringe inducing enough, Mr. Beetem recorded an alternate version that replaced the last line with:
“Give her the gift that says, it’s what’s inside that counts”
While I have no qualms about taking medical advice from a man who possesses such impressive television credentials, I began to wonder how my wife would react on Christmas morning as she emptied her stocking to find a pre-paid voucher for an invasive gynecological exam in place of the usual bottle of perfume.
To be fair to CBS, they also have a series of PSAs that encourage women to schedule prostate exams for their male companions in order to demonstrate that they “love all of them.”
Not to exclude our Jewish friends, there is a companion ad for Hanukkah that encourages women to make sure that their man’s prostate is “kosher.”
I am not opposed to the idea of preventative screening, just the idea of preventive screening as a Christmas present. If anyone has / or plans to implement this type of gift structure in their own lives I would love to know how it worked out…..
Only two things separate us from the animals: suggestive selling, and the ability to produce reality television shows. While the later is ripe for conversation, today I wish to focus on the former.
Scenario A – My wife and I are at Books-A-Million purchasing some Christmas gifts, after several minutes in line, we approach a matronly female cashier who looked as though she had seen thirtieth birthday during the Eisenhower administration. We exchanged pleasantries, and as I handed her our items she asked if I was a member of their frequent shopper reward program. I replied that I was not, and did not feel that joining would be beneficial to me because of the membership fee. Undaunted by my initial refusal, she continued her sales pitch by pointing out that it would save me 10% right now and continue to provide valuable savings over the next twelve months. I reiterated that I was not interested in becoming a member and she digested this information with the same blank expression I would have expected if I had walked up the counter and requested she murder someone.
Apparently convinced that my reluctance to join was based on a lack of cognitive reasoning on my part, she feigned a look of surprise and informed me that she had almost forgotten that today only the discount was 20%. Locking eyes with me she said, “Can you honestly tell me that you are going to turn down 20% off?” At this point I had become so irritated that I wouldn’t have joined even if the membership was free and entitled me to stock options in the company. I again told her that I was not interested in joining the program and I did not need the 20% off. Incredulous, she began scanning my items and tersely replied, “Must be nice.” I spent the rest of the transaction trying to remember if her age would entitle her to prosecute me under a hate-crime enhancement if we threw down.
Scenario B – Several Christmases ago, I walked into a Victoria’s Secret in order to purchase a gift for my wife. Now there are generally three types of men in a Victoria’s Secret:
1.Those who are accompanying their female companion in order to provide a second opinion. These are by far the most cheerful, and it is seen as a badge of honor if spotted by our buddies.
2.Those who are purchasing a gift for our female companion and are alone.
3.Those who are there because there are a lot of panties, but pretend they are shopping for a female companion.
Now, the first situation is obvious to both the staff and other shoppers, but the later two situations are much more difficult to differentiate, and unfortunately the mannerisms of the individuals tend to be the same in both situations:
·Skittish, nervous behavior
·A look of awe-struck confusion coupled with dilated pupils
·Indecisiveness
Although I was there to purchase a gift for my wife, I was fairly certain that is the exact story I would go with if I was just there for the panties. It was for this reason I decided to conduct my shopping as one would execute a well orchestrated bank robbery: fast and with as few witnesses as possible. My list included some perfume, a pair of pajama pants, and yes - several pairs of panties. I quickly gathered the pajama pants to utilize as a makeshift “pervert buffer” under which I could place the panties (it was a 5 for $20 sale). I made my way over to the sale table and was gradually able to work my way into the undergarment melee that was occurring there. About the time I was forearm deep in knickers; a sales associate approached me and asked if “I was finding the sizes that I needed.” I immediately overreacted and blurted out “These are not for me,” instantly realizing that I was quoting the pervert survival guide verbatim. She eyed me warily and replied that she could check for other styles and sizes in the back if I was unable to locate the desired merchandise.
I quickly chose the remaining items to fulfill my five purchases and made my way to the counter before mall security had time to mobilize. Much to my chagrin several other customers were in line to finalize their purchase, so I found myself gripping a handful of multi-colored woman’s underwear in full view of the mall concourse for several minutes. I was fairly certain a co-worker would pass by any second.
When I finally arrived at the register, I sat down my items and began to retrieve my wallet to facilitate what I hoped to be an expeditious transaction. Unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the tenacity of my cashier when it came to signing up customers for the Victoria’s Secret “Angel Card.” After her initial pitch (and my initial refusal) she began explaining to me that after it was all said and done, I would be entitled to the equivalent of two free bio-fit bras over the next several months. The most frustrating part of the encounter was that she was not using our discussion time to actually tally up my purchase. I finally told her that despite appearances, my forays into their den of naughty cotton were few and far between and I was not likely to use the card any time soon. Accepting defeat, she silently scanned the items and placed them in a bag. I have not yet re-entered that location unchaperoned.
While high pressure suggestive selling in retail may seem intimidating, it doesn’t hold a candle to what occurs once you are seated at a restaurant. Gone are the days where you will be asked what you like to drink, instead your server will pose the question this way, “Can I get you a refreshing raspberry-banana English pea shooter?” This is a technique recommended by the National Restaurant Association (the other NRA) to facilitate the purchase of expensive beverages. This is customarily followed by your server recommending an appetizer, “Do we want to start off with the Hungarian cheese clams or a Turkish lard sphere?”
My favorite is when I go into a chain restaurant and the server looks at me gravely and asks, “Is this your first time dinning with us?” as if my inexperience with their establishment’s protocol could endanger the other patrons. Do the forks work differently here? Do you only accept Russian currency? Have you rejected the established framework for every other chain restaurant located in the United States of America?
The practice of suggestive selling is brought to its absolute apex when it is time for dessert. A customer could be doubled over in dry heaves and the server will cheerily ask “Did we save room for a Belgium Fudge Power Tower or a Banana Float Gut Barge?” I almost feel embarrassed to say that I am full.
Please do not misunderstand me, I have worked both retail and food service and understand that the employees would just as soon not ask if they were not being forced to. I just hope that one day we can build a utopian society where man needs not to fear declining the offer of a licorice bookmark or discount card. After all, isn’t that what our forefathers had in mind?
Lately we have been inundated by the plight of golfer Tiger Woods, whose late night Escalade adventures quickly snowballed into allegations of widespread infidelity that border on “mistress whack-a-mole.”
I use Tiger Woods not because he is a terrible person, but because he publicly exemplified one of the reasons that guys are very stupid.
You are a young man and God looks down on you and says, “What do you want me to give you to make you happy?”
You quickly answer, “I want a blonde Swedish bikini-model to be my wife”
God says “Done!”
Then you say, “I hate to push my luck, but could I also be sinfully wealthy in order to pamper said Sweedish model?”
God says “No Problem!”
You continue, “Would it also be possible for me to make all of this money by playing golf instead of working long hours or risking my own investment capital?”
God says, “You got it!”
You forge ahead, “Could my conjugal relations with my wife produce two beautiful children on whom I could lavish the finer things in life?”
God replies “Why not!”
A few years pass and God checks up on you to see how things are progressing. You two are sitting on the porch drinking a delicious Snapple and you look to God and say: “The money, wife, kids, and career are wonderful; but would it also be possible for me to have secret hotel sex with a cocktail waitress I met a few weeks ago? “
God proceeds to choke on his bottle of Mango Madness, and after regaining his composure answers “Why do you want that?”
Several years ago, my wife and I decided to take a trip to New York City. She carefully researched hotels, flights, and attractions to ensure that we got to see as much as possible while we were there and after saving for about a year it was time to take our trip. We caught a Broadway Show (Spamalot), got to attend a David Letterman taping, and went to the United Nations. It was a highly successful trip and one of the last stops on our list was to eat at a fancy New York restaurant.
We got the name of a place in Brooklyn that had been featured in several movies and promised to fulfill our desire to be shamelessly overcharged for an embarrassingly small portion of food. We decided to attend their world renowned Sunday brunch and I called a few days in advanced to reserve our coveted seat. The phone was quickly answered by a chipper young woman who informed me that a major credit card was necessary to ensure a table for us, and more importantly, if we failed to attend without adequate notice they would still charge me $100. I let this pass without comment (as if being charged $100 for not eating was customary) and gave her my Visa number so that we could lock in our chance to see how the “other half” lived.
The morning of our legendary brunch came and we caught a cab over the bridge into Brooklyn. After settling up with the driver, I discretely noted that I had about $40 cash left which should easily cover cab fare back to Manhattan. As the dining area was still being prepped, we killed 20 minutes or so exploring the grounds and taking pictures of each other in front of the elaborate fountain.
Finally the staff summoned us and we were led to a table whose linen covering far exceeded the thread count of any bed sheet I have been privileged enough to slumber upon. We were then provided menus, a spoon small enough to endanger a toddler’s windpipe, and an egg that was undoubtedly taken from the nest of a Blue jay. Ashley and I glanced at one another and I clandestinely peered about the room to get some sense of what was expected of us in regards to the egg.
The couple next to us consisted of a fit, silver-haired gentleman in his fifties, and a slender young blonde that seemed fashionably uninterested in whatever it was he was talking about. I took note at how offended he was when the staff had the audacity to offer him the house wine and decided on the spot that he would be my mentor for the remainder of the meal.
He ravenously began devouring the contents of his bird egg, which appeared to be an uneven mixture of corn flakes and melted frozen yogurt, so I cautiously took my first bite. It was not disgusting, but certainly not worth holding an indigenous bird hostage for either.
I ate enough of the filling to make a show of it and then went about selecting my “complimentary” appetizer. Since I did not recognize most of the names, I decided on the chilled gazpacho soup. Keep in mind that my culinary ignorance is boundless as I assumed that the dish was named after the infamously-ruthless German Secret Police, so I was not unsettled when the waiter brought me an oversized white bowl with a tiny, but expertly arranged pile of chilled crab meat in the bottom. I was mildly concerned by the complete absence of a liquid in my “soup,” but decided that I needed to maintain appearances so after the waiter departed, I briskly began to devour my crab meat.
Around the second spoonful, I became aware that someone was standing rather close to me, and he immediately began clearing his throat in an unmistakably disapproving tone. Choking down what was left of the crab in my mouth, I glanced up to see him holding an ornate ladle full of liquid. He then deposited the contents of the ladle into my bowl and stared at me as if I had removed my pants and placed my genitals on the table. I quickly stole a glance at my silver-haired wingman and discovered that while he too had ordered the gazpacho, he had not made the grievous error of consuming his crab meat before the rest of the soup arrived.
Summoning what was left of my pride, I decided that I would just put this all behind me and prepare myself for the main course. I had selected pancakes and sausage, both for my love of the delicate breakfast pastry, and the fact that I felt confident in my ability to correctly eat it in public. The expertly garnished plate arrived and I was dismayed to find that the pancake was only marginally larger than a drink coaster and the serving of sausage was stingy enough that I was fairly certain the pig that had provided it was still alive.
I politely requested some syrup (as none was provided) and in return I received an expression that would have remained just as appropriate if I had insulted his mother while drowning a puppy. Several minutes passed, as I am sure he had trouble locating some “simpleton’s nectar,” and eventually he returned with my syrup. By now, my goal was to finish the meal with some dignity and get back to Manhattan before the Hello Deli closed for the day.
My initial cut into my pancake released a dark, chunky filling that proceeded to ooze its way across the plate with such speed that immediate action became necessary in order to rescue my pork nubbin from the rising tide. Just as I was about to ask Ashley what she thought the substance was, a member of the waiter posse sidled up to me and began speaking with barely controlled glee, “Those are fresh huckleberries sir!”
I made a valiant effort to eat around the huckleberry surprise while savoring both ounces of my sausage link, and soon we were ready to go. Our waiter asked if we needed a desert menu and I quickly replied that we really need to get back to Manhattan as quickly as possible, as if my absence was delaying a Sunday morning board meeting at my investment firm. He provided us with the check and I soon realized that this little experience had costs us more that our July utility bill. As I retrieved my debit card, I thought about cracking a joke about leaving my black American Express card at my penthouse suite but decided against it.
Moments later, Ashley and I emerged from the restaurant a few hundred dollars poorer and fighting a dangerously low blood sugar level. We hastily made plans to stop at the first McDonalds we encountered and began walking up the private drive toward the main road. Once there, we were surprised by the blatant absence of cabs. Having spent the majority of our tip in Manhattan, we assumed that being surrounded by available transportation would be a given. It soon dawned on us (after standing there for 20 minutes) that we were not going to hail a cab in this part of Brooklyn.
Dejected, we made our way back toward the restaurant and I went inside to get the number for the cab company from the hostess. She coyly refused to provide the number and insisted that one of the “boys” out front would provide this service for me since I was a valued patron. I spoke to one of the young men in question, and after a succinct phone conversation he assured me that our transportation needs had been covered. Since I was fairly certain he would expect a tip for the exertion of dialing a phone (and I was equally certain I could not afford to provide it) Ashley and I began walking toward the road again so that we could intercept the cab before he saw it.
We had been chatting for several minutes when a sleek Lincoln Towncar passed by us on its way up the private drive. I believe I made some comment along the lines of “Must be nice to be too good for a cab,” but it was Ashley who suddenly froze and wondered if the car was for us. I assured her there was no way he had called a private car service for us as I had used the word cab at least five times when requesting transportation.
Then, as if in slow motion, we looked back to see the over-waxed luxury sedan creeping toward us and being flanked by none other than Mr. Telecommunications himself, “Mr. Phone Boy.”This kid was attached to the passenger door so tight I felt like I was watching Clint Eastwood protect the president, and just as we had feared, the car was indeed for us.
Mr. Phone Boy graciously held the door for Ashley and I as we entered the vehicle and just was he was preparing to receive his generous compensation, I grabbed the door from his hand, slammed it shut, and told the driver to get us back across the bridge. Although I felt somewhat remorseful for stiffing him, I was not altogether certain the $40 I had left would cover a private car service back the hotel so I could not afford to indulge my principles.
We barely had enough to pay the driver and we were so hungry that we immediately sought sustenance elsewhere. All in all the experience taught me what I had suspected all along: I am ill prepared for the upper-crust.
