I don't like to brag, but I've long possessed a super-power, a power many people covet. And yet, if they knew it's true essence, they might think twice about their desire to have it.
For I have long had the power of . . . invisibility.
It started in grade school, whenever I would attempt to answer a question posed by whatever nun was unfortunate enough to have me in her class ("Ha! Short straw! You take him, Sister Malevolent!"). The power grew stronger during my high school years, especially around popular classmates, jocks and girls. And now that I've reached a certain level of "maturity", shall we say, it's become devastatingly effective against any member of the opposite sex between the ages of 18 and 45.
Were this cross mine alone to bear, I would do so with a silent, begrudging reluctance. But, as I have only recently discovered, my "Cloak of Non-Existence" is expansive enough to swathe others.
Enter, Mrs. Cellophane . . . my poor wife.
Now, if you know my wife, you know that the very last word you would use to describe her is "invisible". She is not one accustomed to going unnoticed. But I'm afraid a near-lifetime with me has rendered her translucent.
The weekend of our anniversary celebration was rife with examples of our transparency. On the way out of town to celebrate, we stopped at a local tavern (I don't want to name names, but it rhymes with "The Breen Furtle"). It was early on a Friday afternoon and the waitstaff out-numbered the guests four-to-one. But that didn't prevent all of them from walking by our booth dozens of times, never once acknowledging our presence. Finally, we flagged down a busboy, who seemed confused by the whole concept of "customers" wanting to be "waited on", but who eventually succeeded in getting a server's attention long enough for us to order tall frosty glasses of "dinner".
If this had been an isolated occurence, I would have laughed it off as the "usual dark cloud that seems to follow me everywhere, even the bathroom". But it would set the tone for the entire weekend.
The drive to Our Nation's Capital was uneventful, especially for a summer Friday. The check-in to our swanky hotel went smoothly, so we decided to hit the lounge for another round of "dinner". The restaurant's bar was packed with golf fans (as evidenced by their colorful attire and general Republicaness), in town for the U.S. Open. We found a table in the back, sat down and waited for someone to take our order. And waited. And then, waited some more. Finally, my wife, who's reservoir of patience is surprisingly small considering who she's married to, leapt to her feet and corralled an employee. And using an elaborate series of guttural sounds and hand gestures, was able to secure for us a round of potent and very expensive drinks.
The next morning, at breakfast . . . same deal, different day. We couldn't get anyone in the restaurant to wait on our table. And we had planned on having the buffet, so all we needed was something to drink. Oh, and silverware. That would make enjoying the scrambled eggs a little less conspicuous. Still it took monumental effort to get any attention, making us feel exactly like Tareq and Michaele Salahi, if they could feel anything besides shame.
On our way out, it occurred to me to make a dinner reservation for that evening, as we had tickets to see a play at the Kennedy Center. It was an early curtain so I requested an early reservation, 5:00PM. The hostess replied that 5:30 was the best she could do, but that we could arrive early.
We spent an enjoyable day museum tromping but rushed back to put on our fanciest duds and head out for an evening of fine dining and delightful musical theater. When we arrived at our room, we discovered the management had arranged a surprise: the room was EXACTLY as we had left it, seven hours earlier. I can only guess it was so that we could preserve the memory of our special weekend. It wasn't until we began getting ready that a plaintive knock came from the door. I answered it, only partially attired, and found a member of the crack housekeeping staff fully prepared to enter. I explained that the room was currently housing two full-sized adults and that she would have to come back some other time. It turns out that "some other time" in housekeeping lingo means "never".
Oh, well . . . one less tip to leave.
We arrived at the restaurant at 5:05, only to discover . . . it was closed. It seems the restaurant doesn't even OPEN until 5:30. But in the hostess's defense, when she told us we could arrive at 5, she never actually followed it with, "so we can seat you early". What she meant was, "so we can seat you at the bar and serve you several rounds of potent and very expensive drinks BEFORE we seat you". My mistake.
Dinner was fabulous. What I can remember of it. I've never consumed that many dollars of aged prime rib that quickly before. Kathy's mahi-mah was equally superb and speedy. In spite of the fact that I had informed our waiter of our urgency (and in spite of the fact that the we were the only ones there) dinner was painfully slow arriving. We gobbled, we paid, we bolted. And just made our 7:30 curtain.
The next morning, back for breakfast, I briefly considered setting myself on fire as we strolled into the restaurant, just to get some attention. But then I remembered how long it took to get our beverages the morning before and changed my mind. Sunday's service would prove to be no better than Saturday's. But they do make a damn fine waffle, so I'm almost tempted to forgive them.
Almost.
So, there you have it . . . "Mr. and Mrs. Cellophane Go to Washington". It spite of it all we thoroughly enjoyed the weekend and each other's company. But the near complete absence of anything resembling good service?
Not so much.
I'd write a letter detailing my disappointment to the hotel's management, but recent similar efforts on my behalf have proven fruitless. Apparently my words are as easy to ignore as my person.
I wonder if they'll ever notice if I neglect to pay the bill?
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
All My Love, Always . . .
What do you say to the woman you've shared your life with for the last 35 years? How do you tell her that she's grown more beautiful with each passing day, that your heart still skips a beat every time she walks into the room? How do you begin to tell her all that she means to you? Only a fool would try.
So here I go.
I remember the first time I saw her, in high school. She was cute. Damn cute. With long auburn hair, the color of cinnamon. A beautiful smile, turned-up nose. A laugh that could fill a room. And a boyfriend.
I disliked him, immediately.
We saw each other in our school's theater productions. We shared a circle of friends. Eventually, I worked-up enough nerve to ask her out. She said "yes". The first of many that would follow. And that would be our life together.
Always questions from me.
Always "yes" from her.
When I thought we were ready to be husband and wife, she agreed. When I told her that radio was what I wanted to do, she believed in me. When I said my career would likely take us away, far from our homes, she welcomed the idea, eager for the adventure before us.
Always "yes".
So we left our families, our friends and started our journey. Just the two of us, at first. Before too long, three. Then four.
It is not possible to thank her enough for the gift of our children. For being a fiercely devoted and proud mom. For allowing me to be a father, and showing me the way. Diana and Matt are grown now. They're close by and a big part of our lives, just not every day. And I know that's hard for her. Which only makes me love her all the more.
It can be quite useful taking inventory after 35 years. Two apartments. Two houses. Two kids. Two dogs, three cats. Over a dozen cars. Two motorcycles. Several jobs. Three cruise vacations. Two trips to Vegas.
And 35 anniversaries.
There's a lot to be said for marrying your best friend. Together, we've seen good times and bad. For better . . . our beautiful kids. For worse . . . saying goodbye forever to our own parents. It's only then that you realize in the end, you've only got each other.
And yet, after all these years I still can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with. Have a drink with, share dinner with. Sometimes we'll simply look at each and have the same thought . . . how did we get here? How did these 35 years slip by in the seeming blink of an eye? And through it all, she's been there, always, to laugh with me, cry with me. To calm my worries and chase my fears. To show me the man she always knew I could be, even if I couldn't see it myself. Could I really be that man, for her?
Always a "yes". Never a doubt in her mind.
On the day we got married, I remember looking at her, so beautiful. Her face radiant, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of our life together. And then she was walking down that aisle, about to forever put her hand in mine, and I thought, "it doesn't get much better than this".
Little did I know.
Over the years, I've fallen into the admittedly lazy habit of signing all my greeting cards for her with, "All my love, always". Trite, I know.
But it's true. And it's really all I have to offer.
So, Kathy, let me simply say "I love you". I know I don't say it nearly enough. But I hope I show you, every day.
And that 35 more years together won't nearly be enough.
So here I go.
I remember the first time I saw her, in high school. She was cute. Damn cute. With long auburn hair, the color of cinnamon. A beautiful smile, turned-up nose. A laugh that could fill a room. And a boyfriend.
I disliked him, immediately.
We saw each other in our school's theater productions. We shared a circle of friends. Eventually, I worked-up enough nerve to ask her out. She said "yes". The first of many that would follow. And that would be our life together.
Always questions from me.
Always "yes" from her.
When I thought we were ready to be husband and wife, she agreed. When I told her that radio was what I wanted to do, she believed in me. When I said my career would likely take us away, far from our homes, she welcomed the idea, eager for the adventure before us.
Always "yes".
So we left our families, our friends and started our journey. Just the two of us, at first. Before too long, three. Then four.
It is not possible to thank her enough for the gift of our children. For being a fiercely devoted and proud mom. For allowing me to be a father, and showing me the way. Diana and Matt are grown now. They're close by and a big part of our lives, just not every day. And I know that's hard for her. Which only makes me love her all the more.
It can be quite useful taking inventory after 35 years. Two apartments. Two houses. Two kids. Two dogs, three cats. Over a dozen cars. Two motorcycles. Several jobs. Three cruise vacations. Two trips to Vegas.
And 35 anniversaries.
There's a lot to be said for marrying your best friend. Together, we've seen good times and bad. For better . . . our beautiful kids. For worse . . . saying goodbye forever to our own parents. It's only then that you realize in the end, you've only got each other.
And yet, after all these years I still can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with. Have a drink with, share dinner with. Sometimes we'll simply look at each and have the same thought . . . how did we get here? How did these 35 years slip by in the seeming blink of an eye? And through it all, she's been there, always, to laugh with me, cry with me. To calm my worries and chase my fears. To show me the man she always knew I could be, even if I couldn't see it myself. Could I really be that man, for her?
Always a "yes". Never a doubt in her mind.
On the day we got married, I remember looking at her, so beautiful. Her face radiant, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of our life together. And then she was walking down that aisle, about to forever put her hand in mine, and I thought, "it doesn't get much better than this".
Little did I know.
Over the years, I've fallen into the admittedly lazy habit of signing all my greeting cards for her with, "All my love, always". Trite, I know.
But it's true. And it's really all I have to offer.
So, Kathy, let me simply say "I love you". I know I don't say it nearly enough. But I hope I show you, every day.
And that 35 more years together won't nearly be enough.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Dear Soulless MegaBank Drones . . .
An open letter to "one of the country's leading financial institutions" . . .
Dear Sirs or Madams or Bankers,
How are you?
Doing well, apparently, as you no longer seem to need or want my business.
I guess you know why I'm writing. After all, you wrote me first. Twice, actually. Last week to tell me that I had missed a payment on my credit card. And again this week to tell me that, as a consequence of that missed payment, the interest rate on that card was about to be changed to the "maximum Penalty APR", a staggeringly high number, well north of the age when males in this country can rent cars. At first I was somewhat startled by the harshness of your reaction to my tardy remittance. But now that I've had some time to reflect, I believe I understand.
You see, I know I'm not your best customer.
Your card fell into my "Occasional Use, but Mostly for Unexpected Stuff" category. So, obviously I didn't use the card very often. And when I did, I'd immediately pay it off. No balance carried, so no interest charged. Which is why I begrudgingly accepted the "Annual Members Fee" . . . I knew you had a make a few dollars off me somehow. Although I'm still not exactly clear what I'm a member of.
Anywho, because I wasn't accustomed to making a payment every month, I had set up an "Alert" for my account online. I was to be "emailed" five days before a payment was due. But last month, it didn't happen.
I know, I know . . . there was a lot going on last month. The season finales of "Idol" and "DWTS". Not to mention Oprah leaving and the possibility the world was going to end. Plus we both know that "email" and the "internet" are grossly unreliable conveyances, so I'm not surprised it didn't happen. And I guess the bill I got in the mail should've prodded my admittedly-shoddy memory long enough to crack open my checkbook. Oh, right. I didn't get a bill in the mail. Because you begged me NOT to. So I signed on for "paperless billing". I forgot. But it's nice to see you've put the paper saved to good use shipping me dozens of blank checks and additional card offers every month.
So when I received your first cheerful missive regarding the absent payment, I dutifully logged in to my account and, sure enough, you were right! I promptly paid my balance, in full (including the interest charged and a rather "generous" late fee). I thought the matter properly addressed.
I thought wrong.
When I received your latest correspondence regarding the "penalty" I would receive for the one payment I missed the one time I used your card this year, I have to admit I was a little miffed.
Okay, a lot miffed.
In hindsight it was probably wrong of me to fire off that somewhat curt inquiry (via "email", so I'm surprised you actually got it!) about closing my account. But let me add, while mistakes were made, they were made on both sides.
Because someone in your "Customer Service Center" responded (quite promptly, I might add) by saying a) there was nothing they could ( or should I say "would"?) do about the "Penalty APR", and b) telling me exactly what I had to do to close my account.
I'll let you guess what I did next. For BOTH the cards I had with your bank. Oops . . . the "had" kind of gave it away, didn't it?
Now I know your natural reaction to my note will be one of genuine and heartfelt concern for my financial well-being. Awwww, that's sweet. But dry your tears. I'm going to be just fine. You see, I have several other credit cards to fall back on. One I use almost daily. And others that don't mind seeing the light of day on special occasions. And if I'm a little late getting that check in the mail, they seem satisfied slapping a "late fee" (plus interest, of course) onto the balance and calling it even. I know it's a little old-fashioned, but it seems to work for us.
As this is the last time we'll be in touch, let me close by wishing you all the best in your future endeavors. But let me respond to the following line from your last email to me . . . "Although you have chosen to close your account please consider us for your future financial needs".
Ummm, no.
Not a chance in Hell.
Sincerely,
A Faceless Account Holder
P.S.
Hey, you know that bailout you guys got from me and all the other taxpayers last year?
You're welcome.
Dear Sirs or Madams or Bankers,
How are you?
Doing well, apparently, as you no longer seem to need or want my business.
I guess you know why I'm writing. After all, you wrote me first. Twice, actually. Last week to tell me that I had missed a payment on my credit card. And again this week to tell me that, as a consequence of that missed payment, the interest rate on that card was about to be changed to the "maximum Penalty APR", a staggeringly high number, well north of the age when males in this country can rent cars. At first I was somewhat startled by the harshness of your reaction to my tardy remittance. But now that I've had some time to reflect, I believe I understand.
You see, I know I'm not your best customer.
Your card fell into my "Occasional Use, but Mostly for Unexpected Stuff" category. So, obviously I didn't use the card very often. And when I did, I'd immediately pay it off. No balance carried, so no interest charged. Which is why I begrudgingly accepted the "Annual Members Fee" . . . I knew you had a make a few dollars off me somehow. Although I'm still not exactly clear what I'm a member of.
Anywho, because I wasn't accustomed to making a payment every month, I had set up an "Alert" for my account online. I was to be "emailed" five days before a payment was due. But last month, it didn't happen.
I know, I know . . . there was a lot going on last month. The season finales of "Idol" and "DWTS". Not to mention Oprah leaving and the possibility the world was going to end. Plus we both know that "email" and the "internet" are grossly unreliable conveyances, so I'm not surprised it didn't happen. And I guess the bill I got in the mail should've prodded my admittedly-shoddy memory long enough to crack open my checkbook. Oh, right. I didn't get a bill in the mail. Because you begged me NOT to. So I signed on for "paperless billing". I forgot. But it's nice to see you've put the paper saved to good use shipping me dozens of blank checks and additional card offers every month.
So when I received your first cheerful missive regarding the absent payment, I dutifully logged in to my account and, sure enough, you were right! I promptly paid my balance, in full (including the interest charged and a rather "generous" late fee). I thought the matter properly addressed.
I thought wrong.
When I received your latest correspondence regarding the "penalty" I would receive for the one payment I missed the one time I used your card this year, I have to admit I was a little miffed.
Okay, a lot miffed.
In hindsight it was probably wrong of me to fire off that somewhat curt inquiry (via "email", so I'm surprised you actually got it!) about closing my account. But let me add, while mistakes were made, they were made on both sides.
Because someone in your "Customer Service Center" responded (quite promptly, I might add) by saying a) there was nothing they could ( or should I say "would"?) do about the "Penalty APR", and b) telling me exactly what I had to do to close my account.
I'll let you guess what I did next. For BOTH the cards I had with your bank. Oops . . . the "had" kind of gave it away, didn't it?
Now I know your natural reaction to my note will be one of genuine and heartfelt concern for my financial well-being. Awwww, that's sweet. But dry your tears. I'm going to be just fine. You see, I have several other credit cards to fall back on. One I use almost daily. And others that don't mind seeing the light of day on special occasions. And if I'm a little late getting that check in the mail, they seem satisfied slapping a "late fee" (plus interest, of course) onto the balance and calling it even. I know it's a little old-fashioned, but it seems to work for us.
As this is the last time we'll be in touch, let me close by wishing you all the best in your future endeavors. But let me respond to the following line from your last email to me . . . "Although you have chosen to close your account please consider us for your future financial needs".
Ummm, no.
Not a chance in Hell.
Sincerely,
A Faceless Account Holder
P.S.
Hey, you know that bailout you guys got from me and all the other taxpayers last year?
You're welcome.
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