May I Please Be Excused?

          Yes, I got another jury summons.

          But this time it was at the other county courthouse, the one built in 1898, in Auburn.

We all checked in, then filed into the historic courtroom. And here began the TMI portion of the proceedings. The judge asked for people to share hardships if they wanted to be excused.  One by one—in front of everybody—jurors explained their desperate financial plights, their autism, their college class schedule, their divorced ex who won’t help pick up the kids.

“Is there anyone else who can do this for you?” the judge would ask.

One man explained that he had an upcoming surgery scheduled. The fellow next to me whispered, “Is there anyone else who can do this for you?” and we both had to stifle our laughter. 

One woman had several health issues to discuss.  “What if you have hemorrhoids or a communicable disease?” I whispered to my new comrade in comedy. “Do you have to tell everybody you've got this creepy goo that keeps coming out of your ears?" We thought of several other awkward excuses.

Surely there’s a better way to allow folks to explain their hardships than announcing it in front of a hundred people. And most excuses are probably legit. But there are also people who just want to get out of jury duty.

And that made me think about how St. Bob used to host and announce game shows. There, as well, you have a “pool” of contestants. But not one of them is worried about picking up kids, missing class, or having to reschedule a doctor’s appointment. They’re highly motivated to win money, so they find creative ways to make it work. Here he his, hosting and hugging happy contestants on NBC's Let's Make a Deal:

Maybe there should be a drawing among jurors who stay, and prizes awarded.  And I’m not talking about the “Rice-a-Roni, pantyhose, or GasX for bloating” that I heard Bob say so many times. I’m thinking, “You’ve won a BRAND NEW CAR!!” That might liven things up a bit, no?

Okay, it’s not a car, and it’s not free, but my latest book only costs $3.49 and makes a fantabulous gift for adults, kids, your hairdresser, teachers, really anyone on your gift list. Check out A Little Christmas Prayer on Amazon, right here.

Check it Out

          Lately St. Bob has experienced a windfall. Check after check has been pouring in from his Game Show days (you do know that he hosted and announced game shows, right? That he’s the Bob of “Bob, tell ‘em what they’ve won” fame, and has a Wikipedia page?)

          Anyway, for years after your shows air, you get residual checks for every re-run. Sometimes these are enough for a nice dinner, sometimes a great little deposit in the old bankeroo.  But as the years go by, they dwindle. They go down to six dollars, then 78 cents, and then—as has been happening for years now, less than the price of a postage stamp.

          Here’s the latest batch of 15 checks, every one of which, after taxes, contains a whopping ZERO cents. 

Yes, that’s right. We are recipients of wasted money on the part of companies we used to think were pretty smart. I figure the man-hours to calculate this astronomical sum, the people to enter it on a computer somewhere, the folks to print it out and lick the envelope, then the postage, and I’m guessing that at least $20 worth of labor went into every mail-out. 

          Kinda woulda liked it if they had just written us that check. And REALLY hoping this trend doesn’t continue into the negative digits and they start sending us bills!

Have you bought my books, yet, or watched my Youtube Mom videos? You must, you must, before I get so many checks that I drown in them. Find everything right here on my website.

The People Whisperer

          You’ve all heard of horse whisperers and dog whisperers, but I am married to a people whisperer.

          I’ve never met anyone quite like St. Bob.  And since this is his birthday month, I am paying tribute to this incredible man and his amazing talents.  Bob used to host and announce TV game shows, but he’s more than a handsome guy with a great voice. 

This man can look into an audience of a thousand people and instantly choose the one person who will jump up and down and scream if she wins, the one person who is terrified of mice, the one person who will take a crazy risk—whatever the act calls for.  Bob can tell a thousand things about you just at a glance.  And he’s always dead-on. Here he is when he was the host of NBC-TV's "Let's Make a Deal":

          Like Superman looking through walls with x-ray vision, Bob can anticipate what someone will say.  And more than once I have clasped my hands over my forehead and said, “Stop reading my mind.  That’s private property.”

          He combines this supernatural ability with some kind of weird Salesman Gene and another Charm Chromosome, and the next thing you know, the whole world is under his enchantment, doing whatever he tells them to. And you ought to see the ladies who melt just chatting with him. Mind you, he is not encouraging this, and is even clearly oblivious to it, but it still happens all the time.

 In our church we’re assigned to visit one another, and Bob was assigned an elderly woman to whom we delivered some Christmas presents one year. While I was standing not ten inches away from him, she leaned between us and whispered into his ear, “I love you!”  Thank goodness she was 30 years his senior.

This is not the first time a woman has had a crush on him. Here’s another totally true example.  At a recent seminar the woman leading it sidled up to him afterwards, while I was standing right there, and asked if he had any brothers.  She kept bumping up against him and saying what a catch he is, and exactly her type.  It was one of those moments when you want to say, “I’m right here; I can hear you.” Later Bob pooh-poohed her interest, but I’m telling you she was practically licking his face.

You know, I can hardly blame these gals for falling under his spell; I still find his charms irresistible.  He’s like a Pied Piper who doesn’t even need a flute—people will just fall in line and follow him. Maybe one reason it works is that he’s not trying to be a smooth operator; he’s just sincerely sweet.  So Happy Birthday, St. Bob—may you be surrounded by luscious cakes and pies, and may all the women in our lives realize I’m standing right here.

St. Bob is also the cameraman for my YouTube Mom videos here, in case you’d like to see yet another of his many talents!

Why Don't Men Like Birthdays?

            This is St. Bob’s birthday month.  And, once again, I have been instructed not to throw a big bash or tell anyone (hence my writing an entire blog about it).  This is like our ongoing dispute over whether it’s okay to give snippets of people food to our dog in the kitchen.  Bob opposes this and occasionally extracts a promise from me not to do it anymore.  Last time I agreed he asked, “Do you really mean it or are you just saying it?”

            I sighed.  “I’m just saying it.”

            I could see I knew it! in his eyes.  Alas, we have each agreed to something the other wants, with no intention of keeping our word.  I promise not to pamper our dog (and why shouldn’t that darling dog have a moment of happiness?) and he promises not to stack papers, tools, and Radio Shack bags on a prominent ledge in our home. But here is the dog and there is the pile of junk.  Both are testaments to the fact that this is not a perfect world, and no matter how many changes you want your spouse to make, you’re just gonna have to give in on a few of them.

            Which brings me back to St. Bob’s birthday.  For the life of me I cannot understand why he—and many other men—are celebration resistant.  They don’t want gifts? Are they insane?  What’s better than presents to unwrap, birthday cake, ice cream, and adoring friends?

            Granted, not every guy wants his wife blowing the budget on a big gathering, but these same men don’t even want a small, thrifty party like you’d throw for a parakeet.  “Just a card is fine,” they say, as if we live in a concentration camp and a card would be all the contraband one could hope for.

            So, like many wives, I ignore requests I can’t understand and I roll out the Birthday Machine every year anyway.  Seriously, don’t you think he must be kidding?  How could he not want to be fawned over and indulged once a year?  Something tells me he will eventually come to like it. 

            One year I will admit I went a teensy bit overboard.  I wrote about it in a whole article on Bob’s TV career, which appeared in Meridian Magazine.  It was called “Bob, Tell ‘Em What They’ve Won” and here’s the link: http://209.188.95.163/article/8205?Itemid=  if you want to read it.  Basically, I provided Bob with his most uncomfortable show biz moment.  He was hosting “Let’s Make a Deal” for NBC TV, taping at Disney World in Florida.

            I sort of mentioned his birthday to the entire staff, and asked for video clips I could edit together to surprise him.  And I kind of included Dick Clark and Monty Hall as well.  I hinted that I might have mentioned his birthday to some of his pals.

            “Not Dick Clark,” he said.  I blushed.  Bob was mortified.  “Did you ask for a gift?” he whispered.  “Tell me you didn’t ask him to spend anything.”

            “Oh, no,” I assured him.  “Only some of his time.”

            Bob fell over and rolled under the bed we had been leaning against.  “That’s worse,” he groaned. 

            I, of course, found this hilarious and laughed until I cried.

            Then, to make matters worse, the show’s director had Mickey and Minnie come out onto the stage to present a gigantic cake as the entire audience sang “Happy Birthday” to him, nationwide.  Bob wanted to crawl under the flooring.  Yes, we later had a “chat” and I have scaled down considerably.

            But this year I’m certain he has come around to my way of thinking, so I need all readers to leave a Happy Birthday comment to him.  If you’re from another country, leave it in your native language.  He will love knowing that people all around the world are celebrating with him.  How could he not?