My boss is a wealthy attorney who lives in an affluent suburb of Los Angeles. He appreciates luxury. In addition to his 9,000 square foot home, he has a 4,000 square foot beach house. He drives a luxury car. He wears a luxury watch. He collects and uses luxury pens.
One evening, he and his wife were going out to dinner with their friend B. and B.'s wife. B. was the IT manager for a big-five accounting firm. He was successful, intellectual and apparently quite urban working downtown in a large high rise building managing the computer systems and IT personnel.
The couples were going to a luxury restaurant, and even though it was not located far from their homes, they hired a limousine to drive them to the restaurant. They did not need to hire a limousine for any other purpose than to provide a greater sense of luxury as at least one person in the group did not drink alcohol so there was no need for a designated driver.
As the two couples were loading into the limousine, my boss noticed that his friend, B., who was wearing dress slacks and a jacket was also sporting a large backpack with all types of accoutrement hooked on. When asked, B. revealed that his backpack was full of various items that would help him survive in case of an emergency: a powerful flashlight, emergency Mylar blanket, packets of freeze dried food, a first aid kit, batteries, radio, etc. My boss asked B. why he had the backpack. B. explained he took it with him everywhere, all the time. "I am a survivalist," B. explained.
After much reassurance that they would probably survive dinner without the backpack, B. finally relented to leaving the backpack in the limousine while they dined.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Flexible Spending Account
My husband is part of the upper-management of a mid-sized, family owned business that employees approximately 100 workers in its warehouse/packing/distribution facility. Among other things, he handles human resources and insurance matters for the company. Almost all of the the employees are uneducated immigrants whose first language is Spanish. Many of the employees are clueless about how health insurance works.
The company recently started offering the employees Flexible Spending Accounts ("FSA") -- the tax deferred medical savings account that allows them to put aside pre-tax dollars to pay for medical and childcare services. For weeks, my husband tried to explain how the plan works to the employees, but no one seemed to understand. Eventually, he received some literature written in Spanish. My husband, with no self consciousness whatsoever, read the literature, in Spanish, to the employees. (My husband does not speak or read Spanish.)
The employees appreciated his efforts to read in Spanish. "Oh, you read better than my son who is in high school!," one employee exclaimed.
My husband was satisfied the employees began to understand the concept of FSA when one woman asked if the plan would cover boob jobs.
The company recently started offering the employees Flexible Spending Accounts ("FSA") -- the tax deferred medical savings account that allows them to put aside pre-tax dollars to pay for medical and childcare services. For weeks, my husband tried to explain how the plan works to the employees, but no one seemed to understand. Eventually, he received some literature written in Spanish. My husband, with no self consciousness whatsoever, read the literature, in Spanish, to the employees. (My husband does not speak or read Spanish.)
The employees appreciated his efforts to read in Spanish. "Oh, you read better than my son who is in high school!," one employee exclaimed.
My husband was satisfied the employees began to understand the concept of FSA when one woman asked if the plan would cover boob jobs.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Aneurysms
I went with my husband to a house party in honor of his 30th high school reunion. I was happy to go with him because there were a few people there who I am also friendly with, even though I am a few years younger than my husband and his cohorts. I was particularly pleased to see L.
L. is a bright, charismatic woman. She smiles easily, finding humor in almost any story. She is a renowned graphic artist who is about to launch her own stock photography business specializing in Hispanic images. She is intelligent, worldly, and a lot of fun.
L. met her husband (who is 20 years her senior) about five years ago while on a scuba diving trip. Not too long ago, they went to Jamaica for a vacation. While they were making love (he takes Viagra) she developed a mind splitting headache just as she was about to climax. She described the headache as the most unbearable pain she ever experienced -- like her brain was about to explode. They stopped and then started again later. Again, just as she was about to climax, she developed a mind splitting headache. They tried a third time, and it happened again. (He didn't climax either.)
When they returned to the United States, she saw a doctor. She had some tests done and was rushed to the hospital for surgery. It turns out she had twin aneurysms that were on the brink of bursting. Had she actually climaxed she probably would have died.
Since her surgery, L. can make love without fear of her brain exploding and she has a renewed appreciation for life.
L. is a bright, charismatic woman. She smiles easily, finding humor in almost any story. She is a renowned graphic artist who is about to launch her own stock photography business specializing in Hispanic images. She is intelligent, worldly, and a lot of fun.
L. met her husband (who is 20 years her senior) about five years ago while on a scuba diving trip. Not too long ago, they went to Jamaica for a vacation. While they were making love (he takes Viagra) she developed a mind splitting headache just as she was about to climax. She described the headache as the most unbearable pain she ever experienced -- like her brain was about to explode. They stopped and then started again later. Again, just as she was about to climax, she developed a mind splitting headache. They tried a third time, and it happened again. (He didn't climax either.)
When they returned to the United States, she saw a doctor. She had some tests done and was rushed to the hospital for surgery. It turns out she had twin aneurysms that were on the brink of bursting. Had she actually climaxed she probably would have died.
Since her surgery, L. can make love without fear of her brain exploding and she has a renewed appreciation for life.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Fish
My friends' daughter, S. is three years old. She is precocious, pretty, and loving. S. is curious about everything and her questions are very mature for such a little girl. Her mind works incredibly logically for someone so young.
S. has her hands in everything. She likes to touch. She likes to do. She is not at all shy. She takes the initiative to explore her environment, but is also polite and asks her mommy or daddy for permission.
One day, S.'s daddy took her to the pier. The pier was fully of early morning fisherman casting their lines into the water below. The buckets were filled with small, silver, pencil length fish.
One fisherman caught a fish and pulled his line back so quickly, the fish fell off the hook. It was flapping around on the wood planks of the pier. S. asked, "Daddy, can I get the fish?" Daddy told her to ask the fisherman. In her sweet little girl voice (with a slight lisp), she asked the fisherman, "Can I get the fish." The fisherman said she could.
S. started chasing the fish. She would reach for the fish, almost get it, and the fish would flap away. After a few attempts, S. caught the fish and held it tight in her little hand. "Now put the fish in the man's bucket," Daddy told S. S. proudly dropped the fish in the bucket, her hand splaying open as she released the fish. Then, with a big, proud smile on her face, S. licked the entire surface of her palm where she had just grasped the fish.
When asked how her palm tasted, S. nonchalantly replied, "It was ok."
S. has her hands in everything. She likes to touch. She likes to do. She is not at all shy. She takes the initiative to explore her environment, but is also polite and asks her mommy or daddy for permission.
One day, S.'s daddy took her to the pier. The pier was fully of early morning fisherman casting their lines into the water below. The buckets were filled with small, silver, pencil length fish.
One fisherman caught a fish and pulled his line back so quickly, the fish fell off the hook. It was flapping around on the wood planks of the pier. S. asked, "Daddy, can I get the fish?" Daddy told her to ask the fisherman. In her sweet little girl voice (with a slight lisp), she asked the fisherman, "Can I get the fish." The fisherman said she could.
S. started chasing the fish. She would reach for the fish, almost get it, and the fish would flap away. After a few attempts, S. caught the fish and held it tight in her little hand. "Now put the fish in the man's bucket," Daddy told S. S. proudly dropped the fish in the bucket, her hand splaying open as she released the fish. Then, with a big, proud smile on her face, S. licked the entire surface of her palm where she had just grasped the fish.
When asked how her palm tasted, S. nonchalantly replied, "It was ok."
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
No Bondaries
My friend's niece is a troubled teenager. She has been acting out for a while. My friend attributes it to her parents who are the type of parents who want to be friends with their kids. Lots of leeway, few consequences. The girl is brilliant, topping the scores on intelligence tests, attending a high school for gifted students. Nevertheless, she is trouble. Apparently she's been getting high. She was suspended from school for cursing out the principal. While she has always been difficult and belligerent, her behavior has steadily worsened with time.
Today my friend's niece hit her mother, more than once. Her father tried to intervene and she hit him too. The parents, on the advice of their "tough love" coach, called the police. The police arrested the girl, locked her up and have her slated for a psych eval.
My friend was at a loss because he was not really equipped to help the family but wanted so badly to be able to do something for them.
Today my friend's niece hit her mother, more than once. Her father tried to intervene and she hit him too. The parents, on the advice of their "tough love" coach, called the police. The police arrested the girl, locked her up and have her slated for a psych eval.
My friend was at a loss because he was not really equipped to help the family but wanted so badly to be able to do something for them.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Ham
I know D. from work. I do not know her too well, but I know her well enough to recognize that she is the type of person who is meticulous about entertaining. She prides herself on being a gracious hostess. A detail oriented person, D. is the type of hostess that thinks about what serving dishes she will use days in advance of a dinner party.
D. takes her dinner parties seriously. The morning of St. Patrick's day, she fell over her cat and suffered a major fracture in her lower leg/ankle. Nevertheless, she prepared her family's traditional St. Patrick's day dinner, even though she could barely stand.
D. told me one year she was preparing Thanksgiving dinner for her family and friends. One of her guests insisted on bringing something to dinner, although D. was reluctant to let her do so. The menu was carefully planned. D. is not comfortable relinquishing control of the party. She However, D. did not want to alienate her friend, so she told her friend she did not really need anything in particiular and asked her friend what she would like to bring.
"Honey-baked ham," her friend replied.
D. does not traditionally serve ham on Thanksgiving, preferring turkey with a variety of side dishes (her favorite), but acquiesed thinking at least her friend will be happy with ham. If nothing else, there would be left overs for ham sandwiches over the weekend.
D.'s friend asked how many people would be coming to dinner. D. told her eight.
Thanksgiving evening, D.'s friend arrived with a small packet of aluminum foil. D. was a bit perplexed because she was expecting a Honey-baked ham.
"What's that?" D. asked.
"Honey-baked ham," her friend said. "I brought eight slices."
D. takes her dinner parties seriously. The morning of St. Patrick's day, she fell over her cat and suffered a major fracture in her lower leg/ankle. Nevertheless, she prepared her family's traditional St. Patrick's day dinner, even though she could barely stand.
D. told me one year she was preparing Thanksgiving dinner for her family and friends. One of her guests insisted on bringing something to dinner, although D. was reluctant to let her do so. The menu was carefully planned. D. is not comfortable relinquishing control of the party. She However, D. did not want to alienate her friend, so she told her friend she did not really need anything in particiular and asked her friend what she would like to bring.
"Honey-baked ham," her friend replied.
D. does not traditionally serve ham on Thanksgiving, preferring turkey with a variety of side dishes (her favorite), but acquiesed thinking at least her friend will be happy with ham. If nothing else, there would be left overs for ham sandwiches over the weekend.
D.'s friend asked how many people would be coming to dinner. D. told her eight.
Thanksgiving evening, D.'s friend arrived with a small packet of aluminum foil. D. was a bit perplexed because she was expecting a Honey-baked ham.
"What's that?" D. asked.
"Honey-baked ham," her friend said. "I brought eight slices."
Friday, September 22, 2006
Rachel Ezra
Tonight is Rosh Hoshanna. This time of year, Rachel Ezra generally begins baking treats for us to eat when we break our fast on Yom Kippur. Last year, Rachel Ezra passed away so we will not enjoy her treats this year.
Rachel Ezra was a dear friend of my mother-in-law's. She was one of the Indian Jews that came to the United States after the war. She was a tiny lady -- under five feet tall with high, prominent cheek bones that gave her an air of elegance. She was very chatty and told great stories with her lilting Anglo/Indian accent and expressive eyes. She was the guest you always wanted to have at a dinner party.
I first met Rachel Ezra when I was in my mid-20's. For some reason, Rachel Ezra loved me. Whenever she saw me, she would squeeze my face so hard my teeth scratched the inside of my cheeks. "I love you, you know," she would say with her face all scrunched up like she was talking to a baby. She did this to me throughout the 20 years that I knew her.
One day while she was still in Calcutta, Rachel Ezra went to a sanitorium to a visit a friend who was hospitalized there. She was told by a nurse to wait in the lobby area to be brought to her friend. There was a young man sitting at a desk in the lobby area. The desk was equipped with a typewriter. The young man sat there typing with great focus and concentration. He did not look up when Rachel Ezra came into the lobby area. He just kept typing. He took one completed sheet of paper out of the typewriter and put in a fresh sheet of paper, all the while maintaining a steady, typing rhythm. She waited for quite a while during which the young man just kept typing.
Rachel Ezra, being curious (and bored with waiting) got up and tried to discreetly looking over the young man's shoulder to see if she could tell what he was tying. But she couldn't so she asked him, "What is it you are typing there? You have been at it for long time already."
"A letter," he replied hastily, never stopping to type while he responded.
"A letter to who?" Rachel Ezra asked.
"To myself," he said.
"Oh," said Rachel Ezra, "and what does this letter say?"
In a thoroughly exasperated voice, he replied, "How the hell should I know woman! I have not yet received it!"
Rachel Ezra was a dear friend of my mother-in-law's. She was one of the Indian Jews that came to the United States after the war. She was a tiny lady -- under five feet tall with high, prominent cheek bones that gave her an air of elegance. She was very chatty and told great stories with her lilting Anglo/Indian accent and expressive eyes. She was the guest you always wanted to have at a dinner party.
I first met Rachel Ezra when I was in my mid-20's. For some reason, Rachel Ezra loved me. Whenever she saw me, she would squeeze my face so hard my teeth scratched the inside of my cheeks. "I love you, you know," she would say with her face all scrunched up like she was talking to a baby. She did this to me throughout the 20 years that I knew her.
One day while she was still in Calcutta, Rachel Ezra went to a sanitorium to a visit a friend who was hospitalized there. She was told by a nurse to wait in the lobby area to be brought to her friend. There was a young man sitting at a desk in the lobby area. The desk was equipped with a typewriter. The young man sat there typing with great focus and concentration. He did not look up when Rachel Ezra came into the lobby area. He just kept typing. He took one completed sheet of paper out of the typewriter and put in a fresh sheet of paper, all the while maintaining a steady, typing rhythm. She waited for quite a while during which the young man just kept typing.
Rachel Ezra, being curious (and bored with waiting) got up and tried to discreetly looking over the young man's shoulder to see if she could tell what he was tying. But she couldn't so she asked him, "What is it you are typing there? You have been at it for long time already."
"A letter," he replied hastily, never stopping to type while he responded.
"A letter to who?" Rachel Ezra asked.
"To myself," he said.
"Oh," said Rachel Ezra, "and what does this letter say?"
In a thoroughly exasperated voice, he replied, "How the hell should I know woman! I have not yet received it!"
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