The Worst Salesman in the World

Years ago when I was a student at the University of 'Wisconsin, I got a call one day from a good friend of mine who announced that he has become a salesman.

 

 I yelled through the phone,  "You can't be a salesman."  He wanted to know why not.  I said, "You are totally devoid of personality.  A salesman has to have personality."

 

But George insisted that someone was going to teach him everything he needed to know to become a successful salesman.  I wanted to know if he was selling encyclopedias.  Those were popular with door to door salesmen back then although we didn't get too many of them because we lived on the third floor of an apartment building and carrying those books was too much for most of them.

 

George said he wasn't doing door to door sales.  He was selling only by appointments and he would be selling something every household needed: Kirby Vacuum Cleaners.  I laughed out loud.  We certainly didn't need a vacuum cleaner.  We had no rugs and very little furniture.  We were lucky to be able to afford a broom.

 

He wanted to make an appointment to come and demonstrate the Kirby Vacuum Cleaner but I

told him in no uncertain terms that we were not buying one of the things under any circumstance.

He told me he really needed some practice so he wasn't expecting us to buy.  But I figured that was what they had trained him to say.  Then he said he would give us a free case of Pepsi's if I would allow him to demonstrate the machine. I was still reluctant but in my heart I knew he would never be able to talk me into buying anything so I finally said o.k.  He wanted to know if the "lady of the house" would be there for the demo. I said, "You mean my wife, Carol?"  He said we both had to be present in order to qualify for the free drinks.

 

When he came over he really had to struggle to get the Kirby up the steps.  They weigh more than a set of encyclopedias...and I made him go back down and bring the Pepsi's up.  I didn't

trust him. I wanted the Pepsi's in the apartment before we started.

 

I kept laughing as he got his equipment out because he had memorized the sales pitch word for

word.  He said we would be amazed at how much dirt the Kirby would pick up out of the rugs.

I reminded him, pointing to the floor, that we had no rugs. 

 

"I'll do the couch then," he said, "You'll be amazed at how much dirt the Kirby will pull out of the

couch."  I reminded him that the couch was brand new; we had just got it from Sears the week

before.

 

"No matter.  You will be amazed.  I'll put the upholstery cleaner on and show you how filthy

and germ ridden your couch is."

 

He turned on the Kirby and it sounded like an airplane engine.  He made one swipe down the seat of the couch...and it sucked four buttons off!

 

"Look what you've done, you nut.  You have ruined our new couch.  This is going to cost you more than a case of Pepsi's."  I yelled.

 

He told me he could get the buttons out of the Kirby.  But getting them back on the couch was

what I wanted.

 

Next he wanted to do our mattress and moved into the bedroom.  I had painted the room.  I wanted a bold pink color but it came out more red, so I had painted watermelon seeds on the

wall.  He wanted to know if I wanted him to suck the seeds off the wall.  I made him  move out

of the bedroom.

 

We went into the kitchen and before I knew what was happening, he turned on the Kirby to

do the curtains...and it sucked them right off the rods.  "I guess I should have put it on low",

he said.  He also sucked up a three foot high bean plant.  I had been studying about germination in botany class and had germinated some pinto beans.  The bean plant was like Jack in the

Beanstalk.  It had taken off right toward Heaven and I was encouraging it by having daily talks

with it.  But now it had been sucked into a Kirby along with all  the bean seeds and what little

dirt was left in the pot.

 

"You've got to leave," I yelled at him.

 

"But we haven't talked about price yet," he insisted.

 

"We don't need to talk about price,  George, because I have absolutely no intention of buying

one of these things. It sucked the buttons off my couch, you idiot."

 

"Other than that, how did my presentation go?" he wanted to know.

 

"You were incredible.  Incrediably bad."  I felt like I was speaking from the heart.

 

George kept trying to sell the Kirby's using the free Pepsi's as a foot in the door.  He worked for

about four months and after not selling a single Kirby, he decided to quit.  He owed the company

$l87.00 for all the Pepsi's he had given away.  Probably the first salesman that had to pay his own company.  And that's bad.

 

 

 

 

The Art of Robert 7

CAROLINA VOICES

I DIDN'T SEE HOW I COULD RESIST

 

The direct mail flyer said "12 Pair of Eyeglasses Only $12...free shipping."  I couldn't believe my eyes.  Twelve pair of glasses...a

dollar each.  Sure, I know they are those cheap magnifying glasses,

but still...a dollar a pair was unbelievable.

 

I never have my glasses with me when I want to read something.  I'm always looking for them.  Last year I bought those plastic cords that you hook onto your glasses so they are always hanging around your neck. Then when I would go to read, I had to read through my breakfast oatmeal and other foodstuff.  And the cords broke within a week.  They aren't made like cafeteria trays.

 

This was the answer!  I could put glasses everywhere I roost during the day...back porch, nightstand, bathroom, kitchen, computer, car,

pocket...and I would still have five other pair to misplace. You had

a choice of 5 strengths...I've bought these things before and the lower

strengths don't do that much good.  But I was nervous getting the high

powered ones for fear they would make me cross-eyed.

 

Long ago before eyeglasses became a fashion statement...when I was a teenager...there was a saying that "boys never made passes at girl's who wore glasses."  You could tell which girls really needed glasses however...their dogs were a sure giveaway.  Actually my first love interest in the 8th grade was a girl who wore glasses.  But believe me,

nobody noticed her glasses!  She was built like a brick...well, you get the message.

 

I really hate it that glasses have become such a fashion statement because it means the frames now have designer logos and prices to

match.  When you go to an eyeglass place they've got hundreds to

choose from.  You make your selection only to discover that the price on the board only covers the frames.  The glass part is extra.

 

Last year I needed new prescription glasses.  I went to the doctor to get my eyes checked, but I went to Wal-Mart to order my glasses.

I took my old frames because I like them and they were still good.  So

when I talked to the salesperson, I told her I wanted new prescriptions put into the old frames.

 

She said, "We can do that, but it's still going to cost $180."

 

I said, "Why?"

 

She told me because I had not bought the glasses at Wal-Mart, they

would have to charge me the full price.  But I complained and told her

that I had in fact bought them at Wal-Mart.  Then she said, "Yes, but

it was more than a year ago, so I'm still going to have to charge full

price."

 

Usually at this point, smoke starts coming out of my ears and I start

ranting and raving...making a public spectacle out of myself.  But I

decided to try a different tact.

 

I looked at her very calmly and said, "You know, you are probably going to go the Hell for this."

 

She got so flustered...tried to explain to me that it was management's

decision and not hers.

 

I said, "Well, management is going to Hell, too.  There will be a whole

EyeWear Section in Hell."

 

When she wrote up my order, she said very quietly, "I'm only charging you for the glasses, not the frames."

 

I told her, "O.K.  You aren't going to Hell.  But management still is."

 

My wife laughed when I told her the story...but she was nervous because she claimed I would try to send people to Hell anytime I

didn't get my way.

 

"Damned right, Missy," I said.

 

"Why do people think you have the power to send them to Hell?" she

wanted to know.

 

I told her I had a very persuasive manner...that when I talked about Hell, I pointed to "down there" for emphasis.  Of course everyone isn't a Christian...but at Wal-Mart they are.

CAROLINA VOICES ARTICLE

Oh, Mother! What's Your Kid Doing on the Computer?

 

     Don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying that YOUR kid is doing anything strange on the computer.  But hundreds of kids are.  Probably millions.

 

    
     The computer games are bad enough.  But they should probably be the least of your worries.

 

     You've no doubt heard of MY SPACE; you might even have a page of your own.  Seems like everybody does.  It's one of the new and very

successful "friends" sites.  You put a picture of yourself and a brief profile, then people all over the world can write to you and offer to be your friend.

 

     Alyss wants to be my friend.  I can't imagine why since I posted a picture of Millard Fillmore on my site.  Of course maybe she likes the

way he looks.  I listed my age as 99.  Maybe Alyss is thinking, "It worked for Nicole Smith.  She found a multi-millionaire husband who

was 89 years old.  And found him just in time."  I don't think she met him on MY SPACE.  I think it was in a pole dancing place.

 

     People put pictures on their sites because they can easily now with their cell phones.  And, who knows?  They might be taking pictures of a checkout woman at the grocery store.  Friends are always asking for "unusual pictures" and there's where the trouble begins.  I can't imagine there's anything unusual left to show anymore.  Not that I personally look.  People have told me about the pictures (he says,

lying through his teeth).  I am really nervous about looking at pictures on the internet.  I'm afraid I will see one or more of my loved ones.

 

     I wouldn't believe anything I read or saw on these sites.  People fib

about their age.  They fib about their jobs.  They post fake pictures.

(I am not the only Millard Fillmore on MY SPACE...there are at least

eleven of us.  Will the real Millard Fillmore please stand up?)

 

     You are encouraged to chat with your "friends". I put that word in quotes because I doubt that they are really friends.  They won't come to your funeral or lend you a few bucks when you are short of cash.

And I don't like the word chat.  I wouldn't talk to anybody who came up to me and said, "Let's chat."  (A friend and I used to go to a greasy spoon cafe in Maryland called CHAT AND CHEW.  He loved the name.  There's a place near me in S.C. that's called SQUAT AND GOBBLE.  You don't have to chat there unless you really want to.

You just squat and eat.)

 

     The thing about chatting is that notices come through the computer while you are working on line that say:  "Marie wants to chat."  I'M WORKING!  And Maria knows I'm busy so why does she think I want to be interrupted to chat.

 

     The thing that really gets me is that the people on MY SPACE sound so perfect.  They are all beautiful.  They all have a great sense

of humor.  They all love to cuddle.  They all cry at sad movies.  If they are so ideal, why don't they have friends in their neighborhood? Makes you wonder.

 

     I have a friend who writes to women all over the world.  I keep telling him that anyone west of the Mississippi and across the Atlantic Ocean should be considered geographically undesirables.  But he

persists and he has a dozen Russian women begging him to send them money so they can come to America.   Scary.

 

      He doesn't send them any money.  He doesn't have any.  But he has travelled many, many miles to meet women.  And at today's

gasoline prices, you need to have honest people before you go driving off to Ohio.  He doesn't like chubby women (and that's a shortcoming

on his part)...but the woman from Ohio who sent him a picture and invited him to come visit was surely going to be overweight.  Her picture was a real close-up of her face...she looked thin.  How many

times have you heard, "She has such a pretty face" meaning the rest of her is B-I-G.  He wouldn't listen to me...drove up to see her and was surprised that she was B-I-G.  He said, "But she was a great cook."

Sure, and so is Denny.

 

 

The Whole House Was Shaking

For two days, I felt this continuous vibration.  I'm deaf so I couldn't hear anything but the house was vibrating as if we were living in a trailer on a major earthquake fault line.  Finally I went upstairs to

investigate.  My wife was in her office shredding everything in sight.  She had bought a heavy duty shredder and was systematically eliminating every evidence that we existed.

 

She claimed she was protecting us from identify theft.  But I tried to tell her if she shredded everything, we wouldn't know who we were.  She said in a couple of years we wouldn't know anyway and she wasn't so sure that I even knew now.

 

But I hated to see all the stuff shredded...she was loving the whirring sound of the shredder and she

was stuffing things into it.  She was mesmerized.

 

"Is that our marriage license you have there?" I asked.

 

She said, "Sure.  We don't need it.  We've been married more than 50 years and nobody has ever asked to see it."

 

I said, "Your Father did."

 

"He was a very suspicious man," she said, "And the license is written in German.  Nobody can

read it except Germans.  We might have registered to vote over there."

 

I tried to tell her that she might have to show the marriage license in order go get any of my goodies when I die.  But she said she planned to shred any of my goodies that would fit in the

shredder.  The woman has gone crazy!

 

She did the same thing last year with dozens of photo albums.  she ripped out pictures of our

daughters and gave them to each of the girls.  The rest she was going to throw out.  Fortunately I was able to get them away from her.  I know that in a few years I probably won't be able to remember who the people are (there are some now that I don't recognize!) but the photos are hard evidence that we had a life...and in all the pictures, we were smiling so it looks like a good

life.

 

She says people always smile when they see a camera and it doesn't mean we were having a good time just because we were smiling.  I suppose she's right.  A camera does sort of say, "Cheese".  Although prisoners don't smile when they get their pictures taken.  And my Grandmother never smiled.

 

I love the photo albums and I now have them hidden from The Grim Reaper.  I look at them and it's like a stroll down memory lane.

 

I also have a drawer full of pictures that people have sent me at Christmas time...mainly photos of their kids at various ages.  I never throw any of them away.  I may need to lock them up now that the shredder is in the house.  I think it will be a good mental exercise when I am old and in a nursing home, trying to figure out who's who.  I have a Chinese friend and I can always recognize her daughter, Gloria.  And I have pictures of her from age one until she just got ready to go to Harvard.

 

They sell a lot of shredders at Staples so my wife probably isn't the only one that's into shredding.  My wife shreds all of our junk mail.  She doesn't want anyone to know we buy

our clothes from Haband.

 

I caught her shredding a box of old love letters that I sent her years ago when I was a lonely G.I.

over in Germany.  I couldn't believe my words were being ripped apart.

 

"You're shredding my love letters?" I asked. 

 

"I've already read them," she answered.

 

"I know, but you saved them for more than 50 years, so why are you shredding them now,"

I demanded to know.

 

"I didn't have a shredder before," she said with a shrug.

 

I should have written them on unshreddable paper.

 

"Why don't you just burn them?  That would be more romantic."

 

"Bad for the environment.  Pollution, you know,."

 

I was beginning to take this personally.  "I didn't shred your love letters," I told her.

 

"You probably threw them away," she said.

 

"No.  No.  I recycled them.  I gave them to other G.I.'s who never got any mail of their own.

"I'm surprised that none of them ever wrote to you," I added.

 

I guess I should be more concerned about identity theft but the world has given me so many other things to be fearful about.  I'm afraid I'll start shaking like the shredder.  I'm not really afraid of anything and I don't want to start.

 

"I'm coming in your room next," my wife yells, "and I'm shredding all of those old newspaper

clippings you have from junior high."

 

"Those are MY clippings," I yelled back.  "They were the first things that I wrote for publication and you might need them if someone wants to write my life story later."

 

"You were the editor of the junior high newspaper," she said.  "And that's the only reason they

got published."

 

She's right about that.  But what's the point of being editor if you can't publish your own stuff?

 

 

TIME TO MAKE YOUR RESOLUTIONS

I am very good about making New Year's Resolutions.  I'm just not worth a darn in keeping any of them.

 

Five years ago I decided to simplify my resolutions.  But the list down from 43 or so to just 5 good ones.  I had way too many.  I wanted to pick 5 that were really worthwhile.

 

Here it is five years later and I have the same resolutions.  Each year I just scratch out the date at the top of the page and insert a new date.  2008 coming up!

 

My number one resolution is always to lose weight.  I don't put how many pounds I want to lose.  But it's a lot.  A friend told me I was so fat it was like carrying an overweight housewife around all day.  Along with her Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Those things weigh a ton.  I keep gaining weight every year but I think it's the woman that's gaining the weight.  It's no wonder I move slowly.  It wouldn't be so bad if she would vacuum once in a while while I waddle around.

 

My number two resolution is always to clean my office and get organized.  I don't really care about this one.  I just put it on the list mainly for my wife.  She thinks I need to get organized.  She's afraid I am going to die and she will have to deal with all the stuff.  Personally I think being organized is highly overrated.  You file stuff away and you have no idea what you have or where you put it.  Last year I hit upon the idea of putting everything in stacks and putting the stacks behind me so they are out of sight.  This way I feel organized.  Out of sight; organized.  I used to have an assistant and she filed all my stuff.  Or so I thought.  She put it in file drawers chronologically.  When I would ask her for a certain thing she would always ask me, "When was that Mr. Adams?"  And then she would start searching.

 

One of my other resolutions is to read one good book a month.  I've since scratched out "a month" and also the word "good".  That should make it easier.

 

My goal to get healthy is giving me a lot of trouble.  I've had cancer surgery, six eye operations, and a stroke which I have been recovering from for the past five months.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm not whining.  I know that doo-doo happens.  And I was brought up to accept things as God's will.  But I am beginning to wonder, WHY ME? 

 

What I really want to do this year is WAIL.  I want to build a Wailing Wall out back.  I admire those old middle eastern women who are out wailing their lungs out.  They are not crying.  They are wailing.  And I think it's probably very therapeutic.  I've tried it a few times.  It always makes the dog bark and my wife yells, "Stop that wailing you crazy old man."  But so be it.  I plan to wail if my newspaper gets wet.  I'll wail when I misplace my keys.  WAIL, WAIL, WAIL.  I may let my neighbors come over and wail at the Wailing Wall.  We might have to have certain hours for

wailing so we don't become a public nuisance.

 

I've joined a gym and I have a personal trainer now.  This is part of my quest to get healthy and fit. I almost didn't join because they had a 5-page questionnaire you had to complete.  One question was: have you ever been on a diet?  I said: Yes.  Then they asked: Did you lose weight?  I said: Yes.  They wanted to know how much weight I lost.  I said: 3 pounds.  They asked: How long were you on a diet?  I said: 32 Years.  Which is the truth.

 

My trainer is a cute woman so I will probably continue to go.  My therapist before this was a guy who looked like a chipmunk.  He was a drum major in school and wore a kilt.  He wouldn't tell me whether he wore underwear or not.  But I'm sure he did.  He wouldn't be a high-stepping drum major without his drawers on. 

 

At the gym they have big colorful rubber balls in the back.  People use them to exercise.  I thought they were training seals.  When I found out that people lay across these balls and do various exercises, I told her flat out that I wasn't getting on a ball.  And I want to take this opportunity to say publicly to the person who invented these balls for exercise: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.  Whatever happened to touching your toes?

 

 

I JOINED A GYM THIS MONTH TO AVOID THE RUSH

I decided to avoid the January rush and join a gym in December.  Nobody joins a gym in December with the Christmas table laden with goodies.  But recently I saw a boxing match on TV and when they showed the fighters' statistics, one weighed 140 pounds and one weighed 142 pounds.  I thought to myself, "Jez.  I'm so fat it's like carrying a full grown boxer around with me all the time. No wonder  I move so slowly.  Or like carrying a full grown housewife.  And her Kirby vacuum cleaner."  That thought was all the incentive I needed.

 

I'm in Phase VI of recovering from a stroke back in July.  I not only joined the gym, but I got a Personal Trainer named Amanda.  She's cute.  Mainly she giggles as she leads me from one

torture chamber to another.

 

I got the distinct impression that the gym works much like used car lots...they assign cute young

women to sell to old fat guys.  And they assign male hunks to sell the women who come in.  But that's o.k.  I don't mind  having some Eye Candy while I work out (which is a euphemism since I have not yet sweated).  Amanda has a sweat shirt that says FIT HAPPENS.  She bounces around so much I was sure she had been a cheerleader in college.  I asked and she

was.  I asked her to do the splits and prove it.  But she did a cartwheel or two instead.  That proves it in my book.  I often wondered what happens to cheerleaders once they grow up.  I

think a lot of them peak early although they were always highly prized Date Bait when they were active. 

 

Before you can get on a machine at the gym (which in itself requires a  lot of dexterity), you have to fill out a 5 page questionnaire.  Health things and personal questions.  One was: Have

you ever been on a diet?  I answered: Yes.  Another question was: How much weight did you lose?  I answered: Two pounds.  Another question was: How long were you on the diet?  I answered: 32 years.

 

Then you have to sign a complex 5 pager legal document promising that you will not attempt

to sue the gym in the event that something terrible happens to you.  I wouldn't sue them.  All

they have are a bunch of exercise machines.

 

This gym is rather sedate.  At the moment.  the place is scheduled to expand into one of those

Disco-type gyms...the ones at which half-naked people go to meet other half-naked people amid loud music and flashing lights.  I don't think my membership allows me to go on the Disco side.  I know my heart wouldn't allow it.

 

Right now there are more women than men.  I guess they care more about their appearance.  But they are Old Chicks and mostly very skinny.

 

One lady rides a stationary bike next to me.  If it were a real bike she would be in Santa Fe by

now.  But she doesn't go anywhere.  She watches TV news as she pedals that sucker.  Next

to her is another woman who rides the bike and is reading a Stephen King novel which takes longer than pedaling to Santa Fe.  I don't know how she can read and ride.

 

Another personal trainer was working with his client (that's what they call us...clients, not

customers...not even members).  He had her on a table and had twisted her legs around so

much she looked like a human pretzel.  Without salt.

 

(This is an aside so I will put it in parenthesis.  But I have a certificate as a Certified Pretzel

Maker.  I got it  in Pennsylvania years ago where they have a Pretzel Making School.  You laugh,  but it's a lot more difficult to make a pretzel than it looks.  You don't lay them flat and

twist them.  You roll them out like a worm...pick up the two ends...and you flip/twist while they

are in the air...and if you are lucky, they turn into a pretzel.  This is all done in one move. My graduation certificate remains one of my proudest accomplishments and I hope my family remembers to include this in my obituary.  I think I should probably write my own obit now because I feel as if the family might have forgotten some other good stuff.  People do write their obits ahead of time and some file them with the NEW YORK TIMES.  My lawyer said he would die if he doesn't get a big piece in the NEW YORK TIMES so he updates his obit every year and files it along with a photo from his college yearbook.  He's now 87 years old, but he's still

using his college yearbook picture.  So much for obits.  Except for the fact that long ago, newspapers used to run them on the front page of the newspapers.  This was before they really had any Hard News.)

 

They have clocks all over the gym...and time does not pass quickly when you are grunting and groaning.  I may be the only person who grunts aloud.   I'm deaf and I can't hear when I groan.

But apparently I am scaring some of the other "clients". But other clients are scaring me.  In

the backroom they have about a dozen big, big rubber balls in bright colors. I thought they were

training seals back there. But, no!  They make clients get on these balls...stretch across them

to do exercise routines.  I told the trainer right off that I was not getting on a ball.  First of all, it

might explode and wouldn't that be embarrassing?  She claimed they would hold 500 pounds but you never know and I'm not taking any chances.  She tried to play Dodge Ball with me but I could not dodge a ball that holds 500 pounds.

 

In the new gym we will have changing rooms.  I think I am past my getting naked even in front

of a bunch of other men.  I think I might fit in better on the women's side, even with my beard.

 

We have a snack bar in the current gym.  Well right now it's more like a candy store.  They have all kinds of candy bars that all have the word POWER as part of the name. And drinks

that are called POWER AIDE.  I guess power is what we all are looking for.  I know I am, and I always want to start my routine in the candy store.

 

In the new gym, we will have a Karaoke Juice Bar where we can sing and meet people.  I can't

wait.  But I'm not drinking carrot juice, even on a bet.   I'm not that desperate to meet people.

 

I AM A PRINCE. I'M PRETTY SURE OF IT.

My birth certificate says I was born in the Gastonia hospital.  It doesn't say anything about my royal personage.  But, of course, how would they know?  I mean, Royals aren't born with a silver crown in their mouths.  It has to do with your blood line. My guess is that I came from a line of Royal Gypsies, perhaps The Count of Gastonia in Transylvania, who lost his right to move up to kingdom on the Royal Ladder of Gypsy Heritage.That's just a guess.  Sure, you might laugh at me and wonder how I ever got sired by the Count of Gastonia.  Gypsies travel you know and it's a well documented fact that the Count of Gastonia came through here in 1935 via a Trailways Bus.  He got off here because the town was amazingly named after him.  He was traveling incognito at the time as gypsies often do.  Apparently he was a sperm donor at a local clinic.  It's the only way we can explain it because my Mother claims she would never have taken up (in the Biblical sense of the word) with a gypsy who was just passing through, even if swore on a goat that he was royal.  My feeling is that there might be a whole string of Royals living among us because the Count of Gastonia supported himself by being a sperm donor in the various places he travelled. Do you feel royal?  You may be a

Prince or a Princess, and chances are good that you are not being treated like one.  You've got to stand up for your rights!

 

     I felt  royal from the very beginning of life.  When I was born everybody was so elated because my Mother previously had six miscarriages before she finally had a healthy me.

Also, three of her sisters and my grandmother lived with us and they all adored me and made over me as if I were a little Prince.

 

     I was spoiled rotten. My wife says, "They didn't do you any favors", meaning she doesn't

intend to treat me like a prince.  If this were the olden days I would probably remind of of what happened to Marie Antoinette.  It was a wicked way for Louie to get her to shut up, but it worked. When you are King you can have the Royal Ax brought out on a moment's  notice.

It's also not sinful if you are King.  It's one of your many perks.  I'm not sure that this right applies to Gypsy Royalty however.

 

     I was treated royally for the first five years of my life.  But then I had to start school and

Miss Abernathy, my first grade teacher at Victory School, had never had a Royal in her class.

And without a crown or proof of some kind, I was just another snotty nosed mill kid.

 

     Later in life when my third daughter was born, we had a sure sign of royal heritage appear.  She was born with two thumbs on one hand..and everyone knows --- well, every gypsy knows --- this is a sure sign of royal blood.  Plus it makes thumbing a ride much easier when you grow up.

 

     Actually the double thumbs has been showing up every other generation on my Mother's side of the family.  My Mother had double thumbs.  She also did not have hair under her arms

and neither does Queen Elizabeth, so I am told.

 

     We had my daughter's extra thumb surgically removed  so she would not be self conscious and because my wife did not think it was a royal appendage.  When my daughter started kindergarten, she came home the first day in tears.  Apparently, on the bus to school, my two

older daughters told everyone about the double thumbs and they called my little darling a freak.

Everyone wanted to see it.

 

      I took her out on the back porch to console her and I told her that I was going to tell her a

secret and she had to pledge never to tell anyone else.  I explained  to her that in another time

and place, the double thumbs would have signified she was a sign of royalty and she would have been a Princess. Or maybe even the Queen.  She perked up at this revelation and got

a royal look as if she were sitting on a throne .  I warned her not to tell others because they would be jealous.

 

      I watched when she got on the school bus the next morning.  She ran through the bus with her crooked thumb held high yelling, "I am a Princess.,  I am a Princess.  Get off my bus!"

 

     So much for family secrets.  I still treat her like a Princess and she's now 37 years old.  She doesn't wear the crown I got her.  She says it falls off so easily when she has to vacuum.  I don't think other Royals do their own cleaning.  I can't imagine Queen Elizabeth with a vacuum.

Although she may have a Dirt Devil in her room to suck up cigarette ashes when she smokes.

I also can't imagine Queen Elizabeth going to the bathroom.  Or having sex ever.  It would be

easier imagining her with a vacuum.