Thoughts While in the Starbucks Drive Thru

I am beginning to believe there is no such thing as a happy medium. No, I'm not talking about some happy nut case that claims to talk to famous dead people. Really, what's up with that anyway? Why do they claim to talk to famous people? If you want to convince me that you actually talk to dead folks then maybe you should talk to some dead guy who lived his life between a river cabin and a trailer park drinking like a fish and smoking like a coal fired power plant until one day dying from a massive myocardial infarction (I just reached my goal for placing the word infarction into a sentence) I would use the giddy grande (medium at Starbucks) to ask the dead dude if the excess was worth it.

Nope, the happy medium I am talking about is in the service we get each and every day. I long for the day where I can go into any store and get civil service. I go to one store, fast food joint or whatever and the person behind the counter barely looks up to acknowledge that I am there. Or, this is my favorite, they do look at me, but in a way that makes me feel like I just interrupted some deep thought that would have changed the world but will now forever be forgotten because they suffer from ADD and can't think past the last five seconds. Pardon me for thinking that your actual job description includes scanning my items and taking my money, a portion of which makes it into your wallet.

Sometimes I am such an imposition.

I guess I would be happy with consistency. If everywhere I went I got consistently bad service, I would be able to accept that. I would even throw in with attitude and a can of corn at the clerks head. Okay, I wouldn't really throw the can of corn, a loaf of bread maybe, but not corn.

So I am in the drive thru at Starbucks. I pulled up to the speaker and get ready to order.

“Good evening. And how are you tonight?” says the singsong voice in the speaker.

I am thrown off by the slightly effeminate voice and before I can come up with something witty to say back I reply, “I am doing well. How are you tonight?”

Singsong says, “I am doing well, thanks for asking. How may I help you tonight?”

Before I go any further I want to say that at this point in this man love conversation I want to say something like, “My feet hurt, can you rub them? That would really be a big help,” Instead I order a Venti Pike's Place.

I get to the window, pay for my coffee...more pleasantries..ignore the tip box and leave with hot coffee in cup holder.

That bit of uncomfortable human interaction really bothered me. I don't know what that says about me. Hmm, on second thought, yes I do. What bothered me was that the guy didn't seem genuine. The clerk at the grocery store is genuine. They genuinely don't want to be there and it shows. The barista, or is that barister, was obviously following a sales technique that some out of touch Starbucks executive thinks will sell more coffee. Do you know what sells more coffee? Addiction...

I think that the happy medium that I long for would be a real interaction between two people. When I order a coffee, buy corn or talk to a real live person in India pretending to be in Newark I want small talk. I want to do what I set out to do and not feel the biting glare of contempt, or feel creeped out. I want service, nothing more, nothing less. That would be a refreshing, happy medium

Thoughts While in the Starbucks Drive Thru

I am beginning to believe there is no such thing as a happy medium. No, I'm not talking about some happy nut case that claims to talk to famous dead people. Really, what's up with that anyway? Why do they claim to talk to famous people? If you want to convince me that you actually talk to dead folks then maybe you should talk to some dead guy who lived his life between a river cabin and a trailer park drinking like a fish and smoking like a coal fired power plant until one day dying from a massive myocardial infarction (I just reached my goal for placing the word infarction into a sentence) I would use the giddy grande (medium at Starbucks) to ask the dead dude if the excess was worth it.

Nope, the happy medium I am talking about is in the service we get each and every day. I long for the day where I can go into any store and get civil service. I go to one store, fast food joint or whatever and the person behind the counter barely looks up to acknowledge that I am there. Or, this is my favorite, they do look at me, but in a way that makes me feel like I just interrupted some deep thought that would have changed the world but will now forever be forgotten because they suffer from ADD and can't think past the last five seconds. Pardon me for thinking that your actual job description includes scanning my items and taking my money, a portion of which makes it into your wallet.

Sometimes I am such an imposition.

I guess I would be happy with consistency. If everywhere I went I got consistently bad service, I would be able to accept that. I would even throw in with attitude and a can of corn at the clerks head. Okay, I wouldn't really throw the can of corn, a loaf of bread maybe, but not corn.

So I am in the drive thru at Starbucks. I pulled up to the speaker and get ready to order.

“Good evening. And how are you tonight?” says the singsong voice in the speaker.

I am thrown off by the slightly effeminate voice and before I can come up with something witty to say back I reply, “I am doing well. How are you tonight?”

Singsong says, “I am doing well, thanks for asking. How may I help you tonight?”

Before I go any further I want to say that at this point in this man love conversation I want to say something like, “My feet hurt, can you rub them? That would really be a big help,” Instead I order a Venti Pike's Place.

I get to the window, pay for my coffee...more pleasantries..ignore the tip box and leave with hot coffee in cup holder.

That bit of uncomfortable human interaction really bothered me. I don't know what that says about me. Hmm, on second thought, yes I do. What bothered me was that the guy didn't seem genuine. The clerk at the grocery store is genuine. They genuinely don't want to be there and it shows. The barista, or is that barister, was obviously following a sales technique that some out of touch Starbucks executive thinks will sell more coffee. Do you know what sells more coffee? Addiction...

I think that the happy medium that I long for would be a real interaction between two people. When I order a coffee, buy corn or talk to a real live person in India pretending to be in Newark I want small talk. I want to do what I set out to do and not feel the biting glare of contempt, or feel creeped out. I want service, nothing more, nothing less. That would be a refreshing, happy medium

Thoughts While in the Chip Aisle

You can't teach an old dog new tricks nor can you trick him with slick marketing.

My wife says that I was old and set in my ways before my time. I say I know what I like so why change it.

I became aware of this many years ago when juice companies started blending juices together. As I look back however, I can see the first rumblings of curmudgeonry when Coke came out with New Coke. My question whenever a company tries something new with something that has worked well for all these years is: WHY?

Of course the question is rhetorical. I know that the real reason they change things up is to boost sales of the same product by changing it slightly because really, the only reason a company is in business is to make mo money, mo money, mo money. Current business models don't allow for the board of directors to be content with what they have; which is a consistent cash flow.

If you ask me they waste more money on advertising the new products instead of relying on the brand name that has been trusted for decades. Most, if not all companies, do this. However, for sake of time I will use Doritos as an example. It always amazes me just how big supermarkets have become. Our local bodega of sundries actually has an aisle that is close to 150 feet long with one side devoted to nothing but chips. They have potato chips ruffled, flat, bbq, sour cream and onion, salt and vinegar. Oh and then there are pretzels honey mustard, regular salty, low salt. But what caught my eye the other day were the Doritos.

Now Doritos have been around for roughly 45 years. For the longest time the only flavor I remember was the nacho cheese flavor. Cool ranch came along later on, but that was fine because they didn't delve into anything else and still made money. Good for them. What I noticed this time was that there are like a bazillion new Doritos flavors!

I am a simple man. I like things to stay simple. If something ain't broke, don't fix it. What I saw that day sent my head spinning like Linda Blair's in the Exorcist. There they were, right next to the nacho cheese and cool ranch, cheeseburger and taco flavored Doritos! I get the connection, sort of, with the taco flavor. I am at a loss when it comes to cheeseburger flavored corn triangles. I am pretty sure that if I had a hankering for a cheeseburger then I wouldn't be reaching for a bag of cheeseburger flavored Doritos. I do admit that I have tasted these chips after they somehow made their way into my home. I will give them credit for making them taste like a cheeseburger. Although the thought of how they do it scares me. I am not alone in saying I wont buy them. They will fall by the wayside and something new like fish taco flavor or something equally disgusting will take it's place.

Am I living in a dream world, or am I right in saying that I remember life being a little more black and white? We used to get just apple juice, actors were actors, not people we looked to for sage advice. Guys were guys, and girls were girls. People talked to each other face to face. The English language wasn't yet reduced to a bunch of acronyms and emoticons. The other day my daughter had to leave the room and actually said, “BRB,” as she left. Really, as I get older will I be able to communicate with anyone?

When I think about it I guess I don't mind too much that things are changing and being mixed together. I just wish it were a little bit easier to find my apple juice. For the sake of texting space I don't mind the acronimical use of language, even when it causes me to reply, “huh? wdym(what do you mean)” I just want to have a conversation once in a while. As for Doritos, I will stick with nacho cheese.

Thoughts While in the Chip Aisle

You can't teach an old dog new tricks nor can you trick him with slick marketing.

My wife says that I was old and set in my ways before my time. I say I know what I like so why change it.

I became aware of this many years ago when juice companies started blending juices together. As I look back however, I can see the first rumblings of curmudgeonry when Coke came out with New Coke. My question, whenever a company tries something new with something that has worked well for all these years is: WHY?

Of course the question is rhetorical. I know that the real reason they change things up is to boost sales of the same product by changing it slightly because really, the only reason a company is in business is to make mo money, mo money, mo money. Current business models don't allow for the board of directors to be content with what they have -- which is a consistent cash flow.

If you ask me, they waste more money on advertising the new products instead of relying on the brand name that has been trusted for decades. Most, if not all companies, do this. However, for sake of time I will use Doritos as an example. It always amazes me just how big supermarkets have become. Our local bodega of sundries actually has an aisle that is close to 150 feet long with one side devoted to nothing but chips. They have potato chips ruffled, flat, bbq, sour cream and onion, salt and vinegar. Oh and then there are pretzels honey mustard, regular salty, low salt. But what caught my eye the other day were the Doritos.

Now Doritos have been around for roughly 45 years. For the longest time the only flavor I remember was the nacho cheese flavor. Cool ranch came along later on, but that was fine because they didn't delve into anything else and still made money. Good for them. What I noticed this time was that there are like a bazillion new Doritos flavors!

I am a simple man. I like things to stay simple. If something ain't broke, don't fix it. What I saw that day sent my head spinning like Linda Blair's in the Exorcist. There they were, right next to the nacho cheese and cool ranch, a big bag of cheeseburger and taco flavored Doritos!

 I get the connection, sort of, with the taco flavor. I am at a loss when it comes to cheeseburger flavored corn triangles. I am pretty sure that if I had a hankering for a cheeseburger then I wouldn't be reaching for a bag of cheeseburger flavored Doritos. I do admit that I have tasted these chips after they somehow made their way into my home. I will give them credit for making them taste like a cheeseburger. Although the thought of how they do it scares me. I am not alone in saying I wont buy them. They will fall by the wayside and something new like fish taco flavor or something equally disgusting will take it's place.

Am I living in a dream world, or am I right in saying that I remember life being a little more black and white? We used to get just apple juice, actors were actors, not people we looked to for sage advice. Guys were guys, and girls were girls. People talked to each other face to face. The English language wasn't yet reduced to a bunch of acronyms and emoticons. The other day my daughter had to leave the room and actually said, “BRB,” as she left. Really, as I get older will I be able to communicate with anyone?

When I think about it I guess I don't mind too much that things are changing and being mixed together. I just wish it were a little bit easier to find my apple juice.

For the sake of texting space I don't mind the acronimical use of language, even when it causes me to reply, “huh? wdym(what do you mean)” I just want to have a conversation once in a while. As for Doritos, I will stick with nacho cheese.

Death of a Rat Fink

The crowd formed around the near lifeless body.

“Wow, how do you think he got here?” asked one guy.

“I dunno, I saw a couple of guys in the alley.” said another.

“Homeless guys. I've seen them before. They stand on the median holding signs saying they are homeless vets, but they don't like animals. Saw one kick a dog the other day,” said one guy amid stares of disbelief.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I thought vets took a hypocritical oath or something.”

“No, I meant are you seriously that stupid?” Some in the crowd chuckled. So did the guy laying in the street. It was mistaken for a moan of pain. They say laughter is the best medicine, but it wasn't helping this guy.

The crowd was growing. Some pointed. Many turned their heads away at first look, but quickly turned back as if the guy was going to suddenly disappear. The man on the ground managed to get out a faint, “Help,” but it was drowned out by the speculative conversation.

“What should we do?”

“Anybody know CPR?”

“He doesn't need CPR. He needs a doctor.”

“Anybody know the number for 911?” The crowd shifted their eyes from the dying man to the genius. There was a momentary silence, as the soon to be dead man whispered, “911..”

As quick as eyes were initially diverted from the dying man the crowd returned to their talking, only now the conversations had nothing to do with the man on the ground.

“I got it on the Plaza.”

“And then she said....”

“ I think it's going to rain..”

“My grandma was a nun..”

And so on....

The two homeless vets walked up to the crowd. They were talking to each other.
“He had it coming to him. Sorry to see him go like this.”

“Yeah, I wish it could have been different.”

“He was a rat fink. You just can't do that and expect nothing to happen.”

“I know, just wish it could've been different.”

Sirens were heard in the distance. Apparently genius, after getting the number to 911, called it. It was too late. During all the banal conversation the guy died, right there in the middle of the street.

The paramedics arrived, checked the guy over, lifted the lifeless body on the stretcher, and loaded him into the ambulance. The two homeless vets ducked back into the alley. The crowd disbursed as the ambulance left the scene, and life on that street went back to normal.

Death of a Rat Fink

The crowd formed around the near lifeless body.

“Wow, how do you think he got here?” asked one guy.

“I dunno, I saw a couple of guys in the alley.” said another.

“Homeless guys. I've seen them before. They stand on the median holding signs saying they are homeless vets, but they don't like animals. Saw one kick a dog the other day,” said one guy amid stares of disbelief.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I thought vets took a hypocritical oath or something.”

“No, I meant are you seriously that stupid?” Some in the crowd chuckled. So did the guy laying in the street. It was mistaken for a moan of pain. They say laughter is the best medicine, but it wasn't helping this guy.

The crowd was growing. Some pointed. Many turned their heads away at first look, but quickly turned back as if the guy was going to suddenly disappear. The man on the ground managed to get out a faint, “Help,” but it was drowned out by the speculative conversation.

“What should we do?”

“Anybody know CPR?”

“He doesn't need CPR. He needs a doctor.”

“Anybody know the number for 911?” The crowd shifted their eyes from the dying man to the genius. There was a momentary silence, as the soon to be dead man whispered, “911..”

As quick as eyes were initially diverted from the dying man the crowd returned to their talking, only now the conversations had nothing to do with the man on the ground.

“I got it on the Plaza.”

“And then she said....”

“ I think it's going to rain..”

“My grandma was a nun..”

And so on....

The two homeless vets walked up to the crowd. They were talking to each other.
“He had it coming to him. Sorry to see him go like this.”

“Yeah, I wish it could have been different.”

“He was a rat fink. You just can't do that and expect nothing to happen.”

“I know, just wish it could've been different.”

Sirens were heard in the distance. Apparently genius, after getting the number to 911, called it. It was too late. During all the banal conversation the guy died, right there in the middle of the street.

The paramedics arrived, checked the guy over, lifted the lifeless body on the stretcher, and loaded him into the ambulance. The two homeless vets ducked back into the alley. The crowd disbursed as the ambulance left the scene, and life on that street went back to normal.

I'm a Crank....

As I get older I feel as if I am becoming a crank. Maybe it's my patience level going lower, maybe it's the attitude of those in the service industry, or a combination of both.

Is it too much to ask for a little eye contact and, uh say, conversation when I am handing over my money at the check out counter. I may be better off asking for change on the corner. Nope, what I get is someone with more attitude than most divas. My favorite is happy saggy britches with his poo stained boxers showing talking on his cell phone while ringing up my groceries. That guy should get the employee of the month award for excellent customer service.

Ok...It's official, I am a crank.

So the other day I pulled into a small gas station with my large truck. Being a large truck it has a unique cloaking ability. Apparently my parking where I did, filling up my truck (lots of fuel by the way) had blocked the view of the clerk. After I filled up my truck I went inside to get a drink, an action that involved spending yet more money. As I got to the counter the clerk didn't say hi. Nope, she didn't welcome me, not even a “how may I help you?”. What I got was, “The next time you come here don't park there. I can't see the other pumps.”

Ok, so my truck is too big. You can't see the pumps I get that. What would that matter in the land of pre pay pumps? I just spent over $70.00 in gas and way too much for a Gatorade. No, “thank you come again”. Instead I get attitude for parking my truck in your view of the pumps.

That gas station, along with the grocery store down the street, and every other store within a 10 mile radius has made the list of stores boycotted.

I know that I may not make a dent in their revenue. I don't really care. No, if I stay within my shallow pool I can fool myself into feeling as if I am.

I may be becoming a crank......

I'm a Crank....

As I get older I feel as if I am becoming a crank. Maybe it's my patience level going lower, maybe it's the attitude of those in the service industry, or a combination of both.

Is it too much to ask for a little eye contact and, uh say, conversation when I am handing over my money at the check out counter. I may be better off asking for change on the corner. Nope, what I get is someone with more attitude than most divas. My favorite is happy saggy britches with his poo stained boxers showing talking on his cell phone while ringing up my groceries. That guy should get the employee of the month award for excellent customer service.

Ok...It's official, I am a crank.

So the other day I pulled into a small gas station with my large truck. Being a large truck it has a unique cloaking ability. Apparently my parking where I did, filling up my truck (lots of fuel by the way) had blocked the view of the clerk. After I filled up my truck I went inside to get a drink, an action that involved spending yet more money. As I got to the counter the clerk didn't say hi. Nope, she didn't welcome me, not even a “how may I help you?”. What I got was, “The next time you come here don't park there. I can't see the other pumps.”

Ok, so my truck is too big. You can't see the pumps I get that. What would that matter in the land of pre pay pumps? I just spent over $70.00 in gas and way too much for a Gatorade. No, “thank you come again”. Instead I get attitude for parking my truck in your view of the pumps.

That gas station, along with the grocery store down the street, and every other store within a 10 mile radius has made the list of stores boycotted.

I know that I may not make a dent in their revenue. I don't really care. No, if I stay within my shallow pool I can fool myself into feeling as if I am.

I may be becoming a crank......

Re: Post

The following is a repost of an old post, hence the name repost.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

We moved to California when I was eight. My mom said it was to be closer to my dad who had moved there with his new family. I wanted to think she missed my dad, and was going there to get him back. Before that we were living in Des Moines Iowa.

I liked Des Moines. It had all that I had known to that point in my life.

I liked California also. I still do. I’m not too sure about Des Moines though.

We had visited my dad earlier that year. I did a lot that year. I flew in a jet for the first time in my life (something that I still get excited about). I went to Disneyland. This was when they still had ticketed rides, I had a few left over and saved them in a shoe box of important stuff (stuff that is important to eight year old boys). My brother, Andy and I rode our wagon down a 16% grade hill (at least it looked that steep), and survived! I also got to ride in the back of a red 74 Volkswagen Bug. I think it took us four days to get from Des Moines to Orange County, California. It was a fun ride for us kids. It was fun for our Siamese cat, at least he didn’t seem to mind it. I don’t think it was fun for my mom. I don’t know why?

When we got there we had no place to live. We stayed in a motel for two weeks while my mom looked for a place. What little stuff we had moved, was sitting in the moving company storage. Mom found a place in Stanton. The first night there we slept on the floor. On the next day, our furniture was delivered. Andy and I were disappointed to see that the guys delivering our stuff were different than the guys that loaded it in Des Moines. It wasn’t that we had become attached to them, or anything like that. We just wanted to see the fat guy with the plumber’s crack. At that age seeing a fat man’s butt crack peek out from his belt line is funny.

Come to think of it, at forty, it still is. I think I’ll call Andy and see if he still thinks it’s funny.

Somehow, I did not notice that my mom had sold our beds in Des Moines. We slept on the floor for about a year. Then we got mats.

We were camping. At least that is what my mom would tell us when we got discouraged, which wasn’t often. Discouragement usually came after visiting our friend’s, and seeing their bedrooms full of all sorts of stuff, including a bed.

One friend, Patrick, had a stool in his room that was made from a elephant foot. For one brief moment I wanted that stool instead of a bed.

Life seemed a lot simpler back then, and it was. We didn’t have much. We didn’t expect much. We had a few channels to chose from, so sitting around, watching TV was not that fun. We spent most of our time outside. We would run around our neighborhood, looking for things to do. Sometimes we would play baseball, ride bikes and skateboard. Sometimes we would throw dirt clods at each other. Sometimes we would go over to Eck’s house. Eck was around eighty. His face was full of deep lines, gray stubble and chewing tobacco spittle. Eck was a good guy. We would do things that I know had to aggravate him, but he never let on. The only time that he would raise his voice was when one of us would reach down to pick up one of the many discarded chewing tobacco plugs. I guess we thought that they were dark dirt clods.

It seems that life for kids is much harder. I remember that our parents used to say that things were easier for us when we were growing up. They were right. Kids are too serious now. I had to take the Gameboy from my kids because of the intense moods the games would create. Little kids are not supposed to have high blood pressure. I overheard other kids talking about designer clothes and the latest gadget they are going to get. I am constantly shocked when Chas and I try to buy clothes for our daughter. What ever happened to cute little outfits that covered the entire body? My nine year old does not need to expose her midriff to be cool. I just want my little girl to be a little girl.

The next time you go out to a mall or store, pay attention to the conversations between parents and children. Kids are not settling for second best or nothing. Advertisers know this too. They target the minds of kids. As a result, parents will give in just to quiet their screaming kids.

We recently got rid of cable, limited the video game play and started making the kids play outside. I look out the window to check on them. I noticed that they were using things that they found around the neighborhood to play with. Mostly sticks and rocks, but they were playing. Sticks and rocks are cheap.

I wonder if I can get away with selling their beds?

Peace and God Bless,

Chuck

Re: Post

The following is a repost of an old post, hence the name repost.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

We moved to California when I was eight. My mom said it was to be closer to my dad who had moved there with his new family. I wanted to think she missed my dad, and was going there to get him back. Before that we were living in Des Moines Iowa.

I liked Des Moines. It had all that I had known to that point in my life.

I liked California also. I still do. I’m not too sure about Des Moines though.

We had visited my dad earlier that year. I did a lot that year. I flew in a jet for the first time in my life (something that I still get excited about). I went to Disneyland. This was when they still had ticketed rides, I had a few left over and saved them in a shoe box of important stuff (stuff that is important to eight year old boys). My brother, Andy and I rode our wagon down a 16% grade hill (at least it looked that steep), and survived! I also got to ride in the back of a red 74 Volkswagen Bug. I think it took us four days to get from Des Moines to Orange County, California. It was a fun ride for us kids. It was fun for our Siamese cat, at least he didn’t seem to mind it. I don’t think it was fun for my mom. I don’t know why?

When we got there we had no place to live. We stayed in a motel for two weeks while my mom looked for a place. What little stuff we had moved, was sitting in the moving company storage. Mom found a place in Stanton. The first night there we slept on the floor. On the next day, our furniture was delivered. Andy and I were disappointed to see that the guys delivering our stuff were different than the guys that loaded it in Des Moines. It wasn’t that we had become attached to them, or anything like that. We just wanted to see the fat guy with the plumber’s crack. At that age seeing a fat man’s butt crack peek out from his belt line is funny.

Come to think of it, at forty, it still is. I think I’ll call Andy and see if he still thinks it’s funny.

Somehow, I did not notice that my mom had sold our beds in Des Moines. We slept on the floor for about a year. Then we got mats.

We were camping. At least that is what my mom would tell us when we got discouraged, which wasn’t often. Discouragement usually came after visiting our friend’s, and seeing their bedrooms full of all sorts of stuff, including a bed.

One friend, Patrick, had a stool in his room that was made from a elephant foot. For one brief moment I wanted that stool instead of a bed.

Life seemed a lot simpler back then, and it was. We didn’t have much. We didn’t expect much. We had a few channels to chose from, so sitting around, watching TV was not that fun. We spent most of our time outside. We would run around our neighborhood, looking for things to do. Sometimes we would play baseball, ride bikes and skateboard. Sometimes we would throw dirt clods at each other. Sometimes we would go over to Eck’s house. Eck was around eighty. His face was full of deep lines, gray stubble and chewing tobacco spittle. Eck was a good guy. We would do things that I know had to aggravate him, but he never let on. The only time that he would raise his voice was when one of us would reach down to pick up one of the many discarded chewing tobacco plugs. I guess we thought that they were dark dirt clods.

It seems that life for kids is much harder. I remember that our parents used to say that things were easier for us when we were growing up. They were right. Kids are too serious now. I had to take the Gameboy from my kids because of the intense moods the games would create. Little kids are not supposed to have high blood pressure. I overheard other kids talking about designer clothes and the latest gadget they are going to get. I am constantly shocked when Chas and I try to buy clothes for our daughter. What ever happened to cute little outfits that covered the entire body? My nine year old does not need to expose her midriff to be cool. I just want my little girl to be a little girl.

The next time you go out to a mall or store, pay attention to the conversations between parents and children. Kids are not settling for second best or nothing. Advertisers know this too. They target the minds of kids. As a result, parents will give in just to quiet their screaming kids.

We recently got rid of cable, limited the video game play and started making the kids play outside. I look out the window to check on them. I noticed that they were using things that they found around the neighborhood to play with. Mostly sticks and rocks, but they were playing. Sticks and rocks are cheap.

I wonder if I can get away with selling their beds?

Peace and God Bless,

Chuck