Finding Out What It Means to Me

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

It happens all the time. One of our kids will be complaining about being paired with a certain classmate to work together on a project and they either don’t like them outright or feel as though they don’t click with them. So I go to my work analogy, which both our son Ethan and daughter Sasha know by heart – to the point where they greet it with eye rolling. But that doesn’t deter me from reminding them that their whole professional world will consist of countless people who you might not become friends with but need to find ways to work together. And in some cases, come to greatly respect, regardless of whether they become your friend.

A former colleague of mine who fits this bill is very much on my brain. For the past few years, he’s literally been in the fight of his life after being diagnosed with a rare, aggressive cancer. Recently he and his family have learned there are no further treatment options to pursue and they’re facing the uncertain future with more courage, dignity and true grace than any of you can imagine.

I’m not going to use my colleague’s name. Many of you reading this post likely know him. Many of you don’t and it won’t matter. What I want to use this figurative space for is to remind you how important it is to respect our professional peers. I know, I know. It’s not business. It’s personal. But it’s personal as well. And we both know it.

This particular colleague and I last worked together at an advertising agency nearly 10 years ago. We were a few years apart in age and at similar life stations. But we never really became friends outside of work. I never tried and he never tried. That’s just how it was.

For most of our time together we didn’t work on the same clients but when we did, I was beyond impressed with his leadership and client service skills. I believe the hardest part of any job is dealing with difficult people, especially when they’re clients. And I watched him navigate these relationships in a way that kept his integrity, his team’s morale and, most importantly, the business, intact.

This former colleague of mine left the agency  a year or so after me and has remained active on social media, so,like many instances today, I feel as though he’s been more a part of my life even if I haven’t regularly physically seen him.  And it’s during these intervening years that my respect for him has grown exponentially.

This former colleague has different political and social views than me and over the years hasn’t been afraid to express them, which is rare given our tense, hyper-sensitive environment. Even rarer and more impressive is how he expresses them clearly  and politely, without attacking the other side. Man, do I wish more people would learn how to follow his lead.

Then there’s his faith. From back when when we worked together through his most recent social media posts, it’s been clear to me that religion has been a guiding force in his life. I can tell that it’s been a source of strength all this time, especially now and one I’ve always admired from a far.

It’s an admiration rooted in respect. And one that will continue unabated.

Image credit: Getty

Smooth Operators

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

The circumstances are hazy but I distinctly remember back in August 2003 I was in a lousy mood, cranky and feeling sorry for myself. It was after work and I was in the car alone, driving west on the freeway, toward home. I was flipping channels on the radio and all of a sudden I heard these distinctive cheesy but undeniably awesome trumpet notes. It was the 1977 Chuck Mangione classic “Feels So Good.” So I cranked up the radio and in less than a minute I swear I was in a good mood.

Fast forward to about four or five years ago when our daughter Sasha had discovered the radio-friendly version of “Hypnotize” by The Notorious B.I.G. and I couldn’t get the featured sample that runs throughout the song out of my head. I knew it; in fact, it was embedded in my brain, but I couldn’t place it. So I grabbed my iPhone and somewhat sheepishly mumbled “Biggie, Biggie, Biggie, can’t you see?” until I found the answer I was after – the 1980 song “Rise” by Herb Alpert.

“Feels So Good,” “Rise,” plus 1976’s “Breezin” by George Benson, along with other, similar songs from the same era, play as much a role in my music development as KISS, AC/DC, Black Sabbath or many of the countless other artists I’ve devoted figurative space to in this blog. But I’ve never really brought myself to write about this type of instrumental music, until now. Because Chuck Mangione, Herb Alpert, George Benson and their ilk fall in the dreaded “Smooth Jazz” or “Adult Contemporary” category. And there’s absolutely nothing cool about this type of music; not even in an ironic, guilty pleasure, doing-it-for-laughs sense.

Sure, the term “Yacht Rock,” which champions music by Michael McDonald, Christopher Cross and others, has gained a bit of traction in recent years. But there’s something a bit arrogant, snarky about it. Like people need a reason to enjoy something. Instead of just accepting it for what it is.

And what is it about this music I’m referring to? It’s dated as all get out, somewhat over-produced, but played with, to my non-musician ear, what sounds like serious chops. It also doesn’t escape my notice that Steely Dan, who I admire and respect, almost sound like they could be classified as “Smooth Jazz” or “Adult Contemporary.” Just don’t tell anyone.

But what I appreciate the most about this music is how it makes me feel. Perhaps it’s because so much of it came out during my early childhood but it’s almost like sonic comfort food. Music that I can enjoy on an inner, visceral level that doesn’t necessarily have to mean or be something. It can just exist.

So, if you’ve read this far, and need a little pick-me-up or are in the mood for something different, I’d encourage you to pull up any of the songs I mentioned on Spotify or whatever platform you use to access music. Regardless of your state of mind at the time, I can almost guarantee you’ll start feeling good. Go ahead, try it. I promise not to tell anyone.

Image credit: udiscovermusic

On The Radio

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

I have a friend with a son and daughter exactly the same age as ours. About a year ago we were having a conversation about kids getting older and, depending on the child, wanting to spend less time with their parents. My friend said that he didn’t know what it was in particular about daughters but that if there was any opportunity to spend time with her, he took it. He could care less about the actual opportunity. I knew exactly what my friend meant. And I took it to heart.

A few mornings each week our daughter Sasha, who turns 13 on March 3, will go to a friend’s house and the two of them will walk to school together. I almost always volunteer to drive Sasha to her friend’s house, if my schedule allows, and invite Sasha to come along on all my errand runs. Sasha’s only stipulation is that we “Listen to good music, not boring people talking.” The NPR reference, of course, is implicit. I of course agree to Sasha’s terms.

Besides being able to spend time with Sasha and hear how things are going for her at school and with Bat Mitzvah prep, our time together on the car has the added benefit of expanding my music vocabulary. During the past few years, I’ve come to recognize and appreciate a whole range of pop music – songs, for example, from Panic! At The Disco, Taylor Swift, Jonas Brothers (go ahead; snicker all your want; they’re catchy) and a particularly good cover of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” by Meg Myers. Most of this music is lively and upbeat and I’ve, with Sasha’s creative input, made a series of playlists that feature these and similarly-styled songs.

I should note that Sasha is impressively open-minded when it comes to music. She’ll listen when I continually weigh in on today’s music, explaining, for example, who Kate Bush is and how much of the songs seem to have a distinctively 1980’s, Quincy Jones-style production. Sasha also knows songs word-for-word by Rush, Metallica, AC/DC, Foo Fighters and countless other bands from years past. In fact, one of my more recent favorite memories with Sasha is the two of us driving home from an errand while belting out Heart’s “Alone.”

This past Friday night I needed to pick up our son Ethan from his swim meet. It was about a 10-minute ride and Sasha volunteered to some with me. We arrived early so parked the car and sat listening to the radio. “You know, Dad, that’s why I always want to go in the car – so we can listen to the radio,” Sasha said. “There’s nothing better than when you’re driving along and all of a sudden this song comes on that you want to hear. It’s like this great surprise. Do you know what I mean?” she added.

I did, I told her. I knew exactly what she meant. Of course knowing it meant so much more to me, in ways that some day she would understand.

Image credit: Getty

 

 

None of You are Jack Kennedy; Let’s Move On

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

I watched Wednesday night’s Democratic presidential debate from a hotel room. Mostly. I had it on while I sat inches from the television set, catching up on emails, pausing to actually watch. And I thought what I’d imagine many people who watched it thought: “Wow, Mike Bloomberg is having a rough night.” But I wondered if it really mattered.

You see, it wasn’t that long go – late September, 2016, to be exact, when I sat in another hotel room and watched the first debate between Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump. But this time it was altogether different. I sat in front of the T.V. and ate room service, giving the debate my full attention. While I had my laptop with me, it was only to check Twitter.

And boy, did I love watching Hilary Clinton destroy Donald Trump. I know I’m biased but Trump was horrible. I mean, the sniveling and random, meandering answers that went nowhere. Then, Clinton went on to destroy Donald Trump in two more presidential debates. And we all know what happened in the end.

I get that there’s a certain mystique about presidential debates and, if you’re a full on political nerd like me, there’s a Greatest Hits associated with the format:

• The shadowy, shifty-eyed Vice President Richard Nixon compared to the looking-like-a-million-bucks Massachusetts Senator John Kennedy in 1960
• California Governor Ronald Reagan’s “There you go again” and “Are you better off than you were four years ago?” to President Carter Carter in 1980
• Texas Senator Lloyd Bentsen telling Indiana Senator Dan Quayle “Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy” in 1988
• President George H.W. Bush checking his watch in 1992

You get the picture.

But the thing is, outside of 1960, when television was a relatively new medium and no one had seen a televised presidential debate before, I’m not convinced any of these moments, not to mention the many other debates, really mattered. My sense is that all the debates did was reinforce how people felt or didn’t already feel about a certain candidate. And I believe that’s more the case now in our post-truth world. Where you can just grab your phone and pretty much instantaneously form your opinion of a candidate.

Which brings me back to Thursday night’s debate. While Mike Bloomberg had a rough night, I also didn’t think he did so awful as everyone seemed to think. Now, I like Bloomberg and very well might vote for him. But my sense is that he acted like himself. Maybe not warm and cuddly. Maybe not the most outstanding speaker. Maybe a bit crabby and impatient. Because he sees a big shitshow going on all around him and he just wants to roll up his sleeves and get to work cleaning it up.

I get that things don’t work so quickly and we have to endure more debates. Of Bloomberg providing some better answers which I can almost picture him delivering in a snide “there, are you happy now?” tone. Of Elizabeth Warren again showing us how tough, empathetic and smart she is. And yeah, that she should be doing better. Of Joe Biden continuing to just hang on and cling to his time with President Obama. Of Bernie Sanders consistently being consistent. And of Amy Klobuchar and Pete Buttigieg continuing to battle each other to prove which one is the more condescending know-it-all.

While President Trump gets to go on being himself, knowing that the people who love him won’t stop loving him and not really giving a damn about his haters. Waiting to bully and belittle whoever the Democrats choose. And in the end, probably not really caring which one.

Image credit: Shutterstock

 

 

When It’s Really Not OK

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

I consider myself a tolerant person. Tolerant, in a big picture, love thy neighbor kind of way. Yet also tolerant on a micro level, at least when it comes to actions. But words and phrases; oh man, that’s a whole new ballgame.

Like when our kids use the expression, “Really, it’s OK.” Because, as both our son Ethan and daughter Sasha are learning, it really is almost never is OK. Because they know I’ll read “OK” as giving up, taking the easy way out or kicking that proverbial ball down the road. Which I translate as laziness. Which I can’t and won’t tolerate.

This past Saturday, given our family schedule, our son Ethan and I spent most of the afternoon working together on a project. Without getting into the details, it involved a laptop and a task neither Ethan and I had previously attempted. I had the laptop up and was the one actually doing the work, with Ethan directing me. And he wanted immediate results.

But throughout the process I could sense Ethan getting testy and impatient with me. He was ready to move on, do something else. But I was invested. I had spent the time on this endeavor and if we were going to do it, we were going to do it right.

So every time Ethan observed me taking a small action – cropping an image, selecting font, he kept imploring me to stop fiddling and move on. “Dad, it’s OK. Really.” Ethan kept saying, with an increasingly frustrated tone. Except I translated it as “Dad, when I suggested we do this I thought it would be easy and I’d see immediate results. But now that it’s hard I’m really not much in the mood.”

And I was having none of it.

I’m largely overstating the obvious but we learn quite a bit about ourselves through parenting. How much we can be pushed; our various hot buttons; where we can compromise. And I’ve learned what I suppose I always knew about myself – that I’ll tolerate quite a bit. Except laziness.

I don’t think of myself as particularly old-fashioned but if there is one character trait I can instill in our kids it’s the virtue of having a good work ethic. Sure, the expression “the harder you work the luckier you get” is corny as all get-out. But I’ve witnessed it time and time again in my personal and professional life. Just because it’s corny doesn’t make it any less valid.

I feel the need to provide a little foundation for my high horse and admittedly, it’s not altogether solid. Our kids may not yet realize it but I’m an imperfect messenger. I don’t always follow through on every single undertaking; I’m guilty of convincing myself something is OK when it really isn’t. I’ve also gone to the other extreme – diving in and working when in hindsight, maybe I should have let some daylight shine through; let the situation marinate a bit.

But I also believe (and here comes another bromide) that it is always the little things. One day it’s a fun weekend project. Then before too long it’s a call that they won’t want to make, a conversation they won’t want to have. Because, you know. It’s OK.

And the irony is, so much of our kids’ lives’ is blissfully OK. They are, G-d willing, healthy, fed, sheltered and, for the most part, happy. But, whenever I can, I need to remind them, in little ways, for little things, that it takes work to keep the big things OK. And we all have to play our part.

 

Rock In a Cold Place

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

It’s funny how as time passes, the small things start influencing our experiences in a big way. A few years back, once our kids got a little older, I rediscovered my joy of live music and started attending concerts with more frequency. And I found that details such as the venue and its capacity, plus parking availability, started to matter.

These details were on my brain this past Thursday evening as I drove to the Medina Entertainment Center in the Twin Cities suburbs to see the British rock band UFO. For those of you unfamiliar with UFO (and my sense is that might be many of you), they were a band that released a series of well-received albums in the late 1970’s but never quite broke out. They opened for all the large touring acts in the 1980’s – Ozzy Osbourne, AC/DC and the like, and spent the subsequent decades soldiering on through multiple lineup changes. The band is constantly named as a major influence by musicians ranging from Megadeth’s Dave Mustaine to Pearl Jam’s Mike McCready. Yet UFO always remained the proverbial bridesmaid, never a bride.

I stumbled upon UFO a few years back on Spotify when I was listening to some other music and they appeared under the “Fans Also Like” category. You of course can’t underestimate the power of a name and they don’t get much cooler than UFO. So I tried them out and immediately became hooked.

UFO’s music is deceptively simple, powerful old-fashioned rock n’ roll. A bit edgier than a Van Halen but not quite metal. Melodic, but not in a Boston, Journey or Styx kind of way. Solid guitar playing, especially when Michael Schenker was part part of the band back in the 1970’s. And lead singer Phil Mogg, the only member who has been part of UFO through every iteration, has a tremendously powerful rock n’ roll voice.

Mogg, 72, looked and sounded great on Thursday night when the band took the stage, dressed in black pants, vest and hat, with a white button-down shirt. He clearly served as the band’s leader and MC, displaying an impish wit during between-song banter, and appeared to enjoy good rapport with the other band members who ranged in age from Mogg’s contemporaries, to a bass player who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties.

When I wasn’t watching UFO perform, I was talking with my friend who I’d attended the concert with and engaged in one of my favorite concert activities – people watching. For a change, my friend and I were among the younger concert-goers who braved the sub-zero school night to attend. The crowd was more than three-quarters male, mostly fifty- or sixty-something guys with jeans, sneakers and Iron Maiden, Scorpions, Saxon and similar t-shirts, drinking beer or cocktails and eating popcorn.

I felt content in the somewhat tacky ballroom with a low ceiling. Watching a hard-working band who wanted to be there perform in front of seemingly hard-working people who wanted to be there. Perhaps this is what rock n’ roll looks like when you reach a certain age. And (sorry, I couldn’t resist), I like it.

Image credit: http://www.ufo-music.info/

 

 

 

What JT Said

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised that, as a forty-something, what James Taylor says resonates with me deeply. He’s been part of my life for so long, mostly in the background, occasionally at the forefront. My wife Wendy described his music as the equivalent of a warm blanket and that’s exactly it. James Taylor’s work has always served as my security blanket – a source of comfort when I most needed it but never quite realized it.

Taylor recently issued an Audible original, Break Shot and has a new album, American Standard, coming out later this month. I saw him last week when he appeared on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. And this past Sunday I heard him interviewed by Lulu Garcia-Navarro’s on NPR’s “Weekend Edition.” Towards the end of the NPR interview, Garcia-Navarro asked Taylor if he was in a happy state of mind.

Here’s how Taylor responded: “Sure. I – you know, I guess I’m known as a sort of serious and melancholy cat. But, really, all of the hard times that I’ve had I’ve caused myself. You know, if I’d just get out of my own way, life would be a dream. And, you know, I find that more and more, I’m able to do that.”

For starters, few people could pull off the term “melancholy cat” as effectively as James Taylor. Yet beyond that I love pretty much everything about this quote. Because, without getting into the details, I’ve caused myself some hard times – maybe not James Taylor hard times, but hard times nonetheless. Oh, and getting out of my own way? I could probably do that a bit more.

It’s funny how everything comes full circle because for much of my life I found James Taylor incredibly talented and his work meaningful, but I always appreciated it more in the abstract. Riding in my parents’ car during the late 1970’s I’d always hear “Your Smiling Face.” And when the part in the song came on what I now understand to be “And not just another lovely lady; Set out to break my heart,” I thought Taylor was singing “Set out to drink my water.” It never quite made sense to me.

I wish I had a dime for all the times I’d heard “Fire and Rain” sung at various temple youth group campfires and talent nights during my teenage years. Back, then, I thought it was pretty cool. But in twenties and thorough my thirties I viewed memories like that with a detached cynicism; they almost seemed hokey and cliche. Now, I appreciate them for the earnestness. And if I could somehow go back and come face-to-face with that teenage version of me, I’d like to believe I’d smile more than wince. After I stubbed out the Camel Light he’d be holding and tell him it just gets harder to quit.

James Taylor, by most accounts, led a charmed life. He found stardom relatively young after a privileged upbringing and had a long, commercially successful career. But, as most of you know if you’re familiar with Taylor and his work, things were never as they seemed. Just like they’re not for all of us.

Now, I’m not trying to gloss over the struggles James Taylor faced in his life because they were quite significant. But knowing he came out on the other side with his health, with and creative spirit intact is admirable and inspiring.

If only it were so easy. Well, it is, according to James Taylor. As long as we get out of our own way.

Image credit: Washington Post

The Bed I Assembled

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

The tortuous journey to purchase a new bed for our 15-year-old son Ethan began on Black Friday. None of us really wanted to go shopping that Friday after Thanksgiving; it almost seemed like a cliched thing to do and we wanted to avoid the crowds.  But our daughter Sasha implored us, using prime people-watching as a selling point. And since we had the bed purchase as our objective figured we might come across a deal. Which we did,  at Pottery Barn Teen, soon after setting upon our Black Friday outing. I gave the salesperson my credit card and she rang me up, saying the bed would arrive within a week. Off we went.

Well, the week came and went and the salesperson, who was so friendly and cordial on Black Friday, who had purposefully given me her card and asked me to call her “if I needed anything,” now heard from me. But she wasn’t too helpful. On the contrary, she was evasive and full of excuses. The bed never came. We cancelled our order and Ethan spent the Holidays though most of January sleeping on his new Casper  mattress, without a bed.

Finally, Ethan located the Wayfair bed he wanted online and we ordered it for him. Then my wife Wendy told me we had a choice – pay an extra fee to have it assembled or do it ourselves. I chose the later and to be clear, the choice was about 75 percent bravado and 25 percent confidence.

As background, I’m about the furthest thing ever from a DIYer. I’m not particularly handy or mechanically inclined. But ever since I became a parent several years ago, I’ve become good at assembling things, mostly by necessity. And I’ve also found the experience to be quite therapeutic and good for my emotional well-being, if I’m in the right environment and frame of mind.

I started assembling Ethan’s bed this past Friday, after work. The first thing I did was select music. I’ve been on a New Wave kick lately and earlier in the day a friend had mentioned Kraftwerk, so I put on their 1974 debut Autobahn. Then I got to work.

If you’re reading this post and have assembled any piece of furniture, you’ll know there are some commonalities in the instructions – the graphics, the tools you use, the actual steps you take. This particular bed fell into the tedious-but-relatively-basic category, which took a big weight off my shoulders. It also enabled me to lose myself in the project and not worry so much if I could actually pull it off.

So I followed my own assembly process. Except for a couple of steps where I turned to family members for extra hands, I worked by myself. I sweated, literally. I swore at myself too many times to count, mostly silently but sometimes not. I crouched down so much that now, as I write this, my gluts and thighs still hurt. After Autobahn, I ended up listening to Pink Floyd’s The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Listen by A Flock of Seagulls and Ultravox’s Rage in Eden.

The whole process took about three-plus hours, likely double the time it would take someone with decent skills, with a dinner and dog walking break in between. But our son has the bed he wants. And I have the satisfaction of doing something for him and of course, for myself. Of knowing that every once in a while you can simply follow instructions, have faith in yourself and the path you’re taking, until you meet your desired objective. At least that’s now it happened with the bed I assembled.

Image credit: Wayfair

Just a Little Bit

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

I’m not sure when you’ll read this post but right now it’s 8:42 p.m. CST and I’m sitting in a hotel room. It’s the same hotel I stay in almost every month, sometimes more, when I’m traveling for work. But something about today seems different. Just a little bit.

I usually take an insanely early flight when I head out on this trip. Now, I’m a early riser so “early” in general is a relative term with me. But this morning’s flight left after the sun had come up, which for me was a luxury. I felt as if I had more time, and it made a difference that reverberated throughout my entire day.

Before I even left for the airport, when it was still dark, I took our dog Astro for a walk while listening to a podcast. I’ve done this activity hundreds of times but never at this hour. And I swear it felt different. Calmer, more peaceful. But I’m not sure Astro noticed a difference.

When I arrived home from our walk I texted a friend and informed him of a decision I had made. Not a huge, life-alerting decision or a dramatic one; something actually pretty run-of-the-mill. But it was a decision that nonetheless required some thought. And it felt good to make it.

Then I left for the airport.

Often I’ll use my early morning airport time to catch up on emails or polish off and post a blog. In fact, chances are you’ve read a post of mine that was written while I waited for a plane. But my schedule has been a little more crazy than usual and I needed some quiet time for preparation. So, as the kids used to say, I kicked it old school. I sat at my gate with a manila folder in my lap, pen and highlighter in hand, and coffee cup on the floor. And for a solid hour, maybe more (I’m one of those weirdos who like getting to airports crazy early), I read, digested and thought. I’m sure I paused more than a few times to stare off into space and contemplate. But I didn’t check my phone once. And it felt awesome.

By the time I arrived at my destination, I followed my typical schedule of one meeting after another. I felt fried, but not as fried as I usually do at similar points. Almost like I had more reserves of energy. Just a little bit. But enough to notice.

Now, I’m about the biggest creature of habit there is but as this day wraps I can say that just some small variances made a large positive difference – at least for me. And I believe it helped to start my day with a decision. I hope to try it again soon. As long as it stays fresh and doesn’t become just another routine.

Image credit: towardsdatascience.com

 

 

 

A Sample Playbook

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

“Are those done???”

The sample lady at Costco (proper name: “product demonstrator”) asked the question with some degree of alarm; worry lines on her forehead clearly visible under the plastic hairnet.  I assumed she was talking to me as I was the only person in her field of vision. But I had just popped a giant breaded scallop, taken from her sample station, into my mouth, and couldn’t talk.  I pantomimed “Excuse me?”

By this point the product demonstrator saw that I already was chewing and swallowing the scallop so figured I was in the clear.  “Don’t worry, honey,” she said as she returned to the new set of customers who had gathered around her station.  “I just wanted to make sure the scallops were cooked all the way through.”

Every other week our family visits a Costco in a nearby suburb and each time it appears as though our sojourns revolve around the variety, not to mention quantity, of the featured samples.  If there aren’t enough, I leave disappointed.  If there are too many, I leave nauseous.  But I can be sure that one way or another I will leave unfulfilled; the anticipation of the samples far outweighing any value they provide.

But this, Super Bowl weekend, marks the holy grail of Costco samples, and our family has literally spent quite a bit of time this week trying to formulate a strategy. Do we visit today, Saturday? Hours before Super Bowl Sunday? How soon after lunch do we visit? And then there are the basics to consider:

• If you’re trying to be chivalrous and take one for the person holding your cart, make sure there’s enough to go around.
• Don’t linger by the tray to eat it after you’ve grabbed your sample. Move to the side so other people can get at them. Nothing drives me crazier when a couple of younger people who I won’t name but are related to me do that.
• Take a napkin.
• Don’t ask the product demonstrator if they have another sample type or flavor. Like my wife Wendy and I used to tell your kids when they were younger: “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.”
• Now, this last one is a balancing act, but try not to talk to the product demonstrator for too long. Sometimes you’ll get pulled into their pitch but if they like to chitchat and other people feel neglected, they’ll be annoyed at you.

Outside of my tortured relationship with its samples, I couldn’t be happier with the Costco experience.  Except for some frozen potstickers our kids particularly enjoyed that inexplicably disappeared from the shelves, we always can find what we need.  Each time we visit we are sure to see familiar faces of people we actually like.  And regardless of the crowd levels, even a panicked surge the night before a reported snowstorm, you are through the checkout line and off to your car with military precision.

So, if you’re visiting Costco or expect to encounter samples at your regular grocery store, drive safely, be polite and eat well. And enjoy the game.

Costco product demonstrator Tanya Fairbanks of Winchester, VA. Image credit: WhatILearned.com