‘Hat Hair’ and the Economy

“May I speak to Mr. Litowitz?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Stacey with (blah, blah, blah). I need to inform you this call is an attempt to collect a debt. Any information obtained from this conversation will be used for that purpose.”

Well, isn’t that sweet. I’m a fan of the Cleveland Browns and purchase dinner off McDonald’s Dollar Menu. Own four CDs – Billy Joel, DEVO, Gordon Lightfoot and John Denver (technically, my wife’s) – and a DVD of the Boardman High Marching Band performing “Script Ohio.” Perhaps that will assist you in your debt-collecting efforts.

Instead, I respond, “I’ll be making the payment on your Internet site.”

Once or twice every so often, I am late paying a bill.

This angers the company’s CEO. The chief e-mails upper management, which leads to threatening memos regarding Account 4132638H3C. Ever the team player, the collections department head berates Stacey for my failure to shell out $72.39 on time.

I pity her. Perhaps, she will receive a portion of my late fee as a bonus. Sadly, I assume the funds are forwarded to the CEO’s mistress or for his country club fees.

Notice the money swirling around? Debts owed. Company wages. Computer server maintenance. Disposable income.

Witness the economy in action. Effects vary from person to person.

Allow me to share the most important lesson I learned in my one and only college econ course: “Take your ball cap off in class.”

Apparently, the professor wasn’t a Cincinnati Reds fan or thought it disrespectful to wear it inside the confines of Debartolo Hall. Removing the cap, I unleashed hideous “hat hair” upon 70 mortified students.

This is what I think the topics that were covered while suffering Coiffure Trauma.

*Money supply (Important to have money. Lots better than less.)
*Macro economics (The study of big businesses with large profits that are too big to fail)
*Micro economics (Charting small businesses and their dismal survival rate)
*Accounting (The art of manufacturing financial statements to fit a corporation’s needs)
*Recession (Taking a pay reduction to keep your job)
*Depression (Losing your job when pay reductions fail)

Washington’s “fiscal cliff” – where Wall Street implodes and the Federal Reserve runs out of cash – does not play in Youngstown, Ohio. We have no cliffs.

You will find fiscal buildings – better known as banks, credit unions and payday loan offices. Jumping off one of these structures may result in broken bones.

There are fiscal hills – roads Mahoning County residents use and have the word “hill” in it. Oak Hill, Squirrel Hill and Hill Street. Falling off these hills is equivalent to running into traffic.

We can discuss fiscal bluffs – maneuvers poker players perform. (Not to suggest illegal gambling occurs here.) Try it one too many times, and you may get punched or shot.

Fiscal ditches are abundant countywide – where poker players punched or shot are found.

The Congress might want to think about the above as it smacks the nation around with its posturing over the country’s financial health. Throughout the years, Red and Blue states have evolved as a means of exploiting the differences among voters. Mix those two colors and you have purple. When you have been beaten by Republican and Democrat legislators alike, the purple bruises are evident.

Ultimately, this leads to the fiscal heap – a place where ousted members of the Senate and House of Representatives find themselves for treating the economy as a perverted Monopoly game.

Somehow, I passed my econ class with a “C” – despite the “hat hair” trauma. Still it’s a better effort than Congress’.

A “Very Brady Christmas” Real-Time Facebook Commentary

Pat Litowitz: Oh the hijinks. Carol is taking Mike to Greece, but it’s a surprise. Get this, Mike is surprising Carol with a trip to Japan. Wait for it – the money is coming from the “special vacation account.” Mike gets to the money first and leaves Carol with $8. Carol embarrassed.

And, gasp, Sam the Butcher, that no good rump roast, left Alice. What's worse – I know, how could it get worse – I think Cindy had a face-lift (or it’s a “replacement” Cindy). I don't know how the family will survive. And, well, I'm a little shocked that the Brady kids have procreated. Trip’s off. Calling all Bradys home.

Pat Litowitz: Just learned Marcia's husband, Wally, lost his job, and Carol's real estate client is upset with Mike – who is the architect on the project – over safety issues. Now the kids are fighting about going home. I'm concerned.

FB Friend One: I watched it too! What I couldn't get over was how dorky they seem now when I hung on the Bradys' every word as a kid LOL

Pat Litowitz: Seems Mike is drinking a little more wine than usual.

Pat Litowitz: FB Friend One, this is real life. Hee. Hee.

Pat Litowitz: Mike just lost his contract. Peter is making out with his boss in her office. Dominatrix. That's all I'm saying. Oh great, Bobby left grad school. Jan is such a bitch. Greg is a doctor – boring.

Pat Litowitz: Pizza Hut commercial.

FB Friend Two: Whores!!

Pat Litowitz: Looks like Marcia's husband is hugging Mrs. B a little too long. Also, he's showing off chest hair.

Pat Litowitz: Second Pizza Hut commercial. Appears I can get better job by attending ITT.

Pat Litowitz: Tree decorations with strings of popcorn. Now Wally and Bobby telling lies and Alice crying. Obnoxious grandkids. Jan's husband is an ass. Wally and Marcia sleeping in separate beds. Jan making husband sleep in pullout filing cabinet. Bobby's secret life as racecar driver exposed.

Pat Litowitz: Peter wearing floor-length pajamas. Now all the kids are sharing their secrets. Cindy wants to be treated as an adult. Get over yourself.

Pat Litowitz: Cheerios commercial. www.shoemint.com

Pat Litowitz: Uh oh, looks like bitch Jan and ass hubby starting to make up. Pie eating with Brady boys and Wally in kitchen. Carol senses something wrong with kids. Mike poo poos her.

FB Friend Three: Stop talking about my relatives like that...lol

Pat Litowitz: Jan fesses up about pending divorce. Now they’re back in love and horny. Mom Brady suggests it’s OK for them to have sex. Wally getting new job.

Pat Litowitz: Silk ties $25 at JCP. Tryschoolconnection.com – get e-book.

Pat Litowitz: Mike's speech at dinner table – "We're family." Now everyone is confessing. Alice wonders where pies are. Cindy whining about not being treated as adult. Carol responds. Cindy asked to sit at big table. She declines. Pies still missing. Bobby comes out to family – “It's what I need to do." Simultaneous marriage proposal between Dominatrix and Peter. Everyone happy. Pie mystery continues.

Pat Litowitz: Phone call. Cave in at construction site. Mike needed.

Pat Litowitz: Specials at Macy's. Price match at Toys R Us. Third Pizza Hut commercial.

Pat Litowitz: Two men trapped. TV crew on scene. Mike goes after them. (The men not the TV crew.) Two men emerge from wreckage. Mike still in wreckage. TV crew back on air. *Brady flashback* (Back to reality.) Carol sings. Family sings. Mike safe.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Pat Litowitz: P.S. Sam and Alice back together. God bless us all.

FB Friend Four: You enjoyed that wayyyyy tooooo much!!

A Letter to Daughter on the Occasion of Her Parents' 26th Wedding Anniversary

Daughter,

I walked the aisles of Wal-Mart early this morning to purchase an anniversary card for your Mother.

I poked through the food department noticing the fat-free strawberry yogurt and ice cream sandwiches. Then there was the electronics section nearby. (Netbook. That’s all I’m saying.) The aroma of brand-new tires carried me to the automotive department. I may have passed sporting goods and along the way thought about picking up health supplements. (Me. Health supplements. Yeah, I laughed, too.)

Ta Dah! Greeting cards.

Surprisingly, Wal-Mart does not stock “Happy 26th Anniversary” cards. Although tempted by the talking “Luke, I am your father” Star Wars card, I believe Mother will be happy with my selection.

And each day, I am thankful your Mother selected me.

Here’s a little secret. I was the Rebound Guy. We don’t get the girl.

I asked Mother out the first time we met, Oct. 6, 1982. It was a Wednesday. We were working the afternoon shift at Arby’s. So far. So good. So you would think.

Missed our first date because I was studying for a calculus final. The second “first” date was a disaster. I may have taken her to a jewelry store in the mall and may have asked the clerk to look at engagement rings. Cartwheels. Really should leave that incident alone. Fuzzy about the whole experience.

And the list goes on. I tried too hard to impress. Even I wasn’t surprised when she eventually told me she needed breathing room.

Then the craziest thing happened. Two weeks later, she phoned and asked me out. She joked that she called a number of people and I was the only one to answer.

That’s OK though. She was taking me to the movies and I could choose the film as long as I bought the popcorn. This was promising.

We arrived at the Warren Twin Cinema, where movies were a dollar. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves” was playing and God knows what else. I picked “Snow White.” Yeah, that screams “Over here! Pick me! I deserve a second chance!”

After the movie, we headed to Taco Bell. We talked and talked and talked. She was wonderful, and I wanted her to know how special she was. That was when the Rebound Guy became The Man.

Today, Mother and I mark 26 years of marriage. Know what? It feels like yesterday. That’s the neat thing about love. When you find the right person, who needs to keep track of time?

Meet the Non-Jew Jew

Plenty of questions accompanied the hugs when Bubbie my grandmother and Zaidey my grandfather reunited with their First-Born Grandson after 20 years.

”We have to plan your bar mitzvah,” Zaidey said not long into the conversation. “When would be a good time to start?”

(Crickets chirping. Awkward silence. Mouth moving but no words. Quick. Do something. Smile. Yes, smile. No, smiling too hard.)

Never saw that one coming.

“What have you been doing?” “Tell us about the Wife.” “When will we meet out Great-Granddaughter?” Those I expected.

Bar mitzvah? Conversation and bagels may have been a better way to ease into the topic. Perhaps a bowl of matzo ball soup.

Confused? You should be. But here’s a Pat-at-Birth primer to help.

*Protestant Mother and Jewish Father marry.

*Mother and Father procreate. (Read below for full explanation. NOT ABOUT THE SEX but what happens with Mother. Perverts.)

*Mother and Father divorce.

*Mother obtains custody.

*Little, if any, contact from Father, Grandparents, Aunt or Uncle. (The "Why?" is up for debate.) However, Aunt Canada keeps in touch the entire time.

To understand Zaidey’s excitement and sense of urgency, we need to talk about a party -- a celebration that must have been a doozy.

One photo captures two relatives holding an infant -- me -- and smiling.

Might have blacked out, because I don’t remember a thing. Long assumed someone laced a fingertip with Manischewitz wine and stuck it in my mouth.

And, get this, a stranger took a knife to … uh … umm … my manhood, which really wasn’t so manly at the time. Yes, I was circumcised.

Welcome to the ’60s. Welcome to my bris.

For the curious few, my birthday occurred 13 days in Adar 5724. Although Feb. 26 works just as well. I’m fairly confident Hallmark never issued an “Adar by Far You Are the Star” birthday card. Then again, I don’t read Hebrew.

The bris takes place eight days after the child’s birth. Did mine? Not a clue.

That day I received my Hebrew name – Pesech-Elisha Ben Shmuel – and was bestowed with the Hebrew version of Willie Wonka’s Golden Ticket. It’s a certificate signed by a rabbi stating I was “a member of the holy family of Israel.”

In other words, I became a Jew that day.

Except it’s a lie or it may be true. The events took place but the interpretation is at issue.

Zaidey, the officiating rabbi and the mohel (aka “The Cutter”) signed off on the deal. (I have the “official” circumcision certificate.) However, the remainder of Father’s family and every Jewish denomination (including Jews for Jesus) say “Guess again, Gentile Boy.”

Mother’s side never knew what to make of it all.

“So, are you Jewish?” A question Mother’s family often asked. The last time was on Thanksgiving.

The Jewish bloodline works likes this – Mom: Jew. You: Jew.

(Repeat.)

Mom: Jew. You: Jew. Mom: Jew. You: Jew. Mom: Jew. You: Jew.

(Faster.)

Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew. Momjewyoujew.

And then a conductor shouts. “All aboard!” and shortly thereafter the engineer pulls the steam-powered Hebrew Express out of the station.

Apparently, my ticket wasn’t properly punched.

One story goes that Mother was in the process of conversion when the bris occurred. That may have opened the road to Israel. Then she opted out. Who knows? The key players -- Mother, Father, Bubbie and Zaidey -- are gone. Aunt Canada fills in some of the blanks while Mother's Baby Sis offers her version.

Who willing wants to be a Jew? The moment you are born millions of people want to terminate your existence. You are hated. Others believe you control the monetary system and Boca Raton. You become a scapegoat for crimes real and imagined. Millions don’t trust you. A majority don’t know what to make of you.

And I want to be a part of this mess why? A portion of my identity has been stripped, and I need to have resolution. Plus, Zaidey thought it was important.

So meet the Non-Jew Jew. Maybe there’s a bar mitzvah in my future. Then again, maybe not.

But who doesn’t love matzo ball soup?

A Memo You Know Some Company Issued …

Mayflower Compact Poultry and Produce Company
November 2012 Newsletter

Team members,

The Mayflower Compact executive staff wishes you a safe and responsible Thanksgiving Day event. Regrettably, current economic conditions prevent the company from continuing the practice of issuing $10 discount vouchers on selected Mayflower products. Also, holiday pay has been eliminated.

However, the holiday season provides the opportunity to increase sales and market share in the poultry and produce market. Following are updated corporate guidelines to make the season profitable, both professionally and personally.

Customer Interaction: With a diverse customer base patronizing Mayflower stores and kiosks, team members must not acknowledge the customer’s ethic, cultural and socio-economic background. Attempting to do otherwise may give the appearance of racial or economic profiling. Best practice: treat everyone as a white, middle-aged male.

As such, customers must be greeted in the following manner when entering a Mayflower location: “Hello, welcome to Mayflower Compact Poultry and Produce Company.” Upon leaving, the team member must say, “Goodbye, I hope you had an enjoyable experience at the Mayflower Compact Poultry and Produce Company.” The word “hi” may be substituted for “hello” and “bye” for “goodbye.” Make these substitutions sparingly.

Insurance Waiver: For the third in a row, our health insurer has sought to implement a “Thanksgiving Day Event surcharge.” The insurer cites statistics and anecdotal evidence stating Thanksgiving Day event participants boost food intake four-fold, increasing chances of diabetes, heart disease, obesity, stroke and narcolepsy.

To avoid additional premiums, Mayflower has agreed to weigh team members the day prior to and after the Thanksgiving Day event with blood tests also administered to track potential health risks. Team members showing a significant negative health impact will be offered nutritional counseling. Failure to attend these sessions may result in higher insurance participation costs for non-compliant team members.

Safety: Here are a few tips to make your Thanksgiving Day event safe and enjoyable.

*Know your safety zone: When selecting a turkey (other meat or vegetarian product), bend your knees, grasp the item firmly with both hands, keep it at chest level and lift the item from the food storage area. Place the item carefully in your cart. To do this, bend your knees so you and the item are eye level with the top of shopping cart, move your arms outward using a steady, slow motion and then stand slightly upright and deposit the item accordingly. The cart should be 6 to 12 inches from your purchase position.

*Knifes, forks … and spoons can cause injury. This is especially true when others are nearby. A manual covering proper utensil management is available. Ask your HR representative for a copy.

*Proper poultry preparation is key to a safe Thanksgiving Day event. Visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsSfsHt0wjs&feature=related for details. Remember, salmonella is a serious health risk, which can lead to illness and death. A sick or dead team member affects the company’s fiscal position.

Please eat sensibly and conduct yourself in a safe, responsible manner.

Sincerely,

The Mayflower Compact Poultry and Produce Company executive staff

I Don't Like People

McKinley Alma Mater, guiding star above …

Cousin David was blunt. “You’re anti-social.”

“No,” I responded. “I’m selective.”

“You’re anti-social,” he repeated. “I’ve seen you at family gatherings.”

I OCD’d on his observation for hours as I sat by myself in the visitors stands during the Akron Zips football game. Sister No. 2 had only so many tickets in her section. She offered to sneak me in as did Baby Sister. My ticket read general admission. Rules are rules.

Here’s the deal. I don’t like people. “People” as in the general sense of the word. Think of Wal-Mart hordes, the state of Michigan, filled-to-capacity public restrooms, the line of gamblers waiting for you to leave the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and obnoxious Pittsburgh sports fans. Those types.

There are exceptions: Individuals, small groups, a majority of family (including Cousin David), friends, Facebook friends (because if you “friend” someone, you’re a friend forever), a few past and current co-workers, and the cult-like clique known as the Boardman Band and Orchestra Parents.

Now presenting the 30^th reunion of the Niles McKinley High School Class of 1982.

Forever in our gratitude, we offer thee our love …

I didn’t expect it to materialize. However, through the magic of social media (all hail and praise to Mark Zuckerberg), one classmate, Julianne, started and sustained the movement. Her effort is wonderful and remarkable.  The same goes for those who helped her.

Within months, she gathered more than 100 of the “Brew Crew of ’82” together through Facebook. That’s impressive – statistically – considering our class has 360-plus graduates. As a side note, you are obligated to use the word “crew” when a year ends in a “two.” The “brew” was a Scrabble-like bonus score.

Just one problem: Did I want to go? Being “selective” should have made the decision easy – “No.” Yet, I arrived at a different answer – “A definite maybe.”

In Joys and in all sorrows, we shall e’er be true …

Thirteen family members (including Cousin David) have or will graduate from Niles McKinley. That number surprised me. Apparently, there was plenty of baby-making sex going on. The stork, people. The stork. No legs in the air like you just don’t care.

Except for BFFs Rod and Amy, I’ve had little contact with my classmates. No one’s fault. It’s just Life’s way of taking control.  

Skipped the 10-year reunion – the one where you see who’s gained the most weight, became successful and changed for good or bad. I, the underpaid, overweight journalist, didn’t want to be the judgmental eye candy.

Reluctantly went to the 20^th only after Amy promised to attend. Rod wanted no part of it. Not that 20 years absence makes the heart grow fonder. Curiosity kicked in. Seems I had a good time. The Wife said I never shut up during the gathering. By my count, I promised to stay in touch with 20-some people. Yeah, about that…

While in our hearts we ever love thy flag of Red and Blue!

My inner voice tells me to “Run away! Run away!” It also tells me to get a shrubbery and t’is but a scratch. I’ve tuned it out – thanks in part to Cousin David. (My OCD motto: “Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Damn. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.”)

Julianne’s enthusiasm and persistence turned a “definite maybe” into a “Here’s the money. I really, really plan on attending. Really.” She cared. That was ultimately the selling point.

But 30 years? That screams “Here’s my business card and hope the colonoscopy goes well.” Crap.

Must confidentiality forms be signed? Will someone be checking my pulse? Am I going to make an ass of myself? (No alcohol required.)

You can throw a psychological spin on the high school years, and all of the clichés surface. Not interested in going there.

I just want to say “Hi,” again. And that, dear Cousin does not make me anti-social – for at least one night.

The Blessed Event

The family jokes that our home is a shrine to the Daughter.

On the wall near the staircase hang portraits of her school years from kindergarten through senior year – except eighth grade. We can’t locate that photo, so the natural assumption is she skipped classes that year. Perhaps, she didn’t exist. Her friends insist otherwise. I have no proof.

At one point, Daughter wanted a mural of herself painted on another wall. I had no problem with the concept. Daughter wanted the entire wall. I thought half was acceptable. Mother nixed the plan.

In other rooms are trophies and plaques from her service in Job’s Daughters (if you’ve never heard about it, don’t ask), including a miniature version of the trophy honoring her as Ohio Miss Job’s Daughter (again – don’t know, don’t ask). Let’s just say that for one year she ran the statewide organization and did a magnificent job.

A traveling trunk – a family treasure from the early 1900s that journeyed from Europe to America – contains her papers, drawings, more awards, the pink cast from when she broke her arm, report cards and heavens knows what else. Mother thinks I’m going overboard. I consider it an historical archive.

Apparently, we love and adore her.

The Daughter refers to herself as “The Blessed Event.”

She then thrusts her arms forward with her thumbs upward and quickly points back to herself.

“That’s me!” she replies in Shirley Temple exuberance.

 

To which the Wife and I reply in monotone, synchronized voices, “Thank you for being in our lives. Oh, what would we do without you? Woe was the days before you born.”

(As a point of reference, this “Shirley Temple” is not the nonalcoholic drink but the child actress who boarded a lollipop ship and sympathized with sharecroppers (or was it slaves?).

Mother spent 48 hours in labor. It can go up to 50, depending on who’s telling the story.

When a woman is in labor that long, you do not say or do the following:

*”How are you feeling?” (Got scratched for that one.)

*Write down the time of every contraction. (The nurses don’t care.)

*Leave for an hour to eat in the cafeteria. (That’s considered desertion.)

 *Say to Mother as she’s delivering Daughter, “Hey, you got to come down here and see this.” (Stupid comment, but it’s a spectacular sight.)

The Daughter is quick to say that Mother did the work and I was just the sperm donor.

Today is her 23^rd birthday.

I would like to say Mother and I did a great job of raising her but that would exclude the grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and teachers who guided her along the way. Thank you to all. She’s the best of her parents – and, on occasion, the worst.

The “Blessed Event” is a beautiful young woman. I would lie, however, if I didn’t say how much I miss cuddling that newborn or holding that young girl in my arms. Today, she receives generous hugs and kisses on the forehead from Mother and Father. It’s all good.

Thank you for being in our lives. Oh, what would we do without you?

I Approve of This Message

Ahem. Attention President Obama and Gov. Romney. I would like to make the following announcement.

Thanks to early voting in Ohio (which you have so graciously reminded me about every 7.4 seconds), I have already cast my vote for the Boardman Precinct 23 liquor option and … oh, yes … the presidential election.

NOW LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!

Nothing personal, really. It must be difficult knowing 43 percent of the country hates you. (That falls within the plus/minus 5 percentage margin of error.) Perhaps, after the election, you can share in a teachable moment. The president can have a non-alcoholic beer and the governor a bowl of bran. (Who knows what the heck Mormons are allowed to eat or drink. Bran, I’m pretty sure, is safe. Again, I could be mistaken.)

I really want the phone calls from you, your wives, your political action committees, your union/nonunion supporters, your political polling groups and Jews for Jesus to stop. My wife – in her best Barack Obama impersonation (which sounds more like W.C. Fields) – left a message on our answering machine and urged me to vote for you. I have placed a restraining order against her.

Whoever wins will be my president, and I’m good with that. Either one of you will lead the nation down a slippery slope into the apocalypse, hosted by Jersey Shore’s Snooki. (That’s all I know about the show. I swear! Just not in front of a Mormon.) Chances are an Obama health care death panel will deny me aspirin or Donnie and Marie Osmond (both Mormons don’t you know) will sing happy songs. In either case, I will die.

Good luck. God bless. Get. Go.

My name is Pat Litowitz, and I approve of this message.

I also approve of cheesecake, green seedless grapes, my family (being generous here), comic books, flights of fancy, shiny things, talkingreallyfastjusttoscrewwithpeople’sheads, zigging, Suduko, zagging, James Bond, Capt. Kirk, Mr. Spock, toast and ketchup, macaroni and cheese with ketchup, mashed potatoes and ketchup, ketchup (but it has to Heinz), day-old bagels, I Dream of Jeanie (Mary Ann and Ginger), walking in the rain and the snow when’s there nowhere to go, Charlie Chaplin, Dr. Who, math, crayons, Scooby Doo, hugging my daughter and snuggling with my wife – when the restraining order is lifted.