I have trouble with the word no. Not when it pertains to answering my daughter’s pleas for candy, but when sweet little Girl Scouts knock on my door and ask me if I want some cookies. Of course I want some cookies! (I actually bought some just yesterday.) Or even when weird little boys come asking if I want to buy some discount card to help support his school. When we lived in York I was constantly getting these awkward teens at my door, who had this long speech about being a part of some speaking competition and I had to buy magazines to support them. Most of these kids didn’t need to be raising money—they needed to be finding a better speech coach. I remember not being able to understand a word of what one kid was saying, but I picked a magazine for the troops and wrote him a check for forty-five bucks. Ridiculous. (Later I followed up on the change-your-mind policy and spent a large portion of time on the phone with someone I could understand a little better, and cancelled my order. I’m such a wuss.)
The best story I have for my inability to refuse people, though, comes from a few months ago. We hadn’t been in our new house for very long, but III was big enough that he was eating baby food, and I was in the process of feeding him lunch when the doorbell rang. I got up quickly to answer it, and when I opened the door there was a 30-something blond guy standing about 6 feet away from the door, looking slightly nervous. He was a little overweight, his hair was messy, and he was just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. We were still getting random people stopping by to check up on things like if the sprinkler system was working, so I initially assumed this was one of those cases.
He says to me something along the lines of, “Do you like to eat meat?” Umm…yes. “You enjoy a good steak or maybe some chicken?” Sure. “Which one?” Both. We eat meat. “Great! Well, I’ve got a great selection of meats and chicken, like lemon chicken pre-packaged for your convenience. Mind if my friend here shows you some of it? (So you’re asking if you guys can show me your meat?) Uhh…I guess. **looking anxiously at child who is grunting from right inside the door, impatient to have his lunch finished**
Now you see, this is one of those times where the ability to say no would come in handy. Or just the ability to not be dishonest while still getting rid of the guy. Yes, I like meat. I felt wrong about lying and saying I didn’t, and this is how those pesky salesmen get you. Up until this point he never even asked me if I wanted to buy anything—only if I generally liked it and if I could look at it. What was I to do?? It gets better.
Next thing I know, nervous blond guy is being led by large, somewhat-Mexican guy right into my dining room (note: it is also at this point that I realize I have not finished getting ready for the day after my shower and I am wearing a black bra under a white t-shirt, which was going to be fine, as I was intending on putting on a black vest over said shirt, but it’s too late to do anything about it now, so I’m a little self-conscious and just want these guys gone). I pick up III out of his highchair as a buffer, and Emma comes in and starts chattering at the guys who are trying to be friendly to her while still selling me on their meat.
They bring in two huge boxes full of individual boxes containing different cuts of beef and different prepared chicken. The large man then proceeds to pull out each box, open it, and show me every single item. From filet mignon to NY strip, to chicken strips and chicken patties. All twelve boxes. Then he tells me I have to buy a whole box at a time, but of course he’s offering a special deal today where if I buy the steak box, I can get the chicken box for half-off (or something like that). And of course, they’re offering all these meats at well below the cost you could find anything in the grocery store. It’s just that I don’t buy $400 worth of meat all at once. I don’t even have room for that much, and I could validly tell him I just couldn’t afford it.
Then he got pushy. And personal. “Well, when do you get paid again?” I believe it was in two days. So he assured me that the check I wrote would not get deposited and clear before then. I was firm this time, though. I don’t spend money I don’t have (well, my credit card balances would tell you otherwise…). So how about just the chicken? It’s cheaper. Would I like another look at it? Before I can answer, he starts pulling it out again, and this time, given the state of my dining room (uncleared dirty dishes, as usual), he knocks a glass off the table and it breaks all over the floor. Now he’s embarrassed and flustered, and I just want them gone. I send Emma out of the room, and III is getting mighty cranky as I watch the guy pick up as many pieces as he can. I remain polite and simply ask him for a brochure and if he can just come back later. He gives me the brochure, but all of a sudden is struck by the fact that he may have one random small box he can sell to me instead of the whole set, and he’ll give me a discount since he feels so horribly about breaking one of my glasses.
Before I can respond (again), he sends his little blond minion out to his truck to retrieve said box, and then knocks another five dollars off of the price as he is proceeding to just put it straight in my freezer for me. But the joke’s on him. You see, the day before, Lloyd had placed a Coke in the freezer to chill and had forgotten about it, and I’m sure we all know what happens to cans of carbonated beverages left in a freezer—they explode. So as the guy opens the freezer, bits of can and frozen Coke come shooting out at him and go sliding across the floor, creating quite a scene of shock for all of us. I write the guy a check for forty bucks, take my eight filet mignons that are better than any a restaurant would serve (except they weren’t really that good), and the meat salesmen leave, never to return again.
The moral of the story is: become a vegetarian.
Oh, and I really need to work on saying no.
The Daring Kitchen
