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Tell us about the weirdest public scene you ever witnessed
In the mid-1980s, I worked at a Georgetown law firm and would often grab lunch and eat along the canal. One beautiful spring day, as I was having lunch with a friend on the canal near 31st Street, a man of about 40 came walking in from 31st Street along the canal. The day was windless. The water in the canal was quite high, to within an inch or two of the edge of the canal’s stone retaining wall. Moreover, the water was covered with green algae, which gave the appearance of being solid due to its dark color and the absence of any movement. The man stopped right in front of us. He was wearing a dark business suit and carried a briefcase in his right hand. He turned toward the canal, paused a second, and then stepped off, plunging to the bottom. No doubt, he believed the surface was solid and just thought he’d take a shortcut. He returned to the surface a few seconds later, sputtering, dripping and covered with bits of green algae. He still had the briefcase in his right hand. Although we were no more than 15 feet from him, he didn’t look at us, said nothing, and slowly walked back to 31st Street, as if this had been his daily swim. God only knows what explanation he gave to the people at his business meeting. |
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Tell us about a time you found an unorthodox
way to save money
A few years ago, I decided I could eliminate the cost of buying a daily soft drink at work by making my own root beer and storing it in the office fridge. I had a bottle of root beer extract, so all I needed was to add sugar, yeast and water, heat it awhile, then transfer it to bottles. The instructions said to use bottles with cork stoppers, “such as used for fine wine.” My family didn’t drink fine wine, but we had some empty three-liter glass jugs with screw-on tops. I thought those would do the trick.
The morning after cooking up my batch, I loaded up a box with six bottles of root beer, put it in the back seat and headed for work. I took the other box to the basement for future use. The root beer tasted creamy and good, and I was quite pleased with myself.
The first bottle exploded when I was in the middle lane of Interstate 95 around Dale City spewing glass and root beer all over me and the car. I frantically took off my sport coat, threw it over the box and waited for the next yeast-induce explosion. Two more when off before I got to work. I quickly called my wife and told her not to go into the basement until she had heard six explosions. Thankfully, by the end of the workday the three bottles remaining in the back seat had gone off, and I could drive home without fear of more fireworks. |
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Tell us about a time the lesson taught was not the one learned
Earlier this year, our family was driving through an affluent area of Montgomery County when my 9-year-old son asked, “Why can’t we afford a mansion?” We could, “I turned to him and said, “But instead, we choose to put our money toward other things that we think are more important.” With that, my husband went into a lengthy soliloquy about how, instead of getting the biggest house on the block, we choose to invest for retirement, pay for summer camp and live within our means. I chimed in with some of my money-saving strategies, including using coupons and sales, not buying things for the brand names and not competing to have the most “stuff.” My husband finished strong by detailing how much money we put toward education so none of our kids would have any debt when they graduated. And I added my own flourish with a few stories of people from my high school who found out right before graduation that their parents had spent their college funds on boats and time shares. Thinking we’d strongly and clearly illustrated the lesson of making wise money choices and how responsible we were, I said to my son. “So, did you learn anything?” and waited for his verbal pat on the back. He quickly said, “Yep. You guys need to make some more money!” |
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Tell us about a time you savored the sweetest revenge
About twenty five years ago, I had a boss who was an inept manager, although he insisted on high standards from the managers working under him. I also had a difficult employee who was performing poorly. She was an angry person who upset and intimidated many of her co-workers. Her previous supervisors had failed to address her issues. My boss insisted I write a performance evaluation to reflect all of the areas where she needed to improve and to eventually terminate her if she didn’t improve. I wrote the evaluation, and she was outraged. She went over my head to my boss. Instead of backing me up, he folded. He acted like she was a great employee and suggested that she file a grievance against me. Then he told me to resolve it all.
As I was steaming and stewing over the situation, I received a call from someone at a company I used to work for. He asked me to come back. I was delighted and agreed. I rewrote my problem employee’s evaluation, rated her “outstanding” in all categories. She happily signed it. Then I handed it to my boss, along with my resignation, and said, “Here. Now she is your problem.”
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Tell us about a time when bigger definitely wasn’t better
It was 1952, in the era when clean plates ruled. I was 10 years old. A huge pancake the size of a place mat stared up at me from the table. I had taken only one awful bite. Mom was in the hospital, busy giving birth to a new baby, and I was staying with Grandma Lo and Aunt Rita. I didn’t know this Gram very well. So when she had offered me pancakes for breakfast — an unheard of treat on a weekday — I readily agreed, bragging about eating 10 the Sunday before, when Mom had made them. The pancakes Mom made were silver dollar size, light and airy. This monster turned out to be burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. The dough got stuck in my throat. I fantasized about the tricks that my 4-year-old sister, Mary, used to hide food she didn’t want, such as dumping it in her little plastic purse or stuffing it in the torn opening of her booster seat. But I didn’t have those options.
So I choked down a second bite. And, slowly, a third. Then my aunt walked in to get me, saying it was nearly time for school. “I’m a really slow eater,” I volunteered, hopefully. Grandma Lo swept up the plate. “I’ll heat it up for you after school, honey,” she said, sweetly. And she did. |
