Was I On the Roof?

I’m the kind of person who likes to deal with things openly and frankly. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a little softening of a big blow, as in the old joke about “Mom was on the roof.” You remember that one, don’t you?


A long-married couple is reluctant to take a vacation, because they are worried about the health of their elderly parents. The brother encourages them to go, saying, “I’ll look in on Mom and Dad, don’t worry.”

The couple goes on the trip, and when they return the brother is there to greet them. “How’s Mom?” the woman asks. “She’s dead,” says the brother, sipping his coffee.

“Whaaaaaat??? Mom’s dead, and that’s how you tell me? Couldn’t you even break it to me gently, ease me into it—you just blurt out MOM’S DEAD?”

“Well, how should I tell you?” the dolt asked.

The woman, flustered, said, “You know, if Fluffy had died while we were gone, you might say, ‘Gee, there was an awful accident… Fluffy was on the roof… He lost his balance and fell. I rushed him to the vet, but there was nothing they could do… Fluffy died.’ At least it would soften the blow!”

The brother nodded, and went on sipping his coffee. “Now,” the woman continued, “how’s Dad?”

“Dad was on the roof…” he began.

So, yes! –it’s wise to consider the feelings of the person you’re interacting with, whether face-to-face, on the phone, or by e-mail. I’m not talking about sugar-coating the truth, just a respectful and considerate regard for how your news, comments, opinions or information will be received.

So combine this viewpoint with the (nearly) universal disdain, dislike and abhorrence of the telephone answering menu. You know—“For business hours press 1, for directions press 2, for our fax number press 3, for complaints, hang up and dial our competitors.” Doesn’t everyone hate those? When I dial my doctor’s office I spend so much time listening to the announcements and the choices that I sometimes forget why I was calling. Oh yeah, it was about my short-term memory problems, but that’s not important right now.

Here’s where the two points I have been trying to make come together. I have had numerous occasions recently to help my father-in-law clarify some retirement issues. In so doing, I placed calls to his benefits office in the giant, well-known, Fortune 500 company he worked for. When I got through the first couple of menus, and reached the line for retirees’ benefits, I got this, “If you are calling to report a death, press 1.” Holy smoke, talk about a smack in the face! It took me aback, but I was really grateful that my 88-year old father-in-law wasn’t listening! I wondered how discouraging that must be if one of their retirees who might have serious health problems or be severely depressed placed that call and heard that as ‘option number 1’. I’m not all that old, and my health is good, and I frankly did not take kindly to hearing that. In fact, in the process of clearing up the questions we had, I reached the same recording several times in the course of the week, and each and every time it felt weird to hear those words said out loud.

So here’s my advice to you, if you happen to work in human resources, or public relations, and you have any influence whatsoever when it comes to scripting the phone recordings: think of how your message might sound to the caller.

Maybe you could try, “If you’re calling to report a retiree on the roof, press 1.”

Testosterone Poisoning

On my way out to do some errands yesterday, I encountered two of the finest neighbors I’ve ever been privileged to know chatting in the street. Not at all uncommon here on Divorce Court, the cul-de-sac of the second chance.

Lady J from next door and Lady H from across the street were having a confab on the concrete. Since for once I wasn’t running late for some time-specific appointment, which causes me to wave and drive on, I got a chance to stop and join them.

Lady J was quick to let me know that they were grousing about their male partners. “You won’t believe this,” she shared. Her husband, Sir K, had been on his wet roof the day before, blowing leaves off, when he slipped and fell off the house, spraining his ankle.

“OMG—he’s lucky he didn’t do much more damage,” I said, incredulous. (Bear in mind that Sir K is, shall we say, of a certain age, RETIRED, after all, and has no more business getting up on a slippery, wet roof than I do flying a 747.) I recounted the story of a friend of ours who fell from his roof about five years ago and broke multiple bones. Lady H chimed in, telling us of a neighbor a few streets over who fell off his roof, broke his neck and died on the spot! (Game, set, match.) Can’t top that!

Meanwhile, Lady H is furious with her significant other, Sir J, because he had arthroscopic knee surgery and won’t follow doctor’s orders to stay off it. “He’s gone to the bank, he’s up and around as if it never happened!” Having had the same surgery a few years back, she knows whereof she speaks. “We’ve had it with both of them! They’re crazy—are you ready to leave CoTU (you remember my hub, the Center of the Universe) too?”

“Come to think of it, he definitely belongs in the same club. He won’t get up on the roof, but he did take the leaf blower out on the deck the other day to get rid of the leaves. It started raining while he was out there, but he persevered and finished the job. When I came home he told me he thought he might be the first Electrical Engineering graduate of the University of Missouri at Rolla to have his degree revoked posthumously!”

Yeah, have we heard somewhere that electricity and water don’t mix? Shocking, I’d say!

Notice that didn’t stop him from doing it.

We all kind of spontaneously rolled our eyes, shook our heads and threw our hands up in the air. We don’t understand why we can’t reason with them. Or maybe we do… It’s a guy thing. It’s the Y chromosome. You just can’t fight testosterone poisoning.