Life Lessons, Half-way Through

By Bob Rehak

Every time I make a mistake, I chalk it up to a Life Lesson: something learned that will help me later in life should the same circumstance present itself. For example, I recently took a line drive off my forearm while I was throwing batting practice to my son. Sure, the bruise is colorful and it looks like a scoop of rainbow sherbet was surgically implanted under my skin, which is cool, but it did hurt.

The next night I backed up, realizing that this 6-foot tall human I’m pitching to is no longer 7 years old and is no longer afraid of a league ball: another Life Lesson learned.

Since I’ve been around longer than 98% of the baseball stadiums in this country (though not as long as Wrigley or Fenway), I like to think that I’ve learned a few Life Lessons. Here’s a quick rundown of some of the more important Life Lessons I’ve been taught:

--Never buy, sell, distribute, or consume any product from any company that can’t use the word “it’s” properly in its advertising. Let’s say you get an offer in the mail from a catering company, and they’re offering to cater your next party, at a discount. It’s a very colorful coupon, with glossy pictures of chicken and ribs, and in the middle of the ad there’s a sunburst with the copy: “Don’t forget the cole slaw! It comes in it’s own keepsake bowl!”

Is it really that hard for anyone to understand that “it’s” translates to “it is”? While the slaw may be tasty, and I would really like to add that keepsake bowl to my collection, I worry about the caterer’s ability to read the expiration date on the mayonnaise. No sale.

--Never put your money in a bank that can’t keep accurate time and temperature readings. There are two banks near my house, both within a Susan B. Anthony’s throw from each other. They’re so close, I imagine they get each other’s mail. (And probably read it). One of the banks has a sign that flashes the time and temperature in between offers to give you less interest for investing in a CD than you would make if you asked your parents for some spare change. Occasionally, the time will be off by more than a few minutes, enough to be noticeable and make you think you’re later for work than you really are. The temperature gets wacky, too, proclaiming 112 degrees when the sun hits the sign’s aluminum frame, even though it’s October.

We don’t bank there. If the clock can’t keep accurate time and the temperature is an arbitrary number, I don’t think I want them keeping track of my IRA. Or my Susan B. Anthonys.

--Never stay at any hotel, motel, campground, hostel, or cute little bed and breakfast if they can’t spell “accommodations”. You would think that in an age where kids learn to spell-check before they can write, that there wouldn’t be a problem with that word. Yet I swear I have seen it spelled wrong dozens of times on advertising for national chains of hotels and other lesser known innkeepers. It may not bother you when they leave off a “c” or an “m” in the word, but isn’t that like trusting your laptop to someone who says he can fix your hard “dryve”? I mean, accommodations are what they’re selling. If they can’t spell it, I’m not buying it.

--Change your oil every 3000 miles, but don’t do it yourself. Back in the 70s when $10 would fill up your gas tank and leave you room for a Big Gulp and a Suzy Q (breakfast of champions), it made sense to change your own oil. Quarts of oil were less than a dollar apiece, oil filters were only a few dollars, and you felt like you were some kind of mechanic. Very impressive to the ladies, especially if you owned your own oil pan and filter wrench. Nowadays quarts of oil are closer to $2 each, and it’s not like the old days anymore: you can’t just dump the old oil into your neighbor’s yard when he wasn’t looking – allegedly.

Now it makes sense to get your oil changed for less than $20 from a real life mechanic. Sure, it may take 30 minutes of your time, and yes, they will try to scare you into replacing a part your car doesn’t need (“Mr. Rehak, it looks like you’ve got a bad flux capacitor – want us to replace it, or would you rather die in a fiery crash on the Eisenhower?”), but you need to stand firm and tell him to just change the oil, Mickey, here’s my coupon, and I’ll be on my way.

Trust me, your wife will be more impressed that you got it done right rather than wasted half a day looking for your old filter wrench. Maybe stop and get her a Slurpee on the way home, you big romantic, you.

--Never get so full of yourself that you won’t bend over to pick up a penny. There is a coin snobbery in this country that has grown to epidemic proportions. When was the last time you bent over to pick up a penny on the ground? If it’s been awhile, either you’re a coin snob or it’s time to visit the eye doctor. I’ve seen people drop a penny, and then look at it as if a wart just fell off their thumbs. They ignore those little Lincoln heads with the cavalier attitude that “it’s only a penny”. And this penny apathy isn’t getting any better. I believe that this penny prejudice has grown exponentially over the years, handed down from parent to child. Help stop the hate, people, before it spreads to nickels.

--If you know anyone over 35 years old, don’t call them after 11pm. They’ll panic. Us older folks need our rest. If we have kids who aren’t home yet or we have any living relative with a bad head cold, and you call us after “Nightline” has ended, we will assume that someone has died. We will jump to the phone like a schoolgirl the week before prom. Let it wait till the morning. We’re usually up by 6am anyway. If it can’t wait, there better be an ambulance involved.

--Don’t wear a jersey to church. If you’re going to a worship service, dress appropriately. You can dress casually, but if you’re wearing a garish team logo, or are sporting a t-shirt with a saying that would make a nun blush, you might as well stay home. And don’t give me that old argument that God doesn’t care what you wear to church, as long as you attend. Ask yourself this question as you get dressed: would I wear this to a wake? If you wouldn’t wear the outfit to a wake out of respect for Uncle Monty or Aunt Cecilia, then you shouldn’t wear it to Sunday mass, out of respect for someone a littler higher up than good old, dead Uncle Monty.