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Girl
Power It was a red-letter day—Friday, Aug. 8, 2003. I had decided early on that I would watch Dr. Phil at 3 p.m., an inexpensive reward I sometimes give myself when I finish a job. I was really on top of it that day. Not only had I finished a writing assignment, I had also managed to clean out an old file of tax receipts. Feeling really proud of myself—even smug—I prepared air-popped popcorn and green tea with mandarin orange flavoring, sweetened with Equal. I was on a roll: work done, snack in hand, no fat, no sugar. With a glass brimming with iced tea and a huge bowl of popcorn, I turned the TV on and stretched out, ready for a feast and entertainment by 2:59 p.m. At 3:15, I’m munching and drinking and anxious for the first commercial to be over. I had planned to learn a lot from the day’s program lineup, during which Dr. Phil was purporting to teach women the art of negotiation. In the first few minutes of the show, I had heard him give an astonishing statistic: that 46.5 percent of the women in the world pay more for goods and services than men because they lack “haggling” skills. And according to the 2002 Statistical Abstract of the U.S., in which all full-time, year-round workers are considered, I personally learned that men make an average annual salary of $31,039 compared to women, who make only $20,309. That’s downright disgusting, but I digress. Dr. Phil was just about to share his knowledge on how to negotiate a car purchase, which truly interested me, since my own car had blown an engine just a week earlier. Just when Dr. Phil was gearing up, the phone rang. Thinking it was a sales call, I tried to ignore it but couldn’t. “Good afternoon, this is Nancy Beasley,” I said in my professional 9-to-5 voice. “Well, how you doing, Mom?” my older son, Beau, asked. “For once in my life, I’m eating popcorn, drinking tea and watching TV,” I sheepishly admitted. “What are you doing?” “I’m driving around in a Lowe’s parking lot.” “You’re what?” “I’m driving around in a Lowe’s parking lot.” “Don’t you have anything else to take up your time?” “Not while Maggie is asleep.” “Well, how fast are you going?” I asked, suddenly concerned that he was talking on the phone and driving with my only grandchild asleep in the backseat. “Oh, I don’t have to go very fast,” he said. “I just have to keep moving.” “What happens if you stop?” I asked. “It gets real ugly,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Well, how many times have you been around the parking lot?” “I’ve lost count. Leila [his wife] is inside looking for a light fixture.” “You mean to tell me that you are driving around in circles just so Maggie won’t wake up?” “You got it. The people in the store might have even thought of calling the cops by now. I keep seeing the same sales clerks looking out the store window. They probably think I’m a pedophile.” I had given up on eating the popcorn after the first sentence or two and was laughing so hard my son asked if he should call back another time. “No,
no,” I managed to squeak out. “Keep on. I need some
entertainment in the worst kind of way.” My son’s
silence told me that he didn’t see the humor in the situation. “That’s about the size of it.” “Aren’t you supposed to be the adult?” “Well, yes, but trust me, you don’t want to wake Maggie up when she has just begun a nap. I tried that once, thinking I could gas the car and she would sleep through it, thought I could do it in about three minutes. Well, it didn’t work.” “Why do you think she wakes up when you stop?” I asked between shrieks of laughter. “There must be a switch on her butt that opens her eyes when I cut the car off,” he answered sarcastically. As if reading my mind, he said, “You need to write about this in one of your columns.” And then there was silence. “Oh, no,” he finally said, “there’s a Prince William County cop pulling up.” After a very pregnant pause, he continued. “Phew. Must have been a fender bender.” In another second, he said, “Hold on; my other line is ringing.” After another brief lapse of silence, Beau clicked back on saying, “That was Leila, calling from inside the store. She’s having a hard time finding the fixture she wants.” “Did she want to know if Maggie was still asleep? “That too.” I just had to ask: “What happens when she wakes up and you aren’t driving?” “Well, most of the time, she sucks her thumb while she’s asleep. When the car slows down, the first thing she does is suck her thumb harder, and then her brow begins to furrow up. It’s kind of like a bank president smoking a cigar.” At this point, I’m practically rolling off the bed, and Beau decides that I’m not the diversion he was hoping for. He mumbles something about calling me tomorrow and hangs up while I’m still laughing. I’m really sorry I didn’t get in the last word. I was going to encourage my son to keep driving so that Maggie could get her rest. At the rate she’s handling the adults in her life, she ought to be able to help me negotiate a honey of a deal on a car by next September, when she’ll turn 2 years old. By then, I’ll bet I can teach her to say “BMW.” One more thing: Dr. Phil needs to meet my granddaughter if he thinks there are women out there who can’t negotiate what they want out of life. December
2003
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