A phone call

We’re sitting at the dinner table – Chris, Tommy, MBW and I. It’s lasagna night, and MBW makes awesome lasagna. The boys like it because it’s good, and also because it’s a bit messy. That makes it fun.

With every bite I’m thinking of how hard I’m going to have to work at the gym tonight. Still, it’s worth it. I have a forkful of luscious lasagna on final approach when the phone rings.

Before the first ring is complete Chris is up and out of his chair and dashing for the phone. At age five, he thinks answering the phone is one of the coolest things ever. MBW has taught him well – he picks up the phone and says, “Hello, Mann residence.”

He pauses for just a second, listening intently. He turns to me and says, “Dad, it’s for you.”

I get up from the table and take the phone. “Hello?”

A clipped, professional female voice on the other end of the line says, “Please hold for Stephen McPherson.” It’s less of a request and more of a command. Her voice is immediately replaced by some canned ‘hold’ music.

I’m both annoyed and perplexed. First of all, I have no idea who is calling, why they are calling, or who Stephen McPherson is. Second, I have put our phone numbers on the National Do Not Call list, and I’ve gotten used to not having telemarketers bug us. I’m perplexed because this doesn’t feel like a telemarketing call. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going on.

Just as I’m about to hang up and get back to dinner, a male voice comes on the line.

“Mr. Mann? Mr. Fam Mann? Hey, how’re you doing tonight?”

The voice is pure LA – smooth, confident, and absolutely insincere.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“Fam, this is Steve McPherson, and I’m VP of programming at ABC TV. I just want to talk to you for a minute about your TV viewing. Well, actually, you’re lack of TV viewing.”

This has to be a prank phone call.

“Okay, you’re funny. I’m laughing. Really. Now who are you and what do you want? Did somebody put you up to this?”

“No, Fam, I really want to talk to you tonight. You write a blog, a popular blog, and you said something about not watching TV, and you mentioned some of our shows. I want to talk to you and see if I can’t convince you to take a look our shows, see what you’re missing, maybe tell people they’re missing some quality TV.”

Could this be for real?

“Did you actually read the blog” I ask?

“No, Fam, I didn’t. I don’t do blogs. But one of my assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife read it. She reads you all the time. I hear you really bashed some of our shows. Ratings have actually gone down a half-point since you put that thing out on the Internet.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Steve, if this is for real, you need to know something. My ‘popular blog’ is read, on average, by less than a hundred people a day. I mostly talk about my kids. I did write a piece on TV, basically saying we have better things to do than watch sitcoms. There’s no way this piece could have had any influence on your ratings.”

“Fam, baby, the numbers don’t lie. Ratings are down. Advertisers are unhappy. Producers are unhappy. Local affiliates across the country are unhappy. Worse, Eva Longoria is unhappy. Jennifer Garner is unhappy. I can’t have that. Everything was fine until you wrote this blog thing, and now the sh!% has hit the fan. We gotta do something here, Fam.”

“Excuse me, did you just call me “Fam, baby?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Look, Fam, let’s be reasonable about this. All I want is for you to go back on your blog thing and write up something about you decided to watch our shows, how great they are, how you and your family enjoy spending quality time in front of your television.”

“Well, ‘Steve ‘baby’, I really try not to lie on my blog. It’s called credibility? Maybe you’ve heard of that. We don’t watch much TV. We do other things.”

“Fam, I hear you. But think about this. Do you want your kids to grow up like you, unable to make small talk in the office because they haven’t watched the latest episodes of the hottest shows? Do you want your kids to be social outcasts, to not be ‘with it?’?”

“Steve-o, that really doesn’t describe me. Or my kids”

“No? Perhaps this does. By not watching television and supporting our advertisers, you’re not doing your part to keep the economy growing. I don’t know how to say this any other way, but frankly, you’re acting very un-American.”

I really can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

He continues, “But I know, in your own misguided way, you’re trying to do what you think is right for you and your family. I have an idea, if you’re willing to listen, to get you to sample one of our shows.”

I can’t wait to hear this.

“What is it?”

His voice lowers, conspiratorially. “Send your wife and kids over to her sister’s house next Sunday night. I’ll arrange for Eva Longoria to come over to your house to watch Desperate Housewives with you. Trust me, after that hour you’ll be hooked. Know what I mean, Fam?”

I swear I could hear him winking at me over the phone.

“Um…no.”

“Okay, how about Teri Hatcher?

“No.”

“Fam, what’s with you? What is your problem?”

I wasn’t aware that I had a problem. This gives me pause.

But you know what? He’s right. Now that I think about it, I do have a problem.

“Steve, I guess you’re right. I do have a problem. My problem is that I have a beautiful wife, two great young boys, a reasonably demanding job. I’ve got a house, a mortgage, bills to pay, college funds to fill. I’ve got a waistline that wants me to go to the gym, not sit on the couch. I’ve got a stack of books, really good books, that call to me if I do sit on the couch. I’ve got friends, despite the fact that I can’t talk about TV shows.”

“My problem, Steve-o, is that I have a life. A full life, a great life. A life that, frankly, is too full to spend watching Desperately Lost Housewives with Aliases.”

I pause for a moment.

“Not only that, Steve-o, my wife makes Eva look like your assistant’s secretary’s gofer’s driver’s wife.”

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line.

“What have you got against TV, Fam?”

“Nothing,” I said, “I watch TV five days a week.”

“What ARE you watching, then?"

In the morning Chris and Tommy watch Sesame Street. I think, over the last few years, I’ve seen almost every episode, many more than once.

“Steve,” I said, “I live in Elmo’s World.”

Pause.

“Fam, you’re a real jerk,” Steve-o says, and hangs up on me.

I turn and put the phone back on the cradle. Chris looks at me and asks, “Who was that, Dad?”

I smile and say, “Guess who called, guys?”

Tommy says, “Who, Daddy?”

“It was Oscar the Grouch!”

It’s great to be The Family Man.