Confidence on the Rocks
A Portrait of a Confident Child
When my daughter was a second grader, she wanted to start a business making and selling bracelets. I told her I would give her a loan to buy materials, and she would have to pay me back once she made some sales. It would be a 0% interest small business loan, much better than she would get from most banks or Orange County loan sharks. She nodded, dubious but a little calculating. She had the same look I get when a story is brewing in my imagination.
When I picked her up from school the next day, she told me she needed to talk to someone before we could head home. I watched her exchange words with another second grader.
The conversation seemed serious.
Lots of nodding.
That second grader walked over to her mom, they exchanged some words of their own—more nodding, more serious expressions, and some hand gestures— and then the second grader pointed at my daughter.
A second or two later, the mom reached into her purse and gave the second grader a ten-dollar bill, which the second grader then delivered to my daughter.
They exchanged nods, my daughter stuffed the ten into her pocket, walked back over to me, and said, “We can go home now.”
“What was that about?” I asked.
“I’m taking preorders for my bracelets, so I don’t need your loan anymore.“
A Portrait of a Fearful Man as a Young Boy
I’m 45 years old. I’ve never had as much confidence as my daughter had in the second grade.
You couldn’t have told my mom that, though. When I was in the third grade, my mom proudly told everyone who would listen that I was moved into a 3rd/4th combination because the teachers had identified me as a bright kid who could pinch above his weight should any 4th-grade curriculum come my way.
My mom’s pride never wavered, even when I came home with a bucket of rocks and a plan to get rich by selling them. I found these rocks scattered around an olive tree behind our house. Pasty white and roughly the same size, my adult self realizes they were landscaping rocks, the kind senior citizen use when their backs and bunions prevent them from mowing the lawn. The rocks had probably fallen off a flat bed truck, but that truck’s loss was my gain.
Call it imagination, call it stupidity, I remained utterly certain the landscaping rocks were either crystals or diamonds (because those two are basically the same thing) and I was going to sell them to the neighbors to finance a private roller coaster that Santa Claus had failed to deliver despite my A-plus behavior and my 3rd/4th combination scholarship.
I had a robust entrepreneurial spirit and zero salesmanship. Nevertheless, I dragged that bucket of rocks next door and knocked. A widow had just moved in with three 20-something daughters. One of the three answered the door. “Hey there,” she said, half a cigarette pinched between her lips.
I froze. Not exactly a solid sales move.
“You the boy from next door?”
I thawed not one degree. Just kept looking at her.
“What have you got there?”
Still no words. I looked at the bucket and then back at her.
“Are those rocks?”
I shook my head.
“They’re not rocks? They sure look like rocks.”
I knew little about timing at that time in my life, to say nothing of the ebb and flow of fruitful conversation, of elegant transitions—
“Wanna buy some?” I blurted. No other way to describe it. It was 100% blurt.
“Do I want to buy…some rocks?”
I shook my head again. “They’re not rocks.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, what the hell are they?”
“Diamonds,” I said. “And crystals.”
“Gotcha. Well, which ones are diamonds and which ones are crystals?”
“I don’t know. I think some of the crystals have diamonds in them and some of the diamonds have crystals in them.”
“Of course, how silly of me,” she said, flicking her cigarette butt into the flower bed. “I should have known.”
“They’re good for jewelry.” This was my high water mark, the lone moment I riffed on the potential value of my wares.
She kneeled down and picked one from the bucket. “How much does this one go for?”
“Five,” I said.
“Five cents?”
“Five dollars.”
She sighed. “I just smoked my last cigarette, so I need my five dollars for a new pack. But I’ll give you five cents if you’re willing to negotiate.”
So I walked out of there with a nickel. I dragged that bucket of rocks to every other neighbor’s house on our block, and by the end of the day, my net worth was one nickel and a bucket of rocks.
An Apocalyptic Smörgasbord
These stories have been knocking around in my head because my wife has been encouraging me for months to monetize All Kinds of Funny. “What are you afraid of?” she’s been asking.
It’s a good question. As a creative smart ass, I’m never at a loss for answers. In my mind, I flip that monetization switch and—
We interrupt this newsletter to bring you a special report. Norman T. Leonard, self-proclaimed humor writer, has monetized his Substack newsletter, All Kinds of Funny. International leaders the world over are advising citizens to brace themselves for a seismic wave of impending doom.
At approximately 1:15am EST, the United States government has asked that American citizens be made aware of the following:
The President has suspended trading on the exchange for fear that All Kinds of Funny could not only destabilize but inflict irreparable damage to the economy. Congress has assembled in an extraordinary session to organize federal relief funds for what are certain to be dark, dark times.
The National Guard has been deployed to thwart acts of violence, looting, and general malaise and moody behavior.
State leaders have called on the President to nominate a Minister of Existential Despair, a spiritual guru who can assist in the preservation of souls and the protection of children likely to be morally corrupted by Norman T. Leonard and his All Kinds of Funny. Anonymous White House staffers have suggested that the President has had no success in finding a willing participant. “The spiritual lift is just too heavy,” said one source.
Some Biblical scholars have connected All Kinds of Funny to The Book of Revelations 22:14–15: “14Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city. 15 Outside are the dogs, those who practice magic arts...” These scholars interpret the All Kinds of Funny logo, a basset hound in sunglasses, as the manifestation of end times.
Mediums throughout the nation have reported several uncanny communications from the afterlife. Mark Twain, George Carlin, and Richard Pryor have all confirmed that they are, in fact, “rolling around in their graves.” Both Carlin’s and Pryor’s supernatural communications included several expletives we've omitted for obvious reasons.
Related, comedian David Sedaris, a hero of Leonard’s, has announced his retirement, saying, “I’ll never laugh again. I doubt anyone will.”
Any sightings of Norman T. Leonard should be reported to authorities. He is 6’2“ with curly hair and the face that only his mother could—um, excuse me, this just in, yes, we have confirmation—not even his mother loves his face. If you see this sad, pathetic, unfunny man who’s never been that good at basketball, do not approach him. He is unlovable and there is a good chance his insecurities will infect your genetics. Again, call the authorities and pray to whichever god you pray to that Norman T. Leonard dies a most painful, lonely, and humiliating death.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled newsletter.
My Wife Is Right, As Usual
For too long, I’ve had more insecurity than confidence, more self-loathing than self-worth, more shame than pride, more doubt than fear. So I did monetize, and the world is not ending. Actually, it sort of is ending, but I’m confident it has little to do with me. As I’m typing this, I realize I just referred to myself as confident, which feels unfamiliar. But good. Yeah, feels pretty good.
Unfamiliar confidence definitely feels better than the same ol’-same ol’ blanket of shame and despair. Maybe confidence is easier to come by when you’re selling laughter and smiles instead of a big ass bucket of rocks.
Thanks for reading. If this is your first time here, consider reading some of my other stories. There are battles with runaway crabs and squatting bats, confrontations with zombies and Sedona hippies with PTSD, treatises on hugs and death, and so much more! And there’s more coming every week.
If you want to banter…
Watch out world. Your daughter is well on her way.
I think to some extent, confidence is born not made. Certainly, it can be destroyed by external forces and bolstered by the same, but the initial confidence is just there. So, in that vein, three stories.
I am confident about one thing. I am a great computer programmer. Seriously, I am. Many years ago, I wrote a program that was a thing of beauty that printed financial statements. Depending on parameters fed up front, the statement would be printed vertically or horizontally, each section would have a box around it or not, each section could be printed in the order the customer preferred (so first bonds, than stocks, then annuities, etc). The program was long and involved but completely documented and coded in such a way that each function could be ripped out of the program without impacting the rest. I went on vacation and when I came back, my boss called me into her office and proceeded to scream at me, complaining how she couldn't understand my program and it was garbage. The truth was she was a lousy coder. So I looked her in the eye and told her, 'You can say a lot of things about me but not that I don't know how to write a program." (The upshot was she wouldn't look in the face for the next year and when I left it was on my terms).
Story number two. Much like your daughter (I suspect), my oldest is the most self confident person possibly in the known universe. The day before his Bar Mitzvah I asked him if he was nervous. He gave me one of those looks and said (and this a direct quote), "You do the best you can do, that's all you can do so why worry." He actually lives this way. I've seen him worried exactly once, he assumes things will work out and if they don't go as planned, he'll find a silver lining. He assumes there's no problem he can't solve, nothing he can't understand and that he can make the world bend to his will,. He's almost always right.
Story number three. My youngest claims his main talent in life is luck. But in reality it's talent, hard work and confidence in himself. He's an art director. (mon brag - he's only 30 and is an art director for one of the most prestigious international publications in the world). In his senior year of HS, my husband took him to Kinkos so he could make copies of his art work so the portfolio could be sent to the art schools he was applying to. While there, he got into a conversation with a mid-twenties photographer who told my son he was putting together a website for some kind of music related business. My son asked to see the site. My son then told him the photography was excellent but the web design was not very good and he could do a much better job for a reasonable price, since he was just starting out. The guy looked at my kid flabbergasted and asked how old he was. Seventeen was the answer. The guy's comment? "I feel like I've wasted my entire life."
Hope you enjoyed these anecdotes. The main takeaway is as long as it's not physically dangerous, let your daughter fly as fast, as hard and as free as she wants to go. And as far as you personally, from reading some of your other posts, I know you've suffered from depression. Depression is the black hole where our self confidence goes to die. Where no matter what we do, we believe it wasn't deserved. I've seen it in my extended family and it's a misery. It's not an easy battle, but you definitely are a funny guy and it's obvious that you are actually loved.
PS. I assume your daughter is take no prisoners when she plays Monopoly.
The story about your daughter taking pre-orders is worth the subscription price. The ensuing hilarity is just a bonus.