Candy For My Dentist

Candy For My Dentist

When I was growing up, I went to a dentist who gave out candy and charms when you finished your visit.  In fact, his office was situated over a candy store.  I found this very convenient since my mother would always take me downstairs to the candy store and buy me something sweet to eat and a comic book.  I didn’t like going to the dentist, but I did look forward to what came afterward.  

This created the association for me of dentist equals candy, or at least lollipops. As a result of this, I always ask my dentists for lollipops, usually to no avail.

About 3 years ago, I changed dentists and on my first visit, asked for a lollipop.  I was somewhat insistent and said I wasn’t leaving without one.  The office people up front scrounged around and found one in a desk.  I left content.

A pattern was formed.  I would tell them to have a lollipop ready for me when I made my appointment, and they would say it wasn’t seemly to offer their patients candy.  

In spite of their protests, I usually got something. The second appointment I got chocolate, the third, gum, and so on.  In reciprocation, I made them Black and White cookies.

On a recent appointment, they had nothing for me.  I was disappointed, and when the survey came to rate the dentist and practice, I put down that I was very disappointed I didn’t get a lollipop.

As it turns out they were not amused.

I went there to make an appointment for peridontal work and mentioned I expected a lollipop.

“So, you’re the one,” a person at the front desk said.  “You’ve caused us a problem.  Whenever anyone googles the dentist, something about lollipops comes up.  It’s not funny,” she said smiling ( Idid think it was kind of funny).  

“I didn’t know my comment would show up on your site.  I thought it was internal,” I answered, “but in my defense, I did ask for a lollipop in my appointment confirmation.”

“Please don’t put that in the survey again,” she asked.

“Ok,” I answered as Barbara, who happened to be with me, gave me the “look”.  

A week later, I had the peridontal work, and was given a follow up appointment for two weeks to take out the stitches.  I didn’t get a lollipop, but the post surgery instructions specified only eating soft foods like ice cream, pudding, cheese cake, and drinking thick shakes and malteds.  Who was I to argue?

The office called me the next day to see how I was, and I asked if I could have the stitches taken out sooner.  I told them they owed me because I didn’t get my lollipop.

“Well, I could possibly do it if YOU agree to bring us candy,” she replied.

“Hmmm, I do have about 2 1/2 pounds of Jelly Bellies left, I could bring those,” I said, “but only if you agree to display them prominently in the office so all can see.”  I felt it was only fitting to share with the other patients.

“Done,” she said.

I think they are coming around to my point of view.

Visit To Connecticut

Visit to Connecticut 

My wife and I recently visited our daughter’s family in Connecticut.  We usually do this twice a year and try to time it when the grandkids are off and it is not too cold.  This time our timing was off and it was cold.  It didn’t really warm-up until right before we left.

In spite of the cold we had a great time and got to see our granddaughter jump and ride horses: and our grandson play on 3 baseball teams. Of course things did happen to me.

One day, I persuaded (they say took them without their permission) to visit my great grandfather’s farm in Moodus Connecticut, about an hour and 30 minute ride from my daughter.  

Until I was 5, I, my mother, grandmother, aunt and cousin (Rocky) would spend the summers there.  My father and grandfather would come up on the weekends along with my Uncle, Rocky’s father.  My great grandfather, his son Benny and Benny’s wife Esther lived there all year round. Other relatives would also join us there.

I found the farm and knocked on the door to see if anyone was home.  No one was and I walked around the house to see if anyone was around back.  Meanwhile, Barbara and the grandkids left me and went back to the car.  What were they thinking??

 

Ronni, our daughter, stayed with me and she looked up the public records on the house and found it was built in 1820.  We walked down the hill to what used to be a gas station.  There was still an automotive repair shop and I spoke to someone who was approximately my age.  He invited me in and showed me photos from the 1940’s and we talked about what the town was like back then.  He told me the town had been wiped out by a road widening project.  I thought it was unfortunate since the town was kind of picturesque with wooden sidewalks.

Meanwhile, my wife and grandkids were getting impatient.  My wife told my granddaughter to text me to hurry up.  She texted me a tornado was coming and to hurry up and stop talking to people, a common complaint by my wife.

Ronni and I ignored the text.

On the way home, we stopped at New Haven to take a tour of Yale.  We walked around the campus and visited two of the libraries.  

Afterward, we went to what is supposed to be the 3rd best pizza place in the U.S. (It wasn’t) and we were quietly eating pizza there when the waiter approached us.

“Are you the Mayor?”, he asked me, meaning Michael Bloomberg, the former mayor of New York City.

I turned to him and said, “Of course I am”.

With that I heard a voice in the back of the restaurant cry out “I knew it”.

The waiter explained that there were two tables in the back who had seen me come in and had bets going on whether I was the Mayor.  

The waiter returned to our table with a picture of the real Michael Bloomberg on someone’s phone and showed it to me.  I don’t think I really look like Bloomberg except for a general similarity.  

However, not wanting to disappoint, I told him that was a younger picture of me and that’s why there was a difference in our appearances.

A couple at a nearby table started a conversation with me and we talked about my being  mistaken for the mayor on several occasions.

A few people leaving the restaurant said “Good bye Mr. Mayor”, which I graciously acknowledged.  They were the guys making bets.

Of course Barbara rolled her eyes at me and my grandchildren thought it was hilarious.  I had done nothing to initiate the situation, but rose to the occasion when it presented itself.

The next day, Barbara and I took the train into the city to meet a friend of ours.

We arrived at Grand Central, met our friend and went out to stand on the taxi line.  

It was cold and I was in a leather jacket.  The transit cop keeping order on the taxi line, approached me and asked if I would consider trading his transit jacket/vest for my leather jacket.  

“Yes,” I answered, “If you will leave on the badge and insignia”.  He declined.

We had a nice day with our friend and wound up in Ellen’s Stardust Diner on Broadway and 51st street.  The wait staff are all aspiring Broadway Musical Actors and Actresses.  they all sing a song or two to the customers throughout the day.

I excused myself to go to the restroom and upon returning found my wife belting out a Motown hit with one of the wait staff.  I had never seen a patron taking part in the show before.  I mention this because everyone thinks it’s me who always gets in these situations.

On the following Saturday, Barbara, I, our daughter, her husband and children went into the city.  We decided to go to SOHO and walk around.  We slowly made our way to Greenwich Village and then Little Italy. 

It was around dinner time so we were walking towards a nice restaurant in Little Italy.  

I happened to see a camera man and reporter talking with people on the street.  I approached them and asked what they were doing.

They worked for the UN and were doing a documentary for a TV station on “How Ethnic Groups Got Along In NYC.  They asked (or maybe I volunteered, the memory is murky) if I wanted to be interviewed.

I graciously agreed. How could I say no?.

They seemed to like my answers to their question and indicated that would like to use my answers.  The camera man told me I kind of resembled the “Mayor”.   While they were interviewing me, a small crowd gathered and some people were filming me getting interviewed.  I think they thought I was the Mayor.

I asked them when I could see The documentary and what channel it would be on.  Turns out it was for a TV station in Dubai!  I don’t get that channel.

Our vacation progressed and Barbara, Ronni and I went to a mall in Trumble Connecticut.  While there I passed a kiosk that made T-Shirts.  

I could not resist.  I had two T-Shirts made.  One was a picture of me shrugging and the shirt said: “I was just sitting there”.  I wanted another shirt with Barbara’s picture and the shirt to say “And I should have left him there”.  Even though she came up with that saying she refused to have her picture taken.  I chased her around for a while with my cellphone cameral but she managed to elude getting her picture taken.  I eventually settled for putting the saying on the back of the shirt, signed by “His Wife”

The second T-Shirt has the Seal of the City of New York along with the saying “the Mayor is In”.  On the back it says “Three terms were not enough”.

Now I need Bloomberg to become mayor again so I can continue to be the “Mayor”.  

Eventually our trip came to an end and we were on the plane back to Florida.

I was just sitting there watching TV when suddenly the channel kept changing.

Barbara poked me and stated her TV was broken because it would not change channels.  She was changing my channels by mistake.  I showed her the error of her ways and went back to watching my TV.

The channel changed again!

Barbara was bored with her program and wanted something to do on the plane, so she found something.  

Annoying me!

The Ketubah Incident

The Ketubah Incident

Our friends’ two children were getting married.  The weddings would be a month apart.  It was going to be a joyous, albeit expensive time for all involved.

Every week, my friend would call me to complain about the cost of the weddings, especially his daughter’s. He was also paying for his son’s wedding. I would listen sympathetically but I would stress that he was having a great time participating in the planning and in finally getting the both of them married.  He was really enjoying himself, especially in bargaining with the various vendors.  Something he is both skilled at and loves.

His daughter had called me during all this and we discussed her father’s calls to me and his complaints about the cost and the “work” he was putting into this wedding.  

I told her to tell him: “It’s your job to pay, so stop complaining because you love that your children are getting married.  Besides, you only have one daughter and one son and that’s what the monies are for.”

A few days later he called me and told me his daughter told him “Shelly said it’s your job to pay, so stop complaining and enjoy it.”

“Did you tell her that?” he demanded.

“Absolutely” I answered.  “Isn’t it your job to pay and don’t you enjoy it?”

“Well, yes,” he replied, “but you didn’t have to tell her”.  He continued paying and complaining right up until the days of the weddings.

As his daughter’s wedding approached, I received a phone call from his daughter and him asking me to be the witness on the Ketubah.  

For those unfamiliar with the term, a Ketubah is a marriage contract. All Jewish couples have to have a Ketubah to be officially married.  It sets out the terms of the marriage in terms of duties and possessions of the bride and groom.  In older times it was a safeguard for the bride, detailing what her rights were and what belonged to her in case of a divorce.  Now it is a formality setting up the marriage according to Jewish Law.  Many couples help write their own Ketubahs. Many couples have elaborate and decorative ones that are displayed in their home.

It is an honor to be asked and I readily accepted.

The day of the daughter’s wedding came and Barbara and I arrived early so I could sign the Ketubah before the ceremony.  We all gathered in a room and I met the Rabbi who not only was going to officiate at the ceremony but had created the Ketubah by hand for the couple.

“You’re the witness?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You do know how to sign your name in Hebrew, don’t you?” he inquired.

“Not since I was 13,” I said, panic beginning to rear its ugly head.     

“Could you write it out for me and I can copy it?”, I asked both hopefully and somewhat desperately.

“Yes, but you will have to practice for a few minutes.  I took great care on this Ketubah and you have to do a good job so as not to ruin it,” he stated.

The Ketubah was beautifully done, and I didn’t want to ruin it.

I took about five minutes to practice writing my name in Hebrew and was able to sign the Ketubah to his satisfaction.  The ceremony was then able to begin.  I had “saved the day” or at least I thought so in my “Walter Mitty” reverie.

The wedding was beautiful, the bride was gorgeous and a terrific time was had by all.

As the son’s wedding approached, I was again asked to sign the Ketubah for him.  

It was going to be the same Rabbi, and I was not going to be caught unprepared this time.

I printed out my name in Hebrew from the internet and practiced until it looked like the printout.  I was ready!

The day of the wedding, Barbara and I, once again arrived and found the bridal party with the Rabbi.  He remembered me and asked if I was prepared to sign again.  

“Absolutely,” I replied, “I’ve been practicing”

But just in case I had prepared a cheat sheet for me to copy from. I wasn’t going to ruin the moment.

I sat down and signed my name with some confidence, and was given a nod of approval from the Rabbi.  This was also a very beautiful Ketubah.

Once again, Walter Mitty had saved the day.  The wedding could go on.

The bride was beautiful, the wedding was a great success, all was well with the world.

Two days later my friend called me and told me a sad tale. 

While walking to the altar to conduct the ceremony, the Rabbi had dropped the Ketubah, face down on the wet floor (it was an outdoor ceremony and it had rained about 1/2 hour before).  The wet floor had ruined the Ketubah.  

The Rabbi had created a new one, and I was asked to meet the Rabbi at his office and sign again.  Of course I readily agreed.

I hastily located my cheat sheet and practiced before going to the Rabbi’s office.  I set up a time and I met him to re-sign the Ketubah.

I successfully performed my task, once again “saving the day”.

Now that I have some expertise in signing my name in Hebrew, perhaps I could make a career out of being a witness.

Anyone having a wedding coming up?

The Elephant Caper

The Elephant Caper

My cousin Rocky loves Elephant Statues.  She has them all over her condo in Florida.

Barbara, my sister Regina and I were visiting Rocky and her husband last winter at their condo and remarked on the number of statues  she had scattered around the condo.  There were big ones, medium ones and small ones.  Probably about 10 of them.

An idea began to form about how we could improve their look and make them seem more natural.

I told my sister and Barbara about my idea and everyone agreed (thought it was funny, hysterical even).  Barbara said she wouldn’t participate, but my sister would.

Rocky and her husband left for New York.  We plotted.

Rocky called me about a month later and asked me to help out her neighbor.  It seems Rocky’s air conditioner wasn’t working and the neighbor was calling the repair service.  Could I go there and wait for the repairman so as not to tie up the neighbor.

I agreed and set up a time with the neighbor, who has Rocky’s key, since she didn’t trust me or my sister, and the repairman.

My sister and I got the key from the neighbor and waited for the repairman.  He came and fixed the unit.  We took this opportunity to make copies of Rocky’s key and to pick up some brown Play Doh.  We returned to the apartment.

We formed the brown Play Doh into circular shapes and placed them under the various elephant statues so as to make them appear as if the Elephants had performed a natural function.  They looked good.  Rocky’s neighbor came in and concurred with our assessment of our handiwork.  Now we had to wait for Rocky to return next winter.

During the interval, Rocky’s husband, Larry became progressively sick and eventually died.  This devastated Rocky and was very sad for everyone.  

The only redeeming thing was when Rocky fell into a coffin at the funeral home.  

She had gone to the funeral home with her son, daughter, grandson and my sister.  I had offered to go but they said they could handle it.  Rocky was in bad shape and my sister asked Rocky if she had eaten that day. She assured her she had, so my sister gave her a pill to calm her down.  Unfortunately, Rocky hadn’t actually eaten and the pill made Rocky unsteady.

She began leaning against the coffins in the coffin viewing room and slowly worked her way over to an open part of one of the coffins.  She leaned back and went over, head first into the coffin, with her legs up in the air.

Everyone laughed hysterically and finally pulled her out.  She stood up and said, “That wasn’t very comfortable in there.  I thought they were supposed to be padded”.  

Everyone agreed her husband had probably pushed her.  

The funeral director, while not amused, now had a great story to tell at the next funeral director’s convention. He should have discounted the cost of the funeral for that story.

I was in Connecticut when I got a text from my sister saying: “Your cousin fell into a coffin.”

How often in one’s life could you possibly get a text like that? I stared at the text in disbelief.  “Really” I texted back, hoping they were kidding. While unbelievable in some families, it had the ring of the possible in mine.

“Yes, really”, she replied.

Seeing some interesting possibilities, I texted back: “did anyone video it?”  

Unfortunately the answer was no, they were too busy laughing.

Time passed and it was now winter and time for Rocky to return to Florida.

She finally booked a flight to Florida and took her daughter and grandson along with her because she is terrified of flying.  She has been known to leave deep finger indentations in the arms of people who sit next to her on the plane.

They arrived and my sister met them at the condo.

Rocky walked in but didn’t notice the more natural look to the elephants at first. I called and instructed her grandson to make sure to video her reaction when she did notice.

A few minutes later my sister called me from Rocky’s house.  Regina was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk.  I heard loud yelling and cursing in the background.

Rocky grabbed the phone from my sister and starting cursing me in language I will not put down on paper.  Suffice it to say she has what used to be called a sailor’s vocabulary.

The more Rocky yelled, the more I laughed, which made her yell more.  It was really funny.  Everyone had been in on the joke except Rocky and she was mad about that too.

She finally hung up on me since she couldn’t get me to take her seriously.

Barbara and I went to see her the next day.  She took up yelling at me where she had left off the day before.  It was still funny.

Her grandson showed me the video of Rocky discovering my little prank.  Unfortunately the sound did not work on his video.  Still it was very funny, with Rocky literally jumping up and down while she was yelling on the phone with me the day before.  It was like watching a silent film comedy with the overly dramatic rages.

It kind of made up for the lack of video in the funeral parlor, but not quite.

I “Become” Mayor of NYC

I “Become” Mayor of NYC

I was visiting my daughter in Connecticut this October.  My son and his family had joined us for a few days, flying up from Florida.  We all decided to go into Manhattan that Sunday of Columbus Day Weekend.

Our son had decided to visit his wife’s Uncles and was going to check into a hotel with his family and stay on until Monday.  The plan was for him to go into the city about an hour before us, check into his hotel and then meet us at the Museum of Natural History.  He and his family left for the city by train, we followed about an hour later.

My wife, I, our daughter and her family arrived at Grand Central Station, took the shuttle over to Times Square, and then the train to the Westside near the Museum.  We walked to the Museum from the subway and just as we arrived at our destination we got a call from our son.  He was delayed checking in and thought it would be too late for the Museum by the time he was finished at the hotel which was on the Upper Eastside.  We agreed to meet at the Plaza Hotel, across from Central Park.

We got a two taxis and told the drivers where we wanted to go.  The drivers told us they couldn’t take us to the Plaza because there was a parade that day on Fifth Avenue.  We elected to be dropped off at Columbus Circle (59th and Broadway) and walk to the Plaza (59th and 5th).

We arrived at the Plaza and contacted our son.  He was on the East side of Fifth Avenue, we were on the West.  The parade, a Latin American Parade, not the Columbus Day Parade scheduled for Monday was in full force.  It seemed endless, we couldn’t cross to each other.

We told our son to cross when he could and we would be in Central Park.  

Meanwhile a friend of ours was trying to reach us in the city.  He had driven in but was also on the East Side and could not cross no matter how far down he drove.  Also he could not get parking.  Eventually he gave up and went home.

After about 45 minutes, our son and his family finally joined us in the park. We walked around and played ball with the kids, and eventually decided to go to have dessert at Ellen’s Stardust Diner on 51st and Broadway.  We were walking along the south side of Central Park and stopped for a light.

I was just standing there, minding my own business, when this man approached me.

“Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor, how nice to see you,” he exclaimed.

Now truthfully, I have been  mistaken for Mayor Bloomberg before.  Once in North Carolina at a Bar Mitzvah, and a couple of times in Florida.  

Both Mayor Bloomberg and I have gray hair, approximately the same shape face and build, and are mildly alike in appearance.

I turned toward the man and took his outstretched hand in what I hoped was a “Mayoral Handshake”.

“Hi, how are you,” I replied.

“I’m great,” he said.  “We all are visiting from Toronto”.

“Well, welcome to New York.  It’s a beautiful day, I hope you are having a good time.  Make sure you take in some of our great Museums and things to do.  Especially go to the Museum of Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  There is so much to enjoy here,” I told him.

“Thanks Mr. Mayor, can I introduce you to my friends?”, he asked.

“Of Course,” I replied and went over to shake everyone’s hand.

They all seemed happy to meet “the Mayor”, and would probably retell this story to their friends when they returned home, how they had met the NYC Mayor (former) and he was so friendly to them.

As they were leaving, I gave them one last piece of advice: “Don’t drink any 24 oz sodas (a pet peeve of former Mayor Bloomberg), and if you have a problem you can call on Police Commissioner Frank Reagan (Tom Selleck from NYPD Blue) and tell him “I” sent you.”

With that they all walked off and we continued on our journey.

At this point my daughter-in-law, who thinks I am a little crazy to begin with, was looking at me as if I were a lot crazy.

“Why didn’t you tell them you weren’t the Mayor?” she said.

“What would be the fun of that? Besides, this is a great memory for them,” I replied.

She proceeded to tell her husband and children what I had done.  She believes in keeping a low profile.  She, like my wife, think I talk to everyone. Something they avoid.

We arrived at Ellen’s Stardust Diner and got a table.  The waiters and waitresses are all aspiring actors and actresses in the musical comedy milieu.  As a result, they all perform musically in the diner with solo songs.

The waitress came over and introduced herself and told us what roles she had played.  Not wanting to be outdone, I introduced myself as the Mayor.

She had a sense of humor and proceeded to kid around with me, asking me about my policies (gun control and smaller sodas).  

As we were talking one of the waiters had passed by and eavesdropped on our conversation.  After our waitress left he approached me.

“Mr Mayor, how nice to see you, we were in a play together,” he stated.

“Really, which one?” I asked.

“Mary Poppins,” he said.  “You did a cameo in it while I was in the cast.”

“Great to see you again,” I replied.  “Hope you get a lot more parts”.

“Thank you Mr. Mayor, it’s so nice to see you here with your family”, he answered.

As he walked away, my daughter-in-law looked at me and just shook her head.  

Too Old To Be A Burglar

Too Old to Be a Burglar

My daughter-in-law was in a bind.  She was getting a roof repaired on her parent’s house and having the air conditioning fixed in her parent’s other house, about 20 miles away, on the same day.  Her parents were out of town and she was being a good daughter.

She called me and asked if I could help her out by waiting for the air conditioning repair man.  

I was going to be baking that day, making desserts for Break the Fast the following day, but figured I could make it over to the house by one o’clock if she scheduled the appointment in the afternoon.  She readily agreed.

That morning, while I was baking, I sent Barbara to get the key and the code for the burglar alarm system.

Barbara returned just as I was finishing up the last touches on my Linzer Tarts, Raspberry Sauce and Lemon Mousse.  I had about twenty minutes to get to the house and left immediately.

On the way, I looked at the paper my daughter-in-law had written containing the code and password if there was a problem.  I called her to make sure I knew where the keyboard for the alarm was and passed through the guard gate at the entrance to the community.

I arrived at the house, unlocked the front door, easily found the key pad and punched in the code.

No effect!

I tried again. No effect!

Getting a little anxious now, I tried to punch in the code and various buttons on the key pad that said “Off”.  I checked what was written on the paper my daughter-in-law had given me to see if I was punching in the wrong code.  I punched it in very slowly.

NO EFFECT!!!

The alarm starting clanging.  I mean REALLY CLANGING !

It was deafening.

I called my daughter-in-law to see if I had done something wrong.

She answered, but I couldn’t hear her because of the alarm.  I went outside and questioned her about the key pad.  I only had to punch in the code, no other buttons were needed.

On a hunch, I asked her to repeat the code to me.

The number she repeated was different than the one she gave me. She had written a 0 but told me 6 for the last number.

I ran back in and punched in the new code.  The alarm stopped.

I heard a phone ringing and ran to get it.  I lifted the receiver and yelled in the password, but the alarm company had hung up.

I told my daughter-in-law what had happened, and she assured me that the alarm company would probably call her and she would verify there was nothing wrong.

I hung up and called my wife to tell her about the fiasco.

Barbara told me the alarm company had tried to call her, but she hadn’t answered since she didn’t recognize the number, a practice we had been doing to avoid sales calls.  She realized it was the alarm company when they left a message.  Turns out we were next on the emergency call list.

We speculated that the police would probably be dispatched to the location.  She assured me she wouldn’t post bail if I got arrested and to have a good time overnight in a cell.

On that supportive note, I hung up and found a place to sit.

I had brought a book with me and settled down to wait for the repairman.  It was hot in the house since the air wasn’t working but I was semi comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt.

About twenty minutes later my daughter-in-law called me to see if everything was all right and to update me on the progress of the roofers.  When they finished she would come and relieve me.

While I was talking with her, there was a knock at the door.  Still talking with her, I went to answer it.

I opened the door to a fairly large Deputy Sheriff, and two patrol cars in the street.

“Hello officer,” I said, trying to sound innocent. “Come on in and I will explain”.

“That’s ok, can I see your identification please?”

I handed over my driver’s license.

“I see you own the car in the driveway,” he stated. “I’ve already walked around the house and could see no break in evidence”. 

I guessed he had run my plates.

“It’s my daughter-in-law’s parents house, I’m here waiting for the air conditioner repair man,” I told him.

“You’re the father?” he queried.

“No the father-in-law,” I answered and explained again what the relationship was.

“I was given the wrong code, and by the time I got the right code, all hell broke loose”, I stated.

He looked me over and wrote down my information.  

“Would you like to speak with my daughter-in-law, she’s on the phone with me now” I asked?

“No, that won’t be necessary” he answered. “You don’t look like a burglar, and besides if anything is missing I have your information”.

He got back in his car and the two cars then left.

I closed the door and went back to my seat.  

My daughter-in-law was still on the phone.  She, unlike someone I could name, was sympathetic.  She promised to relieve me as soon as she could and insisted I must be wrong about what she wrote for the last number of the code.  I wasn’t.

Eventually the repairman and my son and daughter-in-law arrived.

I got to thinking about the reason the deputy had not pressed me.  I wasn’t an owner at the house or even someone with the last name of the owner.  Why wasn’t he more suspicious?

I believe he took a look at me and decided I was too old to be a burglar.  

How insulting!

What kind of age discrimination was this? I was not too old to be a burglar!

Oddly for me I decided not to prove it.