Friday Schmiday

I've already done all the training I can do for the half-marathon and so today and tomorrow are supposed to be filled with rest and relaxation. So I drove to a nice little sub shop during my lunch today, ordered my sandwich, and was going to eat my lunch in my car and listen to a little Jim Rome (http://www.jimrome.com/) (Sports talk) but I turned the key and just heard a little 'click' ' click ' which wasn't a good sign i.e. el battery es no working. That's just awesome!

So I asked two guys who were getting into the car in front of me if they had jumper cables, and could help - "nope, sorry duuuude". Then the gal next to me who was pulling out - "Nope sorry, I just took them out of my car" yeah right! Of course you did I mean who wouldn't make a point of "removing" jumper cables from their car. Then another couple pulled in and quickly said "no, sorry" and wouldn't even make eye contact with me, as if I was was a homeless bum looking for some spare change - why don't you put on some more makeup lady! I wanted to say.

So I sat back in my car, dejected, wondering what Jim Rome was talking about today, watching other people who got in their car and took for granted the fact that their car started "You don't even know!" I wanted to scream. It was also starting to get cold outside, the "Feels Like" meter had dipped into the 30's, and the wind was gusting.

As I hung my head I looked down at my wrist and my eyes fixed on my hemp wristband with the letters "WWJD" on it i.e. "What would Jay Do" so I decided to pull myself together and scope out a hill that I could push my Civic down and roll-start it. There was only a small hill, about a 50 yards away that served as the 'exit ramp' if you will from this particular parking lot onto a 6 lane highway - so there were some risks. Right now I had a dead car in a parking lot, I could end up with a dead car on the freeway. So I looked at again at my wristband and thought, ok here goes nothing.

I proceeded to back out my Civic with the ancient heel-toe push method, cranked the wheel and then started to push it towards the aforementioned exit ramp. All the while people are looking at me from the comforts of their "Running" car and most likely have heat, music, maybe even Jim Rome on the radio I thought? Even one gal I could see through her windshield was saying to herself "oooooo" as in "ooooo - sucks to be him" - and she was right. I made it to the exit ramp, hopped in and popped it, and nothing happened, "click" "click" and it was getting closer and closer to the highway and then I popped it again - and finally it sputtered and started.

So I pulled into my parking garage back at work, turned off the car, and checked to see if it would turn back on. Nope. So in about another 3 hours, I'll have to push start it again.

So much for R&R. TGIF!

A father's guidance...

I recall a time when we were living in a duplex at 3831 Findlay lane in Longmont Colorado. I think I must have been around 6 or 7 years old at the time. It was a relatively small house and there was a bathroom located between the dining room area and living room. I remember one time I used the restroom and whatever 'actions' or 'functions' I carried out in there apparently must have been heard through the thin hollow door.

When I came out my dad told me to turn on the fan next time so that "people can't hear what you're doing in there". To this day, when I go to use the restroom either to go number 1 or number 2 I always turn on the fan.

At lot of kids who grew up without dads missed out on this type of guidance.

Where were you when...

A lot of times I've heard, "I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard that JFK was shot". However some of us are not old enough to have gone through that. However we've all been around long enough to have gone through Sept 11, 2001. I'm just curious if that had the same impact? Personally, I know exactly where I was when I heard - I can see it clearly in my eyes.

I was on my way to work, driving down C470 highway heading towards I-25 right around Quebec / University blvd when the radio station I was listening to reported it. At the time, they weren't quite sure the significance of it.

Family Road Trips to Maine

Growing up, economical family vacations were often defined as a trip to Maine. The 6-8 hour drive in the old Plymouth seemed endless, and Gid was not one to speed. I remember his explanation that other cars just appeared to be whizzing quickly by because they were traveling in the opposite direction. I later figured out that it was also because they were going at least 10 – 15 mph faster than we were. To his credit, Gid always felt the need to provide something educational, so he included activities like a tour of the paper mill in Rumford, Maine. The ultimate destination, though, was a visit to see Grandpa Records sister, Aunt Ida, in Livermore Falls. A visit to see Aunt Ida, who modestly considered herself a “handsome woman” (see photo), was no frills* but always included homemade molasses cookies waiting for us upon our arrival. (* There was no indoor plumbing, but the outhouse was just a few steps up from the kitchen in the attached garage.) The stay at Aunt Ida’s farmhouse was broken up with side trips: visits to the lake and to see Aunt Amy, Ida’s sister, another widow, a retired school teacher who lived in a fancier house (indoor plumbing) in North Leeds. The highlight of the trip was often a visit from Ruth and Jake who had always just returned from one of their many trips to Moosehead Lake. Ruth and Jake were considered a bit odd and talked about with pity because they were unable to reproduce. This was also offered as the explanation for why cousin Ruth had the energy to play with us kids, crawling around in the fort we built under a card table. Most of the time, though, the subject of the conversation (as in all of Aunt Ida’s letters) came around to which relative was feeling “poorly”. I will try to remember this and censor myself as I get older and feeling more poorly….

I'm sure he'll appreciate this...

I will tell this story simply to bump the horrifying Wacko Jacko pic down the blog and below my vision line.

When Ethan was little, about five we were watching TV. We had spent the morning at the beach and now we were showered and sunburned on the couch. Lisa was in the kitchen making dinner. Ethan was intensely scratching his butt. You know, really digging in there.

I could see this in my peripheral vision but ignored it as he was five, and after all it was his ass. Every once in awhile he would pull his hand out and sniff his fingers. We all do it....let's just admit it. But he was still young enough to do this in public and think that deep ass scratching created a magic bubble around him where no one could see in. Much like when I was seven and would pick my nose and eat it under the cover of my other hand so no one was the wiser.

But then he turned to me, holding out the offending hand and said, "Sniff my fingers."

"No."

"Come on, sniff 'em"

"No, you've been scratching your butt."

"I know, they smell like poop, smell 'em."

Ah, to be young again.

The web less traveled....

Last night some of my fellow "Texans" reported seeing what could only be called a "UFO", and now it's the talk of this here town. With all the hype and concern I figured I'd add a link to this "other" blog for which I am also a "contributor" about reporting Alien Abductions. So then my travels took me to http://www.iwasabducted.com/ and found this interesting posting (below), and figured it was worth re-telling.

Brought to you in it's original form;

"...Reported by No Names Sunday, November 18, 2007 at 4:38PM : ... but a lot of things have happened to me since i was a child, i am now 42, i have a v high profile career and lifestyle, but i always knew what i would be doing since i was 14, and i made everyone know that. my job needs no qualifications, neither is it a job where you can reach the highest rank just by working hard for 20 years. my whole life has been determined and steered by the people around me..... who i 've sat next to on a plane, who i've rented a house from, who i've sat next to at a theatre etc . I have also lost count of te amount of times i have moved homes, not because i ever wanted to move, but because with everytime each and everyone of them was because something happened, and never at all by me doing something wrong or from any form of neglegence or bad behavior on my behalf, 1 short example... i am happy in my rented home of 5 months so far, no plans to ever move, love the area, so peaceful....a storm, a heavy storm, a tree falls...my roof is destroyed....i have to move...get it?............i'm babbling....cut to the chase..........both my shoulders still really hurt from 4 weeks ago... the last time something 'happened' to me. i suffer from insomnia to a point where i stay awake till i actually pass out, and i get up when i am no longer tired, i have probably used an alarm clock about 6 times in 20 years..... its 8.07am and i still haven't slept yet, to give you an example.....anyway........during my sleep that time, i dreamt that i wqas being held down (again) and as usual i lashed out fighting and kicking and punching, i dreamt that i had been hung up like an dungeon prisoner on a wall, but this time when i woke up my right shoulder really hurt, and still does to this day...i checked it out and have actually torn a ligament in it...during the 4 hours i slept.....i am never afraid though...also both my clocks lost an hour, i spent most of the day telling people that it must be because of daylight savings etc etc ...which i found out was not for another 2 weeks......another time, same thing...legs being held down.....struggling strugglin....this time i wake up and my legs are aching so bad, they feel like i have just run a marathon, i have also lost count of the amount of times i have woken up completly paralized...that scares me. i also have so many scars on my knuckels that i cant account for... i used to think that maybe i puch the wall in my sleep......babbling again.........i want to be asked questions..... i went to some site and found some page that asked about 50 odd questions on abductions, i could answer 'yes' to all of them apart from one if i remember. but who made up that questionarre?...other abductees?......psycologists?...who?....are there really genuinly other abductees out there, that could help me or ask me questions...there is so so so much more to say, enough for a book, but i really am no writer, and i hate writing, but i dont want to go through this alone anymore, something really isnt right. "

Back in the Day

Back in the 50’s I was seven years old for one entire year. Life was pretty easy for me in Lakeland, Florida. We played sandlot baseball, basketball and football year round regardless of the season. Basketball was at Jimmy’s house because he had the only basketball and hoop in the neighborhood. Football was at the Wilkerson’s because they had a big back yard and their parents would let us play anytime we wanted. Baseball was across the street from our house in Mr. Macdonald's field. (Joe Oswalt always played first base because he had the only first baseman’s mitt.)

When we weren’t playing sports, we had other pastimes that kept us out of trouble. One was the skinny trees. Several of us from the neighborhood would go down to the woods behind the Ryder truck terminal…....a mile or two from our houses. We would walk across the creek, through the field, and down the embankment into the woods. Most of the trees were 20’ to 30’ high and no more than six inches in diameter. We would climb to the top of the trees, hug the trunk like bears and start swaying. Once we got the trees rocking back and forth we would try to jump from tree to tree. Sometimes we made it and sometimes we fell….if you were really good you could change trees and pull someone down at the same time.

Another fun thing was chasing the mosquito fogger. We always had lots of mosquitoes in the spring. So about once a week the mosquito man would drive up and down the streets of the neighborhood. This was always just at sundown. He pulled a small trailer behind his truck. On the trailer was mounted some type of compressor that pumped out a giant cloud of DDT fog or something that would kill mosquitoes. We would all chase the truck pushing, shouting, and disappearing into the fog for blocks at a time.

I don’t remember anyone getting seriously injured or experiencing health problems from any of this stuff. But I moved away when I was 18 and lost track of most of the neighborhood gang.

Unicorn Grandma

Of my many clients I have given some nick-names. Of course, they aren't aware of this fact. It's more like, "Well, I'm off to work. Today I've got Crazy Republican at 10, ambiguously gay veterinarian at 1, The Debater at 2, and Unicorn Grandma at 4:30."
"Unicorn Grandma" is not a unicorn. Hell, she's not even a Grandma. Her name is Sherri, a very attractive, successful medical sales rep in her mid-thirties. Of Sherri's many quirky family members there is one we affectionately call "Unicorn Grandma."
When Sherri's younger sister got married a few years ago her new husband came with some fun accessories. The best of which was a grandmother whom wears a unicorn horn at all times. No, she is not mentally ill. She is of a mental state far superior to illness. She just doesn't give a shit. At some point she decided she liked unicorns and their magical power. She deduced that this power must be held within the beautiful, single, glistening horn atop their heads. She fashioned herself a horn; actually many horns. She owns horns of all sizes, and for all occasions. The more important the event, the larger and more elaborate the horn. For the wedding she wore a tasteful cream, pearl and lace horn affixed to her head with the ever present chin-strap.

Sherri's father was furious, screaming, "I paid $4000 for these photographs, and she's got a fucking horn on her head."

It was all fun and games until Sherri's sister and "Unicorn Grandson" had their first child. One day a package arrived in the mail from Grandma, a onesie, or perhaps booties she was sure. Inside was a tiny baby horn....the first of many. Within her arose a deep rage....calmly she hid the horn in the back of the closet in her bedroom. Later she would lament, "My son is never going to wear a fucking horn on his head!"

Behind Every successful man.....

At a company Christmas party one year the CEO was at the head of the room giving a speech. He told a story of a time when he and his wife were at a gas station getting gas. The CEO said that he pointed to one of the male gas station attendants and said to his wife (something along the lines of) – “see, you could have ended up with him” as if letting her know how lucky she is. She, in turn, told him that had she married that gas station attendant, that he, and not her husband, would have become a CEO one day.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night

I took a half day off of work so we could leave before noon and beat the snow that was predicted to descend on the state later that afternoon. “These weather guys are as full of shit as those hurricane chasers are in Florida”, Vic opined as we drove north in sunny 50 degree weather. The clouds were darker in Castle Rock, the blue sky now gray.
The first snow flakes swirled across 470 just west of the airport. I had never seen so many birds flying in formation before. They blackened the already dark sky. “Canadian”, Vic observed with the same one word assessment he’d made about pale tourists waddling St. Pete Beach.
The 3:45 flight to Tampa was rescheduled to 4:15 then to 4:30. The plane was full, no room for standbys unless at least 2 passengers had signed in online and then decided not to show. 4:35 p.m.: no plane at either gate C49 or C43 where another flight with room for two “non-revs” was scheduled to leave for Orlando at 4:35. Both planes arrived and began boarding at the same time. Decisions, decisions, deal or no deal – two guaranteed seats to Orlando, rent a car, get to Gulfport after midnight – OR take a chance on two no shows to get to Tampa by 10.
Time for me to walk the 200 yards to the Orlando gate that was out of sight of Vic at Tampa gate 49 - but not out of cell phone range. Cold wind blew in through the doors at gates 47 and 45. The line at gate 43 dwindled as the paid passengers boarded the plane. “Last call for Allen and Miller for Orlando flight 706.” This could be the last chance for FL tonight. Grab the cell phone. “Babe, get down here now. They’re closing the doors.”
Vic let me go ahead of him to take the last aisle seat. A few minutes later I saw the back of his gray head 5 rows in front of me in a middle seat. I had scored the better spot, I thought, unaware at that time that the kid sitting next to me would fart most of the way to Orlando. We sat hostage on the tarmac for an hour waiting for our turn to be de-iced. We got into Orlando late then waited a half hour in line for a rental car (that had already been arranged by our “ground crew”: a last minute call to Steph just before takeoff). We got home to Gulfport at 1:30 a.m., and we slept with the bedroom windows open. 