So we here we sit on the eve of another new year. Where has the 2004 gone?
Today I sit, pondering the year that was. I wonder how much better my life would be today if I had implemented all of my well-intended new years resolutions from last new years. Or how much more healthy, wealthy and wise if I had simply heeded my advice to myself over the past five new years.
About seven years ago, when I told my mother that Jane and I were thinking of having kids, she warned me: "When you have kids, time goes much faster." She was right. I've been a father now for about five and a half years, and that period of time is just such a blurr. I find it much easier now to plan ten or twenty years into the future now, because a decade no longer feels like infinity, the way it did in my younger days.
My uncle Oscar this week moved into a long term care facility. He will be 91 this July. Oscar agreed with my mother's thoughts about time, then he offerred some additional advice based on his own life experience (which is more than two times my life experience). Oscar said that I should expect time to slow to crawl after the kids leave home. For him, a year seems like a long time. He has lived more than thirty years in retirement, and has been fortunate to share that time with his beloved wife. He takes life day by day, with no big personal plans in his future. His life has largely been lived.
Losing ten pounds and "working out" will have to wait. I resolve that my resolutions this year will be ones that I will actually strive to keep: I want to be a better husband, better father, a more patient person, and a better provider. Oh, and I resolve to stop in and see Uncle Oscar more often, because even though it seems to me that I "just saw him," on his side of the time slip, it feels like he hasn't seen me in months.
I wish you a very happy new year!
Friday, December 31, 2004
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Vaya Con Dios, Tinkerbell
This week we have been learning about death in our family. No, we have not had a close relative pass on, but rather, the family cat. She had been sick for a while, vomiting and peeing all over the house.
This was our second cat to die in two years. The first cat just about bankrupt the family. I bought into the vets suggestions of surgeries, expensive foods, and medicines. After the first cat passed on and left me with a bill of nearly one thousands dollars to contend with, I decided that this was nuts. No more time off from work for afternoon trips to the vet. No more coming home to give a mid-afternoon antibiotic. I vowed that I would not allow the remaining cat to consume more medical services than my kids would.
So when the Vet began suggesting expensive treatments, urinalysis, behavior modification (mostly our behavior, not the cats), medicines, and possible surgeries, I remembered my vow: I made the tough command decision to have poor Tinkerbell put down.
I believe she thanked me for it. Her importance in our household waned in recent years, and its hard for an old cat to contend with the attentions of the young children. She had been getting a little snippy lately, and the oldest child has developed an alergy to the cat.
Tinkerbell had been like a member of the family, once. But now with a one year old boy crawling all over the house and sticking everything into his mouth that he can put his little hands on, the idea of hairballs, urine and vomit on the carpet began redefined the problem we were having. In the end, I had to conclude that she was actually NOT a member of the family, but a pet who had had a good life, and had come to the end of her road. Saving for college took precedence over saving the cat.
Thats why I bought the fish earlier this week.
I thought having an aquarium would take the edge off of losing the cat for the kids, and I was right. As best we could, we prepared the kids for the demise of the cat; we all said our goodbyes, fed her a whole can of tuna (her favorite! Starkist!) and then we went off to feed and ogle the new fish.
On the second day of owning fish, we had our first casualty: a white Molly female was found floating belly up. That brought up a discussion among the kinds as to whether Tinkerbell and the fish would be together in Heaven, or whether Tinkerbell was in Cat Heaven and the fish was in Fish Heaven. This remains an open debate (feel free to weigh in).
On the second day, the kids were thrilled that the Gold Molly had babies! Five of them to be exact.
On the third day, we were down to four babies, and today I counted three. Another discussion about Heaven seems inevitable.
Pets add so much to our lives. And at certain times of our lives, we can be as close to them as we are to any person. I don't mock people who are close to their pets. I have elderly clients who are very comforted by the love of their pets. At this stage in my life, with kids who were younger than my pets, I had different priorities: clean house, less work, more money.
The love of my kids keeps me going today, not the love of my pet. Right now, my wife and kids and a few fish are all I need. I am a lucky man.
Vaya Con Dios, Tinkerbell! No regrets.
This was our second cat to die in two years. The first cat just about bankrupt the family. I bought into the vets suggestions of surgeries, expensive foods, and medicines. After the first cat passed on and left me with a bill of nearly one thousands dollars to contend with, I decided that this was nuts. No more time off from work for afternoon trips to the vet. No more coming home to give a mid-afternoon antibiotic. I vowed that I would not allow the remaining cat to consume more medical services than my kids would.
So when the Vet began suggesting expensive treatments, urinalysis, behavior modification (mostly our behavior, not the cats), medicines, and possible surgeries, I remembered my vow: I made the tough command decision to have poor Tinkerbell put down.
I believe she thanked me for it. Her importance in our household waned in recent years, and its hard for an old cat to contend with the attentions of the young children. She had been getting a little snippy lately, and the oldest child has developed an alergy to the cat.
Tinkerbell had been like a member of the family, once. But now with a one year old boy crawling all over the house and sticking everything into his mouth that he can put his little hands on, the idea of hairballs, urine and vomit on the carpet began redefined the problem we were having. In the end, I had to conclude that she was actually NOT a member of the family, but a pet who had had a good life, and had come to the end of her road. Saving for college took precedence over saving the cat.
Thats why I bought the fish earlier this week.
I thought having an aquarium would take the edge off of losing the cat for the kids, and I was right. As best we could, we prepared the kids for the demise of the cat; we all said our goodbyes, fed her a whole can of tuna (her favorite! Starkist!) and then we went off to feed and ogle the new fish.
On the second day of owning fish, we had our first casualty: a white Molly female was found floating belly up. That brought up a discussion among the kinds as to whether Tinkerbell and the fish would be together in Heaven, or whether Tinkerbell was in Cat Heaven and the fish was in Fish Heaven. This remains an open debate (feel free to weigh in).
On the second day, the kids were thrilled that the Gold Molly had babies! Five of them to be exact.
On the third day, we were down to four babies, and today I counted three. Another discussion about Heaven seems inevitable.
Pets add so much to our lives. And at certain times of our lives, we can be as close to them as we are to any person. I don't mock people who are close to their pets. I have elderly clients who are very comforted by the love of their pets. At this stage in my life, with kids who were younger than my pets, I had different priorities: clean house, less work, more money.
The love of my kids keeps me going today, not the love of my pet. Right now, my wife and kids and a few fish are all I need. I am a lucky man.
Vaya Con Dios, Tinkerbell! No regrets.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Mike's Company
My friend Mike owned a software company that had a nice little niche market under its belt. At his peak, he had six employees, of which I was one. I worked for Mike as his marketing director for about seven months until Microsoft called me from the minors to the big leagues. Our parting was amicable, and we stayed in touch over the years. Mike probably earned about $125,000 a year at the company's peak. Not a tremendous amount, but a very good living in my part of the world. And there was the promise of greater riches as his company grew and thrived. He would often be invited to speak at industry trade shows and he enjoyed the attention and importance that his company bestowed on him.
Mike invited me to lunch recently. The small talk inevitably lead to business, and I learned that he is being forced into bankruptcy. A confluence of bad luck and bad business moves helped sink his ship.
A new competitor entered his niche market, seeing it as a growth opportunity. The competitor is profitable in another market and was parlaying that advantage to "grab market share" through aggressive pricing in Mike's market. Compounding Mike's problems were difficulties finding reliable employees. Being understaffed caused sales and service to suffer. Mike was the primary software developer for his company, but he was too often pulled away from development to solve problems in other areas.
Mike kept drawing down his line of credit at the bank. This kept the company going for about two years. But now, revenues are about half of what they were two years ago while his loan payment has increased. Now the credit is gone, forcing him to lay off employees that he can no longer afford. As employees are layed off, customers become even more dissatisified. Throw in some deadbeat clients that defaulted on large obligations (and which Mike had used to help collateralize his loan) and the slow downward death spiral his company had been on was now spinning out of control.
Mike didn't mean for this to happen. Not many people set out intentionally to land in bankruptcy. His eternal optimism that things were going to get better, that a big contract was right around the corner, kept him working those 16 hour days, forgoing vacations and salary during these tough times.
I would have expected Mike to be depressed, angry, maybe even suicidal. But he surprised me with his attitude. He is resigned to what he has to do next, and is maybe even a little excited as he anticipates the next chapter of his professional life. The bankruptcy is forcing a major change in his life which he probably wouldn't have been able to do on his own. He talks about spending more time with his family, and getting a nine-to-five job so he can be home evenings.
"So Mike, how is your family taking all this," I asked, remembering his two boys, ages 7 and 4.
"They'll have a good Christmas," he said. "My family will see to that."
As for his wife, I know that she has never been much of a risk taker. He didn't speak much of her. Hopefully they will come through this intact.
Todays lesson: A person can find or lose themselves in times of adversity. Planning beyond the adversity can keep us focused on what is important.
Mike invited me to lunch recently. The small talk inevitably lead to business, and I learned that he is being forced into bankruptcy. A confluence of bad luck and bad business moves helped sink his ship.
A new competitor entered his niche market, seeing it as a growth opportunity. The competitor is profitable in another market and was parlaying that advantage to "grab market share" through aggressive pricing in Mike's market. Compounding Mike's problems were difficulties finding reliable employees. Being understaffed caused sales and service to suffer. Mike was the primary software developer for his company, but he was too often pulled away from development to solve problems in other areas.
Mike kept drawing down his line of credit at the bank. This kept the company going for about two years. But now, revenues are about half of what they were two years ago while his loan payment has increased. Now the credit is gone, forcing him to lay off employees that he can no longer afford. As employees are layed off, customers become even more dissatisified. Throw in some deadbeat clients that defaulted on large obligations (and which Mike had used to help collateralize his loan) and the slow downward death spiral his company had been on was now spinning out of control.
Mike didn't mean for this to happen. Not many people set out intentionally to land in bankruptcy. His eternal optimism that things were going to get better, that a big contract was right around the corner, kept him working those 16 hour days, forgoing vacations and salary during these tough times.
I would have expected Mike to be depressed, angry, maybe even suicidal. But he surprised me with his attitude. He is resigned to what he has to do next, and is maybe even a little excited as he anticipates the next chapter of his professional life. The bankruptcy is forcing a major change in his life which he probably wouldn't have been able to do on his own. He talks about spending more time with his family, and getting a nine-to-five job so he can be home evenings.
"So Mike, how is your family taking all this," I asked, remembering his two boys, ages 7 and 4.
"They'll have a good Christmas," he said. "My family will see to that."
As for his wife, I know that she has never been much of a risk taker. He didn't speak much of her. Hopefully they will come through this intact.
Todays lesson: A person can find or lose themselves in times of adversity. Planning beyond the adversity can keep us focused on what is important.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The Discordant Flight Attendant
Forgive me for my lack of inspiration today. This was my first day back in the office after spending four nights in Virginia, about eightly miles outside of Washington, DC. I was there for training. This was only my second trip this year, and on Dec. 31, my "Preferred Traveler" status with Northwest Airlines evaporates and my tush will probably never feel the comfort of a first class airline seat ever again.
Last year, while working for Microsoft, I logged nearly 50,000 miles of airline travel, although several of my colleagues logged twice that. Frequent travel was one of the reasons I left the world's largest software company earlier this year and embarked on my new career as a financial advisor.
Even though I love traveling, I've never thought the transportation experience was much fun. In the year that I have not traveled, I see that the government and the airlines have actually managed to make flying more tortuous. The lines at security are longer than they were a year ago. The searches are more tedious and invasive. Northwest Airlines now requires me to check myself in, all the while airline employees gossip and giggle behind the counter (did you know that Marcy at the Northwest airlines desk in Dulles is having an affair with a co-pilot?). The flight attendents are rude, the flights not on time, and the luggage handlers even managed to destroy a present that I had stored in my luggage. I thank God I no longer must travel on airlines for a living. Although I love traveling, I hate flying. Actually hate is such a strong word -- but its the right word. I really despise flying.
Upon boarding my return flight from Dulles to Minneapolis, I waddled to my seat on the plane only to come across a Northwest Airlines flight attendent severly scolding an elderly passenger about the weight of her carry-on bag. The woman, who was a short and could hardly speak a word of English, couldn't lift the bag into the plane's luggage rack. She had apparently tried to get help from the discordant flight attendent. He had set firm limits on the assistance he would provide, and was only offering to help her lift the bag. He failed to grasp the root of the problem, which was she was just too short to lift the bag into the bin. His scolding really made me angry, and the aisle of the aircraft was blocked while this jerk was making his big fuss. The woman was upset and apparently not understanding what the problem was.
I had to do something. "I'll be happy to help this lady," I said. The flight attendant shot me his best who-the-hell-are-you stare. "That's not the point," he said condescendingly. "Her bag is too heavy!"
Since the lady and the bag were between me and the flight attendent, I quickly picked up her bag and stuffed it into the luggage compartment. I expected the bag to weigh half a ton, but it was hardly an effort to pick it up. "Not heavy at all. I'm glad to help" I said, closing the overhead door.
The Flight Attendant about flipped out. His jaw dropped and he started sputtering nonsense as I sat down in my seat and fastened by belt. I thought for a moment that he might have me arrested. I spent the next two hours enduring his stares. If you can believe it, he tossed a bag of pretzles at me to show me how upset he was. Secretly, I took a little pleasure in his anger.
At the end of the flight I helped the woman get her luggage down. I smiled and said to her, "Your bag is not heavy at all." She returned the smile, clearly grateful. She made in known to me in her best English that she had presents in the bag and so didn't want her bag to be checked.
When I got home, my kids greeted me like a returning hero. My daughter had drawn me pictures, and even bestowed upon me her ultimate expression of love: a birthday party. No it's not my birthday, but whenever she wants someone to know that she loves them, she pretends to give them a birthday party. My wife played along, so I arrived home to blown up balloons and colorful streamers. Returning home for me has always been the best part of traveling.
Today's cliches: There's no place like home, and, No good deed goes unpunished.
Today's advice: Rather than fly, consider driving, calling or video conferencing. If you must fly, avoid Northwest Airlines like the airborn virus that it has become.
Last year, while working for Microsoft, I logged nearly 50,000 miles of airline travel, although several of my colleagues logged twice that. Frequent travel was one of the reasons I left the world's largest software company earlier this year and embarked on my new career as a financial advisor.
Even though I love traveling, I've never thought the transportation experience was much fun. In the year that I have not traveled, I see that the government and the airlines have actually managed to make flying more tortuous. The lines at security are longer than they were a year ago. The searches are more tedious and invasive. Northwest Airlines now requires me to check myself in, all the while airline employees gossip and giggle behind the counter (did you know that Marcy at the Northwest airlines desk in Dulles is having an affair with a co-pilot?). The flight attendents are rude, the flights not on time, and the luggage handlers even managed to destroy a present that I had stored in my luggage. I thank God I no longer must travel on airlines for a living. Although I love traveling, I hate flying. Actually hate is such a strong word -- but its the right word. I really despise flying.
Upon boarding my return flight from Dulles to Minneapolis, I waddled to my seat on the plane only to come across a Northwest Airlines flight attendent severly scolding an elderly passenger about the weight of her carry-on bag. The woman, who was a short and could hardly speak a word of English, couldn't lift the bag into the plane's luggage rack. She had apparently tried to get help from the discordant flight attendent. He had set firm limits on the assistance he would provide, and was only offering to help her lift the bag. He failed to grasp the root of the problem, which was she was just too short to lift the bag into the bin. His scolding really made me angry, and the aisle of the aircraft was blocked while this jerk was making his big fuss. The woman was upset and apparently not understanding what the problem was.
I had to do something. "I'll be happy to help this lady," I said. The flight attendant shot me his best who-the-hell-are-you stare. "That's not the point," he said condescendingly. "Her bag is too heavy!"
Since the lady and the bag were between me and the flight attendent, I quickly picked up her bag and stuffed it into the luggage compartment. I expected the bag to weigh half a ton, but it was hardly an effort to pick it up. "Not heavy at all. I'm glad to help" I said, closing the overhead door.
The Flight Attendant about flipped out. His jaw dropped and he started sputtering nonsense as I sat down in my seat and fastened by belt. I thought for a moment that he might have me arrested. I spent the next two hours enduring his stares. If you can believe it, he tossed a bag of pretzles at me to show me how upset he was. Secretly, I took a little pleasure in his anger.
At the end of the flight I helped the woman get her luggage down. I smiled and said to her, "Your bag is not heavy at all." She returned the smile, clearly grateful. She made in known to me in her best English that she had presents in the bag and so didn't want her bag to be checked.
When I got home, my kids greeted me like a returning hero. My daughter had drawn me pictures, and even bestowed upon me her ultimate expression of love: a birthday party. No it's not my birthday, but whenever she wants someone to know that she loves them, she pretends to give them a birthday party. My wife played along, so I arrived home to blown up balloons and colorful streamers. Returning home for me has always been the best part of traveling.
Today's cliches: There's no place like home, and, No good deed goes unpunished.
Today's advice: Rather than fly, consider driving, calling or video conferencing. If you must fly, avoid Northwest Airlines like the airborn virus that it has become.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
The Christmas Tree
Today was the day that the Christmas tree went up in our house. We alternate between real trees and a fake Christmas tree that we bought several years ago. 2004 is an even year, so this will be a "fake tree" Christmas for us. The kids don't seem to mind at all, and handing mommy the pieces of the tree as she assembles it is apparently a lot of fun for a 3 year old.
The tree decorating ritual remains familiar, with silver tinsel, multicolor lights, the glorious angel shining atop the tree, and hanging precious ornaments from the ghost of Christmas past. This has become a most precious part of Christmas for me: remembering people who have passed by hanging the ornaments they gave us. These days there seems to be more and more people to remember in our family... the past five years I've lost a mother, two grandmothers, an uncle, and a great uncle, and my father in-law. At Christmas time, we remember them all.
There was a time not long ago that I could not fathom owning a fake Christmas tree. I grew up in a "real tree" family. Thirty years ago, fake trees really did look fake, and were found primarily in the homes of the aged. But these days, telling the difference between the real thing and an immitation can be difficult.
Fake trees made inroads into my life while Jane and I were childless apartment dwellers: dragging a real tree into our apartment and violating our lease didn't make sense. So we bought a faker, and learned that breaking this old family taboo wasn't nearly as bad as we thought it would be.
The fake (hereinafter referred to as immitation) tree has its advantages, not the least of which is the cost. I estimate we broke even with our immitation tree the third time we put it up. The immitation tree is always the right size, doesn't need to be trimmed, doesn't have a good side or a bad side. I will not be stepping barefoot on pine needles in January, nor picking pine needles out of the living room carpet in July. I don't have to dispose of the immitation tree.
There are downsides, though.
By having an immitation tree, I am forsaking at least one family ritual.
One of my lingering childhood memories is of the family piling into the station wagon, on a quest to discover the perfect tree. We would visit several outdoor tree lots, sometimes during snow storms or sub zero temperatures. We felt somehow like we were doing the tree a favor, taking it in as a part of our family to share our beloved Christmas holiday. By New Years, though, this guest had over stayed its welcome and would be unceremoniously undressed, and left naked on the boulevard with the week's trash.
The thing I miss most about a real Christmas tree is the smell. There is no substitute for the fragrence of a real Christmas tree, although those little pine trees that I hang from my car's rear view mirror come close.
Here's wishing you and your family many happy memories.
The tree decorating ritual remains familiar, with silver tinsel, multicolor lights, the glorious angel shining atop the tree, and hanging precious ornaments from the ghost of Christmas past. This has become a most precious part of Christmas for me: remembering people who have passed by hanging the ornaments they gave us. These days there seems to be more and more people to remember in our family... the past five years I've lost a mother, two grandmothers, an uncle, and a great uncle, and my father in-law. At Christmas time, we remember them all.
There was a time not long ago that I could not fathom owning a fake Christmas tree. I grew up in a "real tree" family. Thirty years ago, fake trees really did look fake, and were found primarily in the homes of the aged. But these days, telling the difference between the real thing and an immitation can be difficult.
Fake trees made inroads into my life while Jane and I were childless apartment dwellers: dragging a real tree into our apartment and violating our lease didn't make sense. So we bought a faker, and learned that breaking this old family taboo wasn't nearly as bad as we thought it would be.
The fake (hereinafter referred to as immitation) tree has its advantages, not the least of which is the cost. I estimate we broke even with our immitation tree the third time we put it up. The immitation tree is always the right size, doesn't need to be trimmed, doesn't have a good side or a bad side. I will not be stepping barefoot on pine needles in January, nor picking pine needles out of the living room carpet in July. I don't have to dispose of the immitation tree.
There are downsides, though.
By having an immitation tree, I am forsaking at least one family ritual.
One of my lingering childhood memories is of the family piling into the station wagon, on a quest to discover the perfect tree. We would visit several outdoor tree lots, sometimes during snow storms or sub zero temperatures. We felt somehow like we were doing the tree a favor, taking it in as a part of our family to share our beloved Christmas holiday. By New Years, though, this guest had over stayed its welcome and would be unceremoniously undressed, and left naked on the boulevard with the week's trash.
The thing I miss most about a real Christmas tree is the smell. There is no substitute for the fragrence of a real Christmas tree, although those little pine trees that I hang from my car's rear view mirror come close.
Here's wishing you and your family many happy memories.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Chloe's Gift
The past couple of weeks have been very busy. Early morning departures from the home and late returns have been the norm. Yesterday I didn't see the kids at all, except for a couple of minutes in the morning. By the time I arrived home at 9:30 pm, they were fast asleep.
This morning as I was having breakfast, I noticed Chloe (almost four years old, my only girl and the middle child) looking at me from around the corner. I have seen this mischievious look on her face before, I thought to myself. I knew she was keeping something from me. I said, "Good morning, Chloe!," trying to draw her out, but she quickly disappeared behind the corner. Beyond my view I could hear a closet door opening, and a rustling of the closet clutter. I was just about to get up from the table to investigate when she reappeared.
"Supwise!" she said excitedly.
She was holding a paper bag that she had decorated herself, and it had my name on it. Inside was my Christmas present. I was glad when she insisted that I open it right now (or rather, that she open it for me). I reached inside the bag and took out a true Chloe original: a gray sweatshirt which she had decorated herself, her handprints making a Christmas tree. She had written her name on the shirt as best she could. She was as proud of the shirt as I am of her.
My wife told me that Chloe had wanted to give me the present last night, but of course I didn't get home early enough. Today I decided to do something special for Chloe. I picked her up from daycare and we had lunch at Hardees, her favorite restaurant. She had her usual: chicken fingers, french fries, hawaiian punch, and a bite of my burger. For dessert, a chocolate chip cookie and the prize gift from the kids meal bag. She loved the little prize that came with her meal, and wondered if she would get lots of "prizes" for Christmas. "I'm sure you will," I replied.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the U.S., the day we celebrate our abundance and good fortune with giant meals and time with loved ones. Americans "pig out" on Thursday, sleep it off, and then Friday morning we all rush to the stores to spend our money on Christmas presents. It's the "start of the Christmas season," I'm told, but I know better than that.
Each year, the Christmas season comes earlier and earlier. It was many years ago that Christmas broke through the Thanksgiving barrier. This year I finally noticed that Christmas is now butting right up against Halloween, threatening to overrun yet another holiday. I went to our local KMart the day after Halloween, hoping to buy next year's costumes for our kids at a deep discount. What I found was more Christmas stuff on the floor than Halloween stuff.
I used to joke that we should just cancel Thanksgiving and Christmas, and rename them both the "Thanks for Giving en masse" holiday. But its not a joke any more, is it?
Jane, my wife wants to talk to me about a book she is reading: Unplugging the Christmas Machine. It has something to do with putting the meaning back into Christmas, and avoiding the commercialization of the holiday. I've thought for years now that Christmas is becoming more of an inconvenience than a celebration. From stringing lights on the house, to dragging an expensive tree into the house, to picking pine needles out of the carpet, there are elements of Christmas that I could probably do without. I'm looking forward to Jane's review of this book.
This morning, my little girl embodied the best of the Christmas spirit: she gave willingly and enthusiastically, with no expectation of receiving something in return. Making me happy was all she wanted to do, and she did that grandly.
From my family to yours, have a happy Thanksgiving holiday. May you be surrounded by people who care about you.
Todays lesson: make time for what (and who) is important
This morning as I was having breakfast, I noticed Chloe (almost four years old, my only girl and the middle child) looking at me from around the corner. I have seen this mischievious look on her face before, I thought to myself. I knew she was keeping something from me. I said, "Good morning, Chloe!," trying to draw her out, but she quickly disappeared behind the corner. Beyond my view I could hear a closet door opening, and a rustling of the closet clutter. I was just about to get up from the table to investigate when she reappeared.
"Supwise!" she said excitedly.
She was holding a paper bag that she had decorated herself, and it had my name on it. Inside was my Christmas present. I was glad when she insisted that I open it right now (or rather, that she open it for me). I reached inside the bag and took out a true Chloe original: a gray sweatshirt which she had decorated herself, her handprints making a Christmas tree. She had written her name on the shirt as best she could. She was as proud of the shirt as I am of her.
My wife told me that Chloe had wanted to give me the present last night, but of course I didn't get home early enough. Today I decided to do something special for Chloe. I picked her up from daycare and we had lunch at Hardees, her favorite restaurant. She had her usual: chicken fingers, french fries, hawaiian punch, and a bite of my burger. For dessert, a chocolate chip cookie and the prize gift from the kids meal bag. She loved the little prize that came with her meal, and wondered if she would get lots of "prizes" for Christmas. "I'm sure you will," I replied.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the U.S., the day we celebrate our abundance and good fortune with giant meals and time with loved ones. Americans "pig out" on Thursday, sleep it off, and then Friday morning we all rush to the stores to spend our money on Christmas presents. It's the "start of the Christmas season," I'm told, but I know better than that.
Each year, the Christmas season comes earlier and earlier. It was many years ago that Christmas broke through the Thanksgiving barrier. This year I finally noticed that Christmas is now butting right up against Halloween, threatening to overrun yet another holiday. I went to our local KMart the day after Halloween, hoping to buy next year's costumes for our kids at a deep discount. What I found was more Christmas stuff on the floor than Halloween stuff.
I used to joke that we should just cancel Thanksgiving and Christmas, and rename them both the "Thanks for Giving en masse" holiday. But its not a joke any more, is it?
Jane, my wife wants to talk to me about a book she is reading: Unplugging the Christmas Machine. It has something to do with putting the meaning back into Christmas, and avoiding the commercialization of the holiday. I've thought for years now that Christmas is becoming more of an inconvenience than a celebration. From stringing lights on the house, to dragging an expensive tree into the house, to picking pine needles out of the carpet, there are elements of Christmas that I could probably do without. I'm looking forward to Jane's review of this book.
This morning, my little girl embodied the best of the Christmas spirit: she gave willingly and enthusiastically, with no expectation of receiving something in return. Making me happy was all she wanted to do, and she did that grandly.
From my family to yours, have a happy Thanksgiving holiday. May you be surrounded by people who care about you.
Todays lesson: make time for what (and who) is important
Thursday, November 18, 2004
The Jones' Syndrome
On my way to the office this morning, I had to stop at a railroad crossing. Trains are ever present in this community, and waiting at crossing gates is a numbing part of my daily life. A good opportunity to work on my anger management skills.
I sat in my little 94 VW Jetta and watched train cars speed past about 15 feet in front of me until I become dizzy. Glancing around to break the spell, I noticed to my left a brand spankin' new Hemi powered Chrysler 300C, all shiny and decked out. The 300c has been catching my eye for awhile.
My old Jetta, supposedly a temporary transportation solution for me, has become more permanent than I had hoped. It was previously my wife's car, but last year we bought a minivan to celebrate the arrival of the third child. Suddenly we had too many cars. The 95 Jetta was much more reliable than the 94 Jeep I had been driving. The Jeep also needed some work, had more miles on it, was more expensive to insure, and got lousey gas mileage.
To economize, we dumped the Jeep and I started driving the fire-engine red Jetta. I told myself that this was just a temporary solution, that I would get a new car later in the year (i/e, about now). As gas prices broke $2 per gallon, I was feeling like a pretty smart cookie driving the miserly Jetta.
But now, sitting at the crossing gate waiting for the train, I'm thinking to myself, "I'd sure look good behind the wheel of that 300c!" The driver in the 300c must have seen me staring. He just sort of looked over at me with his shades on, not giving anything away by his expression. Then he looked away, uninterested in my old ride.
At that moment I felt, well, sort of bad that I was driving an old car. I wanted to get out of the car, go over to his 300c and explain that I, too, could be driving a nice car, if I really wanted to. I just didn't want to, not today anyway. But that would have been a lie, so I stayed in my car.
I struggled to cling to my senses: I knew that I could go to the bank and take out that $15,000 settlement I received a couple of months ago after my classic El Dorado burned up (See the October 14, 2004 Post: The Car Fire), run down to the Chrysler dealer and take home a 300c this afternoon.
"This must be the Jones Syndrome I'm experiencing," I rationalized. This is the point at which many families get themselves into financial trouble; they capitulate to the feeling of inadequacy and low self worth because they are seemingly not keeping up with their neighbors. To compensate, they buy expensive cars that depreciate faster than they can drive them off the lot, trying to keep up with the proverbial Jones'. By the time they get the new car paid off, its already an old car, and the cycle starts all over again.
"I don't need to keep up with the Joneses," I coached myself. I tried to remind myself that as long as my family loves me, that's all I really need. And every month I drive this old Jetta is $350 saved from lease or loan payments. Driving the Jetta is the logical decision. Logical, not fun.
But try as I might to convince myself of all the good that I'm doing for my family and the environment by driving the old Jetta, I really want that damn car.
Todays lesson: Resist impulse purchases.
I sat in my little 94 VW Jetta and watched train cars speed past about 15 feet in front of me until I become dizzy. Glancing around to break the spell, I noticed to my left a brand spankin' new Hemi powered Chrysler 300C, all shiny and decked out. The 300c has been catching my eye for awhile.
My old Jetta, supposedly a temporary transportation solution for me, has become more permanent than I had hoped. It was previously my wife's car, but last year we bought a minivan to celebrate the arrival of the third child. Suddenly we had too many cars. The 95 Jetta was much more reliable than the 94 Jeep I had been driving. The Jeep also needed some work, had more miles on it, was more expensive to insure, and got lousey gas mileage.
To economize, we dumped the Jeep and I started driving the fire-engine red Jetta. I told myself that this was just a temporary solution, that I would get a new car later in the year (i/e, about now). As gas prices broke $2 per gallon, I was feeling like a pretty smart cookie driving the miserly Jetta.
But now, sitting at the crossing gate waiting for the train, I'm thinking to myself, "I'd sure look good behind the wheel of that 300c!" The driver in the 300c must have seen me staring. He just sort of looked over at me with his shades on, not giving anything away by his expression. Then he looked away, uninterested in my old ride.
At that moment I felt, well, sort of bad that I was driving an old car. I wanted to get out of the car, go over to his 300c and explain that I, too, could be driving a nice car, if I really wanted to. I just didn't want to, not today anyway. But that would have been a lie, so I stayed in my car.
I struggled to cling to my senses: I knew that I could go to the bank and take out that $15,000 settlement I received a couple of months ago after my classic El Dorado burned up (See the October 14, 2004 Post: The Car Fire), run down to the Chrysler dealer and take home a 300c this afternoon.
"This must be the Jones Syndrome I'm experiencing," I rationalized. This is the point at which many families get themselves into financial trouble; they capitulate to the feeling of inadequacy and low self worth because they are seemingly not keeping up with their neighbors. To compensate, they buy expensive cars that depreciate faster than they can drive them off the lot, trying to keep up with the proverbial Jones'. By the time they get the new car paid off, its already an old car, and the cycle starts all over again.
"I don't need to keep up with the Joneses," I coached myself. I tried to remind myself that as long as my family loves me, that's all I really need. And every month I drive this old Jetta is $350 saved from lease or loan payments. Driving the Jetta is the logical decision. Logical, not fun.
But try as I might to convince myself of all the good that I'm doing for my family and the environment by driving the old Jetta, I really want that damn car.
Todays lesson: Resist impulse purchases.
Monday, November 15, 2004
The Cutting Edge
Being a working dad over age 40, I don't make the time to keep up with the latest pop music. I say that proudly. Music for young people seems to repeat many of the various "boy meets girl, boy loses girl" and "nobody understands me" themes that have been on the radio for the past forty years. We just can't get enough songs about lost love and rejection, can we? And when we're young, every rejection is taken so darn hard. We'll never find another love as good as the one we just lost. Once rejected, we're doomed to walk the planet as a lonely, rejected, unredeemable, unwanted person forever.
Think about it: if youthful disaffection was so rare, if their experience was so unique from earlier generations, there wouldn't be an entire entertainment and music industry feeding off our youth. Their "unique" experiences wouldn't be fed back to them through the lyrics of every other song that you hear.
Now that I have some distance from the rejections of my youth and my hormonal activity has moderated, youthful suffering now seems, well, a little over-the-top, especially as its portrayed on the TV and radio. I don't mean to diminish anyone's angst, but I am pleased to report that things got better for me. If nothing else, aging provided a perspective: it has shown me that I am less of an individual that I used to think I was, that I am fairly predictable, measurable, and quantifiable. It's not as bad as it seems, and I take comfort in knowing that many of my experiences as a human being can be shared with other people who may understand what I am going through. They may not care, but at least they'll understand.
Just how far I've fallen from the cutting edge of pop music struck me this weekend. I watched a few minutes of the American Music Awards on TV, and I soon realized that I didn't recognize anyone! Then Rod Stewart came on. Try as he might, even Stewart's rendition couldn't ruin Louis Armstrong's "Beautiful World."
This morning while taking the oldest son to Kindergarten, a pledge drive dislodged me from my local National Public Radio (NPR) station. For the first time in years, I hit the SCAN button and the radio locked in on a rock format station that was playing a song by Weird Al Yankovic. I don't know the name of the song, but it had something to do with someone who was trapped in 1985, whose kids thought she wasn't cool any more. Yeah, that's me, I thought.
Today I take my music as it comes, and that's usually through NPR. I can't sit still for the commercials on regular radio stations these days. Anyway, NPR turned me on to my current favorite singer, Kevin Johansen, and I invite you to check out my man, Kev. He has some of his songs on the web for everyone to taste. Try this one, and if you like it, then go here for more, and then buy his CD. Not bad for a guy from Alaska who grew in Argentina.
Adios, Amigos.
Think about it: if youthful disaffection was so rare, if their experience was so unique from earlier generations, there wouldn't be an entire entertainment and music industry feeding off our youth. Their "unique" experiences wouldn't be fed back to them through the lyrics of every other song that you hear.
Now that I have some distance from the rejections of my youth and my hormonal activity has moderated, youthful suffering now seems, well, a little over-the-top, especially as its portrayed on the TV and radio. I don't mean to diminish anyone's angst, but I am pleased to report that things got better for me. If nothing else, aging provided a perspective: it has shown me that I am less of an individual that I used to think I was, that I am fairly predictable, measurable, and quantifiable. It's not as bad as it seems, and I take comfort in knowing that many of my experiences as a human being can be shared with other people who may understand what I am going through. They may not care, but at least they'll understand.
Just how far I've fallen from the cutting edge of pop music struck me this weekend. I watched a few minutes of the American Music Awards on TV, and I soon realized that I didn't recognize anyone! Then Rod Stewart came on. Try as he might, even Stewart's rendition couldn't ruin Louis Armstrong's "Beautiful World."
This morning while taking the oldest son to Kindergarten, a pledge drive dislodged me from my local National Public Radio (NPR) station. For the first time in years, I hit the SCAN button and the radio locked in on a rock format station that was playing a song by Weird Al Yankovic. I don't know the name of the song, but it had something to do with someone who was trapped in 1985, whose kids thought she wasn't cool any more. Yeah, that's me, I thought.
Today I take my music as it comes, and that's usually through NPR. I can't sit still for the commercials on regular radio stations these days. Anyway, NPR turned me on to my current favorite singer, Kevin Johansen, and I invite you to check out my man, Kev. He has some of his songs on the web for everyone to taste. Try this one, and if you like it, then go here for more, and then buy his CD. Not bad for a guy from Alaska who grew in Argentina.
Adios, Amigos.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Date Night
This has been one of those crazy weeks that keeps me running from one appointment to the next. Thursday I drove to Minneapolis to write an insurance policy: 500 miles round trip, but I made a thousand dollars and helped some people, so it was worth it. Some weeks I don't know where the next dollar is going to come from, so I'm scrambling to and fro to make something happen. This was such a week.
Although I often work evenings, I almost never work Friday nights. Jane and I have "date night" every Friday, and I look forward to it. After the kids are quietly asleep in bed, we head for the sofa to watch a couple of episodes of East Enders, a British soap opera with lots of screwed up characters. Being a Brit, this is a way she can connect to her past and her country. We've been doing this for awhile (ok, about 4 years) and I'm hooked! I gotta have my EastEnders.
The episodes that air on our local PBS station are exactly 5 years old. Sometimes, if something really big is about to happen on the show, she'll call her mom in England and try to figure it out in advance. Jane was in the UK in September and she watched a couple of current episodes. It is interesting to watch the show, and to know just a smattering of what the future holds for the characters. For example "Mark" is still alive in our world, but over in England, he's already dead from aids. Too bad for Mark -- he's pretty happy right now in the episodes that we're watching.
So why do we waste our time on five year old soap operas from a land far, far away? EastEnders on a Friday night is like eating comfort food. Its an oasis at the end of a turbulent week. It signals that we've made it through the week. Getting to EastEnders is a goal, something to look forward to. Its sort of like our secret code: no else in this town that we know follows the show. It's our reward. An Oreo cookie for adults. You get the drift.
And if anyone knows how Grant Mitchel dies, please send me an email.
Although I often work evenings, I almost never work Friday nights. Jane and I have "date night" every Friday, and I look forward to it. After the kids are quietly asleep in bed, we head for the sofa to watch a couple of episodes of East Enders, a British soap opera with lots of screwed up characters. Being a Brit, this is a way she can connect to her past and her country. We've been doing this for awhile (ok, about 4 years) and I'm hooked! I gotta have my EastEnders.
The episodes that air on our local PBS station are exactly 5 years old. Sometimes, if something really big is about to happen on the show, she'll call her mom in England and try to figure it out in advance. Jane was in the UK in September and she watched a couple of current episodes. It is interesting to watch the show, and to know just a smattering of what the future holds for the characters. For example "Mark" is still alive in our world, but over in England, he's already dead from aids. Too bad for Mark -- he's pretty happy right now in the episodes that we're watching.
So why do we waste our time on five year old soap operas from a land far, far away? EastEnders on a Friday night is like eating comfort food. Its an oasis at the end of a turbulent week. It signals that we've made it through the week. Getting to EastEnders is a goal, something to look forward to. Its sort of like our secret code: no else in this town that we know follows the show. It's our reward. An Oreo cookie for adults. You get the drift.
And if anyone knows how Grant Mitchel dies, please send me an email.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Burning of fossil fuels threatens to overwhelm Arctic environment
SignOnSanDiego.com > News > Science -- Burning of fossil fuels threatens to overwhelm Arctic environment: "It's a problem now, new study concludes
By Bruce Lieberman
UNION-TRIBUNE STAFF WRITER
November 9, 2004
The burning of fossil fuels has contributed to warming in the Arctic that is much faster and more dramatic than scientists previously believed at nearly twice the rate of the rest of the world, a new international report concludes.
Melting sea ice and thawing permafrost is rapidly altering the Arctic environment. The changes could drive seals, polar bears and other animals toward extinction, said the report issued yesterday. "
This is a bummer. My kids love polar bears and seals. I guess no one will really care, since how many of us have ever seen the artic wilderness anyway? Would we really miss it if it were gone? Can we be satisifed with old reruns of National Geographic TV specials if we want to see polar bears in their native habitat?
By Bruce Lieberman
UNION-TRIBUNE STAFF WRITER
November 9, 2004
The burning of fossil fuels has contributed to warming in the Arctic that is much faster and more dramatic than scientists previously believed at nearly twice the rate of the rest of the world, a new international report concludes.
Melting sea ice and thawing permafrost is rapidly altering the Arctic environment. The changes could drive seals, polar bears and other animals toward extinction, said the report issued yesterday. "
This is a bummer. My kids love polar bears and seals. I guess no one will really care, since how many of us have ever seen the artic wilderness anyway? Would we really miss it if it were gone? Can we be satisifed with old reruns of National Geographic TV specials if we want to see polar bears in their native habitat?
Monday, November 08, 2004
The Morning Sky
Three weeks ago, I was in the middle of the State of North Dakota to hunt geese. North Dakota is a place famous for its low population, cold winters and great outdoors. Its a place where waterfowl hunting is an annual ritual that occurs this time of the year when the Canadian geese begin their migration south. In my youth, my father would take me goose hunting most years. After several years away from the sport, I only recently took it up again.
I don't know how you feel about hunting; I love it. But allow me to try and steer clear of any controversy around hunting in this article: not because I'm afraid of defending responsible hunters, but mostly because... well, I didn't get a goose on this trip and hunting isn't the point of today's story anyway. Its more of an excuse for the story. Besides, the safest place for a goose to be during hunting season is within range of my gun.
For me hunting is an excuse to get out into the natural environment, and see things that I never get to see in my regular structured life. If I don't come home with anything, I'm usually not very disappointed, and neither is Jane because she doesn't like the taste of wild goose anyway.
I arrived the night before, expecting an early start to the day. At 6:00 am, I was dressed in my camo jacket and pants. In my excitement I had awaken too early and now had some time on my hands. It was cold that morning, about 16 degrees F., but since I was wrapped up nice and warm, I decided to go outside. I might as well get acclimated to the temperature while I was waiting for my cousin to pick me up.
It was a perfectly cloudless, pitch black, moonless morning, with no yardlights, and no city light pollution. I sat in a chair and looked up at the stars, amazed at my luck! As my eyes adjusted to the light, the sky changed from pitch black to the gray illumination that comes from the ancient light of billions of stars. What a splendid and amazing sight! I had forgotten just how many stars there are in the sky, and how small my place is in the universe.
In the eastern sky, I noticed two bright objects which I presumed Venus and Mercury. I don't think I had ever seen Mercury before, but it was a bright and the perfect companion for Venus, portending the sunrise.
Suddenly a meteor shot out of the east. It was a bright green light with a long trail arcing across the sky. Exhilorated, I was now looking specifically for meteors. I actually saw several, though most were very dim, with short trails almost difficult to notice.
As I studied the sky for meteors, I saw a satellite cutting across the sky, when it burst into a very bright flare before continuing on dimly and then vanishing. Soon after I saw another satellite. And another satellite, until pretty soon, about all I am noticing are these dang satellites moving through the night.
I remember the first time I saw an orbiting satellite in the sky. I must have been about 11 years old, sleeping beneath the stars to earn a scout badge. It was so interesting to me then, and it was the only one we saw that night. Nearly 30 years later, the night sky is full of them, and on this day I judged them to be much less interesting, less mysterious, one more sign of man's continuing encroachment on the environment.
I was wondering why NASA couldn't invent some kind of anti-reflectant for satellites to preserve the tranquility of the night sky, when bright headlights burst into the yard. My wide open pupils closed tightly in response, and my star gazing was done. It was my cousin's pick up truck, complete with goose decoys in the back. I walked over and greeted my cousin, placed my Browning shotgun in the back, and I was off on my next adventure.
Todays lesson: There are amazing things to be seen if we will only open our eyes.
I don't know how you feel about hunting; I love it. But allow me to try and steer clear of any controversy around hunting in this article: not because I'm afraid of defending responsible hunters, but mostly because... well, I didn't get a goose on this trip and hunting isn't the point of today's story anyway. Its more of an excuse for the story. Besides, the safest place for a goose to be during hunting season is within range of my gun.
For me hunting is an excuse to get out into the natural environment, and see things that I never get to see in my regular structured life. If I don't come home with anything, I'm usually not very disappointed, and neither is Jane because she doesn't like the taste of wild goose anyway.
I arrived the night before, expecting an early start to the day. At 6:00 am, I was dressed in my camo jacket and pants. In my excitement I had awaken too early and now had some time on my hands. It was cold that morning, about 16 degrees F., but since I was wrapped up nice and warm, I decided to go outside. I might as well get acclimated to the temperature while I was waiting for my cousin to pick me up.
It was a perfectly cloudless, pitch black, moonless morning, with no yardlights, and no city light pollution. I sat in a chair and looked up at the stars, amazed at my luck! As my eyes adjusted to the light, the sky changed from pitch black to the gray illumination that comes from the ancient light of billions of stars. What a splendid and amazing sight! I had forgotten just how many stars there are in the sky, and how small my place is in the universe.
In the eastern sky, I noticed two bright objects which I presumed Venus and Mercury. I don't think I had ever seen Mercury before, but it was a bright and the perfect companion for Venus, portending the sunrise.
Suddenly a meteor shot out of the east. It was a bright green light with a long trail arcing across the sky. Exhilorated, I was now looking specifically for meteors. I actually saw several, though most were very dim, with short trails almost difficult to notice.
As I studied the sky for meteors, I saw a satellite cutting across the sky, when it burst into a very bright flare before continuing on dimly and then vanishing. Soon after I saw another satellite. And another satellite, until pretty soon, about all I am noticing are these dang satellites moving through the night.
I remember the first time I saw an orbiting satellite in the sky. I must have been about 11 years old, sleeping beneath the stars to earn a scout badge. It was so interesting to me then, and it was the only one we saw that night. Nearly 30 years later, the night sky is full of them, and on this day I judged them to be much less interesting, less mysterious, one more sign of man's continuing encroachment on the environment.
I was wondering why NASA couldn't invent some kind of anti-reflectant for satellites to preserve the tranquility of the night sky, when bright headlights burst into the yard. My wide open pupils closed tightly in response, and my star gazing was done. It was my cousin's pick up truck, complete with goose decoys in the back. I walked over and greeted my cousin, placed my Browning shotgun in the back, and I was off on my next adventure.
Todays lesson: There are amazing things to be seen if we will only open our eyes.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Day Off
Yesterday was an unexpected day off. After a laptop computer malfunction shut down my office, I experienced something that I do not experience very often: time on my hands. I decided to take full advantage of the opportunity. I rescheduled my appointments, then called my wife Jane and told her that I would be able to make the ENT appointment that we had scheduled that afternoon for the oldest child, number 1. aka Jorgen. He has been complaining about a buzzing sound in his ear, so we had set up this appointment to check his hearing (this, coming off of a similar appointment last week with the youngest).
At the hospital the ENT tested his hearing and found some fluid in his right ear, but nothing to worry about. He said that there's not much that can be done for buzzing/ringing sounds in the ear. But his nerves do not seem to be damaged.
After the appointment I dropped Jorgen back off at daycare, and went home. Home is an eerie place when I'm there alone. Its too quiet. I noticed noises in the house that I had never noticed before. I spent an hour cleaning, picking up toys, vaccuming, and scrubbing down sticky furniture. As working parents with three kids, we struggle to keep a clean house. The kids seem to mess it up as fast as we can clean it. We'll need to work on this more as a family.
Next came the yard. I fired up the riding lawn mower and mulched the leaves. I expect his will be the last opportunity I have to care for the lawn this year. It's late in the season, and we had an unseasonably warm temperature yesterday, 55 F.
The lawn looks better, the house is cleaner, and the oldest boys ears appear to be ok. All in all a successful day, except that I didn't make any money.
Today's lesson: each day presents its unique opportunites and challenges, so be ready to adapt.
At the hospital the ENT tested his hearing and found some fluid in his right ear, but nothing to worry about. He said that there's not much that can be done for buzzing/ringing sounds in the ear. But his nerves do not seem to be damaged.
After the appointment I dropped Jorgen back off at daycare, and went home. Home is an eerie place when I'm there alone. Its too quiet. I noticed noises in the house that I had never noticed before. I spent an hour cleaning, picking up toys, vaccuming, and scrubbing down sticky furniture. As working parents with three kids, we struggle to keep a clean house. The kids seem to mess it up as fast as we can clean it. We'll need to work on this more as a family.
Next came the yard. I fired up the riding lawn mower and mulched the leaves. I expect his will be the last opportunity I have to care for the lawn this year. It's late in the season, and we had an unseasonably warm temperature yesterday, 55 F.
The lawn looks better, the house is cleaner, and the oldest boys ears appear to be ok. All in all a successful day, except that I didn't make any money.
Today's lesson: each day presents its unique opportunites and challenges, so be ready to adapt.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
The Summer Boy
Here in the north, sunlight quickly evaporates into darkness at this time of the year. Now that the clocks have been set back darkness settles in by 5 pm, and the days are still getting shorter.
The leaves are now off of the trees and travel about at the whim of the wind. Rake your yard at your peril; tomorrow the leaves could be blown right back. This time of the year the flowers have been killed off by frost. Its a time of the year when color is banished, the emotional equivalent of sitting in the dark and watching an old black and white movie that you've seen too many times before. Here in the north, when the snow comes, it comes to stay for a long time. Soon the snow will fly.
Here in the north, a sense of inevitability sets in at this time of the year. All of the hard work we did in our yard during the summer must begin again in the spring. The coming of the snow is inevitable, and with it comes the inevitable but necessary physical exertion to move it about. Like the leaves, the snow moves at the whimsy of the wind; shovel it today, and then shovel it tomorrow. The bitter cold temperatures are not far off, and inevitably bring the scraping of car windshields and the jumping of car batteries.
This time of the year can be melancholy. The transition from fall to winter is hard on my kids, especially the oldest boy. He does so like to wear shorts. He reminds me frequently, "I'm a summer boy, not a winter boy." Try as I might to create an exciting seasonal picture for him of downhill sledding and sleigh rides, skiing and ice fishing, at this time of the year the proposed excitement falls of deaf ears. We resist the coming of winter, holding out for the possibility of one more warm day in much the same way that we root for the rally of a losing sports team. We resist winter until it is totally and completely upon us.
The arrival of winter is not as difficult as the anticipation of winter, at least to me. The transition from color to no color, from warm to cold, from outside to inside, from day to night, from shorts to long pants, is difficult at first. But soon the anticipation of spring will set in and that will help pull us through the coldest days of the winter.
Spring is coming, we will say to ourselves. It won't be much longer now.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/1242982_c6bc4fe261_m.jpg
The leaves are now off of the trees and travel about at the whim of the wind. Rake your yard at your peril; tomorrow the leaves could be blown right back. This time of the year the flowers have been killed off by frost. Its a time of the year when color is banished, the emotional equivalent of sitting in the dark and watching an old black and white movie that you've seen too many times before. Here in the north, when the snow comes, it comes to stay for a long time. Soon the snow will fly.
Here in the north, a sense of inevitability sets in at this time of the year. All of the hard work we did in our yard during the summer must begin again in the spring. The coming of the snow is inevitable, and with it comes the inevitable but necessary physical exertion to move it about. Like the leaves, the snow moves at the whimsy of the wind; shovel it today, and then shovel it tomorrow. The bitter cold temperatures are not far off, and inevitably bring the scraping of car windshields and the jumping of car batteries.
This time of the year can be melancholy. The transition from fall to winter is hard on my kids, especially the oldest boy. He does so like to wear shorts. He reminds me frequently, "I'm a summer boy, not a winter boy." Try as I might to create an exciting seasonal picture for him of downhill sledding and sleigh rides, skiing and ice fishing, at this time of the year the proposed excitement falls of deaf ears. We resist the coming of winter, holding out for the possibility of one more warm day in much the same way that we root for the rally of a losing sports team. We resist winter until it is totally and completely upon us.
The arrival of winter is not as difficult as the anticipation of winter, at least to me. The transition from color to no color, from warm to cold, from outside to inside, from day to night, from shorts to long pants, is difficult at first. But soon the anticipation of spring will set in and that will help pull us through the coldest days of the winter.
Spring is coming, we will say to ourselves. It won't be much longer now.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/1242982_c6bc4fe261_m.jpg
Monday, November 01, 2004
Election Day Thoughts
Nothing has changed my politics as much as having children. After witnessing the arrival of three young souls into this world, it was impossible for me not to take a hard look at the world and how I relate to it. Issues that had been grey to me suddenly became black and white. Here is a glimpse of how this father's politics have change since having kids:
I had always opposed the death penalty, but since having kids I've moved solidly in favor of it, particularly in cases where children are hurt.
I had always opposed higher taxes, but now I'm willing to pay more in order to help children get medical care and a good education.
I had always been pro-choice in abortion matters, but after feeling my children moving in my wife's womb, I have moved to the right of this issue. Although I still respect the right to choose, it should only be a last option. There should be more options for women who are contemplating abortion, a better support structure to help reduce the incidence of abortion.
My interest in a clean environment and renewable fuels also changed after the kids came. More than ever I want our legacy to my kids to be a land with fresh water streams with edible fish, and a country less dependent upon oil. I know we can do this if only the political will to do it existed.
As an undecided voter in a "battle ground" state, I've decided today to lock in my vote.
I will vote for John Kerry.
I'm not voting so much for John Kerry as I am against President Bush. This is hard for me to accept, because I voted for Bush. There is much I admire about Bush and many areas with which I agree with him on. I even agree that Kerry is a "flip flopper." But enough is enough.
I feel that I've been lied to about the urgency to invade Iraq, even as recently as last week Condoleeza Rice was saying that there is a link between Al Qaida and Saddam, even after the 9/11 commission report flatly stated that there was no link. How can they just keep on lying? It boggles my mind. Even if Bush has us headed in the right direction, I want to get there a different way.
Thats my opinion, and I'm sure you have yours. God bless you, and Americans, don't forget to vote Nov. 2.
I had always opposed the death penalty, but since having kids I've moved solidly in favor of it, particularly in cases where children are hurt.
I had always opposed higher taxes, but now I'm willing to pay more in order to help children get medical care and a good education.
I had always been pro-choice in abortion matters, but after feeling my children moving in my wife's womb, I have moved to the right of this issue. Although I still respect the right to choose, it should only be a last option. There should be more options for women who are contemplating abortion, a better support structure to help reduce the incidence of abortion.
My interest in a clean environment and renewable fuels also changed after the kids came. More than ever I want our legacy to my kids to be a land with fresh water streams with edible fish, and a country less dependent upon oil. I know we can do this if only the political will to do it existed.
As an undecided voter in a "battle ground" state, I've decided today to lock in my vote.
I will vote for John Kerry.
I'm not voting so much for John Kerry as I am against President Bush. This is hard for me to accept, because I voted for Bush. There is much I admire about Bush and many areas with which I agree with him on. I even agree that Kerry is a "flip flopper." But enough is enough.
I feel that I've been lied to about the urgency to invade Iraq, even as recently as last week Condoleeza Rice was saying that there is a link between Al Qaida and Saddam, even after the 9/11 commission report flatly stated that there was no link. How can they just keep on lying? It boggles my mind. Even if Bush has us headed in the right direction, I want to get there a different way.
Thats my opinion, and I'm sure you have yours. God bless you, and Americans, don't forget to vote Nov. 2.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Face Off
Here's an interesting "mad science" story for you, just in time for Halloween.
Medical science marches on, and the stuff of yesterdays science fiction continues move into the realm of possibility. Today, there's good news for people in the government witness protection program, as well as anyone who has been horribly disfigured:
First human face transplant, Ohio clinic starts screening patients: "The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio, USA, is to start screening patients for what will be the first ever face transplant. A review board has given the clinic permission to carry out the procedure."
The cynical side of me wonders what someone would pay to wear a dead celebrity's face -- the ultimate piece of memorabilia. On eBay we've already seen people auctioning their vote, even their kidneys. Will we ever be able to sell options on our body parts in event of our premature deaths? I've learned never to say "never."
Seriously: this hospital truly ought to fire the public relations firm who advised them that this was an appropriate time to release this story: who can take this seriously on Halloween?
Watch the late night comics to see how long it takes them to latch on to this story. They will not be able to leave it alone.
What an interesting world my kids will inhabit in 50 years.
Medical science marches on, and the stuff of yesterdays science fiction continues move into the realm of possibility. Today, there's good news for people in the government witness protection program, as well as anyone who has been horribly disfigured:
First human face transplant, Ohio clinic starts screening patients: "The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio, USA, is to start screening patients for what will be the first ever face transplant. A review board has given the clinic permission to carry out the procedure."
The cynical side of me wonders what someone would pay to wear a dead celebrity's face -- the ultimate piece of memorabilia. On eBay we've already seen people auctioning their vote, even their kidneys. Will we ever be able to sell options on our body parts in event of our premature deaths? I've learned never to say "never."
Seriously: this hospital truly ought to fire the public relations firm who advised them that this was an appropriate time to release this story: who can take this seriously on Halloween?
Watch the late night comics to see how long it takes them to latch on to this story. They will not be able to leave it alone.
What an interesting world my kids will inhabit in 50 years.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Happy Halloween
Just a short note to wish you all a Happy Halloween. It's a holiday that my in-laws in the UK find a bit peculiar, but they enjoy getting pictures of the kids dressed up in their costumes. They lament that the holiday seems to be catching on the UK with the younger folks.
My kids love Halloween for all the obvious reasons: it means dressing up, horse play and lots of candy. Mom and Dad, who are usually stingy with candy treats, have to back down during this time of the year. High glucose rules!
This year the daughter has chosen to be Tinkerbell the Fairy; the oldest son wanted to be a puppy so his mother custom made him an original puppy outfit; the youngest must wear the Bumble Bee costume, which has already been worn by the other two. That darn bee costume was so expensive, I'm determined to get my money's worth out of it, even if I have to have a fourth kid!
Tonight is a costume party for Jane and I. I can't remember the last Halloween costume party that we went to. She'll be a Barbie Doll and I'll be my usual Mad Scientist. Nights out are always a big deal for us, since there haven't been that many since the third child came along almost a year ago.
Have a spooky evening dear reader. And enjoy a piece of candy for me.
My kids love Halloween for all the obvious reasons: it means dressing up, horse play and lots of candy. Mom and Dad, who are usually stingy with candy treats, have to back down during this time of the year. High glucose rules!
This year the daughter has chosen to be Tinkerbell the Fairy; the oldest son wanted to be a puppy so his mother custom made him an original puppy outfit; the youngest must wear the Bumble Bee costume, which has already been worn by the other two. That darn bee costume was so expensive, I'm determined to get my money's worth out of it, even if I have to have a fourth kid!
Tonight is a costume party for Jane and I. I can't remember the last Halloween costume party that we went to. She'll be a Barbie Doll and I'll be my usual Mad Scientist. Nights out are always a big deal for us, since there haven't been that many since the third child came along almost a year ago.
Have a spooky evening dear reader. And enjoy a piece of candy for me.
Friday, October 29, 2004
The Best Man
One nice thing about getting older is that you have fewer weddings to attend, or at least fewer weddings to participate in. It is an honor to be in someone's wedding, certainly, but it's also an expensive proposition and time consuming in most cases. When it comes to weddings, I've discovered that I'm a better spectator than participant.
Way back in 1989 came my first request to be a best man. A buddy from high school, Glen was engaged to a woman he met in college, and who didn't altogether like me. I've never been certain as to why she didn't like me, but in the end, whether she did or didn't would not matter.
The wedding was to be held in her hometown in suburban Chicago. I was living in New Orleans at the time, a nearly 18 hour drive to Chicago. Dutifully, I showed up at Glen's apartment right at the appointed time, but he was not there. I didn't have anywhere else to go, since I would be staying at his apartment. So I crossed the street to a local pub, and there I found another member of the wedding party. "He hasn't been here all day," he said, still groggy for having driven up from Kansas City. He was clearly annoyed at being locked out.
Hours later, a light went on in Glen's apartment. We quickly downed our beers and crossed the street. The door was open, so we let ourselves inside. We were whooping it up! Hey buddy! Great to see you! Where you been? Not much longer now, eh? The old ball and chain, etc. etc.
But the revelry was not returned, and we noticed that Glen was in a lot of distress. The wedding had been called off by the bride, he said. I didn't believe him, and it would be just like him to joke about something like this. He dialed the bride and handed me the phone, and she confirmed she couldn't go through with it. Why? I never did find out. He never did tell me. All these years later, I still haven't been able to find out from other friends.
I hung around for a few days, as I was planning to do anyway. On what would have been his wedding night, we went clubbing downtown. It was a pathetic evening, but probably better than staying at home.
Glen really changed after this experience, or perhaps he had changed before but it took this incident to make me see it. He became more aloof, less trusting, and less available. Two years later after I had moved permanently to Chicago, he would run off with my girlfriend (I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the biggest favor anyone had ever done for me. More on this in a later post).
Today's lesson: Life goes on.
Way back in 1989 came my first request to be a best man. A buddy from high school, Glen was engaged to a woman he met in college, and who didn't altogether like me. I've never been certain as to why she didn't like me, but in the end, whether she did or didn't would not matter.
The wedding was to be held in her hometown in suburban Chicago. I was living in New Orleans at the time, a nearly 18 hour drive to Chicago. Dutifully, I showed up at Glen's apartment right at the appointed time, but he was not there. I didn't have anywhere else to go, since I would be staying at his apartment. So I crossed the street to a local pub, and there I found another member of the wedding party. "He hasn't been here all day," he said, still groggy for having driven up from Kansas City. He was clearly annoyed at being locked out.
Hours later, a light went on in Glen's apartment. We quickly downed our beers and crossed the street. The door was open, so we let ourselves inside. We were whooping it up! Hey buddy! Great to see you! Where you been? Not much longer now, eh? The old ball and chain, etc. etc.
But the revelry was not returned, and we noticed that Glen was in a lot of distress. The wedding had been called off by the bride, he said. I didn't believe him, and it would be just like him to joke about something like this. He dialed the bride and handed me the phone, and she confirmed she couldn't go through with it. Why? I never did find out. He never did tell me. All these years later, I still haven't been able to find out from other friends.
I hung around for a few days, as I was planning to do anyway. On what would have been his wedding night, we went clubbing downtown. It was a pathetic evening, but probably better than staying at home.
Glen really changed after this experience, or perhaps he had changed before but it took this incident to make me see it. He became more aloof, less trusting, and less available. Two years later after I had moved permanently to Chicago, he would run off with my girlfriend (I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the biggest favor anyone had ever done for me. More on this in a later post).
Today's lesson: Life goes on.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
The Pumpkin Launcher
Can we talk? Today I'm going to set aside my usual pseudo-philosophical waxing about middle class family life and my insightful social observations so I can vent a little. I'd like to tell you something that kept me up last night: a pumpkin launcher.
Yesterday, Jane and I met with Jorgen's kindergarten teacher. It's never a good a sign when the teacher leads off with, "I wish I had more good news for you than bad..." She proceeded to tell us about how he is having trouble making friends in his new class. How he sometimes will not listen or do the required work. How he has received the occassional time-out. How he likes to be alone sometimes. In other words, he's a little too much like his dad.
His teacher is a nice young lady. I believe she means well. She has a tough job, with twenty five kids ages five to six to teach. But the way she approached the subject of my boy put me on the defensive. Pissed me off, really.
I pressed her on certain facts, trying to gain some perspective, and she did admit that he was not the worst kid in the class, that there are others she struggles with even more. She admitted that he is a very intelligent kid who scored very high on tests he had been given. The problem is engaging his cooperation and attention.
To illustrate her point, she unveiled a crayon drawing that he had made. For lack of a better description, it was a drawing of a pumpkin launcher, assumably capable of launching pumpkins great distances. It was a pretty cool idea my boy had, and not such a weird one actually. On the top of the frame was the launcher, and at the bottom were a dozen or so pumpkins that he told his teacher been blasted out of the launcher. In case you're wondering, this was not a picture of bloody pumpkin destruction and mayhem, suggesting violence and deeper psychological problems. It was not the kind of picture that I suspect Jeffrey Dahmer might have drawn as a kid. No indeed. I'm happy to say that all of my boys pumpkins appeared to have landed safely on the ground. The kid loves pumpkins, what can I say.
"Hey, that's pretty good. He's in kindergarten and he's designed a pumpkin launcher!" I said. "I remember when a college engineering class did that..."
"Yes, its 'good.'" she interrupted, slightly annoyed. "BUT, the problem is that he was supposed to draw a picture of himself doing something. He's not following directions."
Jorgen is a great kid, very popular in his daycare class, even if not so popular among the kindergarten set. He is capable of great generosity, and when he is interested in a subject, he goes deep. He's very creative. If he's not making friends in her class, if he's not joining in, there is obviously something wrong. He's clearly not engaged. Whether this is due to his own emotional maturity or that of a stressed out teacher, I haven't yet decided.
So this morning, my son and I went to Quality Bakery, our favorite doughnut shop. We sat at our usual table, and through the window we watched three big trains rumble by (he just loves trains - see my Oct. 17 post). Gently, I brought up the topic of school. And through mouths stuffed with chocolate covered doughnuts, and we talked. The first of many discussions I want to have with him over the next few weeks about he importance of cooperating and listening.
No closure to today's story. Just a lesson learned: be your child's advocate, and listen even when what you are hearing doesn't seem to make sense.
Yesterday, Jane and I met with Jorgen's kindergarten teacher. It's never a good a sign when the teacher leads off with, "I wish I had more good news for you than bad..." She proceeded to tell us about how he is having trouble making friends in his new class. How he sometimes will not listen or do the required work. How he has received the occassional time-out. How he likes to be alone sometimes. In other words, he's a little too much like his dad.
His teacher is a nice young lady. I believe she means well. She has a tough job, with twenty five kids ages five to six to teach. But the way she approached the subject of my boy put me on the defensive. Pissed me off, really.
I pressed her on certain facts, trying to gain some perspective, and she did admit that he was not the worst kid in the class, that there are others she struggles with even more. She admitted that he is a very intelligent kid who scored very high on tests he had been given. The problem is engaging his cooperation and attention.
To illustrate her point, she unveiled a crayon drawing that he had made. For lack of a better description, it was a drawing of a pumpkin launcher, assumably capable of launching pumpkins great distances. It was a pretty cool idea my boy had, and not such a weird one actually. On the top of the frame was the launcher, and at the bottom were a dozen or so pumpkins that he told his teacher been blasted out of the launcher. In case you're wondering, this was not a picture of bloody pumpkin destruction and mayhem, suggesting violence and deeper psychological problems. It was not the kind of picture that I suspect Jeffrey Dahmer might have drawn as a kid. No indeed. I'm happy to say that all of my boys pumpkins appeared to have landed safely on the ground. The kid loves pumpkins, what can I say.
"Hey, that's pretty good. He's in kindergarten and he's designed a pumpkin launcher!" I said. "I remember when a college engineering class did that..."
"Yes, its 'good.'" she interrupted, slightly annoyed. "BUT, the problem is that he was supposed to draw a picture of himself doing something. He's not following directions."
Jorgen is a great kid, very popular in his daycare class, even if not so popular among the kindergarten set. He is capable of great generosity, and when he is interested in a subject, he goes deep. He's very creative. If he's not making friends in her class, if he's not joining in, there is obviously something wrong. He's clearly not engaged. Whether this is due to his own emotional maturity or that of a stressed out teacher, I haven't yet decided.
So this morning, my son and I went to Quality Bakery, our favorite doughnut shop. We sat at our usual table, and through the window we watched three big trains rumble by (he just loves trains - see my Oct. 17 post). Gently, I brought up the topic of school. And through mouths stuffed with chocolate covered doughnuts, and we talked. The first of many discussions I want to have with him over the next few weeks about he importance of cooperating and listening.
No closure to today's story. Just a lesson learned: be your child's advocate, and listen even when what you are hearing doesn't seem to make sense.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The Middle Child
My second child, now nearly 4, was conceived in Paris, across the street from the Louvre, in a comfortable hotel (this is already probably more than you ever wanted to know). We were visiting Jane's parents in England. The trip to Paris was thrown together rather hastily, after Grandma and Grand Dad suddenly volunteered to watch the little boy for a couple of days, giving us our first bonafide vacation in about two years.
Our three days and two nights in the city of lights was a whirlwind. We found time to enjoy many of the touristy things that were on my agenda: to bask in the gaze of the Mona Lisa, look upon the Venus de Milo, climb the steps to the Sacre-Coeur, enjoy the view of the city from atop the L'Arc de Triomphe, relax on a boat tour on La Seine, stand before the Eiffel Tower, and wander through the ever present cafes and galleries in this great city. So it was fitting that we brought back to America a souvenir of this wonderful trip. We came as two, and we left as three.
My daughter and second child is a beautiful, healthy little girl who loves to be in charge. In a group, she will be the one handing out assignments: "you be the mommy, you be the baby..." Once she's got you in her program, its hard to get away.
Her table prayer each night goes like this: "Come lord Jesus, be our guest, and let Big Gifts, to us be blessed, Amen!" I've tried correcting her in the past, that its "these gifts, not big gifts," but I no longer try. I have my table prayer, she has hers, and I delight in hearing her say it.
There is something very special to a father about having a daughter. I like to think I treat all my kids the same. But here is what I suspect of myself: I suspect she gets away with more, and that she receives the benefit of the doubt more often than the boys. I suspect that when I'm in a store and see a nice dress, I'm more apt to buy it for her than I am to buy clothes for the boys. I also suspect that I am more likely to do little favors for her than for the boys, like carry her up some steps. Try as I might to treat all the kids the same, as my only girl, she always seems to get a little extra special treatment.
I'm glad she was the second child. I have to admit, I wanted a boy for my first child. I think every man does, even those like me who always told their pregnant wife, "it doesn't make any difference to me whether its a boy or a girl Honey, just as long as its healthy!" The truth for me was, deep inside I wanted a boy for the first child, and even felt some pressure to have one. Is it rational to feel that way? Of course not -- I had no kingdom that needed an heir. But there was that nagging little feeling deep inside that I needed to recreate myself. As though somehow it was up to me, and if I secretly rooted for a boy I could impact the outcome. It certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't have loved her any less if she was my first child. But I've always felt that she somehow did me a favor, enlisting to be the second child.
Today's lesson: kids are just like people, only smaller, or, Paris is a great place to conceive kids.
Our three days and two nights in the city of lights was a whirlwind. We found time to enjoy many of the touristy things that were on my agenda: to bask in the gaze of the Mona Lisa, look upon the Venus de Milo, climb the steps to the Sacre-Coeur, enjoy the view of the city from atop the L'Arc de Triomphe, relax on a boat tour on La Seine, stand before the Eiffel Tower, and wander through the ever present cafes and galleries in this great city. So it was fitting that we brought back to America a souvenir of this wonderful trip. We came as two, and we left as three.
My daughter and second child is a beautiful, healthy little girl who loves to be in charge. In a group, she will be the one handing out assignments: "you be the mommy, you be the baby..." Once she's got you in her program, its hard to get away.
Her table prayer each night goes like this: "Come lord Jesus, be our guest, and let Big Gifts, to us be blessed, Amen!" I've tried correcting her in the past, that its "these gifts, not big gifts," but I no longer try. I have my table prayer, she has hers, and I delight in hearing her say it.
There is something very special to a father about having a daughter. I like to think I treat all my kids the same. But here is what I suspect of myself: I suspect she gets away with more, and that she receives the benefit of the doubt more often than the boys. I suspect that when I'm in a store and see a nice dress, I'm more apt to buy it for her than I am to buy clothes for the boys. I also suspect that I am more likely to do little favors for her than for the boys, like carry her up some steps. Try as I might to treat all the kids the same, as my only girl, she always seems to get a little extra special treatment.
I'm glad she was the second child. I have to admit, I wanted a boy for my first child. I think every man does, even those like me who always told their pregnant wife, "it doesn't make any difference to me whether its a boy or a girl Honey, just as long as its healthy!" The truth for me was, deep inside I wanted a boy for the first child, and even felt some pressure to have one. Is it rational to feel that way? Of course not -- I had no kingdom that needed an heir. But there was that nagging little feeling deep inside that I needed to recreate myself. As though somehow it was up to me, and if I secretly rooted for a boy I could impact the outcome. It certainly doesn't mean I wouldn't have loved her any less if she was my first child. But I've always felt that she somehow did me a favor, enlisting to be the second child.
Today's lesson: kids are just like people, only smaller, or, Paris is a great place to conceive kids.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
The Test
Today we took Pete (number 3) to the hospital for a hearing exam. He was such a great little kid, keeping himself busy and being no trouble at all for his dad. To my surprise, the audiologist called us in 5 minutes early. He stuck some kind of instrument into each ear, and that was it. He was done with us.
15 minutes later, the ENT called us in. He began explaining the results of the test. Looks like the left ear has some kind of fluid. Since Pete has had six ear infections already during his 11 months on this planet, he suggests getting tubes placed in the ear so that the mucus behind the ear drum can drain. To parents who have literally been up all night (and I mean ALL FREAKIN' NIGHT!!) comforting Pete during his bouts with ear infections, this is a great idea. Besides, we've already been through all this with number 1.
Since I had the opportunity, I ask the ENT about something my oldest boy said to me: he's been complaining about a buzzing sound in his ears. Indeed, he has awaken in the night screaming, convinced that he is being attacked by bees. This is not normal, the ENT says. I suspected as much. He recommends bringing the boy in for some tests and another 20 dollar co-pay.
An hour later I picked up the oldest from Kindergarten, to bring him to his afternoon day care. I ask about the buzzing sound. Yes, its still there. "How often do you hear it, son." All the time, he says.
Adding to the to-do list.
Pete's surgury is scheduled for Monday.
15 minutes later, the ENT called us in. He began explaining the results of the test. Looks like the left ear has some kind of fluid. Since Pete has had six ear infections already during his 11 months on this planet, he suggests getting tubes placed in the ear so that the mucus behind the ear drum can drain. To parents who have literally been up all night (and I mean ALL FREAKIN' NIGHT!!) comforting Pete during his bouts with ear infections, this is a great idea. Besides, we've already been through all this with number 1.
Since I had the opportunity, I ask the ENT about something my oldest boy said to me: he's been complaining about a buzzing sound in his ears. Indeed, he has awaken in the night screaming, convinced that he is being attacked by bees. This is not normal, the ENT says. I suspected as much. He recommends bringing the boy in for some tests and another 20 dollar co-pay.
An hour later I picked up the oldest from Kindergarten, to bring him to his afternoon day care. I ask about the buzzing sound. Yes, its still there. "How often do you hear it, son." All the time, he says.
Adding to the to-do list.
Pete's surgury is scheduled for Monday.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Deluxe Barber Shop
My 11 am appointment cancelled today, so I decided to get a hair cut. Lately I've been going to the Deluxe Barber Shop, rather than my long time stylist. Why? Well, I can be in and out of the Deluxe Barber Shop in about 15 minutes, and the cost is about one third that of my stylist.
The shop is not open on Mondays, I've discovered, despite what the sign on the door says. If you come right at noon, or around 4:30, there will be a wait. But between 10 to 11 am, they'll sit you right down.
Places like the Deluxe Barber Shop were never very interesting to me, and I probably wouldn't have ever tried them if it weren't for a hair emergency one day: a big potential client scheduled a meeting, and I had a mop of hair that I was sure would kill the deal. It would have killed my self confidence at the very least. So I walked in, sat down, and before long I had the hang of the place. Dan knew just how to cut my hair -- he didn't even ask me how I wanted it. You sit, and he just starts cutting.
Dan is the older old guy who has been running the shop for the past 40 years. He knows everyone in town, and can gossip about whats going on in city hall and in local development. Barry is the younger old guy. If you walk in to the shop and neither Dan nor Barry is busy, and if you do NOT ask for Barry, you'll get Dan. That's the pecking order. I don't know that one of them is better than the other.
At the Deluxe Barber Shop, you will not find women. I take that back, because once I saw a women there who had brought in her 12 year old son to get a buzz cut. But still, to see a woman there is unusual, and unofficially, they seem to need a male escourt; even a 12 year old will do.
There are deer mounts on the wall in the Deluxe Barber Shop, and some old Playboy magazines in the rack next to old hunting mags. A big old woodcased television sits on the floor, but I've never seen it turned on. They sell those bright red, oval shaped "pocket combs" for 99 cents. A row of chairs lines the east side of the shop, and that's where the regulars come and sit and talk to Dan (and sometimes Barry). Regulars can hang out there and need not necessarily have their hair cut. I haven't figured out all of the regulars yet, but from the chatter in the shop, I take it that some kind of old-guy right wing political group has made the Deluxe Barber Shop their base of operations.
Today, Dan was complaining about the last guy whose hair he cut. "Do you smell that?" he asked, sniffing the air? There was something there, but I couldn't guess what. "That last guy must smoke 'bout a dozen cigars a day. I never smelled it so strong in 40 years of cutting hair." The conversation quickly turned to a proposed local ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants.
After my haircut, we went to the till. I gave him a 20 and he pulled out a stack of ones. "Geezus!" He said, waving the bills from the till in the air. "Smell these!" I sniffed, and sure enough, there was an unmistakable, very strong smell of cigar. "These were from that smokey bastard," he said, setting the pile of ones to the side.
Today's lesson: Not sure. Cigars stink?
The shop is not open on Mondays, I've discovered, despite what the sign on the door says. If you come right at noon, or around 4:30, there will be a wait. But between 10 to 11 am, they'll sit you right down.
Places like the Deluxe Barber Shop were never very interesting to me, and I probably wouldn't have ever tried them if it weren't for a hair emergency one day: a big potential client scheduled a meeting, and I had a mop of hair that I was sure would kill the deal. It would have killed my self confidence at the very least. So I walked in, sat down, and before long I had the hang of the place. Dan knew just how to cut my hair -- he didn't even ask me how I wanted it. You sit, and he just starts cutting.
Dan is the older old guy who has been running the shop for the past 40 years. He knows everyone in town, and can gossip about whats going on in city hall and in local development. Barry is the younger old guy. If you walk in to the shop and neither Dan nor Barry is busy, and if you do NOT ask for Barry, you'll get Dan. That's the pecking order. I don't know that one of them is better than the other.
At the Deluxe Barber Shop, you will not find women. I take that back, because once I saw a women there who had brought in her 12 year old son to get a buzz cut. But still, to see a woman there is unusual, and unofficially, they seem to need a male escourt; even a 12 year old will do.
There are deer mounts on the wall in the Deluxe Barber Shop, and some old Playboy magazines in the rack next to old hunting mags. A big old woodcased television sits on the floor, but I've never seen it turned on. They sell those bright red, oval shaped "pocket combs" for 99 cents. A row of chairs lines the east side of the shop, and that's where the regulars come and sit and talk to Dan (and sometimes Barry). Regulars can hang out there and need not necessarily have their hair cut. I haven't figured out all of the regulars yet, but from the chatter in the shop, I take it that some kind of old-guy right wing political group has made the Deluxe Barber Shop their base of operations.
Today, Dan was complaining about the last guy whose hair he cut. "Do you smell that?" he asked, sniffing the air? There was something there, but I couldn't guess what. "That last guy must smoke 'bout a dozen cigars a day. I never smelled it so strong in 40 years of cutting hair." The conversation quickly turned to a proposed local ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants.
After my haircut, we went to the till. I gave him a 20 and he pulled out a stack of ones. "Geezus!" He said, waving the bills from the till in the air. "Smell these!" I sniffed, and sure enough, there was an unmistakable, very strong smell of cigar. "These were from that smokey bastard," he said, setting the pile of ones to the side.
Today's lesson: Not sure. Cigars stink?
Sunday, October 24, 2004
2 Days With 3 Kids
Jane was at a conference this weekend, and I was watching the kids by myself. Yesterday was a lot of rushing around: swimming lessons for number 1, a birthday party for number 2. A haircut for number 1 and grocery shopping with 1 and 3 while 2 was at the party. Number 3 needed a lot of attention, being only 11 mos. old. Lots of poops, thank goodness.
I really can't minimize the role of the second parent in raising kids. No offense to single parents intended, but raising kids without a partner sure can't be easy.
Today was church and then mostly play indoors. The rain shortened the list of options. A veggie tales DVD helped fill the void. Number 1 built a huge Thomas the Tank Engine track that stretched from his room to the living room, and Number 3 enjoyed taking it apart. I'm very tired tonight. Jane came home about 7 pm, after baths and just in time to help with tuck in. It was nice to talk to another adult. Teacher conference on Tuesday for number 1. Fingers crossed. Good night.
I really can't minimize the role of the second parent in raising kids. No offense to single parents intended, but raising kids without a partner sure can't be easy.
Today was church and then mostly play indoors. The rain shortened the list of options. A veggie tales DVD helped fill the void. Number 1 built a huge Thomas the Tank Engine track that stretched from his room to the living room, and Number 3 enjoyed taking it apart. I'm very tired tonight. Jane came home about 7 pm, after baths and just in time to help with tuck in. It was nice to talk to another adult. Teacher conference on Tuesday for number 1. Fingers crossed. Good night.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
The Call
At 1:05 am this morning, shortly after local bars close, our phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and grunted out a "'lo?". A strange voice asked for my wife. "Who is this?" The answer was garbled. Confused and not quite awake yet, I handed the phone to Jane. The call was a crank, and quite threatening and vulgar.
I did the *68 thing, but of course, the number had been blocked. This morning I called the Sheriff to see what could be done; nothing. One would think in this day of caller ID that there would be some recourse, but no, there really isn't. The only way to catch these people is if they screw up and forget to block their number or if they become too persistent.
I'm a light sleeper to begin with, and its so hard for me to get back to sleep once disturbed. And this really disturbed me. So the next hour of prime sleeping time was spent wondering who would have done such a thing. I was surprised at how many potential people I came up with after a little thought.
When I was 20, calls in the middle of the night were often good news, sometimes an invitation to a party or a lonely girlfriend. But when you're 40, a phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. Never.
Today's lesson: Bad news can wait till the morning.
I did the *68 thing, but of course, the number had been blocked. This morning I called the Sheriff to see what could be done; nothing. One would think in this day of caller ID that there would be some recourse, but no, there really isn't. The only way to catch these people is if they screw up and forget to block their number or if they become too persistent.
I'm a light sleeper to begin with, and its so hard for me to get back to sleep once disturbed. And this really disturbed me. So the next hour of prime sleeping time was spent wondering who would have done such a thing. I was surprised at how many potential people I came up with after a little thought.
When I was 20, calls in the middle of the night were often good news, sometimes an invitation to a party or a lonely girlfriend. But when you're 40, a phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. Never.
Today's lesson: Bad news can wait till the morning.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Pleasant Surprise
Today brought an unexpected, but pleasant surprise. I received an email from Lisa, a former girlfriend, and someone I have not seen in nearly 20 years. She didn't offer much detail, just a "hello, remember me?" kind of note. She found my email address on the company website.
Here is the email:
"I'm sorry to bother you at work. I was on campus this Sat. for class and I
walked by the hall where we would have those meetings-it prompted me to
remind myself to search google for any movies that you may have produced- I
had conferences this week, a kind of enforced reflection time, so I put your
name in search and...20 years is a long time! You may not remember me, but I
wanted to say "hi."
Lisa "
Lisa was very special. An attractive girl of scandinavian heritage, tall, thin, with beautiful golden blonde hair and a modest personality. The first time I saw her was in an astronomy class at the University of Minnesota. I would sit as close to her as possible, hoping for a chance to be her lab partner (never happened), or in the hopes of lending her a pen (also never happened). One night at a fraternity party, I saw her again, and gathered up enough courage to talk with her. After that we dated off and on, eventually separating when I graduated and moved to Atlanta to take a job. I remember her as a very kind person. She was the kind of person who would stop on the street to talk with a homeless person, wanting to know in earnest if there was anything she could do to help. And she was great with children. She was the kind of person who would always do the right thing, and I hope she still is. If she is a mother, I am sure she is a great one.
Over the years, I had often wondered what had become of her, just as I have wondered about other people I had been close to. There are other people whose fates I would like to know. But are we better off not knowing? There is a danger in being too curious, of holding on to tightly to the past, especially if one begins to lament would could have been. Godspeed to the people who have passed me by (or vice versa). I wish you all well on your own life's journey. I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I forgive you if you had ever hurt me.
For me, things have always worked out for the better -- even during times when the pain was very real and stayed a very long time, in the end, it always has worked out for the better. I have missed out on many opportunities, only to discover a new opportunity just over the horizon. If I had made different decisions 20 years ago, my life might be much different than it is right now. Perhaps I would have married Lisa eventually. But then again, I like things the way they are, I love my wife and the children in my life, and I wouldn't change my current situation for anything.
Here is the email:
"I'm sorry to bother you at work. I was on campus this Sat. for class and I
walked by the hall where we would have those meetings-it prompted me to
remind myself to search google for any movies that you may have produced- I
had conferences this week, a kind of enforced reflection time, so I put your
name in search and...20 years is a long time! You may not remember me, but I
wanted to say "hi."
Lisa "
Lisa was very special. An attractive girl of scandinavian heritage, tall, thin, with beautiful golden blonde hair and a modest personality. The first time I saw her was in an astronomy class at the University of Minnesota. I would sit as close to her as possible, hoping for a chance to be her lab partner (never happened), or in the hopes of lending her a pen (also never happened). One night at a fraternity party, I saw her again, and gathered up enough courage to talk with her. After that we dated off and on, eventually separating when I graduated and moved to Atlanta to take a job. I remember her as a very kind person. She was the kind of person who would stop on the street to talk with a homeless person, wanting to know in earnest if there was anything she could do to help. And she was great with children. She was the kind of person who would always do the right thing, and I hope she still is. If she is a mother, I am sure she is a great one.
Over the years, I had often wondered what had become of her, just as I have wondered about other people I had been close to. There are other people whose fates I would like to know. But are we better off not knowing? There is a danger in being too curious, of holding on to tightly to the past, especially if one begins to lament would could have been. Godspeed to the people who have passed me by (or vice versa). I wish you all well on your own life's journey. I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I forgive you if you had ever hurt me.
For me, things have always worked out for the better -- even during times when the pain was very real and stayed a very long time, in the end, it always has worked out for the better. I have missed out on many opportunities, only to discover a new opportunity just over the horizon. If I had made different decisions 20 years ago, my life might be much different than it is right now. Perhaps I would have married Lisa eventually. But then again, I like things the way they are, I love my wife and the children in my life, and I wouldn't change my current situation for anything.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
The Daily Dilemma
Lunch time poses the a daily dilemma for us middle class workers: where to eat? There are probably thirty place to eat within a 10 minute drive of my office. Here in my small midwestern town of 180,000 people, food choices can be easily grouped into 1) tacos/Mexican, 2) hamburgers, 3) Chinese buffets, 4) chicken, 5) subs/sandwiches, and 6) full service chain restaurants.
Today I chose chicken. Being somewhat adventurous, I selected a place where I had never eaten before. This place is famous among a few friends of mine not only for their 'broasted' chicken, but also for providing the added convenience of self-service gasoline and lottery ticket sales. The fact that I needed gas and only had a few minutes for lunch may have influenced my decision.
I chose a seat near a window so I could watch people filling up their big cars with gas ($1.98/gallon today). I noticed some older folks seated nearby who noticably lowered their voices when I came in. A little self conscious, I began to eat my "broasted" chicken in this gas-traunt (I believe that broasted is a word derived by combining 'Bad' with 'Roasted'. If they can call their chicken broasted, I guess I can call their establishment a gas-traunt, can't I?). These senior folks were obviously regulars and could spot an interloper like me. After awhile, they settled down and would occassionally meander up to the cashier (who greeted them by name) to buy some scratch tickets. On the return trip they stopping by the soda fountain to top off their drink cups. Back at the table they used a lucky spoon to scratch off the stuff on the card. Occassionally the man would show his companion the fuits of the scratching and they would both sigh a little sigh, and then back to the scratching.
Many thoughts crossed my mind as I watched their show. I began to wonder what my own senior years would be like. Would I have enough money to do the things I wanted to do, or would I be frequenting a gas-taurant, scratching lottery cards for dollars. Yet who is to say what I will want to do when I am 2X my current age -- perhaps they were doing exactly what they wanted to do: perhaps they had learned a lesson that I had yet to learn, that life doesn't need to be so complicated, that if my wife and I both survived to retirement and could both appreciate a simple pleasure, maybe that should be enough. Check back here in 40 years and I'll let you know.
Todays lesson is that adventure is not always to be found, but searching for adventure is a way to express your optimism for the future.
Today I chose chicken. Being somewhat adventurous, I selected a place where I had never eaten before. This place is famous among a few friends of mine not only for their 'broasted' chicken, but also for providing the added convenience of self-service gasoline and lottery ticket sales. The fact that I needed gas and only had a few minutes for lunch may have influenced my decision.
I chose a seat near a window so I could watch people filling up their big cars with gas ($1.98/gallon today). I noticed some older folks seated nearby who noticably lowered their voices when I came in. A little self conscious, I began to eat my "broasted" chicken in this gas-traunt (I believe that broasted is a word derived by combining 'Bad' with 'Roasted'. If they can call their chicken broasted, I guess I can call their establishment a gas-traunt, can't I?). These senior folks were obviously regulars and could spot an interloper like me. After awhile, they settled down and would occassionally meander up to the cashier (who greeted them by name) to buy some scratch tickets. On the return trip they stopping by the soda fountain to top off their drink cups. Back at the table they used a lucky spoon to scratch off the stuff on the card. Occassionally the man would show his companion the fuits of the scratching and they would both sigh a little sigh, and then back to the scratching.
Many thoughts crossed my mind as I watched their show. I began to wonder what my own senior years would be like. Would I have enough money to do the things I wanted to do, or would I be frequenting a gas-taurant, scratching lottery cards for dollars. Yet who is to say what I will want to do when I am 2X my current age -- perhaps they were doing exactly what they wanted to do: perhaps they had learned a lesson that I had yet to learn, that life doesn't need to be so complicated, that if my wife and I both survived to retirement and could both appreciate a simple pleasure, maybe that should be enough. Check back here in 40 years and I'll let you know.
Todays lesson is that adventure is not always to be found, but searching for adventure is a way to express your optimism for the future.
Monday, October 18, 2004
The Youngest
I heard the cat hissing and growling from behind the lounge sofa in the living room. She had been cornered there, and her cries for help gave me fair warning that she was about to resort to the only self defense tactic left -- violence! I scrambled to get there as quickly as I could, but was too late. My 10 month old son, the youngest, had a solid grip on her tail with both hands and was pulling with all his might. As you might expect, the cat turned and bit him. Surprised, and not quite sure what had just happened, Pete let go of the cat's tail and then looked at his hand for a long time. I picked him up and searched him for signs a bite mark, but found none. The cat's strike had been a mere warning, probably to me as much as to Pete. Then Pete looked into my face, gave me a huge toothless grin, and grabbed my nose so hard I thought it was going to bleed.
Pete just loves the cat. He follows her around the house wearing his great big grin. Usually, just before he can reach her, she glides away and resettles, sleeping with one eye open so that she'll be prepared repeat the maneuver. But this time, the cat had no escape. She allowed herself toi be trapped in a compromised situation.
In times of trouble and danger, we should all be so lucky to get a warning like the cat gave to Pete. Then again, what good is a warning to if we don't recognize it. It will be interesting to see if this changes the way Pete relates to the cat, but knowing my happy little bundle of energy, I suspect it won't.
Todays lesson: avoid compromised situations.
Pete just loves the cat. He follows her around the house wearing his great big grin. Usually, just before he can reach her, she glides away and resettles, sleeping with one eye open so that she'll be prepared repeat the maneuver. But this time, the cat had no escape. She allowed herself toi be trapped in a compromised situation.
In times of trouble and danger, we should all be so lucky to get a warning like the cat gave to Pete. Then again, what good is a warning to if we don't recognize it. It will be interesting to see if this changes the way Pete relates to the cat, but knowing my happy little bundle of energy, I suspect it won't.
Todays lesson: avoid compromised situations.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
The Eldest Child
This morning was a tough one for my firstborn son. He started kindergarten last month, and is probably the youngest in his class. He is also probably the smallest. We thought of holding him back a year, but his pre-school teachers thought that would be discouraging since he is so bright. One of the things I admire about my son is his strong will. But sometimes, it gets him in trouble.
The trouble this morning began because his kindergarten is out for the next 5 school days for "parent/teacher" conferences. So for working parents like us, it creates a bit of a dilemma around how to care for the kids. Our solution was to enroll him back in his old daycare for a week. This did not sit well with him, as he seems to feel that this was a demotion of sorts. "I don't want to go to stupid pre-school," he says. "Pre-school gives me a headache!"
I ruffled through my bag of tricks to see how I should deal with his objection. I chose a tool that has worked well with this boy in the past: a little special attention from dad, and a doughnut. My wife took the two other kids to daycare, and I took the oldest (secretly, so as not to offend the 3 year old) to the donought shop. We have our usual seat there, where we can watch the traffic go by, and if we're lucky, a train might pass by.
About 100 trains a day rip through our town at high speed on three tracks. They've killed about 4 people so far this year, including a teenage girl. A teenage boy was mowed down last weekend as he tried to cross the trcks on his bicycle. The first train had just passed by, so he started to cross -- he didn't see a train coming on the second track from the opposite direction. Miraculously, he is still alive, although not very pretty.
I hate the trains, but to my little boy they are symbol of power, freedom and excitement. He simply loves trains. He tells me to drive out of my way just so that we can drive over the railroad tracks. Someday, he wants to ride a train far away from here, so he says.
Oddly, no trains rumbled by this morning. But a doughnut and chocolate milk with his dad was exactly what my son needed to start his day.
My eldest son is a gorgeous little boy, with large dark brown eyes and ruffled brown hair. Other kids are drawn to him as their friend. He was born five weeks prematurely in an otherwise perfect pregnancy. Perhaps because of this, he's a little short for his age. This was the child who introduced me to parenthood: he needed special attention on the day he was born, and five years later, he still needs it on a regular basis. I'm happy to give it to him.
My wife and I both work but. It would be better, we feel, if one of us could stay home. But that's not in the cards right now. We need the money.
By the way: we're paying about $16,000 this year for daycare. This is down from $20,000 last year, when the boy was in daycare a full day. Thanks to Uncle Sam for the $5,000 tax deduction.
PS - his question to me the other day: how does God keep the sky from falling down? If you know the answer, please send us your comment.
The trouble this morning began because his kindergarten is out for the next 5 school days for "parent/teacher" conferences. So for working parents like us, it creates a bit of a dilemma around how to care for the kids. Our solution was to enroll him back in his old daycare for a week. This did not sit well with him, as he seems to feel that this was a demotion of sorts. "I don't want to go to stupid pre-school," he says. "Pre-school gives me a headache!"
I ruffled through my bag of tricks to see how I should deal with his objection. I chose a tool that has worked well with this boy in the past: a little special attention from dad, and a doughnut. My wife took the two other kids to daycare, and I took the oldest (secretly, so as not to offend the 3 year old) to the donought shop. We have our usual seat there, where we can watch the traffic go by, and if we're lucky, a train might pass by.
About 100 trains a day rip through our town at high speed on three tracks. They've killed about 4 people so far this year, including a teenage girl. A teenage boy was mowed down last weekend as he tried to cross the trcks on his bicycle. The first train had just passed by, so he started to cross -- he didn't see a train coming on the second track from the opposite direction. Miraculously, he is still alive, although not very pretty.
I hate the trains, but to my little boy they are symbol of power, freedom and excitement. He simply loves trains. He tells me to drive out of my way just so that we can drive over the railroad tracks. Someday, he wants to ride a train far away from here, so he says.
Oddly, no trains rumbled by this morning. But a doughnut and chocolate milk with his dad was exactly what my son needed to start his day.
My eldest son is a gorgeous little boy, with large dark brown eyes and ruffled brown hair. Other kids are drawn to him as their friend. He was born five weeks prematurely in an otherwise perfect pregnancy. Perhaps because of this, he's a little short for his age. This was the child who introduced me to parenthood: he needed special attention on the day he was born, and five years later, he still needs it on a regular basis. I'm happy to give it to him.
My wife and I both work but. It would be better, we feel, if one of us could stay home. But that's not in the cards right now. We need the money.
By the way: we're paying about $16,000 this year for daycare. This is down from $20,000 last year, when the boy was in daycare a full day. Thanks to Uncle Sam for the $5,000 tax deduction.
PS - his question to me the other day: how does God keep the sky from falling down? If you know the answer, please send us your comment.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Car Fire
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was on my way to an appointment. I had not driven my classic 1976 Cadillac Eldorado since that morning, when I dropped the kids off at daycare. In fact, I had only driven it about 5 miles since I picked it up from a local Cadillac repair facility, after spending about $600 on it. It ran a little rough, but the service man told me it was a "stuck lifter" and that it would get better. "Just drive it," he said. So I did.
I stopped at a red light. The light turned green, I stepped on the gas to go. But the car didn't go. It would never go again.
"Damn!" I thought, as I saw what I thought was steam coming from under the hood. I reached under the dash and pulled the hood release. The hood popped up, air rushed in, and flames leaped out from under the hood. I struggled to release my seat belt, and ran a safe distance from the car. Flames were engulfing it, and I thought it would explode. Some samaritans ran up to the car to see if anyone was trapped inside; I screamed "get back!" and waved them off. I thought it was going to blow any second.
On my cell phone I called the fire department. I could see a fire station just two blocks away. Surely they would be here in a minute. 15 minutes later, they came rolling up, cut open the hood and poured water on the engine. The car was a total loss.
This vehicle had been in the family since 1976. My dad had bought it new, and it was my baby. It got a lot of attention, and about $2,000 of primping each year. I grew up driving this car, had taken my date to prom in it, had brought my newborn kids home from the hospital in it. It was the car of memories. And then in virtually an instant, it was a total loss.
My whole family was upset. The kids called it "the family car," and they knew that a ride in Daddy's caddy with the top down would inevitably end with a stop at the Tastee Freez for ice cream.
I tell you what -- now that I have some distance from this situation, I don't really miss the car. In some respects, it was liberating. I don't have to worry about where to garage it. I'll save a lot of money on repair, licensing and insurance. I think we all carry around a lot of baggage in the form of who we are or who we were, and what we own. It can be a real burden to carry these things through life, whether the baggage is emotional or physical.
Yes, I'll miss the car. But the day the Cadillac burned up wasn't a tragic day, although it could have been. It was a miraculous day. Had the car burned up with my kids strapped in the back seat-- that would have been an unbearable tragedy. The end of my life. The miracle is that it burned up and no one was hurt. I'm a lucky man!
Aerobics with Jane
Jane is my wife, and the love of my life. We were married about 9 years ago.
We met in an aerobics class in Chicago about 10 years ago. Why an aerobics class? Well, my previous girlfriend had dumped me. Very tough situation, but one that I've since learned isn't all that unique. But at the time, I was devastated when she ran off with my best friend. I was crushed. I felt bad about myself. I was about to turn 30 -- and there I was: feeling ugly, living in an apartment building, no savings to my name, and now absolutely no prospects for marriage. What a loser. So decided to change things, one thing at a time. The first thing: get in shape.
I soon discovered that Aerobics was a great place to meet women. Everyone else in the class was female.
My future wife eventually befriended me, and we had some great non-date nights out. Very low stress and easy going. Eventually I began to see in her all of the terrific traits that my friends saw in her immediately: trustworthy, kind, caring, and always up for an adventure. "Marry her, you fool!" they would tell me. Eventually I asked, and she agreed.
If I am ever asked to provide advice to those contemplating marriage, it is always this: marry your best friend.
We met in an aerobics class in Chicago about 10 years ago. Why an aerobics class? Well, my previous girlfriend had dumped me. Very tough situation, but one that I've since learned isn't all that unique. But at the time, I was devastated when she ran off with my best friend. I was crushed. I felt bad about myself. I was about to turn 30 -- and there I was: feeling ugly, living in an apartment building, no savings to my name, and now absolutely no prospects for marriage. What a loser. So decided to change things, one thing at a time. The first thing: get in shape.
I soon discovered that Aerobics was a great place to meet women. Everyone else in the class was female.
My future wife eventually befriended me, and we had some great non-date nights out. Very low stress and easy going. Eventually I began to see in her all of the terrific traits that my friends saw in her immediately: trustworthy, kind, caring, and always up for an adventure. "Marry her, you fool!" they would tell me. Eventually I asked, and she agreed.
If I am ever asked to provide advice to those contemplating marriage, it is always this: marry your best friend.
The Present Job
My present job is very hard, but very interesting. I get a glimpse into how people structure their financial lives, and their priorities become apparent. A couple of examples.
Last week I met with an 80-something couple. They are terrified of the nursing home, and want to remain home as long as possible. Could I sell them some more long term care insurance? The answer, sadly, was no. Not now that you have cancer and she had a stroke. Should have bought more coverage two years ago. Now they're going to move the house into a trust, and with a little luck, they think they can save their assets from the state and mooch off of Medicaid. Why should they pay for their own nursing home care if they can screw the state by hiding their assets? Everyone else does it, right?
Or the cop who thinks that $100,000 of life insurance is enough to take care of his stay-at-home wife and three kids. No matter what the numbers say (he would need about $1 million in coverage to replace his income at a 5% return) he's sure his family will be ok if he dies. At his age its affordable, but I guess having ESPN on cable TV is more important.
Not everyone needs a ton of insurance, and there are plenty of experts who warn about being over insured. I've been on the other side of these life insurance policies: no one has ever accused me of bringing them too much money in death claim settlement.
I'm not here to sell you any insurance. But I tell you what -- if you have kids, you owe it to them to provide for them after you're gone. The people I hate working with are those who don't care enough about their families to insure their futures. I go to bed easier each night knowing that if I don't wake up, my kids will still go to college, the house will be paid off, and my wife can take some time off to spend with the family.
I think this job is getting to me...
Last week I met with an 80-something couple. They are terrified of the nursing home, and want to remain home as long as possible. Could I sell them some more long term care insurance? The answer, sadly, was no. Not now that you have cancer and she had a stroke. Should have bought more coverage two years ago. Now they're going to move the house into a trust, and with a little luck, they think they can save their assets from the state and mooch off of Medicaid. Why should they pay for their own nursing home care if they can screw the state by hiding their assets? Everyone else does it, right?
Or the cop who thinks that $100,000 of life insurance is enough to take care of his stay-at-home wife and three kids. No matter what the numbers say (he would need about $1 million in coverage to replace his income at a 5% return) he's sure his family will be ok if he dies. At his age its affordable, but I guess having ESPN on cable TV is more important.
Not everyone needs a ton of insurance, and there are plenty of experts who warn about being over insured. I've been on the other side of these life insurance policies: no one has ever accused me of bringing them too much money in death claim settlement.
I'm not here to sell you any insurance. But I tell you what -- if you have kids, you owe it to them to provide for them after you're gone. The people I hate working with are those who don't care enough about their families to insure their futures. I go to bed easier each night knowing that if I don't wake up, my kids will still go to college, the house will be paid off, and my wife can take some time off to spend with the family.
I think this job is getting to me...
The Internet Litterbug
It just occurred to me today, finally, that there is too much garbage on the web. So I deleted some old web pages today. They were probably 2 years old, and had never been updated. My attitude had been to just leave it -- who cares. But this morning, as I was rolling the garbage can to the street, it oddly occurred to me that I was an internet litterbug.
At some point in the development of the internet and the worldweird web, did we all stop taking out the garbage? Because it's piling up on on the front porch! It becomes apparent to me every time I search Google.
Well, today I did my part to conserve bandwidth and server space: no longer will my old family pictures be turning up in some google search for information about London or diaper rash, just because I took a picture of my wife changing the little boy's bottom the London Underground (hey, it's a funny picture!). The google results will now yield just 1,092,182 pages found instead of 1,092,183, at least for a moment.
And yet, I still can't help myself: I delete a bit of web content, but now I have to tell you about it, and in so doing I toss these bit-drops into the great ocean of the web. That anyone will actually read them is a miracle itself, perhaps a one-in-1,092,183 chance occurrence. And the fact that I have again mentioned London and diaper rash will probably mean that I have actually increased the number of Google search hits once again.
Post a comment and tell us all how you were able to find these words on the web; what freak chance brought you to this web blog? What were you really searching for?
And by the way, click here if you were actually searching for info on London or Diaper Rash.
At some point in the development of the internet and the worldweird web, did we all stop taking out the garbage? Because it's piling up on on the front porch! It becomes apparent to me every time I search Google.
Well, today I did my part to conserve bandwidth and server space: no longer will my old family pictures be turning up in some google search for information about London or diaper rash, just because I took a picture of my wife changing the little boy's bottom the London Underground (hey, it's a funny picture!). The google results will now yield just 1,092,182 pages found instead of 1,092,183, at least for a moment.
And yet, I still can't help myself: I delete a bit of web content, but now I have to tell you about it, and in so doing I toss these bit-drops into the great ocean of the web. That anyone will actually read them is a miracle itself, perhaps a one-in-1,092,183 chance occurrence. And the fact that I have again mentioned London and diaper rash will probably mean that I have actually increased the number of Google search hits once again.
Post a comment and tell us all how you were able to find these words on the web; what freak chance brought you to this web blog? What were you really searching for?
And by the way, click here if you were actually searching for info on London or Diaper Rash.
The Interview
"So, what do you do?"
That question was posed to me yesterday by the head of a film studies department. Simple as it was, I was somehow unprepared, as usual. I had gone to his office to interview for a possible part time teaching position. After all, I do have a masters degree in film, even though that career and I took separate paths years ago. Yet, I still have it in the back of my head that, some day, perhaps as my retirement career, I would teach a college class in film theory or production. Or make that film that would catapult me to instant fame and fortune (who is this great director who came out of nowhere to win an Oscar! The world wants to know MORE! Back to reality...)
Back to my interview.
"Well, I'm an advisor with a fortune 500 company," said I. Then added to fill the silence, "I sell insurance and investments."
"Interesting," said he. "What makes you think you can teach a film class?"
"Well," said I, "I have had quite a bit of film experience early on. I worked on some major film productions in New Orleans while I was getting my masters and teaching classes at UNO."
"Interesting," said he. "What kind of films did you work on?"
"Well," said I, "I worked on some features like the Cohen brother's Miller's Crossing. And Steel Magnolias. I have a credit as a production assistance in David Lynch's award winning Wild At Heart. And I once won an award from the Advertising Club of New Orleans for a best-in-class television commercial."
After we found a couple of people we had in common, he seemed to lighten him up a bit. And for the next 30 minutes he made me explain how my winding career path had taken me from David Lynch's errand boy (did you know that David Lynch likes strawberry smoothies?) to a financial planner and insurance guy. It seemed interesting to him; perhaps he was wondering how he might stray from his own career path and saw some hope in me.
He asked if I would be willing to come in and talk to his class, to explain how a film studies degree and a simple indecision and lack of focus and commitment can take a person far away from one's youthful goals.
"Sure, what the hell,' I said.
That question was posed to me yesterday by the head of a film studies department. Simple as it was, I was somehow unprepared, as usual. I had gone to his office to interview for a possible part time teaching position. After all, I do have a masters degree in film, even though that career and I took separate paths years ago. Yet, I still have it in the back of my head that, some day, perhaps as my retirement career, I would teach a college class in film theory or production. Or make that film that would catapult me to instant fame and fortune (who is this great director who came out of nowhere to win an Oscar! The world wants to know MORE! Back to reality...)
Back to my interview.
"Well, I'm an advisor with a fortune 500 company," said I. Then added to fill the silence, "I sell insurance and investments."
"Interesting," said he. "What makes you think you can teach a film class?"
"Well," said I, "I have had quite a bit of film experience early on. I worked on some major film productions in New Orleans while I was getting my masters and teaching classes at UNO."
"Interesting," said he. "What kind of films did you work on?"
"Well," said I, "I worked on some features like the Cohen brother's Miller's Crossing. And Steel Magnolias. I have a credit as a production assistance in David Lynch's award winning Wild At Heart. And I once won an award from the Advertising Club of New Orleans for a best-in-class television commercial."
After we found a couple of people we had in common, he seemed to lighten him up a bit. And for the next 30 minutes he made me explain how my winding career path had taken me from David Lynch's errand boy (did you know that David Lynch likes strawberry smoothies?) to a financial planner and insurance guy. It seemed interesting to him; perhaps he was wondering how he might stray from his own career path and saw some hope in me.
He asked if I would be willing to come in and talk to his class, to explain how a film studies degree and a simple indecision and lack of focus and commitment can take a person far away from one's youthful goals.
"Sure, what the hell,' I said.
The Apex
In 2004 I turned 40. It just sort of snuck up on me. In fact, I nearly forgot about it, and would have, if it wasn't for my medeling kids. I did not have a history of responding well to birthdays with zeros in them. For my tenth birthday, I thought I was a big kid now and promptly got into trouble for appropriating the best toys from my siblings. For my 20th birthday, I cowered at home -- what good is a 20th birthday? Too young to go drinking, and too old to date 16 year olds. On my 30th, I was in such dread that I worked myself into a sickness and stayed home alone, fielding the occassional "happy birthday!" call.
So that I was on track to forget the 40th was a blessing. But birthdays are such a big deal to kids! To kids, birthday's are not only a fun time, but a weapon to be wielded with reckless abandon! My little girl Chloe, in a fit of anger, will often scream at me "...then you're not invited to my birthday party!" Over time I've evolved an answer to this that seems to get this 3 year old thinking: I tell her, "then you won't have any candles on your birthday cake! I'm bringing the candles and mommy is bringing the cake." She's still thinking about this one, and I recently heard her ask my 5 year old boy if he knew where to get birthday candles.
Anyway, I'm 40 now, whether I like it or not. Have I passed the apex of my life? Stay tuned as I share my struggles, occassional successes, frequent foibles and insecurities. Someone once told me that blogging was cheaper than seeing a shrink -- lets find out!
So that I was on track to forget the 40th was a blessing. But birthdays are such a big deal to kids! To kids, birthday's are not only a fun time, but a weapon to be wielded with reckless abandon! My little girl Chloe, in a fit of anger, will often scream at me "...then you're not invited to my birthday party!" Over time I've evolved an answer to this that seems to get this 3 year old thinking: I tell her, "then you won't have any candles on your birthday cake! I'm bringing the candles and mommy is bringing the cake." She's still thinking about this one, and I recently heard her ask my 5 year old boy if he knew where to get birthday candles.
Anyway, I'm 40 now, whether I like it or not. Have I passed the apex of my life? Stay tuned as I share my struggles, occassional successes, frequent foibles and insecurities. Someone once told me that blogging was cheaper than seeing a shrink -- lets find out!
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