Years with zeros lend themselves to reflection, whether it's a birthday or anniversary. The Charming and Delightful, my beloved Lynn Ann, became my bride 30 years ago on December 7, 1979. The last three decades haven't gone quite how I imagined - but our amazing and wonderful love story has been better than I could have ever hoped for.
So in honor of our anniversary, here are 30 things I love about my wife, in no particular order:
1. She loves Jesus.
2. Whenever I say I like something, I get more of it. I said I liked her hair longer about 25 years ago, and she hasn't cut it short since.
3. She's taught me how to be less selfish. By following her example all these years, I've learned to be more other-centered.
4. Our home is decorated with warmth, comfort and great taste. Either that, or she's trained me to like whatever she does.
5. She doesn't make me carry her purse in public unless it's absolutely necessary.
6. Being her husband makes me want to be a better person.
7. She did most of the dirty work raising our girls without me, for the most part. I was too busy growing up or working.
8. She doesn't really ask for much.
9. She loves dogs.
10. Her unerring common sense. Every time I haven't listened to it, I've paid a heavy price.
11. The way she relates to her students is a joy to watch.
12. Her hair. I absolutely love her hair!
13. She's very soft.
14. I love how whenever we're on the road and stop in a drive-through, she always opens up my sandwich and folds back the wrapper.
15. She's a great road warrior: never needs to stop except for gas and food.
16. I love how she won't give up on fall as a season and Thanksgiving as a holiday - no Christmas after Halloween at our house...
17. She laughs at all my jokes, even the stupid ones.
18. She loves watching football on TV - the only time we've had a disagreement about watching sports was when I wanted to watch a NASCAR race instead of football.
19. I love how she gave up cooking with onions and green peppers because I don't like them.
20. I love her cooking - I don't eat pancakes or waffles from a box, they're always from scratch. And her sugar cookies are to die for!
21. When I watch my two daughters make their own homes now, I love how she taught them to be the women they are.
22. I love all the surrogate kids she's opened her heart to all these years: volleyball kids, students, friends of the girls, our exchange kids - they're all family
23. My mom adores her, and always has. And Lynn has been wonderful to my mom.
24. I'd rather spend time with her than anyone else on the planet. I love that she's my best friend.
25. I love how she hates to spend money on herself. I get to feel like I'm spoiling her by saying yes.
26. I love how her strengths complement my weaknesses, and vice versa.
27. She still makes my heart skip a beat with her 'hey, Sailor' look.
28. I love that she doesn't complain about all the projects I start but don't finish.
29. I love how much I admire her character.
30. I love how much I'm looking forward to whatever comes next, as long as we're together.
Happy Anniversary, Honey!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
reflections on our hero's knee surgery...
Well, for starters, I went to the right place. That's an improvement over our last procedure (see here). No real victory for me, though, since the Charming and Delightful (C&D) drove.
I can't wait for the government to take over health care delivery, so it will be as efficient as the post office. That will SUCH an improvement... not. As it is, we arrived at the surgery center 60 minutes before surgery as requested. And comfortably sat in the waiting room for 20 minutes, sipping coffee and munching on snacks.
Uh, no, not exactly. No drinking or eating after midnight before surgery, so I sat there stewing about how hungry I was. I told the C&D that I didn't know why we had to be here early, just to sit in the waiting room. Don't start, she replied. I'm just saying that it seems like a lack of respect for my time... Try just behaving yourself, she sighed. She gave me the paper to read, but that might have been a mistake. Usually, the opinion pages raise my blood pressure, so I just stuck to the sports section.
They call my name to begin pre-surgery processing. Start here - strip down to your shorts and put on this surgical gown. Easy enough to comply, except for the 'put on' part. For starters, how do you put on something that's only half there? This thing has no back, and you have to tie it on from behind. On a good day, my hand-eye coordination is marginal. Without any coffee or breakfast, it's purt-near impossible. Stripped of my dignity, and more than a little grumpy I shuffle out and take a seat in a big armchair.
I am covered in a couple of heated blankets. Heated blankets! It's nice, but I can't help but think that maybe if you gave me more than half-clothes to wear and turned the heat above 50 degrees, I wouldn't need heated blankets to keep me warm. But that kind of thinking reflects behaving as myself, which is not in compliance with the C&D's orders, so I don't say that thought out loud.
It's quickly clear why they want me comfortable - because they're about to drive me nuts. I'm subjected to a parade of people who all follow the same routine: introduce themselves, tell me what they're going to do, and then ask me my name, date of birth and my doctor's name. The first couple of times, it's amusing. Hi, I'm Nurse So-and-So, and I'm going to stick you with a big sharp object, what is your name? Fair enough, I know from Facebook there are a couple hundred thousand Eric Hansens out there, and you wouldn't want to poke the wrong one. I'm Nurse Whatever, and I'm going to hand the doctor a pair of pliers, and what is your date of birth? Wait a minute, can't you read that off my chart? I'm Dr Neardeath, and I'm going to suspend your breathing and take your heartbeat to near zero, and who is your doctor? Hold it - you don't know which doctor you're working with? And I am paying how much for this??
My favorite interaction was with the surgeon's nurse. She informed me in her play-by-play that the doctor was going to come in and write on my knee. No problem, I replied, I've already taken care of that. You see, my oldest daughter almost had the wrong ankle operated on, so I have taken precautions. On my good knee, I have drawn a red circle with a slash through it - the international symbol for "not this one, amigo". On the intended target, I wrote "Winner winner chicken dinner". Nurse was not amused, and informed me that Doctor will not like that. Well, I've known Doctor since high school, he's done this three times on the C&D, so tough darts. Go by WalMart and pick up a sense of humor. She actually put on a pouty face, and said we'll see, but left unsaid an implied threat, like a five year old telling dad on me. Turns out Doc laughed, just like I thought he would.
And if I ever do this again, I'm going to answer with a different name and date of birth every time, just to see if they even pay attention.
The surgery and recovery were pretty unremarkable, probably because I wasn't conscious for much of it. The last time I had surgery was fifteen years ago, and I didn't come out of it so well. All I remember was being incredibly groggy and wanting to go home and sleep. The C&D told me we couldn't leave until I got dressed. So I stood up, dropped the gown on the floor, and started dragging on my clothes. No one was permanently injured by the spectacle, but lives were changed forever, and not necessarily in a good way. I won't take credit for the policy change allowing shorts under the gowns, but I wouldn't be surprised if my Moon-over-the-Operating-Room episode didn't at least spark some discussion...
So I count it as a small victory that I was able to get dressed without permanently scarring any psyches. Or falling down, either, which considering how often I topple over without anesthesia, is no small achievement.
I'll tell you something else that has changed since the C&D has had these surgical procedures. In all the pre-op phone calls and letters, they emphasized the need to have a responsible party be there to take you home. Well, when the C&D had surgery, I had to provide a notarized letter from two references certifying that I was, in fact, responsible. Took me three days - even my mom said she was out of town the first two times I called. When I said the C&D was my responsible party, they just nodded and said of course. I'm very glad they've streamlined that procedure.
The best part of the ride home was stopping to get lunch, but for the life of me, I can't remember what we ate.
I can't wait for the government to take over health care so we can improve the efficiency of the whole process.... Not!
I can't wait for the government to take over health care delivery, so it will be as efficient as the post office. That will SUCH an improvement... not. As it is, we arrived at the surgery center 60 minutes before surgery as requested. And comfortably sat in the waiting room for 20 minutes, sipping coffee and munching on snacks.
Uh, no, not exactly. No drinking or eating after midnight before surgery, so I sat there stewing about how hungry I was. I told the C&D that I didn't know why we had to be here early, just to sit in the waiting room. Don't start, she replied. I'm just saying that it seems like a lack of respect for my time... Try just behaving yourself, she sighed. She gave me the paper to read, but that might have been a mistake. Usually, the opinion pages raise my blood pressure, so I just stuck to the sports section.
They call my name to begin pre-surgery processing. Start here - strip down to your shorts and put on this surgical gown. Easy enough to comply, except for the 'put on' part. For starters, how do you put on something that's only half there? This thing has no back, and you have to tie it on from behind. On a good day, my hand-eye coordination is marginal. Without any coffee or breakfast, it's purt-near impossible. Stripped of my dignity, and more than a little grumpy I shuffle out and take a seat in a big armchair.
I am covered in a couple of heated blankets. Heated blankets! It's nice, but I can't help but think that maybe if you gave me more than half-clothes to wear and turned the heat above 50 degrees, I wouldn't need heated blankets to keep me warm. But that kind of thinking reflects behaving as myself, which is not in compliance with the C&D's orders, so I don't say that thought out loud.
It's quickly clear why they want me comfortable - because they're about to drive me nuts. I'm subjected to a parade of people who all follow the same routine: introduce themselves, tell me what they're going to do, and then ask me my name, date of birth and my doctor's name. The first couple of times, it's amusing. Hi, I'm Nurse So-and-So, and I'm going to stick you with a big sharp object, what is your name? Fair enough, I know from Facebook there are a couple hundred thousand Eric Hansens out there, and you wouldn't want to poke the wrong one. I'm Nurse Whatever, and I'm going to hand the doctor a pair of pliers, and what is your date of birth? Wait a minute, can't you read that off my chart? I'm Dr Neardeath, and I'm going to suspend your breathing and take your heartbeat to near zero, and who is your doctor? Hold it - you don't know which doctor you're working with? And I am paying how much for this??
My favorite interaction was with the surgeon's nurse. She informed me in her play-by-play that the doctor was going to come in and write on my knee. No problem, I replied, I've already taken care of that. You see, my oldest daughter almost had the wrong ankle operated on, so I have taken precautions. On my good knee, I have drawn a red circle with a slash through it - the international symbol for "not this one, amigo". On the intended target, I wrote "Winner winner chicken dinner". Nurse was not amused, and informed me that Doctor will not like that. Well, I've known Doctor since high school, he's done this three times on the C&D, so tough darts. Go by WalMart and pick up a sense of humor. She actually put on a pouty face, and said we'll see, but left unsaid an implied threat, like a five year old telling dad on me. Turns out Doc laughed, just like I thought he would.
And if I ever do this again, I'm going to answer with a different name and date of birth every time, just to see if they even pay attention.
The surgery and recovery were pretty unremarkable, probably because I wasn't conscious for much of it. The last time I had surgery was fifteen years ago, and I didn't come out of it so well. All I remember was being incredibly groggy and wanting to go home and sleep. The C&D told me we couldn't leave until I got dressed. So I stood up, dropped the gown on the floor, and started dragging on my clothes. No one was permanently injured by the spectacle, but lives were changed forever, and not necessarily in a good way. I won't take credit for the policy change allowing shorts under the gowns, but I wouldn't be surprised if my Moon-over-the-Operating-Room episode didn't at least spark some discussion...
So I count it as a small victory that I was able to get dressed without permanently scarring any psyches. Or falling down, either, which considering how often I topple over without anesthesia, is no small achievement.
I'll tell you something else that has changed since the C&D has had these surgical procedures. In all the pre-op phone calls and letters, they emphasized the need to have a responsible party be there to take you home. Well, when the C&D had surgery, I had to provide a notarized letter from two references certifying that I was, in fact, responsible. Took me three days - even my mom said she was out of town the first two times I called. When I said the C&D was my responsible party, they just nodded and said of course. I'm very glad they've streamlined that procedure.
The best part of the ride home was stopping to get lunch, but for the life of me, I can't remember what we ate.
I can't wait for the government to take over health care so we can improve the efficiency of the whole process.... Not!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
in which our hero votes Oklahoma off the island*...
Is it too late to go back to 49 states? I'm ready to expel Oklahoma (OK) from the union because it's too far away, it's too ridiculous, and they almost won't let you go to the bathroom after 11pm.
For starters, why does it have to be so far away from everything? You've heard the phrase 'the middle of nowhere'? Oklahoma is not in the middle of nowhere - it's out past the edge of nowhere. You can't even see the border of nowhere from Oklahoma - and trust me, there ain't much to get in the way of the view, not counting casinos. Driving through OK I listened to XM satellite radio. They have a channel that plays only songs from the 60s, and I heard every song twice. That's the equivalent two decades of music, all inside the Oklahoma borders. It's a heapin' helpin' of desolation and remoteness, surrounded by wilderness, and I drove from one side of it to the other. And drove, and drove, and drove, and drove....
As you enter the State of Oklahoma, the first sign you see, even before 'Welcome to OK, Spend All Your Money', is this one: Do Not Drive into Smoke. Huh? Do Not Drive into Smoke - I need a sign for that? Thanks, Captain Obvious. I told the Charming and Delightful, drat, I was so looking forward to driving into smoke, and now I can't.
I don't see how this works out well for OK. Do they think everyone else is so stupid they need a sign to tell them not to drive into smoke? Thanks for nothing, Okies. Do Not Drive into Smoke - smoke from where? Does Oklahoma not have fire prevention week like everyone else? Do they lead the nation in arson or something? Have they never heard of firemen, those guys in the shiny red trucks with flashing lights, sirens, and y'know, water, that come out and put out fires?
And adding insult to injury, they repeat the sign every thirty miles. Like I would need to be reminded. Hey Oklahoma, you ever hear of fog? It's thick, and gray, and reduces visibility like, well, like smoke! Slow Down in Smoke - I can see that. Turn On Headlights in Smoke - that makes sense. But Do Not Drive into Smoke? C'mon, man!
As if being too far away and thinking I'm such a moron that I can't drive with limited visibility, isn't enough, Oklahoma is a biological hazard after midnight.
We had been on the road for more than nine hours, stopping only to refuel the Land Ship, my brother's Suburban. It's one of the things I love about traveling with the Charming and Delightful - she's a very low maintenance travel companion. Even though it was after midnight, when she said she needed a bio break, I went on high alert for a place to stop. Luckily, we passed a sign advertising free rest rooms (free? they charge for pottying in Oklahoma??!!), and I pulled up to a dimly lit storefront. But the gas pumps were operational, so while the C&D went to use the bathroom, I fed the Land Ship. Wouldn't mind a little relief myself, I thought when I was gassed up. I passed the C&D on the way, and she said don't bother, they're locked. Huh, that doesn't sound very free, I thought.
Luckily, a lady came out of the men's room pushing a mop bucket. Great timing, I said, would you mind unlocking the woman's room so my wife can go to the bathroom? Sorry, she says, I can't. We're closed, and I can't unlock them. As she says this, she unlocks the woman's room, reaches in and turns out the light, and re-locks the door. C'mon, man, what's up with that?
Frustrated, we pull back onto the turnpike. One unpleasant side effect of traveling on a full bladder is a heightened awareness of every bump and ripple in the road. I was very conscious of and thankful for the Land Ship's smooth ride. Within fifteen miles, we rejoice at the sign pointing out a World Famous Restaurant (the one with the golden arches I used to work for), and happily pull up to the door.
One thing the World Famous Restaurant is world famous for is clean restrooms. Happiness and joy abound, except for one, teeny tiny little problem. Despite having dozens of people milling about inside the restaurant, the doors were locked. Say what? An employee unlocked the door to allow a couple to exit. I reached for the door, and she shut it in my face. Can my wife come in and use the restroom, please? I'm sorry, she says, we're closed. Closed? C'mon, man, you have dozens of people in there. I'm sorry, she repeats, I can't. We're closed.
Well now I'm getting mad. I thought about asking the people on the bus parked nearby if they would let my wife use their bathroom, but she was already heading for the gas station about a quarter mile away. She was not happy. She was less happy when she came out of the less than world famously clean restroom.
Perhaps it was the nearness of the hour to one o'clock in the morning. Perhaps it was the weariness of nine straight hours of travel. Perhaps it was the frustration of two people who said they were sorry but showed no remorse or sympathy at all for the plight of a fellow human being. Regardless, the net effect was we were not very happy with our introduction to Oklahoma. And it didn't help when the guy in the toll booth shut his door on me as I pulled up, forcing me to use an automated doohickey. Said automated doohickey, probably because it was almost two in the morning and I was really tired, caused me great consternation. I had to figure out how to select the right option for my vehicle, then dig up two bucks in exact change. Mr. Tool Booth finally peeks around the corner to see what the hold up is, at which point I used language inappropriate for younger chillrens. Or women. Or drunken sailors.
So, if I have the chance, I will gladly give Oklahoma and their closed restrooms and their stupid signs back to the Indians. But I doubt if I will get the chance. You see, my grandson now lives in Oklahoma, and he will for the next three years, which means I'll be back. And just how bad can anyplace be where the World's Best Boy is?
*with apologies to the Prewetts, our friends from Oklahoma. While Jeff had the good sense to leave, his brother still lives there, I think, and the one time I met him he came across as a very decent person.
For starters, why does it have to be so far away from everything? You've heard the phrase 'the middle of nowhere'? Oklahoma is not in the middle of nowhere - it's out past the edge of nowhere. You can't even see the border of nowhere from Oklahoma - and trust me, there ain't much to get in the way of the view, not counting casinos. Driving through OK I listened to XM satellite radio. They have a channel that plays only songs from the 60s, and I heard every song twice. That's the equivalent two decades of music, all inside the Oklahoma borders. It's a heapin' helpin' of desolation and remoteness, surrounded by wilderness, and I drove from one side of it to the other. And drove, and drove, and drove, and drove....
As you enter the State of Oklahoma, the first sign you see, even before 'Welcome to OK, Spend All Your Money', is this one: Do Not Drive into Smoke. Huh? Do Not Drive into Smoke - I need a sign for that? Thanks, Captain Obvious. I told the Charming and Delightful, drat, I was so looking forward to driving into smoke, and now I can't.
I don't see how this works out well for OK. Do they think everyone else is so stupid they need a sign to tell them not to drive into smoke? Thanks for nothing, Okies. Do Not Drive into Smoke - smoke from where? Does Oklahoma not have fire prevention week like everyone else? Do they lead the nation in arson or something? Have they never heard of firemen, those guys in the shiny red trucks with flashing lights, sirens, and y'know, water, that come out and put out fires?
And adding insult to injury, they repeat the sign every thirty miles. Like I would need to be reminded. Hey Oklahoma, you ever hear of fog? It's thick, and gray, and reduces visibility like, well, like smoke! Slow Down in Smoke - I can see that. Turn On Headlights in Smoke - that makes sense. But Do Not Drive into Smoke? C'mon, man!
As if being too far away and thinking I'm such a moron that I can't drive with limited visibility, isn't enough, Oklahoma is a biological hazard after midnight.
We had been on the road for more than nine hours, stopping only to refuel the Land Ship, my brother's Suburban. It's one of the things I love about traveling with the Charming and Delightful - she's a very low maintenance travel companion. Even though it was after midnight, when she said she needed a bio break, I went on high alert for a place to stop. Luckily, we passed a sign advertising free rest rooms (free? they charge for pottying in Oklahoma??!!), and I pulled up to a dimly lit storefront. But the gas pumps were operational, so while the C&D went to use the bathroom, I fed the Land Ship. Wouldn't mind a little relief myself, I thought when I was gassed up. I passed the C&D on the way, and she said don't bother, they're locked. Huh, that doesn't sound very free, I thought.
Luckily, a lady came out of the men's room pushing a mop bucket. Great timing, I said, would you mind unlocking the woman's room so my wife can go to the bathroom? Sorry, she says, I can't. We're closed, and I can't unlock them. As she says this, she unlocks the woman's room, reaches in and turns out the light, and re-locks the door. C'mon, man, what's up with that?
Frustrated, we pull back onto the turnpike. One unpleasant side effect of traveling on a full bladder is a heightened awareness of every bump and ripple in the road. I was very conscious of and thankful for the Land Ship's smooth ride. Within fifteen miles, we rejoice at the sign pointing out a World Famous Restaurant (the one with the golden arches I used to work for), and happily pull up to the door.
One thing the World Famous Restaurant is world famous for is clean restrooms. Happiness and joy abound, except for one, teeny tiny little problem. Despite having dozens of people milling about inside the restaurant, the doors were locked. Say what? An employee unlocked the door to allow a couple to exit. I reached for the door, and she shut it in my face. Can my wife come in and use the restroom, please? I'm sorry, she says, we're closed. Closed? C'mon, man, you have dozens of people in there. I'm sorry, she repeats, I can't. We're closed.
Well now I'm getting mad. I thought about asking the people on the bus parked nearby if they would let my wife use their bathroom, but she was already heading for the gas station about a quarter mile away. She was not happy. She was less happy when she came out of the less than world famously clean restroom.
Perhaps it was the nearness of the hour to one o'clock in the morning. Perhaps it was the weariness of nine straight hours of travel. Perhaps it was the frustration of two people who said they were sorry but showed no remorse or sympathy at all for the plight of a fellow human being. Regardless, the net effect was we were not very happy with our introduction to Oklahoma. And it didn't help when the guy in the toll booth shut his door on me as I pulled up, forcing me to use an automated doohickey. Said automated doohickey, probably because it was almost two in the morning and I was really tired, caused me great consternation. I had to figure out how to select the right option for my vehicle, then dig up two bucks in exact change. Mr. Tool Booth finally peeks around the corner to see what the hold up is, at which point I used language inappropriate for younger chillrens. Or women. Or drunken sailors.
So, if I have the chance, I will gladly give Oklahoma and their closed restrooms and their stupid signs back to the Indians. But I doubt if I will get the chance. You see, my grandson now lives in Oklahoma, and he will for the next three years, which means I'll be back. And just how bad can anyplace be where the World's Best Boy is?
*with apologies to the Prewetts, our friends from Oklahoma. While Jeff had the good sense to leave, his brother still lives there, I think, and the one time I met him he came across as a very decent person.
Friday, October 2, 2009
in which our hero ruminates about missing his chillrens
Hansen's Rule of Adult Children: Wherever they are, you want them somewhere else. If they're away, you want them home, but after they've been home a while, you start missing your cherished routines. The Charming and Delightful and I relished raising our daughters and our two imported chillrens. But when they all went off to college, I settled very nicely into empty nesting. In fact, I settled into it so well that it's difficult for me to interrupt it.
Living under Hansen's Rule of Adult Children creates cognitive dissonance. When informed of a visit from the kids, excitement and anticipation grow. Cleaning takes on renewed vigor to put spit and polish into all nooks and crannies. Grass is cut, weeds are pulled, leaves are raked. Stores are visited to lay in all the necessary supplies to properly and thoroughly spoil said visitors. Happiness and joy abound when the car comes down the drive!
And yet within days of the arrival, thoughts turn to missed routines. I get increasingly cranky with every short night, no matter how delightful the previous evening's conversation. In quiet moments alone in the garage, I find myself accelerating the countdown to departure. But when it's finally time to go, before the car gets to the top of the driveway I'm awash in sadness, missing my babies, all thoughts of discomfort banished. If only they could stay a little longer... Unless of course they actually turn around, when my initial reaction would be what now? Will I ever get the TV remote back?
Hansen's Rule of Adult Children was not in effect when my oldest daughter and my grandson came to live with us during her husband's deployment to Afghanistan. That's because no interruption, inconvenience or lost sleep wasn't trumped by living every day with my little guy and his mom. It really didn't matter how bad my day was when he would reach for my glasses and say 'fight, Pa', signaling his desire for a wrestling match. The Charming and Delightful still smiles at the memory of pulling into the garage and seeing a naked boy waving from the door. Every time I went outside, there was my little buddy right behind, ready to help. And every day was another chance to see what an accomplished, able, loving wife and mom my daughter had grown into.
Nor has Hansen's Rule usually applied to the Youngest Daughter, in whom I may have instilled a little too much independence. Her visits home have been too infrequent and too short in duration to allow for the full displacement to take effect. I'm just too tickled to see her to worry about being displaced from my routine.
Come to think of it, the Rule doesn't work that well with my imported kids, either. (Imported is shorthand for our two exchange students...) The last time Hanna-Girl was back in the US, she was here for more than three weeks. Rather than help her pack, I distinctly recall telling her that there was a perfectly wonderful university right across the river in Peoria that she could attend. Besides being our alma mater, I argued, it has the distinct advantage of allowing her to live with us. She chose Vienna and Hamburg, of all places to attend university, instead of Peoria. Nevertheless, I'm on record that she's welcome to visit whenever she likes, for as long as she likes. And the same goes for Morten, our Danish son, despite my overwhelming desires to alternately hug him or bonk him on the head. He's turning into quite the young man.
Honestly, Hansen's Rule of Adult Children probably isn't a rule at all. For all the moaning and complaining I do about having my world turned upside down whenever the kids come to visit, I don't really ever want them to leave. But they must, because life goes on, and didn't I raise them to live their own lives?
I reckon Hansen's Rule of Adult Children is just another way of saying you're getting too set in your ways, old man.
Living under Hansen's Rule of Adult Children creates cognitive dissonance. When informed of a visit from the kids, excitement and anticipation grow. Cleaning takes on renewed vigor to put spit and polish into all nooks and crannies. Grass is cut, weeds are pulled, leaves are raked. Stores are visited to lay in all the necessary supplies to properly and thoroughly spoil said visitors. Happiness and joy abound when the car comes down the drive!
And yet within days of the arrival, thoughts turn to missed routines. I get increasingly cranky with every short night, no matter how delightful the previous evening's conversation. In quiet moments alone in the garage, I find myself accelerating the countdown to departure. But when it's finally time to go, before the car gets to the top of the driveway I'm awash in sadness, missing my babies, all thoughts of discomfort banished. If only they could stay a little longer... Unless of course they actually turn around, when my initial reaction would be what now? Will I ever get the TV remote back?
Hansen's Rule of Adult Children was not in effect when my oldest daughter and my grandson came to live with us during her husband's deployment to Afghanistan. That's because no interruption, inconvenience or lost sleep wasn't trumped by living every day with my little guy and his mom. It really didn't matter how bad my day was when he would reach for my glasses and say 'fight, Pa', signaling his desire for a wrestling match. The Charming and Delightful still smiles at the memory of pulling into the garage and seeing a naked boy waving from the door. Every time I went outside, there was my little buddy right behind, ready to help. And every day was another chance to see what an accomplished, able, loving wife and mom my daughter had grown into.
Nor has Hansen's Rule usually applied to the Youngest Daughter, in whom I may have instilled a little too much independence. Her visits home have been too infrequent and too short in duration to allow for the full displacement to take effect. I'm just too tickled to see her to worry about being displaced from my routine.
Come to think of it, the Rule doesn't work that well with my imported kids, either. (Imported is shorthand for our two exchange students...) The last time Hanna-Girl was back in the US, she was here for more than three weeks. Rather than help her pack, I distinctly recall telling her that there was a perfectly wonderful university right across the river in Peoria that she could attend. Besides being our alma mater, I argued, it has the distinct advantage of allowing her to live with us. She chose Vienna and Hamburg, of all places to attend university, instead of Peoria. Nevertheless, I'm on record that she's welcome to visit whenever she likes, for as long as she likes. And the same goes for Morten, our Danish son, despite my overwhelming desires to alternately hug him or bonk him on the head. He's turning into quite the young man.
Honestly, Hansen's Rule of Adult Children probably isn't a rule at all. For all the moaning and complaining I do about having my world turned upside down whenever the kids come to visit, I don't really ever want them to leave. But they must, because life goes on, and didn't I raise them to live their own lives?
I reckon Hansen's Rule of Adult Children is just another way of saying you're getting too set in your ways, old man.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Our hero claims power over weather
OK, here's one: I don't have central air. I cool my house in the summer with two window air conditioners, one on each floor. This summer has been a godsend - cool enough that the units were rarely used. I mean, like maybe two weeks total. They've been off for the last month, since we got back from vacation (see also: torn meniscus).
So on Tuesday this week, I spend the morning putting the air conditioners away for the year. And no sooner do I finish and change my sweaty t-shirt, the humidity jumps 30 percent and the temperature goes into the 80's for the rest of the week. How does that happen every single year?!!
I'll bet if I left them in until Christmas we could have Orlando in central Illinois: 70 degree weather in December.
UPDATE: I turned the furnace on today, so nighttime highs will probably shoot into the seventies...
So on Tuesday this week, I spend the morning putting the air conditioners away for the year. And no sooner do I finish and change my sweaty t-shirt, the humidity jumps 30 percent and the temperature goes into the 80's for the rest of the week. How does that happen every single year?!!
I'll bet if I left them in until Christmas we could have Orlando in central Illinois: 70 degree weather in December.
UPDATE: I turned the furnace on today, so nighttime highs will probably shoot into the seventies...
Friday, September 11, 2009
in which our hero receives an MRI...
Magnetic Resonance Imaging. M-R-I. A super duper camera that actually takes a picture of your innards from outside by magically manipulating the Earth's magnetic field. Or something.
You may recall from our last episode that while on vacation, I tore the meniscus in my left knee. I don't know exactly what a meniscus is, but I can tell you if you tear it, it will hurt like crazy. And to tear it going off the high dive? Bad karma, man.
But then, the bad karma may be justified. After all, didn't I instigate the near demise of the high dive during the hottest vacation anyone can remember? That was the summer everyone was in the water, and we created a high dive game called left-middle-right. We'd que up and rapid fire jump off the high dive - one to the left, one down the middle, one to the right. By the time you got to the 4th person for the left again, the first person was out of the way. Boing, boing, boing, bloosh bloosh bloosh. Well, I reasoned we could maximize our fun by seeing how boings and blooshes in a row we could get. So I rallied the troops, and off we went to 'set the record'. The good news was we got 21 in a row. The bad news was we nearly capsized the swim raft in the process because we had so many people up on the high dive platform, and nearly gave the owner of the resort a heart attack when she saw what was about to happen. Now there's a limit of 6 people on the high dive platform. So maybe the high dive remembered I almost got it killed, and extracted its revenge.
Or perhaps I should stop ascribing human qualities to inanimate objects and get on with the story...
Regardless of how or why it happened, I now find myself on the wrong side of the doctor-patient relationship with my wife's Orthopaedist. He used to be her doc, but now he's OUR doc. Yeesh.
And, OUR doc won't make a final diagnosis or discuss options without an MRI. Thus, immediately after the perfuntory office visit, I receive the scheduled appointment for my very own, first-of-my-life MRI.
For the entire week before the MRI, I attempt to be a model patient. You know, like studying for a blood test. I refrain from mowing my grass or other necessary landscaping chores. I try not to walk any more than I have to. I ice my knee regularly, all in hopes of passing my MRI.
On the appointed day, The Charming and Delightful asks me if I know where I'm going. Sure 'nuff, I reply, I go straight to registration and tell them I've pre-registered over the phone. And that is exactly what I do.
Can I help you, asks the helpful registration desk attendant? Yuppers, say I, I am here for an MRI, and I am pre-registered. Name, asks the helpful registration desk attendant. He rifles through the set of files in a bin on his desk. Hmm, he says, what was that name again? H-A-N-S-E-N. He types it into the computer. Hmm, he says again. Who was your doctor? While he types the doctor's name into his computer, it dawns on me. While I may in fact be pre-registered, I am not pre-registered here, because I am at the wrong hospital! Sheepishly, I admit this fact to the helpful registration desk attendant and slink away.
So much for being on time...
You want to know one of the reasons health care is so costly in the US? Because every hospital in America is trying to double in size, so they're always under construction. I felt like a lab rat running a maze trying to find my way to the entrance to the correct hospital. Nothing was quite like I remembered, I could see where I wanted to be but couldn't find a road open to - wait! - there's the entrance to the parking deck! Sheesh, what a pain!
This time the helpful registration desk attendant pulls my paperwork out just like magic - thank you pre-registration! - and I'm given directions to the MRI Department: up the ramp, down the hall to the elevators, down to G, turn right and go the end of the hall. Easy enough in theory, but ai yi yi!, in practice...
The first hallway had to be fourteen miles long. It's the only hallway in the world with a concession stand. You have to stop and get a snack to keep your strength up to finish the trek. Some people didn't make it. Their skeletons are propped against wall like totems from a Indiana Jones movie. The hallway is so long, the doors at the end look like they're only a foot tall. I walked a long, long time. Luckily, someone had put sticky notes on the skeletons that said 'MRI', so I knew I was on the right trail. Finally, I came to the elevator, went down a floor, and emerged into another hallway. It wasn't quite as long as the first hallway, but I wouldn't have been surprised to have come out under the Gateway Arch. I was no longer on time.
The MRI complex has a big waiting room with the obligatory hospital/doctor's office reception area behind the glass wall. Only this one has a sign that says the receptionist isn't here, and to please call 588-2300. My guess is that the receptionist went out for lunch two days ago, and hasn't made it to the end of the hallway yet. Nevertheless, I pick up the phone and dial, and sure enough, a cheerful voice on the other end says they will be right out to get me.
And so they did, and I was escorted into a small room for MRI prep. MRI prep consists of a list of very odd questions about circumstances where odd bits of metal could be implanted into my body: plates in my head, shrapnel in my chest, piercings of all varieties, pins in any joints, overdoses of iron supplements. Apparently, the magnetic force of an MRI would suck the metal right out of you, making a large mess in the MRI machine, reams of paperwork for the technician to fill out, and general discomfort to you. Which we want to avoid at all costs.
In the process of emptying my pockets and removing my belt, I am reminded that I'm wearing big boy shorts. Big boy pants are the ones that are just big enough in the waist that if I take off my belt, they try and dive for the floor. Fun for the family, but potentially embarrassing in public. Not to mention traumatic for the technician. So I follow the tech into the MRI room while trying to casually hold up my shorts.
An MRI machine looks like a 6 foot tall vanilla frosted donut. Or maybe the world's largest canolli. The trick to a good MRI, I'm told, is to lie motionless. Strike one, thinks Mr ADHD.
They wedge my knee into this brace-like thingy, and then slide me halfway into the giant canolli. Are you claustrophobic, I am asked. Strike two, thinks Mr Hates-Tight-Spaces. I'm told some people take a nap - just don't move for the next 30 minutes or so. Naps are good, so I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
And I dream I'm trapped inside a jackhammer! Oh wait, it's not a dream, because taking pictures using magnets cannot happen at lower than 130 decibels. Oh. My. Gosh! They gave me a pair of foam earplugs, but they work about as well as an umbrella in a hurricane. I don't just hear the clacking, I feel it. I don't move for thirty minutes, but my eyes are open wide as plates. And just like that, back comes the technician, playing a cruel practical joke. He doesn't speak, he just mouths the words. My answer to every question is What? I keep looking around, as though my hearing is over hiding in a corner, and if I can just find it.
Numbly, I stagger back into the prep area and retrieve the contents of my pockets and put my belt back on. No more danger of an early moon rise.
I hardly even notice the two day hike back to the parking garage. I definitely don't notice the elevators, and keep wandering hallways until a hospital employee takes pity on me and points me in the right direction. I've never been happier to see my truck! Now if I could just find my hearing...
When I get home and stagger through the door, The Charming and Delightful asks how it went. All I can say for the next three hours is What?
You may recall from our last episode that while on vacation, I tore the meniscus in my left knee. I don't know exactly what a meniscus is, but I can tell you if you tear it, it will hurt like crazy. And to tear it going off the high dive? Bad karma, man.
But then, the bad karma may be justified. After all, didn't I instigate the near demise of the high dive during the hottest vacation anyone can remember? That was the summer everyone was in the water, and we created a high dive game called left-middle-right. We'd que up and rapid fire jump off the high dive - one to the left, one down the middle, one to the right. By the time you got to the 4th person for the left again, the first person was out of the way. Boing, boing, boing, bloosh bloosh bloosh. Well, I reasoned we could maximize our fun by seeing how boings and blooshes in a row we could get. So I rallied the troops, and off we went to 'set the record'. The good news was we got 21 in a row. The bad news was we nearly capsized the swim raft in the process because we had so many people up on the high dive platform, and nearly gave the owner of the resort a heart attack when she saw what was about to happen. Now there's a limit of 6 people on the high dive platform. So maybe the high dive remembered I almost got it killed, and extracted its revenge.
Or perhaps I should stop ascribing human qualities to inanimate objects and get on with the story...
Regardless of how or why it happened, I now find myself on the wrong side of the doctor-patient relationship with my wife's Orthopaedist. He used to be her doc, but now he's OUR doc. Yeesh.
And, OUR doc won't make a final diagnosis or discuss options without an MRI. Thus, immediately after the perfuntory office visit, I receive the scheduled appointment for my very own, first-of-my-life MRI.
For the entire week before the MRI, I attempt to be a model patient. You know, like studying for a blood test. I refrain from mowing my grass or other necessary landscaping chores. I try not to walk any more than I have to. I ice my knee regularly, all in hopes of passing my MRI.
On the appointed day, The Charming and Delightful asks me if I know where I'm going. Sure 'nuff, I reply, I go straight to registration and tell them I've pre-registered over the phone. And that is exactly what I do.
Can I help you, asks the helpful registration desk attendant? Yuppers, say I, I am here for an MRI, and I am pre-registered. Name, asks the helpful registration desk attendant. He rifles through the set of files in a bin on his desk. Hmm, he says, what was that name again? H-A-N-S-E-N. He types it into the computer. Hmm, he says again. Who was your doctor? While he types the doctor's name into his computer, it dawns on me. While I may in fact be pre-registered, I am not pre-registered here, because I am at the wrong hospital! Sheepishly, I admit this fact to the helpful registration desk attendant and slink away.
So much for being on time...
You want to know one of the reasons health care is so costly in the US? Because every hospital in America is trying to double in size, so they're always under construction. I felt like a lab rat running a maze trying to find my way to the entrance to the correct hospital. Nothing was quite like I remembered, I could see where I wanted to be but couldn't find a road open to - wait! - there's the entrance to the parking deck! Sheesh, what a pain!
This time the helpful registration desk attendant pulls my paperwork out just like magic - thank you pre-registration! - and I'm given directions to the MRI Department: up the ramp, down the hall to the elevators, down to G, turn right and go the end of the hall. Easy enough in theory, but ai yi yi!, in practice...
The first hallway had to be fourteen miles long. It's the only hallway in the world with a concession stand. You have to stop and get a snack to keep your strength up to finish the trek. Some people didn't make it. Their skeletons are propped against wall like totems from a Indiana Jones movie. The hallway is so long, the doors at the end look like they're only a foot tall. I walked a long, long time. Luckily, someone had put sticky notes on the skeletons that said 'MRI', so I knew I was on the right trail. Finally, I came to the elevator, went down a floor, and emerged into another hallway. It wasn't quite as long as the first hallway, but I wouldn't have been surprised to have come out under the Gateway Arch. I was no longer on time.
The MRI complex has a big waiting room with the obligatory hospital/doctor's office reception area behind the glass wall. Only this one has a sign that says the receptionist isn't here, and to please call 588-2300. My guess is that the receptionist went out for lunch two days ago, and hasn't made it to the end of the hallway yet. Nevertheless, I pick up the phone and dial, and sure enough, a cheerful voice on the other end says they will be right out to get me.
And so they did, and I was escorted into a small room for MRI prep. MRI prep consists of a list of very odd questions about circumstances where odd bits of metal could be implanted into my body: plates in my head, shrapnel in my chest, piercings of all varieties, pins in any joints, overdoses of iron supplements. Apparently, the magnetic force of an MRI would suck the metal right out of you, making a large mess in the MRI machine, reams of paperwork for the technician to fill out, and general discomfort to you. Which we want to avoid at all costs.
In the process of emptying my pockets and removing my belt, I am reminded that I'm wearing big boy shorts. Big boy pants are the ones that are just big enough in the waist that if I take off my belt, they try and dive for the floor. Fun for the family, but potentially embarrassing in public. Not to mention traumatic for the technician. So I follow the tech into the MRI room while trying to casually hold up my shorts.
An MRI machine looks like a 6 foot tall vanilla frosted donut. Or maybe the world's largest canolli. The trick to a good MRI, I'm told, is to lie motionless. Strike one, thinks Mr ADHD.
They wedge my knee into this brace-like thingy, and then slide me halfway into the giant canolli. Are you claustrophobic, I am asked. Strike two, thinks Mr Hates-Tight-Spaces. I'm told some people take a nap - just don't move for the next 30 minutes or so. Naps are good, so I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
And I dream I'm trapped inside a jackhammer! Oh wait, it's not a dream, because taking pictures using magnets cannot happen at lower than 130 decibels. Oh. My. Gosh! They gave me a pair of foam earplugs, but they work about as well as an umbrella in a hurricane. I don't just hear the clacking, I feel it. I don't move for thirty minutes, but my eyes are open wide as plates. And just like that, back comes the technician, playing a cruel practical joke. He doesn't speak, he just mouths the words. My answer to every question is What? I keep looking around, as though my hearing is over hiding in a corner, and if I can just find it.
Numbly, I stagger back into the prep area and retrieve the contents of my pockets and put my belt back on. No more danger of an early moon rise.
I hardly even notice the two day hike back to the parking garage. I definitely don't notice the elevators, and keep wandering hallways until a hospital employee takes pity on me and points me in the right direction. I've never been happier to see my truck! Now if I could just find my hearing...
When I get home and stagger through the door, The Charming and Delightful asks how it went. All I can say for the next three hours is What?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Homeward Bound(up), or How an 8 Hour, 420 mile Drive Became a 1200 Mile, 4 day Adventure
Ah, vacation. Nothing better than a week at one of most beautiful places on Earth, Afterglow Lake Resort in Phelps, Wisconsin. The Charming and Delightful and I spent a glorious week relaxing in the unique vacation rhythm: wake up, munch some breakfast, then go down to the beach and sit in the sun for 6-8 hours, eat dinner, sit by the fire and tell stories, go to bed, and repeat. The only wrinkle this year was the addition of bikes - my mom gave me hers and my step-dad's bikes a few years ago, along with a VW bike rack. It made for a pretty funny looking picture, but vacation is a great place to ride bikes, so we glommed them onto the back of the bug and off we went.
We rode five miles on Monday, and then I tore the menniscus (sp) in my knee on Tuesday afternoon jumping off the high dive, so that was the end of bike riding for 2009. But I digress - this is supposed to be the story of the drive home. And so it shall be.
Reluctantly, we started the drive home Saturday morning. It's always hard to leave, but we look forward to seeing the doggies. The day is bright, the temperature is in the low 70s, and nothing but a 420 mile shot straight down I-39 with one stop for fuel and bio breaks is between us and a nice dinner.
Cue the disaster-around-the-corner music. Cut to a close in shot of the dashboard, showing the trip odometer at 65 miles and the music stops, followed immediately by a 'ding' and the lighting of the red temperature gauge.
Rut Ro, says our hero. What's that?, asks the Charming and Delightful.
A quick check of the owner's manual verifies that the car is overheating, and the recommended course of action is to STOP immediately! Yeah, right here on the interstate... not so much. But we pull off on the next exit in wonderful Wausau, Wisconsin. I'm concerned, but not too much. Perhaps the bike rack is screwing up the aerodynamics enough to cause the car to work harder to push the air, causing overheating (cue spit takes from all the engineers I know...). Nor is it my first experience with too little radiator fluid causing overheating. So if I can find a gas station, I'll just top off the radiator fluid, and be on my way.
We find a Pennzoil 10 minute oil change place, and pull in. A nice man by the name of Nate actually places a call to a mechanic to get help diagnosing the problem. Could be the fan isn't circulating. (Cha-ching!) Could be a water pump. (Cha-ching cha-ching!) Could be a head gasket. (Ching ching ching ching!) After a while it's cooled off, and he tops off the radiator fluid. How much do I owe you? Nothing, he says, you've got enough to worry about.
We didn't get three miles before the dreaded red light came back on. OK, now I'm starting to get concerned. But look, right over there is a VW dealer! We pull off and enter the open service bay at 11:45am. Oh, no such luck, Chuckles - as this is Wausau, the epitome of small town America, we have no service people present on Saturday. They suggest the Wal-Mart tire center just down the road. Super, thank you very little. Off we limp to Wal-Mart. As I'm getting out of the car, this lady comes running out of the building saying very emphatically that I must park over there by the garden center, there's no parking here. I tell her my car is overheating, and could they take a look at it, and she just stops dead. It's like I had grown another head or something... No, we don't do anything like that, she says as though I had asked her to do brain surgery. I snap a little: OK then, don't you worry about where I parked, because I'm leaving!
Flaming piles of poo, now what? I decide that whatever happens, it's going to happen farther south. So I get back on the Interstate and we get about five miles before we pull off again, this time at an Information center. The Charming and Delightful asks for some information about a garage, and we get the address for a Tires Plus that says sure, c'mon in, we'll take a look for you. It's back up north, off the same exit as the VW dealer. In fact, it's about 500 yards FROM the VW dealer. We pass the VW dealer on the way to Tires Plus. Many unkind thoughts are thought regarding the VW dealer and their lack of helpfulness.
At this point we have traveled all of 70 miles in 4 hours. At this rate we'll be home by October.
The Tires Plus guys fill us with false hope by declaring they've found a bad thermostat that they can replace in a few hours. OK, we think, 10pm beats October by a lot. But it is not to be - the thermostat does not fix the overheating. Driving with the stuck thermostat has caused other problems, including the possibility of a blown head gasket. Ouch. The last head gasket we replaced was 20 years ago, and it cost $2500 then. With inflation, we could be talking bailout money, and I am not the US government.
The car is not going anywhere until the dealer can fix it on Monday. After finding out you cannot rent a car in Wausau, Wisconsin after 1pm on a Saturday, we didn't think we were going anywhere either.
Enter my nephew, right around the corner (90 miles, anyway) in Green Bay. He came and got us and we spent the night at his house. Then we rented a car in GB Sunday morning, drove back to Wausau, picked up the bikes from the VW, and drove home without further incident.
The good news is that the problem turned out to be a water pump, and we had 2 days of warranty coverage left, so it was fixed free! On Tuesday, I drove back up to Wausau, picked up the VW, left the rental for my niece to return, and came back home.
Thus, we drove 70 miles to Wausau, 90 miles to Green Bay, 90 miles back to Wausau, 340 miles home, then the 340 mile leg twice on Tuesday. That's why on Facebook I said no more driving for awhile...
We rode five miles on Monday, and then I tore the menniscus (sp) in my knee on Tuesday afternoon jumping off the high dive, so that was the end of bike riding for 2009. But I digress - this is supposed to be the story of the drive home. And so it shall be.
Reluctantly, we started the drive home Saturday morning. It's always hard to leave, but we look forward to seeing the doggies. The day is bright, the temperature is in the low 70s, and nothing but a 420 mile shot straight down I-39 with one stop for fuel and bio breaks is between us and a nice dinner.
Cue the disaster-around-the-corner music. Cut to a close in shot of the dashboard, showing the trip odometer at 65 miles and the music stops, followed immediately by a 'ding' and the lighting of the red temperature gauge.
Rut Ro, says our hero. What's that?, asks the Charming and Delightful.
A quick check of the owner's manual verifies that the car is overheating, and the recommended course of action is to STOP immediately! Yeah, right here on the interstate... not so much. But we pull off on the next exit in wonderful Wausau, Wisconsin. I'm concerned, but not too much. Perhaps the bike rack is screwing up the aerodynamics enough to cause the car to work harder to push the air, causing overheating (cue spit takes from all the engineers I know...). Nor is it my first experience with too little radiator fluid causing overheating. So if I can find a gas station, I'll just top off the radiator fluid, and be on my way.
We find a Pennzoil 10 minute oil change place, and pull in. A nice man by the name of Nate actually places a call to a mechanic to get help diagnosing the problem. Could be the fan isn't circulating. (Cha-ching!) Could be a water pump. (Cha-ching cha-ching!) Could be a head gasket. (Ching ching ching ching!) After a while it's cooled off, and he tops off the radiator fluid. How much do I owe you? Nothing, he says, you've got enough to worry about.
We didn't get three miles before the dreaded red light came back on. OK, now I'm starting to get concerned. But look, right over there is a VW dealer! We pull off and enter the open service bay at 11:45am. Oh, no such luck, Chuckles - as this is Wausau, the epitome of small town America, we have no service people present on Saturday. They suggest the Wal-Mart tire center just down the road. Super, thank you very little. Off we limp to Wal-Mart. As I'm getting out of the car, this lady comes running out of the building saying very emphatically that I must park over there by the garden center, there's no parking here. I tell her my car is overheating, and could they take a look at it, and she just stops dead. It's like I had grown another head or something... No, we don't do anything like that, she says as though I had asked her to do brain surgery. I snap a little: OK then, don't you worry about where I parked, because I'm leaving!
Flaming piles of poo, now what? I decide that whatever happens, it's going to happen farther south. So I get back on the Interstate and we get about five miles before we pull off again, this time at an Information center. The Charming and Delightful asks for some information about a garage, and we get the address for a Tires Plus that says sure, c'mon in, we'll take a look for you. It's back up north, off the same exit as the VW dealer. In fact, it's about 500 yards FROM the VW dealer. We pass the VW dealer on the way to Tires Plus. Many unkind thoughts are thought regarding the VW dealer and their lack of helpfulness.
At this point we have traveled all of 70 miles in 4 hours. At this rate we'll be home by October.
The Tires Plus guys fill us with false hope by declaring they've found a bad thermostat that they can replace in a few hours. OK, we think, 10pm beats October by a lot. But it is not to be - the thermostat does not fix the overheating. Driving with the stuck thermostat has caused other problems, including the possibility of a blown head gasket. Ouch. The last head gasket we replaced was 20 years ago, and it cost $2500 then. With inflation, we could be talking bailout money, and I am not the US government.
The car is not going anywhere until the dealer can fix it on Monday. After finding out you cannot rent a car in Wausau, Wisconsin after 1pm on a Saturday, we didn't think we were going anywhere either.
Enter my nephew, right around the corner (90 miles, anyway) in Green Bay. He came and got us and we spent the night at his house. Then we rented a car in GB Sunday morning, drove back to Wausau, picked up the bikes from the VW, and drove home without further incident.
The good news is that the problem turned out to be a water pump, and we had 2 days of warranty coverage left, so it was fixed free! On Tuesday, I drove back up to Wausau, picked up the VW, left the rental for my niece to return, and came back home.
Thus, we drove 70 miles to Wausau, 90 miles to Green Bay, 90 miles back to Wausau, 340 miles home, then the 340 mile leg twice on Tuesday. That's why on Facebook I said no more driving for awhile...
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Catching Up
I've received requests for an update on my job status. Well, I'm still unemployed. The change job in Chicago evaporated, which I attribute to the resume posted on Monster.com. (Not to be confused with the vastly improved version my friend Kate helped me create, but it's too big a file to re-post on Monster. I don't know enough about setting up document templates in Word to be able to fix it myself, so there you go.) Nevertheless, I won't be working in Lake Forest anytime soon. It's just as well, I guess, since I probably wouldn't pass the dress code in Lake Forest anyway.
Which leaves us with foregoing re-entry into the corporate world and striking out on my own. I've been working with a business broker for a while now, and am pursuing the purchase of a furniture refinishing business. We've agreed on a price, and are in negotiations with the landlord about either a lease or buying the property where the business is located. They aren't exactly what you would call motivated sellers, so the negotiation isn't moving very quickly. Nor is it moving particularly towards a place I want to go. So, it would seem if I buy the business, my first major change will be to relocate. The broker and I are scouting potential locations.
The fly in the ointment is that the refinishing process utilizes all kinds of hazardous materials, so it will not doubt be a bit of a hassle to move. Can you Google "moving hazardous materials" to find out all the local, state and federal hoops to jump through? I doubt it. My guess is that it's like dealing with corporate bosses : what do you want? We don't know, but it's not whatever you've done...
Stay tuned, where our next adventure will involve trying to secure financing!
Which leaves us with foregoing re-entry into the corporate world and striking out on my own. I've been working with a business broker for a while now, and am pursuing the purchase of a furniture refinishing business. We've agreed on a price, and are in negotiations with the landlord about either a lease or buying the property where the business is located. They aren't exactly what you would call motivated sellers, so the negotiation isn't moving very quickly. Nor is it moving particularly towards a place I want to go. So, it would seem if I buy the business, my first major change will be to relocate. The broker and I are scouting potential locations.
The fly in the ointment is that the refinishing process utilizes all kinds of hazardous materials, so it will not doubt be a bit of a hassle to move. Can you Google "moving hazardous materials" to find out all the local, state and federal hoops to jump through? I doubt it. My guess is that it's like dealing with corporate bosses : what do you want? We don't know, but it's not whatever you've done...
Stay tuned, where our next adventure will involve trying to secure financing!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
On a completely unrelated subject...
Here's why I cannot believe the histrionics about man-made global warming. On Friday, July 3rd, I checked the weather forecast for the 4th of July fireworks. The 8 day outlook was as follows:
Saturday the 4th: rain the AM, clearing by noon, cloudy for the remainder of the day
Sunday the 5th: overcast to partly sunny
Mon-Fri the 6th - 10th: sunny with gradually warming temps climbing to the 90s by Friday.
The actual weather? It rained until 5pm Saturday the 4th, and stayed overcast all night. Sunday and Monday were as predicted, but Tuesday afternoon widely scattered showers moved in, and the rain is predicted to stay all week. Oh and the temperatures are in the 70s, about 15 degrees lower than the original forecast.
If you cannot predict with any degree of accuracy the weather 4 days into the future, why should I believe you know what the weather is going to be 10, 20 or 50 years from now? And even if you could predict it, what evidence is there that you could control it? Puh-lease!
Man-made global warming is a hoax.
Saturday the 4th: rain the AM, clearing by noon, cloudy for the remainder of the day
Sunday the 5th: overcast to partly sunny
Mon-Fri the 6th - 10th: sunny with gradually warming temps climbing to the 90s by Friday.
The actual weather? It rained until 5pm Saturday the 4th, and stayed overcast all night. Sunday and Monday were as predicted, but Tuesday afternoon widely scattered showers moved in, and the rain is predicted to stay all week. Oh and the temperatures are in the 70s, about 15 degrees lower than the original forecast.
If you cannot predict with any degree of accuracy the weather 4 days into the future, why should I believe you know what the weather is going to be 10, 20 or 50 years from now? And even if you could predict it, what evidence is there that you could control it? Puh-lease!
Man-made global warming is a hoax.
A nibble
So after four months without so much as a how-do-you-do, I decide to try and buy a business and be my own boss. I may not like myself all the time, but I'd never fire me or lay me off, no matter how bad things got. I searched online for business for sale, and think I may have a prospect.
Of course, life here in the real world, unlike Betend-land, is rarely simple. As I'm just about ready to make an offer and trot down to the bank for some stimulus money, I get an email from an outfit up in Chicago with a job description for a change/communications job. The attached note says my profile matches the job description, and would I be interested? I read it over, and why yes, I'd have to agree that my profile fits the job description to a T. I could do that job, and in fact have been doing it for pretty much the last eight and a half years. That's pretty simple. What's not so simple is the job is in Lake Forest. Ah well, talk is cheap, right? So I send back an email and say I would be interested and lo and behold, my phone rings, and a delightful Indian-accented voice tells me I could be working in a couple of weeks.
After clearing the obligatory hurdles, of course. A screening of my resume, a phone interview, a face-to-face interview and a drug test. (Thanks to Dr. Gilbert, I have many drugs available, but I don't think those are the ones their screening for...) And could I please update my resume with a list of the projects I worked on and what I did? OK, I can do that, after I finish the projects I'm working on here at home. Four hours later I get another call from the delightful Indian-accented voice asking if I sent the resume yet? I remember this from working in a real job. I'm still working on it - my resume is the worst one in three counties - and I'll get it off first thing in the morning. I only have to pretty much rewrite it to incorporate a bunch of stuff from my last couple performance reviews.
I was amused during the initial call by some of the questions. Where is Metamora - is it a southern suburb of Chicago? Uh, no, it's two-and-a-half hours south. Oh, so you wouldn't want to commute? No thanks, I have some family in the area I might stay with during the week.
Even though it's a temporary assignment, from two(!) to eighteen months, they're offering a salary and a per diem that grosses out in a week what I'm 'making' every month right now. So even if it's only for two months, that's eight more months of relative security.
If it doesn't pan out, I'll be bummed, but at least someone is showing some interest. As my old boss Sparky Anderson always said: it beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
Of course, life here in the real world, unlike Betend-land, is rarely simple. As I'm just about ready to make an offer and trot down to the bank for some stimulus money, I get an email from an outfit up in Chicago with a job description for a change/communications job. The attached note says my profile matches the job description, and would I be interested? I read it over, and why yes, I'd have to agree that my profile fits the job description to a T. I could do that job, and in fact have been doing it for pretty much the last eight and a half years. That's pretty simple. What's not so simple is the job is in Lake Forest. Ah well, talk is cheap, right? So I send back an email and say I would be interested and lo and behold, my phone rings, and a delightful Indian-accented voice tells me I could be working in a couple of weeks.
After clearing the obligatory hurdles, of course. A screening of my resume, a phone interview, a face-to-face interview and a drug test. (Thanks to Dr. Gilbert, I have many drugs available, but I don't think those are the ones their screening for...) And could I please update my resume with a list of the projects I worked on and what I did? OK, I can do that, after I finish the projects I'm working on here at home. Four hours later I get another call from the delightful Indian-accented voice asking if I sent the resume yet? I remember this from working in a real job. I'm still working on it - my resume is the worst one in three counties - and I'll get it off first thing in the morning. I only have to pretty much rewrite it to incorporate a bunch of stuff from my last couple performance reviews.
I was amused during the initial call by some of the questions. Where is Metamora - is it a southern suburb of Chicago? Uh, no, it's two-and-a-half hours south. Oh, so you wouldn't want to commute? No thanks, I have some family in the area I might stay with during the week.
Even though it's a temporary assignment, from two(!) to eighteen months, they're offering a salary and a per diem that grosses out in a week what I'm 'making' every month right now. So even if it's only for two months, that's eight more months of relative security.
If it doesn't pan out, I'll be bummed, but at least someone is showing some interest. As my old boss Sparky Anderson always said: it beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Remember me?
Well Hi, kids! I've been gone awhile, but I've thought of you often. I reckon that instead of chronicling a job search, I'll just chronicle, period. The job search turned into buying a business, which if I can get myself to write a business plan will progress.
Someone once said, as part of a seminar introduction, that they wrote fiction, but didn't ever actually write anything. I immediately thought if you say you write fiction but you don't, is it a lie? And here I've wanted to be a blogger, but never blog. Anyway, I'll try not to be gone so long next time, so I can call myself a blogger and tell the truth.
Someone once said, as part of a seminar introduction, that they wrote fiction, but didn't ever actually write anything. I immediately thought if you say you write fiction but you don't, is it a lie? And here I've wanted to be a blogger, but never blog. Anyway, I'll try not to be gone so long next time, so I can call myself a blogger and tell the truth.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Looking for work in the digital age
Today, Class, we'll discuss how much different looking for work is today versus the last time we did it. Sixteen years ago, you looked in the paper for jobs, you networked around, and when you found something promising, you mailed off a resume, followed up with a phone call or maybe a personal visit.
Today, it's all digital, all the time. Everything is done online. The job search? Monster.com, Careerbuilder.com, TheLadders.com, search engine this and profile that (other thoughts about that here). Networking is all done on the Internet, too: LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, etc. If you don't have 100 friends, you feel like a non-entity. Phone calls or appointments? Forget it!
A friend told me a story about a young man she knows who is thinking of moving to Peoria from Chicago (huh?). He applied for a bank job, then drove down here in his suit and tie, and went into the bank. Can I see the person making the hiring decision, he says to the receptionist. No, you can't - applications online only. Look, he says, I have a wife and twins on the way, and I need a job.; can't I please at least talk to someone so they have a face with a name? If I give you that name then I'll be looking for a job, too, says the receptionist.
I can't help but think that the majority of good jobs are still secured the old fashioned way - talk to somebody who knows somebody. It's not as easy to do in the digital age, but I've always been quick on the uptake, so I'll adapt.
Eventually.
Today, it's all digital, all the time. Everything is done online. The job search? Monster.com, Careerbuilder.com, TheLadders.com, search engine this and profile that (other thoughts about that here). Networking is all done on the Internet, too: LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, etc. If you don't have 100 friends, you feel like a non-entity. Phone calls or appointments? Forget it!
A friend told me a story about a young man she knows who is thinking of moving to Peoria from Chicago (huh?). He applied for a bank job, then drove down here in his suit and tie, and went into the bank. Can I see the person making the hiring decision, he says to the receptionist. No, you can't - applications online only. Look, he says, I have a wife and twins on the way, and I need a job.; can't I please at least talk to someone so they have a face with a name? If I give you that name then I'll be looking for a job, too, says the receptionist.
I can't help but think that the majority of good jobs are still secured the old fashioned way - talk to somebody who knows somebody. It's not as easy to do in the digital age, but I've always been quick on the uptake, so I'll adapt.
Eventually.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The good news and bad news of being unemployed, part 1
- The good news is now that I'm unemployed, I have time to do all those little jobs around the house I haven't gotten around to. The bad news is, they all involve outlays of disposable income, of which I have none!
- The bad news is that in the worst case scenario, we might lose our home. The good news is that the weather will warm up soon, so living outdoors won't be as bad.
- The good news: a much lower federal income tax burden next year. The bad news: much lower income this year.
- The good news is I'm conserving water and lowering my carbon footprint. The bad news is I have no reason to shower and no where to go.
- The good news is that I finally have an answer when someone asks me 'what's new?' The bad news is the answer...
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Onward ever forward
OK, I'm aware I might be turning into a poster site for depression, so I'll get back to what I do best: sarcasm, ridicule and humor. I recall a friend who asked me once if there was anything I didn't make fun of. I replied that I tried to lay off death and dying at funerals...
So in that spirit, I recount the experience of receiving assistance from my former employer to file for unemployment assistance (why would they call it that? I'm not looking for help to be unemployed...):
Under the guise of good intentions, our HR department set up times to come to the district HR office and receive assistance filling out the paperwork. One stop shopping - get the state ball rolling and make the company happy, too. Fair enough. I show up to my appointed hour about ten minutes early, and join the half-dozen folks milling about in the waiting area. Folks continue to file in until there is a crowd of about 30-40.
Being me, I strike up a conversation with a fellow layoff-ee. I wonder out loud how well HR will handle this process, as they have underperformed to date. In response to my story about my boss' obvious discomfort as he laid me off, she mentions her boss started crying and she was forced to comfort him.
At appointed hour +10 minutes, someone brings out an easel with the day's schedule, posts it by the door and disappears without a word. Sure enough, the schedule confirms that they're running behind. At appointed hour +20 minutes, the security guard tells us they are in fact running late, and it will be another 20-25 minutes. A handful of people leave. Sure enough, at the appointed hour +45 minutes, the doors are thrown open and we're handed a packet of paperwork as we file into the auditorium.
The state unemployment officer gives us a ten minute review of the unemployment process - any questions? - tells us to fill out our paperwork and sits down. We file into two lines on opposite sides of the room to wait out turn in front of four reps. In less than a minute, I get the everything's fine (for you - you have a job!) and take this next door to HR. OK, next door I go, another minute and out the door I go. All told, even starting 45 minutes late, I'm out in 10 minutes less time than they advertised. As I head for the truck, I can't help but wonder what in the h-e-double hockey sticks was wrong with the first group that they took two-and-a-half hours to do what I just did in thirty-five minutes??
Ah well, I got out of the house, had a nice chat with an old friend from high school, and filed for unemployment. Not a bad morning.
So in that spirit, I recount the experience of receiving assistance from my former employer to file for unemployment assistance (why would they call it that? I'm not looking for help to be unemployed...):
Under the guise of good intentions, our HR department set up times to come to the district HR office and receive assistance filling out the paperwork. One stop shopping - get the state ball rolling and make the company happy, too. Fair enough. I show up to my appointed hour about ten minutes early, and join the half-dozen folks milling about in the waiting area. Folks continue to file in until there is a crowd of about 30-40.
Being me, I strike up a conversation with a fellow layoff-ee. I wonder out loud how well HR will handle this process, as they have underperformed to date. In response to my story about my boss' obvious discomfort as he laid me off, she mentions her boss started crying and she was forced to comfort him.
At appointed hour +10 minutes, someone brings out an easel with the day's schedule, posts it by the door and disappears without a word. Sure enough, the schedule confirms that they're running behind. At appointed hour +20 minutes, the security guard tells us they are in fact running late, and it will be another 20-25 minutes. A handful of people leave. Sure enough, at the appointed hour +45 minutes, the doors are thrown open and we're handed a packet of paperwork as we file into the auditorium.
The state unemployment officer gives us a ten minute review of the unemployment process - any questions? - tells us to fill out our paperwork and sits down. We file into two lines on opposite sides of the room to wait out turn in front of four reps. In less than a minute, I get the everything's fine (for you - you have a job!) and take this next door to HR. OK, next door I go, another minute and out the door I go. All told, even starting 45 minutes late, I'm out in 10 minutes less time than they advertised. As I head for the truck, I can't help but wonder what in the h-e-double hockey sticks was wrong with the first group that they took two-and-a-half hours to do what I just did in thirty-five minutes??
Ah well, I got out of the house, had a nice chat with an old friend from high school, and filed for unemployment. Not a bad morning.
Friday, March 20, 2009
now what?
Being laid off, especially in the hamfisted, clueless, insensitive way I was, enables the inner demons. They're set free to do their worst, paralyzing initiative and confidence when I need them most.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
getting started
So I'm entering the Sea of the Unpaid; another piece of flotsam to ride the rising tide. Or is it receding tide? Either way, being one piece of many doesn't help much. What difference does it make if you're adrift alone or with company - the operative word is still adrift.
Sigh.
Sigh.
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