Another Bane of My Existence!

I just had an epiphany and I absolutely must stop watching cooking shows, even though I thoroughly enjoy watching them and learning new things about cooking.

I've learned a lot about texture, balance, depth and layers. My own cooking efforts now incorporate seasonings and techniques I never learned the first 60 years of my life. I even have a very expensive stainless steel double-headed mallet for beating the crap out of a chicken breast or a cheap cut of steak. Even restaurants now fear me and I've been banned from a couple (OK, not really, yet, but the day is probably coming). This all from the guy that used to think that a chili dog off that rotating thingy at 7-11 was fine dining. Hey! It's fine that I can get it any time of the day and it's dining.

But I'm rambling! Back to cooking shows on the TV.

Alas! I finally figured out the down side.

There are dozens of cooking shows and I used to watch most of them or tape them to watch later. Several each week, sometimes 2 or 3 in one day. The down side isn't the amount of time I spend watching these show. The down side is that watching these show have two really nasty side effects!

First, watching all these new ingredient combinations and techniques make me want to try them out right away. Unfortunately, sometimes that means that it's 10 p.m. at night and I'm out bustling around in the kitchen when I should be going to bed.

Secondly, like most Americans, I've come down with a rasty condition called instantgratificationitis. Which means that I've developed the need to eat that which I have recently created. Usually along about 30 minutes after 10 p.m. (which is about the same amount of time the contestants have to prepare their dish for judges tasting and I'm simply following their recipe).

I've also noticed that the need to duplicate and eat something I've seen on one of these shows is directly proportional to the ingredients. For instance, octopus. I get to bed right on time. I don't do octopus. However, chocolate, bacon, a nice cut of steak, just a touch of cayenne, oh heck, the list does go on so. I'm so glad Harris-Teeter is a 24-hour store.

So, I guess if I want to lose weight I'll have to quit taping and watching cooking shows. Maybe I'll substitute them with Storage Wars or Pawn Stars. There IS this cool place called the Stuff Store just up the street selling *antiques* and other cool second-hand items.

Unfortunately, it's right next to one of those convenient 24-hour fine dining establishments. But at least it's sure to keep me out of the kitchen.

Another Trip Down Memory Lane

I went on another trip down Memory Lane today. A friend sent me an e-mail about “things that were being said back in 1955”. I was four years old. The e-mail mentioned twenty-five cents a gallon for gas and twenty cents for a pack of cigarettes. My memory recalls prices a little differently and it got me to thinking about some of the things I did as a kid. I’m not sure if any of those things actually would rise to the level of felony, but it’s still a darned good thing that I didn’t get caught. Mostly, anyway, as you’ll find out when I tell this story and the one about smoking in the boys room.

Some of the things I did are humorous today. Probably not so much when they went down. At least, not for some of the victims and possibly my parents. None of it was done to be vicious – just pranks by young people who had too much time on their hands and the hard drug culture wasn’t big enough or attractive enough to get our attention yet.

Take, for instance, the beginning of my smoking habit. I started smoking at the age of eleven and it lasted about 40 years. It all began because a couple of friends and I would ride our bicycles into, and through, the Hallstead iron foundry on Saturday mornings. It was a huge and awesome place and we would always get chased by one of the few millers that put in Saturday hours. One of the millers finally trapped us in a corner of the foundry and threatened to call the police. But he was a soft old geezer and just couldn’t turn us in. Instead, he made us an offer that was difficult to refuse. At the time, those little Swisher Sweets cigarillos were fifteen cents a pack. He would call the pharmacist at the local drug store and tell him that we were coming to get him a pack of Sweets. He would give us a quarter to ride our bikes down to the drug store and back with his Sweets and we could keep the change. Oh, and keep our bicycles outside of the foundry so we didn’t get hurt. That first time we learned that a pack of Marlboro cigarettes only cost a dime. So, we convinced the pharmacist that the quarter was to buy the Sweets AND the Marlboros. After making delivery on those little cigars, my friends and I would go to our local “fort” and light up. It was a pretty sweet situation that lasted for several months. We created our own downfall. On one trip, we had some extra change and so we bought a pack of Marlboros, a pack of Camels and a pack of Salem menthols. After we left, the pharmacist called the miller and found out that the man didn’t smoke cigarettes at all. We were banned from the drug store and the miller said he would call the police if we ever came back around the foundry.

Not that it mattered a whole lot. We found other creative ways to feed our young and growing nicotine habit. After all, John Wayne would have expected us to be resourceful if we were going to be the bad guys. We continued getting our cigarettes, with the help of some older boys, using money we earned turning in bottles or mowing lawns or shoveling sidewalks. We also kept going to our local “fort” which was a very small one room storage building for the township. It sat at the top of the hill behind the carnival grounds/Little League Baseball field (truly another story). It was full of small crates that were pretty well sealed with nails and metal straps. We never tried to get into them. Hey, we may have been delinquents but we weren’t exactly criminally minded. Besides, the crates were made out of wood and we took up the art of wood-burning using matches and lit cigarettes. We created all kinds of cool designs on those old wooden crates. Right up until we got caught by the township Assistant Fire Chief. His best convincing argument to leave and never come back was the fact that the crates contained the fireworks being stored for the township carnivals. It’s one thing to go up in smoke, but we sure didn’t want to go down in flames.

It wasn’t long after that that one of my friends was playing around the old road tar barrel machine kept on the same property. The tar was kept hot by a small gas flame under the barrel. When he lifted the lid, some sticky tar created a bubble between the lid and rim. When it burst, Bucky was covered with the hot tar and severely burned. It was the final straw, so to speak, that convinced us that it wasn’t a safe place to play. None of the rest of us wanted to lose our hair, eyebrows, eyelashes or have our facial skin nothing but pink patches for the rest of our lives.

We moved on to other delinquent activities. Which is another way of saying that this story has ended, but there are others to be told.

There Are No Traffic Accidents

Most of my blog posts are meant to be humorous rants, anecdotes or tongue-in-cheek ramblings (my success varies, apparently, depending on the reader). I'm going to be serious this time, maybe the only time, because it is a topic that could save a life.

I took the on-line National Safety Council (NSC) Defensive Driver Training Course recently - for the second time. My insurance company gives me a hefty discount if I complete the course every few years. I've taken several different courses from several different sources over the years and what I caught onto this time that I missed all the previous times is that, just like there are no such things as coincidences, there are no such things as car accidents - only missed opportunities to avoid collisions.

Don't confuse "accident" with "Act of God" as they are mutually exclusive.

An "accident" is defined as "an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, typically resulting in damage or injury." Almost every vehicle collision can be expected, mainly because it occurs due to intentional actions. Thus, collisions are not accidents because they are avoidable by taking reasonable actions. An example would be rear-ending the car in front of you because you are distracted by texting.

An "Act of God" is a situation where no reasonable human involvement or action would have prevented a disastrous consequence. An example would be the bolt of lightning coming out of a clear blue sky. The only human involvement or action would be to cuddle up in jammies with a favorite someone and never leave the house. Preferable, maybe, but not reasonable. So the lighting strike was unexpected, unintentional and could not be avoided.

Apply this logic to any vehicular collision and you cannot help but end up supporting the hypothesis.

I must point out that not all collisions are the results of the involved driver(s). For instance, the rollover that occurs due to the broken tie rod that resulted from unintentionally driving over the unexpected six inch deep pothole. However, the pothole is a result of either poor road construction or maintenance neglect which is intentional on someone's part and the result of that poor product or neglect can be expected. The missed opportunity to prevent this collision took place during road construction or inspection and maintenance, unless the pothole occurred due to a lightning strike out of a clear blue sky seconds before impact. Because normally, potholes develop over time and can be removed as an incident causing problem by simple, reasonable human involvement and action.

That type of situation aside, any other collision is the result of the involved driver(s). Inattention due to scolding the kids in the back seat or talking on a cell phone (which is why the NSC wants a complete ban on the use of cell phones while driving - even hands free calls). Failure to inspect and maintain the condition of the vehicle resulting in brake failure. Ignoring the three-second following rule or going too fast for conditions resulting in the rear-ender. Inappropriately driving while under the influence (including prescription and over-the-counter medications) and not being able to steer clear in time. The list goes on.

So, please value your life, the lives of your loved ones and the lives of others you will have chance encounters with while you are on the road - enough to refresh your safe driving skills by taking the NSC or some other Defensive Driver refresher course. This time, pay close attention and you, too, will become a believer that there are no such things as car accidents.

Besides the possibility of getting a discount on your car insurance, you might save money by not having to pay a deductible because you are better skilled at avoiding a collision or save money by not having to pay a fine for a traffic violation ticket.

Most importantly, you might be saving someone's life.

Alarm Company Onslaught

I made two attempts to report an insue on line to a MAJOR alarm system company. Yeah, right, like that would get results even if it did work.

So, I won't name names. You would recognize them. They advertise like crazy just about everywhere you turn. Which means that if I really wanted to have them install and monitor their system in my house it would be really easy to contact them because their name and number is engraved on the cells of my brain - just what the advertising is designed to do and it is very effective. But, I really don't want them. Been there, done that, wasn't happy, went somewhere else even though I have to look my alarm company number up every time I need to talk to them.

So, they really don't need to violate civil decency AND the law AND posted property to conduct door-to-door sales at night. But, they do. This new incident is about number three or four in the past year from the same company. If I wasn't interested and kicked you off property the last three times, what do you expect this time around? You must be insane, as the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. Hello! Guess what!?! You're insane!

Late one evening a young man rang my doorbell. As I was lounging partially undressed in my living room (sorry I had to put that mental picture in your mind, but I have to properly set up the incident), I yelled to wait and proceeded to make myself presentable thinking it was one of our neighbors coming over with something good to eat or drink - or looking for something good to eat or drink.

Apparently the young man didn't hear me yell, so he stuck a business card in the outer door and started to walk away just as I opened the main door. He turned back and stated that he didn't think anyone was home so he stuck his manager's business card in the door and walked away. No, I am not repeating myself. I told you what he did, then I told you what he said. They just both are pretty much the same thing so it sounds like I'm repeating myself. Yes, my short term memory is going as I get older, but it isn't that bad. Actually, the worst thing about me getting older seems to be that my short term memory is going.

At about 7:30 p.m. (yes, that IS late evening for me, after all, in case I haven't told you, I'm old enough to start having problems with my short term memory), it's very dark around here. The County has a solicitation permit requirement and there isn't one on file for this alarm company or anyone associated with this alarm company. Therfore, when they conduct door-to-door sales, they are violating County ordinances. Another way of saying that is that they are breaking the law. The very company that wants to protect me from people breaking the law ARE breaking the law. Further, the property is a private association and posted "NO SOLICITING" so door-to-door sales is trespassing on private property. Another way of saying that is that they are breaking the law. The very company that wants to protect me from people breaking the law ARE breaking the law. And no, that is not an indication of a lapse in my short term memory - I intentionally reiterated to emphasize!

What further incensed me COULD lead to accusations of aiding and abetting in a crime. I know, I know, that's another way of saying they are breaking the law and it's the very company that yada yada yada, however I don't want to be repeating myself. The sales agent left the business card stuck in the outer door. Now, leaving literature of any kind, including a business card, stuck in an external door is a red flag to any would-be thief that nobody is home - and no matter what kind of alarm system is installed, there is still a window of time available for would-be thieves to break in, cause a lot of property damage and make off with items of value (some of which may not be replaceable). Therefore, all a would-be criminal has to do is follow this sales agent around and let the sales agent case all the homes and mark the best targets for break ins.

So! Imagine my ire when, after this very rude young man  comes to my door, rings my doorbell, then puts a business card in my outer door because I didn't respond fast enough, he goes about increasing my ire by being obnoxious when I inform him VERY POLITELY that he shouldn't be here because the property is posted. Insult upon insult he then asks if I have an alarm system. This is none of his business and I don't know who he is anyway - maybe casing my place for another night? His reply is that he is here because his manager dropped him off. My response is that maybe he should call his manager to come pick him up and what is it about the word "NO" that he doesn't understand. Which only causes him to become even more rude which is a direct reflection upon his inability to provide even basic customer service and deal with irate customers. Even though I shouldn't be a customer. First, he alienates the potential customer and then proceeds to alienate further when he doesn't know how to handle the situation. SHAME on the YOUNG MAN and the ALARM COMPANY and this young man's MANAGER!

The young man walked up the street, skipping several homes, then approached another doorway FULLY AWARE THAT I WAS OBSERVING. This was the final obnoxious act that prompted me to call the police department non-emergency number to have a patrol officer respond when available. They are very good about that around here, by the by. Especially if you use the non-emergency number. So, I'm still on my cell phone at the front door talking to the police when the young man, after receiving no response at the doorway, strolls back towards me while I'm standing in my doorway talking to the police department (hmmmmm . . . maybe I DID repeat myself that time). He smirked at me and flipped his hand in a little obnoxious wave and I don't mind telling you that I felt very intimidated, so I shut and locked my door.

The police contacted me a very short time later to let me know that they had performed a drive by without seeing anyone matching the description I had provided. I had heard several vehicles drive by, so not only was one of them a police vehicle but one was probably the manager making a pick up.

Now, back to my opening line. This alarm company makes a big deal out of having the wonderful customer service, well-trained security professionals, superb ethics, ad nauseum. So I try to use their on line form for filing a complaint and when I try to submit it - nothing. My computer doesn't lock up or give me the blue screen of death, it just - well, nothing. So, thinking my short term memory made me think I had tried to submit the form and hadn't really done so I filled it all out once again and tried to submit it. Now I'm getting really worried about my memory because again - nothing.

Meanwhile, I subsequently contacted the police department and the County Attorney and verified that there is no solicitation permit on file, that laws have been violated and I was asked if I want to press charges. No, I just want the alarm company to do four things:

   1. Train their personnel on the law in the area in which they operate
   2. Train their personnel on customer service
   3. Train their personnel to OBEY THE LAW AND POSTED SIGNS ON PRIVATE PROPERTY
   4. Since this is about the third or fourth time in the past year I have had to chase their agents away from my door PLEASE STOP HARASSING ME!

Now that I have that off my mind. Let me tell you about this experience I had the other night. There I was, lounging partially undressed in my living room (sorry I had to put that mental picture in your mind, but I have to properly set up the incident) . . .

Makes Me Go “Huh?”

One election supply company advertised thanks to those that make elections successful by offering a 15% discount on election signs.
“Huh?”

•  The local government benefits and the local taxpayers certainly benefit. I guess I do benefit because I am also a taxpayer. Tell the truth! You just want to sell more signs.

One restaurant offers a free appetizer for veterans.
“Huh?”

• I bring my wife and have a free appetizer. Then it just costs me drinks, entrees, desserts, and a tip. Thanks, but no thanks.

While another offers the veteran the buffet for free.
“Huh?”

• Not much of a thank you unless I truly do enjoy eating by myself. I'll pass on this one, too!

A local store offers a veteran discount only on Veteran’s Day weekend.
“Huh?”

• Yeah. I only served 1 weekend a year for more than 20 years. Guess I’ll have to wait another year to by that other item I need. Or check tomorrow to see if they have it at Lowe’s where there is a year round military discount. (No, I do not work for Lowe’s or get a kickback.) I appreciate much more that genuine, heartfelt “Thanks for your service!” than I do most of the veteran and military discounts that crop up every November.

I have decided that I am going to start a personal boycott of every company, store or restaurant that offers inane discounts that are only provided to drive up their revenue.

My list starts now.

Care to add to it?

More to come.

Celebrate!

I missed International Coffee Day yesterday. Actually, I didn't miss yesterday, and I didn't really miss coffee. I guess what I really meant was that I didn't celebrate International Coffee Day yesterday, though I did celebrate yesterday and I did have coffee.

I sure don't want to miss Ask a Stupid Question Day, Blasphemy Day or International Translation Day today.

It's also not too late to celebrate World Hearing Aid Awareness Week or, forbid, National Chimney Safety Week. Although I have neither, I've never been known to pass up free food, so if you have one or the other and plan to celebrate - please invite me.

Meanwhile, September, besides being the month of my birth, is also well-known for many other monthly celebrations. OK, I don't exactly get to celebrate my birth for the whole month, only 1 day. OK, not for the whole day. SWMBO sings the song to me when I get up, then it's pretty much over except for the sign on my wall at the office.

September

It's Bourbon Heritage Month. Now, I truly believe that any bourbon with any heritage should be properly celebrated but I don't think we have to wait until September. July, or even February make a pretty good month to celebrate bourbon.

It's still Children's Good Manners Month. But I think we stopped celebrating that with the demise of children's good manners somewhere back in '83 or '84.

It's Eat Chicken Month. Other farm animals are celebrating like crazy, I imagine. At least according to the recent spate of billboards I've seen advertising a certain fast food company.

I didn't realize we celebrated myths - like Great American Low-Cholesterol, Low-fat Pizza Bake Month.

Walt will be happy to know there's still 1 day left to celebrate Happy Cat Month. If not Walt, maybe his cats.

It really makes me yearn for September to be over, though, for several reasons.

I just can't wait for October's Bat Appreciation Month, Hog Out Month (yay!) and National Sarcastice Awareness Month. Then there's National Carry a Tune Week (6-12), Improve Your Office Day (4th), Vodka Day (4th, but could be celebrated early with Bourbon Heritage Month, I suppose), National Bring Your Teddy Bear to Work & School Day (9th), International Moment of Frustration Scream Day (12th - must be Election Professionals) and my favorite - National Boss's Day (16th - hope my staff is paying attention!)

More importantly, October 4th is the first day of Striper Season in Virginia (again, hope my staff is paying attention!)

If you would like to find your own favorite "cause célèbre", head on over to http://www.brownielocks.com/month2.html

Food Critic? Not!

OK. So maybe I’m not a food critic and I haven’t got a clue how to pair wine with the plate. However, I do watch enough Food Channel Network television to understand texture, balance, freshness and the culinary artistry of presentation. Which is to say, maybe I watch too much Food Channel Network for my own happiness and ability to enjoy a quiet lunch out with friends and colleagues during the lunch break of a meeting we were all attending.

Since I am not a food critic, I won’t mention the name of the restaurant, but you would recognize it while walking around downtown Williamsburg as the place with The Trellis motif. We enter through a pleasant foyer and we are met by a smiling hostess. She noted, right away, that one of our party appeared to be looking for someone and almost immediately guided us to a table in back where a couple of people from our group were already seated. Seven of us at a table set up for 8. The restaurant is bustling, but by no means jam-packed. Our table is situated where we have a clear view into the kitchen through large plate glass windows. The menu is two pages, tastefully arranged and covered in plastic. Left page looks like a fine-dining wine cellar. Right page lists appetizers, sandwiches and a few culinary masterpieces. A little on the higher end of pricing, but expected in a tourist trap town and considering the eclectic contents of the individual food items. The table is set with cloth napkins and has the air of slightly higher than chain-restaurant, slightly lower than fine-dining. In other words, pleasant and everything is going well, so far.

One of our group is extremely allergic to onions. Now, I personally don’t have any food allergies, just likes and dislikes. However, working with this colleague for several years has taught me that food allergies can be very serious and life-threatening. Whenever we have a pot luck company function, my wife will make two versions of potato salad – one wit’ and one wit’out; two versions of chicken salad - one wit’ and one wit’out; or two versions of peachy bacon-y baked beans – again, one wit’ and one wit’out.

My colleague notes that almost every sandwich is made with onion in one form or fashion or another. There’s at least onion, sweet onion or caramelized onion on or in just about everything. This is when things start to go awry. We are all taken aback when the server informed us that none of the menu items could be prepared without the onion because they are all prepared in advance.

Whoa! What? How can any establishment be so secure in the tourist trade that they can afford to be so smug and obnoxious? Oh. Wait. It doesn’t matter if you don’t accommodate them – they’re never coming back again. Next time they go on vacation they won’t be coming to Williamsburg, they will be headed for Florida or the Grand Canyon. It’s OK to stick it to the tourists. And no, we don’t need to accommodate a person’s allergies. Drink water. Eat bread. Pay. Leave and open up the table for the next unsuspecting tourist wallet.

Here’s why I say unsuspecting tourist wallet. Obviously, the next step, I take the lead and ask to speak to the Manager. He immediately informed us that the onions cannot be removed because, now get this, “the sandwiches were pre-made this morning.”

Wait. What? Hold on a sec. 7-11 sells sandwiches made this morning. Wal-Mart sells sandwiches made this morning. Now fine-dining wannabe restaurants that have a hostess, several servers, bus-people, line cooks and a chef sell sandwiches that were pre-made this morning? “Because our sandwiches are so layered and complex that that is the only way to serve so many.” Meaning that the kitchen staff is nothing more than expediters of hours-old food? “We could take the onion off a sandwich for you.” And leave all those wonderfully aromatic and lethal onion juices behind all over everything?

Whoa. What? You can’t, for the sake of a customer with food allergies, customize a sandwich? How arrogant! What about this Caesar salad? Does it have onions? “Well, no.” Aha. My colleague finds something on the menu to order. But then the Manager tells us that the tomato had to be eliminated from the salad because the tomatoes are marinated in a juice that has onions in it.” Oh, my! Since when does Caesar Salad have tomatoes?

Finally, it’s my turn to order. Since I don’t want a sandwich that is already several hours old, I ask if the hamburger, at least, is cooked to order. Assured that it is, I order the hamburger and fries with the special “restaurant” burger sauce (um, Thousand Island dressing, I’m told. Thanks, I wouldn’t want the chef to have to exert any energy for the lunch crowd). It comes with lettuce, tomato, onion, high-end American cheese and fries. I’ll take that medium-well, please, and hold the onion. The fries actually turn out to be quite good. Thin, typical shoestring fries, but not smooth, so they hold the salt really well. But, imagine my surprise when my burger is delivered, sans onion, wit’ a fresh and un-marinated slice of very ripe tomato.

Since I really don’t care if the burger has tomato I offer it to my lunch-mate who graciously turns it down and now that lonely slice of tomato is wasting away on my plate. I start to call the Manager again, but my colleague is so totally frustrated that they don’t want to bother (or I’m a total embarrassment for wanting to get our money’s worth). So I let it go.

Then, two bites into the burger, there is something actually crunching between my teeth. Nope, it’s not the bread. It isn’t onion, or lettuce, or tomato. I only have bread, burger, cheese and restaurant special Thousand Island dressing sauce. Nothing there that I’ve ever experienced as crunchy. Third bite, and again I’m cracking teeth. Is it bone or cartilage? I don’t know, but I’m not eating any more of it. The server gives me an exasperated look when I try to explain it, so I just tell her to give the plate to the Manager and tell him I won’t be able to eat it. She tells me she will get the Manager and “I’m sorry you cannot be happy about anything today.”

Whoa! What? I was extremely happy when I arrived, and I’ve already been up for several hours. I’ve actually been happy for most of that time (although I’ve been warned that if I’m consistently happy for too long it may be a sign of mental disturbance, almost as serious as depression). I was not unhappy until I came for lunch. In order to save my lunch-mates from further embarrassment due to my actions, I wait for the Manager in a quiet secluded area of the establishment (the bar area).

When the Manager finally deigns to meet with me, my lunch plate in hand, I explain that I don’t like having my intelligence insulted, I don’t appreciate snippety wait staff and I especially don’t like being lied to. The Manager insists that no one is trying to insult my intelligence, indicates that he doesn’t really care if my feelings are hurt by remarks from the wait staff and tells me that he never lied. He’s zero for three at this point. He certainly isn’t easing any of my frustration.

Then it gets even weirder as he goes zero for four! I tell him that in order to assure him of my sincerity about the burger, I’ll pay – I certainly don’t want the restaurant to suffer! NOT! Then he says “Well, I certainly don’t want you to pay for it IF you are not happy with the food.” There’s that word, “happy”, again. What is this, a road act? I explain that since he is standing there holding an almost complete food order that I am refusing to ingest for fear of my teeth, if not my life, that there “is no if” as to whether or not I am happy with the food. As he stutters some more, I say thank you and walk back to join my group.

Fortunately, not everyone had a terrible experience and we returned to our meeting for the afternoon session. Thank goodness there were energy bars and bottled water in the reception area. Ahhhhh. The expected crunch of granola and the satisfying taste of the peanut butter bar, the creamy richness of the dark chocolate oat bar and one bottle of cool, satisfying H2O and I’m good until dinner.

Whoa! What? Maybe I AM a food critic after all!

Regrets, I've Had a Few

A friend recently posted a link to the message “Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.” Fortunately, I do NOT regret GROWING older as I have no control over that.

However, Regrets? Yeah, I’ve had a few. I regret some of the things that I did have control over that are still affecting HOW I’m growing older:

·         Not exercising more and eating less to stay in shape (wait - round IS a shape)

·         Not stretching before that game of racquetball that tore my Achilles (the limp isn’t THAT noticeable)

·         Not looking before I jumped and destroyed my ankle by twisting it on a jutting stone (other side, which explains why the other limp isn’t THAT noticeable)

·         Not putting down a piece of plastic on the wet rock before I sat (Mom was right, ‘nuff said - any more would just be TMI)

·         Tipping over a canoe in rushing river ice melt (hypothermia wasn’t fun and now I’m cold whenever the temperature drops below 78)

·         Kissing the quarterback’s girlfriend in high school (one of several teeth that didn’t make it into adulthood and I intensely dislike my partials)

·         Not trimming toenails more studiously (a couple had to be removed, so stubbed toes hurt worse now)

·         Slamming my thumb in a car door because I was so ticked that a State Trooper gave me a ticket for passing on the right - after he pulled me over in my parent’s driveway (Dad was TICKED and that thumbnail never did grow back right – although it did give me an identifiable scar to report to the Navy for body identification if ever needed)

·         Forgetting to put the protector on the boat prop before I rammed my arm against that sharp stainless steel blade (nice long, curved scar on my arm that I really don’t need now that I’m retired from the military)

·         Working around diesel engines without proper ear protection (eh, what? NO, I’m NOT Canadian, Australian or British!)

·         Spending too much time on submarines and working on computers (near AND far sighted, bifocals confuse the heck out of me)

·         Getting rid of my ’56 Chevy when I was 17 to get a ’64 Ford Galaxie (What WAS I thinking?)

But I could not possibly regret growing older. It’s such a great excuse for getting away with so many things. As some of those are best left unsaid, I’ll just stop now and release you back to your life, Ramble Over.

Old Enough to Know Better, Too Young to Care Part 1

Boy, oh, boy! That describes last weekend to a "T".

Several weeks in a row, I've been planning on cleaning up my boat. One time I didn't was because it was raining too hard. Another, had to go visit relatives. Another, woke up with a terrible migraine. Another, slept in too late and the heat went over 90 before 9 a.m. One thing after another, it kept getting put off. Oh, yeah, had to go fishing on a buddy's boat one time and twice took the grandson to a fishing pier.

I got ready to go Saturday and took out the jump-start-air-pump only to note that it needed to be charged. I knew I would need it because one of the three trailer tires has a very slow leak and it had been a long time. And the boat is not stored at the house - it's at a nearby Navy base and I have to drag it home to work on it and drag it back when I'm done. When I searched for the charger adapter, I realized it had been in a drawer I had cleaned out and junked when we moved the bedroom from upstairs to downstairs. However, I'm rambling, and that story is for a different blog. Suffice to say I had to go to the local Pep Boys to buy a new charger-pump. And, typical for that kind of thing (and because I always, or almost always, read the directions) I had to charge it for 24 hours before using it the first time. So, all day Saturday, the charger sat on the charger. OK, so maybe it was only 21 hours, but the indicator indicated fully charged.

Finally. The boat is at the house. That's right, went to the storage lot, hooked up the boat, filled the tires with air (did I say only one had a slow leak? Hmmmmm . . . ) and dragged that sucker home. You wouldn't have known the boat was light blue and white. It looked mungy green and black.

So, what's better for knocking out mold and mildew than "Hey, Honey, ya got a bottle of bleach anywhere?"

Um. Did I say that I always read the directions? Well, maybe not always.

About a third of a bottle of bleach to a third of a gallon bucket of water seems just about right. I mean, that mung IS really mungy! I don't want to be out here scrubbing in the heat of the day.

Hose, check. Boat brush, check. Old rags, check. Bucket of bleach water, check. Old sneakers, check. Old shorts, check. Old shirt, um, wasn't thinking about an old shirt.

About a third of the way down the inside of the boat I notice the tips of my fingers are burning. So are the tops of my fingers just behind the nails. SWMBO says it's because I've got soft hands now because I have a soft job now. Maybe she's right. I flush them with hose water for a couple of minutes, they feel a little better although they're a little red, back to work. Gotta get this thing done once and for all.

Get to the outside of the boat. My knees are burning a little. Fingers are on fire. Still, ain't gonna wimp out. I'm going to finish this task if it kills me. Or robs me of the use of my fingers.

Raise the rag up to clean down the high sides of the boat. The bleach water is running down my arms from the rags. Armpits probably needed a mold/mildew check anyway. TMI?

SWMBO is tired of hearing me complain about my fingers and suggests I wear a pair of rubber gloves. Yeah, right, like that would help now. Besides, only one side and the back of the boat to go. It's almost ninety, the humidity is high, I can't see for the sweat in my eyes and the agony in my fingers won't let me think of anything else.

But, the job got done. On Monday, after I tossed and turned all night and woke up several times because the sheets hurt my fingers, I couldn't work a zipper and buttons were beasts. Even trying to spread shaving cream on my face was agony. Typing was a struggle trying to use thumbs only. Not to mention slow. Which explains why I wrote this a week later.

Next time? I think I'll read the directions.

Confession or Tattle? Chapter 1

Confession or Tattle?

Chapter 1

It's 1961. I'm 10 and a bad boy. I've taken up smoking along with two or three of my friends on Dayton Ave (I won't name you, you know who you are - this is a confession, not a tattle). It started when we got caught by Pops riding our bikes through the foundry on Main Street. Our punishment was 30 minutes of lecturing while he held our bikes hostage.

But, old Pops was a marshmallow at heart and finally let us go. He offered to pay us a dime if we went to the drugstore down the street and bought him a pack of Swisher Sweets (they were a quarter, then). Every day. Of course, he had to call ahead to okay it with the cashier.

Didn't take us too long to figure out that we had enough money, every 3 days, to buy a pack of those Sweets for ourselves. To this day I'm not sure how we convinced the clerk to let us buy two packs instead of one, but we were cute kids and that probably had a lot to do with it.

A couple weeks later, we convinced the clerk that Pops had taken up menthols and we graduated from the little cigars to Salems. It wasn't much longer before we were into Marlboros and unfiltered Camels. I would, later on, switch to Pall Mall reds cuz that's what my parents smoked. You'll figure out why later.

Mini-Confession

That tablet dispenser in the entrance hall of the foundry? It ain't really candy. They are salt tablets. Never knew that if you ate too many of them you would pee blood until we convinced another one of our friends they tasted best if you ate them by the handful. Sorry, Lee.

Anyways! I had the perfect hiding place for my smokes and matches. I thought. The forced hot air furnace had a fresh air duct under my bed with a ledge covered by a decorative grate. Under my bed. Who would ever think to look there?

Who? Why, Grandma Hedglin, of course! She came from Clarks Summit one day to help my Mom with spring cleaning. Dismantled my bed. Pulled up the grate. Took me by surprise when I got home. So, I used the only story I could come up with.

Finally - the Confession

"They aren't mine. I'm holding them for a friend."
Hey, it's been over 50 years. There must be a statute of limitations, right? So, when they asked me who they belonged to (answer or be grounded for life), I threw the other bad boy on Dayton Ave under the bus. Sorry. Johnny, but I really did hate being grounded. That was probably the only time my Mom ever called your house. No, wait, there was that bb gun/copperhead incident, too.

Pops and the clerk eventually caught on and we lost our best source. Guess that explains why I had to switch to Pall Mall reds. But, I quit smoking several years ago. Cold Turkey. Haven't looked back. Have to define my body type as bulbous, now, but my lungs are cleaner any way.

Whew! There's probably actually about 15 confessions in this one story. And a couple left out, too, believe me.

Still to Come

"The Tough Girls of Hallstead" (or "The Girls That Broke My Heart" or vice-versa - Not!), "The Art of Dodging Trains and Flattening Pennies" and "Why You Should Never Tie Two Cat's Tails Together" (ok, that's a tattle better left untold, I guess).

Ya'll come back now, ya heah?

Aliens and Goblins and Ghosts, Oh, My!

 And Nessie and Bigfoot and etc., Oh, My, Again!

I am not a “BELIEVER”. Nor am I a “DISBELIEVER”. And I’m definitely not a “BELIEBER”.

It’s difficult to not be a believer in some things, like when I’m out on my boat under clear skies and calm winds and the sun is setting. Then, you have to believe in something. But, when it comes to most things “I believe in the possibility . . .”

I, personally, have never seen proof of UFOs or Aliens. But, I believe in the possibility of UFOs and Aliens. I am not so vain as to think that we are the only intelligent life in the entire universe. Actually, if we ARE the only intelligent life in the entire universe, the entire universe could be in serious trouble based on the news of the day. Besides, how could so many people be believers without some basis in fact?

I have never seen Bigfoot, and the television show about hunting him (she or it?) down has done nothing to convince me that he (she or it?) exists. I mean, if archaeologists can discover a full horse skeleton from the 1600s, why hasn’t at least a bone or two from a Bigfoot been found? But, I believe in the possibility. After all, it did take 400 years to find the horse skeleton and the television show has only been airing for a few seasons. Maybe they’ll produce proof by 2413.

Are there really ghostly spirits in the attic? How about the cellar? When I was 14, I was almost a believer whenever I went down into the cellar on those rickety wooden stairs under bad lighting. There was always water dripping down the stone walls causing the sump pump to occasionally kick in, even on the driest summer days. How could that be? Even the spring-well dried up once in a while. Talk about a perfect movie set for the most evil entity ever! Yet I never had my entrails strung along the makeshift wire runs or dissolved into a pool of muck on the floor. I did step in some muck once in a while. But that was probably only because one of the dogs managed to slip down the stairs without anyone noticing. But, I believe in possibilities. So many stories about Elm Street must have some basis in fact, I’m sure.

Karma is a real possibility. It is included in some religions as seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation. Speaking of reincarnation, SWMBO has a Boston terrier that is terrified of thunder, lightning and rain. Maybe, just maybe, Rosie is a reincarnation of a battlefield soldier that suffered PTSD before coming back. I don’t mean this sarcastically. After all, it would explain why she is fearless of bigger dogs and people, yet shakes uncontrollably at the first boom of the storm. I just don’t know, but it is one of the things that make me believe in the possibilities. And, if Karma and reincarnation really do go hand-in-hand, I’ll err on the side of increasing my chances, thank you very much.

Believe? Don’t Believe? Decide for yourself. When I have proof, one way or the other, I will too. Until then, I won’t laugh at anyone for what they believe in, because “I believe in the possibility . . .”

Physics 101 Part 1 - Gravity

Gravity is defined by Wikipedia as “. . . most commonly experienced as the agent that gives weight to objects with mass and causes them to fall to the ground when dropped.”

Several years ago I purchased a futon frame and mattress. I toted it home in my pickup truck and SWMBO and I quite handily carried the frame into the downstairs back room. I personally carried the mattress, with ease, from the truck to the frame. No big feat, there, as I was quite able to overcome the gravitational force upon the mass of the mattress.

Apparently, over time, the agent has increased, the mattress has gained mass or my fourteen year old grandson Austin is a beast.

The other day, I watched Austin toss the futon mattress over his shoulder and trot it up the stairs to its new resting place on the second floor. Just three days earlier, I had slid the mattress off the futon frame with the intention of doing the same. However, after struggling for about twenty seconds and not being able to pick it up, I spent the next eight minutes sliding it up off the floor back onto the frame.

I never got the memo! It was never in the newspaper (of course, I only get it on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday so it may have been in Monday, Tuesday, Thursday or Friday). Good Morning America never reported it and I watch it faithfully every morning (OK, only the first thirty minutes, but I would have thought news this big would have led the broadcast).

When did the force of gravity increase ten-fold or when did the futon mattress gain so much mass? One of those must surely be the reason why I couldn’t lift it over my shoulder and trot it up the stairs. Surely.

Physics 101 Part 2 - I wonder if I looked up “Theory of Relativity” I would see it defined as my grandson is a beast?

Fast Food Window Performance Anxiety!

I now have performance anxiety when I go to the drive-thru of the local fast food restaurant of a national chain. I won't name brands, this could have been any fast food window. Suffice it to say that I am NOT lovin' it!

I don't fancy myself a food critic and fortunately for everyone that isn't the point of this rambling.

There I am at the order station. The "May I take your order, please?" is mechanical but otherwise pleasant enough, I suppose. After all, the speaker system isn't 2013 Bose quality. Actually, it isn't 1950's drive-in theater quality, either. I actually achieve better sound quality with my iPhone 4S speaker enhancement system:

But, I digress (or ramble you might say).

Anyway, the phrase "You get what you pay for!" comes to mind. Several times as you'll soon see.

A simple order, I'm thinking. Two value-menu cheeseburgers; two value-menu cheddar-fried onion burgers; four value-menu cheeseburgers without the bun or toppings (just the meat and cheese, please and put all four of them in a single container). The first part of the order is for SWMBO; the second part of the order is for me; the third part of the order is for the Boston Terrier that doesn't eat buns or pickles (or flame-grilled burgers, either).

The tinny voice says "Please come to the first window to complete your order, I can't understand you."

I finish my explanation to the attendant at the first window and notice that there, posted for my edification, are the standards for ordering and paying for hamburgers. I say for my edification, because the signs are facing me, not the employee. Therefore, I must presume that these are the standards by which I will be measured for placing and paying for my order.

Thankfully, the employee does not outright embarass me for not meeting the standards for ordering. I breath a sigh of relief over the payment target because I'm using a credit card, not cash! Whew! And I am sent to the second window to pick up my order.

While the penalty for failure to meet the standards was not posted, it apparently includes waiting more than 10 minutes for an order of 8 dry gray mystery meat patties, four of which were  too small for their buns and the other four each neatly packaged in their own plastic covered serving platter. None of which was known to me until I got home and presented my foraging and gathering results to my family. Much to my embarrassment.

Again, I caution that I am not a food critic. I will simply let a picture be worth a thousand words - I introduce you to the cheddar-fried onion burger!

Let your imagination run wild over what other picures I could have gotten of the rest of the order. And don't grieve for the Boston, she had leftover roasted chicken breast cut to order.

I guess I've learned my lesson, again, about how I get what I pay for. But even more unnerving is that there are now standards by which I must measure up to place and pay for fast food.

But, don't worry, I won't ask you "How am I doing? Call 555-555-5555!"

What If It Just Needs a Little Tweaking?

I’ve read several papers that address the long lines experienced at the 2012 General Election. The general impressions I’m left with are that the problem was universally widespread and that a lot of things are broken and need to be fixed. The proposed solutions, many costly and requiring years to fully implement, may not actually solve the problem and, in some cases, may actually create new ones.

While this may seem to be backed up by some media reports, the success stories are not newsworthy so the intensity of the problem may be a bit skewed. Over all, in my humble opinion, we do a pretty good job of running elections with the restrictions and resources we have to work with. In fact, many polling places fared much better than reports would indicate and those that didn’t might benefit more from a simple tweak. A low or no cost tweak that could be implemented without Department of Justice pre-clearance, would apply to any and all polling places, would produce immediate results in all elections and maybe even go a long way toward relieving long lines at some of the polls.

The tweak is called Excellent Customer Service.

Since I’m well known for correlations, I won’t disappoint now.

Let’s look at operating polling places from a business viewpoint. A business measures its success by the bottom line which is the dollar bill in the till. A business improves the bottom line by providing valued product accompanied with Excellent Customer Service. Watch any of the television reality shows about a failing restaurant, bar or hair salon and you will quickly arrive at the same conclusions – the business is failing because of inferior product and unsatisfactory service. Once these issues are corrected, the failing establishment is quickly on its way to recovery.

The measure of a successful polling place is the ballot in the box and the ease with which a voter gets it there. How does a polling place improve the bottom line? By providing a valued product accompanied with Excellent Customer Service. Sound familiar? I wonder how a polling place would fare if Chef Ramsey (Restaurant Nightmares), Chef Irvine (Restaurant Impossible), Willie Degel (Restaurant Stakeout), Jon Taffer (Bar Rescue) or Tabatha Coffey (Tabatha Takes Over) were to take on the challenge of a polling place failure to deliver to voter’s expectations.

Although there is little local control over the product, a brief side discussion is warranted. If a restaurant menu doesn’t include enough choices, diners will dine elsewhere. On the other hand, a menu with too many choices leads to systemic failures in the kitchen which lead to diner dissatisfaction which results in a loss of business. So, too, a ballot without choices leads to voting apathy. Since there is no “elsewhere” to go to vote, voters choose to just not go. So, too, do pundits have it right when they say that a complicated ballot undermines the voting process. A ballot with too many choices, like complicated referendums on a ballot in a major election, leads to systemic confusion, delays and long lines. This discourages voters from continued participation in elections, especially new voters who are likely to stay away from future elections to avoid the frustration.

While there may not be a lot of control over the ballot at our level, certainly the voter experience can be influenced. Although some equipment logistics may need to be addressed, they are not going to be effective if customer service isn’t addressed. After all, even old and tired kitchen equipment can produce a satisfying dinner. I’ve heard (or said myself) numerous times that the food was well worth the wait. But if the service is below par, the food won’t matter because the diner will refuse to hang around long enough to taste it.

When it comes to customer service, everyone in a commercial establishment from the Owner, to the General Manager, to the Front of House Manager to the Wait Staff must be well-trained, communicate well and have a common goal in sight – Excellent Customer Service – in order to ensure satisfied customers, generate large tabs and tips, and lead to repeat business so that everyone makes a lot of money.

Applied to the voting process, everyone involved from the Electoral Board to the General Registrar and staff, to the Chief Officer, to the Officers of Election must be well-trained, communicate well and have a common goal in sight – Excellent Customer Service – in order to ensure satisfied voters, creates repeat business and make sure that all elections are meaningful by increased participation.

In order to provide Excellent Customer Service, you must study every interaction that affects a voter’s experience and take action to address each one to ensure the most positive experience. Do voters move through the polling place in a logical and efficient pattern or do they have to crisscross the room several times creating unnecessary delay and frustration? Are voters greeted with smiles and offers of explanation or assistance as they make their way through the stations or is it a minefield of unexpected unpleasant chance meetings? Sure, more pollbook stations will help, but that isn’t the end-all be-all solution. Are voters reminded to have their ID card out for the Pollbook Officer? Rummaging for an ID after they get to the pollbook table can back the line up quickly. Does the Pollbook Officer have their hand out in a taking gesture as the voter approaches? People react to visual stimuli. The gesture is universal for “give me” and they’ve been pre-conditioned as to what to give by the Greeter. Without a word said, the voter’s instinct is to hand over the ID. This approach to one simple interaction with each and every voter can change a real time waster and line management problem into a line mover. When there is an issue with the voter’s status that prevents immediate check in and ballot issue, is the problem dealt with at the register or sent to the customer service desk so that the register keeps on ringing – Oops!  Is the issue dealt with at the pollbook table or sent to the Chief so that the voter line keeps on moving through check in?

Studies abound on the effect on people of waiting in line. When a person that is waiting in line is consumed by their golf tee time or picking up their toddler at day care, a ten minute wait in line will seem like an hour. Distract that same person by engaging them in some other way (How about those Yankees?) and that hour wait only feels like ten minutes. Our brains have a funny way of dealing with things that would astound you, just watch Brain Games a couple of times and you’ll come to the same conclusion. A person left to stew over the wait time and allowed to develop line rage is much less likely to be as pleasant and cooperative at the pollbook table as a person who has had a pleasant interaction with an Officer of Election. Hand out paper towels on rainy election days or offer a folding chair to an elderly voter while they are waiting in line. Smile, provide an encouraging word, engage the voter in a friendly interaction. It comes down to the little things. Need proof? Go to any major theme park, wait in line for a ride, and allow yourself to be distracted by the videos and music while you wait. Oh, wait, you’re next already?

There are dozens of additional ways to ensure a positive experience by a voter. Are the practices in the polling place designed to provide excellent customer service as well as meet the requirements of law? Are the Officers of Election specifically trained in, and believe in, providing excellent customer service? Do they place the same priority on customer service as exists in the General Registrar’s office? Do they care enough to actively seek ways to improve the service provided to the voter? The answers to these questions will indicate where tweaking is necessary to solve issues that lead to long lines at the polls and make the wait more tolerable when long lines do occur. In many cases, maybe, just maybe, a simple tweak is all that’s really necessary and then those other more complicated and costly solutions can be targeted to those few specific instances that truly warrant them.

Tunnelitis

Ever notice how traffic slows upon approach to a tunnel? It's been explained as a natural human reaction to the "closing down" of the peripheral vision as you enter the tunnel. It's the culprit behind many a traffic deadlock between Peninsula and Southside or vice versa.

Complicated and expensive solutions have been postulated over and over. However, a simple and relatively inexpensive solution was proposed a long time ago that would solve the problem.

Install Christmas Tree Running Lights at the entrance to the tunnel, timed at 60 miles an hour. Your brain will try to keep up with the lights.

Need to slow traffic down due to maintenance or an accident? Slow the lights down to 25 miles an hour. Your brain will try to keep up with the lights.

Ever notice how traffic slows down upon approach to 2 lanes from 5 lanes? What if the lights were timed at 75 miles an hour at the 2 lanes and 65 miles an hour at the 5 lanes?

Ever notice how traffic slows down upon approach to 1 lane from 2 lanes and the driver behind you speeds up to pass you on the right only to slow down to less than the speed limit once in front of you and creating a traffic hazard? What if the lights they saw were blue and rotating?

AJ is Rambling, Again!

Just what everybody has been waiting for! A chance to see the inner workings of my mind!

Talk about an eclectic collection of thought processes. If you leave here as sane as when you entered, you will be the only one of us two. Now that I have an outlet for all the clutter in my brain, check back when you want to be entertained. Rants, raves and lunatic ramblings will be your reward.

I am a self-described anomaly. Short, fat, ugly, crude, rude, socially unacceptable, politically incorrect and lingquistically challenged initially comes to mind.

I'm the guy that answers the nurses question "How tall are you?" with the reply "Seven foot three."
                    Hey, it makes the weight seem just about right.

I'm the guy that answers the doctors "How are you?" with the reply "I was hoping you would tell me."
                   Hey, she has the answers to all the tests.

I'm the guy that responds to the supermarket cashier's "Have a nice day!" with the reply "Thanks, but I have other plans already."
                  Hey, it's my day, I'll do with it what I want.

And just in case you are the type to believe everything you read, forget everything I've written above.

I am actually a 6 foot 2 inch adonis with long lanky hair and six pack abs.

If you apply the "AJ is Rambling, Again" translator app to that statement, you'll get "I'm a 5 foot almost 4 inch white-haired old man with six pack abs (right behind the kegger belly).

But, I'm OK. Are you?

Enjoy.