50 is the New 22!

50 is the New 22! - One of the last things I remember from my Surprise 50^th Birthday Party was screaming this over and over again… until they asked me to leave.  I don’t say that any more.  These days I go by the old Mickey Mantle motto:  “If I’d known I was going to live this long, I would have taken a lot better care of myself.”

Listed below are a number of short experiences I’d like to share with you about being over 50 and a father of teenagers:

You know you’re in trouble when you have to seriously calculate the damage that you’ll do to yourself by having a fun night out.  Things like how many of your bodily functions will just cease to work, or which ones you’ll no longer be able to control for a day or so.

Fun on vacation: I’m chasing my kids around a fairly dangerous rock canyon under Yosemite Falls.  I really can’t keep up and it’s bugging the cr*p out of me.  At one point, to make it across a water way from one boulder to another, a complete stranger gives me a hand.  (I might have been able to make it on my own, but it was one of those situations that if I were wrong…not good at all.)  At dinner that night my son reminds me that if it weren’t for the stranger, I wouldn’t have been able to make it across the boulders.  Luckily for him, he was more than an arm’s length away.

I’m driving with my “Family” over Thanksgiving Weekend.  We go past an Assisted Living facility.  My wife nonchalantly says, “Oh, there’s a place we could put you.”  She and my kids burst into laughter.  I need to review my will…maybe hire a food taster, they still have those don’t they?

I had the opportunity to do a short training video for work.  They said the script I created was “EXCELLENT.”  The only problem was I couldn’t remember what I wrote.  When we were done, the girl mercifully said she could splice all of my “best” segments together.  I asked her if she was related to Houdini.  She asked me if I’d like to see the video.  I’m pretty self-centered, so I said sure.  She turns the camera around and hits the play button.  I could have sworn that my Grand Father was in the video talking to me.  I asked her if she knew that saying about how the camera put 10 pounds on you?  She replies, “Do you really think so?”  I said, “No, but it definitely adds 20 years.” 

And the "Piece of Resistance", I took the family to the movies to see Avatar.  My daughter was about 12, so I asked the woman behind the counter what the age cut off was for a child ticket vs. adult.  Her reply, "Well, what I can do for you is get "You" a senior ticket, that'll save you some."  Outside of, “Ah Sh*t!” I’m thinking to myself, I now know why they have these people sit behind thick glass with small openings.  It only gets better.  On the way in, my 14 year old son reminds me (I guess he thought I didn't hear the lady behind the counter – yeah right.)  He says with the biggest sh*t eating grin on his face, "Hey Dad, do you know that woman gave you a "Senior" ticket!” Being that I didn't want to spend the rest of my week in lock-up, I ignored him and walked into the theater.

The Friendly Proctologist:  This one I can’t claim as my own but it’s good.  It was a couple of days before New Year’s Eve.  A friend of mine (let’s say his name is “John”) had hit the 50 mark and it was time for a serious look-see in the hindquarters.  He’s bent over the examining table looking away from the doorway.  The doctor is “Deeply” involved in the exam, when my friend hears him ask, “So what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”  Massive Panic sets in as scenes from “Deliverance” start flashing through his mind in rapid fire.  Then, like an angel from above, he hears the Nurse (who walked in quietly after the exam began) respond to the doctor.

A Special Message about Chewing Tobacco

Gang, this story “Mercifully” is not about me, but a really great friend/person named Andy.  Andy’s older brother Ken is telling the story to Andy’s Daughter.  Andy and Ken spent over a week one summer traveling with a friend in a broken down station wagon through the National Parks of the West.  P.S. do not read this story right before or after a large meal.  So the story goes like this:

“When we left Wind River the second day, Steve Tarr was driving. Andy was riding shotgun, tending to the 8-track, chewing and spitting tobacco into his Bronco cup. Most guys use something smaller than a Big Gulp when they chew, but not Andy; he wanted to see how much saliva he could produce. Anyway, I was sitting in the middle of the back seat reading a coffee table book about Yellowstone that my sister Cathy gave me the previous Christmas. (Probably, it inspired the trip.) It was a warm day. All the windows were open as we cruised through the Big Horn Valley toward Cody. Leafing through the book, I’d occasionally comment on what we might do or see once we got to the park. At one point, Andy was fussing with the tape deck, so I looked up to give him further instruction in how to work it. With that sense of frustration some younger brothers feel when they’re corrected by an older one, Andrew sat back. Suddenly, a gust of wind caught his baseball cap, blew it back toward me, and as he instinctively grabbed for it with both hands, he also threw the cup of chew spit in his left hand in my direction.

Most of the brown wave landed below my chin, covered my neck and chest, and ricocheted downward onto the book, rendering it useless for all but the most Texican of coffee tables.

Judging by my screams, Tarr concluded that it was probably a good idea to pull over. The instant he stopped, I got out and stripped, choking back my own vomit while peppering your soon-to-be-father with a succession of very bad bowling words. Andy, whose famous “Uncle Buck” looks revealed his sincere regret, made a perfunctory effort to assist in the clean up, even though he didn’t want to touch the stuff either. For years, I took it as proof of his innocence.

But, now, as I write this little memoir, I’m getting signals from the Great Beyond that his actions that day may not have been as artless as I thought. Regardless of his intent, though (or lack thereof), this undoubtedly proved to be my least treasured moment with your father. But it’s exactly the reason I loved him so much.”

Folks, the lessons learned here?... not the least of which is that tobacco products are very dangerous; Forgiveness also comes to mind.

Always remember:  Hug your Family and Cherish the Good Times! 

How to get a Heart Attack for $4 a Gallon

So it’s the summer of 2008, the price of gas is over $4 a gallon.  I’m sitting in the backyard with my friend and fellow commuter Brian.  We’re having a few adult beverages watching my dog destroy our back yard.  It doesn’t get much better than this.  Brian and I are grousing about the price of gas. It’s an outrage.  There’s a glut of oil, yet the powers that be have determined that we all need to PAY through the nose!

One more beer and I have an epiphany.  I will Not PAY the MAN any more.  Enough is enough, it’s time to make a serious statement and stand up for something. 

To solve the gas crisis, I’ve decided that instead of driving to the train station every day, I’ll ride a bicycle the 4 miles there and back.  I still have a gift certificate to a local sporting goods store from my birthday last year.  (Right there, that should have been a signal)  I go to the sporting goods store and purchase a very cool black knapsack that can hold a laptop.  I’m done with the briefcase, I’m now Mr. Green.  And I will NOT be paying the MAN any longer!

The other side benefit is that I can get back into some sort of shape…who knows what I could make myself into doing 8 miles a day.

There was one little problem (and it’s not the fact that I need to wear a suit to work every day, which of course I had not thought through).  The problem was that I live on top of a mountain…in the morning its 4 miles almost straight down.  You go very fast.  Another neighbor who was an avid cyclist warned me that early in the morning, even in the summer, when you’re cruising at 50 mph…it gets nippy.  Okay, yeah fine…I survived.  

The return trip was a different story.

It’s now about 7PM, oh.. 87 degrees out, and the humidity is about the same…87%.  My 1978 Raleigh Team Sport 10 Speed bike is still at the train parking lot…what a shame.  I’m a little run down, but still kind of excited about getting my exercise and defeating Exxon.

I start out on relatively flat terrain and I’m cruising, my confidence is building.  I then run into a gradual incline which is causing me significant discomfort.  I blame it on the 30 year old technology I’m riding.  Then like Lance Armstrong I hit the base of the mountain and begin to shift into lower gears as my lungs begin to scream at me.  They were using a lot of four letter words.  It’s now pretty clear that even if this bike had negative gears, I’d still be in a world of hurt. (Usually at this point in the movies, the cyclist summons some supernatural power and its mind over matter, he fights through the agony and triumphs.  I can tell you right now, that’s a bunch of crap.)  At this point I’m drenched in perspiration and my lungs can’t process oxygen any longer.   I look down at my chest…it’s as if I have a pet rock in my breast pocket and he wants out….only that’s my heart bouncing off the walls of my rib cage. I’m now being passed by biking families with small children, people in walkers…. It’s not good.

I get home totally humiliated.  My family asks me if I stopped off to go swimming…with my clothes on.  Fortunately for them I only had enough breath to scream for paramedics.

I think I made my point…that one day…the price of gas did come down.  

I Win.

I go out for Printer Ink, I come home with a Cat

How does this happen…it does if your Staples is sitting right next to Petco.  So we’ve now upgraded.  We not only have a cat, but we also have a large hairy, smelly beast of a dog that likes to live in water.  So we’re set, right?  One dog, one cat, two kids, we even still have a hamster.  I’ve done my Fatherly duty, provided food, shelter, a generous helping of pets…I’m done.  Yeah right.

We’re heading off to the Staples for printer ink.  Right next door is the Petco, where we’re going to pick up a bag of greenies and the “Gentle Leader Collar” for our dog who at the time had a mind of his own while on walks. 

We’re at the Staples on line to check out and I tell my family, “Why don’t you go over to the Petco and pick up the stuff there and I’ll come over when I finish here.”  That was my first mistake.  

I finish paying and walk over to the Petco.  There’s a sign outside.  It’s says, “Adopt a Cat Sunday.”  Not sure if you’re old enough to remember, but there used to be a TV series called “Lost in Space.”  In the show there was a robot.  And if really bad sh*t was going to happen he could sense it, and he’d start flailing his arms and scream, “Danger Danger Danger.”  That’s exactly how I felt when I saw that sign.  I walk into the store and just as you come in there are stacks and stack of cages of cats and kittens.  My family is immersed in them.  I start to become apoplectic.  My daughter has multiple cats on her head and shoulders, my son is juggling cats, and my wife has stacks of adoption papers in her hands.  This is not good at all.

I compose myself and with the mental agility of a super hero, I dart into the Petco without being noticed and devise a plan.  The plan is: I’ll buy the items we need, sneak out to the car, and just not come back in.  They’ll eventually need to leave and when they’re out of the store I’ll scoop them up and make my escape.

I pick up the bag of greenies, I go down the aisle for the “Gentle Leader Collar” and get the last one in my dog’s size.  I’m now on line to check out….I’m almost on top of my family, but they’re too busy with the cats and cat people that they don’t notice me.  I’m almost home free, when the cashier notices that there is no price tag on the collar.  Want to see somebody’s heart sink.  I see the cashier pick up the overhead speaker and request assistance:  “Could I get a price check on the “GENTLE LEADER COLLAR?”  I cringe.  My family is awakened.  They start to look up in the air and then quickly spot me at the counter.  They enlighten me about how lucky we are to have stumbled across these Free Cats.  I dig in.  My feeling is, “Hey, we have a dog, we have a cat, even a hamster.”  Are we looking to build an Arc?  We don’t NEED another cat.

So this cat’s an even a better bargain.   The cat people have arranged to have her all fixed up at their Vet for next to nothing.  The only possible catch is they give her an “aids” test.  If she tests positive, they’ll just put her to sleep right then.  They tell us they’ll call and give us the test results.  I’m home alone one night and there is a flashing new message on the answering machine.  It’s the Vet’s office.  The kitten has a clean bill of health, we can pick her up any time we want.

Now this thought only passed through my mind for a very brief moment…but I was thinking…if I erase this message and just tell my family things didn’t work out….I’m home free.  Then my mind switch to the Express Elevator to Hell I’d be taking if I were to do something like that.  I decide that two cats and a dog might be a little less painful.

When to Ask for Help

A while ago, when I still had a shred of pride about any kind of athletic skills I might possess, I was in Hawaii and had the opportunity to learn how to windsurf from a co-worker, Diane.  That week there were reports of two people that went swimming too far out.  They couldn’t make it back and were eaten by sharks. 

Diane was teaching me how to windsurf, and as I continually fell off and got back on the @#$% board we drifted out quite a distance.  I finally had enough fun and it was time to head back in.  The plan to get back was she’d windsurf the board, and I’d just hang on the back.  Unfortunately whatever I was doing kept knocking her off the board.  So I said, (being the manly man that I am…was)  “You go ahead, I’ll swim back.”  (I almost burst out laughing when I read that statement now.) 

We’ll cut to the chase here:  Ocean current very strong / Steve very weak…I’m headed out to sea. 

Now just a touch of panic sets in as I realize there is ABSOLUTELY No Way I’m making it back in.  And I’m not within shouting distance of anyone…other than the Sharks (Of course if I was going to call for help, that would also presuppose I have any breath left).

Then (in what can only be considered a true act of God) I see a rowboat with lifeguards speeding by.  They’re headed out to pick up someone else who is out past me and in trouble.  On their return trip they come by me.  One of the lifeguards looks at me with an inquisitive face.  It could be that he doesn’t want to insult me, but he asks, “Do you need help?”  I never cease to amaze myself.  But for a split second, I almost said, “No, I’m okay.”   Fortunately there was a guy in my head named Survival.  He picked up a large shovel and put Mr. Pride’s lights out.

So with absolutely no self-esteem left what so ever, I swim to the rowboat.  My arms at this point were like led weights, it’s amazing I didn’t just sink to the bottom.  They might as well have gaffed me.  That would have been a lot less embarrassing than the maneuver they used to roll me into the boat.  The ride back is quiet...having been neutered and all.  I turn and ask the lifeguards, “So, how many idiots like me did you pick up in week?”

How I Got a Cat for Father's Day

So its Father’s Day and we decided to head to the local farm/garden center and pick up some ‘Shrubbery” to plant.  It’s a big place and you can easily lose family members as you check out the farm animals, plants, trees, and their store.  But I’m leading the charge.  We’re going to get in and get out.  As we’re walking down a path, there are two young teen-age girls and they have a box of kittens.  The box actually says “Free Kittens.”  I turned and looked at them, and as I did, I unintentionally blocked my family from seeing them.

Then in what can only be described as a complete breakdown in mental capacity, I said to my wife, “Hey Joanie, look, a box of kittens.”  Sometimes things happen in your life that can actually enable you to measure the speed of light.   At the exact moment I finished speaking, my senses came roaring back.  I tried to grab the air that my words were floating off on and jam them back down my throat.  After that the next hour became a senseless blur.  The only thing I can remember is saying the word “No” about sixty thousand times as my wife and kids rushed over to the box.  For a short time I thought I was going to be stuck starting my own cat farm.

They picked out one male black cat “kitten.”  For the next 19 minutes I said, “No” in every conceivable way.  By the 20^th minute we owned a “Free” cat.  That was the first of many lies about Jack the Cat.  Our first vet bill addressed the “Free” notion.  Then there was the 20 minutes of promises that my kids made about taking care of the cat.  You won’t have to do a thing Dad…..HA!

I never owned a cat, but what I learned is that you really can’t, or shouldn’t play with them like puppies.  My wife warned me, but of course I knew better.  Yes puppies have sharp teeth, but nothing compared to cats.  And then with cats you have the ever popular “Wolverine” feature where their claws become weapons of mass destruction.   Picture this:  You’re gently wrestling with the little guy, waving your hand in front of him.  The CLAWS come out and with lightning speed he punctures and hooks the tip of your pinkie.  If that’s not bad enough, you’re now trying to calm him down so he’ll release.  But he’s getting super p*ssed off because he can’t get his claw unhooked….from your flesh.  So he starts flailing his paw like a maniac in frustration.  I can now confirm the belief that the tips of your fingers are one of the most sensitive parts of your body.  But I forgave him, that was my fault.  I should have known better.  But what I won’t forgive him for is when I used to come home at night, he’d jump up on my dresser put his paws on my shoulders and start licking my chin.  I thought, okay, he’s trying to make up for the pinkie and the transfusion I needed.  But what I didn’t realize is that his was just tenderizing me.  After about 5 licks he sinks his four saber teeth into my chin.  The pain was so intense that it brought tears to my eyes and I almost lost consciousness.

Over the years we’ve lost some cleaning people, but we still have Jack the Cat….and he still has all of this teeth, paws, and claws.   We’re the only people in town who have a sign in front of their house that says, “Beware of Cat”

Now You Are a Judo Student

When I got out of college my career as a public accountant crashed at take off.  Same basic problem with my next job as a forklift driver.  Casino Control Commission...a bad fit.  So my next employment opportunities brought me back to my Dad’s house in Bergen county for a while.  I was bored out of my mind and getting no exercise so I decided to take up Judo.  The guy who ran the place was a nice guy but really into Martial Arts.  Not only was he like a triple knot Judo Black Belt, but he was also a multi-level Black Belt in Karate. 

Judo is very much like wrestling, only instead of wearing the fitted Karate like Fight’n PJs, you wear a heavy coat-like garment.  The main purpose of the heavy coat is to enable you to easily grab, throw, and CHOKE your opponent.  (I always had an issue with the Choking part.  It just ran against some deep-rooted belief system inside of me - am I really going to potentially kill this guy?)

I was a pretty good wrestler in high school so I was able to have my way with just about every student in the class.  The teacher (Sensei) would constantly tell me, “Less Wrestling, More Judo.”  And I would respectfully acknowledge his instructions and then conveniently go back to what I’d been doing….because it was easy and I was always winning.

That all changed one day.   Sensei decided on this day that I’d be his rag doll, I mean practice partner.  I was about 6 feet tall and weighed about a buck85.  He was about 5 feet 5 inches tall and probably weighed less than 135 pounds.  In a short period of time I learned a really good rule to live by:  “Don’t go out of your way to p*ss people off that can easily hurt, kill, or maim you.”

When we locked up I had my hands on his upper arms.  It felt like I was holding onto two think chunks of Steel.  (At this point a lot of things are running through my head, like I’m about to fight a very angry Terminator cyborg…or more plainly, I’m about to get my *ss severely kicked.) I thought about screaming for help, but I was too busy fighting off losing my limbs and vital organs.   Sensei then grabbed the thick collar of my Fight’n PJs and began choking me.  (Unlike me, he had no problems whatsoever applying lethal force)   At a certain point I thought to myself, "Is this guy kidding?" When it became apparent, by the lack of oxygen going to my brain, that he wasn’t, I decided that a quick change in plans might be in order.  I thought I saw a path out and was trying desperately to twist out of his death grip.  (Think:  007 about to be put away by a much larger, stronger, more powerful opponent, but at the last moment he comes through with a trick move that saves the day…only my opponent was much smaller than me)

I’m out of my mind straining now and I think I can see daylight…until,.. the next thing I remember is Sensei smacking me continually on the back as I regain consciousness.  As I come to, Sensei is looking me straight in the face.  He says, “NOW You Are a Judo Student.” 

The Ski Lesson

Our kids had finally gotten to an age where they were ready to learn how to ski.  Both my wife and I had enjoyed skiing when we were younger, but for one reason or another hadn’t gone in over 10 years.  And we now had the perfect small hill close by our house in PA.  So we drive to the Ski Barn to rent all of the equipment and accessories necessary to get them on their way. 

The place is packed and there's equipment and paraphernalia all over the place.  Also the temp is miserable, it feels like a Turkish Bath.  Just finding a place to stand, let alone getting help is a struggle.   Trying to get a child to understand how a ski boot should or should not feel for the first time is a painful time consuming challenge all by itself. Naturally my kids are perfect angels, and they’re doing everything in their power to make this process as simple as possible.  I can feel my blood pressure begin to boil.   

We finally get the kids all set and we’re ready to go.  My wife decides that since they’re having a sale and her equipment is old, now would be a good time to get new stuff.  You might as well have told me that my seat on the last rowboat off the Titanic had been taken, “Oh Mr. Risavy, we’ll need to see you back inside the insane asylum a bit longer.”  Now my kids are way past their expiration date.  They’ve made a game of running past, climbing on and destroying anything that looks expensive.  All the employees that couldn’t be found when I needed help are now letting me know that I should have a better handle on my kids – Thanks! 

After what seems like an eternity in purgatory, my wife finishes up with all her new wares and asks me if I want to get new equipment.  I tell her, “I’d rather be lit on Fire!”  Which wouldn’t be a stretch considering temp in the building.  At this point I’m a volcanic sweating mush puddle.  I NEED fresh air and a lot of alone time.  In my infinite wisdom, I decided that I'd just use my "vintage" 1988 ski equipment as opposed to waiting on line for new stuff.  I figured, "Hey I'm going to be doing the bunny hill for a year.... who needs new gear."  I’m saving money and my sanity…this is a good decision.  My wife thinks I’m crazy.  But of course, I know better. 

So I haven't touched this gear in over ten years.  It's been sitting

in my basement all this time.  The night before we're about to ski I decide "now" is a good time to dust the equipment off and make sure everything fits.  I FEEL like the same person, why wouldn’t the equipment fit the same.   (For the record, plastic and moldy basements can be problematic.)

As I put on the boots I notice major cracks forming over the tops of the foot part of both boots.  This is not a great sign, but I won't be deterred.  I’m still thinking this will be low impact skiing, (and solidifying my position – there’s no time left to rent anything and more importantly, I can’t be proven wrong)

I quietly grab a big roll of silver duct tape and "fix" the problem.  (Duct tape and I go way back.  I once used duct tape to hold my 1969 Karman Gia AKA “Silver the Wonder Car” together.  That was until the headlights fell out on the NJ Turnpike going 65mph)

Being that my boots are gray, it doesn't look too bad.... or so I think.  (There are benefits to losing your hearing…it’s a lot more difficult to hear laughter behind you.)

Now the day of skiing comes – Very Exciting!  We pull into a crowded parking lot, and my wife takes our two kids (with their new rental gear) and heads off for passes and a lesson.  I tell them I'll catch up. Now I'm putting my mended ski boots on.  I notice the cracks in my boots enlarging as I force my feet into the boots, a mild level of panic rises.  But once my feet are all the way into the boots, the plastic goes back together.  I figured, "Geez that was a close one, I'm okay now though."  My ski gloves are on the opposite side of our van, so I walk around the van to get them.  As I'm walking back I notice small and large chunks of sharp gray plastic in my path.  (For a split second I'm thinking more duct tape... I can still do this).  Then I see the whole plastic sole of one of my boots on the pavement... I take another step and half of the other breaks off too.  I’ve now come to the realization that I'm doomed; there isn't enough crazy glue or duct tape in the world to save this fiasco.  Now I'm frantically trying to pick up more and more large sharp pieces of plastic from the parking lot pavement. As a car tries to pull into the spot next to me, I have to explain to him that my ski boots have just disintegrated and unless he waits for me to pick up the pieces, he's guaranteed four flat tires.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in my sneakers pushing my kids half way up the bunny hill and chasing down after them.

Motorcycles = Danger

When I was 23 I learned a valuable lesson.  That I learned anything at 23 is amazing because at the time I believed I was bulletproof.  I was living in South Jersey and hanging with a group of guys that all had motorcycles, except me.  A Kawasaki 650 or better was kind of like your entry card into the club.  I had two problems.  One, I had no money and two; I didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle.  I could get around the money issue, I’d just take another auto loan at 18+% like I currently had on my car….problem solved.

The learning how part was a different story and was solved like this:

During that summer a housing construction project was going on in the pine barrens and they had just bulldozed the street outlines through the woods.  This left a perfect motor-cross track.  One of our friends had a racing motorcycle.  So everyone was taking turns on it blazing trails.  Finally at one point the guy who owned the bike asked me if I wanted to try.  It looked simple enough, no cars coming the other way to cream me, and we were starting at the top of a hill.

What happened next as much as it almost took my life, probably saved me in the long run.  Picture being on top of a hill, that if you go straight ahead, you’ll have a gradual decline.  But, to your left is a sheer 15 or 20-foot cliff, with a good size tree running up along the side of it.  I sit on the bike; grab the brake (very important to know where that is) and the throttle.  Without being in gear, I rev the throttle a couple of times and everyone around me, almost in unison says, “Wo-Wo-Wo, you don’t want to give it that much gas to start or you’ll pop a wheelie. (very sound advice).  So I rev it again and everyone is in agreement, this is much better and I seem to have the hang of it. (They were all wrong).  It’s too late though because the adrenaline is flowing and I’m ready for launch…literally.   I must have had a brain fart, because it appeared that I skipped back to my first revision of throttle control.  I engage the rocket engine that ‘s attached to the scraps of metal I’m sitting on and the missile is off.  What happens next, all took place in less than 10 seconds, but will always be irrevocably etched into the gray matter that sits on top of my shoulders.  I IMMEDIATELY pop a wheelie, which throws me back.  In doing so, I’m now pulling back on the throttle even more, pouring a small reservoir of gas into the engine.  I’m now moving at Mach 9.  Simultaneously, I’m squeezing the brake as hard as I can, but what I learned the hard way is that on a motorcycle, the throttle is like a super hero in strength compared to the brake.  It’s almost like the brake is really only there for show, it doesn’t really have to do anything.  I race on one wheel for about 10 feet or so with my legs flailing like a rag doll.  Then, for whatever reason (like I’m driving this rocket ship at this point?) I hit a hard left and jump off the cliff.  As I’m sailing through the air, I come so close to the huge pine tree I can almost smell the sap.  I land on one wheel go another 15 feet and wipe out in a large ditch.  I get up, check all major and critical body parts and look for my “friends.”  They’re all lying on the ground up on top of the hill.  They’re laughing so hard they can’t stand up.  They tell me, “Steve, in 7 seconds you did the three things you can do on a motorcycle.  You popped a wheelie, you did a jump, and you wiped out.”  So now we’re on level ground.  We’ve reattached the gas line that came undone during my 7 second mission to break the land speed record, and they ask me if I want to try it again.  After a brief battle controlling a stammer, I say, sure.  I get on the bike, ride it once around the track, hand it back over… and I’ve never been on a motorcycle since. 

Advice on How to Keep Your Toes

Advice on Keeping your Toes.....

Gang, as much as we all have ten fingers and ten toes, (lots of

spares) I now consider myself an expert on how to lose a few of each.

Last summer's Swiss Army Knife pre-vacation debacle where I tried my best to lose a finger due to sheer laziness and stupidity wasn't enough.

I recently went after the toes.

This year's advice goes something like this:  "Never, I repeat: NEVER  use a power string weed whacker wearing flip flops, while in a hurry."

Or put another way, "Don't do Lazy - Stupid Things!"

So I'm weed whacking....Lots and lots of weed whacking.  (Most other people would get a small lawn mower, but that would mean having to lug it around, a lot of gas, blade sharpening, tune-ups, the whole nine yards.  I’m simplifying..minimizing.  The weed whacker will do just fine.)  I’m on a mission and as I blaze new trails with my whacker quite often I’m getting pelted in the face with flying grass, weeds and other chunks of debris.   Sometimes these small missiles are coming very close to the eyes.  And I'm thinking to myself...”I have a pair of safety glasses and it probably would be a very good idea to put them on and save my eyesight.”  But that would mean dropping the weed whacker...walking around, finding the glasses...probably have to clean them.  I'll have none of that, much too big a waste of time.  You’re probably thinking, “Well he must have had something very important to get to if he’s willing to risk his eye sight.”  And that my friends is the really fascinating part: Absolutely Nothing Going On!  But if something were to pop up, I’d probably be ready…that’s if I could see.

Now I'm just about done.  I'm coming down the home stretch and I really just want this task to be over.  I'm using wide strokes as I swing the whacker side to side to get the last bit of grass.  Then I notice that I'm actually standing on some high grass and in the extreme height of laziness and stupidity figure, “I'll just finesse this last bit and manicure the grass around my feet...with the weed whacker.”  Sometimes good judgment eludes us.  What I failed to realize was that I didn't have a scalpel in my hands (Thank God for small favors) and I was tired and getting just a little sloppy.  And maybe if I had looked down at my feet hard enough I would have noticed I didn't have sneakers or shoes on...... By the time I came to that realization, it was a little too late.  Actually, it was way too late.  All I can tell you is that thick nylon string whirling at about Mach 7 can lash you quite a few times prior to have the ability to react in what can only be summed up as defense in slow motion.

Its funny how your family members can sense when something is wrong.  As opposed to last summer when at midnight I was standing in our bathroom with my finger gashed open and hoping that a little pressure might fix everything....  This time I was a bit more obvious.

First there was the discontinuation of the weed whacker motor, and then a streaking flash of pain running for the outside faucet.  If you open up Webster's Dictionary and look under the word, "Sting" there is now a picture of me... having almost whacked off the first two toes on my right foot.

The Good news is that I did not need to embarrass myself further by having to make a trip to the emergency room or see the neighborhood doctor.  It could just be my paranoia, but lately I get double-takes from anyone I walk by that happens to be in the medical field.  It’s almost like they want to say, “Hey, don’t I know you?”

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.  Stay Safe, Stay Insured,  Steve

P.S.

I got a speeding ticket late Friday night for going 58 in a 40 zone...I'm on a roll.

What I did on My Summer Vacation or.... why do we need 10 fingers

What I did on my Summer Vacation

I learned a very important lesson:  You can be lazy, or you can be stupid, but you can not be lazy and stupid at the same time,…. or bad things will happen to you.

Over the Summer we had a family vacation that my wife had been planning for months.   We flew out to San Diego, rented a mini-van and over 13 days drove up the coast of California, stopping at various places along the way.  Nice Trip.

Being the ultimate planner that I am, the night before our flight I decided to pack.  It was just before midnight and I asked my wife what to bring.  She said mostly shorts and tee shirts, but why don’t you also bring one pair of jeans just in case it gets cold or we go out some place that requires pants.  I mostly have ratty jean, but I remember from a year ago my wife had bought me two new pairs of jeans and they were still in the gift box in the bottom of my closet.  I pulled out the pair I wanted but noticed it still had the security hunk of plastic attached to it.  So much for security.

But I remember once before I had this happen to me and I was able to pry it off with a screwdriver (After the fact I remembered it was actually a hack saw I had used).

Anyway I was too lazy to go down into my basement to get a screwdriver.  But on my bedroom dresser was my EMC 20th anniversary Swiss Army Knife.  (Keep this one thought in mind if you ever think of using a Swiss Army Knife….the blade does NOT have a lock)

So I have the knife in one hand and the piece of plastic in the other…. I’m staring down at them and thinking to myself, “This isn’t a great idea.”  But again, I was too lazy…and stupid.  I wedged the tip of the knife in a crack in the plastic and began to apply pressure…. lots of pressure.  That is until, as you can well imagine at this point, the blade of the knife closed violently on my finger. 

I immediately dropped everything and put my finger in my mouth.  The very first thing that came to my mind was, “How could I have been so STUPID, I must be certifiable.” And then another thought came very quickly after it: “My wife is going to Kill Me!”

Then I thought to myself, maybe this isn’t so bad.  To test the theory I took my finger out of my mouth and applied pressure to the wound for a few seconds… and then let go.  Picture this:  Remember the very old Saturday Night Live episode where Dan Aykroyd is playing Julia Child in the kitchen and he cuts his finger and blood is spiraling out of control….  That was pretty close.

So now I have my hand wrapped around my finger and my wife walks into the bathroom.  (When we go on vacation my wife IS the ultimate planner and task master…very driven) She can tell something’s not right…could have been the over abundance of blood on the floor.  She asks very inquisitively, “What’s going on?”  Sheepishly I say, “Well we have a slight problem.”  When I show her my finger, I get the, “How did this happen!”  And it kind of went down hill from there until we both realized we were in this together. 

Our kids pediatrician lives about 4 blocks away and my wife is pretty good friends with her, so she called her.  She was out with friends, but was on her way back and said we could either sit in the Emergency Room for 3 or 4 hours or she’d stop by in about 45 minutes and take a look.  If need be, she’d take us to her office and stitch me up….which is what we did.

Once I was stitched up, (hit a blood vessel along the way, not good) and had a tetanus shot, she said, “You can’t get the finger wet for 4 days and very important the stitches have to come out in 8 days max, otherwise bad things happen when you try to remove them.”  Problem was we were going to be in California during that time somewhere along Big Sur.  Fortunately, our stop right after Big Sur was to see a friend I grew up with and his family.  My friend Mike’s wife is a nurse practitioner doctor and I thought Lisa can take them out….problem solved.  So that was the plan. 

Fast Forward to Big Sur (amazing place): While we were in Big Sur, I had next to no Cell or BlackBerry connectivity…an absolutely great thing.  But I finally got a message from my friend Mike.  He couldn’t host us the Monday night we had planned as his company had just been bought and he wasn’t going to be around.  Cr*p, now what to do about the stitches? 

We finally make our way into San Francisco and check into a hotel down by the wharf.  I walked up to the concierge the first morning, explained by situation and asked him if they had a hotel doctor.  He says, “Sure, Doctor  Savage can help you.”  From his tone it almost seemed like Dr. Savage was right down the hall in room 102.  Unfortunately this was not the case.  Dr. Savage was down by Union Square.  The concierge gave me his phone number and said just give him a call and he’d be able to fix you up.  So I call the number and sure enough it’s Dr. Savage that answers the phone….which I thought was kind of odd, middle of the morning and a doctor in the city is answering his own phone.  He asks me when I want to come in.  I said how about this afternoon.  He says sure any time after 3PM.  My spider senses are tingling.  This is too easy.

So we decided to make an event out of it and take a trolley car ride over the hill and down to Union Square.  An FYI here, the pictures you see of people leisurely jumping on the trolley car as its moving are a myth.  The real situation is, you wait on line as is you’re at Disney trying to get on Space Mountain.  And you’re jammed into the trolley like a sadine for one of the worst rides of your life.

We arrive at Dr. Savage’s office and I’m thinking we’re going to be waiting around for at least 2 hours as he tries to inject me into his schedule.  I open the door to his office and there’s nobody there but a girl sitting behind the counter.  I explain who I am and ask, “Is this Dr. Savage’s office?”  She says yes, come in and she ushers me into an examination room.  She tells me the Doctor will be with me shortly.  As my family tells it, sitting out in the waiting room: about 30 seconds after I entered the examination room, Dr. Savage bounces through the door to his office.  He’s got two large cups of coffee in his hands and the ipod ear buds lodged in his head.  He literally bounces into the examination room, we introduce ourselves and he begins looking at my finger.  He was a small man, probably in his forties, but he looked like he worked out with weights a lot.  I noticed that the skin on his hands was very tight and puffy.  It looked as if someone had taken a hypodermic needle and injected his hands with air.  I thought, “Why would that be, isn’t that kind of odd?”  He asks me what I do for a living.  I explain I work for EMC and we do computer data storage….and before I can complete my sentence he starts talking (almost in a giddy mad scientist way) about how, “We’ve figured out if we transfer all the information in your brain at 2TB an hour it would take about 2 to 3 weeks to complete….that’s after we clone you,….and then the rest would be new information.”  He’s half laughing as he says this, and he now has a very sharp instrument in his hand.  I don’t know whether to laugh along with him or just keep quiet, but I’m thinking to myself, “Buddy, all you have to do is cut those stitches out and I’ll be out of here before you know it….it’ll be like I was never even here.”

We finish up, I’m no worse for the wear, but as I’m leaving the examination room and paying, (P.S. Dr. Savage does not take insurance, so that’s $200 I’ll never get back.  I also owe our neighbors a dinner for my midnight escapade) I notice there are numerous pictures of Dr. Savage on the walls of his office with every big movie star you can think of. (Note: in all the pictures, Dr. Savage has a very slight build)  There’s Steve Martin, Will Smith, Brad Pitt, you name it….  As it turns out, Dr. Savage is the doctor on call when hotels in the city need someone and or if someone is making a movie in San Fran, the Screen Actors Guild calls him if someone is injured.  Very colorful guy, told us who pays and who doesn’t.

Anyway so you’d think I learned my lesson.  I get home, and the yard needs work, we’ve been away for almost two weeks.  I do that and open up the wound some… not big deal. Then I notice there is a tree branch I’ve been wanting to take down for some time.  So I get my telescoping tree trimmer out, the kind that has the large sharp curved blade on the end.  I also get an 8 foot step ladder out.  I extend the pole out as far as it will go, and get to the top of the safest step on the ladder.  I’m about 6 inches away from being able to complete the job.  I think to myself, “If I’m careful and just get to the top of ladder for a short time, I can finish this job.”  (Ya know, I’d like to think I’m fairly bright and I did graduate from the College of Knowledge, but I really amaze myself sometimes).  So I did it.  I’m on the very top of the ladder, sharp instrument in hand.  Naturally, the ladder starts to sway back and forth…  Finally, it kicks in exactly why I should be institutionalized.  I come to my senses, throw the tree-pruning spear in the opposite direction that the ladder is falling and land on the ground without incident.  (At last count I think I have four lives left).  I grab the ladder and the spear and walk back up to the garage and come to the conclusion that someone with better equipment, and who’s not a psycho can do this job.

I’m proud to say, that since that last incident, I think I’ve taken a much more sane approach to every day tasks.  I’ve grown.

Crap Dads Do - The Friday Night Commute Home

The Friday Night Commute Home

So I needed to make the New Jersey Transit 5:16 train to get to a Chiropractor appointment.  I get back to the office with enough time to pack up and head downstairs to catch the train in Penn Station.

I decide to make a pit stop at the restrooms before I go.  As I’m about to walk in, I hear a tapping on the glass doors that lead to the elevator banks.  (I’m thinking: I’m in a hurry, do I really have the time to potentially explain to someone why he or she can’t come in to our offices unescorted.)   I break down, do the “right” thing and walk to the glass doors.  I couldn’t have made a worse mistake.  It’s my boss’s boss, and he’s in a chatty mood.  I finally extricate myself from conversation; head back to my desk, grab my stuff and head out.  I check my watch; it’s now 5:12.

As much as my building sits on top of Penn Station, I’ve never made a train in 4 minutes.  But I’m thinking, “I’ve got to make a run for it as I have this appointment to make.”    (At the same time, I have demons chiding me because in the back of my mind I’m thinking Chiropractology is really some black magic art that is actually a waste of money….but I’m still going, and I have major stress over it.  How sadly ironic and normal;-}).

I race to the kitchen and grab my long ice pack out of the refrigerator freezer (it’s stuffed in an old gym sock).  I head to the elevator banks.  I see a guy standing in the center of all the elevators, head down working his blackberry.  I think, “Great, he must have hit the down button already, an elevator will show up momentarily, and I’ll be on my way.”      To my EXTREME disappointment, he hasn’t hit the down button.  Now, I’m standing there for what seems like an eternity waiting for an elevator.  There are 8 elevator banks and not one is anywhere in site.  I think what are the @#$%^& mathematical chances that this could happen?  Come On…8 elevators!   Then my frustration turns on the guy still working his blackberry.  I’m thinking what kind of idiot stands in an elevator bank on a Friday night, and doesn’t just hit the down button as a matter of course.  I’m thinking they should create a law to make that an obligatory action, and those that do not comply should be dealt with severely.

An elevator finally arrives.  I get on and in my mind, it’s got to be the only elevator working.  I look at the clock in the elevator and it says 5:14….I have two minutes.  As we stop on EACH floor, and people mosey on over to the elevator I can feel the acid pouring into my stomach.  The best though are the people who come on the elevator who are still having a conversation with people not coming on.  They straddle the doorway, and say to the person, outside the elevator, “Oh I’ve got to go, people are waiting”…..then they continue to talk.  I think to myself, “If I had a tazer gun at this point….would I use it?” 

As the elevator begins to make it’s landing, I decide to make a public service announcement to my captive audience.  I explain that normally, I let women, children, or anyone challenged–mentally or otherwise, get off elevators before me.  I go on to explain that’s not going to happen tonight.  I have a situation and I’m going to need to be extremely rude.  I apologize up front. 

The elevator arrives at the ground floor, and now I’m like OJ running through the airport with my knapsack on.  I make multiple apologies as I bob and weave through the crowds to get to the ground floor of Penn Station.  As I near the end of a staircase, I jump the last 5 stairs to get to the NJ Transit waiting area.  I’m a raving lunatic.  Oh and did I mention, I have a neck brace on during this race.   Suit, glasses, knapsack, neck brace - So not only am I a raving lunatic, I look like one too.  I fully expect the security forces that man Penn Station to tackle and cuff me. 

(If only my Chiropractor could see me now). 

I look at the big board for my train.  It’s actually the 5:17 Gladstone (I have a whole extra minute…an eternity in train time).  It’s flashing on the screen, “All Aboard” on Track 2.   (Little piece of information: For NJ Transit Trains at Penn Station there are two tracks per staircase/escalator.)  I race across the crowded waiting area floor and decide to go down the steps as opposed to blowing by people on the escalator.  The steps switch back multiple times before you get to the actual train platform, and by the time I get there I’m totally disoriented.  And to add to my confusion, the track numbers have been ripped off the wall at the base of the steps.  I race around to the trains like a whirling dervish and see a conductor standing outside a train.  At the same time I see on the wall that he’s standing up against are the track numbers.  They say, Tracks 3 & 4.  Not Good at All.  In my hurry, I’ve run down the wrong stairs.  The conductor looks at me and asks what train do you want?  (He’s probably praying that this lunatic is not going to be on his train.)  I say, “The 5:17!”  He says, “I don’t think you’re going to make that one.” 

For a split second I gave up.  Then in desperation, I turned around and headed back up the steps.  I think I was counting on that extra eternal minute and divine intervention. 

I race up the steps (much like racing up Glacier Point in Yosemite….I wish), I then race down the escalators onto Track 2.  All the doors of my train are closed but the train has not left yet.  I’m outside the back of the train, running forward.  There are two others stragglers with me.  We’re trying to get the attention of a conductor who can re-open the doors for us.  We get to two of them and they’ll have no part of it.   They’re acting like we’re not even there.  Then in the back of my mind, I remember the head conductor on this train is an older gentleman named Bob.  He’s very friendly and always helpful.  I’m thinking my last chance is: “I’ve got to get to Bob!”  But Bob is always in the front car.  I run like I have a Grizzly Bear chasing me and get to the doorway that Bob is manning.  He sees me and waves good-bye.  (just joking) Bob puts his key in the door and lets me and two other people on the train.  It takes off a split second later. 

Bob will be rewarded at Xmas.

So now I’m completely drenched.  There’s not a part of my body that hasn’t got perspiration pouring out of it like a waterfall.  The train is very crowded.  I go looking for a victim to sit next to.   In the final front car I see a woman sitting comfortably by herself.   That’s going to end shortly.  To her horror, I say, “Excuse me.”  and sit down next to her.  Out of my knapsack, I pull my old gym sock that holds my ice pack, put it on my neck and settle in for the ride home.

I made the appointment… and still question if it’s really helping.  Enjoy the weekend!