So You Want a Dog for Christmas...

So we have Snowy the Hamster, we have Jack the Cat, and every once in a while I try to start another tropical fish tank. But invariably they turn green and I just haven’t got the time to figure out why.  The family now wants a dog…a puppy…how cute.  I couldn’t be more against it.  I have nothing against dogs.  Growing up I went through three dogs.  It’s just that the overhead involved is mind numbing.  For starters, they don’t take care of themselves.  If the cat is any indication of how much help I’ll get with the dirty work, I think I’m going to have to cut out meals if I’m going to find the time to take care of this pooch.   (Oh, and some very direct advice about introducing your dog to your hamster – Do Not!  I think the experience took at least 6 months off poor Snowy’s life.)

The wife does a ton of research and she decides on a Golden Retriever.   As a really sad last-ditch attempt at avoiding this oncoming train wreck to my sanity, I saw an extremely life-like golden retriever stuffed animal in the window of the local Rite Aid store.  I bought it thinking… I don’t know what I was thinking, (I'm pretty good at wasting $39 at a clip).  We wound up getting the dog.

Golden’s are great family dogs and they like to be outdoors.  If water is around, they’ll live in it…like 12 hours a day.  As a puppy they occasionally get what’s called the “crazies.”  This is pretty funny, as long as they’re outside.  It’s like someone filled them up with a large balloon full of energy, and then let’s it go.  For about 30 seconds they race around in all different directions with a crazed look on their faces.  It’s as if someone scary were chasing them, but they’re thrilled about it.

So the puppy comes home - a mere $1,200, but whose counting.  Besides, how can you put a price tag on cute?  (Well I can, it's real easy!)  It’s also very clear God made them cute for a good reason.  If he weren’t so cute, I’d have punted him out of the house I don’t know how many times.  Listed below are some of the episodes where he almost made it to the big kennel in the sky. 

I’d gone to a local nursery for holiday decorations and purchased two reindeer. They’re about 2 to 3 feet high and made out of sticks that have been bent and woven into impressive artistic creations.  Again, not that I’m counting, but the price tag for Donner and Blitzen was impressive too.   I come home from work one day and there’s been a deer massacre.  (Did I mention that it’s very important to ensure Golden puppies are constantly given something to chew on?  If you don’t, your shoes, your furniture…none of it is safe.)   The only thing that was left from Santa’s two favorite reindeer was kindling for next summer’s campfires.  Dog is lying there in a pile of wood, exhausted, panting with a big sh*t-eating grin on his face.   It’s also good that he can run faster than me.

One of the things I do to relax is fishing.  I should probably rephrase that.  I do more casting than actual fishing.  I’m also not a very proud fisherman.  A bright colored bobber on the end of my line is by no means beneath me.  Nor is using bait from the A&P deli counter if it’s called for.   So it’s early morning and I sneak down to a lake, to get some fishing in before the dog jumps in and scares away every fish in a quarter mile radius.  I have an extremely energetic night crawler dancing on the end of my hook and my bright colored bobber sitting a good distance out in the water.  I’m patiently waiting for action.   But the action I’m about to get is not what I wanted.  Someone has let the door to the house open and Murphy is out.  He sees me down at the lake and starts running towards me at Mach 9.  I can tell he’s looking straight past me and is eyeing the bobber out in the lake.  He thinks it’s a tennis ball and has launched himself like a missile into the lake swimming at it.   All of this is happening in microseconds and I get a “Holy Crap” feeling as I realize a major fiasco is about to hit me.  I’m trying to reel in like a maniac but it’s too late.  Murphy gets to the bobber about 20 feet off shore.  Now my wife and kids are racing down too.  They're screaming that the line is going to get wrapped around his throat and choke him…(hmmm)…not to mention I’m probably going to lose that prize-winning night crawler on the end of my hook.  I’m thinking to myself, “Awe for crying out loud, you have GOT to be kidding me.”  I make an early entry into the water, get him to release what’s left of my bobber... the one he’s crushed in his mouth…he’s fine, and I go put my pole way.  Thank you very much.

Naturally, he has other endearing qualities, like whenever there’s a thunder & lightning storm, he’ll keep me up all night long trying to scratch his way down our shower or bathtub drain…He’s impervious to thunder jackets.   Oh did I mention he sleeps in our bedroom and if he drinks too much before bedtime, he snores.

Not that I want to sound like a human being, but he does have a few redeeming qualities.  He listens to me better than anyone else in my household.  Every night I come home he’s genuinely thrilled to see me (which if you know me is a real feat). He’s got a great sense of humor.  Just about every morning after breakfast, he’ll run up to our bedroom and grab my wife’s underwear out of the hamper.  He brings it downstairs with a huge grin on his face, ensuring we all see it.  Then as if getting to center stage, he’ll position himself in the middle of the family room and dance around for a while shaking his head and eventually wait for us to ask him to “leave it.”  He’s got a very positive mental attitude – you can take him on the same walk for the 100^th time and he acts like this is the first walk he’s ever had in his life.  He’s a cancer survivor – nasty operation and a lot of radiation treatments.  He was a real trooper through it all, and came out of it good as new.  And as my wife reminds me, “The best $12,000 we’ve ever spent.”  And he’s a Loyal and Great Friend.  Last summer when I decided to spray my face and eyes with gasoline (what a surprise), stumble off the dock and fall into the lake, Murphy knew I was in trouble and swam out to help me.

Last but not least, he’s extended the life of our dishwasher… you just need to be very clear with him about when you’re actually done eating.

YouTube Link to Murphy's Antics at the Lake:   www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2ujqcK4PNg

Big Fish

So it’s the middle of the Summer and I get an e-mail from an old friend (he’s not old old, he’s my age, I’ve just known him for 100 years).  Anyway, in this e-mail is a link to a Fly-Fishing spot in the middle of nowhere California.  I’m not an attorney, but to the best of my recollection there was an implied guarantee of LARGE Trout to be had.  The only issue is the date for the reservation to this Trout Mecca is at the end of my upcoming fiscal quarter…not good.  Being in sales, there are usually only 4 days out of the quarter when I really have to work.  The days that are open in Mecca are right at that point where I usually have to plant myself next to the fax machine and wait for the orders to just roll in.  It’s a tough job, but I always find myself up to the task four times a year.

I anguish over this opportunity for quite some time, because I really like the sound of the fax machine when it fires up and kicks off the orders…that and I’d like to keep my job.  But I finally make the decision to go, (lose about 10 years off my life in 4 days), and I still have my job today.  Turns out you don’t need a higher level of education to pull faxes off a machine.  (I may need to update my Linked-In profile to ensure I’m still seen as relevant in today’s work market)

Okay quickly: flight from Newark to San Fran goes without a hitch, I repeat without a hitch.  I keep on pinching myself as I get off the plane thinking I must be in a dream, as I’m usually a magnet for Air Traffic Delays.  My friend picks me up…on time, and bright and early the next morning we’re heading north.  The town we’re going to is somewhere just south of the Oregon border, you can see the Volcano’s in the distance.  Whiskey Town National Park is close by. Oddly they do not sell adult beverages there.  We stop in the most famous Fly Store in all of California.  When we ask, “What are they hitting?”  we get the kind of response you’d expect when you ask a politician a Yes or No question.  But who’s the expert here?  Certainly not me, so I buy enough flies to feed an army of trout.   I found out later, I’m not the best at picking flies…or understanding what trout like to eat.

As we continue to drive up, my friend tells me, “Steve, you’re not going to believe this, but the last time I was up, I was fishing in a pool area in the river and I looked up and a 90 pound Mountain Lion was drinking at the other end of the pool.”  I think quietly to myself…hmmm I don’t remember that piece of information in the brochure.  Then he tells me that it’s very arid so you also want to be careful where you walk…there are a decent number of rattlesnakes along the trails.  (I know for a fact that was not in the brochure)

We get to the cabin where we hook up with two other friends.  We drop our stuff and head for the river.  In preparation for the trip I’d done everything I could to travel light.   I’ve mailed stuff ahead and made sure that I did NOT have to check any luggage at the airport on the way out.  Early on in the planning stages my friend’s been telling me that I do not need my wading pants. He says just bring the boots…it’s going to be hot, you won’t need the pants.  Great, one less thing to carry and lose.

We get to the river and split up.  This is a good thing so people can’t hear me screaming my face off.   One thing I had forgotten about was how challenging attaching a “fly” to the end of the thinnest clear fly line can be.  You really need a pair of jeweler’s glasses.  Add to that, it’s starting to get dark, and my vision is not as good as it was, say… yesterday.  It takes me about 20 minutes to put the end of the line through the needle eye of the fly.  I tie a knot (or so I think) and the fly falls off.  (picture Steve Martin in the movie: “Planes ,Trains, and Automobiles” when he’s at his wits end and gets dropped off at a remote rent-a-car parking lot, the bus takes off, and he finds out there’s no rent-a-car in the spot he’s been assigned.)  This becomes a common theme as the weekend progresses.  Remember I’ve come out here for cerebral rest and relaxation. 

So I’m finally all hooked up.  I’m standing on the edge of the river looking for a place to step down into the water.  There are lots of bugs all around me.  A bug that looked like a dark black bee lands on my hand and stings me.  (I’m not allergic to bees, but when I was about 9, I did step into a bees nest and will describe that experience another time)  Anyway, I swipe the thing away and all of a sudden the top of my hand swells up a bit and I get a cold chill run through my body (I haven’t stepped into the water yet).  Now I’m thinking to myself, if I look hard enough I’m going to find that mountain lion.  But it’s time for mind over matter - so I jump into the water, and start casting.  The water is cold, very cold.  Trout like it at about 40 degrees,… that’s Fahrenheit.   It becomes extremely challenging when the water rises to about 6 inches below your waste.  After struggling for a couple of hours, the sun goes down.   I decide that since I can’t control the chattering of my teeth or the shaking and convulsing that the rest of my body is doing, I better call it a night.  At this point I’m an easy mountain lion meal, as I can’t feel my legs.

We get back to “the cabin”.  Nice rustic cabin…but, no electricity, and no regular gas.  Although there was an outdoor propane gas generator.  You’d push a button in the cabin and you’d hear the engine kick off.  That would work for about 20 minutes, then it auto-shuts off.  You’d push the button another time and it would run for 10 minutes, then shut off….then 5 minutes,…then…you get where this is going.  The other interesting feature of the cabin was the refrigerator…remember no electricity.  It ran on PROPANE.  Seems kind of counter-intuitive doesn’t it.  Also the propane powered refrig is sitting on a small circular piece of carpet…the pilot light is about an inch above the carpet.  Look, I’m not a rocket scientist (although my college alumni book says I am) but this has Steve kind of danger written all over it.  And I really don’t need this kind of help.  We monkeyed with this thing for about two hours and finally got the pilot light of the “refrigerator” working.    Amazing, it’s actually started to get cold inside,   but after about an hour the smell of propane gas was everywhere in the cabin.  So as much as I like a disaster as much as anyone, we agreed it might make sense to shut it off.  That and I started seeing images of my 3^rd grade teacher and Abraham Lincoln walking around the cabin.

Day Two - We head off to fish some more.  Everyone else is putting on their wading pants…mine are sitting in my closet back in NJ.  I step back into the icy water and enjoy a wonder new experience.  What few muscles I do have in my legs …all begin to cramp up.  Pain goes away in a short while and for whatever reason, no chattering and uncontrollable body spasms.  But still no Trout.

The really frustrating part was you could see these huge lunkers sitting in the river, you’d place your fly perfectly, but they refused to hit it.  Towards the end of the trip I came very close to committing a fly fisherman cardinal sin.  While at the cabin I was perusing the lunch meat and spotted the ever-popular fisherman’s friend, Bologna.  But I figured I’d already committed my quota of embarrassment earlier in the month and fought off the urge.  The only think that can top this is when at desperations end, we’re creating complex multi-fly line configurations.  I spent half my life getting my project put together.  I’m now confident that I have a fool-proof mechanism to catch fish.  I pull some line out and begin to cast back and forth… as real fly fishermen do.  I promptly snag my line in the tree branches high above me.  Naturally I lose my multi-fly contraption that I was sure would win a significant prize at Trout-World 2012.  And for the next 5 minutes I regurgitate every four letter word I have in my repertoire… sending fish flying away from me in every direction. 

When all was said and done, I did catch one fish.  A Trout…he was pretty small, but I’ve attached a video of what it took to land him.  Hopefully all you people with wrestling backgrounds will appreciate my technique.  Also, don’t pay attention to the name on the bottom of the video, that’s just my “Fishing Alias.”      

http://vimeo.com/31796807

Seriously, I’m very Thankful that I have Friends and Family that put up with me.  The time I spend with them IS what matters… fish or no fish.  (Of course Fish is preferable).

Happy Thanksgiving to All!

The NYC Marathon and a Battle for Clean Dwear

A few years back…okay, maybe more than a few years I ran the New York City Marathon.  It was my First and Last.  I trained for 7 weeks prior to the race.  With ten days to go, I flew out to San Francisco for a trade show that tested the processing capacity of my liver and I promptly came down with the flu.  Three days before the race I tried running 5 miles and it was ugly. 

The morning of the race, the guy I was living with in Sayerville, NJ (who was also running the Marathon) asks me, “Well, are you coming?”  I swallowed four Tylenol, put on my stuff and we headed out to the Verrazano Bridge.  We get to the Bridge and my friend heads to the front group of runners.  He’s going to finish in less than 3 and ½ hours.  My focus was a little different.  

Right around this era there were a number of well-known Marathon runners who would…towards the very end of their races, lose total control of their sphincter muscles.  The results made for difficult interviews but the late night talk show hosts would have a field day.  This was my major concern.  Everyone has their Achilles Heel, and if I drink water that’s out of my zip code challenging problems can occur.  So this was weighing heavily on my mind.  At all costs, I needed to avoid earning a nickname like, “Hash.” 

As the race is about to begin, I’m standing next to a group of people and one of guys seemed to be coaching the rest of them on how to run the race.  What became buried in my brain was a comment this guy made about “not” stopping during the race.  He said, “Whatever you do, don’t stop running.  If you do, you’ll never start again.”  This piece of advice became my mantra.  No matter how bad I felt, no matter how bad I might soil my clothing or otherwise embarrass myself (more than usual), I would not stop running.  This was sound advice until about the 13^th mile.  By this stage of the race all of my adrenalin was gone.  Now I just wanted to stop in the worst way and take a break, maybe catch a cab.  But I kept on running… cursing the memory of this guy.  Coming down off the 59^th Street Bridge, (which I thought would be a relief) was painful on the knees.   The steel does not give at all.  Running up 2^nd Ave was worse.  People are cheering you on, but for the most part you’re in too much pain to appreciate their enthusiastic cheers.  (You’re thinking to yourself, could you please just shut up and let me finish this misery in silence.)  Throughout the race they’re constantly handing you cups of water that have some sort of electrolyte concoction in it.  After a while it just upsets your stomach.  And we can’t have that, as a weakened sphincter will lead to an ugly finish line and an uglier laundry situation. 

I finally get into the Park and its nightmarish as the rolling hills (yes there are rolling hills), are killing my legs.  I turn the corner onto 59^th street and whatever pocket of adrenalin is left kicks in and I finish strong-ish.  And a major bonus, my dwear survived unblemished…no really.

Now for the fun part:  My roommate and his family and our friends are waiting for me at the finish line.  High Fives are sent all around.  I’m on an absolutely amazing high.  I finished in a very reasonable time and my sphincter is completely intact.  It doesn’t get much better than this.   The girl I’m dating at the time (let’s call her Delilah) is supposed to bring my street clothes and stuff, so we can all go celebrate in the city that night.   Delilah is not at the finish line.  I ask my roommate’s girlfriend if she’s heard from her.  That’s a negative. (Keep in mind cell phones do not exist yet) So I tell everyone, ”Just go off to the bars and I’ll catch up.”  I go to the Marathon family waiting area - no girl and no clothes.  It’s starting to get very cold and all I have on is a small, very wet (perspiration only) pair of shorts, a thin sleeveless running shirt and a large piece of aluminum foil they hand you at the finish line to keep your body heat in.  Well that ain’t happening any more, and my kahoonies are starting to freeze.  I wait over 30 minutes and finally give up and head off to try to catch up with my friends.  I run up and down Broadway, 7^th and 8^th avenues looking for my friends in about a dozen bars…can’t find them. 

Finally with no money…or real clothes for that matter, in about 40 degrees with a stiff breeze, I hop on the subway to Port Authority (Mass Transit was free that day if you ran in the NYC Marathon).  I catch a bus to Sayerville, NJ and walk (more like hobble) the last three or four miles from the bus stop to my friend’s condo.  Luckily a key was under the front door mat. 

Turns out Delilah came back into NYC that morning on a red-eye and overslept that afternoon. For a while I'm speechless.  (Thinking back though, I have to give her some credit, because if I had done something like that, I'd never admit to it.  I think I'd pay to have someone beat me up and just say I was mugged.)  

Of course I was very understanding…that is after regaining the ability to speak...and upgrading my vocabulary past 4 letter words…I was very understanding. 

The Horrible Tale of Killybegs

GPS systems are a wonderful thing, but the following story explains why they’re not fool proof.  Hence "The Horrible tale of Killybegs"  (for effect it helps if you say it with an Irish accent).

We’re still in Ireland and I’ve been driving most of the day (on the wrong side of the road) along the coast of Donegal (generally dodging the friendly locals trying to run me off road).  One of the things that really cracks me up is that you’re driving on extremely narrow winding roads where you can’t possibly go more than 25 miles per hour; yet the speed limit signs say 80 kpm  (which is about 55 mph).  I believe I have this one figured out.  The guys on the road crew must spend the better part of their day in the pub, and then decide, “Time to go put up the signs!”  There’s also a sister organization that takes down signs.  You’ll be driving along trying to get to a specific destination.  You’re very close; you come to a “T” in the road and for whatever reasons the signs just stop.  It’s kind of like they’re saying we’ve been helpful enough… now you go figure it out.  So you’re forced to ask one of the friendly souls who just a short while ago was trying to crash you into a rock wall.

So it’s the end of the day, we’re looking to find a place to eat and then head back to the haunted house we’re staying at (that’s another story).  We decide go to “Killybegs”, a fishing town.  It’s supposed to be quaint, historic and quiet.  We have Helen our GPS systems turned off because it seemed like a simple trip from where we were, and I was also kind of tired of being judged and told how to drive…by someone other than my wife.

Anyway, we get into the town of Killybegs and it’s a complete mad house.  They have a festival going on, there’s no parking and it’s bumper to bumper.  Time to leave.    We decide to head to the town of Donegal.  I have the brilliant idea to put the GPS system back on and plot a course.  Well Helen gets back on-line but something seems off.  She’s not herself. 

We finally muscle our way out of town and head down some roads that look older and less frequently used.  I’m figuring we’ll probably spill out onto a major road shortly and then we’ll be fine.  That never happened.

If I thought we were on a small road before, Helen now has us on a road that’s so narrow that it’s clear only one car can fit on it at a time.  The only problem is the road is not a one-wayer.   We continue on and I’m thinking, “I don’t want to argue with the technology, but maybe we should just turn around.”  Now we’re on this road for a good 7 or 8 miles and we have not seen a car in either direction since we left “downtown” Killybegs.  It gets better; we pass a sign that tells us we’re in an “Alert Zone.”   Now I’m feeling great, I must have driven my family into a remote military missile range.  At this point the road can barely fit one car on it.  Weeds and shrubs are up against both sides of the car as we drive along.  My wife asks me if I can move the car over my way.  I tell her that won’t be possible if we want to keep the fenders and door on my side of the vehicle. 

We’ve been driving now for over 12 miles and we’re in the absolute middle of nowhere.  The road is disintegrating.  The macadam in the middle of the road has broken and is pitching up.  Weeds and shrubs are growing out of it and I can hear them scraping along the underbelly of the car.   In the back of my mind I’m thinking, “In just a couple of moments I’m going to lose the transmission of the car on the middle of the road that now pitches up about 8 to 10 inches.  Next, the Irish version of Deliverance hill folk will show up.”  At this point the tension in my neck and back is so intense it’s going to require multiple doses of very expensive prescription drugs if I’m going to be able to look out a side window.  Even if the Deliverance people did show up and put a gun to my head and told me to get out of the car, it wouldn’t make a difference - I’d lost all the feelings in my legs as well.

As we soldier on, we come across a log that’s lying across the road (no, that’s too generous, by this point it was a rural path) I sacrifice my son and ask him to get out of the car and move the log out of the way.  It looks to be about 9 or 10 inches in diameter.  He comes back to the car and asks me why I didn’t just run it over.  The log was completely hollowed out from decay.  It was really just the bark sitting there.  Now I’m thinking to myself, “Crap, I bet nobody’s been on this road since 1949.”  With that thought in mind, we pick up some speed and naturally stray into the weeds a bit on the passenger side.  We hear a loud bang and everyone goes silent.  We all know this is not going to be good, but the car continues to run.  We continue on for a while and then decide to stop the car.  I walk around to the passenger side of the car and cringe as I turn the corner to examine the damage.  I see some surface scratches (mere flesh wounds in the battle for driving dominance in Ireland)  But then I look down and notice a tree branch (about ¾ of an inch thick is jammed between the tire and metal wheel of the front of the car.  It’s sticking out about 15 inches, but it’s in so deep that I can’t pull it out.  I have to break it off at the wheel.  The tire seems to be holding air so I get back into the car, put it into drive and pray that in a moment or two I’ll wake up from this nightmare.

Now we’re driving for at least 20 miles and the GPS system shows that in the distance…this tiny line of a road connects with a larger road.  I have one nightmarish thought though.  What if… and I refused to say this out loud to my family… we get to the end of the road, and because the road has obviously been abandoned for centuries, they’ve put up a fence with a lock on it.  This would mean that I’d need to put it in reverse and drive about 25 miles looking over my shoulder, trying to stay on the “path.”  This presupposes that my head had not snapped off my shoulders.  These were some of the negative thoughts I needed to keep to myself.

I look in the distance and I see a white-tiered fence crossing a road.  I’m not exactly sure how I kept from sobbing uncontrollably but luckily when we approached the fence, it was in front of the driveway of a farm that was on the corner of our path and the major road. 

I now understand the true meaning of the word Euphoria.  (Actually, I experienced it twice on the trip.  The 2^nd time was when I turned in the rental car). 

Last piece of this story was hysterical at the time, but you kind of had to be there.  Picture yourself being totally stressed out and the only thoughts you can comprehend now are one or two-dimensional.  We’re in the car and we get to the main road and come to stop.  My wife has the map open and says, “We’re going to make a left here.”  At this point I’m untrusting of man or machine and ask, “What’s left?”  She then takes my question very literally...and points to her left.

European Vacation

(The real title should be: “Why certain Americans should not drive in Ireland”)

So we make the overnight flight from JFK to London to Ireland, collect our luggage and head to the rent-a-car desk.  My wife’s been planning this trip for years.  I’m just told to show up at specific time and perform manual tasks.  (no real thinking involved, just the way I like it)  We’re looking for the EuroCar rental desk at Dublin Airport.  (Not my place to question, but EuroCar?...couldn’t we have just stuck with a nice American name like Avis?).  We find EuroCar, very nice people, but they do not have the car we reserved.  Instead, we get a fairly new (won’t be new after this trip) BMW 5 series.  Nice car, but not big enough for the four us and our luggage.  We needed to snuggly place a small-ish piece of luggage between our two kids in the back seat, which naturally turned out to be a blessing.

So the first thing you need to deal with is driving on the left side of the road.  The guy at the rent-a-car counter was a seasoned professional.  When he asked me if I wanted the additional insurance, I gave him my standard answer, “No Way.  Do I have sucker written all over my face?”   Rent-a-car man keeps his composure and asks me if I’ve ever driven on the left side of the road.  My answer is no…I’m still holding my ground.  He then asks me, “Do you ever have a tendency to let you mind drift at all?”  I signed up for the deluxe insurance package.  Worst case, if I total the car, I’m only out 100 Euros.

I received some key advice right before I left for the trip: “Get the GPS” and “Look to your right when entering Roundabouts.”  This probably saved my sanity and my family’s lives a couple of times.  Of course I never get the GPS, what do I need a GPS for?  I’ll use the positioning of the Sun during the day and the North Star at night to plot my course.  And besides who has the extra 5 minutes to learn how to use the GPS?...did I mention I graduated with honors.

So now it’s time to get behind the wheel of the car and start driving.  I’m confident, it’s just a car, and sadly, I’ve been driving for over 30 years, I can handle this.  As you enter the maze of confusing roads that the rental agencies live in, you immediately go into “Holy Shit” mode. Now you move onto major roads and highways and everybody is driving in the wrong direction…I think I need a drink, but maybe that’s not such a good idea.  (Piece of advice for 1^st time drivers in Ireland: bring extra deodorant and underwear) 

In Ireland they have these traffic circles called, “Roundabouts.”  If I never hear that word again it will be too soon.  Anyway, we’re continually missing our exit off these roundabouts.  And to make it as nerve wracking as possible, the sadists in Ireland have these roundabouts coming at you in succession one after another.  Eventually we found ourselves on a road to Portugal. 

Something VERY important that people don’t realize is that as much as you’re driving on the left side of the road (minor adjustment, but with your family screaming for their lives at you from time to time, it can be dealt with), the steering wheel is on the right side of the car.  Why is this important you may ask?  Because in the back of your mind you’re still thinking “3/4s of my car is still to the right of me.  In Ireland that means you mind is telling you that  3/4s of your car is heading into oncoming traffic.  So every time I pass a car coming the other way I’m wincing uncontrollably in anticipation of a major head-on collision.  Now let’s take this situation to the next level.  Most of the roads in Ireland can fit "maybe" a car and a half for traffic going both ways (I'm sorry to be judgy, but is this not the 21st Century).  That means when you pass someone going the other way, someone, hopefully both cars, shift to the side of the road a bit to avoid a head-on collision.  (I have a feeling the locals knew I was an American.  They’d never, and I mean never budge an inch when we’d pass.  At one point my 15 year-old son asks me, “Dad, why don’t you hold your ground and make them move over?” I ask him if he’d like to be alive and go to college some day.) 

If a large truck or oil tanker is coming in the other direction and you can plainly see that its too big for its side of the road to start with, you have only a split second to: (without screaming like a little girl) look to your left to see if there is any room to move over, if there is none you make room the only way possible: You veer into the brush, listening to all the shrubs scrapping along the side of the car, praying you’ll stay off the rock walls that line most of the roads.  (Your wife is making the sign of the cross, she does this a lot the whole trip.  And you’ve given up any notion of keeping the 100 euro insurance policy deductible.)

Now picture doing this around hairpin turns.  It’s like being in a video game, but unlike the game where if you crash, you just put another quarter in the machine.  But in this “game” the stakes are a tad higher.  You go through this routine for 8 to 10 hours a day (I'm really lucky, it's light out in Ireland till at least 9PM).  By the end of each day your fingers are numb from constantly having a death grip on the steering wheel.  To your amazement, your family can’t understand why at the end of each day you’re a mental wet dishrag.

This went on for 8 days. After Ireland we’re flying to London for a few days.  I can’t wait to get rid of the rent-a-car. I stayed off newspapers and TV for the first 6 days in Ireland.  On the 7^th day I turn on the news and see that London is having riots…the worst riots in 30 years…I love vacations.

Never Play with Gasoline

So my wife has just made the best $20 investment of our lives.  It’s a battery powered gas siphon.  (Yes my other job, siphoning gas at $4 a gallon during evening hours is booming)   No, we actually have a small gas powered boat on a small lake where you need to manually fill up by the 7-gallon gas can…a royal pain in the CAN.   I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thrown my back out holding 7 gallons of gas in the same position, trying not to spill it into the lake.  You need the funnel, which won’t stay in position, hope that the nozzle on the can is on tight, and you inevitably wind up smelling like a gasy mess.   It’s miserable.

But now we have this new gizmo that looks like a roll of quarters with a tube extending from either side of it.  You put one end in the gas can and the other end in the boat tank, move the small switch from off to “ON” and in a matter of two minutes, 7 gallons of gas is now in your boat with no back pain or gas smell.  I have a new favorite toy.  Well that’s how it would work if you weren’t … me.

Nope, I can’t let well enough alone.   My wife shows me how to use it, we empty two cans of gas into the boat and life is good…that’s going to end shortly.  My wife heads back to the house, and I begin to put the cans away.  I notice there’s about a ¼ of an inch of gas left in the bottom of each can…the siphon could not get to it.  Naturally because I’m as anal as they come, I come up with an absolutely brilliant idea.  I’ll pour the remaining gas from one can into the other and I’ll just pour that small amount back into the boat.  I opt not to walk to the shed for the funnel…too much of a bother.  Instead, I’ll just extend the 6 inch plastic nozzle into the gas tank of the boat.  It’s very light and I finish the job quickly.  As I’m pulling the nozzle out of the boat, I notice gas spilling over the side of the boat.  Now with a sense of urgency, I pull the plastic nozzle out quickly to limit the spillage.   I'm a good egg.

Unfortunately, I did not size up this situation very well.  As I pulled the plastic, bend-able nozzle out of the boat it got caught on the gas cap.  When it finally releases, the hose flexes and with unbelievable spring-action shoots what seemed like two quarts of gasoline into my face…including my eyes.  You know how they say right before you die your life passes before you?  Well that didn’t happen to me, but I actually did see the gas coming at me at about Mach 9…that is until it went into my eyes.   (The only thing that could have been better is if I’d had a lit cigarette in the corner of my mouth.)

Now I’m pin-balling off the dock.  I stumble onto a beach, drop the gas can and fall into the lake.  I stop for a split second and think to myself, do I really want to get my clothes wet.  That decision is quickly made for me as the searing pain in one of my eyes forces me underwater.  The pain is excruciating, it feels like someone has thrown gasoline into my eyes…Oh yeah Einstein, that was you!   

I open my eyes under water and let in the murky brown, particle-filled fluid to flush my eyes.  I do this multiple times, all the while thinking, if my corneas are not burned out, I’ll definitely have some deadly bacteria growing in there shortly.

There is a “pre-quel “ to this story – When I was 21, and extremely bright, my friends and I were taking a trip to the Jersey Shore.  It was during the gas crisis around 1980.  We were siphoning gas from multiple cars to put into mine for the trip.  When the siphon stopped working, I decided to try sucking on the hose to get the gas moving again.   (Did I mention that I graduated from college with honors)

To make a long story short, I swallowed a large mouth full of gasoline…leaded.

I won’t go into details about what I was like for the rest of the weekend; but the phrase, “Light One Up” has forever had new meaning for my close friends.

The Father's Day 90 Minute Massage

So its Father’s Day and my gift is a professional massage.  Not a 30 minute massage, not even a 60 minute massage, but a 90 Minute Massage!  I don’t get a lot of massages, so I’m really looking forward to this.  I’m thinking that my biggest challenge will be just staying awake. 

I’ve been talking with some neighbors about the 90 minute massage and everyone is recommending the Swedish Deep Tissue Massage.  They say it’s absolutely the best.  Now I’m even more excited as I have a plan and solid advice on how to get the most out of this experience.  I show up at the place and my first concern never materializes: there are no male massagers on staff that day.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I always have concerns of turning into George Costanza and becoming part of a disturbing Seinfeld episode.

I go to my room and the masseuse is a very small, slight of build woman.  She asks what kind of message I’d like.  I very directly tell her, “The Swedish Deep Tissue Massage!”  I’m a man who knows what he wants.  In the back of my mind I’m thinking to myself, “She’s so small, I wonder if she’s even strong enough for the deep tissue massage.  Shortly my concern is allayed and my worst nightmare begins.

As she starts I’m thinking, “Boy, I underestimated her, she is pretty strong.”  As we’re twenty minutes into this so-called “massage”, my body is beginning to feel like I’ve been wrestling with Gorilla Monsoon.  At one point I can feel my muscles begin to spasm uncontrollably as she digs deeper and deeper into my flesh pulling muscle (that has been lying peacefully for over 40 years) off my bones.  I guess she noticed the spasms too, because at one point she stops and asks me, “Am I being too rough, do you need me to take it easy?”

Let me just start by making one very plain statement, “I’m an idiot.”

As I’m considering my answer, a couple of thoughts are racing through my mind in a split second.  First, at this point, I’m almost a cripple and I still have another hour of this torture to go.  If I go another 60 minutes, I’ll probably need a wheel chair to get out of the building and that’ll be pretty embarrassing.  But I very quickly weigh that in my mind against telling this young woman who has to weigh less than 100 pounds that, “You’re hurting me, please stop.”  I just can’t “Man-Up “ and say that.  Especially after I came into the room and specifically asked for the Swedish Deep Tissue Massage - like I’d had 50 of them before.  Instead, I say, “No this is fine” …cursing myself.

You’d be surprised with 90 minutes how many muscles she found to torture on my body, even my neck - this became a significant problem later that night.  My wife and I went to the movies that night and I could only see half the movie.  And it wasn’t because I needed to leave half way through the movie.  (That would have pre-supposed my wheel chair aid was ready to leave as well.)  No, the problem was that we needed to sit in the first couple of rows of the theatre.  I couldn’t lift my head high enough to see the top half of the screen.

Lady Di and Pavarotti...a Tragic Ending

It’s late August 1997 and my daughter was about six weeks old…and not sleeping at night.  Any and all adrenaline that I might have had has long been spent.  In this stage of the new kid game she might as well be 10 years old.  People don’t want to hear about your troubles; "Just suck it up and do what ya gotta do."  So in a rare moment of compassion, I volunteer to take our daughter downstairs and try to have her fall asleep on my chest while I lay out on the couch watching TV…her tiny hands with the strength of the Incredible Hulk pulling the hairs out of my chest. 

It’s about 3AM and I put the TV on, thinking I’ll have a choice of either “Modern Farmer” or “Davey and Goliath.”  But actually the news is on.  There’s been a fatal accident and it’s someone very important.  It’s Princess Diana.  Then what I hear next completely stuns and confuses me.  The reporter is explaining what happened. 

As it turns out, Lady Di was in a car, and Pavarotti was chasing her on a motorcycle and...Caused the Crash!  I’m watching this in total disbelief.  I’m thinking to myself, “What would that fat guy be doing on a motorcycle chasing Lady Di, had he lost his mind?  I could have sworn I had just seen Pavarotti on 60 Minutes a couple of months ago.  He had just gotten married and his singing career was in great shape…what could have gone wrong?  Go figure…Show Biz People!

After a while I go back upstairs and break the news to my wife.  She has an incredulous look on her face and asks to smell my breath. 

Well as we’re all aware, Pavarotti was found innocent,…and what the hell is a “Paparazzi” anyway?

Driving with your Eyes Closed

This post is a public service message.  An interesting thing about Alaska in July is that it’s light out a whole lot.  Like it only gets somewhat dark around 2:30AM, and that only lasts for about an hour or so.  If you’ve got a concern about vampires, you want to summer in Alaska.

The only thing you need to be careful about is since it’s light out all the time, you kind get the feeling like you’re Uberman, and you can stay up for 23 hours in a day as well.  Listed below is a short story about the downside of thinking you have those Uber powers.

It’s the last day in Alaska.  We have a final fishing expedition for the prize game fish of Alaska, The King Salmon, “CHINOOK”!  The whole trip I have not caught one and I’m bummin over it.  We head out in the afternoon in a large rowboat with a small outboard motor.  We’re on a river that’s about a quarter mile across.  The King Salmon are running up this river and I hook one…a large one.  You have a small boat pole and you immediately stand up, bury the end of the pole into your gut and crouch over reeling.  Smokin Joe our guide is screaming at me the whole time.  I’m hearing a lot of words that start with the letter “F”.  His main words of encouragement for me are to, “Stand Up Straight!”  He tells me I look like a Monkey trying to have intercourse with a basketball.  (Actually he used one of the “F” words.)  He said that to me a lot…I guess I’m a slow learner. 

I was in awe the first time this fish’s head came out of the water.  It looked like a prehistoric animal.  When we finally got it in the boat and back to shore: “49 inches and 64 pounds.”  I’m so pumped; this fish is a monster.  Joe has radioed ahead and a guy is waiting for us at Joe’s dock.  He skins the fish right there, drops the meat off at the butcher shop and sends the skin out for mounting.  We pack up, and head to get some dinner and celebrate.

Dinner is over at about 11PM and we head to the butcher shop to pick up our weeks worth of fish we’ve caught.  He has everything cut up into filets that are vacuum-sealed.  He has these large think cardboard boxes that are covered in wax. He’s puts freezer packs in the boxes with the fish.  This will keep them okay for a couple of hours.  We have strict instruction:  When we get to the Anchorage Airport, (at around 3AM) we’re to go to the part of the airport that has large freezers (they cater to fishermen).  We’re to have them cut the straps on the boxes, leave the boxes open for 3 or 4 hours until our flights are ready, and then re-strap them and we should be okay for the flights home.

So it now time to hit the road.  Everyone is looking at each other trying to figure out who’s going to be stuck behind the wheel for the 3 plus hour ride back.  I’m still on cloud nine so I volunteer.  It won’t be a problem, hell it’s still light out.  Half way into the trip my Uber powers begin to wear off.  I’m starting to feel like a mere mortal.  Of course everyone else in the car is fast asleep.  I try opening the windows for a while but that get’s to be too cold.  I begin doing calisthenics with eyelids in an effort to stay awake.  Now we’re on a long straight patch of highway and it’s not really light out any longer…this is helpful. 

So when I eventually do expire and they happen to do an autopsy on me, they’re probably going to find that throughout my life, I’ve had a number of self-inflicted heart attacks.  This ride home would probably be one of the first.  Out of the back of my mind I hear a voice coming from one of the guys in the seat behind me.  He’s asking me why we’ve been driving on the shoulder of the highway for the last 10 minutes.  (I of course don’t have a great answer, as I’ve been asleep all that time.)  I now wake up and almost immediately go into cardiac arrest as I re-grip the steering wheel and get the car back onto the highway.  I would have been fine if I could have just stopped my legs from shaking.  I’m quickly relieved of duty…nobody has a sense of humor.

Eureka, we finally get to the Anchorage Airport.  It’s completely CLOSED!  Our fish will shortly be a Stinking Mess!  Dejected, we decide to go to a Budget Motel just outside the airport and get 3 or 4 hours of sleep before our flights.  At the counter I ask, “You guys don’t happen to have one of those industrial strength freezers on premise, do you?”  Answer, “Why yes we do.”  Long story, Short:  Fish made it back fine, and I had the Fire Department at my house when I got home, and tried to season a new cast iron skillet.