How I Broke Back Into Jail

So about twenty months ago our family dog, a big, extremely lovable golden retriever passed away – unfortunately it was time.  When he passed, I was thinking, now I have an opportunity to de-stress and de-complicate my life.  My wife had other plans.  Over the following months she would show me various pictures of dogs available for adoption, puppies from breeders.   The running joke in our house became: if there was a cute picture of say, a rhinoceros - we’d need one of those.  I valiantly fought them all off.  I’d latch onto: Murphy just passed, and we already have two very senior cats, it wouldn’t be fair to them.  It was an impenetrable defense.  In late spring, I’m with my wife at a work related couples dinner.  Two coworkers and their spouses tell my wife that she definitely should get another dog - I’m incredulous.  I’m thinking, what would possess someone to say something like that?  And why is there not an air horn available when you need it, or a Taser gun?  Then, on Father’s Day… Father’s Day!, my wife shows me an online picture of a Flat-Coat Retriever puppy.  The hard sell is on.  “Incoming!!!”  I go into defense mode.  The deflector shields are raised.  A battle for home dominance and my sanity ensues. 

It’s not that I dislike dogs.  I love dogs, as long as someone else has responsibility for them.  And if those same people wouldn’t mind getting up at 5:00AM to let them out, feed them, play with them (especially when you’re exhausted); and take them at no charge when you want to be spontaneous and go on vacation, then and only then I have no problem with the concept.  Oh wait, Vet Bills – if someone else can pay the vet bills that would be good too.  I’ve spent exponentially more on vet bills over the years than on both of my kid’s medical.  Just the notion of needing a medical insurance policy for my dog galls me.  When you look up the phrase: Old School, my picture is there, but really, do I need an insurance policy for my dog?  And special food – think expensive food that is prescribed by the vet?   Come on, they’re dogs!  What’s happening in this world?  I can’t imagine that back in the Stone Age when man and dog first connected that Mr. Cro-Mag was going to the medicine man and paying a ridiculous amount in beads and flint for specially prepared mammoth. 

Bottom line, after a horrific battle, where many words were spoken that cannot be taken back (like yes, we can get the dog), I lost power and my shields went down.  Now I’m with my wife, sick to my stomach, driving to deep-south Jersey for an insanely expensive puppy.  (Hopefully my wife is not reading this.)  We get to the breeder’s house and there are five adult Flat-Coat Retrievers and about nine or ten puppies completely out of control.  The adults keep trying to jump up and put their paws on your shoulders.  My spider senses were tingling.  No, they were more like screaming, “Danger, Danger, Run Away!” 

The dogs were actually very friendly, but had way too much energy.  My wife and the breeder go into another room to sign the mortgage papers to acquire the little prince.  Now I’m alone with about fifteen dogs in a small room.  I was very surprise they didn’t tear me apart because the sense of dread I was giving off was palpable.  So after the papers had been signed and I was pretty sure I could postpone my retirement for a few more years, the breeder walks us to our car.  He starts telling us about the Flat-Coat breed.   (For those not familiar, imagine a pitch-black golden retriever.) Their heritage is of a hunting and fishing dog dating back to 18^th century Europe.  As I grasp for straws I’m thinking, well that’s pretty cool.  Not sure why I felt that way.  I don’t hunt and the fishing part, what would the dog do - jump in the water and drag the bass in before it jumps off the hook?  The breeder also says they’re not as bulky as a golden retriever, more like a sleek athletic race horse and very agile.  Supposedly they do great in agility competitions.  Okay, so I’m appreciating the positive comments.  Then just as we’re about to drive away, he says, “Oh and I recommend you get health insurance.  Flat-Coats will eat just about anything that isn’t bolted down.  You’ll go through the cost of the premium in the first three months of ownership.”  And to that point, I now own what was previously a great pair of shoes.

We get home and I go online and start reading about the Flat-Coat Retriever.  They are known as the “Peter Pan of Dogs.” Why? - Because they never grow up.  (This is what I signed up for – a hairy child with boundless energy who eats clothing and furniture, coupled with high vet bills.) 

But he also has a very innocent face with soulful eyes that suck you in.  As a young puppy in his excitement licking our faces, the licking would turn into nibbling, which if not caught in time turned into a bite-one kid to the ER.  Some of his other endearing qualities: he’ll stumble, fall off, and eventually jump up onto the couch. (So much for the agility blue ribbon.)  Then he’ll pin you to the back cushion, licking your face to the point where you almost can’t breathe (ten months old now and weighs sixty pounds).  As you’re gasping for air and wiping slobber from your face, he’ll nonchalantly move over to the food or beverage you have sitting on the table next to you.  Also, he does not know how to drink water without bringing half the bowl back onto the kitchen floor.  I know, everyone says dogs slobber, but the amount of water he brings back would scare Noah.  It’s almost as if he’s holding it in his mouth and spitting it out as he walks along.  Best of all, when he sees you mopping up after him, he goes back to the bowl for more.

My wife named him Charlie, after my grandfather – I’m not above being sucked up to.  On the positive side, he has not eaten the cats.  He plays well and at a dog park he loves to be chased by the pack.  Lucky for him, he’s like a bolt of lightning in an open field, and can turn on a dime.  I liken his clumsiness around the house to The Sundance Kid in the 1969 Western.  At one point Butch and Sundance are trying to get jobs as guards and their potential employer asks Sundance to shoot some cans off a fence post.  Standing still he can’t hit any of the cans.  The employer is very disappointed.  Sundance asks if he can move while he shoots, and then goes into acrobatics hitting every can in site.

So I’m back into the Good, Bad, and Ugly of dog ownership.  On occasion when something bombastic happens with Charlie, I’ll send an email out to the coworkers who helped get me into this spot.  I ask them when they plan on coming by to pick up their dog – nobody has shown up yet. 

Know your title...or where it is

So on Christmas Eve I decided to treat myself and took my car to the dealer for service.  It was more than past due for an oil change, and the warning lights in the car told me that the air in the run-flats was low.  Of course I waited long enough for the battery to go dead as well.  I get up early on Christmas Eve, and with a couple of broom handles to prop up the jumper cables for maximum length, I’m able to jump my car without electrocuting myself.

I’ve raised this car for almost 15 years.  In its heyday it was great, comfortable to ride, fast and with a retractable hardtop.  And best of all, ultra-reliable.

About five years ago, old age started setting in.  (the car, not me)  No longer comfortable to ride, it feels like sitting on a go-cart with your spine absorbing every bump in the road.  Now every trip to the dealership results in a bill that ranges between $2,000 and $3,000.  And every time I make that investment, I can’t see my way clear of doing anything but keep the car.   In the back of my mind I’m rationalizing (each time) that with an investment like that, I must be good for another four years.  (Oh, and it’s rear-wheel drive and does not do well in snow.  I’ve had to leave it on the side of the road and walk home more than once.)

My thought was that on Christmas Eve, the dealership would be empty - who besides me would be there?  Wrong.  As it turns out, half the globe likes to get their car serviced right before their holiday travels.  Fortunately I have an appointment and they take me on schedule.  The way it works is, you tell them what you want, and a mechanic looks at your car for about 20 minutes.  Then you’re paged and called into a small office where a “consultant” tells you the grim news about all the other services you need.  Oddly on this occasion they tell me the battery does not need to be replaced.  But…there is always a “but”, the back brakes are just about shot, the tires are wearing unevenly, so an alignment makes sense as well.  "We could complete the $2,700 effort now if you like?"   In an unnatural act, I tell them to hold off, I pay my $67 bill (the smallest I’ve ever had at this place) and leave.  It’s time.

Long story somewhat short, I decide I should get an all-wheel drive Subaru Legacy.  It’s attractively priced and has tons of safety features, many more than I’ll ever have time to learn, unless my wife reads the library of manuals.   The sales guy is very thorough.  He tells me how the engine is mounted very low in the front for better stability and if you’re in a head on collision, it will not wind up sitting in your lap or on your knee caps.  This all makes good sense.  At the end of our road test, this trusting soul decides to prove his final Subaru point.  (In the TV Series, Rock the Park, they only drive Subaru’s during their adventures.)  To get back into the dealership parking lot he directs me to go into a lot just before theirs and stop the car somewhat aligned with the slim single open parking slot in their lot.  To get to it, I need to go up over a steep 9 inch tall curb that is made of frozen dirt and caked in snow and ice.  Then travel about another 20 feet across a snow and ice covered grass berm into the parking slot.  I remind him that I have not bought this car as yet, and any damage is on him.  He’s fine with that, and I damn the torpedoes.  In the back of my mind I’m thinking about the engine that is hanging low and I’m very sure that I’ll be leaving parts of it across the icy knoll.  The car handles it like a pro and amazingly I manage not to smash into any other vehicles.  (I might have a future in parking cars)

Bottom line is I bought a Subaru (not that particular car…as I can’t imagine that I didn’t damage it in some way)

Of course I was just window shopping so I told the dealer that I’d need to go home and get the title to my trade-in (that was fun, as they did not put any worth in the sentimental value I placed on the car.  I think the phrase they used was something along the lines of, "It's just a 15 year old car we will not be able to sell.")   

I’m a master paper collector.  I have all papers for everything I’ve ever bought.   I'm the reason there's a pulp shortage in the world right now.  I have all 15 years’ worth of maintenance bills on my existing car.   

But naturally, I cannot find the title to my car.  

It’s not where it supposed to be, so I turn my whole house, floor by floor, drawer by drawer, upside down – I’m now a certifiable, raving lunatic.

So my car has the last laugh.  To get rid of it, I need to make a trip in morning, in the freezing rain, to the NJ Division of Motor Vehicles and pay $60 for a “lost title.”   I’m sure I’ll find the original tonight….

After Thoughts:  My newest catch phrase that I say frequently now is: WTF.    I mentioned that the car has safety features, which I have not yet figured out how to turn off.  One that will eventually make me a better driver is that the car has cameras up front that can track the lines in a highway or street.  If you cross the lines without a turn signal on, it beeps at an alarming level that I would image an F15 Fighter Pilot would experience when an enemy cruise missile has just locked on. 
I've been wanting to try out the "Crash Avoidance"...but I'm too chicken.

Happy New Year to All!

In Search of HooDoo Heaven

Hiking National Parks out West - Lessons Learned:

1.     Don’t fool yourself into believing that there will be no paybacks if you try to hike up and down mountains for 5 or 6 hours a day, and you haven’t gotten yourself into any kind of shape.  You know how after a tough workout you describe how certain parts of your body hurt?  In this case, describing what didn’t hurt would be easier.  And in this state of endless agony, you’re constantly asking people who are returning from a summit that you’re trying to reach, “How much further to the top?”  Their answers are always so disappointing that you think they’re screwing with your head – They’re not.  You’ll also find that while you’re under exhausting stress, you, your loved ones, and your very close friends grow patient-less…even angry.  I was sure that at a couple of points along the trail I’d get a rock to the back of the head.

2.     Even if you think you’re a camel, drink water, lots of water.  What I found out after the fact was that when stressing your muscles, lactic acid builds up in them causing night cramps, water flushes it out.

3.     Do Not try to navigate the maze of canyons without a map.  Fight the overwhelming force that tells you, “Oh I don’t need no stinking map.”  Unless of course your mission is to get lost.  (Note to self: Bad idea to blame your spouse re forgetting map)  The trail signs are completely inadequate - we wound up on a “Horse Trail.”  No sign of horses but you could definitely tell they were there.  We should have figured out that we were in trouble when we lost site of any humans, but we had more than enough evidence that horses were there.  After a while the smell got to be so strong that I started to question what they were feeding these animals – Think Kramer, Rusty and Beeferino.   Quick Note:  After using an ancient unisex outhouse where it was apparent that they had an “annual” service contract, I found myself looking forward to the smell of the Manure Trail.

4.     And the Don’t Leave Home Without Them items: Vitamints, Triple Strength Bi-Flex Joint Health, Advil, Advil PM, Zantac, Tums, Gas-X, and everyone’s favorite – ImodiumAD.

5.     An Observation about Bryce Canyon National Park:  Ebenezer Bryce lived in an area just outside Bryce Canyon called Tropic.  Yes Tropic.  He lived there from 1875 to 1880.  Five years – and for that he had a National Park named after him.  I was thinking to myself, those must have been the most stellar, show stopping five years anyone ever had since the dawn of time.  So I asked one of the of the Park Rangers about it.  He said, “You’ve got a good point.  These days you need to either a famous inventor or a president to get a National Park named after you.”  (Look for Trump Tower to be submitted as an entry for our next National Park)  The ranger went on to say that Ebenezer Bryce (and here I thought only Scrooge had that first name) was part of the Mormon Church and his main job was to do reconnaissance work for the Church and scope out new wilderness areas for potential settlements.  Once he’d find an area, he’d help the new Mormon settlers get going, building houses and showing them how to farm.   Once established, he’d move on.  He did this fourteen times and finally settled in Arizona.  The ranger felt that the magnitude of the number of times he did this was impressive and that by itself warrants the naming.   I still thought it was very weak.

6.     And last but not least - Plan Ahead.  National Parks have crowded times and not so crowded times.  You really need to do the homework to figure out how to maximize your enjoyment of the parks – Well worth the effort.  Truly Amazing Sites.

7.     “Climb a Mountain or spend a week in the Woods.  Wash your Spirit Clean.” – John Muir

You Know You Need a Vacation When....

So yesterday I got to the massive Secaucus train station Park & Lock at 6:36AM…at least that’s what my claim ticket said.  I got there early enough to get a good spot up against the walkway closer to the station.  I’m in the zone, I get out of my car, walk around the passenger side, grab my knapsack that feels like it has a bowling ball in it, and head for the train.

I return in the evening, racing past a number of people who are also heading to the parking lot.  I’m going to get there first, avoid the long payment lines and get on the road.  I pay my fee and briskly walk towards my car.  My car is not there.   I double back a couple of times checking my sanity but I know I parked in this particular area.  I finally come to the conclusion that, “Ah Crap, someone stole my car!” 

I’m super pissed now and sweating bullets.   I head to the valet guys by the payment area and break the bad news that it looks like my car has been stolen.  My point person, a guy who looks to be in his early 30s tells me not to worry, this happens all the time.   Not that cars are stolen, but people forget where they’ve parked their car.  I assure him I know where I parked my car, and I really just want him to call the police.  Instead, we walk up and down the area where I said I parked my car clicking away at my keyless remote fob- (2015 Mazda CX5).  We find nothing.  Now I can see my new associate eyeing me up and down.  I can tell he’s thinking I’m either a geriatric or a lush and can’t remember where I parked my car.  First he questions me and says well maybe you came in, left and came back later and parked somewhere else.  My first thought is, why in God’s name would anybody do that, but I show him my time-stamped ticket.  He’s not satisfied and decides to take me on a tour of the whole parking lot as we look for my car.  He begins picking out random cars asking me if they might be mine.  My patience is paper-thin and I decide to call my wife…Did I just say that?

I call my wife and explain the situation and ask her to text me the Vin and license plate number of the car.  I figure I’m going to need that info when the police arrive.  My wife is having problems finding the info which is not endearing her to me.  Then she asks me, “But now they have our address and a garage door opener, what are we going to do?”  It was probably only a one or two second mental pause, but I collected myself, valiantly fought off the desire to say the first thought that came to my mind and said good bye.

            In the end, my tormentor asked for my key, held it up in the air and pressed down on the lock button and said, I think I hear something over there…pointing to the valet area.  I think he’s lost it because I've told him no less than five times that I didn’t park my car in valet.  We walk over, and there’s my car...parked in the valet area.  A couple of the valet crew are standing around with big smiles on their faces.  It’s almost as if they’ve been waiting for me.  They tell me that in the morning they found the car running with the door open, so they brought it over to the valet area.   I’m super relieved, but feel like an idiot.  I pass out a couple of $20 bills to my new friends, and then the guy who took me on the 3-hour tour says, “Oh that’s right, I was here this morning when that happened…but I just forgot about it.” 

HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND!