Bad Habits of Quarantine

So with the new world of quarantine and virtual connectivity, my normal face to face job has been dehumanized to connecting with people over the phone or the digitized image of myself shoulders up.  The latter has proven to be a bit of a slippery slope for me.

I’ve taken quarantine very seriously.  I haven’t shaved in over 2 months and I can’t remember where my comb is.  I won’t go into how many days I’ve worn the same clothes but someone just saw a picture of me and thought I was a hostage.  There are very few things I’m still good at, one is growing a beard.  When I was much younger…much much younger, I had blonde hair and a red beard.  That red beard is now white…like Santa Claus White.  My red suit is on order and I’m figuring that for my second act I’ll work one month a year and spread some cheer. 

This look can be a good thing and a bad thing.  I decided I needed something from our local Walgreens store.  I have my new uniform on…sweat pants and flannel shirt.  As I park in front of the Walgreens I look down at my chest and lap and notice that it looks as though my clothes have been hosting a cheese fondue party.  I do my best to pick the cheese off (no I did not eat the aged cheese, but the thought did cross my mind.) but ultimately decided with my new costume and mask, no one will recognize me and I head in.  Instead of getting a basket or a cart (for fear of contracting said virus) I opted to carry the few items I needed in my arms.  This was fine until my eyes were bigger than my arms.  At one point I kept dropping items on the floor to the point where a middle aged woman felt compelled to help me with my ever tumbling packages.  I fought her off for a while feeling somewhat insulted, then decided, hey would Santa accept help?  Sure he would.

When you normally have to dress professionally for work and go to see customers, the gift of not having to get dressed can become problematic.  My company has standardized on the video conferencing product that runs on your laptop called, Zoom.  To protect my new way of life, I have made it a point to not turn on the live video camera during customer Zoom sessions.  The new me is not pleasing to the eye and definitely not customer friendly.  Unfortunately one of my younger teammates had arranged a Zoom meeting with one of our customers from Puurs, Belgium.  Since they’re seven hours ahead of us the meeting was earlier in the morning.  As we kicked off the call, my associate says, “Steve, I’m not sure if you’ve been formally introduced to Vilma, why don’t you introduce yourself.”  That would have been fine but both my associate and Vilma have their cameras on and without thinking too much, I patted the top of my hair and turned my camera on…forgetting I was still in my Incredible Hulk pajamas.  It gets better, when I turn the camera on, not only can other people see me, but I can see myself on the screen.  I’m now staring at the disheveled; Cheerios stuck in the beard chaos that is my new look.  After that, all I can remember is blabbering about what an idiot I am and how I bring no value to any meeting unless it involves cheese.

The moral of the story is, Stay Vigilant, this will be over soon and people might recognize you.

Work From Home - The Practice Session

So in February I had a business trip in San Diego.  I stayed at a nice hotel for three days, had great weather, and my employer footed the bill - all good stuff.  The first morning my internal clock went off at 4AM, and after staring at the ceiling for 15 minutes I decided to get out of bed.  It was still pitch black out and I wasn’t ready for an all-on light show in my room, so I groped around and found the clothes I had on the day before and recycled them.  Since the hotel restaurant didn’t open for breakfast until 6AM, I decided to get some work done.  With only the small desk lap on, I stumbled around the hotel room looking for my black computer bag.  Laptop was found and without uttering too many four-letter words I was able to log onto the hotel’s wifi system.  Then my next task was to negotiate my way through the myriad of security warnings and trick questions to ensure I was who I said I was.  But yet another example of the new normal.  I’m now into my company’s online work environment and I quickly get into my typical mind numbing, heads down work zone.   I come up for air and notice it’s 6:15AM – time for breakfast.  I grab my wallet and room key and head out the door.  As I’m leaving I check to make sure I have a shirt and pants on.  That would be embarrassing if I missed that, right?  I go to the counter where they seat you and in a happy to be in warm SoCal tone I say, “One Please.”  As I’m having my coffee, I notice I’m getting strange looks from the other patrons coming in.  I can’t imagine anyone is remembering yesterday’s clothes and just let it go.   I finish breakfast and head back to my hotel room.  I walk into the room and stroll past the full-length mirror on the sliding door of the closet.  I get a quick view of my head, actually my hair that almost caused me to trip over the bed.  You see over the years the once proud legion of hair on my head has deserted me.  The mob that’s left is a bunch of renegades that have minds of their own.  So during breakfast, at the public restaurant, I was sporting a hair do that any punk rock band would have been proud of.

Moving forward, I now work from home “WFH” like many.  My laptop is now my everything.  I do admin work on it.  I do calls from it.  I watch seminars on it.  I have internal and customer meetings on it using video tools like ZOOM and WebEx.  I currently have a piece of tape covering my laptop camera.  I’d like to say it’s a privacy thing, but the real situation is that like my San Diego trip, I now have trouble separating coffee time from hygiene time from work time from remember to put my clothes on time.  That and I have not shaved in about 20 days.  I once upon a time tried to hike the Appalachian Trail.  My new trail name will have to be, ”Kringle” as in Kris.  So the camera stays off for now…so as not to scare people.

What I’ve found helps make WFH less morose is to call friends and catch up.  So if you used to call folks once a month, call them once a week.  That and I’m instituting a new weekly ritual.  It’s called the Friday Night Oil Can…in honor of Fosters Lager.  It’s a large con call to get caught up, but no discussions about work.  Stay Healthy.

And with the rain came....

Camel Crickets.  They’re called camel crickets because their legs are as long as a camel's.  And they look like something just off the boat from Jurassic Park.  Long story short, my daughter was having two girlfriends stay over our house for the weekend.  I go down into the basement where they'll be staying and decide it might be good to clean up a bit.  I go to move a large piece of cardboard.  Out of the corner of my eye is something on the edge of the cardboard that's so large that mentally it doesn’t register as being a bug.  I actually touched it and it jumped (one might say flew...the Incredible Hulk cannot fly but he's so powerful that when he jumps it seems like he's flying.  It was like that.)  Major “Oh Crap” and I go looking for the creature.  I turn a lot of things upside down but can't find it.  I make a management type decision and tell no one about my encounter with the twelve legged atomic mutation.  My thought process was that if I tell anyone what I saw and that I didn’t catch it, that I'd be paying for a lot of hotel rooms over the weekend.  Besides, I probably scared him back to wherever he came from.  And I figured if I heard screaming at 3 AM, I'd have a pretty good idea what it was about.  I didn't have to wait that long.  My daughter searches me out and tells me there is a large bug on the bathroom mat downstairs.  Note: The back legs of the camel cricket have monstrous spines sticking out.  They were stuck on the bathroom rug.  I get the phone book and solve my problem.  I’m very relieved…for about an hour.  Someone’s about to go into the shower and the deceased bug's big brother is attached to the shower curtain.  I get a tennis racket and beating the daylights out of the curtain.  It finally falls to the ground, but he's not dead.  I've knocked off one of his legs and I'm thinking about the "fight or flight" instinct in animals.  This prehistoric bug has probably figured out that he can't run away with one leg and I immediately think he's going to turn and come after me.  A couple more forehands and this guy’s done too.  I’ve never played so well.  I feel confident that I now have the situation under control.  Three minutes later I get the call again.  They say it's on the ceiling of the bathroom.  I go down, and inverted, clung to the ceiling of the bathroom is a wolverine.  When I saw it, I stopped dead in my tracks and immediately thought of two catch phrases.  First from the movie Jaws..."We're going to need a bigger Frying Pan."  I'm thinking I don't have a frying pan in the house that’s large enough to kill that thing.  And then from Hillary Clinton, "It's going to take a village of frying pans".  What's worse is the girls are standing right behind me – no way out.  There’s no time to think, I need to go into that small bathroom and close the door behind me.  If “It” gets out, I’ll need to sell the house.  I’ve got three old Sports Illustrated magazines in hand, but I’m really wishing I had an automatic weapon. It’s now time to try to kill this gargantuan insect.  I close the door behind me and can almost see a smile on the heinous bug’s face.  I imagine he's thinking, "Now I've Got You!"
We do have a happy ending to the story.  The doctors say aside from the tetanus shot and a battery of rabies injections I should be just fine.   

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