Tag: Pain

A year ago

One year ago today, my Dad passed away. His was one in a series of deaths that happened in rapid succession, so when I went back to look at my blog post about it, I realized I never wrote one. I think I set up his memorial website (http://www.johnvgilhooly.com) and linked it on Facebook, and that was about it for social media. It’s interesting living in an age where I have dead friends on Facebook.

We had just lost my wife’s Aunt in December, and I had created a website, helped write her remembrance, help choose readings for the service, and was just back from the service when Dad died. So, in a way, the death checklist cycle just started over, and I never really thought much about it – I just went through the motions again. A death can be surreal, especially when they happen close together. (From December 2013 to February 2014, we lost my wife’s Aunt, my wife’s cousin (a beneficiary in her Aunt’s will), one of our friends from baseball, and my Dad. So much for deaths in threes.) 

I lost a Dad and gained a Mom, since I’ve now spent more time with my Mom in the past year that I had since I left for college. My parents were a true partnership, and duties were divided, which meant when one partner left, the other may or may not have any idea about how some parts of life’s enterprise operated. Luckily, my Dad was an attorney and everything was pretty well documented. He even wrote his own obituary. This was someone who pays attention to the details.

So, a year later, I’m re-reading my eulogy, and I’m trying to remember the day.

I do know that I had been in St Thomas Aquinas Church hundreds of times – I had even served Mass there for years, but that day was the first time I was ever in the pulpit. I remember my brother and I were both frantically trying to find the lectern – he’d never been in the pulpit, either. So, I spoke from the pulpit. How we were spared fire from the heavens raining down is still a mystery to me. 

I tend to find something to obsess about during times of extreme stress, since if I have something to concentrate on, I won’t freak out about whatever is really happening. It’s the mental version of biting your lip to keep from laughing or crying. Distraction. I was actually obsessing about trying to remember which of my friends from work I had seen before the service, so I could thank them later, and I was obsessing about having addressed Abbot Peter Verhalen from Cistercian as “Fr Peter” when he is actually “Fr Abbot”, but I think he forgave me. It helps that I knew him before he was even “Father”, since he graduated right after I started there.

I’m not sure why I remember all that.

Here’s what I said that day – although I’ve been told that reading it was not as funny as seeing me deliver it. I don’t really like saying “deliver it” because it makes a eulogy sound like a sketch, which it should not be, unless I’m delivering it. Then, all bets are off. However, the best (and easiest) laughs are produced at times of crisis or sorrow, because nothing is funnier than when it is inappropriate to laugh. I really hoped people would laugh. I hate crying. I also thought echos of laughter in an acoustically sound Church would sound really cool. They did.

I said:

Reverend Fathers and Deacons, family and friends,

For those who don’t recognize me, I’m Kevin John Gilhooly. My Dad didn’t want a “Junior”, so I have his name as my middle name. I realized this morning, that had I been a Junior, people would now be saying, “Look, it’s Littlejohn”, so, my Dad was a wise man. For those who thought I was Stephen, he’s my younger brother. He’s next.

My memories of my Dad are very distinct moments in time, rather than a wash of almost 53 years, which is how long we knew each other.

My Dad was a first-generation American. My Grandpa Gilhooly emigrated from County Leitrim, Ireland early in the 1900s, and settled in Providence, RI. So, since this is about someone of Irish descent (and technically an Irish citizen), it starts with a drinking story and it ends with a drinking story.

This is the story of my first official drink. I was already 18 and I was working in a liquor store, so it was not my actual first drink, but this was the first one Dad bought me.

Dad had invited me to lunch, which was a bit unusual. We went downtown, which was a bit unusual. Since we were downtown, and the restaurant he chose was next door to St Jude Chapel, he suggested I go to Confession since we were “in the area”. I’ve always wondered if tricking someone into going to Confession was a sin. Probably not.

We went into the restaraunt and he ordered a bourbon and Coke. Dad asked me if I would like a drink. I said, “I’ll have a Jamesons and water.” He hadn’t realized that people that work at liquor stores get discounts, and that causes rather expensive taste. I think he was secretly impressed. It was a very good drink.

Now, some random moments.

My Dad and I did one “traditional” father-son activity together. The YMCA had a program called “Indian Guides”, a father-son activity. I was most excited since we got to choose Indian names for ourselves. After much consideration, I chose “Running Deer”. When the leader asked my Dad for his Indian name at the meeting that night, he just looked tired, and said “Walking Deer”. At least we sounded related. It was either about a six-week summer program, or that was how long Dad needed to discover he was not Native American. (Surprisingly, my brother Stephen was never an Indian Guide.)

There are many occasions where at the time, it seemed we didn’t understand each other at all, which is probably common with parents and children. These are the moments life lessons are passed down. Sometimes.

Two life lessons about food.

When Stephen and I were growing up, we usually attended 9:15am Mass on Sunday. As a special treat, some weeks, we would go to Kip’s Big Boy after Mass. On one of those visits, I was told I couldn’t have my original order because it was too expensive. So, I changed my order. (This was all before the waitress arrived, since orders were generally pre-approved.) Then, Dad ordered himself ten Silver Dollar pancakes. I was incensed. Ten dollars worth of pancakes after denying my reasonable request for extra bacon? (Or whatever it was.) Then, our breakfasts arrived. My Dad was paying a dollar each for some of the smallest pancakes I had ever seen! I finally had to ask why they were a dollar each. Dad had to explain they were the size of silver dollars. I had never seen a silver dollar. So, life lesson: never assume your parents are insane until you do the research.

Another morning, Dad made English muffins and asked how many I would like. I said four. Moments later, he arrived with a really large pile of hot breakfast treats. More than I had ever seen. I wasn’t sure I could finish that much. So, I asked, “Why are there so many English muffins?” He said, “You asked for four.” He counted muffins pre-slicing. I never realized I had been eating half muffins. Important lessons a parent can teach.

Life lessons about music.

In 1974, Joe Cocker had a hit song called “You Are So Beautiful”. There are not many more lyrics in the song than those in the title. Basically, “You are so beautiful to me. Can’t you see? You are so beautiful to me.” For a 14-year old who had been writing poetry in English class for homework, it was a moment of clarity – pure emotion in a minimum of words. For a 44-year old corporate attorney in the middle of a seven-hour drive to visit his in-laws, it was not. He said, “You think they would have bought a few extra lyrics.” To each his own, I suppose.

My first concert was the second Texxas Jam in 1978 at the Cotton Bowl. It was an all-day show, with multiple bands. My Dad was my date. Actually, he invited himself so I wouldn’t be maimed or murdered. I had never smoked pot, but I did recognize it when the guy next to my Dad tried to pass him a joint. (He declined). In fact, later on, Dad mentioned in a rather loud voice that he really didn’t like the smell of marijuana. We had more room around us after that, since I’m pretty sure everyone thought he was a narc.

The only band Dad liked was The Little River Band, and that’s because they closed with “Return To Sender”, a song older than I.

Fleetwood Mac closed the show. As Stevie Nicks sang, “Rihannon”, Dad leaned over and said, “What is she saying?” I was in the middle of a “You Are So Beautiful”-poetry moment, but I managed to answer, “Rihannon. She’s a Welsh witch.” That was the last time I got the “You kids these days” look. I suppose the lesson is that some music does not cross generations.

Some life lessons about business.

My Dad was part of the Bob O’Links Homeowners Association. In fact, he was the President for a time. That was the group that successfully fought to keep Bob O’Links Golf Course zoned for single-family homes while the owners were trying to get the City Council to change it to allow apartments. So, if traffic is a bit heavy on Abrams at times, think what it would be like if the area from Abrams to Wendover and Bob O’Links to Sondra were all filled with apartments. Thanks, Dad. Fight the good fight, because sometimes, you win.

I worked at TI for a couple of years after I moved back to Dallas after college. My Dad actually helped get me in the door. I was on a small team that produced ad hoc reports for people – in the days before PCs, only the IT staff could access information easily.

I had a report requested for someone in the legal department, and had done a number of iterations, but I couldn’t get what they wanted. I finally asked who the report was for. In a hushed voice, I was told “John Gilhooly.” So, I went over to my Dad’s office and asked what he was trying to prove. A couple of hours later, he had his numbers. So, find out who is in charge, and ask them. That was actually a real life lesson. Also, you may never know how important your Dad is until you see the level of fear in his people’s eyes as a deadline approaches.

I will close, as promised, with a drinking story. This one happened last Monday night, the day before Dad passed away. My wife Virginia and I went to visit him while my Mom was teaching her grief counseling class. Technically, we were Dad-sitting. He was asleep when we arrived. Since he was on pain killers, I thought he might sleep the entire time we were there.

Mom showed us where everything was (which was in the same place since 1972 when they bought the house.) She said he could have orange juice to drink if he wanted something. She wasn’t sure he would want food.

A few minutes after she left, I heard Dad calling me. He was awake and wanted to get out of bed. I helped him into his wheelchair, and brought him into the living room, so he could be with us.

I asked if he wanted something to drink and he said, “Yes. A Bourbon and Sprite, but only half a jigger of Bourbon.”

I thought for a moment. On one hand, here was a cancer patient on hydrocodone asking for alcohol. On the other hand, it was only half a jigger, and he’s Irish. Plus, he had a twinkle in his eye that meant “I know I’m being bad”. So, I made him a drink.

He said he was hungry. My (Italian-American) wife Virginia made him some dinner. She also gave him a piece of cake she had brought over.

So, the last thing I did for my Dad was fix him a drink, and the last thing Virginia did was feed him. Somehow, that seems appropriate. I am very thankful for that evening.

Goodbye, Dad. See you on the other side. I’ll have a Jamesons and water.

Thank you all for being here with us.

Short and sweet.

It’s interesting to read that piece again today, because the first time I re-read it, I realized that almost everything in the eulogy happened before I was eighteen or the day before Dad died. There was a long period of time where we were at odds with each other, over any number of issues. However, as the elder son, it was my job to fight all the battles, so my younger brother would know which battles to fight and which to pass.

I remember that almost being”Littlejohn” actually occurred to me as I was walking up to the pulpit, so I wasn’t exactly focused before I got started. The question about tricking someone to go to Confession is much, much funnier if there is a line of priests and deacons on the other side of the Sacristy that you can pause and look at, inquiringly. That’s when everybody laughed.

I don’t think I really cried until the piper started playing at the cemetery. I never knew my Dad wanted a piper at his funeral. In fact, obsessing about why an Irishman wanted a Scottish player at his funeral almost kept me from crying, but some songs make me cry.

It all seems like a long time ago, now. In a way, it was.

When you’ve been estranged from someone for a number of years, losing him is actually very awkward. Everyone expects that you had the same relationship with him that they did, but nobody else was his eldest son. It’s different.

My wife still thinks “I should call Mom” constantly and her Mom’s been gone for over five years – but they were very close. She thought about calling her Aunt for advice on doing her Aunt’s estate. My family does not have this type of closeness, for good or bad.

I haven’t thought “I should call Dad” very much in the past year, since I wasn’t thinking that when he was still there to call. We had managed to get from “estranged” to “distant” or “formally cordial” by the time he passed, so we were making progress. We just weren’t there yet. I guess we’ll finish on the other side.

He was still my Dad, estrangement, arguments and all. He’s still gone. That still sucks.

Won’t Get Fooled Again

I was annoyed. Now, I’m pissed.

Why is Obama still in office? How was he elected twice? How stupid are American voters? (No, I did not vote for him. I have a functional brain.)

When are we going to learn? Liberals with advanced degrees and no real-world experience make incredibly bad decisions because they don’t understand how the world works and don’t see any possible consequences because they don’t know how to actually plan anything. Always. Every. damn. time. Yet, there always seem to be enough people stupid or greedy enough to think that they will personally benefit that somehow they keep getting elected.

Some people, like Obama, do actually see the possible consequences, but just lie about them, since the true consequences might prevent them from getting their way. These are evil people.

You can keep your plan. Bullshit. He knew this was bullshit when he said it. Every time he said it. Somebody in the White House ran the numbers, or there couldn’t have been a cost estimate. It’s just he assumed everybody would jump on the bandwagon. “Sure, Barack, I’ll pay more for less insurance so somebody with no insurance can have theirs for free.” What kind of idiot actually thinks anyone works this way? Self-preservation is a key trait of humans. So is charity. However, forced charity is not. That’s what the Democrats have been forcing on us since the 1940s. Hey, we’ll take your money and give it back to you when you retire. Hey, we’ll give you medical care cheap. Hey, we will help you buy a house you can’t afford.

Stop the madness.

Liberals think they know better than common people. No, they don’t. Can we learn that this time?

There are poor people in the world. There are people with no insurance in the world. It is not government’s job to force me to fix this problem. It is also not government’s problem to fix.

The last time government fixed a problem was when mean, greedy banks wouldn’t give unworthy people mortgages, so the government fixed the mortgage market. Banks were forced to grant mortgages to people who didn’t meet basic criteria. They bundled all the questionable mortgages together to pass the potential losses to others. The losses started, the mortgage market crashed and took the economy along with it, among thousands of people walking away from underwater houses. Maybe, just maybe, there was a reason all those people were red-lined before the government stepped in.

Now, according to Obama, mean insurance companies wouldn’t insure people who couldn’t pay minimums or had pre-existing conditions. Some companies wouldn’t sell men insurance to cover their pregnancies! What is wrong with the world? Obamacare fixed this. It mandated minimal coverage which had nothing to do with the real world. All the insurance companies were now legally bound to no longer sell policies in place, if they didn’t meet the government standards. Now, healthy people are having plans canceled and poor people still can’t afford the premiums. This is all the Democrat’s fault. They wrote the bill without help, they passed the bill without help, and Obama signed it. Obamacare is the latest reason I don’t want any Democrats near my money.

Here’s the obvious conclusion – none of the idiots that wrote this law understand how a market works, how a company will adjust to unfair regulations, or how to write a website. These are the same people keeping you safe from terrorists. Feel better?

A worse conclusion – they all knew what they were doing, and they know it has nothing to do with insurance and everything to do with wealth redistribution. A bunch of rich white people (and one rich mulatto) decided they should get rid of rich white people. If you make everyone poor, there won’t be any more poor people – they’ll just be average. Feel better?

Obama should be impeached. He is refusing to enforce the law as passed (and cleared by the Supreme Court, as the Democrats keep reminding us) which is his job as President. What’s even more galling for those of us who actually took a government class – he’s refusing to enforce his own law, and he’s frantically rewriting it as people find out that only a complete dumbass would think the government could destroy an industry and not have anyone notice.

The President cannot pick and choose what parts of a law he likes. He cannot just postpone politically unpopular portions of a law. He cannot say, “Well, the law says 2013, but I’m going to make it 2014.” His oath is not to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution if he feels like it. This is a violation of his oath, and that should be an impeachable offense.

The next time any party presents a candidate with no real-world experience that has never actually worked in any business, can we please remember this fiasco? That would make Obama’s legacy worthwhile. Don’t elect dumbasses.

Sleep Study

I’m tired this morning. This is probably because I spent last night having my sleep studied. This was my first sleep study in ten years or so, and that was just long enough to forget how non-sleep-inducing a sleep study really is.

A sleep study is a classic case of the observer effect – if you’re measuring something, there’s a high likelihood you will change it. (This is similar to (but not the same as) the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, which is a much cooler name.)

First of all, you’re in a strange bed. This is not too challenging for somebody who travels, but it’s still a strange bed in a strange place, without your wife’s Nook glowing quietly next to you and a PBGV pressed to your butt. It’s also dark – no nightlights, no clock (!), and you’re wired to the bed, so you can’t just get up to pee without calling for help.

Then, there are the wires. Ah, the wires. Now, there’s a challenge. You have fourteen probes on your head, two on your chest, four on your legs, a snore microphone on your neck and a pulse oximeter on your finger.  That, my friends, is a rather large collection of wires. They are all connected to a box that has a serial port (haven’t seen one of those in years – don’t they use USB by now?) that is connected to a port on the wall that is connected to a computer somewhere in the facility.

ApniaMan

Then, there’s the timing. I was scheduled to arrive at 7:30pm. My usual bedtime is about midnight – I shoot for 11:30pm or so, but it never happens. So, we’re four and a half hours before my bedtime. By the time I changed into shorts and a t-shirt (I’m too old and too young for pajamas), had my blood pressure checked (it was high – go figure), had a CPAP mask tryout (I still don’t like the nose pillows that stick in your nostrils, just give me a mask) and filled out the pre-sleep questionnaire, it was 8:15pm or so. (I guess. Who knows? There’s no clock in the room.)

The sleep clinic wants everyone in bed by 10:45pm at the latest – but really, they want you in bed much earlier so they have enough time to monitor the quality of your sleep, which will certainly be high, given you’re in a strange room with wires all over you.

After a short break, one of the technicians came to “wire me up.” This is the slow procedure of hooking up the fourteen sensors on the head (positions marked on the scalp with grease pencil after measuring with a tape measure), four taped to my legs (two per leg), two on my chest, plus a snoring microphone on my neck and the pulse oximeter (glowing red) taped closed on my finger.

Then, all of the wires are hooked to the main controller box, and it is looped over your chest with a lanyard. At that point, you’re “mobile.” Hahahahahahahaha! For those of us with glasses, you can’t wear them at this point, so I couldn’t read. I did manage to use the bathroom without calling for help, so that was an accomplishment.

Wired

I had just sat down on the bed to determine my next move when the speaker crackled on, and someone said “Just let us know when you’re ready to go to sleep.”

It’s ten to freakin’ nine. I’m pretty sure my grandchildren don’t go to bed this early.

Still, what else was there to do? I couldn’t get my glasses on, so reading was out. I desperately feared discovering what channels are available on sleep clinic TV. (Although, if they want people to “sleep normally” in a strange bed in a strange room, there might have been pay-per-view. Just sayin’.)

Just after nine (according to the text I sent home), I gave in. It was bedtime.

This was a “split study” (I did not know that until after I arrived), so the first part was to observe me sleeping “naturally” (I’ve had a CPAP for ten years). I can’t sleep without a CPAP. So, “naturally”, was going to be painful.

A CPAP is “continuous positive airway pressure.” Basically, it’s a little machine that blows air through your nose (through a mask) with enough pressure to keep your airway open, so you can actually breathe while you sleep. In my case, my throat would close while I was sleeping, blocking my air. I would choke, wake up briefly, fall asleep, and the cycle would start again. This made me snore (really, I would just breathe through my mouth), which the Spousal Unit noticed was getting worse, which is how my sleep apnia was discovered. That, and I was falling asleep at my desk in the afternoons – even without meetings.

So, if I don’t have a CPAP, I don’t breathe very well during sleep, which means I don’t sleep.

Here’s a challenge – I can’t really sleep without a CPAP, I’m wired for study, I have sensors in my nostrils, I’m in a strange bed and it’s 9pm. Why isn’t this conducive to a good night’s sleep?

I lay still. I turned over (which is stressful and a slow process, since I was worried about pulling a sensor loose.) I turned back.  I tried to figure out why the left leg cable was much shorter than the right (I was lying on it.) I adjusted the pillows and accidentally hit the main controller box.

Main Controller Box

Nobody called, so it must have been alright.

After a long time of no sleep (I thought – we’ll see what the sensors say), I heard the speaker crackle on. Jesus (Hay-sus, not Gee-sus) was coming in. Whew. Time to put on the CPAP.

I asked him what time it was. It was 12:30am. Just over three hours of no sleep. On the bright side, at this point, it’s just after my “real” bedtime.

Off go the sensors, on goes the mask. Ahhh. I really hate things sticking in my nose.

Now, I could sleep. Maybe.

Jesus said, “Could you try sleeping on your back? If you can’t go to sleep after a while, just roll over, but we’d like to try to have you sleep on your back.”

I had been warned about this while getting wired up. Apparently, sleeping on your back is more likely to cause distress in sleep apnia patients. This is why I don’t sleep on my back. However, since this is a study, distress is good. (I was told this morning when I got home that I do in fact sleep on my back. A lot. Who knew?)

So, on my back, off to Dreamland.

Nothing.

After about  a half-hour (which will turn out to be five minutes), I turned on my side and went to sleep.

After about four hours, I woke up – I was having a dream that my family was leaving the house and I was supposed to drive, but my truck was in the shop. (It was the truck I had just after I graduated from college – so I haven’t seen it in over twenty-five years. Whatever.)

I rolled over and heard something snap. Oops. I think I popped a leg sensor off.

Jesus came in to re-attach the sensor. Since he was there, I asked to get unhooked to visit the facilities. He disconnected the main controller box, looped it around my neck, and wandered out.

Peeing around wires attached to your legs when sleep deprived with a heavy controller on your chest is not as easy as it sounds.

I asked what time it was. He said, “It’s about one-thirty.”

Four hours? Not so much.

Flushed with success, and re-wired, I went back to sleep.

The next thing I remember is Jesus on the speaker, telling me the study was concluded. He came in to unwire me and I asked what time it was. He said it was 6:15am.

Ouch.

I changed, did the post-study survey, and headed out. I stopped at Whataburger, since I was pretty sure that someone with goop in his hair, looking disheveled and half-asleep would not cause concern. (I was correct.)

I would go back to bed, but I have meetings this morning. This could be a challenge.

Next week, I find out if I passed.

The Company Store

“You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don’t you call me ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store”
— “Sixteen Tons“, Merle Travis

Tennessee Ernie Ford sang those lines a long time ago, probably the famous version of a song that had been around for a while, and is still heard today. It’s a coal miner’s lament – miners were tied to a mine, living in (and paying rent for) company-owned housing, and forced to buy necessities from the company store, because miners were basically immobile – they never left the mines.

The company store is a target of hatred in story and song – a place where the mining company basically took back most of the wages it paid by selling required goods to the workers at inflated prices. Often, miners weren’t even paid cash – they were paid in scrip, fake money that could only be used at the company store.

It was an unfair practice, one that took automobiles (cheap, personal transportation) and the formation of unions to end.

Imagine a company store today. One selling low-quality products at inflated prices – and selling products that many people don’t even want. However, with this company store, you’re required to buy the products – in fact, if you don’t buy the products, you can pay a fine.

That’s Obamacare. Welcome to the coal mines.

Listen to the Band (Sometimes)

Play the drum a little bit louder,
Tell me I can live without her,
If I only listen to the band.
Michael Nesmith, “Listen to the Band”

I love that song. I love listening to the band. Pretty much any band. Just not while I’m eating. Actually, I would like to be able to eat without any songs. It’s getting harder to do.

Could we please stop having bands in restaurants? A band in a bar is one thing – I expect that. However, the new trend of putting amplified bands in a restaurant just pisses me off. A lot.

Don’t get me wrong – I love music, so much it annoys most of the rest of my family. I can quote lyrics ad nausem. I volunteered for the Board at KNON because of their (our) music programming. I will pay to see a band I like, I always tip, but stop fucking playing while I’m trying to eat. I can’t hear anyone at my table, and I’m with people specifically so I don’t have to eat alone.

The only exception is a truly cavernous space, or a large Tex-Mex place with a cheesy Mariachi band just to be ironic (or for tourists, in a tourist trap). If you have twenty tables or less, you don’t need a band. Amplified. You just don’t. Please stop.

Also, any Hispanic band in a Tex-Mex place that plays “Smooth Operator” should have their union cards revoked.

If you want a small acoustic band playing in your restaurant just to avoid having a CD player, don’t. It’s lose-lose. If they’re good, nobody can hear them over the noise, but at least you can talk at the table. For me, I’ll be instantly distracted (quoting lyrics, original versions, the whole setlist), which annoys my companions. If they have any self-confidence (a musician? self-confident?), they just crank it up so you can hear them. In spite of my love of music, sometimes I don’t want to hear you. No offense, really, but my wife has stuff to talk about. If we do it in public, we fight less, or at least more quietly.

I love music, but I’m losing some of my favorite restaurants because somebody thought music would add a good vibe. It doesn’t. It’s annoying me. If it annoys me, a music lover, what is it doing to less tolerant people? I know we saw one couple walk out of a place tonight before they got in the door, because they heard the band.

Move music back to the bars where it belongs.

For my musician friends, I love you guys. I really do. I’ll always buy your CDs, I’ll download your MP3s, I’ll support your Kickstarter projects (don’t tell my wife), I’ll come to your shows when I can. I’d get you on the radio, but the DJs own their playlists. If you ever need a producer, I took a record production class years ago. If you could let me eat quietly, we’ll call it even.

Flashback

So, I’ve heard a lot of stories about my childhood from my Mom lately. I’ve been thinking about growing up and a lot of the activities of a young man. I even redid the Stagecoach 7 website yesterday evening.

But, I never thought I would flash back to the early 60’s this afternoon.

I did. I took a nap.

It’s been said that you become a grownup the day you start wondering why you didn’t want to take naps when you were younger. Sometimes, it’s just circumstance.

Last night, Murphy the Cocker Spaniel threw up. Four times. So, off to the vet. Luckily, Hillside Veterinary Clinic is open 24×7, and it’s just down the street, so we didn’t have to contend with the emergency clinic. There were a surprising number of people there for 10:30 PM on a Monday evening, but Murphy was whisked off to the back for tests, we talked to the vet, got him some meds, and were back home by just after midnight.

Midnight.

Well, at least I’m working at home today, so I don’t have to contend with traffic.

Did I mention I had a six-hour web conference call that started at 7:30 AM this morning?

So, I was going to double up on the coffee, and hope for the best. Maybe this would be an interesting meeting. You know, the exception to prove the rule.

Finally got to sleep about a quarter to one, because it takes extra time to fall asleep when you’re counting the minutes you have to actually sleep. So, I should have had a good six hours of sleep. Who needs more than that? No problems.

Four AM, the phone rings. I manage to answer it, and hear “This is ADT Security. We have an alarm.” Well, my house was quiet, so it was the Spousal Unit’s problem. We had an alarm going off in one of her late Aunt’s houses in Florida.

This is one of the stupid parts about naming an executor more than one State away – how are you going to get there if there’s a crisis?

Who could possibly be trying to get into a dead woman’s house? Oh, of course. The inheritor aka the new owner. Oops.

The Spousal Unit had given her cousin the code to the alarm. It just wasn’t the code to that alarm. Oops.

So, after finally getting him on the phone (via Facebook message) and talking politely to the police officer who had arrived, everything was back to normal.

At 5:20 AM.

So, not a lot of sleep.

It actually was a good conference call – a very good discussion. I managed to stay awake the whole time, and I only had three cups of coffee.

After the call ended, I crashed for an hour. Well, an hour and a half. The stuffed animals of my childhood were replaced by live dogs trying to push me out of the way, but it was still a nap. A glorious nap.

So, I’ll work late tonight to cover the missed time. At least, I’ll stay online until everyone on my team leaves.

We should all take naps.

Long Time Coming

Wow. This posting schedule (sic) has been even more sporadic than I had feared when I started this in the first place. It’s bad enough that Blind John Ellsworth has fallen off the wagon, without me wandering off into the weeds, as well.

So, my list of excuses – which is actually just a bunch of rants that I really needed to get off my chest. If you don’t know me very well, you can skip this one. It won’t make much sense to you without the backstory – and I really don’t have time for all the backstory.

  • I’m still getting asked about whether I’m coming to terms with my Dad’s death, but the sad, unfortunate reality is that his death is the least of my worries right now. Work stress and family stress is no way to fix grieving – it just postpones it. I’m pretty sure this is not healthy, but so it goes.
  • Work stress, you say? I’ve had three new managers in my chain of command in the past six months. My first line, second line and general manager are all new. Plus, they all got appointed from lower to upper, so every time someone higher up got appointed, our priorities changed. It’s very difficult to have a good year when you find out what you’re supposed to be doing in August and it has nothing to do with what you were hired to do or what you’ve been doing all along or even what you were told to do in July. Plus, a bunch of people of my approximate age and experience level were laid off in the last resource action.
  • I hate the term “resource action.” You fired people. You ruined lives. You made families suffer. Why? Usually because you’re spending money on the wrong products, or because you keep replacing senior people with people who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Starting from scratch to save money is a really dumb-ass idea, but apparently, it’s the core of every MBA program. You can raise income or cut costs. Why does no manager ever try to raise income?
  • We did have one bright spot at work – the Summer Innovation Camp with Analytics that we jointly produced with SMU’s Richard B Johnson Center for Economic Studies. We had happy students who learned a lot and we got a lot of really good press from the event. So, to anyone who wanted to know if it really took three months to write it – yes, it freakin’ did. I did it from scratch with a very small team and it was worth it. All my bosses said so. Thank you, Dr. Fomby and staff for all your support.
  • I spent this weekend doing a round-trip to Nashville – drove out Saturday, flew home Sunday. Let me just say that 14 hours in a U-Haul makes 90 minutes in a middle seat look tolerable. My son, his wife and my two grandsons moved to Ohio which meant that all the menfolk are all glad he has a real teaching job at last (and before his PhD is technically completed) and the women are all sad they are moving. Men and women will never see the same way on a move. I know this now. So, while spending Friday afternoon keeping the kids busy so Mom and Dad could pack, I realized a good Dad would volunteer to ride shotgun to Ohio in the U-Haul. Mom and kids got to fly to Ohio on Sunday, which meant my son got to drive alone and he had to beat them there, since he had the furniture. This on top of doing the drive alone two weeks ago to start his new job. Since a good Dad would go to Ohio and help unpack, I went to Nashville, bought him dinner, got him a hotel room for the night and then flew home. I never said I was a good Dad.
  • A good Grandfather would make it to the airport to see his grandkids head off to become Yankees (sob!) A Texas grandfather knows a Texan will always be a Texan, so I’m not really fearing the Yankee part. I did manage to get the last seat on the flight before mine – being AAdvantage Gold finally got me to the top of the standby list – so I managed to arrive at gate A11 fifteen minutes before they left from A13. So, I got to carry a car seat to the gate, tell the gate agents they had a pre-board that needed to cut in line and I got to say goodbye. Again.
  • If you have kids moving away, and your wife and Mom have both lost family members in the past eight months, it will be very traumatic for them. This will make no sense to any male, since they’re just a plane flight away – they’re not deceased – but to the womenfolk, it’s the same trauma. So it goes. Be prepared. Also, you might want to start stocking up AAdvantage miles because you’re going to need them.
  • This much trauma in a very short time will take most of the joy out of life. You will start skipping things because you just don’t have the energy – but it’s really that you just can’t get up the enthusiasm to get going. This is very, very difficult to explain to those who have not had the joy knocked out of their life, mainly because I just don’t feel the need to saddle someone with all of my whining. Someday, they will understand – especially if they read all this whining.
  • Last night, we made our semi-annual trip to the emergency room. The Spousal Unit is having strange pains. So, they did a CAT scan, found nothing (which makes sense, she’s a dog person) and sent her home. WTF? The insane amount you charge for a CAT scan wasn’t enough revenue? Surely, there were other tests you could have run at great cost to the insurance company to determine more specifically what “nothing” really means. So, follow-up visits to the doctor later in the week.
  • The emergency room trip was actually the shortest hospital stay this month – my sister-in-law is undergoing chemo and our Shih-Tzu (my late mom-in-law’s dog) was at the emergency vet’s for the weekend with a severe pancreatitis attack. So, six boring hours in the ER (much like 90 minutes in a middle seat after a fourteen-hour drive) wasn’t that bad.

So far, the lesson for 2013 is “There is nothing so bad that can happen that won’t be quickly followed by something worse.” I’m really hoping that is going to change, and soon.

In one bright spot, congratulations to Dan Schmidt and the rest of the Edinburg Roadrunners on their championship run.  Two in a row for Edinburg! So, 2013 hasn’t been all bad. just mostly.

Love, Today

“I wonder what my Love is doing right now?“
A question for the ages.
The beginning of many love scenes.
You care about someone wherever they may be.

Here’s how it goes down today.
I’m at work, waiting to get picked up.
We’re going to dinner with my Mom.
I’ve completed all possible tasks for the day.

“I wonder what my Love is doing right now?”
Hop onto Family Locator website
She’s shopping.
Hop onto the bank website.
Holy *&^#@#!!!

Back to Family Locator.
She’s still bloody there!
I’m starving!
Where the hell is she?
(Rhetorical. I just found her.)

So, now, I’m starving.
I’m broke.
I’m annoyed.

I don’t really want to know where she is.
Let’s just leave well enough alone.

Volunteering

Volunteering is a wonderful human trait.
You help others for no expected return.
You do feel good about yourself.
More importantly, someone gets helped.

Someone could be a person or an animal.

I live with a volunteer, in fact.
Anything needs rescuing?
Anything needs cooking?
Anything needs watching?
Anything at all?
She’s got it covered.
She’s on it.

This can be quite painful.
I am the spouse of a volunteer.
The military term is “in the cross-fire.“
If anything goes amiss, I will hear about it.
I may even be blamed for it.
If nothing else, I will be impacted.
The military term is “slight negative impact.”
Like a bomb hitting the wrong house.
Oops.

This seems unfair.

So many people do good in the world.
Some do a little, some do a lot.
There are lots of people needing help, as well.
So, maybe  it’s time to let someone new step up.

So, I beg you (again.)
The next time an opportunity arises.
The next time you can jump in and save the day.
Do one thing for me.
Shut up.