A Tribute To Midnight, My Dog: Part One – I Never Wanted A Dog

(Note: These are the most difficult posts I have ever written. I am counting the number of breakdowns during the series. (bd#))

I never wanted a dog.

My dad grew up in the woods of Pennsylvania and always had dogs as pets, including hunting dogs. But I never had a dog growing up.  We lived in the city and my dad believed that dogs needed freedom and it wasn’t good to coop and chain them up. Dogs were happy when they were free to roam the woods of Pennsylvania, but not in the city. So my dad was willing to forgo any enjoyment we would get from a dog because it would cause discomfort to the dog.  My dad was a great man.

But we had cats, lots of cats, for as long as I can remember.  We never went more than six months without having a cat in the house.  So when I formed my own household, we had cats as pets. 

And my experience with dogs was contentious. I had been cornered, but not attacked, by two vicious dogs at my friend Chuckie’s house as a young teen.  Then I was attacked and bitten by a large German Shepherd when I was 18.  No, I did not like dogs and never desired to own one.

However, my youngest daughter, a pre-teen, now wanted a “puppy”.  We had moved to a large lot in the suburbs, so my dad’s argument about having enough space was less relevant. And of course, my daughter emphasized this would be “her dog” and she would take total responsibility for it.

I still was strongly against this, but my wife and other daughter were enthusiastically on board.  When you live with three females, you tend to lose a lot of family votes by 3-to-1 counts.

But if I am paying for and putting up with this creature, I was choosing the dog breed. Only of course, I knew nothing about dogs. I could only really identify a few breeds, and most of those (including German Shepherds) were not possibilities.  I asked my friend Brent for advice because he owned dogs. Based on my needs, he recommended a Miniature German Schnauzer.

I had no idea what this apparently tiny, foreign dog was, so I Googled it. And after researching the breed, I instructed my wife to get a Schnauzer.  It would cost $450, which I was not at all happy about.  But a father will pay some ridiculous, enormous costs just to make his daughter happy.

The dog entered our lives on a Friday evening.  My daughter would be returning late from a week at church camp and the dog would be a huge surprise. She was delighted to meet her new pet at 11:45 that night.  But the puppy needed a name. She looked at black dog, she looked at the clock, and christened the pooch “Midnight” (bd1).

I was totally unimpressed with my $450 purchase. I saw just a small fur-ball with two big eyes peering out.  The thing couldn’t even walk, it just sort of scooted across the floor.  When I questioned the cost, my wife replied, “He cost that much because he has papers, in case we ever want to show him.” Papers? He has papers all right. They are scattered all over the place and I now have to watch where I step in my own house.  I don’t want to show him, in fact I don’t even want to see him. 

But my daughters enjoyed their new puppy, so maybe it was worth it.  I still totally avoided the “fur-ball with eyes”.

Our relationship (you don’t truly own a dog, you have a relationship) began unexpectedly.  My wife and I were watching television downstairs in the family room, she had Midnight on her lap. 

“I have to go upstairs, so you need to watch the dog,” she said.

Watch the dog?  No, I didn’t sign up to watch this or any dog.  But before I could protest, she placed Midnight on the arm of my large chair and left the room.

I looked down at him nervously, thinking “I am very uncomfortable with this. You are not going to do something stupid, are you?”

Midnight rolled his eyes up and looked at me. He looked distressed. Somehow this dog had already sensed I was unhappy with his presence, his look said:

 “I am very uncomfortable with this. You are not going to do something stupid, are you?”

For the next 15 minutes, we stared at each other nervously.

I continued to avoid interaction with the dog as much as possible. (bd2) I would carry him up the stairs when he was stuck at the bottom – okay I’m not totally heartless, but that was it.

However, soon I was forced to interact with the dog. Because puppies misbehave and need to be disciplined. And the females in the house were not going to do anything that would harm that puppy. But I was still raising two children, so I understood the concept of discipline.   It would go like this:

Puppy does something bad.

All the females express wide-eyed, jaw-drop, worried expressions.

I would then swat the puppy with a rolled-up newspaper.

The females would then turn their wide-eyed, jaw-drop, worried expressions to me, because I had struck their puppy.  To counteract this, I began to carry Midnight to the downstairs hall to administer the punishment.  But the dog learned the routine and when I set him down in the hall, he would lie on his back with his four legs sticking up which said:

Don’t swat me bro! Hey, I’m sorry. Please don’t swat me bro!  C’mon, I know I was bad. Don’t swat me bro!

It was at this point I realized the dog was very intelligent, and it’s really difficult to administer discipline when you are laughing so hard. So to the dog, I was the “heavy”.

But the relationship was about to take a dramatic turn ……

One day I arrived home from work and opened the door from the garage on the lower level. At the top of the half-flight of stairs was Midnight. He was wildly running and jumping from side to side. His tail was wagging so forcefully his whole back end was shaking. I was reluctant to climb the stairs.

“What’s wrong with the dog?” I shout to my wife who was in the kitchen. She sticks her head around the corner, surveys the room, and replies, “I think he’s glad you're home. He’s happy to see you.”

Happy to see me? That is totally ridiculous. Why would this dog be happy to see me when I purposely ignore him and often swat him with a newspaper?  Is the dog actually that stupid? 

I really had no interest in greeting this animal, but he would not let me enter the room until I did.  This greeting became a daily ritual, which of course, I learned to enjoy.  My wife and kids did not greet me with this much enthusiasm, but Midnight did.

And then the dog introduced me to playtime. My wife had bought some dog toys (including a rope contraption that I labeled “ropey toy” (bd3)) and found a few old tennis balls in the garage. I did enjoy watching my daughters have fun playing with the dog.

One day when I was intently reading the newspaper, I felt something against leg.  I lowered the paper to find Midnight staring at me with a tennis ball in his mouth.  He dropped it at my feet and looked at me as if to say:

Hey, let’s play some ball. Now throw the ball, please.

Well let’s not, since I’m busy okay, and I went back to reading the paper.  But I was interrupted again as the dog forcefully thunked the ball down a second time. I put my paper down and the dog looks at me all agitated and is like:

Are you stupid? The game is very simple. You throw the ball and I chase the ball.  Get it? Now just throw the ball.

Well, I guess I can throw this ball one time. Little harm in that.  Except you can’t throw the ball only one time.  Because he aggressively chases it like a mad dog, then races back to you, drops it at your feet and expects you to throw it again, and again, and again.  You end up sometimes throwing the ball ten times or more until the dog has run himself into exhaustion.

And then a few days later, my newspaper reading is interrupted again when I am presented with “ropey toy” and the dog is like:

Hey, got a new game for you today. Here’s the rope, you take it!

But it’s a trick. You grab the rope but the dog grabs the other end and you begin a vigorous game of tug-of -war.  The dog clamps down on the thing with his powerful jaw and growls. He is having a blast! As soon as you let go, the dog revels in his victory and then slyly offers you the rope again so the game can be repeated.

And thus, the bonding process began and as you can see (bd4) it was the dog who was doing all the work to turn this relationship into something special.

Next: Part Two – The Bonding of Man and Dog

It’s Not Too Late To Get The Flu

I remember reading an article on the flu season beginning in Northeast Ohio. It was expected this year would be “bad”.  It listed the symptoms of the flu: high fevers, body aches, congestion, coughing, and fatigue. It said sufferers were converging on emergency medical facilities and it was expected there would be some deaths.

This all confused me.  A fever? Take some aspirin.  Body aches? How bad could that be?  And why would you go to the emergency room if you already knew you had the flu? Are people that stupid?  And those deaths e are probably just extremely old people and the flu just pushes them over the edge. The article ended by saying “it’s not too late to get a flu shot”.  But I didn’t have to worry about all these terrible things because I had dutifully gotten my flu shot in October, just as I had for the past 24 years.

But Then Something Went Wrong

It started with a cough.  A minor, nuisance, cough upon waking.  I reasoned it was caused by sinus drainage during the night. But the cough persisted throughout the day.  I started running a mild fever that evening.  I sensed I could be getting sick, but the symptoms were rather weak.

The next morning the fever was higher, the cough more persistent and I had a bad headache.  I took some naproxen, naively expecting it to eliminate all my discomfort, like pointing a garden hose at an approaching forest fire.

Then in the afternoon, the body aches arrived.  These were not harmless muscle aches.  It felt like my whole torso had been placed in a vise and I was being crushed.  It hurt to breathe. Coughing resulted in such intense pain that I gasped.  If this had been a torture chamber, I would have quickly confessed to colluding with the Russians. Heck, if they promised to stop this agony, I would have gladly agreed to go collude with the Russians, especially if a hot secret agent named Natasha was involved.

The pain was so intense I did consider going to an emergency facility.  However, this is me, so you would expect there to be complicating factors.  It happened to be 4 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.  All the doctor’s offices were closed so the doctors could prepare for their exquisite New Year’s Eve parties (no doubt involving loads of shrimp). That meant everyone who had the flu today be descending upon the facility at the same time. I reasoned that the medical operation would be staffed by a skeleton crew, because who the heck wants to work on New Year’s Eve?   

I imagined the crowd to be so massive that cars would be lined up out on the street. I would probably get care sometime around January 3, unless I died first.  I sensed it would have been a waste of time but my dear friend Cheryl suggested that I should have gone and got some Tamiflu. According to the numerous amateur doctors on Facebook, Tamiflu is either a wonder drug or poison.  You decide.  (I went to high school with Tammy Flew.  I never thought she would be much of anything, but now they have named a drug after her.)

I decide to stay home and take some Ibuprofen for the severe body aches. Fortunately, it works and the body aches never return. So no, I did not collude with the Russians and I did not spend the night in a hot dalliance with Natasha. (Those leaked emails are forgeries, fake news!). 

The next morning, the flu hits me with its full sadistic strength. My fever is up to 101.7 degrees.  I stumble downstairs fully expecting to receive pity from my wife.  However, my wife was not in the living room, she had slept in the bottom-floor family room so she would not catch the germ.  But then I heard the cough.  I knew that cough.  It was the same cough I had been experiencing for two days.

I drag myself downstairs and ask “Are you sick?”.  She gives me a menacing glare.  She has a temperature of 101.8, so much for getting any pity.  Now technically, I am much sicker since my normal body temperature is 97.2.  But this is not something you want to argue when you have made your wife this ill. 

I know she is furious at me for giving her the flu. I had also infected her with a bad cold germ last year. But she had given me two nasty germs previous to that. So we are now even, right?  Alas, another argument I’m not going to win.

I labeled our house as the “Ake Infirmary” on Facebook and household duties were handled by whoever wasn’t sickest at the moment.  The most challenging being walking the dog in negative 15-degree wind-chills. The statistician in me hoped my high fever would cancel out the freezing temperatures, and in a way, it did.  When the arctic wind freezes your face, you do temporarily forget how lousy you feel.  I remember thinking “I hope the dog appreciates what I am doing for him.”  Then I realize that he’s my dog, and if the situation were reversed he would faithfully do anything to help me. Because of course, that’s what dogs do.

My wife even made our traditional sauerkraut and knockwurst dinner on January 2. (I tell people my wife always presents me with two large, juicy knockers to start off the new year).  She made the food, but I have no idea who she expected to eat it.  If I had eaten this, I’m sure I would have died.  Therefore, my wife prepared this meal either out of her strong love and devotion to me, or she was so furious at me for giving her the flu that she tried to kill me.  Fine line between love and hate.  I don’t really want to know which one it was.

Fortunately, my wife recovered much faster than did. (I took 6 days longer) When I posted on Facebook that my wife was better, but I was still sick, there was a bizarre reaction which will be the subject of my next blog post.

I now understand how people die from the flu.  There were a couple times when I wondered ….  It usually kills old people, but the new calendar indicates I am no longer a young man.  I was frightened when my subconscious reminded me that I needed to update my will.  I was concerned my subconscious was telling me I was going to die. Then I realized that it was actually good news.  If my subconscious was telling me about something I needed to do in the future, there would be a future. I was going to live! 

This virus is nasty. It dove into my chest and started ravaging my body like a madman.  It is not the B Phuket virus that I wrote about in 2015, although I B-Phuketed up really badly. I have been twice vaccinated against the B Phuket. 

But apparently, I was not protected against the flu I caught because somehow it was not included in this year’s vaccine.  The Center For Disease Control (CDC) never saw this strain coming. This year they whiffed. Whiffed as bad a rookie wailing away over a Corey Kluber sinker. You failed CDC! You failed so very, very, badly.

Now I am a professional forecaster so of course I do understand how difficult these things are to predict. BUT I DON’T CARE BECAUSE SOME DWEEB GUESSED WRONG AND EVEN THOUGH I GOT YOUR STUPID SHOT, I GOT THE #$@&ING FLU!

They will tell you this year’s flu vaccine is only 11% effective. This is a lie based on a guess of what happened earlier this year in Australia. Trust me, this year’s flu vaccine is 0% effective. 0%, none, nada, zippo. Z-freakin’-0.  But they can’t admit it is worthless because this would make them look inept and moronic, which of course they are.

Hello! You are the Center For Disease Control and you are not controlling this disease.  If you need to identify this strain, I have some excess bodily fluids I can send you, provided I can find some bio-waste bags at my local drugstore.  I will find out which strain I had next year when I’m sure it will be included in the new flu shot. The proverbial barn door being sufficiently shut.  

The most ridiculous thing is that medical professionals are still proclaiming: “But it’s not to late to get a flu shot.” Give it up people. just give it up. It may not be too late, but it won’t help you a bit. Z-freakin’-O. And that part about the vaccine offering partial protecting and reducing the symptoms? Not for this strain! Crapola, major crapola.  

Ironically, next October, I will dutifully get my flu shot for the 26^th consecutive year. Why? Because anything that gives me any chance of avoiding repeating this awful experience, is well worth it. I just hope the stupid nerdlies at the CDC guess better next year.

 

Cougars, Clusters and Bad Velcro – 2017 In Review (Part 2)

Some more funny topics that didn’t warrant a full post in 2017

The Endorsement of the Year

The business networking site LinkedIn lets your connections (equivalent to Facebook friends) endorse you for various business skills.  They even send you an email when someone endorses you.  For example, 51 of my connections have endorsed me for “Marketing Strategy”.  It is odd that I have only 24 endorsements for “Forecasting”, which is the most important skill needed in my job. And it is incredible that only one person has endorsed me for blogging. Can you believe that? Uh, okay, let’s forget I even brought that up.

But imagine my delight when I opened my inbox one morning and saw this:

That’s right losers.  You may be glad to be endorsed by Phil in accounting, but I, Don Ake, have been endorsed by Jesus!  Jesus has endorsed me.  I immediately posted the news on Facebook and had a strong boost of confidence the rest of the day.  And you can be sure I put this on my resume -- the top of my resume.  I mean the rest of the resume is sort of irrelevant if Jesus has endorsed me.  Next time I’m in a job interview, competing with a Harvard MBA, I’ll just say: “Sure, you can pick the guy with the great degree. But I must point out that Jesus has endorsed me, and not him. So you can reject me, as long as you are not worried about fire, brimstone and declining profits – stuff like that”.

For the record, my Mexican colleague, Jesus Morales, believes I am skilled at “Competitive Analysis”.

A Most Difficult Job

I noticed this sign in the parking lot of a local company.

Wow!  This place is so messed up they need a Cluster Director to fix all the cluster-farks they produce.  How would you like to be in charge of fixing all the clusters produced by your co-workers?  It’s the equivalent of being the mop-boy at the supermarket.  “We’ve got a major cluster produced by marketing! Send it to our Cluster Director Ken.”  You can fix it, can’t you Ken?”  The sign may look stupid, but if the poor sap is responsible for fixing everyone else’s clusters, then he sure as heck deserves his own parking spot and a big salary too!

Performer of the Year

My wife and I were taking an after dinner walk when we stopped to listen to a singer, Chad, performing in the open-air (3 sides) bar/café under our hotel. He had good voice, was skilled on the acoustical guitar and covered a wide range of music.  I felt bad when we moved on because there were few people listening in the cafe, being this was the off-season.

When we finished our walk, I was delighted that I could hear Chad clearly from my nearby third-floor balcony as he neared the end of his set.  I could not see into the café, but I could tell by the comments, laughter and applause, there was now a small, older, but enthusiastic audience.   And they were enthusiastic because there were some drinks with dinner followed by some after-dinner drinks.  Oh yeah, they were sloshed. But that was fine because they didn’t have to drive home, they just had to make it back to their rooms without falling in the pool.  And they were really enjoying Chad.

Chad had finished all his staple material, so he opened it up for requests.

“Play thum Rod Stewarttttttt”, one of the ladies blurted out. Now Rod Stewart would not be my first choice in an acoustical setting, but without hesitation Chad broke into one of Stewart’s more obscure ballads.

Chad then asked for the next request.

A guy, who no doubt was chugging a large, strong, tropical concoction, loudly and proudly slurs out, “Plaa da Piano Man by Billy Joellllllllllll”!

Now Piano Man is a great song, by a great pianist, Billy Joel, but IT IS CALLED THE PIANO MAN BECAUSE THE SONG WAS WRITTEN TO BE PLAYED BY A MAN ON A PIANO – and definitely not on an acoustical guitar - you stupid, drunk, moron.

Now I have my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud (I was close enough to be heard), wondering how Chad was going to politely deny his request.

But to my utter surprise, Chad replies, “Just give me a moment to download the lyrics”.

I’m astonished! Chad is going to give it a go.  I think this is a huge mistake and anticipate a train wreck.

But the next thing I hear is:

♫ It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday ♫

And then something truly remarkable happened.  Chad delivered an outstanding performance of Piano Man, on the acoustical guitar! Complete with the:

♫ La la la, di da da

 La la, di da da da dum♫.  

THAT’S RIGHT -  HE EVEN DID THE LA LA LA, DI DA DA!

I wanted to stand up and cheer!

Chad foolishly asked for a final request and one of the drinkers stupidly requested a song he had already played. (Gee, I wonder why that song was stuck in her head).  Chad concluded with a song of his choosing.

The show was over, but the entertainment was heating up as one of the “golden girls” put her cougar moves on young Chad as he was packing up.

  

She kept repeating:

“YA HAVE STHUCH A GREAT VOITHCE!”

Now the Rod Stewart request made sense.

Yes, she thinks he’s sexy

Yes, she wants his body

And now, she was letting him know.

Chad is darn lucky he didn’t try to play an acoustical version of that one!

I couldn’t see if Chad left alone, but I sense that he did.

Sing us song, you’re the acoustic guy

Sing us a song right here

Well we’re all in a mood for another drink

And they’re serving us plenty of cheer

They Fought The Hunger – And The Hunger Won

For several years the “Fight Hunger Bowl” was the college football bowl game played in San Francisco in December.  This year it was replaced by the “Frisco Bowl”, sponsored by DXL.  But DXL is a men’s clothing company that specializes in “double extra-large” attire (I may or may not be a customer).  So it would appear that even though they tried to fight hunger for numerous years, hunger has won.  Pass the chips and dip, please.

Worst Beach Game

I was lounging on the beach when a young couple (late-teens?) appeared about 30 feet in front of me.  The woman said to her boyfriend “I brought this game for us to play. This isn’t the ball that came with it, but it should work.” 

This statement caught my attention (but not the skimpy bikini she was wearing, I didn’t notice that at all) because this was a Velcro catch game, but instead of a Velcro ball, she had a solid plastic one.  I was now interested in how this game was literally going to play out.

The woman starts off by tossing the ball to the guy.  He catches the ball by trapping it against the Velcro mitt with his bare hand, realizing that it’s not going to stick.

The guy then tosses the ball back.  The woman enthusiastically swings the mitt at the ball --- and WHACK!  The plastic ball ricochets hard off the mitt and rolls down the beach.

Unbelievably, she repeated this effort two more times, with of course, similar results.  After the third failure, the woman yells out: “IT’S NOT WERRRRRKING!”

You may laugh at this woman’s lack of understanding of Velcro, but how many times in 2017 did you repeatedly try to force reality to match your perceptions instead of adjusting your perceptions to match reality?  When I find myself shouting “IT’S NOT WERRRRRKING!” in 2018, I’m going to think about this woman on the beach and try a new strategy.

Sammiches, Chicken and Garbage – 2017 In Review (Part 1)

Every year there are things that are humorous but don’t merit an entire  blog post. So to clear the deck for 2018 and have some more chuckles in 2017, here are some leftovers!

A Monumental Event

My fans have been waiting for this a long time, some women have even been demanded it from me.  Some said it would never happen, others claimed it could not be done.  But during my summer vacation this year, I, Don Ake, made my wife a sammich!

I know you are stunned, but it is true.  I figured no one would believe me, so I took a photo of my remarkable creation.  The pic is not to impress anyone, nor make me look super amazing. No, not at all. You know I would never do that.

But the photo shown here is proof for all you doubters and haters out there.

My wife was surprised and impressed when she returned from the beach to find her sammich.  She was also pleased that it was edible and that I did not make a mess.  Served with a side of chips, it made for a tasty lunch.  I have notified the Food Channel of my abilities, but no response as of yet.

It’s Just A Sammich – Nothing More

In August, I took a local client to lunch at a place called “Grinders”.  They serve delicious submarine sandwiches, grinder being another, somewhat archaic term, for that type of sandwich.  However, when submitting your expense report to your home office located in another state, it may not be clear what the term “entertained client at Grinders” actually means.

There could be questions such as:

What type of grinding was involved in this so-called entertainment?

Was there any bumping going on along with this grinding?

Did any of the ladies working there remove any clothing as part of this entertainment?

Were there any cash tips involved that may or may not be included on your expense report under “Miscellaneous” expenses?

Now in the interest of providing the ultimate in customer service to my clients, I would have endured a bawdier environment. But this was not the case.  It was just sammiches, excellent sammiches at that.  The waitresses were fully clothed the entire time. And this being an establishment that caters to an older crowd, you would never want them to remove any clothing. In fact, if they tried, I would have tipped them generously to refrain.  I will admit to sticking one of the grinders in my mouth, and that’s all.

The Worst Dinner of the Year

While dining at a local restaurant, my wife ordered the 3-piece chicken dinner.  There are basic expectations here. It will be chicken and there will be three pieces.  My wife was served two pieces of chicken and a rock-hard, baked? – probably under-microwaved, potato.  The waitress successfully delivered the third piece of chicken upon request. However, the baked potato had to be sent back a second time for additional microwaving.  Of course, this blatant incompetency was entirely my fault because I selected the restaurant.  I think the staff could use some additional training.  Question #1 on the final test: How many pieces of chicken are in the 3-piece chicken dinner?

Runner Up: A bar-and-grill where one of my groups meet, serves chicken tenders which have a greenish tint.  The chicken tastes okay, it just looks funny.  I will never order it. Why?

I do not like green chick and fries

I do not like them, with the guys

I do not like them in the bar

I do not like them in my car ….

The Biggest Cojones of the Year

In September, a major credit reporting service announced that in May, that would be four months earlier, massive amounts of highly-sensitive, financial data they are allowed to collect on you and 143 million other people, had been hacked.

Now your personal data may or may not have been hacked, since they never sent out a letter informing you for sure.  However, a week after their announcement, this same company was advertising a protection service that stops digital pirates from doing evil things with your stolen data, such as maybe draining all your bank accounts. The ads warn: You are in great danger if these hackers have all your personal financial data.   

Of course, this danger is why you should have guarded my data much better than you did.  But by your gross incompetence, you did create 143 million potential new customers for your swell protective services.  I will not be one of them.  This takes cojones, big cojones. And if I ever meet the person responsible for this breech, I will kick him square in the cojones.

Worst Brown Out of the Year

My neighborhood was suffering cable outages and the technician traced the problem to the line extension in my bedroom.  He asked me how much I watched that TV and I explained “I only watch it when I poop”.  So my desire to watch TV when I poop was shorting out, or more like browning-out, the entire neighborhood system.  We decided to solve the problem by using the Internet. So now I am streaming video while I am streaming other things.

Worst Customer Service of the Year

My trash removal provider changed our pickup day from Tuesday to Friday.  I was not happy with this move because it meant my trash would be picked up on the last day of the week.  As someone whose last name begins with the letter “A” I am used to being at the front of the line, not the back.  I expect to be treated with the respect I deserve, even by my trash company.

Everything was fine until one week when the trash in our neighborhood was not picked up on Friday.  I don’t know if they accidentally skipped us, ran out of time for the week, or whatever.  Regardless, they should have picked up the trash as soon as possible, even if that had to incur additional costs.

When I messaged them through their website, I was informed my garbage would be picked up on Monday.  However, when my wife called their office early Monday morning to confirm, she was told the trash would be picked up on Tuesday.  But it wasn’t picked up Monday, nor was it picked up Tuesday.  A call to them late Tuesday resulted in a commitment for Wednesday, which of course did not happen. The neighbors were enraged! The neighborhood

raccoons? Joyful.

The good news is the trash was finally, and triumphantly for the neighborhood, picked up on Thursday, only six days late.  And then the garbage truck came back on Friday for the regular pick-up, but strangely there was very little trash to collect.  Customer service of this level takes a special type of stupid and most of the neighbors have switched to a new provider who dutifully picks up our trash every Wednesday without fail.

Tommy Timothy Tobias Trout

Would not haul my garbage out

He’d tell us fibs and tell us lies

While coons were happy and so were flies

And though the neighbors would scream and shout

He simply would not haul my garbage out …..

 (Part 2 next week)

The Story of the Christmas Goose – A Touching Tale

Disclaimer: This is a true story and I decided a year ago it would be my next Christmas blog.  It should not in any way be seen as a social commentary about more serious issues currently in the news.  However, if you are offended, please do not feel obligated to buy me a Christmas present this year, and we will call it “even”.

Christmas is coming

The goose is getting fat

It’s that special time of year again. Gather ‘round, children. And this year, I do mean all you adult-children (better send the youngin’s into the other room when you read this one). Your Uncle Don has another heartwarming Christmas tale from days of yore, that will make the season bright.  It’s a touching, a very touching, story indeed.

Some years ago, when your Uncle Don was younger and thinner, he got himself an invitation to a combination surprise birthday/Christmas party for his coworker John.  What could be better than that, children? Two parties in one. A chance to celebrate John’s birthday along with the Baby Jesus’ at the same time. 

And this was going to be a big shindig, children, as a group of John’s coworkers were invited, as well as friends from his neighborhood. Now John lived many miles north of the office, so this party would be a coming together of the prosperous yuppies of the south and the well-to-do preppies of the north.

Uncle Don and his wife made the hour-long trek over the interstate and through the highway to John’s house on a cold Saturday night.  The scene was so Christmassy, children, with the snow on the ground reflecting the festive lights on the house. A large picture window was lit up and decorated with a beautiful garland.

There were over 40 people in attendance, fairly evenly split between work folk and neighbors.  We all gathered together in the living room to surprise John, sing “Happy Birthday”, and shower him with gifts and well-wishes.  Your Uncle Don even cracked a couple funny jokes, as he is known to do.  The party had gotten off to a wonderful start, children, just a wonderful start.

Then something disturbing happened, children.  After the birthday portion of the party ended. People filled their plates with goodies and broke off into numerous groups to share the joyfulness of the seaon.  But there was segregation. And you know segregation is a bad, bad thing, especially at Christmastime. The northern yuppies were in their groups and the southern yuppies were clustered in theirs.  There was lots of Kris-Kring-a-ling, but no intermingling, going on, children.

Then a mericle happened children, another one of Uncle Don’s Christmas mericles. Uncle Don and his wife were in a group of people enjoying the Christmas merriment, when Uncle Don looked down at his plate and saw it was empty!  Fortunately, Uncle Don was standing in the kitchen and there were plenty of free appetizers nearby, so he excused himself from the conversation and went to reload.

Uncle Don had almost reached the food, when Chad, one of the neighbors (the northerners), made a reference to a joke Uncle Don had told earlier and motioned for him to join their conversation!  The south would now be socializing with the north. It was a great Christmas moment, children, not unlike something you would see in a Hallmark special.

Chad was over in a far corner of the kitchen, near the sink. To Chad’s left was his wife Marla and to his right was another neighbor, Cindy, who was short, thin and reasonably attractive.  Uncle Don greeted everyone and we began a pleasant holiday conversation. We was coming together children, we was coming together.

Chad and Uncle Don were doing all the laughing and talking, the ladies were just listening. That is why Uncle Don didn’t notice Cindy moving closer to his left side. And then while Chad was talking, Cindy slyly reached behind Uncle Don and squeezed his left buttock. Oh my, children! I Uncle Don had received a big Christmas goose, but it wasn’t cooked and sitting on the dinner table. A

holiday goose was on the loose!

Your Uncle Don thought maybe he had just imagined the goose or, perhaps it was a mistake. He looked down at Cindy and was greeted with a wry, saucy smile.  Although she had a drink in her left hand, her eyes were crystal clear.  No, there definitely was a gooser in the kitchen.

At that moment it was important for Uncle Don to respond quickly and calmly to this wild goose or the party and even Christmas itself was in jeopardy.  Uncle Don did not smile back at her, even politely. Any hint of encouragement and she may have started dry-humping his leg like a horny Chihuahua right there in front of everyone. Uncle Don didn’t know if he was dealing with a Christmas nymph or a Christmas nympho. But he also didn’t want to appear shocked or repulsed.  If that was the response Cindy desired, the goose could turn into a gaggle.

Instead, Uncle Don gave her his best “James Bond” stare. A confident expression, showing little emotion, as if this was no big deal because his   buns got squeezed all the time. Most importantly, Uncle Don needed to throw her off track and think about her next move because there was another potential problem.

Uncle Don’s wife was standing only about 15 feet away, directly behind him.  He slowly and cautiously looked over his left shoulder.  His wife was facing the opposite direction so she was oblivious to the goose.  Everything in that group of people looked fine. It appeared no one had seen it or alerted her by saying: “That cute chick just grabbed Don’s @$$, you better get over there.” All was still calm, all was still bright.

This was most fortunate. If Uncle Don’s wife would had caught the goose, there could have been a bah-humbug hubbub. His wife often moved around 50-pound bags of material on her job.  It would not have been difficult for her to hoist up that little chicky-mama, carry her to the front room, and toss her right through that big ‘ol picture window.

  

Now that would have been a spectacular Christmas lighting display, children. With glass shattering everywhere, shimmering in the many colors of the holiday lights. Poor Cindy would have landed face-down in the yard creating an awesome snow angel, well maybe it would have been more like snow fallen-angel.

It would have been a spectacular end to this Christmas party, children, and people would have talked about it for years. And yeah, it would have kinda “hot”. But Uncle Don did not want anything like that to happen to embarrass his friend John and ruin his party. Besides, that picture window looked very expensive and Uncle Don’s December budget was already tighter than his backside, being Christmas and all.  Because of this disastrous possibility, Uncle Don needed to ensure there were no more geese in that kitchen.

Like a Civil War General who was under attack, Uncle Don moved swiftly to guard his flanks, specifically his left flank, which had been exposed and gotten pinched. He moved to his right and turned slightly so his buns were now temporarily out of reach.  He had successfully employed his rear guard.  The conversation continued, but it is extremely difficult to concentrate when your butt can get grabbed at any moment.

Uncle Don waited for a break, said his goodbyes (got the same sassy look from Cindy), loaded up his plate, and returned to his prior group chit-chat. No one was the wiser. However, like a good General, Uncle Don kept his rear-guard employed, backside always pointed at the wall, for the rest of the evening.  And he made sure he knew where the wild gooser was at all times.

Now Uncle Don knows what some of you children are thinkin’ and you are being naughty. Yes, you are having naughty, naughty thoughts. And let me remind you that Santa does reward naughty children.  You are thinkin’ that Uncle Don must have been a flirtin’ with that woman to attract that Christmas goose.  I can assure you that there was no flirtin’, none. Because Cindy didn’t say anything. She was the kind of women who talked with her hands, whose actions spoke louder than any words could. Maybe it was just Uncle Don’s magnetic personality that attracted her hand to his cheek, but there was no flirtin’, none.

Monday morning John stopped by Uncle Don’s office and asked if he had a good time at the party.

“It was great”, he said.  But Uncle Don couldn’t hide the big smirk on his face.

“What?” demanded John.

He motioned for John to come closer and said quietly, “Your neighbor Cindy pinched my butt”.

John was embarrassed and began to profusely apologize.  Uncle Don assured him everything was fine.  John said she had also goosed one of his neighbors. “I think she was drunk”, he said.  He then asked Uncle Don if he had told his wife.

Sometimes coworkers ask you the dumbest questions ever, children. Just stupid ones.  What was Uncle Don supposed to say? “Hey, you know that short, cute brunette at the party? Well, she grabbed my @$$.”  It was already a long, cold, ride back, why make it any longer or colder. I also have a big picture window at my house and – well, why risk it?

I didn’t challenge John’s assumption about whether Cindy was drunk.  I still thought she knew exactly what she was doing.  A couple years later, John and Uncle Don were reminiscing about that party and he told Uncle Don that Cindy had recently divorced.  That didn’t surprise Uncle Don a bit, children.  A woman with hands that active is sure to feel someone or something that elicits a response.  No doubt she had been reaching around some guy, grabbing his butt cheeks with both hands, while enthusiastically pulling him towards her – if you get my drift, children.  And I so much hope you do, because Uncle Don doesn’t want to have to draw you a picture.

Isn’t that the most touching Christmas story you have ever heard, children?  I know I was touched by it.  Really, really, touched by it. It is literally a touching tale, because she was touching, my tail.

So I would suggest this Christmas, and especially at all work functions and holiday parties, that you keep your hands to yourself and ask permission before taking any actions under that mistletoe.  What happens under the mistletoe, stays under the mistletoe, unless your dorky friend takes a pic and posts it.  Then it goes everywhere.  When it comes to Christmas, children, the goose belongs roasted on the table, and not served on the buns.

Middle-Age-Man-Rage Strikes Again

Recently a dispute between two men in their 50’s made the news.  This conflict involving next-door-neighbors in an upscale, gated community resulted in one of the men receiving six broken ribs, including three displaced (serious) fractures.  The reason for the fight is still unknown, but speculation is it may have been over grass clippings, or some other trivial matter.

This incident only made the news because one of the subjects is a U.S. Senator, but I believe fights such as this, involving middle-age men, happen all over the world on a daily basis. Why are these guys so angry that they are crackin’ ribs over inconsequential matters? It’s all the result of something I’ll call   Middle-Age-Man-Rage.

But what causes Middle-Age-Man-Rage? To understand this, we must track a man’s progression through  his age periods.  The capability of a man to mature is dependent how his ability to manage and control his testosterone.  This is much harder than it sounds and if you follow the news, you know some guys never quite figure it out.

Young guys (age 18-30) are filling up with testosterone and are trying to establish their territory and develop their image.  They will eagerly resort to fisticuffs (or unfortunately, gunfire) if either of these is threatened.  They will fight over almost anything, especially women, with little regard for the consequences.

Men (age 31-49), let’s call them Trayfers, start to show more maturity as their testosterone amount levels out and they learn to manage it. By this time, their territory and image has been reasonably established.  They have a better perspective on life and realize that most women are not worth fighting for. 

Whoa! Time out!  This statement is not a put down to you ladies!  Reread the sentence. Even though you are worth competing for, wooing and courting, actual physical confrontations become rare after men reach a certain age. So please calm down.  And I did say “most”.  Yes, there are some women literally worthy fighting for.  If I were single when I was in my 30’s, I would have readily put up my dukes for the likes of Marie Osmond or Shania Twain.  Fortunately, (for the other guy) I was never given this opportunity.

Now, you must remember the general description for Trayfers does not apply to men with very high levels of testosterone. These guys will continue to aggressively acquire more image and territory at any cost.  They will antagonistically pursue power, money and hoochie. These bass-turds often become CEOs and bosses, not because they are any better or any smarter, but because they just desire it more and eliminate the competition.

But sometime during your 50s, an extremely dreadful change begins.  Your testosterone levels steadily decrease resulting in various deleterious changes to your body.  In addition, you suffer a pronounced loss of influence.  Your “territory” and image (among other things) actually begins to shrink.  The results are devastating to the male ego and psyche.  For example:

-         Young women begin calling you “Sir”, not as a sign of respect, but because you are old.  It is code for: “I know you find me beautiful and I know you find me desirous, but you are way too old for me.”

-         At work, you are no longer a rising star, but a fading light.  You may find yourself reporting to a younger, empty-headed, butthole boss, who is the new golden boy.  You may discover you are the oldest one in the room, however your great wisdom gained through experience is deemed inferior to the swell new ideas from the Millennials.

-         Your children are now adults and don’t listen to you at all anymore.  Your daughter even values the financial advice of her dope-smoking, community-activist husband, more than yours.

-         Your wife doesn’t listen to you because she’s heard it all before, numerous times. You are just a broken record in an MP3 world.

-         Your female friends start complaining about someone making creepy comments on their Facebook feed. You wonder who this creep is, but then you can’t understand why you just got unfriended.

All this stuff really super fizzes off the ageing male and sends him into Middle-Age-Man-Rage.  He becomes a raging lunatic who feels he is in danger of becoming irrelevant.

In response, he begins to behave oddly to prove he is still significance and has a manly presence. He wants to show that he’s still got it.  He buys a red sports car, wears a toupee, sloshes on the aftershave, dresses age-inappropriately, marries a trophy-wife and wears lots of bling, etc.  This bling thing is the weirdest of all.  One gold chain is borderline silly, but more than one is laughable.  And to strut around shaking your gold bracelet like it is a chick-lure, is ludicrous.

The middle-age guy is trying to hold on to his territory so he tries to expand his sphere of influence any way he can.  This may include cigar smoking, dominating the air space, and manspreading, which is defined as “men sitting in public transport with legs wide apart, thereby covering more than one seat”. (Wikipedia)

Now on this manspreading thing, I will admit that it exists, but I try to give older guys the benefit of the doubt. There may be some things spreading out and expanding which you cannot see.  My philosophy is: “Never judge a man until you have walked a mile in his prostate”. Uh, er, well you get the idea.

You have people treating you differently, you are losing your territory, you are losing your influence and you are physically breaking down as more hair is growing on your back than is growing on your head. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! You’re even too old to even transform into the Incredible Hulk, instead your

Middle-Age-Man-Rage can only change you into the Incredible Bulk. Middle-age guys are walking around with a lot of frustration and any little grievance can set them off.

This results in more fights involving guys in their 50’s over stupid, meaningless issues. They will even pick fights with 30-somethings thinking they will kick their @$$ in order to teach them a lesson.  And when they were in their 30’s they could indeed kick their @$$.  But now they are middle-aged and they are no longer the kicker, they often become the kick-ee.  But they try anyway, all due to Middle-Age-Man-Rage.

As their influence and control wanes, middle age guys cling on to anything they can still control. This is why their lawn greatly increases in importance as they age. You will defend your land like a Viking.  While a grumpy old man (very low testosterone) can only shake his fist and yell at people to get off his lawn, a middle-age guy, filled with Middle-Age-Man-Rage will physically fight to protect it!

That’s why it wouldn’t surprise me that the fight involving the Senator and his neighbor was about yard maintenance.  It has to be something trivial, because both parties are too embarrassed to fess up.  And yet, due to Middle-Age-Man-Rage, the result is life-threatening injuries and a 4^th-degree assault charge.  Yes, Middle-Age-Man-Rage is real, and painful for all involved. Including and maybe especially, their wives.

Middle-Age-Man-Rage is a dangerous thing. So please be kind to us middle-aged guys. We all already super-fizzed off, no need to aggravate us more.