Seniority

About twenty years ago, when I was living in Atlanta, I spent a couple of months traveling frequently to Seattle for a project. I got to know a colleague in our Seattle office named Lydia.

After we had worked together for several weeks, we discovered that we had started with the company on exactly the same day a couple of years earlier.

One day I said, “You know, Lydia, I’m East Coast and you’re West Coast. I’m three hours ahead of you. Technically, I have seniority.”

She smiled.

“True that.”

TF Audit

When I was eight years old I swiped another kid’s tooth and put it under my pillow.

TF was a no-show.

Even supernatural accountants, it seems, insist on clear title.

Roman Drivers

During my recent trip to Rome, I enjoyed several excellent meals at local restaurants. Dining out from the hotel was a thoroughly enjoyable part of the trip.

 

One evening I joined Ben and his wife and daughter for dinner. We took an Uber to reach our destination.

 

I can say from that experience that the legend of the aggressive Italian taxi driver is no myth.

 

Ben and his family took the back seat, and I sat up front with the driver. I greeted the driver, who had the look of the disheveled uncle you need to keep your eye on at weddings. He spoke no English, but he turned and gave me a mischievous wink.

 

It was a hint of what was to come.

 

To say that the driver confirmed the stereotypes is too generic, so allow me to provide a few details.

 

I noticed no speed limit signs, but I imagine this driver would have taken them merely as suggestions rather than laws.

 

Abrupt changes of lane were routine.

 

At one point, the driver pulled into the oncoming lane to pass a slower car. To get the oncoming automobile to slow down, he proceeded to honk the car horn vigorously and repeatedly.

 

I turned to speak to Ben in the back seat, and he and his family were all staring wide-eyed and in a state of near-shock.

 

“If any of you want to sit in the front seat on the way back, I’m OK with that,” I offered.

 

Nobody laughed, but Ben did show me his phone's screen, explaining that the estimated drive time had suddenly dropped from 17 minutes to 7 minutes.

 

After the driver dropped us off, Ben looked at his phone’s map and announced that we were not at the restaurant he’d told the driver to take us to, but that’s OK because we spied several promising restaurants near the spot where we had been dropped.

 

Not that we explored the options: we sat at the first table we came to so as to recover from the white-knuckle, kamikaze taxi experience.

 

Sometimes legends, stereotypes, and myths are rooted in history.

 

And sometimes legends, stereotypes, and myths are the history.

 

 

Rubicon Recall

My car was in the shop this morning getting a factory-recall upgrade. While I was waiting for my vehicle, I observed a Rubicon jeep parked at the shop.

I was reminded of a trip I made some 20 years ago to attend a friend's wedding in Winnipeg.

During my stay in the Great White North, I rented a Rubicon jeep, which I used to zip around the city for extra-curricular sight-seeing.

The Red River flows through the center of Winnipeg, and I took the Norwood Bridge over that waterway several times during my visit.

On one such passage I mused, "When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, the fields of Rome ran red with the blood of civil war. Now here I am crossing the Red River in my Rubicon jeep."

Which goes to show that if a little knowledge of history is not necessarily a practical thing, at times it can at least be mildly amusing.

 

 Photo of the Rubicon I spotted this morning

No Place for Yuccas

Here’s a photo of the first house I ever owned - bought it in the fall of 1998.

 

First House

It sat on a corner lot, and at the corner of the front lawn sitting under the stop sign was a great big yucca plant.

 

I hated that plant: it was a pain to trim, it didn’t belong, it wasn’t attractive, and it was a pedestrian hazard.

 

I kept telling myself that I needed to just cut it up, but I never got around to it.

 

One day the doorbell rang.

 

I opened the door and made the introduction of my neighbor, a decent and polite chap who apologized for what his sons had done.

 

“They know that what they did was wrong, and I told them that they had to own up to it and say they’re sorry to you,” he said. “They’re afraid of how you’ll respond, so they asked me to explain what happened first.”

 

“OK," I replied, baffled at this introduction. “What did they do?”

 

He pointed to what was left of the yucca plant at the corner.

 

The thing looked like it had been ripped apart with a blunt machete.

 

“They took a couple of sticks and tore into your plant,” the kindly chap continued. “I asked them why they did it, but they just said they didn’t know.”

 

I suppressed my smile, took a deep breath, and then said as seriously as I could manage, “OK, send them over so that I can talk to them.”

 

The two sheepish lads approached my front door, their father looking on sternly. I reminded them of the need to respect other people’s property, and I told them to promise never to do anything like that again.

 

“Yes sir,” they said. “We’re sorry.”

 

“Well, I was a young fellow once too,” I said. “Just clean up the mess you made, and we’ll put this behind us.”

 

“Yes, sir,” they said then turned to remove all the debris under their father’s attention.

 

I dug up the stump soon after.

 

Adam’s Needles stood so tall,

Spiky stalks that never fall.

Two young lads with naught to do,

Whacked it ’til it no more grew.

 

 Adam's Needles

How Exciting

When I use the website for my local wholesale outfit to order groceries for an afternoon pickup, I think it odd to get a confirmation text saying, "Exciting News!" to acknowledge that my order was received.

If you want to get me fired up, tell me something like how my groceries are free because I'm lucky online shopper #1,000,000.

Informing me that a routine matter like submitting an online order is "exciting" sends a mixed message - as if we should cheer because the courier made it past the enemy sentry line with my grocery order.

And yes, the order had butter on the list.

 

 

Himself and the Tin Man

About 16 years back I arrived at work one morning to discover a suit of armor at my desk. The Tin Man belonged to my boss, who wanted to recognize me for my heroic and gallant efforts on behalf of the team and the company during a demanding and difficult project. Though just a temporary loan, the knight-in-miniature was a welcome token of appreciation.

Himself and the Tin Man

The Tin Man and I enjoyed several days of diversion together, and he was a popular conversation piece with colleagues. I did put him to work here and there, but for the most part he was just eye candy.

 

Tin Man at work: not just a pretty face

A couple of months later my celebrity status came crashing to a halt when I declined to work on an objectionable project. We were handling publications for a state agency that sponsored what was euphemistically dubbed women's reproductive health initiatives, but was really a means to promote birth control and abortion. The assignment hit my inbox, and I immediately replied to my boss that I would not work on it; I wouldn't even facilitate the work by passing it down the line to a colleague. Ah, I was the unwelcome black sheep after that; my time with the company ended in less than a year.

Did I save the lives of any unborn children through my non-participation in a shabby assignment? I can't say, but I doubt it. More importantly, I did not lose my soul over the matter.

Where is the Tin Man today?

Texting Speed

Driving through the parking garage at work this morning, I was behind someone who was moving at a pace slower than I could push my car. “What’s up with this guy driving like my grandmother?” I wondered. When he parked I saw him heads-down, presumably looking at his mobile device. “That’s it,” I said, “he was driving at texting speed.”

Of F-Bombs, N-Words, and G-Ratings

What’s more selfish than the gluttony of Augustus Gloop, more demanding than the tantrums of Veruca Salt, more bovine than the obsessive masticating of Violet Beauregarde, and more vacuous than the glassy stare of Mike Teavee?

Recently I met up with a group of friends, one of whom I’ve known since high school. The next day I phoned her to ask that when we got together next, she not drop any more F-bombs on the proceedings. I was invited to find another circle of friends to spend evenings with; news reached me later through another party that yours truly is now said to be good primarily for G-rated gatherings.

An F-bomb is an ugly and gross word that sours joy and wrecks mirth, one that is favored by ill-mannered people who shabbily seek to be the center of attention. It is the language of ungenerous and dreary souls; repeated or frequent utterance makes a person (whether the speaker or the victim) dull and obtuse. It is a misnomer to call recourse to it an “adult” matter. I say, let’s have only adult conversations - ones characterized by the respect, civility, good humor, and camaraderie beyond the ken of rotten children.

Now, the expression in question describes a loveless sex act. It is a crudity unfortunately attached to a natural and beautiful matter that creates new human life, something to inspire awe and wonder and joy. An F-bomb is a demeaning shout of contempt against life itself that has all the charm and eloquence of a racial epithet.

But should anyone ever ask that it not be used?

If we take the view that one abusive remark should be tolerated, then consider what other vulgar, crude, or objectionable phrases should also be tolerated. Is the N-word all right? How about slang for genitalia? If the granddaddy of repulsive terms is fair game, then it seems the consistent course would be to say that anything is fair game.

In that case, an individual who gave voice to the wish that everyone practice a bit of courtesy in their language would be unwelcome indeed.

Meanwhile, the original Willy Wonka film was rated G.

Ism Week

Back in my university days I was witness to a collegiate episode sponsored by the campus Residence Life Department titled “Ism Week.” Each day of the week was dedicated to spotlighting a different problematic -ism, complete with posters, speakers, workshops, and sponsored discussions intended to raise consciousness of an alleged societal ill.

Thus, one day was dedicated to Racism, subtitled “The -ism race,” another day was dedicated to Sexism, or “The -ism sex,” and so on. The normal leftist stereotypes and clichés were on display throughout the week.

The entry that had me laughing out loud was Theism, which was qualified as “The –ism of religion.”

At first I gave Res Life the benefit of the doubt and said that they were confused by the coincidental use of the letters I-S-M in a word that meant merely “belief in the existence of God” and nothing more. I later learned, however, that the Residence Life staff thought that to be religious was to be discriminatory. Well, at least if you were a Christian; if you were a religious minority, you were exempt.

I asked if a future installment of Ism Week would include a day for addressing the Ism of Atheism. I was told that wasn’t funny.

These days we could start our own ISM week.

* Monday: Atheism, the -ism of godlessness

* Tuesday: Feminism, the -ism of misandry

* Wednesday: Liberalism, the -ism of unthinking rebellion

* Thursday: Socialism, the -ism of institutionalized envy

* Friday: Modernism, the synthesis of all -isms

Bip Called

Sometimes when marketers telephone your house they rely on robots to dial your number. When the machine on their side detects a human voice on your side after you pick up, the call is quickly routed to a human on the marketer's side who can carry on a conversation with you.

I say quickly, but the truth is that there is a moment's lag while the switching takes place. It's not a terribly long time, but it is enough to tip off the person being called.

This moment of silence at the beginning of many marketing calls happens sufficiently often that I have a gag for it: I say that I have the ghost of Marcel Marceau on the line, and I've given such interactions the descriptor of "Mime Calls."

Change the Clocks

"Do we even still need daylight savings time?" my sister asked.

"Only in the Fall," I replied.

A Card to Remember

This morning Gail was ringing me up at the grocery store checkout counter when she spied the mother's birthday card I'd selected.

"Everyone's mother's birthday seems to be this month," Gail said.

"January sixth," I replied. "And she should get her card on time too."

Gail laughed. As she was bagging me up, she said, "Now don't forget your card!"

"It's funny you would say that," I said. "I bought this exact same card on Saturday, but when I got home it wasn't in the bag."

After a brief exchange we determined that I'd left it in the shopping cart in the parking lot.

Gail turned to her manager, who was standing just behind her, and asked if a birthday card had been found on Saturday. The manager looked up from the checklist on her clipboard and asked, "Was it a blue card?"

Hopeful, I said, "Yes -- in fact, I just bought the same exact card right here." The manager smiled and nodded.

"Can I take it off?" Gail asked.

"Yep," the manager replied, returning to her clipboard.

Gail reversed the charge for the birthday card. I gave her a big smile and said thank you.

If you're ever shopping at the Publix on Rucker Road in Alpharetta, drop in and tell Gail hi for me and mom.

Possible Next Assignment

I'm still waiting on the official word, but preliminary reports are that when I complete my current project based out of Hartford, CT, there is a good chance I will be working on the redesign of this site:

http://www.nascar.com/

A while back my company sponsored an office outing to the local karting track. Out of a pool of almost 100 people, I had the fastest single circuit time. Having completed my training, I think I'm ready for my next assignment.

Wish me luck.

Babies in Space

A friend of mine was exasperated because a persistent chap wouldn't quit asking her out. She'd politely but clearly said no many times, and he kept on calling. Aggravated, she sent me a tongue-in-cheek text message asking if she should just tell the guy she had a boyfriend so that he would leave her alone.

Don't do that, I texted back. Say no, and stay firm. Telling a lie just complicates things, and can also lead to bigger problems later that aren't worth the temporary relief. I added that she should seek a bit of extra moral support from her friends to weather the storm.

It was the right thing to say, and my friend knew it. She hadn't been serious after all; she was just blowing off steam. Sensing an opportunity to bring a bit of levity to the grim campaign, however, I embellished.

Never lie, I continued. But if you did want to color the facts, show some originality. "I already have a boyfriend" is old and hackneyed; at least try to have some fun with it.

For example, start wearing an engagement ring. If anyone asks, say, "I can't talk about it."

Tell the guy you seem to suffer from amnesia. Add that you're not sure, but you think you might already be married.

Tell him you're thinking about being a mail-order bride, and ask if he'll serve as a reference.

Say that you want to be the first woman to have a baby in space.

No problems were solved with that string of suggestions, but my friend got a few laughs out of it.

Mission accomplished Houston.

Singing Helmut

A Sunday or two ago Helmut and I were in the parish hall listening to the choir practice the plainchant for Mass.

During a pause in the practice Helmut said, "I wish I could sing."

"I wish you could too," I said.

Snowman's Banquet

Here's the feast fit for a snowman king I found on my back patio.

Snowman's Banquet

Skirting the Issue

Richard and I were in an office meeting several years ago with four female colleagues. Jamesha was the lady in the delightful outfit with a colorful African-print skirt. The other three women were all wearing miniskirts.

The reason I noticed this last part is because the three women could not sit still during the meeting. For the hour when the six of us were making reports and giving status updates, the three women incessantly shifted and adjusted their miniskirts -- they were as fidgety as little boys on a long summer bus ride. It didn't matter that the lot of us were parked around a conference table and nothing eye-catching was revealed: the short-skirted ladies were clearly uncomfortable in their attire, pulling and tugging under the table to cover up as much flesh as possible. It was sad and comic and distracting all at once.

The happy exception was Jamesha: this confident and capable woman was a dignified individual who hadn't resorted to cheap (take that term how you will) wardrobe tricks to get attention and so "advance" her career.

Another time when the "career-minded" women were permitting themselves to engage in low-brow humor to show that they could do anything a man could do, Jamesha brought the issue to a close with the observation, "That must be some of that single girl humor." Delightful.

If you're too willing to sell too much, the meager remainder will leave you squirming to make up the difference.

Where's My Car?

A few months ago I was road-tripping my way from Columbus, OH to Charleston, WV on my state capitol tour. Along the way I made a stop in the college town of Athens, OH, where I took in a few familiar spots did some reminiscing.

I lived in Athens for about a year after I finished undergrad. My wife and I were married there: after I received my diploma I moved north for our wedding, then passed time taking graduate-level English courses.

At the time I was still driving my first car: a hand-me-down tan 1993 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera that my grandfather gave me when he retired to Florida. I drove that thing to pieces: when I finally traded it in years later, my feet would get wet during a rain because of the splash action coming up through the floorboard.

Sean's First Ride

That Olds got me where I needed to go, however, which is what counts when you're a starving college student (and then a jobless college grad).

It was a sunny Athens day in the Spring of 1992 that I'd finished up at the laundromat, loaded everything up, and then discovered that the car's engine wouldn't turn over. I gave it my best, but I finally had to throw in the towel and call some friends to come pick up me and my laundry. While I was waiting for my friends, I called a tow company to come get my car: I described the auto, provided the license plate number, and then (because the tow truck was taking its sweet time to get there) hauled the clothes home.

While I was folding the clothes at the house, the tow truck driver called me.

"I can't find your car."

"What do you mean? Are you at the Ambassador Laundry?"

"Yep, and I don't see your car."

"Great."

I hoofed it over to the spot where I'd left my car, and confirmed what the driver had told me. The fellow had cleared out already -- I couldn't blame him -- so I bugged the people in the laundromat to see if they'd observed anyone working with my car. No luck.

Where My Car Went Missing

I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to put a brave spin on the situation. "Well, if someone stole it, the good news is that at least my car is working." The people around me looked at me like I'd cracked.

I made my way back home and called around to the towing companies in town to see if they'd picked my car up. No dice. So I finally called the police and reported the car stolen.

I felt wretched. It was just a sick, helpless feeling. I moped around the rest of the day.

That evening the towing guy called me. "Your car will be ready in the morning."

"What?!" I shouted. "You said you couldn't find my car -- you mean you've had it all day?"

"Oh yeah," the guy said nonchalantly. "You just gave me the wrong license plate number, but I finally figured out which car you meant and towed it."

Sure enough, I'd described the right car to him, but in a distracted moment had given him the license plate number of my wife's car.

I was too relieved to give the guy grief, though he had given me a rotten time. When I picked the car up the next day I told him of my previous day's dilemma.

"That's pretty funny," he said.

Yeah, a real barrel of laughs.

Here's a run-down of the cars I've owned over the years.

1993 For Escort WagonI ground the clutch out of this one.

1993 Mazda MX-3The Mazda's clutch wore out my left knee; this one left with the cat.1995 Infiniti J30
Excellent for long trips, but this one had recurring electrical problems; declared "salvage" after a Chevy pickup rear-ended it. 2003 Honda Civic
The car I drive today; so far so good.

How to Keep Your Grout Clean

I travel quite a bit with work -- one more flight this year and I hit my medallion status with Delta (I would have reached that milestone much sooner but I flew a good bit of AirTran this year too). So it's nice to have a respite from travel and enjoy the comforts of home.

Case in point: I'm having company over tonight. Neighbor Olivia was by beforehand to drop off some appetizers. Surveying my kitchen, she asked, "Sean, how do you keep the grout in your tiles so clean?"

"Because I never use my kitchen," I said.

See, depending on your situation, some things are just easy to solve for.