Waiting in a Hospital Again

Well, I'm sitting and waiting in a hospital again. I didn't realize it until a few minutes ago. Actuall I did know where I was, it just didn't hit home. Gayle, my wife is having an upper gastroscopy today. It is purely precautionary. No more. But while she's in there, I have to sit in the waiting rooms, and go to the cafeteria, and see the sights, hear the sounds, and smell the smells. It took a little bit, but the ugly feeling that was growing finally hit me. I've had enough of hospitals for a while. I know there are some of you who would feel the same.

Two exhausting weeks with my Dad last May, which slowly, but eventually turned out well, and 6 brutal weeks with my mother-in-law in October and November which turned out horribly sort of puts a different spin on it. I used to be able to go to hospitals--walk through them and keep mostly oblivious. Not any more. I hear the words of the health care professionals. I can read their body language. I overhear the conversations of those around me and hear their phone calls. I know the tones of their voices. I recognize those looks on their faces. This is not the same hospital as before, but honestly, they are all the same.

If you want to know where people are hurting and being slammed by what life can truly throw at them, come and spend some time in a hospital. Sit and really look around--really listen. But maybe you can't unless you've walked the path that they have walked before. I now can, because I have. I'm sure Jesus is here somewhere. I feel that I should want to try to find him--to stay and work with him, but all I want is for the test to be over so I can collect my lovely wife and in the immortal words of the Monty Python troupe, "run away, run away." Maybe later I can handle it. Maybe after more time has passed I can stay and care, but this is too soon.

They gave me a buzzer like they use at restaurants to let me know when she is out of her test. When that sucker goes off, we're outta here like birds heading south out of Minnesota in the fall.

Smart birds.

BECOMING A CONNOISSEUR OF THE "DELI" SANWICH AND WORSE.

There are times in our lives in which we don't get to eat as we would like. Illness can get in the way. When my wife wasn't subsisting on IV fluids during her stent with the severe Hyperemesis Gravidarum (look it up) that accompanied both pregnancies, she enjoyed small amounts of boiled chicken, green beans and pound cake daily. My son, as with many young struggling college students got quite creative with the 5 and 6 for a buck packages of Ramen noodles. During earlier time in our lives, we also stretched our budgets along with our culinary skills with the likes of cheap hot dogs, Spam, an instant Kraft noodle dinner we affectionately called "chicken glop", and the proverbial pinto beans.

Lately, my wife and I, along with many in her family have been entertaining foodlike substances which we would not regularly ingest if left to our own choices. My Mother-in-law, Cindy, has been in the hospital truly fighting for her life after complications developed from what was supposed to be a "slam dunk" surgery almost four weeks ago. She has been spending more days in the surgical intensive care unit (SICU) than out of it for the duration of her stay. With this being the case, the whole family around her has focused their lives on being at the hospital with her whenever possible. Children have flown in from out of town, regular job schedules have been scrambled and rearranged to allow for time at the hospital to support Cindy and each other through this ordeal. With this being the case, many of the regular parts of "easy" day to day life have been set aside. Houses may not be as clean. Laundry may not be caught up. Groceries may not be bought, or at best grabbed little by little as truly needed. One of the most neglected parts of our lives recently has been cooking and eating regular meals.

My wife, Gayle and I have been eating way too many "deli" sandwiches lately. Now when I say "deli" sandwiches, I don't mean high end deli sandwiches. There's a reason I put the "deli" in quotation marks. I'm not talking that classy, up scale little deli you pass on the way home. I'm not even talking Jimmy Johns, or down the scale to Subway here. I'm talking about prepackaged sandwiches which you can buy at the hospital snack bar/coffee shop/ deli or worse. By worse I mean quick shop type places, gas stations, roach coaches, and heaven forbid the ubiquitous carousel vending machine standing always at the ready when nothing else is open or available.

Gayle and I seldom share a meal at home on week days lately as she heads to the hospital immediately after work while I head home to take care of the pets. Not wanting to waste precious time she usually grabs a sandwich at the hospital snack bar. As for me, not wanting to waste effort on preparing a full meal for myself alone, I usually forage or grab something more or less grotesque on the way home. I have, however been to the hospital enough to sample just about all of their deli meat, cheese and bread combinations. Honestly the sandwiches at the snack bar are not bad for the first 5 or six times one uses them as a substitute for sustenance, but they do start to wear on a person. The price tag wears on the pocket book as well. Five bucks a pop seems a bit extravagant for what you get.

To try and vary the selection as well as mitigate the damage to our budget, we have tried other options to the snack bar. The quick stop type shops--with attached gas pumps or not--between us and the hospital have produced lunch or dinner with differing levels of satisfaction or complaint. All I can say is you gotta watch the dates. As the under-inspired, underpaid employees don't seem to care much about stock rotation or clearance, you have to not only know what day it is, but what month, and sometimes what year. Just the other day, as I was quite late in getting to the hospital, and needing gas anyway, I stepped in to peruse their bread wrapped offerings. I had already picked out a reasonable offering with an acceptable date stamp on it when I looked down and found some marked down sandwiches. It makes one wonder how old a sandwich has to be in a place like this to earn it a place in the marked down bin, but I digress. Considering the Dirty Harry question of "do you feel lucky?" I honestly could answer for that day that yes, in fact, I did feel lucky. I probably wouldn't need this extra sandwich this evening, but just in case I did, it didn't look that bad, and the price was right if I ended up discarding it. So out I went with my hospital dinner for the night.

The waiting room for us has taken on quite a communal atmosphere at times as we sit around and take turns stepping in to visit Cindy. Fresh baked Molly Muffins are shared. Muchies of different types get passed around. Chewy candies, licorice, and gummy bears all get shared. As the day passed, I realized that though I had brought two sandwiches, I was lacking something to drink. Not wanting something with caffeine, my sister-in-law, Ruth, offered an extra soft drink matching my requirements. That's the way it has developed lately. Later I tried to return the favor. Ruth realized that she was hungry for something more substantial than the usual finger fare and the snack bar had just closed for the day. It being my turn to commune with the family, I offered my second (reduced) sandwich.

Ruth has a bit of a particular taste but the circumstances lately must have worked to temper her culinary requirements. She reached for the sandwich, then noticed the marked down price. Drawing her hand back slightly, she remembered her hunger and the distance from better options. She gave the sandwich another look. "What kind of lettuce is that?" she queried?
"The green stuff? I think it's ham," I said.
"Oh," she winced, "well, at least the guacamole looks good."
"That's mayo," I corrected.
She really must have been hungry. She took it anyway. Not really. She decided to live with her hunger, which was OK by me. I ate it today while on my way to the hospital on my lunch break.

Oh, well. It's hard to be too choosy or to complain too much lately. With Cindy still being fed through a tube, our little discomforts really don't seem that great. Here's looking forward to the day she can share a "deli" sandwich with us all.

Bail Out--Oh goody hand me a bucket

I don't think anyone would argue that our economy sucks right now. It has been officially deemed the worst economic downturn since the great depression. That should be a bit scary and it is. Banks are failing. Big banks. Auto companies are struggling to the brink of failure. People are losing jobs and houses faster than the Detroit Lions can lose a football game (for those uninformed, Detroit has really sucked for the last couple of years--the football team, that is, not just the auto and music industry). One of my best friends since youth, a chronically, very gainfully employed person got laid off for the first time in his life recently. It really does suck, and I feel for him since I have been in the same boat before. I have had the wonderful distinction of having ridden in the funeral procession of four companies as they proceeded to the grave of financial failure (I was only an employee, not any part of the moronic management who couldn't run a company unless the economy was so strong it was impossible to fail). The result of being employed by such an organization is one day everyone is called into a room and given the bad news--"Oh, and by the way, as of now, you are unemployed." No "thank you." No "we're sorry we sucked so bad at running a business and that our heads were up our butts so far that we didn't see the writing on the walls before it was too late. And oh, by the way, you're whole life will suck for the next 2 to 18 months (the amount of time I have been unemployed due to these circumstances). Just, "That's it. Turn in your keys and clean out your offices/cubicles." So I do feel for my friend, and like so many others, wonder if I will be in the same boat trying to bail and stay afloat long enough to reach the next solid landfall (or landfill) of employment. Your arms do get tired, and your will does grow weak.

Yes, the economy is in terrible shape and it is effecting nearly every part of our lives. What is interesting in this particular "recession" is there has developed the concept of the "bail out". The government is "bailing out" banks, and auto manufacturing companies, and insurance companies. Yes, the government sees the economy as being so bad and the possibility of such major stalwart institutions failing as "not a good thing," so the government is bailing them out to the tune of BILLIONS of our tax dollars. I'm not sure what I think about all of it, but I do believe that in offering such "bail outs" in the way they have been offered, the government is just rewarding the poor judgment, and stupidity--oh all right, let's say it straight, greed, and corruption that produced this massive recession in the first place. The idea is, "we have to bail them out. We can't just let them fail." Hey, wake up! They have failed. It's right there in black and red. Lot's of red. They have failed in a gargantuan way. They and the government just don't want to face it.

But honestly, as far as the bail outs go, I've reserved opinion and judgment for the most part until yesterday. That's when the idea hit home very hard. That's when the company I work for demanded me and my coworkers bail them out. No, they didn't ask. They just said, in effect, "things are so bad, and the only way we can keep them going is to bail the company out in the form of pay reductions, to the tune of 5-15 % (an average being 12.3%). Oh, and by the way, you don't get to stay home 12% more of your time. No. What you do get to do is to continue not only working full time hours for less pay, but due to the needs of the company, all salaried employees are expected to continue working long hours and for some, Saturdays in order to make this all work. That's like being punished twice for someone else's crime. Which is exactly what it is.

Do I sound a tad bit bitter? Maybe it's because it's not only the economy that has landed our company in this position. It's been very poor choices and performance in upper levels. Our illustrious leader admitted in our meeting where all of this was spelled out yesterday, that a big part of our problem is due to one specific BIG project that wasn't quoted and conceived well. Imagine that. Who knew that if you didn't conceive and quote a large project well you may lose lots of money on it? I'm guessing the upper management should have known this. I'm thinking it's their jobs to know this kind of stuff, but I may be mistaken. If they, in fact, did not know, all they had to do was ask any of us in the lower levels who have worked on projects for years and we could have let them in on the secret. I was intimately involved in the design and build of this particular "difficult project". I wasn't brought in at the beginning, however. I was brought in after the conceiving and quoting was done, and along with the rest of the team told, "here it is. Now, design and build it within the insane budget and time constraints quoted." We immediately knew it was impossible, but any voicing of such was not accepted. So here we are, with a massively over budget project, hemorrhaging cash every day while we struggle to correct the remnants of it's poor concept. I have personally worked one and a half years on this project. I've put in long hours, late nights, and Saturdays. I have wrestled, on my "off time" with design issues while I'm supposed to be paying attention to my wife and others around me. I design in my head as I creep along the paved pathway leading to work every day and while slog through a consistently congested route home. I have dreamed incessantly about this project and it's endless debug efforts. And now, I get to continue doing all of that for 12.3% less compensation. Yes, I get to bail out this project and my company. I get to pay for the stupidity of those above me. But we don't want the company to fail! Listen up people! The company has already failed. It's right there in black and red. Lot's. . .of. . . red! And now the powers that be are putting the rest of us in the red to prolong the agony and keep it on life support for a while longer.

There are those who will say, "well, at least you still have a job." They are correct, for the time being. It's hard to look at this in a positive light at present, however. Whether one tends to be a glass half full or empty type person depends a lot on where the glass started. If it was full or at least more full than not, then yes, the glass is half empty. If it was more empty than not, then yes, it is half full. It's not a matter of attitude, it's a matter of motion--progress--or regression. My pay has now regressed, so you see, the glass as I see it is definitely half empty. And yes, I still have a job, but the basic problem remains. The company is doing terrible and those at the helm helped navigate it into shallow, rocky waters. They are still at the helm, and I'll guarantee you one thing, if I had done this poorly in my work here, I wouldn't be around any longer. I've been here before with other companies whose leadership were just as inept. On one such occasion we got our pay cut 20% with an additional poke in the eye of postponing our pay period 2 extra weeks right before Christmas. Did that help save the company? No. The company went out of business shortly thereafter. Luckily I jumped ship before the waves came over the boards. Not many of us have much faith that this will end any differently. It's just a matter of time. How can it come out differently with the same leadership at the helm? As it stands right now, they have driven the ship onto the rocks and are asking the crew to bail diligently after having cut their rations significantly.

I wonder if he'll go down with the ship? Oh, I hope so.

Pictures of Love and How it Should Be

Somewhere along the line, during the process of growing up, little boys and little girls get a picture in their heads of how it’s going to be. This picture is based on, and usually a reaction to what they see around them as they grow up. If they see something that they relate as being good, their little minds say, that’s how it should be. If they see something that they interpret as not so good, their little minds say it shouldn’t be like that. It should be different, and thus a contrary picture is formed as to how it should be. We all came through life with these little pictures in our heads. Many of these pictures have to do with our grown up relationships. Boys and Girls alike come to their adult relationships, including marriage, with presuppositions—pictures—based on what they grew up with. When these pictures clash or just fail to develop in reality (pun intended) is when problems start to arise. You see, the expectations that these pictures produce—and how they are met or not met—become in many cases tests of love. He opens the door for me—he loves me. She cooks me breakfast on Saturday morning—she loves me. He brings me flowers—she loves me. She irons my clothes—she loves me. He carries out the trash . . . . Wait, did I just say, “he carries out the trash?” Yes I did. Can carrying out the trash honestly be seen by anyone as a test of love? To answer that question, yes it can. I have tried to deny it, argue with it, ration with it and just plain push it aside for many years, but in the little girl mind of my wife is the picture of a man happily carrying out the trash, and that picture equals love.

Now I don’t want anyone who reads this to think that my wife is weird or petty. Of course, concerning the trash issue, I used to think she was until today. My wife is no different than any of the rest of us. We all grew up with these pictures. Some healthy, some unhealthy, and some benign, but we all grew up with them. This just happens to be one of the strongest for my wife, and like I said, I didn’t fully realize it until today. I got it after a stressful morning discussion spurred by a political ad on TV.

So, here’s the scene. I’m just a few minutes out of bed, barely working on my first cup of coffee when a political commercial comes on the television during the morning news. In this commercial, our state’s current Senator is trying to show that he is just an every day guy. His wife addresses the camera concerning her husband while he messes around in the background with a cup of coffee. At the end, she asks him to take out the trash. The bone head (who is NOT getting my vote, now) answers in a cheerful Father Knows Best voice, “I’ve got it honey!” Geeze, you can almost hear the 50’s sitcom music playing in the background. I am fighting back a gag reflex when my wife pipes up and says something to the effect of, “I wish you would do that just once.”

Of course, my response is, “I carry out the trash all the time.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

So, like I haven’t ever stepped right into an open bear trap before, I ask, “Well, what are you talking about?” SNAP!!!

It wasn’t all that bad, really. Since I have been here before, I knew what to do. After a lot of gnawing, I was able to escape with my life. What’s one less foot anyway?

Actually, it didn’t really get that far. Her point was, I “don’t ever” (in my defense translate that “seldom”) do anything she asks with a joyful Robert Young/Ward Cleaver response, “Yes dear, I’d love too.” According to her memory, I either ignore the request, argue about it, or when I do accommodate her, I give some smart alek response. Of course I argued the point to the full extent of my wakefulness, but I was finally able to convince her I was unarmed, not having had at least one full cup of coffee, yet. We did talk for a short bit later, and she tried to convince me she really wasn’t that upset. She tried to say that she was just joking based on the commercial. That’s her story, now, and she’s sticking to it, but I have learned a few things, having lived with one woman for almost 35 years. I have learned that there are looks that speak louder than words and these looks aren’t always the angry ones. She doesn’t realize it but I saw one of those looks this morning. This particular look was that of a little girl whose picture of how it should be had just faded away to be replaced by a reality that is not so picturesque. Somehow in her mind, the picture of a husband pleasantly, if not joyfully carrying out the trash is how it should be, and when he does it, it means “he loves me.”

Like I said, I have carried out the trash many countless time in our married life. I mow the lawn. I fix the cars. I cook many of our meals. I am admittedly a challenge to live with, but I do a number of things in my own way and my own time—sometimes without even being asked! But in many ways she is right.

So where does all of this lead? In the past we have argued about whose job it is to take out the trash. As far as I’m concerned, when it comes to chores, taking out the trash is at the top of the gender neutral list. Any man, woman, or even gender challenged person should take out the trash if it is in need of out taking. I finally realized today, however that it means much more to my dear wife. In some odd way, it means love. Me joyfully taking out the trash means everything is the way it should be. That’s sort of a weird concept to me. I’ve tried to show my wife that I love her ever since I met her. Being a guy, it usually meant something physical, but I’ve tried other things too. Gifts, flowers, etc., some hitting the mark, some not, but I have honestly tried. Also, being a guy, I am constantly amazed at what truly means love to her.

So, like I said, she’s no different than any of the rest of us. We all have these pictures in our heads. These pictures were taken when we were small and they slowly developed over time. These pictures aren’t always of reality, but they represent a reality to us. We have them and from them grow expectations and tests of love that we put on other people, especially those closest to us. As far as my wife’s picture concerning the trash goes, I don’t see it as too unhealthy, so I’ve made a choice. I’m going to live that picture out for her and help her fulfill her vision of how it should be. So, dear, from now on, whenever you ask me to take out the trash, my answer will be, “sure, honey, I’d love to,” or at the very least, “as you wish.”



Besides, I’m running out of feet to gnaw off.

ST

What Women Find Sexy

Men, have you ever wondered what is sexy to a real woman? By a real woman, I don't mean one that only lives in your imagination or on the pages of magazines. I mean a woman who will stay around a while—a woman who will love you and put up with your man stuff. I am speaking from some experience here. I have been married for quite a while to a very lovely, real woman, and have done some forced research on the subject.

Now you would think that wearing rugged manly clothes would really turn a woman on, but she tells me that the old worn out jeans, boots, and the flannel shirt with holes in it don’t really do it. When I am in a bit of a feisty mood, sexually, and am wearing my man clothes or my favorite college team T-shirt and hat after my team has laid waste to their opponents, I have attempted a “come on” to her only to find that the mood is not reciprocal in any way.

Being a bit of a hunter, I have come home from a kill, all manned up and full of testosterone only to hear her say I need a shower, a shave and a change. My poker-playing persona doesn’t seem to do it either. Sitting there with a pile of chips in front of me, having vanquished my foes in good order, smelling of victory (sweat, beer, and cigars) doesn’t trip any triggers of attraction with my mate. I was stumped for many years at what really was attractive to my mate. I know that I had been attractive to her at times in the past, but I had not really taken the time to figure out why. Being a man, I just took advantage of the situation and asked no questions. Becoming more comfortable in the ongoing relationship, I did as so many other people do; I eased into my more real self and come to find that my attractiveness seemed to wane or fluctuate at best. I didn’t understand it, and began to wonder why. Loving my wife and our relationship, however I decided to conduct some personal research on the subject to try and better my odds (there’s that gambling thing again).


For many years I was bewildered as I methodically tried to ascertain the key or keys to unlocking the mystery. I tried buying her things. I found that flowers did it many times, but not always. Flowers from a man dressed in hunting clothes was less effective than from a man dressed in dockers and a nice shirt. I tried fine chocolates, but found that this was at times a total mistake. If she was watching her weight, which is almost constant for most women, giving her sweets was worse than smelling of deer scent. So, OK, watching her weight. I gave her an exercise bike. I’m here to tell you that was definitely not the key to me being more attractive to her, and it seemed to effect my attractiveness for quite some time. I tried buying her fancy sleepwear. No go. I tried buying myself sexy under things, thinking that would be the ticket. Not so. In fact that only got a good laugh. Not what I was trying for at all.

I stumbled on one thing by mistake and wondered at it for quite a while. The company she worked for had an annual semi-formal gathering every year, and I was almost forced to wear a tux to the event. This happened for three years running. After the second year I began to notice a pattern. She seemed to be very lovey to me for no apparent reason. After the third year, I began to realize that it might be the tux. This point was further supported by the fact that a young gay man flirted with me a good part of that third night. Now what the hell would a young attractive (I guess) gay man be doing flirting with the likes of me, a middle aged, chubby, balding man? After scoring that night, with my wife, not the gay guy, I started to realize that I might actually be on to something. I wasn’t able to do further research, however, since I had to return the tux the next day.

I seemed to stumble onto other triggers of female attraction as my research continued. It seemed that evenings after a long day of house cleaning went far better than days of such things as watching football or any other type of sports. I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen for some odd reason one time and the results were headline worthy. Was it a coincidence or not? I wasn’t sure until I picked up my dirty clothes and actually did a load of laundry all by myself completely by mistake one day. Another headline. To further my research, I actually cooked a meal and then cleaned up the kitchen. Stop the presses! We have a breaking story! What was going on? The subject was showing behavior that was truly contrary to what my male mind would expect. Was there a connection between my activities and her amorous responses? It couldn’t be. Or could it? I pressed on with my research.

I stumbled onto another bewildering trigger to my goal of romance purely by accident this last week. I am a man who hasn’t kept his garage in very good order for many years. As I see it, a garage is just so much storage space. I have, however spent the last couple of months cleaning it out in the attempt to turn it into a clean and well-ordered workshop. The unexpected result has been that now I am able to fit a car into the garage when needed. So, when a snowstorm hit our area this last week, I told my significant other that she could pull her car into the garage for the night. Nothing happened that night, but the next night—Wow! What was this all about? So, she didn’t have to scrape the windows and brush off the snow. Big deal. But it seemed to be a big deal to her. Now I’m faced with a quandary, deal with the familiar rejections to my manly advances or lose my workshop to her car. Tough choice.

So, this is what my research has turned up. A man is never more attractive to a woman than when he is cleaned up and wearing formal wear, doing some sort of house cleaning, or giving up his man-cave for her parking comfort. Does this make any sense at all? Not to my male mind. Women are attractive to men for a whole list of different reasons, most of which are not easily definable. A look, a smile, a special way they wear their hair, a special outfit, or especially no outfit at all. But do I want to do dishes just to reap the rewards? Do I want to keep my dirty clothes picked up or relinquish my man-cave merely for the prize that I seek? I can’t do it! At least not in an ongoing pattern. I want my garage back, and housework sucks, period. That’s one of the reasons God gave us women.

I am not willing to live totally without loving physical relations in my life, however. That’s why I went out yesterday and bought myself a tuxedo. I figure the price of a tuxedo is a lot cheaper than the price of any of the other options. Now all I have to do is come up with a good explanation of why I’m wearing the damned thing when I’m hunting, fishing, or playing poker. I wonder if a camo tuxedo would do the trick?





Oh, and one last observation. It doesn’t hurt to trim the nose hairs once in a while.


Who knew?

Meetings Are a Lot Like Enemas

As far as I’m concerned, meetings and enemas have a lot in common. They may both, at times, be necessary, but are definitely a pain in the butt.

Neither should be used more than is absolutely essential, and only to keep things moving smoothly.

When their use is unavoidable, they should be short and effective, as having to do either again would prove to be a rather uncomfortable experience.

And finally, if someone truly enjoys either one or employs their use too often, one may conclude that there is something definitely wrong with this person.

A Different Perspective

I learned a bit of a lesson, today, or at least I think so. Being a middle aged man who rides an old Harley that I built myself from a basket case and a lot of swap meet parts, you might not believe that I also ride the totally gnarly wave of audio technology, but it’s true. Well, to a point, it is true. It is a fact that I didn’t get a CD player until I was almost legally required to do so. I still have my original copy of Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida enshrined on an alter in a secured room. I had to ask my son to move out of the house, or at least into the garage to make room for the shrine, but he’s 14 and should be able to handle it. He visits now and then, and hopefully, some day he'll understand.

This wave of audio technology I talk about is summed up in two words i Pod. Yes, I own an actual Apple iPod brand MP3 player. I got it for Christmas. It’s not one of those little shuffles, either. Though it’s not the biggest one, it is a Nano with 8, yes count them, eight gigs of storage! To quote Tim Allen, “Aarrghh, Aarrghh, Aarrghh!” This is cool, because I’ve been a music head since the British tried to repackage American blues and rock and sell it back to us wholesale. I got the iPod from my dear and beautiful wife because that’s what I wanted for Christmas, and my birthday combined since they both fall in December. My wife did it up good, though. She not only bought me the iPod, but many of the cool “necessities” that go with it. Probably the coolest of these extras was the little radio wave converter that allows me to play my pre-programmed digital collection through my car’s radio. No more inane chat. No more listening to the same 5 “hit” songs over and over, whether they be new or classic hits. I am in charge of my own musical listening destiny! Or at least I was until I lost the radio converter thingy. That sucked. I had no idea where it could be. I looked and looked. I cleaned things that hadn't been cleaned in months in hopes that I would find it. I was afraid to admit it to my wife for fear of chastisement, but when I did, she couldn’t find it either. Purchasing a new one was becoming a consideration, but this particular item goes for around fifty dollars.

Finally, today, I was sitting in the back of my cubicle at work while waiting for the local computer guru to do some troubleshooting. I never sit back there, or at least in that position, a half sitting/leaning sort of pose against the credenza that is usually a catch all for junk. I seldom have reason to, but as I sat/leaned there, waiting for him to do the voodoo that he do so well, my gaze wandered to something on the floor under the edge of my desk. Yep, you guessed it. It was my radio converter! What it was doing there, I don’t know, but I never would have found it, or it would have taken much longer if I had not been looking from a totally different perspective than normal. In fact, no other perspective than that particular one would have allowed me to spot and recover the missing treasure, for I could only see a very small part of it peaking out at me. It was an exasperating problem with my computer that brought about the tech visit, but it put me in the exact position I needed to be in to find the thing I had been missing and was trying to find.

It seems like there should be a moral to this story, but I’m having trouble putting my finger on it.

Oh, well. Maybe you can figure it out. If so, let me know.

ST