Oooop!  Did I Really Do/Say That?

Have you ever done or said something that you wished you hadn't?  I'm sure it's a universal condition.  I'm not talking about mean or vengeful stuff that you later wish you had not said or done.  I'm talking about real "foot in the mouth", hang your head in embarrassment, "I can't believe I actually said or did that" kind of stuff.  Two very glaring examples come to mind at this time.  I know there are more, but these two, to me, remain as priceless.

To preface these situations, I want everyone to know that though I fool around a lot presenting a curmudgeonly character, I truly try hard to treat everyone with respect and don't wish to hurt any feelings.  I know, it's hard to believe, but it is the honest truth.

The Boy Friend and the Pork Chop
The first happened some years back when my youngest sister-in-law was visiting home from out of town with her boy friend who would later become her husband.  We had heard a lot about this guy and we made plans to have them over for dinner.  I decided to make my latest and greatest version of pork chops for the meal.  They turned out great and everyone seemed to enjoy them.  After the dinner was over and our guests had left, I realized I only knew the "boyfriend" by his first name, Ben.  I felt bad about that.  I am a social clod at times and wished I had learned his full name.  I then asked my wife, Gayle, what Ben's last name was. 

(I will now spell his last name as given to me phonetically to highlight the humor and embarrassment of the situation.)

Gayle's response was, " I think it's "luh-vine" (as in grape vine).

"Really?" I responded.  How do you spell that?

She said, "L-E-V-I-N-E".

"Luh-vine."  Are you sure that's how he pronounces it?

"That's how Mom pronounces it," was her response.

Knowing my mother-in-law, I shook my head and said, "'Luh-veen.'  That's how you pronounce that spelling.  It's a common Jewish last name!"

"Are you sure? she asked."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure." I sarcastically confirmed.  I had just fed pork chops to a guy named Ben Levine!

It turns out that yes, he is of Jewish descent.  Luckily for me, he was not actively practicing the faith, but it took some time to figure this out, and there are those out there who may enjoy the internal turmoil I went through until this fact was confirmed.

But, you know, it would have been nice to have had a "heads up".

The Female Mechanic and the Local Florida Festival
This was one of my best "foot in the mouth" moments of my life.  I work as a Mechanical Design Engineer, which means I design manufacturing machines of all types.  I engineer and design the machines and then we have "Assembly Technicians" (mechanics) that assemble them on the assembly floor before we send them to the customer.  The assembly and what is involved in this job demands highly skilled technicians of widely varied abilities, and our company had many.  One of them was a woman.  You seldom see a woman in the technical fields I work in, but when you do, they are good.  As always, a woman has to be very good to succeed in what is strongly considered a man's field.  This woman, I will call her Randi, was good--very good.  She was good, but with a hard edge, which again wasn't out of place, because many of the men in this field have a hard edge.  They are especially cranky at the Design Engineers who don't always get every minute detail correct.

I can handle the hard edged men on the floor, but I wasn't sure about how to handle this woman, but through time I gained about as much respect from her as anyone would ever gain, and we developed an almost friendly relationship depending on what day of the week it was, of course.  Randi wasn't the most feminine of women, either.  I had wondered if, because of her looks and mannerisms, whether she was a Lesbian or not, though it really didn't matter to me, and somewhere along the line it was confirmed that she was.  Again, it doesn't matter except for the story that I will relate.

One day, Randi and I were talking about a vacation she was taking with her sister to visit her parents in an area of Florida that I was extremely familiar with.  We were talking about what she would do while there, and I popped up with the words, "Hey, you should go to the Mullet Festival!"  Before I could even realize how that sounded to her she barked back at me, "What the hell is that?!?"

Some serious back pedaling ensued as I tried to explain to her that a local fish of the area is the mullet, and as many a small communities all over the country do, that particular area had formed an all out festival around whatever they could single out as something, no matter how lame, that identified them as a community.  They had mullet feeds, the mullet ball, the crowning of Miss Mullet, and the highlight of the day was a mullet toss.

In my explanation, I said nothing of her sexual orientation, though we both knew it was at this very moment the big blue elephant in the room.  I, a heterosexual male had told a Lesbian woman she should attend a Mullet Festival.  It's hard to explain yourself with two size thirteens planted firmly in your mouth.

Earlier, I confessed that I am, at times, a social clod.  These two incidents don't go far in refuting this fact.

What Does That Mean?

Once in a while we all come across words of which we don’t know the meaning. It’s normal, but for a basically educated person, it shouldn’t be common. I am an educated man, but I try not to use big words just to prove it. I have known those who have done so as a regular practice, but I feel as with extreme body building and overblown attempts at beautification (working hard to make oneself look beautiful) this is an attempt to salve a low self esteem. I believe that communication is the highest goal of the use of words and using unnecessarily complex terminology can be a big road block to true and effective communication. Even now I am wondering whether I have employed reasonably understandable verbiage for that which I am trying to convey. Oh, well, I will continue.


I recently spent some time on the Gulf beach in southern Alabama. Alabama, as most Americans know is one of the southern states. In fact, being on the Gulf of Mexico, it honestly has to be one of the most southern states. The South has its own way of speaking … let’s face it; they have their own way of thinking, too. I once came across a northern college professor who said openly in a class that when he heard someone speak with a Southern accent, he immediately felt that their IQ was no higher than 60 (very low for those who don’t pay attention to these things). I took offense to that then as I do now. You see, I come from the South. I know southern people. I know that though they talk with a drawl that runs slower and sweeter than honey, they are as a rule fantastic people. So, getting back to that teacher, it’s a good bet that this particular Southerner has a higher IQ than him, and I know many more who would rival his Northern bred intellect as well as schooling. With all that said, to the rest of the world, the South doesn’t really come across as … lets’ just say it, “smart”, no matter how it grates on those of us who claim the heritage. This leads up to the story to be told.

I was on the aforementioned beach in Alabama. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was flying a kite. I love kites, and the beach with its breezes proves to be prime kite flying real estate. The kite I was flying only resembles the kites of childhood inasmuch as it sails in the air. This type of kite is called by more than one name. It is sometimes called a power kite, because when flown, it produces a very strong pull. This pull is used by some to propel themselves on karts, buggies, boards in the water and whatever else they can dream up. It is also called a parafoil due to its shape when inflated and flown being that of an air foil or wing. The “para” part comes from the most common use of this type of air foil which is in high performance parachutes. It is also called a stunt kite as it is flown with two control lines, which when manipulated, can cause the kite to climb, dive, and spin. This kite, however, when flown by a novice in a stiff breeze, say 25 mph, can also aggressively swoop very low to the ground at high speeds at the end of very taught, unbreakable control lines, and even violently crash.

Knowing the possible tendencies of the kite, especially in my inexperienced hands and the breeze being more undeniably a wind, I had scoped out a section of the beach that had no inhabitants and very low traffic. After first spotting this area, I watched it for a while to make sure that it was truly an unwanted part of the beach. It was perfect. It was here that I would fly my kite. So I did. It was comical at first. Not for me actually, but for anyone who may have been watching. Slowly I started to get a bit of a handle on the process and was truly enjoying myself. At my will, mostly, it would climb and swoop and loop and, of course, sometimes “violently crash”. It was still a good thing that I was in a deserted part of the beach. No one had bothered me and people had stayed clear until over my shoulder to the rear quite a way back, I heard a sound. The sound was quite; shall we say “Southern”? The sound was actually a word. Though the sound occupied at least three seconds of time, it was only one word.

It is at this time that I must thank, with all my heart, the team of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. They are, of course, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Larry the Cable Guy, and Ron White. If not for them, you as a reader could never even come close to imagining what the following conversation sounded like.

So, to get on with the story; by employing my Southern upbringing, I was able to determine that the sound/word I heard was a rendition of the word, hello. In this form, however it took on a near melodic form as it stumbled from her lips. The phonetic spelling of her utterance would be huh-loooOOOoooo. Sorry, that’s the best I can do, but understand that the lower case to upper case and back to lower case represent the pitch change as her very pronounced drawl strung out the syllable.

I ignored it the first time because I was intent on keeping the sucker in the air and figured, or at least hoped that she was talking to someone else, or maybe trying out a new bird call. Shortly thereafter, though, I heard it again. “Huh-loooOOOoooo.” It was now that I knew that I had to take notice. Multitasking was now in order. I would try to turn my head to see whoever it was, interact with them, and keep the kite under some semblance of control. As I turned my head, I noticed a woman in her forties and four teenagers walking right toward the “danger zone”. It seemed obvious that her aforementioned utterance was to let me know they were coming and that they didn’t intend to change their course. In hopes that I could encourage them to rethink their choice of routes, I yelled over my shoulder, “be careful, I’m a novice.”

Her response was, “whu-u-u-u-U-U-UT (what)?

I restated louder and with a little more affirmation, “I’m a novice!”

“Wuz zat meeEEEEEeeeen (What does that mean)?

It was here that a million possible answers ran through my mind, like:

“It means your IQ probably is 60.”

“It means I’m surprised you have as many teeth as you do.”

“It means you didn’t finish high school and if by some stretch of the imagination you did, you definitely did not deliver the valedictorian address.”

“It means you married your brother, or at least dated him a few times.”

“It means you are the epitome of what outsiders call the ‘stupid South’.”
I know, more words that she was probably unfamiliar with.

But, I refrained from denigrating her and said, “It means I don’t know what I’m doing.”

No response. Nothing. So I explained, “It means, this kite may crash at any moment and hit you.”

This got the response of, “oooooOOOOOOooooooh (oh)!”

So they came—walking right on through the “dangerous fly zone.” I would like to say I couldn’t believe it, but after my recent interaction, I honestly could believe it. What I can’t believe is that I didn’t expect it. This “novice” was able to keep the kite in the air, however; at least until they were past, but shortly thereafter, it “violently crashed”. It’s a good thing this kite is virtually indestructible. I know, “wuz zat meeEEEEeeeen?”

There’s Nothing Wrong with it … (with apologies and props to Jimmy Buffet)

I’m on vacation. It’s been a long time coming and very much needed, not only for me but even more so for my wife, Gayle. It’s been a long and rough year and a half. Family deaths, illnesses injuries and job struggles all piled on top of the regular zoo we call life has left us as Crosby, Stills and Nash put it, “wasted on the way.” So, we finally took the cues and opportunity and got the heck outa Dodge.

We headed south since we live in the north and wanted something called sunshine and warm. For those not familiar with winters in Minnesota, they are not only long and cold, but they are dark. When one talks of cloudy in Minnesota, they are referring not to broken billowy/puffy formations of cartoon like shapes, they are talking about a big heavy, dark blanket thrown over all of existence not only blocking any natural occurrence of light, but actually sucking light from the surrounding world and one’s soul. There is a little known field of scientific study known as Meteorolical Physics which is working to define a new state of matter called a “Grey Hole”. That field of study, of course, is centered in Minnesota.


All Minnesotans, at the first signs of spring exit their burrows resembling albino moles squinting at the light that has finally won the battle to shine forth. Don’t misunderstand; people of color actually turn a sickly pale for their own skin type, as well in Minnesota. The result is that we all look and feel sickly by the end of the annual “winter of our discontent.” But if one is lucky, or has the wherewithal, one sneaks a trip toward the more tropical latitudes for a brief taste of what may or may not come in the northern summer months ahead. Gayle and I did just that.

So here we are, inhabiting a rented cottage across the road from the beach on the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, just chillin’, sluggin’, and generally taking it easy. That’s what we wanted. That’s what we came here to do, and we have no misgivings concerning the matter … or at least we didn’t until we started sitting on our small patio, facing the ocean and just vegging out. You see, the problem is, a public walk way passes a few yards away from said patio. So as we sit and veg, we are constantly—OK, occasionally—confronted by people power walking, or cycling, or jogging past us and of course they do it with a very smug air of superiority. “Here we are, jogging and your lazy butt is stuck in that chair.”

It bugged me. Yes I am out of shape. I’m very over weight at the moment. I hate that fact. I have to admit that I need exercise, and this is a beautiful place. The weather is great and it wouldn’t hurt me—it wouldn’t hurt us to take the cue and get up and do something physical.

It’s amazing how shame can spur a person to action. I have been motivated by shame much of my life. You have to admit that shame is the great motivator. So, once again the vile beast of shame was rearing its ugly head, and I was beginning to feel its goading pricks as I rose from my leisure. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do something. I was going to get up and walk … no jog … maybe find a place to rent a bicycle and go pumping my little (actually large) legs into shape. I wasn’t going to be a lounging vegetable anymore. I was going to do something!
`
But as I poked my head into the living room of our cottage, I saw my lovely wife. She was comfortably resting on the couch. She had formed a symbiotic relationship with the couch. She had become one with the couch and the fact is, she needed it. She has been through a lot, and this vacation was almost too late for her. I nearly had to scoop up the puddle that was my wife and pour her onto the plane to get here. The TSA agents at the airport nearly confiscated her and scolded me for trying to bring a liquid of more than three ounces onto the plane when I explained that the puddle of liquid was my wife and showed them her boarding pass. And to be honest, I was only one step away from her condition. So, as I stood there in a complete quandary over what to do, an open topped car cruised by outside playing Jimmy Buffet. It was then that it hit me.

Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise.

She aroused out of her half slumber to give me a foggy, inquisitive look. I smiled shook my head, motioned for her to go back to her rest and turned away to go back on the patio.

For the rest of the stay I spent as much time just vegging on the patio as I could. Sometimes we’d sit together and sometimes she would renew her relationship with the couch. And as the parade of aerobiphiles passed by, I would sit in my chair with my coffee, or iced tea, or beer, depending on the time of day, and nod and smile and take a puff on my cigar as they passed by thinking, “You go for it, but for me, right now, there truly is nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise--a big double stacked cheeseburger with all the trimmings, and extra mustard.  Yeah."

PLAYING A SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS GOLF BALL AT A WATER HAZARD

This is a weird one. My Dad and I were playing a round of golf. He’s aging with poor eyesight and I’m mid-fifties, overweight, and prematurely arthritic, especially in my upper back affecting my golf swing, but we went anyway. We were going to have a good day out and just have a ball, so to speak. Speaking of balls, I stopped by the local Wall Mart and bought a bunch (emphasis on bunch) of balls so that we wouldn’t have to waste time, energy, and frustration looking for lost balls, of which we expected many.

We’ve played this course forever. It’s in the area I grew up and close to where Dad is retired. There is one specific water hazard which invariably sucks even the best hit balls out of the air swallowing them into oblivion. For our entire 50 year history of playing there, Dad has always used an old, ugly ball—one that he’s not afraid to lose—to play this hole. He says he has a friend that won’t do that. The friend says that if you use an old ball to play a water hole, you’re just expecting to lose it, which you probably will. He feels that you should use one of your best balls to play across water. That way, the player will be more conscious of making a good shot to save the expensive ball. Who knows if he’s right, but he may have a point.

My Dad, however, at this hole, this particular time pulled out a Sponge Bob Square Pants ball. Now I first have to ask, where does one get such a ball? And then I would ask, if one had such a ball, why would one show it in public? I don’t think Dad even knows who Sponge Bob is, or where the ball came from. He just looked at the ball and figured it’s one he could afford to lose. It being a Sponge Bob ball, I would have to agree.

Now for those who know the very least about Sponge Bob, which is what I know and would definitely like to keep it that way, they know he lives at the bottom of the sea, he being a sponge and all, I guess. Being a Sponge Bob ball, one would figure, and it turned out rightly so, that it would have an attraction to water, and it did. Dad teed it up, swung and, “bloop” Sponge Bob had returned to the bottom of the water where he belonged. Dad wasn’t going to try again, but I teed up one of the new balls and coerced him into trying again. So he swung, and once again it headed for the drink, but with a different spin, I suppose. Because this time when it hit the water, it skipped. We thought that was pretty miraculous but it still didn’t have the distance to clear the water. It then, skipped a second time and to our complete surprise, ended up on the far shore in a playable lie. Back slapping and high fives were shared and we headed to the cart path to continue play. Later on, he single skipped another ball across a small water hazard onto playable ground.

After the day was done, we ended up losing only two balls--one that I lost in the woods and the Sponge Bob ball into the water.

So I guess there is one solid lesson we took away from this day of golf. No, it’s not as Murphy knows, If you are running short on balls, you will lose a lot of them. It’s not even the converse of that which is if you have a bunch of extras; you will miraculously come home with most of them.

What we learned is, if you happen to mysteriously pull a Sponge Bob golf ball out of your bag, tee it up at a water hazard and it will find its way home. You won’t even have to try, it knows the way. So let it.

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.