My Summer in the Crawl Space

While preparing to sell my mom's house there were lots of things to take care of.  Beyond the normal things you'd expect (new carpet, paint, etc) we had a few plumbing issues to take care of.   A leaky tub and shower caused water damage to the flooring and insulation under the master bathroom.  Nothing a couple of plumbers couldn't solve.  After that it was closing up the insulation and cleaning up the vapor barrier.  Boring stuff right?  I mean are you even still reading?  Stay with me.

Under the house is the crawlspace.  This isn't just a generalized term to describe "under the house" but was a true description of the type of space there was available under my mom's house.  At the roomiest height there was only enough room to sit and any actual movement required crawling.  Not on hand and knees either...I mean crawling like you're in the bootcamp scenes in the movie Stripes or in my case maybe Private Benjamin.

I have on eye protection and a respirator since the air is full of rodent poop dust and I am crawling on my belly and sweeping with a horizontal hand broom.  I make a long sweep with my right hand and then heard what sounded like wind chimes. Just so you know, that's the sound it makes when you're sweeping a raccoon skeleton across 6mm sheets of plastic.

I admit that this was freaking me out a little.  I'm holding my breath while I move the skeletal remains of this poor animal along.  I continue crawling along on my stomach just a few feet behind the trail of bones with each sweep of progress.  I swept the bones over and across this large mound under the plastic and then stopped for a second to catch my breath.  While trying to calm down I heard something else that I hadn't heard before.  It sounded like buzzing.  I took off my respirator and shouted over to my brother.

"Hey, do you hear that?"  My voice barely carries.

"What?"  My brother stops tearing at insulation. "What did you say?"

"I hear buzzing or something?  I said after another big breath.  "Can you hear that?"

"Oh," he said then stopped for a second.  "I did see bees over there earlier."

This tiny back area of the house which took me five minutes to crawl into took me just 3 seconds to get out of.  Crawling over the raccoon skeleton and away from the sound of bees I was able to get out of the crawlspace.  No stings, just a bump on the head where I smacked it on a beam, crawling quickly while breathing out a panicked shriek.

The exterminator later pointed out to me that he was able to kill thousands of bald faced hornets in the nest that were still in the large mound.

"Um, large mound?"  I asked.

"Yeah, those hornets made a huge mound under the plastic, I'm surprised you didn't see it down there."  He held his arms out in a big circle as if to demonstrate the circumference of the place I nearly died. Only a couple of hours earlier I was crawling over that mound while sweeping along a dead raccoon.

Seriously, that day really sucked. 

Peace in the Valley

I'm from the Snoqualmie Valley.  I was born in upper part of the valley, in the town of Snoqualmie, and grew up in the lower half around Duvall.  I moved away when I left my parents house and never really returned under great circumstances.

For awhile, I convinced myself I didn't like the valley.  It was rural after all.  Ya know, the middle of nowhere?  The novelty of answering the question, "So, where are you from?" had long since worn off in my life.  I simply answered:  Seattle area.

It didn't help that after I moved away in the late 80's I was always returning.  From the late 90's on I looked after my handicapped mother.  The stability of her finances, health, and home was a burden on me.  Many many weekends were spent out there in the valley, taking care of property I hadn't lived on in 20 years.  I hardly had time to sit and visit with my mom as I was racing the setting sun to finish the lawn or whatever else was needed.  I didn't regret it, it was how we did things. 

It was a hard situation.  She grew older and living alone was a challenge.  It was never a bargain having limited mobility but she always handled it gracefully.  From my earliest memories my mom needed my assistance with something.  It had been pretty well established in my mindset that she would always need help, though I always watched at a close distance to see where the line was.  All my life I felt there were things I needed to help my mom with.

I never interfered with her independence and I was often times her only advocate when people in our lives suggested strongly that she move away.  Moving away meant leaving her friends and the community she had been so involved in.  

So when I returned to the valley, it never came with much appreciation.



Rory on the suspension bridge that crosses the Snoqualmie River

This last weekend, my older son and I took a ride on my motorcycle and we rode through the valley.  Just for fun.  No burden.  Even at six years of age he knew that we were headed out that way and we wouldn't have a whole day of work ahead of us.  He asked to stop at a park and I had to stop and think where there was one.

We headed along the west part of the valley passing by the old Carnation Farms and into the town of Carnation.  There we stopped at Tolt-MacDonald Park which features a suspension bridge that crosses the river.  I was about my son's age when the bridge was built and I remember what a big deal it was when it opened in the Summer of '76.

Next time I'm out that way I plan to visit with old friends and try to see if there's anything left to appreciate.  I bet there will be.

Real world MPG and the EPA

Ever since I bought my first car back in 1988, my dad educated me on how the MPG works on a new car.  Take whatever number is on the sticker of the car and reduce it until you can imagine yourself disappointed.  That is the actual mileague you are likely to get.

Car manufacturers have been caught in the past fudging numbers on other performance areas of their products.  Hyundai, for example, had apparently advertised better horse power than two of their engines actually produced, and then eventually settled on a class-action lawsuit.

But what happens when the Federal Trade Commission and the EPA are partially responsible for helping a car company deceive its customers?  The example I will use will take us right back to Hyundai (full disclosure:  I have happily owned 3 Hyundai vehicles myself and have never had much of a complaint about any of them).

Hyundai faces a new lawsuit with regard to their claim that the Elantra can actually get 40 miles per gallon.  In about every car review and test drive report from various industry news sources, nobody has achieved the claimed 40mpg.  So what gives?

Hyundai (and other carmakers) are hinging their defense based upon an interpretations of Federal laws concerning advertising (the way they are allowed to lie to you) and how the EPA numbers are calculated (the way they are able to generate false numbers to use in their lies).

It is not a very new concept that someone may introduce fraud to entice you to purchase their product.  Sadly, it's also not new that the methods used to make fraudulent claims is endorsed by the very agencies that should be protecting you.

If government, at any level, has a useful role...it is to protect you from force and fraud.

In these cases, the for-profit car magazines did for the consumer what the government should've done in the first place.  Instead, the agencies that were supposed to protect the consumer allowed corporations to hide inside their complicated rules and methodologies. 

I would like to see the MPG fall under the scrutiny of private companies, using the Underwriters Laboratories model.  Let companies advertise their mileage ratings as they're measured by organizations who only survive by maintaining a bullet proof reputation.  It would be an improvement over the current endorsement of agencies that the public has long since given up trust.

My Brain and You.

It’s been an interesting experience to have people you know want to read your book because, well…they know you.  My first feeling is one of embarrassment really.  It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try because that’s why I blog.

I know quite a few authors.  I have been given books, have had offers to preview, and have bought books by people I know.  Some I have read thoroughly, some I’ve skimmed, and others I just looked at the signed title page.  I’m happy to own them all.

When someone you know wants to read your book they are not thinking “Oh, your ridiculous description of your book sounds very interesting, I want to buy it.” 

What they are saying is “I think it would be interesting to see what kind of crap spins around in that brain of yours.”

It could go pretty wrong too.

Let’s say your next door neighbor is the next Stephen King.  He’s currently writing a book that will be on the best seller’s lists and will be loved by everyone.  Hollywood will buy the rights to it and it will become the scary Summer blockbuster hit that will be the gold standard of scary thriller movies.

He’s not famous yet but he wants you to read it.  You discover that the plot is centered around the main character murdering his next door neighbor.  Your thoughts?

Your thoughts aren’t “Wow, this guy can really craft a thrilling story.  He is bound to break it big.”  Instead, you’re thinking, “Holy Crap! My neighbor is insane…is this the kind of crap that he makes up in his sick little head all day?  I'm moving!"

It’s a matter of perspective.

I make up stories.  It’s what I do.  If you read my book, don’t move away.

Yeah, so my book is for sale.

What you need to know:

1. You can get it by clicking here. It is $12 plus shipping and handling.
2. This is a work of fiction. It contains people who are real and imagined but everyone is captured within the world I created in my own mind. Including myself. I've joked that all autobiographies are mainly fiction...I'm just telling you before hand.
3. It's 100% self-published. All of the layout and design was done put together by me and my wife.
4. Chances are if you know me, you or someone you know is fictionally represented in this book. You should buy it and find out what happened to you.
5. I never planned to make much money on it though I wanted to take what it could make and turn it into a donation for the Everett Gospel Mission. Everett is a Navy town just north of Seattle and is the largest city in the county I live in. The Mission is a powerful force for good in the lives of those who are homeless or have addiction issues. I've known many success stories as a result of their ministry.
6. Mature audiences should read this. I don't mean just grown up either...I mean if your sensibilities are easily offended then just buy a copy and put it on your shelf and then when someone asks about it just say "Yeah, I know the dumbass that wrote it." and then shake your head dismissively.
7. I won't ask you what you thought of it...but don't think I don't want to know. Tell me anything you want or say nothing. Just know I won't put you in the awkward position of giving me feedback when all you'd really say was "Look man, I couldn't get past chapter 2."

I will report later on the check I'll write to the Everett Gospel Mission in August.

New community, old results

This week I was engaged by an active member of the Self-Publishing community.  I was invited to become active as a contributor to their unique fraternity.  I took him up on it and I took some time this week to meet some new people.

Now first, I must make clear that I'm not much of a reader.  Anyone who has visited my blog knows this.  I read every day but only consume about three fiction books in a calendar year...and with great difficulty.  I wish I could read more, but that's just not my life.

Also, I'm not a literary critic.  I know what I like and I know what I don't like. 

One thing I have found, at least so far, is that many in the Self-Publishing community take themselves really seriously.  Maybe it's not just this community but authors in  general...I don't know.  Either way, just let me warn you that if you seem the least bit sarcastic after meeting the eighth author with a dragon on their book cover...you may be treated as an outsider.

So how did my first impressions go?  I think so far they think I'm a jackass.

They had all but written me off (see what I did there?) until I mentioned something that brought me back into their graces:

There's a unicorn in my book.

So the book is done and junk

I'm horrible at self-promotion.  I spent a year and a half writing a book and really only about four people knew it existed, and one of them was my mother who passed away last July.  You can imagine the problem I'm having creating something I want people to read and enjoy but I don't want to bother letting them know it exists.   I only introduced the fact that I had written a book to the public on a blog post a couple of weeks ago.

I posted the cover on my Facebook account and I got plenty of messages and emails about it that ranged from a rather wide spectrum of reactions.  I guess I wanted to take an opportunity to address a few of them since, thankfully, there is some interest in what I wrote.

The book is fiction.  It's not real.  When pressed for a genre, it fit in the realm of Alternative History.  It begins with real people in a real context and then diverges into a story that I made up in my head.  

The book contains adult humor and themes.  I've been asked if it is suitable for young readers and my answer is "No."  It contains naughty behavior and genuine redemption as I understand it.  But you can read it and decide for yourself.

The book is over-the-top in many areas.  It's fiction after all.  Why should it be stuck within the normal confines of reality?  And unlike most fantasy books, I don't try to explain it away with overly convenient world rules.  If I say there is a midget marching band, then there's a midget marching band.  Nuff said.

Where can I get it?  It will be available through me on a very limited basis and Amazon.com on an insane basis.

I concede the book doesn't have wide appeal, and broad appeal was never my intent.  I wrote it over the last year and a half between 10pm and 1am and was having fun with it.  I stayed loose and never worried about my prose or literary flourishes.  I just wrote a story and often laughed to myself.  I had a tough year and I used this as an escape.  Staying up to write kept me from thinking about not sleeping.

I have friends that make things.  They crochet blankets or make birthday cards or scrapbooks.  I write.  This project was meant to be self-published and offered to my friends as a gift...a gift you have to buy...ha ha...but if you buy 40 or 50 of the books, you can sew them together and make a crappy blanket.

Hard work was put into this. Not just the story but all of the supportive photos, cover and artwork that accompanies the fictional story.  There is some production value to this book.  You may not like it, but you won't complain that it lacked effort.  Oh, and if you do complain I'm going to send you outtakes from the backcover photo shoot.  You've been warned.

Can you just borrow a copy from me or do you have to pay for it?  I shouldn't be amazed that I have had this question a few times.  I'm not a library and don't make me lecture you on the tragedy of the commons.  Go for private property!  Own a copy!  Read the next paragraph if you're not convinced.

The proceeds of the book will be matched by me and then will be given to the Everett Gospel Mission.  I'm not making any money on this project, just a tiny tax write-off.  If this still doesn't convince you then let me know and I'll work out something with you.

I will have some books on-hand eventually and I'll do some personal fulfillment in-person or through the mail.  I'll autograph any name you request in the book, including my own.  I have Dave and Steve Show Pins and some extra stuff you may see from the book's cover.  I'll throw in odds and ends as I find them to anyone who gets a book from me.  

Are you in it?  Buy it and find out. Ha!

I will let you know when the release date is. 

Names

When my wife and I were expecting the arrival of our children we spent a lot of time discussing names.  We went through our family tree, in one branch, about four centuries back.  We didn't find much that was helpful.  For my second son, he actually came home from the hospital without a name.  We couldn't agree completely on the perfect name so he had to wait.  It seemed like something we wanted to take seriously.

My six year old son thinks that names are important but not so important that he will take more than a split second to come up with a name.  He has a stuffed dog with two spots on it.   His name?  Spot Spot.  He is growing a pair of Venus Fly Traps which he also named:  Venus and Trap.

I hope this trend changes otherewise, in future years, this blog will proudly show photos of my grandkids, Slimey and Purple Face.

My writing project

I mentioned in a post last November that I have been excited to talk about things I’ve been working on but resisted so I could concentrate on actually finishing my project. 

Just after the hiatus of the Dave and Steve Show and before my mom took ill I had begun working on a side writing project.  It was mostly a creative writing exercise to help me unwind sometime between 10pm and Midnight when I was able to finally sit down and take a break from work, parenting, etc. 

When I was taking care of my mom and then later, the affairs of her estate, this project became a nice diversion from the stress that was all around me.  It wasn’t long before my little side project became a full-fledged book.

So what is it?  Fiction?  Non-fiction?  A coffee table book?

No, it’s uh…Autobiographical fiction.

Most autobiographies are fiction, I’m just telling you it’s all lies before you read it.

In truth, I was on a relatively popular podcast called, Dave and Steve Show which ended about a year and a half ago.  I’m still in touch with a hand full of listeners from that show.  This book chronicles the rise and fall of the show, but it does so from my imagination.  Chances are if you interacted with the show in any way, you are fictitiously included in the book. 

Even though this isn’t my most serious literary effort, don’t think for a minute that I’m not proud of it.  It is action-packed, touching, lascivious, redemptive and contains a foreword written by Bigfoot.  It’s 250 pages of some of the greatest fun-filled moments my brain could invent during the last stressful year or so of my life.

I’m excited to be sharing it with you soon.  Stay tuned.

An Open Letter to Estate Sale shoppers

Dear Estate Sale Shoppers,

It was great having about a thousand of you visiting me this last weekend.  I got to talk with many of you and hear your stories, your wants, and your disappointments.  I pretended to care about whether something went for 7 dollars or 5 dollars.  I tried to treat you all with respect.  

I encountered a few things that warrant some reminders that may be helpful in your future Estate Sale shopping.

1. My garage is not a local store, it is my home.  When I put up big signs that tell you the sale starts at 9am that doesn't mean you show up at 8am to get an early look while I'm getting my kids breakfast.  I tried to be kind to you but when you got pushy you were getting very close to a line you don't want to cross.  Please wait until I'm ready.
   
2. When you say you're unimpressed with the Estate Sale because it doesn't have anything that you want (antique jewelry, antique furniture and rare items) you acted like I failed you somehow.  You acted like I led you to believe that I had all of these items.  You acted like the low-income status that my family has lived in my whole life was some sort of life-long plan to screw you out of an afternoon.  I'm sorry we didn't have any of those things and my parents lived simple and honorable lives, paid their own way, lived debt free, and didn't take a dime of assistance that wasn't given voluntarily. 
   
3. Remember that these items have stories.  Sure it's a box of junk, but it was junk that was in the top drawer of dad's table.  It's an exciting treasure to you but it's another step of the long process of saying good-bye for the seller.  Take a second to remember that while you're putting your foot down that the price should be fifty cents less.
   
4. If you don't have much money but have a great need for something, say so.  I was glad to almost give away an item that a couple needed for an elderly parent that lived with them.  They didn't come prepared with lots of cash but spoke of how much this item would help the parent have some independence while taking a bath.  I made up my mind that they would leave with this item, money or not.
   
5. You and I both know you don't need this stuff.  You and I both know that this stuff is just going home to your house to sit by other piles of stuff.  You have a problem, and for this one weekend, I was your enabler.  Have fun but remember, when you die your kids get to do what I'm doing.

That's about it.  It was great meeting all of you.  Let's hope we never reunite in a garage again.

Dignity

Obviously, I teach my children libertarian principles.  I teach respect for personal property, and the idea that it is wrong to use force or the threat of violence to get your own way.  This isn't a radical concept at all and is probably taught in nearly every home. We're now taking our swing at the learning opportunity proposed by the concept of dignity.

It's hard to put your finger on what dignity is.  It's like an old hat I used to wear.  I wore it so often that most of the time I never knew it was on.  I could only feel anything when the hat was gone.  With dignity, sometimes I have it and I don't know it, but I know what it feels like the minute it's taken away. 

The need to talk about dignity came when my 6 year old made fun of his little brother for taking a dump in his diaper and making the predictable stink.  The toddler was mocked for the indignity of not yet having been toilet trained.  The older brother mastered toilet training completely by age 3 and now cannot remember a time when he didn't use the toilet like a well-trained chimp. 

I explained, to the best of my ability, about dignity but I wasn't really sure if I got the concept across.  I went beyond the "stop it, that's not nice" BS because my kid isn't stupid.  He knew it wasn't nice...that is why he was doing it.  I mean, kids are experts at taking dignity away without really knowing what they've done.  Obviously any respect for dignity has to be modeled by me first if it's going to be meaningful in any way.  That's a whole other blog post.

While out shopping we ran across a man selling copies of Real Change.  Real Change is a homelessness issues newspaper often sold by the homeless themselves.  My first exposure to this type of newspaper was in Chicago.  When offered a copy of Chicago's Streetwise I declined any interest in the newspaper.  The paper's vendor informed me that it was about homelessness and then he asked me "Don't you care about the homeless?"  Outside of the normal "it's a shame" attitude I can tell you that I really didn't. 

This time, I took my son over to the gentleman, introduced myself and bought a copy.  I gave him a little extra and we talked for awhile after introducing my boy to the man.  They shook hands.  He may have been homeless but we looked at each other in the eye and talked, like people.  He felt no shame in what he was doing and he got no "it's a shame" attitude from me.  I know nothing about him and never once did I care if he spent the money on booze or cigarettes or worse. 

It's amazing how much less we care about what people do when they're earning what they have.  I know people who advocate drug testing for people who receive welfare checks, because after all...freeloading is the equivalent of being reprobate.  It's too bad what is missing from almost all non-voluntary assistance is dignity.  That's where the shame is.

At home, we talked a lot about dignity last week.  We will probably need to keep at it awhile.

Claim my bowling ball: An open letter to the Tolt High School Class of 1986

When I graduated from high school years ago, I took with me more than a world class education. I also took with me at least 15 pounds of spherical urethane.

Our class was among the first crop of classes that participated in organized group parties following graduation.  Apparently the fast and loose living of those who graduated in the late 70's and early 80's brought on the need for more safe and sane celebrations. 

For our graduation party we spent the night at a bowling alley and then had breakfast at the Space Needle in Seattle.

We didn't just bowl, we were entertained by a David Lee Roth impersonator and various other distractions.  It was the 80's after all.  I enjoyed spending one last block of quality time with people I had known most of my life. 

Then there was the door prize.  Remember that?  Of course you don't...but I do.  After all, it was my ticket that was called.   Everyone cheered and I remembered walking up to claim my prize:   A bowling ball.

When the party was over the next morning, the school bus dropped off many of us in Duvall.  It was there where I disembarked still wearing the clothes I wore to graduation twelve hours earlier.  I discovered that after waiting about thirty minutes that no one was going to come pick me up and take me home.  I reached into my pocket and got out my cell phone only to discover that I would not have a cell phone for another twelve years.

I learned later that my family was with my sister who had just gone to the hospital with a medical emergency.  Rightly so, picking me up from my graduation party was rather low on their list of priorities.

So, I began walking.

From Main Street in Duvall just about every destination is uphill.  My plan was to mostly walk back roads to my house as I was sure it was some kind of short cut.  I climbed the first of a series of hills crossing 3rd Avenue when I heard a pop sound coming from my feet.  The leather stitching on my right shoe broke free causing the shoe to dangle loosely.   I had worn those dress shoes exactly once before at some other event and one uphill half-mile climb had done them in.  I only had about five or six more miles to go, carrying a bowling ball while walking with a broken shoe…having not slept in over a day.  So far this wasn't a good start to the "freedom" I had been wanting so much after graduation.

I should have just dumped the bowling ball off along side the road, or even better yet...I should have just rolled it down the steep hill from the top of Stella Street and watched with glee as it left a path of devastation.   I didn't dump it though.  I continued to carry it like a well-dressed zombie, dragging one foot the rest of the way.  I hate that bowling ball.

Here is a photo representing how I imagine the ball as it finally came to rest after rolling downhill leaving a path of devastation and mayhem.

For years my mom and dad reminded me that I should get that bowling ball drilled and take it bowling.  I never intended to use it for anything and when I moved out I left it at their house.

Just recently I was cleaning out stuff in a back room at my parent's house and I came across the bowling ball.  It is still undrilled and in the same shape it was in when I hauled it all those miles years ago.

I'm sure I could write volumes on the symbolism.  I could outline the blessing of the prize that was coupled with the burden of responsibility.  The appropriate symbolism is there for sure but those volumes will never be written.  I'm going to get rid of that bowling ball.  How is that for symbolism?

It could easily go in a garage sale but I'm sure through a trick of providence the bowling ball was meant for someone else from the Tolt Class of 1986.

One of you needs to claim it. 

If somehow your life was cheated by not having this bowling ball then email me, reply to this blog or contact me through various social media.  Pass this along as I’m sure I’ve lost touch with dozens over the years. Let me know why the bowling ball should be yours.  If convinced then I'll make sure you get it.

If more than one of you reply then I'll make a judgment, or you can all possibly work out a custody agreement on your own.  I'm no Solomon, so don't expect to get your share in pieces.

Real ideas can change things

Once again my precinct elected delegates exclusively for Ron Paul just as it did four years ago. 

Last time when I was sitting across a living room from conservative Republicans they told me how much Ron Paul scared them.  After all he was for ending wars, legalizing drugs, changing the monetary system, and then it was all followed up by the typical Ad-hominem attack of him being crazy or anti-semite or whatever.

This year I talked to even more conservative Republicans in our pooled caucus meeting of a few hundred Republicans and almost universally they said "I agree with almost everything he says...I just don't think he can win."

And of course he can't. Ron Paul's ideas are far too exotic for a country that is averse to risk.  It took over four years of listening to Ron Paul after he became a national figure for his ideas to simply not be "scary" to other Republicans.  It would take far longer before the nation would see them as mainstream.

But that day is coming.

He had to stand alone for 30 years to have the credibility to deliver a different message.  He had to be consistent to the point of being called crazy to earn the platform to talk about ideas that he believed in.  Unlike most politicians you actually believe that he believes what he's talking about.

I've have several friends who voted for Obama who read Ron Paul's books and articles far more than I do because they know that you can't just dismiss him as a kook.  There seems to be something there right or wrong. 

It's impressed upon me that true conviction and standing up for something is admirable.  I should've known this all along but now I have a real life example.

...for me...back to supporting Gary Johnson.

Sad and Busy

I've been working lately on the slow process of dealing with my mom's belongings.  Most things require cut and dry decisions...throw away....save....donate...sell.   Figuring out what needs to be done with the physical items isn't nearly as difficult as sorting out the emotional items.

I went through tax returns that covered the last 25 years.  I saw a financial history of my parents struggle to keep their heads above water.  I saw my own income as a teenager added to theirs to bolster what little we had.  It was a walk through the history of my life that I wasn't prepared for.

I never had to deal with many of these types of things when my dad passed away and now I'm handling items that belonged to both of them.  Emotionally it feels like I've lost them both at the same time.  It sucks.

I will be glad when this is over.

Soda Stream–Frickin Awesome

I love to drink fizzy stuff.  I’d drink my own blood if I could get it sweetened with a healthy amount of infused bubbles.  I don’t drink as much as I used to due to the fact that it’s really not all that good for you, but there are times when I can’t resist.

About a decade ago I saw some exhibitor at a local county fair pushing some sort of device that allowed you to inject Carbon Dioxide into your water, add syrup and then you instantly had some awful tasting soda.  It intrigued me and I wanted to buy it though two things prevented me from buying it.

1. I was broke.
2. The whole operation seemed small-time and I knew I’d end up with an obsolete machine without replacement parts or refillable CO2 bottles.

I grew up on all the normal soda pops but found Pepsi to be my favorite.  Since then the formulas for all the major brands have changed enough that none of them really taste all that great.  I celebrated Pepsi Natural only to see it go away and Pepsi Throwback is an improvement over modern formula that is simply awful.  Don’t even get me started on Coke…their problems are legion.

Oh yeah, back to Soda Stream.  Have you seen it? 

Thanks to Christmas it now sits on the counter in my kitchen and I’m able to make all sorts of fizzy stuff.  The Sodastream company manufactures their own syrups which can run from acceptable to uh…interesting but at least are free of corn syrup.

I’ve always wanted to make my own soda syrup and be the soda king of the entire world.  I’m not sure what I’d call my soda but it would be frickin awesome.  It would be so fizzy your mouth and throat would bleed after each sip.  If I had my way you’d be drinking one now while reading this.  Lucky for you my dreams have yet to be realized.

Instead of living my dream I pretend to be a bigtime soda honcho in my kitchen.  It is the beverage equivalent of the Easy Bake Oven.  I’ll be blogging about my delicious lightbulb baked cookies next week.

Hey, where ya been?

I haven’t blogged in awhile lately due to being overwhelmed at work, home and with the additional duties I have following my mom’s death.  I looked yesterday in my Live Writer and found that I had thirteen drafts of blogs I simply never published.  You will be glad  you were spared most of that nonsense.

I will blog more when there is stuff to say.  Here is a sample of subjects I’ve not talked about:

1.  Toys for Tots.

2.  Hey lookit, I’m mainstream!

3.  The Salvation Army is not your enemy, your stupid brain is.

4.  I didn’t want to do this again, but…

5.  Please introduce me to a sane vegan.

Talk to you all again soon.

Talking and Doing

I was reading months back during one of my thousand hospital visits over the summer that people who talk about things they plan to do, usually never get them completed. 
The study indicated that when people announce a goal, they receive immediate satisfaction for simply having the goal that actually achieving it is no longer necessary. 
I’ve seen this in action in my own life and in the lives of people over the last few months.  When my mom was sick and then soon after she died people from all over offered to do “anything” to help.  I am a person who likes to do things myself but there has been a couple of things that I simply cannot do on my own.  Each time I’ve called on someone to help, I realized that people have varying views of what “anything” meant in terms of actually helping.  I can say confidently that I’ve not received any help that I’ve asked for.  Pretty interesting huh?

Now given what I know about this study, me expecting any actual help is my failing, not theirs.   I should’ve known that people who offered were simply being nice.  There’s nothing wrong with this either.  At a low point in my life, people giving me nice gestures was a positive thing.  Things only went badly when my expectations of their gesture were more literal and less symbolic.
So I’ve thought about a few questions that beg to be asked:

1. Is there any use in talking about what you want to do at all?
2. Why not simply meet a need that is in your ability without fanfare?
3. Would you do what needs to be done if nobody ever knew about it?

It goes beyond my own personal example and swells into personal goals.  I see someone announce on their social networking that they’re on a diet and are trying to lose 25 pounds.  The applause that follow in the comments session dismantle the goal before it began. 

I’ve been excited to talk about a few things I’ve been working on over the last year but I do not dare.  Either people won’t care and that will discourage me or people will pretend to care and my brain will put up the Mission Accomplished banner on my project and I’ll start fitting myself for a flight suit.

An evening with Spider-Man and Curious George

The weather was particularly good for Halloween this year and for once it accommodated trick-or-treating.  It’s always a challenge to get the right costume in the Pacific Northwest as the weather is generally cold and pissy.
Last night I was going to walk around my neighborhood with Spider-Man and Curious George.  Each of them had their own challenges that made the next two hours scarier than any horror movie.

1.  Spider-Man has a nervous stomach.  Once in costume he decided he needed to stay inside for the evening while throwing up.  I finally convinced Spider-Man to go with me and George and he could keep his mask half-off in the event he needed to honk.

2.  Curious George is willing to walk but chooses his own direction too often to keep tabs on him at night while reminding Spider-Man to say “thank you” after each visit and pointing out bushes he can puke in.  26 pounds of George will be carried through several blocks.

We get two houses down from ours and Spider-Man starts howling at the leaves on the ground.  I knew he’d get over it so we wiped the gooey strands dangling from his mouth and pressed on.  With tears in his eyes he went to about 6 or 7 front doors with George before Spidey announced that he had to pee and couldn’t wait.

Me:  You’re going to have to wait.

Spider-Man:  I can’t hold it!  I’m starting to pee a little

Our neighbor opened her door to the sight of Spider-Man holding his crotch while jumping up and down next to a giggling monkey.  “You can use my bathroom, come on in!” She said mercifully.

I needed to go in and help since Spidey wasn’t able to get enough of his costume off .  We walked into our neighbor’s downstairs water closet where George started to empty his bucket of treats into the toilet while Peter Puker started throwing up into the sink. 

With my left leg held out I kept George away from the toilet which looked like the neighbor’s had already placed a large tootsie-roll and had forgotten to flush.  With my left hand I got Spider-Man released from his costume and with my right hand I rinsed out our neighbor’s sink.  While the toilet flushes, Spider-Man looks down to button his pants and his mask cascades off of the top of his head into the bowl of now clean water.  So far we’re off to a good start. 

My wife messages my phone and asks if we’re having fun.  Unfortunately I didn’t have a free hand to reply and let her know that Spider-Man and George have nearly devastated the bathroom of  one of our neighbor’s, in less than a minute.

After saying thank you to our friendly neighbors for the use of their water closet, the three of us trudged on into the night without incident.  We returned home about an hour later with about seven pounds of chocolate and high fructose corn syrup.

The Patient Experience

I've written a great deal about my mom and her stay at the Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland, WA. My mom's experience there was a mix of great care and disappointing communication. As her durable power of attorney it wasn't always easy to get information from them. Sometimes they called my brother instead of me and often they called several phone numbers instead of the ONLY number I gave them to contact me personally. Then of course there was the matter of their clumsy communication leading me to believe my mom was dead, when she was very much alive.

Her initial experience with the hospital was pretty bad. In fact I filed a grievance against the hospital and worked with their risk management department that led to specific hospital policy changes. I never threatened lawsuits or acted like a jackass. I tried to stay positive and work with them to help them be a better hospital. After all, they're the closest hospital to me and my two children were born there. I actually NEED them to be a good hospital.

They had hired a film crew to come up from California and record different patient experiences for training of their doctors and staff inside their medical system. This was to sort of help them understand what can happen, not just in some theoretical hospital, but theirs. I agreed to be a part in this training and I told my story. I was told by the filmcrew that it was a powerful story. Plus, I got to wear makeup!

The person at the hospital that is in charge of their Patient Experience department has emailed me several times trying to nail down a time that I can preview this video that was made. Unbelievably each time she emails me she asks how my mom is doing. My mom of course died over two months ago, in that hospital. I've yet to reply to her concern about my mom for a couple of reasons:

1. If you're in charge of the patient experience, should it be in your interest at all as a professional to check to see how a person's experience may have ended, especially if they were in the critical care unit for weeks? Seriously, I would likely go check to see how things went or check the social security death index before I went and asked "Hey how is your mom doing? How was her experience in our hospital?
2. I haven't found a way to answer the question without sort of blasting through the obvious and risk making her feel bad...but also part of me doesn't care if she feels bad. What am I supposed to say about her experience in the hospital? Well, glad you asked! Aside from her dying everything went great! Thanks again for asking!

Now I know there is at least one of you out there that is saying in your dumb old head something like this:

"All you have to say is that your sad to let her know that your mom passed away and that you're grateful that she cared enough to ask."

Now if you're this person let me tell you right now that nobody likes you. Least of all me! You think I haven't thought of that? You think you've brought something new for me to chew on? Sometimes a person has to feel stupid for a minute. It helps that little voice most of us have remind us just how obnoxious we should let ourselves be before we should expect to get punched in the face. Please, for the love of all that is holy, listen to that voice before you email me or message me with that suggestion. Okay?

I miss my mom intensely and I still have a hard time getting my head around the fact that she's gone. She was the only family member I talked to everyday and she trusted me completely with her affairs during that awful couple of months. I battled hospitals, filled out endless paperwork, and spent dozens of sleepless nights with the hope that she'd still be here now. So if you work for the stupid hospital and you're in charge of the "patient experience" do a little homework to prove you actually give a bit.

With that in mind I'm simply not in the mood to answer her question. Not now.

The Kings of the Dinosaurs

There are tons of parenting blogs.  I know this because I've read a few and they often are parents of small children and they run akin to akin to 'kids say the darndest things.'  I don't ever plan to do that to you...but that said...

My son, like most five year old boys loves dinosaurs.  When I was his age I loved dinosaurs.  He memorizes little facts about each of them and reminds me which ones are fast, which ones are intelligent and which ones are meat eaters.

His dinosaur of choice?  You probably already guessed that it's the Tyrannosaurus Rex.  After all, he's the King of the Dinosaurs right?  The tyrant lizard?  The biggest, baddest of them all?  Not so fast.

I always had admiration for the large meat eaters myself but Tyrannosaurus Rex seemed to get a little too much press for my liking.  Sure he looked good in all the pictures chasing down some poor little Velociraptor but he seemed to be all image and no substance.

My favorite was the Allosaurus.  Allosaurus was the forgotten badass meat eater.  Allosaurus is the disrespected ass kicker of dinosaurs.  Even in the Land of the Lost the Allosaurus was off in this lost city and known as "Alice".  The show treated him like the weird old lady that lives in the creepy old house at the end of the street.  Hardly the image that is deserving for a first class bone crunching, meat chewing lizard like Allosaurus.

My son dismisses my claim that Allosaurus deserves respect and goes on talking about his beloved T-Rex.  We go back and forth on this subject and have up until recently refused to agree to disagree.

While reading a book on dinosaurs I pretended to read something about the Allosaurus.  Our dialogue went like this:

Me:  Oh look here.  It says that scientists have analyzed Allosaurus scat and were able to discover some of the things he ate.

Son:  What does it say he ate?

Me:  It says that there some small rodents, some plants, and lots of T-Rex bones.

Son:  THE ALLOSAURUS DID NOT EAT T-REXES!  YOU ARE JOKING!

Me:  (Laughter)

With a piece of paper and a dozen colored markers I began drawing two dinosaurs.  Allosaurus on the left was wearing a bow-tie (the nose ring of Republicans) and on the right was the stunning T-Rex wearing a pink skirt.  Above the picture it read:  Senior Prom.  My son saw what I was drawing and he grabbed it and began tearing it up while running out of the room.

I'm glad we have recently reached a compromise.  My five year old son proposed the notion that they both be Kings of the dinosaurs and they could work together to fight crime.  I agreed to his proposal.  We shook hands and I also made the concession to stop disparaging the reputation of the T-Rex by characterizing him as an effeminate cross-dressing lizard in sloppily scrawled drawings.

On a side note we may be starting a new comic book about our new dinosaur crime fighting duo.  Stay tuned.