Meddle Managers

Can someone tell me what it is with middle managers? I can't imagine this virus is unique to hospitals and healthcare, so what's with all the on-line baccalaureates who run around businesses these days looking for things to do where nothing needs to be done? What's up with the don't-just-stand-there-do-something let-me-f-with-that attitude?  It strikes me as more akin to puppies chewing on shoes than coordinating work environments and facilitating production.

Nowadays it seems if you want to get a job with a salary and benefits it requires a bachelor's degree and a "management" position. Any bachelor's degree. And, once obtained and once hired, you're ready to raise a little hell. For some reason, apparently this is thought to be the requisite behavior for individuals in such positions. Meddle in other people's sh*t, whether you know what you're doing or not. And when the whole spool starts to unwind under your watch, well, then it's time to start taking names and kicking some booty. "Reconsider" is not be be found in their vocabulary or responses.

I'm fortunate in that I've been able to live my working life out of reach of the meddling middle manager. That said, I work with a fair number of individuals who do and it drives me crazy to see what they have to go through.  But, like I said, it appears to be a virus. One for which, as yet, we have no vaccine. For now, take two aspirin and call me in the morning seems to be the best approach to coping. And, there's always some hope for those who suffer: Middle mangers do get canned with some regularity.

Back to the Future.

My son's 5th birthday party turned out to be quite the affair. He had classmates, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grand parents. And it was definitely a kid party with hot dogs, mac 'n cheese, a pinata, presents, and train rides. 3 hours of organized mayhem and a good time was had by all.

So, after cleaning the place up and packing up the car, I hop in to drive home. The radio was on to some mixed variety station and as I pull out the song is Humble Pie, "30 Days in the Hole." Talk about your basic "who'da thunk" moment. I hear a song like that from 1972 and all I can think is, wow, I hope Ev is better grounded at 15 than I was. At 5 you finally feel like you're getting a foot in the door to personhood. At fifteen you're pretty well convinced you're ready for independence. It takes a musical flashback to bring it all into perspective.

In short, there is no possible way to understand at 15, anymore than there is at 5, what life will hold at 55. I guess the only people with any possible inkling, any possible insight, are mom and dad. And good luck selling that idea to your kid! Meanwhile, rock on old old-timer!

Loose Change

I'm bragging a bit but I made that card. Ev had a birthday recently and the old coin cards popped into my head.  I don't know if they still make these or not. It was a last minute thing so I just made a quick one of my own.

It's funny how, of all the birthdays, parties, cards, cakes, ice cream, and gifts, the item I remember most from being a kid and having a birthday are these coin cards. Did you ever get these? Do you remember ever squeezing an envelope between your fingers and thumb, trying to feel if there was a coin card inside? Would it be pennies, nickels or dimes? Would it be a dime for every year? 5 cents for a Hershey bar made a 60 cent card a real treasure.

Change is a commodity that is rapidly disappearing. On that rare occasion that I use cash it seems the change I receive back gets relegated to riding around in the cup-holder of my car or sitting on a kitchen counter. It's a phenomenon that must be more widespread then just my life, though. Look at your keyboard: My big Royal desktop typewriter from the 1940's has a cent symbol among it's many characters. This little modern Mac has none.

In as much as we don't let Ev get within a quarter mile of a candy machine, he has little use for loose change. He does, however, have a growing collection of well-stuffed piggy banks and even got a new one this year for his birthday. He's become quite efficient and helpful when it comes to keeping cup-holders and counters cleared of loose pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. I don't know that he has any concept of ever using any of that change he's collecting but he's definitely got quite a bit of dough stashed away.

Hmm. Saving money. What a smartypants.

Not Me, Not There, Not Now!

Bad news for every 14 year old on the planet: I did 14 41 years ago and I've been going to school work with a pimple on the tip of my nose all week. This is prom week here in my home town. I'm not going this year but it serves to remind me all the more of the trials and tribulations of pimples. That's right, zits. Those nasty little bacterial eruptions with an uncanny ability to show up and pitch a tent right there on your front lawn at the worst possible time.

In adolescence I was one of those fortunate ones who didn't have the struggle with acne. With whatever issues I was strapped as a teen, bad skin was not one of them. Nonetheless, there was always that rogue blemish that would ride into town every now and again and start a campfire right there on my forehead, between my eyebrows, or on my nose.

One hopes, expects, and believes this problem will evaporate with time but I'm here to tell you otherwise. Worse still, not only does that angry rogue outlaw still ride onto my facial plain every once in a great while, the effect is still the same: I go to work feeling like a hapless teen. You sit down with a patient and immediately check to see where their eyes are focused as we talk. "Are you listening to me or just looking at my pimple?!"

Not that I'm insecure or insufferably vane, but a zit at my age can still be perceived as a physical manifestation of immaturity, a sign of an underlying refusal to grow up, of one's persistent denial of responsibility, evidence of chronic uncontrolled adolescence and bad diet. And with my bio, it can sometimes be difficult to credibly refute the evidence! I definitely don't need this kind of help.

Thunder and Lightning

I woke up this morning to the sound of thunder. For me, thunder has to be one of those lifetime events that never goes unnoticed by me. By now I enjoy it more often than not.

As a kid, thunderstorms gave rise to my first concerns that my Mom didn't really care if I lived or died. I remember, as a small child too young to go to school, running to my Mom when we had that rare thunderstorm in Portland, Oregon. I would be in a panic and crying, scared out of my wits. Her response was always to pooh-pooh the thing and tell me how, when she was a little girl in Mankato, Minnesota they had massive thunderstorms-- like that information was a comfort to a 5 year old. So, I'd close my eyes and cover my ears and just hope to hell I didn't get fried. (Turns out that was a harbinger of future coping mechanisms I'd employ.)

After living in Michigan all these years I've grown accustomed to thunderstorms. In fact, I've come to enjoy their awesome power and display. My favorite time and place to enjoy a thunderstorm is at home, in bed, at night, with my wife. Cuddle up! It's storming!! Least favorite place is in the OR where you can neither hear nor see the show.

By and large, I've come to really enjoy a good thunderstorm for what it is, an absolute statement of the power of nature. It's one of those rare events when you simply are forced to realize just how insignificant you are with your own power; just how overwhelming the power of a few electrons can be by comparison.

Sometimes it's good to have that kind of reminder. It's good to have your limited capacity demonstrated for you once in a while-- as well as to have the opportunity to realize just how fortunate once is to enjoy safety and shelter. Kels and Ev don't seem to have any fear of the storms. I guess that comes from growing up in this climate. But, if either of them ever came running to me in a thunderstorm, I'd just hold 'em close.

2012 Buick LaCrosse: Size Matters

The other weekend Tam and I decided to take Ev out to the driving range. He loves hitting golf balls with his little set of mini clubs and about every 3rd or fourth shot is really good. He's almost 5 and I'm seeing potential for a retirement supplement when I see him swinging that miniature iron. So off we went.

Because I was on call we took 2 cars. Tam and Ev took off ahead of me and I was going to meet them at the range. I almost didn't make it. Of all the cars I've ever owned I've never had one that more clearly says "middle-aged golfer dude" than my new Buick. It's a four door Buick sedan, for godssakes. It's snazzy enough but vanilla at the core. It's not for tennis. It's not for soccer. It's a golfer dude car.  Until you open the trunk. (I should have seen it coming: The weekend before when we went to the airport and I struggled to get one big suitcase, a mini bag and a back-pack stowed in that same small space.)

It took a few tries but I was finally able to get my set of clubs in the trunk. The result was awkward and looked about as functional as a fat guy in a Speedo. That's why I took the picture. I finally got the clubs wedged in there on diagonal but I wouldn't want to do it more than once a month.

Now I'm not terribly upset about this because I'm not a golfer. I had a go at it a few years ago and gave it up in the name of public safety. When I hit a golf ball the opportunity for personal injury is real, very real. Nonetheless, I believe it's reasonably safe to go to the driving range with my son and I'd like to be able to take his clubs and mine. What upsets me is seeing the Buick Division of General Motors, a Michigan company that sponsors the annual Buick Open-- a major PGA tournament -- manufacture their contemporary version of the proverbial big fat Buick and have it ill-equipped to carry a set of clubs in the trunk. God forbid you should want to drive by and pick up your buddy for a round. You can fold down the back seats and let your clubs protrude into the passenger compartment (if the seats are not obstructed by a center-mounted child seat) but, please, where's the cool in that?

On pretty much everything else the car is not half bad. As the saying goes, it's a nice ride. But, when it comes to the damn trunk, well, you'd better just carry your own bag.

May Day

Welcome to May. May Day. A festival day of flowers and spring. The arrival of May Day brings a couple thoughts to mind. First, in as much as the year 2012 is absolutely sailing along at warp speed I am reminded how my mother and father used to warn me that time passes more quickly as one gets older. Seeing this is May 1st, I can only agree. How we got here so fast I cannot possibly fathom. If time is passing this fast at 55 I think I can pretty much discard my calendar entirely by age 60. A watch will suffice.

May Day used to be something of a celebration as a kid. May Baskets and such were still at least talked about at home. I think I may have seen some version of a May pole that kids would wind around. I'm thinking that celebration is pretty much extinct and, frankly, I guess not much of a loss. What's one pagan holiday more or less? Besides, May Day was never associated with either of the two things that really make a holiday relevant to a kid: food and presents-- unless you want to count May Baskets, and no kid ever would.

That said, welcome May Day. We can be grateful we are observing May Day as opposed to Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, the international distress call which, by the way, has nothing whatsoever to do with the first day of May. Rather it is derived from the French, venez m'aider.

Hopefully, you are far removed from having to put forth a distress call today. I hope, rather, you are able to take a few minutes, have a mug of joe or spot of tea, and perhaps enjoy a songbird and a blossom or two today. Any day you're safe and warm is a good day to celebrate. No matter how fast the years are passing.