Muskie Fishing in October

I took a couple days off work last week. Task #1 was to fish all day in 45 degree weather, trying to land a Muskie. This isn’t what I was going to write about, but this just tells you how much I plan ahead when I decide to ramble on with this personal stuff.

So, a friend of mine whom we’ll call Jeff had called me up twice within the last week talking about the 28-inch Walleye and the 30-inch Walleye he’d hauled out of the river. (He ate them. No Mercury poisoning there…)

His stories were good. You know, the kind that makes one start thinking “Hey, I wanna go catch me one of them there Walleyes too!” And then my boss had gone out on the river last Tuesday and he and the guy he went out on the boat with caught 2 Muskies, and had 6 other trailers (ones that follow but don’t take the bait – but they usually come up to the boat and check it out before darting off, so it’s still cool). So, I ask my boss where they landed them, and in what water depth. The answer was that they found them near dams or rocks, or other places where water came to a semi-stop and was shallower (5 feet and below).

So I passed this information on to my friend, who promptly decided to troll all day right down the middle of the river in 15-feet of water. Hey, it was his boat and his equipment (mine was up north). As one might predict, when one guy is landing a certain kind of fish in a certain kind of area, and then you decide to fish in areas with none of those characteristics, you’re not exactly increasing your odds.

I thought I’d present a picture of all the huge fish we caught. Here it is:

In case you’re wondering if I forgot to upload the picture, fear not. There is no picture to upload.

Oh well. It was still better than work.

I did catch a 12-inch crappie. We finally got so desparate to catch something that we stuck some worms on a jig until one of us actually caught something. Then we went back to trolling for nothing.

That’s probably it for me until spring. I don’t do the ice-fishing thing. Give me a warm couch and a football game.

Our Installment of Home Alone (but only for a couple minutes…)

Before I share the anecdote at hand, I found out today that if I cared about my personal stories getting out to people I know that I should be a bit more careful in the information I provide.  I received an e-mail this morning from Carol, one of our marketing gurus, letting me know that Google Blog Alerts had my posts all over her computer screen.  Not really knowing anything about this whole blog alert thing, I e-mailed back that I didn’t know what she was talking about.  As it turns out, if I mention the company’s name that I work for, then it pops up on her computer, since she tracks any discussion going on about us in the blogosphere.  Lord only knows where else in the company it popped up, so for all I know the story about me wearing my wife’s pants (accidentally!) could be working its way up the ranks this very moment.

Fortunately for you, and for me I think, I lack pride.  I like myself, and me being an idiot every now and then adds to my appeal, I believe.  If you can’t laugh at yourself, I think your life is not as good as it otherwise could be.  So, Carol at TRAVEL GUARD, enjoy the next anecdote!

Wendy has actually covered this briefly on http://thebluehouse.wordpress.com a few days ago.  But it’s a fun story, so I’ll share my version of it here.  

Before I start, though, I want to assure everyone that not much time elapsed.  Unfortunately, people today are so freaking paranoid and ready to pounce on every little innocent mistake parents make (especially parents of larger families) that I almost hesitate to share this story.  People have lost their sense of humor and have elevated expectations of parents to the point of ridiculousness.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

Anyway, last Sunday the family was getting ready for Sunday Mass, when something unusual happened…  we lost track of time and needed to scramble in order to get going in time.  (You may have caught the sarcasm in that whole “something unusual” remark…)  It seems like, no matter how much time we actually have, we manage to not have enough.   I don’t know how that happens.

Well, a few things were in confluence on this day that made us scramble.  I had to get Tillie (our dog) into the kennel, and then realized at the last minute that our car seats and booster seats and all that stuff needed to be transferred to the big, honkin’, white cargo van.

Just as I left the house to take care of that, I heard Wendy tell the boys to get their coats and shoes and such on and get out into the van. So, I was frantically moving seats, the kids were frantically scurrying out the door and getting into the van, and finally Wendy came out and got into the van, while I looked at the clock and lamented that we may not make it in time for the start of Mass.

After taking a deep breath or two and relaxing, as Wendy continued tradition by putting her make-up on in the van as we were driving, we were finally in control. Just as I was trying to figure out how much of Mass we would miss if our Priest started Mass 2 minutes early like he always does, the 7-year-old (AJ) turned to speak with the 2-year-old (TM) who sits right next to him. “Hey , look at… Hey! Where’s T.M.?”

Collectively, everyone in the van said, “What?!”

Wendy turned around. No TM.

Fortunately, it had only been a couple minutes. Our road is about a mile and a half to the first turn, and we were maybe halfway down the road. And, of course, I turned around immediately. Visions of screaming TM, psychologically crushed that we left him behind, danced through our heads. We pulled back into our driveway, Wendy hustled inside, and the rest of us waited. We waited a little longer. Finally, after waiting some more, mother and son were reunited with the rest of the family.

As it turns out, TM was up in a far corner of the house taking care of a little business of his own. Wendy had to take care of that odorous business before coming back outside. He never even knew we were gone (thankfully).

It would have made a better story had we not figured it out until we reached the Church, but it’s a good thing for all involved that didn’t happen. Plus, I probably wouldn’t share the story if that had happened. And no, we didn’t miss Mass, though we had to go to a different church.

From now on, though, maybe we need a pull-tab system or something to let us know that everyone has left the building.

How NOT to call the EMT

The company I work for had less than 300 employees when I went there in 1999.  This did not last long.   With continued exceptional premium growth and improved profitability, we soon outgrew our building.  In the ten years I’ve been there, we secured two additional locations for employees.  This year we are planning on consolidating in a brand new center.

Well, when the second location became our home, it included a fitness center with a shower area.  The building was directly across the street, and it became my normal lunch routine to get a little workout and quick shower in.   Often, I was the only one there at that time.

One day, I had just finished a workout.  Having worked up a good sweat, I stepped into the shower.  Hmmm…  Kinda dark  The light must not be on.  Glancing out verified the fact that the light was indeed extinguished.   I looked around, but didn’t see a light switch.  Nothing in sight.

Since I’m a genius, it was easy to surmise that there was likely a switch around the corner.  But since I’m lazy, it was much simpler to blindly reach around the corner and feel around for one.  I thought I had located it, as I felt this little plastic cover with a button on it.  But pressing the button did nothing.   Oh, well.  I could see enough and I didn’t feel like getting out and looking for a working switch, so I proceeded with my shower.

After a few minutes,  I was dried, dressed, and ready to get back to work.  As I exited the doors, I saw something curious: a squad car with an officer pulling out a little bag.  I could hear a siren in the distance.  He saw me exit the premises, and asked if there was a problem. Confused, I said “no.”

I was then informed that they received an emergency alarm from the building.

Oops.  The button…

I explained what I thought happened.  I let him in to make sure all was well.  After apologizing for being an idiot, he called off the ambulance.  

Unfortunately, I had to share this with the company, because I wasn’t sure if they’d get a bill for an emergency call.

Just one more item for my resume.

Bloodletting and Falling Over – One Man’s Pathetic Story

Giving blood is a noble and respectable thing.  I don’t do it.

I’m not proud of that, mind you.  I’d like to give of myself in that way.  I admire those who are generous enough to do it.

The reason I don’t give is because I experience an acute physiological reaction that induces a physical manifestation of mild shock. 

Um… I pass out like a kidney stone.

It wasn’t always this way.  There once was a time when I wasn’t a wuss and this didn’t bother me.  Let me explain what happened.

I grew up on a dairy farm.  As a teenager, one of my chores was to feed the cows.  The meal of the evening for them on one occasion was hay.  I would pick up a square bale of hay with my left hand, and with my right I would take a jackknife and cut through the twine.  The bale would spring open and I would distribute the hay down the manger accordingly.

On this fateful night, I would accidentally and unthinkingly extend my left thumb as I brought the knife up through the twine, and along with slicing the twine, and sliced the fat part of my thumb between the first knuckle and the tip pretty severely.  Not fun.

In those days, seeing my own blood didn’t affect me.  I scurried to the house and started cleaning out the wound in the bathroom sink.  There was no shortage of red to be seen, and things were going as smoothly as could be expected for someone suffering from a self-inflicted gash.

Enter my dad.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” asked my loving father, who started observing my unesirable circumstance.

I replied in an uncertain way. “Doesn’t what bother me?”

“You know,” he responded. “Seeing your own blood like that.”

“No.  Why would it bother me?”

Then came the words that would change me forever. “Well, whenever I start bleeding, I can’t take it.  I get faint, and I start to sweat, and (yada yada yada)…”

I say, “Yada yada yada” because I never heard his words after that.  By the time he was done talking, I was flat on the floor, breaking out in a cold sweat and feeling like all the enregy had been sucked from my body.  Since that day, I can take nothing.

Well, years passed.  I grew older and more mature.  I was over 30 and had never ventured to the blood bank, because I figured I wouldn’t be able to handle it.  But then I started working for Travel Guard in 1999.  They were very strong supporters of the blood drive.  The entire executive team went out to donate, and I was invited.  Under the theory that I was older and things certainly had to have changed by now, I accepted.  I didn’t really consider at the time that my first foray back into the bloodletting business would be in front of the executive group at the company.  That, in retrospect, was not well planned.

Well, as I sat in the chair where they stick the needle in your arm, I decided that I would be just fine if I didn’t watch anything.  So I shut my eyes and let them do their thing.  As I shut my eyes and leaned my head back I was actually doing OK.  But then one of the nurses or something-or-another ran over to me and shook me, asking “Are you OK?”  I responded that I was, and he had to start launching into how he needed to make sure since I had shut my eyes.  By the time he was done talking, I was out.

Well, this is kind of an embarrassing place to pass out in front of people you know.  First of all, they won’t take that needle out of your arm no matter what.  They’re getting that pint, God bless them.   But they plop you backwards and stick cold packs on your forehead and lift up your feet.

Unbknownst to me, the Executive VP of Sales and Marketing, Tom, grabbed our PR Director’s cell phone and called back to the office and started giving play by play.  As I hear it, he led off with “Joey’s down!!” and proceeded with all the details.   Worse yet, after I recovered and finally started eating the soup and crackers, I passed out again!  They carted me over to the corner until I fully came back to reality.  The CFO had to stick around to take me back to the office.

Age and maturity, apparently, mean nothing when it comes to wussiness.

It gets worse.  A couple years later I increased our life insurance, and they needed to draw my blood.  Just two little tubes.   I was falt out on the kitchen table after one tube.  The nurse was in awe, and concerned.  My wife assured her that “Oh, he always does that.”  She propped up my feet in the recliner and took the second tube, and I actually didn’t pass out again.  So she told me that she used a pediatric needle, and that if I ever need blood drawn I should tell the doctor to use one of those.  Yeah, that really increased the “manliness” rating, doesn’t it?

So, since then I have decided against giving blood.  I donate money and try to help out with other causes to kind of make up for it.  I still don’t feel real proud of it, but I just don’t feel like going through that every time.

I had a health nurse tell me that it wasn’t a psychological thing, it was a physiological thing.  This was supposed to make me feel better.  From what I took of the explanation, the difference is that a psychological thing is just all in your head and the effects are imagined.  A physiological thing is so far into your brain that it actually induces a physical reaction.  There’s something about this explanation that doesn’t make me feel better.  It’s kind of like it’s a psychological thing on steroids.

So, to all my readers.  Give blood.  So I don’t have to.  Thanks for your generosity.

A Randomly Shared Embarrassing Moment: Wendy’s Pants

I felt like submitting a post here tonight, and wanted it to be amusing.  It seems that people generally enjoy me proving my idiocy, and there are no shortage of anecdotes to make that case, so I went back into my memory bank to tap such a tidbit.

For no particular reason, I remembered something from 1999 that, if I had any sense at all, I would leave alone in my memory and never share publicly.  Well, I am not particularly known for my sense, and so here I am…

In 1999, I made a very difficult decision.  I changed jobs, ending my career at Sentry Insurance company and moving on to Travel Guard International.  It has proved to be a wonderful decision, but at the time I was leaving behind the company that I started with right out of college.  And while there were very real reasons why I left that I won’t go into here, I liked Sentry as a company and had many good friends there.  The switch was to a smaller company (I was their first actuary) and a much less defined job.  It was  a big change for me.

So, here I am at a new company.  I had to essentially build the actuarial department from scratch.  I didn’t know hardly anybody. 

I can’t remember how far into the new job I was, but it wasn’t long.  Less than a couple weeks, if I recall correctly.  I woke up in the morning like a normally do.  I am not the brightest-eyed guy in the a.m. and I’m also not particularly selective in the clothing department.  My modus operandi is to grab the pants that are furthest to the right, and then grab the shirt that is furthest to the left that even remotely matches the pants.  And so I did.

I admit a fuzzy memory here – it was nearly 10 years ago after all.  I seem to remember thinking that the pants didn’t feel quite right.  I honestly can’t remember all the thoughts I likely had:  maybe I thought I gained weight.  Maybe I thought Wendy had bought me a new pair of pants.  Maybe I didn’t think anything, because I was tired and oblivious. 

What I do know is that I went on my merry way to work with these new people with whom I was still trying to make a good impression.

I think it was mid-morning or so.  I had stepped downstairs into the break room to read and learn the query language I would be using to pull the data I need to do my job.  (That’s thrilling, I know.)   After I had enough of that, I was walking upstairs.  As I escalated the stairs, I reached back to my back pocket.  

Huh.  No pocket?

I’ve never had a pair of pants that didn’t have a back pocket.  That’s weird.

I froze.

I was wearing a pair of Wendy’s pants.   This was not good.

Apparently, when Wendy had done the laundry, she mistakenly hung up a pair of her dress pants up in my closet.  Me, being a clueless moron, didn’t think to question why my pants fit strangely, and just accepted on faith that they were my pants.  Now, here I was, in a new company surrounded by new people who were in the process of trying to figure me out.  Wearing women’s pants.

I did what any normal man would do: I rushed to my desk and stayed there as much as physically possible for the rest of the day.  When I needed to move, I strategically chose a time where I would encounter, with maximum likelihood, nobody.

I did make one critical mistake, though.  Recognizing the humor in the situation, I picked up the phone and called a friend of mine at Sentry.  Kris had always been a good confidant.  I told her my story.  She laughed.  She then proceeded to tell everyone at Sentry the story.  I guess even confidants can’t be expected to keep something like that confidential…

Needless to say, since that time, if my pants feel a little iffy, I check for a back pocket.

“There’s Poop on the Refrigerator”

Under the list of proclamations that a man doesn’t particularly care to hear, this one ranks right up there.  Nonetheless, this was the information provided by my four year old last evening. 

Fortunately, he was referring to a play refrigerator in the bedroom.  Apparently, the two year old overextended his diaper and then brushed up against the big plastic fridge before he was caught and changed.  

Upon further investigation, however, I did not see a mere smudge, but a glob. 

Ah, parenthood.   You pretty much know what you’re going to get, you just don’t know quite how you’re going to get it.

The Story of an Idiot, his Truck, and his Wife

A true story about a man and his truck, ignoring a comment from his wife – an inaction that would come back to haunt him – and multiple idiotic decisions that culminate in that man spending a lot of money on what should have been unnecessary repairs.

 

The following events occurred about two years ago.  I share them now because I never posted about them, and the story is a good one (even if it colors me as a moron.)  With the passage of time, the specific conversations may not be perfectly remembered, but the events as they unfolded have in no way been exaggerated.

 

As I have alluded to in the past, we have a camper parked on a permanent site in northern Wisconsin.  Before winter hits full-force here, we must embark on a trek to drain the pipes and add anti-freeze, get the site cleaned up and any perishables taken home.

 

It was the month of October, and cold weather was around the corner.  I had set the date for heading up north and winterizing the camper.   The plan was to take the truck, a 1996 Ford F-150 (in very good condition), up the following weekend and take care of business.   I would bring the air compressor and blow out the lines, and do all the other stuff I needed to do.  Wendy would come along, as well, and we’d make a day of it.   It’s a 2 and a half hour drive, so it would be a long day of driving.

 

It is in this context that the fateful events began to accumulate, as follows:

 

SCENE: Ford F-150 parked in the driveway, idling.  Wendy and Joe are present.

 

Wendy:  What’s that noise?

Joe: What noise?

Wendy: I hear a noise on the truck.

[Joe listens, and finally notices a very slight but distinct rattle.   It sounds like nothing unusual.  He thinks to himself “sounds like a little rattle with the fan.  I’ve heard it a hundred times before.”]

Joe: That?  It’s fine.

Wendy: Don’t you think you should get it looked at before we go up to the camper?

Joe: No.  It’s no big deal.  I’ll have them check it next time I take it in for an oil change.

Wendy: [with that tone…   you know the one…] Oookaaay.

 

SCENE:   A couple days later, as we’re sitting in front of the computer, looking at the weather.

 

Wendy: It’s going to snow up north.

Joe: Well, I can’t get up there until the weekend.  I’m sure it will melt before then.

Wendy: What about the pipes?

Joe: I doubt the water will all freeze through that quickly, but even if it does it should melt by the weekend.  It’s supposed to warm up a bit by then.

 

SCENE: Saturday arrives and Wendy and I travel up north to the camper.  As we get closer, we realize that there is more and more snow still on the ground.   We had received nothing at all where we live.  We pull into the campground with about 8 inches of snow on the ground. 

 

Wendy and Joe:  Uh oh.

 

SCENE: As we pull up to the camper, it is covered in snow.   We manage to get the snow off the awning, which thankfully had not broken.  We also manage to get everything done that we need to get done, with the exception of one brutal detail…  the pipes are frozen solid.   It’s not cold enough yet to worry about them bursting, but nonetheless it means that we cannot clear them out.  This means that I will need to make another trip as soon as the weather warms up enough to melt the ice, which really sucks.  Due to the fact that I have to make another trip up anyway, I decide to leave the boat up there, since it was full of snow.  We drive back home, finishing our long day.

 

SCENE: Three days later, immediately after work, I leave to go finish closing the camper.  It had warmed nicely.  It was 5 PM when I left, and if all goes well I hope to be back home by 11:30 PM or so.   I decide to use the time in prayer.   I decided to say all 20 decades of the 4 mysteries of the Rosary.  I did two mysteries on the ride up.   I arrive, and find that the pipes had indeed melted.  After about an hour and a half of finishing the camper and hooking up my boat, I’m back on the road as scheduled.   Over the next hour and a half, I get the other two mysteries of the Rosary completed.

 

Joe [finishing his final prayer]: Amen. [Immediately upon saying this word, the battery light pops on.  I’m not kidding about the timing.]

 

ASIDE: Now, I must relate why I did what I next did.  I have had two other instances in my driving life where the battery light came on.   In both of those instances, my alternator had stopped working.  The alternator charges the battery, so when it stops working it means that you will not be able to restart your car or truck if you stop and turn it off.   In addition, it means you will have limited life with your lights and other electrical devices that are run by the battery.  Therrefore, in my genius, the following thoughts entered my head…

 

Joe: [thinking] The battery light?  My alternator must have stopped working.   I had better put this on cruise, and then I’ll turn down all the interior lights to preserve battery life.

 

ASIDE: Now, the ramifications of this brilliant move will soon become apparent.  But what this meant to me as a driver was that I could not see any of my gauges.  Since I was on cruise, I didn’t need to see the speedometer, so I thought it was no big deal.  I thought wrong.  To make matters worse, I was in the middle of a construction zone where I had no place to pull over even had I wanted to.  But in reality, I never considered that.  And so I went on my merrily way, hoping to get home – now about an hour away – before I lost my lights or ran out of gas.

 

SCENE: Now about 45 minutes from home, my engine shuts down and I start coasting. 

 

Joe: [Steering off to the side of the interstate]What the heck?

 

SCENE: Truck stops.  You’ve seen pictures of the steam erupt from Mount St. Helens?  That was the front of my truck as I stopped.  Strange noises, too, as if the whole thing were going to explode.   Clearly, this was not going as planned.  After letting this sink in, it becomes clear that I am stranded here.   The next few minutes are filled with the phone calls necessary to secure a tow truck.

 

WHAT HAPPENED (in case you don’t already know): The battery light went on because it wasn’t being charged.  But this was NOT because the alternator stopped working because of its own malfunction.  Instead, the serpentine belt snapped.  This belt drives the alternator that in turn charges the battery.  But the other thing the belt does is it runs the water pump.   And because I turned down all my interior lights, I never noticed that the engine was getting hotter and hotter until I saw that fateful steam emitted from under the hood.   Older vehicles do not have a fail-safe that kicks in an auto shut-down, so it was not until I basically just melted the whole works that I knew something was wrong.  By then all the damage was done.

 

Joe: [calling Wendy]  Hi, honey.

Wendy: Hi.  So did you get everything closed up OK?

Joe: Yeah.

Wendy: Oh, good.  When do you think you’ll get home?

Joe:  Um… there’s a problem.   You need to come and pick me up.

Wendy:  What?  What happened?

Joe: [After explaining it all and providing location] So, a tow truck is supposed to be hear in a half-hour or so.  Can you get here by then?

Wendy: [Clearly annoyed because 5 kids must be awakened and tossed into a cold vehicle, and she must now drive for half an hour and it’s 11 PM.   I don’t see the big deal, personally…] All right.  I’ll get there as soon as I can.

 

SCENE: About half an hour later, Wendy pulls up and turns on the hazard lights.  The tow truck has not yet arrived.   In the meantime, I have unhooked the boat.  Wendy pulls in behind the truck, and we sit there and wait.   After some small talk, and me apologizing and being mad, the following exchange occurs.

 

Daughter #2 – Eight years old at the time:  Mommy says that if you just would have listened to her, we wouldn’t be here right now.

Wendy: <Name of daughter!>  You weren’t supposed to tell him that!

 

SCENE: Tow truck arrives.  Payment is made.  I am told where it will be delivered.  As the tow truck pulls away, I get in the minivan.  I turn the key.

 

Nothing.

 

The battery is dead.  I had known before this that I needed a new battery.  I didn’t realize how bad it was, and that flashers blinking for 20 minutes would drain it.  

 

Immediately, I jump out to try and flag down the tow truck.  It’s pitch dark outside, and he does not see me.

 

Stranded again, now with the whole family.

 

I just laugh.  Why not?  What else can you do?   I call the police.

 

Joe: [after embarrassingly explaining how I got in this situation] So, are you able to send a car to jump-start me?

Police station woman: I’m sorry we don’t do that.  But I’d be happy to send a tow truck.

Joe: Darn.  I just had a tow truck.

Police Station Woman: Well, we don’t do that, so you need another one.

Joe: All right.  Send a two truck.

 

SCENE: In the meantime, a police officer pulls up behind me to see what the trouble is.  

 

Police Officer: Do you need help with anything?

Joe: Well, I’m waiting for a tow truck to jump-start my vehicle.  It’s on its way.

Police Officer: Why is there a boat in front of the van?

Joe: It’s mine.  Let me explain…  [Explanation ensues.  He looks at me with a combination of incredulity of my stupidity and disbelief.   He leaves to check on the boat.  He must have received what he needed, because he didn’t question it after that.]

Police Officer: I’ll stay parked behind you until the truck arrives.

 

SCENE: The truck finally arrives.  He jump-starts me.  I pull in front of the boat and hook up.  It is now past midnight.

 

The taillights on the boat do not go on.

 

You’ve got to be kidding.  There is a police officer standing here, and my freakin’ taillights on the boat won’t work.  They worked before, for crying out loud.

 

Police Officer: You can’t drive it like this.

Joe: So, what am I supposed to do?

Police Officer: Well, pull it back into town [points back to the exit I had just passed, less than a mile away] and take it to so-and-so shop.  You’ll have to leave it there.

 

ASIDE: No laughing anymore.  That really, really sucks.   But, for one wonderful moment, fate turned in my favor.

 

Police Officer: I just got a call.  I think you have it from here.

Joe: Yep.  Thanks.

 

SCENE: Police Officer leaves.   I get in the van.  I do NOT turn around.  Screw that.   I’m normally one to follow the rules, but enough is enough.  I finally arrive at home with the family at 1 AM.   Somewhere along the way, the boat taillights had decided the joke had gone on long enough, because they were working when I got home.

 

POST-LUDE: I fried the motor.  It was unsalvageable.  I had it towed to a shop I know and trust in the town where I live.   They all agreed that I “really did quite a job on it.”  They also agreed that turning my interior lights off was pretty stupid, and that this could have been taken care of by simply replacing a belt.  It would have cost me between $75 and $100 dollars.  It ended up costing me almost $3000. 

 

Wendy, for the rest of her life, has this story to hang over my head.

 

It’s all very humbling.