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.

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.

Momisms, Part 1

I love my mom.  Always have, always will.  But the dear old lady has a penchant for turning phrases around or just getting things wrong in the most humorous of ways.  I, along with my brothers and sisters, have always said that we need to write theses things down.   Tonight, I start.   I expect that I will continue to have revelations as time goes on.  When those occur, I will be sure to throw out a quick post with whatever the new momism of the day is.  Most certainly, new ones are to happen, as well.

I start with a few quick hits, and end with the most embarrassing momism on record.

First, some quotes:

“Well, you know what they say.   You can lead a cow to water, but you can’t make it drink.”   Perhaps this is to be forgiven, since she has spent her entire married life on a dairy farm.

For my non-farm friends, a little explanation is in order for the next momism.  When farmers make the first hay of the season, it is called “first crop.”  Then, the hay will grow back so that later in the season it can be cut again as “second crop.”  In some years, if the growing season is long enough and weather allows, the hay may reach harvest-able height once again, for “third crop.”  Logic dictates that you cannot have third crop until a second crop has occurred.  Logic is not my mom’s strongest suit.  And so the next momism happened in a year where the weather was not cooperating, and the first crop hay was being harvested much later than usual: “Boy, by the time you get the first crop hay in, you’ll have to go straight to third crop!”

This is an adult-oriented story.  I apologize in advance for something that may not be appropriate for all ages.  But the story is a true momism, and one that must be shared.  I trust you will understand.

My mom has a standing hair appointment at 10:00 am on Friday mornings.  This has been a staple of her existence for as long as I can remember.  I long ago stopped trying to figure out what the draw in this is, but I think it has more to do with the fact that the hairdresser in the small town in which I grew up is the hub of all information much more than it actually has to do with getting her hair done.

On one of these many days, my mom had gotten a wash or something.  All I know is that the woman was blow-drying her hair.  My mom apparently thought she was doing a fine job, and said, “Boy, you sure give a good blow job.”

The place erupted into laughter.  My mom, who didn’t have a clue what she had just said, wanted to know what was so funny.  It didn’t take them long to realize that this dear old woman truly didn’t know what a blow job was. 

And, so, my mom came home trying to figure out what it could possibly be.  The first victim was my older brother, who refused to answer her question, and was horrified that she had asked him such a thing, and also that she had said such a thing in public.  Well, I guess that made her figure out that this is probably a bit too sensitive for a mother-son conversation, so she asked my dad.   I did not witness that, but word has it he busted out laughing that she actually made this statement, and then shared with her the embarrassing details of it all, which she was then shocked and appalled at.

But she wasn’t done.  Here I was, probably 13-14 years old at the time.  I remember lying on my back on the kitchen floor tossing a ball up into the air (trying to see how close I could come to the ceiling without touching it.  Man, I was a crazy kid…).  Who would have guessed that my mom, who was standing there with a contemplative look on her face, would utter the question, “Joe…  Do you know what a blow job is?”

I was raised to be honest.  But I wanted to lie.  I wanted my words to be, “Why, no mother.  I have never heard of such a thing.  Has it, perchance, anything to do with furnace repair?”  But I did not.  I stammered.  It was obvious that I knew,  I could not hide it.  At this point, I had not heard the story of my mother’s embarrassing appointment.  I did not know where this was going, and didn’t particularly want to get involved in this conversation.   But I finally responded, “Uhhhhhhhh…   yeah…”

What followed was a confusing verbal chastisement about how I shouldn’t know what that is.  She was angry.   I know she wasn’t angry at me for having heard of it, she was angry at society for making me aware of it.  I see that now.  But as a 14 year old, I was freakin’ confused about why I was getting yelled at.  She finally must have felt like she needed to share the story with me as to what brought all this up.  I remember thinking it was funny.  I’m not sure she appreciated that.  But I was also relieved at that point to know why this had suddenly become the Saturday morning post-breakfast subject of choice. 

I am not quite sure I have done justice to the story.  This has lived in infamy.  Despite its adult subject matter, it has been a story long told at Thanksgiving tables or family gatherings (usually just among the adults, of course).  One thing about my mom is she’s a good sport.  She knows she has her moments, and she laughs at herself.

Our Own Little China Syndrome (aka: 5 year olds can do dumb things)

Originally posted on http://digitaldiatribes.wordpress.com on May 20, 2008.

 

Changing gears from the direction this blog has been headed (all climate all the time), I decided to lighten the mood with some family updates. I’ll try to keep this entertaining enough for everyone, but always remember the cardinal rule here: it’s my blog and I can do what I want.

 

 

Anyway, it’s been so long since an update on the personal front that I don’t know quite where to begin, so I’ll just start throwing stuff out there.

 

 

First, child #7 is expected in June. My extended carbon footprint indeed makes me a nemesis of Al Gore and his minions. Shucks… what will I ever do? Through the miracle of ultrasound technology, we know that we are expecting a son. Another one. The fifth in a row. God does have a sense of humor.

 

 

So, while we anxiously await the new arrival, we’ve also been waiting out the weather. I think we’ve finally reached the point here where we can consider planting the garden. Those who started their plants inside have a definite advantage this year. Just two nights ago it dipped down to 30 degrees here, and we’re over a week behind the previous years in getting the garden going. It looks like there are finally consistent seasonal temps ahead and we’re hoping to catch up.

 

 

The other thing the cooler temps have accomplished has been keeping us at home a bit more. Normally by now we’ve gone up and opened up the camper, cleaned it up, and enjoyed a weekend away. While I like camping, I don’t enjoy freezing, and so we have not yet taken advantage of the meager second home. Plus, there is the logistical issue now of the size of our family, the size of the people in our family, an ever-expanding abdomen on my wife, and so on. We are thinking the whole camper thing may be going away after this year. It’s a tough call, but we’ll see how that plays out.

 

How NOT to Remove a Wood Tick

Originally posted on http://digitaldiatribes.wordpress.com on May 31, 2007.  By far my most popular post.

I am about to write a post that proves that a pair of college graduates – one of whom took his share of Chemistry, Physics, and other courses on the way to becoming an actuary – can do something so stupid that any reasonable person would ask “What were you thinking?” Believe me, if someone else had done it, I would be calling the other person an idiot. And therefore, for consistency’s sake, let me be the first to say to myself, “You are an idiot.”

With that out of the way, allow me to tell the true story of last Sunday evening. We had all had a long couple of days. Prayer time was finished and it was time for the tykes to get into bed. And then, the fateful words were uttered: “<Outburst> has a wood tick in his head!”

Well, I have lived with ticks all my life, and it was not time to panic now. And so, my wife and I casually observed said wood tick. Sure enough, there it was, sucking the blood out of my eldest son’s head. Deep down, I was hoping it would suck out some of the thoughts that enter the kid’s brain from time to time, but I knew that was fantasy. I had to take care of the immediate problem at hand.

Well, my wife is generally proficient with the tweezers. Be it a sliver or a tick, when the tweezers come out, the kids scatter. But in the end, they are unable to escape the fate that belies them, and after a few screams along the lines of “You’re killing me!” my wife triumphantly raises the tweezers with the enemy foreign object, and screams her battle cry, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad!”

But this night would be different. The tick was in deep, and it had strategically burrowed itself in among numerous hair follicles. I believe the tick knew that this would cause immense pain to its victim, when the victim’s mother would accidentally latch onto the surrounding follicles while trying to pull out the tick. In any case, the tweezers on this night were not doing the job.

It was time to explore the old wives tales.

My wife’s first suggestion was to light a match and hold it up to the tick. Apparently, the theory is that the tick is smart enough to feel the heat and try to escape by backing out. Now, we’re talking about an animal that burrows a hole into other living things, sucks blood until it’s so big it has to let go, and once it falls off it can’t move anywhere and lays around until it’s either crushed or eaten. Survival instinct just doesn’t appear to be high on the priority list.

I balked at the match idea, considering the fact that I would be holding a lit match near the head of my six year old son, who would most likely be diagnosed with ADHD if we ever concerned ourself with actually getting him looked at.

Instead, I moved onto the next brilliant wives tale. If you hold a bottle of alcohol over the tick, it will back out. I’ve been told it’s because it can’t breathe and the alcohol bothers them. Well, the first mistake was thinking that this kid would actually sit there and let me hold the bottle tight enough so it wouldn’t leak all over the place. After two minutes of hearing “You’re hurting me!” with a lot of corollary movement and rubbing alcohol having been sent flying everywhere, it was decided that this technique probably wouldn’t work anyway, but certainly wouldn’t work in our case.

Crying and doused in alchol, with wood-tick still engorged, the son is losing faith in his parents’ tick-fighting prowess.

All of our kids are witnessing this activity, save the four year old who fell asleep during prayer time, like he always does.

Now, here’s where the story gets ridiculous. And you will see it coming, and you’ll think, “Um… DUH!” or some variant thereof. As embarrassing as it is, I must go on.

My wife, frustrated at the stupidity in thinking this whole rubbing alcohol approach had any chance of working, and mad at herself for allowing me to talk her into the idea, says to me, “This is not working at all. Let’s try the match thing.” As a loving husband who wishes to please my wife, and desires to see my son tick-free, I eschew all sense of reason and all knowledge of all things science, and how one thing reacts with another, and I answer “Alright. Give me a match.”

Now, there was probably 10 seconds or so from the time I declared those words to the time that the lit match was approaching the tick. That should be enough time for someone who took two semesters of Organic Chemistry to remember that rubbing alcohol and fire are a great combination if you want to set your house on fire. They are not so great a combination if your desire is to not set your child on fire.

Unfortunately, all we could think of was getting that tick out. It blocked all other thoughts that were attempting to leap from synapse to synapse in a frenzy, attempting to pull back my hand and say “You fool! Don’t do this!” But they were too late. The match approached the tick. And then…

Poof! The entire back of my son’s head was in flames. Now, let me be clear here… within two seconds we had that flame out and it all happened so quick that there were no burns. But man, he freaked out – and rightly so. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he dove to the ground. The other kids also freaked. I lost track of my two daughters until they came charging towards Outburst and doused him with water, which only freaked him out more. We yelled “What are you doing?” and they’re all like “He was on fire!”

Meanwhile, the tick was still enjoying its meal.

In the end, I called a nurse’s line, and explained about the tick and asked how best to get it out. I, um, forgot to relay the part about dousing my kid with rubbing alcohol and setting him on fire. Oops.

Anyway, she basically said you can forget about all these old wives tales. Just pull the thing out and hope for the best. Well, we did, and the head stayed behind. So, now we keep an eye on it and if we are unable to dig it out after the swelling goes down a bit, we’ll have to take him in and get it removed so it doesn’t get infected. It’s possible it will work out on its own, but we’ve heard that they often don’t. Yay. Unfortunately, we were unable to get it out without squeezing the body of it, which means some blood probably squirted into the wound. Now we have to watch for any indication of Lyme’s disease, as well, and get him treated if symptoms occur.

So let this be a lesson to you all. Not that you needed it, but never underestimate the stupid things you can do if the situation is just right. I’m still whacking myself in the head and asking how I could possibly have done such a stupid thing.

I guess it’s clear… I’m an idiot.

UPDATE 5/27/2008: Not long ago, we ordered the “Tick Twister.” It has mainly been used on the family dog, but it has also been used on the kids. I must say, it has worked very well, and compared to the number of harrowing encounters using tweezers or fingernails, it is a LOT better. I have no stake in their product, just passing along our positive experience with it – so far at least. I checked Petco and our vet’s office, but couldn’t find it around here, so we had to pay way too much ($9 versus $4) after shipping from Amazon. While I hate overpaying for things, it was worth it. If I do find any drawbacks, I’ll post them. As for concerns about leaving the head behind, well we’ve left more heads behind with a tweezers than we have the Tick Twister.

Humorous Pictures

Originally posted on http://digitaldiatribes.wordpress.com on February 13, 2007.

I don’t particularly feel like writing today. But I’ve had a few pictures passed on to me that I think are funny, and so my blog today is dedicated to trying to figure out how to upload pictures, and hopefully pass on a few laughs at the same time.

It seems so obvious now:

I really wish I had thought of this one:

Had I been the teacher, ingenuity deserves some partial credit:

Please, please, please tell me that this was her final answer: