A Note to the Facilities Dept. of the Anonymous Fortune 500 Company - Part 5

To Whom it May Concern,

First of all, let me commend you all for the fine work you are doing with the efficient management of the cleaning schedule for the restrooms that are strategically located throughout the H*** facility. If the number of times I am forced to duckwalk to another part of the building because the washroom is being cleaned when I desperately need to use it, or the crowds of slightly-uncomfortable men milling around waiting for an open pisser in the restrooms not being cleaned are any indication, you have succeeded in creating some of the most popular and cleanest bathroom areas ever. Anywhere.

That said, I witnessed a disturbing, yet ironic incident this afternoon in our cafeteria. A lady, who if I am not mistaken, gave me a knowing wink and come-hither smile as she carried her salad to a table, smacked her head on the first-aid kit that was mounted at head-height on the wall behind her seat. Disturbing in that I had to watch the impact first-hand; ironic because she hit her head on a first-aid kit. I heard the sound, even as I admired her comely shape collapsing into the chair and knew right away that the impact must have stung. The glassy look that came across her eyes only made her somehow even more attractive, but that is neither here nor there - after all, this isn't about fly-by-night love, this is about safety.

I inquired if she was alright, perfectly willing and able to apply either the Heimlich Maneuver or mouth-to-mouth if needed, but apparently neither was suited for her injury and my witty observations seemed to fall on indifferent ears, so I finished my Snickers bar and went back to my desk. I blamed her apathy on the concussion she had sustained and sincerely hope she recovers fully. Hers would be a devastating loss not only to close friends and family, but all who ever ogled her imposing, yet delicate form in motion. I mean that in a totally professional way.

But I digress.

I am not one to simply write notes of complaint or observation without being prepared to offer helpful suggestions. My mother always said, "don't complain unless you have a better way of doing things". I would like to attribute her logic and no-nonsense thinking to the fact that my bloodline runs directly to Henry Ford, another logical, no-nonsense thinker, but the Ford strain does not run through the maternal side of the family, no matter how hard the hillbilly family tree tries to intertwine its seedy branches.

Here are my thoughts:

1) We should probably relocate the first-aid kits. Especially the one mounted above the seat in the cafeteria. Even if folks aren't smacking their heads on them as they try to enjoy some split-pea soup, I would think that the last thing a lunch patron would want to see is someone rifling through the box for a tourniquet kit or eyewash while they try to force down an overpriced slice of pizza. This could also pose a potentially bloody health hazard and shame on the health inspectors for not bringing this up.

2) A more logical place to put the kits is in the bathrooms, where one can comfortably wash their wounds and look into the mirror while administering the eyewash. It just makes good sense. Avoid the dining room altogether.

3) Also avoid mounting the kits near the stadia where the salespeople sit. They get distracted enough without getting to watch injured co-workers frantically pawing through the first aid kits in search of appropriate bandages, maybe moaning, weeping or fainting, or even worse, operating in a state of panic, during which any number of distracting events could occur, up to and including seizure, hysteria, vomiting and the dreaded soiling of the trousers. Yes, let's put the kits in the restrooms.

4) In regards to the stocking of the medical supplies, might I suggest better pain medication - aspirin tends to dissolve on my tongue, which sets of my questionable gag-reflex, which in turn sends me scrambling for the anti-nausea medicine. Also, a colorful assortment of amphetamines, muscle-relaxers and a few cc's of liquid morphine for emergencies would be appreciated. A weekly Friday offering of hallucinogens, while unlikely, would drastically improve the ratings in our yearly employee satisfaction survey. Just saying.

I hope this note finds you well and that you have considered re-instating the margarita parties on the lawn as I suggested lasted month. They are sorely missed.

As always, if I can be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Thanks and best regards,

Jerry

For My Mother

I wrote this essay to read at my mother’s funeral service. I botched it horribly, weeping throughout, making it nearly impossible for those in attendance to make any sense of it whatsoever.

Mom might have approved.
 
In the end, she usually got her way. My mother and I spent a good deal of our time arguing. About principles, about the weather, about football, about life—Mom would argue about just about anything at all. She loved a good fight. I would usually give in to her arguments, being the quiet, gentle soul I am, but she would always make sure that I understood why I was giving in—because she was right. I would nod and sigh, sometimes wave the back of my hand, or make a face to annoy her. But it would only be a temporary respite— the gun was on safety—she was simply waiting for the moment and the fire would sparkle in her eyes and her face would turn a little bit red and the next dance would begin, the next big battle.

When she left, I was fifteen years old, my sister eleven, and we couldn’t really understand why Mom had gone. It seemed to us that being in a family meant holding things together—even when they weren’t perfect. A family meant a father, a mother and their children. And now she was gone. We were angry, my sister and I, and it took years to realize just how much strength it took her to leave her children, with no career training, no money and no real prospects for the future. It took years to learn that all unions are not meant to be—God knows I’ve learned it a couple of times—and that sometimes you have to make tremendous sacrifices for a little peace of mind. In the end, it was another battle, and in the end, my mother won, eventually settling into a life of her own, a life without yelling and fighting and misery—she became content.

She had her first heart attack when she was younger than I am now—at thirty-four. And they never really stopped. A year here, a year there—she was familiar with temporary respites—then another “spell”, as she liked to call them. A hospital in Phoenix, a hospital in Ohio, the famous Mayo clinic in Minneapolis, eventually a hospital in Temple, Texas—My mom visited them all. A bypass here, an angioplasty there, even a pacemaker—she put her head down and met them all, the fire in her eyes, her face just a little red, ready for the fight.

We mended all our fences years ago, and even more than the bickering and our endless tape-loop of arguments, I remember the laughter—going to see “Freebie and the Bean” when I was a teenager, both of us laughing until we nearly wet ourselves. The movie was never really quite that funny after that. In fact, it was horrible. Perhaps it was the company…Her telling of a family story—we’d heard them all hundreds of times, and still laughed at the outcome. She was supportive of my passions—she read every short story, every novel, listened to every song, saw every play. Once I got a call from Texas and my mother was nearly hysterical—she had seen a commercial I had filmed in Phoenix and that had aired in her town. She couldn’t believe it. And she was so excited—she couldn’t wait to call me with the news. She read each new book promptly upon receipt and called gushing with praise every time: “I liked this one even better than the last one!” If I was going to do battle with the world of publishing and agents, by God, she was going to be there with me. And we would win it together.

Toward the end, we ended every phone conversation with “I love you”. Since her last illness, we began to realize how valuable those conversations were. “I could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” I would tell her. “Don’t say that,” she would say, her voice reproachful even after all these years. Well, it wasn’t a bus that put an abrupt and permanent end to those conversations, it was the same old fight, the same old battle. Even after the installation of a pacemaker the month before, it ended up that the heart that had held so much fire, so much passion and so much conviction was simply able to take the strain no more.

Surrounded by those who cared about her and content with her life the way it had come to be, my mother left the earth the same way she had lived. Her chin firm, a fire in her eyes, her face just a little bit red, she clenched a fist and faced the next battle. Only this time, she didn’t get her way. The way I see it, we were lucky to have had her as long as we did. The world was just a little bit better and quite a bit more interesting having had her aboard. She showed us how to fight and how to laugh, and for that, she will be sorely missed.

I miss you, Mom... Happy Mother's Day.

Contrails - Top Secret Government Conspiracy, or Vapor Trails?

I had quite the aviary day today. The first bit of aviary reckoning came at the golf course this morning, while I was sitting quietly in my cart, gathering my thoughts while the others in my threesome practiced their putting and driving. I had purchased a practice bucket of balls that contained precisely 17 balls. I figured hitting 17 balls would give me a pretty good idea of how I was going to strike the balls during the game. To hit any more would be simply garish, as far as I was concerned. I also practiced my putting for about ten minutes. After eight and a half minutes, I knew my putting was not going to get any better. I would only sweat more and might be put in the position to incur some sort of freakish injury, like "putters wrist" or the inevitable pulling of the hammy.

So I sat in the golf cart, gathering my thoughts and watching the birds.

Sitting in the cart, I noticed that wave after wave of birds flying in formation passed overhead, in five to ten second intervals. At first, I simply watched, thinking back on an acid trip where I had seen a great rolling wave of birds flying overhead at dusk, resembling a great dark river in the sky. Then, however, I began to realize that this was some sort of organized flight plan and was reminded of the air support required of D-Day, when squadron after squadron left France, or England or someplace and flew over the English Channel to "soften up" the beaches for the Allied landing. Things went haywire and I think weather played a part, but research has never been my strong point and things worked out alright. We grew up brave and free and not Nazis, so bravo veterans of WWII and D-Day for your efforts. And by the way, I love the term "Softening Up". Dropping a few thousand tons of explosives on an enemy fortication will certainly soften up a landing area. Again, bravo to those who thought to call it "softening up" - pure genius. I would like to think that it was thought up by some forward-thinking generals in the days of the Brad Pitt or Russell Crowe topless adventure-movies with their long-bow archers. Same idea, only with explosions. And tops. Anyhow, I place full blame for a lackluster round of golf on the winged devil - it's only right.

But I digress.

A semi-accurate representation of what flew overhead. Thanks, Google.

A complicated chart reflecting the heiarchy of bird flight. You're welcome.



The second phase of my aviary enlightenment came while Taggart and I were enjoying a leisurely refreshing dip in the pool after the round of golf with cold beverages. Somehow, with reasoning only understood by God, those who divine the fates of fools and thieves and the brittle mind of Mike Taggart, Mike began to relate a conversation he had overheard in the parking lot at work declaring that contrails (the vapor trails left behind high-flying aircraft) were no more than an intricate plan of the government to sprinkle some sort of mind-control mist over the land. Or to control the weather.

I laughed, thinking he was joking. "Oh, I thought it was bullshit, too," he said, gaining a valuable foothold of respect. "But I saw this show..." Taggart shattered any semblance of believability with this follow-up sentence.

"What the hell," I guffawed. "What is this - Area 52?" "'Agent Puffy White'," he countered. "Google it," he said, his face a mask of seriousness.

"Shut up," I said, and we went for lunch. The idea of a government incapable of running our foodstamp program efficiently concocting a far-reaching mind-control plan seemed unimaginable. And if we had the ability to control the weather, wouldn't we simply make everywhere San Diego, only without the outrageous prices and San Diegian attitudes? Just sayin'...

And if I am wrong about all this and it is a government conspiracy, can we arrange it so that my pool remains this temperature year-round? Because it is absolutely perfect right now. Thank you in advance.

St. Thomas - A Brief Synopsis

I just spent 3 full days in the Virgin Islands. It was a swell time, even factoring in that in an unexpected turn of events that goes against everything I stand for, I took my daughter instead of a high-priced call-girl. Times have been tight. It certainly would have been a quieter trip - call girls, thank God, are not given to small talk - but I'm hoping in the off chance that there is a heaven, this father/daughter bonding time will help offset some of my innate nastiness when it comes time to negotiate with St. Peter about living with Jesus. It never hurts to have some insurance, I always say. I also always say "Giggety, giggety, giggety - alright..." in a nearly flawless imitation of Quagmire from "Family Guy" and it has thus far gotten me nowhere.

But I digress.

These are some of the things I learned on my trip to The Islands:

There are lots of iguanas in the Caribbean. They come in all sizes and are rumored to be herbivores. However, I heard from a golf partner that he saw one devouring a bird, which made me re-think the "Iguanas Are Harmless" line of thinking that I was using to calm my long-standing fear of the reptile. That said, the gentleman who told me of the bloodthirsty bird-killer was also from the States and by the look in his eyes, I got the inkling his fear of the reptile eclipsed my own.

Herbivore, or bloodthirsty killer?

I found that the simplest way to find out the location and severity of a sunburn is to take a hot shower. You're welcome.

Announcements on an aircraft are disseminated precisely to the time required for a human being to nearly reach REM-level sleep. Well played, airline industry - nice passive/aggressive manner in which to act out on your secret hatred of those who fly.

There is very little difference between "Jungle" and "Woods". St. Thomas could be West Virginia with all its inherent thickets and trees and hills. Only the disparate accents of the two and the endlessly pleasant disposition of the Island locals provide a clue as to which offensively humid mountain location one has been delivered.

There is a reason it's called "Sandpaper". Sand is an excellent abrasive - this was proven by walking back from the beach without adequate rinsing. A hot shower will also help one discover precisely where one's body has been rubbed clean of its protective epidermis.

Sea urchins are not to be trifled with. A young, drunken, thrill-seeking salesperson decided it would be a good idea to wander down to the pier on his first night at the resort and jump into the water. Scampering up the rocks on his way back to the pier, he stepped on a sea urchin. Not to be put off, he jumped in the water again and stepped on a second sea urchin on his way out that time as well. Much time was spent pulling sea urchin quills out of his foot, which turned an ugly color, forced him to walk with a limp and made him miserable for the rest of the trip.

Not to be trifled with.

My daughter informed him that if he had peed on the foot, it would have soothed his pain. Once this advise had been delivered, folks were offering to piss on the salesman all weekend. I offered myself and told him that he could have the asparagus variety for no extra charge. My daughter must be some kind of savant - she knows all kinds of weird stuff and once told me when she was five or six that an animal I mentioned in passing (most likely in fear) was not "indigenous to this part of the country". It probably made me feel better.

My daughter, Allie - the savant.

In spite of all the things I learned on my trip, there was still enough fear and paranoia to get me through. A lively conversation ensued at dinner one evening about the reliability of the seat cushions of the airplane as a flotation device. I immediately pointed out that dying on impact would be much more preferable to floating in the water clinging to my seat cushion, since my seat cushion would most likely smell of human feces born of fear. I also wondered aloud if it would be bad form to shed my soiled pants in the water and if human feces attracted sharks. While it might seem like tremendous good-fortune to survive an airliner crash into the sea, it appears that there is a fear and paranoia that can be attached to even the purest of good fortune. Some hope for survival; I dread floating, sans pants, in shark-infested waters, smelling my own fear-poo on a seat cushion/flotation device and hoping that the sharks don't bite my dingle off. These are the thoughts that haunt my dreams.

Dreaming of sharks, sea urchins and iguanas is hard work.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to simply bury my head in the sand...