I haven't posted to my blog in a while, and to be honest, it is because I experienced what is called, writer's block. I thought it was something that only bonafide writers experienced, but I learned otherwise. For now, the blockage has passed, and my mind is rewinding over the events of the past couple of days.
Today's post is being written from a hotel in Del Rio, Texas. My company sent me here to work just over the border in Acuna (pronounced A-coon'-ya), Mexico. A week ago, my boss asked me if I've ever been on foreign soil. I replied, “Does Massachusetts qualify?” Apparently it did, because here I am, working on foreign turf.
I've had opportunities to visit foreign fields in the past. Our church sends a group to Peru every two years or so, but I just never went. I've met dozens of missionaries over the years, and have been invited to stay with them for a week or two, but never took them up on the offer. So, it's no wonder that I never “fully” understood it when someone would come back home and tell me that they felt so selfish, on one hand, yet so blessed on the other, because they had so much more than the people they just met in another country. I'm glad to report to you, that I'm beginning to get the message that these people received, and I get to do it on company expense.
Going into Mexico, from the US, is like entering,......... a different country. OK, forgive me, I couldn't think of any other way to compare it. We (a co-worker and I) entered the country with our driver who works for our client. Actually, we had two different drivers. We had drivers because Mexico makes people from the US buy Mexican auto insurance and it's just not worth it for the amount of time we were spending here. However, our first driver, Paul, looked in the back seat at me and asked, “Tom, where in Italy is your family from?” I thought that an odd question, but then again, with a name like Genovese, a lot of people ask me about my heritage. Some occasionally ask, “Are you in the Mafia?”, to which I kindly reply, “Are ya stupid or sutt'n? If I was in the mob, do you think I'd be this broke?” To answer Paul's question, I told him a couple of my grandparents were from Palermo, Sicily. He said, “No kidd'n, my folks came from Palermo!” As you can figure, me and “Pauly” hit it off pretty good, see, but I had to ask myself, why God would allow me to meet a fellow Sicilian, who shares a common bond of ancestry from Palermo, on the Mexican border?
That night, after work, Paul took us out to eat. Being that Paul was footing the bill, he chose the restaurant, a very upscale bar and grill on the US side that had amazing food. Like most Italians, Paul is a talker. He had a hundred stories, half of which included guns, which revealed to me that he wasn't a Democrat. So, we laughed, shared some deep and not-so-deep philosophical wisdom, and went back to our rooms. Paul is an interesting character who speaks fluent Italian, Spanish, English, and guns. My kind of guy.
Our second drive, Gabe, is our clients head Mechanical Engineer. He was born and raised in Texas but is all Mexican. His English is perfect. He had absolutely no Spanish accent, but he has all the features of a Mexican. Gabe is the one who got me thinking just how all those friends of mine got to thinking when they came back from a foreign country. Gabe, though he's American, knows Mexico and it's culture. The twenty minute drive through downtown Acuna to our clients plant was loaded with Mexican geography, history, culture, and sociology. Tomorrow, we do it again, and it excites me. I've learned more about Mexico in the past two days than in all my life.
I've learned that everything in Mexico is painted just one color; It's called “gaudy.” Gaudy comes in twenty-five shades of pastel colors as well as thirty-two shades of bright colors. Houses and cars are painted Gaudy Pastel Yellow, and Gaudy Bright Yellow, Gaudy Pastel Peach, Gaudy Pastel Blue, Gaudy Bright Green and so on. These colors can not be described. They are colors that you will not find anywhere in the United States, except in South Carolina where there are about as many illegal Mexicans as there are legal Mexicans in Mexico City.
Yes, South Carolina has it's share of Mexicans. Gabe taught me “Why” they come to the US, but before I tell you, let me say that I don't like the idea of people coming to the USA illegally. I will welcome anyone to the US if they go through proper channels. Don't suck our system dry. Learn what a citizen of the USA represents. Don't call yourself a Mexican-American, or an Italian-American, or an African-American, but rather, an AMERICAN!!! Then of course, you should vote Republican.
The majority of Mexicans come to the United States because they have so little to look forward to in Mexico. If you start a business in Mexico, chances are extortion is manning the cash register. It reminds me of what a friend of mine told me that he and his buddies use to do growing up in New York City. They would go to a store owner and say something like, “Hey mister, for $10, me and my friends here will make sure your car doesn't get four flats.” As Gabe put it, there are laws on the books to prevent this kind of thing, but even the judges are paid off, so you get nowhere and you never really prosper. How corrupt can you get? How's this one? A friend was pulled over by the Policia in Mexico some years back, and the nice cop did everything, including threatening to arrest this friend, in hopes to get some money to let him go. He finally asked my friend what he did for a living, to which my friend replied that he was a preacher. Well, even Mexican cops know preaching aint' no money-maker, so he let him go.
My eldest son, TJ, who is connected with the building industry, sees young Mexicans who are also in the building industry. He told me that they work hard and work cheap, and will do what Americans don't want to do. Why do you suppose? Because in America, they know they can get somewhere. I use to complain about bilingual signage. I would complain that Spanish is going to be the primary language in America. Not anymore. The older generation Mexicans that enter this country may not learn English language, but the younger generation of Mexicans will. The younger generation knows that if they don't learn the language, they will not get anywhere here either. The younger generation of Mexicans work hard, sacrifice, will share a two bedroom apartment with seven others, will do whatever it takes to get somewhere in the land of opportunity, and I'm all for it, just do it legally.
In Mexico, I don't believe I saw a new car on any of the busy roads we traveled. No work, no car. Those that do drive, are found driving Rustolet's and Dentota's. Some with brand new paint jobs....and not surprisingly they match their house, and painted with the same brush. It's not odd to me that many of the younger generation Mexicans living here are willing to drive some of the junkiest cars on the road. In their minds, what they drive here is far better than walking there.
In the past couple of days I traveled horrible roads, passed sad old men sitting on the curbside, watched kids of all ages and some adults playing soccer with worn soccer balls, and on gravel fields. I saw vendors selling fried pig skins, and a slew of other things that made me appreciate how thankful to God I should be that He would allow me to live in America.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
What A Day!!!
Here I am at my computer. It's 11:03 Sunday evening. I think over my day, and it was a good one. They all are when you enjoy life. As usual, Deb and I went to church, I taught my Sunday school class, and picked up some Chinese food for lunch. Then we took a nap, woke, Deb went to church in the evening, and I went to the Greenville Rescue Mission to preach. It was a great way to begin the week.
Here's how the day really went, when you fill in all the spaces. I woke up this morning when I noticed violent flashes of light penetrating my eyelids. It was bad enough that I did not sleep well. I tossed and turned throughout the early hours of the morning. Much of the cause of my insomnia was due to eating way too many Oreo cookies, and drinking a glass of Happy Cow milk. The sugar explosion gave me just enough of a headache to keep me from an enjoyable state of coma. Normally, I sleep fairly well, but Deb has an erratic sleeping pattern. If fact, during a full moon, she insists on sleeping on our inversion table. Hey, whatever! Here it was, 5:30 AM and Deb is watching a movie that looks like it was created in 1940. I knew I wasn't going to get back to sleep so I asked Deb, “How about I take you out to breakfast?”
After showering and dressing we grabbed our Bibles and headed to IHOP. I like to rate breakfast restaurants. IHOP is what I call a “B” rated breakfast restaurant. An “A” rated breakfast restaurant would be a place like Mimi's, an upscale venue. On the opposite end of the spectrum would be the “C” rated, Waffle House. Now, I prefer “A” rated breakfast places primarily for this reason; Deb is a people watcher, and far less weirdo's come into “A” rated restaurants. However, today I figured that I would endure IHOP with it's occasional oddball. I've got to say that it went pretty well until we were almost finished eating, when a husband and wife walked in and sat a table over from us.
DEB (whispering): Do you see that guy?
ME (uh oh, here we go again): No.
DEB: Over there.
ME (glancing over just in time for the guy to look at us): What about him?
DEB: His hair,....... it's odd.
This is what I must endure occasionally at “B” restaurants. One of these days, when I decide that life isn't worth living anymore, I will turn to “the guy” and say, “My wife wants to know why your hair is odd.” But today started so well, so I simply responded, “Yes, honey, it's very odd” at which point I waited until she turned, and then rolled my eyes.
We made it to the church building in plenty of time to talk with a few people, and make copies of my Sunday school lesson. I went into the office, placed my lesson in the copiers intake tray, and,...... what's the password for this thing? After trying things like “JESUS”, and “JOHN316”, and “TITHE” Pastor Mike came to the rescue. I asked, “Hey Mike, what's the password to this thing?” He replies, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5.” Why was I expecting a book of the Bible? Or, perhaps an old Hebrew name with a number or two after it? Better yet, why is a copy machine password protected when they tell everybody the password anyway? I got my copies, so it really didn't matter. Off to class.
My Sunday school class is great. I love them all. They are a responsive and attentive group of young married couples with families. They crack me up, and we have a great time in class. We laugh a little, but we get serious, too. I try to stay as practical as I can when I teach. I leave the parsing of Greek verbs to Pastor Chuck. I tell folk that I have a difficult enough time with the English language to worry about Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic.
Later that morning, Chuck preached a great message, and I'm continually amazed at his ability to handle the Scriptures. However, having a son-in-law that is the senior pastor in the church has it's drawbacks. One primary drawback is that everybody thinks Deb and I know what's going on.
PASTOR CHUCK (son-in-law): Tonight I'll be announcing something exciting that the pastoral staff has been planning for the past few months, so be here tonight to hear it firsthand.
CHURCH MEMBER 1 (speaking to me): Hey, Tom, what's Chuck going to announce?
ME: Beats me, why would I know?
CHURCH MEMBER 1: Well, you are his father-in-law, you know.
ME: Chuck doesn't tell me anything about what “he” and the “pastoral staff” are planning.
In the meanwhile, and while this conversation is going on;
CHURCH MEMBER 2 (speaking to Deb): Hi, Deb, what's Chuck going to announce tonight?
DEB: You didn't hear? They're going to do a “reverse offering” and everyone that comes to church tonight is going to get $50, make sure you're here.
Deb gets in trouble again, but people don't ever ask her a second time about inside information. Smart girl.
Lunch consisted of our favorite food from our favorite Chinese restaurant. Deb loves the place mainly because they don't use MSG. MSG is that chemical they put in food to preserve it for days on end. It also causes strange physical conditions in people. Scientists who are trying to prove the validity of global warming believe that MSG is the reason oriental people have slanted eyes, and as soon as they help get global warming legislation passed, they will prove the MSG thesis true, also.
Now something happened today at lunch that has never happened to Deb and I before. We opened our fortune cookies and we both had the same fortune. How does that happen? There are a billion things that can happen to a person and we both get the same happening? I don't even remember what the fortune read. I forgot it, perhaps due the fact that it wasn't pertinent to us. You know, it might have said something like, “YOU WILL BE PARENTS AGAIN”.
Some time ago I had a brilliant business idea, misfortune cookies. Let's face it, who takes fortune cookies seriously? So, I highly doubt anyone would take my misfortune cookies seriously either, clearing me of any liability. Just think, you're with a group of people at a posh Chinese restaurant. The meal is over, you had some laughs, and it's time to read your misfortune cookies. You crack yours open and read, “HEALTHCARE REFORM IS NOW LAW.”
Here's how the day really went, when you fill in all the spaces. I woke up this morning when I noticed violent flashes of light penetrating my eyelids. It was bad enough that I did not sleep well. I tossed and turned throughout the early hours of the morning. Much of the cause of my insomnia was due to eating way too many Oreo cookies, and drinking a glass of Happy Cow milk. The sugar explosion gave me just enough of a headache to keep me from an enjoyable state of coma. Normally, I sleep fairly well, but Deb has an erratic sleeping pattern. If fact, during a full moon, she insists on sleeping on our inversion table. Hey, whatever! Here it was, 5:30 AM and Deb is watching a movie that looks like it was created in 1940. I knew I wasn't going to get back to sleep so I asked Deb, “How about I take you out to breakfast?”
After showering and dressing we grabbed our Bibles and headed to IHOP. I like to rate breakfast restaurants. IHOP is what I call a “B” rated breakfast restaurant. An “A” rated breakfast restaurant would be a place like Mimi's, an upscale venue. On the opposite end of the spectrum would be the “C” rated, Waffle House. Now, I prefer “A” rated breakfast places primarily for this reason; Deb is a people watcher, and far less weirdo's come into “A” rated restaurants. However, today I figured that I would endure IHOP with it's occasional oddball. I've got to say that it went pretty well until we were almost finished eating, when a husband and wife walked in and sat a table over from us.
DEB (whispering): Do you see that guy?
ME (uh oh, here we go again): No.
DEB: Over there.
ME (glancing over just in time for the guy to look at us): What about him?
DEB: His hair,....... it's odd.
This is what I must endure occasionally at “B” restaurants. One of these days, when I decide that life isn't worth living anymore, I will turn to “the guy” and say, “My wife wants to know why your hair is odd.” But today started so well, so I simply responded, “Yes, honey, it's very odd” at which point I waited until she turned, and then rolled my eyes.
We made it to the church building in plenty of time to talk with a few people, and make copies of my Sunday school lesson. I went into the office, placed my lesson in the copiers intake tray, and,...... what's the password for this thing? After trying things like “JESUS”, and “JOHN316”, and “TITHE” Pastor Mike came to the rescue. I asked, “Hey Mike, what's the password to this thing?” He replies, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5.” Why was I expecting a book of the Bible? Or, perhaps an old Hebrew name with a number or two after it? Better yet, why is a copy machine password protected when they tell everybody the password anyway? I got my copies, so it really didn't matter. Off to class.
My Sunday school class is great. I love them all. They are a responsive and attentive group of young married couples with families. They crack me up, and we have a great time in class. We laugh a little, but we get serious, too. I try to stay as practical as I can when I teach. I leave the parsing of Greek verbs to Pastor Chuck. I tell folk that I have a difficult enough time with the English language to worry about Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic.
Later that morning, Chuck preached a great message, and I'm continually amazed at his ability to handle the Scriptures. However, having a son-in-law that is the senior pastor in the church has it's drawbacks. One primary drawback is that everybody thinks Deb and I know what's going on.
PASTOR CHUCK (son-in-law): Tonight I'll be announcing something exciting that the pastoral staff has been planning for the past few months, so be here tonight to hear it firsthand.
CHURCH MEMBER 1 (speaking to me): Hey, Tom, what's Chuck going to announce?
ME: Beats me, why would I know?
CHURCH MEMBER 1: Well, you are his father-in-law, you know.
ME: Chuck doesn't tell me anything about what “he” and the “pastoral staff” are planning.
In the meanwhile, and while this conversation is going on;
CHURCH MEMBER 2 (speaking to Deb): Hi, Deb, what's Chuck going to announce tonight?
DEB: You didn't hear? They're going to do a “reverse offering” and everyone that comes to church tonight is going to get $50, make sure you're here.
Deb gets in trouble again, but people don't ever ask her a second time about inside information. Smart girl.
Lunch consisted of our favorite food from our favorite Chinese restaurant. Deb loves the place mainly because they don't use MSG. MSG is that chemical they put in food to preserve it for days on end. It also causes strange physical conditions in people. Scientists who are trying to prove the validity of global warming believe that MSG is the reason oriental people have slanted eyes, and as soon as they help get global warming legislation passed, they will prove the MSG thesis true, also.
Now something happened today at lunch that has never happened to Deb and I before. We opened our fortune cookies and we both had the same fortune. How does that happen? There are a billion things that can happen to a person and we both get the same happening? I don't even remember what the fortune read. I forgot it, perhaps due the fact that it wasn't pertinent to us. You know, it might have said something like, “YOU WILL BE PARENTS AGAIN”.
Some time ago I had a brilliant business idea, misfortune cookies. Let's face it, who takes fortune cookies seriously? So, I highly doubt anyone would take my misfortune cookies seriously either, clearing me of any liability. Just think, you're with a group of people at a posh Chinese restaurant. The meal is over, you had some laughs, and it's time to read your misfortune cookies. You crack yours open and read, “HEALTHCARE REFORM IS NOW LAW.”
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Not Another One!!!!
What is the matter with kids these days? Do they have any idea what it is to be a grandfather? I've just been informed that TJ and Rebekah are going to have another baby. They are now closing in on Tina and Chuck. Collectively, between TJ and Tina, I am now the grandfather of five children. If we add Mike and Ashley's foster kids to the mix, it would be eighty-seven grandkids, and this whole ordeal is beginning to wear on me.
Being a grandfather isn't easy, you know, and the older I get, the more difficult it is to carry out my grandfatherly responsibilities. As a grandfather, it is important, very important, that you are loved. As a “father” this was not a necessity. I didn't care if my kids loved me, or not, just take out the garbage. You don't love me? Fine, just go clean your room. As a father, you are the boss, and people, and kids too, don't have to love their boss. Ah, but a grandfather is different. As a grandfather you “want” to be loved, and this requires something from you.
It requires your money. Attached to every grandfather is a grandmother. I don't mind shopping with my wife, but I can tell you that when we go to Walmart, we are going to walk out with something for a grandchild.
GRANDMA (Mimi): Oh honey, isn't this adorable, Reese (9 months old) will look so cute in this.
GRANDPA (Papa): Ah, yes, it's very nice. But, won't that be a little big on her? I doubt that will fit her.
GRANDMA: But it's on sale, and it'll fit her in a few years.
GRANDPA (not verbally): Why don't we just buy her a car, too.
It's just a fact of life that grandchildren will suck a bank account dry in no time flat. I mean, why do toys for one year old kids have to cost $49.99? Why do eight year olds have to have the latest software? Grandkids can show you the poor house fast, and have the power of taking the “Merry” out of Christmas and the “Happy” out of birthday.
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires your physical energy. Grandkids have incredible imaginations. When I look in the mirror, I see an aging, out-of-shape male, desperately in need of an exercise program. But that's not what the grandchildren see. Nope, they see a HORSE, a mighty stallion, able to gallop through the wide open range. Yup, sometimes, in order to be loved, I need to get down on all fours and give “horsie-back” rides into every room of the house. This would not be so bad except that most of my house is filled with hardwood floors. Upon our return to the carpeted living room, and to add to the adventure of having my knee caps replace sometime in the near future, I have to try to knock the rider out of the saddle by acting like a wild bronco. I don't know how much more I can take. At this time, there are three that take advantage of Trigger, and by the time Trigger comes back with the third kiddie, the now lame horse just wants to be shot.
It's difficult enough to be a good horse, but in order to be loved you also have to be a very bad villain who can not withstand the powers of “Roccoman.” Yes, after almost collapsing from exhaustion and dying like an animal, it is necessary to be punched and kicked by the defender of the weak, the protector of the innocent, Roccoman.
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrr!!!!!!
ME: I give up.
ROCCO: I haven't killed you yet!!!
ME: I'm dead (I roll over on my back and act dead).
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!
ME: Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!! (after feeling the weight of thirty five pounds hitting my stomach as he flew from the couch).
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires all your mental faculties, too. Did you ever argue with a two year old? Why?... Do you feel stupid? I do, every time I argue with one, but I still go back for more. Here's a typical conversation with Lydia.
ME: You need to go potty!
LYDIA: I don't want to.
ME: Well you're not getting up off the potty until you go.
LYDIA: OK
Two minutes pass.
ME: Are you going to go potty?
LYDIA: No, I don't want to. Papa, can you get me my Dora book?
Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!
Worse yet, have you ever tried to reason with a two year old? It can not be done. Two year olds do not live according to reason. They are simply unreasonable.
ME: Do you like poo poo's in your pants?
LYDIA: No.
ME: Well, don't you think you should go in the potty?
LYDIA: I don't want to.
Now I have to also contend mentally with a “know-it-all" seven year old. For instance, I write a note on a piece of paper. Reagan comes along and reads it, and tells me that I spelled certain words incorrectly. I ask her, why are you reading my notes? She looks at me and asks, why am I writing notes, are you to old to remember things? Than she walks away.
Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Being a grandfather isn't easy, you know, and the older I get, the more difficult it is to carry out my grandfatherly responsibilities. As a grandfather, it is important, very important, that you are loved. As a “father” this was not a necessity. I didn't care if my kids loved me, or not, just take out the garbage. You don't love me? Fine, just go clean your room. As a father, you are the boss, and people, and kids too, don't have to love their boss. Ah, but a grandfather is different. As a grandfather you “want” to be loved, and this requires something from you.
It requires your money. Attached to every grandfather is a grandmother. I don't mind shopping with my wife, but I can tell you that when we go to Walmart, we are going to walk out with something for a grandchild.
GRANDMA (Mimi): Oh honey, isn't this adorable, Reese (9 months old) will look so cute in this.
GRANDPA (Papa): Ah, yes, it's very nice. But, won't that be a little big on her? I doubt that will fit her.
GRANDMA: But it's on sale, and it'll fit her in a few years.
GRANDPA (not verbally): Why don't we just buy her a car, too.
It's just a fact of life that grandchildren will suck a bank account dry in no time flat. I mean, why do toys for one year old kids have to cost $49.99? Why do eight year olds have to have the latest software? Grandkids can show you the poor house fast, and have the power of taking the “Merry” out of Christmas and the “Happy” out of birthday.
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires your physical energy. Grandkids have incredible imaginations. When I look in the mirror, I see an aging, out-of-shape male, desperately in need of an exercise program. But that's not what the grandchildren see. Nope, they see a HORSE, a mighty stallion, able to gallop through the wide open range. Yup, sometimes, in order to be loved, I need to get down on all fours and give “horsie-back” rides into every room of the house. This would not be so bad except that most of my house is filled with hardwood floors. Upon our return to the carpeted living room, and to add to the adventure of having my knee caps replace sometime in the near future, I have to try to knock the rider out of the saddle by acting like a wild bronco. I don't know how much more I can take. At this time, there are three that take advantage of Trigger, and by the time Trigger comes back with the third kiddie, the now lame horse just wants to be shot.
It's difficult enough to be a good horse, but in order to be loved you also have to be a very bad villain who can not withstand the powers of “Roccoman.” Yes, after almost collapsing from exhaustion and dying like an animal, it is necessary to be punched and kicked by the defender of the weak, the protector of the innocent, Roccoman.
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrr!!!!!!
ME: I give up.
ROCCO: I haven't killed you yet!!!
ME: I'm dead (I roll over on my back and act dead).
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!
ME: Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!! (after feeling the weight of thirty five pounds hitting my stomach as he flew from the couch).
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires all your mental faculties, too. Did you ever argue with a two year old? Why?... Do you feel stupid? I do, every time I argue with one, but I still go back for more. Here's a typical conversation with Lydia.
ME: You need to go potty!
LYDIA: I don't want to.
ME: Well you're not getting up off the potty until you go.
LYDIA: OK
Two minutes pass.
ME: Are you going to go potty?
LYDIA: No, I don't want to. Papa, can you get me my Dora book?
Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!
Worse yet, have you ever tried to reason with a two year old? It can not be done. Two year olds do not live according to reason. They are simply unreasonable.
ME: Do you like poo poo's in your pants?
LYDIA: No.
ME: Well, don't you think you should go in the potty?
LYDIA: I don't want to.
Now I have to also contend mentally with a “know-it-all" seven year old. For instance, I write a note on a piece of paper. Reagan comes along and reads it, and tells me that I spelled certain words incorrectly. I ask her, why are you reading my notes? She looks at me and asks, why am I writing notes, are you to old to remember things? Than she walks away.
Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Irish from an Italian Perspective
Today is Saint Patrick's Day. The day the Irish celebrate their heritage by eating corn beef and cabbage, drinking green alcoholic beverages, dancing with their finger on their head, kissing blarney stones, and hanging with leprechauns. Once a year Irishmen, and those sympathetic to the Irish cause, dress in green, the official Irish color and say things like, "Mazel Tov“ to one another. It's a very festive occasion which begins with high stepping Gaelic music and ends in a good old fashioned Irish brawl, where people begin punching those they disagree with, then punching those they do agree with, and finally punching themselves. The culmination of this joyous holiday comes when the bouncer yells an ancient Irish saying dating back to 1417, “GET OUT, AND STAY OUT!”
As a true-blooded Italian, I get to observe the ways of the clan from a close distance. My wife is Irish. She loves her heritage, her family, and gold found at the end of an Irish rainbow. I frequently hear her sing songs like, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, and “Danny Boy”, and “Would You Please Get Out of My Face”. Deb is Irish through and through. She's feisty, fiery, and can punch better than I can, thanks to my oldest son, TJ, who taught her that the thumb goes on the “outside” of a fist, and you have to punch “straight through” and “past” the target. To think, that I thought I was in the clear by not marrying an Italian woman.
I must applaud the Irish, worldwide. They have managed to keep this sacred holiday alive since the fifth century. The beauty of their country is breathtaking. They have known famine, tremendous hardships, and weathered every affliction. Overall, they are a happy people where the eyes of the woman sparkle, the children are filled with laughter, and men are passed out.
Happy St. Paddy's Day
As a true-blooded Italian, I get to observe the ways of the clan from a close distance. My wife is Irish. She loves her heritage, her family, and gold found at the end of an Irish rainbow. I frequently hear her sing songs like, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, and “Danny Boy”, and “Would You Please Get Out of My Face”. Deb is Irish through and through. She's feisty, fiery, and can punch better than I can, thanks to my oldest son, TJ, who taught her that the thumb goes on the “outside” of a fist, and you have to punch “straight through” and “past” the target. To think, that I thought I was in the clear by not marrying an Italian woman.
I must applaud the Irish, worldwide. They have managed to keep this sacred holiday alive since the fifth century. The beauty of their country is breathtaking. They have known famine, tremendous hardships, and weathered every affliction. Overall, they are a happy people where the eyes of the woman sparkle, the children are filled with laughter, and men are passed out.
Happy St. Paddy's Day
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I Am Connected
Yes I am. I'm connected to God by the blood of Jesus Christ. I'm connected to my wife by the bond of marriage. I'm connected to my family by birth. I'm connected to my job by a contract. I'm connected to the world by a modem, and I'm connected to my phone by my Icom.
The Icom is the greatest invention in hearing aid technology that connects me to my phone. Most people just aren't connected to their phone, and if they are, the phone is connected by a curly cord. When the phone rings, most people have to pick it up off the hook, or if you have a cell phone, push the SEND button, but not me.
My cell phone stays in my pocket all day while I wear my Icom around my neck. When my phone rings, a signal is sent to my hearing aids, and all I do is push the only button on the front of the Icom, and talk. The callers voice automatically goes to both of my brand new, Bluetooth enabled, $5700 hearing aids. Is that cool or what? But, I confess, there are some drawbacks to the Icom.
One of the drawbacks to this Swedish made device is the wearing of the device itself. The little black and silver box hangs in front of me while the antenna wraps around my neck, sort of like a necklace. The almost 2 inch square box just sort of dangles there, and swings back and forth when you walk. To say the least, it is quite obvious and not very fashionable unless I'm wearing my purple suit with the eight button coat and mandarin collar. With those threads people don't even notice the green and blue flashing lights on the unit.
Yes, the Icom has flashing lights on it, and though I'm oblivious to the lights, others are not. When I talk to people I always try to look them square in the face, you know, make eye contact. However, I'm finding people, on the other side of the conversation, dazzled by the flashing lights. A typical conversation goes like this.
ME: How far along are you on the motor drive unit for the Romania machine?
OTHER PERSON: ah,.......... Is that a heart monitor?
I'm sure, that in time, people will ignore the flashing lights on the Icom, but I have to admit, the green and blue flashing lights on the unit are bright. Actually, they're so bright that, when I'm driving my wife's Crown Vic, people in front of me actually pull over to the side of the road.
Yet another drawback to the Icom are the stares of concern I get from people wherever I go. Have you ever been in a store and some guy walks by talking away, and as he walks by you see his blue flashing Bluetooth device hanging off his ear like a high tech Christmas ornament? Sure, we all have, and we simply write him off as some techno-geek. With the Icom, there is no Christmas ornament hanging from my ear. People just see this guy talking to himself. The other day my wife and I were in Home Depot, we went in different directions and I needed to find her so I speed dialed her number, and when she answered, I started talking. I found out what isle she was in, what she had considered buying, and where she was headed. As I was talking with her I saw people kind of jumping out of my path. One lady actually grabbed her little girl, and a guy, with an angry look on his face, got between me and his wife as I passed by.
This morning I called my wife before going into the building where I work. As I was speaking with her, two women where about to enter the building. Being the gentleman I am, I grabbed the door for them. One of the ladies turned and said said thank you, but than heard me say, "I love you, too." Talk about an embarrassing moment. That's life, however, when you're connected.
The Icom is the greatest invention in hearing aid technology that connects me to my phone. Most people just aren't connected to their phone, and if they are, the phone is connected by a curly cord. When the phone rings, most people have to pick it up off the hook, or if you have a cell phone, push the SEND button, but not me.
My cell phone stays in my pocket all day while I wear my Icom around my neck. When my phone rings, a signal is sent to my hearing aids, and all I do is push the only button on the front of the Icom, and talk. The callers voice automatically goes to both of my brand new, Bluetooth enabled, $5700 hearing aids. Is that cool or what? But, I confess, there are some drawbacks to the Icom.
One of the drawbacks to this Swedish made device is the wearing of the device itself. The little black and silver box hangs in front of me while the antenna wraps around my neck, sort of like a necklace. The almost 2 inch square box just sort of dangles there, and swings back and forth when you walk. To say the least, it is quite obvious and not very fashionable unless I'm wearing my purple suit with the eight button coat and mandarin collar. With those threads people don't even notice the green and blue flashing lights on the unit.
Yes, the Icom has flashing lights on it, and though I'm oblivious to the lights, others are not. When I talk to people I always try to look them square in the face, you know, make eye contact. However, I'm finding people, on the other side of the conversation, dazzled by the flashing lights. A typical conversation goes like this.
ME: How far along are you on the motor drive unit for the Romania machine?
OTHER PERSON: ah,.......... Is that a heart monitor?
I'm sure, that in time, people will ignore the flashing lights on the Icom, but I have to admit, the green and blue flashing lights on the unit are bright. Actually, they're so bright that, when I'm driving my wife's Crown Vic, people in front of me actually pull over to the side of the road.
Yet another drawback to the Icom are the stares of concern I get from people wherever I go. Have you ever been in a store and some guy walks by talking away, and as he walks by you see his blue flashing Bluetooth device hanging off his ear like a high tech Christmas ornament? Sure, we all have, and we simply write him off as some techno-geek. With the Icom, there is no Christmas ornament hanging from my ear. People just see this guy talking to himself. The other day my wife and I were in Home Depot, we went in different directions and I needed to find her so I speed dialed her number, and when she answered, I started talking. I found out what isle she was in, what she had considered buying, and where she was headed. As I was talking with her I saw people kind of jumping out of my path. One lady actually grabbed her little girl, and a guy, with an angry look on his face, got between me and his wife as I passed by.
This morning I called my wife before going into the building where I work. As I was speaking with her, two women where about to enter the building. Being the gentleman I am, I grabbed the door for them. One of the ladies turned and said said thank you, but than heard me say, "I love you, too." Talk about an embarrassing moment. That's life, however, when you're connected.
Monday, March 15, 2010
What Do You Do At 11:30 PM?
Do any of you get your ears cleaned at 11:30 PM? I do. I don't know why, but Deb loves cleaning ears. I mean, she loves cleaning ears just as much as I love playing softball. Never does her smile shine as brightly as when she cleans ears.
Here it is, Monday night. It's 11:30 and my head is resting on the kitchen island with my right ear facing north. Deb runs into the big bathroom and gets her tools of the trade, cotton balls, Q-tips, hydrogen peroxide, flashlight, and olive oil. Yes, I said olive oil. There is an old wives tale that hasn't been forgotten about ears and olive oil. Apparently, pouring olive oil in your ears keeps evil spirits away from you. I somewhat believe it's true because when I told some friends at work about it, they started to back off, excusing themselves, and going back to work.
Deb, approaches my ear with the look of a heart surgeon on her face. She places a cloth under my head than gently pours hydrogen peroxide into my exposed ear. She than gazes at the bubbling peroxide like a witch watching her hot caldron. After about five minutes, she takes the first of many cotton balls and begins to soak up what has bubbled up from the bottom. At this point, Deb begins to speak in a language only reserved for those of her craft. I hear ewwww, eeeeh, ahhhh, and disgusting.
I'm given permission to rise up from the island, but first I must submit my ear to approximately 10 to 15 Q-tips. Once again I listen to more of Deb's indiscernible language. When the chanting is finished, I place my head gently on the cloth, ear facing north, while Deb pours Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil into it. Why Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil? Because she had a coupon, that's why.
Now, here's the thing. I wear hearing aids (which I may elaborate on in my next post), and for hearing aids to work properly, the ear molds must seal the ear canal. Problems arise when moisture is trapped in the ear canal and unable to escape past the molds. As a result, I get occasional ear infections that come in real handy when you feel you need sympathy. I also get excessive build up of ear wax, otherwise known as, Ear Poop. Ear poop was accidentally discovered in 1826 when a Mildred Meyer turned over in bed in the wee hours of the morning and inadvertently got her nose to close to her husband's ear. She was instantly awakened by the raucous smell and declared her husband's ears, vulgar.
That won't happen to Deb. No way. She'll make sure of that.
Here it is, Monday night. It's 11:30 and my head is resting on the kitchen island with my right ear facing north. Deb runs into the big bathroom and gets her tools of the trade, cotton balls, Q-tips, hydrogen peroxide, flashlight, and olive oil. Yes, I said olive oil. There is an old wives tale that hasn't been forgotten about ears and olive oil. Apparently, pouring olive oil in your ears keeps evil spirits away from you. I somewhat believe it's true because when I told some friends at work about it, they started to back off, excusing themselves, and going back to work.
Deb, approaches my ear with the look of a heart surgeon on her face. She places a cloth under my head than gently pours hydrogen peroxide into my exposed ear. She than gazes at the bubbling peroxide like a witch watching her hot caldron. After about five minutes, she takes the first of many cotton balls and begins to soak up what has bubbled up from the bottom. At this point, Deb begins to speak in a language only reserved for those of her craft. I hear ewwww, eeeeh, ahhhh, and disgusting.
I'm given permission to rise up from the island, but first I must submit my ear to approximately 10 to 15 Q-tips. Once again I listen to more of Deb's indiscernible language. When the chanting is finished, I place my head gently on the cloth, ear facing north, while Deb pours Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil into it. Why Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil? Because she had a coupon, that's why.
Now, here's the thing. I wear hearing aids (which I may elaborate on in my next post), and for hearing aids to work properly, the ear molds must seal the ear canal. Problems arise when moisture is trapped in the ear canal and unable to escape past the molds. As a result, I get occasional ear infections that come in real handy when you feel you need sympathy. I also get excessive build up of ear wax, otherwise known as, Ear Poop. Ear poop was accidentally discovered in 1826 when a Mildred Meyer turned over in bed in the wee hours of the morning and inadvertently got her nose to close to her husband's ear. She was instantly awakened by the raucous smell and declared her husband's ears, vulgar.
That won't happen to Deb. No way. She'll make sure of that.
Atom Bombs and Mondays Alway Get Me Down
It's Monday, the day most people believe is the first day of the week. But they're wrong; Sunday is the first day of the week. Don't believe it? Go check your calendar.
I personally don't like Mondays. Mondays are a drag to me. Even the word "Monday" bores me. Monday, MUNDANE, MONK, there is absolutely nothing exciting about it, except maybe, MONEY, and that is what Monday is all about. That's the day the work cycle begins so we can make money to pay for homes, food, and health care for those that don't want to work on Monday, or any other day, for that matter.
But, I am a responsible person. My dad was a good example. He taught me that if a man has to shovel chicken poop to support his family, then he does it. As a result of my dad's work ethic, I am a hard worker, too. My sons are hard workers, as well, and you know what? None of us shovel chicken poop.
So, today, Monday, March 15th., 2010, I woke up, showered, got dressed, got directions on how to get to my office (I have a way of putting work out of my mind on weekends), and drove the 2.6 miles to work. And would you believe it, I had a great Monday. It was very productive. I was able to give our office in Mumbai, India so much work that they wanted to make a shrine for me. I told Harij, maybe some other time. He then insisted I come to India, as his guest, for the Govardhana puja festival. That's where people wade in the polluted Ganges River and then cake themselves with cow dung. I declined the invitation telling Harij I work a part time job at a chicken farm.
I personally don't like Mondays. Mondays are a drag to me. Even the word "Monday" bores me. Monday, MUNDANE, MONK, there is absolutely nothing exciting about it, except maybe, MONEY, and that is what Monday is all about. That's the day the work cycle begins so we can make money to pay for homes, food, and health care for those that don't want to work on Monday, or any other day, for that matter.
But, I am a responsible person. My dad was a good example. He taught me that if a man has to shovel chicken poop to support his family, then he does it. As a result of my dad's work ethic, I am a hard worker, too. My sons are hard workers, as well, and you know what? None of us shovel chicken poop.
So, today, Monday, March 15th., 2010, I woke up, showered, got dressed, got directions on how to get to my office (I have a way of putting work out of my mind on weekends), and drove the 2.6 miles to work. And would you believe it, I had a great Monday. It was very productive. I was able to give our office in Mumbai, India so much work that they wanted to make a shrine for me. I told Harij, maybe some other time. He then insisted I come to India, as his guest, for the Govardhana puja festival. That's where people wade in the polluted Ganges River and then cake themselves with cow dung. I declined the invitation telling Harij I work a part time job at a chicken farm.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sprung Ahead
Today is the day that clocks all over the world are advanced 1 hour. It's springtime, so it's time to "spring ahead" all the clocks in the house. Twice a year we do this. In the spring we move the clocks forward, and in the fall we move them back to where they were before we moved them in the spring, and nobody knows "why" we do this. Here's my take.
This idea could have been invented by a practical joker. Think about it. How many clocks do you have in your house? Two wall clocks (I have three), the microwave clock, the oven clock, at least two wristwatches, and one alarm clock (2 if you and your wife sleep in separate bedrooms). Only a practical joker can envision a husband and wife yelling across the house, "DON'T FORGET THE ONE ON THE SHELF IN THE DEN!!!"
I know we all cheat at this, but do you know what time all the clocks and watches in the house need to be reset? Let me tell you. 2:00 AM!!!! Does anyone get up at 2:00 AM except to pee? If this isn't the work of a practical joker, than it has to be the work of Timex.
The Timex Corporation is evil. I was suspicious of Timex when they came out with the Indiglo watch. I'm sure many of you remember the mysterious alien-like blue glow that, most likely, emitted large doses of radiation causing people to buy Timex watches for birthday and Christmas gifts. Evil, pure evil.
Ah, but Timex was evil long before the Indiglo watch. I'm old enough to remember Timex watches that had to be wound every day. To do this, you would gently turn the winding stem a certain number of times and, voila, your good for another day. The trouble with this is, if the watch is under wound, you would get only about 12 hours of accurate time telling, if the watch is over wound, !!!BOING!!! they break. Now, with a little practice, even a 400 pound guy with two hands full of thumbs could wind a watch and keep it ticking all day.
So, the Timex executives called a company wide meeting urging their engineers to find a way to make Timex watches more vulnerable to breaking. After weeks and months of brainstorming, an engineering came forward with a solution. World wide time changes where, twice a year, people would spring ahead, and fall back. Each spring and fall, people would lazily shuffle all over the house at 2:00 AM resetting each wall clock, the microwave and oven clock, the alarm, and finally their watches. Yes, twice a year that itsy bitsy winding stem would have to be gently pulled outward in order to set the time. Pull it to far, !!!BOING!!!
This idea could have been invented by a practical joker. Think about it. How many clocks do you have in your house? Two wall clocks (I have three), the microwave clock, the oven clock, at least two wristwatches, and one alarm clock (2 if you and your wife sleep in separate bedrooms). Only a practical joker can envision a husband and wife yelling across the house, "DON'T FORGET THE ONE ON THE SHELF IN THE DEN!!!"
I know we all cheat at this, but do you know what time all the clocks and watches in the house need to be reset? Let me tell you. 2:00 AM!!!! Does anyone get up at 2:00 AM except to pee? If this isn't the work of a practical joker, than it has to be the work of Timex.
The Timex Corporation is evil. I was suspicious of Timex when they came out with the Indiglo watch. I'm sure many of you remember the mysterious alien-like blue glow that, most likely, emitted large doses of radiation causing people to buy Timex watches for birthday and Christmas gifts. Evil, pure evil.
Ah, but Timex was evil long before the Indiglo watch. I'm old enough to remember Timex watches that had to be wound every day. To do this, you would gently turn the winding stem a certain number of times and, voila, your good for another day. The trouble with this is, if the watch is under wound, you would get only about 12 hours of accurate time telling, if the watch is over wound, !!!BOING!!! they break. Now, with a little practice, even a 400 pound guy with two hands full of thumbs could wind a watch and keep it ticking all day.
So, the Timex executives called a company wide meeting urging their engineers to find a way to make Timex watches more vulnerable to breaking. After weeks and months of brainstorming, an engineering came forward with a solution. World wide time changes where, twice a year, people would spring ahead, and fall back. Each spring and fall, people would lazily shuffle all over the house at 2:00 AM resetting each wall clock, the microwave and oven clock, the alarm, and finally their watches. Yes, twice a year that itsy bitsy winding stem would have to be gently pulled outward in order to set the time. Pull it to far, !!!BOING!!!
Yesterday's Activities
It's Saturday, and the South Carolina sun is shining brilliantly. The temperature is around 70 and it feels sooooo good to be outdoors. BUT, my out-of-doors experience was limited. It consisted of occasional trips from the main living area of my 40 year old house to the dingy crawl space under the house.
Yesterday was "Rip-up-the-Floor-in-the-Small-Bathroom" day. It's my hope that it will never become a national holiday. But, this is America, you know; Land of the free, home of the brave, and riddled with political stupidity. Ripping up your bathroom floor is not something you want to do every year.
Here's the story. Our small bathroom had a very nice walk-in shower that, unfortunately, had problems draining water. At this time, however, it's draining my wallet quite nicely. As a result of water drainage problems, some wood rotted and, after stalling for two years, it was time to fix it. Fortunately, I had TJ to help me do it. We worked all day pulling up the old wood, leveling the floor, and laying down some new OSB in it's place.
You may be wondering why TJ and I had to level the bathroom floor. Well, maybe you're not wondering that at all, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Many years ago before backer-board, the thin lightweight cement sheets used for tiling, was invented, builders used real live ultra heavy cement to lay ceramic floor tile. Somehow, without the use of computers, these builders estimated that a floor would remain perfectly level with 27,000 lbs./sq.ft. of cement on it just long enough for me to buy the floor along with the surrounding house. OK, lesson learned - never buy an old house unless you're a millionaire or a politician, which is essentially the same thing. I'm not complaining, some good things came out of this ordeal. For one thing, Deb and I made so many trips to the dump that we got to know the dump attendant on a first name basis.
Yes, we first met Bubba (what I call him), as he approached my trailer asking if I was a contractor. Of course, I told him, no, and explained what I was doing at home. I'm not sure he believed me or not, but he did let us dump it all in the giant residential compactor, you know, the kind that the mafia uses after hours. Not only that, he let us use the dump shovel and broom. I think he figured that my tax dollars paid for those items, than why not let me use them. You've got to love the "politically right" southern states. And, to top it off, Bubba never complained about the amount of time we spend in the stall. Ah, the trailer/truck dump stall.
The job is done (for now). Next on the list is new sheetrock and flooring, and a new shower and vanity. When I'm done, this bathroom is going to look fabulous. However, there are only two reasons I would spend all day in a bathroom, (1) renovating/remodeling it, and (2) I'm sick as a dog. Neither reason for being in there excites me.
Yesterday was "Rip-up-the-Floor-in-the-Small-Bathroom" day. It's my hope that it will never become a national holiday. But, this is America, you know; Land of the free, home of the brave, and riddled with political stupidity. Ripping up your bathroom floor is not something you want to do every year.
Here's the story. Our small bathroom had a very nice walk-in shower that, unfortunately, had problems draining water. At this time, however, it's draining my wallet quite nicely. As a result of water drainage problems, some wood rotted and, after stalling for two years, it was time to fix it. Fortunately, I had TJ to help me do it. We worked all day pulling up the old wood, leveling the floor, and laying down some new OSB in it's place.
You may be wondering why TJ and I had to level the bathroom floor. Well, maybe you're not wondering that at all, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Many years ago before backer-board, the thin lightweight cement sheets used for tiling, was invented, builders used real live ultra heavy cement to lay ceramic floor tile. Somehow, without the use of computers, these builders estimated that a floor would remain perfectly level with 27,000 lbs./sq.ft. of cement on it just long enough for me to buy the floor along with the surrounding house. OK, lesson learned - never buy an old house unless you're a millionaire or a politician, which is essentially the same thing. I'm not complaining, some good things came out of this ordeal. For one thing, Deb and I made so many trips to the dump that we got to know the dump attendant on a first name basis.
Yes, we first met Bubba (what I call him), as he approached my trailer asking if I was a contractor. Of course, I told him, no, and explained what I was doing at home. I'm not sure he believed me or not, but he did let us dump it all in the giant residential compactor, you know, the kind that the mafia uses after hours. Not only that, he let us use the dump shovel and broom. I think he figured that my tax dollars paid for those items, than why not let me use them. You've got to love the "politically right" southern states. And, to top it off, Bubba never complained about the amount of time we spend in the stall. Ah, the trailer/truck dump stall.
The job is done (for now). Next on the list is new sheetrock and flooring, and a new shower and vanity. When I'm done, this bathroom is going to look fabulous. However, there are only two reasons I would spend all day in a bathroom, (1) renovating/remodeling it, and (2) I'm sick as a dog. Neither reason for being in there excites me.
Friday, February 26, 2010
TGIF
I seemed to have survived last night’s vicious attack by my thought life as it attempted to have me submit to it’s evil impulses, and force me to give a digestive offering to the big white ceramic urn. It’s a new day, and I won the battle. I am the victor, I have overcome. As a trophy, I get to enjoy the victory on the last day of my work week; Friday.
Yes, it’s Friday. That’s the day I go to work in the morning, and finish my day in the morning. On Fridays I get to say “good morning” to my beloved wife as soon as my eyes wake from sleep, and just a few hours later, when I finish my work day, I get to say “good morning” again. I love Fridays. There is no down side to this arrangement. I do have to put in four 9 hour days to get here, but I find it well worth it. Yes, you get to laugh at me as you drive past my place of employment, and say something to the effect "that the poor loser is still working". But come on, what are you doing at home in that hour? Preparing for supper? Reading your email? You’ve got to admit that being off work for half a day after just four hours, beats being off work one lousy hour for four days.
So, here I am enjoying my four hours of work.... um,... writing this blog, looking forward to going home for the day in just a couple hours. What will I do today? I’ll spend some quality time with my best friend (my wife), maybe work in the shop a while. But, before I do all that, I’ll drive past your place of employment and yell, LOSER!!!!!
Yes, it’s Friday. That’s the day I go to work in the morning, and finish my day in the morning. On Fridays I get to say “good morning” to my beloved wife as soon as my eyes wake from sleep, and just a few hours later, when I finish my work day, I get to say “good morning” again. I love Fridays. There is no down side to this arrangement. I do have to put in four 9 hour days to get here, but I find it well worth it. Yes, you get to laugh at me as you drive past my place of employment, and say something to the effect "that the poor loser is still working". But come on, what are you doing at home in that hour? Preparing for supper? Reading your email? You’ve got to admit that being off work for half a day after just four hours, beats being off work one lousy hour for four days.
So, here I am enjoying my four hours of work.... um,... writing this blog, looking forward to going home for the day in just a couple hours. What will I do today? I’ll spend some quality time with my best friend (my wife), maybe work in the shop a while. But, before I do all that, I’ll drive past your place of employment and yell, LOSER!!!!!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Sickness and My Mind
I can't tell at this point in time if I'm physically ill, or my mind is telling me that I'm physically ill. Last night my wife got hit with a stomach virus. It hit her hard and fast. I don't need to describe what took place in the bathroom as a result of this nasty virus. She warned me earlier that day, when she was on top of her game, that the news reported a fast spreading and highly contagious virus hitting hundreds in South Carolina (where we live). I dismissed her report until evening when I heard her retching over the throne.
I read some time ago that some doctors estimate that close to 80% of people's ailments would not exist if they weren't thinking they have a particular ailment. Do you know what that means? That means most doctors would be making less money then me. Perhaps there would even be fewer doctors. For that matter, the pharmaceutical industry would be just a part-time job for people. Truth be told, our minds are like a stampede of buffalo, we can't stop the herd, and we don't dare get in the way.
So, I sit here tonight writing my first post of a new blog wondering who's going to win this battle, me, or my mind. So far I'm losing, but I'm not going down without a fight. No sir, I'm not talking to the toilet tonight. I'm going to bed and try to forget about my stomach gurgling and the tiny bit of nausea I'm feeling. I'm not going to think about the clam chowd............ I've got to go.
I read some time ago that some doctors estimate that close to 80% of people's ailments would not exist if they weren't thinking they have a particular ailment. Do you know what that means? That means most doctors would be making less money then me. Perhaps there would even be fewer doctors. For that matter, the pharmaceutical industry would be just a part-time job for people. Truth be told, our minds are like a stampede of buffalo, we can't stop the herd, and we don't dare get in the way.
So, I sit here tonight writing my first post of a new blog wondering who's going to win this battle, me, or my mind. So far I'm losing, but I'm not going down without a fight. No sir, I'm not talking to the toilet tonight. I'm going to bed and try to forget about my stomach gurgling and the tiny bit of nausea I'm feeling. I'm not going to think about the clam chowd............ I've got to go.
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