Glurge-o-rama

16 years?

2010-07-28T22:15:00.002-06:00

TO: Kathryn - the best wife EVER!

Well, here we are. 16 years later. What a different world we are in now, don't you say? 16 years ago, I thought I loved you and felt like I couldn't be closer to a person than I felt like 16 years ago today. How wrong I was, but how pleasantly surprised I am to find out that I had no idea how great it is to be married to my best friend in the world (universe really) and how much I could love someone as much I as I love you.

We have seen a lot, you and me. Some of it has been awesome. Some of it has been horrifying. Some of it has been challenging. Some of it has been downright nasty. But somehow we made it through and we're still best friends; even better, really.

I don't know what to say today to let you know how I really feel. I have never been good at it. But let me say this one thing to you, Kathryn:

Now, and forever.....

Love you!

Morosity - is it really a word?

2010-07-26T20:45:00.003-06:00

So, it's been a while since I last posted. How many blog posts start that way? No idea. Well, here's one more.

It's not that I haven't wanted to post. I have had thoughts about it. Many, in fact. But how do you post something without talking about the one thing that has dominated your time, thoughts, efforts, and emotions for the past 5 months? I don't know. Maybe that's why I haven't posted.

Scout camp was great. Tim did really well. Mostly. He did get 6 merit badges. I guess I could complain that he could have got more, but for a 12 year old first year camper, 6 merit badges is awesome. I thought that he was really going to set a world record when he came back with his first merit badge before lunch the first day. But then, he fell victim to Archery and spent about 2 days working on that. Then the "Oops, I lost it again" bug started on him and he lost his score sheet. Well, at least he moved on and did finish up other merit badges. That was great. I was proud of him, although there were many "learning moments". I guess those are important too.

Camp New Fork, in the Wind Rivers of western Wyoming, is a great place for a Scout Camp. I have been there at least 5 times with troops (it may be more; I keep losing track). The most striking thing about that camp is the forest there. It was just awesome.

Sadly, the pine beetle has taken a huge toll on that forest. I'd say at least 50% of the trees in the camp are dead now and we saw many areas that either were totally dead or at least 90% dead. There are a lot of factors that have contributed to it, of course. The best way to put it is that it's all a natural cycle and the forest will come back. It may take a generation, but it will be back.

As fun as it was to go on the Camp, particularly the first camp with a son of mine, it was great to come home. I am so lucky to have the best kids in the world. I missed them all.

It's hard to believe I have a 14 year old daughter now. I hope she knows how proud I am of her. She is a great kid and I know she has great things ahead of her.

Sierra is just so cute, even though she did cut off her beautiful hair! Well, she is still cute and looks great with shorter hair, but I am a Dad that likes long hair on his daughters. I know, I don't have to wear it, so I shouldn't say anything, but I am allowed to have my biases.

Savanna is the bravest, most wonderful birthday present a guy could ever hope for. She still wants me to tuck her in at night. Sometimes I get annoyed and wish she would tuck herself in; then I realize my tucking in nights are numbered. Then I just am grateful she still gives me a hug, smiles, and kisses me on the cheek when I tuck her in.

Ethan is a super, awesome, medium big-ish boy that I just don't know how I could possibly live without. He keeps us all happy, and if you are feeling down, those medium big-ish boy hugs are tonic and balm for the soul.

I like to post stuff that is funny, and I do try to make those posts from time to time. This one won't be as much, but I am sure I'll dredge up some funny stuff sooner or later. It's too ingrained in my personality to make people laugh, I think. I guess that is because laughing is so much better of an emotion; if you are laughing you aren't crying. Sometimes life throws curves at you that make you cry a lot, even when you are tough "manly man". Hopefully, those are the times you learn, grow, and move on so that you can laugh again.

I will be back with more posts, I am sure. There will be funny ones; there may be other ones like this. So for now, so long and thanks for all the fish.

Roto Rooter - Sinus Style

2010-03-09T17:07:00.005-07:00

So, maybe you have heard I went in and got the 'roto-rooter' job done on my sinuses. Honestly, it was a long time in coming. I have dealt with sinus infections off and on for years and I really had enough of it. So, after suffering for yet another round of it this year, I went in and had an appointment with an "Ears, Nose, & Throat" Specialist. After taking a look at the CT scan of my sinuses, it was pretty clear that they, well, weren't pretty clear.

I could give you the long list of technical/medical names for the procedures, but I doubt it would mean much to you. It doesn't mean much to me either, other than they stuck something up my nose, rooted around for a while, and figured once enough was rooted out, they would call it a day.

I took a somewhat casual approach to this. I knew it was going to be fairly major - probably the most intrusive procedure since I had my ankle operated on just after my mission. Still, all told, this shouldn't have been nearly as bad as all that, and I guess from an overall standpoint, it really hasn't been. But what it was, it was interesting.

One person I work with had this same procedure done a few years ago. She swears it was worse than having gone through childbirth. I can't speak to that, obviously. But since she actually experienced both, I would say she may be in a unique position to gauge it. Either way, I had my trepidations about the process.

I had to go in early on the 4th for the procedure. I say early, but it wasn't too early. I was supposed to be there at 8:45 am, and was the second procedure scheduled for that day. The plan was to go, get prepped and ready, then off to the surgery at about 9:45 or so. Well, things never go as planned and I was not taken in until almost 11.

I remember going down the hall to the operating room. We left the pre-op room at about 10:50. I was trying to keep careful track of time for the 'memory gap' - the time when you get stoned beyond the ability to remember anything and when you start coming back out of it. Well, I made it to just about the time when the cart stopped and they locked the wheels in place for the surgery. The very next second (at least at my point of reference), I was making jumbled noises about being thirsty, and hearing someone tell me something to the effect that I couldn't have anything to drink just yet.

I don't know who it is that covers the post-operation recovery, but I bet they could have some serious fun with the people coming out of anesthesia. I only remember bits and pieces of it, and everything I said, I am positive was important, and cognizant. Reality could beg to differ on that point, I am sure.

Anyhow, the procedure went longer than they expected. It was supposed to take 1 1/2 hours, and ended up taking closer to 2 1/2 hours. I heard something about having a hard time with the ventilation tube they stuck down my throat (could be hearsay. I don't remember anything about a tube down my throat). I just knew that I felt very much like I had got a good swift kick in the face. It didn't really hurt, because I was so doped up, but I knew it had been hacked on. Plus, I couldn't breath through my nose, as it was packed almost to bursting point with some sort of gauze packing stuff. More on that blessed little piece of equipment later.

After a while of getting myself to the point I could actually sit upright and try and walk, I was released to go home. Fortunately, Kathryn was there as I really doubt the drive home would have been a good experience for me if I had to do it on my own.

And thus started the 4 day journey into discomfort and recovery. All told, it wasn't so bad - just long and uncomfortable. After switching to pain pills (from the lovely IV stuff they were loading me with), I got really strange in my sleeping patterns. I would sit on a chair and doze off only to awaken 2-3 minutes later. I could engage in real conversation with Kathryn or the kids for a while, and once they stepped out I would konk out for 3 minutes or so, they startle myself into being awake. I was supposed to sleep on an incline, so I 'slept' in our Lazy-Boy recliner, which was an adventure in and of itself. But of all the things that it was, the most unusual aspect was that I had nothing coming in or out of my nose.

Have you ever tried to swallow without having the benefit of your nose? It's easy to simulate. Just pinch your nostrils together and try to drink something and actually swallow it. It isn't so easy. Without having the benefit of your nose, things don't go the way they are designed to. Water that is supposed to go down the throat, end up partially coming up the nose. Or the pressure differential ends up "popping" your eardrums - you know, like plugging your nose and trying to blow out - what you do when driving up a canyon and the altitude changes.

After 4 days of this, I was ready to get rid of the nose plugs. I had no idea what this entailed. Fortunately so, because if I did, I would not have been willing to even go to get those things out.
Talking about an amazing experience. Let's see, how to describe it - I can't. What I can say is that the removal of those plugs were FAR worse than anything else I had done during the course of the procedure.

I went into the exam room, and the doctor hiked up the chair I was in so he could an angle on these plug things. I guess they have improved this process, as they used to take gauze strips and stuff them up your nose to pack them really good. This removal was pretty bad - my Mom had it done, and she didn't have many glowing things to say about it. The gauze strips they used to use were 6 foot long pieces, soaked in Vaseline, then crammed into the sinus cavity. Removal entailed grabbing a hold of the end of a piece and pulling on it until all 6 feet came out. The picture I am painting is of a magician pulling a scarf out of his pocket, only it is coming out of your nose - and it keeps coming, and coming. I think Mom's description was something to the effect of, "How did they manage to get all that crap in there?"

Well, my friend, times - they are a changin'. That sort of thing isn't done anymore. Now, they stick this foam thing up there with a straw in it, and once it's in, they inflate it to pack in the sinus. The foam is absorbent, so any liquid gunk can get caught by it, and thus we don't have to go through the magic trick when taking the stuff out.

For mine, they had a total of 4 of these things up my nose; two in each nostril. The doctor got the little string cut that was keeping track of the ends of them, then got the little straw thingie out and let it sit for a second or two to deflate. That's when the fun began.

He took what looked like a pair of needle nose pliers and grabbed the end of the first one and gave it a small crank to one side to get it loose. Inside my head, this sounded a bit like a chisel being hit by a sledge hammer, and a bunch of crackling, popping noses that indicated a significant chunk of my face had dislodged. He then grabbed the end of this foam blob thingie and pulled it out. Only it was bigger than my nostril. If I could visualize it, I would imagine someone using needle nose pliers to try and pull a grape through a straw.

As all fun does come to an end, the foam thinigie finally came out. As I have a somewhat morbid curiosity, I had initially wanted to see what the thing looked like, but my entire body was in the middle of a complete panic attack, afraid that someone had initiated a deadly assault on my skull and had just ripped a chunk out of it. Hot flashes like I never felt before crashed over my body from head to toe. I started sweating, the room started spinning, and I started to go to tunnel vision. At the peak of this pleasant experience, the doctor plunged on with the next foam plug. Despite my surprise at the second wave of the assault, my body at least knew this time what to expect and thus very completely panicked at the cracking, popping noises as the second foam plug was wrenched free from it's original position. A grape-in-the-straw moment later, and foam plug #2 was gone.

I had hoped for a moment to get the license plate number of the bus that just blind sided me, when the doctor plunged in for plug #3. At this point, I realized that plug #2 at least had the benefit that plug #1 was gone and had some room to move for plug #2, because plug #3 took some work to get the cracking, popping noises going. Do I need mention how much my body loved this particular experience? By this time I was seriously questioning my thought process that brought me to be wearing a long sleeve shirt to this procedure. I was certain to have soaked through that in seconds. Follow a grape-in-a-straw moment, and soon plug #4 was doing it's creaking, popping thing. Finally that one came out and I was left to try and gather up the pieces of my face and figure out what the crap had just happened.

The doctor used his suction thing to get some fluid away (he assured me it wasn't blood - not sure why I would have cared with half my face missing, but it was important to him). Then he said in a satisfied voice, "Well, how's that? Can you breath?" I recall taking a moment to soak this question in. It had all the relevance of having someone dropping a nuclear bomb and then asking if I thought it smelled pretty after wards. All I could think of was that I seriously wasn't going to stay in that chair once I passed out and we better make arrangements before I face plant on the floor. So, I feebly said, "Yeah, I can breath, but I think I am going to pass out!"

The doctor sort of chuckled and got me a cold washcloth to try and help me recover. He then launched into his reasoning for going after all 4 plugs with a gusto, saying he had tried to take one out, give his patient time to recover, then going after the next, but he said this way was much more humane. 2 minutes and we were done, as opposed to 20 minutes of drawn out agony. Deep down inside, I would have to agree.

After 5 minutes of discussion about "what's next" (to which I seriously hope Kathryn was listening as I had no idea what he was talking about. I was still trying to unscramble my brains), I was able to get up on shaky legs and to leave the office. I fully believe that the plug removal was FAR worse than the surgery, at least for my personal experience.

Everyday shows improvement, and I am thinking I'll be back up and around by the end of the week. Not bad for having my face re-arranged, I guess.

An Ode to January

2010-01-31T11:03:00.003-07:00

Ahh, January. How do we love thee? Let me count the ways!!

First, there is.......

Hmmm.....what to start with. Think.....

Ok. First there is......

What can I put down for the first. Hmm....I am at a quandary here.

Shoot - I seemed to have lost my train of thought. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. January. This is supposed to be a blog on why I like January so much. How do I get this ball rolling....

Ahh - got it! Ok, here goes:

First......

Dang, lost it again.

Well, the best I can say is this. Have you ever wondered why December goes so fast and February seems to drag on forever?

It's because

JANUARY SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There is just nothing more to it than that. You know how sometimes people refer to the month as it's closing out as that month "dying"? As in, "the boy born as the month of July dies" (vague Harry Potter reference here). Well, if it were true that a month could die, once January died, I'd do a happy dance on it's grave!

I hate January. If you could rank all 12 months on order of goodness, you would not be able to rate January because #12 out of 12 is just far too kind for that month. You'd have to allocate about 35 blank dates to give January it's proper ranking of #38 out of 12, and I feel that would be even a bit too kind.

Why is January so bad you ask? First off, I'd say "DUH!!!" But if you were really clueless, I'd have to tell you my reasoning. First off, it's cold here in January. Too cold. As in, so cold that your nose hairs start to freeze together while you are trying to walk around and actually breath like a normal human or mammal. Generally, you find yourself minimizing the time you spend out of doors because it takes so long to bundle up to the point where you don't freeze to death by walking outside. You run from your car, to get into a warm house or store, or workplace, then when the business of whatever you were doing is done, you run back to your car and cuss it for not staying warm while you were gone.

At this point, various folks begin to tell me that the real solution is to move to somewhere warm. I am not fooled by this argument. In fact, I have a stronger argument against it. You see, by moving to somewhere like this, it does indeed make January tolerable from an "outside warmth" standpoint. But in effect, you are swapping the nasty January for a nasty July or August where you can't go outside without various body parts literally melting off. Then you find yourself running from your car to your destination in hope that heat stroke doesn't set in while you are out there, then running back and cussing your car for not staying cool while you were gone. It may make January more tolerable, but I love July & August and I could never make myself hate it as much as January. Trust me, I have been in Arizona in July. 116 degrees in the shade? No thank you.

Now back to the January bashing. The other day, I looked directly at the Sun. And I stared at it for an extended period of time. "Aarggh! What were you thinking" you are saying at this point. "Didn't your Mom ever warn you not to stare directly at the Sun?!?!? You'll melt your corneas off!" Well, don't you worry your little head, dear, there was no melting (it's cold out here, remember?) No, it wasn't because it was cold. It was because there was 54.5 miles of airborne garbage for the sunlight to travel through before it made it to my corneas. By the time the sun rays made it to my eyeballs, it was a shell of it's former bad old self. It couldn't barely muster a tear from the old tear ducts due to it's complete lack of intensity. In fact, you could look directly at that blob of a sun and you could almost see the face of the sun, verging on the edge of weeping, big old bottom lip sticking out and feeling sad being repressed behind a sea of airborne gunk. I felt sorry for it. I almost wanted to shout to it not to worry that some day this horrid month would be over, and he'd be back on his feet melting corneas off like it never happened!

Yes, there is an unusual amount of gunk in the air in January around these parts. In fact, I would say of the 31 miserable days of January, perhaps 10 of them have any real extended periods of unobstructed sunlight that makes it to this part of the world. It's not uncommon to go for weeks at a time without being really sure the sun had imploded, or just taken it's ball and gone home because it couldn't play anyhow. When it finally does show up, I find myself closing my eyes, feeling the tingle of actual sun rays on my face and remembering what it was like to be summer again. Then the smog bank rolls back in, I am yanked back into reality, and have to pull my hoodie over my ears before they freeze off again.

I have heard the argument as well that I should take up something like skiing to overcome these January blahs. The rational is that going up to the ski slopes is refreshing because the sun is most always shining up there and you can go enjoy the outdoors. Really? Is it that drastic to take those measures? You see, you have to take on all the other risks associated with skiing.

Skiing. Who came up with that idea? Did someone wake up and say, "You know, I am going to go strap some wood boards on my feet, go to the top of the highest mountain, and slide uncontrollable down the side of the mountain, and hope I don't hit a tree on the way!" Of course, being the top of the mountain, the snow is around 65 feet deep, and as you are going down the luge of death, the wind chill hits -55 degrees and any exposed flesh is immediately frozen. Not to mention should the inevitable happen, and you wipe out. Then joints that aren't meant to bend in ways that get bent in such a collision begin to make you notice they are there. If you are lucky, you don't end up being hauled down off the slopes in a stretcher.

I know - it's not that bad. It just seems like a harsh thing to do to go get some sunlight in the winter. I haven't actually ever skied before, so I have to admit I am making that whole argument against it up. I could do it and really love it. If I could associate anything with cold as being something I would love to do. It would be hard to overcome the psychology of it, is all I am saying.

And so, as of today, January is dying. True, tomorrow is February who's only real saving graces are that for one thing, it's only 28 days, and for another thing, it's not January. But come, let's join in and have a moment of silence for the death of January. Then the celebration can begin!

Water Managers

2010-01-02T20:37:00.004-07:00

I have to admit, I am really a bit pathetic. In order to crank my rusty wheels in my brain in motion to post on my blog, I need to have an assist from Kathryn on what to write about. Usually I tap into something that begins to form, but my brain doesn't connect the dots until Kathryn interrupts me in mid-rant and says, "Sounds like a good blog post subject." At which point, my brain says something to effect, "Huh? Chicken and rice?" Ok, so that has nothing to do with it, but I digress.

To my point, and the point of my blog for tonight - Water managers. I recently read an article in the paper in regards to the water content we currently have in our snow pack. And quoted is the somewhat whimsical beast, the water manager.

Who knows what dire circumstances that brought someone to the point that they had to make a career of watching water. Granted, there is probably no substance on the face of the earth, save maybe oxygen, at sustaining life than water. And while we usually walk to the sink and turn on the water, fully expecting clean, wholesome water to flow out of the tap and into our cups, we rarely have to consider that there is a whole infrastructure in place to manage that water and make sure it's what we expect.

I don't know what bet you have to lose, or who you had to get really mad, to make you resort to being the water manager for a place like Utah. Utah is a desert, so the water here is pretty important. But what is there to say about it? It snows, the snow melts, it comes down from the mountains in rivers (or "cricks" as the good ole' native Utahns would call them), we collect it, then feed it down the pipes to our cups. What more could there be?

Well, I recall in my youth the danger in not listening to these feral water manager beasts. Way back in the day, 1983, to be exact, we had ourselves a weird water year. There was the usual pattern - snow, snow melt, rivers, etc. But this year, it decided to do it all strange-like. We had snow. We had a LOT of snow. I don't remember a year before, or since, that we had snow like we did that year. Roofs were collapsing in Kaysville, carports in Clearfield were caving in, little doggie mansions in Bountiful were bowing under the sheer weight of the snow. I recall going around as a noble varsity scout and climbing up on the roof of the widows' houses in the ward to shovel snow off them (the roofs, not the widows) to prevent them from caving in (the roofs, not the widows). Most of the rest of my youth, that would have got me in trouble, but we were doing service!

Then spring came along, but it was cold, and wet. In fact, it stayed winter-like all the way until Memorial day weekend. Then it got HOT. Like 90 degrees hot. And snow doesn't like hot much. It stops being snow and starts being water. But there wasn't anywhere for the water to go fast enough, so it started crossing streets. And it didn't even look both ways - it just went!

And in Farmington, they had themselves a good old fashioned mud-slide. I remember this vividly because the mud covered almost the entire course of my paper route. And they didn't let me ride my bike up there to deliver papers because, well, it was muddy. In fact, there were two or three porches that were then located a considerable distance from where they had been previously and no one involved with that porch seemed to care anymore that there wasn't a paper on it.

As all disasters go, mostly we survived. But it got me thinking about water up in them thar hills. The newspaper got that idea too, and ever since, the water manager has become something of a celebrity. You started to hear from some of these guys that never got any notice before, and people cared what they had to say! We didn't want a repeat of that nasty winter of '83.

So here we are, safely nestled in 2010. I recently picked up a the paper and read a story on our water situation. Basically, it sucks.

According to our water managers, we had snow. But it wasn't enough snow. And even if we got way more snow, we won't have enough snow. In fact, if it snowed constantly from now until the end of May, we are all screwed.

What will happen? Well, we won't have enough snow. And, if we don't have enough snow, then.....we won't have enough snow.

It seems almost as if these water manager people are saying that it's all our fault. You see the problem was we had a warm November. It didn't snow. And we all enjoyed it! If you had been smart, you would have been totally disgusted that we didn't get enough snow and then we might have been ok, but you were all out working in your yards, ENJOYING the no-snow condition! Now it has come home to roost. Because we didn't get enough snow then, we are in trouble!

But wait, you say. How can me enjoying the warm weather have anything to do with it? Even if I hated the warm weather, it still would not have made it snow, right? I mean, we can't make it snow! All we can do is enjoy the lack of it. But that's the problem, they say. You ENJOYED it. So the snow gods didn't let it snow because they were just trying to make YOU happy! And because you were happy, we didn't get snow! So now we are screwed and it's all YOUR FAULT!!!!!

You see, if we had a good snow storm in November, it would have made it easier to get our normal snow pack by April. But you had to enjoy that warm November, didn't you. Now even though we had almost a foot of new snow in the last week, preceded by even more snow in December (I think it has snowed straight since the 2nd week in December, hasn't it?) It just is not enough. Even if it snowed 2 feet every day until April 30th, we won't have enough snow!

So, what kind of person becomes a water manager?

Eeyore.

Look at me! I'm a bunny!

2009-12-11T21:10:00.004-07:00

Ok, so that may be a bit of a strange title to a blog entry, I would agree. But it should make sense by the time you get to the end.

About 3 years ago, I went in to the doctor to get a physical. It had been a while, I admit. But I was thinking that after about 10 years of going to Scout camp and resolutely avoiding getting a physical, it was about time to acquiesce. You see, every boy who goes to a Scout camp is required to have a physical so they don't kill over and die for some unforeseen reason because of an undetected health condition. It's much better to just send them up with a nice sharp pocket knife and Bic lighter and tell them to go to town. I think that secretly, the camp staff is only trained for life-threatening Bic lighter or pocket knife injuries and that having something else, say, a retinal myocardial disease, would be somewhat outside the scope of their training. (You know, I don't even know if retinal myocardial disease is real or not. I just kind of threw some medical-ish sounding words out there to make it sound like I knew what I was talking about).

But for adult leaders, it's a different story. They do very adamantly require that all adult leaders have a physical, and I suppose it makes sense. If someone were to keel over for an undetected medial reason, it would likely be an adult leader before one of the boys. But I always approached it from the standpoint of, "What are they going to do, send me home? MAKE MY DAY, PUNK!!!!" At which point, the staff would cower in shame and admit that they really didn't have any intentions of sending adult leaders home. In fact, they would ask first if we had some sort of cell phone that worked out there in the middle of nowhere just in case reinforcements were required.

After about 10 years of scoffing at those silly Scout camp requirements for adults, I thought that I better at least get one done one year. Well, big mistake there. I would have been so much better off had I not ever bothered.

One of the many rather joyful tests they do is the blood test. (Don't worry. I won't digress into all the tasteless things that a doctor does to the poor sot who goes in and submits, and even pays, to have this regimen of medieval torture performed on them. Partially because I am too ashamed to admit having endured them or even describe them, and partially because this is a family blog site, man! You just can't say those sorts of things! Anyhow, I digress).

Now the blood test is an interesting process. You can't eat anything for 12 hours before you go in because it messes up the blood test. So you starve yourself, and go in and let them dig around in your arm for that pesky little vein that holds the door of the mother-lode. You are already a little lightheaded from not eating, then they strap this rubber strap around your arm that tangles up in your arm hair and pulls out random clumps (yes, I have that much arm hair), then make you flex your arm while your hand changes shades of white, then blue, then purple, then green...oh, wait. Those last two only happen if you do it too long.

Then they start poking the crux of your arm. (What is that thing called, anyhow? It's not an arm pit - that's up higher. Is it the elbow pit? Back off, man. I'm an engineer, not a physician) At some point, you start to wonder if you are supposed to poke back, but then they feel something there (or pretend to), and then they swoop in with the needle. Once the needle is safely poked through the flesh, the digging can begin. Usually, that is followed by some light conversation like, "Hmmm...that little sucker is sure hard to find, isn't it?" To which I would usually answer, "If you want to talk to me, quit spinning so much around my head, ok?"

After a nice course of digging, they would make the lunge and reach the happy spot. That is somewhere outside the other side of the arm, I am sure. Once they are sure that arm guts are properly churned up, they put the little tube thing in the other end and in a mighty squirt, the blood begins to flow. And it starts getting really hot in the room, and things get fuzzy, and ....no, wait! I am not going to pass out! After drawing several small gallons of blood, the technician (I guess they call them blood-digger-techs?) eyes you up and down to determine if you can walk through the door without looking like a drunk (it scares off the other victims awaiting their torture) and lets you leave with some really styling florescent pink elbow band wrapped tightly around your arm to make sure none of the inner elbow guts don't leak out.

Now, we wait. After several days, a call comes back that the lab work is done. That's when I found out the good news. Apparently, my blood is straight lard.

They say there are 2 types of cholesterol; the good kind called "HDL" and the bad kind called "LDL". Now, don't get me wrong. I am always one to appreciate a good acronym. But I am at a loss at these two for these two. HDL is good and LDL is bad? That doesn't even rhyme, man!

Oh, and there are these other things in there call triglycerides. I know of nitroglycerin. That would be cool to have some of. What are these triglycerides? Who knows.

Apparently, my blood has too little of the HDL stuff and too much of the LDL stuff. And I have too many triglycerides too and apparently that is bad. The way they describe it, my blood should come out almost congealed (a fact I know is not true because just 2 days ago, I tore off half my upper lip while shaving and that sucker didn't congeal for hours! I had to walk around most of the day with a small piece of toilet paper stuck on my lip and that certainly is not fashionable.) Also, if I don't fix this thing, I am at a higher risk of encountering some sort of "heart related event" within 10 years. That doesn't sound so good.

To avoid this nasty event, they gave me drugs. And I was good about taking them. And they didn't make me feel any better. In fact, they wrecked havoc on my system. I won't get into many details (see the reference above to the general physical), but I was thinking that I could get used to it if it made my blood better. After a while some of the side effects went away and I did get used to them.

And every 3 months, they would have me go in and repeat the medieval torture routine to see how this medication was working. The general consensus back from the doctor was that my body was adjusting to the medication, but it was irritating my liver a bit much. Irritating my liver? I don't think I like irritated liver! But the doctor assured me it would get better with time and it was worth it in the overall scheme of things.

After about a year we sat back and assessed the results. Well, the LDL went down. My overall cholesterol went down. My HDLs stayed the same or got worse. Triglycerides didn't change.

Some would consider this progress, by my doctor did not. He said that it was good to get the LDL down, but by not moving the HDL, I was still just as likely to kick off as I was a year prior.

So we changed some medications. Same results. We changed them again to something completely different. I was taking a "statin". Then I changed to a "fibrate". My doctor told me that statins and fibrates don't like each other and really irritate the liver, so I had to make sure I got all the statins out before the fibrates started. After a while, we got the results back and everything was the same, except my LDLs went back up. So he wanted me to then take the statin and the fibrate together.

Wait a minute! Don't statins and fibrates not like each other? And don't they have their fight in my liver? I am no doctor, but I am guessing a statin and fibrate cage match in my liver is not one I want to do!

So I got frustrated and bagged the whole thing. This process sounded an awful lot like a crap shoot. He (my doctor) seemed to have no clue on which way to go - he was just throwing stuff at me in the hopes that something may work. That's fine when you are trying to fix a car or something, but I only have one liver.

I just went back after about a year or so and got checked again. And it's worse. I did some research on how to raise HDL and lower LDL and triglycerides. Beyond doing the Russian Roulette medication route, here is the best I can hope to do:

1. Keep my life insurance policy paid up and hope for the best. Kathryn really hates it when I suggest this plan, however. She threatens to beat me up, so I guess that may not be the best course of action.

2. Give up any sorts of food that I remotely like. I have to start eating carrots, and twigs, and ferns, and bushes, and anything that may grow alongside the road of life. No more meat, no more butter, no more substitute food. Just throw out the lawn mover and send me out back with a fork and knife.

3. I must become a marathon runner. I hate running, but the only way I can survive for more than 10 years from now is to become a runner.

In short, I have to become a bunny.

Frustrated Inc.

2009-10-16T21:45:00.002-06:00

The title of my blog for tonight happens to be the same as a popular song. I quote it, not because I particularly like that song, or could even tell you who sang it, but because it seems of late that has been the way things go.

I was looking back on my blog and read my entry on "Fuzzy Math" from back in February. To prevent your (obviously) overwhelming desire to go back and read it, I was venting on the apparent lack of math skills of one certain contracting officer I was being forced to deal with on a contract for work. Alas, that contract is still being mulled about and has not been awarded. I identified the need for that project about 3.5 years ago. I applied for funding for it about 3 years ago. I got the money about 2.5 years ago. I started working on the contract then. After the elongated pre-contracting junk we had to do, we got the solicitation out on the street in June 2008. It was awarded in September 2008. Then one of the losers (and I use that term as nicely as I can) protested the award. Then our Fuzzy Math guy got involved and it went all to crap.

Protests usually get resolved in about 2-3 weeks. October 8th was the 1 year mark of the protest. It still is not resolved. Sadly, I still have to work with this goomba to get this thing on contract. I have quit holding my breath long ago. The future working with him is not so bright (just as he himself is - not so bright).

Then I have been trying to keep up on the "comedy of errors" with my brother and his kids. I would say comedy of errors, if there was anything funny about it, but there isn't. His experience with his now ex-wife has been a model case as to why our system is so broken. At one point, his ex hit him with her car. That's right - you didn't read that wrong. She watched him walk in front of her van, turned the wheels into him, and punched it. It screwed up his knee. He had surgery to fix it about 3 months ago. The cops were there when it happened. Know what they did? They arrested my brother and charged him with domestic abuse!

You may call me jaded because he is my brother. But that is exactly what happened. He had to be bailed out or would have spent the night in jail. The cops took the kids and give them back to her. Not bad, huh? Hit your ex-husband (on purpose), they haul him off to jail, then give you back the kids. Not bad. No charges against her. Nothing.

Then, after months of working through the courts, my brother gets custody of the kids. She comes down and takes them without my brother knowing it. Isn't that technically kidnapping? On top of that, she is driving on a suspended license. She holes up in her apartment. The police intervene. Get the kids back to my brother, and what do they do to her? That's right. Nothing. I guess we should be glad they didn't arrest my brother and give the kids back to her.

Then I hear a story of my neighbor who is going through a divorce. They caught the guy going into his ex-wife's house looking for his kid's hat. They threw the book at him. He narrowly avoided jail time, and got like 2 years probation. His ex-wife even went and testified that she didn't want him to go to jail and they still nailed him. What's the real crime here? The same as my brother - he is a man, not a woman.

In Utah, apparently you can do anything you want in these situations if you are a woman. You can assault your ex-husband and they will arrest and charge him - her recourse? Nothing. You can kidnap your kids in direct violation of a court order, abuse them physically,verbally, and emotionally. DCFS has a case file a mile long on it. You can hold them hostage in your apartment against their will and what is your recourse? Nothing.

Amazing. Frustrating and amazing.

What is wrong with our justice system? I realize that men are the majority of the problem in most of these cases. But if it's 99% of the time the man's at fault, what about the 1% when it's the woman? Do those ends justify the means? And the real victims here are the kids. They are being neglected, abused, and traumatized. But she can do no wrong in the eyes of the law.

Ahh, there are so many frustrations. I could go on with more, but I would sound like I am whining. This post really is kind of a drag, but what can I say? I had to say it.

Father's Day

2009-06-21T21:26:00.003-06:00

Kathryn, Emily, and I got roped into speaking in church today. They gave us topics to speak on, but I decided to kind of do my own thing. I made a list of "Things Dad Can't Do", sort of. It's a list of stuff I figured out on my own as a dad, and about other dads in my life.

It's based on that book called, "Things Dad Can't Do". It has things like:

1. Dads can't cross the road without holding a hand.
2. Dads need lots of help putting up the tent when you are camping
3. Dads aren't good at finding you in hide and seek
4. Dads aren't good at hiding when you play hide and seek.

You know how it works. Anyhow, I came up with a bunch of my own:

1. Dads can’t dig holes in the back yard without an audience
2. Dads can’t do anything without having to explain what he is doing, again, and again, and again…..
3. Dad’s tools are far more fun than any toys.
4. Dads like to work with tools, but they really like it when they aren’t where he put them last. They like to find things like tools.
5. Dad’s tools can turn on and off the rain.
6. Dads like it when you find great places to hide his keys. Particularly when you are about ready to leave on vacation.
7. Dad’s tie on Sunday is a great practice harness for future water skiing careers.
8. Dads need to be identified. We need to point them out any time they are passing the sacrament or sitting on the stand.
9. Dads don’t like it when you squish the cat, even though you are only trying to hug her.
10. Dads really need to have you sit in his lap when he’s working on the computer. He also needs lots of help hitting the keys.
11. Dads need to have someone watch them play games on the computer.
12. Dads don’t sleep much. They put you to bed and they are gone when you wake up. It’s really important, however, if you wake up in the morning and Dad is sleeping, that you wake him up as soon as possible.
13. If Dad is lying on the floor, at least one person must jump on his back, but the more the better.
14. Dads really love to plant pretty flowers that you can pick and scatter all over the front porch.
15. Dads want to make sure you look pretty for church.
16. Dads try to do your hair, but it usually doesn’t look as pretty as when Mom does it. But at least Dad tried.
17. If anything is broke, Dad can fix it.
18. Dads have a hard time coming up with the right words to say sometimes. He may hit his thumb with a hammer, and even though he seems like he has something to say, he just doesn't say it out loud.
19. Dads think you really love tickles
20. Dads think you really need to know how many ribs you have, and help you find out how many you have very often.
21. Sometimes when Dads count your ribs, they lose count really easy.
22. Dads are really good at remembering embarrassing stories. They are even better at knowing the worst possible time to tell them.
23. At dinner, a burp may escape on you. Moms like to teach you manners by telling you to say “Excuse me”. Dads like to teach you gratitude by telling you to say, “Good Cookin’ Mom!” Moms don’t appreciate it when Dads do that.
24. Dads have a built in GPS locator in their brain that can tell you where Mom is at any time.
25. Dads call you annoying nicknames like, “Cute Bug”, or “My little buddy”, or “Goofy”.
26. When Dads shoot the basketball, they aren’t very good shots
27. Dads really can’t block your basketball shot very well. They are tall enough, but just can’t seem to get there to block your shot.
28. Dads like to watch soccer games on Saturdays. And baseball games. And basketball games. And dance recitals.
29. Dads don't really like to dance much. Unless its for your dance recital party
30. Dads don’t mind sharing their birthday (Savanna and I share a birthday). When that happens, they are ok with having a princess cake.
31. Dads teach you how to play sports so that someday you can look into the camera and say, “Hi Mom!”
32. Dads like to kiss Mom when you are watching to gross you out.
33. Dads don’t like it when you fight.
34. Dads get really upset when you are not nice to Mom. They say strange things like they know what Mom went through to bring you here to earth. Dads prefer it when you tell Mom you love her.
35. If you are fighting in the car, Dads stop and make you walk. Usually with the person you were fighting with.
36. Sometimes Dads volunteer you to speak in Church
37. Dads don't even tell people how much you complained about having to talk in church (not Emily)
38. Dads volunteer you to do other service projects, even if you don't want to do them. They don't let you get paid for them sometimes so you can learn service.
39. Dads read the paper sometimes and worry about you and what could happen to you.
40. Dads don't get scared too easy. But sometimes you get lost and Dad gets really worried and scared that he might not find you again. He tries not to let you see how scared he gets at those times.
41. Dads get to deal with the mice
42. When you get a cat, Dads get to deal with the litter box
43. Dads aren't so good at changing stinky diapers.
44. Dads have a hard time remembering things like appointments and what's going on during the week
45. Dads know lots about life and things. They know about trees, and rocks, and everything
46. Sometimes you find out later that Dad was making some of that stuff up
47. Dads do things they don't like to do. Like go to work early in the morning, or on snowy days, or bad days. They do it because they want to take care of your family.
48. Dads don’t take sick days. Even when they are sick, they still work.
49. Dads have cloths that fall apart, but they don’t complain as long as you have nice cloths to wear.
50. Dads are good to talk to. They understand you somehow and know how you feel. Even when you don't want them to understand, they still do
51. Dads let you write letters to them about how hard of a time you are having on a mission. They give good advice and promise not to tell Mom so she won't worry about you
52. Dads probably can't help telling Mom anyhow
53. Dads can talk to you about how you feel lonely and wonder if you'll ever find the right person. They always say that you will, even if you don't believe them.
54. Dads make you feel better and say the sorts of things that reassure you that feeling lonely doesn't last forever.
55. Dads are usually right about you finding the right person.
56. Dads can give you blessings when you feel bad. They know what to say to make you feel better
57. Dads sometimes take care of your Mom when she forgets how to do it for herself. He makes it so Mom can live the last days of her life with dignity.
58. Dads sometimes have to live without your Mom. They feel lonely and wonder if they can make it without her. Then you get to try and make them feel better and reassure him that feeling lonely doesn't last forever
59. Dads are your hero when you are young. They are your hero when you are a teenager. They are your hero when you are on your mission. They are your hero when you become a Dad. Sometimes you wonder how you could ever be as good of a dad as your dad is. Then someday, you become a dad and you realize that what makes a great dad is that he loves you more than anyone in the world.
60. Dads really love being your dad.

Avoiding Chopping Off My Left Hand

2009-06-03T22:19:00.007-06:00

I have decided that I am not half the blogger that Kathryn is. I must bow at the altar and worship the queen blogger!

Ok - so here goes for today. I have made a major moment of enlightenment as of late. I have determined that I had yet another reason to hope against all hope to never experience some sort of industrial-type accident that results in the severing of my left hand.

Obviously, there are plenty of reasons to have such hopes. I am sure most people would share such hopes. I mean, without a left hand, you can't eat a hamburger while driving a car (well, maybe you can hold the steering wheel with the stump of your hand), your "flipping the bird" hand is confined to the right hand (not that I really do that "flipping the bird" thing anyhow); I have never tried, but I would imagine that picking your left nostril with your right hand would be really difficult. (Come on! I bet you tried just to see if you could!)

But now I have one more. I have discovered (much to my chagrin - you like that word? It's my unique word of the day!) that Ethan has a new pass time. He seems to like rummaging around with my tools and scattering them to and fro. I have found screwdrivers in the back yard, I have found my crecent wrench on the front lawn, my shovels in various places around the yard, screws and bolts everywhere.

Where am I going with this? Well, the other day, I went out to work in the yard. As is my normal ritual, I tried to locate my work gloves. Now, I have to say I have acquired a large quantity of work gloves. Being an engineer, I have seriously wimpy hands. Not to say I haven't worked much, I just haven't spent a lot of time in my career exposing my hands directly to serious manual labor. Ok, I have wimpy hands. If I don't wear work gloves when I am working, I seriously screw up my hands.

As I hunted my gloves down, I found many gloves. Actually, I found a pile of one glove from each set. The left hand from each set.

After all, if I lost my left hand in some sort of accident, what would I do with all those left handed gloves?

Brief Update

2009-04-19T20:55:00.003-06:00

Ok - so it's been a while. I wonder how many blog posts start this way? Well, one more, I guess.

This last few weeks have been hectic. We went to the Grand Canyon and to Flagstaff earlier this month. It was really nice. I thought it would be kind of a pain because of how much driving we had to do in such a short period of time, but it turned out to be pretty good. Some of the area we drove through is really beautiful and it was awesome to see some of the Grand Canyon. I think that it would be a lifetime experience to hike through it someday. I wouldn't mind doing that at all. Of course, it wouldn't work out well with the kids as young as they are, but someday we can all hope to make it.

Last week we prepared for and ran our booth at the Dutch Oven Society Convention. It was awesome, to say the least. I was working the order taking portion and I literally was taking orders constantly from 8:30 am to 12:30 pm. We did far better this year than we have ever done. I didn't even get a chance to go around and sample the awesome cooking like I usually do because business was so brisk. Not that I am complaining.

I have some ideas for future posts. I know this was was kind of dull, but there it is.

Phoneaphobia????

2009-03-20T21:13:00.004-06:00

I was reading Andy's blog tonight and the comments that followed. Now, granted, it has been a while and I just caught up on what Andy had been discussing. After reading Kathryn's comments, she made the point that the Clark Clan suffers from a severe case of Phoneaphobia.

Sadly, I think Kathryn just may have us pegged. I admit that I show significant signs of it. Regularly.

I love my family and I love to talk to them. Just not on the phone. There are times when I would rather dive buck naked in a swimming pool full of razors than pick up the phone and call someone. Just about for any reason.

Why is this? Is not the phone a means of communication? If we were visiting face to face, and somehow we were blindfolded, and stuck some sort of contraption against the side of our heads that cover our ears, would we all scream out in a panic and begin grunting unintelligible words like, "Yeah", "Uh-huh", or "Well, I better let you go. A cow just walked by the window and I'm concerned it may stop by and chew my eyebrows off."

Ok, so I never used that last one, but I have thought it. Ok, so I just made that up. I never thought it.

What it usually ends up doing is causing us to put off calling anyone until it's so darn close to being too late that any reasonable person would say, "It's too late now". Then we call. And it's OK, because the person we call knows that we put it off until way too late. And they know that we put it off until way too late because that is what they would have done if they had to make that phone call. It's usually the in-laws that end up screaming and ranting about how we never call until it's too late. What's their problem? Don't they know about the phone thing? Sheesh....

I think there may be some of us that don't really realize the extent of the phobia. I got a few phone calls from Jared last week. He had a court hearing scheduled for Tuesday and was trying to find someone to watch his kids while he went (this was on Monday, by the way. Pretty close to 'too darn late'). He called me, but he knew he should have called Kathryn and even said so in his message. Fortunately, he got ahold of Brooke and got things worked out. Jared may not have realized the phobia, but he knew to call Kathryn (and Brooke later) and almost waited until it was too darn late.

Of course, Jared ran up against my other malediction. That stupid cell phone. I really think it's the best way to get ahold of me, but I have such a broken record when it comes to actually responding to it. Deep down, I know better, but often times I will find myself noticing that I got a call on it from someone and saying, "Oh, I'll call back in a few minutes; just so I can get this one thing done." And by the time that one thing is done, the phone call is gone, baby. I'll remember to call back around 2 or 3 hours later (if I am doing good - usually it's more like 2 or 3 days) and by then it's too darned late.

Is any of this borne out of a desire to avoid someone? Not really. Is it because I don't want to help? Absolutely not. It's a genetic mental defect, I tell you! And come on, anyone in my family, I dare you to deny it. As soon as you try to, I could cite a million examples where each and every one of us has been guilty of it. (I know, I have been told a billion times not to exaggerate, but alas. Such is the genetic mental defect).

Fortunately, we have married some good folks that can help us with our psychosis. If it weren't for Kathryn, I probably would forget to show up to my own funeral (proverbially speaking, of course). And yes, it drives her crazy that I wait until it's too darned late to call. Sometimes I wonder if her eyes are going to stick rolled back (Teasing! I am teasing Kathryn!!!)

Communication was never a good point for the Clark's. I think Mom may have been the best at it, but even she struggled with it. Grandpa Clark was the worst. And I mean Dad's Dad. Still can you blame him? He was subjected to pressure that I would freeze in horror over. He had to live through one of the worst experiences anyone could face when he spent his time on Iwo Jima. You clam up or you break up. And the Clark's are naturals at claming up.

It's not a good thing and it needs to be better. But understanding it for what it is helps. It's not a lack of caring - far from it.

This next bit is directly 100% for Andy and what he said. I know our family, Andy. I know each and every one of them. They all love each other more than could possibly be stated. We may not say it all the time, or we may not say it like we mean it, but we do. And I guarantee that any one of us would give up significant body parts to help out any one of their family members. I know they would for me. I know they would for you. I know they would for any one of the family.

It has been hard since Mom died for our family's communication. She was such a hub of information to all of us. Without that spoke, I think we have all struggled. It was huge void that got left and I don't know who or how it will be filled. Grandma did a little, but there is only so much she could do and as you know, even Grandma struggles with some communication!

The best I can say, is bear with us. We are all trying to figure all this out. But the foundation is there. I know that each of us loves each other and cares about what is going on. We may not be the best communicators, but the feelings are there and they will never go away. No matter what.

I hate having to explain a joke

2009-03-05T17:55:00.002-07:00

Well, my last post garnered a grand total of zero comments. I don’t quite know how to interpret that. Was it really that boring of a post? Did anyone actually read it? Does anyone care? Probably not, but that is ok. As I first posted, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to actually read my posts – after all, I barely want to! So, it should come as no surprise if no one really does read it. If someone does read it and likes what I have written enough to comment, then that’s good. If not, oh well. My point of doing this in the first place was to give myself a place to vent and express my thoughts. It’s mostly to my benefit anyhow.

Probably the main reason for doing the blog thing was to give myself a way to write without having to do technical writing. Maybe get a little creative with what I write. You see, I write a lot for my job, but it is mindless blather describing test equipment and how to build it, what contractual requirements are for the project, technical problem resolution, and the like. It can be quite mind numbing, so the opportunity to write something creative has its appeal.

Once in a while, in my mindless escapade of boring technical writing, by mind revolts and cries out in a flurry of expression to break the tedium. One such exchange took place recently with my Section Chief (my supervisor’s supervisor). This guy has been working with the government for his entire career, so is well entrenched in the government-speak. At times, I get to thinking that the ‘government-speak’ is a sign of mental illness as years and years of overexposure to government documentation turns grey matter to a nice purée of mush (my spell checker is having fits with these complicated words I don’t know how to spell).

On occasion, my brain decides to revolt and play things out to see if there is any intelligent/intelligible life out there. The other day, such an event occurred.

I received notice from my Section Chief to the fact that I was not currently up to date on a training module for an area that is controlled in my work area. I realize that most of that last sentence means very little to anyone and likely initiated a brain-shutdown in normal minded people due to the fact that, well, you just don’t care. Typically, I don’t either, but it is the setup for what I am trying to say, so cut me some slack, ok?

Anyhow, the government/military feels like the important thing to do is to make sure everyone is properly trained. So, they employ some poor sot to sit down and generate a series of power point presentations that somehow infuses the reader with all the knowledge needed to ensure that they know whatever the training is trying to infuse into their poor mush brain. Some training sets are long, the others are shorter, but all have similar mind numbing qualities.

Usually at the conclusion of the series of training slides, a similar blank stare is found in the eyes of the ‘trainee’ to what I see often with my kids watching “Arthur” or “Curious George” or (*shudder*) “Team Geotracks” (“All Aboard!!!” – ok, maybe only Kathryn will get that one)

My Section Chief alerted me (and several other transgressors) that I had not completed the training and if I did not soon, I would either have to take the training or surrender my badge.

Now, everyone knows the fine set of red tape connected with getting anything done in the government, so the idea of surrendering a badge over doing some stupid mind numbing training that takes 10-15 minutes is just kind of silly. It seemed that my Section Chief was displaying some facetiousness in suggesting it, so I decided to take it a bit further.

Once the completion of the said training was secured, I wrote back to him the following comment:

“Done. And I must say that the depth and breadth of my level of training comprehension is stunning to the point of near ecstasy. I almost collapsed under the sheer weight of my controlled-area-training-ed-ness.”

Feeling proud of my response of facetiousness (isn’t that a great word?), I sent this off hoping to elicit some sort of chuckle or giggle (or as Andy suggests, a combination of those being a “chiggle”). What was his response?

“So what's your point?”

I have to admit, that is produced a deer-in-the-headlights effect on me. My point? Did I have one? Did he not get the facetiousness I was attempting to portray? Was he trying to return my facetiousness with facetiousness? (I think that may be a world’s record for using facetiousness in a paragraph)

So I decided to continue the train of facetiousness. Maybe being excessively facetious by actually defining facetious may make my mushy brained Section Chief realize I was being facetious? (I am glad I typed that. Saying it would have hurt). I responded with this:

“Point? My point should be absolutely clear. That, um, well, I don't know. Maybe it was pointless. I was actually being purely facetious which would be defined as: treating serious issues with deliberately inappropriate humor; flippant; pleasantly humorous, jocular (I looked it up).
After all, I am a jocular kind of guy.”

A joke always looses something when you have to explain it.

Fuzzy Math

2009-02-26T20:53:00.006-07:00

I have to say that I am not terribly encouraged. I am an electrical engineer and have been employed in such a profession for the last 15 years. 11 of those years I spent in "industry" and the last 4 I have spent employed with the government.

My first impression early on in my career was that most government engineers were employed by the government because they couldn't find a "real" job. I thought that most of them were so unskilled that they were not capable of holding a job in the "real world". So they were on a sort of government welfare because they would probably not be able to be employed if they had to make it in industry.

After my 11 years in industry, I discovered that there could, in fact, be some engineers in government that are there by personal choice. True, the pay is not as good in the government, and that would lead most engineers to say that they were "dumb for taking" a job that doesn't pay so well. Well, after spending 11 years dealing with the corporate greed structure of industry, I became so thoroughly disgusted with the deal I wanted to go somewhere they didn't judge me by the amount of money they could make off my efforts while shafting me.

Examples? For one job, I did a project that saved my customer $2 million over about 6 months. Sure, it was a team of about 5 or 6 people, but I was integral to the team. What was my reward? I was laid off within a month.

Another example - me and one other engineer were given the challenge of testing a rechargeable battery that was used in a proposed product our company was trying to prepare for deployment. They tried to get the manufacturer to test out charging the battery and running it down multiple times to see how long the batteries would survive. The manufacturer claimed it wasn't possible. Our company challenged our group to make it happen.

Well, we did it. We made a circuit card that had a recharge circuit on it and another that had to be developed from scratch to simulate the load of running the battery. The hardest part was the simulator circuit. That's the part I did. It worked great. We did what the manufacturer said was not possible and were able to do some vital testing on a product before it's release. My reward? A $250 bonus. My management got $25,000 bonuses the same year because of the work we did.

I later found that we were running around 1,700 test computers, basically illegally because they did not have proper licensing for the operating systems they were using. Taking the challenge I identified a bunch of equipment that was really old and sold it on eBay. Using that money, we bought licenses for the test computers. So, at no cost to the company, I was able to get rid of old equipment and use the money to buy licensing and prevent a major legal issue for my company. I figured out that I saved the company almost $250,000 directly on what it would have cost them to buy the licenses outright. What was my reward for that? Absolutely nothing. Not even a thank you.

So, I may not be paid a lot for what I do for the government, but I am making a difference. And they appreciate me for doing it. And I am not worried about losing my job, even in the bad economy we are in. And I am not making someone else filthy rich for what I am doing.

But I will acknowledge the bar is not set very high.

For example (and I am sorry for the seriousness of the post to this point. It gets better, I promise), I am working on a contract right now and I have found that the whole government process of contracting is interesting to say the least. I have found that the best way to compare this to something in the 'real world' is that it is akin to herding cats. A lot of cats. And some of those cats really aren't that bright to begin with.

I recently was in a meeting discussing a contract that I had done a rather extensive technical evaluation on. We were talking to the contracting officer to explain what we came up with. We had asked the vendors to send out past performance questionnaires where the vendors were supposed to be ranked by their other customers. The questions rated them from 1-20 (1 being the best, 2o the worst) on 8 different questions.

Two of the vendors had three questionnaires come back and the 3rd only had two. So, we added up the scores from each questionnaire, then divided by the number of questionnaires to come up with a score. I know, you are probably thinking, it's an average score, right?

This concept COMPLETELY defeated this contracting officer. Now, I understand that not everyone is math inclined, particularly as much as I am. I did minor in Math (a source of shame in some regards) and engineering really is a lot of math anyhow. I also understand that there are those that shun math as much as possible. But an average? Is that really so foreign? My kids in elementary school understand averages.

This contracting officer had to have us go to a legal council to explain what we had done. He went in there saying, "Now, we took the scores and added them up. But this one company didn't get as many responses, so we had to divide them by the number of answers they got..." and then the legal council interrupted him and say, "yeah, you took an average. I got that." That floored the guy.

I think he was convinced we were going to shock the lawyer with our totally crazy "math thing" we were trying to pull.

I honestly wonder that if it weren't for the opportunity to do contracting, if this guy would be homeless. My supervisor told me he figured his wife had to dress him every morning.

At one time, I thought that there weren't any really 'dumb' people in the world; that everyone had something to contribute. I am not so sure anymore.

Am I worried that he may read this and figure out it was him? I would say the odds are significantly less than average. (Can we do that?)

Food Wars Round 2

2009-02-22T19:45:00.006-07:00

To continue a train of thought that Kathryn started (it's all her fault, after all), I have to enlighten you a bit on the history here. This is all in regards to the yams comment raised in her recent post, but it may take a while to get there from here. I have to go way back to the days of yore, to Farmington Elementary School.

I recall a time when we had hard shell tacos for school lunch. At the time, I was not what I would call overly fond of hard shell tacos, but they were something I didn't reject outright. It's unfortunate that I didn't at that point because I recall eating these hard shell tacos for lunch. Approximately 6-8 hours later, I recall a significant worship session in which I spent a lot of type praying to the porcelain god. I was barfing so heartily, I was certain that I could feel my shoelaces coming up. I spent the next 12 hours wondering if I was going to die, and the next 12 hours sure hoping that I would die.

Sometimes it is hard to tell if some specific item is what may or may have not caused food poisoning, particularly something in the context of school lunch. However, my older sister had a similar experience, and I think my younger brother did too. Needless to say, the one common thread between all of us was school lunch and those hard shell tacos.

Now I look at the makeup of a hard shell tacos. You got a shell, usually made out of some sort of corn substance, likely the same stuff they make regular corn chips out of, only shaped more conducive to holding a load of stuff. The stuff on the inside is some sort of meat, usually ground beef, seasoned with some sort of spice that make it taste 'taco-y' (is that really a word?), then your various gambit of items such as lettuce, cheese, maybe some olives, and/or salsa. Simple right?

Only, now I can't actually bring myself to eat this configuration of items without having a desire to wretch. Of course, as time passed from the original episode, the desire to hurl has lessened, but I still cannot bring myself to eat a hard shell taco. I can eat the same stuff all covered on tortilla chips. I can even eat (and like) the whole thing in a soft shell taco configuration and not even mind. But I just can't bring myself to chomp into a hard shell taco. I acknowledge it is all in my head. There is no reason to believe that I would get the same reaction to a hard shell taco now. Not any more than any other food. But I can't do it. It is simple. Hard shell tacos gross me out.

Now we get to the yams part of the story. If you get my family together, particular those of us that were old enough to remember being afflicted with my Grandma Clark's cooking, you can quickly find out the source of the consternation of several of my family in regards to particular foods. Amongst those fond memories of nasty food and related food-borne illnesses lies the problem I have had with yams.

I think it best to recall you to the way my Grandma Clark used to cook. I loved my Grandma and I hope that you understand that before I start talking about her cooking. She was a wonderful person, but she definitely was not a cook. I think she felt like the whole cooking business was a supreme inconvenience and thus was more apt to try and make shortcuts in the interest of keeping out of the kitchen. I am not aware that she knew that there was a function on the oven that allowed it to be turned on to a different setting from 'as hot as it gets'. It was either the hottest setting or it was off. Simply put.

My Grandma Clark also had this idea that the best way to cook was to make something big and then eat it over several days, thus eliminating the need to cook everyday. So, she would make a pot of something on the stove, they would eat, and leave the pot on the stove. The next time anyone was hungry, they would just turn the stove on and voilà! Dinner is ready. It's amazing that my dad was able to survive this. The best I can figure is the whole family could have taken on anything they could have got by drinking the water in Mexico without even feeling slightly sick. Sadly, having a mother that was aware of food-borne illnesses, our constitutions were not quite up to the snuff of those that were.

Some people who get married have a problem when it comes to cooking. There is always the guy saying something to the effect that if only his wife's cooking was somewhat near as good as his mom's cooking, then the food would actually be edible. This was never, NEVER a complaint I heard from my father's lips. One could conclude that my mom was a spectacularly good cook (which she really was - she could make food taste good no matter what....well, she never got spinach down too well, but how could you? Oh, yeah. Then there was that period of cooked cereal we went through. Maybe we won't go there. Bleck, I hated them lumps)

We did the one year at the Clark grandparents house for Thanksgiving and the next year at the Peterson grandparents house. I recall spending the Peterson years in absolute bliss because my Grandma Peterson was (and is) THE master at cooking. Peterson reunions were culinary masterpieces. I think it was ingrained in the blood of the Peterson side to just cook awesome. Mom definitely got her talent passed down.

But, to coin a phrase, I digress.

I recall spending the Clark Thanksgivings longing for the Peterson Thanksgivings. Granted, my Mom would make something to bring, so we wouldn't have to particularly starve those years. But occasionally, it was hard to identify exactly what Mom had brought and what was provided by the local kitchen.

One of my Grandma's "masterpieces" was the yams. I spent a good portion of my early years wondering how she could possibly make something that was that nasty. By the time my little brother Andy happened along, I was old enough to help out with him and Mom relied on me to do just that. It may mortify Andy for me to bring up the fact that I used to change his diapers (sorry about that Andy), but I recall some deposits Andy left in those diapers that appeared to be FAR more edible than those yams.

They were usually cooked way beyond their time, were sort of a liquid, poo-consistency goo, all spiced up with who knows what (maybe dirt, or something like that), and covered in marshmallows all melted and mixed into this conglomeration of seriously nasty yuck. It smelled like crap, and I don't mean crap in the "it smells nasty" sense, but actually like crap.

I think I was guilted at one point into actually tasting this death brew by my Mom. I think she felt bad when we all went to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving and we would all gag over Grandma's dishes and horde Mom's. It wasn't long after that Mom may have clued in that it was more of a survival instinct, but for the time she actually made me put that yuck in my mouth and eat it. The resulting food borne reaction may have helped her decide not to do that again.

Now I ask you honestly. Look at this picture. Kathryn used this as an argument for her really liking yams. Does this or does this not look exactly like a big pile of cat-sick? I will say her 'real' yams look better than these. Just looking at that picture gives the urge to dry-heave. She keeps raving over her yams, as do many in the extended family. I am sure that they are accurate in their assessment. But I cannot get past the urge to yack every time I even think about yams. I love Kathryn and she is an incredible cook. I just can't do the yams. Sorry, honey. I don't eat hard shell tacos either. It's not a reflection on your cooking. It's more of a reflection of conditioning. I can't stop it. It just is what it is.

By the way, Miracle Whip is nasty. I don't have a conditioned response that taught me that. It's just that it tastes yucky. Mayo rocks!

The Sheriff

2009-02-16T16:22:00.005-07:00

In one of Kathryn’s comments to my little brother Andy’s blog, I have been known to get on the literary bandwagon once in a while. Andy mentioned writing some humorous emails to coworkers that got passed around a bit and in reference to that, Kathryn mentioned I got into one as well. Well, here it is.

To set this up, I started working at my current employment about 4 years ago. In the first year I worked there, I was exposed to a gentleman that was, let’s say for conversational purposes, somewhat of an enigma. In order for the real humor of this to make sense, you have to understand some of his finer points.

Now, I am not one to bad mouth the military. I did my time in the Air National Guard (8 years) so I hail from the same background. However, one of the shortfalls of the military is this idea that somehow, the military experience supersedes what anyone else does in the ‘real world’. This guy, let’s call him ‘Bob’ (names changed to protect the guilty), was a prior military guy.

His opinion was that everything he learned in the military was everything he needed to know from a technical standpoint. He considered the need for some silly piece of paper that said he had a degree to be beneath him. He could talk the technical jargon well enough and had many in his chain of command convinced he was an expert in the test equipment field.

The problem was that I also knew the technical jargon and as such, I knew he sounded like a fool. He knew all the buzzwords, but didn’t know what it meant. He could silver tongue it well enough to fool people that were not technical, but those of us who were, we knew he was full of manure.

I think he got off on the idea that people would come to him for business. It gave him a heady sense of power. At the time, he felt like he had control of the purse strings and could make multi-million dollar contractual decisions and he threw his weight around with vendors like he was the one they had to impress. The fact was, he never had that authority because he was not an engineer. And I think he resented engineers for that. After all, who needs a degree to do this stuff? He could talk the talk. He could throw his weight around. He could make people jump and it made him feel important. Even though he had no idea what he was talking about.

He was also the king of the euphemisms. Most of them were just annoying. He would be talking about some vendor he thought was not giving us a good enough deal and he would say, “Let’s sharpen our pencils and poke them in the eye”, or, “If they won’t cooperate, we can cap them in the forehead, bury them on the flight line, and march on.”

He also overemphasized his influence with upper management. He kept saying he had some General’s ear and would go have a discussion with him if he wasn’t getting his way. Flight Chiefs, Squadron Directors, no one was big enough or bad enough to withstand his fury or line of influence. “There’s a new Sheriff in town” he would always say implying he was the guy and they had to make him happy or there would be trouble.

One of his so called pet ideas was establishing a test system using PXI architecture. For those who are not technically inclined, the PXI is a PCI (Peripheral Computer Interface) driven architecture. So, PXI stands for PCI eXtended Interface; thus, PXI. This Bob guy felt like it was his destiny to come up with this great PXI standard for all test equipment in the shops. Except, it was envisioned years prior by my supervisor (an engineer, no less) and was something I picked up on and as one of my main projects. So, in other words, this guy was trying to horn in on my work.

I have been working test equipment for close to 14 years now. I think I know a thing or two about it. Having some bozo horn in on an area he had no clue how it really worked, trying to muscle his way around through intimidation and general bloviating didn’t sit well with me (or anyone else in the engineering department). After months of this frustration (he was like talking to a 3 year old. No matter what I said, he only heard what he wanted to hear and didn’t pay attention to logic). I finally had enough. Out of sheer frustration and annoyance, I sat down and wrote ‘The Sheriff’, a spinoff of Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Raven’

To get some of the references, I have to do some simple clarification beyond what I have already said. The project I had been assigned involved a 9-bay PXI chassis. We only needed 7 bays, but this guy was fuming and foaming that it had to be an 18-bay chassis. Why? Only his far superior intelect could reason it out.

He also gathered parts lists from this company we used to develop the tester – CACI, and found that he could go out and buy all the parts for around $43k, while CACI was charging us around $65k for each tester. We tried fruitlessly to point out that someone had to assemble and test it (his response was “it only takes someone with a 3rd grade education and a screwdriver”), but this fell on deaf (or ignorant) ears.

Having said that, here is:

The Sheriff

Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
At my computer monitor reading a volume of designing lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a yapping,
As of some one not gently yakking,
Blustering at my cubicle door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `yakking at my cubicle door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember
That it was some unruly member,
Speaking in such solid timbre
Who had recently come through our door.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
Vainly I had sought to borrow
Some excuse to help me follow - follow some path to an open door -
Where I could escape this buxom fellow at my cubicle door.

Alas I felt and was uncertain
Of my escape it was not certain
It thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating
Entrance at my cubicle door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my cubicle door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger;
Hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `your loudness, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so loudly you came yapping,
And so noisily came yakking,
Blustering at my cubicle door,
That I that overheard you'
Here I opened wide the door; -
A new sheriff there, and nothing more.

"The PXI chassis is the solution,
Why you feel inclined to chasten,
Doubting that this is the way to go forevermore
This simple rule must go unbroken,
To make my plan to be no token,
I want 18 bays and I'm not jokin'
To make the standard work forevermore

Or I'll sharpen up my steely pencil,
Carving out my special stencil
And your eye will be nothing more."

"With those parts lists I have a feeling
(They were paid for, it's not stealing!)
I could buy directly from any choice of store
And with a child's simple learning
And a small screwdriver turning
You would be quickly churning
Complex test equipment on the floor
And be rid of CACI forevermore!"

"Now if you still are disagreeing
Very soon you will be seeing
The power of the sheriff in ways you can't ignore
You know what I will soon be doing
The General's ear I will be chewing
Squadron Chiefs and others to them I will implore
To bypass engineering evermore"

Back into my cubicle turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Wondering about solutions that didn't seem to work so well before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely there is something for exception;
That may mitigate this deception,
Allowing other options to explore -
There must be ways around it that are so simple to explore; -
To limit my designs no more!'

Alas, my mind it gave a shutter
Feeling soft and cold like butter,
While in there stepped the stately sheriff like the saintly days of yore.
Trying now to convince me;
That the way he said it should be;
Lest he should stop and cap me and bury me under the floor -
Stood barking out the words from my cubicle door -
"PXI standard forevermore".

Then this sheriff stood beguiling
My sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore,
`Though you seem so bold and brazen,
Thou,' I said, `can seem so raving.
Claiming answers to be so blazing.
Perplexing me to the very core -
How can you seem to play this game and seem like you are so sure?'
Quoth the sheriff, `PXI more.'

Startled at this simple token
By this rule so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what he utters is suggestion and no more,
For in my past I have had to master
Projects that were a big disaster
Burdened by the tasks of restrictions to the score
And remembering the sorrow that such restrictions bore

But the sheriff still beguiling
All my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of him to my cubicle door;
Then, upon the seat so sinking,
I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking
What this ominous sheriff of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous sheriff of yore
Meant in croaking `PXI more.'

This I sat engaged in guessing,
But no syllable expressing
To the man whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining,
With my head at ease reclining
On the soft chair back lining
That the monitor-light gloated o'er,
He shall press, ah, PXI more?

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! –
Prophet still, if sheriff or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
On this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there an exception? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the sheriff, `PXI more.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! –
Prophet still, if sheriff or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden
If, within the concept maiden,
From whence you get your feigned direction for engineering to explore?
Why must I follow this standard forevermore?'
Quoth the sheriff, `PXI more.'

`Be that word our sign of parting,
Sheriff or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no direction as a token
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! –
Quit directing my job from that door!
Take thy direction from out my heart,
And take thy form from my cubicle door!'
Quoth the sheriff, `PXI more.'

And the sheriff, never flitting,
Still is sitting, still is sitting
Bugging me about this standard from within my cubicle door
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the monitor-light o'er him streaming
Throws his shadow on the floor;
And my designs from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

The First Kiss - the rest of the story

2009-02-14T21:49:00.004-07:00

Ok, Kathryn tells me I have the 'rest of the story'. So here goes.

The story she tells to this point about the Hershey's kisses is true. I do have to say, however, that the chemistry was boiling pretty well between the two of us before then. I remember a journal entry I made saying about how there was something about her (Kathryn) that I just couldn't get over.

To back up a bit, the summer prior to the time I met Kathryn, I had met someone at a singles ward in Kaysville that I had been dating in the summer. Other posts may reflect this most interesting of relationships. To sum it up, it was very much a summer fling that faded significantly as I went back to USU and she went back to Weber State.

In fact, about 2 or 3 weeks after I met Kathryn this other person dumped me on a weekend I had come home for my National Guard weekend. If I was being honest with myself, I knew it was coming; long distance things just never really work anyhow, plus the relationship was not really a good one anyhow.

But it still messed me up. I felt pretty devistated by it. Probably the most significant feeling I had was that now I would never see her or talk to her again. I felt like I had girls that were friends, but whenever I tried to get the relationship more serious, it would end up really messy. Plus, it had a really negative impact on my grades. That quarter was the worst of my college career. I decided then and there that I wasn't going to bother with this getting serious thing until I had my degree. My degree was just too big of a deal to mess up.

But then I went down to First Night in SLC with Kathryn and a few of her friends and a few of my friends. Once again, other posts will detail that night, but it was a definate turning point in my feeling and relationship with Kathryn. All dispite my best laid plans to not get involved until after I graduated.

By the time Valentines day came along and the incident mentioned by Kathryn, there were some serious misgivings on my ability to hold to my committment. I was still struggling with the idea that if I had tried to get more serious with Kathryn, she would just end up hating me like all the other girls I had made an attempt with. I felt like Kathryn was a really good friend and I didn't want to mess that up. But I also was starting to recognize that she was the person I had been looking for all my life.

We started hanging out more and more, and even sort of branched off and did things just with the two of us. I remember going to play racquetball with her, Sharon, and Phil. Afterwards, just she and I were sitting in the Student Center and kind of chatting. I really wanted to make a move and just hold her hand or something, but I couldn't get the courage up.

Around the first of that next March, I made a resolution. I decided I was going to step out and risk it. I didn't know how I would do it, but I was going to let her know 100% for sure I was thinking about something serious with her and that there would be no doubt. I wanted to coordinate it with my March Guard drills. That way, I could step away from it for a few days and think about it clearly, let her think about it clearly, and if somehow everything was OK when I got back, I would know there was something to it.

I had no real plan to say anything or what I was going to do. We did something that Friday night; I think we were watching movies at my apartment. After it was all said and done, she went to go home, so I walked her to her car.

When she was going to leave, and I don't know what came over me to do it, I just took her and kissed her for the first time. I think she was really floored. I don't think she expected it. It was definately a step. She got in her car and drove off and I went back to my apartment and then went home for the weekend.

Needless to say, when I got back, I felt good about things. Of course, I was worried that maybe Kathryn was freaked out and would tell me to take a hike. But that didn't happen. We talked about it afterwards, and that is when we both knew that things not only were right, but were going to get even more serious.

Now, I could tell you exactly what happened to Kathryn after she left my apartment that night. I only know because she told me later. Maybe she could tell it better? It's a good story. Hints? Let's see, there was something about a hubcap? Can you elaborate Kathryn?

Scouts, Teasing, & Spam

2009-02-11T16:34:00.001-07:00

Last night was Scout night. It was pretty interesting, to say the least. It just amazes me. I think every youth leader hopes to have something impact the lives of a young person in a positive way. Try as we may, it never seems to work out if you plan it. But sometimes accidents occur and you make a difference. Or at least you hope you do.

I had planned to talk to the Scouts about the upcoming summer camp scheduled for later this year. The leaders’ guide has just been released so I wanted to get them filled in with all the information that they needed to have a good camp. So, of course, no one listened and I spent most of the night effectively talking to the wall while the boys goofed around.

I did notice that one of the boys in particular was poking fun at one of the leaders sitting in the back. The leader seemed to be pretty good natured about it and shrugged it off, but it kind of stuck in my craw. I guess that I am a bit sensitive to the whole concept of making fun of someone since it was something that happened so much to me, so I got a whim and launched into a discussion about teasing and making fun.

Don’t get me wrong; I am as apt to tease someone as anyone else in the world. In fact, that is one of my specialties. And maybe I wasn’t as good at recognizing the difference between teasing and making fun when I was younger, but being on the side of the ‘being made fun of’ more often than not, I am quite sensitive now to it.

We got into how making fun of someone was hurtful and how some of those things can really damage people. I told them that any time you poke fun at someone because of a physical quality it was making fun and was hurtful. Even if the person could shrug it off, there was somewhere deep down where that person would feel like there was something wrong with them that they couldn’t change because it was who they were.

I told them that I got made fun of because I had red hair. Their response really kind of floored me, though. They said they thought red hair was really cool and they were envious of anyone who had red hair. Boy, times sure change! My generation was brutal to me because of my red hair. This generation thinks it’s cool! Or, at least this group of kids did. But I digress.
There was one kid who was definitely not taking any of this serious. He kept cracking ‘yo momma’ jokes. I told him that some people would be inclined to do serious bodily harm to someone if they cracked jokes about their mothers. Even that seemed to not penetrate his lack of seriousness.

I started to tell them the story of the Columbine kids that shot their high school up because they were bullied. I told them that it wasn’t one person and it wasn’t one incident. But it was accumulated over years that built up to the point where those two boys were so angry, they bombed their school and shot and killed 13 of their schoolmates, and then themselves. I was trying to get them serious and all this kid could ask was if it was shotguns or pistols (surely that’s beside the point, isn’t it?).

One of the other leaders came in late and added his input to the conversation. He had lived not far from Columbine High School prior to that incident and knew a good portion of the people affected by that terrible day. He told what an impact it had on their lives and what a different place that area is now. I thought it was good input.

Then, just as we were about to finish up, this kid that wasn’t serious rattled some word or phrase off in Spanish and this leader just perked right up. He asked the kid if he knew what that phrase meant. Of course, the kid had no idea. The leader seemed a bit agitated and told him that what he had just said in Spanish was one of the most vile and despicable things a person could say and that in some parts of the world (like Central America where he had served his mission), if you said something like what that kid had said, would likely get you shot right on the spot.

The leader’s tone was pretty strong and although I don’t think he was really angry with the kid, he was definitely offended by what the kid had said in Spanish. I tell you, that kid was suddenly very serious. I asked him if he knew what the word meant or had any idea it was so offensive and he said, basically, that he didn’t know. I told him that was the point I was trying to make that you have to be careful what you say and respect people’s feelings or you could seriously hurt them or create a situation that may not turn out very good.

When we finished up, I looked around the room at 6 boys that had their eyes opened up a little bit. I asked them if they had learned something that night, and most of them emphatically shook their heads, “Yes”. Hopefully it was positive and wakes them up to the reality that what we say can hurt people. Of course, they were trying hard to get the leader to tell them what the word meant, but he wouldn’t say (of course). I can’t blame him. If it was that offensive, I don’t want to know, and those boys shouldn’t know either.

On another unrelated incident (other than it was Scout related), I recently started up a website where I could post information about the troop with a calendar and a forum/billboard format to keep parents and Scouts informed on the internet. I started it up around the first of the year. Well, after about 6 weeks, the spammers found it.

The registration protocol for the website was such that bots cannot register and post their spam. I know there are bots out there that look to do that so these guys don’t have to personally go in and register to post their garbage, but my site isn’t like that. It has one of those random generated images you have to type the number in for and make them match or it won’t let you register. Long story short, someone had to personally go in and register their account.

They posted their garbage on the billboard where I had put information about the winter camp. Now, you tell me. Isn’t there something fundamentally wrong with someone posting advertisements about Viagra and Cialice on a website dedicated to Scouts? These people are sick.
I deleted their posts and removed their usernames. I also made it so I had to approve of any new registered users before they can post anything, so the garbage stopped and I got rid of what was there. Still.

Winter Camp, Cold, and Scout Sunday

2009-02-08T21:05:00.004-07:00

So, how often do you blog? I don't know - I guess it's more like whenever you feel like it.

I had my winter camp for the Scouts. I think this may have been one of the least enjoyable camps I have been on in a while. I know that sounds negative, but it was so cold up there. We went up to Liberty, UT at the Stake Camp and stayed under the bowery. I have done that before with the Scouts, but this time for some reason was really cold. I had my cot which is usually quite comfortable, but this time there was some wind, and it kept the air moving underneath the cot. That kept it pretty cold.

I have a nice sleeping bag, but anywhere I made contact with the cot, the cold air kept that area really cold. I switched between lying on one side until it went numb from the cold, then rolled over to warm it back up and let the other side go numb. It made for a really long night.

Then we went over to Pineview to do ice fishing the next morning. They were successful in that there was ice. No fish, but plenty of ice. The ice on Pineview is at least 14 inches thick. I think they say that you can safely drive a semi-truck on ice that is 6 inches thick. Why you would want to drive a semi on a lake, I am not quite sure. Maybe it's one of those stupid human tricks? I don't know.

I guess it could have been worse. I have had worse experiences on Scout camps, but I certainly have had better. At least all the boys seemed to have enjoyed themselves. No real severe complaining, at least.

I guess the crux of my problem was the cold. I really hate the cold. I am definately not a winter person. I think the worst months of the year are January and February. March is getting better because then I can start to see my roses coming out of hybernation. I really like that. Spring is such a great time of year. I guess I have to keep myself positive and realize that there can't be any spring without winter. Sort of like saying you can't appreciate pleasure without knowing pain, I guess.

Anyhow, today was also Scout Sunday. I 'got' to speak in church about Scouting and how it helps prepare young men to be missionaries and fathers. I guess it went well. Everyone said they liked it.

Well, I guess I am done for the night.

Blog thing

2009-02-07T21:17:00.003-07:00

Well, Kathryn started her own blog not too long ago. I have (up until now) been hesitant to cave in and add my name to the infinite list of people 'blogging', mostly because I could not even estimate anyone wanting to read my random musings - I barely do! Anyhow, I was reading around on hers and on by little brother Andy's blog and thought, well, maybe I'll succumb. I guess I am just one of those Lemmings.

I picked Glurge-o-rama because I really like the definition of Glurge: Sickeningly sweet stories with a moral, often hiding slightly sinister undertones. First of all, I love the 'Sickeningly sweet' part. One of my favorite lines from Harry Potter is in the description of Deloris Umbridge's little cat plates, picturing cats playing with 'sickening cuteness'. It's the whole opposite spectrum thing in two little words. Plus the 'hiding slightly sinister undertones' is a good bonus. I don't know if everything I will put down here is technically glurge, but who can say? One man's glurge is another man's treasure? I don't know if that really works.

Anyhow, this is my first post, so I guess I won't overdo myself.