Suing Greg Dobbs

Posted on June 25, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Greg Dobbs launching another assault attempt

Gregory Stuart Dobbs, former Philadelphia Phillies and current Miami Marlin should keep an eye on his mailbox over the next couple of weeks. He will undoubtedly find an unpleasant surprise awaiting him. But before I get into that …

I am proud to announce the end of a personal drought that has run for roughly 48 years! It began when I was about 8. (Might have been 6. It was a LONG time ago …)

That’s when I attended my first Philadelphia Phillies game at venerable Connie Mack Stadium! In all those years, I had NEVER caught a batted ball during game play … or during batting practice … or even as a casual flip by a player into the stands.

You get my drift. Never the chance to smell the processed leather scent of a new ball, to feel the slightly raised stitches or the slick whiteness of the MLB sphere. There was a hole in life … a small hole, but nonetheless …

Connie Mack Stadium: Where it all began

It’s one of those silly things guys who like their sports, who adore the Game of Baseball, are driven to “accomplish”. Just one of those experiences you want to check off the Minor Bucket List.

Most of us pursue our quarry willy-nilly on those occasions when we go to a ballgame and get the chance to sit in The Good Seats … in just the right place in the stadium where the fouls balls will most assuredly fall like manna from the heavens throughout the entire game. Those of us who cherish this quest will deliberately study potential ball flight paths, homeplate proximity, and immediately calculate the odds of a catch as soon as we get to our seats.

Yes, we are a sorry breed.

My personal drought ended on a Saturday evening, June 23, 2012 in the fourth inning of a game at Citizens Bank Park between the hometown Phils and the Tampa Bay Rays.

The Catch will forever go down in Family Lore as a diving, one-hand snag of a screaming line drive into the seats. At least that will be the story I plan to pass down to every one of my grandchildren … eventually. I will have to redefine the meaning of “catch” to include “gaining possession of an object that’s barely moving”. And I might throw in a small child or grandmother saved from a potential cataclysmic head injury.

Me and my elusive quarry, finally captured

But today will be the only time the true story will be told. But first back to my potential lawsuit against Greg Dobbs …

Since the World Championship season of 2008, we have held good ball-potential seats. Section 135 at Citizens Bank Park, just behind third base, halfway down the left field line, 21 rows from the field. We’ve had our share of close calls, including one in 2009 off the bat of the soon-to-be-lighter-in-the-wallet Gregory Stuart Dobbs.

In a game which has faded from memory, Mr. Dobbs assaulted us in our Section 135 seats. His weapon was a screaming line drive foul ball.

As soon as I saw it off the bat, I said to no one in particular, “Uh oh!” (no, not one of my more eloquent observations) The round missile was traveling at roughly the speed of sound and right at my bride’s delicate noggin.

To this day, she insists she would have caught it, had I not stuck my mitt-less mitt in front of her face. But by my calculation, she would still be in a head cast, sipping dinner through a straw.

So I did the gentlemanly thing and knocked her out of the way – gently … kinda – and bravely stuck my hand out to protect my woman … and of course, to see if I could grab that elusive sphere. When the dust settled, the ball was in the possession of a regular Section 135 resident who sits right behind us; I had a knot the size of Placido Polanco’s head growing on my thumb; and the spousal unit was in a tiff because I ruined HER CHANCE to catch one in the teeth!

For years I have lived with the humiliation of missing that Impossible Catch, the shame of ruining Carol’s “big chance” at a Grade III concussion, and the taunts of a coworker who sits a row ahead of us on the same 17-game ticket plan.

The torment finally ended that Saturday night!

Future Hall-of-Fame shortstop, Elliot Johnson (OK, so he’s off to a slow start.) swung at a Kyle Kendrick offering as I sat next to Carol and sipped my chosen adult beverage, a Flying Fish Extra Pale Ale.

As the ball arced tightly toward the population of Section 135, I received a mental text message from that compartment of the brain in charge of Semi-Athletic Endeavors … PUT THE BEER DOWN. As I complied, I thought “Why am I bothering? That ball’s not getting here.”

Sure enough the ball hits three rows ahead of us and about 6 seats to our right. I had stood up just before the ball hit flailing flesh, keenly abiding the next two intra-brain text messages … STAND UP, STUPID and LOOK FOR A REBOUND …

Several people lunged for the possession prized by so many, though it means so little. The ball got through outstretched arms and struck the back of a seat a row or two in front of us, still off to our right.

As I searched for a ricochet, I was stunned to see the ball bounding down our row; seat-back high, clanking off grabbing hands, bouncing off cowering women folk. It struck someone or something and plopped into a seat a row in front and just to the right of my Android-distracted spousal unit. (Later, she would insist she would have had the ball had she not been playing with her phone. Well, at least this time she wouldn’t have needed all that dental work.)

Since I was obediently standing up already, I was in the perfect position to plunge down and grab the valueless trinket. Yet for some reason, I waited for the next rather frantic, emotion-filled brain text that screamed GET IT, YA DOPE!!!

As I swooped down (dismiss all pre-existing concepts of what “swooping” looks like), another gentleman equidistant from the seat on the other side of Carol also lunged down and flailed at the elusive prize. My cat-like movements (consisting of me clawing at the still bouncing ball like a large, slow-moving cat) simply knocked the ball around the seat some more, as I and my competition continued to swat and grab. Finally, I cornered the ball and plucked it from the seat!

I rose triumphant and exhilarated! Displaying my trophy for all The World to see, including that smart ass from work who predicted I would NEVER get my first in-game ball! I was King of the World!

Then Kendrick threw another pitch, and I was just a middle-aged doofus making too much out of corralling a worthless, slightly used baseball.

And that leads me back to Gregory Stuart Dobbs.

I heard that Elizabeth Lloyd and her husband are suing an 11-year-old Little League player in Manchester Township, NJ for $300,000 after allegedly plunking her in the face with a baseball … that might have been traveling 10 miles an hour … while she sat completely oblivious to what was going on around her at a baseball game with pre-teens swinging metal bats and throwing rock hard objects.

I don’t really buy this – that you can hold an 11-year-old accountable for your own lack of attention – but it was inspiring on a much higher financial level! Afterall, if Ms. Lloyd is successful, imagine what I could get from a grown man and well-paid ballplayer – Mr. Dobbs – who was “engaging in inappropriate physical and/or sporting activity” in the presence of 45,000 people!!

In addition, I also lost the “services, society and consortium” of my wife. This was the indisputable result of my thumb injury, which prevented me from completing my “move”, as I prefer The Pinch over The Swirl. For weeks I was reduced to using The Knuckle. It was HORRIBLE! The loss was devastating, insufferable, humiliating, and completely fabricated.

But hey, get me a good lawyer, and I could ~~make~~ take me a fortune!

Greg Dobbs, the bell tolls for thee!

Tips for surviving a Type A Vacation

Posted on June 8, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Now that another summer is upon us, I offer observations and advice for those Type B personalities preparing for another “vacation” with their Type A spouses.

Many of us have one. That Type A spouse upon whom we rely for all the high-intensity, detail-filled tasks that are essential to family health and harmony. The Type A in the family is the go-getter, the organizer, the protagonist for family involvement, the anti-couch potato … all good things … most times.

Unfortunately, some Type As tend to transform into General Patton when it comes to the family vacation. They plan and execute summer get-aways like the D-Day invasion of Fortress Europe. There are Objectives, Operational Plans, and Time Tables. The pace of operations can be intense and unforgiving. And if you tire, get wounded, or fall off the pace, you’re likely to be left by the side of the road like a piece of carrion for the buzzards.

OK … Just a bit of hyperbole there. And maybe there’s nothing amiss with some high-intensity activity on a vacation. Many people seem not to mind.

But, if YOU are the family couch potato – like me – and come ill-prepared for the duration and intensity of this Theatre of Operations, a much-anticipated vacation could end up as your own personal version of The Donner Party. So with my years of experience at being driven by my more energetic, motivated, hyper-vacationated spousal unit, allow me to offer some timely advice.

Keep in mind that each trial, hurdle, ache, and injury will be multiplied by the number of children you will carrying on your back or pushing in a stroller!

Get in touch with Type A reality: Some people – or so I’m told – go on vacations to unwind, to regroup, to blow off steam, to reflect and to recharge the batteries. In other words … To RELAX! But as any Type A Vacation Survivor will tell you, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X from V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N! And that all you will get from your Type A protagonist is the “A” … and that “A” stands for Apathy! Once rid of your Type B Vacation misapprehensions, you will understand and – more importantly – SURVIVE what is in store for you.

Cardiovascular health: Make sure you are physically fit and ready for a grind. Type A Vacations can include hand-to-hand combat, tests of agility, decision-making under extreme stress, and plenty of windsprints; and that’s just getting to breakfast!

So lose the excess weight. Hit the elliptical trainer and the Stairmaster. Work on BOTH speed and endurance. You’re going to need it!

I learned – a bit too late to save my naive impressions of what vacations are – that the two of us were raised in families that lived at Polar Extremes of the Vacation Continuum. My family – when we went on vacations – tended to gravitate towards the South Jersey shore points, where Leisure is spelled with a capital “L”. The most stress usually involved deciding where to eat; the too long/too late obligatory excursions on the boardwalk; and the occasional case of sunburn.

Not so my better-half’s family vacation experiences. Whereas my family’s vacations seemed geared towards resting and refreshing hard-working adults, her family’s vacations were about The Experience … Getting as much as one can from the trip … Trying not to miss a single offering or opportunity presented by whatever venue they visited … Hit the ground running and don’t stop until the money is exhausted or the hotel insists that your stay has ended!

She’ll claim it is not so; but I have the scars to prove otherwise!

Strength training: You’ll want to bulk up normally for any vacation … all that baggage rustling, equipment stowage and deployment can test your back, arms and legs.

Pre-hotel-check-in on Day One, Disneyworld 2004

Many Type A’s look upon hotel check-in as an unnecessary hindrance to getting all the fun started. If given their way, they would forego completely any initial hotel interaction until very late the first night of a trip. They would prefer to jump, tuck ‘n roll from the still-moving car and commence immediately with the festivities. This is why so many Type A’s will wear their bathing suits on the way to the shore.

However this becomes a real problem when visiting high-activity, high-intensity vacation sites like Disney World. Dragging all those unchecked suitcases through The Magic Kingdom on Day One for hours before your Type A decides to waste time checking-in can be exhausting. So make sure you pay extra attention to strengthening your large muscle groups of the legs and back!

It’s hard not to reflect on our earlier vacations when the boys were but wee lads. The amount of equipment … strollers, porta-cribs, high chairs, toys … we had to drag along with us was mind-boggling.

I can remember staring at the back of our Dodge Grand Caravan thinking, “I’ll never get all this crap in or onto the roof.”

Of course just about then, General Patton would stick her head out the door and ask me why I was relaxing!!

Get your rest before you go: Yeah, I know … Get my rest BEFORE vacation?!? Trust me! As stated above, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X … Anyway, simply be prepared to GO GO GO from dawn to midnight! You will get to relax when you sleep and if you’re lucky should you stop at a food source where you will be allowed – begrudgingly – to sit down and eat.

Know your rights! This is the toughest part of being a Type B soul trapped in a Type A vacation.

It’s been four days of hard-driving, high intensity, calf-burning activity. You look longingly at the hotel pool, the water of which you fear will never get the chance to wash over your cramping, stressed-out body. You heard rumor that the tiki bar has been hopping the last two nights while you were pushing four-year-old Gertrude and six-year-old Jeffrey in a double dolphin stroller through 25 miles of SeaWorld until midnight. You just want a few hours doing nothing more than reading a book, floating in the pool, or downing a few mai tais. But you know that the Operations Plan does not allow for idle time. Failure to adhere to The Schedule will throw the entire expedition into chaos and anarchy.

What’s a Type B to do?!?

STRIKE!

That’s right, exercise your God-given right to refuse to do anything more than sit around and contemplate your navel! Why should teachers and Teamsters have all the fun?!? Where’s the compassion? Where’s the solidarity?? Where are the damn mai tais?!?

Now that being said, General Patton will be a bit more than slightly miffed at your insubordination and temerity. They will huff and puff; threaten and cajole; plead in the name of the Operations Schedule. DO NOT LISTEN! The sole purpose is to wring another day’s worth of blood from a turnip. And oddly enough, turnips is probably what your knotted, cramped legs will look like at this point of your Type A Vacation!

First off … NO TEARS!! Crying is a sign of weakness to the Type A Patton. They will roll over you like Hitler took the French! If the Type A pressure persists, simply put on your Alec Guinness stiff upper lip; whistle the tune from The Bridge on the River Kwai; and stand your ground!

Simply state in your firmest, most reasonable voice that you will be taking a day off, and that you would be willing to watch the kids at the pool so that General Patton can dangle a foot off the dock for a few hours as well. This strategy has worked for me in the past. General Patton by this point accepts our labor standoffs with rolled eyes and an exasperated huff. And one year she actually chose to forego the pool day and went solo into The Magic Kingdom just to reconnoiter the next day’s Mission.

But for the typical Type A Vacation Generalissimos, The Next Mission is what vacation is all about!

Practical confession

Posted on April 8, 2012 by Mike Shortall

I’m a bit of a practical jokester when the opportunity presents itself; like the time I bungy-corded the kids’ bedrooms door shut very early one Christmas morning. To my knowledge no property damage was ever done, no fatalities or major injuries suffered. But I’m sure I have annoyed a few people along the way, not that they necessarily ever connected me to their state of annoyance.

A case in point …

Nick is a really nice guy, but was known at the time to be a bit full of himself. He was a fellow team leader in a large federal procurement office that will remain nameless. He also had a habit – for some reason – of taking his shoes off in the afternoon as he sat at his desk. No cubicles back then, which is important to the story.

Anywho … I had the mischievous and compulsive thought one day to grab one of his shoes as I walked past his desk and he was distracted on the phone. That only one person, Pete Z, saw me do it in an office crowded with desks lined almost end-to-end was amazing. He smiled but never said anything.

My misdemeanor theft went unnoticed for twenty minutes as we sat waiting for something to happen. So I decided – in a flash of non-brilliance it would turn out – to turn up the heat a bit.

I looked up the name of the Commanding General’s Aide-de-Camp, then called the secretary of the Division Director imitating said Lieutenant stating that Mr. Nick L would be receiving a commendation personally from General WhoseIts for Something or Other in approximately 15 minutes.

There was of course an immediate flurry of activity as the secretary called about the various offices looking for said Division Director who was elsewhere in the building. In the meantime, said secretary went over to Nick L to relay to him the good news of his impending commendation; at which point Nick quickly reached down to replace his shoes upon his feet.

Ruh roh …

At that very moment as Pete and I stifled our schoolyard giggles, the Division Director came marching urgently back to the office to don his suitcoat and prepare for the visit by The General. I started to get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. In the meantime, said secretary and Nick had started frantically searching the area around Nick’s desk trying to find his other shoe. The image of Nick standing there either in his socks or with one shoe on and one shoe off was causing me and Pete fits of muffled laughter.

Nick had figured by now that his missing shoe was no accident. But he hadn’t put missing shoe plus out-of-the-blue General visit together. He was way too busy scurrying from one suspect’s desk to another trying to discover the shoe bandit before he ended up standing next to an Air Force General who would be wondering why this idiot was standing next to him with one-or-none shoes on!

For some reason, I was not high on the suspect list. But Pete was. And as the search intensified – now with the Division Director involved and a bit incredulous over this turn of affairs – I glanced over to see Pete head down as if working studiously on a compelling procurement dilemma, glancing sideways at me with this deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. It was obvious that he was uncertain that he would be able to keep a straight face when they got to his desk and shined the glaring Light of Suspicion upon him!

Ruh roh …

That’s when I bolted from my desk in a controlled panic, deftly hiding the purloined shoe behind a file folder (i.e. what we used before computer files) as I quickly – but as inconspicuously as possible – retreated in the opposite direction from the Shoe Hounds. Pete looked like he was going to throw up; but I had to figure out how to end this before someone – namely me – got hurt.

So circling around the office to get behind the line of the suspect sweep, I grabbed an interoffice envelope (i.e. what we used before the creation of e-mail) and stuffed the missing footwear inside and tied down the flap with the red stringy thing. Then I calmly and stealthily snuck into the Division Director’s office – which was just a big cubicle – and placed the shoe-stuffed envelope on his desk.

As I strolled back to my desk through the phalanx of InterOfficePolice, I buried my head in the file folder as if I was working on a compelling procurement dilemma. The Office Gumshoes were just a few desks away from the profusely sweating Pete Z when I placed a call to the secretary’s phone, telling her in my best disguised guilty-as-hell voice, “The shoe is on Mr. Director’s desk.”

After fifteen minutes of standing around waiting for a General that wasn’t about to appear, Mr. Division Director leaned over to an exasperated Nick and said, “I think someone was playing us.”

They say the Most Successful Prank or Swindle is the one where The Victim(s) never connect the perpetrator with the crime. If that’s the case, then this was indeed my Greatest Caper! But I’m convinced I haven’t tried it again simply because it went to the brink a lot faster than I would have anticipated had I bothered to think before I had swiped that shoe.

I guess there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

May the road rise to meet you!

Posted on March 16, 2012 by Mike Shortall

In a previous post on More PC wackiness, I took some local Irish Philadelphians to task for figuratively swinging their shillelaghs at Spencer’s Gifts during a protest at the Franklin Mills Mall over “desecration of the Shamrock”.

Spencer’s crime? The sale of “Kiss me, I’m Irish” merchandise.

Although I sympathized with their observation that Irish tales of drinking and fighting were a bit overplayed at this time of the year, I also felt they were dangerously close to joining all those ultra-sensitive cultural groups who lose their insert relevant cultural icon here every time someone looks at them crooked.

As an Irish-American several generations removed from life on The Auld Sod, I offered my view that one of the aspects of Irish culture I always found appealing was the Irish’s ability to maintain a friendly demeanor while holding dear their culture and their heritage. In my humble Americanized opinion the Irish, who are no strangers to natural and man-made tragedies, had refined the ability to survive to an art … an art in the form of a folksy wisdom and an uncanny ability to laugh at themselves.

So with those thoughts in mind, here are a few good Irish stories and sayings in tribute to a hardy and agreeable breed of people. And yes, a few stoudts are included.

May the roof above us never fall in,

And may we friends beneath it never fall out!

Paddy was visiting a large American city. He was patiently waiting and watching the traffic cop at a busy street crossing. The cop stopped the flow of traffic and shouted, “Okay, pedestrians!” They would all cross, then he’d allow the traffic to resume once again. He’d done this several times, and Paddy still stood on the sidewalk. After the cop had shouted, ‘Pedestrians!’ for the tenth time, Paddy went over to him and said, “Is it not about time ye let the Catholics across?”

Continual cheerfulness is a sign of wisdom.

An Irish priest is driving down to New York and gets stopped for speeding in Connecticut. The state trooper smells alcohol on the priest’s breath and then sees an empty wine bottle on the floor of the car.

He says, “Sir, have you been drinking?”

“Just water, officer”,’ says the priest.

The trooper asks, “Then why do I smell wine?”

The priest looks at the bottle and says, “Good Lord! He’s done it again!”

Here’s to you and yours, and to mine and ours.

And if mine and ours ever come across you and yours,

I hope you and yours will do as much for mine and ours

As mine and ours have done for you and yours!

Mike was driving down the street in a sweat because he had an important meeting and couldn’t find a parking place. Looking up to heaven he said, “Lord take pity on me. If you find me a parking place I will go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of me life and give up me Irish Whiskey!” Miraculously, a parking place appeared. Mike looked up again and said, “Never mind, I found one.”

You’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind.

Walking into the bar, Seamus said to Charlie the bartender, ‘”Pour me a stiff one – just had another fight with the little woman.” “Oh yeah?” said Charlie, “And how did this one end?” “When it was over,” Seamus replied, “She came to me on her hands and knees.” “Really,” said the bartender, “Now that’s a switch! What did she say?” “Come out from under the bed, you little chicken!”

Here’s to me, and here’s to you.

And here’s to love and laughter.

I’ll be true as long as you.

And not one moment after.

Sean staggered home very late after another evening with his drinking buddy, Paddy. He took off his shoes to avoid waking his wife, Kathleen. He tiptoed as quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he landed heavily on his rump. A whiskey bottle in each back pocket broke and made the landing especially painful. Managing not to yell, Sean sprung up; pulled down his pants; and looked in the hall mirror to see that his butt cheeks were cut and bleeding. He managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began placing them as best he could on each place he saw blood. He then hid the now almost empty Band-Aid box, and shuffled and stumbled his way to bed. In the morning, Sean woke up with searing pain in both his head and his butt and Kathleen staring at him from across the room. “You were drunk again last night weren’t you?”, she accused. Sean replied, “Why would you say such a mean thing?” “Well”, Kathleen said, ‘It could be the wide open front door. It could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs. It could be the drops of blood trailing through the house. It could be your bloodshot eyes. But mostly … it’s all those Band-Aids stuck on the hall mirror!”

May your thoughts be as glad as the shamrocks.

May your heart be as light as a song.

May each day bring you bright, happy hours

That stay with you all the year long.

May this St. Patrick’s Day find you and yours in the best of spirits and at the peak of good health!

(Thanks to Gary K for the jokes! – Cranky … except when I win in poker.)

Cranky Man for America!

Posted on March 2, 2012 by Mike Shortall

I struggled with this post for the better part of a week. I wanted to try something different … a bit tongue-in-cheek. A chance to spout off a bit about the current GOP primary cycle. But I couldn’t come up with the right tone through this “brainstorm” of mine that would help generate a healthy debate over the woeful state of our national politics.

Here follows the first part of the drafted post.

It is with Pride in America and Commitment to its Fundamental Beliefs that I announce my availability for Nomination as the Republican Party’s candidate for President of the United States of America!

I stand ready to serve should The Party remain uncommitted and un-commitable to its current slate of candidates.

I cannot describe this effort as a “run” for the Presidency.

As one with the 99%, I neither possess the funds nor the connections to launch a full throttle charge for the Nation’s Highest Office. This will be more like a Stroll Towards Pennsylvania Avenue. And – as befits a man who writes a blog dedicated in part to his Passion for Lawn Turf, this will have to succeed as a true Grass Roots Movement!

The post went on and on – much more so than I am willing to admit – as if I was half-heartedly tossing my hat in the ring, hoping to be carried into The Oval Office on the shoulders of the 99%.

But even as I intended it as a humorous verbal assault on Hubris and the failings of Political Ambition, I realized I sounded politically ambitious and full of hubris. Go figure!

I also came to realize, it’s not really all that funny. And it’s certainly not limited to this cycle’s waning stable of GOP candidates, or even just the Presidential part of our National Politics.

And so, like a few other blog ideas that sounded great as they bounced around in my head, I have abandoned that effort and decided on a more direct discussion of why National Politics in America ~~Suck~~ … is so frustrating.

Maybe you all can help me figure out why.

More on this later. Right now I’ve got to take a shower and get this icky feeling off me!

Dog vs. Man

Posted on January 30, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Actual conversation one morning last week …

“Honey, where’s that piece of steak I was saving for lunch?”

“It’s in the fridge. Look behind the yogurt.”

“Yeah … But where’s the REST of it?”

“I gave it to the dog. I ran out of chicken.”

Uh huh …

So this is what it has come to. My position on the Family Food Chain is now somewhere below Dog, maybe higher than the spider I was forced to assassinate one recent evening to the non-stop scream, “Bug! Bug!!”

Of course “higher than … spider” is just an assumption on my part.

There are rules … Rules of Nature … that suggest that the higher species – those that are stronger, smarter and more adaptable – get first crack at prized resources and eat first at The Kill. Unfortunately for some of us those rules are suspended in the Dog-Human Relationship.

Actually that’s a misstatement in my case. As this incident illustrates, this Man is the third wheel in the Dog-Woman Relationship.

Personally, I like dogs. In fact, I have proven recently my fondness for Man’s Best Friend. And I love, Zoe, our Bichon Frise. And for the most part, it doesn’t bother me that she is spoilt more than a Kardashian. But there should be respect for The Pecking Order of Species.

I am bigger and stronger; and damn it … I can – on most days – complete a 16-square sudoku in The Washington Post!!

So that highly prized New York strip steak I was hoarding for myself should remain mine. I shouldn’t have to stand over The Kill baring fangs like a starving lion fending off a circling hyena … especially a fluffy white specimen that looks like a candidate for Best of Show!

Fluffy, white-haired circling hyena

Guess I’ll just have to adapt.

THE END

Funny aside …

Recently Zoe underwent knee surgery.

(And no, she did not injure it while running down a “kill” of her own. She only goes after meat that is completely motionless and thoroughly cooked, perhaps served in a balsamic reduction. But I digress …)

I will not bore you with the veterinary details, including the $ticker $hock from which we are still recovering. No, this is about what contortions we go through for our pets.

Our instructions were to keep Zoe off her bad leg as much as possible, so the process of doggie bathroom breaks was a tad problematic. The vet-proposed solution was to “lighten the load” on her surgically-repaired leg by using a home-made sling to support her body mass as she went about “her business”.

There is nothing more humbling than standing next to your pooch with a sling made of a rolled blanket running beneath their belly and held aloft in your fisted hand! People passing by – people who you know – look at you like you have lost it completely. And the dog simply looks up at you with a face that says; “Do you really expect me to go with this stupid thing wrapped around me. Oh … And you look like an idiot too!”

Holiday Armageddon

Posted on December 20, 2011 by Mike Shortall

In recent years it seems to be easier and easier to find examples of man-made, Christmas-related conflict surrounding even the most innocuous of holiday traditions and expressions. These conflicts run the gamut from serious issues of public policy to the silliness demonstrated by the content of this post.

Last week I addressed the situation in Loudon County, Virginia where Santa Claus was crucified in a confluence of Free Speech and Poor Governance.

But a fight of a completely different hue erupted this season in Doylestown, PA. The trouble was Colored Christmas Lights, my friend. And that’s Trouble with a capital T!

In the tradition of the Hatfields and the McCoys, the Capulets and the Montagues, the Bloods and the Crips, it was white lights vs. colored lights. One side espoused tradition, elegance and a Code of Conformity against a rebellion of flash and festiveness instigated by the free-spirited. Each side dug in behind barricades constructed from long-held beliefs of what Christmas is supposed to look like; not just on one’s own house, but on the neighbor’s house next door and the one across the street.

The battlefield was the neighborhood streets. Progress in the conflict was expressed in monetary fines accumulated vs. the number of homes that decided to join The Rebels against The Establishment.

The Establishment was represented by humorless, dour functionaries draped in flowing robes of white. They stared down from their castle ramparts upon the rebellious rabble, who no longer appreciated the purity and tradition conveyed by their flawless, heaven-like white lights. They persisted in the observance of the community’s established Holiday Standard; and they cast judgement on that criminal element who dared challenge the long-held view of White Lights Only!

The Rebels scurried about in open defiance, dressed in Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoats. They threw splashes of vibrant color all over the landscape; protested The Law of the Land; and teased the doddering, unflinching Establishment with Christmas landscapes full of Color, devoid of White. They egregiously violated the Creed of Suburban Holiday Propriety, and responded to all efforts to control them by ratcheting up the assault of reds, blues, greens, purples and yellows. And when The Establishment cajoled, then scolded, then threatened, the Rebels reached for their nuclear option … The Lighted Reindeer!

And that’s what this holiday season has looked like in Doylestown Station.

The problem originated with an overreaching homeowners association. These associations are created in the spirit of preserving atmosphere and cleanliness by way of conformity. The goal is admirable; but if unchecked, the absence of boundaries will always cause problems for the rule setters.

People don’t like to be told what to do by someone who’s not their parents, their boss, or their spouse … not when they spend so much of their time doing the things they do because of their parents, their boss, or their spouse. They are willing to submit only as far as they can relate a restriction to a common benefit. Once The Standard pushes past the point where the ideal crosses the pragmatic, resistance is sure to flourish. That was the crux of The Great Holiday Lights Debacle.

It’s one thing to legislate one color of garage door or what kind of fence is permissible. Some homeowners can appreciate that – on a basic level – conformity with standards can provide a lasting sense of a sedate, tidy quality of life. You don’t want Billy Bob’s house next door looking like a Caribbean brothel, especially when you paid a lot of money to move away from your old neighbor, who had six Volkswagens in varying states of decay in static display on his front lawn.

But even then, many swear an oath never to live under the thumb of Neighborhood Oppression. Some homeowners associations are shadows of authority, preferring to stick to cutting the grass in common spaces. Others seem to thrive on legislating conformity and swinging The Big Stick at non-compliants.

It’s a much higher level of intrusion though to demand conformity over such temporary displays like Christmas lights. Holiday decorations – whether inside the home or outside on the rain gutters – often go directly to one’s familial traditions or their personal interpretation of what makes the Christmas and holiday season so beautiful and enjoyable. The Doylestown Station example screams of all the reasons why so many people find homeowners associations an unacceptable intrusion.

Personally, I like the white lights. They are stately, elegant and clean. But they do not – in my opinion – give a particularly festive appearance. Our house is decorated annually in just about every color on the Christmas spectrum. Because a) That’s the way my family decorated when I was a kid. and b) Our suburban neighborhood had almost all white lights when we moved there one December years ago. In a way I enjoyed being “the rebel”, doing something different from the rest of the ‘hood.

But there were no rules as to what you could display or how you could display it. And every year since we seem to notice more and more color on neighborhood houses at Christmas time.

We just didn’t have to relive The Civil War over it!

For your consideration:

This goes more to the earlier story mentioned in a previous post about Santa on a cross.

This time of year you hear people, especially devote Christians, complaining about a “war on Christmas“. It’s the belief that some parts of society are waging a concerted effort to remove all religious references to Christmas by secularizing or eliminating public displays of Christian symbolism and meaning from the holiday season.

Now whether you buy into that theory or not, let me offer you just one example that – in my opinion – seems to support the “war on Christmas” claims. In Orange County, California a public park that for almost 60 years was the sole domain of local churches for Christmas messages. That has changed this year, and changed rather dramatically.

If you read the article linked above, you will realize the following facts:

There was an ORGANIZED effort to wrest control of the public space from churches by individuals and organizations that – in most cases – ascribed to the exact opposite message to those previously displayed there.
Not only were the local churches almost pushed out (given 3 display locations vs. 14 from prior years), but so was the Santa Monica Police Association who worked with the churches on previous displays.
Of the 18 spaces won by atheist organizations in a lottery (because so many applications for spots were received), ONLY 3 of those 18 “atheist spaces” were ever used. The rest sat vacant.
The messages in the three “atheist spaces” that were used ranged from the innocuous “Happy Solstice” to overtly anti-religious hostility that essentially equated religious conviction with belief in myths.

So there was an organized effort to claim a piece of real estate in order to further the interests of one faction over another. That effort not only involved a level of duplicity (applications with no intent to use the space), but seemed designed specifically to simply deny use by competing interests (churches). In addition, the effort resulted in open hostility directed towards the very nature of those competing interests (their beliefs).

Regardless of your views on public displays of religious symbolism during the holiday season, the role of religion in the country’s founding principles, or the separation of church and state, you certainly might agree that this example sure looks like a war!

Hurricane Chronicles

Posted on August 29, 2011 by Mike Shortall

Monday, August 22 – Looks like we might get Hurricane Irene sometime this weekend. I enjoy watching the “meteorologists” on TV trying to make sense of early storm computer projections. But it’s kinda difficult to feel threatened by a storm that’s projected to track somewhere between Aruba and Idaho.

Tuesday, August 23 – Wonderful! An earthquake in central Virginia gets the whole mid-Atlantic region in an uproar. My Left Coast family members snicker at the Chicken Little easterners. Meanwhile, the “meteorologists” have integrated a new way of looking at the This-Thing-Could-Go-Anywhere computer models. They are now described collectively as a “Cone of Uncertainty“! I’ll say … Now Hurricane Irene could come ashore somewhere between Cape Canaveral, FL and Greenland!

Wednesday, August 24 – Spent the whole morning listening to the office’s Earthquake Ernie going on and on and on about convergent plates, thrust faults, and liquefaction. Note to self: Avoid engineers following dynamic earth events!

Hey, nice dress, Cecily Tynan! Not so suddenly now, the Cone of We-Don’t-Have-a-Clue is much more concise. East coast all the way! Earthquakes, smurfquakes … All those Left Coasters would just slide into the Pacific if they had to endure one of these storms! You can sense an impending Bread and Milk Panic. When will they smarten up and start building cows and bread factories in snowless, earthquake-less, and hurricane-free locales?!?

Thursday, August 25 – Geez, this thing is looking like a huge storm! Better sit down and get my Storm Supply List organized … flashlights – Got ’em, batteries – ditto, adult beverages – check, animal crackers? Yes!, milk & bread??? OH MY GOD, WE DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MILK AND BREAD!!!!!

Friday, August 26 – Drag myself into work after getting to bed at 2 am. Spent four hours last night combing every store in a 10-mile radius for milk and bread. All I could find was three packages of pita pockets and a half-gallon of goat’s milk! But at least I know, we will survive!! Then I spent the whole morning at work listening to Hurricane Harry going on and on and on about wind forces and water dynamics. Note to self: Just avoid engineers!

Found out my sister, Joanne – who was working in D.C. when the trembler hit Tuesday – was supposed to head to North Carolina’s Outer Banks this weekend. Asked her if she was going to Tripoli next week. If you are, I have this engineer …

Get home; cut the grass (You prepare for a hurricane your way; I’ll do it mine!); clear the home environment of potential missiles; and – what the heck?!? – It’s already raining!! Rush to the store for more pita milk and goats pockets.

Saturday. August 27 – Well, it’s here. Spent most of Friday night squinting at CNN, The Weather Station, Action News, and Cecily’s dress trying to pick up every subtle shuck and jive of Irene’s eye from the doppler and radar images. Why? I haven’t a clue! Concerns abound for sis’ family already bearing the heaviest brunt of the storm and friends living in low-lying areas near creeks and streams.

Aside from that, Mother Nature is awesome. The power and fury are both anxiety and wonder-inducing. Spent part of the day painting closets in one of the bedrooms – a good day for that! Decided to try to stay up all night to watch the storm. Tornado warnings send my son, Brian into a frenzy of impending doom and a profusion of survival tips. I make it to 4 am before heading to bed. Seeing nothing other than wind and rain gets boring after a few hours.

Sunday, August 28 – All over here, save for occasional showers and fits of high winds. No dramatic damage anywhere. The worst effects are more insidious from accumulating water. One of our windows leaked upstairs. We were lucky. Several neighbors were dealing with inches of water in basements; and the section of housing behind us was without power until Monday afternoon. And even with that our area was much luckier than others.

Until next time …

A Guide for Surviving your Type A spouse’s Vacation Assault Plan

Posted on August 18, 2011 by Mike Shortall

Now that another summer is upon us, I offer advice for fellow Type B Personalities preparing for vacations with their Type A spouses.

Many have married Type A spouses upon whom we rely for all the high-intensity, detail-filled tasks that are essential to health and harmony. The Type A in the family is the go-getter, the organizer, the protagonist for family involvement, the anti-couch potato … all good things.

Unfortunately, some Type As tend to transform into General Patton when it comes to the family vacation. They plan and execute the summer get-aways like the D-Day invasion of Fortress Europe.

There are Objectives, Operational Plans, and Time Tables. The pace of operations can be intense and unforgiving. And if you tire; get “wounded”; or fall off the pace, you’re likely to be left by the side of the road like a piece of carrion for the buzzards.

OK … Just a bit of hyperbole there. And maybe there’s nothing amiss with some high-intensity activity on a vacation. Many seem not to mind …

But if YOU are the family couch potato – as am I – and come ill-prepared for the duration and intensity in this Theatre of Operations, a much-anticipated vacation could end up as your own personal version of the Donner Party.

So with my years of experience at being driven forward by my more energetic, highly motivated, hyper-vacationated spousal unit, allow me to offer some timely advice. Keep in mind that each trial, hurdle, ache, and injury will be multiplied by the number of children you will be lunging around on wheels or strapped to your back like a rucksack full of rocks!

Hints for Type B Survival

Get in touch with Type A reality: Some people – or so I’m told – go on vacations to unwind, to regroup, to blow off steam, to reflect, to recharge the batteries … to RELAX! But any Type A Vacation Survivor will tell you, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X from V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N! All you will get from your Type A partner is the “A” … and that “A” stands for Apathy!

Once rid of your Type B Vacation misapprehensions, you will understand and – more importantly – SURVIVE what is in store for you.

2. Cardiovascular health: Make sure you are physically fit and ready for a grind. Type A Vacations can include hand-to-hand combat, tests of agility, decision-making under extreme stress, and plenty of wind sprints.

And that’s just getting to the kiddies to breakfast!

So lose the excess weight.
Hit the elliptical trainer and the StairMaster.
Work on BOTH speed and endurance.

You’re going to need it!

I learned, a bit too late to save my naive impressions of what vacations are, that Carol and I were raised in families that lived at Polar Extremes of the Vacation Continuum of Leisure (VCL).

When my family went on vacations we tended to gravitate towards the South Jersey shore points, where Leisure is spelled with a capital “L”. What “stress” there was came in deciding where to eat; the too long/too late obligatory excursions on the boardwalk; and the occasional case of sunburn.

Not so my better-half’s family vacation experiences …

Whereas my family’s vacations seemed geared towards resting and refreshing hard-working adults, her family’s vacations were about The Experience … Cramming in as much as they could into every trip … Trying not to miss a single offering or opportunity presented by whatever venue they visited … Hit the ground running and don’t stop until the money is gone or the hotel insists that your stay has ended!

Carol will claim it is not so; but I have the scars that prove otherwise!

3. Strength training: You’ll want to bulk up normally for any vacation … all that baggage rustling, equipment stowage and deployment can test your back, arms and legs.

Many Type A’s look upon hotel check-in as an unnecessary hinderance to getting all the “fun” started. If given their way, they would forego completely any hotel interaction until as late as possible on Vacation D-Day.

If given the choice, they would prefer to jump, tuck ‘n roll from the still-moving car and commence immediately with the festivities. This is why my Type A always wore her bathing suit on our drives down to the South Jersey shore.

However, this tendency becomes a real problem when visiting far-flung, ridiculously large vacation sites like Disney World. Dragging all those suitcases through The Magic Kingdom for hours on D-Day, before your Type A agrees to “waste time” checking-in, can be exhausting. So make sure you pay extra attention to strengthening your large muscle groups of the legs and back!

It’s hard not to reflect on our earlier vacations to the beach when the boys were but wee lads. The amount of equipment … strollers, porta-cribs, high chairs, toys … we had to drag along was mind-boggling.

I can remember staring at the back of our Dodge Grand Caravan thinking, “I’ll never get all this crap in there or on the roof.”

Of course just about then, General Patton would stick her head out the door and ask me why I was relaxing!!

4. Get your rest before you go: Yeah, I know … Get my rest BEFORE vacation?!? Trust me! As stated above, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X … Anyway, it’s simple. Be prepared to GO GO GO from dawn to midnight! You will be allowed to relax when you sleep or should you be lucky enough to eat at a food source where you can sit down and eat. (This usually depends on the progress of the Operational Plan vis-a-vis Time Tables.)

5. Know your rights! This is the toughest part of being a Type B soul trapped in a Type A vacation.

Scenario: It’s been four days of hard-driving, high intensity, calf-burning activity. You look longingly at the hotel pool, the water of which you fear will never get the chance to wash over your cramping, stressed-filled body. You heard rumor that the tiki bar has been hopping the last two nights – while you were pushing four-year-old Gertrude and six-year-old Jeffrey in a double-wide dolphin stroller through 25 miles of SeaWorld until midnight.

You just want a few hours doing nothing more than read a book; float in the pool; or down a few mai tais. But you know that the Operations Plan does not allow for idle time. Failure to adhere to The Schedule will throw the entire expedition into chaos and anarchy.

What’s a Type B to do?!?

STRIKE!

That’s right, exercise your God-given right to refuse to do anything more than sit around and contemplate your navel!

Why should Teachers, Communication Workers, and Teamsters have all the fun?!?

Where’s the compassion? Where’s the solidarity?? Where are the damn mai tais?!?

Now that being said, General Patton will be more than slightly miffed at your insubordination and temerity. They will huff and puff; threaten and cajole; plead in the name of the Operations Schedule.

DO NOT LISTEN!

The sole purpose of such wheedling is to wring another day’s worth of blood from a turnip. And oddly enough, turnips are what your knotted, cramped legs probably look like at this point of your Type A Vacation!

First off … NO TEARS!! Crying is a sign of weakness to the Type A Personality. They will roll over you like Hitler took the French!

If the Type A pressure persists, simply put on your Alec Guinness stiff upper lip; whistle the tune from The Bridge on the River Kwai; and stand your ground!

This strategy has worked for me in the past. General Patton by this point accepts our labor standoffs with rolled eyes and an exasperated huff. One year she actually chose to forego the pool day and went solo into The Magic Kingdom just to reconnoiter the next day’s Mission.

Like many typical Type A Vacation Generalissimos …

The Next Mission is what vacation is all about!