What happened next...

The little dog remembered being snuggled in a box with his brothers and sisters. He was warm and full and happy. His mother was there, and he played and ate and slept. It was wonderful, and the only reason he remembers it, is because of what happened next.

A man and a woman and a little boy came to look at he and his brothers and sisters. After playing with all of the puppies, the little boy picked out the little dog to take home with him. The little dog thought it was a great adventure, and thought that he'd never forget how exciting it was to be in a “car.” But that was before what happened next.

The man and the woman and the little boy had a fine house, with many fine toys. And for a while the little boy and the little dog were great friends. But slowly the little boy didn't have time to play with the little dog, and when the little dog made his own games, the man and the woman and the little boy became very angry.

By now the little dog wasn't warm and wasn't full and wasn't happy at all. He missed his brothers and sisters. He missed the exciting car ride. He even missed the little boy. And this is how he would have felt forever, except for what happened next.

A lady in a big van came to the house, and talked to the man and the woman. The little dog knew they were talking about him, because the lady kept pointing at him and talking in a voice that sounded a little angry. Then she walked over, put the little dog on a leash, and led him to the van. Inside it was scary, and the little dog could smell many other dogs that had also been afraid. It wasn't anything like the exciting car ride. 

When the van stopped the lady took the little dog into her house. The house was full of barking dogs in crates, and the little dog was afraid. The lady gave him a warm bath and a plate of food, and put him in his own crate. The little dog was warm and full, but he still wasn't happy. And that’s how he thought things were going to stay, until what happened next.

A few weeks later, a man and a woman and a big, BIG dog came to visit the lady with the dogs in the crates. The man and the woman and the big, BIG dog played with each of the dogs one at a time. The little dog got his turn, and then he watched as the man and the woman and the lady talked and pointed to each of the dogs. Finally, the man signed some papers, and the lady put the little dog on a leash and led him out to their car. The little dog remembered the last car ride and wasn't too happy to be leaving. He was scared for the whole trip. 

Otto at the dog park.

When they arrived at the house of the man and the woman and the big, BIG dog, he followed them into the house. The man led him to his own fine dog bed, and showed him where his own food bowl was. The man and the big, BIG dog went to the dog park almost every day, and the little dog learned to run as fast as he wanted. He and the big, BIG dog played at the park, and played in the yard, and played at home. And when something called “college” was over, two smaller men came home and knelt on the floor and played with the dogs.

At last he was warm and full and happy. And that’s what happened next.

L-Magnus, R-Otto

This story, about our rescue dog Otto, was written by my husband Dan a few years ago. Last night Otto spent some time at the dog park, had a fine dinner and passed away while sleeping. He was my special dog. I understood his insecurities and his need to be warm and full and happy. 

I will always carry Otto in my heart and I look forward to seeing him warm and full and happy, playing with his big, BIG brother Magnus at the rainbow bridge.

Dive buddies

I’ve taken a bit of time off from the blog, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I didn’t know what to say. And because this time the topic isn’t about me, except that it is, as my sister wisely pointed out. Dan and I have had a lot going on. Well, Dan mostly. I’ve pictured myself as standing off to the side in a supporting role.

After working for the same company for 24 ½ years, Dan has left employment. The last year and a half were challenging for him – a new manager, new expectations and what seemed to me, a constantly moving definition of success. This culminated in a conversation about how he needed to be “meaner” to his employees. Dan needed to be “meaner”. You might as well ask him to go out and shoot dogs. This is a man who for years was called “the reaper” because he’d (appropriately and respectfully) clear the dead wood out of areas he managed. He fired people, and they thanked him for doing it.

If you’ve ever had to watch the steady beat down of someone you love, at the hands of someone you have no influence over, you know painful it is, and how helpless you are. Dan came home and said, “He told me I need to be meaner to my people. My guys.”

OK, reality check, please! I called bullshit, with some authority. I work for a company that pays ME to make sure every employee gets the opportunity to answer a survey about their level of engagement with the company, the effectiveness of their leaders, opportunities for development, recognition…I could go on. In managing this program and the support that follows, never once have I encountered, in any of the research, the “mean is the new way to drive performance and retain employees” strategy. No, its just twisted bullshit.

It was time for Dan to go and I pushed for a fast decision and quick removal from the toxic environment. They came to a mutual accord and he’s done. And it’s funny, but that whole “door closes, window opens” thing is so true. Two hours before signing the severance papers he got an offer from an out of state company, and later that day, a big interview locally.

The local job is interesting—a former employee who, when asked if he could describe his ideal manager, said “I can drive you to his house.” A former employee Dan had nurtured and encouraged.  A former employee, who Dan had figuratively held his hand during a mock interview to make sure his confidence was in place for a promotion. A former employee who got fed up and left for another firm. A former coworker who, on hearing Dan was leaving, told his current management team they needed to interview him--now. That interview happens later this week.

But in the meantime, you don’t undergo that kind of mental manipulation for a year and a half without it inflicting some damage. Dan’s confidence was at an all time low and he was second-guessing every decision. Plus he needed time to mourn the loss of a 24+ year relationship. Throughout this whole process I continued to do what I could to buoy his spirits and calm his concerns, but felt I was hardly helping. I kept reaching out, but we weren’t connecting. We were both looking forward to our annual diving vacation – sitting by the pool, scuba diving daily and enjoying an all-inclusive felt needed and restorative.

The thing about diving though, is that it requires a touch of hubris and leap of faith. After a year away from the depths we signed up for the pool check. Dan accomplished all the tasks without difficulty, but I could see that he was shaky and so could the dive master. That afternoon we had two shallow dives and Dan struggled to descend on the first dive. Sitting at 30 feet I could see he and the dive master talking, then the boat came and picked him up. I decided not to ascend because I knew that would make him feel worse (I was right). 

Scott, dive master extraordinaire

The group came out of the water and I boarded the dive boat first. Dan was sitting there and I could tell by the look on his face he was done for the day. Our dive master Scott would have none of it, coming up out of the water last, he announced we would all make the second descent. This very intuitive and kind man, (who had recently left the world of banking for a more meaningful career in diving) took Dan aside and spoke to him calmly and reassuringly. They chatted for a bit and Dan prepped his gear. We jumped in again and Scott stayed with Dan as they made a slow, easy descent. He swam with him for about five minutes before Dan assured him that he was good. We all continued on the dive.

On the last dive day, Dan and I descended together. We swam along with the group and as we neared the 45-minute mark, Dan motioned that he soon be at low air. I checked my tank and had plenty. I swam over to Dan, reached out grabbing his hand, exerting energy and using my air more rapidly to ensure that we both had more bottom time. It’s what a nice dive buddy does; Dan has done this for me so many times.

I think there’s a life lesson in this. You don’t dive alone, and most people aren’t hermits. What you bring to relationships will be reflected back to you - whether in life, in love or in business. The definition of “meaner” is 1) offensive, selfish, or unaccommodating; nasty; malicious, or 2) small-minded or ignoble, or 3) penurious, stingy, or miserly, or 4) inferior in grade, quality, or character, or 5) low in status, rank, or dignity.

I’ll take nice any day. And in a dive buddy and life-long partner? Absolutely.

Music that resonates:
Through the years - Kenny Rogers

What Not to Wear

Have you seen the show? Some poor woman, getting by day-to-day, is secretly recorded looking less than her best. Her well meaning family appeals for help from the ever stylish Stacey and Clinton. They set up a fashion intervention, ambushing her and offer a deal; bring all your clothes to New York where we will tell you everything that is wrong with all your choices, we’ll give you $5,000 to buy the right clothes, fix your hair, your makeup and transform you into a new, and better, woman. We, the audience, would watch in rapt attention hoping that we didn’t also own something “wrong”, but knowing we did and secretly wishing for some guidance in our own closets.

I had a version of that on Friday, in the continuing saga of Paula’s Nasty Skin. I had hoped we had come to the answer, a chemical found in many daily products, like shampoo, body wash, hand soap, toothpaste, laundry detergent … the list is endless. I had meticulously removed every offending bottle and tube that contained the stuff from my house, and was finally finding relief from the mind-numbing itch. Except that with distance from the light therapy and steroids, the rash came back – not the itch – just the rash. The root cause lies elsewhere.

The doctor had also raised formaldehyde resins as a possible cause and advised a layer of white cotton between my clothing and me. I had taken the advice to heart and cornered the market on granny panties, V-necked men’s tees and cotton camisoles. I was good, right? Wrong. As my brother once said, “If you’ve got a bucket full of water and someone pours in a cup of urine, do you have a bucket full of water and some urine? No, you’ve got a bucket full of urine.” The doctor was really clear; I had to remove the offending chemical from my wardrobe. Completely. No mercy. Dead to me. Gone. I should consider those items of clothing as forever, What Not to Wear.

I started on Saturday morning, looking at every item of clothing I own for signs of the poison. I opened a large black trash bag and started sorting. Any T-shirt with cotton/modal or cotton/polyester blend, out; 100% cotton can stay. The Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, interesting, the blue are cotton/polyester/spandex – gone; black are cotton/spandex – they stay. The cotton/polyester blend dress – gone. Anything with rayon, gone. Corduroy, wool blends, Tencel, color-fast, no-iron, wrinkle-resistant, get rid of it. Yoga pants; exercise pants; most of my pajamas; two of my favorite tunics; leggings; three evening dresses; all my dress pants; most of my blouses; three suits with mixed fabric lining; and so on. A leather coat with lining, my daily wear winter coat and my favorite post gym UWM hoodie, all had to go. By the time I was done and I had filled seven black trash bags. Seven.

If you are like me, your closet needs a good going over, but this was ridiculous. As I surveyed what was left I found a two common themes. The higher end dresses I own were safe to wear, stuff purchased at lower end stores was full of poison. I also found that my warm weather clothes were mostly spared. I was able to keep all my shorts and most of my tanks, swimsuits, sundresses and two of four beach covers. I view this as a sign. Shopping for new work clothes, outerwear, sweaters, even jeans and comfy pants just got a whole lot more complicated. I need easy. I need carefree.

I need a beach.

I was a chicken at White Hen!

During the month of February our community had an All-City Read. The adult reading selection was The Rocket Boys by Homer Hickam. The book is a memoir and one of the many activities planned for the month was a workshop focused on memoir writing. A bit of arm twisting from a friend found me at the three week session. 

Each participant wrote three different short pieces, based on a theme, along with a 6-word memoir. Last night we each read one of our selections aloud at a coffee shop. While it would have been much easier to read my six word memoir, “Underwater creatures never mind candid photos”, I read the following:

A Day at Work

He looked sketchy the first time he came into the store. He showed up again several hours later. I’m not sure if I had looked intimidating, but when he attempted robbery my co-worker was behind the cash register, and I was behind the deli. Previously I had been alone.

He asked for all the cash in the register. Had it been me, he would have gotten it, all bagged and ready to go. My co-worker had different ideas. She decided to engage in conversation. She started with “you can’t be serious” and progressed to “I know you!”

They bantered back and forth. Yes, she was convinced he had been in her history class. No, he argued, he had gone to a different high school altogether. Were they flirting? I stood behind the deli case and just shook my head thinking stop it, Stop It, STOP IT! I’m no martyr, this store isn’t worth it, and besides, he said he had a gun.

They continued the discussion, a pocketed gun pointed in her direction. I was frozen in place. She was laughing at him and he was continuing to press for the money. Finally, he got frustrated and left. I ran to the door, threw the lock and told her to call the police. The squad arrived and she asked them to call her sister to drop off the high school yearbook.

Twenty-minutes later, she had found his picture and pointed him out. Later that evening the officer came by again and said they had found him at his parent’s house, watching TV in the basement with his dad. He had only a comb in his pocket, no gun. My co-worker felt like a hero having saved the store! I wanted to kick her.

I went on to work there for another year, calling in the occasional shoplifter. Once, the dumpster was set on fire, and the whole back of the store had to be hosed down by the fire department. But never once did I ever feel the need to best the hero of the store.

True story and thanks for indulging this brief writing detour.

Music that resonates:

The Theme from Rocky -- Bill Conti

Lost in the Clouds

Like anyone, I'm conflicted about change. The whole point of this blog is my need to work through what it means to pick up and move to a whole new climate. Dan, on the other hand, would pick up and move tomorrow. Actually, give him four hours. Check that. He'll buy new underwear when he gets there and would be gone in under an hour carrying a grocery bag with our back-up hard drive, iPhone, wireless headset and four beers. Anything to escape the "white death." Clearly, moving is a really big thing for me, with plusses and minuses. A logical approach to change is creating just that sort of list to define the "what's in it for me."

I've recently started to play with taking pictures, hoping to move beyond snapshots and use photography in a project. A lot of experimenting, a lot of throw away shots, a lot of frustration. A friend suggested I get Lightroom to post process pictures, and after some investigation, determined the latest version was the way to go. The only thing preventing the purchase was the need to upgrade the operating system on our Mac. Did I say "our"? That would be a misstatement. I use it whenever I want, but "the Mac" is Dan's purview. And he'd read enough reviews of OS upgrades to know he really didn't want any part of OS 10.9. No, Dan still longs for the pinnacle of Apple development, the beloved system 6.8. Rock solid. Bug free. Sure, it was a small B&W screen and the internet was still science fiction, but to Dan, 6.8 was it. The negatives outweighed the positives...except, he really wanted the "Find my iPhone" app.

As our Mac boarders on "vintage" he first had to (I had to ask Dan for details here) upgrade from Leopard to Snow Leopard. Snow Leopard is so old he had to order it on a disk. Did I mention our computer is less than five years old? From Snow Leopard we could have made the jump to Lion or Mountan Lion, but instead we skipped those steps and went right to Mavericks. When complete we then needed to purchase newer versions of a few programs, but overall, the upgrade was a success. I loaded in Lightyear. We then moved on to "Find my iPhone." We added the app to both our iPhones and the Mac. Now to test it out.

Dan launched the app and found his phone. I launched the app and found my phone. And the computer monitor indicated that it knew exactly where it was. So as long as I have my phone in my hand I'll know right where it is. Dan stared at his phone and muttered "God how I miss 6.8." The computer sat there silently, smugly, knowing exactly where it was. 

I am reminded of a story from many years ago, when Dan's parents got wireless phones and a new answering machine (they still have the same machine. Good for them--upgrades can kill.) They called us on two seperate phones, but somehow hit mute. Dad is yelling Hello? Hello? while Moms is saying  "I'm right here!" This went on for several minutes as Dan and I chuckled and shook our heads. Dan then uttered words that are burned into our hard drive: "Technology has not been kind to my parents." 

Meanwhile, in this century, several hours into our "Find my phone" adventure, we have three devices that can find themselves. Dan declares that he is taping a post-it on the back of his phone offering a reward to whoever returns it. "Now it will find itself," and leaves the room. I heard a voice ... "moms, never forget the miracle that is Google..." and started typing in questions. The answer seemed to be that we had too many "cloud" accounts. How do we sync our cloud and make this work? Lots of answers, most of which seemed to be head to the genius bar at the Apple store. Fortunately I knew how to make an appointment online.

We were met at the genius bar by an Apple guy assigned to triage (apparently not a genius) who said he wouldn't be able to answer our questions but would run some preliminary diagnostics on our computer. He was wearing a Mac 30 shirt. Dan asked "The Mac is 30 years old?" Yes!" was his response. "I had one of the 128K Macs," Dan responded. Imagine the look you'd have on your face if, as a 20something, someone said to you "Yeah, I supplied Noah the lumber for his boat." It was that kind of look. 

As we described the issue, and what we hoped to accomplish, he graciously started explaining the iCloud concept. "No it's better not to sync, you log into each cloud from another device, then search for your phone... and this is how you get your phone to make a tone so you can find it in a laundry basket"...and so on. By the time he was done with the explanation the diagnostic came back clean and we were good to go. We thanked him and I said "you're a genius."

Dan picked up our Mac (there had been no reason to bring it into the store, running the whole diagnostic thing was just a way for us to save face) and headed for the door. 

We've become our parents.