A Death in the Family Room

Over the weekend we suffered a loss. It was unexpected and sudden and left us grasping for answers. It's not easy going through something like this. I'm hoping that by sharing it, I can connect with someone out there going through something similar and ease their pain somewhat.

I'll just say it—our TV died.

It happened so  fast, I'm not sure I can remember all the details. It was Sunday, about noon. We were at the house, Karen and I, watching a football game that we had recorded the day before. All of a sudden—pfft. No picture, just sound.

Denial is always the first stage. We tried all the buttons on the remote. Nothing. I checked the cables in the back, which, of course, was a hopeless tangled mess. So I assumed they were OK. This couldn't be happening. There had to be an explanation, a fix, a button we hadn't pushed yet!

Finally I called it. "There's nothing we can do. It's broken." That's when the Anger stage set in.

"What about my football games?!" Karen demanded. Yes, in our house, I'm the football widow. She'll tape about 7-8 college and pro games every week. I usually watch them with her with a book in my lap.

"Sorry," I said helplessly. "l'll do some research on the web. Maybe there's a fuse or a reset or something."

Karen shook her head. She looked at the TV, then shook her head again. Then she picked up the phone and called our daughter, Michaela, who's up in Gainesville at UF.

"Guess what just died," she said.

"The car?" guessed Michaela.

"Worse. The TV."

Then, Depression set in. We made lunch and, as is our custom, brought it over to the couch and set our plates on our TV trays. We ate in silence for a few moments, gazing absently at a TV that wouldn't look back at us. We looked at each other, then at the seldom used dining room table, and we laughed at ourselves.

"I guess we could've sat there for a change," Karen said.

"Old habits die hard," I said, nodding.

After lunch I started poking around on the web and discovered that there was a class action suit against Samsung for certain model TVs, about a faulty power unit. Sure enough, ours was one of those models, so I called 'em up, stated my situation, and was told someone from their Product Liability team would call me back in a day or two as to what, if anything, they are willing to do in the way of paying for part or all of the repair.

So we did the only thing we could do – find the biggest screen possible to get our fix. We went to the movies and had a good time. We discovered that life goes on, and we moved into the Acceptance stage. Monday night after dinner we had a nice fire in our firepit out back, listened to a '70s playlist on Spotify on our iPad, and talked. Today, Karen went to dinner and a play with a friend, and I went fishing with my brother.

Three evenings without TV, and no telling how long it'll take. Who knows how long we can hold out? We do have that half-finished jigsaw puzzle we started a couple weeks ago, sitting on a card table, waiting for our attention. We have plenty of books and magazines and board games. But we also have football games stacked up in the queue, not to mention episode after episode of Scandal, Ellen, Jimmy Fallon, to name a few. Life is passing us by while we wait for our TV to get fixed! First World problems. They strike hard and cut deep.

The Great Scooby Doo Birthday Party

While hunting for stories through the journal I kept for Michaela, I came across this gem from 2003.

For Michaela's 8^th birthday, she chose a Scooby-doo theme. Mommy got all the Scooby-doo stuff (plates, balloons, invitations, piñata, etc.) and I cooked up a mystery. Can’t have a Scooby-doo party without a ghost! Grandma and Grandpa agreed to have it at their house, because they have a big yard and pool. "But it will be outside," Grandma said. And that was a statement, not a question. It didn't take much to talk Grandpa into playing the part of the ghost/bad guy. He did a good job scrounging up a passable costume, too.

Michaela invited 20 of her closest friends. When everyone arrived at the house, I gathered them together to tell a little story.

"Before we start the party, I just want to let you know that you might see some strange things here, on account of a ghost that has been seen around here. You see, just after the Civil War, there was a Union soldier named Jim who left his regiment to hunt for Seminole Indian treasure, which was rumored to be around these parts. Now, it's against the law for a soldier to leave the army before he's supposed to, so he had to hide during the day and hunt for the treasure at night."

At this point, one little girl raised her hand. “So, he was nocturnal?” Yes, I agreed, that would make him nocturnal. I thought you kids would all be a lot more skeptical, but no one protested to the possibility of the house being haunted.

I went on to explain that Union Jim made his hiding place in this area, perhaps on this very spot of land, so the story goes. "The army looked and looked for Union Jim, but never found him. They say he never found that treasure and his ghost still looks for it." But I assured them I hadn't seen Union Jim since I was a kid, and then only late at night.

The kids soaked it in. But soon we had them running around, playing games, and no one said any more of that old ghost. While they were out front wrapping each other in toilet paper to make mummies, I went to work around the side of the house, making boot prints in the dirt leading to the house. I poured some neon green goo in each, then came tearing around the house to announce a startling discovery.

"Hey, I found some weird bootprints in the back! I think it was Union Jim!"

All the kids came a-runnin’—some a-hoppin' due to their mummification—to inspect the footprints. Yep, those looked like genuine ghost footprints to them, walking right through the wall. Little did I realize how concerned it would make the group – they all wanted to stop the party and look for the ghost in the house! With some difficulty, I calmed them all down and said let’s not let the ghost ruin our party.

Next, during the Scooby Snack hunt (doggy biscuits), the ghost appeared in the second-floor window overlooking the pool. Now the kids were really in a frenzy, but again I convinced them to stay out of the house, partly for their safety and partly to continue with the party fun.

During the piñata game, one of the kids suggested we call the police, but I told her we’d take care of the ghost after the party. No sense ruining the fun with the police searching the house. To appease the group, I went in the house to look for the ghost, and some concerned children warned me to be careful. One kid found a baseball bat somewhere and wanted to come in with me. He was gonna get that ghost.

I politely declined his aid. By this point some kids wouldn’t go in the house to use the bathroom without an adult escort.

Finally it was time to set the trap to try to catch the ghost. For “Indian treasure”, we used the goodie bags that the kids put their piñata candy in. We piled the bags into a laundry basket in the garage, and I balanced an empty metal garbage can against it. "When the ghost comes to get the treasure," I explained in my best Fred voice, "we'll know it."  Then we shepherded the kids out to the pool patio for the presents and cake. Several times a child would look at me and say, “Did you hear that?’ or “I think he’s in there!” Finally, when the last present was opened, I cued the 'ghost' with, “DID EVERYBODY HAVE FUN?”

BANG went the garbage can. Nobody moved, wide-eyed and frozen in place. So I said, “Hey! That was the ghost!” After a moment’s hesitation, 20 kids stormed around the side of the house (as I had instructed) and into the garage. Michaela and another kid brought the rope to tie up the ghost. One poor girl was knocked to the ground in the stampede. Wrong place, wrong time. An army of children swarmed the ghost in the driveway – and it turned out to be Grandpa!

I explained, in keeping with the Scooby-doo mystery wrap-up format, that apparently Grandpa had been using the legend of the ghost to scare us away to get all the candy. I can't tell you how satisfying it was to hear Grandpa utter that famous line, “And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”

Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me that some kids would take this too seriously. Grandpa later said he heard some kids call him the “bad grandpa”, and one girl asked him for her candy back. He tried to explain that all the candy was returned already, but she said hers was missing.

We've had other fun birthdays, to be sure. But to me, that was the most memorable. The power of stories—don't underestimate it.

I Had a Dream...About the Pope

Remembering a dream is like trying to catch a catfish with your bare hands. They are slippery suckers. But a couple nights ago I had one that kinda sorta made sense, it least in a narrative way, so I was able to piece it together when I woke up this morning.

I was driving down Aloma, coming from Lakemont heading toward Rollins. I got to that stretch of Aloma that forms an "S" and saw a bunch of people milling about on the sidewalk of the first curve. One guy and his son were actually standing in the road, on the dotted line between the lanes. Good thing I was going slow.

I eased past him, and I thought it odd that he hardly noticed my car passing inches from him. "What is going on?" I thought. Then I saw an RV stopped in the right lane, just around the first curve. "What the heck?" I said. (Or something like it; this is a family blog.) I stopped behind it and got out to investigate. At this point I notice that Karen and Michaela are with me.

We go into the RV, and who should we find? Pope Francis! In his RV, making the rounds, I guess. We walked up to him and shook his hand. He had a strange, blank look on his face, kinda like what Bathilda Bagshot looked like in Harry Potter's Deathly Hallows movie, when Harry and Hermione were ambushed by Nagini the sneaky snake who was planted in the old woman's animated corpse.

"Maybe he's tired," I thought. "Let's get a pic." So we gathered around him and I held out my cell phone for a selfie. But I couldn't get a good shot. Then someone bumped us out of the way, and we noticed a line forming to see the Pope. I checked my phone, figured out what was wrong, then walked to the front of the line for another selfie. Well, the people in line got pretty huffy. I tried to explain I wasn't cutting, that I was there first and just needed a quick sec with his Eminence.

They said, "Get back in line." There were, like, 15 people already queued up. It went out the door! I wasn't about to wait around forever, Pope or not. I'm not a very patient guy. That's all I remember.

HOWEVER, last night I had another dream that I was able to remember. If you are still reading this post, I am grateful but at the same time quickly losing respect for you. Anyway, I heard chirping coming from the ceiling of my house, in the corner by the garage. I went outside to investigate and saw some sort of hummingbird/woodpecker hybrid, who had drilled a hole in the framework. I looked in the hole and saw long tunnels burrowed out by the little guy. My house was infested with Hunger Games genetically altered critters! I remember thinking about sending a rat in after them. Good thing I didn't, because I hear that can cause problems too.

Now I'm awake. At least, I think I am… If my dog starts playing Wii or flipping pancakes on the griddle, I'll let ya know.

Reindeer and Chiweenies

Today's blog features my daughter, Michaela. She is one of my favorite topics of conversation because of her uncanny ability to be true to herself. Depending on the circumstances, sometimes her true self is dead center of the mainstream, and sometimes it's in a field almost out of sight of the stream.
Last week presented just such an occasion. She started her sophomore year at UF, and one of her classes is a Leadership seminar composed of 20 other sophomores. The instructor asked everyone to write about what their favorite animal is and why. Michaela, telling us this via Facetime last night, said she finished in, like, a minute, and noticed everyone else was still writing for a long time. She considered adding to hers, but couldn't think of anything more.
Finally the instructor invited everyone to share what they wrote. Michaela said the other kids had very impressive and sometimes deep-sounding reasons for their favorite animal. They involved childhood memories of parents or grandparents, or the qualities of that animal, and so on.
They get to Michaela, and she says, "My favorite animal is the reindeer, because in my senior year of high school I found out they really exist. I just thought that was really neat, and I wanted to kinda spread the word to anyone else who was like me and didn't know. [pause] Thank you."
THEN the instructor proceeded to tell the class how a person's favorite animal can usually tell you a lot about that person. All heads swung toward Michaela. So, the other thing I really love about her is her ability to make a very memorable first impression in most group situations.
I used to be a lot like that. It's very liberating to train everyone around you to expect the unexpected from you, so that you don't have to work to hard to fit in. But eventually I was required to learn how to behave like an adult, so now I have my fun in a more orderly and controlled fashion.
My "Michaela Moment" (to coin a phrase) occurred at a Toastmasters meeting a few weeks ago. It's standard practice to fill out a quick little form that the toastmaster (emcee of the meeting) will use to introduce you, should you have a speech or other formal speaking role that day. Things like, how long you've been with toastmasters, favorite thing about it, and something interesting others don't know about you.
For that last item, "Something interesting that people don't know about me:", I wrote, "I have a 12-pound chiweenie." Then I sat back and waited.
When it was my turn to speak, the toastmaster read from my introduction sheet. There was a bit of stunned silence when she informed the group of my 12-pound chiweenie. I looked around and spotted two women looking wide-eyed at each other, so I said in an admonishing tone, "It's a dog. What were you thinking?" [pause] "Thank you."

Man sues self in landmark personal injury case

I love "The Onion." News parodies are my catnip. Below is one I wrote a while back. I feel the need to preface it with this explanation because in our absurdly lawsuit-happy society, people may believe it's a real story.

ParodyNews. When Mark Davis slipped and fell in his driveway, little did he know it was only the beginning of a legal nightmare that would consume the better part of the ensuing months of his life. Since February, he has been battling in the courts in a lawsuit he filed against himself for negligence, and legal experts eagerly await its outcome.

“I didn’t ask to be injured,” explained Davis. “I think every U.S. citizen has the constitutional right to be able to walk across his own driveway without getting hurt.” Although Davis does not know exactly what it was that caused the fall, the resulting injury to his knee and pains to his back and neck have cost him thousands of dollars in hospital bills.

He also seeks compensation for work missed and for pain and suffering. "The wilfull negligence is obvious," Davis asserted. "That driveway was literally covered in twigs, leaves and loose dirt, and has been for as long as I can remember. It was just a matter of time [before someone got injured because of it]."

Davis hired personal injury attorney Morgan Johns, who acknowledges the long odds of winning the case. However, with the recent trend in litigation, Johns feels the time is right for the legal protection of people from their own actions. “Ten years ago, this would have been a lost cause. But now, with the way the courts have been ruling, I anticipate a favorable decision.” Johns is so confident in what he expects to be a surge in clients with similar cases that he has already opened new offices in several cities to handle the increased caseload. “'Davis vs. Davis' will be the ‘Roe vs. Wade’ for anyone who slams their hand in a door, drops a cinderblock on their foot, or is the victim of any other needless injury or suffering.”

Davis also had hired attorney Melanie Dupree for his defense. “I don’t want this coming out of my pocket or jacking my homeowner’s insurance payments up,” Davis explained. Both sides will be wrapping up their arguments in the hearing scheduled for next week. An emotionally exhausted Davis is cautiously optimistic about the outcome. “No matter what the judge says, I’ll know that at least I tried to seek justice for myself. But I hope I win.”

Life in the Fat Lane

Among the self-assessments I’ve taken, the Clifton Strengthsfinder has been my favorite. My top five strengths are Ideation, Adaptability, Learning, Communication, and Connectedness. It was a head-slapping moment of revelation when I discovered this natural skill set, and how little of it I was using in the jobs I held over the years. I learned that you are who you are and it’s best to try to be your best at that, not something else. Which is why my goal to go from 185 to 225lbs was a losing proposition from the start.

Gaining weight has never been among my strengths. In high school I was 6 feet tall and 155lbs. I was recruited by the track team to be a pole for the polevaulting event. In college I ballooned to 165 and had to put away my 28” waist pants. All of them. They rode a little high anyway. As the sedentary life of adulthood and middle age set in, my body seemed to settle at 183, give or take a couple. The biggest I got was a temporary foray into the high 180s. Didn’t matter how active I was or what I ate. That was just what my metabolism maintained. That and a general disinterest in food would be the main reasons.

Being in an odd mental state overall for the past 6 months, I was groping around for goals when 2015 rolled in. Gaining 40 pounds seemed like a good test of will, mind over matter. My hope was that, when coupled with my workout routine, I might see some weight gains in areas other than my middle. I’ve always had skinny, birdlike legs, which my daughter recently described as being “the kind that girls would like to have.” So I had that going for me.

I started at the beginning of the year, late January, I think. The exciting thing became wondering what Mike v225 would look like -- Chris Hemsworth or Jonah Hill? Day after day I ate as much as I could, indiscriminately. I ate until it hurt. “Second breakfast” was one of my favorite meals. Slowly, ever so slowly, the scale crept up into the 190s. But it was going too slowly. I was frustrated and nearly gave up. I turned to my wife for support and encouragement, but surprisingly did not get any. There I am, pouring my heart to her about all my effort, all that fried food and ice cream and steak that went in, without much to show for it. I could tell she wanted to say something, but instead she just shook her head and walked off. “I guess I’m on my own,” I thought bitterly.

Time to find out what I was made of. I kept eating, kept pushing myself, kept shoveling it in until I dropped from the table in exhaustion, which for some reason irritated my wife to no end. Then one day, I hit it – 200 pounds! A breakthrough! This renewed my spirits, and over the next few weeks I continued the battle until I plateaued at 204.6 pounds. That was it. I hit the wall, and that wall’s name was 205.

One look in the mirror gave me the answer I asked at the start, and the answer was “Jonah Hill”. Actually, Jonah Hill’s top half on Orlando Bloom’s bottom half. Win win! I resemble two movie stars. One of the drawbacks to gaining 20 pounds is that your pants don’t fit any more. I mean, not even if I sucked in my gut and held my breath all day. Why didn’t someone tell me about this before? Again I went to my wife for support and advice, and again she offered none. At least this time she was in a better mood and laughed as she walked off.

If I were to get a job now, I’d have to wear the only pair of dress pants that currently fit me every day.  Shirts are no problem, as the men’s clothing industry assumes that every man is shaped like a rain barrel. When I was at 185, tucking in a shirt meant wadding it up in the back to avoid having this bloom of bunching shirt material all the way around my waist. So now it was either buy a bunch of new pants or slim down again.

That was when I discovered something else: It’s hard to lose weight. Why didn’t someone tell me about this before?

Diary of a SAK University Newbie

My wife is starting to question what I really do on Monday evenings. Why, she asks, do I find it necessary to chomp on a couple breath-freshening gum pieces if I'm going to "improv class"? Fair question. But I'm sure my brethren at the SAK comedy lab appreciate the effort when I get inside their personal space.
That's just one of the challenges we face every week. "Personal space" is no longer personal. In fact, we're having to unlearn a lot of socially acceptable behavior in order to start to have a chance at becoming good at improv. Like, thinking before you speak. For YEARS we've been training ourselves to be thoughtful and not say the first stupid thing that comes to mind, and now Bob, our instructor, is encouraging the opposite. The less thought, and the more ridiculous, the better. Imagine your grade school teacher saying, "Are you being funny, young man? Gold star!" Or, "The next time you have something to say, I want you to not think first!" Or, "You call that a ninja warrior whoop? Louder!" Do ninjas actually whoop? They do in our class.
Last night's games involved a lot of pointing, loud noises, and rude comments. Again, things I got in trouble for my entire childhood, and now they are basic tools in my toolbox. I shudder to think that years of self-control training are coming undone. I'm currently looking for a job, and this experience should turn every interview into a nightmare. What happens if I slip into Emotional Response mode?
"Mr. Scotchie, can you describe a time when a supervisor suggested room for improvement in an area that you thought you performed well in?"
(long pause. finally:) "YES, IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH FOR THOSE PEOPLE. (SOB!) I GAVE AND I GAVE, AND THEY ALWAYS ASKED FOR MORE!" (Then I start clapping)
I felt good last night. It was partly the shirt. I was getting ready to head out and wasn't feeling like I had any mojo in the tank. So I thought, "The Orlando Magic are funny. They do it without even trying." So I put on my Magic shirt and immediately felt funny. I drew from that energy all evening, as well as that of my classmates, every one of them worthy of admiration for what they bring naturally and the effort they put into every class. It's getting more raw and unguarded, meaning our walls keep coming down, and we gird ourselves in a cloak of shamelessness when we walk thru that door. The shit is getting weird, my friends, and that is what we're there to learn.

If I had complete creative control over website copy

A while back I wrote some freelance copy for an AC Installation and Repair business. Not the most exciting topic, so I wrote the copy below to unfreeze my brain, which had refused to help me with this assignment. So what do you think -- would this copy be effective or inappropriate if actually used? 

Get Rheemed! 

Boring. Predictable. Monotonous. Normally these are not good words to describe something, but they fit Rheem air conditioning systems to a “T”. Day after day, they churn out the same, dependable service, keeping your home cool without you giving it a thought. You’ll even be bored by the monthly power bills. Sure, at first you’ll absolutely love opening the envelope and seeing how much lower your bill is. You may even show your spouse, kids, neighbors and co-workers for the first few months. But eventually, like most owners of a new Rheem system, you’ll resort to opening those statements with a yawn. Same old low power bills, month after month.

During your first summer with a Rheem on duty, you might think you’re hearing is going. That constant drone of the old unit chugging away night and day will be replaced by a quieter, more intermittent sound of a new, energy efficient AC silently beating back the subtropical heat that Florida is well known for. Gone will be the excitement of varying temperatures from room to room. The right system for your home will cool each room evenly, so that eventually you’ll forget to bring your sweater into the living room because it’s no longer 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

One thing we ask you not to forget is your ABC Air Conditioning installer. Our guys love Rheems so much, well, they get a little attached to the units during the installation process. Listen closely and you might hear them talk to it, even calling it by name, like “Betty” or “Hoss”. Watch closely during the paperwork signing, and you might catch their eyes watering a little, because they know they’re not going to see Betty or Hoss for years and years. 

Sure, we recommend annual maintenance to keep your Rheem air conditioner running in tip-top shape, but they run so well that we know you most likely won’t call until something goes wrong. And it will – even the best air conditioners eventually need an assist. When that day comes, pull out your ABC Air Conditioning paperwork and ask for the installer by name, so that he (or she. We could have a female installer on our staff, eventually, but so far we’ve learned that women are smart enough to find better work) can come back and see an old friend. Better yet, go ahead and get that maintenance package, so that your family, your Rheem, and your installer will all be happy for years to come. 

No Teabagging at the Gym!

Ya know what? It turns out that not everyone is a good spotter at the gym. It’s a pretty easy concept – make sure the person you’re spotting for doesn’t get killed. But I found someone who had a different take on the role.

There were red flags, I admit. When I asked this young man to spot me on the weight bench, he answered, “I’d be happy to.” Without a trace of sarcasm. “Happy to.” I shrugged it off because the pickings were slim and I needed someone on hand if I got stuck benching a rather hefty load.

The second red flag was how he took instruction. Even after I said, “I don’t need help off the rack. Just step in when you see I’m not moving the bar anymore.” Pretty simple, eh? Not for my boy. When I laid back on the bench and set my grip, my man stepped in and also set his grip, both hands. And he’s crouching over me at this point, making me wonder if my time has come for a teabagging.

“I got it,” I said. “Just step in when you see the bar not moving up any more.”

So he stepped back and let me go to work. After 4 good reps, I said, “Okay, let’s see if I can do 5.” My new friend took me quite at my word on this. Down went the bar, and down it stayed. I put everything I had into it, but my arms were completely unresponsive. Usually, at this point, the spotter steps in and gives ju-u-u-u-ust enough lift to help you with that last rep. Not this time. I pry my eyes open and look back. My man is about two steps back, arms crossed like he’s posing for an Avengers movie poster while the equivalent of my body weight is resting on my chest. As I write this post, several hours later, my nipples still haven’t popped back out.

“I…need…a lift!” I manage to gasp out.

Finally my man steps in and lends a hand. Barely. Even with forces joined we are not raising the bar, literally. I started to worry. I mean, my daughter once spotted me and she gave me a better lift than this. FINALLY we get the bar up as far as the lower pegs and I racked it.  And then, AND THEN, my boy proceeds to lecture me on not using too much weight for a given exercise. This, after he nearly killed me. So I think I exercised a fair amount of restraint at this point in not getting upset. It was clear he was on the special needs spectrum somewhere and only had the best intentions, which is fine in most scenarios. Just not this one.  Sweet guy, good people. Just don’t ask him to spot for you.