As states (especially Texas) madly struggle to balance their budgets, a lot of rhetoric revolves around the idea that the government needs to operate like families during tough times: they tighten their belts, cut out unnecessary spending, etc. As mentioned in a previous blog, Governor Rick Perry (Republic of Texas) and other conservative legislators seek to balance the budget without raising taxes and without touching the 9 billion dollars in the rainy day fund. (That is not a misprint. Yes, a 9 followed by 9 zeroes. Just sitting there. Doing nothing.) So I thought it would be useful to study how a family should operate during tough times under these standards.
I convened a panel of misers, I mean Texas conservatives, and posed some real life examples to them, with Dick and Jane as the parents of two children. Dick is an electrician while Jane stays at home to take care of the kids. They have scrimped and saved through the years and have a healthy “rainy day fund” of $10,000 in a savings account.
Scenario 1: One day, their 1987 Chevy Nova breaks down. The transmission is shot and total repairs will cost $2000. What should they do?
A. They should tap into the rainy day fund to fix the car and replenish the fund when they can.
B. Dick should work overtime and maybe pick up a weekend job to raise the money for repairs.
C. Jane should get a part time job to help buy a new car.
D. They should not touch the rainy day fund, skip a few meals to save money, sell the old car for parts, and buy a used bicycle to replace it.
Panel’s Response: Answer: D. You don’t want to use 20% of the rainy day fund because you never know when times are going to get desperate. There isn’t a worse feeling than having $8,000 in the bank when you know you could have had $10,000. It will be impossible for Jane to get a part time job because she will have to home school the kids once we close all of the public schools in Texas. And how can Dick get a part-time job without a car? So the obvious solution is D, get a cheap bike.
Scenario 2: Remnants of a hurricane pass through the area causing a massive flood that leaves a foot of water in Dick and Jane’s house. They only have one room that is livable. Since they don’t live in a flood zone, they have no flood insurance and Governor Perry does not declare it a disaster area because it was only the remnants of a hurricane as opposed to a real disaster. What should they do?
A. They should tap into the rainy day fund to find better housing or make necessary repairs.
B. Dick should work overtime and maybe pick up a weekend job to get more money.
C. Jane should work harder to clean the house.
D. They should buy a Coleman camping stove, and everyone should live in the one tiny bedroom. They can all take baths in the living room since it is flooded.
Panel’s Response: The correct answer is D, but it’s a stupid question because an electrician obviously knows how to fix stuff. He’s probably been stealing supplies from his company for years because that’s what everyone does, so fixing the house will be virtually free.
Scenario 3: Dick and Jane get into a big argument one day. Jane storms out and does some “therapy” shopping and runs up $3,000 in credit card debt. What should they do?
A. They should kiss and make up, use the rainy day fund to pay off the debt, then cut up their credit cards.
B. They should return everything and get the credit card refunded.
C. Dick should file for divorce and make Jane keep the debt in her name.
D. They should make the minimal monthly payment on the credit card for the next 43 years.
Panel’s Response: Answer D. By now everyone is acutely aware that some companies in America are too big to fail, notably banks. By making the monthly minimal payment, you keep the economy humming by helping the bank’s bottom line while saving some of your own monthly budget. When banks are sound, America is sound. Also they should make up to 10 transfers back and forth between their savings account and checking account so the bank can make a monthly charge on their account. Come on, the bank needs to be making a little something with all that rainy day money they have there.
Scenario 4: It’s the week before Christmas. Dick and Jane’s house is all decorated with several presents already under the tree. One night while the family is at church, thieves break in and steal all of the presents. What should they do?
A. They should tap into the rainy day fund to ensure the children still have a memorable Christmas.
B. They should all volunteer at the local homeless shelter so the kids can see they don’t have it as bad as others.
C. Dick can give everyone supplies he stole from work as Christmas presents.
D. They should tell the kids Santa knows they’ve been bad, and he took the presents back.
Panel’s Response: This is a trick question. A is not an option but B, C and D are all pretty good even though they ignore the moral dilemma. Most people would argue that Santa Claus is the ultimate capitalist with his contract: if you’re good, he’ll deliver. It’s totally fair and would hold up in most courts. However, we all know Santa Claus does not exist. Hence, it’s up to the parents. How many parents do you know that actually withhold presents because the kids are bad? Zero. And that makes Christmas a socialist practice. So the correct answer is: you shouldn’t celebrate Christmas at all. Unless you’re communist.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Governor Perry Predicts Doom for Texas
Like most states, the Great Republic is trying to come to grips with a drastic revenue shortfall from the recent economic slump as the legislature attempts to complete a balanced budget for the next two years. According to democrats, we’re “zillions upon zillions of dollars short.” Governor Perry, on the other hand, says “we’re about that close” while holding his thumb and index finger half an inch apart. That may be right . . . assuming that half inch of space holds a stack of billion dollar bills.
However, the future looks bright, as Texas has saved its money for just such an occasion. Starting in 1987, the state started stuffing money under a really large mattress and called it the “Rainy Day Fund.” With great foresight and brilliant conservative thinking, the fund now holds about 9 billion dollars. This would be enough money to fix a large portion of the budget shortfall.
Unfortunately, it turns out the Rainy Day Fund is more like a giant safe . . . buried somewhere in North Korea. Under a volcano guarded by flying monkeys, trap doors, voice recognition gates, and an oracle who will ask visitors three challenging questions about cricket. In Klingon. Backwards. And your answers must be in the form of a question. Yup, that’s right, Governor Perry and his conservative lawmaker brethren have decided we can’t touch the Rainy Day Fund.
I’m all in favor of fiscal conservative policy, but miserly-to-the-point-of-starvation policy? Let me ask you this, Mr. Governor: as you debate the budget, will you be burning large bundles of cash from the fund to keep the capitol warm? Or on the first day, perhaps every legislator gets a blanket full of bills to keep himself/herself warm at night? Or maybe you’re practicing origami in order to make umbrellas out of bills so the legislators don’t get wet when it rains?
I can picture a gaunt, shoeless child approaching the governor next year:
“Um, Mr. Governor sir, can I have a dollar for my school lunch? Wait where are you?”
“I’m over here,” a Rick Perry-ish voice says.
“Oh, I can’t see you behind those stacks of money.”
“It’s my fort. In case it rains. And in case the roof leaks.”
We’re in the worst economy since the Great Depression and the governor can’t even feel a sprinkle. Maybe he’s waiting for everyone to get struck by lightning first. Or swept completely away in the downpour. Maybe we’re saving it for the day Oklahoma springs a surprise nuclear attack on us. Then we’ll be able to rebuild the state or at least the Cotton Bowl so we can keep playing Oklahoma in football.
Governor Perry is quoted as saying, “Why in the world would we want to spend dollars just because they're sitting there…” Oh I don’t know, BECAUSE THEY’RE TAX DOLLARS and that’s what you do with tax dollars. Or you can give it back. At least the federal government spends the money we send it. (And then some.).
In fact, I would expect that to be the conservative argument: “We’re going to spend it on the budget or give it back.” But no, it’s “We’re going to cut your services to the bone while we build a giant cash playground in the Capitol that we can play in all day.”
Since Governor Perry refuses to touch the Rainy Day Fund, I can only conclude that he thinks Texas is in for a doomsday scenario so scary we can’t even picture it because to do so would sear our eyes and cause mass death and destruction.
Seriously, what’s the use in having a Rainy Day Fund if you don’t believe in rain?
However, the future looks bright, as Texas has saved its money for just such an occasion. Starting in 1987, the state started stuffing money under a really large mattress and called it the “Rainy Day Fund.” With great foresight and brilliant conservative thinking, the fund now holds about 9 billion dollars. This would be enough money to fix a large portion of the budget shortfall.
Unfortunately, it turns out the Rainy Day Fund is more like a giant safe . . . buried somewhere in North Korea. Under a volcano guarded by flying monkeys, trap doors, voice recognition gates, and an oracle who will ask visitors three challenging questions about cricket. In Klingon. Backwards. And your answers must be in the form of a question. Yup, that’s right, Governor Perry and his conservative lawmaker brethren have decided we can’t touch the Rainy Day Fund.
I’m all in favor of fiscal conservative policy, but miserly-to-the-point-of-starvation policy? Let me ask you this, Mr. Governor: as you debate the budget, will you be burning large bundles of cash from the fund to keep the capitol warm? Or on the first day, perhaps every legislator gets a blanket full of bills to keep himself/herself warm at night? Or maybe you’re practicing origami in order to make umbrellas out of bills so the legislators don’t get wet when it rains?
I can picture a gaunt, shoeless child approaching the governor next year:
“Um, Mr. Governor sir, can I have a dollar for my school lunch? Wait where are you?”
“I’m over here,” a Rick Perry-ish voice says.
“Oh, I can’t see you behind those stacks of money.”
“It’s my fort. In case it rains. And in case the roof leaks.”
We’re in the worst economy since the Great Depression and the governor can’t even feel a sprinkle. Maybe he’s waiting for everyone to get struck by lightning first. Or swept completely away in the downpour. Maybe we’re saving it for the day Oklahoma springs a surprise nuclear attack on us. Then we’ll be able to rebuild the state or at least the Cotton Bowl so we can keep playing Oklahoma in football.
Governor Perry is quoted as saying, “Why in the world would we want to spend dollars just because they're sitting there…” Oh I don’t know, BECAUSE THEY’RE TAX DOLLARS and that’s what you do with tax dollars. Or you can give it back. At least the federal government spends the money we send it. (And then some.).
In fact, I would expect that to be the conservative argument: “We’re going to spend it on the budget or give it back.” But no, it’s “We’re going to cut your services to the bone while we build a giant cash playground in the Capitol that we can play in all day.”
Since Governor Perry refuses to touch the Rainy Day Fund, I can only conclude that he thinks Texas is in for a doomsday scenario so scary we can’t even picture it because to do so would sear our eyes and cause mass death and destruction.
Seriously, what’s the use in having a Rainy Day Fund if you don’t believe in rain?
Friday, January 14, 2011
Back Office Stick-Up
So I’ve had quite the holiday hiatus. In honor of the new year, I am kicking off the blog with a public service announcement. But first, a little background:
Last August, St. Pauli Girl was the victim of a hold-up. Except the thief didn’t have a mask or weapon and St. Pauli Girl never even met him. The thief was a large financial corporate institution we’ll call Rancid, Inc. (Times must be really, really tough.)
St. Pauli Girl withdrew a small sum from her retirement account held by Rancid, Inc. A couple of weeks later she received a call from the personnel office of her former employer: High Plains Drifter College. They told St. Pauli Girl they had received a $10,000 check made out to the college and referencing her name. The college had no idea why they received it and mailed the check to St. Pauli Girl.
St. Pauli Girl went online to check her account and noticed that the day after her small withdrawal, a $10,000 withdrawal had also been made. So despite now having the un-cashable check in her possession, her account was still missing $10,000.
Her retirement plan is a 403B plan which can best be described as the female equivalent of a 401k because it’s more complicated and has lots of “fine print” you ignored when you signed up. Plus it’s regulated by each individual state which means companies like Rancid, Inc. have to be able to handle these accounts in 50 different ways.
Surely a phone call would straighten things out? Well, here’s how that played out:
St. Pauli Girl: Can you tell me why $10,000 was taken from my account and sent to my former employer?
Rancid Operator: That check was requested by the college.
St. Pauli Girl: No, it wasn’t. I talked to them.
Rancid Operator: It’s standard procedure that a college requests the unvested amount of your investment when you leave their employment, and that’s what Giddyup College did.
St. Pauli Girl: Wait, Giddyup College? I haven’t worked for them in over ten years, and that was mostly part-time for just a few years. Almost all of my retirement investment is from High Plains Drifter College, where I was full-time for many years.
Rancid Operator: Well, when you change employers, you rollover what you had and the previous employer requests the unvested amount.
St. Pauli Girl: I changed colleges ten years ago! What took so long? Isn’t there a statute of limitations?
Rancid Operator: Let me ask a supervisor.
(20 minutes and 9 Musak songs later)
Rancid Operator: Yes, Giddyup College requested that money.
St. Pauli Girl: But you made the check out to High Plains Drifter and mailed the check to them.
Rancid Operator: Yes, hmm, well there goes my computer . . . sorry…. Let me ask a supervisor.
(20 more minutes later)
Rancid Operator: Ma’am? We mailed the check to High Plains because those two colleges merged.
St. Pauli Girl: What? Are you crazy? That sure will be news to them! Let me speak to your supervisor.
Rancid Operator: She just went to lunch. And I’d better get going too. Thanks for calling.
St. Pauli Girl tried numerous times to call back, but the Rancid operators put up a strong defense, and she couldn’t get past them. She tried to call the investment advisor listed on her statement, but he wouldn’t return her calls either. (Apparently he only returns calls when a commission is involved.) She called Giddyup College, and they verified they did not request a check . . . nor had they secretly merged with High Plains Drifter College.
We did extensive research and concluded no one was entitled to the money except St. Pauli Girl. We then mailed a formal letter to Rancid protesting her most recent retirement account statement and demanded the money be restored. (If this didn’t work, I knew where to find the A-Team.)
Finally after receiving our letter, a Rancid representative called to tell us there had been a mistake and the money would be restored by the end of the week. (It may have helped that in our letter we used words like “fraudulent,” “usury” and “chicanery.”) But no one ever explained the mistake. After $10,000 disappeared, no one could tell us how or why.
It was probably a computer glitch, or perhaps the fact that even minor employees have to know 50 different ways to handle retirement accounts. But in a large company like Rancid, no one is going to notice a missing $10,000. Luckily the HR person at High Plains Drifter College did notice.
So my public service announcement:
Balance your checkbook!
Always carefully read any investment statements!
Carefully review all bills, credit card statements and especially little charges on your phone bill!
If an ATM declines your withdrawal request, always check your statement and make sure the ATM didn’t take the money from your account anyway!
Times are tough; you never know when a company like Rancid, Inc. is going to keep a little something for themselves.
Last August, St. Pauli Girl was the victim of a hold-up. Except the thief didn’t have a mask or weapon and St. Pauli Girl never even met him. The thief was a large financial corporate institution we’ll call Rancid, Inc. (Times must be really, really tough.)
St. Pauli Girl withdrew a small sum from her retirement account held by Rancid, Inc. A couple of weeks later she received a call from the personnel office of her former employer: High Plains Drifter College. They told St. Pauli Girl they had received a $10,000 check made out to the college and referencing her name. The college had no idea why they received it and mailed the check to St. Pauli Girl.
St. Pauli Girl went online to check her account and noticed that the day after her small withdrawal, a $10,000 withdrawal had also been made. So despite now having the un-cashable check in her possession, her account was still missing $10,000.
Her retirement plan is a 403B plan which can best be described as the female equivalent of a 401k because it’s more complicated and has lots of “fine print” you ignored when you signed up. Plus it’s regulated by each individual state which means companies like Rancid, Inc. have to be able to handle these accounts in 50 different ways.
Surely a phone call would straighten things out? Well, here’s how that played out:
St. Pauli Girl: Can you tell me why $10,000 was taken from my account and sent to my former employer?
Rancid Operator: That check was requested by the college.
St. Pauli Girl: No, it wasn’t. I talked to them.
Rancid Operator: It’s standard procedure that a college requests the unvested amount of your investment when you leave their employment, and that’s what Giddyup College did.
St. Pauli Girl: Wait, Giddyup College? I haven’t worked for them in over ten years, and that was mostly part-time for just a few years. Almost all of my retirement investment is from High Plains Drifter College, where I was full-time for many years.
Rancid Operator: Well, when you change employers, you rollover what you had and the previous employer requests the unvested amount.
St. Pauli Girl: I changed colleges ten years ago! What took so long? Isn’t there a statute of limitations?
Rancid Operator: Let me ask a supervisor.
(20 minutes and 9 Musak songs later)
Rancid Operator: Yes, Giddyup College requested that money.
St. Pauli Girl: But you made the check out to High Plains Drifter and mailed the check to them.
Rancid Operator: Yes, hmm, well there goes my computer . . . sorry…. Let me ask a supervisor.
(20 more minutes later)
Rancid Operator: Ma’am? We mailed the check to High Plains because those two colleges merged.
St. Pauli Girl: What? Are you crazy? That sure will be news to them! Let me speak to your supervisor.
Rancid Operator: She just went to lunch. And I’d better get going too. Thanks for calling.
St. Pauli Girl tried numerous times to call back, but the Rancid operators put up a strong defense, and she couldn’t get past them. She tried to call the investment advisor listed on her statement, but he wouldn’t return her calls either. (Apparently he only returns calls when a commission is involved.) She called Giddyup College, and they verified they did not request a check . . . nor had they secretly merged with High Plains Drifter College.
We did extensive research and concluded no one was entitled to the money except St. Pauli Girl. We then mailed a formal letter to Rancid protesting her most recent retirement account statement and demanded the money be restored. (If this didn’t work, I knew where to find the A-Team.)
Finally after receiving our letter, a Rancid representative called to tell us there had been a mistake and the money would be restored by the end of the week. (It may have helped that in our letter we used words like “fraudulent,” “usury” and “chicanery.”) But no one ever explained the mistake. After $10,000 disappeared, no one could tell us how or why.
It was probably a computer glitch, or perhaps the fact that even minor employees have to know 50 different ways to handle retirement accounts. But in a large company like Rancid, no one is going to notice a missing $10,000. Luckily the HR person at High Plains Drifter College did notice.
So my public service announcement:
Balance your checkbook!
Always carefully read any investment statements!
Carefully review all bills, credit card statements and especially little charges on your phone bill!
If an ATM declines your withdrawal request, always check your statement and make sure the ATM didn’t take the money from your account anyway!
Times are tough; you never know when a company like Rancid, Inc. is going to keep a little something for themselves.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Party on, Cliff and Newman!
Who has the best office Christmas parties? The U.S. Postal Service.
The traditional office party usually relies on participants self-catering the party with some array of potluck dishes and treats. If you’re lucky, most of the partygoers will bring items from the local supermarket bakery; if not, you’re stuck with an assortment of bean dips and fruitcakes that make you want to go back to work. But apparently, the postal service just goes to the back room to round up treats that were scheduled to go elsewhere.
Every year, St. Pauli Girl spends a week baking goodies and putting together spices, jams and sauces to send out to the lucky few on our Christmas list. This year she sent over 11 packages via the U.S. Postal Service (she had to use a little red wagon to haul them inside the office). The postal worker asked St. Pauli Girl if the packages contained anything perishable. Fearing it might be more expensive, she said, “no.” Then she thought she heard the worker happily mumbling, “One for them, one for us, one for them, one for us,” as he placed each package in different stacks. Turns out that may have been accurate.
Yesterday, I opened an envelope from the post office which contained a torn off address from one of our packages. The letter stated “this address looks like it fell off one of your packages. If you’d like us to look for the package, please fill out this form so we can better identify it.” Hmmm, a package full of goodies with an address label neatly torn off? They may as well have added: “P.S. Can I have the recipe for that nut roll? Fabulous!”
I suspect some genius postal worker goes through the non-perishable packages, shakes them, and sets aside any that sound suspicious to be enjoyed later at the holiday party. After all, the shipper won’t complain because if he/she does, he/she can be put in postal jail because the shipper lied about the contents being perishable. Victory for the postal party!
But actually, UPS and Fed Ex probably have better parties. While it is illegal to ship alcohol though the U.S. mail, it’s only frowned upon by UPS and Fed Ex. They have a “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy. Actually it’s more like a “don’t tell” or “act lawyerly” philosophy because they will ask what’s in the package. And you have to say something like “cooking supplies” or, in your best Jackie Chiles voice, “yeast samples.”
So while the post office has a guy in the backroom searching for cookies, UPS and Fed Ex has a team of people looking for hooch. End result: a much more entertaining party than the postal service. They also have foolproof logic: it’s not illegal to ship it but we forbid it and so not only do we not have to deliver it, we won’t give you your money back.
The lesson here is that if you’re going to ship holiday gifts, ship a fruitcake. Then get a job at UPS or Fed Ex and enjoy great holiday parties. We apologize to friends and family that did not get their packages. But the post office would like you to know it was delicious.
The traditional office party usually relies on participants self-catering the party with some array of potluck dishes and treats. If you’re lucky, most of the partygoers will bring items from the local supermarket bakery; if not, you’re stuck with an assortment of bean dips and fruitcakes that make you want to go back to work. But apparently, the postal service just goes to the back room to round up treats that were scheduled to go elsewhere.
Every year, St. Pauli Girl spends a week baking goodies and putting together spices, jams and sauces to send out to the lucky few on our Christmas list. This year she sent over 11 packages via the U.S. Postal Service (she had to use a little red wagon to haul them inside the office). The postal worker asked St. Pauli Girl if the packages contained anything perishable. Fearing it might be more expensive, she said, “no.” Then she thought she heard the worker happily mumbling, “One for them, one for us, one for them, one for us,” as he placed each package in different stacks. Turns out that may have been accurate.
Yesterday, I opened an envelope from the post office which contained a torn off address from one of our packages. The letter stated “this address looks like it fell off one of your packages. If you’d like us to look for the package, please fill out this form so we can better identify it.” Hmmm, a package full of goodies with an address label neatly torn off? They may as well have added: “P.S. Can I have the recipe for that nut roll? Fabulous!”
I suspect some genius postal worker goes through the non-perishable packages, shakes them, and sets aside any that sound suspicious to be enjoyed later at the holiday party. After all, the shipper won’t complain because if he/she does, he/she can be put in postal jail because the shipper lied about the contents being perishable. Victory for the postal party!
But actually, UPS and Fed Ex probably have better parties. While it is illegal to ship alcohol though the U.S. mail, it’s only frowned upon by UPS and Fed Ex. They have a “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy. Actually it’s more like a “don’t tell” or “act lawyerly” philosophy because they will ask what’s in the package. And you have to say something like “cooking supplies” or, in your best Jackie Chiles voice, “yeast samples.”
So while the post office has a guy in the backroom searching for cookies, UPS and Fed Ex has a team of people looking for hooch. End result: a much more entertaining party than the postal service. They also have foolproof logic: it’s not illegal to ship it but we forbid it and so not only do we not have to deliver it, we won’t give you your money back.
The lesson here is that if you’re going to ship holiday gifts, ship a fruitcake. Then get a job at UPS or Fed Ex and enjoy great holiday parties. We apologize to friends and family that did not get their packages. But the post office would like you to know it was delicious.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Our Miracle On Ice
It was the typical holiday plan: pack up the kids, gifts, food, pillows, blankets and take a 15 hour drive to see family over the holidays. What could go wrong? We never have a white Christmas. Spring tornadoes sure, but not blizzards on Christmas.
Our master plan involved renting a van then driving on Christmas night in 2000 from the Texas panhandle to Tennessee to visit relatives on my side. It would probably be the only time we would ever do it with St. Pauli Girl’s kids, Eduardo and Raquel. They were probably less than thrilled but by driving overnight, we figured they’d be asleep and less likely to complain.
The weather forecast called for a snowstorm but what do meteorologists know? At least this time, they knew a lot. On Christmas morning, snowflakes filled the air. The bigger problem was the ice storm that shut down I-40 in Oklahoma with reports of ice and snow as far south as Dallas. I jumped onto the internet and scoured forecasts and road conditions. I found an alternative route by going south through Dallas. “If we can just get through Dallas by nightfall, we’ll be safe,” I told St. Pauli Girl. “But we need to leave as soon as possible.”
Now by “as soon as possible,” I meant “let’s get in the car and leave right now.” Unfortunately, we had to still pick up the rental van, send the dog to Grandma’s, load the van and get Eduardo and Raquel to pack their bags. Four hours later we were ready to pull out. The latest online road conditions report showed ice all the way to Dallas, but no roads were closed at that time. “And those reports are always ultra-conservative,” I explained to St. Pauli Girl. “Someone sees a snowflake and the plow trucks come out. It’s like those yellow highway signs showing a curve and recommending 35 miles per hour but you know you can really go about 55.”
The first twenty minutes of the trip went well. Snow was on the ground, but the roads were just wet, like driving through a nice spring shower. An hour in, snow was coming down a little harder, and you could see some slush on the road. I slowed down a bit but figured 55 mph would make okay time in this weather. I started to notice cars pulled over on the shoulder. “There sure are a lot of broken down cars,” I said. “They don’t build them like they used to.”
At this point, the van began slipping on icy spots so I slowed down a little more. As we neared a small town, flashing police lights alerted us to three cars in the median. “Idiots,” I said. “Obviously driving too fast for conditions.” I slowed down again.
A few minutes later, we drove past a Suburban laying on its side about fifty yards off the road.
“Did you see that?” St. Pauli Girl asked. “Maybe we should stop and check on them.”
“There’s no one there,” I said anxious to keep going and not lose anymore time.
“How do you know?”
“This is the country. They probably just park their car in the front yard.”
“On its side?”
“Well, it was probably on concrete blocks and the storm knocked it off. Besides if it had been a recent crash, the wheels would still be spinning, lights would be on or something,” I reasoned.
We passed several more cars that had gone off the road. Sleet came down harder, and I slowed down to about 40 mph. I could feel the van fishtail quite regularly now. I slowed down to 30. Our five-hour pace to Dallas had now become ten and what started out as a 15-hour trip had increased to about 27. But we pushed onward.
Finally, we came around a curve where the ice would not cooperate with our wheels. With “steer in the direction of the skid” pounding in my brain, I took us straight down a short embankment and into the snow covered median. Raquel screamed that we were crashing. Luckily there were no obstructions, and momentum carried us all the way through the median until we were pointed in the other direction just off the shoulder of the west bound side of the highway as if we had just made a U-turn.
“Wow,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think we should keep going,” St. Pauli Girl replied. “We’re headed southeast. It’s going to get better!”
“You know what? Since we’re pointing in this direction, I’m going home.”
I pulled back onto the highway and slowly headed west. The storm became much fiercer, leaving a thick layer of snow atop the ice. But I wasn’t cold; I was covered in sweat. The snow came down so hard and fast it froze to the windshield before the wipers could clear it. We had to stop every 15 minutes and manually clear the windshield. Luckily the worst of the storm was headed east. By the time we hit the outskirts of our hometown, we faced only snowy roads.
We finally made it home, our 150-mile round trip having taken four hours. I sat down and St. Pauli Girl asked if it was wine time. “I’ll have scotch,” I said. “Make it a double.”
So in the spirit of the season, I send this holiday caveat to everyone: when the road department reports that conditions are bad and you should stay home, they aren’t kidding.
Our master plan involved renting a van then driving on Christmas night in 2000 from the Texas panhandle to Tennessee to visit relatives on my side. It would probably be the only time we would ever do it with St. Pauli Girl’s kids, Eduardo and Raquel. They were probably less than thrilled but by driving overnight, we figured they’d be asleep and less likely to complain.
The weather forecast called for a snowstorm but what do meteorologists know? At least this time, they knew a lot. On Christmas morning, snowflakes filled the air. The bigger problem was the ice storm that shut down I-40 in Oklahoma with reports of ice and snow as far south as Dallas. I jumped onto the internet and scoured forecasts and road conditions. I found an alternative route by going south through Dallas. “If we can just get through Dallas by nightfall, we’ll be safe,” I told St. Pauli Girl. “But we need to leave as soon as possible.”
Now by “as soon as possible,” I meant “let’s get in the car and leave right now.” Unfortunately, we had to still pick up the rental van, send the dog to Grandma’s, load the van and get Eduardo and Raquel to pack their bags. Four hours later we were ready to pull out. The latest online road conditions report showed ice all the way to Dallas, but no roads were closed at that time. “And those reports are always ultra-conservative,” I explained to St. Pauli Girl. “Someone sees a snowflake and the plow trucks come out. It’s like those yellow highway signs showing a curve and recommending 35 miles per hour but you know you can really go about 55.”
The first twenty minutes of the trip went well. Snow was on the ground, but the roads were just wet, like driving through a nice spring shower. An hour in, snow was coming down a little harder, and you could see some slush on the road. I slowed down a bit but figured 55 mph would make okay time in this weather. I started to notice cars pulled over on the shoulder. “There sure are a lot of broken down cars,” I said. “They don’t build them like they used to.”
At this point, the van began slipping on icy spots so I slowed down a little more. As we neared a small town, flashing police lights alerted us to three cars in the median. “Idiots,” I said. “Obviously driving too fast for conditions.” I slowed down again.
A few minutes later, we drove past a Suburban laying on its side about fifty yards off the road.
“Did you see that?” St. Pauli Girl asked. “Maybe we should stop and check on them.”
“There’s no one there,” I said anxious to keep going and not lose anymore time.
“How do you know?”
“This is the country. They probably just park their car in the front yard.”
“On its side?”
“Well, it was probably on concrete blocks and the storm knocked it off. Besides if it had been a recent crash, the wheels would still be spinning, lights would be on or something,” I reasoned.
We passed several more cars that had gone off the road. Sleet came down harder, and I slowed down to about 40 mph. I could feel the van fishtail quite regularly now. I slowed down to 30. Our five-hour pace to Dallas had now become ten and what started out as a 15-hour trip had increased to about 27. But we pushed onward.
Finally, we came around a curve where the ice would not cooperate with our wheels. With “steer in the direction of the skid” pounding in my brain, I took us straight down a short embankment and into the snow covered median. Raquel screamed that we were crashing. Luckily there were no obstructions, and momentum carried us all the way through the median until we were pointed in the other direction just off the shoulder of the west bound side of the highway as if we had just made a U-turn.
“Wow,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think we should keep going,” St. Pauli Girl replied. “We’re headed southeast. It’s going to get better!”
“You know what? Since we’re pointing in this direction, I’m going home.”
I pulled back onto the highway and slowly headed west. The storm became much fiercer, leaving a thick layer of snow atop the ice. But I wasn’t cold; I was covered in sweat. The snow came down so hard and fast it froze to the windshield before the wipers could clear it. We had to stop every 15 minutes and manually clear the windshield. Luckily the worst of the storm was headed east. By the time we hit the outskirts of our hometown, we faced only snowy roads.
We finally made it home, our 150-mile round trip having taken four hours. I sat down and St. Pauli Girl asked if it was wine time. “I’ll have scotch,” I said. “Make it a double.”
So in the spirit of the season, I send this holiday caveat to everyone: when the road department reports that conditions are bad and you should stay home, they aren’t kidding.
Monday, December 13, 2010
My Big Lumberjack Adventure
As I have mentioned before, we live on a two-acre piece of country property that requires about 50 times the amount of a work as your normal suburban lot. A golf course greens keeper once owned the property, and he planted a lot of extra shrubbery that the golf course couldn’t use. I’d rather he’d have just built a couple of par 3’s.
Due to age, drought, and neglect, prior to us moving in, many shrubs and trees had perished. St. Pauli Girl has been anxious to clear the land of this dead stuff. I agree, but being green-minded, I’d rather do it naturally, via say lightning or wildfires or waiting for the trees to rot so that we can just kick them over. Sure, it may take longer, but the property will be as God and nature intended it. But St. Pauli Girl would like it to be as St. Pauli Girl intended it.
This past weekend St. Pauli Girl’s brother happened to be passing through. She decided to make him work for his food and lodging by having him bring his chainsaw. (We will now refer to him as Grizzly since he has a beard, a chainsaw, and built his own cabin in the mountains, although to be fair, he looks more like a fifty-ish James Brolin with a goatee than he does Grizzly Adams.)
Saturday morning, after a big farm breakfast, Grizzly and I headed over to a group of poplar trees where Grizzly fired up the chainsaw and made quick work of them. I mostly stood out of the way and as each tree came down, yelled, “Timber!”
“What are you doing?” Grizzly asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to do that? Warn everyone, like yelling ‘fore’ in golf?”
“Actually, you’re supposed to make sure the tree doesn’t fall on me.”
Understanding my role better, we buzzed through tree after tree. Then we went over to a different kind of tree, the biggest one yet, and after felling it, Grizzly created a birdbath stand from the stump. I got on my knees and looked at it from eye level. “It’s crooked,” I said helpfully.
“Think of it more as a bird water park with a giant slide,” he said.
After lunch it was time to attack the granddaddy, the old oak tree in the chicken yard. The tree had been dead for years, with large branches hanging over the fence to the neighbor’s yard. Grizzly walked around the tree looking for the best plan of attack. “How well do you know your neighbors?” he asked.
“Enough that they won’t mind if we drop some branches in their yard, but they’ll sure be mad if we crush the fence.”
At this point we brought in a new element of danger: a stepladder. Grizzly would have to scale the ladder and operate the chainsaw from above while I stood in the next county. The first branch bounced off the top of the wire fence and fell into the neighbor’s yard. We studied the fence.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I said.
“Yeah, I thought the fence was a goner for sure.”
I pulled up on the wire fence to make it look like it was still mostly standing. “We can blame it on this vine. There’s a lot of overgrowth here.”
“You can just drop a post right there. Piece of cake,” Grizzly said as if that would be easy for me.
“Yeah, I think I’m just going to blame the vine.”
Next came a large multi-limbed section. Grizzly mounted the ladder while I stood on the ground holding a piece of rope attached to a thick, 30-foot branch with many smaller branches shooting from it. Grizzly fired up the chainsaw. “Ready?” he asked.
(It’s important to note here that some wood is denser and heavier than others. So far, we had cut down nothing but poplar and fir trees which are so light that I carried them with one hand over my shoulder like a javelin. Oak is much heavier, I would soon find out. Much, much.)
The idea here was that as Grizzly cut the limb, I would pull on the rope to steer it away from the tree, the ladder, and most notably Grizzly. I could see the chainsaw going through the limb, and as it got about 3/4 through, I tugged hard on the rope. Well, it would have been a hard tug for a poplar tree. But this was oak. Suddenly the limb separated from the tree, huge branches crashing to the ground while the main limb swerved back, knocking the ladder which spun around on one leg with Grizzly clinging to the top and frantically grasping the vibrating, still-hungry chainsaw.
Luckily the limb fell to the ground, the ladder teetered back onto three legs, and Grizzly managed to avoid dismembering himself. I dropped the rope and called out to BooBoo, our dog. “BooBoo, run boy, run! Go tell the women-folk there’s been an accident.”
I ran to the ladder and secured it while Grizzly turned off the saw. He handed it down to me, then climbed down the ladder. He wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief while I studied the ladder.
“I think you bent the ladder,” I said.
Grizzly looked it over and knocked it back into shape. The incident didn’t seem to bother him much. All I could say was, “Hmph! Who’d a-thought oak was so heavy?”
An hour later, we stood in the yard holding a rope attached to the very top branch of the tree. We began to rock in unison, pulling the branch toward us. Grizzly said, “Let’s bounce it and count to three, then we’ll yank on it with everything we’ve got.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Oh yeah, and don’t forget to run.”
Due to age, drought, and neglect, prior to us moving in, many shrubs and trees had perished. St. Pauli Girl has been anxious to clear the land of this dead stuff. I agree, but being green-minded, I’d rather do it naturally, via say lightning or wildfires or waiting for the trees to rot so that we can just kick them over. Sure, it may take longer, but the property will be as God and nature intended it. But St. Pauli Girl would like it to be as St. Pauli Girl intended it.
This past weekend St. Pauli Girl’s brother happened to be passing through. She decided to make him work for his food and lodging by having him bring his chainsaw. (We will now refer to him as Grizzly since he has a beard, a chainsaw, and built his own cabin in the mountains, although to be fair, he looks more like a fifty-ish James Brolin with a goatee than he does Grizzly Adams.)
Saturday morning, after a big farm breakfast, Grizzly and I headed over to a group of poplar trees where Grizzly fired up the chainsaw and made quick work of them. I mostly stood out of the way and as each tree came down, yelled, “Timber!”
“What are you doing?” Grizzly asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to do that? Warn everyone, like yelling ‘fore’ in golf?”
“Actually, you’re supposed to make sure the tree doesn’t fall on me.”
Understanding my role better, we buzzed through tree after tree. Then we went over to a different kind of tree, the biggest one yet, and after felling it, Grizzly created a birdbath stand from the stump. I got on my knees and looked at it from eye level. “It’s crooked,” I said helpfully.
“Think of it more as a bird water park with a giant slide,” he said.
After lunch it was time to attack the granddaddy, the old oak tree in the chicken yard. The tree had been dead for years, with large branches hanging over the fence to the neighbor’s yard. Grizzly walked around the tree looking for the best plan of attack. “How well do you know your neighbors?” he asked.
“Enough that they won’t mind if we drop some branches in their yard, but they’ll sure be mad if we crush the fence.”
At this point we brought in a new element of danger: a stepladder. Grizzly would have to scale the ladder and operate the chainsaw from above while I stood in the next county. The first branch bounced off the top of the wire fence and fell into the neighbor’s yard. We studied the fence.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I said.
“Yeah, I thought the fence was a goner for sure.”
I pulled up on the wire fence to make it look like it was still mostly standing. “We can blame it on this vine. There’s a lot of overgrowth here.”
“You can just drop a post right there. Piece of cake,” Grizzly said as if that would be easy for me.
“Yeah, I think I’m just going to blame the vine.”
Next came a large multi-limbed section. Grizzly mounted the ladder while I stood on the ground holding a piece of rope attached to a thick, 30-foot branch with many smaller branches shooting from it. Grizzly fired up the chainsaw. “Ready?” he asked.
(It’s important to note here that some wood is denser and heavier than others. So far, we had cut down nothing but poplar and fir trees which are so light that I carried them with one hand over my shoulder like a javelin. Oak is much heavier, I would soon find out. Much, much.)
The idea here was that as Grizzly cut the limb, I would pull on the rope to steer it away from the tree, the ladder, and most notably Grizzly. I could see the chainsaw going through the limb, and as it got about 3/4 through, I tugged hard on the rope. Well, it would have been a hard tug for a poplar tree. But this was oak. Suddenly the limb separated from the tree, huge branches crashing to the ground while the main limb swerved back, knocking the ladder which spun around on one leg with Grizzly clinging to the top and frantically grasping the vibrating, still-hungry chainsaw.
Luckily the limb fell to the ground, the ladder teetered back onto three legs, and Grizzly managed to avoid dismembering himself. I dropped the rope and called out to BooBoo, our dog. “BooBoo, run boy, run! Go tell the women-folk there’s been an accident.”
I ran to the ladder and secured it while Grizzly turned off the saw. He handed it down to me, then climbed down the ladder. He wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief while I studied the ladder.
“I think you bent the ladder,” I said.
Grizzly looked it over and knocked it back into shape. The incident didn’t seem to bother him much. All I could say was, “Hmph! Who’d a-thought oak was so heavy?”
An hour later, we stood in the yard holding a rope attached to the very top branch of the tree. We began to rock in unison, pulling the branch toward us. Grizzly said, “Let’s bounce it and count to three, then we’ll yank on it with everything we’ve got.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Oh yeah, and don’t forget to run.”
Friday, December 3, 2010
Auto-Complete This!
Google, I think I have to break up with you. And it’s not me, it’s you.
I have long been a fan. I even had you as my homepage for years. I always appreciated the quick response time and didn’t even mind the suggestions that popped up as I entered my own search words. But now your attempts to read my mind as I type in each letter has complicated my life so much and made you so high maintenance that I must now consider other search engines.
My computer is old, I admit. In human years, she would say she’s 39. (We all know what that means.) She also has a smoker’s cough, and her bones creak every time I save a file. But she still does the job she was hired for. I don’t use her to play video games or watch movies, and the hardest math I do is multiply and divide. Someone could replace my monitor with an old black and white text monitor and I probably wouldn’t notice.
But no, Google had to slip in its little auto-complete feature when I wasn’t looking. (Kind of like a roommate inviting a loser friend to move in and saying, “It’s just for a few days. You won’t even notice he’s here,” but the cigarette burns on the couch, pizza bones on the counter, and empty Schaefer beer cans in the shower scream, “Yeah, he’s still here!”)
The result? One of us has to go. So let me illustrate my last hook-up with Google:
Me: [I type “z” in the Google search box but nothing appears]
Google: What? Huh? Is someone there? [Rubs his eyes.]
Me: [My fingers are poised on the keyboard waiting for “z” to appear.]
Google: Okay, okay. Like, hold on a sec, will ya.? Hmmm, where’s my pants?
Me: [I type “o” after the “z” and still nothing appears.]
Google: Be right back. Gotta get some coffee.
Me: [I stare at the screen trying telepathically to get Google moving.]
Google: “Z.” Got it. Let’s see, what starts with Z? Z, Z, Z, zzzzz. *yawn*.
Me: Hurray! [“Zo” appears on the screen. I type in another “o.”]
Google: Okay, I’m gonna read your mind. Zo. Okay, Zamboni. Nah, that’s not it. I’ve got it--Zoey! You’re looking for porn with a girl named Zoey, huh? Or, maybe you’re thinking of Batman sounds, like “Zowie” and “Zounds”?
Me: [I bang my head on the keyboard waiting for control to return to me.]
Google: Aha, now you’ve got “zoo” in there. You want to go to the zoo!
Me: [I type in “k” resulting in “zook” in the search box.]
Google: Okay, I see you’re in central Texas. Let’s see what I got. San Antonio, no, how about this! [A page of Austin zoo links appears, including a map with pushpin markers.] Bam! Less than .0046 seconds! How’s that?
Me: Not by my watch! And I don’t want to go to the zoo!
Google: I think you do. That’s why I changed the search box to “Austin Zoo.”
Me: No, dammit, I typed in “zook!”
Google: Yeah, but I think so much faster than you that I knew you really wanted to go to the zoo.
Me: Jesus. I’m trying to get some info about a restaurant called “Zookini’s.” That is all.
Google: There isn’t one in Austin.
Me: I know! That’s not the point!
Google: You can eat at the zoo you know. How ‘bout I find you some zoo concessions, would you like that?
Me: No! [I try to ignore him and resume my typing but I haven’t noticed that he’s changed the search box. After I finish typing the search box displays “Austin Zoo kinis.”]
Google: Did you mean Austin Bi-kinis?
Me: What? No! Argghhh! [I backspace through the search box and start over. I type “zookiins” but only “zoo” appears in the search box.] Darn it! Misspelled it. Come on already!
Google: Hold on, freshening up my coffee while I look up other zoos since you don’t want to go to the Austin zoo.
Me: I don’t want to go to any zoo! Will you just show me what I typed so I can fix the misspelling?
Google: I’m way ahead of you. [A search page appears listing several zoos, a Ron Zook Insurance Agency, and several classmates.com ads.]
Me: [The search box appears and I fix my misspelling. I start to press return.]
Google: Hold on there, sport.
Me: I don’t want to go to the zoo!
Google: Did you mean “zookini’s”?
Me: I already told you that.
Google: Yeah, but you forgot the apostrophe.
Me: They both get the same results.
Google: Maybe this time, but not always. So are we done here?
Me: Yes, I think so.
Google: Umm, okay. [Starts humming a tune.]
Me: Well, what are you waiting for?
Google: A little sugar?
Me: No, I am not thanking you.
Google: You’re welcome.
Me: That’s it! Pack up your auto-complete and get out!
I have long been a fan. I even had you as my homepage for years. I always appreciated the quick response time and didn’t even mind the suggestions that popped up as I entered my own search words. But now your attempts to read my mind as I type in each letter has complicated my life so much and made you so high maintenance that I must now consider other search engines.
My computer is old, I admit. In human years, she would say she’s 39. (We all know what that means.) She also has a smoker’s cough, and her bones creak every time I save a file. But she still does the job she was hired for. I don’t use her to play video games or watch movies, and the hardest math I do is multiply and divide. Someone could replace my monitor with an old black and white text monitor and I probably wouldn’t notice.
But no, Google had to slip in its little auto-complete feature when I wasn’t looking. (Kind of like a roommate inviting a loser friend to move in and saying, “It’s just for a few days. You won’t even notice he’s here,” but the cigarette burns on the couch, pizza bones on the counter, and empty Schaefer beer cans in the shower scream, “Yeah, he’s still here!”)
The result? One of us has to go. So let me illustrate my last hook-up with Google:
Me: [I type “z” in the Google search box but nothing appears]
Google: What? Huh? Is someone there? [Rubs his eyes.]
Me: [My fingers are poised on the keyboard waiting for “z” to appear.]
Google: Okay, okay. Like, hold on a sec, will ya.? Hmmm, where’s my pants?
Me: [I type “o” after the “z” and still nothing appears.]
Google: Be right back. Gotta get some coffee.
Me: [I stare at the screen trying telepathically to get Google moving.]
Google: “Z.” Got it. Let’s see, what starts with Z? Z, Z, Z, zzzzz. *yawn*.
Me: Hurray! [“Zo” appears on the screen. I type in another “o.”]
Google: Okay, I’m gonna read your mind. Zo. Okay, Zamboni. Nah, that’s not it. I’ve got it--Zoey! You’re looking for porn with a girl named Zoey, huh? Or, maybe you’re thinking of Batman sounds, like “Zowie” and “Zounds”?
Me: [I bang my head on the keyboard waiting for control to return to me.]
Google: Aha, now you’ve got “zoo” in there. You want to go to the zoo!
Me: [I type in “k” resulting in “zook” in the search box.]
Google: Okay, I see you’re in central Texas. Let’s see what I got. San Antonio, no, how about this! [A page of Austin zoo links appears, including a map with pushpin markers.] Bam! Less than .0046 seconds! How’s that?
Me: Not by my watch! And I don’t want to go to the zoo!
Google: I think you do. That’s why I changed the search box to “Austin Zoo.”
Me: No, dammit, I typed in “zook!”
Google: Yeah, but I think so much faster than you that I knew you really wanted to go to the zoo.
Me: Jesus. I’m trying to get some info about a restaurant called “Zookini’s.” That is all.
Google: There isn’t one in Austin.
Me: I know! That’s not the point!
Google: You can eat at the zoo you know. How ‘bout I find you some zoo concessions, would you like that?
Me: No! [I try to ignore him and resume my typing but I haven’t noticed that he’s changed the search box. After I finish typing the search box displays “Austin Zoo kinis.”]
Google: Did you mean Austin Bi-kinis?
Me: What? No! Argghhh! [I backspace through the search box and start over. I type “zookiins” but only “zoo” appears in the search box.] Darn it! Misspelled it. Come on already!
Google: Hold on, freshening up my coffee while I look up other zoos since you don’t want to go to the Austin zoo.
Me: I don’t want to go to any zoo! Will you just show me what I typed so I can fix the misspelling?
Google: I’m way ahead of you. [A search page appears listing several zoos, a Ron Zook Insurance Agency, and several classmates.com ads.]
Me: [The search box appears and I fix my misspelling. I start to press return.]
Google: Hold on there, sport.
Me: I don’t want to go to the zoo!
Google: Did you mean “zookini’s”?
Me: I already told you that.
Google: Yeah, but you forgot the apostrophe.
Me: They both get the same results.
Google: Maybe this time, but not always. So are we done here?
Me: Yes, I think so.
Google: Umm, okay. [Starts humming a tune.]
Me: Well, what are you waiting for?
Google: A little sugar?
Me: No, I am not thanking you.
Google: You’re welcome.
Me: That’s it! Pack up your auto-complete and get out!
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