Uncle Dave Thyfault Says...

Oscar meets Myles

2011-10-24T17:18:00.003-06:00

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be a dog? Well, this piece I wrote for my murder mystery book might shed some light on the topic. I'm not real sure I'll keep it in but it is a little different so I thought I'd share it here. Perhaps you'll enjoy it.

THEY CALL ME OSCAR

I was licking my balls when I first heard it.

Thump. Thump. Creak. .

Something was on the front porch.

I looked at the kid. Nope. He hadn’t heard it.

But someone was there all right. I stood at attention and yelled my loudest.

“Oscar,” the boy shouted, “Your barking is…”

Louder they came. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Stupid humans can’t hear anything.

Then, the doorbell rang.

I knew it. I knew it. A stranger was here. I bolted for the door, sliding the final few feet on the polished floor. Then, I ran round and round in quick circles.

Fortunately, Butch, my friend from next door, joined in. He must have been at his fence, probably on his hind legs.

The kid stood up, headed my way. Finally! Our pack was united. Determined to do my part, I screamed so hard I almost lost my voice.

Then, all of a sudden, the stupid boy grabbed my collar, yanked me backwards, as if I was the one causing all the trouble, “Damn it Oscar, get back.”

Why the hell was he choking me? We’re supposed to be on the same team.

I had to overcome his stupidity. I tugged and yapped with all my might.

“Come in.”

The door knob jiggled.

Holly Lassie crap, we were being invaded.

Then it happened, the intruder opened the door and seized some of our space. That was the final straw. I went for him.

“Oscar. Get back, boy. It’s okay.”

The trespasser held steady. He must have sensed I meant business. I sniffed the air. Nothing unusual. My throat was throbbing.

“Oscar, GET BACK!”

I let the kid think he was the boss. I sat. I sniffed. I watched. I let my neighbor know I had it under control.

Then the intruder extended his hand toward the kid, “Hi, I’m Myles. You must be Stump.”

“Yeah. Hello.”

“Can I pet the dog?”

“Sure.”

The stranger squatted to my level. I got a good look at him. Seemed friendly enough. His hand came slowly at me. A good sign.

Then it happened, he scratched that spot right behind my left ear that I can never quite get. He was off to a great start.

“Hi there, Oscar. How you doin’, huh, boy?”

I like it when they talk to me, but that’s not enough. I flopped on my side, spread my legs, to see if he knew what I really wanted. He did. He scratched my belly. I had him right where I wanted him. I wagged my tail to let him know he was on the right track. There was one final test, the big one. I wanted to find out if he would go “all the way”, sniff each other’s crotches?

I waited for the big fella to stand up, then, I leaned in and took a good whiff. Humans smell so weird. Kinda like flowers.

It was his turn. I was proud of how I smelled down there. I waited. I waited. I waited. But he took too long. Must have been playing “hard to get”. Too bad for him. Maybe next time.

I decided not to hold his apprehension against him. I was satisfied. Wagged my tail. Welcomed him into the pack.

I wondered if he knows how to play catch.

Money for Physical Pleasure

2011-09-13T11:44:00.011-06:00

I have never traded money for the physical pleasures offered by a woman….that is, until yesterday.

The story involves a loan on an apartment building that I own. The lender lost billions of dollars when the housing bubble collapsed and they were among those that were considered to be “too big to fail”.

They got a bailout, and were required to divest themselves of the remainder of their commercial loans to pay back as much of the money as possible. So one day they came to me and asked me to get some other loan and use the proceeds from that new loan to pay them off. To make it worth my while, they agreed to accept WAY, WAY less than what I owed them. It was the equivalent of hitting a small lottery.

Yesterday, we closed the deal and by the mid afternoon, I owed many tens-of-thousands of dollars less than I owed when I got up in the morning.

Later in the day, I was planning on celebrating by eating a root beer Popsicle, but first I had to get some gas. All the pumps were full so I randomly pulled in behind an elderly woman…say 70ish. Her grandson, probably six or so, was in the back seat.

Nothing came easy for her. By the time she got out of her car, another lane opened and I could have moved, but something compelled me to stay there. I watched her read the instructions on her pump and try to prepay with a credit card. Her first attempt failed. So did her second.

Meanwhile another space opened up, but I stayed put.

She switched to another card and tried again…no luck. I could see the colored buttons on the key pad and watched as she tried all sorts of combinations (pay outside credit, pay inside credit, is this a debit card, etc.) but nothing worked. It was very obvious she was flustered.

I rolled down my window and politely said, “Would you like some help?”

Unfortunately, she was so shook up she misinterpreted my intentions. She snapped back in frustration, “I’ll get out of your way as soon I can.”

By that time, there were several bays open, but I was determined to see this one through. “No problem,” I said. “You have as much right to be there as I do. Just let me know if you need any help.”

Then she sensed I was sincere, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m having trouble with my credit card.”

She turned around and repeated the same steps that failed her before. It was time to intervene.

I got out of my car, and said, “Let’s see what we can do.” We pushed the buttons again and when it was time to “insert card” I inserted mine instead. It worked perfectly, which made it obvious that the reason she was having trouble was her card was maxed out.

“No. Sir, I can’t allow you to do that,” she insisted.

I responded, “It’s okay. I’ve had a very good day and I am happy to share some of my good fortune with you.”

Well, you know how women are (I can get away with sexist statements like that because I have endured a lifetime with six sisters). The floodgates opened, and tears filled her tired eyes.

“You don’t know how much this means to me. I am having so many financial problems,” she whimpered. On and on she went. “I really needed this right now”, “Oh thank you, sir”, “you are my angel”.

“You’re sure welcome ma’am," I said. "Maybe you can do something nice for somebody else and pass it on.”

"I will. I know just what to do. I’m going to send a letter to a magazine that prints articles about things like this."

After she put the pump nozzle back, she turned and held out her arms. We hugged. She shivered as she held me close and swayed and whispered, “thank you, thank you, thank you".

When we finally released, her wrinkled cheeks were drwoning in tears from grateful reddened eyes.

A moment later, she drove off...very, very slowly.

I looked around and realized all of the bays were open. I pulled forward and thanked God for one of the best days of my life, then I went to the store to get that root beer Popsicle.

It was the best one I've ever had.

It is my hope that by reading this, you too will do something kind for a stranger. Take my word for it, it feels pretty darn good.

My Brother, Eddie

2011-04-29T08:02:00.012-06:00

To change the shade of gray, one simply alters the ratio of black to white. My childhood was similar because it too was a mixture…of good and bad, with a little too much bad. Oh sure, I performed a few good deeds, but for some reason they simply aren’t as memorable as my screw-ups are. That is where Eddie comes in.

Actually, Eddie was not my brother, but he should have been. In many ways we were closer than most real brothers. When we first met, I was nine and my life-long pal was seven and a half (when you’re a kid, a half-year seems significant, you know) Ike was President at the time and life was simpler then, but mischievous boys have no problem finding ways to keep their lives interesting, even in simpler times.

I thank God I met Eddie. He was an island of sanity amid a sea of madness. His sister, Donna Mae and my new step-sister, Sarah, were best of friends for years before my mom and step-dad merged their two families together. There were no other boys in either of the families…just girls. GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!!!

It was inevitable that they introduced Eddie and me. Predictably, we hit it off right away.

Eddie was totally unique. To this day, I have never met a youngster like him. For one thing, he started smoking when he was just four years old. Most adults smoked at the time and some of them thought it was cute to have Eddie light their cigarettes. He was happy to oblige.

As you would imagine, Eddie and I were always trying to get away from all our sisters. It was a survival strategy. This mutual need to escape would spawn a few adventures that would rival those of Sinbad.

Several nights a week, Eddie and I walked arm-in arm, via a secret route, to the local shopping center, just to hang out. Young lads can gain lots of wisdom cutting through yards, strolling down alleyways and passing by government housing. We learned a lot more by cruising the dark underbelly of the city than we did playing hide and seek in the well-lighted streets with our sisters. Sometimes our new wisdom was gathered by unseemly means.

For instance, there were all those pissing contests. Were they really a good idea? It sure seemed perfectly natural to us. We had powerful bladders and constantly sought opportunities to discover who could out-wiz the other. We particularly liked peeing over viaducts on cars as they passed underneath. But we didn’t really need moving targets. Sometimes we just drew a line in the dirt and had a spontaneous contest to see who could pee the farthest, the longest or the fastest. I imagined that I peed outdoors at least twice a day during those years. Yes sir, two young boys can learn lots in the alleys, like how much fun you can have just going to the bathroom

Perhaps my most vivid memories from the alleys have to do with Eddie’s dog, Nichols. Nichols was always getting into trouble. A long-haired 60 pound black and white mutt, Nichols knew it was his job to watch out for us. In fact he saved us from attacks by other dogs several times.

Dog fights are super-exciting when you’re a kid. I don’t remember Nick ever losing a fight, although it was very close one time. The day he met his match, he nearly lost his ear in a thrilling blood-fest with a huge German Sheppard. The incredible brawl must have lasted 5 minutes.

The Sheppard outweighed Nick by at least 15 pounds. Although Nick was out-classed, he made up for it with experience and spirit. Eddie’s dog fought with the tenacity of a crazed pit-bull. Each canine snarled and took a stance, half-cocked and ready to spring into the flesh of the other. Within an instant they were standing on their hind legs, face to face, growling, twisting and dancing, biting and cutting each other over and over, willing to fight to the death. The vicious battle persisted until there was blood everywhere. Each fighter took turns ripping into the other, seeking the ultimate victory, which could only be secured by gaining a split-second access to his rival’s throat.

Eventually, they just wore out and the contest ended. Any impartial observer would declare it a draw. Both animals were winners although it looked as if they were each losers. What a thriller. Eddie beamed with pride as his shaggy-haired mutt, his right ear half-hanging from his blood-soaked and saliva-drenched head, limped up the alley with us. Nichols truly performed like a gallant gladiator that day, protecting us from the threat of a much more powerful animal. Nichols was tough. He was a great protector and a fabulous fighter. Nichols was cool.

Sometimes Eddie and I did our bonding outside the alley, like the time his father passed away. Eddie was nine years old. Harold was the first person I knew who died. He was a cross-country truck driver so Eddie didn’t get to be with him much, but like most young boys, Eddie idolized his dad.
After the death, Eddie’s mom, Francis, was forced to go to work to support Donna Mae, Eddie and herself. It was not easy. Women didn’t have very many options then. Francis had to work in an assembly line for a meager salary. It is amazing that she was able to provide for them at all. I guess adversity draws the best out of some people…like Francis. At any rate, after the loss of Eddie’s father, everything got harder for all of them.

When Plato said, “Necessity is the mother of invention” he must have been anticipating Eddie’s new-found financial hardship. We were too young to get jobs and most of our neighbors were too poor to pay us to do chores, so when we wanted money, we had to tax our active imaginations.

Any financial advisor would tell you, if you can invest your money and enjoy an instant ten-fold return, you have stumbled upon a gold mine, and we did just that. Eddie figured out that if he used the coarse cement of the sidewalk as sandpaper, we could rub off the rim of a penny and the resulting coin would be very close to the same size and weight of a dime. That new copper-dime worked perfectly in the vending machines of the era. I bet we bought two-hundred cokes that way.

One of our other money-making enterprises was much bolder and way more successful. I hope God subscribes to the philosophy. “Boys will be boys” because we really need him to forgive us for this one.

There was a Mormon church within walking distance of our home. It had a great gymnasium and most nights there were basketball games played there. There were no lockers in the locker room, but there were hooks provided on which players hung their street clothes while they were busy playing their games. What a bonanza.

On selected nights, usually busy weekends, we took our basketball down to the gym, but not to play basketball. The ball was merely a tool for our scheme.
Once the players were preoccupied by the contest, I would serve as lookout outside the locker room bouncing the ball. Meanwhile Eddie would inspect the wallets in the pants hanging on the hooks. A quick inventory of our victim’s resources would tell us if he was poor like us, in which case we left his money alone: but, if he had a sufficient wad, we would accept “donations” of five or ten bucks.

If anyone approached, I simply bounced the basketball up against the locker room door and Eddie knew to cool it. It was a simple but brilliant plan that worked over and over again. Some nights we tapped several wallets and “found” twenty dollars or more to spend at the shopping center. Naturally, now I realize this entire money-generating scheme was sleazy, but at the time, we felt like Robinhood – stealing from the rich and giving to the poor – us.

The Fire Department had their hands full dealing with our misdeeds too. One time, the drought-like conditions of the summer made the field near Eddie’s home especially vulnerable to our not-so-harmless pranks. We took turns shooting lit matches at each other. After the target person dodged the little flying flame, naturally it would hit the ground. Then we allowed the weeds to catch fire and let the fire grow as big as we dared then put the fire out by any means necessary.

As you undoubtedly already know, one time we went too far and a raging weed fire ensued. Several fire trucks and about 20 firemen were called in. Several neighbors suspected we were to blame, but we never did get caught.

There are many other stories I could tell you about my brother Eddie and me, each one as mischievous as the ones I have mentioned here, but a quick overview of some of the ones that took place before we were old enough to drive should suffice to make the point. Some of them include drag racing a GTO; discovering our first girl friends; stealing coins from the fountains in downtown Denver; getting drunk; selling cigarettes door to door; sneaking out at night; street fights; girly magazines in the crawl space beneath his home; sneaking on the ski-train to Winter Park and into movie theaters; a Saturday that we walked to Red Rocks Park and hitchhiked home; stealing beer; spying on nudists; trampoline wars and many more.

So the logical question after all of this is, “What ever happened to Eddie?” Where did those trips down the alley eventually take him? Perhaps you supposed that he ended up in prison; or, maybe you thought he became a dog catcher or a fireman. But he is none of those things. He has devoted his entire adult life to providing for the neediest people in our society.

Eddie serves developmentally disabled people who lack the means to take care of themselves. He refers to his disabled friends as “clients.” He coordinates the maintenance and repair of their homes and an entire fleet of vehicles just to get them through their challenges with as much comfort and dignity as possible. Eddie has genuine compassion for these people because he can relate to them. Like them, he has overcome plenty of adversity. As far as I am concerned, his devotion to these people more than compensates for a few childhood pranks.

Even though there is a lot of dark gray in our past, neither Eddie nor I would trade our childhoods with anybody else. We learned some priceless lessons about life from those days. We learned a lot about each other; but more importantly we learned about true friendship.

My life-long friend goes by “Ed” these days, but I still think of him as Eddie. I don’t really care what I call him, just so long as he remains a big part of my life. In fact, I think I’ll go call him right now to see if he’d like to walk to the old shopping center via our special route. Perhaps we can even pee in the alley for old time’s sake. If so, I couldn’t have better company because as far as I am concerned, Eddie is my brother.

UPDATE: Eddie died in 1999 from lung cancer, and I still miss him.

What Really Matters?

2011-04-13T21:35:00.007-06:00

Sometimes we get so absorbed in this day-to-day experiment called life, we accidentally forget what Really Matters. The grocery store runs out of an ad item or somebody cuts us off on the highway or we burn a birthday cake. But, do any of those things Really Matter?

This week, I had a couple of unexpected life-lessons that reminded me for the umteenth time what Really Matters. I am a bit disappointed in myself for needing reminders, but I guess I am no different than anybody else. We get so engrossed in the present moments we forget about the grander importance of the long term.

The last time I got the message was about a month ago when my step father passed away. That ended a certain branch on the family tree. A life-time of memories have been created but cannot be recaptured or modified. After his death, I realized “again” the type of things that Really Matter.

The time before that was 8 months earlier when my sister Carol lost a long battle with cancer.

I don’t know why it is so easy to temporarily forget those critical reminders and ooze back into our day-to-day lives, where we lend way too much importance to trivial things instead.

This week, I entered a speech contest and botched my speech…but does that Really Matter?

How many people do you suppose would love to trade their problems for mine? Wives of wounded soldiers, mothers of sick children, Fans of the Denver Broncos!

I spent a couple days trying to put that speech into perspective. It wasn’t overly difficult. I received at least ten kind and supportive emails. It was easy to see that people matter and botched speeches don’t.

Then, Monday evening I got another one of those “special” reminders.

About 6 weeks ago we took in a short-term addition to our home. Chyna ("China") is mostly Saint Bernard.

When you foster a dog, you don’t always know its background but Chyna brought several clues about her past with her. She is about 4 years old, house broken, well behaved. She walks well on a leash, she is a record-setting tail wager, she sits, lies down, shakes and goes to her bed on command. In spite of those great qualities, Chyna comes with baggage.

There are the usual things about Saints: their size, slobber and shedding, happy tails that clear the coffee table, train-loads of food and poop the size of footballs. But in Chyna’s case there was still another issue.

She must have come from a place where there was a lot of competition for food because she eats her dinner as fast as she can. She can wolf down a bowl full of Kibbles faster than a commercial grade garbage disposal.

Then there is this other issue. Somebody allowed her to get ridiculously obese. We have been walking her everyday and watching her diet. She has peeled off 8-10 pounds over six weeks. Even though she is regaining her girlish figure, she still weighs nearly 150 lbs and could stand to lose 20 more.

You have to wonder, why somebody would show so much attention to a dog and teach her all those wonderful tricks and then let her get so out of shape…and then abandon her…what were they thinking?

After Chyna’s Monday walk, I was on the computer trying to research some ways to slow down her eating habits and came across some information from a vet who said Chyna’s habit can be very dangerous. When dogs eat like that, they can take in way too much air and become bloated. If the bloating is not caught soon enough, their stomach can twist and that can easily lead to their death, usually within an hour.

A little later, after her dinner, she went outside like she always does. We watched her out the window for a minute and Chyna started acting silly. She was running around in circles and plopping on her belly, then getting back up again, then repeating the pattern.

Suddenly, my wife, who is a lifetime caregiver, realized Chyna was not playing…something was wrong. A quick examination revealed that Chyna had indeed bloated. Her stomach was huge and hard as a rock.

In an instant, my wife called the leader of the Rescue group with whom we work. Brent knew exactly what to do…Stop everything else and rush to the animal hospital. Chyna was at a crossroad.

Fortunately, Patty’s quick thinking, Brent’s knowledge and a $2500 medical procedure saved Chyna’s life. Nobody knows if she will bloat again but if she does the surgery assures her stomach will not twist and she will not die from it. A couple GasX pills can safely release the air in her stomach.

We picked up Chyna yesterday and she is on the road to recovery. In a couple days we will be able to take her for walks again. But when we do, we have to gather her leash and that sets her in a wild frenzy. No dog gets more excited about going for walks than Chyna does. All one-hundred and fifty pounds leaps up and down and whirls around as if she was auditioning for Dancing with the Stars and Considering what Chyna has been through, that my friends, is the kind of thing that Really Matters.

Smashin Compassion

2010-10-18T05:55:00.003-06:00

I have been a little busy lately and unable to get back to this blog. I entered a humorous speech contest at my Toastmaster club and advanced farther than I expected. First there were tryouts at our own club. There are 20 members but only 3 wanted to give it a try. On the day of the tryouts, one of the ladies, was unable to make it. Therefore it was just me and Scott. I won and went on to the Area Meet which was a competition between six winners/survivors from 8 clubs. They broke us into two groups and I won again. That meant...on to the Division Meet...where I would compete with the top 6 winners/survivors from about 28 clubs. I got second and a small trophy. I lost to a lady who spoke about the wrinkles on her neck. We both had 'em laughing out loud for seven minutes. What a kick!!!

It is not easy to capture a speech in written form, because it is difficult to illustrate pauses, changes in pace, volume, pitch and body language. But I wrote it out the best I could. Here is the speech in written form. It is about my real-life problem trying to kill a mouse. Perhaps it will make you smile.

SMASHIN' COMPASSION

(Sing first two lines from Mighty Mouse Theme Song) “Here I come to save the day…my name is Mighty Mouse, I’m on the way”

Mighty Mouse was a popular cartoon character in the late 50’s to early 60’s

I actually met MM one time in a real-life situation, only he wasn’t wearing his cape.

It all started when there was some construction near our home and some field mice went looking for a new place to live. A couple of them found our home. When that happens, it’s Dastardly Dave’s responsibility to get rid of them

I set a few traps including one under the sink and just like that…Snap (loud clap) one of them went off

I went to the cabinet and there was a bunch of commotion in there.

We had indeed caught a mouse, but it was by the tail.

(fast) He was a running around in that cabinet trying to get away from that trap, but the faster he ran the faster the trap followed. Then he started jumping up and down trying to shake off the trap, but nothing worked

(normal pace)What would you do if you were in my situation? Would you want to reach in that cabinet and grab that trap, knowing full well that that mouse was going to get on your hand?

(Louder and faster) Well that idea gave me the HEEBIE JEEBIES… and I didn’t want any part of that!!!

(normal pace) I decided I would get a sledge hammer and (act like hitting it) in one good swing, the whole thing would be over.

Just then the fair damsel who lives in out house figured out what was going on and inquired

(High pitched) “What are you gonna do, Dastardly Dave?”

When I told her what I had in mind she replied, “Oh no, that would be too gruesome.”

(new voice, like a commentator) I learned years before that the fair damsel will even wash my socks if she gets her way sometimes…this was one of those times

I got a pair of pliers, instead of a sledge hammer. The new idea was to catch the back of that trap and make a little chain, the links bein…my hand, the pliers, the trap, and the mouse, hangin by his tail. Then take him to the toilet and DUNK HIS LITTLE HEAD UNDER WATER UNTIL HE DROWNS… kinda like Dairy Queen does with your ice cream cones

But I found out when that little mouse’s head goes underwater, HE’S NO ICE CREAM CONE…he has a mind of his own.. and he wants out ...(higher pitch and faster) and the only way out was right back up that trap…(higher pitch and faster) and then he was getting close to the pliers…(higher pitch and faster) and next woulda been my hand……(higher pitch and faster) and that gave me the HEEBIE JEEBIES…(higher pitch and faster) and I didn’t want any part of that! (Exhale) WHEW!!! I had to think of something else.

While I had the chain in tact and hangin over the toilet, and the mouse still dangling by his tail, I wondered if I could flush the stool and while the water was whirling around use a screwdriver to release the tension on the spring so the little mouse would drop in the middle of the water, and off he would go to mousey heaven.

I decided to give that a try, only to discover the spring was stronger than I anticipated and instead of releasing the spring and the mouse’s tail, the pliers lost the grip of the trap so the trap and the mouse, still attached, both hit the whirling water and they both went away and my problem was solved (long pause)…or so I thought.

Two days later when we flushed the stool, the water came up instead of down and it was spilling over the rim right away. At that very moment, I heard (Hum the tune, “Here I come to save the day…”)

It was the ghost of Mighty Mouse, and he was comin back to avenge his death and he was comin after Dastardly Dave.

You see, inside a toilet there is a little ridge and everything has to go up over that ridge before it enters the sewer line, but the mouse and that trap were stuck in that ridge.

I went and got a plunger (make wooshing sounds) I couldn’t get ‘em out

I unfolded a coat hanger and put a cute little hook on the end..,

(quickly) Shoved it in, pulled it out

Twisted that thing all about

Wouldn’t get a mouse out

I even went and got a plumber snake…you know, one of those cables you twist round and round and they go up in the sewer lines,,,some of them will even take out tree roots…but they wouldn’t get that mouse out.

2 ½ hours later, I was out of ideas and exhausted. The only thing left to do was disconnect the stool from the floor and wall and take it outside, on the front lawn, and lay it on its side and reach through the bottom and all that yucky stuff and see if I could get the mouse from the bottom

(act like holding something heavy) When a fellow is walking around on his front yard with a used toilet and then he starts messin’ with the innards…(pause)…it catches his neighbor’s attention. So it was. Tom came over and asked…(fold arms take new voice) “What you doing, Dave?”

Well, Tom already thought I was a nut

One time I was practicing fly fishing in my driveway and I got my fishing line caught in a tree. The more I tried to get it out, the worse it got…Now I have a reputation of bein the only fellow in our neighborhood who goes fishin where there is no water

Tom already thought I was a nut

Because I put up a $2,000 fence...to keep in a $25 dog…that doesn’t even like to go outside

Now I had to explain what I was doing playing around in the business end of a toilet

Before I could say a word, the strangest thing happened. I still can’t explain it to this day. That little mouse, still attached to the trap, dead, and all shriveled up from bein’ under water for two days…just slid out the bottom of that toilet. He landed right at our feet on the grass.

You can bet Tom saw it all.

I looked up at him, and (wide eyed) he was starin’ down at that mouse…(whirl fingers by temples) and processin the information, but I could read his face just as clear as a bell…he was wonderin’, “What in the world is my stupid neighbor up to now?”

I was trying to think of something clever to say, but just then (louder) Mighty Mouse saved the day. That little mouse lifted up his head and said…(long pause)…(look around the audience for about 5 seconds)

(commentator voice) You know somethin’? I’m pretty sure that there are at least a couple of you out there who realize that mouse didn’t really say anything…HE WAS DEAD!

(point finger around the room) But, what does that say about the rest of the people at Toasmasters?...Some of us are liars and we all look forward to it. WE’RE SICK!

This story ends two years later, when the fair Damsel and Dastardly Dave caught another mouse in a similar situation. It too was very much alive. Having learned their lesson from mistakes of the past, we just scooped it up into a coffee can, drove it up to the mountains and let it go…

But as we were getting into the car to return home I swear I heard (Hum MM tune) He must have been the son of Mighty Mouse because their family beat Dastardly Dave again. END

Well, that is it. it doesn't really translate to written form, but nobody will punish us for trying. See you again soon!

Old Blue

2010-10-08T20:57:00.002-06:00

I bought Old Blue on eBay. It is a '94 Chevy pickup. I have an unnatural attraction to it. It has lots of miles on it, but it seems to want to keep going. I am the second owner and the 4th owner. You read it correctly – I have owned it twice.

The original owner was the State of Colorado. They put 108,000 miles on it. When they were done with it they turned it over to the prison system. Prisoners put it in decent running shape and then listed it on eBay. I paid $1,800 for it. Not bad considering it had air conditioning, auto transmission, V-6 engine and a good interior. Overall I thought it was a good system. They got to learn a trade; I got a good deal and the state got some money from an old asset.

Old Blue has helped me remove hundreds of trees from the forest and that alone paid for it. But it has done a lot more than that. It has also hauled many cords of firewood over the mountain, most of which was given to my elderly step-father or sold by my nephew.

After I used it for about 5 years, a friend needed a cheap vehicle. I sold it to her , mostly as a favor. She had to put a few dollars into it, but not a lot. Eventually she saved up enough money to buy something better so I bought Old Blue back,

This week, I put another $1,000 bucks in it and I think it will last another few years. I am not sure what happens next. There are two people showing interest in it. Time will tell.

What ever happens, Old Blue will probably limp along like the old friend it has always been

The Bomb

2010-09-27T11:19:00.005-06:00

Have you ever named a vehicle? In 1966 I was at the end of my junior year of high-school. I bought a 1950 Plymouth. It was one of those big, bulky bubble-shaped cars that you see on the old black and white movies about gangsters. I was just 16 at the time and I had already ruined a 1955 Ford. It leaked oil and I didn’t watch it closely enough, so it died of dehydration.

I had been driving since I was 14 so when I suddenly found myself without wheels, after two years of relative independence, I went through freedom withdrawals.

About 6 weeks after killing the Ford, my dad stumbled upon a buddy who owned that ’50 Plymouth. Don was a scary-looking fat, bald-headed fellow (OMG, I have become Don) who had owned the car for quite some time. It was in fairly good shape. He only wanted $75 for it, but there was a problem. I didn’t have any money.

My dad told me that he talked Don into letting me pay him off at $5 per week. Dad went on to say, “Let me warn you. Don is one mean son-of-a-bitch, and if you don’t pay him he’ll just take your car away”.

YIPPEE!!! New wheels!!!

The Plymouth may have been a minor step backwards from the Ford, as far as I was concerned, but nobody else would have noticed the difference because both cars were essentially just clunkers. It had hints of its original dark-blue paint job, but there was just as much red primer paint showing through. Every time I washed it, which was only once or twice, more blue was replaced by even more red.

Anyway, with new wheels under my way-too-heavy teenaged lead-foot I raced (relatively speaking, considering it weighed about two tons, only had a 6-cylinder engine and was 17 years old) over to my girlfriend’s house. We were both happy to have a means to escape the piercing eyes of the old people. Susan climbed into the front seat and took up the position in the middle, right next to me. She instantly, affectionately and accurately named that Plymouth, ”The Bomb.” From that day on, it had its moniker.

As that summer progressed, The Bomb slipped further and further into disrepair. It had two very bald tires, but that was no problem. In those days all tires had inner-tubes, so I just waited until the tread got so thin that the inner-tube squirted out and popped. Then I scrambled to buy another old used tire and inner-tube.

One time I took several buddies to the mountains to go tubing (In those days we tied inner-tubes together). On the way back, Lee scraped his initials into the fuzzy fabric that made up the remainder of the headliner, then everybody else had to do it.

Before long, I took The Bomb 4-wheeling and was surprised how well it did. But I bounced off a tree, so the already-ugly body had a nice new dent in the right rear fender. About that time Ivan suggested I paint a bunch of witty one-liners on the outside, but I never did do that.

To make matters worse, I tried to make day-to-day repairs myself. That was a disaster because I was completely car-dumb in 1966 (It is hard to believe, but I was even worse than I am now). The windshield was in two parts, split by a vertical frame. Somehow, the driver’s side broke, so I just took out the glass from that side. That made for some fairly interesting experiences when it rained. Both rain drops and the windshield wiper flopped around on the dash board while my legs got soaked.

Eventually the radio went out, probably from a combination of bouncing around on jeep trails and drowning from all of the rain water. No self respecting teenager can function without music so I pulled the radio out of the dash and used the mountain-sized floor-hump as if it was an operating table. I had no idea what the heck I was doing so I performed the only radio surgery I knew, which was to jiggle the wires. Oddly, that worked for a while, so I put the radio back into the dash.

A couple days later, the radio went out again, so I knew I needed to adopt a wiser tactic. I removed the radio again and jiggled the wires until it worked, just like the previous time, only this time I didn’t bother to put the whole contraption back into the dash. Why bother? It might need fixed again. So, I just left it there on the hump, and told it, “You’re on your own.” Thereafter it did a fairly good balancing act, but once in a while it tried to venture into the peddle area.

Meanwhile Susan had to find a new place to dangle her long and skinny, teenaged legs.

Before you criticize me for not maintaining The Bomb, you should take into consideration the fact that I had no money. After all I never had time to look for a job because I was too busy terrorizing the mountain roads. So, through no fault of my own, I was on a very limited budget.

That fall we went back to school and right away they held the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, in which the girls ask the guys to go with them. One of our class-mates was named Doug. He owned a very nice and well-repaired 1957 Chevy. For some reason, known only to God himself, Susan dumped me and asked Doug to go to the dance. Humph!!!.

That winter, I nurtured The Bomb along the best I could and found the heater to be a good friend, considering there was no windshield on the driver’s side. About that time Patty and I started to see each other.

In my quest to impress her, The Bomb and I took her up a dirt road and then headed strait up a VERY steep mountain-side that had a hint of a trail, which must have been made by a tractor. I just wanted to show her how high The Bomb could climb.

I made several runs at it, each time starting out farther back so I could get more speed and climb even higher. By about the third run, Patty had enough. She “acted” like she was scared by screaming and digging her fingernails into the seat, but I knew she was bluffing; so, when she insisted that I let her out, I went even faster.

Then, I hit a big bump and the trunk popped open, spilling everything, including the very bald spare tire that I had not bothered to fasten down – just like the radio. The tire was so anxious to escape it immediately stood up on its end and rolled right down that hill. It was so happy to get away it was jumping up and down as it rolled down the mountainside, eventually reaching speeds upwards of mock-two. I guess The Bomb really impressed Patty because she has been hanging around ever since.

As I reflect back, The Bomb was the most tolerant friend I have ever had. Now, I realize that I got away with a lot more than I should have. About the only thing I did correctly regarding The Bomb was make my 15 payments right on time, mostly because I feared a bald-headed dude named Don.

Many years later, I learned that my dad paid Don the full amount for The Bomb right up front and Don forwarded my payments back to my dad. Dads can be pretty cool sometimes.

Next time we can discuss "Old Blue".

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Saying Goodbye

2010-09-18T13:03:00.005-06:00

I have come to the conclusion that my family does not understand what “Good Bye” means. My wife, for instance, must not have ever been taught that good-bye is what you say when you or somebody else is leaving. For her and others like her, good-bye is a process not a parting comment. A recent family gathering served up one of my favorite examples.

On that particular day, two of my sisters had come to town from Texas. Jeanine also brought the majority of her daughters (four of five). They were all hanging around at my aunt’s house with her and her daughter (my cousin), Genise. Patty and I went over to visit them. If you haven’t added it all up, that makes 9 females and me.

As usual, we had an enjoyable time talking about the good old days, and gossiping about people who were not there and other girly stuff like bugs, babies, recipes, wine types and home decorating. We did not discuss interesting topics like trucks, fishin’, stinky feet, football or peeing outdoors. Eventually, it was time to call it an evening.

“It” usually begins when somebody says something like, “We probably ought to be heading home.” That comment is usually met with some resistance like. “Ah gee, don’t go. We don’t get together very often.” Well, once one of the people is mentally leaving and the others are not yet done visiting, a fascinating conflict ensues.

The departing party does not want to be rude or appear like she is not enjoying herself, so she drops that matter for a while and engages in further conversation. However, the others know that the train has left the station so they wish to embrace any remaining moments together. They return to their corners, like boxers, for another half hour or so. And the conversation lives on like reruns.

The next phase is reached when someone stands up. The others follow suit and they resume the conversation for another ten minutes while standing in the exact same space that their feet were in when they were sitting down.

Eventually, someone leans toward the door and that is the point when they all realize the gathering really is winding down. About that time one of them visits the ladies’ room. The others put the conversation on hold and engage in a round of hugs. They say things like, “We have to get together more often.” When one comes back from the bathroom, another one takes her place.

Then, someone grabs the doorknob. That should end it all. Everybody has already peed, hugged and bid their farewells. But no, no, no! We still have a long way to go. They all line up, single file, and one by one they follow the leader out the door. Then the leader turns around and hugs somebody. Well, when she re-hugs one person she has to re-hug them all…again. Many others join in a new round.

We got to that stage the other day. I had already been in the front seat for about 10 minutes before my wife completed her rounds. Just when she was about to join me, my aunt asked her another question. Patty returned to the circle of hugs and a new round of discussions were under way.

By that time, I was giggling at the fact that none of them know what Good Bye means, so I thought I would see just how far they would take it. I decided to get out of the car and face my aunt with open arms. Naturally, she took the bait; and, a whole new round of affection was underway. With that event in motion, my giggles elevated to a genuine laugh. While they were wrapping up that round I was laughing so hard I could not stop. Then my cousin figured out what was going on and she started to laugh too. Then we had to explain it to everybody else and smiles consumed the group.

Patty finally got in the car. I have to admit that I had not been so entertained in quite some time and I have changed my mind, at least temporarily. If saying good-bye in their way can bring so much pleasure, it cannot be wrong.

With that, all that is left to say is good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,

Hug Me

2010-09-09T18:13:00.010-06:00

One of the fun things about a “Human Interest” blog is there are a broad range of topics to draw from. In my case, my large family has some interesting quirks. Hugging is right near the top of the list. That may because of the unusually high female population among the group.

I have been blessed with 6 sisters. Between them, they have had 12 daughters but only 4 sons (so far that is 18 girls to 4 boys). Patty’s core family is also loaded with girls, and so are our extended families. As you would expect, I am the oddball in this equation: I have 2 sons, no daughters.

With that many women around, you can bet there is some serious hugging going on. Women are trained for it. When they are little, they are taught to hug their dollies as well as their mommy and daddy and their siblings. Before long they are experts at hugging their immediate family and then their grandparents. From there. it spreads to other family members, their friends, their pets, other people’s babies, people at church, and eventually their spouses and then their own children, and the circle begins again. My wife even runs out to hug the mail man every day (not really).

Most men are willing participants in hug-a-thons, but they are generally less enthusiastic. My Uncle Johnnie was an exception, and so was my dear friend, Ed. He came from an Italian family where they are all hug-freaks. The men in their family even hug each other a lot. But for the rest of us fellows, I think we enjoy the “bumpers” that women bring to the embrace, as much as we enjoy the affection.

Nobody ever talks about it very much, but it is a bit weird when you hug a mom or a sister and their boobs get in the middle of it all. You don’t particularly think of them in a sexual way, but you can’t help but notice that your body is being nudged in odd places. The tall girls bump you in the chest, and the shorter ones poke you just below the rib cage. And then there are the short grandmas who have fallen victim to the long-term effects of gravity,…but, lets not even go there.

I can’t help but wonder how women secretly handle this boob-matter when they hug each other. I would expect that they try not to notice such things, but who do they think they are kidding? Women notice the smallest details about each other, right down to wedding rings, minor hair cuts and various facial expressions. They are masters at gathering information. No tidbit of information is too trivial to ignore. If they are that obsessed with the subtle and simple day-to-day things, it is hard to believe they don’t observe the mass of femininity that competes for the space in between hugs. Do the small breasted ones feel a sense of envy? Do the bigger ones kinda push each other around, like sumo wrestlers? I think I am gonna start watching their faces for telltale signals when I catch two women in the act of hugging.

There are certain situations that really lend themselves to hugging, especially among the feminine gender. Have you ever noticed the hug-fest that bonds them together at funerals and weddings, or when one of them has a baby? These are the types of events that draw out the best of their heart-felt hugs. The signals are clear. The affection flows by the bucketful. In those special moments, a simple genuine hug communicates more effectively than any words or anything else.

And then there are hug pats. Sometimes when people want to lend emphasis to their hugs, they pat the other person on the back. Other times the hug-patting sends a not-so-delicate signal that the patter is ready to terminate the hug. If you want to have fun with people like that hold your hugs an extra 10 seconds or so and watch how aggressive their patting becomes, then tell them what you are doing and tell them I put you up to it, You will both enjoy the moment.

So hugs are an important part of the American spirit. They say a lot, even though no words are spoken. Many of us start out our days with hugs and sneak a few in as the day moves along. They make us feel better. There is never a wrong time for a hug and some situations are custom-made for them…like when we say “Goodbye”.

More on that in the next article. Until then, keep hugging.

UPDATE: Our family has been blessed because one of my sisters had "another daughter" who has fallen out of the sky for us all to enjoy. Many, many years ago, Carol was forced to put Julie up for adoption, but we have been recently reunited. Guess what she told me today: "I give good hugs." It figures!

Be sure to buzz on over to my other blog.

Political Winds September

2010-09-04T20:24:00.002-06:00

Have you seen the political poll numbers lately? The President’s numbers are poor at best and things look worse for congress. Most of the incumbents from both parties are keeping their fingers crossed. However, the Democrats in congress are doing much worse. At one time they claimed that 2010 would bring the Summer of Recovery, but the opposite has happened. On top of everything else, this week the unemployment numbers took another step backwards.

So in spite of the Democrats expectations, things just keep getting worse. Pollster has charts showing the average of all polls, and they indicated the downward trends are still gaining steam. RedState is gloating about the numbers and anxious to promote them. They are especially gleeful in their review of the voters over age 55, which is an enormous block.

The seniors have “rejected every key element of the Obama Administration’s programs” and usually by more than a 2-1 ratio. The one category that stuck out to me has to do with the President’s claims that his program will bring the deficit down. The old folks reject that argument by nearly TEN to ONE! Since they have all been around longer that Mr. Obama, you would think he would listen to them, but sometimes “there are none so deaf as those who refuse to hear”.

It seems to me that the President and his Democratic Congress have blown an incredible opportunity. All along, he has claimed that a big portion of his health care plan would be covered by eliminating waste in Medicare and Medicaid. Since runaway spending has always been the knock on their party, they had a chance to hit a homerun and probably secure the Whitehouse and Congress for another decade, or even longer.

All they had to do was put some teeth in the meat. If they had spent the first year of his Presidency finding the areas in those two bloated programs that they could actually fix (which should not be very difficult) and employ their reliable ally, the media, to brag about their progress, they would have built up priceless credibility. Since they control both houses and all of the committees, nobody could have stopped them.

Then, once they had the trust of the voters they should have submitted a bill that is not 2,400 pages and open it up for legitimate debate. By keeping everything above board they could have reversed all of the distrust the people had built up under the Bush Administration.

So, Obama and the Democratic congress could have separated themselves from Bush by being forthright and actually cutting spending, but instead they decided to differentiate themselves from Bush by making him look like a cheapskate. Can you say trillions?

A lot of citizens still like the President so he needs to use his political clout in a different way. For one thing he should do what he said before he was elected. He was a great orator who showed the ability to bridge political and racial divides, but he has not lived up to his claims. All he has to do is call a major press conference and announce he has had a change of heart. Then govern in a manner similar to how he campaigned.

If he does that he might even have a realistic chance at getting reelected in 2012, but if he remains steadfast, he may just hand the Republicans the Whitehouse for another 12-year run similar to the Reagan/Bush years. As it stands now, the Dems are poised to lose their majority in the House of Representatives plus enough seats in the Senate to render them impotent for the remainder of the President’ first term. Even Harry Reid, the Senate leader is trailing in his state’s polls. If they don’t reverse themselves quickly, I am afraid they have sealed their fate.

Email Etiquette

2010-08-30T17:06:00.002-06:00

Email can be a lot of fun or a big pain in the you-know-what! Would you like to get more out of your email time? Any email you receive fits into one of the following 5 categories. Here is a good way to deal with them.

CUTE OR THOUGHT-PROVOKING –Many of us look forward to these.

When someone sends you a cute or thought-provoking email, it is tempting to forward it to all of your friends to show them you like to be connected to them, but do not be hasty.

As we will discuss in a later section, nobody likes “junk” email. If you send too many emails, none of them are “special.” Be selective about which items you forward. This way, your own interests become evident and your emails are something the recipient actually looks forward to.

It is not necessary to respond to all of these emails but if someone forwarded an email to you that you especially liked, be sure to tell them so. That gives you one more opportunity to “connect” with your real friends and it illustrates your tastes, thereby encouraging them to send you other similar items as they get them.

It is better to cut and paste the relevant part of the incoming email which you intend to forward, rather than forward the exact one you received. The person(s) before you probably don’t want you to send their email addresses all over the place, and their computers might have viruses which your recipient does not want.

PERSONAL – These are the very best emails. They are easy to recognize because they have special notes, unusual attachments or unique observations that are particularly relevant to you.

People who go the extra mile to send you a personal email consider you to be a lot more important than just “one of the gang.” They think you are somebody special.

In most cases, these are the emails which deserve the most of your time. We all invest large blocks of our time trying to be liked and finding new friends, but any adult knows there is no friend like an old friend. The best way to attract lots of old friends is to treat new friends well. Responding to each personal email is one great way to do that.

Have you ever had a family member who you also considered to be a friend? These are among the best relationships you will ever have. You should cherish their emails, just like you would a birthday present or a heart-felt hug. Be certain you respond to their emails in a timely manner, usually within 48 hours.

Some of our greatest pleasures in life come from personal emails that we exchange with Veterans, elderly relatives and pen pals. Be sure to include them in your email time.

Don’t send email which contains naughty articles or pictures of anybody. If your email gets forwarded into the wrong hands, you can be charged with lewd conduct or pornography-type crimes. If convicted of those crimes you may be forced to register as a sex offender for all the rest of your life. No short-term giggle is worth that.

JUNK EMAIL – We all get too many of these. Somehow we get on mailing lists which we don’t like.

Do not give out personal information to these people; especially your Social Security numbers, checking account or credit card information, birth date, home addresses, phone numbers etc. If the email “appears” to be from somebody you know about such as eBay or the Walt Disney Company, they do not ask for personal information this way. Instead log onto their web site and provide the information through there.

When you get this type of email, you should deal with it immediately. It is not enough to delete these items because many of them will continue to pester you. HOWEVER, REPONDING TO THEM CARRIES ITS OWN RISK.

Whenever you respond to email, the other party knows that the email address which they have for you is a correct one; and, bad people can then add your name to other lists. So, do not respond to these unless they are from somebody you know to be legitimate.

If the email is from somebody you know to be legitimate, they should provide an opportunity for you to “opt out” or “unsubscribe” from their mailing list. DO SO RIGHT AWAY! Otherwise, over time, your in-basket becomes so crowded with incoming mail it requires even more effort to wade through the mess. Once again, if their “Opt out” form requires you to provide your email address, caution should be exercised.

As sad as it is, you did not win a bazillion dollars or inherit a fortune from someone in an out-of-the-way country. If you really were entitled to such funds an attorney would send you a certified letter and you would have your own attorney respond. Other topics may be equally unwelcomed. Before you delete these emails, be sure to “block” the senders. Then you won’t have to look at their garbage again.

USEFUL – This includes exchanges you have with businesses, churches, schools, groups, officials and individuals with whom you have some sort of professional or established relationship.

There are numerous interpretations to the Golden Rule, but the basic precept applies very well: Always treat other people the way you would like to be treated.

Respond quickly. Use good manners (Please, thank you, you’re welcome).

Remain courteous, even if the other party has done something wrong. This is especially important if you are communicating with someone who is not the wrong-doer. For example, if you were billed for something you did not buy, the person on the other end of your email probably did not cause the problem. They are not the enemy. He/she is trying to help you. If you are nice to them they will want to help you.

If there is some sort of conflict, keep copies of invoices, order numbers and other pertinent communication until the transaction is completed to your satisfaction.

NOT SURE YET – Sometimes we get email that seems intriguing but we don’t immediately know what we want to do with it.

If you have been invited to an event or discover a product you find interesting, but you just aren’t sure what you want to do, mark your email as “unread” so that you will check it again soon. By then you may have a clearer picture of what you want to do.

If you are still undecided after a few days, this is probably one of those things that you find somewhat interesting but the timing is not right for you (otherwise you would have been more inclined to act on the matter.) It is usually better to purge this item or move it into a folder called “not now.” Check back occasionally and see if the matter is any clearer.

Email can be a lot of fun or an unnecessary burden. By implementing these rules you ought to be able to attend priorites, build relationships, avoid problems and use your time efficiently. Oh Yeah, there is one more thing….

PASS THIS ON; preferably, with a personal comment!

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Cinnamon Pancakes

2010-08-25T21:15:00.004-06:00

When I was a kid there was a tasty munchy called cinnamon toothpicks. They were made from the oil of cinnamon bark. They were cool because they were so hot.

This week I decided I wanted to make some cinnamon pancakes using that same hot cinnamon oil. I could just use cinnamon extract or cinnamon syrup but that only addresses the basic flavor, not the spicy-hot accent that I want to capture. I also intend to add red food color to the pancake mix to add an eye-catching appearance that is consistent with the flavor. I may even add a few of those candy red-hots that we see on Valentine’s Day.

To get started, I headed down to the local grocery store and nearly fell over when I discovered that they wanted $38 for a bottle with 2 ounces of cinnamon oil. I turned them down and regrouped. Later in the day I found out that Walmart would order a one -ounce bottle for $7.50. That is still a bit pricey but I am gonna give it a try.

My friend, Bob, suggested I just mix some of the hot oil with Cinnamon syrup and that may end up being the best plan. Besides, if the pancakes themselves are so cinnamony, then what do I use for syrup? Perhaps whip-cream or honey.

Would cinnamon syrup on cinnamon pancakes be too much cinnamon? Don’t know, but I may be able to update this article after breakfast tomorrow.

Here is my Family Finances blog

One Man's Marriage

2010-08-21T06:38:00.005-06:00

Not long ago, one of My Facebook buddies posted a touching story that was like a poorly wrapped Christmas present: The inside was pretty cool, but you had to overlook the packaging. There was a good story but the author lacked the skill-set to tell it in such a way that it fulfilled its potential.

I decided that it would be an interesting challenge to rewrite it. I required myself to capture exactly what the original writer wanted to say without adding or taking anything out of the story. All I wanted to do was inject punctuation, improve grammar, broaden the vocabulary, insert some adjectives and lend it some much needed structure. So this article is my first attempt at ghost writing, but in this case, I was self-appointed. See what you think.

ONE MAN’S MARRIAGE

When my wife served dinner, I gently stated, “I've got something to tell you.” She sat down and ate quietly.

I didn't know how to begin, but I had to let her know I wanted a divorce.

I raised the topic calmly and I observed the hurt in her eyes. Then, she softly asked me, “Why?”

I struggled to tell her I didn’t love her any more: that she had lost my heart to Jane, but I did the best I could. Naturally, she was saddened. She dropped her fork and left the room.

Later that night and with a deep sense of guilt, I wrote up a preliminary divorce agreement. I offered her our house, our car, and a 30% stake of my company. The next morning she read it and broke down and cried as she tore it into pieces.

I actually pitied her. The woman who had spent ten years of her life with me had become a stranger. I felt sorry for her wasted time, resources and energy, but I could not take back what I had said or felt. Besides, I loved Jane so dearly, there was no doubt in my mind. The idea of divorce, which had obsessed me for several months, seemed to be firmer and clearer than ever before.

The next day, I came back home very late, after an eventful day with Jane. My wife was writing something at the table, but I didn’t want to talk with her so I went straight to bed.

When I woke up, she was still sitting there at the table.

Then, she presented some of her own divorce conditions: She didn't want anything from me, but she did have two requirements:

First) She wanted to wait a full month before any official divorce proceedings would begin. During that month we were to both live as normal a life as possible. Her reason was simple: Our son had exams in a month's time and she didn't want to disrupt him with our broken marriage.
Second) She asked me to recall how I had carried her over the threshold on our wedding day. Then, she requested that every morning for the month's duration I carry her out of our bedroom to the front door in that same way.

I thought she was going crazy, but just to make our last days together bearable I accepted her odd request.

Later that day, I told Jane about my wife's divorce conditions. We both laughed loudly and thought it was absurd.

The next morning, when I woke up, I realized my wife and I hadn't had any body contact for several months. When I carried her to the door as agreed, we both felt awkward, but our son followed us and clapped his hands. “Daddy is holding mommy in his arms”, he cheered. His words brought me a sense of pain. My wife closed her eyes and said softly, “Please don't tell him about the divorce.” I nodded and put her down outside the door. Then I drove to the office.

The second day was easier. She leaned on my chest. I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realized that I hadn't looked at her carefully for a long time. I let myself glance at her and noticed that our marriage had taken its toll on her. There were a few fine wrinkles on her face, and her hair was graying just a bit. For a minute, I wondered what I had done to her. Once again, our son followed us, with enthusiasm.

On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, any resentment I harbored had vanished. I waited for our son to follow us to the door.

On the fifth and sixth day, I realized that our sense of intimacy was growing again and I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell Jane about my observations.

As the month slipped by, it became easier and easier to carry her. She seemed to be getting lighter, or perhaps I was getting stronger.

One morning, she tried on quite a few dresses but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed, “All my dresses have grown bigger.”

I looked closer and realized that she had become rather thin and that was the reason why I could carry her more easily. Apparently the entire ordeal was wearing her down. Her much lighter weight made me sad. Subconsciously I reached out and touched her head.

Our son came in at the moment and said, “Daddy, it's time to carry mommy to the door.” To him, seeing his father carrying his mother had become an essential part of his morning. My wife gestured to our son to come closer and hugged him tightly.

I turned my face away because I was ashamed of what I was doing to two such fine people. I then picked up my wife and held her closely. Her fragile arms surrounded my neck softly and naturally. I held her body tight; it was just like our wedding day.

There was no doubt: I changed my mind.

On the last day, I drove past my office and went strait to Jane’s house. When she opened the door, I said to her, “I’m sorry, Jane, but I do not want the divorce anymore.”

She looked at me, astonished, and then touched my forehead. “Do you have a fever?” She said.

I brushed her hand off my head.

I went on “I’m Sorry, Jane, I was all wrong. My marriage was boring because I didn't value the details of our lives, not because we didn't love each other anymore.”

Jane seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a loud slap and burst into tears, and then slammed the door.

On my way home, I stopped at the floral shop and ordered a bouquet of flowers for my wife. The salesgirl asked me what to write on the card. I smiled and told her to say, “I want to carry you out every morning, until death do us part.”

As I was driving home, I was full of enthusiasm. Both my heart and my face were smiling. I grabbed the flowers and ran upstairs, only to discover that my wife….. had died in our bed.

As it turned out, she had been fighting CANCER for months and I was too busy with Jane to even notice. All along she knew that she was dying, but all that mattered to her was that we stayed together as a family for as long as possible. In the end, she made me appear to be a better man, in my son’s eyes, than I had ever done on my own.

And, I sincerely wish…there was some way…I could thank her.

The moral to this story is, “The small details of our lives are what really matter in any relationship. So take the time to do the little things that matter to others and appreciate the little things that others do for you.

“The rest will just fall into place."

Okay, that's the revised version. I thought it was a heart-felt story with an intereseting and conflicting message. The man loved his wife, but he was a scoundrel. Do you think he went back to Jane?

Be Sure to check out my other blog about Family Finances.

Not Me

2010-08-16T09:12:00.005-06:00

I realize it sounds absurd, but my wife and I actually have…an invisible child.

I know. I know. But before you scoff, just hear me out. There is a good chance you may have an invisible child, too. If so, your invisible child probably has the exact same name as our does.

I was first introduced to our invisible child over twenty-five years ago, when our normal children, Adam and Justin, were about seven-years old. They referred to their unusual and mysterious sibling as, “Not Me”.

I am ashamed to admit that I have never actually met Not Me, but I am one-hundred percent certain he lived with us: or, at least it seemed that way because Adam and Justin were always referring to him. You see, Not Me was responsible for practically everything that ever went wrong in our home.

Whenever we wanted to know who left the door open, all we had to do was ask one of our perfect children, and they would gladly tell us. Why, of course it was…Not Me. When we asked Adam who left the milk out, he was quick to inform us that it was Not Me. When I asked Justin who left my skill saw out in the rain all night he seemed to know that Not Me did it. Adam and Justin were perfect in every way, but that Not Me kid was always screwing up.

Over time, I grew somewhat accustomed to having an invisible child, until one night, when things got way out of hand.

On that particular evening, we were having a large family gathering of twenty people or so. Just when the house was full of guests, I suddenly had an urge to use the “necessary room”. Ordinarily, I would not want to attend such activities when I have a house full of guests, but as the saying goes, “When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go”.

We all know that no job is complete until the paperwork is done and that job was no exception, if you know what I mean. Eventually, I got to the point where I needed to do the paperwork so I reached for the toilet paper roll. The trouble began when I discovered that the chrome dispenser was empty. Such a discovery might ordinarily lend a person concern, but we have a vanity close by and we always keep plenty of the stuff in there.

Comforted by that fact, I opened the door to the cabinet in search of a back-up roll but none was immediately visible. I have to admit that at that point I was a bit worried. I hoped that somehow a roll had fallen to one of the back corners, so I leaned forward farther than I liked, and made a more complete inspection of the cabinet’s contents. Alas, it was devoid of any spare rolls.

In a moment like that the human mind is capable of thinking several things all at once and my mind went completely aflutter. For starters, I was really angry with whoever left me stranded like that. If there were Ten Commandments of Bathroom Etiquette, that would certainly be the first commandment, “Whosoever uses the last of the toilet paper, shall replace the roll.”

Equally as irritating was my role in the matter. Any intelligent adult should have enough sense to complete a paper inventory before embarking on such journeys, but I simply grew lazy and probably deserved what happened. But the anger needed to be set aside for a while as I considered the more immediate matter: Namely, how the heck was I going to get out of there?

As I said, my brain was juggling all these emotions and ideas at the same time. Here are the top three ideas that visited me as I sat there, angry and exasperated.

1) Perhaps I can call out for my wife to come help me.
Conclusion: If we were there alone, I probably would have taken that track, but there was too much risk of an evening filled with ridicule by the house guests if word got out.
2) The second idea was…well, let’s just say it was so unpleasant it became strictly an emergency plan.
3) The final thought was the one I elected to employ.
I decided to try to get to the other bathroom, at the other end of the house, and try to finish the paperwork down there.

So the plan was laid. I pulled up my britches as far as I dared. I listened closely at the door to make certain nobody was out there. When the time was right, I made a hasty retreat and commenced on a quick and awkward walk down the hall. I am pleased to report that the paperwork was completed without additional fanfare, but there was still some follow-up work to do.

I grabbed several rolls of TP from the storage area and headed back to the original bathroom. I reloaded the chrome holder and placed several extra rolls in the vanity so nobody else would get marooned. Then I decided to deal with whoever left me stranded and that First Commandment of Bathroom Etiquette. I was determined to publicly ridicule the culprit so he or she would never do that again.

The anger returned in full-force as I entered the living room. There where about a dozen guests engaged in small-talk. At that exact moment, Grandma also entered the room. She was coming from the kitchen and carrying a tray full of hors d’oeuvres.

I summoned a loud and determined tone when I bellowed out, “Who used the last of the toilet paper and did not replace the roll?”

The room grew silent as all eyes turned my way to see what was so important. Grandma turned and faced me too. The silence lasted only a second or two before Grandma could not take it any longer. Suddenly she said it, “Not Me’.

Not Me?

Not Me?

I guess I should have known.

It was a deep rooted family conspiracy. Everybody, including Grandma was in on it.

In a final desperate attempt to solve the problem, I quickly glanced around the room. I knew everybody’s name. None of them was called Not Me. Nobody raised their hand to say something like, “I did it, Dave, I am sorry.” Since it was obvious that nobody there did it, it must have indeed been Not Me, just like Grandma said.

That was the day I decided not to fight it any longer. From that point on, I just accepted the fact that we had an invisible child, named Not Me.

And that is the way it was for about twelve more years until Adam and Justin moved away. For some reason that is the same time that Not Me also faded into oblivion, never to be heard from again.

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Public Speaking

2010-08-12T17:06:00.005-06:00

Surveys reveal that people fear Public Speaking more than death, divorce, illness, airplane rides and just about everything else. But dealing with public speaking can be the springboard to better jobs, teaching Sunday School or delivering a toast at a friend's wedding. So, if you are interested in learning more about speaking, you just might like this article that I wrote about "fear and mistakes" for a Toastmasters Club. Toastmasters serve as a great place for people to practice and develop speaking skills.

FEAR AND MISTAKES

Beginning speakers worry way too much about making mistakes. This is usually because they take themselves too seriously. If you are a beginner, here is a little secret for you: Mistakes are normal and you can cash in on them...big-time.

Nobody has ever been better at failing than the former Tonight Show Host, Johnny Carson. Whenever Carson screwed something up, he simply enjoyed the moment instead of panicking or worrying about what people would think. Ordinarily, he just made a goofy face at the audience, and at his side-kick Ed McMahon, and they would all erupt in laughter together. It was Carson’s self-deprecating demeanor that won him countless millions of fans.

One of the greatest examples of Carson turning lemons into lemonade was the night he came on stage for his monologue without realizing his zipper was down. He was trying to deliver his prepared jokes but McMahon was laughing so hard, and at the wrong moments, Carson finally had to stop right in the middle of his speech to find out what the heck was driving his buddy up the wall.

McMahon could barely get the words out of his mouth, he was laughing so hard. Finally, with rivers of tears running down McMahon’s cheeks, Carson got the message. He just faced the audience, opened his jacket, exposed the problem and paused. The decibel-level of the audience laughter must have set a record.

Carson reached down, and ever so slowly, slowly, slowly, began zipping up his trousers. He must have taken 15 seconds. All along he was making one of those fantastic faces feigning embarrassment, but in actuality he was playing that situation like the master that he was. The cameras scanned the audience and they were out-of-control. The admiration and love on their faces for the talented Carson was so deep and obvious it could not hide behind their hysterical laughter.

Carson never did get to finish his monologue. He didn’t have to. Everybody was already entertained way beyond their expectations. All of that was because Carson knew how to handle a silly mistake!

All of our Toastmaster members make mistakes too. So what? We are just like Mr. Carson because we are surrounded by friends who really don’t care all that much. The key is to just roll with your mistakes and enjoy the moment. Once you can do that, you can actually use your awkward moments as another great learning opportunity.

But, just to be safe, check your zipper first.

If you are interested in learning a little more about Toastmasters, here is a link to the website for the club I belong to.

Don't forget to visit my other blog.

Political Winds

2010-08-04T19:23:00.002-06:00

There has not been a Democratic President elected to two consecutive terms, by a majority vote, since FDR (Clinton was elected to two terms but he only got 43% of the vote the first time and 49% the second time) Obama is weaker than all of them. In that same time-span Ike, Nixon, Reagan and Bush all were re-elected, with majorities. This suggests the country is right-leaning.

Another sign of liberal frailty lies in the main-stream media. They were once powerful but TV stations, magazines and newspapers are all losing ground so they are screaming louder than ever. I think you are hearing their desperation.

Other pillars of liberalism such as unions and academia are also crumbling:

In the mean time, middle-America has witnessed Obama, Reid and Pelosi in action, and it has awakened. The silent majority is having trouble remaining silent.

As far as 2012 is concerned, Obama has shown no inclination to move toward the mood of the voters as Clinton did when the Republicans took over congress in 1994, so he appears destined to be another one-term Democrat.

That is most unfortunate. Obama had an opportunity to heal a great deal of the racial divide that so many blacks feel, but I am afraid his closest associates have been more concerned with fanning the flames than putting the fires out. Bitterness, often unfounded, reigns prominent among the black masses as race pimps continue to thrive exaggerating real racial conflicts and creating conflicts where there are none.

Many angry black leaders refuse to acknowledge all of the progress this country has made in racial relations, but the masses see evidence everywhere. For starters this very President could not have ascended to such heights without people of all races. Then there are all the other phases in our lives. Blacks have won American Idol which they could not have done if people were all striving to hold them back. Black athletes own sports and we support our favorite teams as much as we ever did. Blacks are among our best judges, cops, attorneys, military leaders, teachers and anything else they set their minds to. But most importantly, we know what we think in our own hearts.

In spite of all of this, there are leaders who thrive on keeping the blacks angry. These leaders are nothing more than Race Pimps, who profit by manipulating and misleading vulnerable blacks. Instead of encouraging the average African American to make the best of themselves, these self-serving leaders spew hate-speech against Caucasians (a race) in general.

Meanwhile these same leaders insist that their own hateful comments and philosophies cannot be deemed to be “racist” because, “We have no power.” But, even if power was a legitimate justification for their constant rants against other races, the assertion that they wield no power is simply false.

There are many powerful people who use their allies and subordinates to carry out their objectives. Army generals order the troops into battle. Mafia bosses send out hit men to carry out tasks, CEO’s of large corporations require and inspire their employees to act in the desired way. Entire countries form powerful allegiances and perform tasks for one another

Black leaders are no different. Whenever they want to manipulate an issue, all they have to do is enlist their loyal allies. The liberal media (network TV news, most newspapers, and liberal blogs) will march to the orders and gladly broadcast any message they desire. Democratic leaders will push for government solutions to the complaint of the day and Republican officials will accommodate the issue rather than point out that favoring blacks over whites is just as bad as favoring whites over blacks. Reverse racism is still racism no matter how noble the cause.

If all else fails, the race pimps simply call a well-known white person a “racist” whether they are or not, and the conservative media (talk radio, right-leaning blogs and Fox, news) will jump right in and keep the stories alive.

My point is that all the black leaders have to do to get whatever it is they want is snap their fingers or call a prominent white person a racist and the entire media, liberal and conservative alike, will jump on board and discuss the matter to death, with the collective public all having front-row seats at their TV screens.

Therefore those leaders have a lot more “power” than they let on and any suggestion that they cannot be racists because they have no power is false.

Back to Obama, he had a great opportunity to bring this kind of racial friction to an end or at least diminish its effect. Who can forget his great speeches with lines like, “We are not Red States and Blue States: We are the ‘United’ States”? He spoke of bringing our country together but instead, his administration disregarded the will of the majority over and over again, opting to implement policies that many members in his own party do not even like.

There is more divide in our Country now than when he took office and his Party is on the verge of imploding, similar to what Mr. Clinton experienced. What a shame. He had an egg from the fateful Golden Goose, but he has elected to discard the egg, rather than make a delicious political omelet for us to all share.

But that does not automatically mean the R's will win in 2012. If Hillary smells blood, she might run against the half-white Prez and there are so many bigots who will vote for somebody just because they are black or female, she might have a shot.

In the end, the R's should retake control in approximately 100 days. The question is, “What will they do with it?

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To Kiss and Tell: Doreen

2010-07-26T20:43:00.005-06:00

Lately, I have been reliving some of the exciting details of my early love-life. So far, we have sweated through the uncontrolled passion of my encounters with Claudia and Semadar (scroll down to read those articles).

Fortunately, I have been able to keep the sordid stories from my naive and vulnerable wife, but it has been quite challenging. I am not so sure she could handle the mountain of stress, knowing that the man she has been living with for all of these years was once an unmatched Globetrotter of Love. That was my SLBP (Secret Life Before Patty). But, as I see it, I have an absolute obligation to share the red-hot details with my readers, no matter how damning the truth might be. The greater good must prevail. So, now that we have that out of the way, let me tell you about Doreen.

Doreen and I were essentially forced together by fate. Apparently, our parents had one of those prearranged agreements in place. In fact, they didn’t make any attempt to hide their nefarious objectives. They bought homes on the same block, just a few doors apart which enabled nature’s hot juices to take over from there: And, did they ever!!!

It all happened in an old shed in our back yard that must have been left abandoned just for our benefit. It was my very first real kiss of a real girl. It was 2 months before my 9th birthday.

One day, Doreen wandered over to my home as she did several times before. Eventually, we found ourselves inside that shed. Just when my defenses were down, the scheming and sensuous young vixen introduced the topic of “kissing”. I must admit I had not given it any thought prior to that, but being the irresistible hunk that I was, I should have known it was inevitable.

As the event approached, she revealed an even deeper and secret objective. “Let’s kiss like movie stars” she requested. Apparently she had been paying attention to things like that, but I wasn’t exactly sure what distinguished movie star kisses from my own lip-locking techniques. I quickly recalled the several times I had secretly kissed the mirror in the bathroom, just to see what I looked like when I puckered up. As I thought about it, it was clear I was up to the task. The truth is, I probably would have been willing to kiss "like chainsaws" if that was what she wanted.

Eventually, we eased into position, then closer, then to the inevitable point of no return. She reached out her arms, obviously longing for my gentle touch. I played it cool, just like I thought any big-shot movie star would do. But, my suave and debonair demeanor was hopelessly irresistible. Her trembling arms strengthened as she pulled me closer. I puckered up to the point that my luscious lips resembled a woodpecker’s beak sucking on a lemon, - just like my mirror buddy’s did. I was ready to give her the thrill of her life.

Then she closed her eyes and dived into the sugary-sweet lip dessert that I had waiting for her. If you are wondering how I know her eyes were closed, it is because mine were wide open, and roughly the size of baseballs. In my quest to fulfill her deep-rooted fantasy, I emulated a movie star by rotating my head in large clockwise circles at roughly the same speed as a wheel on a dragster at the finish line. She didn’t seem to mind the obvious fact that our noses kept crashing into each other as the lightning-fast circles were completed.

Around and around I went, with puckered up woodpecker lips and wide-open eyes, just like the movie stars do it. Eventually, just before she nearly fainted with excitement, it was over. The whole thing lasted about 5 seconds, but the memory of kissing “on the big screen” will last me forever.

If you are a woman, I will understand if you have to run and get a glass of ice-cold water now to cool down a bit. If you are a fellow, I pity you for your inability to compete with my awesome amorous adventures. Here’s a special hint for you: Get a mirror.

Be sure to visit my other blog.

To Kiss and Tell: Semadar

2010-07-21T16:22:00.017-06:00

Contrary to what you might think, I am quite the lover-boy with a significant list of conquests. As sleazy as it is, I have decided that I have protected the innocence of my love partners for long enough, so I am converting some of this blog into an exciting “Tell All” trip down memory lane and I don’t care whose image is tarnished in the process. My first love was Claudia. To read about the long-lasting and powerful impression I left upon her, simply scroll down a bit. But get some ice cubes your ears might sizzle from the white-hot details.

Semadar was the second woman to earn my affection. She was the first “older” woman that I allowed into my inner circle. She was 24-years old at the time: standing 5’ 8” and hosting the body of a Goddess. She was a bit more experienced than I was, but I was more than willing to sample her wears. One weekend we “got together” EIGHT times in a marathon of mad passion.
I was not the first fellow to observe Semadar’s incredible natural beauty. The legendary movie director Cecil B. DeMille saw it well before I did. In fact, she had a different name when DeMille met her. In those days, she was known as Angela Lansbury.

In 1949, Demille took on a new movie called Samson and Delilah. It was a story right out of the book of Judges in the Bible. In it, a strong man (Samson) defeats an entire army using only the jawbone of an ass as a weapon. One of the local kings wanted to find out how to defeat such a strong man. So, the king summoned Samson to his court to meet him.

At that meeting, Samson discovers Delilah’s gorgeous sister, Semadar, played by Angela Lansbury. So a love triangle ensues: Delilah loves Samson, but Samson loves Semadar (Lansbury). To complicate matters I discovered the Oscar-winning movie when I was 8-years old, and I too fell in love with the sexy blonde Semadar.

I don’t think I really understood the difference between actresses and the characters on the screen, but Semadar was the first woman I ever noticed as a sex object. I wasn’t wise enough to imagine her naked or anything like that but she sparked a “feeling” that was new to me. She made my mind drool.

All of that was complicated by the fact that one of my distant relatives was the manager of the movie theater, so he let me and my close friends into the movie for free. I spent one entire weekend in the theater adoring Semadar. I think I watched that fateful movie and the eye-popping beauty eight times altogether.

Many years later, the movie came on TV one night and I was anxious to see who it was that played Semadar. As it turned out it was Angela Lansbury of Murder She wrote. By then Lansbury was 60ish and still very attractive. As I write this, Lansbury is about 85 and still alive.

In fact, this article has prompted me to look up a couple of Lansbury’s fan clubs on line. This morning I sent her a request for a signed picture. This is the only time I have ever done anything like that. It will be a double-hoot if I do indeed get a signed picture from the Octogenarian. If so, I wonder if it will make my wife jealous.

at age 24

A bunch of Lansbury pictures

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To Kiss and Tell: Claudia

2010-07-17T20:12:00.010-06:00

I have been married nearly 40 years now, and I dearly love my wife, but even an old-timer like me likes to hang on to the exciting memories from the good old days. Today, I caught myself thinking about my earlier loves. Claudia was the first.

Claudia was a very cute blonde: Petite and sorta giggly.

About 17 years ago I saw Claudia again. At the time, I was hosting a booth at a home and garden show. I was a Realtor with ReMax. I had a big inflated balloon behind me. I also displayed several signs with my name on them and some others that encouraged passers-by to stop and discuss their real estate questions.

Then a short, fortyish, blonde stepped up and asked, “Are you Dave Thyfault?” She was accompanied by a teenager, presumably a daughter. I assumed the woman knew me from some of my marketing material, so I confirmed her suspicion. Then she shocked me when she said, “I am Claudia W.” (last name withheld to protect the guilty)

I didn’t know what to say, but I have to admit I was a bit excited. I said “Claudia!?” (What an idiot, she just told me that!) Anyway, we said hello again, and I told her I was shocked she still remembered my name. Her exact reply is vividly in my mind, “A girl remembers the men in her life" she replied.

Her teenaged companion looked at her and then looked at me. Then she looked back at her mother and yelped something like, “EEEEEEEW”.

It was nice to see Claudia again. The last time we had seen each other we were 7-years old and in the second grade. We never kissed or held hands or anything like that, but we definitely had a crush on each other.

More "juicy" stories to follow.

Be sure to visit my other blog about Family Finances

Oil and the USA

2010-07-09T17:27:00.007-06:00

If you are like me, you believe that our country’s dependency on foreign oil is dangerous. An enemy could surely bring us to our collective knees if that supply were to be cut off. I have also wondered why we don’t develop the resources we have in Alaska or off the three coasts. And, then there are those other ideas about conservation and developing worthwhile alternative fuels. Well, it simply got to the point where I decided to do a little research and get my own answers. Here are some interesting things I learned.

• According to The US Energy Information Administration, our county consumes more than seven-billion barrels of oil each year. That means each one of us (man, woman and child) consumes approximately 20 barrels of oil each year.
• Each of those barrels is 42 gallons and when refined produces 20 gallons of gasoline plus additional petroleum products. Therefore our typical tank of gas (about 15 gallons) requires approximately 30 gallons of crude oil.
• When you hear politicians suggest that we buy the bulk of our oil “from countries who do not like us very much” they are twisting the truth. For starters, we actually generate about 40% of our own oil. Of our imported oil, we get the most from Canada. After that, 4 other countries each send us about the same amount. They are Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Venezuela and Africa. We get along fairly well with our primary suppliers with the exception of Venezuela. However, most of this conversation is a mute point because we never really know exactly whose oil we are buying. It is all a part of the same commodities market. So the fact that we get most of our imported oil from Canada and Mexico is mostly a matter of shipping costs. But the basic point is refuted because we get most of our oil from ourselves and relatively good friends. In another odd twist, we actually export some of our own Alaskan oil to Taiwan, China, Japan and South Korea
• Various batches of crude oil get mixed at refineries and during shipping. The same goes for batches of refined gas. Therefore the gasoline sold at a particular gas station is not necessarily refined by that same company.
• The US has plenty more untapped oil. If we continue to import 60% of our oil, we have a 25-year supply from oil sands, which is what we get from Canada; and, we have an additional 30-year supply in the Outer Continental shelf (OTC); and we have about a 4-year supply in Alaska.
• It was wrongly reported by Dr. Leigh Price, in a study in year 2000, that there may be as much a 400-billion barrels of “potential resources” in an area in North Dakota and Montana known as the Bakken Formation. New studies by U. S. Geological Survey reveal the actual number of recoverable barrels is closer to several billion. There is also nearly two-trillion cubic feet of natural gas and 148 million barrels of natural gas liquids. All of that is available right now.
• Terriadaily is among those wrongly suggesting there may be as many as 1.2 TRILLION barrels of oil hiding in shale in Colorado, Wyoming and Utah in an area known as Green River Basin. Other people have suggested there is enough potential product in the area to provide for the US oil market for at least 100 years. However, those estimates appear to be wildly exaggerated. In fact an article by Fact Check which also references studies by Snopes, have the available oil way, way lower (interestingly, both Fact Check and Snopes are challenged in a readers comment at the end of the article). There is a bit of good news in the mix. It has been speculated that one-million barrels per day might be retrievable in twenty-years, but that is still only 365-million barrels per year or 7% of what we use. Until more studies are completed there is no reason to expect much more from these fields.

As I see it, we have a hand-full of primary options or any blend of them:

1) If we remain on the same path, we will be desperately low of oil in about 20 years. However, if we develop our currently known resources that remain untapped, our supplies will last at least 50 years. But either of these choices leave us vulnerable to the whims of other countries as we continue to send enormous amounts of our money to them.
2) If we are willing to reduce our percentage of imported oil from 60% to 25% we have enough for 30 years. In this case we can eliminate all of our suppliers, except for Canada whom we clearly consider our friends.
3) If we want to rely exclusively on our own oil, we have only enough for about 20 years. It would take at least 5 years to get wells pumping and refineries constructed.
4) Technology could improve and make the Bakken or Green River Basin, more productive.
5) The US has substantial amounts of natural gas. If we can build a good distribution system and exploit this fuel we could indeed become energy independent for 100 years or more.

The bottom line is we do not have to be dependent on foreign energy forever. By developing these sources and alternate sources of energy we can avoid the other suppliers or at least force them to lower their prices.

Good article about untapped reserve.

Listen to this podcast by USGS about Bakken reserves

Wikipedia has good stats about Bakken

We have 100 years of natural gas in Louisiana

It is getting easier to process shale.

comment below

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Amateur Critic Wanted

2010-07-01T07:45:00.002-06:00

Greetings,

I have just completed writing a book about family finances and I am looking for a couple of people who would like to read some or all of it as amateur critics.

There are 44 brief chapters, each one consisting of approximately 3-4 typed pages.

The book is broken into 3 sections:
1) The first section is about the PAST and the Worst Things on Which We Waste Our Money, sometime without even knowing it.
2) The second section is about the PRESENT – things you can do right now to improve your financial status both immediately and in the long-term.
3) The FUTURE addresses the financial implications of the things that come up from time to time, like getting married, buying cars, applying for new jobs, renting apartments, and traveling.

Here are a few things you will learn:
1) How saving just $4 per day, out of the money you are now wasting, can generate $465,000 for your retirement
2) Why every dollar you spend has a FOREVER interest expense attached to it
3) Who is looking inside your credit report without your permission
4) Is college really worth the money
5) Why you should always have some sort of self-employment project (working on computer, writing a book, making calendars, part-time maintenance company, travel expert, recipe tester etc.)
6) The best ways to lay out budgets and follow them
7) How to deal with bankruptcy, foreclosure or restructuring debt
8) How much it costs to raise a child or own pets
9) The two “hidden” expenses to everything you buy
10) How to get more money at job interviews and how to get raises
11) A very simple three-step program to take you to financial security and wealth
12) 32 advanced credit strategies that will take your credit score to elite status and help you qualify for loans with the lowest possible interest rates

I am looking for constructive recommendations. Things like “this section is too wordy” or “you have said that too many times” or “I had to read this section 3 times before I really understood what you were trying to say” or “Why didn’t you talk about ____” . or “this idea needs more development” or “this is improper grammar” etc.

If you would like to read one or more sections, let me know and I will send you a zipped copy.

Dave@UncleDavesRealEstate.com

Tidy Up

2010-06-20T20:54:00.003-06:00

She moved the piece of paper to the edge of the table.

That seems like a rather simple action. It would not mean much to anybody else but it mattered to me. My wife is a “Tidy Freak”

The table was only 4 foot square because we were sitting in a restaurant. I had just made some notes on a napkin and set the paper in front of me. We were catching up on some small talk and then suddenly she just couldn’t help herself. She grabbed that evil napkin and moved it to the edge of the table. I guess she thinks it is more likely to reach its ultimate destination if it is one foot closer to our exit route.

She does that all the time. I am constantly looking for things that I previously put somewhere for later. When I go to find the waiting item, it is nowhere to be seen. If I ask where it went, she usually has put it somewhere that she perceives to be better. You might be able to guess how the conversation goes.

“Do you know where ‘It’ is?
“I put it over here”
What was wrong with it where it was?”
I just didn’t want you to forget it
Why would I have a better chance of remembering something if you remove it from where I left it?
Well this is better
It’s not better if I have to go find it
Fine, then I will just stop helping you!!!
(Now how do you respond to that?)

Patty is not the only person who likes to tidy up.

Not long ago, I was giving a speech to a group of Realtor friends. I use one of those easels with large pieces of paper on it. There comes a point in the presentation where I dramatically tear off a piece of paper and publicly proclaim that “my wife is not here so I get to be sloppy now” then I tear off the page and throw it to the floor and make a big deal out of being a slob. It is intended to be a light hearted moment and take any formality off of the speech.

When I got to the break, I turned around to pick up the paper and discovered that it was gone. One of the women just couldn’t stand to leave it there. She had already picked it up. I was amused so I asked her, “Do you tend to ‘tidy up’ at home”?

Suddenly we realized we live in identical homes.

My wife and I are not Felix and Oscar of Odd Couple fame. Neither of us is that extreme, and I have to admit I am lucky to have her around, otherwise our home might become a mess.

But I just don’t see why she had to move that piece of paper.

I think I am going to go tidy up her sewing table, just to teach her a lesson.

Does your spouse annoy you? How?

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Come-upn’s for Politicians

2010-06-12T07:51:00.002-06:00

Anybody who pays attention to politics is bound to be frustrated by the process, especially as it applies to the Federal Government. Naturally, this sentiment is not new. It is very common for the party out of power to seek ways to regain control.

But, that is the basic problem. Our country has been taken over by Parties and their leaders are more concerned with staying in power than doing what is right for the country.

Newly elected members go to Washington, and discover that all of their promises to “change” the government are not welcomed. They are assigned irrelevant roles on minor committees until they prove their willingness to tow the party line. Those running the committees decide what is to be discussed and new people are blocked out unless their philosophies are harmonious with the leaders; the career politicians.

All of this brings up an old topic about term limits. When the Congress was established it was intended to be a patriotic duty, much like the military. Members would go to the Congress for a few years, essentially for no compensation, just to serve their country.

Now they are paid enormous compensation packages and are influenced by large lobbying groups. They retire wealthy and with cushy retirement packages. They do not care about the people at home as much as staying in power.

Enough is enough!!! If we can limit the number of terms for the President, we can and should do the same thing for the Congress as well. I like a limit of 12 years for either House. That is two six-year terms for Senators and six two-year terms for Representatives.

They should be paid the same salary as the members of the military. In most cases that would mean $25,000 per year rather than $450,000. There should be very limited expense accounts and no housing or transportation allowances. The rest of us have to pay our expenses so they should too. Their retirement packages should be comparable to that of the military; minimal help with health care and burial packages. Ina case like that we would attract Patriots, not self-serving, power-crazed attorneys.

One of the many things that irk me is the way they exempt themselves of the very laws they impose on the rest of us. For example they raise taxes, but then they vote to give themselves a pay-raise, which off-sets their loss. None of the rest of us can do that. They are already making eight times as much money as the people they represent (not counting extravagant retirement plans and all of the side deals they make with lobbyists). Isn’t that enough?!

When they pass a health-care package, as an example, they should also be forced to use that plan, but no, they have a much better one than the rest of us do. They should have to abide by all of the laws the rest of us do. No special exemptions.

The bottom line here is the government has overpowered the people and that is a direct contradiction of what the founding fathers intended.

Long before there was an income tax system, Americans did more for their neighbors. For example, if somebody needed a barn, the community would get together and build one. When grandma got too old to take care of herself, she moved in with her kids and they all made the best of it. But now we all look to the government to solve our problems.

One of the primary reasons this has happened is many big-hearted people feel sorry for those who fall on bad times or cannot compete in an open market. When that group becomes legislators, they strive to “level the playing field” through social programs.

As far as I am concerned, that is the right sentiment, but the wrong approach. I once read the welfare program used 72% of every dollar they collected in taxes to administer the program, which left 28% for the actual recipients. That is a horrible waste of tax-payers money. A Republican Congress and a Democratic President (Clinton) made a good effort to fix that. They were on the right track.

We should be encouraging stronger families, more interaction with churches and non-profit organizations, more volunteering and better budgeting so that we can do more with our dollars.

We the people need to decide if we are going to help one another or cut each others throat, which then leads to the government steallng our money in the form of ever-higher taxes. Do we really want the government to tax us and then keep 3 out of every 4 dollars for themselves or should we be kinder and more generous with each other?

It all starts in Washington, where the legislators set the tone. By exempting themselves from the very laws they pass, they clearly set up a system of self-aggrandizement. Get all you can.

That is why I think it is time to reconsider term limits. I think that would attract a new breed of politician and that is what we need right now. We want people of honor and integrity who are there for the right reasons, and that is not perpetual self-promotion.

What say you?

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My Addiction

2010-06-05T17:30:00.006-06:00

The other day I posted an article about alcoholism (Below) At the end I promised to reveal an addiction of my own. As much as I hate to confess, here is my story.

Nobody would ever guess that Brenda is my drug pusher because she goes to great lengths to look innocent. She has no tattoos or piercings to draw attention to herself. She is barely five-feet tall and usually wears a non-descript dress. Although she works within a very well-organized gang, she frequently works alone. The other day, she walked right up to my front door and handed me my drug of choice in such a nonchalant manner that we completed our transaction right under my neighbors’ noses, without ever raising any suspicion.

Brenda’s gang has managed to keep the rival gangs out of the neighborhood, but there is no doubt who is in control. Sometimes, Brenda’s pals are so brazen they take up positions in public places in search of new victims and they are relentless in their search for customers. Brenda and her friends sell Girl Scout cookies.

Brenda, or one of her green sisters, drops by every year. Last week she wrested $32 from my wallet. Part of it was for a brand new flavor. It is called “Thank U Berry Munch”. YUM!!

I usually buy 8-10 boxes. Patty buys ‘em too. We both complain when we discover how many boxes the other person bought because we are both shamefully weak in the will-power department. But regardless of our mutual whining, we both admire kids who attempt any type of work. We also admire all scouts, and our big-fat bellies offer ample evidence of our fondness for tasty sweets. Those cookie boxes disappear faster than a tax-dollar on April 15th.

The door-to-door approach is not the only way Brenda and her pals try to snag me. One time, when I was leaving the grocery store I managed to get past the check-out lane without buying any food of sin, and then the gang in green attacked me, just outside the door. I think their sinister adult leaders train the youngsters to act especially cute and awkward. They adopt the softest voices possible and gently inquire, “Would you like to buy some Girls Scout Cookies?” That particular day, I was so determined to resist the temptation I just gave them a donation. A couple hours later, I was so proud of myself for resisting the urge I went back and bought several boxes as a reward.

When it comes to “cookie value” Girl Scout cookies are horrible. They cost as much as gourmet cookies or the ones that are fresh-made in the bakery. There are usually just a dozen cookies or so in a Girl Scout box, which sells for $3.50. If you cruise down the cookie isle, there are bags of generic cookies with 30 or more cookies per bag, all for less than $2.00. On the other hand, considering how much money I fork over to the gang in green, it is probably better that I don’t get good value. The last thing I need is an extra eighteen cookies in each box. (Sigh!)

You have probably heard that old saying, If you can’t fight them, join them; and, I am to that point. To get off on the correct foot, I want to recommend a new formal holiday. But one measly day is not enough for such a noble undertaking. If we can devote 4 days to turkeys and an entire month to black history we ought to be able to establish Girl Scout cookie week.

I propose that we all take a designated week off (paid of course) and devote each day to a different flavor of Girl Scout cookies. The Government will give us all a box of Do-Si-Dos for Monday. Tuesday we get free Thin Mints. Wednesday, it’s Samoas. Trefolds are exclusively for Thursday. Friday’s is for your choice of the lemon flavors. Saturday lends opportunity to say Thank U Berry Munch. And Sunday we get one whole box of each flavor so that we won’t forget the lesser-known flavors like Dulche-de-Leche, Daisy Go Rounds and Thanks-A-Lot.

All sorts of new dynamics will unfold in our society. Bartering clubs will spring up to trade flavors. Republicans will want to remove all regulations. Democrats will want to take 4 cookies out of each box and give them to victims of some tragedy. TV shows will tell us various new ways to serve cookies. Kids will get so tired of cookies they will start begging their moms for carrots and celery sticks. The mob will try to make indistinguishable counterfeit cookies. The Girl Scouts will all be forced to join Unions. Do-gooders will want to set up Cookies Anonymous. Scalpers will hoard the good flavors and then sell them for a premium on Ebay. Churches will accept cookies in the collection plates. People will get cookie tattoos on secret parts of their bodies. The Crips and Blood will develop new hand signals to flaunt their preferred flavor. True scandal will visit the half-time show of the Super Bowl as Janet Jackson is “busted” wearing nothing more than a couple of well-placed Do-Si-Dos.

And, of course, I will get fatter. Oh well, at least I will be happy.

Whaddya say? Are you with me?

History of Girl Scout Cookies

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My name is Dave and I am an Alcoholic

2010-06-01T19:19:00.002-06:00

When I was about 25 years old, I switched my primary vice from marijuana to beer. That may not seem like much of an improvement to an outsider, but I was concerned about the law, not the drug. I had already been arrested once for drug-related matters, and if it happened again, I was at risk of moving into the Grey-bar Motel – perhaps for 2-5 years, or longer. Beer enabled me to still get high (yes, I actually thought that was important) without the legal consequences. Ironically however, all I managed to do was trade one set of troubles for another set.

Alcohol has led millions of otherwise responsible people into all sorts of poor choices: Bar fights and sexual promiscuity being among them. In my case, I was guilty of drunk driving way too many times. I never did have an accident (that I can remember) but I was behind the wheel when I should not have been and some of those times were very dangerous. Fortunately, I never did get caught or hurt anybody.

Throughout that time, a pattern of drunkenness and guilt emerged. My wife was not particularly interested in drinking that much, so I hung around with some buddies and family members who also liked the beer culture. It was not uncommon to stay out late and drive home drunk around midnight. Naturally my wife was unhappy and concerned.

The next morning, when I woke up, I realized how selfish I had been and decided I would “never” do that again. After about 3 days of staying sober, it seemed like I had retaken control of my problem, so one beer wouldn’t hurt. But that beer quickly led to another and another and I was right back in the same old rut. That cycle lasted about four years.

Then one night, after several of us had way too many beers, a sister of one of my pals was drinking with us and on her way home she drove into a parked car. She hurt herself slightly, and went through an unpleasant legal system as a result. Perhaps it was divine intervention, but that was a real turning point for me.

The next morning, the guilt trip returned, but that time I took a different tactic. Instead of forbidding myself to drink “from now on” I decided that I would just not drink for that one day. The day after that, I had the same objective, and each day thereafter. As time ticked past, there were countless temptations. All of my drinking buddies offered me beer. Family functions and holidays were awash in adult beverages, but I held out and avoided being judgmental of others. After all, most of them had their drinking under control. There was no reason to admonish them.

I was very aware of my progress. It was constantly on my mind. When I had been sober for 3 days, I “knew” it… all day. The same goes with each milestone thereafter. At a week, two weeks a month and six months I was fully aware of the improvement. I knew the exact date for my one-year sober anniversary. The same thing happened with the two-year and three-year anniversary. After that, I lost track of the exact date, but I can still tell you the first dry day was in the summer of 1979. I was 29 at the time. That was over thirty years ago and I have been boringly sober ever since.

Occasionally, after working outdoors in the summer sun, an ice-cold beer still sounds pretty good. Oddly, I am not particularly concerned about drinking one beer in a situation like that. After all, who would possibly suggest that one beer in thirty years is too much? But, it is the second beer that scares me. It could be the beginning of the same old “pattern” and I just don’t want to expose myself and others to the potential drama that could follow. So I remain dull and willing to stay that way.

As the years ticked by I came to find out that my drunkenness and quilt cycle is a common problem among members of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). I was also surprised to learn that one of their primary philosophies is “one day at a time”, just like I instinctively embraced. I understand why they take that approach. “I am never going to drink again” is such a major commitment that it quickly seems unrealistic for many people who are surrounded by temptations.

If you are one of the fortunate ones who can drive by a liquor store without even noticing it, perhaps you can relate to the angst of the alcoholic by substituting a vice of your own. Suppose you enjoy chocolate. How difficult would it be for you to “never” eat it again? Everywhere you go chocolate is there to tempt you. Bakeries, gas stations, family functions, grocery stores, everywhere. Wouldn’t “forever” seem like too long and unrealistic? One day is challenging enough! And that is what Alcoholics Anonymous and I concluded.

The first step to dealing with these addictions is for the addict to acknowledge the problem. That is why AA meetings begin by each member standing up, one at a time, and confessing their equivalent of, “My name is Dave, and I am an alcoholic.” The remaining members respond in unison, with a warm “Hello, Dave.” The words are simple, but the meaning, compassion and sentiment are deep, for they all have their own painful stories: Auto wrecks, job losses, broken families, bankruptcy, sleeping in cars, jail and so much more.

When an AA member falls off the wagon, it can be very painful to spouses and others who have already given them countless chances. And, it is easy for the rest of us to make judgmental statements like, “They should just quit”. But the addicts know that, and nagging them does not usually help. Back at the meeting a much more practical approach is employed: “We don’t shoot our wounded.”

I have never attended an AA meeting, but I know people who have been loyal member for decades. The mutual support that they share keeps their lives in perspective. Regardless of the circumstances, they desperately need encouragement and that is what they offer each other…one day at a time.

I tell you all of this for a reason. You see, I am struggling with a new vice/addiction and I am trying to come to terms with it. In my next post I will confess all. Hopefully, you will be able to help me kick this on-going problem because there is no equivalent to AA to assist me.

comments?

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