Category Life

It Doesn’t Add Up

Michael 3 Comments

I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend here and I think it explains why stores are in trouble. It has nothing to do with on-line shopping or discount warehouse stores. It has to do with store managers who are stupid.

I was in our local grocery store comparing the prices of the admittedly overpriced pod coffee selections. Single people who live alone and drink one cup of coffee a day understand their attraction. I noticed the sale tags (yippee!) then I noticed the need for improved math skills. Same brand, same flavor, different size packaging. The 12 count box, regularly 8.99, was on sale for 5.99. The 36 count box, regularly 24.99, was on sale for 18.99. I’ll wait. (Lah de dah, do dee dee, dum, hum, hum) Yeah! That’s what I said! I even mentioned it to the guy reaching for the box of 36. “Oh, I go through a lot of them,” and he grabbed two of the larger boxes adding, “Great price.”

Different day, different store, different item. Actually this was in a well-known major retailer whose name I’ll not mention but it ends in mart. I happened to be in need of some maintenance items for my outdoor gas grill including the little heat tent thingies that go over the gas tubes. Three of those little thingies actually. I found them on the shelf at 5.49 each. Right next to them was the “Economy Two Pack” (buy in bulk and save!) for 12.49. Once again I noticed an in store sucker … er, shopper … grabbing, once again, not just one but two of the two packs.

SaleSignLater that same day I was at the nursery (the plant kind, not the baby kind), picking out some herbs for my patio garden. Fortunately I only needed 4, or at most 6 plants. Why is that fortunate? Because they were on sale! What were regular price pots of 3.28 each were on sale for “$2.87 each, $24/tray of 8.” Of course someone had three trays in his cart. I hope he was planning on asking them being rung up separately.

Maybe I spoke too harshly of the store managers. They probably really are quite adept at math. It’s the consumer who needs the arithmetic refresher course. I think I might set one up. A friend of mine says I’d make a good tutor and I always can use a little extra spending money. I’ll charge a very reasonable $19.99 per lesson. Or 4 for 100 bucks!

Who says you have to be a big retailer to get in on Special Pricing?

 

Frozen in Time. Or Space. Or Neither?

Michael 3 Comments

I should be celebrating still. Last week was my birthday. A dozen years ago I’d still be celebrating a week later. No, that’s not accurate. “Still” makes it sound like I spent an entire week in revelry. Well, I was younger then. At least by 12 years. That would have made me 50 which contrary to the teachings of 30 and 40 year olds, is the age when one is truly still young enough to get into trouble but old enough to know better but not quite yet to not care. But no, not even those dozen years ago was I inclined to spend a full week in celebration of aging. So “still” is still not right. No. I should have said my birthday was last week and a dozen years ago I’d be celebrating it again.

“Still” might seem to make more sense than “again” but trust me, “again” is right. Of course, I’d be happy to explain.

A dozen years ago we’d have taken pictures. A week ago we also took pictures. A week ago, among the 20 or 4,000 pictures taken, I saw 4. Then, of the 12 or 15 taken I would have seen 12 or 15. But not for a week. A dozen years ago we were still taking pictures with analog cameras and film that required developing know how (or at least the corner drugstore).

Here’s what usually happened.  Regardless of whose birthday or anniversary or whatever and the actual date of aforementioned whatever, the celebration happened on Sunday. People worked during the week. (Actually I worked on Sundays also but that never seemed to alter the pattern.) (Hmm.) Pictures were taken, cake was cut, more pictures, gifts, more cake, more pictures, cake, pictures, wine, cake, pictures, etc., more pictures, wine, pictures. Film was rewound, removed from camera, and placed in prominent position to be dropped off for developing Monday morning. Monday film was forgotten due to Monday morning rush to get out the door. Tuesday film was forgotten due to it being Tuesday. Wednesday film forgotten due to everyone making bad camel jokes on the way out the door. Thursday film was remembered and taken to be developed! Decision making now entered the process. One hour, overnight, or standard. Couldn’t hang around for an hour and since we waited this long, what’s another day. Overnight please. Friday, now developed pictures forgotten due to TGIF. Saturday … ugh! Sunday, special trip made to pick up pictures, everybody gathers around, pictures passed about, celebration renewed!

More importantly, afterwards, sometimes weeks or months afterwards but eventually afterwards, the pictures were transferred to a photo album and placed on book shelf for future re-celebrations.

Last week, pictures were taken, phones passed around after any particularly good ones (four) then never seen again. [Sigh] But if you’re interested, you are welcome to come over and see pictures from my fiftieth. I know just where they are.

BD40Actually, this is from my fortieth. Seems I can’t find those from ten years later. I think we were using digital by then!

 

Cramming for Finals

Michael 9 Comments

I have a test next week. I haven’t taken a test for years and frankly I’m a little concerned. I have just over a week to study up as much as I can for my stress test next Friday.

Yes, you read that right. A stress test. Go ahead and laugh. Here, I’ll even help. A guy asks his friend’s wife where he is. “At the bar. Studying.” “Studying? What kind of test can you study for at the bar?” “His urine test of course.” Ha. Ha.

But this is different. I think I really do have to study for this stress test. Stay with me for a while. There are two basic types of stress tests. One is an EKG/exercise test and one is a exercise/rest/perfusion test. The common factor between the two is the exercise part. Walk on a treadmill until your heart rate is elevated to some specific level or you fall over, whichever comes first. Maybe it’s not put quite so cavalierly by those administering them but that’s basically how the stress is induced during stress tests.

I’m not worried about getting my heart rate up. I know I can walk far enough to get my heart pumping. I’ve been walking again these past few days now that it is nice again here in the until recently frozen northeast. But the problem is I’ve only done that recently and only outside. I might be a bit out of shape from not taking advantage of the treadmills in the exercise room but that doesn’t concern me either. No, what has me wondering about how I’m going to do with this test is that darn treadmill.

Treadmill

Image: Freepik

I can’t work treadmills. That’s why I hadn’t taken advantage of them during the cold weather months. I can’t walk on them. How, you ask, does one say he can’t walk on a treadmill? Because I fall over. I walk with a cane. The reasons don’t really matter but what happens if I don’t is that I tend to tip over. Really. I also wobble and waver. Walking in a straight line is not one of my talents. And yes, I was once stopped at a random sobriety checkpoint, and no, the nice officer didn’t understand that either so don’t feel bad if it’s not making sense to you. On a treadmill I won’t have my cane so I’ll have to hold on to the rails and when I do that I can’t swing my arms and when I do that I lose my balance and when I do that I fall over. (The only person I ever knew who actually fell over during a stress test was a friend of mine who ended up being prepped for coronary bypass surgery minutes after hitting the floor.) (His problem had nothing to do with not being able to work a treadmill. He just had a bad heart.) (True story.)

So, that’s why I think I should study and put a few miles on my sneakers on a treadmill. So I don’t fall over. I’m not worried they might mistake me for one needing emergency open heart surgery. I’m worried they might say they can’t get any useful information out of my test and either a) chemically induce the stress (not pleasant), or b) give up (not an option). Since this is part of my ongoing kidney transplant evaluation you see why Option b) is not an option but Option a) is still not on my “things I’d love to be doing instead of falling over” list.

This is one test I really cannot afford to fail. But I’d be just fine with a C. So I’m thinking I have to study.

 

Say Cheese

Michael 12 Comments

I had my picture taken yesterday. I know, most people on the Internet seem to have a complete photo diary of their whole existence. I grew up with a Kodak Brownie. We took pictures only if necessary. Like on a vacation. In a different state.

The picture I he had taken yesterday was even more monumental than an out of state vacation. It was for my driver’s license. And it was about time too. The last time I updated my driver’s license was 4 years, 3 operations, and 100 pounds ago. I bore as much resemblance to my ID as …. let’s just say it wasn’t actually representative. In fact, the one time I actually needed a photo ID that anybody paid particular attention to, the nice TSA agent kept looking from it to me to it to me to it. Fortunately I had that renewed my passport two years ago which was after the 3 surgeries and 100 pounds. More fortunately I decided to bring it along with me even though I wasn’t traveling outside the country. Most fortunately that particular TSA agent was perusing my travel documents on the return portion of that trip and I really didn’t want to spend another night in New Orleans.

I figured something out on my way to the photo center. I was going for my eleventh renewal. Here ours renew every 4 years. That’s a lot of driving. And based on heads and shoulders at least, a pretty nifty photographic record of changing hair styles. Or it would be if they were on all my licenses. We only started using pictures on our licenses here in 1976 so my first couple documents were just black type on color coded card stock. Now it just so happened those license periods also coincided with my under 21 years.

DLIDs without photos are hardly identifying yet that was the standard in the dark ages of paper licenses. Of course that eliminated an entire cottage industry since it meant there was no need for a fake ID business. All you had to do was find an older somebody who wasn’t going out the same night as you who reasonably matched your basic info … height, eye and hair color, and sex. Sex is important. Having an older sister is of no benefit when you’re a younger brother.

But that won’t do today. Now there are pictures on licenses. And bar codes and holograms and for some reason a second picture. I guess that makes up for all the years there were none.

I figured I’m good for a while now. I have 4 new years on my driver’s license, 8 more years on my last password renewal, and no job and no school to go to that might require a photo ID card.

I don’t have to worry about a good hair day until 2022!

 

Figuring It Out

Michael 2 Comments

You haven’t read anything from me since early last week. It’s not because I got sick and ended up I the hospital or anything dramatic like that. I just haven’t been feeling me lately. I’ve not had a bad week but I’ve not had a great one. Sometimes that happens. To look at me you’d probably not notice much, if any difference. Most of the time I look neither disabled nor chronically ill, yet both of those I am.

Neither of those necessarily has anything to do with the other of those. I, you, or anyone else can be one, the other, both, or neither, and it would all be perfectly normal. Except for those who are not perfectly normal.

If I had to pick which to be I’d go with the neither option. Being chronically ill is a little easier in society. There are lots of support groups for almost any chronic illness you can name, from “basic” high blood pressure to the more exotic diseases and conditions of which two have taken residence in me. Most chronic illnesses do not result in a disability but the ones that do quite make up for that vast silent majority of those that don’t. Even those leave most people looking like there is little, if any wrong goings on under an otherwise fairly healthy looking skin.

Being disabled is also no picnic. I’m lucky that I still have most of my abilities available. I might be able to imagine a world where I am dependent on others for daily functions that you take for granted like washing behind your ears or making a cup of tea. But I can’t imagine what it’s like to be dependent on people’s foresight and planning to permit me to do those other things you take for granted like opening a door or stepping up onto a curb.

Whether overtly disabled, like a paraplegic in a wheelchair, or with a hidden disability that doesn’t affect mobility until you’ve taking the first 30 steps then can go no farther, there isn’t a whole lot of acceptance and accommodation going on out there. Wearing ribbons and outlining parking spaces in blue just don’t add that much to my quality of life. Sorry.

If you don’t read “Help Codi Heal” you should. Codi is a young wife and mother of three who was living her life when she was injured in a fall two years ago and now is living her life in a wheelchair. Because she is seen differently now, in a recent post she wondered how she would teach her children to accept life’s differences. Her dilemma came as she wondered how you teach acceptance of differences without pointing out the differences. Her not quite 4 year old taught her children don’t have to be taught acceptance. They are naturally accepting. So then, the new dilemma is how do you get them to stay that way?

NoHPaccessI think the answer is, you don’t. Leave it alone and let the children grow into being accepting adults organically. They won’t turn out to be ogres. I’m certain the amount of non-acceptance is directly proportional to a society’s extent of sensitivity training. The more we try to “teach” acceptance, diversity, inclusion, and affirmation, the more we turn away, divide, exclude, and deny.

Our attempts at equal rights for anything have never really succeeded. We manage to call so much attention to the inequalities and attempting to right past wrongs we never get around to actually addressing the actions that made the thing wrong.

Let me tell you a true story. In 1972, I applied for a summer job at the local steel mill. That was when many companies were feeling pressure from regulators to comply with what was then called affirmative action, ten years after the regulations went into effect. I went through all the necessary applications and tests and was in an interview with the personnel manager who told me that he’d love to hire me but he really needed “a black or female student to even things up” for that summer. No discussion of my ability or inability to do the job, just what he needed to do to “even things up.” That phrase stayed with me and at every job I ever applied for in the next 40 years I heard it in my head. I always wondered if I’d be competing against any minorities and would I be unfairly dismissed because I wasn’t one. Real or no, that was a perception that stayed with me for a lifetime.

Forty years later when I was the hiring manager, I was required to give each applicant a form to voluntarily complete after the interview. It asked the applicant’s sex (male, female, other), race (optional), ethnic background (of a select handful), and veteran status. This was sealed and sent to a third party to tabulate to determine if we were interviewing from a pool of applicants representative of our local population. No question of the job we were interviewing for, education or experiential requirements for the job, or if the applicants who responded were representative of the population. Real or no, pressure was felt every time I had to make a decision among applicants of diverse backgrounds, even if their professional backgrounds were also quite diverse.

How do we address the elephant in the room? If you ask a roomful of 3 year olds they would probably say, “Look, an elephant! Let’s play.” How do we get the three year old grow up to be 23 with that same innocence and acceptance? Just leave them alone.

They’ll figure it out.

 

Step 3a…The Journey Continues

Michael 16 Comments

We stepped off the elevator and I was sure we turned the wrong way in the garage. I read the directions off to my daughter and we were both certain that we had selected the correct garage entrance and floor and entered the building at the door indicated on those directions. It was a little difficult with the construction going on in the parking structure. Much of the signage was obscured and it lent enough of an air of uncertainty that the only thing I was certain of was that I wasn’t certain. When we went from the brightly lit elevator into the dim hallway I thought this wasn’t going to be my day. That’s when the neighboring elevator pinged and a young lady rushed out, saw us and said, “I am so sorry. I’m late. Let me get this opened up and check you in.” I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t gone completely crazy. Yet.

Welcome to the continuing story of As the Kidney Turns. Last week I finally had my in person evaluation appointment and initial round of tests for a potential kidney transplant. I’m calling this Step 3a because there are more tests to come before we get to Step 4, the (hopefully) acceptance.

Step 3 Day started early. Apparently too early. I’ve never been one to be fashionably late. If told to be somewhere at 8, I show up at 7:45 so when I was told to be somewhere at 7:45…well. But I used to worked right down the street from where we were and I knew that if the stars weren’t lined up just right, and the traffic lights were working against you, it could take 20 minutes to go 3 blocks in that part of town. My daughter was with me for the appointment and we didn’t have to be concerned that we were a couple minutes late getting started. We would end up spending the next 7 hours there.

The day started like any doctor appointment. Height, weight, and insurance. Not necessarily in that order. I was checked in which amounted to verifying insurance and demographics, signing various authorizations and releases, and being led to a combination office/exam room. Then things got different in a hurry. There we spent the next four hours meeting with an insurance specialist, two doctors, a pharmacist, a social worker, and my personal transplant coordinator who would be my contact throughout the process all the way to the surgery if that would be the (again hopefully) ultimate end. (I then would be transferred to a post-transplant coordinator who would stay with me presumably until my ultimate end.)

We talked about the actual procedure, that a my own kidneys are not removed but a new location is prepared for the transplanted organ and the how the blood, nerve and fluid connections are made, where that space might be, and the physical recovery from the operation. Most people recover in the hospital for 5 to 7 days then at home for another month or so before resuming regular activities.

We talked how with a transplant the recovery process never really ends. The initial follow-up requires twice weekly visits to the transplant center for 4 to 6 weeks, then weekly visits, then twice a month, then monthly, and so on until I would stabilize at life time annual visits. Post-transplant specific medications are used for life to lessen the chance of rejection and infection.

We talked how if accepted into the program while awaiting a transplant there will be the need for ongoing tests and examinations to continually affirm my suitability. In the absence of a living donor that wait could be 4 to 5 years. Those tests include specific blood tests drawn every month and because I have Wegener’s Granulomatosis which is treated with an immunosuppressant, I would have to be re-cleared by those physicians every 6 months confirming I have no exacerbation of that disease or confounding effects of the drugs used to treat it.

We discussed the differences in recovery and results between living and deceased donated kidneys. If you’re wondering, kidneys from living donors tend to begin working shortly after implantation and can last for 15 years or longer. Those from deceased donors may take several days to begin working and can be expected to keep on working for 8 to 10 years. Also, again if you’re wondering and because I always had, a living donor who should someday need his or her own kidney transplant will receive priority in their own journey.

We also talked about what all this means to me and my family. Pre-transplant for me means continuing with dialysis and some more frequent doctor visits to insure I remain suitable for the procedure (if it’s determined that I am to begin with). The additional blood test can be drawn at the dialysis clinic so that would be one less trip I’d have to make each week. Speaking of trips, if I feel like taking one I’d have to notify my coordinator where and for how long I’d be. Because I live alone, after transplant for those first few weeks I’d need someone to stay with me or I to stay with someone. I would also need assistance getting around initially and getting around would be necessary having to make the trips into town for those checkups at the clinic. Fortunately, those will be short trips. Family gets involved right away. One of the requirements is attending a patient and family education class that goes over in more detail all that was discussed at last week’s appointment.

After all the meetings with all the people and a physical exam from both doctors (there were two doctors because one was the medical specialist and one the surgeon), I was set loose in the hospital for various tests. Those included to the lab for blood test (17 tubes, yikes!) and a urine sample (only one, thankfully), to cardiology for an EKG, and to xray for chest xrays and a sonogram of the kidney and one of what I have been given to replace the bladder. Still to come are a stress test, an echocardiogram, a cystogram, and (my favorite) (yeah, right), a colonoscopy.

Early returns seem to indicate I might be able to pull this off. Nothing came up at the initial exams that would have immediately disqualified me and the test results that have come back are more or less normal, for me. The remaining tests are scheduled over the next several weeks and I hope to have a definite answer by June. Then we can start thinking about possible donors and a whole new step.

DLAAgain, thank you for staying on the journey with me. Coincidence continues. This month my transplant evaluation coincides with National Donate Life Month. Every April, Donate Life America celebrates National Donate Life Month, focusing national attention on every individual’s power to make life possible by registering as an organ, eye, and tissue donor, and learning more about living donation. Many years ago I registered to be a donor. That was long before I ever suspected I would someday be looking at transplants from a recipient’s perspective. If you’d like to explore becoming an organ or tissue donor, check with your local transplant center, your personal physician or the Donate Life America website, or register at RegisterMe.org.

Related posts

First Steps (Feb. 15, 2018)
The Next Step (March 15, 2018)

 

 

 

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Michael 12 Comments

I had my transplant evaluation appointment today. This post won’t be about that. I’ll chronicle that next step of the journey in my next post. Today I want to talk about paper. Everywhere I went today, there was paper.

Years ago when I was working in the hospital we were promised that a paperless environment was on its way. In fact, I think they might have been planning that when I was in college. The first time. In the 1970s. They ain’t got there yet. They’re trying. Really, I do believe that. But I think they are fighting a really big uphill battle.

It’s an accountability thing. When I was still working, many of our suppliers used paperless invoicing. Anything you needed to know you could get from their partner sites on line. Yet whenever we would receive anything from a supplier, the contracted delivery service had their copy, in duplicate, and we had to make 3 copies of each invoice for our records. Corporate, hospital, and department each got its own copy. Everyone looked out for himself.

That extends to patient records. Today I electronically reviewed then signed the authorization to treat, release of records, and informed consent forms. After the ceremonial signing, they printed off two copies of each form. One for me, one for the paper file to go along with that electronic copy. Each department that I visited, which had received an advanced electronic order of whatever test was to be performed, printed a copy for me to pass on to the technician who would perform the test who then scanned the order that was previously printed from the computer system back into the computer system upon completion of the test verifying the test had been completed.

Receipt

Yes, that is a 16 inch ruler. No, I don’t remember where I got it.

This paper hanging is not peculiar just to health care. Stop for a late lunch on the way home and count on the waiter, who would enter the order on an electronic tablet, to bring two copies of the check at the end of meal just in case you want to pay by card, and then two more if you actually do.

My final stop was at the supermarket for a handful of items. It’s a store I regularly use and my email address is on file there. I randomly receive electronic coupons and when I check out I am offered the choice of a printed or emailed receipt. I always go for the email version because stores receipts have become the length of War and Peace. They include the purchased items, any discount on those items by way of weekly sales, deductions made due to coupons or loyalty rewards, progress towards those rewards, surveys, upcoming specials, and of course the store name, address, phone and hours. Just in case you forgot where you were shopping I suppose. Whether you elect paper or e-receipt you get printed versions of the coupons that had recently been emailed. Today, the clerk failed to ask how I wanted my receipt and just printed it off. All 21 inches, 3-1/4 inches which actually reflected my purchases. (Yes, in fact, I did measure it.) (Because I have that kind of time, that’s why.) (I’ve told you that before.)

So, the next time somebody mentions the paperless office, you know what the real score is. But please, feel free to print this missive for later reading if you want. You’ll be in good company.

 

 

 

 

*Batteries Not Included

Michael Leave a comment

The 2017-18 NHL hockey regular season ended yesterday. The playoffs begin later this week and I have a few days to evaluate my own hockey scorecard. Over a few hundred games I’ve seen just about everything a hockey fan could want to see. I’ve see pre-season games, regular season games, and post-season games. I’ve seen games that clinched playoff spots, I’ve seen playoff series open and I’ve seen playoff series close with wins and with losses. I’ve seen penalty shots, the most exciting play in the fastest sport. I’ve seen games finish in overtime and games finish in shoot outs. I’ve touched the Stanley Cup and been up close to every other trophy awarded by the league. I’ve even seen the NHL draft live and in person. (Oddly, or aptly, I got to see a fight breakout at that draft but it was in the stands between two groups of opposing fans.) I have towels and programs and pucks signed by players who were right in front of me.  But there are three things I’ve not done. I’ve not been to an outdoor game. I’ve not been to a Cup winning game. And I’ve never seen a goalie score a shutout. Well, in point of fact, I have seen a shutout but it comes with an asterisk.

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BroncosI wrote this post while at dialysis Saturday afternoon. I had not seen the news Friday night or Saturday morning and was unaware that on Friday afternoon a bus carrying the Humboldt Broncos junior hockey team from Humboldt, Saskatchewan was involved in a deadly traffic accident. The team featured players 16 to 20 years old. Among 15 killed in the accident were 11 players, 2 coaches, a radio announcer, and a statistician. My sympathies go to their families and friends, the Saskatchewan Junior Hockey League, and the entire Canadian hockey family. I mean no disrespect to the memories of these young people and their supporters and hope that by my words, I can honor them.

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That little asterisk, the famous * symbol, says so much for being so little. I don’t know the earliest use of the asterisk but I remember the first time I saw it. It was on a box holding a new transistor radio (if you remember what that is) and it preceded the words “batteries not included.” Lots of things back then didn’t include batteries but they were mostly toys, or so it seemed to me, but those boxes didn’t hide the need for batteries behind our little one character attention getter. They put those words big and bold right on the front of the box. BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. Occasionally you’d see an asterisk in a newspaper ad for a bank’s free checking offer. Today advertisers dispense with cluttering their come-ons with extraneous markings and just fill the bottom third of their spot with print in fonts smaller than what you think is actually possible with the exclusions and modifiers.

In the 1980s, amazing feats of strength and power were witnessed at baseball parks across America. The steroid era had arrived. More accurately, the steroid era had been noticed. Someone figured out that mere mortals just couldn’t do some of the things athletes of the day were doing. Most athletes of the day would have cringed at being called mere mortals. As would quite a few fans. Still, critics prevailed and convinced the powers that be of the day to look closer at those accomplishments. Yes, they determined that mere mortals could only do those things if they got some help. Help in the form of steroids to allow mortals to transcend their mere-ness. Record shattering performances of the time and the times before were scrutinized to investigate the possibility that the performers were performing in other than unadulterated states. If there was a question, the record remained but the suspicion that steroids were used was noted with an asterisk. Nobody wanted an asterisk. The reference mark had become a mark of shame. It persisted and expanded. Even in academia the asterisk was feared. I can recall in graduate school discussing a fellow fellow’s research results and heard someone remark, “oh sure, he can prove the theory but someday somebody is going to put an asterisk after his paper.”

Today the asterisk is regaining its popularity. Or maybe it’s losing its ignominy. Whichever, you’re starting to see it again, even in the occasional blog post. It simply means ” Hey, check it out. There’s still some more to the story.” And that’s why I’m not ashamed to include an asterisk with my personal hockey bucket list accomplishments. Yes, I’ve seen a shutout. There’s just more to the story.

I said I have never seen a goalie score a shutout in a game and that is true. But a have seen a shutout and that is also true. It was February 2, 2011. I remember the date because it was Groundhog Day and I was wearing my official Punxsutawney Phil hat rather than a more traditional hockey themed baseball cap. The home team was up 3-0 with 16.5 seconds left. The back-up goaltender was in for the number one net minder after the main guy played to a shootout win the previous night. As the game wound down, the home team was on the offense and a player made a break to the goal. The puck slipped past him and as he skated across the crease the opposing goalie took him down with a forearm. This did not sit well with the home goalie, who dropped his stick and gloves and advanced toward center ice. The visiting goalie also approached and gave the universal “come on” sign. Home goalie crossed the red line and his fate was sealed. He would receive a game misconduct and be ejected with only a few more than a dozen seconds left in the game. The home team inserted number one goalie who completed the shutout but since it was split between two goalies, the starter was credited with the win but neither goalie was awarded a shutout. Thus my asterisk.

But on the bright side, I did get to cross off “see a goalie fight” from my hockey bucket list.

 

 

 

All Stuck Up

Michael 7 Comments

It’s time for me to come clean. I don’t have a favorite mayonnaise. Hellmann’s or Kraft is ok with me. I couldn’t tell the difference between a store brand and Duke’s. Whether regular, light, or olive oil based, I don’t care. Once I even made my own. For all the work involved, any advantage was lost on me. Sorry. Mayo is mayo and as long as it’s thick, white, and has a little tang it fills my mayo need.

On the other hand, every other condiment in the world has gone through extreme testing and I have strong preferences. These fall into two categories. Those I like and use and those I would rather do without. Rather do without. That doesn’t mean I don’t bend if I have to. If I’m at friends’ house and they are serving one of those other mustards at their cookout, I won’t turn my nose up and whip out my brand from a handy condiment belt. I’m not a snob. Except …

Except for honey and syrup. You might say that when it comes to honey and syrup, I’m pretty much stuck on what I like. I got to thinking about this because I just used the last of my honey this past Sunday when I made the glaze for the Easter ham and the last of my syrup on this morning’s breakfast pancakes.

(If you have a good memory you know in my last post I mentioned that we went out for our Easter dinner. That’s right, we did. But that didn’t stop me from baking a ham.)

(Some traditions die harder than others.)

(We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.)

I may have even mentioned before that I can be a honey and syrup snob. There aren’t specific brands of either that I have hitched my wagon to. Rather there are specific sources. Local sources. Local is always better. Think about last summer and the green beans you got at the farmers’ market versus those you got at your snow bound mega-mart’s produce section on your last shopping trip. I prefer the summer stock also, but that doesn’t stop me from eating green beans in January. But honey and syrup. Those are two different stories. If I can’t get local, I don’t get.

Fortunately, our local maple festival is this weekend. Those little plastic bottles of refined tree sap will soon fill my pantry! Honey isn’t a big seller at a maple festival. In fact, it’s not a seller at all at this one. Fortunately, right outside the park hosting the festival is a farm store where the natural nectar fills the shelves. So it looks like in one smooth motion I’ll be able to restore honey harmony and syrup snobbery to my kitchen.

And I, for one weekend, will be the most stuck up guy in the country.

 

Timing Is Everything

Michael 4 Comments

Time’s Up

Yesterday for Easter, the family went out for dinner. It was a very good and we had just as much fun visiting and chatting at a table among other tables of families doing the same as we would have had at a table within one of our own set of walls. The only downside was that after the meal, after the dessert and coffee, after sitting back into a good stretch for a moment or two, as we waited patiently for our check, our patience ran thin as that patient wait ran to 20 minutes before we even spotted the person with our check to be in her apron pocket. Not for the first time did an efficient wait person who was always ready with a suggestion, always available with a drink refill, always timely with the next course, was nowhere to be found when the time to say goodbye came around.

 

AprilSnowThe Little Scamp

Yesterday was a hockey night and on the way into town as the late afternoon sun shone through the car windows warming the interior close to July levels I almost thought about switching on the air conditioning to have a good preseason run through knowing it wouldn’t be long before warm days become hot days. This morning, the day of the local baseball team’s home opener, we woke up to four (yes, 4 (!)) inches of snow. I know Punxsutawney Phil promised us six more weeks of winter but he usually orders them up consecutively.

 

Best of Two

Today is Peanut Butter and Jelly Day. Yes, it is. Really. To celebrate I was going to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, something I do maybe once a year, usually on Peanut Butter and Jelly Day. Plans were going well. I got out the peanut butter. I got out the jelly. I got out the bre… hey! there’s no bread. Then I remembered that late night post hockey game ham sandwich assembled on the last of the bread and saying to myself it was ok, I’d run out in the morning and get some. For those of you following along, that was the same morning that found 4 inches of snow on the ground and me saying boy I’m glad I don’t have to out for anything this morning.

 

Sometimes the time’s timing is running a little bit late.