Taking the Bitter With the Sweet

 Our fall trip to Maine has so far been both chilly and gorgeous. The leaves are beautiful. The lake glistens in the bright sunshine, despite being at the lowest levels in memory. Haven’t caught any fish yet but honestly it’s been quite cold and windy, so haven’t had as many opportunities. Instead we’ve been out and about checking out a couple new places of interest, specifically the Fort Point lighthouse with its 130 year old fog bell and apple orchard. Lovely.

Each evening has been dominated by October baseball. Last night there was bitterness mixed with the sweet. First, the Braves got eliminated by the baseball equivalent of the Avengers, the collection of future Hall-of-famers known as the Los Angeles Dodgers, who are roughly halfway through their streak of winning what will probably be four or five consecutive World Series titles. On the flip side we were treated to the delicious sweep of the New York Yankees from the post season by the Tampa Bay Rays, with the invaluable assistance of that typically obnoxious and clueless Yankee fan who just HAD to reach over into the field of play to interfere with a baseball in flight, denying his team two runs. I’m thinking of started a GoFundMe page for the guy for his selfish contribution to the game. Because of this guy’s moronic action baseball fans everywhere will be spared having to watch Jazz Chisholm play the game for at least six more months. I mean, can you even put a price on that?

Now, all that is left for the majority of baseball lovers around the world is to morph into newly minted Milwaukee Brewer fans. Yes, just as it was with cheering for the Rays, we’ll have to put up with the preening, look-at-me histrionics whenever one of them hits a home-run, where a trip around the bases becomes a three act play involving chest-pounding dance moves, conversations aimed skyward towards dead relatives, and various levels of hip gyrations that would make Beyoncé blush. But it will all be worth it if the Dodgers somehow lose. One coastal elite team down…one to go.

Tonight we will be having dinner at the incomparable Fresh & Co. in Camden. The temperature is projected to be 58 degrees, the skies clear. The hardest decision of the trip thus far will be whether to eat outside or inside. The outdoor seating offers many benefits not the least of which is the delightful opportunities for people watching. But whether inside or out, our meal will be amazing because it always is.

Arrived in Maine!

 It was a two-day trip, the first leg through rain to the Ulysses Hotel in downtown Baltimore to attend my nephew’s wedding. Then yesterday morning we left the hotel at 6:30 in a driving mist to make the eleven hour drive to Maine. Because of my bum bum, this journey required more stops than usual. By the time we made it to the lake I was a mess. But, the er…bottom line is that we made it safe and sound. It is currently noon and the temperature is 59 degrees. The leaves are beautiful. Pam is planning on making soup for dinner. Meanwhile I will continue my search for a better way to…sit.

Coastal Maine continues to be in a drought. In all my years on Quantabacook I have never seen the lake this low. I searched back through my old photographs to find one of the dam in a normal year. Placing that photo next to the one I took this morning was startling. Hope they get lots of snow this winter.

While I was out fishing this morning I took a couple pictures of the leaves. Three weeks of this will do quite nicely.

Half the Battle is Just Showing Up

 It takes two full days of prep work before leaving for Maine. Yesterday my to-do list was formidable. The first item on the agenda was to take Pam’s car to my local Jiffy-Lube for an oil change.

I arrived at 8:05 hoping to be first in line since the place opens for business at 8:00. I was. The only problem being that there was only one other car in the parking lot, each bay door was closed and the entire enterprises looked abandoned. Finally, a 300 pound giant of a man stumbled out of the office door wearing a tent-sized Jiffy-Lube polo shirt that looked like it had spent several weeks at the bottom of a large pile of dirty mechanic hand towels. He shuffled slowly towards my car as I rolled down the window.

“You guys open?” I asked.

“Yeah…well, we open at 8 o’clock.” He offered.

“It’s 8:08 right now so, are we good?” 

At no point of this abbreviated exchange had this gargantuan individual looked directly at me. His eyes seemed committed to scanning the Wendy’s parking lot next door. After an awkward silence he offered a frank analysis of the situation.

“Yeah…well, nobody’s showed up for work yet.”

At this point something going on in the Walmart parking lot grabbed his attention. I pressed on…

“When does that normally happen?” I asked.

“What?”

“When do the workers usually show up?”

“Hard to say. Maybe in a few minutes, maybe a little later.”

This insight seemed to exhaust his thoughts on the subject since he turned around and slouched back inside the office.

Unfortunately, this sort of thing stopped surprising me years ago. My days of being appalled at horrendous customer service ended at roughly the same time as the arrival of self-checkout at the grocery store. Luckily, this is 2026, so I whipped out my cell phone, Googled oil change shops near me, and fifteen minutes later I was being taken care of by the employees of Valvoline Instant Oil Change who thankfully did me the courtesy of showing up for work.

So kids, when you hear old guys saying stuff like—In life half the battle is just showing up—this is what they mean.

My Latest Grand-Parenting Fail

 The photograph that accompanies this post is the site of my most recent grand-parenting mishap. This past weekend we had the privilege of accompanying Silas and his parents to this very cool pumpkin farm place which was an absolute blast. There were so many cool play stations for kids of all ages. Strewn all across the place was a series of slides, but the one in this photograph was the boss. For reasons that still aren’t completely clear, when I saw this tower and the very fun looking slide I found myself walking up the tower with Silas. I must here confess that I hadn’t asked either of his parents their permission. For some reason no one tried to stop us so there we were at the top readying ourselves for the descent, Silas secure in my lap.

It was so great! We were flying down the chute, Silas giggling adorably. I remember thinking, “Man we are really going fast!” Then suddenly we emerged from the giant black corrugated plastic shoot into the bright sunshine at which time I was suddenly made aware of one major miscalculation. This particular slide had not been designed for grownups. The average weight of paying customers was probably somewhere around 40 pounds, not the combined 230 pounds that was racing along merrily to the bottom. When we broke through into the bright sunshine I realized that there was a three inch drop off at the end of the slide, the landing area being a hard surface with zero padding. As soon as I made contact I knew I had made a mistake. The sharp piercing pain in my tailbone was immediate and intense. Of course I hopped up, and handing my delighted grandson to his Mom, declaring the slide a raging success…but I knew that the damage had been done. 

Now, four days later, I am walking with great care and discovering a variety of new and novel ways to sit to reduce the pain. I am hoping that by Saturday when we head to Maine the pain will have run its course. A fourteen hour drive is not the sort of thing it is wise to attempt when one’s ass is on the disabled list.

So…once again a trip to spend time with my grandson has resulted in collateral damage, exactly the sort of thing I feared might happen when I became a grandparent at such an advanced age. This time I also picked up a 36 hour stomach bug, a miserable souvenir from our otherwise wonderful weekend. 

But, all is well. The little boy is the light of our lives. His parents are killing it and we are counting the days until Halloween.

$45,000 a gallon. Gas? No…eye drops

 This morning I once again will revisit my life long fascination with how much things cost. What exactly is it that determines the price of something? I know all about the laws of scarcity, of supply and demand pressures. Still when I encounter a surprising price point for something it always baffles me. Take this for example…

I recently developed a slight infection in one of my eyes. I visited my optometrist of choice who said it was a minor thing that could be cleared up with a three day course of a special eyedrop that she promised to call in to my pharmacy. When I picked up the very, very tiny container at CVS later that day I noticed that the bottle contained a mere 2.5 mili-liters of the cure for my eye problem. To put this in perspective…a gallon contains roughly 3,800 mile-liters. We are talking a splash of eyedrops here, in a bottle that was smaller than my pinky. So, when the friendly pharmacist announced that I owed him $29.75 I was astonished. I immediately started thinking of all the stuff I could buy for $29.75. The list was long and impressive. But my eye was hurting so I paid the man.

Then I started doing that thing I do when something baffles me. I sat in the parking lot…thinking. On my way to CVS I had stopped by a service station to fill up my tank with gas, the price of which has been all over the news of late. I paid a whopping $4.19 a gallon. Just a few years ago that same gallon would have cost around $2.75. But as I sat in the parking lot of CVS I started doing some math and discovered if the eyedrops I had just purchased was sold by the gallon—it would have cost $45,000!!!

Then I did some more thinking.

To get that gallon of gas to that service station pump, Somebody had to suck up crude oil from the depths of the earth where more often than not the drilling attempt fails. The labor involved in finding and then pumping that crude up from the earth is crazy dangerous and expensive. But that’s just the beginning. Once it’s pumped to the surface it has to be transported to a refinery somewhere. That refinery was built ages ago at great expense and the cost of its continued operation is immense. Once the crude oil is refined, it must then be loaded onto great tankers and shipped across vast oceans at great expense to ports where it is then transferred onto 18-wheel trucks that drive it across the country at great expense to filling stations great and small so that a guy like me can pull up, lift a pump handle and fill my gas tank up, all the while bitching and moaning at the ridiculous price of gasoline.

But, what of the people who provided me with this tiny 2.5 mili-liter container of eyedrops? Somebody, or more likely a machine tool, had to mix the three ingredients together, shake it up, then insert it into a mini plastic container with a child-proof top, slap a tiny label on the little container, place it in a tiny box and ship it to my CVS, after which they would call it a day and meet up for drinks at the local Buffalo Wild Wings.

When I brought this up later to Pam she listened politely then said, “Aren’t you glad you live in a world where instead of losing sight in your eye because of an infection, you can pay thirty bucks and be cured?”

This is what she does…she listens to my unhinged harangues and shuts them down with truth bombs.

But…$45,000 a gallon for eye drops?

Today’s Grievance

 Every now and then I feel the need to write a post about something that annoys me, a personal grievance I harbor in my worst moments. It’s a minor irritant at best but that doesn’t mean it’s not super annoying. Here goes…

Most days during my retirement I make the drive from my house in Short Pump to Hope Cafe. It’s a 6 mile trip down Pump Road and Patterson Avenue. I usually make this drive around 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning. If you are familiar with this drive you know that both Pump and Patterson are four lane, divided highways. The traffic is never bad, some days busier than others, but never bumper to bumper. The speed limits vary along this route from 25 mph in the Godwin school zone to 55 mph when you cross into Goochland County on Patterson.

At this point it is only fair to mention that I’m not exactly what anyone would call a cautious driver. I have always viewed speed limit signs as suggestions. Generally speaking this means when I see a sign that says 45, I’m usually going 52. Nothing egregious mind you. (We won’t talk about my average cruising speed on the interstate going to Maine.)

What I am about to describe happens every single day, without exception. If it was an occasional annoyance I could just chalk it up to chance. No, this is an epidemic. At least twice per trip the following situation plays out…

I’ll be driving along minding my own business at a 52-55 mph clip when I will notice a line of cars tapping their brakes in the lane ahead of me. Then I will watch several of them swerving into the right lane. What’s the problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is—there’s some moron going 30 mph in the left lane!! Are they in the left lane because they are about to make a left hand turn? Noooo. They simply prefer the left lane, the passing lane for their meandering. When I finally am able to pull up along side the offender I already know what I will find. 95% of the time it is an octogenarian, eyes barely peering over the steering wheel which they have in a death grip. It is more often than not a woman, only because I imagine there are far more octogenarian female drivers than male since they outlive us. When this happens—again, EVERY MORNING—I must reign in my indignation. I was always taught to respect my elders and one day I will be an octogenarian motorist, which I’m sure is going to terrify my adult children. But if that happens I will probably be like my grandfather who had his driver’s license taken away at age 85 because he was clocked going his age the wrong way down route 29!!

But, this isn’t even the worst part about this business. Yes, the older drivers are super annoying. But the worst is when you pull up along side the moron in question and discover that it’s not Granny Bluehair. No, it’s a 30 year old working the steering wheel with his knees so he can devote both hands to the typing of a super important text message that can’t possibly wait. I would like to be able to say that when I am presented with this particular scenario, I maintain my composure, remembering that I am a Christian man who has been taught to love his neighbor since I was a child. Unfortunately, I have been known to attempt to start a conversation with people like this by using the turned up palm gesture, a horrified facial expression and shouting, “DUDE!!!!!?????”

Yeah…so that’s my personal grievance for the day.

The Dentist. You Can Run But You Can’t Hide.

 Long time readers of this space know of my strained relationship with the dental sciences. In September of 2016 I wrote a series of four posts on the subject, which many of you found hilarious although I was not trying to be funny! As it turns out that was my last visit—until a couple weeks ago. Why did I go back? Did I have a toothache? Was I experiencing mouth pain of any kind? NO. What I was experiencing was guilt. What kind of grown man doesn’t go to the dentist for ten years in a row? Although I brush and floss every single day like I’m supposed to, going to the dentist at least once a year for a proper cleaning is universally understood to be a best practice. So, there I was at the dentist’s office for my once a decade cleaning, sweating like a whore in church. 

“Oh, I see that it’s been ten years since we got x-rays,” the hygienist mentioned gleefully. 

Next thing I know she’s shoving something huge in my mouth and asking me to try to be still. It was a big ask. My inaugural dental experience happened on the campus of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary when I was seven years old. It involved dental students, the kind of experience that provided a lifetime worth of trauma, and made the administration of nitrous oxide an absolute must for any future dental procedure, even simple cleanings. Dentistry remains the one great exception of my life. I have always been a person who lacks a proper level of fear. It used to drive my mother crazy. I would do dangerous things all the time without a proper appreciation of the risks. Very few things scare me which is not a function of excess bravery as much as it is an oversupply of stupidity. But when it comes to the prospect of strapping myself into a dentist chair for an hour I am transformed into a whimpering coward. So, a couple weeks ago I was kinda proud of myself for taking the step to revisit the sights, smells and emotional torture of the dental professionals at Inspired Smiles.

I knew full well what the results would be of allowing new X-rays to be taken. Ten years of neglect would reveal itself in the form of a suggestion that I come back in two weeks for a “consultation only visit” whereby the full extent of the damage would be discussed and a “game plan of action” would be offered. That meeting was yesterday. Because I am famous for  forgetting every single word a doctor/dentist says to me as soon as I get in my car to drive home—Pam came with me. As we were guided up a flight of stairs to our palatial consultation appointment room I told her that it reminded me of all the times I was called to the principal’s office back in school.

The room was tastefully decorated and strangely calming and the first thought that went through my head when I sat down on the soft and comfortable sofa was, “Damn, I bet you’ve got to pull a boatload of teeth to pay for a room like this!”

The news wasn’t all bad. There would be no “extractions” in my “game plan of action.” But I would need some crowns and several fillings, and since my dental back story was so troubled, sedation would be employed. As the competent and compassionate professionals explained everything to me I began making mental calculations—how much is this gonna set me back?

I don’t have dental insurance…and never have had dental insurance. Medicare doesn’t cover dental, so I knew this was coming out of my pocket. So, I started to add up stuff in my head. A figure came to mind. When the final number was announced it was exactly double—this was going to be a five figure “game plan of action”, which I suppose if you divided it by the ten years I boycotted Inspired Smiles, is about what going to the dentist every six months would have cost. But this way I would only be terrorized once instead of twice a year for ten years. 

It seems like a good bargain to me.