Getting The Right Perspective

Every year, my broker-dealer puts on an annual meeting. It lasts for three days or so and features a series of speakers, dozens of break out sessions, and cocktail parties. In other words, lots of sitting in meetings, and rubbing shoulders with a thousand people you don’t know, trying to make small talk, “Hey, how ‘bout those new compliance regs, eh? Sheesh!” It would be almost impossible to design anything for which I am more ill-suited by education, training and life experience than a three day meeting. So, I avoid them like the plague. Thank the God of the Universe that these confabs are not mandatory. I attend once every five years whether I need to or not. 

So, yesterday my partner and his girls—who always go to these meetings—conducted a debriefing where they shared the highlights of what they had learned from this year’s session with me. I sat at the end of the conference table and girded my loins for what I was sure would be a white knuckle emotional roller coaster. I was not disappointed. Let me summarize:

1. All of us are one mistake away from being sued and losing everything.

2. IF we don’t get sued, we will probably get fined a gazillion dollars if one of our office computers gets hacked and client information gets compromised...oh, and our errors and omissions coverage probably won’t cover it.

3. None of us know the first thing about computers and this fact will probably wind up causing our financial and professional ruin.

4. The way I do business is likely to be rejected by the latest regulatory regime within a year or so, causing me to change the way I charge clients for my services, the net result being I must charge them WAY MORE in exchange for less performance.

And this, my friends, is why I don’t attend these meetings. This industry is tough enough without having to be beaten over the head with  just how tenuous my survival is for three days in a meeting that I have to pay to attend. I mean, if I wanted to cultivate suicidal thoughts I could stay home and watch CNN for free.

But then I talk with me friend about her cancer and what kind of day she’s having and I check myself. It’s a hard day. She’s tired and fearful and feeling defeated. She’ll snap out of it because she’s tough as a two dollar steak...but this morning it’s rough. She wants to feel normal, she is tired of thinking about cancer, she’s tired of the relentless burden of it all. I tell her a couple of bad jokes. She laughs. Then she gives me a passage of scripture to look up. I do. It’s about perseverance. She tells me she feels better now. She reminds me that I don’t have...any problems. And unless you’re facing a chemo treatment this Thursday morning...you probably don’t either.

My Very Dumb Friend

I have a good friend who isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I mean, bless his heart...Anyway, he called me the other day to tell me that he was really bummed about his new girlfriend. He said he had to break up with her even though at first he thought she might be the one.

I asked him, “What happened?”

He answered, “Well, one night I was snooping around in her night stand and I found a French Maid outfit, a nurse’s outfit, and a police officer’s uniform.”

I said, “Umm....

He said, “I just figured if she can’t hold down a job, she’s not for me.”

The Latest News From the Fight

Up at 4:30 again. This is getting ridiculous. With the Nationals playing on the west coast tonight, this is going to be one very long day. 

But you know who’s also up every morning around this time? My friend who has breast cancer. She and her husband can never sleep past around 3:30 or 4:00 so, weather permitting, they go for a walk down by the flood wall in Buena Vista.

As you know, every morning since she got sick I’ve been texting her jokes and trying in my ham-fisted way to encourage her. Most of the time, she’s the one who ends up encouraging me. This morning's exchange was fairly typical. I share it here with just a few minor edits to give you a feel for what kind of person she is. . .

Me: I called my wife and asked her if I should pick up Fish and Chips on my way home from work and she hung up.

Her: ?

Me: She’s still angry she let me name the kids.

Her: Horrible! But, expected. Ok, hair started falling out in handfuls yesterday.

Me: To be expected. But, how do you feel about it?

Her: I wanted to cry but I didn’t.

Me: Oh dear girl...

Her: They told me I would be bald by October 8th when this all started. Even though I knew it was coming, it’s still another life changer.

Me: (Unable to think of anything helpful to say)

Her: So I went into my chart last night and saw where my first chemo treatment’s price was listed. Guess how much?

Me: No idea.

Her: $89,471

Me: Insanity! Somebody is getting rich off your illness. Pisses me off...wait, how many chemo treatments are you going to get? Four, right?

Her: Six total.

Me: Freaking chemo is going to cost somebody a half a million dollars. Grrrrr.....

Her: I know! It’s very sad. I’m so grateful for Johnny’s health insurance.

Me: Speaking of Johnny, did you hear about the time he took his granddaughter to a restaurant and the waitress reminded him that kids eat for free?

Her: Sigh....No. But you’re gonna tell me.

Me: So, Johnny said, “Ok then, I’m gonna have a glass of water and some chicken nuggets and she’s gonna have a T-Bone steak medium rare with a Bud Lite.

Her: You are not right.

Me: Oh, and what do you call a Wednesday without any rain?

Her: Lord Help me Jesus...

Me: A dry hump day.

Her: (three face palm emojis)

Me: Love you guys. Have a nice walk

I have listened to her describe her battle with cancer for weeks now. It’s a mixture of tragedy and triumph. Some days she is a pillar of strength. Other days she is worn out. But through it all her great faith and intrinsic optimism keep shining through. There’s very little self pity. Her biggest fear seems to be...how her cancer is affecting her family. She feels bad for putting them through this ordeal. 

I just shake my head and marvel at her tenacity.

Pass The Pepto-Bismol

And so it begins...

Last night my stomach was tied in knots. I spent long periods of time with my heart firmly lodged in my throat. I was frustrated, resigned to disappointment and wallowing in despair...right up to the moment when I began dancing around my house in a fist-pumping frenzy. What was the cause of this manic-depressive behavior?

Post Season Baseball.

My small group met last night, so i actually missed the first couple of innings—an act of stunning spiritual devotion I might add! By the time I arrived at home, my brother called declaring that all was lost and he simply couldn’t take it anymore. I replied, “Bro, the Nats are only down two in the fourth inning!! Weren’t you the guy who just yesterday was predicting a deep playoff run for this scrappy, resilient team?” Then he launched into a dissertation about the fact that our nation’s capital is home to loser franchises, blah blah blah. My brother can jump on and off a bandwagon quicker than a fat kid jumps on a box of donuts.

Anyway, I labored on as the Nationals blew chance after chance to mount a comeback. Then finally they managed to load the bases in the bottom of the eighth with their 20 year old phenom, Juan Soto at the plate. The kid promptly turns a 98 mph fastball around and sends it rocketing toward the right fielder, a single which could tie the game. Then the ball took a crazy sideways hop and rolled past the befuddled outfielder. Three runs score and the Nats go up 4-3. Now it was just a matter of getting three outs in the 9th to preserve the win...something that the Nationals have been tragically awful at all season. When Don Hudson retired the last Brewer hitter on a fly ball to center field, I scared Lucy half to death with my aforementioned demonstration.

It will be this way for the next three weeks, each game an agonizing nail-biting gauntlet to be endured. I will be up late watching every one of them, my headphones on to hear the radio announcers call the game instead of the far inferior TV talking heads. Lucy will keep a weary eye on me, fearing the latest irrational outburst. Pam will roll her eyes at me as she goes off to bed.

And I will know when it’s time to start paying closer attention when my brother calls to declare the season is over for the Nationals!

Highlights Of The Week

Highlights of the week of September 23-28

- Started shooting left handed, since my left eye sees better over distances and it has suddenly transformed my effectiveness. Have killed four and maimed two other squirrels since going lefty...a deadly adjustment in my campaign to plow a path of death and destruction through the squirrel community.

- Continued prodigious output on my latest literary effort, completing five chapters since Sunday.

- My friend who has cancer had a rough week, lots of negative reactions to her chemo. Her daily Dad Joke therapy wasn’t as effective as it has been in previous weeks, but the worst of it seems to be over for now and she is battling on, even sending me several thumbs ups and laughing emojis to this morning’s offerings:

What’s it called when they put an inmate into a cell with nothing but a deck of cards?

Solitaire confinement.

I began reading a horror story in Braille.

Something really bad is going to happen...I can feel it.

Then there was a twist that I didn’t see coming.

- Pam and I started watching the latest Ken Burns documentary on Country music. Amazing and fascinating. Although Burns could make a documentary about diarrhea fascinating as long as Peter Coyote’s voice is the narrator:

In the pre-dawn mist of the 3rd of September 1953, Ed Moszkawitz’s condition took a turn for the worse. With his wife cringing in a room down the hall, Ed’s diarrhea entered a new phase, having turned a color resembling magenta, which Ed thought might either be blood or the result of the strained beets he had eaten the night before. 

- Profitable week at the office, no doubt the result of the insanely expensive renovation project just completed by the Greenwood Girls. Of course, when I told my indomitable assistant to go out and buy a new chair for her office she returned with a beautiful striped, upholstered beauty that fit the space perfectly. Everyone who has seen it has raved about how great it looks. Price?  $59.99

Genius!!

Make It Stop!

It’s currently 4:17 in the morning, the third time this week I’ve been wide awake at this hour. Each time it has been for the same reason. Inspiration. For over a month now a story has been pouring out of me and the flow won’t stop no matter what the hour. It has consumed nearly every waking and sleeping moment. For whatever reason, my mind cannot turn it off. After 17 chapters it still doesn’t have a name. A couple of nights ago, I fell asleep thinking about how I was going to introduce a strange memory sequence. At 2 o’clock I woke up with the solution, stumbled down the stairs and starting writing, then crawled back in bed two hours later.

The strangest thing about it is the fact that I’m not even sure I particularly like any of the characters. The story itself is pretty good, but I’ve had better. But this one feels different. This one feels relentless. The pace at which it has revealed itself has been staggering. . .and it’s wearing me out.

Deep Questions.

There are times when an idea gets stuck in my head and just won’t go away. It’s quite annoying, especially when the idea in question is something ridiculous, unproductive, or both. Well, thanks to my small group, I woke up this morning with the most ridiculous, most unproductive idea possibly of all times living rent free in my head. The only way I’m going to be able to shake it is to get it out of my system by writing out the stupidity here on The Tempest.

So, someone made the casual observation during our small group discussion last night that we know very little about the childhood of Jesus. Aside from that one story about him in the temple as a child there's nothing in scripture about his childhood or adolescence. Then, someone who will remain nameless, although her initials are Renee Carter, cracked us all up with, “I wonder if he was nice to all the lame children?”

This morning, I can’t stop thinking about what Jesus might have been like as a five year old:

When the other kids were stomping through mud puddles, was he walking over them?

When Jesus and his buds went on picnics did Jesus turn their water into lemonade?

Did Jesus’ friends get annoyed whenever they played hide and seek with him because he always knew where they all were hiding?

When he wrestled with a buddy and pinned his face into the dirt would he say stuff like, “See, I told ya! The meek will inherit the earth!”

Did Jesus ever sneak out to go play a game of spin the cask in that storage shed behind the temple?

Ok, I feel better now.