Second Sleep

I have for the last several years been going to sleep, well, really anytime after about 6 PM. It fits my schedule rather nicely, because if I have an early day - and my early days may begin as early as 1 AM - then my body is already attuned to it. And we are supposed to regulate our sleep, right? We ought to have roughly the same bedtime habits as close to all the time as we can.

This means of course that many days I'm regularly up (and even about a bit) at two or three in the morning. What do I do? All the things you might guess: channel surf, net surf, answer e-mails, drink that extra cup of coffee which I'm not supposed to, and even pen blogs (if penning is the correct adjective these computer driven days). But then I find myself drowsy at 5:30 or 6.

Typically I set an alarm for anywhere from 7:30-7:45. I can often catch a nap of an hour to an hour and a half. And I'll tell you what: that second sleep refreshes me more than the 7-8 hours I had gotten before. I wake up after my nap feeling better than I did after the full night's sleep. It's a great feeling. Especially as I've never really exhausted all my net surfing, blog penning energies anyway.

Backup plans

Hey Pops, how are you today?
I'm here in Indianapolis for the WWETT trade show and let me tell you, the thing which would most impress you is not the show.
I rented a van to bring the machines and what all, and get this: it has a rear camera which displays a picture right in the rearview mirror! It's cool. It looks you have nothing but a regular old rearview. Then you go to back up and there's a picture of what's behind you. It has lines to help guide you too. Wow!
Not that us Cosgriffs need it of course. We've backed our share of welders and trailers into place with perfection and without fancy technology. But it's pretty neat just the same. I think you'd like it.
Anyway, I'm going to meet the guys for breakfast and then the show starts at 9. Wish us luck!
Until next time,
Marty

The origami fan washcloth

I don't stay in hotels often. But I am living out of one for most of this week as I attend a trade show. And I am struck by some of the amenities.

They're all good, mind you. I'm making no complaints. Nice big rooms, plenty of hot water, microwave oven, refrigerator, color TV; and what coffee lover doesn't love the single cup Keurigs at their service? What's not to like? Nothing, really.

Yet I find myself obsessing over things such as, why do they bother to the fold the ends of the toilet paper into triangles? Why is the first facial tissue out of the box fluffed out into a design of some sort (I can't actually tell what it's supposed to be, but I assume a flower of some kind). Why do I get a washcloth folded origami style into a little fan? Are people actually impressed by these efforts?

None of it would encourage me to stay in any particular place. Don't misunderstand; I love the hotel I'm in. I wouldn't think twice about staying here again.

Only not for the origami washcloths. I simply can't imagine stuff such as that mattering to a traveler. "Oh, we can't stay there. They don't have the toilet paper ends folded into triangles.' I mean, who even thinks of these things?

Maybe that's the game: to furnish brain teasers for the consumer's entertainment. If that's so, then I need to stop thinking about it lest it drives me crazy.

Poor reading skills (but I was eating breakfast)

On my way to Indianapolis I spent Tuesday night in Springfield, Ohio. Springfield got about five inches of snow between about 1 and 5 AM Wednesday. So it goes.

As I sat in the breakfast area of my hotel Wednesday morning absolutely destroying the complimentary hot breakfast, I watched the TV in the corner. It was going on about the weather. The scroll across the bottom of the screen was listing, one by one, the school closings for the area: Urbana Schools were running two hours late, St. Peter's Catholic School was closed, and so on. Then up popped 'Dayton Low Skills Academy closed'. I thought, wow, that's kind of harsh.

I happened to sit through as the scroll repeated itself. This time, when it came to Dayton I saw that it said Dayton Life Skills Academy closed. I'd read it wrong the first time.

But in my defense, I was highly engaged in destroying the complimentary hot breakfast. To that end, mission accomplished.

Whiskey for blood

Me Pops used to give blood regularly. One day as he went to do so he ran into an old friend, whom I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. "Where you headed, Bill?" Cloyce asked.
Pops told him. "May I ride along?" Cloyce then asked.
Sure, Dad told him. He assumed his buddy might want to give blood too.
They soon arrived at the Red Cross building. As a nurse began to prep the old man she asked Cloyce, "Are you here to give blood too, sir?"
"No," he answered. "But someone told me that blood donors get a shot of whiskey afterward to help replenish themselves. Bill don't drink, so I figured I could get his shot."
They made Cloyce wait for Pops out on the sidewalk.

Sunday morning walkin' round

I went to Meijer yesterday morning to pick up a couple things. No big deal right? I go in, I grab what I want, I pay for everything, I leave. And I can't find my van in the parking lot.

At first, of course, you figure you're simply all turned around. But after going up and down a few aisles frantically clicking your clicker, you begin to think the inevitable: someone stole your car.

By then I was beginning to get mad. I was thinking: I can't believe this! On a Sunday morning no less! Don't thieves sleep too? And who would want that old wreck of a van of mine anyway? A maroon 2000 Chevy Venture with 240,000 miles on it. Why, it looks just like this one here next to me.

This one here next to me. I was standing right next to the stupid thing. To make it official I clicked my clicker. The old girl winked at me playfully.

I have no idea how many times I must have simply looked beyond it. I have no idea why I wasn't hearing the alarm chirp before. And I was still mad.

At myself. Jeez.

Pretty fly for an old guy

On the one of those rare occasions when I'm actually listening to songs on the radio these days, I heard an old song that I liked on an oldies station. It was Pretty Fly for a White Guy by The Offspring. I kinda sang along to it before it hit me.

The song was on an oldies station. It was originally released in 1998. It was twenty one years old. It was a hit when my kids were in high school.

That's the sort of thing that really makes you feel old.

But hey, you're as young as you feel. I'm pretty fly for an old guy. I don't doubt that everyone who saw me rockin' and singing' to it as I drove along thought so too.

On the edge of sanity

Hey, I like a little spice to life. I'm not your ordinary stick in the mud who won't try anything new. Why, I'm trying something new just for lunch.

Being cold, I wanted ramen noodles, a nice hot warm up on a chilly day. Yet in my larder were only single packages of various flavors: one beef, one chicken, one creamy chicken (whatever that is) and so on. I like to have two servings of ramen at once though. So what to do, what to do?

I mixed one package of chicken flavor with one package of oriental. See? I'm willing to expand my tastes.

How is it? Oh, um, it's okay. It's something to eat.

I'd have rather had two servings of plain old chicken ramen though.

Used machine aggravation

I sell new machines. I also sell used ones, when I have them. And for the record, I don't even mind a bit of negotiation. But, customers, when you want to make counteroffers, you gotta be in the same ballpark as me.

I just had a guy offer me $500 for a used snake where my asking price is $800. Really, dude? I've never seen you before and you expect I might consider giving you almost 40% off? Get outta here.

A second guy told me he'd give me $600. Cash money, he proudly emphasized.

Sorry. No 25% discounts either.

Perhaps the most insulting counteroffer came several years ago when a fella offered me $175 on a used unit where I was asking $600. That's just an insult. I turned it down of course. "I come back in a week, it's still here, I give you $175," he states. States, mind you, not re-offers.

I was smiling broadly when he returned and demanded the machine. "I sold it," I explained simply.

"For how much?" he demanded indignantly.

"Six hundred bucks," I replied, just a little too smugly I'll admit. But I know what my stuff's worth. The serious buyers do too.

Guard nuns

Me Pops used to travel to a lot of trade shows as part of his job. Mark, one of the guys who regularly attended shows with him, often teased him that my Mom had ways of keeping an eye on him as he moved about the country. She had spies everywhere, he told Pops, so he better be good.

Needless to say Mark got a big laugh one day as he was picking up Dad at an airport in some distant city. As me Pops walked along the hallway after departing the plane, unbeknownst to him he was being followed closely by two nuns in full habits.

They weren't following him per se, of course. They simply happened to be getting off the plane immediately after him. But Mark would have none, ha, ha, of that. "See? Your wife's got people checking up on you!" he cackled at the old man.

Even Dad saw the humor in it.

Travel is overrated

On Facebook the other day, I engaged a friend in a short debate about travel. He thinks it is necessary for becoming a better person. I do not.

Travel certainly could make you a better person, but not because it must. As is so often the case in our human world, so much of self-improvement (perhaps all of it) depends on how willing you are to improve yourself. Travel does not guarantee that attitude.

When praising travel, does it ever occur to the travelers that they are almost always seeing people who are putting their best foot forward because they want something from you? They want your approval for whatever reason, and that reason is generally to get your money. What is there to learn from that which must make you better? Indeed, I think it more likely to make you worse precisely because you're being catered to. Your ego is being stroked.

I think that dealing with home and family and immediate surroundings offers the best chance of improving yourself because you are seeing people as they are and not as they want you to see them. Even this, as I've allowed, cannot make you better without your willing to become better. But it is surely more of a challenge to your person because there is not ready escape. You can walk away from a tourist trap. Leaving your cranky mother behind is not so simple.

Nor should it be. Daily life is where you learn to live well and properly, where you learn to adapt, if you desire to be a better man, woman, or child. If all you desire is seeing new things, well, I suggest that's self indulgence and not self improvement.

How to electrocute your cat

All right, I don't actually want you to electrocute your cat. Indeed I don't want you purposely harming any of your pets. But my old friend Ben the electrician did in fact accidentally electrocute his cat one day.

As I said, he was an electrician. Specifically he worked on electric motors. And he had these, well, what he always called jumper wires which he used to power up motors directly, when he was testing whether the wiring might be bad on a unit.

He also had a cat that hung around his shop. One summer day as he was testing a motor the jumper wires slipped from his hands. They fell towards the floor, and they were live. The cat was laying at Ben's feet, as was jolted by the the jumpers which hit him simultaneously. The poor animal shook violently for a second, then went limp as Ben kicked the wires away.

He figured the cat was a goner, but left it alone for the moment as he was quite busy. He intended to take care of it properly later. But in about twenty minutes the cat raised up slowly, shook itself as though tossing off sleep, and meandered to the back of the shop where its food and water were. The cat was okay, and Ben felt better because hadn't actually, severely harmed it.

So no harm, no foul. But that is how Ben electrocuted his cat.

Cloyce should not have rushed the old man

Me Pops, he liked to tell stories. Most of them were funny or clever. But some, when he would relate them, he still got upset about.

There was this one aggravating sewer guy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who came into the Shop one morning with snake trouble. And he had to have his machine ASAP, right away, just as quickly as possible. Pops told him he'd do what he could as fast as he could.

It turned out to be something electrical, beyond Dad's ability. So he took it to our electrician a few blocks away, impressing upon him that it was an emergency. Ben, the electric motor guy, promised he'd get right on it.

He called Dad about two hours later that it was ready, and Pops immediately picked it up. He returned to the old barn to call Cloyce, and got Mrs. Cloyce. "Tell Cloyce his machine is all ready," he explained to her.

She responded. "Well, okay, but he left an hour ago to visit relatives in Georgia. He'll be gone three weeks."

When Cloyce returned and picked up his snake me Pops demanded, "Why did you rush me when you knew you were going to be gone for three weeks?"

"I just wanted to be sure it would be ready when I got back."

Pops let him know in no uncertain terms (he was quite forceful when he needed to be) that he did not appreciate such an attitude and would not tolerate it in the future. I'm editing that part of the story, but I'm sure you have an idea of how it went. And Pops never rushed on Cloyce's account again.

Marty's perky

You've had your morning joe, haven't you? I've had mine. But what's more, I make mine differently than most of you I'm sure. I perk it.

Yeppers, I'm old school with my coffee. I've heard, though whether I believe it or not, that the drip method is better.

Not that I can taste. I've also been told that the French Press method is the best way of making your brew. Maybe so, maybe no. Yet that just sounds weird. Borderline disturbing in fact. Naw, give my perked pot of Chase & Sanborn any day.

Oh, I don't doubt that my preference is partly psychological. Me Grams always perked her coffee (okay, I suppose most everyone did before about 1970) using a glass, nine cup Pyrex percolator. I remember sitting in the kitchen and watching it work up to a boil, the hot water becoming coffee drip by drip as it brewed. She must have noticed my fascination, for our wedding gift was an exact duplicate of that large glass coffee pot.

I'm having a second cup right now, brewed from that same pot. I watched it perk the whole way too. Me Grams, she knew how to make coffee.

Be still my heart

So I was sitting in an examination room at my Doctor's office as he listened to my heart. He held the stethoscope in one spot on my chest and listened. He moved it across my sternum and listened more closely. He asked me to breathe deeply, and listened more. He told me to hold my breath, and listened intently. He then put the stethoscope down, and went to the door. I heard him say, "Nurse, please bring the EKG cart".

On his return I asked with no small concern, "Why do you want the EKG cart?"

"Well, your pulse is a bit slow. Not dangerously slow, but enough that I'd like to do an EKG," he explained.

"Okay, fine," I replied, relieved. "But could I ask you something?

"Of course."

"Maybe next time you do that, tell me what's up before shouting for the EKG machine?"

He smiled sheepishly and said, "Yes, sorry. I should have done that."

No real worries on my part. He's a great doctor and I'm very glad to have him. Good thing too that I discovered him after the Obamacare mandates, because that means I can actually keep him. It was simply a bit of a shock to hear the order for the EKG without knowing why, that's all. But I think we both saw it as the humorous inadvertence that it was, and nothing more.

The EKG was good by the way. I do have a functioning heart.

Don't confuse the old guy

Last week I found myself needing a red pullover shirt. As I ain't hell on pretty (thank you Grandpa Joe!) and as they have decent clothes, I went to the local Salvation Army store to see what I might find.

I found the ideal shirt too: a nice red pullover which fit well. It was nearly new in fact. After discovering an equally nice Detroit Tigers tee and a tie dye shirt from Wisconsin Dells (I rock tie dye I'll have you know) it was off to the cashier.

The cash register had a readout which the customer could see; nothing odd or unusual about that. Yet I noticed as she rang up my items that the words 'mens blue shirt' appeared on the readout. "I had a red shirt, didn't I?" I asked the young woman.

"Yes sir."

"But the thing just said it's blue."

The cashier explained that the tag with the price on it was blue. It had to do with how they coded their sales.

Okay, that made sense. I was only confused for a moment, because I knew the shirt was not blue.

The harmless fib

I am not much of a shopper. Still, over the years I have shopped a bit, and have sometimes come up with a couple minor treasures. Once was when I found a red pullover inscribed with the logo of the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association.

Who's was it, I couldn't tell you. All I know it that I came across it at a second hand store in Dearborn. It fit me so, I bought it. I still have it, although it has become snug over my middle age spread.

I told a kid a fib about it too. I wore it one night teaching, and he was duly impressed. He asked if I played in the Majors. I said, without hesitation, that yep, I did. I spent a few years between the Reds and A's organizations, and made it to Oakland one September for a cup of coffee. I was 1 for 7 with a single and a run scored, I explained. I couldn't have had the shirt without it you know.

I do feel a little bad that some kid, twenty years or more older now, thinks a respected former teacher was an actual MLB player. But hey, I may as well be a legend in someone's mind other than my own.

Pops and Joe and Me (Second time this week)

Nope, I ain't the man me Pops nor me Grandpa Joe was. I paid my mechanic today to put a battery in my van even though I knew a battery was all it needed. I mean, it's been cold this week and I don't have a nice warm building to work in. The old barn never gets warm when the weather's frigid. And we would have had to open the big doors to get my van in anyway.

I know that wouldn't have stopped Dad or Joe from putting a battery in one of their vehicles. Maybe I am wimping out the older I get: I'm sure I'm wimping out compared to them. But, geez, the cold.

Still, my brother and I towed the van to the mechanic, using a tow rope as is our Cosgriff specialty, legality be damned. That counts for something, right? I haven't totally, completely wimped out.

But I'm gravitating towards it. Sorry, venerable progenitors.

Subtle Joe Cosgriff

As all friends and relatives would attest, as a rule Grandpa Joe had a less than subtle way of getting his point across. Still, there were times when he could be impressively restrained while making his point well understood.

He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and as a boy of about 15 I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.

One day while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"

"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.

"We buried him."

As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.

Point taken, Joe.