On Target

We have all been asked a million times that age old question -- if we could bring one thing with us to a desert island, what would it be.

For me, I’d bring a Super Target.

They have everything I would ever need.

For those of you living in area with just “Target” and not “Super Target”, you must be wondering what in the world I am talking about.

Well, I would’ve thought the same thing until we moved to this area about five years ago.

If you enter into our Super Target through the doors to the far right, you probably won’t notice anything different.

In front of you are the clothes, the music section, the discontinued electronics, the clearance area.

But if you enter through the doors on the far left, as Green Day once said, “Welcome to Paradise.”

Now when I speak of the far right and the far left, I am not making any type of political statement.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy politics.

I think it can be very entertaining and election years can make for some great TV, but I’ve got a wooden nickle for the next person who can tell me what channel C-Span is on.

So getting back to paradise -- the far left at Super Target.

That’s where you will see a fully loaded tricked out supermarket, with a full-service bakery, deli, produce area...

All that plus a Starbucks and Pharmacy, two completely different ways to get your drugs.

A few days ago, I took my two older kids with me to Super Target to pick up some meat for a family bbq.

By the time we got there it was the late afternoon and there were some t-bones calling our name.

Not only were they big and beautiful, but they were on sale AND they had been marked down again due to the upcoming expiration date.

As I reached for the prize, my daughter got a little nervous.

She’s the worrier in the family.

She’s the one who becomes physically ill when the light indicator comes on that you are running low on gas.

She’s the one who makes sure that you are aware when your car is somehow traveling more than 10 mph above the speed limit.

And she is definitely the one who hates the concept of buying meat that has a nearby expiration date.

My son on the other hand is all me.

Put it on the plate, let’s eat.

Well to help put her mind at ease, I brought the meat over to the high school student working in the meat department and asked if this meat would be ok for us to barbeque today.

“Sure,” he said.

I think he said “sure.”   

Actually I’m not sure what he said, but I think it was his nod of conviction that made my daughter feel comfortable.

So with her blessing and the blessing of the guy who still doesn't shave, we bought the meat and headed home.

On the way, I thought this would be a great opportunity for another fatherly life lesson.

Ozzie Nelson, I am not.

Nor Mike Brady or Cliff Huxtable or even Frank Costanza.

I’d say I’m more of a Peter Griffin, Al Bundy type. 

But I’ll surprise you from time-to-time.

And this time, I was ready to teach the kids a little bit about trust.

So in the car, I turned down Lady Gaga and asked...

...“who do you think cares more about you, me or the guy working at the Super Target meat market?”

Right away the kids smelled something funny.

My daughter probably thought it was the old meat, but my son jumped right in.

“You,” he silently mumbled, not sure where this was headed.

“Do you think I would ever hurt you, on purpose?”, I asked.

Now they were getting scared and I wasn’t even running low on gas.

To complete the natural hat trick of perplexing queries, I said “who would you trust more, me or him?”

Fortunately, I won that one too.

So I went on to explain...

...there was nothing I would ever do to hurt them... and there was no way I’d ever buy any food that would make them sick... and just because the teenager with the white robe said the meat was good didn’t mean that the meat was good. 

I explained that with every decision in life, trust yourself and trust the people who care the most about you.

In this case, me.

If I ever thought the meat was bad or that it would harm them, I would never buy it, I don’t care what Butcher Bobby says.

I’m glad I'm still here to report that the steaks were fantastic and no one got sick.

I’m also glad to report that I think the kids got my message, even if I did take the long way home to get there.

My wife and I have told them MANY times that we will always be there for them.

Always.

But at some point they will be making decisions for themselves and that’s the time to trust yourself and your gut and use your best judgment.

I just hope they always remember that trip to Super Target.

Take A Chance On Me

It’s not everyday that you can see a musical legend in concert.

In fact it’s not ANY day that you can see the Swedish hit machine ABBA perform live.

They haven’t played together in nearly 25 years.

But don’t tell that to the advertisement in my local newspaper.

The other day I saw an ad that said in big bold letters:

ABBA, The Concert

Followed by the words, “Arrival from Sweden, Live in Concert.”

Tickets are $27 (plus service charges).

At NO place on the ad does it mention that it’s not ABBA you would be spending $27 (plus service charges) on, it would be Arrival, the ABBA tribute band.

That’s where my journalistic blood-sniffing technique kicked in.

I hunted down the official website for Arrival, where it said, “this is the closest to ABBA you’ll ever get”

AND

it’s a “stunning look-alike show they put on.”

Put on is right.

The tribute band, formed in 1996, has done close to 1000 shows in more than 25 countries.

And I thought those little zhu-zhu pets were stealing money.

False advertisement is a fantastic thing, especially if you can get away with it.

Like the hundreds of times I have won the Irish Lottery.

Or the FREE CRUISE, if I call that number.

Or the car dealers with the once-in-a-lifetime deal.  

Make sure you look really close at the small print. The truth is, they only have one car at that “special” price and amazingly, it’s been sold by the time you get there.

And then there’s the big fat liar who said that finding a penny and picking it up would give you luck all day long.

Let me tell you, that’s a bunch of bovine stool.

On my way into Starbucks this morning for by my overpriced venti sugar free vanilla half-caff Americano with half water and half steamed soy, I noticed Abraham Lincoln staring at me.

So I picked up my little copper friend, instantly believing that today would be the day.

Call off the military Millie, good luck is on the way.

And not a minute too soon.

Guess again.

Unless you call NOT spilling my Americano on my shirt good luck, nuthin out of the ordinary happened today.

Nuthin.

And let me tell you, I’m getting really tired of nuthin happening.

Nuthin has been the daily special on my menu for the last 20 months.

Sure, some good things have happened.

Like getting to know my wife and kids again.

And a couple of freelance jobs to help pay for getting to know my wife and kids again.

But as for something good happening in my career, that’s just not happening.

And picking up a penny is not going to change that.

For the most part, I’ve been able to deal the heartbreak of a broken career as well as possible, but I’m running out of optimism.

And so are the people around me.

My mom came over for dinner last night and even she was low on positive reinforcement.

And when your mom is running out of nice things to say, it’s time to call in the National Guard.

My mother’s faith in my career is so beaten up that when I dropped her off at her assisted living facility last night, she said, “I’ll be praying for you.”

Then she crossed her fingers.

Wow.  This is getting serious.

But wait there’s more.

This morning I had my daily call from one of my closest friends.  He’s become a loyal reader of the blog and I thank him for that.

I think he calls to make sure I’m still standing every morning, but he hides it by talking about sports and the blog.

He could tell pretty quickly today that my gas tank of spirit was running on empty.

So, like any good friend, he made the quick transition into a pep talk.

He offered his usual sincere support, but today at 9:42am, he threw in a “everything happens for a reason”, free of charge.

Twenty months ago, the “everything happens for a reason” was a beautiful place for me to rest my hope and my shoes.

Twenty months later, it makes me want to throw up.

What are these “things” that are supposed to be happening?

And for what reason?

But wait there’s more.

This afternoon I was cruising through Sir Bacon’s Facebook page, searching for something good to happen, when a new reader of the blog, someone I have never met, opened up a chat line.

We exchanged nice words for a few lines, then as we were bidding adieu, at 4:04pm, he said, “it’s happening for a reason.”

Are you kidding me?

Two different people, worlds apart and separated by six hours and 22 minutes, both dropped the “happening for a reason” on me.

Ok.

What is the reason that people don’t return my emails?

What is the reason I have applied for dozens of jobs with no response?

What is the reason I worked my rear-end off for 25 years so that a business transaction could make my services no longer needed?

I’m waiting.

This all makes about as much sense to me as spending $27 (plus service charges) on a karaoke band.

The Time Machine

Technology is a fantastic thing.

If you don't believe me, maybe I can tweet you from my iPhone or poke your Blackberry from my Facebook.

I must admit that as hard as I try and as much as I think I know, I'm still behind the curve.

At least when you compare me to all humans 13 years and under.

If I need any computer assistance, I don't need the Geek Squad, I just ask my kids.

But it's really not my fault.   My parents should've birthed me 40 years later.

Of course there are some advantages to being an antique.

To me SPAM was a junky food, before it was a junky email.

I remember when Macintosh was an apple.   Apple was a fruit.   Java was a cup of coffee.  A cookie was a treat.

Those computer guys have more of a food addiction than I do.

When I was young if you Google your Dongle too much, you’d go blind.

Password was a game show.

A virus made you feel sick.

Oh, some things haven’t changed.

In sixth grade our school got its first computer, a brand new TRS-80.

That was so cool.

And so slow.

Pong was the greatest video game of all-time.

WAS.

Try to play it now.  I dare you.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) the kids of today will never know what life was like before YouTube.

Recently my 11-year old son and I were driving in the car of a friend of mine when my friend ejected a cassette from his dash.

"WHAT IS THAT?” my son said, as if he had seen a dinosaur.

A few days ago, I was grabbing a quick bite at home with the kids, enjoying one of my favorite meals -- Cereal Surprise.

The concoction du jour was one part Honeycomb, one part Sugar Smacks and one part Grape Nuts.

You gotta hit all the food groups.

My son and daughter each threw a french bread pizza into the microwave.

While we were waiting, I informed the youngsters "when I was your age, we didn't have a microwave."

Now who's the dinosaur?

Of course the conversation didn't stop there.

I told them we got water from the sink, not the dispenser on the refrigerator.

If you wanted to change the channel on the TV, you had to get up and do it yourself.  

Remote control?   What a concept.

From time-to-time, one of our three or four channels would go out and a graphic would pop up.

"Please Stand By."

So I'd get off the couch, go stand RIGHT next to the TV.

And within seconds the picture would always come back.

It worked EVERY time.

I told my 13-year old daughter that we never had a VCR player and that DVD were the initials of Mary Tyler Moore's husband.

Mary who?

In part fear and part curiosity, my daughter asked, "how did you watch movies?"

"The movie theatre," I said.

"What happens if you want to see it again?"

"You went to the movies."

"Again."

I honestly cannot remember my first cordless phone, but that had to be one of the great moments of my life.

As someone with some serious pockets of ADD, the ability to talk on the phone while doing something else was a real recipe for success.

And to think that someday they’d invent a cordless phone that you can use from the car.

Or the street.

Or the Starbucks.

What's Starbucks?

As if I didn't feel a million years old already, my son asked what types of pets we had when I was his age.

Well there was Sparky, my little Wooly Mammoth and Bubbles, my adorable Rhamphorhynchus.

How old do they think I am?

I gotta go.

The Golden Girls is on.

An Extra Shot of Reality

In the last decade, Starbucks has taught us more new words than Webster.

There’s Baristas and Frappuccinos, Tazo and Vivanno.

During final exams in college, I drank “a lot” of coffee, but a latte, never heard of it.

Of course, if you are looking for a lot of coffee now at Starbucks, don’t order a tall or even a large (grande).

You’ll need to get the Venti. (For the record, there is no result for Venti at dictionary.com.)

During this time of unemployment, I have done my best to stay away from Starbucks. If I am ordering a $4 drink, I want a little umbrella to come with it.

But this week, I decided to meet an old colleague for coffee at Starbucks to catch up on the good ole days.

Little did I know that I would learn another new term -- Ulcerative Colitis.

For those of you scoring at home, Ulcerative Colitis is a form of inflammatory bowel disease.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is my friend was told that this could be the early stage of colon cancer.

That announcement woke me up faster than my Skinny Extra Hot Soy Sugar Free Vanilla Latte, with an extra shot.

My buddy is in his early 40’s with a great wife, two fantastic children and plenty of money in the bank.

He’s just starting the second half of his life -- this can’t really be happening.

This can’t really be happening?

Wow, the same exact thought I had when I became unemployed.

Did I just compare unemployment to Cancer?

Talk about a reality check.

In the last year, I have thrown a pity party or ten because I had lost my job.

Unemployed? Me? How could I ever survive?

A real kick in the gut.

Well, not literally -- it’s my friend with the REAL kick in the gut.

He says that no matter how much he eats, he’s always hungry. And whenever he feeds that hunger, it’s ALWAYS a trip to the bathroom.

It sounds like the circle of life, but hopefully not death.

Anytime a doctor throws out the c-word, Cancer, everything comes to a stop -- I don’t care if it’s an early stage or the final phase.

To think, while I was surfing through the job sites, my friend was getting a colonoscopy. I was eating humble pie, he was drinking barium.

REALITY CHECK!

All of a sudden, unemployment was not that scary.

The truth of the matter is, my friend only has one life to play with. For me, there are plenty of jobs in this world.

I could always be a Barista.

I’m praying for you buddy.