Danger! Must Wear Protective Gear!

While I’ve inherited my share of talents – drawing, painting, poetry, prose, writing, imagination – the one gift I was denied was being graceful. Remember the hippos in “Fantasia”? The ones with the tutus? Yup, that’s me.

I have stumbled, bumbled and tripped my way through life and only better angels have kept me from disaster. Too many times, I have been THIS CLOSE to death and dismemberment due to my clumsiness, only to be brought back from the brink.

This year, I believe my angels have decided to embark on a well-deserved extended vacation and left me to my own devices.

Since January of this year I’ve fallen three times. Twice, thankfully, I was in my own basement without an audience and, other than a few bruises and a nasty headache, was no worse for wear. But my motto being “try, try again” apparently I wasn’t satisfied with the half-hearted attempts for a concussion at home. No, I was ready for the big time, a public performance!

I was to attend a parade and festival downtown and was pretty excited about it. A whole afternoon wandering and taking photos, a new venture and spending quality time with friends would be wonderful. The day was clear and warm with a cool lake breeze and everyone was in an uplifted mood as we parked the car and started out of the lot to hunt for a good spot to parade watch.

As we came to the parking lot gate, my toe stubbed into a sheared bolt that was sticking up out of the concrete. In Matrix-like fashion, I slowly succumbed to gravity and toppled, watching the landscape go from horizontal to vertical. My body compressed and bounced off the cement and time snapped back to normal, with my friends asking if I was “OK”.

Embarrassed, of COURSE I said “yes”. My arm was throbbing and my knee was covered in blood but I wasn’t going to ruin the day for everybody!

It wasn’t until a week later I went to the ER and was told I had fractures. Stuck in a wrist brace and splinted, my leg a field of scabs, I went to an orthopedic doctor for further x-rays and evaluation. I was instructed by the x-ray tech to “sit there, be careful, the stool has wheels”, maneuvered, moved and tortured until the doctor had every angle possible of my arm. “Stand up, please, and I’ll take you back to your room” the x-ray tech intoned.

WHAM! As I rose, my head connected with the twelve ton x-ray camera above me and, for a moment, the room was filled with stars. 

Oh, angels, please, PLEASE cut your vacation short? I’m not sure I’ll survive the summer.

A Camping We Will Go!

In the early 70’s, my parents decided a fun, family-oriented and cost-effective activity would be 1) buying a 17 foot trailer, 2) hooking it up to the back of our International Travelall (a precursor to today’s SUV) and 3) hauling it and three hormonal and surly teenagers across the United States, generating fond family memories and, for me personally, a deeper respect for flush toilets, television and personal space devoid of bugs.

To my parents’ credit, they tried. HARD. And I do cherish most of the experiences we had together. My favorite? It’s hard to choose between Niagara Falls, Old Faithful, Disney World and the myriad of sites we visited. But, if I were hard pressed to select only one, I would have to say it was the time my father almost drove off a cliff.

Before anyone begins to suspect Dad and I have had a less than loving relationship, permit me to explain?

Mom and Dad were always looking for the off-the-beaten-path attraction. We toured a nickel mine, a wood-pulp paper factory, a dinosaur dig and camped in a cherry orchard, all in search of the unique and educational. Dad had read of an observatory on the top of a mountain in the Rockies and off we went, seeking out a new adventure.

As we ascended into the mountains, the paved two lane road became a dirt and gravel two lane road, which narrowed into a one dirt and gravel road. Onward we climbed, the Travelall valiantly dragging the trailer past the tree line into a barren rocky landscape. We kids in the back seat, between punches in the arm and fighting for seat space, envisioned the giant space telescope, conversations with astronomers  and detailed maps of the galaxy.

At last, the observatory was in sight! Excited, we crested the summit, pulled up to the building aaaaaand…it was closed, with not a soul in sight. Well. There you go.

After a brief discussion, it was decided we’d head back down the mountain and wagons ho to the next attraction. There was one logistical hurdle – the car and trailer were facing the wrong direction and there wasn’t very much turn-around room at the top of the mountain. Mom shooed us kids out of the Travelall and moved us to a safe distance where we could observe my father, a professional truck driver, in action. Slowly, Dad began swinging around the rig and, in order to position himself correctly to drive back down the one lane dirt road, started backing up. And backing up. And backing up…

Mom appeared calm on the outside and so we children took our cue from her, confident in Dad’s driving skills. It wasn’t until many years later we discovered that, in fact, Mom was in a complete state of panic watching her husband, our temporary home and only means of transportation literally hanging off the edge of a steep cliff. These were pre-cell phone days: if Dad wasn’t a professional, if he was distracted in any way or misjudged the cliff edge’s stability, Mom and three kids would have been stranded at the top of a mountain.

But all ended well: Dad’s skills were up to the task, we made it down the mountain safely and lived to enjoy many more camping adventures. And fight over personal space in the back seat.

Ah, memories.

Do I Know You?

The term, “pet peeve”, normally refers to “a particular and often continual annoyance” – a trigger that will cause teeth to grind and blood pressure to rise. Tension between co-workers, friends and family members can erupt and I don’t doubt wars have started because somebody just HAD to snap their chewing gum one more time.

But we’re all grownups here (most of us, anyway) and tolerance and civility is a sign of maturity (though a few of us tend to ignore signs, including “speed limit 35MPH” and “12 items or less”) and it’s not worth getting all bent out of shape over little, day-to-day, petty annoyances.

Unless you call me “honey”.

Ah, endearments. Sweet, tender nicknames of affection, to be bandied about by lovers, family members and very good friends as a sign of closeness and familiarity, to be given in the privacy of one’s home. At least, that was the intention: not to sound like a crabby old lady (“in MY day, we called everybody SIR or MA’AM and by gum, we were GRATEFUL to do it!”) but nothing and I mean NOTHING gets me more riled than to be referred to by a complete stranger as “honey”, “hon”, “sweetie”, “dear” or “cutie” (OK, I’ve never been called “cutie” but I STILL wouldn’t like it!).

Particularly frustrating is when it is 1) a cashier or waitress and 2) it’s out in public, where I’m not supposed to lose my temper and I’m to appear enraptured by a person I’ve never met before addressing me as if I were a favorite niece instead of a paying customer: especially when it’s evident that I am more than a few years older than this waaaay too familiar person. While I sit in embarrassed silence with a faux grin on my face, friends who know me too well watching me and poking each other, I am absolutely seething on the inside and wondering if hurling a dinner roll at a person’s head is considered a felony or misdemeanor? What about a coffee cup? Is the severity of the charge based on the weight of the object thrown? What if I aim at her well cushioned behind, as opposed to her head? She’s on her feet most of the day, would it be a criminal act if I tagged her in the butt?

Only once did I decide to defend my dignity: after being called “dear” seven (SEVEN) times in the course of paying for a few items at a drug store, I just lost it. Learning forward slightly, money in hand, looking the younger woman straight in the eye, I said in a somewhat menacing tone:

“My NAME is not DEAR.”

The cashier and everyone in line behind me froze. If I pulled out a gun and shot it into the air, I couldn’t have received a more attentive audience. For a full five seconds nobody moved and I waited, slightly scared and mighty curious as to what would happen next.

Finally, the cashier dropped her gaze, took my cash and handed me my change without a word. No one spoke or moved as I gathered my purse and purchases and walked out of the store. A victory, you say? Heck, no, I felt guilty as sin as soon as I got into my car. The awful, dreadful moment of silence, the motionless customers behind me, even the silence of the cashier made me believe I was a “mood murderer”, one of those folks who can kill all the joy in a room just by walking in.

Have I defended myself since? No, I haven’t the heart. Maybe this is a person’s way of bringing joy into the world and “honey” isn’t quite as condescending as I think it is. So I’m back to gritting my teeth and letting it wash over me like a grating wave of irritating, stinging jellyfish. Easy going and “go with the flow”, that’s me.

But seriously - if I throw something soft, say a honey bun, is it a felony or misdemeanor?

Weather On The North Coast

According to the Julian calendar, winter is officially three months long and conjures up warm and fuzzy images of “The Holidays” (also known as “Entertain Relatives That Drive You Nuts Season”), charming snowmen, extensive feasting (remember, food served at a holiday party has no calories), riotous snowball fights (the only time you are permitted to throw something at your annoying neighbor and not incur an assault charge), sledding/skiing/snowboarding (all categorized under “Sports That Will Eventually Put You In The Hospital”), ice fishing (there is no “off season” in fishing!) and holiday caroling (another perfectly legal way to exact revenge on an annoying neighbor, especially at 3AM: “now BRING us some FIGGY PUDDING, DANG IT!”).

If you reside in the upper Midwest, you know that Julian calendar LIES. Winter is endured for seven months, whereas summer is four and a half months long, spring lasts two weeks and autumn normally falls on a Wednesday or Thursday.

In Northeast Ohio (“NEO”), winter unofficially begins the latter half of October (carefully selected Halloween costumes are concealed under a parka, snow pants and boots). Winter is unofficially over April 15^th, the last true chance for snowfall but not the last opportunity for a hard frost so don’t even THINK about planting tomatoes or putting away the ice scraper.

During the first snowfall, most NEOers (“people who don’t have the funds or common sense to move to Florida”) greet winter as a festive backdrop (“oh, how pretty!”) until they remember they have to go to work, which entails 1) wrapping oneself in 15 to 20 pounds of outerwear, 2) dropping the car keys in the snow at least twice, 3) warming up the car to maybe 50 degrees and 4) brushing off 6” of snow/scraping ice from the windows.  NEOers also forget their winter driving skills and, for the first three weeks of winter, average driving speed on major roads top off at about 20 MPH, unless you drive an SUV: then you’re cruising over curbs, tree lawns, sidewalks, parked cars and the remains of frozen postal carriers just to get around the Nervous Nellies who are scared of actually using the accelerator and why won’t they get out of MY WAY-

SLAP!

Thanks…sorry about that. The first major hurdle is making it out of your driveway. During the night, magic elves in their massive Ohio Department of Transportation snowplows have been clearing the main roads and, by 6AM, there’s a two foot mound of snow, ice and rock salt with the consistency of concrete sitting on your driveway apron. If not cleared immediately, nothing short of dynamite will remove this road block. (Note: save your vacation time for winter, you may need it when you’re trapped at home with nothing to eat in the house except a jar of green olives and four week old beef jerky.)

In early January, once the glow of “The Holidays” wears off, NEOers have had more than enough winter, thank you very much. The landscape becomes an Ansel Adams photograph: the sky is gray, the ground is light gray, the trees are dark gray and every car has a healthy winter coat of gray road salt. While some people do enjoy romps in the woods or hitting the slopes, most cocoon themselves at home, wrapped in four layers of blankets (it’s either keep the thermostat at 62 degrees or watch the gas meter spin like a centrifuge). By February, cabin fever is rampant and the Ohio groundhog, Buckeye Chuck, is sequestered in his hole in mortal terror of winter-weary NEOers, fearful he won’t see tomorrow, let ALONE his shadow, if he sticks his head out. Spring is only a distant dream in March (12” to 14” snowfall is not uncommon in this area during March, which is why the stores stop selling shovels and snow blowers in late February) and, if Easter should fall in late March, folks dress in their Easter finery which they conceal under a parka, snow pants and boots, thus signaling the eventual coming of spring.

And do not get me started on wind chill factors or lake effect snow. Please.

Marshmallow Wars

Most of the time, I’m a pretty “go with the flow, don’t really bother fighting for my rights, wimp” sort of person. I’m not a fan of conflict and tend to let things slide. However: I believe that everyone has a personal battleground and I found mine when I opened my very favorite breakfast cereal and found it adversely altered.

I am a HUGE fan of Lucky Charms. I’ve eaten Lucky Charms for breakfast for the past forty plus years and still enjoy it today. True, I’ve dallied with Captain Crunch, flirted with Tony the Tiger and played patsy with Toucan Sam but I’ve never strayed far from Lucky the Leprechaun. One morning, I opened a new box and, to my profound surprise and disappointment, discovered the marshmallow charms were…smaller? What is this?!

Enraged, I fired an email to General Mills Consumer Relations:

“Dear General Mills:

Since my childhood, I have been a devoted fan of General Mills breakfast cereals and enjoyed starting my day with Lucky Charms. Ah, Lucky Charms: the perfect balance of sugary glazed oats and sweet, multicolored marshmallows. There is a true art to eating this breakfast of junior champions: picking out the oats first, leaving the marshmallows to soften into rainbow ooze at the bottom of the bowl. Nutrition and dessert, magically delicious! At the age of 47, I still choose Lucky Charms as my favorite breakfast cereal until this morning. I eagerly opened a new box, poured the cereal into my bowl and what the HECK happened to the marshmallows??? They’re teeny! They’re puny! They’re at least half the size I remember! And the ooze at the end was pitiful, to say the least. I had to rip open a bag of StayPuft marshmallows to supplement the lack of rainbow sweetness I am accustomed to and greatly anticipate. I do understand in a struggling economy that corporations are doing all they can to cut costs and limit expenses. But, for the love of humanity, do NOT skip on my morning marshmallows! I am deeply hurt and disappointed in your company’s decision to rob me of my morning delight. Be assured I will be monitoring future marshmallow size and looking for improvement.

Sincerely,

Karen Barth, Adult Fan of Sugary Goodness”

I received the following emailed response:

“Dear Ms. Barth:

Thank you for contacting General Mills.  Your comments regarding the recent change to the marbits in Lucky Charms are important to us.  This is a Limited Edition product event. 

We are committed to making a difference in the lives of our consumers.  Feedback such as yours is important to the nature of our business.

We appreciate your loyalty and the time you took to contact us.  Please be assured that we will share your thoughts with the appropriate individuals.

Sincerely,

Leah Giovanni, Consumer Services”

Less than satisfied with what appeared to be a parental pat on the head, I decided to bypass Consumer Services and go straight to the corporate head. Yes…I wrote to Lucky the Leprechaun.

“Dear Lucky the Leprechaun:

While I appreciate the prompt and courteous response of your staff, I feel compelled…nay, obligated…to write to you directly. It is my firm belief that, as it is your image that appears on the box, you and you alone are the final decision maker and earth shaker of General Mills.

Please forgive the grumblings of a middle-aged woman who suffers from a four-year-old child’s palate but it was quite the shock to discover tiny marbits (“marbits”??) where plump and tender charms had once been. While it is a relief to discover this disappointment is temporary and promotional, it unnerves me to think what other corporate schemes might be in discussion behind closed conference room doors – removing the rainbow colors? Removing the sugary oats and replacing them with ‘honey clusters of tree bark’? NO PRIZE IN THE BOX?

As we are both children of the ‘Old Sod’, I feel a kinship with you and your impish grin. I ask for your continued vigilance over GM’s upper management and guard as sacred the breakfast cereal which has charmed my bowl for over 40 years.

Yours ever so truly,

Karen Barth”

Several months later, I received an envelope from General Mills, containing a letter and a coupon for a free box of cereal:

"Dear consumer:

On behalf of Lucky Charms, we would like to thank you for voicing your opinion about the Lucky Charms Mini-marshmallows. Consumer Services shared your comments with us and we want you to know that we take your comments to heart. Our hope with each new marshmallow event is to bring more magic and excitement that you have come to love.

We were disappointed to hear that you were not pleased with our latest event, the Lucky Charms mini-marshmallows. Because this is a limited-time event, you will be pleased to know that beginning December 2009, January 2010, the regular sized marshmallows will be back on store shelves.

We'll continue to develop more ideas for marshmallow excitement and hope that you're more pleased with our future events.

Again, thank you for taking the time to express your concerns. Enclosed please find a coupon for a new box of Lucky Charms on us.

Sincerely, the Lucky Charms Team."

 

Everyone has a battleground: mine just happens to be magically delicious. J

How To Maintain Sanity When Booking Business Travel

Business travel is a vital link to connecting with colleagues and customers, promoting business and demonstrating products at trade shows and training clients. That having been said, it can also be considered a necessary evil. With the increase in fares, restrictions on carry-on luggage, TSA rules and searches and less than convenient schedules, travel has lost some of its charm and booking travel for others can be “interesting”.

Sometimes compounding the issues of travel is the complexity of setting up offsite visits with customers (to be compliant with their schedules) and travel to other offices (whether a project has progressed to the point where a visit is warranted or if there are delays/problems to be addressed prior to a visit). As many engineers work multiple projects, travel plans connected with one project may be interrupted by issues on another project.

Booking travel for our employees requires flexibility, tenacity, Zen-like calm, and, occasionally, a very good sense of humor.

8:30AM (Thursday): An employee approaches me with the request for travel arrangements from Cleveland, OH to Carlsbad, CA, departing next Wednesday morning and returning the following Friday evening.

8:45AM: I email to the employee a list of possible flights and their pricing, requesting his choice.

4:57PM: The employee replies that while flying into Los Angeles, he wishes to stay overnight at a hotel airport and will pick up/drive a rental car the next morning to Carlsbad.

5:08PM: I email to the employee a list of possible hotels close to the airport and rental car options.

11:15AM (Friday): The employee emails that the plan has changed, he wishes to pick up a connection in Los Angeles to Carlsbad and will pick up a rental car near the airport.

11:37AM: I email to the employee a new list of possible flights and their pricing, requesting his choice.

3:42PM: The employee replies to my email, asking not to be routed through Chicago but rather through Houston and requesting a Friday morning return rather than a Friday evening return.

4:11PM: I email to the employee another new list of possible flights and their pricing, requesting his choice.

9:01AM (Monday): The employee replies to my email with his flight and hotel selections. I proceed to book the itinerary, only to discover the flight is now sold out. I email to the employee another new list of possible flights and their pricing, requesting his choice.

5:23PM: The employee replies to my email, stating he wishes to fly from Cleveland to San Diego and drive to Carlsbad.

5:24PM: I say very bad words inside my head.

5:33PM: I email to the employee another new list of possible flights and their pricing, requesting his choice.

9:36AM (Tuesday): The employee replies to my email with his new flight and hotel choices (at last!).

9:48AM: I book the flight, hotel and rental car for the employee.

4:17PM: The employee emails me that the trip has been cancelled.

4:18PM: I am now considering new flight options – for myself. To a spa. Alone.

A travel arranger also assists with the details and questions employees may have regarding travel and will be there to provide support in the event an emergency may arise.

Case in point:

An employee was booked for travel and off to the airport he went. I was feeling secure that another engineer was safely on his trip when I received the call from the airport:

“I think my wallet and my driver’s license is sitting on my desk back at the office and my flight leaves in an hour!”

Locating and snatching up the wallet, I hop into my car and drive about 85MPH on the freeway to the airport where the engineer was waiting with a very concerned expression. Practically throwing the wallet to the relieved employee through my car window, I jump back onto the freeway and head for the office, happy that I was of service for the company.

Happy until I found my tire was completely flat the next morning from my race to the airport.

Ah, the joys and excitment of travel! Plan a trip today! Go someplace far, far away! Please!

How To Ship Stuff You Don't Understand

Having no engineering background proved to be a challenge the first time I was assigned the task of shipping a product to an international customer. Engineering terms were, to me, the equivalent of giving an orientation in Latin and my task of ascertaining the nature of an item in order to locate the required US Census Bureau shipping codes quickly became a “who’s on first” comedy routine.

An engineer approaches with the announcement: “I need to ship this network interface unit to Pakistan.”

Me (ever helpful): “Alrighty! Hm…this is a new product, what is it?”

The engineer: “It’s a network interface unit.”

Me: (a confused and slightly concerned expression on my face): “Huh?”

The engineer: “I said, it’s a network interface unit….”

Me: “It’s a what?”

The engineer (now also looking confused and slightly concerned and, assuming I’ve suddenly lost my hearing, speaking slowly and with increased volume): “It is a n-e-t-w-o-r-k i-n-t-e-r-f-a-c-e u-n-i-t….”

Me (feeling the birth of a headache and the beginnings of panic): “Ooookay…and what does it do?”

The engineer: “It encapsulates.”

Me: “It does what?”

The engineer: “E-n-c-a-p-s-u-l-a-t-e-s.”

Me: “Um…does it transmit? Receive? What specifically does it do?”

The engineer, feeling some small progress is now being made, brightens and launches into a weighty and detailed explanation of the attributes of the ‘thing’ that is to be shipped, using words even more complex than the name of the product itself. I sit in silence, attempting to glean English out of this dissertation and wishing this job came with a translator. I attempt a different approach…

Me: “What does ‘encapsulate’ mean?”

The engineer: “Um…”

Me: “How would you explain it to your kids?”

The engineer: “I wouldn’t, they wouldn’t understand it if I tried.”

Me (gripping the desk and speaking slowly): “When does it need to go out?”

The engineer (perking up with a big smile): “Today!”

Me: “OK! Great! Thank you! Go away now!”

Several phone calls and emails to the project manager, the director of engineering and the export department at Carlsbad later resulted in a product definition the US Census Bureau website could understand and the shipping code was obtained. Thanks to the guidance of the corporate office, I have grown wiser in the ways of shipping procedures and, even if I still don’t quite understand what that “thing” actually DOES, I can send it safely overseas to our customer.

But I still don’t understand “encapsulate”.