Buggy whips and bonuses

I probably shouldn't listen to National Public Radio and drive. It's dangerous to my health and to the health of the surrounding drivers. I find myself, too often, screaming "What?!" at the speakers in my dash and, thus, averting my eyes from the road. I'd be better off making a phone call on my cell phone.

The latest bit of disbelief popped up when I was listening to yet one more report on the bank debacle we like to call the financial industry. Seems our greedy brothers to the north have decided that huge bonuses are due to their employees since the banking industry didn't completely collapse last year. Their reason? They have two. Both of which are preposterous, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first reason being that the "top talent" will go elsewhere unless they are bribed to stay where they are now. Talent? Really? Call them the top dogs, the head honchos, the boys with the biggest balls, etc. Call them anything you like (mine is not printable according to FCC regulations), but don't call them talent. If they are so damn smart and so damn good, why didn't they keep all this from happening? Or why haven't they dug us out of the hole faster? They may know their job, but they hardly possess the talent merited by such huge rewards. Talent would be giving 600,000 people their jobs back and making sure they don't lose them in the next year.

Speaking of job loss, there is a buggy museum in Carthage, North Carolina. The horse carriage business supported this small town and surrounding areas at the turn of the last century. The owner of the factory was approached by Henry Ford. Seems Mr. Ford thought this factory produced the best leather seats and wanted them for his automobiles. However, the factory owner thought automobiles were a passing fad and not part of the American culture. Why do I bring this up? Because that was reason number two given by the banking industry. Bonuses are part of the banking culture. Bank employees expect bonuses. Well, I "expect" to win the lottery every time I buy a ticket, but that doesn't mean the state feels compelled to meet my financial expectations every week. And why doesn't the state do this? Because the system would go BANKRUPT! Can anybody else connect the dots on this conclusion?

Funny thing about the word "bankrupt." The word is French in origin, and the latter part of that word comes from the Latin "rumpere." Which means broken. Well here's a news flash. The system is broken, smashed to smithereens along with a lot of people's hopes and dreams. Bonuses may have been a part of the party banking culture when things were flying high and everyone was living the good life, but it's time to throw the bonuses out with the buggy whips. It's time Wall Street climbed into an austere Model T and learned to live a more frugal lifestyle.
And if they refuse? Maybe those buggy whips should make a comeback (and I don't mean to be used on horses either).

Can you hear me now?

No wonder people in this country suffer from high blood pressure. I'm pretty sure the surge can be traced to the busting up of Ma Bell and allowing "competition" to enter the free marketplace of communication industries.

I guess you can tell from this tirade that I have either been dealing with (a) Verizon or (b) Comcast, the two "choices" allowed by Baltimore County commissioners. This time it's Verizon. This company bills me for both my landline and my ISP. And even the billing hasn't been easy.

Two months ago, Verizon decided it could no longer bill me via my credit card. Funny, since it had been paid that way for seven years. But I'm accustomed to Verizon changing -- usually to my detriment. That modem that came with the sign up? Sorry, but you get to replace it at your cost now. That antivirus program that was supposed to keep you safe? You get to pay extra for that now. Little by little, they take away from the big promises of the shiny brochures. Why? Because they want me to sign up for Fios! So they can promise me even more and in a year or two, deliver even less.

I tried calling to straighten out this problem. I encountered two very large problems. One, a representative who thought she already knew what my problem was and proceeded to read from her customer service manual. And two, an apathetic attitude that reached the conclusion the fault must lie with me or my bank. Verizon is godlike. It too, like the Pope, is infallible. (I'm just waiting for them to start issuing bulls.)

After another phone call with no resolution, I decided to choose the IM chat format. This went nowhere as well. I particularly like the way the representatives "dance" around straightforward questions. Apparently, mambo lessons are part of the training at Verizon. So I invoked a name that appears scrawled across every Fios letter I get -- Geoff Walls, Executive Director of Consumer Marketing. Now, Verizon was calling me. However, I was in no forgiving mood.

My largest complaint with Verizon is not the outrageous charges, the dropped connections, the smarmy ads, or the deforestation of Brazil issued through Fios Channel lineup brochures. No, the reason Verizon boils my blood pressure is that they are supposed to be a COMMUNICATIONS BUSINESS and they don't possess a miniscule clue as to how to communicate. They don't communicate well with their customers or with each other.

I don't think they should be allowed to be called a communications business. No, I think they should be called something more like Monopolistic moneylaunderers posing as a service industry. Too long? How about Laissez-faire phagocytosis, since Verizon seems to engulf the industries surrounding it. Too difficult to remember? Maybe CAA, Con Artists of America, since they've been scamming us for quite some time.

Addicted all over again

Just when I thought I'd conquered my addiction, it's happening all over again. I'm back to watching HGTV and DIY every time the TV is on. I'm jealous of the brute force the workers exude. I'd like to be able to move large rocks around my yard. I'm jealous of the extra hands. Who wouldn't want 10 friends to show up one Saturday morning and split the work of improving your house with 10 professionals?

Maybe I've returned to my old ways because my husband and I are putting our house on the market. And although our neighbors sold their house quickly, I'm holding my breath to see if we receive the same good fortune. We've been performing various repairs and duties to get the house just right. Cleaned out the clutter, washed windows, polished brass, touched up trim. We even had another sump pump installed in the basement. We try to keep the house spotless, the yard trimmed, and everything organized and immaculate. But I have to ask myself -- why didn't we do this for ourselves? We are going through this much effort for people we've never even met.

I'm trying to approach this from a positive standpoint. We're moving to a much (much!) smaller house in NC. And I'm going to attempt to keep that house as organized and clean as if we were selling it. I doubt I'll succeed 100%. My husband and I are not neat people. We're not organized by nature either. But if I approach it from the viewpoint "what if we were putting this on the market tomorrow," maybe (just maybe), I can stop mainlining do-it-yourself television and learn to enjoy my petite domicile.

Mom jeans and important things

Just when I think Americans cannot fall any further into the shallow end of the thought pool, I am astoundingly surprised at their priorities. Recently, President Obama threw out the first pitch at a baseball game. I saw it on the news. But not being a sports fan, I cannot tell you for what team or in what field. I just noticed that he stood on the pitcher's mound and made it over the plate. For anyone who has never stood on the pitcher's mound, let me assure you that it's no small feat to throw a good pitch that far. Okay, it's difficult to even get a bad pitch that far. I was impressed, and posted another mental post-it for why I should never be president.

Then, a few days later, I read on the internet that President Obama is being criticized for the blue jeans he wore while at the ball game. The pants have been dubbed "mom jeans" for their lack of tightness, lack of indigo color, and lack of style. Really? This is where we, as a country, should be focusing our presidential priorities?

If you have a problem with his healthcare agenda, state your argument. (And no, calling it socialized medicine is NOT an argument. ) If you don't like his cabinet picks, state your reasons. If you don't like the way he is handling the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan, speak your mind but just make sure you understand that he didn't start either.

But his jeans? At a ballgame? This is where the important argument lies? Folks, this is why the rest of the world makes fun of us. We provide them the fodder.

But since this is apparently where the argument is going against Obama, let me defend him. I saw the jeans. I went back and viewed the jeans again. They are perfectly acceptable jeans! No, they aren't skintight and I'm glad for it. I don't need to see anymore poster children for breath-reducing fashion. They didn't cost $500 and the same crowd would be upset with him if they were. They are the right pants for a middle-aged straight man who likes his comfort. They're a little worn, a little loose, even a little frumpy. Perfect.

So for all those people who can find no other way to demean our president I have only one thing to say -- get off his ass, literally.

Mourning for Michael

Michael Jackson died this week -- and the whole world went nuts.

I'm not sure why. He was a talented musician. He sang well and danced well. I grew up listening to his songs when the Jackson 5 and the Osmonds were competing for most wholesome pop. I've enjoyed his music for a long time. I was in college when the music video Thriller forever changed how MTV created videos.

However, I don't get the whole adulation "oh my god!!!!!!" ordeal. He wasn't the head of any state. He didn't find the cure for cancer or AIDS. He didn't create peace in the Middle East. He didn't solve global warming. He sang and he danced.

I know music is important. Scientists/archeologists recently discovered and identified a 35,000 year old flute carved from bone. We celebrate with song. We grieve with the help of dirges. We define our generation by our music choices. We relax with the help of classical chords and we get wound up to the loudest beats. However, music doesn't feed the hungry, clothe the naked or house the poor.

I couldn't even use the internet yesterday because of everyone logging on to post their Facebook thoughts, or to write their blogs, or to find out the gruesome details that have not yet been released. As a nation, we can't wait to find out the lurid minutiae. And we know there are going to be details. After all, this was a black man who slowly became a white woman.

Perhaps we are more drawn to his oddity than to his talent. Unlike most celebrities, he didn't just crash his expensive car with driving drunk. Oh no, that was too mundane for Michael. He purchased circus animals and showed up for court in pajamas. He still climbed trees for inspiration but needed to be sheltered by umbrellas whenever he ventured out into public. Whenever Michael appeared, you knew there was going to be a show. And you didn't have to buy tickets.

I always felt sorry for Michael. Not that I knew him personally, but I don't think he had a lot of happiness in his life. I don't know if he would have turned out normal had he been left to play and romp and run like other children. I like to think he would have. But he sacrificed a normal life to create music that we all enjoyed. And maybe that's why we really mourn for Michael.

Wall Street and Fremont Street

I've been leery of Wall Street for most of my adult life. And my paranoia is finally paying off. I'm not happy about it. I just knew it would happen in my lifetime. How did I know?

I'm all for business growth -- responsible business growth. And I think any business can grow if it has enough customers and it treats its customers well enough. However, when total strangers -- who don't know the company, its policies, its practices, or even its employees -- are asked to invest in that same company, the investors are only interested in the bottom line. And that makes for bad business.

The newest little tidbit from Wall Street to be uncovered by the media and exposed to nonfinancial people like myself is a little scheme called "credit default swaps." Wall Street calls it an investment or insurance. I call it gambling, and so would anyone who works on Fremont Street (that's old Las Vegas for anyone who doesn't know).

Credit default swaps are when you bet that a payment won't be made. That's right. Even the finance guys describe it as betting. But there are a number of differences between casinos and the crapshoot on Wall Street. The first is that Vegas casinos are regulated and are fined heavily if they don't adhere to government-imposed restrictions. Credit default swaps (CDS) are not regulated in any way, shape or form. Think of CDS as the Lord of the Flies on Wall Street.

Secondly, Vegas won't let you place a bet it can't cover. Remember in the movies when the pit boss has to go the real boss to see if a table can take a bet? The casinos want to make sure they have the instant capital to pay off a bet if the house should lose. Not CDS. The sellers of these swaps are not required to maintain any kind of reserves should a default happen. Apparently, it's all Monopoly money to them.

Thirdly, only a fool would decide to bet his entire retirement savings on a table in Vegas. Looks like that same belief can be transferred to Wall Street. At least on Fremont Street, you know they are trying to take your money and never give it back. But you also know if you spend enough, you will receive some kind of comp, whether it's a free meal or upgrade to your room. Wall Street just waggles its finger and accuses you of not reading the fine print.

Perhaps the saddest part of the whole CDS debacle is that enough people knew there would be defaults aplenty and that's where the real money was. Who are these people? How did they know? And did they have a hand in the collapse of our financial infrastructure? I don't the answer to those questions. I'm not savvy enough to figure it out and not evil enough to understand it.

At least on Fremont Street there's entertainment. The Fremont Street Experience is a light show that's free! You can get a 99 cent shrimp cocktail at Binion's. The bargains abound. And even though you drop some money while you're there, you leave knowing you had a good time. Can you say that about the last time you opened your 401(k) statement?

Saint Paddy's day or Fair Laddies Day

Today is Saint Patrick's Day, a good excuse to drink green beer and say "top o' the mornin'" to your neighbors. And I usually like holidays since they provide a good excuse for crafting and decorating.  However, St. Paddy's is the one day I don't celebrate, but I don't usually tell people why. It seems to offend them.

I personally think Ireland would be better off today if Christianity had never been introduced to the island. I realize that even as pagans the Irish didn't always get along with each other. But Christianity, and its different sects of rituals and beliefs, seems to have done more than its fair share of tearing the occupants of Ireland apart.  

How different would the political spectrum of Ireland be if everyone there suddenly became atheist?  They could still hate the British. But I think they, as a people and a country, would be more unified.  If a fellow Irishman walked down the street wearing Ulster orange, it would no longer mean he was Protestant. It would just mean he liked orange. 

The recent spate of killing soldiers and police officers seems to be bringing "the troubles" to the forefront of Ireland's problems again.  They've had a peace for as long as my memory serves after the Omagh bombing.  And I have to wonder if religion is really a blanket for the economic chill that Ireland is now experiencing.  Economic hardship can always act as a catalyst for protests and retaliations.  But religion serves to soften the blow.  Religion makes the cause more just, the offenders less murderous.  

The shamrock serves as a symbol of Ireland after Saint Patrick used the three-leafed clover to explain the Holy Trinity to a pagan who didn't understand that Christianity claimed it only worshipped one god when it actually worshipped three.  To me, that's when the troubles began.  Ireland would be better off if the pagan had told Saint Patrick that the three leaves represents the way a man should live -- eat (brown bread), drink (Irish whiskey) and be merry.  Maybe the Irish could change their official holiday from St. Paddy's day to Fair Laddies day. The men would have to dress like women for the day -- skirts and high heels with makeup and hair curlers. That act alone might bring more peace to any nation than any prayer ever spoken.

And the Edward R Murrow award goes to Comedy Central

I've been a fan of the Daily Show for a long time. I remember when it came on at 7 pm and was hosted by the blonde giant.  When Jon Stewart took the helm, I wasn't so sure. The first month was a little rocky. But Jon found his footing, the writers found their niche, and the supporting cast filled in the rest.  

Not having been a fan of George W, I loved when the Daily Show trounced the administration. A job made incredibly easy by the ineptitude, incompetence and downright corruption of the administration.  Jon and crew made it easy to laugh, and that was better than crying. (For anyone who thinks the Iraq war is/was a good thing, I urge you to watch the documentary Iraq For Sale.)

Then the Daily Show began to morph. It grew a little edgier, its digs got a little deeper.  Jon took on the notorious Tucker Carlson and the Crossfire crew.  He berated faux reporters for being entertainers but passing themselves off as newsmen.  When Carlson tried retaliating with a similar charge, Stewart reminded him that the Daily Show is on the Comedy Channel.

However, with the Daily Show's latest hammering of CNBC, I'm thinking the show needs to move from Comedy Central to its own media outlet.  There are some days I actually get more news from the Daily Show than I do from watching morning, afternoon or evening "news" shows.  And while other reporters are telling us that "no one could see" the debt debacle heading our way like a Hurricane Katrina, no one is asking the hard questions except for the crew at the Daily Show. 

I'm no whiz at finance and I still think a hedge fund sounds like it should be in the gardening section at Kmart, but even I knew this gravy train couldn't last forever.  House prices were going to have to either stabilize or come down. We were going to have to start manufacturing something (besides great cinema) and stop buying everything China makes.  We needed to go back to doing some things for ourselves and stop outsourcing every tiny fraction of our lives. 

And yet the people we trust to bring us the most current, event-changing, global happening news didn't see this coming?  Really?  Or did some reporters see it happening and were told not to report on it because it was a downer?  (It really grinds my choobies when people complain that the news is only bad stuff. Well folks, when good news starts being the thing that's so different that it is the news, we have a whole lot more problems than Wall Street shenanigans.)

Are we all at fault for being greedy and everyone wanting to live the life of a Rockefeller?  Or is it our fault because we hate when journalists really do their job and ask the hard questions?  Did we see it coming and look the other way, hoping this mess would fall into the laps of the next generation?  Or did we just trust all the wrong people?

I'm not sure I have answers for the above questions. But apparently, neither do the news outlets.  You think Wall Street's turned upside down? You're living in a country where the only dependable accountability for what's happening in people's lives and government is from a comedic parody called the Daily Show.

Memorial to Zeke

For those of you (all three of you) who read this blog, you've noticed I haven't updated it lately. I just couldn't find the willpower and stamina to even enter the page as a URL. Since losing my baby boy Zeke, I just couldn't logon and see his delightful snow-covered face looking back at me.

My friends and family have been fantastic during the ordeal. And I have been so depressed, that my good husband recently stated he'd be willing to forego any plans for travel if acquiring a new dog would bring me back to my former state of happiness. However, I know that my husband has waited a long time to enjoy such adventures and, well, I don't think it would be very fair to the new pup.

It's not because Zeke was the perfect dog. Far from it. You can't have a perfect dog without a perfect human. We had our fair share of adventures. Like the time we had a pack of dogs attack us and a total stranger stopped and stuffed us in his car. He'd had trouble with the same pack. Or the time the cat attacked him while I was out walking with my sister. And although I had seen him kill many an animal, he didn't attack back. So I intervened. And then had to cancel our trip to Vegas and take rabies shots instead.

Did I mention he killed animals? That took some getting used to. Benji didn't kill animals. He saved them. But if it were small and furry, Zeke considered it fair game. I was horrified the first few times it happened. A mouse here, a rabbit there. But my husband explained his genetics programmed him to rid the property of vermin. He was doing what came naturally.

He learned a few things that weren't natural. Like the time he had to have both back knees operated on. (I still say the mastiff who'd attacked him earlier made him rip up his ACLs, but that's a different story.) So he had to learn to pee standing on his two front legs. He also did not like gravy or peanut butter, but he would eat grapefruit and watermelon. And the guys we hired to remodel the house, they taught him to beg. He was never the same after that. He thought all servicemen/delivery guys/constructor workers were the natural bringers of good things to eat. And so we had to visit them wherever we walked.

We walked a lot. I enjoyed most going along the trails around the reservoir. Our longest walk was five hours. Not because we were enjoying ourselves, but I was lost as hell and made the mistake of asking someone for directions. She sent us in the exact opposite way we needed to go. And since Zeke had no sense of direction (at least he never knew while in a car that we were almost home), we just kept going.

Although Zeke didn't like being in a car, we dragged him up and down the East Coast anyway. We had left him at the house during one trip south and the alarm went off because of a severe thunderstorm. The alarm activated, but never sent the call to the alarm company. We don't know how long he was trapped in the house listening to thunder and the alarm, but he was never the same again. And I vowed it wouldn't happen again. So we took him with us, from Sanibel, Florida to New Jersey. He didn't like to travel, but it was easy to keep him in hotel rooms since he rarely barked. If Zeke barked, I paid attention.

Like the time I was home sick and the BGE man was coming to the house to tell me they were going to turn off the power. I'd let Zeke out to play earlier. I'm sleeping on the couch, drooling, when Zeke starts barking like a mad dog. I jump up with spittle running down my chin and my hair in 45 different places and go running outside to tell the man to stop. Now, you'd think with me looking like the Joker and Zeke baring his teeth, this idiot would have stopped in his tracks. When I finally yelled, "He will bite you!" the guy stopped. Duh.

He was a good protector but not much of a fetcher. Balls were not his thing, but small and fuzzy toys that could be de-gutted and ravaged with aplomb were. He wasn't a snuggler and preferred his own bed to sharing one with us. He wanted to be petted when he wanted to be petted, and he only tolerated affection when he didn't want it. He was an independent little guy who loved digging holes and would even chew through tree roots to get to his quarry. He was nothing if not tenacious.

But even his tenacity couldn't save him in the end. Everyone told me that I would know when it was time. And they were right. I used to tell people that he was half blind and three quarters deaf. He developed diabetes and then Cushings. And with each visit to the vet, my husband knew the end was coming, but I kept believing one more pill or one more shot could save him. One more discovered diagnosis would let me keep my Zekiewekie just a little longer. Just one more night of sharing table scraps and one more walk, even if it was just to the end of the street and back. And he tried. His very last night, I asked him to walk all the way to the back of the house so I could take his photo by the blue and white tree. I made him wear a blue Santa hat. He never liked being dressed, but he did it because I asked it of him. I knew then he wasn't going to make it to Christmas, and it was going to be a very blue Christmas indeed.

The next morning, he couldn't control the shaking and shuddering of his own body. He wouldn't eat, not even ham -- his all-time favorite food. (We'd almost named him Hambone.) He went outside to lie under they dying branches of a plant just outside the door. I asked my husband to call the vet. Even though it was time, I just couldn't muster the courage to do it.

And such a call does take courage, an unmitigated selfless courage that means you are having to release and say goodbye to someone you love with all your heart and soul. Because it's best for them. Not for you, but for them. The vet said she and a tech could come to the house since Zeke had had more than enough trips to the vet his last two months of life.

She gave him a shot to stop the shaking and let us say our last goodbye. I ran my fingers through his fur, which had become much softer the last few weeks. It's a tactile sensation I still can feel when I dream of him. And then we said goodbye. Not "Bye, bye baby, I'll be right back." Or "Be a good boy, mommy will see you when she gets home from work." But a goodbye that tried desperately to relay all the love we felt for him. And then, he was gone.

I miss Zeke. We did a lot together. Sometimes he liked it, often he didn't. He liked our long walks. He liked that we shared lunch. He didn't like the costumes I made him wear each year for the Halloween card. He didn't like that I loved to kiss him. He loved when my husband played piano, but he would leave the room whenever I sang to him. I fell over him, dropped things on him, and dragged him with me wherever I could. So the memories are all over the place.

I've finally started my firsts without him. The first time I walked around the neighborhood without a leash tethered to someone. The first time I signed a card and didn't add his pawprint. The first time I washed his bowls and didn't put them back down on the floor. The first time I went to the store and didn't go to the pet section. They are all difficult.

I once had a neighbor who loved dogs but didn't own one. She would sometimes come to the end of the driveway and pet Zeke when we were out on our walk. One day I mustered the guts to ask her why she didn't own a dog if she liked them. I thought she would mention the inconvenience or the fur or the vet costs. Instead, she answered, "They don't mean to, but in the end, they always break your heart." Now I know what she means.