Different Strokes for Different Folks

I saw an online discussion where someone asked what to do to get a brighter dome light in their car.  Various people chimed in with 'use new LED lights' type answers.

I don't get it.  I was surprised this morning as #2 was getting in my car, when the dome light came on for the first time in maybe a few years.  I switch it to OFF and leave it that way.  I also disabled the switch on my driver's door, so eve if the light is set to AUTO it still doesn't light unless another door is opened. 

If I need a little light to read a map, there are map lights by the windshield.  If I REALLY need light in the car, a dome light is typically not going to cut it and a flashlight is brought in to use the right tool for the job. I know where everything in the car is, without looking.  A light on in a car is a serious operational security risk.  God only knows who is watching you and is very interested to see (for example) where you stash your wallet, phone or gun.  Nobody needs a bright flash of light telling them I've got in or out of my car, and nobody needs to see who or what-all exactly is in my car.  So.  Off. 

I recognize my status as a member of a small minority that cares about this kind of thing.  Not a protected minority, you understand, but a slightly safer minority nonetheless.

So It Begins

So this is how I take over the world.  Appointment by bureaucrats in closed-door session.  Well, you don't have to do any fund-raisers this way so that's good, at least.

I have spared you the gory details, but I had a controversy with my Homeowners Association.  They decided that the place we've kept our trash can for a decade is so good they would fine us $100 if we kept using it.  I went to the next meeting to complain and ended up with a pinky-swear from the lady who drives around "inspecting" that she'll ignore my trash can going forward, and the President says he's willing to make case-by-case deals with other complainants.

Oh, and I was elected to be a member of the HOA board, I think.  Somebody was retiring and that would mean they didn't have enough to conduct business sometimes.  If I'd been on there a year earlier, and the ex-board member who also showed up to complain hadn't left, the rule would have been voted down.  Well, next time, the insanity will have at least one voice of reason against it. 

First the HOA board, then on to the White House?

Just Don't Ask

There were some strange noises coming from across the room at work the other day.

???: (noises)

NP: What's going on over there?

VFD: Do you really want to know?

NP: That's a good point.

VFD: Generally speaking, consider what could be the worst-case answer.  If you don't want to know it was that, then don't ask.

********

This is why, when we greet each other, you ask me how I'm doing and I don't subsequently ask you.  I care.  I love you too, really I do.  But I don't want to hear about how your dog is dying of cancer and you have an infected hangnail, really I don't. 

P.S., my standard answer of "okay, tired and allergic" is 99% of the time the whole truth.  Say "Nice to see you" instead of a non-question, ok?  ok!

I Gotta Say, Today Was A Good Day

If you grew up when/where I did, that line reminds you of a song.

My Darling Wife went grocery shopping and filled the entire floor of Bad Robot with goods, came home, walked out of the freezing and into the heat, and said for me to get the groceries.  Ok, no problemmo!  I stepped outside and could TASTE that it was freezing out there.  As I was gathering the first armload of evil, hateful, landfill-filling single-use bags, I noticed an unhappy phenomenon:

A car was coming up my street, creeping one mile an hour on the far side of the road.  'Who the [deleted] is this, creepin' up?'  I said to myself.  No harm no foul, though, yet, so I kept gathering groceries as the car passed.  Inside to unload, outside to reload the next load of groceries on my arms, and they have stopped two houses down.  Uh-huh.

Inside, outside to get the next load again and they U-turn at the end of  the block.  I thought they were going to pull into a driveway, but they were just sitting there on the street, now on my side, now facing me.  Uh-huh.  I pulled my (concealed) pistol halfway out of its holster, so the grip was entirely exposed and ready to grab.  I prepared myself for a sudden rush of acceleration and a drive-by shooting in my general direction.  The thought of what motion I would need to make to fully draw my gun.  I considered the possibility of a carjacking as I had an obviously-newish car standing open and probably would have the keys handy.

Inside, outside to get the next load again and they are creeping down my side of the street now.  As they passed, I put the Captain's Chair in Bad Robot between my face and their windows, in case they felt like seeing me real up-close like.  They slowed in front of my driveway, then continued creeping.  They stopped in front of the house next door.  No further activity.  Drive-by less likely, jacking more likely.  Make this next trip to unload extra quick.

Inside, outside to get the next and final load.  They started creeping again, and stopped a few houses farther down the street.  Well, no threat to me, probably, anymore.  Aimed rifle fire still possible but seems less likely.  I went inside and grabbed my camera and superduperzoom lens and took up a position behind the truck in my driveway and started watching and shooting.  Blur.  Driver gets out and takes something from the trunk, can't see what. Solid 2.5 second exposure got a license plate and overall car shot, as they close the trunk.  Blur.  They walk to the door.  Thinking now about murder in the night, ears open for a door kicked in, gunshots, screams.  Blur.  Taking pictures in the dark: impossible.  No passing headlights to provide illumination on target.  20-second automatic exposure times, blech.

As I was trying to get another good shot of the car, I heard a woman's voice pleasantly thanking somebody and a man responding, wishing her a good night.

And here I was, ready to have a shootout.

Well, at least I'll be ready . . . God forbid!

I Hate Funerals

The last time I went to a funeral was several years ago.  Before that one, I don't even remember the last one.  I don't think I would even go to my own parents' funerals. 

But when you are asked to be a pallbearer at the funeral of your brother-and-shipmate, how can you say no?  So I went to a funeral today.  Mostly I was as stone-faced as ever but I had to point my eyeballs up a little extra when somebody in the family of the deceased started bawling by the casket, and again during the military honors.  If there had been a 21-gun salute I think I would have been Mr. Faucet Eyes already.

********
It wasn't supposed to be this way.  We were all supposed to have basically endless, carefree lives in intimate association with God, in person, on a daily basis.  Then a serpent had a conversation with Eve.  Physical death is hateful to me.  ESPECIALLY the death of somebody I care about, and ESPECIALLY a brother-in-arms.  It doesn't matter if he was 87 years old and barely kept one step ahead of the grim reaper for the last decade.  He wasn't supposed to die.

Well, he didn't really, but his widow from a 65-year marriage is probably going to miss him until they meet again.  It seems like it would be cold comfort, the first time you would go back to a bed that would always be empty when you left it.  Over coffee the next morning, it seems like it would be very comforting to know that your loved one is in a better place.

Still.  Standing at attention and staring down into a hole lined with landscaping timbers during prayers, and seeing an old lady's eyes all watery . . . sucks.

I Might, But . . .

#1 thinks I would be a great President. My Darling Wife is more concerned with the campaign. Remember please that we have a half-decent kind of guy (Cain) already run off with allegations of misconduct toward women and a straight arrow (Romney) already declared a tax non-paying, felonious, murdering, clean-water-hating kind of guy.

While discussing the murderous nature of Romney, Cain was mentioned. My Darling Wife said "i thought you said those allegations were false." and I noted how none of them were either proved OR followed up on by the alleged "victims" after Cain dropped out of the race. He says he quit to spare his wife. I called on mine to imagine how she would feel, if the things they said Cain did, were said about me. She agreed it would be pretty rough.

If I ran for anything, the campaign against me would be guaranteed to be NASTY. My politics are unassailable, and my logic is irrefutable. My past is largely unspectacular for badness or for goodness. The only things left to throw at me would be ad hominem attacks and lies. I'd probably just have to tell my Darling Wife to not watch TV or listen to the radio. She wouldn't listen and would get all stressed out, but at least I would have warned her.

In a Way, I'm Awesome.

While reading this New Yorker article about Brian Shaw (and other strong people) I kept seeing all these fance numbers called "keelow grahams." The numbers at the top, talking about supermen like Shaw, et. al. are just silly to think of putting myself in the same paragraph.

Then the article started talking about female weightlifters. They had some more human-sounding bodyweights and I got curious. Sure 'nuff they weigh less than me (and could lift two of me, easy). So I ran a quick calculation and showed myself that my sense of humor is every bit as twisted as my father's. I work out to mass 75 kilograms these days.

And I thought that was neat. 75. It's exactly 3/4 of a hundred. Mind-blowing, I know, I know. But when was the last time you knew somebody laughed at his bodyweight because he thought it was funny?

About 10 seconds ago. You're welcome.

********
P.S., this is not me. If this guy weight what I do he would be three feet tall. Or a meter. Whatever.

I Just Died A Little. You Can Check Out Any Time You Like . . .

It is more than a third of my life ago, and only a couple of years long, but it is part of me. I did not realize how much I still love my squadron, until I found out that it was disestablished four days ago. If I weren't such a stone-hearted bastard I would have cried.

You see the guy in the middle? He's looking up so he won't cry while they hand over the commissioning pennant for his squadron. The dude on the right is as hard as me and he ain't cryin' if somebody stomps his dog. The guy on the left musta ate a pickle or something.


Navy News Service

I walked on that air plane. The classified shit inside, I worked on it. It was awesome.

Navy News Service

I think I will care less when my dad dies. This is f'd up. Sure the planes will fly on and the crew will still be amazing at what they do, on the air and on the ground . . . but they won't be wearing the Sandeman any more.

Now only we can do that, who were part of it in the past. All I can say is it's a good thing I don't have a bottle in the house or I'd be late to work tomorrow.

God Forbid

I had some funky vision, couldn't really see right in my right eye. I cleaned my glasses but it wasn't that. I tried to keep working but it was getting worse, distracting me that I couldn't see right in the center of my vision. It was like I had looked at a bright light, but I hadn't. I was wondering WTH was going on, and I started seeing a quarter circle of light, which spread to the right, got bigger, and eventually was made of chevrons sparkling like rainbow tinsel. VERRRrrrr strange. I hit up my boy Mr. Google and he told me this is not me going insane (not necessarily anyway). By the time it was over, I was pretty sure it was a scintillating scotoma and hoping a headache would not follow. Thanks God no headache followed, but it did freak me out a bit and I didn't feel like working after that. Oh, and that was first thing in the morning.

Oh well. I guess it's better than knowing what it is from prior experience, and anticipating a headache afterward.

VFD Communication Policy

If I tell you something to your face and you give a context-appropriate response, you are accountable for what you were told.

If I tell you something and you grunt or do not respond, you did not hear it. We may be escalating this to the above condition if you are a subordinate, a child, or somebody who actually needs to know what was said. Context and circumstances dictate appropriateness of touching you, striking you, putting something in front of your face, or throwing spitballs at you to get your attention.

If I send you an electronic communication and you do not respond somehow, I will not assume you received the communication. If you do respond or show that you have received an electronic communication, you are responsible for having read all of it regardless of whether you actually did.

If you are cursing, the conversation is over when I say it is, including but not limited to the time I stopped listening and started thinking about what I was doing before you interrupted my life - whether or not I continued to keep acting like I was listening.

Cursing back may be acceptable. Start it, deal with it.

If you want me to know something, contact me in a way that gets you a response. I do not and will not be held accountable for not checking my email or smailmail boxes every day. I do not and do not want to know how to check any of my three or four voice mail boxes. Get me to use words related to what you are talking about, directed at you, if you want to be sure I got your message.

Unless I respond, you may assume that I did not get your letter or email, or else I considered it unimportant-enough to neglect to respond.

If I did not look at you and acknowledge you directly, you did not speak. Coincidentally-timed grunts and things you think you heard me say are to be understood as non-responsive to whatever you were talking about.

I have 5 phone numbers that can be used to reach me. If you know one of them, use it and speak to me directly. I have a regular work and church schedule. Show up in person. Otherwise you have less than 100% surety of knowing I hear you.

We do what is important to us, and this includes remembering. If you REALLY want to make sure I got it, make sure I got it twice. Twice is reminding, and may increase the likelihood of correct remembering. Four times is nagging and you start to be ignored past that point.

Walking in the Rain

It is not uncommon anywhere to see people running from the rain. Sprinters, fleeing even the slightest drizzle, are one of those things on which I have an opinion.

Not YOU, VFD! An opinion?

I know, shocking, right?

Anyhow, I walk in the rain. If I have some electronic or printed material that will be spoiled by the water I'll cover it, but I walk. I may not be perfect but I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West. News flash: this ain't you:



I figure, if our men can spend months at a time in monsoon rains, sleeping in it, fighting in it, dying in it, I can avoid some undignified, undue speed in my travel through the parking lot.

Also not you:



If you are wearing a brimmed hat (as you should but that's another thing) then even your glasses won't get wet. Your clothes will dry in minutes to an hour or so. It's only a bit of water. A little water (on the outside) never killed anybody, so take your time and don't look like a child or a jerk - walk in the rain.

You'll Have to Poke Harder than That!

I mentioned to a friend of mine that I was tired today, in part from a long day yesterday. He mentioned that he had really enjoyed the nap he took yesterday. Later, he apologized for poking at me. I mentioned that I work with some pretty coarse people and used to be a Sailor. It made me think a bit and I am reminded:

I am a stone-hearted so-and-so. You can't hurt my feelings, and you can't offend me.

You can't hurt my feelings because I don't care about you. Say what you like, you are a cockroach as far as my feelings are concerned. If I care about you, you are one of a small number of people who also care about me, and you wouldn't mean it if you said something mean, so I wouldn't take it to heart. I have selected carefully the people I allow access to my self!

You might be able to offend me, but it would take some effort on your part and you would probably make yourself sick at your stomach first. I might get up a serious case of pity for you for trying. I might make you take your words back and/or get a bit angry if you manage to find one of my few, small buttons to press. But to offend me is a very great feat indeed.

********

In related news: Oh, that's alright then.

My Darling Wife was watching the idiot box in the next room and all of a sudden I heard shooting and screaming over the loudspeakers. I go see what the deal is and it's a Good Guy shooting Bad Guys for torture, trying to get information to help his Righteous Cause. Oh. Well, carry on then.

After all, "moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue!" and if it means you are looking at torture and murder on screen . . . well . . . let's hope the Good Guy wins! (hint: he does)

Phone Robots

. . . and I slammed the phone down and said "I didn't want to talk to you anyway!"

I have a battery backup on the computer at the house. I was right in the middle of answering an eBay bidder's question and the UPS started beeping "your power is off" and it wouldn't stop. Sometimes it will beep once when the air conditioner kicks on and then shut up again. A moment or three later, I realize the clock is off, and the lights are out in other rooms (this room was dark already). Power outage.

I called the electric company and they said to call the electric delivery company. Note that these used to be the same company but whatever, hooray capitalism right? I had to navigate the electric company phone robot for a minute just to get the number for the delivery company. I open a drawer looking for a pencil, because silly me I thought calling the number on my bill that says "call this number if yo power go out" might get me to the right place so I didn't have a pencil. The robot repeated the number twice, and said to say repeat if I needed to hear it again. I was trying to write with a broken-tipped pencil and said "repeat." It did not hear me, but it did wish me a good day as it hung up on me. I called back, crayon in hand (the pencil, of course, was broken) and got the number. Then I called the delivery company. The electric company phone robot, at least I didn't HAVE to talk to it. The delivery company phone robot you HAVE to talk to it, and it is 100% guaranteed that a phone robot will mis-hear my name and get the spelling wrong.

So I'm in round number THREE of telling it my name and the lights come back on.

. . . and I slammed the phone down and said "I didn't want to talk to you anyway!"

********

Stupid phone robots. I HATE having to TALK to a stupid phone robot. It makes me want to hit something. My Darling Wife suggested a pillow, which is useless because it doesn't help anything to hit a pillow. Then again, it doesn't hurt it if you kick a robot's ass anyway, because they have a shiny metal ass and it hurts YOU instead. They don't even care if you insult them for being stupid. They're all "and? so what, monkey, you still have to say your street name before I let you to the next step in my phone robot dance."

The really dumb part about this emotion is that I should LOVE phone robots. I'm a Capitalist and phone robots are efficient. They don't break down, they don't take piss breaks, and they never ask for a pay rise. But they just get on my nerves and piss me right off for no reason.

Oh well. /vent. I'm over it already.

Humility and Honesty: Most Musicians Could Use Some Improvement

I spent a few minutes with a pianiste tonight, recording her playing first her part, then my part. Now this lady is the best piano player I know personally and that is saying something. Not only can she play as-written music, she can play what she thinks you wanted to hear, and she can pick up like nothing happened when a partner or even the Conductor stumbles. She's no slouch at the keyboard. She doesn't like to be recorded because her playing is, as she says, "bad."

Little known fact: a good musician thinks they are not as good as you think they are. You can't tell when they wince and give themselves facepalms during every performance. THEY know what they have got wrong; YOU have no idea. I know this from personal experience. Yes I am talented thanks God. I'm humble also, and also frankly honest. I know I'm good at singing, but I also don't like performing or being recorded, because I know how it ought to sound. I was recently (literally) applauded for a performance when I was not altogether pleased how it came out. The Conductor said afterward that I had done well. I told him I had done well for a first sight-reading, but that I knew he heard the little bits here and there that I also didn't like. With tact, he didn't answer but only smiled. He's good, too.

After a Year, a Modified Position Statement

A year and change ago, I told you I didn't have a cell phone just like some of the world's richest and most powerful persons don't. Then I got a deal that was too good to pass up: two years of service and a new phone of my choice, free. No strings attached. It's who you know - no, you can not get this deal. So now I have a cellyphone.

The number, it is private. No, you can't have it when I apply for whatever service or licence, and no strangerman you can't have it either. One person calls me regularly, and one other person calls me in cases of exigency. That's about it. I keep the phone turned on most of the time so my Darling Wife can get ahold of me immediately in case of emergency. If I am talking to someone and my pocket rings, I press the "mute" button on the phone and keep talking. Ditto for during meetings. I do not check my cell phone voice mail, ever.

If you were on the "A" list, you would know how to get hold of me at your convenience.

My mobile is for my convenience; not yours.

********

Today at work, one of the young guns had a cellular telephone that would not turn on. It was treated with exactly the same degree of hand-wringing zOMG action as if something bad were happening and he couldn't get calls about it . . . but the only problem was temporary loss of THAT phone, in a building full of other phones all over the place. You will please excuse my total lack of sympathy.

When Worlds Collide

I used to make and service these. At my new job, sometimes we get this type of thing through, so I kept my eye out for one with my name on it. I never found any. Then I forgot to keep looking.

Six years later, the circle is complete. I was in NP's area to help him figure out a work-related question and saw one on the shelf. I turned it around and saw my initials on the label.

No comments from the peanut gallery that this unit was missing one cover screw and had the other screw loose.

Almost a Really Bad Day, Dog!

We went to a park today to let the Zoo run around with the Zoo from another friend-family we know. This park is actually pretty big and a (now dry) creek runs through the middle. We had crossed the creek and I eventually went back to Bad Robot to change the soaked diaper on #4. I jogged with him across the field until we got to the creek, and he loved it because he was bouncing and going fast. I jogged back across the same field on the way back, and he loved it again. There is a dog park associated with the people park, and sumdood had his dogs off-leash where we were jogging through the field. One of them thought I was suspicious but kept his distance as I ran up. Then all of a sudden I was running away, and looked tasty. He gave chase, and his little doggy buddy saw this and ran up also. Barking.

This, while I'm loping with a 1 year-old in arms. Spidey senses on full alert, I kept jogging. Sumdood's dogs are badly enough trained they wouldn't come on command, but kept chasing me instead. One of them, some sort of knee-high Terrier thing, decided to get close enough for tasting.

Hold on there.

You see, I have a special creed when it comes to dogs: If I'm close enough to taste, you are close enough to kick the shit out of.

But his heart wasn't really in it. One glimpse of my double-wide coming right at his snout and he stopped short. My lightning-fast reflex speed kicked in and I stopped short also. No kicking of dog head this afternoon, which was VERY fortunate for the brave hunter chasing me. I was still in my grubbies from work, to include heavy steel-toed boots. That dog would have been well and truly in the hurt locker when the kick landed, and then (as I was observing rule 2) if necessary it would have been stabbed/slashed as required by the little stinger that lives in my pocket. But hey, no harm no foul, and the little dog pack kept its distance until they lost interest in chasing the mailman.

*********

Which of course reminds me of this one time in Spain when I was out for a walk with my Darling Wife. The sidewalk was nice and broad, a couple of meters wide, opening up to maybe 10 meters. It was a pavilion almost. Some Spani was out walking his dog, also a rat terrier thing, also off-leash. Whatever, it was a nice day, let the man walk his dog right? Except that his dog got one look at me and it was instant hatred. It ran up on me from like 30 feet away and grabbed the bottom of my pants (about the height of its whithers). I punted that little basterd right across the sidewalk and we kept walking on our merry way. The dog decided I was no longer tasty-looking. Later, my Darling told me that the Spanish dude thought the whole thing was pretty funny, right up until I kicked his dog. Haha.

How To Lose Your Cool And Have It Go Un-Noticed

Today on the way home we needed to stop at the grocery store. I jammed the brakes hard enough to lock up the front tires and turned into the parking lot all of a sudden-like, and nobody was the wiser. But I'll let you in on a secret (just don't tell anyone). I told my Darling Wife this after my shopping was done, and she laughed her pretty head off (with me, not at me, thank you). She was in a great mood and had no idea she was pushing my button.

We were late getting home. Late getting home means late supper means late Bedtime Business which means late bed time for the Zoo. The Zoo by golly WILL wake up at The Crack of Dawn, regardless of how much sleep they got that night. If they go to bed late, they will be grumpy. Grumpy children means grumpy mommy means stress you can cut with a frikken knife already, ALL day long. This is the Iron Rule of Children Who Go To Bed Late, in case it sounds familiar.

So I wanted to go home ASAP. Problem: nothing to eat at the house* and it's supper time. Solution: stop at the store. We need eggs, bread, and milk**. Fine. I reluctantly made the turn away from the home stretch toward the store. My mind was set: I'll go in, speed walk to the three things I'm buying, pay and leave. Then she starts talking about needing baby food. I say no to baby food. She says she'll be coming inside the store in a tone that I recognized very well: she was about to dig in her heels just for fun and launch an argument*** with me, about nothing, in front of the children, while I was driving at high speed, at night, on a dimly-lit urban street . . . and I felt the top of my head getting ready to blow right off as I sat there behind the wheel. I didn't want to be freaking out driving down the road, so I JAMMED the brake pedal to the floor and headed for the shoulder of the roadway as I said "Don't argue with me, please!"

The world will never know what would have happened, what sort of epic freak-out might have scarred the children's psyches for life and sent my Darling Wife running in tears . . . thank God the first (of FOUR) entrances to the parking lot happened to be approximately exactly where Bad Robot was about to stop. My brain jumped tracks and my Awesome Driver Skilz Yo! kicked in on autopilot, and I turned in to the parking lot. By the time we got over the first (tall, scrapes the car at 14MPH) parking lot speed bump I was pretty much over it, and everybody was all smiles again.

Normally I am cool as a cucumber on the outside. This is about as big a hissy fit as I have thrown in the last 12 years or so. It is, however, very, VERY good for me that you people don't hear what goes on behind the mask.

********
* I was right. There was a full meal worth of what I was thinking of preparing, but I went with her word when she said there wasn't enough left. Oopsy! LOL oh well that's okay dear!

** I had opened the last gallon of milk myself this morning. There was plenty of milk. I forgot.

*** By argument, I don't mean the kind where people get arrested and/or end up bloody. I mean the kind where she feels like wheedling a little bit to see if I will let her have her way. These are either only-mildly irritating or else with smiles all around, especially when I realize she is poking at me, and I call her on it, and she laughs and (as often as not) she gets chased, tickled, and released - still laughing.

Racist Jokes are Good for Society

Tonight we were at a little boy's birthday party. They had Ritz crackers and chicken salad to spread on the crackers, pretzels, and a two-cookies-thick cookie cake. Rather light on sustenance for a Mexican get together but this is a white-as-rice family and the lack of enough food to get full off of is not unusual. Still, people gotta eat.

I was at the bar loading down a Ritz with some chicken salad, with my arm extended about shoulder-high manipulating the salad serving spoon. A lady (who like me was at the party mostly as a child delivery mechanism) came to get some food. This is a black lady who is a friend of my family's. The room was loud and she quietly said something about getting some crackers as she reached under my arm to the cracker plate.

Lady: (mumble mumble) crackers...
VFD: What did you call me?
Lady: LOL No yew di'int!
VFD: LOL

And right there I reminded both of us that we are "fed with the same food" and "if you prick us, do we not bleed?"

When you get a chance to make people laugh at the obvious non-differences between the "races" of men, you further the cause of world peace. For the sake of humanity, make (well-meaning) racist jokes!

********

But carefully choose your audience. I almost got stomped flat for calling BBM "boy" before he got to know me.

Okay, So Maybe I CAN Take A Hint.

I want to be a COP. I've put in probably at least a man-week or two on paperwork, hours and hours and hours of physical training, and I hate both paperwork and PT. But I want the job, so . . . .

********
Two years ago I started getting a funny feeling. Less than a yearanahalf ago I went for a ride-along. Last fall I filled out the paperwork for applying to the local Metropolis' police academy. 50+ pages to fill out, with lots of chasing down obscure details about my own life. I went to turn in the application and they didn't want it at first. They had stopped allowing people to download the application a DAY after I downloaded mine. If I had not been really hot on the case they would have turned me away immediately; but I had filled it out in something like record time (2 weeks) and that showed motivation. They had 40% more applicants than they wanted so what would one more hurt? I was barely going to squeak in under the wire.

Then at work I did something I have done lots and lots of times. I jumped off a shelf to the floor. Not even from head height. All my little piggies but one got the message to pull up out of the dive, and I broke a toe. It's tough to take a physical readiness test with a broken toe. So I left my transcripts with the recruiters and waited.

This year came and a new academy class started without me. Then I caught wind that they were going to take applications again. I downloaded the new form and filled out 50+ pages again. The radio news said there was a line around the building on the first day of accepting applications. The recruiters said on the phone they were still taking applications, but to hurry. Instead of months like last year, they held the application period open for 14 days, and I got there on the last day. They barely took the application - but they did take it.

I make little enough money for someone with four children, but it (barely) pays the bills. The Police Academy is eight months long and it does NOT pay as much as my current job. My Darling Wife was supportive as we went through the books. It would cost us $3,000 for me to be a Cadet, and then an automatic raise would kick in and we would be okay again. That $3,000 was in the bank, and I could only be a Cadet because we had it to lose.

Then the garage door broke. And my car needed repairs. Okay, so we tighten the belt a little. Then the water softener went out. Tighter still on cash, but still on track for being okay to survive police academy's cadet pay. Then I turned up needing two root canal fillings and two crowns placed. Where's your $3,000 now, smart guy?

Last night at Church I was talking to a guy about what I might do "if the police thing doesn't work out."

That night, 59 days out from the admissions testing date, I got an e-mail from the recruiter saying if I didn't have a certain form already submitted, it needed to be submitted A.S.A.P. . . . and by the way, it usually takes 60 days to get this form back from Uncle. Somebody was supposed to let me know this form was necessary but it was the back-up email blast that let me know, and that was literally a day late. I began to think about the possibility of not making it into the police force. Up till then, I was thinking only of 1) getting in and starting a new career, or 2) getting in and not making it through to being hired on as a COP, and maybe going back to my current job.

False Dichotomy: (also called false dilemma, the either-or fallacy, fallacy of false choice, black and white thinking or the fallacy of exhaustive hypotheses) a type of logical fallacy that involves a situation in which only two alternatives are considered, when in fact there are additional options.

Sometimes the owners of my company buy things I would not have bought. When confronted about these purchases, they will reply with "well you have to take what you can get, man!" but there has been a small sanity injection lately. After years of argument, it seems they are starting to realize that you don't have to take what you can get. You can also leave it where you found it and wait for a better deal.

I was on the way to work this morning and thinking about not necessarily having to take what you can get, and about the idea of this possibly not being the right timing for me to be a Metropolis Police Academy Cadet. I was also thinking about how our nice little money cushion was drying up pretty convincingly, and how if I REALLY pushed for it, I could still probably get in to the Academy. We could come up with the cash somehow.

I was merging from the surface streets onto the highway, and I went to roll up my driver's side window as I was thinking of all this . . . and the window would not roll up. I said a bad word, but it did not help the window go up. I got to work and opened up my door instead of clocking-in. Little pieces of drive belt fell out. I was thinking, "Hey, we have a drawer inside labeled 'BELTS BELTS BELTS' I wonder if . . . " and not one but TWO brand-new, never-used belts also fell out of the door panel.

I have been inside this door before. I do not recall seeing spare belts inside.

God doesn't send my phone TXT MSGS but it seems like this might be an awfully-close next best thing. I can NOT afford $300 or whatever to fix my window, but I can change a belt if I have a spare. I can NOT afford to lose $3,000 while I go through training anymore, either . . . and I think maybe I ought not to try. First a broken toe, then a broken wallet, and maybe I can stop at 2 hints before my house catches fire or something.

I see more ride-outs with the local PD in my future, but otherwise I'm not sure what to expect.