As some of you know, I'm starting a food delivery business where I live. I've struck up partnerships with local restaurants to deliver their food to hungry patrons. So far it's received some really great feedback. As always, the fun part of running such a service is getting to talk with people. Here are a few examples:
1. A lady called into the office and started talking. She was obvioulsy of an Asian background, and I could not make out one single word. After letting her go on for about a minute and unable to understand anything, I finally asked the woman "Are you speaking English?". Apparently she was. She asked something else that I took to be "What time do you close?", I told her 2pm and that was the end of that.
2. A second lady called and wanted to order from the Mexican restaurant on my menu. She began placing her order, every single item being something that was not on the menu. "White cheese with hamburger in it. I know they have it." she said. Then she told me to hold on and promptly hung up on me.
3. Voicemail message: "Yeah, uh, call 555-5555."
4. A comment on my website described the need for my service to a lady's home. She went on to write that she understood that a certain delivery area is necessary, but her mother was immobile and having food delivered would help them out so much. Would we please consider adding her area to our delivery area? I looked up the address. She's in the delivery area.
5. A lady called me at 10:30am wanting a lunch delivery. When I asked her address, she simply said "It's Dr. Wool's office." I have no idea to this day who doctor Wool is. So we got through that, and I got her address. I then said our delivery time would be 45-60 minutes. "Oh, we need it here by 11:15 because we start seeing patients at noon and go down for lunch at 11:30." Apparently I can change food cook times and guarantee there will be no traffic, thus altering the laws of space and time because they take lunch at 11:15 and didn't call until after 10:30.
More as they come. Sine Metu.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Power of Human (Part 1)
I'm a big fan of Superheroes -it's no secret. I own DVD after DVD of the action flicks, and I make a point to go see the latest movie that usually looks similar to "_____man".
But why?
Entertainment alone could be an answer, especially since major motion pictures these days seem to cater on the premise of big bang, big buck, forget about the plot. They leave me with "oohs" and "ahhs", but not too much of a "hmmm." Maybe I ask too much, but I'm looking for something more that mere strength and speed. Superman can do many things, but if he knows he won't get hurt, is he really courageous? Hmm...
A short newspaper clipping I read soon after September 11, 2001 has stuck with me, and -at least for me- has helped me form some of my perception of what a hero truly is.
"The age of the hero began on September 11 as Father George Rutler ran to the burning Trade Center towers. As New York's firemen passed the priest on the way to the buildings, they would pause and ask for prayers, for a blessing, for the sacrament of confession. Soon they were lined up to talk to him in rows, like troops before battle, he told me. He took quick confessions, and finally gave general absolution the way you do in a war, for this was a war. When I heard this story it stopped me in my tracks because it told me what I had wondered. They knew. The firemen knew exactly what they were running into, knew the odds, and yet they stood in line, received the sacrament, hoisted the hoses on their backs and charged." -Wall Street Journal Columnist Peggy Noonan
These firemen were heroes, there can be little debate about that. But the most astonishing thing to me is when they decided to be heroes. I would say they came to peace with sacrifice long before planes slammed into buildings and the heat of the moment called for immediate action. When duty calls, there's no time for second guessing while precious moments pass, and this decision, made not during the hellstorm, but during a quiet moment of reflection - signing the firefighter application - taking the oath of enlistment - taking the hippocratic oath - is the moment the true hero emerges.
And let's not lightly dismiss this sentence: "...as Father George Rutler ran to the burning Trade Center towers." Ran to. Ran to.
Sine Metu
But why?
Entertainment alone could be an answer, especially since major motion pictures these days seem to cater on the premise of big bang, big buck, forget about the plot. They leave me with "oohs" and "ahhs", but not too much of a "hmmm." Maybe I ask too much, but I'm looking for something more that mere strength and speed. Superman can do many things, but if he knows he won't get hurt, is he really courageous? Hmm...
A short newspaper clipping I read soon after September 11, 2001 has stuck with me, and -at least for me- has helped me form some of my perception of what a hero truly is.
"The age of the hero began on September 11 as Father George Rutler ran to the burning Trade Center towers. As New York's firemen passed the priest on the way to the buildings, they would pause and ask for prayers, for a blessing, for the sacrament of confession. Soon they were lined up to talk to him in rows, like troops before battle, he told me. He took quick confessions, and finally gave general absolution the way you do in a war, for this was a war. When I heard this story it stopped me in my tracks because it told me what I had wondered. They knew. The firemen knew exactly what they were running into, knew the odds, and yet they stood in line, received the sacrament, hoisted the hoses on their backs and charged." -Wall Street Journal Columnist Peggy Noonan
These firemen were heroes, there can be little debate about that. But the most astonishing thing to me is when they decided to be heroes. I would say they came to peace with sacrifice long before planes slammed into buildings and the heat of the moment called for immediate action. When duty calls, there's no time for second guessing while precious moments pass, and this decision, made not during the hellstorm, but during a quiet moment of reflection - signing the firefighter application - taking the oath of enlistment - taking the hippocratic oath - is the moment the true hero emerges.
And let's not lightly dismiss this sentence: "...as Father George Rutler ran to the burning Trade Center towers." Ran to. Ran to.
Sine Metu
Friday, August 17, 2007
Four Limbs a Hero Doth Not Make?
The Veteran's Affairs office helps folks like me file claims for compensation - medical claims that a condition was caused or aggravated by military service. Just having these things documented, no matter how minute, can come in handy later in life should the condition worsen and require medical treatment up to and including surgery.
My claim today was for hearing loss and a constant hum in my head commonly called Tinnitus. You see, I spent two-six month deployments on aircraft carriers. They tend to be noisy. Additionally, when I was assigned with a squadron I spent every workday next to a flightline where jets came and went, as well as individual engines being fired up for maintenance checks. Noisy indeed.
On to the medical center I went. If I'm honest, I felt a little guilty as an older gent passed me in the hall, one leg missing from the right side of his wheelchair. "Good morning!" he said, chipper as the proverbial chipmunk. He lost a leg. I had ringing in my ears. I believe there are degrees of suffering, and concerning my hearing loss, I think any compensation should go to my wife, who, for the next 50 years will have to repeat every sentence twice and listen to the TV on full volume just so I know what's going on.
On with the story. I arrived early for my appointment, however still had to wait 30 minutes past the set time to be seen. I was met by a smug fellow, who ushered me back to the small, soundproof room. "We are required to ask a few questions." he says.
"Sure", I says.
He asked a couple, then asks me what I did in the Navy. I told him I was an office worker. What he asked next, and the way he asked it stunned me.
"So then what does the military have to do with your hearing loss?"
"I spent two tours on an aircraft carrier. The first tour I slept under the arresting wire, the second under the catapult."
"But did you work on the flight deck?"
"No, but when we were in the yards there was about a week that someone was jackhammering right outside my office space."
"Uh huh." He said, and right there it was...it was so quick, but that look of "you didn't work near aircraft, what the hell are you doing in here trying to claim hearing loss?" was winking at me.
I didn't let it show how disappointed I was that this gentleman had passed judgment without even knowing me. I could tell by his questions that he had never spent time aboard a mighty aircraft carrier or he might have known there is no escaping the noise. Jet aircraft. Whistles blown over the PA system every hour. Bells. General alarms. And of course the constant hum of the ship herself. She never sleeps, and she lets you know it.
I wonder what ailment I would have to have to be "worthy" to say that my life has been irrevocably changed due to military life. Would I have to lose a limb? An eye? Maybe just a toe or finger would do it. What about soldiers that come back and have PTSD? They have no physical impairment, yet they have something that will stick with them for the rest of their lives. Do they meet this ear-checker's criteria?
Always remember that each and every military member sacrifices something, no matter how big or how small to serve their country. I am dismayed when I realize that folks who have not served cannot even begin to understand and therefore lack capacity to empathize. To all veterans out there, a sincere thanks - I understand.
Sine Metu
My claim today was for hearing loss and a constant hum in my head commonly called Tinnitus. You see, I spent two-six month deployments on aircraft carriers. They tend to be noisy. Additionally, when I was assigned with a squadron I spent every workday next to a flightline where jets came and went, as well as individual engines being fired up for maintenance checks. Noisy indeed.
On to the medical center I went. If I'm honest, I felt a little guilty as an older gent passed me in the hall, one leg missing from the right side of his wheelchair. "Good morning!" he said, chipper as the proverbial chipmunk. He lost a leg. I had ringing in my ears. I believe there are degrees of suffering, and concerning my hearing loss, I think any compensation should go to my wife, who, for the next 50 years will have to repeat every sentence twice and listen to the TV on full volume just so I know what's going on.
On with the story. I arrived early for my appointment, however still had to wait 30 minutes past the set time to be seen. I was met by a smug fellow, who ushered me back to the small, soundproof room. "We are required to ask a few questions." he says.
"Sure", I says.
He asked a couple, then asks me what I did in the Navy. I told him I was an office worker. What he asked next, and the way he asked it stunned me.
"So then what does the military have to do with your hearing loss?"
"I spent two tours on an aircraft carrier. The first tour I slept under the arresting wire, the second under the catapult."
"But did you work on the flight deck?"
"No, but when we were in the yards there was about a week that someone was jackhammering right outside my office space."
"Uh huh." He said, and right there it was...it was so quick, but that look of "you didn't work near aircraft, what the hell are you doing in here trying to claim hearing loss?" was winking at me.
I didn't let it show how disappointed I was that this gentleman had passed judgment without even knowing me. I could tell by his questions that he had never spent time aboard a mighty aircraft carrier or he might have known there is no escaping the noise. Jet aircraft. Whistles blown over the PA system every hour. Bells. General alarms. And of course the constant hum of the ship herself. She never sleeps, and she lets you know it.
I wonder what ailment I would have to have to be "worthy" to say that my life has been irrevocably changed due to military life. Would I have to lose a limb? An eye? Maybe just a toe or finger would do it. What about soldiers that come back and have PTSD? They have no physical impairment, yet they have something that will stick with them for the rest of their lives. Do they meet this ear-checker's criteria?
Always remember that each and every military member sacrifices something, no matter how big or how small to serve their country. I am dismayed when I realize that folks who have not served cannot even begin to understand and therefore lack capacity to empathize. To all veterans out there, a sincere thanks - I understand.
Sine Metu
Monday, July 30, 2007
My Magic Number
During college I weighed somewhere around the neighborhood of 230-235lbs. And no, I didn't play High School football.
The Navy always said my "ideal" weight was about 164lbs. At the most I should be under 185lbs. I have NEVER hit that mark, not when I entered the Navy, nor even when I finished boot camp where I spent an extra 3 or 4 weeks in their "fat body" division where we exercised more times per day than normal divisions, were not allowed any sweets or sodas, and had to attend a once-per-week nutrition class where they used realistic models to show us what fat was supposed to look like. As I sat and stared at the wriggling, yellow mass, I thought to myself "am I ever going to get out of this "fat body" division?
So the weeks went on, and I dropped a pound here, a pound there, all trying to reach a magical number of 185lbs. so I could rejoin the normal folks and proceed with my military training. The big day came - weigh ins. I took my place on the scale while a pretty older lady watched the balance teeter back and forth... move forward or be cast back into purgatory. 186lbs. There was a moment when the woman looked at me that broke my heart, and it wasn't until later I figured out she looked that way because I had just broken hers. The look of desperation, depression and hopelessness my face portrayed at seeing 186 must have been too much for her to stand. She whispered "That's close enough." to me, and I watched as she wrote my magic number - 185 down on her clipboard. I was free. I was free.
When I graduated boot camp, I was between 186 and 190lbs. When my girlfriend saw me for the first time, she cried because she thought I was ill. Pale, thin, and with sunken-in cheeks, she honestly thought I was a terminal patient. I felt weak, even though I was in the best shape I'd ever been.
It wasn't long after boot camp that I started slowly creeping up and up, away from my magic number, slowly putting back on the lbs I'd lost. Size 36 pants got tight, and I was just about to slip comfortably into a 38 when I got accepted for Officer Candidate school - boot camp for officers. So back I went, marching, drilling, PT for 18 hours a day and when I left, I was around 190lbs. I felt good, I didn't look like I'd been starved to death, and I could easily pass the Physical Fitness Test (PFT).
Of course, good things never seem to last, and three years later I was approaching 220lbs and definitely needed the 38 pants. There was a trade off of sorts, however, because I was strong as an ox - could "max out" the push ups and sit ups requirements for the PFT, although I still only scored "Good" on the 1.5 mile run. I got around the weight requirements by having my body fat percentage taken, or the old "rope 'n choke" as it was commonly called, using a tape measure and a seemingly random chart. With a little bit of gut-sucking and neck expanding, I could make the requirement easily, making it look on paper that I was within standards.
In 2007 I resigned from the Navy, weighing a hefty 225lbs. That was the first of May. As I write this, July 30th, my bathroom scale announced to me that I am the proud owner of 242.5lbs of "fat body". Did I mention I'm 5'9" on a good day?
I often would see morbidly obese people (300-400 or more pounds) and wonder "Why did they let themselves get this way? Didn't they know this would happen?" Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have turned to face the mirror and realized I am standing at that hypothetical point I wondered about. I have gained approx 5 lbs per month since I left the Navy, and if I keep going, I'll weigh 265lbs by Christmas. This is simply unacceptable. I've got a 6 month old son that I won't be able to keep up with, or help if he is in trouble.
So as of today, my new magic number is 200. The Navy's number made me weak and pale, and I'm over 30 now, so I have to allow for a little bit extra. 200 should allow me to feel and look better as well as be strong enough to handle whatever activity my son wants to throw my way. This will not be easy. I am going to document my progress, win or fail here to keep track and make me feel it when I'm starting to give up. While 200 is my magic number, the true test is whether or not I can comfortably fit back into my XL shirts and 38 waist pants. The belt holes never lie, and I'm out to my last one.
Here's to 200. Let's do the work.
Sine Metu
The Navy always said my "ideal" weight was about 164lbs. At the most I should be under 185lbs. I have NEVER hit that mark, not when I entered the Navy, nor even when I finished boot camp where I spent an extra 3 or 4 weeks in their "fat body" division where we exercised more times per day than normal divisions, were not allowed any sweets or sodas, and had to attend a once-per-week nutrition class where they used realistic models to show us what fat was supposed to look like. As I sat and stared at the wriggling, yellow mass, I thought to myself "am I ever going to get out of this "fat body" division?
So the weeks went on, and I dropped a pound here, a pound there, all trying to reach a magical number of 185lbs. so I could rejoin the normal folks and proceed with my military training. The big day came - weigh ins. I took my place on the scale while a pretty older lady watched the balance teeter back and forth... move forward or be cast back into purgatory. 186lbs. There was a moment when the woman looked at me that broke my heart, and it wasn't until later I figured out she looked that way because I had just broken hers. The look of desperation, depression and hopelessness my face portrayed at seeing 186 must have been too much for her to stand. She whispered "That's close enough." to me, and I watched as she wrote my magic number - 185 down on her clipboard. I was free. I was free.
When I graduated boot camp, I was between 186 and 190lbs. When my girlfriend saw me for the first time, she cried because she thought I was ill. Pale, thin, and with sunken-in cheeks, she honestly thought I was a terminal patient. I felt weak, even though I was in the best shape I'd ever been.
It wasn't long after boot camp that I started slowly creeping up and up, away from my magic number, slowly putting back on the lbs I'd lost. Size 36 pants got tight, and I was just about to slip comfortably into a 38 when I got accepted for Officer Candidate school - boot camp for officers. So back I went, marching, drilling, PT for 18 hours a day and when I left, I was around 190lbs. I felt good, I didn't look like I'd been starved to death, and I could easily pass the Physical Fitness Test (PFT).
Of course, good things never seem to last, and three years later I was approaching 220lbs and definitely needed the 38 pants. There was a trade off of sorts, however, because I was strong as an ox - could "max out" the push ups and sit ups requirements for the PFT, although I still only scored "Good" on the 1.5 mile run. I got around the weight requirements by having my body fat percentage taken, or the old "rope 'n choke" as it was commonly called, using a tape measure and a seemingly random chart. With a little bit of gut-sucking and neck expanding, I could make the requirement easily, making it look on paper that I was within standards.
In 2007 I resigned from the Navy, weighing a hefty 225lbs. That was the first of May. As I write this, July 30th, my bathroom scale announced to me that I am the proud owner of 242.5lbs of "fat body". Did I mention I'm 5'9" on a good day?
I often would see morbidly obese people (300-400 or more pounds) and wonder "Why did they let themselves get this way? Didn't they know this would happen?" Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have turned to face the mirror and realized I am standing at that hypothetical point I wondered about. I have gained approx 5 lbs per month since I left the Navy, and if I keep going, I'll weigh 265lbs by Christmas. This is simply unacceptable. I've got a 6 month old son that I won't be able to keep up with, or help if he is in trouble.
So as of today, my new magic number is 200. The Navy's number made me weak and pale, and I'm over 30 now, so I have to allow for a little bit extra. 200 should allow me to feel and look better as well as be strong enough to handle whatever activity my son wants to throw my way. This will not be easy. I am going to document my progress, win or fail here to keep track and make me feel it when I'm starting to give up. While 200 is my magic number, the true test is whether or not I can comfortably fit back into my XL shirts and 38 waist pants. The belt holes never lie, and I'm out to my last one.
Here's to 200. Let's do the work.
Sine Metu
Friday, July 13, 2007
Another Year Goes By - The Changes Stay The Same
So, we're coming up again on another birthday. It makes me think back over the last year and see what's different; what changes have come and how they've affected my life.
This time last year I was still in the Navy, working a boring desk job and hating every minute of it. I was about 20lbs lighter, and didn't know that in two days I would find out that I was going to be a father.
I no longer have that desk job, and thus no income! Luckily we've stashed enough away to live for a little while, during which time I'm trying to breathe life into a business - ever inflated a hot water bottle with your mouth? Kind of like that. Hard, but not impossible. Time's a ticking though, and I figure that if I haven't created income by Christmas, it's time to dust off the ol' resume and hit the streets for your standard 9 to 5'er. Of course, me going to work for someone now would be like trying to pour raindrops back into a cloud. It's possible, but all you get is hail.
My son was born in January, 6 weeks early and had to stay in what I affectionately called a "baby baker" for a few weeks until he finished developing the ability to eat on his own. Born 4lb 9oz, he's 6 months old and over 16lbs. The doctor has officially taken him off the "premie" charts and started sizing him up with the "normies". 6 months old and already being held to a higher standard...who'd have thought? Now, the insurance companies on the other hand have a problem with that 6 week early arrival and refuse to cover him medically - even after a letter from his doctor stating he does not nor ever had any medical issues. Sometimes the "computer says no" mentality really gets my blood boiling.
My wife's birthday is the day before mine, which means she's a year older as well. While I look in the mirror and have slowly seen the face of a spirited young man start to crack and darken, looking whithered and tired, I look at my love and her face is more brilliant than ever. Her smile is as broad as it was when we met, her eyes as loving, caring and devoted, and I wonder what it is that makes her stay so beautiful. It may be a cliche, but I really do think that angels come to Earth to guide us, help us find our way back from the abyss, and I believe she's one of them, whether she knows it or not. Perhaps she worked out a deal with the Big Man to get sent to me, but the deal was they had to wipe her memory of having a harp and wings. She is the most giving person I know, so I have no problem believing she would have said "yes" to leaving heaven if it meant she could help someone as lost as I was.
So there you have it. My many changes and my rock. As for that 20lbs, well, I guess some things may never change.
Sine Metu.
This time last year I was still in the Navy, working a boring desk job and hating every minute of it. I was about 20lbs lighter, and didn't know that in two days I would find out that I was going to be a father.
I no longer have that desk job, and thus no income! Luckily we've stashed enough away to live for a little while, during which time I'm trying to breathe life into a business - ever inflated a hot water bottle with your mouth? Kind of like that. Hard, but not impossible. Time's a ticking though, and I figure that if I haven't created income by Christmas, it's time to dust off the ol' resume and hit the streets for your standard 9 to 5'er. Of course, me going to work for someone now would be like trying to pour raindrops back into a cloud. It's possible, but all you get is hail.
My son was born in January, 6 weeks early and had to stay in what I affectionately called a "baby baker" for a few weeks until he finished developing the ability to eat on his own. Born 4lb 9oz, he's 6 months old and over 16lbs. The doctor has officially taken him off the "premie" charts and started sizing him up with the "normies". 6 months old and already being held to a higher standard...who'd have thought? Now, the insurance companies on the other hand have a problem with that 6 week early arrival and refuse to cover him medically - even after a letter from his doctor stating he does not nor ever had any medical issues. Sometimes the "computer says no" mentality really gets my blood boiling.
My wife's birthday is the day before mine, which means she's a year older as well. While I look in the mirror and have slowly seen the face of a spirited young man start to crack and darken, looking whithered and tired, I look at my love and her face is more brilliant than ever. Her smile is as broad as it was when we met, her eyes as loving, caring and devoted, and I wonder what it is that makes her stay so beautiful. It may be a cliche, but I really do think that angels come to Earth to guide us, help us find our way back from the abyss, and I believe she's one of them, whether she knows it or not. Perhaps she worked out a deal with the Big Man to get sent to me, but the deal was they had to wipe her memory of having a harp and wings. She is the most giving person I know, so I have no problem believing she would have said "yes" to leaving heaven if it meant she could help someone as lost as I was.
So there you have it. My many changes and my rock. As for that 20lbs, well, I guess some things may never change.
Sine Metu.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Stupid Rocky Balboa
You know, I understand that Rocky's all about getting the everloving snot kicked out of you, but getting back up over and over and over again until you win. What the hell was with the latest movie? I think someone dared Sly to do it for $5. What a waste of time, I mean, was there even supposed to be a lesson learned here? You're never too old, keep trying, or something? Who knows?
I guess I'm thinking about this recently because I feel a little like ol' Rock lately. I'm trying to get a business started, and I'm getting knocked left and right. It's an uphill battle since the business I'm starting isn't really a common one, and people tend to shy away from what they don't understand. A few have come around, and a few more are waiting in the wings, so there is light at the end of the tunnel. It's a long, long tunnel though.
So, I'm a little rough on Mr. Balboa, but there is one short speech the boxer gives his son during the flick that kind of stuck with me. His kid's whining about being in Rock's shadow, among other things, and Rocky won't have it. Although not the most eloquently written speech ever, he says:
"The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place It will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me or nobody is going to hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you hit, it is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much can you take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!"
So Rock, ol' boy, I'm going to keep moving forward.
I guess I'm thinking about this recently because I feel a little like ol' Rock lately. I'm trying to get a business started, and I'm getting knocked left and right. It's an uphill battle since the business I'm starting isn't really a common one, and people tend to shy away from what they don't understand. A few have come around, and a few more are waiting in the wings, so there is light at the end of the tunnel. It's a long, long tunnel though.
So, I'm a little rough on Mr. Balboa, but there is one short speech the boxer gives his son during the flick that kind of stuck with me. His kid's whining about being in Rock's shadow, among other things, and Rocky won't have it. Although not the most eloquently written speech ever, he says:
"The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place It will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me or nobody is going to hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you hit, it is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much can you take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!"
So Rock, ol' boy, I'm going to keep moving forward.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Extraordinary = ordinary to a greater degree
One thing I've always tried to understand is the word "extraordinary". Its meaning is along the lines of "outstanding", or "better than average", yet it is made of two words which, when you think about it, mean "more ordinary than most".
So kids, today I'd just like to say I'm feeling quite extraordinary.
So kids, today I'd just like to say I'm feeling quite extraordinary.
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