Mother Mother Ocean

What is it about the water that washes away worries?

The very second the boat starts away from the dock, in that split second between when my sandal leaves the weathered wood until it finds its footing on the deck of the boat all of the weight of the world just floats away. Granted, I usually find it shortly after returning to dry land, but for those golden hours afloat I am living one wonderful moment at a time.

It’s been a few years now since I last had the chance to get out in my boat, kids tend to get in the way of selfish endeavors, but there was one summer in particular that I truly found my sea legs and my pirate soul. The previous year I had resurrected a 40 year old Starcraft runabout powered by an equally classic or as most people would say, old, 1958 Evinrude outboard. The boat was, and still is, a mighty fine piece of work.

The summer I really fell in love with the water was in most respects a pretty tumultuous one. The company I was running was bought by a larger one, which in turn was bought by an even larger one which was unsure what they wanted to do with my little slice of the pie. I spent most days reading memos written more at me than to me and doing my best to read between the lines to try to figure out what would become of us. I was paraded around to several mysterious suitors who one after another decided my company was either too small, too large or just not the right fit, all the while being yanked back and forth from meeting to meeting listening to people who as far as I can figure were in charge of quantifying the human value of treating people with respect vs. the collateral damage of giving mass quantities of good people the proverbial axe. I would later find out that when it comes to large “National” companies, the axe always tips the scale. But that’s a story for another night. Tonight I’m longing for the lake.

My saving grace that summer came in the form of solitary voyages on a nice quiet local lake. I would get to the point that the rubber band in my head would start to twist a bit too tight, and if the sun was shining, I’d head out for an emergency appointment with a “client” grumbling on the way out of the office about "last minute" this or that...The fact that I generally had accumulated 45 hours by Wednesday let me do this without much guilt. I would head home, get out of my suit and into my shorts and T-shirt and grab a cooler and my sidekick Eli the super-mutt. We would leave a quick note for my wife hook up the boat and take off.

By the time the trailer tires were on the street Jimmy Buffet would be telling us stories of life and laughs on the water and Eli, with his head out the window would remind me that this was not a trip to be taken lightly, this was serious escapism and it was what he lived for, this and the Frisbee.

Once we got to the boat ramp we were both in the zone. We were like a well practiced pit crew. We both knew our roles and communicated with few words. I would pull off to the prep lane, go through the mental checklist…drain plug in, cooler in, battery hooked up, fuel tank full and primed and cell phone out of my pocket (just in case). I would then back into position and ease down the ramp like a seasoned pro, Eli looking back at the boat as if he were my spotter, ready to bark if the trailer started to go astray. When the boat was in far enough I would pull the emergency break and the two of us would head out and jump on the dock. Eli would wait until the boat was loose from the trailer and tied off and then would jump in and assume his position as first mate, keeping a weathered eye on the horizon. I would pull the rig up to the parking lot and head back down to the dock, a pocket full of milkbones for my fellow sailor. We would shove off and leave all the stress of corporate mergers and acquisitions on dry land. We never brought a fishing pole and rarely swam, intentionally at least. We just put the old motor at a nice smooth idle and would cruise the lake. I always had a Buffet CD in the player I had installed on the old vessel and had a supply of Captain Black’s Cherry Cavendish at the ready under the dash with my pipe. Eli would pace around on the deck for the first 30 minutes or so, checking the boat out for seaworthiness and making sure I had remembered everything, mainly treats and tennis balls and would then find a comfy spot in the sun beside me. Damn I miss my friend Eli. We didn’t have enough of these voyages before the kids came along and the boat just became something to move when I mowed. The memories of these trips are so vivid though that if I close my eyes tonight I can still smell the exhaust of the old outboard and feel the soft fur on Eli’s head as I reach over and pat him between the ears and tell him “good day on the water eh boy?.”

Eli is gone now. The boat is covered and parked behind the garage with expired tags and flat trailer tires. My boys will enjoy her. She’ll sail again. Same old captain, eager new crew. Same old destination. We’ll step off dry land and into a world where worries are nowhere on the agenda. The big decisions will be where to sail to next and who gets to drive the boat. Jimmy will be telling us stories about island life and we just might have to fly the pirate flag now and then. If I’m lucky my crew will settle into comfy spots in the sun after walking around the deck for awhile and feel the water move beneath them. If I’m lucky they too will fall in love with the water and find their sea legs. I’m looking forward to shoving off.

The Sauce is Boss...

Be it the economy vs. the price of fresh grocery store produce or maybe the "simplify" or "green" themes that are so prevalent these days but 2009 seems to be, at least in these here parts, the year of the garden. Everyone I know has a patch planted somewhere. Some corn here, a few tomato plants there...a half an acre of assorted beans over there...and its all good.

I'm fortunate enough that even though I live in town, part of the big old house-tiny yard group, I have plenty of green-thumbed family members and friends out in the country who keep me in fresh veggies up to my ears. This is the set up and reason for my latest culinary adventure.

So what do you do with a grocery bag FULL of ripe tomatoes and an equally obnoxious supply of assorted hot peppers? As I found out last night....you start getting saucy baby!

My mom called the other day to see if I had her food mill. She has a garden full of veggies that apparently need, milled. First, I had to remember exactly what contraption she was talking about, then came the hard part, trying to figure out were in the world (or attic) I had put it. I had borrowed it one fall to try my hand at making apple sauce from the orchard in the back yard of my previous house. After moving in the middle of Thanksgiving last year, things are still a bit sketchy in the organization department.

Finally, I gave up and went to the local hardware store. Yes, in a small town the hardware store sells cooking paraphernalia, small town hardware stores are one of the real treasures in America and we are losing too many of them, but this will be a topic of a future blog so I'll get back to this one. Anyway, I went to the local, small town, family owned, been in business since before my grandfather was born, hardware store knowing that they would have this evasive piece of equipment. Low and behold they had 5 different ones, in all different shapes and sizes. I picked out the one that looked suitable and proudly walked up to the front counter after discussing the finer points of stainless steel construction with the owner's daughter-in-law. "Gonna make some sauce ehh?" "I think so", I replied, not really sure yet exactly what I had actually bought.

To make a long story short I triumphantly presented the shiny new mill to my mom and later that night watched as she turned a pot of cooked red lumps into wonderful smelling tomato sauce. The smell rivaled that of Olive Garden hands down.

That night I put the boys to bed and started cooking. I felt like a mix between Julia Childs and Julias Sumner Miller. Sharp knives were pulled out, wooden spoons were involved. It was a wonderful thing. Now I am no stranger to the kitchen. I can think of no better evening than one spent cooking a good meal, glass of wine in one hand, pointy metal utensil of some sort in the other and a good jazz tune on the Ipod. This however was different. More clinical, more chemical, more combustible. I cooked a huge stock pot full of tomatoes and a few cloves of garlic like some crazed basement scientist and made sauce. It worked. It smelled good. That was the practice round.

Next I washed and chopped at least 30 jalapenos, just as many banana peppers and a few interesting looking purple bell peppers and tossed them into a large pot, not as big as the one that the tomatoes had been in, but one I certainly could have worn as a hat, so decent sized. Anyway, as these edible weapons simmered the kitchen started to fill with the familiar smell of Mexican heat. The smell that comes from the kind of sauces you only dare taste after a bet from a "friend" or too many cervezas. It was good. It was very very good.

After the peppers cooked a bit I started scooping the contents into the mill and turning the crank slowly. What it produced was a bright green translucent mush that I would say looked a little like what's inside the packet of "duck" sauce you get with Chinese take-out, only not orange. It was beautiful. After I had successfully milled my mash I moved to the next step, simmering it with some vinegar. I added a little white wine vinegar, then some balsamic vinegar, then some salad vinegar...then I thought to myself, "hey, that's a lot of vinegar...I had better give this a taste, being that this is my first attempt at hot sauce and all." I stuck in the wooden spoon and brought it to my mouth.

Now, it's hard to explain this to anyone who has never had really, really hot sauce before, but my nose experienced this heat long before my taste buds got the chance to and it tried to send my mouth a warning. Had the momentum of the spoon toward my open mouth not been as significant, I am certain that the communication would have been to close and close fast, but as I said, this was a taste in progress and I was finishing strong. When the sauce hit my tongue there was sizzle. Not like the Pop Rocks pleasant tickle type of sizzle, more of a "WOW! that 9 volt battery must me brand spankin new" sizzle. It was hot. Damn hot. As I swished it around in my mouth trying to decipher the flavor amidst the sensation of my teeth melting I came to the realization that I was in the process of swallowing this mix of heat and hot and that at this point there was nothing shy of a baseball bat to the back of the head that would stop me. It was a completely involuntary action, and it hurt, bad.

I gathered myself after the spinning stopped. Walked straight into the mudroom and opened the beer fridge. I pulled out a cold one and put what I could of the fire out and thought, "man, I didn't even taste the vinegar..."

The rest of the night was spent finishing and perfecting the sauce, "bottling" it in cleaned out glass baby food jars and washing up the kitchen. My lovely wife had worked second shift at the hospital and she strolled in just as I was washing the last pot. I was covered in sauce, sweat and tears. She just looked around the steamy kitchen, shook her head, and mumbled something about her "domesticated husband"...but there is nothing, absolutely nothing, "domesticated" about the adventure that transpired in the kitchen last night. Nothing "Pampered" about this chef. That sauce is killer. That sauce will hurt. That sauce is going to be tested on every willing, unsuspecting guest to our house this year until word gets out and the game is up.

That sauce will make men of boys.

I can't wait to have a party.

Anyone for some fajitas?

Headin to a Weddin...

What is it about a wedding, even a wedding involving total and complete strangers, that gets the romantic juices flowing? These two people about to get hitched could very well be the worst matched pair since Woody and Mia, I would still get teary when they timidly kiss for the first time as husband and wife. The stats show that as Americans we marry too often. Compared to our neighbors across the pond we marry, divorce and then remarry with amazing efficiency, thus increasing both the number of wedding dresses produced only to end up at the garage sale down the street and the number of butter mints that end up in land fills. Divorce attorneys are the real winner in this bitter cycle of lust/love/loss. Tragic, but still...we marry too often? What in the world are we supposed to do with a statistic like that. Does it mean we are an impatient lot who can't wait to jump back into matrimony so we won't have to eat alone? Does it mean we are gluttons for punishment and get back in the white sequined saddle as quickly as possible..."thank you...may I have another?!?" I prefer to think that it is because we are a bunch of sappy, half-wit and hopeless romantics. We have all watched The Wedding Planner and the Wedding Singer and the like enough times to think that if we try hard enough and really believe in love, magic will deliver us the perfect mate and life will be strawberries and champagne, at least until we get into the Cheaper by the Dozen years of our lives.

I don't know... I guess that be it too many Cuzack movies, not wanting to grow old alone, or perhaps because I did magically find my perfect mate, I dig marriage. I dig being a husband. I love my wife and all her bells and whistles. I don't wish to see the new models, fuel efficient or not. My marriage is the skeleton that holds this flabby life together and I hope that is what this marriage tonight will bring to this nervous, naive couple. Being married to the right person for the right reason is a timeless classic that will always be in style.

So break out the good shoes and the tiny bottles of bubbles...wedding bells are ringing~!

Pointlessly Productive

I am a busy man. I’m the CEO of a growing mid-sized credit union, the father of 3 young boys, husband of a beautiful and motivated woman and am active in my church and community. Not that I’m any different than the rest of society. The sandwich artist that begrudgingly toasted my sub this afternoon was too busy to make small talk. The driver in the car ahead of me on my way home was too busy to wait for the green light to turn right, despite the “no turn on red” sign hanging just north of her SUV. We are a busy people. Too busy. It feels most nights like I just started on my to-do list when my head hits the pillow. So how do I reconcile my mind with my appointment book?

I spend some time doing something completely unconstructive. Poignantly pointless. Unabashedly unproductive. I anchor the boat, wade into the water and find flat rocks to stack on the beach. No, literally, that's what I do. I pile driftwood into a worthless work of art. I unplug my brain, at least the left side, and plug into my senses. How does the water feel on my legs, how does the beach feel on my feet, how does the driftwood feel in my hands. I expect no applause for my efforts. I am not fulfilling an item anywhere on an agenda and I won’t be getting a congratulatory email from a board member for my attempt. That is precisely why it works.

When my mind gets too full and my batteries are dead it is time to clear the calendar and pull out the paints and a nice clean canvas and make a masterpiece that will never hang in the Louvre. I get completely caught up in the color.



The smell of the oil paint and the feeling of the brush between my fingers force me to do what even a really good pub burger and cold beer can’t do. It makes me focus on the moment, and only the moment. It gives my brain permission to recharge and reset itself. Those few valuable hours “wasted” on these trivial efforts are what keeps me sane. They don’t happen often enough right now, but when they do…oh how sweet it is. If you feel the pressure of your planner. If you feel crushed under the weight of your calendar, if your Blackberry has you ready to blackout, you may be long overdue for some wasted time. It is unbelievable how valuable it can be to do something worthless.

Night of the Living Dad

Sleep. It's truly something you take for granted until you can't get it. Lack of it can turn you into a mumbling zombie. Braaaaiiiiins......brrrraaaiiinnss...where are my brains....

I can remember the last good night of sleep I got. It was almost 8 hours back in March of this year. It was a Tuesday night. What a glorious Wednesday that was. I really think my kids are working together to try to weaken me, like an inmate at Guantanamo, they coordinate efforts to wake my wife and I up every 2 to 3 hours so that we never really fall into a deep sleep.

I wonder if they have researched it. Maybe we should listen in when they are at the park playing with other kids. What if its a global conspiracy and they are all working together...

Wikipedia says its a very effective form of torture and interrogation:

Sleep deprivation can be used as a means of interrogation that some believe will constitute torture when used to excess. Under one interrogation technique, a subject might be kept awake for several days and when finally allowed to fall asleep, suddenly awakened and questioned. M. Begin, the Prime Minister of Israel from 1977-83, described his experience of sleep deprivation when a prisoner of the KGB in Russia as follows:

"In the head of the interrogated prisoner, a haze begins to form. His spirit is wearied to death, his legs are unsteady, and he has one sole desire: to sleep...Anyone who has experienced this desire knows that not even hunger and thirst are comparable with it."

Maybe they want to know something...is there really a Santa Claus...is the Easter Bunny real...will the water in the pool really turn purple if we pee in it????

For crying out loud at this point I wish they would just ask...I would spill the beans about it all. Every silly parental half-truth and outright lie would be gladly revealed if only they would let us sleep for a solid 8 hours. "is there a boogie man?"..."YES...he lives on the other side of the tracks and has to update law enforcement when he moves.." "Was that really chicken we ate last night?" "No...it was fish...oh for the love of God it was fish...now let me sleep!" Whatever you want to know just ask you cruel little captors. Just let us sleep...

Just in case you happen to be a parent suffering from this torture, know that you are not alone. Stay strong. They will someday be teens and they will sleep in until noon. Of course then they will be driving and we'll stay up all night worrying about them wrapping the car around a telephone pole...

If you think you might be suffering from from sleep deprivation here's an excerpt from an E-zine article that will make you cry...

One of the most common and easily identifiable sleep deprivation symptoms is that of drowsiness or daytime fatigue. We all intuitively understand that if we don't get enough sleep we're not recharged and therefore are tired the next day. The more we get little to no sleep the worse that fatigue is for us.

Another of the signs of sleep deprivation is a reduction in memory and mental performance. When we are low on sleep the brain suffers. The ability to process mental tasks as well as access and form memory is hindered. If we go without sleep for long enough then it can become serious to the point where tasks can be dangerous. Studies on sleep have shown that driving while suffering from a lack of sleep is similar to driving while under the influence. It is estimated that tens of thousands of car accidents happen each year due to sleepiness. Also like being under the influence we sometimes give ourselves credit for more control and awareness then we really have when we are tired.

There are behavioral effects of sleep deprivation as well. Sleepiness can affect the levels of brain chemicals at work which in turn can alter our mood and mental state. People who are suffering from a lack of sleep can often develop forms of anxiety and other adverse mental states. It also lowers your ability to deal with stress.

The behavioral effects of sleep deprivation can extend into a negative outlook on life and even sink into full fledged depression. This becomes a vicious cycle as depression often creates insomnia which produces more sleep deprivation that increases the depression. Getting out of this cycle once it starts is hard.

Sleep deprivation symptoms can also include increased illness. Sleep helps recharge the immune system. When we don't get enough sleep our immune system loses effectiveness and has a harder time fighting off illness. Our bodies are more easily overrun. This results not only in more frequent illnesses but longer recovery time as well. If you are noticing that you are sick more often or that you take longer to get over an illness than you used to then it may be that you aren't getting enough sleep.

One website on sleep deprivation quoted a 1999 study that showed glucose metabolism is reduced when we lack sleep. This produces symptoms similar to the beginning stages of diabetes. Improper processing of glucose drastically impacts a host of bodily functions from immune system to brain function to energy levels and a whole lot in between.

Yep...they are trying to kill us. Stay strong. It's not to early to pull out the "Santa Claus is watching" card when you need it...unless you've already spilled the beans...then you are pretty much screwed.

Worth its weight in chocolate milk

Most kids go through a bedtime rebellion phase at some point in the post toddler years. I have read about it. I have heard other parents talk about it in hushed, frail voices. As if you were talking about a heinous crime that was committed by someone standing just a few feet away. I even thought I had experienced a bit of it myself when our oldest son, at around 3 years, wanted my wife or I to sit outside the door to his bedroom until he fell asleep. Recently I came to find that this was not at all the terror of which those other poor parents had whimpered about. Not even close.

Roughly 3 weeks ago my middle son, who had just turned 4, got out of bed and made his way to the stairs. Listening for my wife and I he followed the sound of a Tivo'd sitcom and slinked down the stairs to the first floor. Once in the living room he crawled like a Navy Seal on a stealth mission around the back of the sectional to the corner. At this point my wife pointed this chain of events out to me because I was engrossed in the previous week's episode of Rule's of Engagement. Funny stuff. I paused the show and got up to see what the intrusion into Mommy & Daddy's time, or as I like to call it, happy hour, was all about. Brody had positioned himself beside the couch, under a blanket and beside a stool. It was a pretty good vantage point. When I asked him what was up he said it...the statement we would come to loathe...."I want you to lay in my bed."


The next 30 minutes was spent negotiating, arguing and pleading for our son to get back in bed. The entire time he kept on with his new mantra, progressively increasing the volume and raising the tone until it cut into my skull and turned me into nothing more than a sweaty mess of my former self. "I want you to lay in my bed." "I WANT YOU TO LAY IN MY BED" Now the baby was awake in the next room, my oldest was awake in the bunk above and the neighbors I am sure had their fingers on the dial to call children's services to stop whatever atrocities must be causing this riot. Finally, exhausted, defeated and still wondering how the sitcom ended, I gave up. I caved. I crawled into the disheveled lower bunk with my sweaty little master and passed out.


This was the routine for the next week. Sure, we got better at caving in and a few nights just walked in and laid down with him or let him crawl up in beside us without a fight. If he were a sound sleeper this might not have been so bad but Brody is a kicker, an elbower...a violent sleeper. We were sacrificing hours of much needed sleep for the sake of avoiding Armageddon. Then came the realization that if we didn't put our foot down, if we didn't draw a line in the sand, if we didn't fight to take back the night, we were going to be stuck with this arrangement for the next 14 years. We were never going to be able to have happy hour again. This was not acceptable. This was war.


My wife and I discussed the options, strengthened our resolve and decided it was now or never.


This was two weeks ago. The first night was an hour of me literally holding my son in his bed while he screamed, hit, kicked and I'm pretty sure spoke in tongues about halfway through it. At the point at which I was at the end of my rope and ready to cave, my wife came in to my rescue. She says that she was only able to swoop in and save me because I had worn him out. I think she has a gift. She's like the possessed child whisperer. She changed his PJs, as they were drenched in sweat and tears and I did the same. This was to be repeated in various forms and durations every night for the next two weeks, until last night.


With school fast approaching my wife resurrected the award board. Stars for good deeds accomplished throughout the day. Things like picking up toys, brushing teeth, being polite and yes, going to bed. My oldest completed his goal of 3 rows of stars Tuesday and chose to pick from the "prize bag". Brody had just 3 stars left at that point and we asked him what he wanted as his prize when he reached the goal. "I want a big jug of chocolate milk." Really? This was his brass ring, this was his chosen prize. We explained to him that all he had to do was go to bed IN HIS OWN BED and the stars would be his and he and my wife would take off first thing in the morning to the local grocery store and pick up his prize. I laughed it off as yet another ploy that would be forgotten once the screaming started. I thought it was a cute side note to a sad story of unwatched shows and long, exhausting nights.


Last night, with the thought of an entire gallon jug of chocolate milk fresh on his mind and a single tear running down his cheek, Brody tightened the grip on his stuffed puppy as we pulled the sheet up, said our good nights and stepped out of the room. There were muffled sounds of whimpers, like a puppy put out in his doghouse for the first time and then after around 10 minutes, silence. After 3 weeks of nightly hell in my home there was silence. We quietly tiptoed down the stairs and turned on the TV. After a few long minutes to see if the silence would stick we brought up our list of mental junk food and exhaled as the show started. Ahhhhh.


This morning Brody got up, walked into the bathroom as I was shaving and with a smile from ear to ear stated boldly and proudly, "I get my chocolate milk when Mommy gets up!" and he did. As his brother and I were finishing up our cereal this morning he burst through the backdoor lugging in a jug that weighed about half as much as he does. He will drink most of it today if he has his way. He might share a little, maybe. But it worked. He did it.


Now to see what tonight brings.

Change is good...and sometimes clunky...

Alright now, I realize that at first blush my prior blog may seem like a piece against the current administration's spending and therefore could be lumped in with all of the Republican blah blah blah. Not so fast. I do think we need change. I do believe that we have a good man in office right now. I do believe the wind is right to sail into new seas...maybe just not in a brand spankin' new boat if the old one still floats. Maybe just get yourself a new sail. (and a pirate flag)

What grinds me is the constant pressure we put ourselves under to buy, buy, buy and do it NOW. A young couple in love used to get hitched, live in squalor for a few wonderfully miserable years while they saved every penny and then, when the piggy bank was ready to burst, went into the local bank and triumphantly hoisted it up onto the counter as a down payment for their first home. It was normally at least 20% of the purchase and the home price would put them into a payment that was around 30% of their monthly income at the time. You drove a car until it either became too small for your growing family or decided to give up its ghost in the driveway some morning. Now most of us are purchasing our first home with 105% financing and never saving a penny...ever...for anything. We never had to so we never learned. We buy a new car because our current one needs a tune up or it no longer matches our wardrobe. We have completely lost the sense to save up for purchases we can't pay cash for and we count on the myth that our children's college tuition money will magically appear in an account we currently have $212.37 in a week before they pack up and leave home. "Sorry Billy, there's always that job selling sweepers and air purifiers until you save up enough to get to school, Mom and Dad were busy supplying you with Wii games, 372 channels of digital cable, $80 jeans and electric scooters the past 18 years."

So in my rambling way I guess what I am saying is that what I am against is not the attempt at getting things moving in the economy by spending money, what I am against is getting the economy of such a specific industry revved up by pulling money, and lots of it, straight out of the wallets of the already strapped and struggling middle class. We are the ones the Clunky plan is targeted at and we are the ones kicking in the cash to make it work. $4500 hasn't bought a new car since before I was born so where do you think the other $15,000 is coming from? We are already expecting too much from the tuition fairy.

I understand that not all the plans the new administration puts in play are going to be perfect right out of the gates and I am wholeheartedly okay with that. I embrace the fact that they are at least trying to do something real and looking at things in a different way. God Bless 'em for it. We need it. I just think that we need to look at the new initiatives from an R&D perspective and be honest with ourselves when they looked better on paper than they do on the road, or in the garage. I find it frustrating that the middle class consumer is tapped to save an industry that has raised the price of a new car over the past 20 years to the point that none of us in the middle class can afford them...honestly with the current economic environment even at $4500 off, we still can't. Or at least shouldn't.


So let's look at this as prototype 1.1, give the administration a good pat on the back for the attempt and let's move on to the next big idea. 1.2 anyone? Anyone?

Cash for Clunkers...

Okay...okay...I know, why in the world should I care about the fact that the "Cash For Clunkers" program just got another $2 Billion. I run a credit union and we are in the auto lending biz. Anyway, it isn't real money right, just the play money that the government throws around at our problems. Still though it bugs me. We are making a LOT of these loans. Some to members that can afford a new car or were planning to buy anyway, and I am fine about that. More power to you. The people I am worried about are the ones who can barely afford the cars they drive now who feel that this "free money" is too good an offer to pass up. They are, for the most part, trading in cars and trucks that are in fairly decent condition, are relatively reliable and most importantly...PAID FOR! Even after Uncle Sam kicks his $4500 into the deal most people end up with a minimum of $15,000 financed, or in cash flow terms, around $300 a month. Add in the fact that they will also need to carry full coverage insurance and you can probably kiss close to $400 goodbye each month to pay for this amazing deal. Now, I know that this is a fantastic program for the auto dealers, who are trying to remember the last time they didn't have to put a buyer in a choke hold to test drive a NEW car. I know that the manufacturers are elated because buyers are looking at the glut of inventory they filled the dealer's lots with the past 2 years as their golden ticket to the $4500 party. Insurance agents and the big auto insurance companies are even winners as most of us celebrate the day when the last payment is made on our "clunker" and can drop the coverage a little lower than the bank would allow and the new car certainly gets the phones at Geico ringing. Poor little lizard. Not even sure how he holds that big heavy receiver. So who loses with this program and why would I even waste 10 minutes venting about it...the people who go out and put themselves into a new car who had a perfectly reliable one already leaking oil in the garage, that's who. People who lay in bed and wonder is there is a pink slip tucked in behind their punch card. People who so far have survived the cuts at work or have only had to deal with a few less hours per pay. People who so far have made it and think that this is a sign from above that the worst is over and the smoke is clearing. I am an optimist, really I am, but even I can't look someone in the face and tell them that its all casual dining and imported beer from here on out. We are not out of the woods yet people. In fact, we might not have even gotten into the thick, machete and Deep Woods Off section yet. I know it isn't Washington's job to keep all the little buyers safe and out of harms way, I am vehemently against their meddling in most cases. But I also don't think that dangling a shiny 4 cylinder carrot in front of starving rabbits is the best way to solve the problem either. Eventually that 2002 Explorer that you just had to have in 2006 will need replaced, I agree with that Billy, but remember, you used to love her too...and the 2009 Caliber will get hit by the ugly stick too someday....and how sure are you that widgets will keep selling and the plant will stay open. Sorry to be a realist Billy, but I really don't want to repo your new car next year. You can't get your clunker back once it has been "rendered inoperable"...

Yippee...I'm a blogger...

So what do you do when you start talking to yourself so much that your internal monologue starts to run on a continual loop...

apparently you start a blog.