Posted in my bodybuilding.com weblog today.
One of the good things about living in Houston is Memorial Park. There’s a 3-mile track around it that is the best place I have ever found to run. Until I moved back to the hometown last August, I had been gone from H-town for almost 15 years. In that time, I never found another good place to run. Running around a neighborhood or–worse–a route along major streets where cars have to dodge you, just isn’t the same thing.
Anyway, about a month and a half ago, I decided to try to get myself into shape to run around Memorial Park. Up until then, I thought that I had chronically bad knees and that I would never be able to jog again. I did lower impact stuff like spinning and treadmills but nothing was as taxing (or as joyous) as running. Fortunately, losing a few lbs. and a month-long course of NSAIDs have got my knees feeling 15 years younger.
My first attempt at running Memorial Park was a total failure. I knew it would be. I was out of CV shape as hell and, when I made the attempt, hadn’t successfully completed the park track in over a decade. I bought some new shoes to try it but as soon as I put my body in motion (I probably weighed about 310-lbs.) I knew I wouldn’t last long. I felt, well, the only word I can think of that fits it is "jangly." If I were a boiler, all of my warning lights and bells would have been going off after the first quarter mile. My pecs and my gut were bouncing around hither and yon and throwing my balance off and my knees were protesting the effort too. I quit after I reached the half-mile mark. Duly chastened, I drove back home.
The next time, a few weeks later (after pushing it pretty hard on the cardio at the gym, specifically the elliptical) I gave it another shot. This time, I managed to keep myself at a slow jog for the first mile, then had to walk the rest of the way. The third time was the same thing, made it to the one mile mark, but I was able to do walk/jog intervals for the second mile. The last mile was a walk.
The next 2 times I made it to the 2-mile mark but quit as soon as I reached it. The first time, I was physically spent and couldn’t go on much further if any at all. But the second time, I think it was a psychological block, something about turning that last corner just kind of sucked the wind out of my sails.
For those of you out there who know Houston and who know the Memorial Park loop, I usually park at the tennis club. The first mile takes me to Memorial Drive. The second mile is parallel with Memorial Drive (breathing auto exhaust the whole way, blech!). The end of the second mile, the track winds through a lot of shady trees before turning back into the park.
Today, I did 2 things different. First, I bought an i-Pod shuffle (am listening to it right now as I type this, in fact; KC & the Sunshine Band "Keep it Coming Love") and an armband. Second, when I stopped for gas on the way I bought a sugar-free Red Bull and pounded it on the drive to the park. The i-Pod immediately settled me into a nice mental groove but I thought the Red Bull was a mistake. I kept feeling like I had to burp for the first mile but it wouldn’t come out. Fortunately, my stomach eventually settled down and I was able to get into a groove. Everything was good until the halfway point when my brain started flashing the QUIT NOW message in my brain. I pressed on and came to the 2-mile mark, where I had quit the previous 2 times. I slowed my jog down to basically a shuffle, fixed my eyes on the ground 10 feet away from me and pressed on. My mind eventually got the message and turned off the message. I even picked up my pace a bit. I passed the landmarks that I have given private names to over the years, the fountains, dip bars, Marine Corps Trees, Straits of Hormuz, and finally came back to the tennis club. The last quarter mile, I was hurting so bad that I was having dry-heaves.
But I finished.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Catching up, chapter 9: Lightning crashes . . .
. . . and old mother cries.
I was home the morning of Wednesday, September 22, 2004. I don't remember why. Perhaps that was the week that I asked Tom to let me stay back and work from the San Antonio office. As the summer had given way to the new school year, Courtney had started acting out a little bit. Erica thought it was because of all the time I was gone away from home so I asked Tom if I could have a week long break from Alabama to spend some quality "daddy time" with her. He agreed, of course. Again, I remember doing that, but I'm not positive that it was that week.
In any event, the morning after I met D in Austin and then went by and visited with my dad, I got up early to go do my usual 5:30 am workout. With my truck parked at the New Orleans airport, Erica and I had to share a car on the weekends. We were homebodies so that wasn't a problem for us. Anyway, I had finished my workout, as I recall, and was toweling off after my shower when I heard the front desk girl call my name on the PA.
What the hell? I pulled my jeans on and went out to the desk. The girl (I've long since forgotten her name) pointed to the phone and mouthed "your wife" to me. This was weird. Erica never called me at the gym. I picked up the phone.
"Hey, what's up?"
"You need to come home!"
"What? What's wrong?"
"You need to come home!"
Whatever it was, I could tell that she was very upset and probably crying. The first thought that ran through my mind was that she had gotten into a fight with Megan or Courtney and needed me to come home and play referee. Erica was extremely brittle at times and the tone of her voice during that call was about as far "Defcon 4" as I had ever heard it. That was the tone of voice that told me the silos were open and the missiles were warming up. Erica had 2 levels of shrill: there was run-of-the-mill mad Erica and then there was what I called crazy Erica. This tone was firmly in the middle and trending toward the latter.
"Okay, I'll leave now."
The gym was very close to my neighborhood so once I collected my clothes and got in the car, I was home in less than 3 minutes. Along the way, I had the dark thought that she had thrown a rod over something mundane like me not me not emptying the dishwasher before I went to the gym. If so, I was going to meet fire with fire. Erica had started becoming increasingly moody and emotional since I had been working in Alabama and I didn't care for it at all. It was beginning to bring back bad memories from our last years in Mobile when our marriage almost ended. I wasn't going to let her put me through that shit again. I pulled in the driveway and walked in. "Goddammit, Erica, I swear to God, if this about the dishwasher . . . . "
Her eyes were wet and her cheeks splotchy. Both girls were downstairs and I could see that they seemed to be okay, thank goodness. At least this wasn't about either of them.
She shook her head. "No. Come upstairs."
"What? What is it?" I could feel my blood pressure rising.
"Come upstairs. I have to talk to you." Her voice wasn't shrill anymore and now she just seemed sad and upset. I followed her up into our bedroom.
"Sit down." Something in her tone, so shrill and panicky just a few minutes ago but now grave and solemn, sent my panic bell ringing like a fire alarm. Whatever it was that she was about to tell me was going to be bad, I could tell. I sat on the bed and looked up at her.
"Your mom called while you were at the gym," she began. "Your dad . . . died last night."
I was home the morning of Wednesday, September 22, 2004. I don't remember why. Perhaps that was the week that I asked Tom to let me stay back and work from the San Antonio office. As the summer had given way to the new school year, Courtney had started acting out a little bit. Erica thought it was because of all the time I was gone away from home so I asked Tom if I could have a week long break from Alabama to spend some quality "daddy time" with her. He agreed, of course. Again, I remember doing that, but I'm not positive that it was that week.
In any event, the morning after I met D in Austin and then went by and visited with my dad, I got up early to go do my usual 5:30 am workout. With my truck parked at the New Orleans airport, Erica and I had to share a car on the weekends. We were homebodies so that wasn't a problem for us. Anyway, I had finished my workout, as I recall, and was toweling off after my shower when I heard the front desk girl call my name on the PA.
What the hell? I pulled my jeans on and went out to the desk. The girl (I've long since forgotten her name) pointed to the phone and mouthed "your wife" to me. This was weird. Erica never called me at the gym. I picked up the phone.
"Hey, what's up?"
"You need to come home!"
"What? What's wrong?"
"You need to come home!"
Whatever it was, I could tell that she was very upset and probably crying. The first thought that ran through my mind was that she had gotten into a fight with Megan or Courtney and needed me to come home and play referee. Erica was extremely brittle at times and the tone of her voice during that call was about as far "Defcon 4" as I had ever heard it. That was the tone of voice that told me the silos were open and the missiles were warming up. Erica had 2 levels of shrill: there was run-of-the-mill mad Erica and then there was what I called crazy Erica. This tone was firmly in the middle and trending toward the latter.
"Okay, I'll leave now."
The gym was very close to my neighborhood so once I collected my clothes and got in the car, I was home in less than 3 minutes. Along the way, I had the dark thought that she had thrown a rod over something mundane like me not me not emptying the dishwasher before I went to the gym. If so, I was going to meet fire with fire. Erica had started becoming increasingly moody and emotional since I had been working in Alabama and I didn't care for it at all. It was beginning to bring back bad memories from our last years in Mobile when our marriage almost ended. I wasn't going to let her put me through that shit again. I pulled in the driveway and walked in. "Goddammit, Erica, I swear to God, if this about the dishwasher . . . . "
Her eyes were wet and her cheeks splotchy. Both girls were downstairs and I could see that they seemed to be okay, thank goodness. At least this wasn't about either of them.
She shook her head. "No. Come upstairs."
"What? What is it?" I could feel my blood pressure rising.
"Come upstairs. I have to talk to you." Her voice wasn't shrill anymore and now she just seemed sad and upset. I followed her up into our bedroom.
"Sit down." Something in her tone, so shrill and panicky just a few minutes ago but now grave and solemn, sent my panic bell ringing like a fire alarm. Whatever it was that she was about to tell me was going to be bad, I could tell. I sat on the bed and looked up at her.
"Your mom called while you were at the gym," she began. "Your dad . . . died last night."
Catching up, chapter 8: The best laid plans of mice and men . . .
. . . oft go awry.
The Summer of '04 passed uneventfully. I continued to work in Mobile while Tom figured out where he wanted me permanently. I racked up the miles on Southwest Airlines while Erica held down the fort at home. Every day, she would regale me with gossip about the personal drama of two of her friends at work, whom I'll call Rich and Nellie. Nellie is a young Latina who was as horny as a sailor and her (ahem) active social life was a source of endless amusement to Erica and me. Rich was mired in a train wreck of a marriage and was clearly headed for a divorce. The only thing we wondered was if it would happen soon enough to spare his sanity.
To become a partner again, I took out a $20,000 loan from my 401(k) and made arrangements to buy stock in the firm from an ex-colleague, whom I'll simply call D. D used to manage one of Ye Olde Firm's offices on the East Coast before quitting shortly after I did to chase his fortune by underwriting a Vax-D clinic in Waco. He wanted to get home to Texas and thought that the Vax-D was the wave of the future in therapeutic medicine. As typically happens though when one forsakes a good (albeit boring) career for an over-hyped unknown, he was left holding only a handful of smoke and ashes. Apparently, his partner absconded with their cash and left him with some unsellable Vax-D machines, a mountain of debt and the IRS on his ass. I really felt for him. My experience in San Antonio wasn't great but it was tiptoeing through daisies compared wo what D went through, and what D lost.
He needed the money and I needed the stock so we made arrangements to meet in the middle, which in this case was Austin. We caught up a little bit, he told me how happy he was that I was back at Olde Firm (even if he wasn't) then exchanged the stock certificates for the cash. On the way back through Austin, I decided to go and see my dad at his office. I had been a little worried about him because of the tough times the company was going through. After banging his head against a wall there, Dad had eventually decided to run up the white flag in San Antonio and closed the office totally. He came to the same rueful realization that I did after I got to know that business, that the company was simply overexposed in the market by having offices in both cities.
I once met a man whose family made their fortune by founding the Luby's cafeteria chain. He told me that he sold his shares when he realized how incompetent the then-management was. They were the kind of people, he told me, who allowed underperforming restaurants to sink without any additional investment and would reward successful stores by opening up new ones literally 2 blocks down the street from them. I told Dad that that was the same mistake he had made. Having offices in both cities was like having 2 of the same restaurants on the same block. It just didn't make any sense. Like I said, he eventually came around to my way of thinking on that matter.
He had also had to lay off a lot of people, including my brother Mark who had been running the Waco office and was planning to open up an office in Dallas/Ft. Worth. I know that Dad convincing 2 of his sons to come work for him then not be able to keep them had to have been a huge blow to his pride. I always thought that my dad kind of fancied himself a sort of latter day old world patron. He would have been happy to have had a grand hacienda with all of his sons and their families living under his roof. I think bringing us to work for him was kind of his way of trying to make that a reality. I know that having that turn to dust hurt his heart and, frankly, I hurt for him.
He seemed fine, though, when I went in and saw him. He was in a great mood and told me about me some of the changes he was making in the company to cut costs and find profitability again. He asked me about my work and I bit my tongue and told him it was going great. I was really glad to see him looking and sounding like his old self again. He hugged me, told me he loved me, then went back to work. I left and drove back home.
The Summer of '04 passed uneventfully. I continued to work in Mobile while Tom figured out where he wanted me permanently. I racked up the miles on Southwest Airlines while Erica held down the fort at home. Every day, she would regale me with gossip about the personal drama of two of her friends at work, whom I'll call Rich and Nellie. Nellie is a young Latina who was as horny as a sailor and her (ahem) active social life was a source of endless amusement to Erica and me. Rich was mired in a train wreck of a marriage and was clearly headed for a divorce. The only thing we wondered was if it would happen soon enough to spare his sanity.
To become a partner again, I took out a $20,000 loan from my 401(k) and made arrangements to buy stock in the firm from an ex-colleague, whom I'll simply call D. D used to manage one of Ye Olde Firm's offices on the East Coast before quitting shortly after I did to chase his fortune by underwriting a Vax-D clinic in Waco. He wanted to get home to Texas and thought that the Vax-D was the wave of the future in therapeutic medicine. As typically happens though when one forsakes a good (albeit boring) career for an over-hyped unknown, he was left holding only a handful of smoke and ashes. Apparently, his partner absconded with their cash and left him with some unsellable Vax-D machines, a mountain of debt and the IRS on his ass. I really felt for him. My experience in San Antonio wasn't great but it was tiptoeing through daisies compared wo what D went through, and what D lost.
He needed the money and I needed the stock so we made arrangements to meet in the middle, which in this case was Austin. We caught up a little bit, he told me how happy he was that I was back at Olde Firm (even if he wasn't) then exchanged the stock certificates for the cash. On the way back through Austin, I decided to go and see my dad at his office. I had been a little worried about him because of the tough times the company was going through. After banging his head against a wall there, Dad had eventually decided to run up the white flag in San Antonio and closed the office totally. He came to the same rueful realization that I did after I got to know that business, that the company was simply overexposed in the market by having offices in both cities.
I once met a man whose family made their fortune by founding the Luby's cafeteria chain. He told me that he sold his shares when he realized how incompetent the then-management was. They were the kind of people, he told me, who allowed underperforming restaurants to sink without any additional investment and would reward successful stores by opening up new ones literally 2 blocks down the street from them. I told Dad that that was the same mistake he had made. Having offices in both cities was like having 2 of the same restaurants on the same block. It just didn't make any sense. Like I said, he eventually came around to my way of thinking on that matter.
He had also had to lay off a lot of people, including my brother Mark who had been running the Waco office and was planning to open up an office in Dallas/Ft. Worth. I know that Dad convincing 2 of his sons to come work for him then not be able to keep them had to have been a huge blow to his pride. I always thought that my dad kind of fancied himself a sort of latter day old world patron. He would have been happy to have had a grand hacienda with all of his sons and their families living under his roof. I think bringing us to work for him was kind of his way of trying to make that a reality. I know that having that turn to dust hurt his heart and, frankly, I hurt for him.
He seemed fine, though, when I went in and saw him. He was in a great mood and told me about me some of the changes he was making in the company to cut costs and find profitability again. He asked me about my work and I bit my tongue and told him it was going great. I was really glad to see him looking and sounding like his old self again. He hugged me, told me he loved me, then went back to work. I left and drove back home.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Catching up, chapter 7.5: Letting bygones be bygones
This is a post I put on a weblog shared by me, Robbie, Mark and Mike, telling them about dad's apology and my reaction to it. I can't really improve on it since I wrote it right after it happened almost 4 years ago now. I have only changed some names to protect some of my former employees' anonymity.
Dad
You know, it occurs to me that the most pathetic human being out there is the shithead who, despite his comfortable middle or upper class upbringing, grows up to be a loser who blames his father for all of his own personal failings. I’m not talking about the run-of-the-mill teenager who rebels by getting a tattoo and nosering, either; I’m talking about the ones who really mean it. One time, I saw a hilarious photoshop on the internet of some slacker at an antiwar demonstration. The slogan on his sign – probably something real profound like “Bush=Hitler” – was digitally replaced with “I hate my FATHER and MYSELF.” I thought that was funny as shit because it was probably true.
That’s why I don’t really like complaining about Dad; I don’t want to be that guy. The problem though is I DO feel like him whenever I vent about Dad like I’ve done a few times here lately.
I mention this because Dad and I had a long conversation this morning that has left me somewhat speechless. I won’t go into all of it, but I will say that he very nicely and humbly apologized to me. He said he was sorry for surrounding me with (as he puts it) “losers and thieves” in San Antonio. He also said that he regrets not having listened to me on those occasions when I tried to tell him about the problems in San Antonio. He admitted that he simply didn’t want to hear what I had to say and found it easier to dismiss me rather than listen.
Wow. If there is one man in the world who hates the taste of crow, it’s our father. For him to have done that must have like eating a big one too, feathers and all.
I thanked him, accepted his apology and told him that he and I were okay. I told him that I hold no grudges because the way I saw it, even if he had surrounded me with the whole XXXXXXX “A-Team” it wouldn’t have made any difference. People in San Antonio just weren’t – and still aren’t – buying. And as for the “losers and thieves,” I told him that I was blameworthy too as I hired a lot of them. I thought Larry, Moe and Curley were the greatest things since sliced bread when I hired them and they all proved to be shitheads in the end.
So I told Dad that I was chalking the whole thing up to experience. We all went into this thing with the best of intentions, but we’re all grownups, too. I thought I’d be successful working for him. Hell, I expected to be successful. But I know there are no guarantees in life.
This is the last word I will have to say about this. I am through bitching about it. The simple truth is this: I gave it my best shot for Dad but, in the end, I just couldn’t crack the nut. But even though I’m not happy about failing, I’m not ashamed of myself - nor am I angry at Dad - anymore.
Dad
You know, it occurs to me that the most pathetic human being out there is the shithead who, despite his comfortable middle or upper class upbringing, grows up to be a loser who blames his father for all of his own personal failings. I’m not talking about the run-of-the-mill teenager who rebels by getting a tattoo and nosering, either; I’m talking about the ones who really mean it. One time, I saw a hilarious photoshop on the internet of some slacker at an antiwar demonstration. The slogan on his sign – probably something real profound like “Bush=Hitler” – was digitally replaced with “I hate my FATHER and MYSELF.” I thought that was funny as shit because it was probably true.
That’s why I don’t really like complaining about Dad; I don’t want to be that guy. The problem though is I DO feel like him whenever I vent about Dad like I’ve done a few times here lately.
I mention this because Dad and I had a long conversation this morning that has left me somewhat speechless. I won’t go into all of it, but I will say that he very nicely and humbly apologized to me. He said he was sorry for surrounding me with (as he puts it) “losers and thieves” in San Antonio. He also said that he regrets not having listened to me on those occasions when I tried to tell him about the problems in San Antonio. He admitted that he simply didn’t want to hear what I had to say and found it easier to dismiss me rather than listen.
Wow. If there is one man in the world who hates the taste of crow, it’s our father. For him to have done that must have like eating a big one too, feathers and all.
I thanked him, accepted his apology and told him that he and I were okay. I told him that I hold no grudges because the way I saw it, even if he had surrounded me with the whole XXXXXXX “A-Team” it wouldn’t have made any difference. People in San Antonio just weren’t – and still aren’t – buying. And as for the “losers and thieves,” I told him that I was blameworthy too as I hired a lot of them. I thought Larry, Moe and Curley were the greatest things since sliced bread when I hired them and they all proved to be shitheads in the end.
So I told Dad that I was chalking the whole thing up to experience. We all went into this thing with the best of intentions, but we’re all grownups, too. I thought I’d be successful working for him. Hell, I expected to be successful. But I know there are no guarantees in life.
This is the last word I will have to say about this. I am through bitching about it. The simple truth is this: I gave it my best shot for Dad but, in the end, I just couldn’t crack the nut. But even though I’m not happy about failing, I’m not ashamed of myself - nor am I angry at Dad - anymore.
Catching up, chapter 7: A surprise phone call
By July of '04, I was still toiling in the Heart O' Dixie and trying to convince myself that those conflicted emotions I was puzzling over had absolutely nothing to do with my (cowardly) totally reasonable, (chickenshit and fearful) well-nigh inevitable decision to bail out on my dad and go back to work for Ye Olde Firm. I was so busy reiterating this argument to myself that I was having trouble concentrating on my work. Nevertheless, I was at my desk one day doing my best, when my cell phone rang. I recognized the 512 number coming across as my dad. We exchanged pleasantries then he, as was his wont, got right down to the point of his call.
"I want to tell you that I am really sorry that things didn't work out for you here," he said. "I know I talked a lot about surrounding you with good people and 'giving you the tools you need to be successful' and all that, but the truth is son, that I didn't."
"Excuse me?" I could hardly believe my ears.
"I didn't give you what you needed to be successful," he said. "Hell, I surrounded you with a bunch of losers and thieves then got mad when you couldn't make it work."
I was at a loss for words.
He continued. "Hell, I'm surprised you held out as long as you did. We had Dario stealing us blind and Joe Medina running his own fucking construction company out of your office and I wouldn't let you do anything about it."
That was all true. Dario had a maddening habit of running my office like his personal fiefdom and reversing decisions I made about my labor crews. It pissed me off tono end but he outranked even me in the company so there was nothing I could do about it except bitch to my dad and he was unwilling to address it. He almost considered Dario to be one of his sons. Joe was my main foreman in S.A. I liked him personally but I knew he was a rogue and I didn't trust him farther than the tip of my nose. I figured he was probably dipping his beak by doing side jobs, but I had no idea of the scale of the rot which my dad eventually discovered after I left. It was so bad that he ended up purging most of the foremen in the company, whether they were directly complicit or not.
"You tried to tell me about the problems there in your office but I just didn't want to hear it. It was easier to dismiss you than listen to you. And I'm sorry."
It's not an exaggeration to say that I was thunderstruck by that conversation. My dad was not exactly the kind of person who habitually made apologies like that, to put it mildly. For him to do so told me that something had really shaken him.
After I had left San Antonio, he began going down there every day and directly running the place to try to turn it around. Before I left, he and I had a pretty heated argument where I told him that I thought there was no solution for San Antonio and that the only thing to do was close the entire office all together. I accused him of listening to his pride more than his common sense and that it made no economic sense to have offices in both Austin and San Antonio. I think he was determined to prove me wrong. He hired a crop of new estimators and personally trained them. He personally led the marketing efforts and even went so far as to have the office remodeled. The result was, however, more of the same. Nothing. Sales didn't measurably improve, nor did leads noticably increase. Dad found himself banging his head against the same wall that he had thrown me into for the past 3 years and found to his frustration that he couldn't knock it down, either.
"I want to tell you that I am really sorry that things didn't work out for you here," he said. "I know I talked a lot about surrounding you with good people and 'giving you the tools you need to be successful' and all that, but the truth is son, that I didn't."
"Excuse me?" I could hardly believe my ears.
"I didn't give you what you needed to be successful," he said. "Hell, I surrounded you with a bunch of losers and thieves then got mad when you couldn't make it work."
I was at a loss for words.
He continued. "Hell, I'm surprised you held out as long as you did. We had Dario stealing us blind and Joe Medina running his own fucking construction company out of your office and I wouldn't let you do anything about it."
That was all true. Dario had a maddening habit of running my office like his personal fiefdom and reversing decisions I made about my labor crews. It pissed me off tono end but he outranked even me in the company so there was nothing I could do about it except bitch to my dad and he was unwilling to address it. He almost considered Dario to be one of his sons. Joe was my main foreman in S.A. I liked him personally but I knew he was a rogue and I didn't trust him farther than the tip of my nose. I figured he was probably dipping his beak by doing side jobs, but I had no idea of the scale of the rot which my dad eventually discovered after I left. It was so bad that he ended up purging most of the foremen in the company, whether they were directly complicit or not.
"You tried to tell me about the problems there in your office but I just didn't want to hear it. It was easier to dismiss you than listen to you. And I'm sorry."
It's not an exaggeration to say that I was thunderstruck by that conversation. My dad was not exactly the kind of person who habitually made apologies like that, to put it mildly. For him to do so told me that something had really shaken him.
After I had left San Antonio, he began going down there every day and directly running the place to try to turn it around. Before I left, he and I had a pretty heated argument where I told him that I thought there was no solution for San Antonio and that the only thing to do was close the entire office all together. I accused him of listening to his pride more than his common sense and that it made no economic sense to have offices in both Austin and San Antonio. I think he was determined to prove me wrong. He hired a crop of new estimators and personally trained them. He personally led the marketing efforts and even went so far as to have the office remodeled. The result was, however, more of the same. Nothing. Sales didn't measurably improve, nor did leads noticably increase. Dad found himself banging his head against the same wall that he had thrown me into for the past 3 years and found to his frustration that he couldn't knock it down, either.
Anniversary
Five years ago today, May 13, 2003, I drove to Austin to shoot a television commercial with Dad and Mark. As I was driving through New Braunfels, I decided--quite on the spur of the moment--to quit smoking. I threw my cigarettes and lighter out the window and decided that that was it. I had been thinking about quitting for a while when I finally did it. I remember that I was worried because I had been feeling, during times of high stress (which was, needless to say, quite often) this weird vertigo like sensation in my head. I thought I was getting ready to stroke out or something so I began to get my pecker up to quit smoking.
Quitting an addiction isn't something you can just casually do. I don't care what your hook is, you can quit anything if you're determined enough. This is what I mean by "getting my pecker up." That kind of determination isn't something that you can just marshall on the spot, either. Quitting smoking involves a lifestyle change. In addition to cutting out the cigarettes, you have to manage if not totally eliminate the "triggers" that make you want to smoke. Fortunately, Erica and I weren't big drinkers and I have really never been a habitue of the bars so that wasn't too much of a problem but I had to deal with being around Erica when she lit up. I was hoping to inspire her to quit, but she didn't take the hint.
Anyway, it took me a few weeks to decide that I was good and ready to do it when I did. The realization that I was ready came on me all of a sudden on that drive to Austin. I knew I was ready so I tossed the smokes overboard.
I have been through a lot of personal and professional turbulence over the past few years, as I am beginning to document here. However, through it all, through some very dark moments, I never returned to Ms. Marlboro Light's warm embrace though I have been sorely tempted at times.
So as of today, I have been a non-smoker for 5 years.
Quitting an addiction isn't something you can just casually do. I don't care what your hook is, you can quit anything if you're determined enough. This is what I mean by "getting my pecker up." That kind of determination isn't something that you can just marshall on the spot, either. Quitting smoking involves a lifestyle change. In addition to cutting out the cigarettes, you have to manage if not totally eliminate the "triggers" that make you want to smoke. Fortunately, Erica and I weren't big drinkers and I have really never been a habitue of the bars so that wasn't too much of a problem but I had to deal with being around Erica when she lit up. I was hoping to inspire her to quit, but she didn't take the hint.
Anyway, it took me a few weeks to decide that I was good and ready to do it when I did. The realization that I was ready came on me all of a sudden on that drive to Austin. I knew I was ready so I tossed the smokes overboard.
I have been through a lot of personal and professional turbulence over the past few years, as I am beginning to document here. However, through it all, through some very dark moments, I never returned to Ms. Marlboro Light's warm embrace though I have been sorely tempted at times.
So as of today, I have been a non-smoker for 5 years.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Catching up, chapter 6: Repeating history a second time
Who was it who said the following: "History always repeats itself twice, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce?" Oh hell, when in doubt, ask Google. Good old Google, the online version of Cliff from "Cheers." I'm thinking it was Neitzsche, but I'm not positive. Sounds like something he would have said, though.
Nope, turns out is was another dour German, Karl Marx. If history has taught us anything, it's to be wary of unhappy Germans who spend too much time in their own heads. Good Germans wore lederhosen, swilled beer and yodeled in the Alps. Bad Germans sat around in cold rooms scribbling out fevered ideas that set the world on fire.
Anyway, to prove the truth of that dictum, the first assignment of my second tenure at Ye Olde Firm was to go BACK to Mobile, Alabama and try to salvage a very high-profile account that was in danger of canceling our contract and firing us. My old colleague, the guy who had taken my place when I left to go to San Antonio, was screwing the pooch royally and, in a last ditch effort at salvaging the account, they sent me.
I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do, or how I was supposed to save the thing. So, like almost everything I do, I figured that I would just wing it. When the time came I just went in, smiled and acted like my usual glib, happy-go-lucky self. God was obviously smiling on me, though, because to everyones' surprise it worked.
Now, as much as I would love to throw myself a parade, honesty compels me to reiterate that I didn't save the account by dint of my brilliance (as I don't have any) or by instituting any kind of new claims-handling strategy or anything like that. Rather, I saved it by simply having a different personality than my colleague. Basically, they liked me and that was enough. It turns out that the problem my colleague was having stemmed from an ill-advised joke he had made to their claims manager at one of their early meetings which she had taken offense to. Ever since then, she had been cataloging his screwups and basically measuring him for his coffin. I was able, by virtue of my sense of humor and more tactful approach, to calm the waters and save the account. Of course, the account rewarded me by putting pressure on Tom and me to move me back to Mobile permanantly to handle their cases but we all told them that that wasn't going to happen. Still, it made me feel real good and really polished my halo for Tom. I thought it would validate his decision to rehire me and pay me my very handsome salary. I was pleased.
That being said, though, it was around this time that I noticed my trouble sense beginning to tingle the tiniest bit. The feeling was akin to that spooky feeling you sometimes get when you think you are forgetting something, but don't know what. It wasn't anything dramatic, but rather like a slight, almost imperceptible background noise, like a mosquito's whine, in my mind. Despite the happy and placid surface of my life, I thought I could sense some cold undercurrents beginning to swirl. I began to fall into bad habits at work like wasting time on the internet instead of working and writing in my weblog (ahem), something I have since come to the believe is indicative of something awry in my subconscious.
My problems, inasmuch as I even considered them to be problems at the time, were twofold; first, because the Mobile client would only behave so long as I handled their claims, Tom stuck me in Mobile again. As I wrote earlier, after I went back to work for them I needed something to do and that chore definitely needed doing. I told Tom that I would do whatever he wanted me to do but that I had absolutely no interest in moving back to Alabama. He assured me that he understood and that the arrangement was to be strictly temporary. The company rented an apartment for me and flew me back and forth between New Orleans and San Antonio every week. I demanded 3 day weekends in exchange for agreeing to do this and Tom agreed. I flew to New Orleans every Monday morning and drove to Mobile for the week. I flew back home every Thursday evening. And even though Erica tried to keep her chin up about it, I began to worry that all my traveling would take a toll on her. Our marriage had been good the past few years despite my work stress, but our history was that every time we had ever had to spend a lot of time apart, it caused major problems in our marriage. Those problems reached their absolute pinnacle just before we left Mobile, and we almost got divorced because of them, but they eventually settled down again after we got to San Antonio. As long as I was home every night, everything was fine, but when I was not, Erica tended to stress out, fall into self-pity and get overwhelmed by things. Erica was not cut out to be a Navy wife (as she proved with her first husband) and yet here I was, putting her through that again.
Basically, I reacted to this "pre-problem" like I do all things when I come under stress; like a hedgehog. I hunker down and just try to tough it out. In this situation, I figured we would just weather the storm. I thought we could simply endure the traveling until we were able to move to wherever it was Tom wanted me to be. Once we were all back under the same roof together, I figured, everything would settle back down and be good again.
The second problem, though, was of a more fundamental nature and was one that I didn't even like to think about. After the excitement of my "triumphant return" had worn off and I began to get back to work in earnest, I began to discover--to my dismay--that I still didn't like the work. Time had faded the memories of the boredom and ennui I had gone through during the late 90's in Mobile. The stress and fear of trying to keep my dad's San Antonio operation afloat made that seem like heaven on earth by comparison, but only by comparison. Though I was happy to be off that sinking ship, it began to dawn on me that neither I nor the work of being a claims adjuster had changed all that much during my sojourn in south Texas. Absence had not made my heart grow fonder for claims handling; if anything, it had made me like it even less. Still, I bore down, told myself that I just had to get used to the work again, and soldiered on. However, there was no spring in my step. No sparkle in my eye. Being in Alabama again, reading files and handling claims was like trudging through mud. I fought back the first pangs of worry and refused to let myself think about it too much. I had made a commitment and I intended to see it through.
However, whether I acknowledged it to myself or not, in my heart of hearts a shape began to slowly coalesce. That shape was doubt. I began to wonder not if I had indeed made the right decision to leave (as subsequent events in my dad's company validated my decision in full, I thought) but whether I decided to return to Ye Olde Firm for the right reasons. I tried not to ask that question of myself because I was frankly terrified of the answer it would led me to. Did I go back to my old career because, once I had sown whatever oats I needed to with my dad, I had a muscular and confident belief that that was the right and proper career for me? Or, did I go back solely because I feared that my dad's ship was sinking and that I would very soon come to need a job? In my private moments, I dwelled on that shape and began to feel ill at ease. I mentioned my gnawing doubts to nobody and tried to put it down to nerves and stress. However, try as I might, denying the spectre was real didn't make it go away. It stayed there, night after night, whispering in my ear before I fell asleep.
And little by little, as I labored against the growing noise in my head, I was forced to acknowledge (even if only to myself) the inescapable fact that I had only been back at my job for a few months and yet I was already beginning to hate it again.
Karl Marx was right.
Nope, turns out is was another dour German, Karl Marx. If history has taught us anything, it's to be wary of unhappy Germans who spend too much time in their own heads. Good Germans wore lederhosen, swilled beer and yodeled in the Alps. Bad Germans sat around in cold rooms scribbling out fevered ideas that set the world on fire.
Anyway, to prove the truth of that dictum, the first assignment of my second tenure at Ye Olde Firm was to go BACK to Mobile, Alabama and try to salvage a very high-profile account that was in danger of canceling our contract and firing us. My old colleague, the guy who had taken my place when I left to go to San Antonio, was screwing the pooch royally and, in a last ditch effort at salvaging the account, they sent me.
I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do, or how I was supposed to save the thing. So, like almost everything I do, I figured that I would just wing it. When the time came I just went in, smiled and acted like my usual glib, happy-go-lucky self. God was obviously smiling on me, though, because to everyones' surprise it worked.
Now, as much as I would love to throw myself a parade, honesty compels me to reiterate that I didn't save the account by dint of my brilliance (as I don't have any) or by instituting any kind of new claims-handling strategy or anything like that. Rather, I saved it by simply having a different personality than my colleague. Basically, they liked me and that was enough. It turns out that the problem my colleague was having stemmed from an ill-advised joke he had made to their claims manager at one of their early meetings which she had taken offense to. Ever since then, she had been cataloging his screwups and basically measuring him for his coffin. I was able, by virtue of my sense of humor and more tactful approach, to calm the waters and save the account. Of course, the account rewarded me by putting pressure on Tom and me to move me back to Mobile permanantly to handle their cases but we all told them that that wasn't going to happen. Still, it made me feel real good and really polished my halo for Tom. I thought it would validate his decision to rehire me and pay me my very handsome salary. I was pleased.
That being said, though, it was around this time that I noticed my trouble sense beginning to tingle the tiniest bit. The feeling was akin to that spooky feeling you sometimes get when you think you are forgetting something, but don't know what. It wasn't anything dramatic, but rather like a slight, almost imperceptible background noise, like a mosquito's whine, in my mind. Despite the happy and placid surface of my life, I thought I could sense some cold undercurrents beginning to swirl. I began to fall into bad habits at work like wasting time on the internet instead of working and writing in my weblog (ahem), something I have since come to the believe is indicative of something awry in my subconscious.
My problems, inasmuch as I even considered them to be problems at the time, were twofold; first, because the Mobile client would only behave so long as I handled their claims, Tom stuck me in Mobile again. As I wrote earlier, after I went back to work for them I needed something to do and that chore definitely needed doing. I told Tom that I would do whatever he wanted me to do but that I had absolutely no interest in moving back to Alabama. He assured me that he understood and that the arrangement was to be strictly temporary. The company rented an apartment for me and flew me back and forth between New Orleans and San Antonio every week. I demanded 3 day weekends in exchange for agreeing to do this and Tom agreed. I flew to New Orleans every Monday morning and drove to Mobile for the week. I flew back home every Thursday evening. And even though Erica tried to keep her chin up about it, I began to worry that all my traveling would take a toll on her. Our marriage had been good the past few years despite my work stress, but our history was that every time we had ever had to spend a lot of time apart, it caused major problems in our marriage. Those problems reached their absolute pinnacle just before we left Mobile, and we almost got divorced because of them, but they eventually settled down again after we got to San Antonio. As long as I was home every night, everything was fine, but when I was not, Erica tended to stress out, fall into self-pity and get overwhelmed by things. Erica was not cut out to be a Navy wife (as she proved with her first husband) and yet here I was, putting her through that again.
Basically, I reacted to this "pre-problem" like I do all things when I come under stress; like a hedgehog. I hunker down and just try to tough it out. In this situation, I figured we would just weather the storm. I thought we could simply endure the traveling until we were able to move to wherever it was Tom wanted me to be. Once we were all back under the same roof together, I figured, everything would settle back down and be good again.
The second problem, though, was of a more fundamental nature and was one that I didn't even like to think about. After the excitement of my "triumphant return" had worn off and I began to get back to work in earnest, I began to discover--to my dismay--that I still didn't like the work. Time had faded the memories of the boredom and ennui I had gone through during the late 90's in Mobile. The stress and fear of trying to keep my dad's San Antonio operation afloat made that seem like heaven on earth by comparison, but only by comparison. Though I was happy to be off that sinking ship, it began to dawn on me that neither I nor the work of being a claims adjuster had changed all that much during my sojourn in south Texas. Absence had not made my heart grow fonder for claims handling; if anything, it had made me like it even less. Still, I bore down, told myself that I just had to get used to the work again, and soldiered on. However, there was no spring in my step. No sparkle in my eye. Being in Alabama again, reading files and handling claims was like trudging through mud. I fought back the first pangs of worry and refused to let myself think about it too much. I had made a commitment and I intended to see it through.
However, whether I acknowledged it to myself or not, in my heart of hearts a shape began to slowly coalesce. That shape was doubt. I began to wonder not if I had indeed made the right decision to leave (as subsequent events in my dad's company validated my decision in full, I thought) but whether I decided to return to Ye Olde Firm for the right reasons. I tried not to ask that question of myself because I was frankly terrified of the answer it would led me to. Did I go back to my old career because, once I had sown whatever oats I needed to with my dad, I had a muscular and confident belief that that was the right and proper career for me? Or, did I go back solely because I feared that my dad's ship was sinking and that I would very soon come to need a job? In my private moments, I dwelled on that shape and began to feel ill at ease. I mentioned my gnawing doubts to nobody and tried to put it down to nerves and stress. However, try as I might, denying the spectre was real didn't make it go away. It stayed there, night after night, whispering in my ear before I fell asleep.
And little by little, as I labored against the growing noise in my head, I was forced to acknowledge (even if only to myself) the inescapable fact that I had only been back at my job for a few months and yet I was already beginning to hate it again.
Karl Marx was right.
The wages of shoplifting
James' dirty little habit
I have a confession to make. I have gotten myself into the dirty habit of, every time I go to the local grocery store, creeping over to the candy dispensers and taking a small handful of carob raisins to munch while I shop. I never pay for them. Today, I had to go in and buy some eggs and toothpaste. As per my habit, I got my usual little handful, threw some in my mouth then put the rest into my pocket for later. I don’t know why I do this as, Lord knows, a few raisins aren’t going to bankrupt me. I think it’s because I like them so much that I KNOW I’ll eat them all at one sitting if I buy a whole bag of them. That, plus I spend a lot of money at that store as it is. I know that none of that excuses stealing, but I guess that’s how I rationalize it to myself.
Anyway, after I checked out, I walked out into the parking lot and reached into my pocket for my illicit snack. I grabbed the whole handful of the raisins and threw them triumphantly into my mouth, all of the delicious carob raisins . . . along with about $1.50 in loose change. I spent the next few minutes spitting out then wiping off some very messy coins. Thankfully, my truck keys were in my other pocket, else they would have probably ended up in my mouth and covered with spit and carob raisin goo, as well!
Serves me right, I suppose.
Easy listening song of the day: "Been Caught Stealing," Jane’s Addiction
P.S. I originally posted this entry on my bodybuilding.com blog. I wanted to post something here that would break the monotany of this very uninspired recitation of the history of the last 4 years of my life. Anyway, one of the commenters to that post refered to the raisins as "carbo raisins." I don't know if this was by design or a typo, but either way, it's pretty clever. I think that one little mot juste cured me of that habit.
I have a confession to make. I have gotten myself into the dirty habit of, every time I go to the local grocery store, creeping over to the candy dispensers and taking a small handful of carob raisins to munch while I shop. I never pay for them. Today, I had to go in and buy some eggs and toothpaste. As per my habit, I got my usual little handful, threw some in my mouth then put the rest into my pocket for later. I don’t know why I do this as, Lord knows, a few raisins aren’t going to bankrupt me. I think it’s because I like them so much that I KNOW I’ll eat them all at one sitting if I buy a whole bag of them. That, plus I spend a lot of money at that store as it is. I know that none of that excuses stealing, but I guess that’s how I rationalize it to myself.
Anyway, after I checked out, I walked out into the parking lot and reached into my pocket for my illicit snack. I grabbed the whole handful of the raisins and threw them triumphantly into my mouth, all of the delicious carob raisins . . . along with about $1.50 in loose change. I spent the next few minutes spitting out then wiping off some very messy coins. Thankfully, my truck keys were in my other pocket, else they would have probably ended up in my mouth and covered with spit and carob raisin goo, as well!
Serves me right, I suppose.
Easy listening song of the day: "Been Caught Stealing," Jane’s Addiction
P.S. I originally posted this entry on my bodybuilding.com blog. I wanted to post something here that would break the monotany of this very uninspired recitation of the history of the last 4 years of my life. Anyway, one of the commenters to that post refered to the raisins as "carbo raisins." I don't know if this was by design or a typo, but either way, it's pretty clever. I think that one little mot juste cured me of that habit.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Catching up, chapter 5: Pulling up anchor and trimming sails
My first day back at the Old Firm was on April 5, 2004, Robbie's birthday. I once read a story in a book or magazine where a man, after a harrowing experience in trying to run his own small business, goes back to his old job at a large corporation. "I now know what they mean when people say 'the sweet taste of success,'" he said. "As soon as I walked back in that door, my saliva turned sugary."
My first day back was nothing like that. I reported for work in the Houston office (staying at my mom's house) while we figuered out what I would do. Everyone was real nice to me, of course, but I still kind of felt like a 5th wheel. Nevertheless, it did feel good to be back. When I told him I was leaving, Dad had taken the news pretty well even though he later kind of pissed in my ear about it. After I gave my notice, he started coming to San Antonio regularly and remolding the office. He fired one of my underperforming estimators (as if anyone was overperforming in that business) and ran an add in the local paper to hire some new estimator trainees. I kept my head low for 2 weeks then made my goodbyes.
My first day back was nothing like that. I reported for work in the Houston office (staying at my mom's house) while we figuered out what I would do. Everyone was real nice to me, of course, but I still kind of felt like a 5th wheel. Nevertheless, it did feel good to be back. When I told him I was leaving, Dad had taken the news pretty well even though he later kind of pissed in my ear about it. After I gave my notice, he started coming to San Antonio regularly and remolding the office. He fired one of my underperforming estimators (as if anyone was overperforming in that business) and ran an add in the local paper to hire some new estimator trainees. I kept my head low for 2 weeks then made my goodbyes.
Catching up, chapter 4: On the wisdom of not burning your bridges
Sometime in February or March of 2004 Erica, the girls and I went to Houston for a weekend visit. While Erica and the girls were at my in-laws' house, I made arrangements to go and meet Tom to discuss me rejoining the firm. I drive to his house in College Station and had an very enjoyable visit with him. The bout with lung cancer had sapped some of his vitality but he was the same man I remembered and, as far as I was concerned, 10 feet tall and bulletproof. Nevertheless, I was nervous about it and not at all sure that doing this was the right thing to do, however the last few months had pretty grinded all the remaining shreds of optimism out of me. Although some events are a bit hazy in my memory, I do remember the actual moment with my father when I pretty much mentally checked out. I was having a conversation with him about business and the relative paucity of sales in San Antonio. I was trying for the umpteenth time to get him to understand that SA wasn't like Austin but he just kept shaking me off.
"You will never be successful until you stop looking at the world the way you do and stary looking at it the way I do." Verily I say, I almost choked when he said that. If I had had a shovel in my hand, I would have hit him in the face with it. Sadly, that kind of bullshit was typical of him back then. The truth is (and I can say this from benefit of 4 years of hindsight now) that that business, along with the entire industry, was going through a very painful contraction at that time. A few of our competitors had already been choked out and the rest of us were like a bunch of hyenas snarling and snapping at each other, fighting over the few remaining bones of the last antelope in Africa. He didn't want to accept this situation and instead persisted in casting about and looking for someone to blame for the company's problems. For him to try to lazily blame our lack of sales on me for, in essence, having the temerity to think for myself was the last straw. Right then and there I knew the jig was up.
Back to Tom, we had lunch at his house and discussed in the broadest terms my return to the firm. As far as he was concerned, the reason I had left had nothing to do with the nature of the work or anything like that but rather it was solely because I wanted to work for my dad. I always kind of hero-worshiped Tom so I didn't tell him any of the complaints I had about the business when I left Mobile. Plus, though I was committed to working for my dad, I have never really been one for burning bridges so I make doubly-damned sure that I left the firm under the best circumstances, giving 30 days notice and fully training my replacement and bringing him up to date on all of my files. As a result of all of that (plus his overall fondness of me personally as he knew me since I was a teenager) his esteem of me didn't suffer any after I quit. Curiously, if anything, it grew. He told me that he envisioned me either working in the Houston office, moving to Norfolk, Virginia, or going to Jacksonville, Florida and running a new office we were planning on opening there.
Erica was ecstatic about it, especially the prospect of moving back home to Houston. A few follow-up phone calls between Tom and I ironed out the issue of my salary and an agreement was made. I was going back.
"You will never be successful until you stop looking at the world the way you do and stary looking at it the way I do." Verily I say, I almost choked when he said that. If I had had a shovel in my hand, I would have hit him in the face with it. Sadly, that kind of bullshit was typical of him back then. The truth is (and I can say this from benefit of 4 years of hindsight now) that that business, along with the entire industry, was going through a very painful contraction at that time. A few of our competitors had already been choked out and the rest of us were like a bunch of hyenas snarling and snapping at each other, fighting over the few remaining bones of the last antelope in Africa. He didn't want to accept this situation and instead persisted in casting about and looking for someone to blame for the company's problems. For him to try to lazily blame our lack of sales on me for, in essence, having the temerity to think for myself was the last straw. Right then and there I knew the jig was up.
Back to Tom, we had lunch at his house and discussed in the broadest terms my return to the firm. As far as he was concerned, the reason I had left had nothing to do with the nature of the work or anything like that but rather it was solely because I wanted to work for my dad. I always kind of hero-worshiped Tom so I didn't tell him any of the complaints I had about the business when I left Mobile. Plus, though I was committed to working for my dad, I have never really been one for burning bridges so I make doubly-damned sure that I left the firm under the best circumstances, giving 30 days notice and fully training my replacement and bringing him up to date on all of my files. As a result of all of that (plus his overall fondness of me personally as he knew me since I was a teenager) his esteem of me didn't suffer any after I quit. Curiously, if anything, it grew. He told me that he envisioned me either working in the Houston office, moving to Norfolk, Virginia, or going to Jacksonville, Florida and running a new office we were planning on opening there.
Erica was ecstatic about it, especially the prospect of moving back home to Houston. A few follow-up phone calls between Tom and I ironed out the issue of my salary and an agreement was made. I was going back.
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