Ruminations
RETIREMENT
After working for over forty years, I'm no longer a hunter, but a gatherer. I'm headed for the old barn, hanging up my spurs, and going out to the big pasture of retirement. I'm now grazing in my wife's pasture, where she has been the lord and master for all of our married life. I am on her turf, her territory and in her face. We both have an adjustment that redefines our past roles as we have known them. You know, ME work downtown, YOU work home. Well, that is no longer the case, which reminds me of the behavior of horses in a herd on the range.
The stallion stands off from the herd, guarding against potential predators and suitors for his mares. He has two jobs: protection and - well, we know what the other one is. The lead mare nurtures the herd and bosses the young, the old, and anybody else that gets in her space. When the stallion gets too old, or whatever, to do his job, a little operation is performed on him, and he becomes a gelding.
Geldings have a distinct role in the herd - MIND THE DOMINANT MARE! - a role she seems to love. She bosses the living stuff out of them, and generally makes their lives miserable if they don't fall into line. By now I think that you can catch on where I'm going.
While I haven't had an operation, MY new status as a "guy" hanging around the barn in my wife's territory gives pause to my status as, ah, a gatherer male, and I better behave. She says that I can't hang around all day watching TV re-runs of the invasion of Normandy. Nuts. A lifetime of "honey dos" have piled up, and I better get off my couch and get started. Home Depot is my new pasture.
Well, I ain't going to take this new role lying down, except for an occasional nap. I have staked out a piece of turf in the basement that I call my "office," and she better not even come close to my 4'x4' space. I can cruise the Internet to my heart's content, play with my files, and even look busy and important. That's enough for me, and I don't even have to put on a shirt, tie, and a suit to impress her.
I've even gone so far as to start a new business that seems to have a good future. Canning pony farts for homesick cowboys seems to have a market, and I am going to pursue it with vigor - at least, it will get me back in the pasture again and out of the barn.
WHOOPIE, IT'S A...
The high cost of medical care has our nation reeling, and the hospitals, in particular, are bleating like a bunch of cows that need milking. The large number of medical staff, the high cost of modern equipment, and the need for new doctors' lounges has caused a big drain on their budgets. Accordingly, hospitals are looking for new ways to increase their revenue stream - OK, profits.
They've tried charging $10 for an aspirin, $100 per visit by a bed pan orderly, and $20 an hour for parking, and they still come up short. They need a new plan, and I think I have a partial solution.
The birth of a baby is something the latest generation has discovered. Today the father, the grandparents, and as many shirttail relatives and friends as the birthing room can hold can watch the event. Indeed there is a cable TV program which follows a couple, almost from the moment of conception to the televising of the birth. Hospitals would do well to take advantage of this hot trend.
Here's the business plan. First, the birthing room will be greatly enlarged to accommodate a big crowd of invitees. The room will have stadium seating like that at a sporting event, under which colleges will have kiosks touting their wares to the new candidate for higher education. Second, a huge stadium-like TV will show every intimate detail of the process. It will, of necessity, have instant replay capabilities. Finally, soft background music will drown out any moans, groans, or screams of the father.
At the outset of the guests' visit and before they are seated, they will be escorted for a viewing of the epicenter of the event. Next, they will be given a moist towel with which they can take one swipe at the mother-to-be's forehead while they speak words of encouragement and cheers. They will then be seated in the stands for the viewing. There, the hospital's staff will go through the crowd, selling beverages of choice, hot dogs, and tickets to the staff lottery. No ball caps will be sold, but T-shirts and pennants with "Go, (mother's name)" will be available at a modest price.
After the child is born and "Whoopee, it's a boy" or Whoopee, it's a girl" is shouted, everyone will get a shot at cooing, gooing, or frowning at the little critter. Each departing guest will then receive a souvenir videotape of the event along with a validation of their parking tickets.
The hospital's bean counter will now be as ecstatic as the new parents as none of this folderol is going to come cheap. Someone is going to have to pay for it. Probably some insurance company will get stuck with it someday, but right now it is going to be the parents. Since this is the actual birth day of the child, presents will be in order and, naturally, cash will be accepted, along with credit cards and pledges.
After the mother and child have spent their allotted two hours in the hospital following the birth, a post-birth party can resume at their home. Naturally, the birth tape will be replayed continuously not only for the benefit of those guests who were there but also to share the event with those who were not.
When everyone has left, and all is quiet, and the newborn is warmly snuggled in its bassinet, Mom and Dad will have a moment to reflect on the whole event and the hospital bill. I'm sure that it will be small in relation to the joy they feel at the birthing process viewing party. As the old saying goes, "Anything that comes out OK in the end is worth it."
RESTATING
Recent events have headlined companies who restate their revenues and earnings to make their financial record look better than it really is. We, the gullibles, have too often bought stock in these companies and have lost our shirts as a result. The boards of directors, top management, and their advisors have come in, rightly so, for some severe criticism for the practice of restating almost everything. On the other hand, maybe the practice of restating has become so ingrained in our current culture that they should be given a little slack; e.g., thumb screws prohibited as punishment.
Let me explain my generosity by examining our society's practice of restating the truth. The most obvious area we seek to restate is our faces. We change them with new noses, new cheeks, new eyes, and sexy lips. We also don't like our hair. Men get weaves and transplants to cover up what ain't there any longer. Women use enough hair dye to camouflage the Pentagon several times a year so that terrorists can't find it.
Consider our bodies. Restated boobs, thighs, and tummies consume as much of our personal budgets as interest on the national debt. We get them tucked, made larger, smaller, and flattened with such fervor that the medical schools are having trouble supplying the doctors to keep up with the demand for plastic surgery. Scientists are also getting into the act. Soon we will be able to discover which part of our DNA will cause us problems in our future and correct the genetic flaw. Maybe some will want to go so far in restating themselves that they will be cloned. Our imagination will have no limits.
We also have a practice of restating our lives. Human resources people claim that few resumes can be believed any more. It seems that we take liberty with our past accomplishments. Change a fact here, a date there, and pretty soon you've a resume that's restated to the extent that it would even make Charles Manson look good.
What brought the practice of restating our lives to my attention was my attendance at the funeral of a long time friend and business partner. During the service, a family member expounded at great length about his achievements. For more than a few minutes, I thought I was at the wrong funeral. Apparently, someone had a good imagination when his life history was written for all of us to remember. I soon realized that the family member was taking the liberty of restating a few things. So, what the heck, why blow the poor guy's cover as he was about to be covered.
I next thought about my own life and what would be said about me at my funeral. I quickly knew that I, too, would need some major restating. I pondered how I could assist those who will have the difficult task of trying to make an old penny look like a new dime. Just how could I leave the impression that I would be a big loss to my family and society now that I'm gone? After some time, I came to the conclusion that my life would not have to be restated to improve it. When you come to think of it, what more could be said about a boy than that he came from Peoria, IL.