When the nice folks at the Wild Dunes Yacht Club asked me if I would be interested in becoming their new treasurer, I was quite pleased that they would think enough of me to hold out such an honor. After all, Lily and I had not been members for very long, and surely there were other deserving candidates out there. The club, which places a heavy -- some might say disproportionate -- emphasis on good time party events, seemed like a natural fit for us, and, if I could help steer the financial fortunes of the organization to help it party on, so much the better. I came to this calling buoyed by the knowledge that I had been the unofficial “banker” for years in our group houses in Rehoboth, figuring who owes what to whom, and so it seemed like a marriage made in heaven.
The current treasurer, Doug, an eminently affable and princely fellow had promised to take me through the contours of what his job entailed, and, after a few months of dithering, I finally arranged to meet with Doug at his home here to receive my tutorial. He lives barely three blocks away. We sat around the kitchen table where Doug displayed for me a binder that was half the size of Belgium and that contained fourteen metric tons of financial history, receipts, necessary forms and tables, and balance sheets that mark the backbone of any semi-serious organization. It was at that moment that I realized I had underestimated -- woefully -- the nature of what I was being asked to do. This was no beach house account where mere scribblings on a piece of scrap paper and approximations were the order of the day. This was the real deal. General Motors could not boast a much more thoroughly articulated set of books than what lay in front of me.
As Doug patiently led me through the various sections of this fabulous -- and endless -- tome, my anxieties rose in much the same way they might if I were in a line of skydivers and my time to jump into space was rapidly approaching. With each page of double entries, and with every introduction to a new form that the IRS would need to have, my throat tightened. Was this what I signed up for? Really? This was a job for crying out loud! Serious business! But -- wait a second -- I thought I was retired.
I must have reached critical mass. At some point -- I’m not sure exactly when -- I realized I was in WAY over my head notwithstanding Doug’s calm assurances that this was merely his way of doing the books and perhaps there could be other, less ritualistic, ways of performing the same overall tasks. Too late. My head was swimming amid an avalanche of receipts and inventory listings of wine bottles, club soda, and paper plates. I knew -- I just knew -- that whatever embarrassment I might suffer from backing out on my offer to become treasurer, a hasty retreat had to be trumpeted loudly.
And so, I decided I needed to tell Doug my decades old story of my first exposure to accounting. It went like this:
In my freshman year at Washington University, I was (inadvisably and temporarily) enrolled in the Business School. A required course in accounting was on the table for first semester freshmen. I struggled with this course as I had never struggled with a class previously. The material was so dry, so devoid of fun, excitement and adventure that I quickly developed a huge mental block any time I dared to dive into the material. I simply could not do it. It irritated my DNA. Thus, it came as no surprise that I flunked the mid-term which, as a newbie freshman, was the academic version of a death sentence. I went to see my professor, a kindly sort who was headed to retirement at the end of the school year. I pleaded with him to let me drop the course, but he refused since it was against university policy to allow a student to drop a course unless he or she had a C average. I winked and said, essentially, what’s the harm? Who’s to know? Just let me get out and escape to the finer pastures of the liberal arts curriculum where I so obviously belonged. My professor refused... but he did hold out an olive branch. He said, “Golland, I’ll make you a deal. Study hard for the final, do all your homework, attend all the classes, make an honest effort. If you show me any signs of intelligence, I will give you a C for the course and you can go off to a greater future in the liberal arts world.” How could I refuse? I studied hard -- as hard as I could for material that was as stimulating to me as a bowl of tepid oatmeal. I went to class, I took notes, I did the homework, I studied as well as I could for the final exam. And, by gosh, I thought I did pretty well.
A few days later I decided to go to my professor’s office to learn my fate. I knocked; he had me open the door. When he saw it was me, he said -- and for as long as I live I will never, ever forget his exact words -- “Golland, you showed me no signs of intelligence.” I died, right there on the spot. My future evaporated in front of my eyes. My GPA was doomed to mediocrity, at best. Then, as if the Greek gods themselves intervened at that that very moment, my professor said that out of his desire (more accurately, pity) not to derail my college experience so prematurely he decided to give me a C for the course despite everything. It was a retirement gift to me from the soon to depart professor. The blood slowly came back to my ashen face. I dodged a bullet -- big time. But, lest there be any lingering doubts, business, and more particularly, accounting, would not be in my future. Ever.
Doug smiled. He knew at that moment that the gig was up. He knew he would have to find another candidate to be treasurer. For my part, I had dodged another bullet, this one almost a half century later.
I left Doug’s house and smiled, so glad I had overcome my fear of the embarrassment I would feel for having let folks at the Yacht Club believe I would take the financial reins. I walked home barely feeling my weight. I was free. I would live to fight another day.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Cruisin'
Close your eyes and imagine a place that is a perfect blend of Las Vegas and Disneyland. Apparently, garish met cutesy; they fell in love, and produced one fiendishly surreal progeny they called "cruise ship."
We are aboard the Carnival Cruise Line’s “Sensation.” And, I can sort of see the logic in that name since it is your senses -- all of them -- that are stimulated here (or, perhaps I should say assaulted). First, the décor is designed, I am quite certain, to give life to whatever feelings of seasickness you’ve been earnestly trying to suppress. The walls abound with large, wavy lines crisscrossed at random intervals with jagged zigzag lines. The carpeted floors are awash in bright, clashing colors and shapes that are as alien to the wall “art” as I am to the 400 pound fellow cruiser sitting way too close to me. Glitter and small panels of reflective mirrors dot the scenery, producing an overall effect that allows you the trippiness of an acid encounter without the assistance of drugs. Second, your ears are treated to everything except silence. Choose your poison: hypercheerful p.a. announcements, muzak, raucous bands, and the, shall we say, overly ebullient hot tub denizen who can speak only at ear-splitting decibel levels. Third, as we had been advised, the food is not just plentiful, it is thrown at you much like a virtual avalanche. We have barely scratched the surface of this, but already it is hard to be more than arm’s length from plates overflowing with pasta, mashed potatoes, burger and fries. And, don’t get me started with the crazily bodacious dessert display. I have concluded that 30% of the crew are trained cardiologists. Judging from the girth of a not insubstantial number of passengers, there are a number of folks here who know just a little about how to navigate a buffet table. Pay heed and just stay out of the way.
When Lily and I first “won” this “free” cruise after attending a manic sales pitch for resort time shares, we really should have narrowed our eyes a bit to read between the lines. Nothing is free and this cruise is out to prove this point with gusto. After we had learned of our so-called free ride on the Sensation, we were advised that we would be staying in bunk beds in an interior room. When I asked if we could move to a room with a king-sized bed, they cheerfully obliged -- in return for $550. What they didn’t tell us is that for this extra sum they would simply re-arrange the twin beds by throwing them together and then fitting them with king sheets. Essentially, we paid $550 for a set of sheets. Drinks, excursions, spa treatments, dinner at Sinatra’s table -- all extra. I am reasonably certain there is no charge for the air we breathe, but I’ll have to check our statement on this later.
Our stateroom is -- how you say -- compact, much like a sardine can is compact. I’m okay with a single file rule when going to the closet or bathroom. But, as Lily will most avidly attest, it’s a bit discomfiting to realize that your room is not only windowless, but pretty much at the bottom of the ship. The only living quarters beneath ours is, I believe, Davey Jones’ Locker.
Off to dinner!
We are aboard the Carnival Cruise Line’s “Sensation.” And, I can sort of see the logic in that name since it is your senses -- all of them -- that are stimulated here (or, perhaps I should say assaulted). First, the décor is designed, I am quite certain, to give life to whatever feelings of seasickness you’ve been earnestly trying to suppress. The walls abound with large, wavy lines crisscrossed at random intervals with jagged zigzag lines. The carpeted floors are awash in bright, clashing colors and shapes that are as alien to the wall “art” as I am to the 400 pound fellow cruiser sitting way too close to me. Glitter and small panels of reflective mirrors dot the scenery, producing an overall effect that allows you the trippiness of an acid encounter without the assistance of drugs. Second, your ears are treated to everything except silence. Choose your poison: hypercheerful p.a. announcements, muzak, raucous bands, and the, shall we say, overly ebullient hot tub denizen who can speak only at ear-splitting decibel levels. Third, as we had been advised, the food is not just plentiful, it is thrown at you much like a virtual avalanche. We have barely scratched the surface of this, but already it is hard to be more than arm’s length from plates overflowing with pasta, mashed potatoes, burger and fries. And, don’t get me started with the crazily bodacious dessert display. I have concluded that 30% of the crew are trained cardiologists. Judging from the girth of a not insubstantial number of passengers, there are a number of folks here who know just a little about how to navigate a buffet table. Pay heed and just stay out of the way.
When Lily and I first “won” this “free” cruise after attending a manic sales pitch for resort time shares, we really should have narrowed our eyes a bit to read between the lines. Nothing is free and this cruise is out to prove this point with gusto. After we had learned of our so-called free ride on the Sensation, we were advised that we would be staying in bunk beds in an interior room. When I asked if we could move to a room with a king-sized bed, they cheerfully obliged -- in return for $550. What they didn’t tell us is that for this extra sum they would simply re-arrange the twin beds by throwing them together and then fitting them with king sheets. Essentially, we paid $550 for a set of sheets. Drinks, excursions, spa treatments, dinner at Sinatra’s table -- all extra. I am reasonably certain there is no charge for the air we breathe, but I’ll have to check our statement on this later.
Our stateroom is -- how you say -- compact, much like a sardine can is compact. I’m okay with a single file rule when going to the closet or bathroom. But, as Lily will most avidly attest, it’s a bit discomfiting to realize that your room is not only windowless, but pretty much at the bottom of the ship. The only living quarters beneath ours is, I believe, Davey Jones’ Locker.
Off to dinner!
Cruisin' (with a better attitude)
Ok. We’re beginning to get the hang of this cruising thing. No epiphanies here, just some simple lessons:
1) We have learned how not to stub our toes (or, alternatively, whack our heads against the closet door) when entering and exiting the one-step up bathroom in the middle of the night.
2) We now understand that as black as it gets in our windowless room, it does not automatically mean that it is 3 a.m. It could just as easily be high noon. So, whenever I wake up I check my watch just to be sure we’re not missing lunch. Our room is not really a badly appointed box; but, it is still a box. And, the insides of boxes are very, very dark.
3) We are learning the food can be quite good here. Last night: melon and prosciutto, lobster and shrimp, and a chocolate ganache. For lunch: shrimp and calamari fritters. Plus, the sushi bar is perfect for those all-important pre-dinner snacks. Gaack! I’m becoming one of those cruise types who eat 24 hours a day. Thank goodness we walk a good bit whether it’s around in dizzying circles on the ship’s roof-top track or on land, as we did today on our hike to Paradise Island.
4) We are finally learning to navigate around the 11 or 12 decks of this boat. The first day was a living, life-sized maze. I mean, really, how do you get from the Fantasia Lounge to the Ecstasy Dining Room?
5) Start drinking at 2 p.m.
6) And, last night, on Valentine’s Day, Lily and I danced at our dinner table (as, I am quick to add, many others did as well) as our hosts broke out in an impossibly atonal version of “Amore.”
Would we do this again? Absolutely not. Even, if it was, in fact, free? Let me put it this way, if I asked you whether you’d enjoy wearing shoes for 4 days that were a size too small -- for free! -- I suspect our answers would be remarkably similar. All I know is that three mornings from now, we will open our eyes and know with absolute certainty that the sun has risen.
Amen.
1) We have learned how not to stub our toes (or, alternatively, whack our heads against the closet door) when entering and exiting the one-step up bathroom in the middle of the night.
2) We now understand that as black as it gets in our windowless room, it does not automatically mean that it is 3 a.m. It could just as easily be high noon. So, whenever I wake up I check my watch just to be sure we’re not missing lunch. Our room is not really a badly appointed box; but, it is still a box. And, the insides of boxes are very, very dark.
3) We are learning the food can be quite good here. Last night: melon and prosciutto, lobster and shrimp, and a chocolate ganache. For lunch: shrimp and calamari fritters. Plus, the sushi bar is perfect for those all-important pre-dinner snacks. Gaack! I’m becoming one of those cruise types who eat 24 hours a day. Thank goodness we walk a good bit whether it’s around in dizzying circles on the ship’s roof-top track or on land, as we did today on our hike to Paradise Island.
4) We are finally learning to navigate around the 11 or 12 decks of this boat. The first day was a living, life-sized maze. I mean, really, how do you get from the Fantasia Lounge to the Ecstasy Dining Room?
5) Start drinking at 2 p.m.
6) And, last night, on Valentine’s Day, Lily and I danced at our dinner table (as, I am quick to add, many others did as well) as our hosts broke out in an impossibly atonal version of “Amore.”
Would we do this again? Absolutely not. Even, if it was, in fact, free? Let me put it this way, if I asked you whether you’d enjoy wearing shoes for 4 days that were a size too small -- for free! -- I suspect our answers would be remarkably similar. All I know is that three mornings from now, we will open our eyes and know with absolute certainty that the sun has risen.
Amen.
Open Seas
Like so many people, I love the ocean. This late afternoon we are being treated to a sensation we don’t often feel even though we do live just steps from the beach. Seeking an escape from the shadows of the rear deck, we’ve taken up a perch on the ship’s port side -- where the sun shines warmly and the breeze we felt before has subsided. My feet are up on the railing, my chair tilted back, a tequila and oj inches away. Lily is reading, facing the sun. There is near silence here too, something that has eluded us in the past 4 days. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, beyond these railings. Just ocean and sky. To our right a bit, the lowering sun has turned the sea ablaze, blindingly so. To our left, the ocean is slate blue and so very, very flat. It is as peaceful a moment as one can reasonably expect to enjoy. Other than the muted voices of folks at near-by tables, the only sound is the ocean’s. More particularly, the sound the ocean makes as this large ship cuts through it on its way northwest. The sounds of foam and spray. There is a gorgeous randomness to the wave action out there. Some of it rolls away from us, some toward us. There are intricate patterns in the waves I have never noticed before, almost like a very fine latticework. Is it really possible these waves we are enjoying originated thousands of miles away? Brazil, maybe. West Africa? Who knows? But, I don’t want these moments to go unnoticed. They are just too serene and too beautiful.
Our ship rocks ever so slightly, just enough to remind us we are not on land. No birds, no planes, no other ships. Just us.
I am happy.
Our ship rocks ever so slightly, just enough to remind us we are not on land. No birds, no planes, no other ships. Just us.
I am happy.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Stamped Out
I ever so vaguely recall in my youth a tepid effort by my mother to collect these silly little stamps at the local grocery -- the renowned S&H Green Stamps -- all in the not fully articulated aspiration of getting something for nothing. I mean, in my small and unworldly head at the time, that’s the way it struck me. You buy food, you get stamps, you claim stuff you really don’t need and, most importantly, you feel you’ve bested the system. We had these little books designed to hold these stamps and, despite my own doubts, we would watch their numbers grow with elevated salivation imagining all manner of trophy acquisitions that one could just not live without.
We now flash forward more than a half century and find history biting me in the ass. Why? Because our local Piggly Wiggly announced a campaign to issue “stickers” to one and all in the hopes that one great day we could all enrich ourselves with a potpourri of Cuisinart appliances and cookware. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I ever so quickly pushed aside my decades-long impression of these kinds of promotions and embraced this one with a vengeance. Here was the deal: for every $10 worth of grocery purchases, you would be issued a sticker that had a picture of the lovable pig himself on it although that was hard to tell since each sticker was no larger than a mosquito bite. When the promotion expired in January, you would check your accumulation and come reap your reward whether that might be a new frying pan, coffee maker, juicer, assorted pots, etc. You decide.
What ensued was madness. First, the stamps were so miniscule, you had to almost place them in a special padlocked container just to get them safely home. Put them in your shopping bag? Forget about it. Put them in your pocket? Gone. I am convinced the good folks at the Pig designed these things to be so small knowing that 40% of them would never make it out of their parking lot. (Speaking of which, when the checkout ladies started spreading the word that alot of customers were losing their stickers while returning to their cars, you could unerringly find an enterprising shopper or two kicking stuff around on the asphalt outside trying to dig up this lost gold.) Second, should you be lucky enough to get the stickers home, you faced the infuriating task of separating them and attempting to enter them in the microchip-sized slots in the flimsy “booklet” provided by the Pig. Stickers would stick to themselves, and it became de rigueur to mumble a fine litany of cuss words when attempting to roughly fit each stamp into its intended miniature slot. Third, irrational reasoning took hold at shopping outings when your shopping list would clearly become second banana -- if I may use that term here -- to sticker acquisition strategies. For example, maybe, just maybe, you feel a rising urge to buy another bottle of olive oil -- just so you don’t run out -- even when there might be some weeks left in the supply you already had. And, thoughts like, “you can never have enough hummus” creep into your head when passing that stuff. Ditto for the Wheat Thins. And, God forbid you should find yourself at check out and find you’re 49 cents short of getting another sticker. Panic sets in while you desperately reach across waiting shoppers in the checkout line behind you so you can stretch to reach the display of breath mints and chewing gum that would enable you to cross the magic line to that next, fabulous sticker. Fourth, whenever the shopper in front of you would decline the stickers he or she had just earned, you find yourself winking at the checkout girl asking if you could take the unclaimed stickers. And, lastly, you start working the neighbors asking them to give you their stickers if they were not otherwise collecting. These are the depths, I tell you.
After all this, the Day of Irony arrives and you have to figure out what you want to claim with your horde of hard earned stickers. Will it be the non-stick pan, the hand blender, the pour saucepan?? It is in that moment that it sinks in. The joy -- if one can call it that -- was all in the chase, not in the acquisition. Did we really need another frying pan? Would we ever use a hand blender? Didn’t I already bemoan the number of pots we owned? But, choices needed to be made, and so choices were made. In a vaguely joyless move, I opt for a 2 quart pour saucepan and the juicer. The game is over. I can breathe again.
Lemonade anyone?
We now flash forward more than a half century and find history biting me in the ass. Why? Because our local Piggly Wiggly announced a campaign to issue “stickers” to one and all in the hopes that one great day we could all enrich ourselves with a potpourri of Cuisinart appliances and cookware. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I ever so quickly pushed aside my decades-long impression of these kinds of promotions and embraced this one with a vengeance. Here was the deal: for every $10 worth of grocery purchases, you would be issued a sticker that had a picture of the lovable pig himself on it although that was hard to tell since each sticker was no larger than a mosquito bite. When the promotion expired in January, you would check your accumulation and come reap your reward whether that might be a new frying pan, coffee maker, juicer, assorted pots, etc. You decide.
What ensued was madness. First, the stamps were so miniscule, you had to almost place them in a special padlocked container just to get them safely home. Put them in your shopping bag? Forget about it. Put them in your pocket? Gone. I am convinced the good folks at the Pig designed these things to be so small knowing that 40% of them would never make it out of their parking lot. (Speaking of which, when the checkout ladies started spreading the word that alot of customers were losing their stickers while returning to their cars, you could unerringly find an enterprising shopper or two kicking stuff around on the asphalt outside trying to dig up this lost gold.) Second, should you be lucky enough to get the stickers home, you faced the infuriating task of separating them and attempting to enter them in the microchip-sized slots in the flimsy “booklet” provided by the Pig. Stickers would stick to themselves, and it became de rigueur to mumble a fine litany of cuss words when attempting to roughly fit each stamp into its intended miniature slot. Third, irrational reasoning took hold at shopping outings when your shopping list would clearly become second banana -- if I may use that term here -- to sticker acquisition strategies. For example, maybe, just maybe, you feel a rising urge to buy another bottle of olive oil -- just so you don’t run out -- even when there might be some weeks left in the supply you already had. And, thoughts like, “you can never have enough hummus” creep into your head when passing that stuff. Ditto for the Wheat Thins. And, God forbid you should find yourself at check out and find you’re 49 cents short of getting another sticker. Panic sets in while you desperately reach across waiting shoppers in the checkout line behind you so you can stretch to reach the display of breath mints and chewing gum that would enable you to cross the magic line to that next, fabulous sticker. Fourth, whenever the shopper in front of you would decline the stickers he or she had just earned, you find yourself winking at the checkout girl asking if you could take the unclaimed stickers. And, lastly, you start working the neighbors asking them to give you their stickers if they were not otherwise collecting. These are the depths, I tell you.
After all this, the Day of Irony arrives and you have to figure out what you want to claim with your horde of hard earned stickers. Will it be the non-stick pan, the hand blender, the pour saucepan?? It is in that moment that it sinks in. The joy -- if one can call it that -- was all in the chase, not in the acquisition. Did we really need another frying pan? Would we ever use a hand blender? Didn’t I already bemoan the number of pots we owned? But, choices needed to be made, and so choices were made. In a vaguely joyless move, I opt for a 2 quart pour saucepan and the juicer. The game is over. I can breathe again.
Lemonade anyone?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Fleeting Images
I saw someone yesterday I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was me. A few fleeting images from an old video confirming that it’s true I was once a teenager. I was at a wedding reception for my cousin, Bob, and, while I can’t be certain of the date, I surmised I was about 15 or 16. My hair was dark; I was clean shaven; and I was wearing what was for that time in my life my trademark goofy black eyeglasses that looked more suited to Mr. Magoo than a wannabe man about town. I was not alone there. My sister, Susan, was seated at the other side of the large round table looking suave and sophisticated for someone about to leave her teen years behind. And, my parents were there. They weren’t on screen for more than a minute, but even in just that short span it was electric to me. It sounds so silly and old school, but seeing them “live” and not just as a still image staring back at me from within a picture frame was transfixing. My folks have been gone for decades and so seeing their moving images, even the slightest of quirks or facial expressions or arm movements took on for me a far greater significance than they were owed. My father was the debonair guy I remembered, looking dapper in his dark suit, leaning over and sharing some secret with my mom. She played to the camera with a smile worthy of an old-time movie queen. They would not have been out of place in Monte Carlo.
To a lesser degree, I reacted the same way to seeing myself, simultaneously a total stranger and yet one and the same as the older and grayer guy glued to the TV screen taking it all in more than a generation later. Who was this guy? Could I have really been that shamelessly goofy? Was I really so awkward, so gawky? When I was 15 could I possibly have projected ahead and seen what I might be like some day? Could I do the reverse, and close my eyes in an effort to put myself back into the psyche of that strange looking teenager? I know that the young Jeff was incapable of such forward leaning thought, and I know as well that the far older Jeff has left his predecessor too far behind in too many ways to attempt a similar time-tilting somersault.
Those images, as fleeting as they were, stayed with me when I went to sleep last night. They played over and over in my head. I realized that my reaction is a reflection of the time I have been here on planet earth. In today’s world, video is so ubiquitous, so accessible, so taken for granted, that young kids will always have their younger selves as company as they grow old. That mystery and excitement I felt in those all too fleeting moments will be lost to them. I don’t know that I am jealous of them or that I feel some pity for their loss of amazement and joy that surely accompanies the finding of something lost and then found.
To a lesser degree, I reacted the same way to seeing myself, simultaneously a total stranger and yet one and the same as the older and grayer guy glued to the TV screen taking it all in more than a generation later. Who was this guy? Could I have really been that shamelessly goofy? Was I really so awkward, so gawky? When I was 15 could I possibly have projected ahead and seen what I might be like some day? Could I do the reverse, and close my eyes in an effort to put myself back into the psyche of that strange looking teenager? I know that the young Jeff was incapable of such forward leaning thought, and I know as well that the far older Jeff has left his predecessor too far behind in too many ways to attempt a similar time-tilting somersault.
Those images, as fleeting as they were, stayed with me when I went to sleep last night. They played over and over in my head. I realized that my reaction is a reflection of the time I have been here on planet earth. In today’s world, video is so ubiquitous, so accessible, so taken for granted, that young kids will always have their younger selves as company as they grow old. That mystery and excitement I felt in those all too fleeting moments will be lost to them. I don’t know that I am jealous of them or that I feel some pity for their loss of amazement and joy that surely accompanies the finding of something lost and then found.
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