Moving is highly underrated. Both in time and treasure. I’ve helped several friends to move and here’s what I’ve noticed that you should consider before moving.
0.5 The PLAN
(It’s best to have the PLAN in the #0.5 spot so that you can sneak up on the #1 item.)
Create a PLAN for the move. Write it down. Stick to it. Even if you are wrong, because once people begin to doubt you, they’ll start to argue and that is a time suck. Be willing to take advice, but don’t let anyone tell you what to do. This is why you do not invite your dad to the move.
1. Packing takes 20% longer than expected
OK, you’ve heard this before, but no matter how you plan, packing will take 20% longer. Even after you read this, you might think, “I’ll just increase the time by 20%.” Wrong. Because it will take 20% longer than that. It’s a losing proposition. It is in your best interest to schedule five hours to pack so that it will only take six. (And don’t think you can plan on five minutes of moving so that it will take six. Fate is not stupid.)
2. Pack Everything
Put as much as you can in boxes. It makes packing the truck so much easier. Leave stuff in drawers if you want, but make sure you cover with cardboard and tape. Take this opportunity to throw out all your lamps. They are hard to pack and just not worth your time. DO NOT PACK THINGS IN SUITCASES. It is a well know fact that suitcases are the number one item that get lost both at the airport and in a move.
3. Don’t Pack Everything
Screw that last bit. Take the time to get rid of stuff. Have your friends take stuff. Call the local charity that will haul it away. Put it on the curb so the local junk-truck-guy can come by and take the good stuff. Especially those lamps.
4. Color Code
In the end, you will be much happier will all your crap in well marked, color coded boxes You can write the details of the box in small letters, but use large words or color to help guide the unpackers to the room they need to go. The night before the move, go to the new house and make signs with arrows. Color code rooms and doors. This will alleviate you standing at the front door of the new house, blocking the door deciding what the hell you were thinking last night when you wrote KT BT 9 FR on the box.
5. Rent the bigger truck
Rent the biggest truck you can get your hands on. Find a friend with a Commercial Driver’s License if you have to. Two trips SUCKS. Spend the extra money because you will save it in the end with mileage and time.
6. You can have too many people to help
It’s easy to understand that if you are the only one moving your furniture, you are screwed. But is it possible to have too many people? YES. One of my favorite economics terms is “diminishing returns.” It basically means that the more people you throw at a job, at some point, the amount of work that can get done is reduced. When you have too many people standing around, they will have the time to stop and criticize your PLAN. If you invite too many people to help, divide them up into smaller teams for continued packing, labeling, cleaning, lifting or send some over to the new place to get rid of them. Have them buy the beer and put it into the new refrigerator. Part of your PLAN should be a list of things for the ne'er-do-wells to do while the real help is doing their job.
7. Inside help / outside help
Your job during the move is to coordinate. Try not to get stuck moving anything. You should be able to freely move in and out of the house. If you have the personpower, have someone in the house, who is familiar with the PLAN, that can guide the movers or get you in a hurry if there is a question. You can then be near the truck to help with loading, unless you suck at Tetris.
8. Tight Pack
If you are crappy at Tetris, I would suggest getting a friend who has move experience to pack the truck. You want a tight pack as this means less damage and more stuff on the truck. Have room outside the truck for staging items that should go on later or when you have a futon shaped hole to fill.
9. MOVE EVERYTHING NOW
Damnit! I’ve seen it a hundred times. Towards the end of the move, little stuff is still lying around the house and the owner will say, “I’ll get that stuff later.” Don’t do it. MOVE IT NOW. You’ve got the people and the truck. For fragile stuff also have a fleet of cars that will be going to the new house. Just do it now. If you are moving across the country, you might want to keep personal items or papers with you, just don’t overthink it, champ. Move it now.
10. Don’t Feed in the Middle of a Move
Hungry people work harder. Full people nap. Don’t schedule your move around a meal time. Wait until the move is over to order the pizza. Even if it is late. By then, people will be sick of you and they will leave so you can order less pizza. Only keep cold water at the house you are moving out of. Make sure that beer is only at the new place so they have a goal. Drunk people drop shit and argue with you.
11. Don’t get fancy
Provide water. Provide Pizza. Provide Beer. Don’t try and cater. Don’t even think about cooking out. Your friends knew this when they volunteered to help. They will move someday and you will get the same crap from them.
12. Unpack Now
If you do not unpack a box, it will remain packed until you move again. This falls in line with Move Everything Now. People are there. Unpack.
13. Thanks
You need to thank your friends for helping. If someone loaned you a truck, fill it with gas or leave a $20 in the glove compartment. A real friend will not take money if you hand it to them, so if you really need the $20, try to hand it to your friend instead of putting it in the glove compartment. Thank your friends that night and the next day for their help and apologize for being a dick and not listening to them and not having beer at the house and for making them work so late.
BONUS HINTS
14. Take the next day off work
You will definitely want to take then next day off from work. All the stuff that you are too tired to take care of at midnight will be there for years unless you take care of it immediately. If you go to work, you are going to come home, exhausted, to unpacked boxes and no cable. If you take the next day off, you can sit around and unpack boxes while you wait for the cable guy to show up three hours late.
Condolences
(Author’s note: Any condolence you give is a good condolence. Don’t let my irreverent explanations seem glib; I cherish everyone letting me know that they care, no matter what form it comes in. Writing is how I cope.)
Steve’s death this year made for a real shitty 2017. The five stages of grief have been less of a path and more of a game of Twister where I spin the dial and deal with a new emotion every day (Left Hand denial!) Acceptance is there one day and fleeting the next. I still cannot imagine what it is like for Kelly, the kids, and Steve’s close friends.
I can’t speak for anyone else in Steve’s circle, but I do appreciate everyone who offers their condolences today, through the holidays, and moving forward. Steve pops into my head several times a day and someone mentioning him isn’t unwelcome.
There are five types of condolences I’ve encountered: the pursed lips, the standard condolence, the friend condolence, the meandering condolence, and the smile.
Pursed lips
This is the condolence the consolee receives when the consoler isn’t sure if they should say anything or doesn’t know what to say. He will greet me and then pause with his lips pressed firmly together, either because he doesn’t know what to say or he does know what to say, but wants to keep from saying it. I see this and I thank all of you who desire to say something, but don’t or can't.
Standard condolence
This is the standard expression of sympathy. The person gets in, says the thing, and gets out. All business. Similar to how the people at the funeral home do it: Eye contact. Hand shake. Say it. Move on.
Friend condolence
It’s good to be surrounded by people who know you. They can quickly judge if you need a distraction or an opportunity to vent or a hug. These people know how to say sorry without saying sorry. They also know how to jump in when a meandering condolence has been initiated.
Meandering condolence
This is what happens when a pursed lips condolence giver starts talking, but doesn’t know how to stop. I feel sorry for these folks who say one thing out loud and another thing in his or her head. Then the silent thought becomes a spoken thing and a new thought spills out in reaction to the last one and then it’s a line of dominoes until the person stops when their pursed lips take over again or when a friend jumps in to stop the next domino from falling. I really appreciate this condolence because it gives me a chance to console them, which is helpful when maintaining denial.
The smile
Smile is the best condolence. This person will start out with a standard condolence, but they can’t help smiling a bit as they continue with a story or a memory. I’m still hearing new stories and value each and every one of them. Even better is when someone overhears this conversation and then is drawn in, adding what they know or jumping into the conversation by saying, “No way!” or “I didn’t realize that is what caused the Detroit power outage!” Smiles, followed by stories, help the most.
When you see me, if you feel like you need to say something, say it. I won’t mind. Even if it is the eighth time or you keep saying the same thing over again. I appreciate it. And when you don’t say anything and you stand there with pursed lips, I’ll know that means that the most, because words cannot express how you feel.
Steve’s death this year made for a real shitty 2017. The five stages of grief have been less of a path and more of a game of Twister where I spin the dial and deal with a new emotion every day (Left Hand denial!) Acceptance is there one day and fleeting the next. I still cannot imagine what it is like for Kelly, the kids, and Steve’s close friends.
I can’t speak for anyone else in Steve’s circle, but I do appreciate everyone who offers their condolences today, through the holidays, and moving forward. Steve pops into my head several times a day and someone mentioning him isn’t unwelcome.
There are five types of condolences I’ve encountered: the pursed lips, the standard condolence, the friend condolence, the meandering condolence, and the smile.
Pursed lips
This is the condolence the consolee receives when the consoler isn’t sure if they should say anything or doesn’t know what to say. He will greet me and then pause with his lips pressed firmly together, either because he doesn’t know what to say or he does know what to say, but wants to keep from saying it. I see this and I thank all of you who desire to say something, but don’t or can't.
Standard condolence
This is the standard expression of sympathy. The person gets in, says the thing, and gets out. All business. Similar to how the people at the funeral home do it: Eye contact. Hand shake. Say it. Move on.
Friend condolence
It’s good to be surrounded by people who know you. They can quickly judge if you need a distraction or an opportunity to vent or a hug. These people know how to say sorry without saying sorry. They also know how to jump in when a meandering condolence has been initiated.
Meandering condolence
This is what happens when a pursed lips condolence giver starts talking, but doesn’t know how to stop. I feel sorry for these folks who say one thing out loud and another thing in his or her head. Then the silent thought becomes a spoken thing and a new thought spills out in reaction to the last one and then it’s a line of dominoes until the person stops when their pursed lips take over again or when a friend jumps in to stop the next domino from falling. I really appreciate this condolence because it gives me a chance to console them, which is helpful when maintaining denial.
The smile
Smile is the best condolence. This person will start out with a standard condolence, but they can’t help smiling a bit as they continue with a story or a memory. I’m still hearing new stories and value each and every one of them. Even better is when someone overhears this conversation and then is drawn in, adding what they know or jumping into the conversation by saying, “No way!” or “I didn’t realize that is what caused the Detroit power outage!” Smiles, followed by stories, help the most.
When you see me, if you feel like you need to say something, say it. I won’t mind. Even if it is the eighth time or you keep saying the same thing over again. I appreciate it. And when you don’t say anything and you stand there with pursed lips, I’ll know that means that the most, because words cannot express how you feel.
The REAL 13 Things Your Pizza Guy Won’t Tell You
I read an article on the 13 27 Things Your Pizza Guy Won't Tell You. They were pretty much bullshit. Here's a list of the REAL 13 things the pizza guy wont tell you:
1. The sauce really stings the open sore on his finger.
2. The cheese that misses the pizza and lands all over the place will make it back on top a pizza at some point in the night.
3. Pizza ain’t all he’s delivering.
4. The soap is still out in the employee bathroom.
5. If you do not tip him well, your next delivered three topping pizza will have four toppings.
6. He does wish you would come to the door topless.
7. The delivery guy is not en route and you are going to get the next thing that pops out of the oven.
8. It is hard to wipe a runny nose with the plastic gloves on, but he'll keep trying!
9. 30 minutes or less is a suggestion and not a goal
10. Long, scraggly hair is in. Hair nets are out.
11. Its hard to catch the flying disc of dough, but luckily the floor has enough flour on it to keep most of it from sticking.
12. Pizza guy is always very happy and he always seems to have red, bloodshot eyes.
13. You won’t believe some of the shit that will fit in the dough presser machine.
1. The sauce really stings the open sore on his finger.
2. The cheese that misses the pizza and lands all over the place will make it back on top a pizza at some point in the night.
3. Pizza ain’t all he’s delivering.
4. The soap is still out in the employee bathroom.
5. If you do not tip him well, your next delivered three topping pizza will have four toppings.
6. He does wish you would come to the door topless.
7. The delivery guy is not en route and you are going to get the next thing that pops out of the oven.
8. It is hard to wipe a runny nose with the plastic gloves on, but he'll keep trying!
9. 30 minutes or less is a suggestion and not a goal
10. Long, scraggly hair is in. Hair nets are out.
11. Its hard to catch the flying disc of dough, but luckily the floor has enough flour on it to keep most of it from sticking.
12. Pizza guy is always very happy and he always seems to have red, bloodshot eyes.
13. You won’t believe some of the shit that will fit in the dough presser machine.
Two Days
My friend shared some terrible news about a person in their
life that might have a very poor diagnosis and a limited time to live. For the
next few days, their family and friends are in limbo while the outcomes of the
tests are determined. How much time to live. What possible medical actions to
take. What to do. What they don’t have time to do. Helpless. That maybe hoping
upon hoping that just maybe it’s nothing. Hopeless. Heartbreakingly sad.
And while we were talking, I thought about recent events in
my life and how it would be interesting if friends or relatives could appear to
you and explain that they would be dying in 48 hours. That you could have two
whole days to spend with them and prepare. The deal would be that you cannot
change the future events; that they are given those two days on the promise
that they could spend them with loved ones, but that after 48 hours they would
die.
Then I thought about what I would do with that time. What
would I do with those two days? What would I do and who would I try to see before
those 48 hours were over? I have a bad feeling that I would completely waste
them. I have poor time management skills and near alcohol addiction and I can
see myself getting people together for a party that I get completely drunk at
and wake up, hungover with just enough time to say something cryptic before I
die.
So here’s my 48 hours.
0:00 The 48 hour Death Courier
appears and lets me know that I have 48 hours left to live.
1:30 I get done having
the Death Courier explain for the 48th time that no, it’s not a joke
and that I’ve wasted 90 minutes.
1:31 Post of Facebook
that I have less than 48 hours to live and I want to say as many goodbyes as
possible.
1:32 Unfriend all the
people that I really never liked in the first place, but felt obligated to
follow.
(Not you.)
(Not you.)
3:57 Realize that I
just wasted two and a half hours watching YouTube videos.
5:00 Gather my
immediate family close and let them know how much I love them and that I will
miss them horribly.
5:01 Break up the kids
from fighting about who gets to hold the kitty at the funeral and who even said
that the cat could come to the funeral!
6:00 Friends begin to
arrive. Many of them to collect debts. (Redhead Jen still wants that $100.)
6:01 We start to drink.
7:00 I make some poor
decisions.
7:30 More poor
decisions. Damn you Sailor Jerry’s!
8:00 Additional poor
decisions, but I’ll be dead in just a few hours, so what the hell!
28:00 Oh shit. I wake
up in my car trunk. I pull the emergency latch and crawl out and into the
house. Into bed.
32:00 I’m finally not
hungover anymore and crawl out of bed.
32:01 I remember that I
haven’t watched Season 2 of Stranger Things.
32:02 I do the math and
realize I can watch Season 2.
40:00 Holy crap… completely
worth it.
40:01 I eat a whole bag
of Swedish Fish
40:02 Shower
40:03 Sex
40:03:30 Nap
42:00 Sign my will. Buy
a $1,000,000,000 Life Insurance policy.
42:05 Delete my
internet history.
42:06 I make a final
blog post, listing my grievances against my enemies and thanking my friends.
42:15 I forgive my
enemies. They had their reasons for disliking me. I have to honor that.
43:00 We go out to
dinner. I’ll probably get steak.
44:45 Damn, it took a
long time for the bill to come.
45:00 Two large Frosty’s.
That F*cking no carb diet is out the door.
45:10 I gather my wife
and kids and my arms and hold them until the end comes.
45:25 My arms get tired
and we take a break.
46:00 We decide to put
on “The Princess Bride” and watch it until my time comes.
47:50 There’s just
enough time to watch the prologue of “The Royal Tenenbaums.”
47:55 A quick debate
about what was actually in the ball shaped present that Royal gave Margot. (It
was a ball!)
47:58 My regrets! So
many. And now at the end, they stand like an army before me, shouting taunts
and curses. In my last despair I look up, and there is my wife, her brilliance
destroys those countless demons and all that is left is pure light.
47:59 And then with one
minute left, my wife suffocates me with a pillow. “No one is taking this away
from me.”
Second Hand Cigar Smoke
Several years ago, Sally and I were driving to a Christmas
family event. On the way, we passed a car with a man driving and a woman in the
passenger seat. They both looked like they were in their sixties and, we
assumed, had been married for forty years. It was cold out and their windows were
rolled up. As we passed, we both couldn’t help by notice that the man was
smoking a big ‘ole cigar and that the car was filled with thick smoke.
Both Sally and I both felt sorry for that poor woman. Who
knows how many years she had to live with that cigar smoke? How many times had
she pleaded with him to at least crack the window, Harold? Is that abuse? On
the day of his funeral, will she throw all his cigars in the grave and yell, “Take
these with you to hell and smoke them!”
A few minutes later, we were stopped at a traffic light. The
same car pulled up next to us. It was still filled with smoke and we got a good
look at the poor woman and the swirling fog of obnoxious cigar…
…the woman lifted her hand to her mouth. She also held a
cigar.
How to Leave a Party Early
As soon as you are invited to one party and you accept the initiation, inevitably, a better offer comes around. There is an art to leaving a party early without offending your host. Here’s how you do it.
1. The BEST way to leave is just to leave. Don’t say good-bye. Don’t tell anyone. Just leave. You will not be missed. The next day, if the host asks you why you left, claim that you got into an intense discussion with a person whose name you cannot remember and that you left about ten minutes after X person puked. If the host says that X person didn’t puke, laugh and say, “Oh crap, they told me to promise that I wouldn’t tell.”
2. Ask the host for Imodium AD. 10 minutes later excuse yourself. No questions asked.
3. Ask the host if you can lie down in a spare bedroom. Use the jackets on the bed to make a fake you under the covers. If the host looks in, they’ll see a fake you. When guests leave, they’ll take their jackets and you will have disappeared without having to make an excuse.
4. Ask the host if they have a really, really expensive brand of wine. (I don’t know any myself, but ask for a late 90’s six syllable French sounding something and it will pass. Start with château and you’ll be fine.) When your host says no, say you are going to run out and grab a bottle. Call from wherever you are at later and say you are still searching for it. Next day, leave a bottle of wine on their porch with a note saying, “Found it!”
5. Browse the snacks. Get a dip or white sauce that might have milk in it. Walk up to the host with the bowl and say, “This soy dip is awesome!” When they correct you and say that the item is milk based, get all wide eyed, cover your mouth and run for the door.
6. If all else fails, be honest and truthful with your host. Walk right up to them, take a deep breath and tell them your mother just called and that your father has had a massive heart attack and you must leave. If this is your second party you are bailing on, make sure mom is having the heart attack this time.
1. The BEST way to leave is just to leave. Don’t say good-bye. Don’t tell anyone. Just leave. You will not be missed. The next day, if the host asks you why you left, claim that you got into an intense discussion with a person whose name you cannot remember and that you left about ten minutes after X person puked. If the host says that X person didn’t puke, laugh and say, “Oh crap, they told me to promise that I wouldn’t tell.”
2. Ask the host for Imodium AD. 10 minutes later excuse yourself. No questions asked.
3. Ask the host if you can lie down in a spare bedroom. Use the jackets on the bed to make a fake you under the covers. If the host looks in, they’ll see a fake you. When guests leave, they’ll take their jackets and you will have disappeared without having to make an excuse.
4. Ask the host if they have a really, really expensive brand of wine. (I don’t know any myself, but ask for a late 90’s six syllable French sounding something and it will pass. Start with château and you’ll be fine.) When your host says no, say you are going to run out and grab a bottle. Call from wherever you are at later and say you are still searching for it. Next day, leave a bottle of wine on their porch with a note saying, “Found it!”
5. Browse the snacks. Get a dip or white sauce that might have milk in it. Walk up to the host with the bowl and say, “This soy dip is awesome!” When they correct you and say that the item is milk based, get all wide eyed, cover your mouth and run for the door.
6. If all else fails, be honest and truthful with your host. Walk right up to them, take a deep breath and tell them your mother just called and that your father has had a massive heart attack and you must leave. If this is your second party you are bailing on, make sure mom is having the heart attack this time.
Cha-Ching
Just before the summer of 1993, my brother Steve called me and
asked if I wanted a job for the summer. It was at the Hunt-Wesson plant in
Toledo where he worked as an engineer and I would help with tracking labor and
doing product tests around the plant. Back then, during the summer, the plant
went through a period called “The Fresh Pack” where fresh tomatoes were brought
in from the surrounding farms for three months straight so they could make
ketchup. The plant stayed open 24/7 and only closed down during Labor Day for
cleaning. I said, “Hell, yes,” packed my toothbrush, acid washed jean shorts, two-year-old
condom, and drove to Toledo, Ohio to go live with my brother for the summer.
The first thing I learned upon showing up at his house was
that he was living in sin with a pudding girl.
The second thing I learned walking in the door was my
brother’s relationship with Kelly, the previously aforementioned pudding girl,
was to remain quiet and that I was not to spill the tapioca about the secret
relationship between the big tomato and the pudding girl.
The Hunt-Wesson plant in Toledo made ketchup and it made
pudding. The people on the ketchup side did not interact with the people on the
pudding side and vice-versa. Well, they spoke with one another, but there was
not to be any cross ketchup/pudding interactions if you get my meaning. (I’m currently
raising my eyebrows up and down in a suggestive manner.)
I kept it a secret. But it was difficult. Kelly is very
pretty. In a pudding plant, there wasn’t much to look at, but Kelly’s beauty
reflected off the giant stainless-steel tanks, created flickering illusions
between the fast-moving foil sealed containers flying down the conveyor belt,
and made the railroad tankers of modified corn starch derail and dump their
contents all over the tracks in a cute, but embarrassing fashion. Rumors of a
ketchup guy like Steve dating a pudding girl like Kelly would be quickly
dismissed and swept away like a spilled tanker of modified corn starch. I mean,
come on… pudding and ketchup don’t go together.
But they did go together. And that is a story for another
day. For now, let’s go to Doug and Steve negotiating rent at the dinner table.
I was sitting at the dinner table with Steve in preparations
to negotiate rent. He brought out a piece of paper, two pens, and suggested that
we figure out what I was going to pay for room and board at his house per month
for the summer. This “rent” part of the deal was not mentioned when he said, “Come
to Toledo for a job.” He tore the paper in half and invited me to write down
what I thought was a fair dollar amount for a room and board. I wrote down a
number that was not generous, but reasonable. He wrote down his number. We
placed our numbers face down on the table and pushed them at each other. I
looked at his number. He looked at mine. He said, “Nice try. We’ll go with
mine.” I agreed because Steve was not someone you could disagree with unless you
were willing to spend a few hours failing at it.
At the ketchup plant, my job was pretty simple: catch people
trying to sneak in late, test the tomato pulp moisture, and check to see if the
temporary summer employees were throwing out the wrong kinds of tomatoes OR trying
to save ripe tomatoes from ketchup death via a Disneyesque escape. The people
coming in late is pretty easy to visualize. Checking the moisture was a
multi-step process, but I got to learn some Spanish. The tomato escape requires
a bit of explanation and ties in to part of the end of this story, so lean in
and listen closely to the tale of the ripe tomato…
The farmer surveys his tomato field. He is pleased. The
tomatoes are growing. Ripening. Alive! Their sickly green begins to transform
into a rosy pink that will someday become a brilliant, glowing red, like a hot
coal in a fire. But the farmer knows that he just can’t magically transport
ripe tomatoes to the ketchup factory. He’s got to time it perfectly: pick the
tomatoes as they ripen. Send them to the plant and time it so they are bright
red as they enter the factory gates; the bright red tomatoes ready to sacrifice
themselves to be made into ketchup so that a 7-year-old kid will eat his pork
chop once it is covered in that thick salty, sweet, acidic, red goodness. The
farmer knows that he will be paid based on how many tomatoes he brings, but
also on how many of them are peaking on ripeness. Green tomatoes are acidic and
evil. Overripe tomatoes have an abundance of sugar, which might sound like a
blessing, but no one wants an overripe tomato, just like no one wants an
overripe banana. The farmer does his best to time it perfectly: start the
harvest so that he can gather the tomatoes as they are ripening, but before
they get too ripe. And because you want to go to the ketchup plant with the
tomatoes you have and not the tomatoes you might want or wish to have at a
later time, he will pick the tomatoes a little too soon and a little too late
and ship them to the plant with the highest chance of bring him home the most
money. He sends off a truck filled with tomatoes, their ripeness changing like
the odometer on the truck, speeding off to Perrysburg, Ohio.
The truck arrives at the ketchup factory and immediately the
plant representative is suspicious of the truckload of tomatoes, because that
is his job. He takes a sample of the tomatoes from the truck and frowns, his
brow furrowing, reminding the tomatoes of their earthen home of dirt rows. He
and the driver get into a disagreement about if there are 80% ripe tomatoes or
only 8 out of 10 ripe tomatoes. In the end, they agree upon a price that
neither agrees with and the driver dumps the load of tomatoes from the truck
into a hopper. The tomatoes fall because gravity calls them, but they also know
they have a higher purpose. Slightly green, perfect red, and too red tip
earthward and follow the siren call of the center of the earth. Into darkness.
Conveyors take them forward through the darkness.
Inside the plant, the temporary workers, who think they have
a chance of getting into the union, sift through the never-ending parade of
multicolored tomatoes. Their job is to get rid of the green and really red with
black spots tomatoes. Green tomatoes might be great for lesbian movies, but in
a ketchup plant they are bitter with acids. The over-ripe tomatoes might seem
perfect, but they are bursting with sugar. Both ends of the spectrum are bad. They
grab the green, squish the really red, and drop them into chutes which lead to
a water filled trough that is a quick rafting trip to a dumpster which will
take those inedible fruits to the fertilizer or dog food plant. In the Toy
Story version of this tale, a green tomato and really red tomato would make
their getaway, instead of being turned into dog food, holding stems as they
float down the concrete trough.
The end product of this sorting is supposed to be a sea of
equally ripened tomatoes with an assumed pH level that can be divided by mass
and fill the recipe that my brother has spinning in his head. But the workers
miss some of the green and some of the really red. Odds would suggest they
would cancel themselves out, but reality doesn’t believe in odds and the pH tends
to lean one way or the twain. This can throw off any carefully prepared recipe
and make the pH wander.
In the ketchup kitchen, (really, it’s a cooking deck with
several giant stainless-steel tanks where huge volumes of tomatoes, high
fructose corn syrup, vinegar, spices and “natural flavors” are brought
together, mixed, heated and persuaded to turn into ketchup,) Steve is the
conductor to an orchestra of chemistry. Really, he’s a chef accountant, as
Steve’s job is to make ketchup, but he wants to do it using the smallest amount
of resources possible, saving the company money. OK, really, this was all about
Steve and how far he could walk the thin line between making ketchup and
getting fired.
There is a recipe to making ketchup. You put in the right
amount of everything in a certain order, cooking it at a certain temperature,
and then ketchup comes out the other end. But it can’t be ketchup until it
passes Quality Control. Quality Control says that ketchup must be in a within a
certain pH range. Quality Control knows the pH of the ketchup because Steve
will take samples during the cooking process, put them in the pneumatic
delivery system, and the QC Ladies on the low-pressure end of the system will
test the samples to see what that pH level is. And when Steve is sending down
the samples, they are wary and their language starts to trend to the
inappropriate. And they have good reason to be inappropriate.
Ketchup is acidic. Hunt-Wesson pays the Quality Control
people to make sure that rogue engineers, like Steve, wouldn’t make ketchup
that didn’t have that pH level that lived between (I’m guessing here) 3.48 and 3.98. They would get his samples, grit
their teeth, and measure the pH…
(pause to build excitement)
…and most of the time, the pH would be right in the middle
and all was good.
But sometimes, it was right on the edge or over. Those part
time tomato sorters wouldn’t be doing their job and the pH average would
teeter-totter from one side to the other. The QC team would get on the phone
and punch in the maestro’s number in the kitchen, “You are running high,
Powhida!”
“I’ve got it.”
Steve would then consider his options. To lower or raise the
pH, Steve could add sugar or vinegar or any number of bulk ingredients. But
those bulk ingredients cost money. And money is money. So Steve would run that
fine line and try not to add any additional commodities, knowing that he could
cook down the acidity or add more tomatoes to raise it. But you couldn’t cook the
ketchup forever and you can only add so many addition tomatoes of unknown pH. If the pH was out of tolerance, they might have to dump the whole batch. That is that fine line.
At the tail end of the cooking process, Steve would send
down the last sample to be tested. He would then race behind it to the QC lab. I
was in the lab several times a day, doing moisture tests, so I could hear the
QC woman complain about Steve running the pH edge. Steve would come exploding
through the QC doors and quickly scan the area for his sample being tested.
Steve, “What is it?”
QC woman, “…. 3.92!” Just within tolerance.
Steve would then take both his hands, raise them up above
his head, and pull down dual, imaginary slot machine handles and yell, “Cha-ching!”
He would then release a roar that was part laugh, half yell
and a bit of something I would later remember is called a “barbaric yawp.”
And then back to make the next batch.
On one occasion, I saw a QC lady making the “Cha-ching”
gesture when she was pissed off at Steve for running the pH too high. “… that
Steve coming down here with his cha-ching, cha-ching.”
Minutes later he raced
in.
Steve, “What is it?”
QC woman, “…. 4.08!”
Steve, “What!” He ran to the phone and called up to the
cooking deck and told them to add X amount of Y to bring the pH into check to the lamentations
of the money people.
And then back to make the next batch.
I lived with Steve and Kelly for the rest of the summer. Steve
and I worked every day, he a 12 hour shift and me an 8. We compared paychecks one day and my gross
pay was what he was paying in taxes. (Note to self: in next life, become an
engineer.) I almost cooked their cat in the broiler. I drank a lot with my
friend Jeff and his law student buddies. Skinny and I got together once at the
Blind Pig. I learned a Spanish phrase that I will never forget from one of the
pulping machines, “No meta las manos en la máquina por la operación.” I learned
that the real union workers did not like to have their time cards pulled. And
lastly I learned that one of the hardest tasks in the world was to throw out
bad tomatoes.
I’d like to think that there was some kind of magical end to
that summer. That my tomato had turned from green to red. My pH on the edge,
brought back into check with subtle acts of chemistry. But in the end, I think
I packed up my acid washed, cutoff jeans and left town, still green.
The big tomato and the pudding girl got married one year later. Cha-Ching.
Stephen J. Powhida Obituary
In the past, I've written about how people should write their own obituaries. You can never leave that up to someone else, or they will probably get it wrong. A few years ago, I came up with the idea of people writing their obituaries every five years as a way to track goals and see if they were happy with how their life was going. Through this, I've thought about my own obituary and the last words for my parents.
I never, ever thought about writing my brother's obituary. He was invincible. Invincible people don't die. They just don't.
He suddenly and tragically died in a motorcycle accident on September 17th.
This is my tribute to my brother, Steve. I hope I got it right.
I never, ever thought about writing my brother's obituary. He was invincible. Invincible people don't die. They just don't.
He suddenly and tragically died in a motorcycle accident on September 17th.
This is my tribute to my brother, Steve. I hope I got it right.
Stephen J. Powhida
Steve Powhida was a living legend and irrevocably touched
the lives of his family, friends, and anyone who was fortunate enough to
encounter him. His death on September 17, 2017 was sudden, unexpected and has
greatly saddened us all.
He received his Bachelor and Master Degrees from the
University of Toledo and currently owned a consulting firm.
Steve was a father, a husband, a son, a brother, and a
friend.
Steve was a father to Sydney, Lexi, and Zachary. As a role
model to his children, he taught them to never give up and to fight for the
important things. Steve was very supportive of their athletic events and very
vocal in his communication with referees when they made, in his opinion,
unfavorable calls.
Steve was a husband to Kelly. A great team that raised three
wonderful kids. Kelly managed that inevitable chaos that followed Steve
wherever he went.
Steve was a son who made his parents, Jane and Greg Powhida,
extremely proud. They both gave him the intelligence, personality, and bullheadedness
we all knew and loved.
Steve was a brother and was the leader of the siblings: Amy,
Doug, and Karen. Their lives were made easier due to the path he carved. Steve
got blamed for 75% of the trouble the siblings got into, which is not saying much
as he was the cause of 95% of it.
Steve was a friend. There are many who can claim that Steve
was a powerful force in their lives. His friends will say the best moments and
the most memorable times of their lives were spent with Steve at a game, a tailgate,
on a motorcycle trip, in a bar, at a kid's sporting event, at a party, at a
graduation, during a family event, in a golf club, during a game of cornhole,
poolside, inside/outside/on top of an RV, during a road trip, or off on an
adventure. Steve was a terrific host, a great cook and if he wasn't telling you
a story, he was probably in the middle of making one.
Steve was a huge fan and supporter of the University of
Toledo and their sports program. You couldn't miss him tailgating with his
friends and family in the RV at the stadium. The decibel level at the Saturday
football games will surely be diminished with his passing.
Steve is a legend and we ask that you carry on his memory.
Tell his stories. Cheer louder at the Rockets’ games. Be a great friend. Scream
"Detroit, baby" at the top of your lungs. Live life to the fullest.
Friends may visit at the Coyle Funeral Home, 1770 S.
Reynolds Rd., on Wednesday September 20, 2017 from 2-8 p.m. Funeral services
will be held on Thursday beginning at 10 a.m. in the funeral home followed by
the Funeral Mass in St. Joan of Arc Church at 10:30 a.m. Interment Resurrection
Cemetery. Memorials may take the form of contributions to UT
Foundation-Football Rocket Fuel:
Rocket Fuel account at the University of Toledo Foundation
2801 W. Bancroft St., MS# 319
Toledo, OH 43606
Please view and sign the guest registry at coylefuneralhome.com.
Photos from the Visitation and Funeral:
Rocket Fuel account at the University of Toledo Foundation
2801 W. Bancroft St., MS# 319
Toledo, OH 43606
Please view and sign the guest registry at coylefuneralhome.com.
Photos from the Visitation and Funeral:
A few Steve photos:
Detroit, baby!
Goodbye Ladies' 80s
There are ghosts in here. Thousands of memories layered up like the dust on top the dust; begging to be brought to the surface and remembered so they can stay alive for one more year or month or day or night. And because they are intertwined with music and friends and laughter, there is a good chance they will live a very long time.
I like stories that give away the ending at the beginning. It twists the storyteller’s arm and forces him to work harder to make things interesting. No easy ways out. That being said, Skully’s is halting their Ladies’ 80s Dance Night this Thursday, September 7th, 2017.
In the late 90s, our newly formed group of friends spent a lot of time drinking $2.50 32oz beers and dancing to The Digital Underground, Will Smith, Sugar Ray, Ace of Base, Snap!, Blackstreet and Montell Jordan in a basement bar called Clancy’s. The humidity was always just under 98%, there was a pole on the dance floor, and it’s where the phrase “too many witnesses” was created. We had an extremely fun time at Clancy’s over a period of two years.
On July 30th, 1998, Clancy’s closed suddenly and like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, our poor group of friends blindly traversed Columbus, looking for a new bar that could take the place of Clancy’s.
In November of 2001, a bar called Skully’s started an 80s music dance night called Ladies’ 80s. What would have been nice is if someone had told our group of wandering souls about it, but we didn’t find out until late 2002. But once we went once, we were hooked.
Early on, a Skully’s night follows a pattern similar to
this:
- Assume everyone will be going to Skully’s .
- Meet at a bar around 6pm. Any bar. It helps if they have food. It really helps if it is within walking distance of Skully’s. Have some drinks. Eat some food.
- Around 11pm head over to Skully’s.
- Walk in and buy X - 1 number of Miller Lites. (X = number of people with you. Minus 1 because John doesn’t drink.)
- Have the contest where everyone guesses what band will be played first that night. (Saying “The Cure” or “B-52s” was a sure winner. Bonus points for risking “The Outfield” or “Yaz.”
- Head to the dance floor. Our spot is to the left of the stage, about one staggering drunk person back.
- Form a circle. Dance.
- When a crappy song comes on, head outside to cool off or smoke a cigarette.
- When you hear New Order come on, run back inside. Dance more.
- Buy more Miller Lite. Put the empties in your back pocket until they can be properly disposed of.
- Try to find some of the regulars.
-Doug in Five Years
-Terminator Guy
-Shake Weight Guy
- Making Out Couple
-Zach Starkey (Zachery Allan Starkey)
- Goth Chick
- Leave at 2:30am, sweaty, drunk, and exhausted. Regret is for tomorrow morning.
Of course, that was early on. Now, we are 15 years older;
things are a little bit different:
- Plan to go to Skully’s once a year, twice if Dave comes back in town.
- Meet at a bar if you can, but usually you have to put the kids to bed, so you get there late or not at all.
- Around 10pm head over to Skully’s.
- Walk in and buy 1 Miller Lite. You are the only one there so far.
- Wait for a bit. Friends arrive!
- Head to the dance floor. Our spot is to the left of the stage, about one staggering drunk person back.
- Form a triangle because only three people have arrived so far.
- Dance.
- Remember to have the contest where everyone guesses what band will be played first that night. (Saying “The Cure” or “B-52s” was a sure winner. Bonus points for risking “The Outfield” or “Yaz.” Text Dave so he can be a part of the conversation.
- When a crappy song comes on, head outside to cool off, but none of us smokes anymore.
- When you hear The Cure come on, run back inside.
- Try to find some of the regulars.
-Older
Man
-Doug
Now
-Terminator
Guy (still there!)
-Shake
Weight Guy (What ever happened to that guy?)
-Making Out Couple
(they will always be there
-Zach
Starkey (Zachery Allan Starkey) (Not there, on tour.)
-Chick
dressed up like Madonna
- But somehow, more friends do show up after working late or getting kids to bed or watching a soccer game.
- And we dance. Empty beers still go in the back pocket.
- Leave at midnight. Got an early day tomorrow.
Goodbye, Ladies' 80s.
But it’s not over. Not that easily.
It was never really about 80s music. Or the characters. Or the beers. It was about friends. It still is about friends. It is about laughing and taking the opportunity to be together. And we don’t need 80s music to do that.
I will miss you Ladies’ 80s. We are moving on. But not far. You will always be a photo, a story, or a memory away. And who knows… we danced to 90s music in the 90s, we can do it again. Maybe we will see you and your dusty-self, again. Me and my friends.
But it’s not over. Not that easily.
It was never really about 80s music. Or the characters. Or the beers. It was about friends. It still is about friends. It is about laughing and taking the opportunity to be together. And we don’t need 80s music to do that.
I will miss you Ladies’ 80s. We are moving on. But not far. You will always be a photo, a story, or a memory away. And who knows… we danced to 90s music in the 90s, we can do it again. Maybe we will see you and your dusty-self, again. Me and my friends.
 |
| A pool ball, pinched on Clancy's closing night. |
 |
| My earliest photo from Ladies' 80s. Lacey and I in a beer ad. (Top center) |
 |
| The Old Man with John |
 |
| Terminator Guy |
 |
| Zachery Allan Starkey with Freckled Jenn wearing Zachery Allan Starkey. |
And friends who helped to make these memories:
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