Go Fund Me -- If You Want

I don't accept help well, and I don't know why.  It's not a "don't show weakness" thing as I routinely list all the things I do wrong.  My pride and ego live in a tiny shoe box located in the  upstairs closet, so I know they don't get in the way.  I guess I could blame the ingrained stubbornness of American ingenuity, but that seems way too philosophical.  I just have trouble with help.

For instance, I could be hauling a player piano up 30 flights of stairs in 105 degree heat.  Each step pulls my back further out of alignment, resulting in excruciating pain, and I'm pretty sure I just tore my ACL.  On the third flight, a professional piano mover comes up and lets me know that they'll take this behemoth the rest of the way up -- free of charge.  I still would say, "No, that's ok, I go this," while mentally highlighting who gets my Bugs Bunny baseball picture in the will.

So when a Friend of the Blog suggested that I run a crowdfunding campaign to "elevate and promote" my writing, I initially blew a mental raspberry.  I calculated the numbers, and with web hosting fees, writing conferences to meet agents and publishers, and the mandatory self promotion, I would need around $2,000 to make a go of it.  Asking friends, family and strangers for $2,000 made me severely queasy. Like I just drank Christmas eggnog in July queasy.

Then, as I dug through my old Yahoo! archives trying to find an old Interpersonal Communication syllabus, I found an email from 2007.  When I served as the executive director of a non-profit college access center, I apparently replied to a board member who showed hesitancy in asking for donations.  I wrote:

... I always have trouble seeing donations as means for programming.  Instead I see them as investments in family, friends and neighbors.  As sparks of encouragement that can change lives.  After all, the world is a better place when dreams can come true...

Hating that my own words that contradicted a very eloquent raspberry, and after a scientifically inaccurate Facebook poll, I have started a Go Fund Me page (www.gofundme.com/JackGrubb).  The goal is set at an uncomfortable $2,000, which I understand asks a lot.  I did set some reward levels, so I can justify this work as transactional.  Also, I really want to write a bunch of fake doctor's notes for some fictitious maladies.

What Funds Will Fund
Here's a breakdown of the cost to begin a real writing career:

• Hosted website with custom domain: $144/year
• Custom email: $60/year
• Indianapolis writing conference (w/agent audit): $276
• Writing classes (x3): $525
• Personal writing/publishing coach through Carnegie Center (Highly suggested): $540
• Shameless self promotion through social media: $600

Total: $2,145

Thank You in Advance

If you feel moved to contribute to the Go Fund Me Campaign (www.gofundme.com/JackGrubb), let this be the first of a thousands of thanks.  I will not let you down -- or maybe I will.  I'm not too sure of your disappointment threshold.

If you don't feel the mojo, that's ok.  I'm glad you made it down to the bottom of the article and hope you come back.  Losing the Internets will always be here and will always be subjectively funny.  Just do me a favor, and share the blog on Facebook.  Unless you don't want to.    

   

The curse of optimism

From the beginning, I thought optimism equaled survival.

I didn't get over the hemiparesis effects of a neonatal stroke by accepting my lot in life.*  No, I bucked up and said, "With physical therapy and determination I will run like everyone else.  One day I won't have to wear my shoes on the wrong feet to force them to turn out.  One day I will place fourth in state in the 400 meter dash -- even if it is only among private schools.  One day it will be better."

When never-ending mind-numbing migraines knocked me out of work, I didn't lay down and whimper.  No, I staggered up and quietly proclaimed, "So what if the doctor, the hospital and a nationally renowned neurologist can't figure out what's wrong with me.  One day I'll stop these headaches.  One day I'll be able to remember that bills get paid in the mailbox, not the front dresser drawer.  One day I'll be able to understand why critics call Reba 'middling and pedestrian.'  One day it will be better."

Through depression, premature births, and family cancer scares things will get better.  Corrupt companies, layoffs and a depreciating housing price can't dent my optimism.  After all when I'm stuck in a day that's gray and gloomy.  I just stick out my chin and grin and say...tomorrow! tomorrow! I'll love you tomorrow! You're always a day a way!

Man, they should write a song about that.

Optimism can be that fuel that drives you to achieve the unachievable.  You can't climb Mount Everest without first visualizing yourself reaching the summit.  When you fail at an experiment, it can show you the pathway to success.  A rousing pep-talk is all you need to take a team of misfits to win the Hockey Pee-Wee League State Championship.

Optimism lies in the future. Things may be bad now, but later they'll be better.  No matter what, an oasis lies just over the next sand dune.  Just wait until you get older, the girls will be all over you.  Optimists may not think as the glass half-full today, but definitely believe that it will overflow tomorrow.

I used to live in the future of optimism.  I could easily erase a disappointing event with a good night's sleep and fresh perspective.  That now has changed after seven harrowing months of day to day bad.  FDA recall, family company bankruptcy, car problems, a diminishing bank account, thyroid surgery, thyroid cancer, missing Christmas with the family, and the cancelation of Lego Dimensions.  If I wake up tomorrow and find the dog cooking meth in the downstairs bathroom, it wouldn't surprise me one bit.

Now, I haven't gone over to the dark side of pessimism.  I don't expect crappy things to happen, I just don't expect good things to happen either.  If you base life assumptions on a teeter-totter, I would rest directly on the fulcrum.  I just don't have the emotional stamina to roll over to one side or the other.  If you rather relate philosophies to candy, I'm the Now, not the Later.

Let me give an example of what I mean: 

Last month I found out I had papillary thyroid cancer, and even though the doctors called it the "Cadillac of cancers," it's still cancer.  To eradicate the cancer cells I had to do some pretty awful stuff, like cut iodine out of my diet, take a highly radioactive pill, segregate myself from all of humanity (and pets-manity) for seven days, and then lie still for 45 minutes while a machine invaded my personal space.  Merry Christmas to me.

I could have spent the entire time worrying about what the scan results showed.  I could have planned funeral arrangements or celebration menus, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.  But instead I watched Trading Places, built Lego models, talked to the kids on FaceTime, and fought the never ending battle of kitchen space with a horde of ants.  And because these weren't just time distractions until the big reveal, I could really enjoy them.

The scan came back showing an absence of cancer cells, and of course I was elated.  But if it came back that 24 lymph nodes were infected, I wouldn't be surprised.  Sad, yes, but not surprised.  And I didn't waste a week by myself worrying about it -- especially when there's a Lego A-Team van to assemble.

Before all you optimists and pessimists pity me, I challenge you to try and free yourself from expectations.  You'll be amazed at the happiness you find in the details of life.  Watching your kid struggling to free a loose tooth becomes thrilling.  You relish sitting on the couch with your partner, even though you're not talking and working on separate laptops.  Even the new Star Wars movie can turn into a pleasurable experience when you don't worry about legacies and discarded canon.

Disappointments do come, but they don't stick around for very long.  Like, sure, this blog column now ends, but somewhere there's a Seinfeld rerun on to take it's place.



*Sorry for the science-y sentence.  The less arrogant sentence is "You don't get over muscle weakness after a stroke before birth..."  I just wanted to make sure you read until the end.

Not dying is a plus...

As I'm sure you remember, on Monday I had my thyroid forcibly ripped from my throat and discarded in the trash like a hunk of rancid sausage.  I was told the surgery was a sight to behold, as it lasted about two hours.  I petered out before it started, but I think it must have ended with a hulking man-wolf perched upon the operating table holding the offending gland aloft, shouting "I have slain the beast, and it is glorious!"

The "doctor" tells me he just removed the thyroid calmly, closed up the incision, and left for another appointment.  He has no imagination.  And his lab coat makes him look like a pharmacist.

Since then I have been recuperating at my sister-in-laws in Indianapolis, so that no little princess hands could jab at my scar.  It's been pretty boring.  But since nothing else happened in the world, here's some random thoughts I had the day of surgery:

Before 

• Hospital waiting rooms are never as glamorous as they make them look like on T.V.

• I wonder what that guy is in for?  Is it rude to ask?

• Should I have made a scrapbook of me and my thyroid on Snapfish?  Or perhaps a mug?

• It would be cool if the thyroid was God's superpower restrictor plate.  Like the nurse comes out and says, "you're going to be in a lot of pain this week, but now you can fly!

• I wish I chose "turn invisible" instead of "fly" for my superpower

• Why did they have me take off my underwear for a neck surgery?  Should I be worried?

• I wonder how many naked guys wore this robe before me?

• I hope my insides smell nice

• I'm going to try and dream about dinosaurs.  But Fred Flintstone dinosaurs, because real dinosaurs freak me the flip out

• The nurse keeps calling it "Happy Juice."  Does she think I'm five, or is that just fruit punch?  Hopefully they didn't run a financial check on me before hand

• Getting sleepy....dinosaurs....dinosaurs....dinosaurs....grocery shopping....CRAP!....zzzzzzzzzz

During

• zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...dinosaur shopping...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

After

• These stiches hurt. How does Frankenstein's monster do it?

• I'm going to keep pretending I'm asleep until the nurse leaves, because I'm pretty naked under this sheet

• The doctor said he couldn't see my parathyroids.  Now I think he's just making stuff up to sound important

• I wish they let me keep the gland in a mason jar

• Is it too brazen to ask the hospital if they have a social media marketing plan?

• My vocal cord nerve is fine -- why is my wife crying?

• So insurance approved 40 pain killers without blinking an eye, but turned down a calcium supplement.   Can't believe we have an opioid crisis

• This neck drain that I have to wear tonight -- not in the brochure

• I wonder if my gall bladder will want it's freedom, too?

• Not dying is a plus and all, but my family would have been set if I kicked it on the operating table

• It's a beautiful day.  The bees are beeing.  The birds are birding.  And HOLY CRAP MY THROAT HURTS!

• My momma always said if something was rotten, cut it out of your life

And that's all the time we have tonight, kids.  Come back tomorrow when my guests will be Martin Short, Method Man, and the music stylings of the Dixie Chicks.

Good night, and sweet dreams.

Of dinosaurs.

Cheering Up the Unemployed

I haven't written in a crap ton (metric weight) amount of time. Why?

Lots of work, lots of travel, lots of kids, lots of moving, lots of Doritos, lots of 2016 World Series celebrating, little of time.

And now?

Nothing.

We all know the age-old story: Boy meets company.  Boy loves company.  Boy brings niche food product to national prominence.  Boy meets FDA.   Boy gets hit on head with proverbial cartoon mallet.  Boy loses company.  Boy feels weight of unemployment crushing his lower pelvis region.  Boy writes on long forgotten blog.

If you want to know the whole story, click here.  (By the way, I wrote the Press Release.)

I've been unemployed before, but I can only describe this stint as soul-shattering.  I lost a family business.  Working with my father has transformed my life in a profound way.  Our daily interactions and the bond we created over peanut-free peanut butter has made me a better son, father and husband.  I resisted the business for so long, like working for Dad meant I couldn't hack it on my own.  Now I only wish I started the day I left my college campus.

But as they say, when God closes a door, He just may piss on you from the upstairs window.  This window just happens to be in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, land of opportunity for a marketing specialist who specializes in niche companies.  Not to mention that most of the places -- eight in total --  I have worked before no longer exist.  I essentially have an out-of-place resume built on ghosts.

So, I look for my friends for support.  Most do well and try to hook me up with job opportunities or empathy.  I appreciate that from the bottom of my heart.  This lost hit hard, as I feel that I let down my wife, my kids and myself.  It wasn't my fault, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop this predicament.  I need proactive love from love ones, because I know I won't seek it out.  I've got job hunting to do.

Some people, however, can stay silent.  I know they mean well, but just like a funeral, some people just don't know what to say.  There are certain phrases that should not be said, basically because they act as daggers made of ice piercing the heart and melting while I slowly bleed out.  Or like watching a twelve hour marathon of Shaquille O'Neal movies.  Whichever is worse.  So don't say these -- unless you are an a-hole.  Then go ahead.

Everything happens for a reason.
My life--and the lives of everyone who used to work at the company, the co-packer, and the people who got seriously ill--went totally sideways for some sort of cosmic plan?  That's like ripping out my right eye so my daughter can meet the doctor's 7-year old son, who she will marry sixteen years later.  I'm not sure God commands such a Rube Goldberg universe.

You'll have so much more time for your family.
a.) I have much more time to slowly sink my family into financial ruin.  b.) I'm pretty sure my family would rather have me at work.  I'm much better in small quantities.

You'll be fine.
This is what you tell a person who was bitten by a zombie and is just about to be shot in the head unless they turn.  It's something you tell a small child who is scared to slide down the "tall slide."  It's what you tell someone when they have to drink something that is hopefully an anecdote.  Not what you tell someone who is struggling to pay their bills.

Have you tried...
Usually these suggestions are so benign or outlandish that the suggestion is worthless.  There is no middle ground.  It's either "Have you tried updating your resume?" or "Have you tried selling blood to a hungry vampire?"  The only reason that this should be said is if it is solicited.  If you don't hear, "What can I do?" don't give suggestions.

HERE IS WHAT YOU SHOULD SAY

That really sucks.

or

Are you OK?

or (hopefully)

Here is someone I can introduce you to who can help you get a job.

That's it.  Nothing more. 

This article has been a PSA sponsored by Cashwise Payday Loans.

The Horror that is Lazy von Jingles

Do you feel it?  That empty place in your soul where trivial, useless musings used to live.  It eats at you day after day, wondering about what's happened to Jack Grubb and his fabulous blog.  Sure, you tried to fill the void with cat videos and whatever links George Takei throws at you on Facebook, but nothing can replace Losing the Internets.  I know; I felt it too.

You can now stop sitting in the back of your closet drinking Mad Dog 20/20 listening to Depress Mode records in the dark.  I'm back, baby, so please stop flooding my inbox with requests...

wait...

Not one...

Screw you, guys!  I could have been lying dead in a ditch for all you care.  I could have been taken hostage by a rogue tribe of donkey-men demanding equal pay and their weight in hay.  Man, this is more depressing than the time when my imaginary friend ran away with my imaginary dog.  Even my Christmas elf ignores me.

That's right, I have a Christmas elf -- not that you care.  He came as a package deal with Daffodil Snowflake, the Princess's elf.  Her elf gives her special surprises, like a tub of cookie dough in the fridge or trips to the zoo.  Daffodil texts the Princess with clever jokes and inspirational quotes.  She loves her elf and draws it pictures depicting the two dancing and enjoying a nice yogurt parfait together.

My elf, Lazy von Jingles, hates me and I hate him.  While Daffodil flitters around the house spreading sunshine and gaiety, Lazy von Jingles just sits on the couch eating pork rinds and scratching himself with our good spatula.  Ask him to bring his plate to the sink or stop watching Pay-Per-View pornography, and he just spits in your eye.  And the mouth on the bastard!  Even Eminem was like, "Dude, you need to tone it down."

I didn't even want to get into the Elf Tradition. (Can you even call something started in 2005 a tradition?)  If you're not familiar with Elf on a Shelf, let me fill you in.  Evidently, Santa could give a crap about privacy rights as he sends his NSA-like elf spies to record your every move.  From Thanksgiving until Christmas, these little a-holes watch to see what "naughty" things your family does on a day-to-day basis.  Then on Christmas Eve, it goes back to Santa with a comprehensive report that makes the Affordable Care Act seem like light reading.  Forget Elf on a Shelf, it should be called NARC in the Dark.

My elf, however, will have none of that.  According to von Jingle, I'm already on the naughty list because "I know what I did."  I can't even protest it to the big guy himself or a "dead hooker may find its way into my trunk."  And forget about the nice gifts or experiences that some elves leave their charge.  Here's what the Princess got from Daffodil Snowflake:

Here's the kind of texts I get:

or

The worst part of Lazy is whenever I ask if he's really leaving on Christmas, he just winks and says "Maybe."  What the hell does that mean?!  And why does he keep slapping me on the butt?  Seriously!

Maybe now you'll feel bad for not caring if I posted another entry on the blog.  It's pretty hard to write while hiding from some maniacal elf who keeps "accidentally" cutting the power lines.  You know a nice note would have given me an emotional boost in this hard time.  But go ahead, enjoy your holiday.  Lazy von Jingles has a butter-sock full of Christmas cheer all ready for me. 

Uncomfortably old

As a plucky, young sophomore in high school, my friends and I practically begged our theater director to let our school perform the stage production of Grease for our spring musical.   It all seemed like a good idea.  After all, a play about high schoolers in the late 1950's fits a high school play perfectly.  The characters are relatable, the songs are catchy, and we could wear leather jackets and jeans.  All in all, Grease kicks Oklahoma's ass.

Our crusty director never let us perform Grease, citing that it was too risque for a bunch of kids to perform.  He asserted that the language and theme would make parents and grandparents uncomfortable.  We retorted that any movie that starred Olivia Newton John cannot be that bad.  She sang songs about summer love and exercise.  Why would Olivia Netwon John put her name on anything inappropriate for high school kids?  With the way they talked about Grease, you would have thought that it's all about sex.

That's because Grease is all about sex.  I know this because I just sat through a rather uncomfortable high school rendition of the play.  It started making me squeemish when a bunch of teenagers started singing about screwing in the sand.  My stomach clenched a bit after Grease Lightning made chicks cream.  And my soul died a bit when I witnessed my nephew honking some girl's adolescent knockers.  Now I know why Mr. Baird made our class stick to playing ruthless, singing gangsters instead of horny teenagers.

For those who never seen the play or the much tamer movie, let me give you a little snippet of a song without all the alluring music:

We'll get some overhead lifters, and four barrel quads, oh yeah
Keep talkin', whoah keep talkin'
Fuel injection cut off, and chrome plated rods, oh yeah
I'll get the money, I'll see you get the money
With a four-speed on the floor, they'll be waitin' at the door
You know that ain't shit when we'll be gettin' lots of tit in greased lightnin'

Chorus:
Go, greased lightnin', you're burnin' up the quarter mile
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
Go, greased lightnin', you're coastin' through the heat lap trials
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
You are supreme, the chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'

We'll get some purple French tail lights and thirty-inch fins, oh yeah
A palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins, oh yeah
With new pistons, plugs, and shocks, I can get off my rocks
You know that I ain't braggin', she's a real pussy wagon - greased lightnin'

I seem to recall watching Grease at nine years old.  My sister watched it so much by the time she turned 13 that we had to buy a new VHS tape.  Perhaps I was distracted by the Hand Jive and all that leather, but the idea that every single scene revolved around sex never entered my fragile little mind.  The only thing that really bothered me was that Sandy felt like she had to change and start smoking in order to get her man.  And that the car flew at the end.  Perhaps these teens putting on the play are as clueless as I was at that age.

But there's a difference between watching and acting.  With acting you need to digest the lines and derive meaning.  When you're watching a play you might gloss over lines about how "horny" the characters say they are, but when you rehearse the lines over and over, you can't miss what's going on.  Even for the audience it's different.  There's a bigger separation from reality when watching 30-somethings pretending to be teenagers on screen and watching actual teenagers on stage, especially in close proximity of parents and grandparents.

And the worse part...the kids acted superbly.  They sang fluidly, acted believably, and looked like they were having fun every step of the way.  I don't know how a northern suburb of Indianapolis amasses such talent, but they really knocked it right out of the park.  The kid who played Sonny might even make it big!

Anyways, I'm probably being a big prude.  No one else seemed uncomfortable as the crowd erupted in a huge ovation at the end of the song about how Rizzo would rather be pregnant than a tease.  Perhaps I'll just have to accept that sex and teenagers go hand in hand, or that today's youth have absolutely no clue as to what's going on.

Besides I'm kinda looking forward to their next performance--I hear good things about The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Working for ghosts

I know, I know.  It's been a while since I had time to sit and write on Losing the Internets, frustrating my fan to no end.  I missed it too.  The writing; the lack of response; the endless criticism from my editor of my grammer and speling.  (Don't worry Queen, I misspelled those words on purpose for comedy's sake.  I know that grammer is really spelled with a o.)

The reason for my absence is that I've been busy with work.  In the last month, I created a database of over 5,000 grocery stores where I had to look each one up individually, and that takes an extraordinary amount of time banging away at a computer.  On top if that I had two conventions where I acted as a knowledgeable exhibitor and a 100-foot sandwich to promote.  By the time I have a chance to write, I'm so sick of the computer that I mostly just close my eyes and dream of bunnies.  Horrible, horrible bunnies.

Not that I'm complaining.  If there is one thing I really like, it's working.  And after I stepped down from being an unpaid Executive Director at a local non-profit, constant work has been spotty at best.  I have a few clients that I help with their social media outlets, but after the platforms are built, it's just a matter of keeping them updated.  That's enjoyable, but not always at the constant, unrelenting pace that I like.  I guess I could clean the house and teach the Princess some morals, but the house will just get dirty again and Princess keeps threatening to move out, get her navel pierced, and join an unregulated, underground circus specializing in monkey acrobats.

While I welcome this spike of activity, and anticipate it will continue to spike until August, I'm looking for a more constant state of employment.  I especially am targeting one organization in particular, even though I have a better shot at creating a cat out of spare hair found in couch cushions than landing an interview.  At least I probably won't get one by going through the traditional online portal.   

The problem: Five of my past jobs have been with companies that no longer exist.  Any HR director will tell you that having multiple positions in theoretical companies can hamper your employment opportunities because there isn't any way to corroborate that you actually worked there.  Having five on the resume isn't just a red flag, it's a red tapestry that covers the entire North wall -- the tallest of all the walls.

Here's what I'm talking about.  The names of the companies will be held private (but if you're curious, just look at my LinkedIn profile).

• Job #1--Insurance advertising copywriter: Company merged with another local company and assumed their name.  The merged company was bought by a national conglomerate which renamed the entity again.  For the two phone numbers listed, one is disconnected and the other is for a Kosher deli.
• Job #2 --Insurance advertising copywriter: Company decides to keep two sets of financial books, which as it turns out, is illegal.  Company folds and is broken up into different subsidiaries that all have different names.  Building I used to work at is now home to a college preparatory school.
• Job #3--Middle School/high school teacher:  Private school closed down for various non-criminal reasons.  The website is still up if you want to enroll for the 2008-2009 school year.
• Job #4--Middle School/high school teacher:  School shut down because of various non-academic scandals.  Their story becomes more sordid and unbelievable the more I read about it.
• Job #5--Non-profit executive director: Don't start a non-profit during the worst recession since the Great Depression.  After grant money dried up, board didn't want to restart under new leadership.

I've been told that I'm the type of employee that sees his work as an extension of his life.  That no task is too large or too small to undertake.  I work hard and smart, and bring unbridled creativity and heart to the workplace.  Unfortunately, these organizations couldn't stick around, making me look like a confidence man trying to shake down old ladies for their Social Security checks.

Now, before this devolves into a pity party (one that serves pathetic punch and hopeless hors d'oeuvres), I understand this isn't the end of the world.  It isn't even the end of the city block.  I just now understand why it may be impossible to go the traditional wait and see route and find more unconventional in-roads to my dream job.  And if I never get there, so what.  I have a lovely wife, a great kid, a somewhat ok dog, and glitter all over my couch.

What more can a guy want.