ENTER SANDMAN

It started out innocently enough. I was having a hard time sleeping so my doctor prescribed Ambien. I took it. I loved it. No longer did I have to worry about tossing and turning all night. Just pop an Ambien and it’s off to la-la land. But, it was no big deal because obviously I could stop any time I wanted to, right?

Okay, okay, okay, maybe there was that one little time that I was sweating profusely as I nervously approached the pharmacy counter shaking like a leaf and begging for an early re-fill. But, hey, it was just that one time. Could have happened to anyone, right? No big deal.

To me, this elixir to the fidgeting, sleepless nights was the greatest thing since a Cubs World Series title! Things that would normally have kept me tossing and turning like a pig on a spit suddenly disappeared from my slowly deteriorating brain until morning, allowing for a restful night’s slumber. You know, normal stuff like job stress, not remembering if I rinsed out my water pick and wondering if those 4-year hot dogs in the freezer were really safe to eat. You know, normal stuff.

Sensing maybe a slight issue here, Michele suggested I make a doctor’s appointment to see if there may be an alternative. Only because I’m an accommodating and obedient husband, I did, in fact, meet with the doctor. He suggested something with eighteen syllables and I vetoed that after he told me that it was ‘different’ from Ambien. Hey, I wasn’t looking for anything different. I would marry the stuff if I could! But, seriously, there was no dependence on my part or anything. Never happen.

I woke up one morning and the doorbell rang. There was a package from Amazon. I thought at first that Michele had ordered something, but, hmmm, it was addressed to me. I opened it only to find 250 Slim Jims, a Jimmy Buffet bandana and 4 packages of red licorice, all of which I love. Hey what’s happening here? I had no recollection of ordering any of that but it made me think twice about my, well, I don’t like the word ‘dependence’ so let’s just call it ‘ desperate reliance’ for now, on that little, cute and oh so easy to swallow white pill. Do you mean to tell me that I was able to make a coherent financial transaction using a credit card and retain absolutely zero memory if it? Impressive! But, perhaps equally as important, judging from the stuff I ordered, it was all for ME! How selfish am I that I completely ignored my wife and my lovely felines? No catnip for them? No kale for Michele?

After wondering what other stupid stuff I could do without being even remotely aware of it, like buy a car on E-Bay or worse, pay off a utility bill in full, I decided to shelve the Ambien. I have spoken with others that have had the same experience…minus the Slim Jim thing, and I have since developed a new method for falling asleep and it seems to be working just fine; I run 2 miles on the treadmill followed immediately by the consumption of two Bud Lights. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT’S NOT ME, REALLY!

Well, that certainly was embarrassing. Look, attending a meeting and remembering that you forgot to trim your ear hair is one thing. I suppose I could live with that, unless we were getting close to ‘braiding’ time. The perspiration seeping through that spiffy white short sleeved dress shirt can also be forgiven if handled in a professional manner and by ‘professional manner’ I mean saying something witty like, “Sorry, I thought I forgot to delete the history on my computer.” But, any noise emanating from any bodily orifice is tough to explain away.

I found myself sitting in a meeting with the suits from the bank, all of whom would ultimately either approve or disapprove my refinancing plan. A collective ‘thumbs up’ would have resulted in my popping a champagne cork. Rejection would have meant my opening about twelve cans of Bud Light at the dimly lit corner table of Billy’s Beef & Barf. Yes, of course I was nervous. Before the meeting I reminded myself not to repeatedly tap my fingers on the table or nibble on my fingernails. Things were going swimmingly although the moments of silence where everyone is busily working their little calculators was maddening. I wanted so badly to say, “Hey, c’mon guys, we’re not talking about agreeing on an amount of repayment note to China. Let’s go.” I held back and behaved myself, until…

Apparently I made a wrong turn when I wiggled in the leather chair and it did not respond kindly. Leather chairs can be so mean. The noise I had just made with my shifting admittedly resembled what might have occurred had I devoured eighteen triple cheese burritos at Taco Bell the night before. I could have done the ol’ fake cough and adjust my socks routine but instead I was determined to let everyone know that it was the movement of the clothing and the leather, rather than any movement coming from me! I continued to wiggle and contort my body, praying that the same noise would resurface. It did not. I was screwed. Although there was no olfactory evidence, I still wanted to crawl up in the corner and die. I was absolutely positive that everyone in the room not only thought I was having a problem with flatulence but experiencing a seizure disorder as well.

The smoke had cleared, so to speak, and they actually ended up approving my application. My sigh of relief could have been heard for miles. For icing on the cake, one of them made the comment that perhaps they should change out the leather chairs for something a little more ‘movement friendly.’ How cool is that? I love these people. Yes, the champagne cork was popped but, in fairness, I went in there with completely plucked the nose hairs and never once did I get the urge to scratch my ear with my car keys!

 

 

 

 

OLIVE LOAF, ANYONE?

My wife went shopping and bought cold cuts! In our twenty something years of marriage, she has never bought cold cuts. Tilapia, yes, salmon, sure, but cold cuts? Ah, but not just cold cuts: olive loaf! Oh my God, this was going to be better than finding a wrinkled twenty dollar bill in your jeans pockets before throwing them in the washing machine. I loved olive loaf growing up and why not? I loved olives and I Ioved loaves, so needless to say, I was jazzed.
“Do you want bread with that?” Michele asked. “No,” I told her. It would take away from the whole experience. This needs to be savored in its entirety. To wrap this wonderfully succulent piece of Heaven in bread would be like showering with your clothes on. The sensation would be totally lost. This was olive loaf, baby!

We didn’t think about all the garbage that went into it at the time. Damn the chemicals, preservatives and sawdust. Did we know at the time that olive loaf contained exactly zero per-cent meat? No. Were we aware that it did contain unacceptable levels of caramelized transmission fluid? No, although there were some rumors of that. We didn’t care.It was just plain good eatin.’

The first bite transported me right back to Wilmot Jr. High School in Deerfield, Illinois. I could smell that atrocious hallway cleanser (the kind that kept burglars away), I could visualize the classrooms and I could see as clear as day the passion and lust in Mr. Cohen, my gym teacher, as he was sneaking a quick romantic interlude with Miss Reynolds, the school nurse, in the boys locker room. I recalled vividly how she was hurriedly struggling to relieve herself of the burden of those tight white stockings while pressed up against the sink. Yes, you would be correct: I chose the wrong time to practice putting on my new athletic supporter.

As I sunk my teeth into another bite of olive loaf I found myself back in social studies class: row three, back of the room so as to be able to nod off without easy detection. Mr. Ross’ Old Spice after shave permeated the entire floor as some of the more frail kids would choke and gasp for breath. On this particular day, he gleefully pointed out that we were having a pop quiz that would reflect 10% of our overall grade. This would have been fine, had I been up on the current dilemma in Mesopotamia, which, of course, I wasn’t.

I began to wonder why I was eating this thing called olive loaf, but took yet another bite.
I hadn’t even finished chewing when I was thrown back to the day my dad took me to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs play the dreaded St. Louis Cardinals. Cubs utility player, George Altman, hit a screaming line drive foul and, rather than risk dropping his beer, my dad chose to let the ball hit me squarely on the forehead. The knot on my head pulsated and swelled to the size of a basketball. Fans and medical staff gathered around to check on me, the players stopped for a moment: their eyes frozen on the kid in the stands with the huge, bleeding welt. I can also recall dear old Dad saying, “Hang in there, son. Just five more innings.”

I looked down at the remaining olive loaf, shook my head, and with much sadness and resignation, put the plate on the floor for the cats. They didn’t seem to have any problem devouring the remainder in record feline time before hoping back on the window sill to bathe and nap. I only pray that in a few years, when someone else serves up an olive loaf omelet, they don’t flash back to the time they took an unintentional ride in the washing machine, courtesy of a pre-occupied father.

It was strange. How could something so good then, conjure up so many disturbing memories now? Life’s not fair. I really liked olive loaf, but, in fairness, I also liked liver, so clearly something went awry in my childhood. Some memories, I guess, are better left buried forever … or at least resting comfortably in the deli case until someone comes in and asks, “Hey, what’s the cheapest ‘meat’ you’ve got?”

HEY, PUT SOME SHOES ON, WILL YA?

So, the ladies and gentlemen on the 8^th floor are at it again. This is the home of our corporate offices where all the really big decisions are made. This hard working and dedicated group makes sure that the rest of us mere minions are always sailing in calm waters.

We got the memo that I had long been expecting (read: dreading) the other day. The subject line was: ‘Proper office attire for summer.’ I’m pretty sure it was directed solely at me, but I’ll never be 100% sure. It stated that although the warmer months are here, we must remember that we are still a ‘professional office and still must convey a professional appearance.’ Among the list of banned clothing articles are flip flops, tank tops, ripped clothing and clothing displaying ‘too much’ cleavage. Your mileage may vary. However, in my heart, I think if they had their way, the wearing of burkas would be mandatory.

By way of background, I love flip-flops. The last time I had a pair of actual shoes on was when I attended a wake three weeks ago. So, yes, I do have some sense of decorum. The memo went on to mention, “Our choice of clothing reflects our attitude and our professionalism and we need to convey this every time we step through the doors.” Personally, I think the little insecure suck up who penned this literary masterpiece has his or her nose far up somewhere I’d never want to venture. “Look at me, boss! Didn’t I do good, huh, didn’t I?”

Truth is, because I work a morning radio program I could go to work in a bathrobe and no one would notice. The fact that I wear flip-flops in no way affects the job I do. In all my many years of broadcasting, I have never been told that my lame performance is probably due to my choice of foot apparel. “Bob, if only you wore a pair of shoes that covered your toes, you might have a better, more engaging show!” No, that’s never happened.

Yes, I’m a team player and, as a result, I will abide by the company policies…or most of them anyway. I’ll continue to wear my flip-flops but, from now on, I will also carry a pair of ‘real’ shoes in the car just in case one of the corporate robots decides to venture down from the 8^th floor to do a clothing inspection. They all have extremely arduous and hectic schedules, as I’m sure you can imagine. If they’re not busy issuing memos of the highest importance, you can probably find them sharpening pencils or maybe even putting another pot of coffee on. Trust me, a snap clothing inspection would surprise nobody. “Hey Ivan, do you want to binge watch Game of Thrones with me today?” “Maybe later, Walter, I want to make a surprise visit to the studios to find out whose toes I can see!”

So, bless all of you on the 8^th floor. Now, press those short sleeve white shirts, strap on the bowties and load up that pocket saver with Bics. It’s time to get to it! Let it never be said that you are not the backbone of our fine organization. Without all of you we would simply be lonely, clueless sailors hopelessly and forever adrift at sea. Bless you all. And, in the off chance that you find some idol time on your hands, we haven’t seen that memo reprimanding us on the overuse of toilet paper in a while. Just sayin.’

 

 

 

 

YO, ADRIAN!

So, I went online recently to find out which pretzel goes best with the finely crafted nectar of the gods known as Busch Lite, when I stumbled upon an amazing astrology site.

For a mere $199.95 a year, I could get daily horoscopes by a world-renowned astrologer. I think his name is Adrian something or other. I would also receive unlimited access to video chats and special phone numbers that I could call whenever I wanted to get closer to my astral energies. This is perfect.

I broke out the credit card and I was off and running. After all, Adrian said that I was about to experience some major changes during the upcoming transit period and that sure sounded important to me. Although I have never spoken to Adrian, I feel like he had become my friend, my security blanket, if you will. I needed him in my life. The daily horoscopes were right on the money. Take for instance my horoscope from yesterday, “Robert, tread lightly today. It is not a good day to steal the spotlight, as others may not see things quite as you do. It’s a good day to ‘lay low,’ because, as I’m sure you are painfully aware, people really suck sometimes.” That was right on the money. Well, I did lay low and nothing bad happened. I didn’t get fired, fall down the stairs or even cut myself shaving. Adrian is a godsend…or so I thought.

The e-mails kept coming…in droves. Hey, Adrian, um, what’s this? It seems like you are giving me the chance of a lifetime to get even closer to my true self. For just $39.95, I can have my very own Gemstone Healing Wand? He insisted that once I’m in possession of this missing piece in my life, I will finally be in tune with my own natural energies that will clear away all the ‘negative’ blocks that have been holding me back and extraordinary things will happen. Adrian, seriously? A magic wand? Hey, big guy, I trusted you. Don’t do this to me. I beg of you.

Have I been hoodwinked? Has my security blanket played me like a fiddle? Another e-mail arrived almost scolding me for not taking advantage of the sure to be life altering Gemstone wand thingie when he was adamant that the next ‘must have’ would change my life completely. It was my very own 2016 Essential Forecast. With this, it seems that I would be able to know what’s going to happen to me well in advance. My Essential Forecast did however, come with a price tag of $49.95 (plus shipping and handling). “But, Robert, my friend, we both know you need this in your life and you need it NOW before you’re uncontrollably spiraling out of control. Act now, my dear friend!”

Oh my God, what have I done? It’s like my wife of thirty years just came to be and said, “Hey, I’ve met this really wonderful person and we bonded immediately and we’re moving in together because I love her. Bye.” No question about it, I’ve been smashed in the gut!

So, we live and we learn. Thanks Adrian for everything. I await with anxious anticipation the prize that can be found in tomorrow’s e-mail: I’m really hoping for that nifty Secret Decoder Ring!

 

 

 

 

I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HELP YOU…OH, OKAY, JUST THIS ONCE

 

I have clearly not completed my Assertiveness Training class yet. All you ‘Door to Door’ warriors, take note: Right now, you could ring my doorbell hawking your wares and you could probably convince me how wonderful it would be to own one of your really nifty set of rusty hubcaps from a 1971 Chevy Vega. But, hurry because once I graduate from my Assertiveness Training class, it’ll be an entirely different story.

A lovely woman, who was sporting more credentials than the Cubs are sporting World Series rings (Oops! Sorry, not a great analogy) rang my bell the other day wanting to chat about The World Children’s Fund. If I had known that it was a solicitor, I would have run upstairs and hid under my bed, but I clearly wasn’t thinking. I opened the door and got a lovely, “Hello, my name is Julie from The World Children’s Fund. How are you today?” I told Julie that I was fine but would much rather be hiding under my bed right now. She looked puzzled but went on with her spiel, informing me just how many children in the world are malnourished and simply don’t get enough food. I was moved, although I was also trying to figure out a way to clThemesose the door without actually offending her. I fell a tad short of my goal when she asked me if she could come in. I pointed her toward the living room and thought to myself, this doesn’t seem to be working out very well.

She continued, “Did you know, sir, that for just ninety-two cents a day, you can help some poor child eat for a year?” Trying to figure out how to, with minimal damage to my checking account, get Julie to leave before my wife came home, I said, “Well, that’s amazing, Julie, let me give you five dollars right now and thanks for coming.” “Oh, but Bob, (by now, we’re on a first name basis), I can’t take any cash today. That’s not what I’m looking for. All I need from you to help a sick child today is either a credit card or a checking account number.” “Okay, well, um, I don’t really, um…” (Door opens) “Sweetheart, you’re home! Let me introduce you to Julie from The World Children’s Fund. She says that for just ninety-two cents a day for a year, we can help a hungry kid. Isn’t that great?” She pushed me out of the way and said, “Yeah, that’d marvelous. Julie, that sounds like around Three-Hundred and Thirty Dollars a year to me. Is that about right?” “Yes, ma’am, and it will truly save lives.” Michele continued, “Julie, we simply can’t give to everything and if I had an extra Three-Hundred bucks right now, the first thing I would do would be to buy my husband a really nice, shiny set of testicles, because apparently, he lost his somewhere along the way. Thanks for coming.”

Julie slinked out as I apologized profusely telling her that my Michele had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Assertiveness Training School. She just sadly nodded and I then, took my rightful place on the cold cot in the garage counting the days until I, too, graduate, Damnit!

 

 

HEY, GIVE ME A BREAK. I JUST WANT TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!

I feel compelled to write about an issue that has been on my mind for a long time. This doesn’t just affect me, but anyone who finds themselves in the unfortunate position of having to use a public restroom. Labeling the rooms “Men,” and “Women,” has always worked for me and everyone else I have ever known. Never once have I run into anyone who has had to check before entering, when the words “Men” and “Women” were on the door. I know you’re trying to be creative and cute, but please, for the love of God, don’t do it at the expense of people’s bladders!

When I have to wait at the automotive repair shop for my car to be all greased and lubed, sometimes I will have to avail myself of the facilities. And as hard as it is for me to break away from that compelling People Magazine article detailing how Mickey Rourke feels about the complexities of the two party political system as it pertains to national security and rights of privacy, sometimes I need to pee…or throw up, in this case. I find this easier to do that when I know immediately what room to use. Not knowing the workings of an internal combustion engine, I didn’t know if I was a “Piston” or a “Cylinder.” C’mon, all I want to do is pee, not have to think about it! Peeing should be easy. You enter a room, you pee, you wash, and you leave.

I was in a restaurant having a hamburger with my friend, Kevin. When he got up to use the restroom, he actually had to ask a waiter first if he was a “Fist” or a “Feather.” Had his needing the facilities been an emergency, this could have been a big, wet disaster. When full, bladders display very little sense of humor. You run a restaurant for heaven’s sakes, try pouring your bottled up creativity into the menu instead.

Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know too many people who choose to do business with someone based on the names they give their bathrooms. All we generally ask is that you keep them clean, keep plenty of toilet paper on hand and most of us will be content. Remember, we can’t tell a “Cowboy” from a “Cowgirl” by just showing a hat or a pair of boots on the door. “Men” and “Women” work just fine. Oh, one other thing if I may: Please get rid of those silly touchless paper towel dispensers. They never seem to work by just holding your hands in front of them. In truth, you really have to imitate a rather tedious move from an advanced aerobics class to get so much as one square out.

Oh, and for those of you wondering, I am a “Piston.”

 

TAKING THE PLUNGE ONE MORE TIME!

 

Here we go again: Jumping into February’s frigid, mind and body numbing waters in Highland to raise awareness as well as some serious money for the Alzheimer’s Association. This will be the 6^th Annual such event, so please mark the date; Saturday, February 13th, at Berean Park in Highland. ‘Heroes’ and ‘Sidekicks’ welcome.

Hero (he-row) n. pl. –roes. One who wears minimal clothing and jumps into icy waters to raise money in hopes of eradicating Alzheimer’s disease. One who demonstrates support for those dealing with Alzheimer’s disease. A person who is a fundraiser for the Alzheimer’s Association. Also see: Nutjob.

Sidekick (sid’kik’) n. One who likes to stay dry but still hates Alzheimer’s disease and will do practically anything to see it’s ultimate demise. A person who assists in raising money for their ‘Hero.’ Sidekick is synonymous for one who hands their Hero a dry towel and maybe a Hot Toddy upon completion of jump.

Over the past five years, I have been asked several questions about the various aspects of the Subzero Hero Dive and I would like to share some of them with you now.

Hey, Bob, seriously, I’ve seen you wear earmuffs at Yankee Stadium in July! Why would you want to disrobe in February and turn yourself into a vanilla Popsicle?

For one thing, I wear earmuffs at Yankee Stadium because I can’t stand to hear the insufferable Yankee fans go on about “Only 3 more World Championships until we reach thirty!” Remember, I’m a Cubs fan and we only have one more to go before we reach, well…one. Also, it tears me apart to hear the beer vendor say those tragic words: “Nine-fifty, buddy.”

I’ve heard you on the radio. Will you be my friend? May I have a t-shirt? I listen all the time. Will you be my friend? Sorry, did I ask you that already? Will you play a song for me? By the way, what exactly is Alzheimer’s?

It’s a disease that strips one of the brain, ultimately rendering a person incapable of performing even the simplest of tasks like brushing teeth, showering or wondering exactly what Bob Costas does with his hair. This is not normal aging and is the sixth leading cause of death in this country. Every sixty-eight seconds, someone develops Alzheimer’s disease. And, yes, I’ll be your friend.

Didn’t your father-in-law, Sal, die from Alzheimer’s?

Yes, he did. I saw this man transition from a tough, no nonsense cop to someone who tried to eat his Billy club thinking it was a big pepperoni stick. He went from a man who always put his family first to a man who couldn’t pick any one of them out of a lineup. Sal was an avid and proud gardener and in the final stage of Alzheimer’s, I caught him washing his hands with artichoke hearts, thinking they were bars of soap. Ask him to tell you what time it was on the clock and he would respond, “I think it’s green.”   I don’t think any child should ever have to say to a parent, “Whoa, whoa, Dad, why don’t we move in the house to pee. It just makes it easier not to get arrested that way. What do you say?”

Do you have a pre-jump ritual?

Yes. I like to spend a few moments by myself and clear my mind. I try to block everything out and feel absolutely nothing. Then, unfortunately, I’m startled back into reality by the thought of the inevitable shrinkage I’m about to incur. Then I stick a sock in my speedo.

What advice can you give to a first time jumper?

Just relax and roll with it. Have fun, and keep in mind the cause; as soon as you get out of the water, you’ll have made a powerful statement about your conviction to end Alzheimer’s once and for all. Remember, you’re a hero, damnit! Oh, and also, there’s beer.

Last year we had over one hundred and fifty Heroes take the plunge. More than four hundred sidekicks stood on the shore and cheered. We need to continue to raise eyebrows in Washington, D.C. This disease needs more federal funding and what better place to look than the nation’s capital, where they make tough decisions every eight months or so.

So, I come groveling to you now. I want you to be one of my sidekicks. Team Sal needs to put an exclamation point on our utter disdain for this nightmare of diseases. The Hero with the heaviest moneybag on the morning of February 13th gets the privilege of christening the water. Together, we can make it happen.

Sign onto Team Sal today at: www.subzeroheroes.org. Click on ‘Bob Miller’ and sign on there. I thank you, my wife, Michele, thanks you and all the advocates fighting for the end of Alzheimer’s thank you. Sal would thank you as well, but he can’t, because, well…ya’ know.

 

 

SILVER BELLS — IT’S CHRISTMAS TIME ON THE MANTEL

Look, the holidays are stressful. To deny that would be foolish. Those marvelous strands of lights are guaranteed to blink right up until the time you pull them out of the box and plug them in. What exactly is the correct placement of the ornament on the tree? To tinsel or not to tinsel? Yes, these are expected annoyances, so, just put on that eighteen year old reindeer sweater, pour yourself a gallon of wine and have at it.

Michele and I were happily decorating this weekend, or if truth were told, Michele was decorating and I was watching the Giants debacle wondering how many days until pitchers and catchers reported for spring training. Then, it happened – something that elicited an actual emotion from me on a Sunday, which is not an easy thing to do. I looked over to see her taking the hand-painted urns, holding the deceased members of our cat family, off the mantel!

“Honey, what are you doing?!” I asked. She told me that she needed to make room for the pine roping, pine cones and twinkle lights. Trying to remain calm, I asked her what she was going to do with out beloved Samantha, Sara, Ferguson, Fred and Pearl? “Well, I’m going to put them in the curio cabinet.” Whoa, where? The curio cabinet? You mean next to that dusty porcelain cat from Italy and that stupid miniature lobster trap we got while on vacation in Maine? I don’t think so!

“Sweetheart, breathing or not, they are and always will be cherished members of our family. To banish their remains to the cabinet for the holidays is just a sacrilege!” Then my dear sweet wife shot back with, “Don’t be silly. You don’t really think they know the difference between the mantel and the curio cabinet, do you?”

I had no choice but to leave the room to jam a bunch of pretzels in my mouth, thus preventing me from saying anything that might have resulted in a less than stellar end to the weekend. Once composed, I came back with, “These are the holidays, sweetheart. I want my entire family, past and present, right here and accessible so we can all enjoy them together.” With that, she must have sensed the love that I truly had in my heart and gave me a big, embracing hug. I swear, if that hug had lasted five seconds longer….

Michele still thinks I’m nuts and the urns remain in the curio cabinet, but I did manage to leave the door open and sit the urns right up front. Hey, it’s a compromise and, after all, isn’t that was marriage, especially at the holiday season, is all about? Hope yours are happy!

 

THE LAST (VACATION) LECTURE

 

 

 

 

American workers, I ask you: why are you afraid to take that much needed vacation? What is wrong with you? I know what’s wrong. You think that nerdy little twerp ball is going to step in and do your job better than you can. Nonsense! It’s not happening, America. Get your head straight! Why, he can’t even figure out that automatic hand dryer in the bathroom let alone make a serious business decision like whether we should order more pens. Get with the program!

DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT let your mind play tricks on you. You’re better than that. “Oh my God, why am I not getting any e-mails? Why isn’t anybody calling me? Oh no, are they actually functioning better now that I’m on vacation?” DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. Take it from a reformed worrywart, this behavior will fester and eat you up inside. Before you know it, you’re a beaten man, stumbling down the beach, chugging a can of Genesee still in a paper bag, wondering why the waves don’t just mercifully reach up and take you. Wake up America!

Turn your thinking around right this minute. You’re talented, you’re dedicated and, by the way, you also know where they hide the key to the liquor cabinet. As a matter of fact, you deserve more than the three lousy weeks you’re currently getting. C’mon, get real! You’re the glue that holds that silly company together.

Once you can allow yourself to truly relax on vacation, sooner or later you’ll realize something that will bring a smile to your wrinkled face and cause you to blurt out loudly for all to hear, “Hey, I’m not the messed up one. They are! Woo-Hoo!” I personally find that my realization occurs during happy hour. Take solace, American worker for you are and always will be a highly regarded employee with skills and knowledge that far exceed your job qualifications. Now, say it with me: “I AM THE GLUE! I AM THE ROCK! I AM THE MAN! Bartender, another round over here please!”

Take that vacation that you have clearly earned and put the world on hold. This is your time to breathe the fresh air. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. However, it is vitally important to keep in mind one thing: when you return, try with ever fiber of your being to refrain from flashing photos of yourself sipping a margarita, sunbathing by the ocean or standing with your head sticking through a life-size El-Chapo Guzman cardboard cutout. Although it’s perfectly understandable that you want to torture your co-workers, this kind of maneuver will generally result in having your lunch repeatedly stolen from the office fridge and quite possibly even bring out the embarrassing Ex-Lax in the morning coffee trick. Oh, and it might even result in your being banished to the mailroom…or worse. Now get out of here you American worker. Enjoy…go…shoo…no really, go!