Honey, the car needs gas - I'm going in for lyposuction!

So the title might strike you as a bit odd. But let's be honest here - that's the point, right? So I am sitting in my office (at home, mind you) on Christmas Eve day. I have read all the hockey news there is, and I have checked email about 47 times in the last 12 minutes. The only thing left to do is surf the web and blog, right? Right.

So I came across this story today. The basic premise is that there is a doctor in LA somewhere. He is one of those cosmetic guys, specializing in the removal of those unsightly love handles and chubby bellies (his words, I swear). No big deal so far. But guess what he does with the leftover uh, waste. No way you are going to guess this, so I will spoil it for you.

He uses the fat he sucks out of these bodies and converts it to biodiesel for his Ford SUV and his girlfriend's Lincoln Navigator. Yeah, you read that right. This guy is being driven by Beverly Hills fatties. Every Big Mac, KFC bucket, and mayonnaise-slathered french fry is helping save the earth in a sick and twisted kind of way.

You can read the whole story here - Fill 'Er Up With Human Fat.

If this catches on, I think you might see a new definition of the popular term Fat Farm. Just picture a bunch of people tied up to troughs of burgers and ice cream. Hey, what's good for the planet is good for me.

Have you met my sister Stalin?

So for those of you who don't me very well, you probably just assume that my last name is and always has been Bushong. But you would be wrong. As it turns out, I was actually adopted by my dad and took on his last name when I was 6 years old. Thank God!
But no, my real last name is not Bushong. I was actually born with a different name. Are you ready? Wait for it... wait for it...

I was born as Michael Butts. Yeah, that's right. Up through kindergarten, I was little Mikey Butts. My dad came along and adopted me (birth mom, adopted dad - you figure it out), and that saved me from a life of torment and torture. I might have ended up as the butt of all those kid jokes. Although, I should point out that it might have made me a big badass. I look at guys like the former Chargers running back Marion Butts (a girl's first name and an awful last name) or the Sharks fighting enforcer Jody Shelley (2 girls names - really? are we really doing that to kids?), and I wonder if having a bad name makes you tougher.

So anyway, I used to think my name was bad, but that was until today. Today I came across what could be the worst name in the history of names. Yes, this name is worse than the kid I went to high school with (Ichi Wang - oh yeah, you can't make that kind of name up). I read an article today about a kid named Adolph Hitler Campbell. Apparently, little Adolph's parents wanted to get him a cake with his name on it, but the good people at the local supermarket refused to put his name on it. They thought it was offensive. Don't believe me? Check out the story entitled "Child named after Hitler is refused cake request."

And in case you thought that was bad, his sister is named "JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell". And no, I am not making that up.

And in other news...

I frequently troll the web during breaks at work... strike that. I frequently work during breaks at trolling the web. Better.

Anyway, I was reading one of my news outlets today, when I came across the following headline: US anti-kidnapping expert kidnapped. Interesting. What do you think that will do to business?

Burger-monster!

Let me be clear up front - Stacy and I are still mourning the loss of our beloved Chloe. While every day gets a little bit easier, has a few more smiles, we still wake up a bit empty-hearted to a quiet house without the sounds of doggie nails clicking on bamboo floors.

But we have made the decision to move forward and look at new potential doggy children. And it is this point that takes up this blog.

So Stacy and I have long debated the type of dog we would bring into our family next. I have always wanted to get a Samoyed. They are so cute and fluffy. I just love their mischievous little grins.

But Stacy says she doesn't want to clean up hairballs all over the house. Can you imagine? "Oh, I don't want a bunch of fur all over the place in summer when this winter dog is too hot and is shedding like a bald man in a radioactive fallout area," she whines. Yeesh. Ok, I get it.

So we had to look elsewhere. We took a quiz that matches our wants to a breed. Our wants? We wanted a big dog. I don't want some little rat dog that can fit in my man-purse. We wanted a dog that doesn't shed (see above). We wanted a dog that would be good with the kids we will one day birth, and with the other animals we will one day house. After filling in more details, we got a list of about 100 potential breeds. When we clicked through them, we picked....

Wait for it a little more...

We settled on a dog called a Bergamasco. I like to call it Burger-monster. It also goes by the name rasta-dawg, Dog Marley and the Whalers, or the more straightforward Pothead. It has dreads, mon. Burger-monsters are protective but not aggressive, good with kids and other animals, loving, playful, and, surprisingly enough, they do not shed. You can read about them on bergamascos.net.

So what does a Burger-monster look like? Have a peek:

You can view more pictures of this lovely dog on bergamascos.net. Click on Ugo and Niso to see the dad and mom of our puppy-to-be. We will pick up our dog in March. We are quite excited.

We do need to think of a name. Right now, we are leaning towards Wookie (or maybe Wooka for a girl?). Or maybe Whoopi? Or should we go with Mopsy? Do you see any resemblance? We are torn on which is closer. Maybe you have some other ideas though.

Freakin' Gooch

Well, most people who know me probably know that I am mildly superstitious, particularly when it comes to sports. When I used to play baseball, I went through the exact same ritual before every game, plate appearance, and pitch. In my more recent sporting past, I was playing goalie. I had lucky underwear that I would wash after every game, so long as we won. If we lost? Change it out to a new pair. I would put on my pads in the same order. Stretch the same number of times. And always three sips of water before hitting the ice.


Did any of this help? Well, I wasn't the best goalie, so you can draw your own conclusions. Although, I should point out that maybe I would have been worse had it been four or even five sips of water. Who's to say?

But back to the point. It was Saturday night, and I had a couple of extra tickets to the Sharks game. The Sharks, for those of you not in the know, are doing fantastically this year. They are in first place and setting records en route to a very memorable season. So anyway, I used the extra tickets to take Stacy and a co-worker from Juniper. I don't want to incriminate him, so I will just say that his name rhymes with Bel Latzis.

It was a pretty decent game - the Sharks were dominating play but not the scoreboard. Still, it felt like they had control of the game. As we neared the end of the game, though, Mel asks, "Haven't the Sharks not lost at home all season?" After I shushed him, he kept on. Suffice it to say that a couple of minutes later, the Sharks lost.

Coincidence? Maybe. But do you really want to tempt fate like that?

For the record, the Sharks lost the game in overtime. In fact, it was their second OT loss this season. But it still counts as a gooch in my book.

Coming Soon - Naming Rights for Toilet Paper!

One of my lifelong dreams has always been to be a teacher. Have you seen the movie Mr. Holland's Opus? I always wanted to be that teacher. I know what you are thinking - "Mike, how is that possible when you are so at ease with prostituting your skills out to the high tech industry?" And I answer, "Teachers don't get paid diddly, so I am making do right now. Give it time, sweets. Give it time."

Well, no sooner was I thinking forward to the day when I could give up the salary for a teaching job when I came across further proof that our teachers don't make enough. You know it is bad when teachers have to sell naming rights to their tests and quizzes. Don't believe me? Check out a teacher from my own alma mater. My very own Rancho Bernardo High School (Go Broncos!) made CNN today. Read about a cash-strapped teacher at RBHS.

I don't know how bad the economy will get, but I am already trying to find someone I can sell the naming rights to my toilet paper to. I am thinking one of the auto makers might make sense. Their stock and the toilet paper I would put their names on are worth about the same. Zing!

R.I.P. Chloe

In loving memory

Chloe Bushong

(Jan 1995 - November 30, 2008)

Chloe the Amazing Wonder Dog

As Mike said in the blog he wrote on Thanksgiving it has been a tough week. Our Chloe dog isn't doing to well. At this time, despite some amazing fighting on Chloe's part, I am pretty sure our next blog is going to be a very sad one.

Right now I don't want to dwell on that. I just want to write about what a wonderful friend Chloe has been. She has been a wonderful part of my life for almost 14 years now...through thick and thin. She has been through multiple moves, changes in jobs and my search for the perfect guy to become a part of our little family. Kind of amazing when I think about who many stages of my life Chloe has been a part of.

She was even an instrumental part in Mike and I falling in love. I first felt the tug at my heartstrings when she visiting his place for the first time and she was laying down in her dog bed. Mike was walking by and he pulled a blanket off the sofa and covered her up because he thought she looked cold. Since that time they have become best friends. I may be Chloe's mom, but Mike is her best buddy. I am thankful for the joy Mike has added to Chloe's twilight years, and I am equally as thankful for how she has brought us together as a couple.

So, to our Amazing Wonder Dog. Thank you for a lifetime of love, companionship and happiness. You are one of a kind and we will always treasure you.

Tough Thanksgiving

Well, it is Thanksgiving night, and I should be in a nice turkey-induced coma right about now. Instead, I have snuck away from the ambient noise in the other room, away from the remnants of the third terrible football game today, and find myself in front of the computer in my dad's office.

In Thanksgivings past, I might be thinking about my family, or re-telling the annual tryptophan factoid my cousin repeats every year, or maybe talking about how I really am going to get my shopping done early this year (let it be known, by the way, that I am done shopping already). But this year has been a bit more somber.

When Stacy and I made the trip down to my parents' place to spend our first married Thanksgiving together, we decided we would bring our pup Chloe. She is getting a little long in the tooth, coming up here pretty quickly on her 14th birthday, and we want to spend every bit of time off we have with her.

We pulled into the drive on Saturday night, and things were pretty good. Chloe was at her best, hogging both the middle and both edges of the bed (how can that even be possible?). I must have slept a good 3 hours that night, fighting for covers and trying to keep an ass cheek on the bed. By Sunday night, though, I would have killed to have that battle.

She wasn't eating here food. Now this, in and of itself, is worrisome, but with Chloe, this is tantamount to hemmorhaging openly. Chloe is a voracious eater. She loves food like a fat kid loves cake. So when she refused to eat, we were worried. When she threw up her food, we were terrified. And by the time we had made our way into the emergency vet, we were downright mortified.

Since Sunday, she has spent a couple of nights in urgent care, a couple of days with doctor Mike at the local vet, and very little time with us. Apparently, her albumin levels are low, which basically means her body is starting to succumb to the cancer. I won't labor all the finer details here, but I will say that Stacy and I have found ourselves embracing and remembering, grieving and loving our precious Chloe.

As I type this, Chloe is resting comfortably in the bedroom with Stacy. After a trip to the beach today, she has been eating a bit better, perking her head up a bit more. Indeed, she is way better than earlier in the week. How will it turn out? Hell if I know; I don't even know what tomorrow will bring. But I know she has brought Stacy and I even closer together, and my whole family is now rallying around our sweet little pup of almost 14 years.

I guess if I can share one nugget of wisdom it is this: despite this being the toughest Thanksgiving I can remember, I am more appreciative than ever that we have had Chloe. Just being around what my wife calls "The Wonder Dog" makes me appreciate how much I care about my family and how much I love my wife. Even at her most worn out, she continues to prove that even if you can't teach an old dog new tricks, an old dog can teach us humans a new trick or two.

I _HATE_ when this happens to me

Now, for those of you who know me, you know that despite working in high-tech, I am about as technology-behind as anyone. When people talk about high tech, I immediately think about burritos (http://www.hightechburrito.com/). I don't gawk over the latest gadgets, and the doohickeys that I do have go largely unused.

It is with that in mind that I want to lend some support to the following gentleman. You see, he went and bought into all the iPhone hoopla, only to be absolutely screwed by high tech. He was sitting there watching a football game one afternoon, I am sure, when he thought to himself, "You know what I need? A beer? Nope, that wouldn't do it. Maybe I will get myself some pizza. Naah. I've got it - a picture of my own genitals on my phone!"

So this poor, innocent guy snaps the photo. Imagine his dismay when his iPhone had a "glitch" and the photo was sent to some random woman. What are the odds?! I realize the sample size is small, but based on this story, I would put them at about 1-in-1.

And this is why, folks, you don't see me toting around an iPhone. You can't trust those damn things.

For the full story, read about his "iPhoney Story".

Doggie Socks!

As many of you know, Chloe is the amazing wonder dog. Kind of like a Timex watch...she keeps on ticking, or the Energizer Bunny...she keeps going and going. Well, even amazing wonder dogs need help sometimes.

In this case, help is in the form of mobility socks. Chloe tore a ligament her one of her back legs about a month ago and surgery to fix it is not an option due to her age. Despite measures to "old doggie proof" the house (i.e. carpeting the hardwoods in ugly, inexpensive area rugs and using a baby gate to keep her off the stairs during the day) she would still loose her footing on occasion. So my friend google and I looked around...voila, mobility socks. They look a bit ridiculous, but she doesn't seem to mind them and they really help stabilize her back legs. http://www.wizardofpaws.net/pages/store.htm (scroll down to the mobility socks)

I'm happy to report that Mike and Chloe can one again engage in their favorite game of running in circles around the downstairs.

Pumpkinpalooza!

Well, the election has come and gone, but I am going to go a little more old school and write about Halloween - our first in Pleasanton. It would have come sooner, but we didn't get the photos downloaded until just a few minutes ago. Alas, the wonders of technology. Anyway, this was our first Halloween as a couple. And our first in our new house. So we were pretty excited to go get pumpkins and do the carving thing. On the Saturday before Halloween, we drove by a big pumpkin patch, so we strolled in. This place was awesome. They had big pumpkins, green pumpkins, little pumpkins, pumpkins with character, and carnies. Yeah, carnies. They had rides and stuff. We strolled about and picked out a couple of big pumpkins. Seriously, these things weighed about 40 pounds each. They were gynormous, the kind of pumpkins you pick out when you don't remember how hard it is to clean them out. The next day, we headed over to Bill Bates' place to hang out with some friends and their kids. Stacy is a married woman of child-bearing age; you can imagine where her mind went (no worries, though - I want kids too). We craved and scraped, shoveled and cut. While I was arm deep in my pumpkin, Stacy was picking out the pattern for hers. So Stacy ends up trying to make this skull thing. It looked awesome until she got to the teeth. Whil trying to carve out these little holes in a pumpkin the size of a small fridge, she broke her pumpkin. She did some toothpick repair, but this pumpkin was doomed. It lasted for a few minutes until one of the kids walked over and poked at it. Lovely.



We eventually got the pumpkins home. They rode in the backseat while I took every curve with caution, every light with a slow start. We got the pumpkins up on our front porch on Sunday. Halloween? It was on a Friday. As it turns out, that is waaaaay too long to wait between carving and Halloween. We ended up with this giant orange, smelly, mushballs. Seriously, if you touched the pumpkin, it was dissolve in a moldy mess all over your hand. So it is almost Halloween, and Stacy goes out to buy candy. I left her with one piece of guidance - "Don't buy lame candy." She came back with High School Musical, Incredible Hulk, and body part candy. None of it tasted particularly good. Strike that. None of it tasted at all good. I will pick out the candy next year. Who doesn't like $100,000 bars? Those things rock, and you never get enough of them at Halloween. None of it mattered though. The smelly pumpkins and untasty candy were no big deal. When Halloween rolled around, we got all of 3 trick-or-treaters. Three. _3_. That's it. Next year, we are going to put up a stand in some residential area where there are more kids. If they won't come to us, we will take Halloween to them. And they will like it, damnit.

Pigeons are spying on us... all of us

A lot of people these days, particularly with the technological advances that make snooping easier, are worried about Big Brother. In the last 2 weeks, I have heard talk about police-free ticketing where tickets would be issued right in your car (think Demolition Man) and talk about whether or not Google would spell the end of privacy. Heck, even my own company creates hardware that can be used to snoop data, voice, or video traffic sent across network.

So with all of this technology, what should we be most concerned with? Is it our phone lines? Is it the government reading our emails? Is it cameras watching us? Is it satellites tracking us?

No, it is none of that. Big Brother will surely descend upon us, but He will be spying on us in the form of... wait for it... a little longer... PIGEONS!

Check out this story I found today, entitled "Iran busts 'spy pigeons' near nuclear site".

Apparently, we have armed pigeons with invisible strings and metal rings. If we can catch and release pigeons, what else could we exploit to meet our voyeuristic needs?

I really cannot even fathom what else might be lurking, watching me, judging me, tracking my every move. All I can say is that the next time I see a dog taking a leak on a fire hydrant, I am going to be paying extra careful attention to exactly how he lifts that leg.

Holes, holes, and more holes... and a couple half holes

So I figured my next entry would be about something deep. I might opine on the election or maybe the fragile state of the economy. But no, I am moved to write about holes.

This hole, interestingly enough, is the largest hole in the world. It is in Russia. It is actually a diamond mine. Go figure. Another interesting tidbit is that the suction above the hole was powerful enough to cause several helicopter crashes, so they have banned all flight above the hole. If you want to learn more about a giant hole, check out this site.

But that's enough about that hole. I wanted to write about my holes. Wait, that sounds bad. I wanted to write about our holes. Still not much better, but let's try to stay focused. Moving on.

So Wednesday morning last week, I get a call on my Blackberry. I was in a meeting so I didn't answer it. A few seconds later, my personal cell rings. Uh oh - have to answer it. Stacy was on the other end, a bit frantic as there was water all over the family room, leaking through the ceiling. Yuck. As it turns out, we had a leak in our master bathroom. Yeah, lovely. We bought the house in February, and a few months later, we have our own waterfall. Yay.

So we brought in a plumber yesterday (Saturday), and he fixed the leak (we think). And then he said we should consider getting a water damage person in. So the guy comes in and and says we can rent giant fans and an industrial-grade de-humidifer for the cheap price of $863.00. For that price, how could we say no?

So he wants to drill holes in our ceiling and set up the fans to get air circulating up there to dry it all out. This is the plumber equivalent of blowing on your soup to make it colder. Ok. Drill away, my man. But because our house was originally built in 1910, he needs a piece of paper that says there is no asbestos. But, sir, our house was completely remodeled in 2004. No deal.

Well, the only thing we could do was drill our own holes. So I spent Saturday afternoon putting holes in my own ceiling. It felt wrong. The good news is that I managed to find just about every stud in the ceiling. So instead of ten holes, we have like 146 holes in our ceiling (yes, that is an exaggeration - there is no way there are more than 127 holes).

And before you bring it up, yes, I know you can use stud finders. I don't want to talk about it.

Grossest thing ever

I have been a guy all... well, most of my life anyway. I have been in locker rooms. I have been around sports nearly all my life. I have seen my own ankle bend in ways that would make even the most sturdy folks cringe a little bit. I have cut things, broken things, and injured things in ways that are sometimes unimaginable. On top of that, I have seen some horrific injuries. I watched a buddy break his femur (yeah, the big leg bone) right in two... it just snapped. I watched intently as they drilled a hole in his leg... yes, a hole. And it wasn't a power drill or anything. We are talking hand drill. I watched while the nurses turned away.

So with all of that in mind, what is the grossest thing I have ever seen? My friend Keith has Sharks season tickets with me (we actually have 3 seats with a third guy named Rich). He plays hockey, and apparently he hit his elbow on the ice a while back. The result? Bursitis.

Ok, so what is bursitis? The only way to explain it is this. Imagine that there was a little Bob the Builder inside his elbow. And if Bob were to stick his entire head out of Keith's elbow, that is what it looks like. Here is a picture from Wikipedia:

Now, mind you, this is the definition of bursitis. You would think the picture would be one of the more horrifying things you would see. No. Not at all. This picture is an ant hill to Keith's Everest. This picture is a Pee Wee football game to Keith's Super Bowl. This picture is Twizzlers to Keith's Red Vines.

When I first saw Keith's... uhhh... little person in his elbow, I freaked out. When he started rubbing it on me, I giggled in disgust. When he started making it talk, ok, that just creeped me out. I haven't slept well in weeks.

So the next time you see someone break something or maybe slice something off or even step in something gross, don't turn your head in disgust. No, stare at it a little longer, and remember that what you have seen is nothing like Keith's little Bob the Builder. But fortunately for us all, we are left remembering the immortal words of one Mr. Builder, "Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!"

I m a Sharks Fin-atic again!

Hockey season is officially back. I love hockey season, all 9 months of it. Talk about a sport that is just always there. Hockey is like a good friend or a comfortable pair of shoes - it's always there when you need it.

Had a tough day at work? It's ok. Hockey season will be there when you get home. Blisters on your feet after walking around looking for the perfect Christmas gift? Don't even sweat it. Slip on a pair of hockey season and lay back in your comfy chair. Yep, hockey season loves you, even when you can't love yourself.

The Sharks opened the season on Thursday night. I got there almost an hour before gametime. I grabbed my chicken nuggets (not sure if they count as real chicken, but they are chicken-like at least) and a water. I nestled into my seat and began what will become a 9-month road to misery and depression.

For those of you who don't know, the Sharks are a great hockey... no, good hockey team. The word "great" is reserved for teams who can actually win in the playoffs. For 3 years in a row, the Sharks have been the chic pick to win the Cup (the Stanley Cup for those of you not in the know). And all three years, they have lost in the second round, to teams they should beat or at least could beat. And in those losses, they have shown that they aren't great, merely good.

In their defense, it is difficult to play hockey well with both hands around your throat (choking reference if you don't get the subtlety).

Anyway, all of the teams I root for bring out this kind of misery. It is a wild ride en route to what is eventually a catastrophic collapse of biblical proportions, but at the end of the day, my teams are always left with their heads held low and some random fan yelling out, "There's always next year."

But until that certainty becomes reality, I will cheer and chide, laugh and grumble, and utterly enjoy the next 9 months as my Sharks lead me down a path of sheer exhilaration. What makes me a real fan? That despite what will probably be another disappointing outcome, I will travel that path with the kind of wide-eyed wonder that all of us real fin-atics have.

Go Sharks.

Oh my! Get prepared for barbecue sandwiches!

Now, mind you that when I say barbecue sandwiches, I am not actually referring to some exotic meat that has been lightly cooked over coals or wood, with that smoky barbecue flavor. Oh no, not at all. I am talking about two pieces of Wonder Bread, smushed together with a little bit of KC Masterpiece barbecue sauce in between. No meat. No cheese. No leafy green to make it somehow less pathetic. Just bread and barbecue sauce. Mmmm.

What would drive a man to eat such a thing? Is Stacy not providing for her husband? No, Stacy is doing just fine. In fact, she actually does her best to help avert impending barbecue gloom. But when she goes on trips, I am left to fend for myself. First, the microwave meals go. We like Amy's Enchilada Pie. Those are tasty, and I recommend them to anyone - not just guys stuck at home without a thing to eat. They are a nice blend of cheese, fake tortilla, and the obligatory red sauce that makes an enchilada, well, an enchilada.

But when the microwave meals are gone, all bets are off. Peanut butter is usually the next to go. I will slather a bit on some bread and choke down a peanut butter sammy. After that? The rice goes next. We have Unce Ben's microwavable rice. That stuff rocks. When it is gone? I like to call it Bachelor Roulette - you just don't know what kind of food I will end up swallowing down.

One trip a while back, I ended up putting the aforementioned barbecue sauce on some bread. Yum. Barbecue sauce is sweet and tasty. Bread? Well, it gave me a place to put the sauce. Stacy was pretty apalled when I told her. The worst part? I didn't tell her that when the bread was gone, I was eating barbecue sauce burritos. You figure it out.

To Blog or Not to Blog

That is the question!

Stacy and I have a running debate about whether or not we should blog. From her perspective, a blog really shouldn't share too much personal information. In that regard, feelings, comments about individual people, and anything more than a distant glance at our lives is a bit too much. To be fair, I see her point. Pretty frequently these days, you hear about so-and-so who had a myspace account or facebook or other social networking site and how they got burned. Their employer read it and did not like it, or maybe a family member or friend got upset.

I am on the other side of the blog fence. I am ok with posting stuff. I won't post my innermost secrets, but I find it somewhat therapeutic to post a little bit of me, provided it doesn't paint me in the wrong way. I enjoy reading blogs of co-workers that point out new ways to think of things or call out interesting articles or even just make amusing observations.

I guess the reality is that no one really reads this anyway, so it's not like I couldn't just keep my thoughts confined to a journal. Hmm, maybe I will start an e-journal. That would be so Doogie Howser of me!

On Loyalty and Sleep

It is certainly true that my loyalty is what makes it possible to stay up late, or work weekends, or even wake up early. I worked most of yesterday, was in the office until after 11pm, and was back in the office (actually in my cube, mind you) by 5:15am.

It occurs to me that loyalty and sleep appear to be mutually exclusive. That is, the more loyal I am, the less sleep I get. Oh to be a backstabbing meanie - I would probably sleep much better without having to wear the mantle of loyalty.

Damn these principles.

By the way, in case you missed it, last Friday was Talk Like a Pirate Day. In honor of that day, I leave you with this:

What is a pirate's worst nightmare?

A sunken chest and no booty.

Why are pirate jokes so dang funny?

I don't know either. They just arrrrrrrr.

On Work and Loyalty

It occurs to me as I sit in the office (yes, the office) at 5:40pm on Sunday night that I must be pretty loyal to my job to work as hard as I do. Sure, I gripe about long hours, late-breaking deadlines, and all of the hurdles I have to leap to get things done to a level that I can accept. But at the end of it all, I really do love Juniper, my boss, and the people I work with.

The Marines live by the mantra: God, country, family, and corps. I guess I live by that same mantra, switched up a bit (and focused only on my work life) - Juniper, JUNOS Core, and PLM/PMM.

Sometimes knowing exactly where you stand with work makes these weekends and long nights a bit more tolerable. The bottom line is that I wouldn't work so hard if I didn't care, and, even though I like to think it is different, the reality is that I choose to work this hard.

I wonder how many other people truly bleed Juniper blue... I mean really love the company. I hope it's a lot.