My high school girlfriend

If you know me, or follow this blog regularly—and if you do someone really should show you what a library looks like—you know once I get hold of a joke I like I hang on tight and ride it straight into the ground.

Now normally, after that last sentence, I'd follow it up with "Just like my high school girlfriend." It's my version of “That’s what she said” —an easy joke I've used numerous times in more posts than I can count. And I'm sure more posts than you wanted.

The good news is I'll be retiring that joke for awhile. The bad news is the reason why.

Yesterday I happened to be thinking about my actual high school girlfriend Sandy. She was never the one I referred to in the joke. In fact I never had a specific person in mind—it was just a funny line I could use over and over. And over.

Anyway, when I went to the Google to look up Sandy, what came up wasn't her Facebook profile or her Twitter account. The first thing I saw was her obituary. Turns out she passed away unexpectedly back in October. And even though I hadn't spoken with her in decades, it was still a gut punch that hit me like a ton of bricks.

I remember a few years after we broke up, we wound up getting together for a mini-reunion to catch up with each other's lives. What I found out was that Sandy had a very tough go of it in the years since I'd seen her. She'd had problems with drugs, which I knew she'd dabbled with in high school. She'd gotten married, but her husband was in prison for armed robbery, caught by undercover cops in the middle of a drug deal. And, while she was trying to figure her life out, she was back working at the same dead end data entry job for a car leasing company she'd had in high school.

According to the obituary, she moved to Florida in 2006, and had been working in the mortgage industry for Bank of America. Apparently she was a fairly high-ranking banking officer there. She’d also become a hardcore animal rights activist, and had eight dogs, a snake and an iguana—all of them rescues.

It was nice to read that in the years in between, Sandy seemed to have turned her life around and become an accomplished professional. I hope she was a happy one.

So again, I'm retiring the "high school girlfriend" joke for awhile. While it was never about her, now I can’t say it without thinking of her, even though I know she'd appreciate it. Hey, funny then, funny now.

Besides, that line's not the real joke. The real joke is thinking people who were once special to you will always be around. The punchline is they won't.

God bless you Sandy. You meant the world to me and you'll be in my heart forever. Rest in peace.

Dead wrong

I believe in this election year, the Republican clown car is filled to overflowing much more so than in years past. And Donald Trump is sitting in the driver's seat.

But under the heading of even a broken clock is right twice a day, I'm going to say something I never thought I'd hear myself say. I agree completely with Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz and Donald Trump about one thing: eliminating the estate tax.

I've never been much for labels, but if I had to put one on myself (besides "do not feed" and "wash only in hot water") I'd call myself a centrist Democrat. Another thing I've never been much for? Falling in step with the party line, especially positions I don't agree with. And on this one issue, both Hilary and Bernie are dead wrong.

This isn't a new position for me. I first posted about it here a little over five years ago, although not in any great detail. But the reality for me, and I imagine a lot of other people, is that I'm not feeling particularly under-taxed. During my working life, the government hasn't missed any opportunity to reach its greedy, mismanaged, politically-motivated, oversight-free fingers into my paycheck and take my hard-earned (well, hard-earned if I had a real job) money.

Whenever the time comes, and I finally catch the last train out, there's no reason my children should be taxed on what I spent a lifetime building (and paying taxes on) so they could have a better life when I'm gone. Any person who builds a business, savings, real estate or portfolio during their lifetime - and pays taxes on it all along the way - shouldn't have it all taken away or wiped out because the government wants it's share, again, when you finally take the big dirtnap.

In 2016, estates exceeding $5,450,000 in value are currently the only ones who pay the tax, which means most people don't. But that number isn't written in stone. It's written in the legislative branch and that makes it subject to change. As you can see on the chart, Hillary and Bernie both want to lower the threshold to $3.5 million. Who's to say if the government needs a little more money, maybe the next administration lowers it even further.

Here's the truth: most of the millionaires who do have to pay it actually worked hard and earned their fortunes. They didn't inherit it. They shouldn't have to pay a penalty because they succeeded, and neither should their families. The battle cry that they can afford it so they should pay it is pure nonsense designed to create class war. Do you want the government taxing or taking away what you've earned? Didn't think so.

When it comes to government, I've been taught there are some truths we hold to be self-evident. One of them should be that it's fundamentally and morally wrong to have an estate tax in the first place. It's double taxation any way you slice it, and it de-incentivizes and deters people who would otherwise bring valuable contributions and ideas to the world. It also encourages offshore shelters and keeps money flowing out of the country.

The fact there's even an estate tax at all reminds me of a line in the movie Quiz Show, when one of the characters says, "It's not exactly Jefferson and Lincoln down there anymore."

Ain't that the truth.

Linking them out

If you're anything like me - and really, let's hope you're setting your sights higher than that - you share the feeling there're more than enough things in the world to make you sad. Just turn on the news. Look at the price of gas. Adam Sandler is still making movies.

One thing that makes me especially heartbroken is seeing the name of someone I know who is since deceased pop up on the "People You May Know" section of LinkedIn.

It's happened three times now. I get it. In the midst of all the sadness and arrangements that have to be made when someone passes away, the last thing anyone is thinking about is removing their LinkedIn profile. It's not on anyone's radar.

But unlike the people themselves, those profiles live forever unless someone requests they be taken down. Which is what I've taken it upon myself to do.

All three times when a friend who's moved on to the great beyond has come up on LinkedIn, I've requested their profile be taken down. It doesn't take much. All LinkedIn needs is a date of death, link to an obituary, my relationship to the deceased, and the URL to their profile.

It's odd, but doing it seems like closure to me. A detail that if I don't do, no one will. It feels like they can finally rest in peace.

I suppose there's an argument that keeping their profiles active keeps their memory alive somehow. But if that's what it takes, then maybe their loved ones didn't make as many memories as they think.

No one asked me to do it, and I realize their profiles can always be created again. But the idea of some employer trying in vain to contact them for a job is disturbing to me, as I imagine it is to the loved ones who receive the emails and have to explain the circumstances.

If you see someone on LinkedIn you know has died, let LinkedIn know and ask that they be removed.

They don't need to worry about jobs anymore.

Remembering Gary

Gary May first came into our lives to solve a problem.

The people who sold us our house were, shall we say, not exactly forthcoming about a few things that were wrong with it. One of which was the ongoing water damage in the back room.

Apparently our yard sloped down towards the house - as did the patio towards the patio door. When it rained or was watered for any period of time, the back room soaked in all the water. The rest of the water came in under the patio door. And because the back room had been added on years ago, it was on a cement slab foundation. If the cracks in the corners of the windows hadn't been painted over, we would've known immediately that the water was undermining the foundation. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

We went to arbitration against the sellers, and won ten thousand dollars from them to make the needed repairs. The only thing we had to figure out was what we were going to do, and who we'd get to do it.

Our neighbors across the street were having their driveway redone, so we sauntered over and asked their contractor if he wouldn't mind coming by and seeing what he thought could be done to solve the problem.

That contractor was Gary May.

It was the first of many times over the years we'd have Gary solve problems around the house for us.

Gary wasn't just a masonry guy. He was an artist disguised as a masonry guy. I used to love watching and listening to him and my wife collaborate on a vision for whatever project he was working on. This big, booming, gentle giant of a man, discussing what would look right. What would feel right for us and the property.

There were times when we'd ask Gary what he was going to do, and he just said, "I'll figure something out. You'll like it." He always did. And we always did.

With Gary, it was easy to say the three most dangerous words you can say to a contractor: "While you're here..." Because it was so easy to trust and love the work Gary did, we just always wanted him to do more. And if it meant we had to wait because his schedule was busy, then we waited.

Gary became family over the years. He came with his granddaughter to my daughter's birthday parties. He'd stop by to show off the work he'd done on our house to potential clients because he was so proud of it. Even when he wasn't there, he was. Whenever an issue would come up we'd always say, "Let's talk to Gary about it.

Gary was there from the time my children were born. He watched them grow up, and would always ask about them and comment about what great people they were becoming.

And as much as it pains me, I'm just going to say it: Gary was my dog's favorite person on the planet. Gary had known Max since he was a puppy and loved him just as long. And it was mutual. Max would virtually come out of his skin, barking, jumping, tail wagging at a 100 miles an hour the minute he heard Gary's van coming up the street.

Gary would ask, "Why is he like this when I'm here?"

The same reason we all were excited to see him. He loved him.

The running joke in our house about Gary was that almost no matter what work he was doing, the price was $3200. Didn't matter if it was outside, inside, front yard, side yard, back yard, $3200 just was what it always worked out to.

Gary was also a man of faith. He'd been through a lot in his life. He'd lost a lot of family. He'd gotten into trouble with drugs, and was clean and in NA for 44 years. He lived his life as an example to others of what was possible. Which was everything. Because to anyone who knew him, there was nothing he couldn't accomplish.

When we re-landscaped our backyard, my wife wanted these cement squares with aggregate - the crushed, colored glass and gravel you see in it. Gary sent her to a store that sold the glass, and she picked out exactly what she wanted. He custom made the squares, and included the one heart-shaped piece of glass my wife wanted to be prominent.

We call it Gary's heart, even though it's far too small.

When his wife called and told us of his passing, it was as if a giant had fallen.

I guess that is what happened.

Whenever Gary would be working at the house and I had to go to work, he'd always say, "See you later Jeff. Write something great today."

His wife Cindy said that Gary's with God now, probably making him a giant cement column. I have no doubt that's true.

And I know exactly how much he's charging him.

Apply words as needed

There's been a lot of discussion about the death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and not all of it as sympathetic as you might expect.

There are people inflamed at how selfish it was to shoot heroin when you have kids. It's a point of view I understand, but it's an awfully unforgiving one usually put forth by people who have no concept about the grip heroin can have on a life.

Until the beginning of last year, Hoffman had been clean and sober for over 20 years. When he fell off the wagon, he sought help by enrolling himself in rehab last May.

Sadly, as we all know, it didn't stick.

But beyond a brilliant body of work, he also left us these words, that can be applied to virtually any job.

It's a simple message: do the best you can at every opportunity you're given. You're not better than the work. And if you want to be noticed and remembered, then give them something to notice and remember.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman did that every time at bat.

Despite his sad and most certainly tragic death, he left us words to live by.