A Tale of Two Races

It was the best of times…
Last Sunday, I stood somewhere between Catalina and Oracle, shivering in the dark and waiting for the Tucson half-marathon to start. I was feeling good. Confident. Well-trained and well-rested, and ready to try to set a P.R. on the mostly downhill course. When the race began, I could tell it was going to be a good one. My pace was steady, my body felt good, and the day was pleasantly cool. The crowd around me quickly thinned out as the quick-starters fell back and everyone settled into their pace. My mile splits were consistent - within 10 seconds of each other - and the only question I had was whether I would be able to hold on throughout the entire 13.1 miles. I hit the three-mile mark at a little under 23 minutes, just a little over a 7:30 pace, and continued to tick off the miles while holding steady. Six miles in just under 46 minutes. Ten miles in 1:15:30. Three miles to go, and I still felt pretty good. All I had to do was maintain and I'd have my P.R. I started thinking about how good it would feel to hit that mark - how all the speedwork I'd been doing had paid off and how much easier this was than running the whole marathon. I was tired, but I felt good and knew I wasn't going to have any problem finishing it off. Little did I know, danger was lurking just around the corner. If only it had been a ten mile, or even an eleven mile, or even an eleven-and-a-half mile race, everything would have been grand and I would have been feeling good. But that was not to be. Because…

…it was also the worst of times…
Right around 11 miles is when I started to feel the slightest bit of a tugging sensation in my right calf. At first, it didn't seem like a big deal - nothing different than what I've experienced in various body parts on many other runs. A minor glitch that quickly worked itself out. That was what I hoped. That was what I tried to believe. I adjusted my pace a little, focused on relaxing the calf, focused on posture and form, and it seemed okay. I made it through that mile, and we turned off Oracle and headed up a pretty good hill. My calf was a little achy, but I thought maybe the hill would stretch it out (dumb thought, that one) but as soon as I reached the top of the hill, I knew it wasn't good. Still, there was part of me that just couldn't stop. That had to keep going. That believed somehow, if I could just run through it, everything would be okay. But it wasn't, and by the time I reached the 12 mile marker, I knew I wasn't going to be able to run anymore. There's a part of me that understands that this doesn't even register as a blip on the great radar screen of life, but in that moment, I was, to put it mildly, upset. I slowed to a limping walk, which still hurt with every step I took, and began the "walk of shame" to the finish line. Meanwhile, all kinds of people, those I had been well ahead of throughout the entire race, started passing me. And as they ran by, many of them, trying to be encouraging, said things like, "Come on, you can do it," or, "Don't give up now, you're almost there." While a part of me realized that they meant well, a larger, darker, and more evil part of me was really irritated by this, and I had to bite back comments like, "No I can't, you idiot. If I could do it, I'd be doing it," or, "I didn't give up, you idiot, my calf gave up and there's nothing I can do about it," or, more simply and to the point, "Shut the heck up, you idiot." (okay, I wasn't really "heck," but as I've mentioned before, little jugs have large ears, so we're keeping this family oriented and appropriate for all ages). Anyway, I limped the last mile or so feeling angry and frustrated and sorry for myself, and I limped down the homestretch to the finish line as they announced my name, and I scowled at the guy taking my picture, and I smiled grimly as they handed me my medal and told me "good job," and then I waited for my wife (who did a fantastic job and finished in under 2 hours). And I tried to be happy for her, and a little part of me was, but the larger, darker, and more evil part of me continued to mope.

And the aftermath of all this is that I've been limping around for the past week, hoping my calf will heal quickly but it's still really sore and this afternoon I'm going to pay someone to stick needles in me, so that's where we are with that.

With that, we'll wrap up this edition and hope that your holidays are happy, your calves are well-stretched, and your dark and evil side is much less dark and evil than mine.

Utopia, Clementines, and More Missing Socks

Moments of perfection
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.

Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.

An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.

700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!

With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.

Runnin', Recordin', and Religion

Runnin' with the Dorado-ettes
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.

A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.

Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.

That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.

Long Rides and Dead Batteries

Strange characters dressed in spandex
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.

My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.

On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.

Fingerprints, Boston and Balloons

Book 'im, Dano
Thanks to the wise and powerful Arizona legislators, I, as well as all other public school employees (and probably a lot of other employees) am required to get fingerprinted in order to prove that I'm not a criminal (at least, I'm guessing that's the reason, though I suppose I could be wrong). So about 8 or so years ago, I submitted to this, and I remember feeling disgruntled and disrespected - which is often a feeling I have when the wise and powerful Arizona legislators stick their noses into the education business. Anyway, I got over it and figured it was a one and done deal. Little did I know that for whatever reason, the fingerprints only last for 8 years. So I found out a couple of weeks ago that I needed to go and get fingerprinted again. Now let's think about this. I mean, I thought it was pretty stupid to have to get fingerprinted in the first place, but having to get fingerprinted in the second place makes no sense whatsoever (at least to me). I assume that if I had decided to commit a crime in the past 8 years, and if I had been arrested and convicted of that crime, they would have matched up my fingerprints and said, "Hey, this guy is a criminal and a teacher. That's not a good thing." But what happens after eight years? Do my fingerprints change? I don't think so. Are they worried that I might have burned them off with acid or something (like getting them surgically altered) in order to be able to commit crimes, get arrested and be convicted without having my fingerprints reveal that I'm also a teacher? I just don't get it. But because I didn't see that I had a choice in the matter, I went ahead and signed up for a time to get my fingerprints taken, got my money order (to make this even better, it also cost me around 80 bucks to get the fingerprints that I didn't want to have done, done). And I drove all the way across town to the Sheriff's station, found the fingerprint division, and went in. I have to admit, I was kind of taken aback. I'm not sure why, but I was thinking this would be a "cop place" with a bunch of cops sitting at desks and a gruff sergeant at the desk. I imagined there would be shady looking characters sitting on wooden benches with handcuffs securing them in place, bad coffee, and some juicy "cop talk" about perps and un-subs and the like. This was nothing like that. Instead, it was like an old folks' home. The lady at the front desk - was old. The guy taking someone else's prints - was old. And the lady that called my name to take my prints - was old. And when some volunteers came in from whatever it was they'd been doing - they were old too. And the "cop talk" sounded a lot like bickering about why they were back so soon and why they didn't take the right box of whatever they were supposed to take, and stuff like that. Anyway, as the lady took my fingerprints, she made a comment about how nice my fingerprints were. Now what do you say to that? I mean, I've been told I have nice teeth, and nice eyes and even some other stuff that I won't go into here because I doubt anyone wants to hear it, but this was definitely a first, and I have to admit that I was kind of flattered. I mean, I always thought I had some pretty nice prints - sometimes I'll press my fingertip on a piece of metal and admire the resultant print - but it's nice to hear it from someone else. Especially someone who has probably seen thousands of fingerprints.

Official confirmation for Boston
As many of you are probably aware, last December I ran the race of my life and managed to qualify for the Boston marathon (with exactly 26 seconds to spare). Figuring this was a once in a lifetime opportunity (seeing as how I ran the race of my life) I went ahead and signed up several weeks ago. Now usually when I sign up for a marathon, it's a simple matter of filling out the information and paying the fee, but for this one I had to submit my time and the event so they could check and make sure I wasn't trying to scam my way in. So it took several weeks, but just the other day I received my "official confirmation" from the Boston Athletic Club, and I have to admit it gave me a little bit of a goosebumpy moment.

Balloon Boy
How stupid was that whole thing?

The U of A game is on, so I guess that's all for now. Until next time, may your fingerprints remain breathtakingly beautiful, may your aspirations remain achievable, and may your feet remain planted firmly on the ground (unless you're taking a trip and flying… or skydiving… or hang gliding… or cliff diving… or traveling in a zeppelin… or jumping for joy… or experiencing zero gravity… or, okay I think you get the idea).

Joe D., Dissing the Cat, and the Running Roller Coaster

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
The short answer is that I've been too busy/distracted/lazy/slothful/irresponsible/etc. to post any entries. Or maybe nothing has happened that seems worth writing about (though that hasn't really stopped me before - case in point, I'm currently writing about not writing, which is either a clever and insightful example of irony or a desperate attempt to fill this space, and in the end, does it really matter?). So the bottom line is that millions of readers world-wide have been desperately craving a fix of mildly amusing anecdotal entries. Can you imagine the horror of such a situation? Grim-face, empty-eyed automatons shuffling joylessly through the long and tedious hours of their days without even a ray of hope to shine a light at the end of the tunnel. It's enough to make one shudder. And I feel really bad about it. So bad, that I'm currently entering an entry in an effort to alleviate the gloom and cut through the fog. So if you're reading this, we'll assume your day just got a little bit better. And on we go.

More cat news
In my desperate search for events worth mulling over and then spewing out on these pages, I turn once again to the cat known as "She-she Squeakers Kittyface" because she's a highly interesting character whose struggles and exploits shed light on the human condition in highly metaphorical ways that require deeply thoughtful analysis. Or not. Anyway, she's a very strange cat, as all cats seem to be, but she's becoming even friendlier as time goes by. Case in point, the other night, she even allowed me to pet her while she sat next to me on the couch - and I only had to hold her a little to keep her from getting away. But she's still weird, and Carrie and I were commenting on one of the weird things she was doing the other day, when Katie happened to overhear us and got quite offended because we were making fun of "her" cat. For some reason, she decided to perceive this as a personal attack on her as a cat owner, don't ask me why. Now I've heard about certain people who get all wrapped up in their children and feel that everything their kids do is a reflection on them, and even certain people who get all wrapped up in their dogs and dress them up like people and let them sleep in their bed at night and stuff like that, but this seemed like a little bit of an over-reaction to me (and to Carrie). Anyway, to be forewarned is to be forearmed, so the next time you see Katie, make sure you only say complimentary things about the cat or she'll probably get all up in your face and slap you down - or she'll cry. And I don't know which would be worse.

The life of a runner…
At least for me these days, is filled with ups and downs and fits and starts. The good news is that I recently had the first two-week stretch of the year where nothing really hurt. No bursitis in my hip flexors, no achilles aches, just nice relaxed runs that felt good before, during and after. The bad news is that since then my calves have decided to act up - first the left and then the right, and while neither seems to be a major issue, it's enough to be frustrating and make me wonder what the heck is going on. But I'm still able to get out and about, and I've only really missed a couple of runs, and maybe it all serves as a reminder of how great it is when everything goes well, but maybe it's also a reminder of the fact that I'm not a spring chicken anymore and there are even dark moments when I wonder whether give the whole thing up and switch over to full-time cycling or something. Of course, then I read about 70-year-olds who run sub 3-hour marathons or who've run tens of thousands of days in a row without ever skipping a day and I make a wish upon a star and hope for the best. And this afternoon, I'll go for a run. And I'll enjoy the heck out of every mile.

A few more random magnetic word sentences found in my classroom at the end of the day
•We could make you poison prisoner's pie, but life always smiles.
•Blow off love for champagne.
•Santa is kissing my ferocious squirming reindeer.

Can anyone believe the Broncos are 5-0?
It's a strange and mysterious world.

There's no topping that last one, so until next time, which will hopefully be sooner than it was this time, may your deadlines be reachable, may your ups outweigh your downs, and may your favorite football team beat the Patriots in overtime (unless your favorite team happens to be the Patriots, in which case I hope you wind up in a tie).

Missing Socks and Birthday Cake

The Amazing and Mysterious Case of the Missing Socks
I'd be willing to bet that just about anyone who has these four items - a pair of socks, a washing machine, and a dryer - has at some point in their life been faced with this great, universal mystery of life, namely, why is it that you often put two socks into a washing machine or dryer but only one sock comes out? For years, my answer to that question was to blame my lovely and long-suffering wife, Katie, because she was the one doing the majority of the sock-washing (and drying), and since she was doing the sock-washing, it made sense to blame her when my socks went into the laundry two-by-two, then returned, solitary and alone. Now before you jump up out of your chair (or wherever you're sitting) to defend Katie and blame the villainous appliances, I should note that the culprit in this situation, quite often, was Katie, in that she would mistakenly put my sock with laundry belonging to one of the kids, so they would take my sock and stow it away in their dresser drawers (which, in my mind, means that they're really the ones to blame, because my socks are quite distinct from theirs and they should recognize an unfamiliar sock among their own, say to themselves, "Hey, that doesn't look like one of my socks, maybe I should find out who it belongs to," and return it to their rightful owner, which would be me). But because they were thoughtless and nonchalant, they didn't do that, and instead, crammed my sock into their drawer with their socks, where it would languish for days/weeks until I went searching through their drawers and discovered/rescued it from this purgatorious state. So this might seem like a whole lot of to-do over something pretty minor, and in the grand scheme of life the universe and everything, I suppose that might be true, but ever since I converted to the non-cotton-sock club, I've grown quite attached to my specially constructed running socks, so when one of them goes missing, I get a little upset (plus, the darned things are pretty darned expensive, and I am, as has been previously noted on previous occasions, a bit of a miser when it comes to monetary issues).

So the upshot of all this is that I started washing all my socks (and other running/cycling gear) separately so that I would be in complete control of the process from start to finish. And, for quite awhile, that seemed to solve the problem. I would put a pair of socks in the washing machine, and when it was done washing, spinning, rinsing, and cycling through all its cycles, I would take a pair of socks out. Perfect. Until last week, that is, when I pulled my laundry out of the machine, began to sort it and discovered… that I was missing two socks! Seriously. Not just one, but two. And not a pair of two, but one from one pair and one from another. Imagine my sorrow and dismay. Well, needless to say, I was quite dismayed and sorrowful (as well as frustrated) and I immediately set out to find the missing socks. First, I figured they might still be in the machine, and maybe I overlooked them in my haste. So I took a second, and even a third look, but found no socks. Then I thought maybe I had dropped them on the way from my bedroom to the laundry room, so I carefully retraced my steps, examining the floor carefully for any sign of a stray sock, but once again, found nothing. Then I thought maybe I had accidentally tossed them past the laundry basket so they might be lodged in an odd nook or cranny in my room, but though I searched all nooks and every cranny, I still found neither sock. Needless to say, I was heartbroken as I went to bed that night. Where could the missing socks be? How could my perfect system have failed so miserably? All night, I tossed and turned as nightmare visions of my socks, lonely and neglected, plagued my dreams. But at some point, I decided that I must soldier on. So soldier on I did.

For several days. Until, out of the blue, I had a sudden thought. A strange and wonderful and slightly zany idea popped into my head. The cat. Likes to hide under the bed. And cats are strange animals. And this cat is especially strange, even for a cat. And strange cat-type animals might like to steal socks. So maybe our cat (She-she Squeakers Kittyface) had stolen two of my socks out of the basket, pulled them under the bed and… well, I can't describe what she might have done with them, partly because I really don't have any idea, and partly because I'm making an effort to keep these entries appropriate for all ages. So I went to the bedroom, got down on hands and knees, and peered into the dark and mysterious world that makes up the world under the bed - and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of missing socks, and eight tiny reindeer (not really, it was just the socks). The mystery was solved. And now, I make sure to put my socks underneath something substantial (like a shirt) whenever I put them in the laundry basket - hopefully all will be well that will end well.

Let them eat cake
Connor celebrated his birthday last week, and we decided to participate in the strange birthday custom in which you bake a cake for the birthday person (where does this come from, anyway?). So he came up to me before I went to the store and said, "Dad, will you get me cake mix for my birthday cake at the store?" and I said, "Sure. What flavor do you want?" and he said, "German Shepherd," and I said, "Are you sure?" and he said, "Yeah, I always get that kind," and I said, "Really? You want to eat a cake that's flavored like a dog?" and he looked at me like I was crazy for a second until he realized what he had said, and we both had a pretty good laugh about that one. Yeah. Good times. For sure.

Okay, that's all for this time 'round the rodeo range, so until next time, may your socks remain safely mated, may your pets remain non-kleptomanic, and may your cakes be light and fluffy and moist and deliciously enticing.

Courtesy Calls, Popcorn Salesmen, and Magnetic Messages

Yo Howdy!
Usually I kind of tune out the announcements at school, but every once in awhile something catches my ear. Which happened just this week when the announcer (who shall remain anonymous, but who is well-known to anyone who attends, attended, or has a child who attends Orange Grove Middle School) made an announcement aimed at discouraging kids from visiting the office without a pass by saying something like, "Don't just come to the office to say, 'Yo howdy!' without a pass." Why did this catch my ear? you may ask. Well, because I found it to be mildly amusing, so I then dared my first period class to, at some point during the day, go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass). I also stipulated that they had to say, "Yo howdy!" in an enthusiastic and ebullient manner - not just mumble it - for it to count. During the day, I continued to dare students to go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass) and apparently quite a few of them took me up on it. I had instructed them not to tell anyone who dared them, but of course the little rat-finks ratted me out, so the next day, there was an announcement that students were supposed to either, "bow or curtsey whenever entering Mr. Bindschadler's room," and ever since then, I've had quite a number of students bowing and curtseying (7th grade boys especially seem to enjoy the curtseying - I guess it's not surprising since 7th grade boys also seem to enjoy dressing up like girls for Halloween - not sure what the significance of all that might be) to me as they enter the classroom, which actually isn't such a bad thing and I'm doing everything I can to encourage them to continue.

Another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
The other day after school, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, when some kid (I have no idea who he was) knocked on my door, opened it up, poked his head in, and said, "Would you like to buy some popcorn?" I've been a teacher for 22 years, and I can honestly say that this is the first time this has ever happened. And I'm guessing it will never happen again.

Yet another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
I have those little magnetic words on the doors of a metal cabinet in my room (the ones that can be arranged into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases) and every once in awhile, a small group of kids (usually 7th grade boys) gather around them and giggle while arranging them into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases. Here are a couple of the ones I found today:
•"Mom always blows horsefly whips."
•"Caramel is chocolate."
•"Celebrate Christmas pie - ho ho ho."
•"Dad kisses brilliant women's bellies in the morning."
•"My cat likes sweet melon cakes."
As I read these little snippets (and others like them) I'm always reminded of that old tale about the million monkeys typing at a million typewriters for a million years. Eventually, brilliance will emerge.

Speaking of cats…
As you may remember from a previous post, we adopted a cat a few months ago. The reason we adopted the cat was because she was, literally, a scaredy cat. As in, when her previous family added a dog to the household, this cat hid under the bed and never came out. So we took her in, and for the first three weeks, she hid under the bed and never came out. But now she's much better, and she only hides under the bed about 50% of the time, and the rest of the time, she'll actually come out and interact with the family (except when we had the crazy little puppies in our house for about a week this summer, but that's a whole other story). Anyway, we weren't really sure what to call the cat for quite awhile (maybe because we never really even saw her for the first three weeks while she was hiding under the bed) but finally, after much deliberation, she has been officially named, and her name is… Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface. Sheshe because that's what her name was when she came to us (don't ask me why, because I have no idea why anyone would ever name anything "Sheshe," though I'm guessing it has something to do with being young and cute - at least that's what I hear from Katie), Squeakers because she's very squeaky and makes this squeaky meowing sound when she tries to meow, and Kittyface because, well, she's a kitty and she has a face. So now whenever I see her, I say things like, "Hello there, Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface, how are you today?" which may sound kind of goofy but is actually oddly satisfying. Don't have any idea why.

Which leads us to a gerbil update
Connor seems to have recovered from the tragic loss of his beloved gerbil "Snake Eyes," and after much hand-wringing and agonized pondering, he did finally decide that he wanted to get another gerbil to take the place of the one that passed away, and the new gerbil (who started out as "Snake Eyes, Two," but I think has been renamed but I don't remember what) seems to have bonded with the remaining original gerbil (Stormchaser) so all seems to be good for now.

That's all I've got, so until next time, may your magnets remain uncluttered, may your secrets remain hidden, and may your animals all be memorably named.

A More-Reflective/Less-Mildly-Amusing Posting

Every once in awhile, something happens that makes you look at someone you think you know in a whole different way. They say something, or do something, and you realize that the person you thought you knew isn't really that person at all. For me, it happens with my kids quite often, which I suppose makes sense because they change so much as they grow older. We'll just be going along in life, and suddenly, something will happen that will make it abundantly clear that they're not the same person I'm holding onto in my memory. With Caitlyn, I remember this happening when I went and watched her perform in a play last year at the UA. Seeing her up on stage - the confidence she had and the ability to become her character and perform so convincingly - it was like seeing a whole different side of her. Just the other day, Carrie was telling us that she was going to be on an Odyssey of the Mind team this year, and Katie asked her how she was going to fit that in with everything else she was doing, and Carrie just said, "I'll make it work," with this quiet sense of conviction, and I realized that she has a sense of self that's very strong and a motivation to push herself to do as much as she can. I'd seen glimpses of these things in the girls before, but those moments cemented them in my mind. And then there's Connor.

We've always known there's a lot going on in Connor's head, but we're never quite sure exactly what it is because he's pretty good at locking it in. When he's sad, he'll make jokes and laugh things off, or he'll hide under blankets in his room. But not today. A couple of weeks ago, he decided he wanted to get gerbils for his birthday. He'd taken care of all the various animals (cat, guinea pigs, tortoise) over the summer, and we were impressed by how responsible he'd been about feeding them and paying attention to them, so we figured he could handle his own pets. Katie suggested he should spend some time learning how to take care of gerbils, so he checked out several books from the library, then spent a week or two reading all about them. Then Katie took him to the pet store and he got two gerbils and brought them home. Even though they're girls, he named them after "GI Joe" characters (Snake-eyes and Storm-something) and every day he's been feeding them and putting them in their little hamster ball so they can roll around the house and generally taking really good care of them. Yesterday, he spent his own money to buy them a fancy new habitat with an "Xtreme spiral slide," a "petting zone," and an "Xtreme wheel" that goes in circles when it rotates. So everything was good.

Then this morning, while I'm reading the paper, Connor comes holding a shoebox. His hands are shaking and his eyes are swollen, and I just know what I'm going to see in the box. One of his gerbils is lying very still, and Connor starts to cry. I'm thinking, "This is the kid who laughed when Barney the dog died. This is the kid who took his grandpa out in the backyard and said in a jovial tone, 'The dog's dead. Dad buried him here. Barney died.' This is the kid who hides his sorrow and laughs off his pain, and now I'm holding him in my arms while his body is shaking and his eyes are overflowing," and pretty soon I'm crying too, and I realize that this scrawny little kid I'm holding isn't the same person he was three months ago. Something fundamental has changed. And I guess that's good. But it's also a little sad.

A Couple of Milestones

Around the world in 5-1/2 years (or a little over 2,000 days)
Way back in 2004, I started keeping track of how many miles I traveled while exercising on a spreadsheet (no, I wasn't exercising on a spreadsheet, I was keeping track on a spreadsheet). So every time I run or cycle or hike or swim, I record my mileage, total it up at the end of the month, and add it to the spreadsheet. And when I started doing this, I thought, "Wouldn't it be cool to make it all the way around the world" (in a virtual, rather than real, sort of way, obviously, because I'm not able to take a boat around the world like that one kid did just recently, which was actually a pretty amazing accomplishment, in my opinion - I mean, I just can't picutre taking a year off from life to do something like that - plus I don't know how to sail). Anyway, I kept plugging away, and lo and behold, when I entered the mileage for last month (June, 2009) I discovered that I'd passed the 25,000 mile mark, which was what I was counting as my "around the world" threshold (not sure how accurate that number is - so feel free to challenge this distance if it pleases you). To get to that grand total, I ran 5,930 miles, cycled 17,627 miles, hiked 1,269 miles, and swam 259 miles. Whew. Just typing that makes me a little bit tired. As a side note, I recently found out that my mom is doing the same thing - guess it runs (and swims, and cycles) in the family.

Kind of random milestone #2
In addition to keeping track of my mileage, I also keep track of every book I read (also on a spreadsheet). I've actually been doing this since September of 1994 (that would be close to 16 years for those of you keeping track). Well, this month, I went over the 1,000 books read mark (which averages out to approximately 64 books per year). My goal is to reach 1,000,000 pages, and I'm almost 1/3 of the way there (326,000 pages read so far). So I figure if I keep going at this pace, it will only take me another 30-35 years to make it, which means I'll be in the 75-80 year old range (assuming I make it that long - and I can still read - and there are still books). Yikes. Talk about a long-term goal. Now I wish I'd started keeping track earlier.

Some bad news from my achilles tendons
On the downside of things, my achilles tendons decided to act up last week, and I haven't been able to run for the past several days. I'm hoping it's just some swelling in the bursa sack that's at the attachment point and not tendonitis, because I've been down that road and it's definitely a long and winding one that I don't want to travel again. I'd much prefer a short and straight road that doesn't spring any surprises and provides an easy exit point in the not-too-distant future. In the meantime, I'm still able to cycle and do the elliptical, and I'm running in the pool, so in the grand scheme of things it could probably be much worse. Plus, we're still between seasons, so I have a couple of weeks to heal up before our new group starts practices on August 8.

Speaking of which…
Our new TNT season is getting revved up and we've been holding information meetings over the past few weeks. As always, it's exciting to see so many people sign up and get involved with such a good cause. We'll be training for the next 5 months or so to get ready for the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon in January. Katie will be participating this season, so you'll probably be hearing from her re. fund-raising in the not-too-distant future.

That's all I've got, so until next time, may your journeys be fruitful, may your fruit by juicy, and may your juice be delicious and nutritious.

Yellow Snacks, Puppies, Surprise Gifts, and Driver's Ed

This one time at Tech Camp…
Apparently, people who have actually been to band camp are annoyed when someone who has not been to band camp (like me) and who finds the phrase, "This one time at band camp…" to be mildly (or wildly) amusing uses the phrase as a joke. But, like I just said, I haven't ever been to band camp, but I have now been to tech camp, and this one time at tech camp, they served snacks in the afternoon, and everyone was really excited by the snack display because… it was all yellow! People came rushing into the room where we were working on our projects and said things like, "You've got to hurry out and see the snack display! It's all yellow!" As in, they had yellow food (e.g. potato chips, pinapple chunks, yellow M&M's) and yellow plates and yellow napkins and yellow tablecloths. Seriously, it was the most excited I saw people get all week (except when they were raffling off prizes, of course). I guess I'm just a stick in the mud, because I didn't get what all the fuss was about, and I didn't even eat any of the yellow snack food - mainly because they feed you a whole lot at tech camp, and I was still stuffed from lunch that day. But I did wander out so I could check out the display, and I observed that it was indeed all yellow, and then I went back to work on my project. But I did (and still do) wonder, why yellow? Why not blue or red or green? Still don't have an answer for that one, and I probably never will. I guess it will have to remain one of those great mysteries of life.

Maternal Instincts
My oldest daughter is currently puppy-sitting for two strange looking little critters who are very spoiled and very demanding, and she's finding it to be quite a challenge. As in, she gets really grumpy when the puppies wake up "unbelievably early" in the morning (let's define "unbelievably early" here as anytime before 7:00) and whine, screech, yip, yap and make other "let us out of our crate" puppy noises that impel her to get out of bed and let them out of their crate. "Why do they have to be so loud?" she asks. "Why do they have to get up so early? If they'd just sleep till 9:00 or so, I could handle it." Anyway, she lets them out, then shuffles back to bed to catch some more shut-eye. Meanwhile, the puppies do what puppies do, which is (in addition to making lots of noise when Caitlyn wants to be sleeping) to poop and pee all over the house. Which Connor actually kind of enjoys, because whenever he finds evidence that the puppies have pooped and/or peed somewhere in the house, it gives him an excuse to go wake up Caitlyn and inform her that the puppies pooped and peed in the house and she needs to get up and clean it up. Which she does while muttering darkly under her breath (or breaking down and becoming semi-hysterical - depending on the day and the amount of sleep she's gotten). I've found all of this to be tremendously entertaining, although I have to say that I'm a little bit worried about the well-being of my future grandchildren. If there ever are any, that is.

A slam-bang, jim-dandy, eye-popping welcome mat
Just the other day, we received an amazing surprise in the mail. It was a long rectangular box. What could this be? we wondered. When we opened it, we discovered a welcome mat. And not just any welcome mat, but one made out of organic fibers (40% coconut fibers - or maybe it was bamboo?) that was emblazoned with the letter "B" (I'm assuming that was for Bindschadler). Where did this wondrous welcome mat come from, you ask? Apparently, it's what you get when you buy a new car from Precision Toyota here in the Old Pueblo. Now, there are some people who would consider this to be a "free gift." But I'm not one of them. For me, it's kind of like when you buy something on sale. Most people say things like, "I saved $15 on the shoes I just bought," and everyone around them ooh's and aah's about the great shoes and the money they saved. But really, they didn't save $15 (unless the store paid them $15 to take the shoes, which I seriously doubt). Maybe they didn't pay full price, but they still paid for the shoes, so they spent $55 (or $60, or $45, or whatever the shoes actually cost them). This philosophy of mine, by the way, is not widely accepted, and it tends to drive certain people crazy (such as my dear and lovely wife, who is often "saving money" for us by buying stuff). So for me, the "free gift" wasn't really free at all. In fact, it's probably the most expensive welcome mat I'll ever own.

Who's gonna drive you home?
Daughter #2 (Carrie) recently received her driver's permit, so I took her out for her maiden voyage. Luckily, we have some dirt roads right next to our house, so we set off in the Dodge Caravan for our adventure. And adventure it was. If you haven't had the opportunity to drive with someone for the first time, I highly recommend it. There's a lot of toe clenching, neck snapping, and steering wheel grabbing as you struggle to remain cool, calm and collected. It all took me back to the first time I drove. Unfortunately, my parents never took me out driving (I'm assuming that their experience with my older brother was so traumatizing they couldn't handle any more) so the first time I actually drove a car (other than those cars at Disneyland that run on a track) was with a driver's ed instructor and two other unfortunate student drivers (both of whom has been behind the wheel several times before this experience). I told him I'd never driven, but he assured me I'd be fine and took me out immediately on the busiest street in the city (Pershing Avenue). Luckily, this was Cheyenne, Wyoming, and the busiest street really wasn't all that busy, but for a small-town boy like me, it sure seemed overwhelming (mainly because there were other cars on the street) and the whole things was terrifying to everyone in the car. I also remember that at one point during this initial driving experience, a squirrel ran out in front of us and I slammed on the brakes, which the instructor informed me wasn't the prudent course of action ("Run over the squirrel next time!" he advised me). So all in all, all's well that ends well, and we made it back home safe and sound. Now we're just waiting for round two.

Guess that's it for this time, so until the next time this little rodeo rolls into town, may your catch-phrases remain catchy, may your bulls remain bullish, and may your lassos remain strong and untangled.

Five Weeks Worth of Foolishness

Question and Answer
Question: How does one know when it's been a really long time since one posted an entry on one's website?
Answer: When one goes to log in and add an entry, one discovers that one has forgotten one's password and has to be reminded of what it is so one can log in and add one's latest entry. So one sends in a request via the magic of the internet, and there is a nearly instantaneous response which involves some kind of database, one has to imagine, along with some type of an automatic response system, and within (literally) 30 seconds, one receives a message in one's mailbox telling one what one's password is so that one can go ahead and log in and start posting. Pretty amazing stuff, wouldn't you say?

Anyway, this might turn out to be one of those long and winding kinds of roads since we're covering 5 weeks of material, so consider yourself forewarned (and we all know, to be forewarned is to be forearmed, whatever that means).

Estes Park: Part 1
When we arrived on the eve of May 31, it was raining. And it was cold. And for the next week-and-a-half, it rained quite a bit. And it was (for us desert dwellers) cold (by cold, I mean the highs each day were in the 50's and at night it dropped into the 30's and there was one afternoon when I looked out the cabin window and saw these weird white flaky things blowing around through the trees - which turned out to be snowflakes). So we spent a lot of time playing board games and reading and doing puzzles and cozying up around the fireplace. And then it warmed up just a bit on the day of the EP marathon (high in the mid-60's) which was actually pretty comfortable temperature-wise. And I have to say that it's kind of cool to run a marathon that only has 104 participants. For one thing, parking really isn't an issue. I drove down to town about 1/2 an hour before the race and was still one of the first people there. For another thing, the lines for the port-a-potties are really short. For a third thing, you're pretty much guaranteed to finish in the top 100 (I wound up 54th). And finally, there's not much of a pause between the starter saying, "Go!" and you crossing the start line. In fact, there really isn't a pause at all. They say, "Go!" and you go. Imagine that.

Estes Park: Part 2
Things started getting difficult, though, right after crossing the start line. I was running along at a decent clip, but for some reason (perhaps because we were at 7,500 feet?) I was finding it difficult to breathe. But I ignored that (which, in hindsight, probably wasn't such a great idea) and barrelled through the first two miles, then turned to head up a four-mile uphill stretch that led to the high point of the course (just a smidge over 8,100 feet). As before, it was tough to breathe, but I ignored that (which, in hindsight, probably wasn't such a great idea) because I was chugging along and starting to think, "Hey, maybe I can do a sub-four-hour marathon at altitude. Wouldn't that be cool?" And it all was okay to the top of the hill, when we veered to the right and headed back down towards town, at which point I figured I could pick up the pace a little bit since it wasn't so hard to breathe going downhill (which, in hindsight, probably wasn't such a great idea) and then we ran along a river for a couple of miles and I saw my cheering section at around mile ten (mom, Katie, Carrie, niece - plus Connor, who was not part of the cheering section because instead of cheering for his father, he was sitting in a chair moping rather than cheering, because this was the "most boring thing he'd ever had to do. Ever."). And my pace was still pretty good to that point, but I was starting to feel fatigued, and I knew I'd better start taking some walk breaks soon or I was going to be in trouble. So I decided to take a quick walk break every mile and see how that went, and it was okay as we circled around the lake and passed the halfway point, but then we had to head up another couple of quick hills and my legs were dead and I was doing a lot more walking than I'd planned on. But I still held onto my pace through mile 18, but at that point I was facing another two-mile uphill climb and I knew I was done. I just couldn't breathe well enough to run uphill anymore. So I decided that I was going to enjoy the scenery, enjoy the beautiful weather, and not worry about my time, and I walked the uphills and ran the flats or downhills for the final 8 miles and was really, really glad when I reached the finish line (though not as glad as Connor, who had been rolling on the ground, moaning things like, "Torture. This is torture," because he was so bored of waiting for his father to finish the race - my niece was also less than impressed with my performance, because she kept asking, "Why is Uncle Brian so slow? Why are so many people finishing ahead of him?"). So I finished with my worst time ever, and my diaphragm was cramping and I was more than a little dizzy and had to pause to catch my breath every fifth step when I walked back to the car with Katie, but other than that, it was a beautiful course and a beautiful day and there's nothing wrong with being humbled just a bit every now and again.

Estes Park: Part 3
We still had another week in EP and the weather got quite a bit nicer, though it was still fairly cool. But we managed to get in several hikes and saw lots and lots of snowdrifts on the trails and took Carrie up Flattop Mountain, which really had a lot of snow - so much that Carrie and I both had completely soaked feet by the end (on the other hand, Katie, thanks to her magical Gore-Tex boots, was completely dry - which she pointed out at least 27,000 times on the trip down the mountain). And then we piled back into the car at 3:30 in the morning and drove and drove and drove until we finally arrived back in the Old Pueblo, where it was (and still is) really, really hot.

Rockin' and Rollin'
However, after only two days back in the Old Pueblo, I got up at 3:30 in the morning and drove to the airport, boarded a plane, and flew to Seattle with my Team in Training group for the Seattle Rock 'n' Roll marathon. And the weather there was cloudy and pleasant (although on the day of the race it was nothing less than beautiful - not a cloud in the sky and temps in the mid-70's). Contrary to the EP marathon (which, as mentioned before, had 104 participants) this one had 25,000, so things were a little different at the starting area - as in, it was really, really crowded, and when the starter said, "Go!" the only people who "went" were the elite runners way up at the front of the pack, and everyone else kind of stood around until they called for the next group to move forward and said, "Go!" again, and that group "went" and we all shuffled forward about 50 feet, and so on until, about 20 minutes after the race had started, our corral reached the starting line, and this time when they said, "Go!" we finally "went" (but the other 20 corrals behind us were still shuffling and waiting). And then on the course, there were actually people all around. And not just one or two, but lots and lots of people all around. But it was all good, and everyone in our group managed to finish (with a combination of smiles and tears), and I put in a lot of miles (35) and was really tired by the time it was all done (and wore out a pair of shoes). And along the course there were beautiful views of Mt. Rainier (from the Lake Washington Bridge and with the stadiums in the foreground) and also of the Seattle skyline, Puget Sound, Lake Washington, etc.). And then we got back on the plane and flew back to Tucson, where it was (and still is) really, really hot.

Speaking of which…
Running during monsoon season in Tucson is really, really tough. Because it's a wet heat, and sweat doesn't evaporate when it's this wet, it just sits there on your skin and soaks into your clothes and drips into your eyes and makes it look like you just got out of the shower. Plus there are all these little bugs that like to swarm around after it rains, and when you run through them, they stick to the sweat on your arms and neck and face and legs and they get in your eyes and get trapped between your teeth, so that when you finish, you look like a really wet, sweaty person who's covered in bugs. So that was pretty much what my run was like this morning.

And finally
We finally decided to get a new car, and after much searching and dilly-dallying, we got a Toyota Prius. So we now have four vehicles parked in and around our home, which is pretty ridiculous (though we are planning on selling one as soon as we can find a buyer). When I drove the car home and showed it to the kids, the response was unanimous. "This car is way too nice for us," they said. And it probably is. It's not a rusty 1989 pickup truck. And it's not a soccer-mom mini-van. Plus, it's got automatic windows and locks. Yow.

All right, my fingers are cramping and my brain is numb, so until next time (which will be sooner than 5 weeks from now, I promise), may your skies remain blue (unless you're praying for rain), may your roads remain uncluttered, and may your batteries remain fully charged. Happy Birthday, America.

Reunions and Running

Lost and Found
As you may or may not know, depending on how faithfully you follow these on-line postings, several months ago we became the proud foster family for a pair of baby desert tortoises that we wound up naming Uno and Dos in honor of our Spanish heritage (our living-in-Tucson heritage, not our actual lineage, which is not Spanish, but is in fact Scottish (Katie) and German (me) and which would have led us to name the tortoises Yin and Twa or Ein and Zwei, depending on whose heritage we wanted to honor). We also named them Uno and Dos because it was catchy and clever (and the names Connor suggested were ridiculous and silly), which is often the goal when coming up with names for animals, although there is a school of thought that animals shouldn't be given names at all because it's confusing to small children who begin to think that animals are people when they're really not, so you should name a duck, Duck or a chicken, Chicken, or a guinea pig, Pig (which is generally what I call whatever guinea pig(s) happen to be residing with us at any given time). Anyhow, these two baby tortoises are very, very adorable because they're little tiny creatures - and because tortoises are kind of cool looking even when they're not little or tiny, and we quickly set about updating our tortoise den so it would be suitable for babies. This involved digging out all the dirt that our dearly-departed-and-still-greatly-missed tortoise, Albert John, had dug into the den, then adding some cinder blocks around the outside so it was enclosed, putting down a layer of pea-gravel, adding a wading pool and some landscaping, and then covering the whole thing in chicken wire so the big bad birds can't swoop in and grab our little critters. Needless to say, the end result was both aesthetically pleasing and practical, and any tortoise would be thrilled to move into such a high-class joint. And so, Uno and Dos moved in and promptly went into hibernation. Every once in awhile, we would check up on them just to see how they were doing, and they were doing just fine until one day about a month or so ago, Katie went out to check on them and discovered that, while we thought they were sleeping, the little imps had actually been cooking up an escape plan. I'm not sure when they did it, but the little sneaks were secretly burrowing under a boulder that made up one of the walls of the enclosure (not sure if they were sneaking out the dirt by carrying it in their pockets, then dumping it on the ground, but I wouldn't put it past them). So when Katie discovered this, she burrowed in after them, and to her dismay, only found one of the tortoises - ironically enough, the one tortoise she found was Uno. Which meant that Dos was missing. She immediately formed up a search party and we wandered around the backyard calling, "Dos, Dos. Wherefore art thou, Dos?" and whistling and making tortoise calling sounds, but much to our dismay, Dos was not to be found. So we fortified our enclosure to keep Uno from following Dos and hoped that Dos would somehow manage to survive in the wild. As stated before, that was about a month or so ago. Well, yesterday afternoon, Carrie was walking out into the backyard and who do you think she spotted sitting by the door? That's right, it was Dos. He was looking kind of scraggly and dirty, but his eyes were shining and he obviously had been having a fine old time wandering around who-knows-where and getting into all kinds of mischief. And so this story has a happy ending because Dos is now back at home with Uno, the enclosure should be escape-proof (we hope), and… okay, I guess there is no and, because that's it.

Living the High Life
Katie and I spent the weekend in Estes Park (Colorado) celebrating cousin Molly's nuptials. It always feels a little surreal to get on a plane in Tucson, where it's pushing 100 degrees, and then a little over an hour later to arrive in Denver, where it's most definitely not in the 100's. Anyway, I suppose the wedding was beautiful and all that junk, but the most important part of all this (okay, the most important part to me, which just goes to show where my priorities lie) was that it gave me a chance to run a goodly portion (18 miles) of the Estes Park Marathon route in preparation for the Estes Park Marathon which I'll be running in about three-and-a-half weeks, and I have to say that the course is absolutely breath-taking. Partly because it's spectacularly beautiful as you wind around lakes, follow mountain streams, gaze up a snow-capped peaks, and pass through and pine/aspen forests and alpine meadows where deer and elk are grazing, and partly/mostly because the elevation is between 7,500 and 8,100 feet, and there's not nearly as much oxygen at 7,500 to 8,100 feet as there is in the "Old Pueblo" (elevation around 2,500 feet) and it's especially breath-taking on the four-mile stretch that goes up from 7,500 feet 8,100 feet. So after huffing and puffing my way around the course, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to set any speed records during this event, which I was pretty much figuring going in, but I'm also pretty sure that this might wind up surpassing the Anchorage Marathon as my favorite and most scenic course.

That does it for this edition, so until next time may your pens remain filled with ink, may your words of wisdom be honored and obeyed, and may your wayward wanderers return safely home (unless you want them to stay away, in which case, I hope they stay away).

The Heat is On

The iceman cometh…
Here in the "Old Pueblo" we have a tradition which goes back lo those many years and which involves making wagers as to when the "ice will break on the Rillito River." When I first heard about this, I was rather confused - for a couple of different reasons. One was that while the sign next to the Rillito River says, "Rillito River," it doesn't really seem like much of a river, mainly because (except on rare occasions when we get big ol' rainstorms) it doesn't have any water in it. So how can you have a river without water? It's kind of like going to the restaurant and ordering a big ol' juicy hamburger, but then the waiter brings you a bun with no hamburger. Maybe there's a pickle and lettuce and a tomato and an onion slice, but you ordered a hamburger, not a pickle/lettuce/tomato/onion sandwich, right? So you storm out of the restaurant and vow to tell all your friends never to frequent this establishment, and if you're really, really steamed (and of the litigious mindset) you file a lawsuit against the restaurant for extreme mental suffering, which winds up taking over a large portion of your life and leads you down a self-destructive pathway tbat leaves you worse off than you were on that fateful day you walked into the restaurant in the first place. All because of the hamburger-less hamburger. Or the waterless river. And then the second confusing thing is that when I heard the phrase about the "ice breaking" it was May, and when it's May and you're in Tucson, it's generally pretty darned hot, so the only ice that you can find is in your freezer (or in an ice machine at the grocery store). So what was this ice people were talking about? Well, it turns out that they're not really talking about ice at all, and instead are being ironically humorous (as residents of the "Old Pueblo" are known to be) and what the phrase actually is referring to is the first day that the temperature officially goes above 100 degrees. Apparently, that day is today (though I haven't heard the official word yet) and it seems a couple of weeks too early to me, so in honor of the "ice breaking on the Rillito," here is a list of similes to describe exactly how hot it is now that the "ice has broken."

How hot is it?
It's as hot as…

…a sidewalk that's so hot you can fry an egg on it.

…the sun when it's surrounded by about a million other suns that are beating down on the sun with all the power of a million suns.

…a fire that's made out of wood that's been marinating in acid for a really long time (oh wait, that wouldn't work because the acid would eat away the wood, wouldn't it? So let's say it's acid-resistant wood that's been marinating in acid for a really long time).

…a furnace that's filled with that same acid-resistant, acid-marinated wood that's burning like a raging inferno.

…a towering inferno were people are trapped inside and everyone watching the movie is sure they're going to die, and some of them actually do (well, not actually, because it is a movie, after all).

…pepper that's been crushed and grated into little tiny pieces, but then one of the little tiny pieces somehow works its way under your gumline while you're eating so that it burns really bad.

…a piece of metal that's been in a forge for a really long time - but not until it melts - or wait, yeah, it is melted, because that's how hot it is - hot enough to melt metal.

…the hot air that's used to make a hot air balloon rise into the sky, only this hot air is so hot that the hot air balloon just keeps on rising until it leaves the atmosphere and goes into outer space (at which point, it loses its heat and the hot air balloon and everything in it reenter the atmosphere and burn to a crisp because hot air balloons aren't designed with heat shields like space shuttles are).

…the hot seat that you would be sitting on if you were in really bad trouble for doing something that was really bad and then you got caught and somebody had called you into their office and made you sit in the "hot seat."

…the extra hot hot sauce that's green instead of red and that has a warning label that says something like, "Warning, this hot sauce is really hot and may cause extreme discomfort if ingested by anyone who doesn't like really hot hot sauce."

…those little blackish-reddish peppers that come in Szechwan food - you know, the ones that you sometimes accidentally miss and wind up picking up with your chopsticks (if you use chopsticks - I don't because I get too impatient and it takes too long to eat with chopsticks) and putting into your mouth, and when you bite down on it, it feels like your whole mouth is on fire, so you drink a bunch of water, but that doesn't really help, and your face turns red and you start to sweat and it's really, really uncomfortable (though everyone else at your table finds it highly amusing).

…a really hot day in the desert, like when it's May and the temperature has just broken 100 degrees for the first time, and everyone is walking around saying things like, "I guess the ice has broken on the Rillito."

…a black leather car seat when the car has been sitting in the parking lot of the Tucson Mall for a couple of hours in the afternoon on a a really hot day, like the first day of the year when the temperature goes above 100 degrees, and you forget how hot it is because you're still in the "cool-weather mode" so you didn't put up the sun shade, and you're wearing shorts and you hop into the car and sit down without thinking about it.

…a big steaming bowl of five-alarm chili that's been cooking all day - at a high enough heat that it's bubbling, and then you take the bowl and put it in the microwave for a couple of more minutes, and when you pull the bowl out it's so hot that it burns the tips of your fingers, and when you put a spoon into the chili, it's so hot that it melts the metal so you have to tip the bowl out and pour it into your mouth, which is a really bad idea because anything that's hot enough to melt a spoon can't be good for your digestive system.

…a steaming vat of hot water that's been sitting over a roaring fire for so long that all the water has boiled away and all that's left at the bottom is a scorch mark and some mineral deposits.

…the planet Earth after the level of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere reaches a high enough level to create an extreme greenhouse effect that melts all the polar icecaps and raises the level of the oceans and wipes out all the coastal areas and makes large swaths of land uninhabitable, changing life as we know it forevermore.

…the bottoms of your feet when you go walking down a street on a really hot day when the sun is beating down on the blacktop and heatwaves are creating mirages on the horizon and buzzards are circling overhead and you're starting to hallucinate because you've got a mild case of heatstroke.

…my high school senior picture - which was displayed for my 8th grade class during a student presentation today thanks to my lovely wife who conspired with one of my students to provide secret information about me to that student, who then shared that information (in the form of a poem) with the aforementioned 8th grade class along with the aforementioned photo during her aforementioned presentation.

Okay, I could probably come up with a few more, but you get the idea (if you stuck around through all that mish-mash). So until next time, may your prose be purple, may your knots be tangled, and may your jellybeans come in all your favorite flavors.

Shoes, Schools, Chocolate Bars, and the Four Corners Controversy

Patent leather
Way back when Caitlyn was first born, I made one of those ridiculous proclamations which I am wont to do - something like, "No daughter of mine will ever wear a pair of those black patent leather shoes." I'm not exactly sure what prompted me to make this proclamation, other than thinking that those black patent leather shoes that little girls wear are kind of silly. Anyway, as is often the case when I make these types of proclamations, it had no effect on future events, and Caitlyn wore not just one, but several pairs of black patent leather shoes during the course of her growing up. My only comfort was that I was never the one who actually purchased these shoes (her grandmother was the purchaser). And I have to admit she did look pretty cute when she was wearing them. Why this trip down memory lane? you ask. Well, I reply, imagine my surprise/shock/dismay when my wife and son returned from a shoe-buying expedition with, you guessed it, a pair of black patent leather shoes. Granted, they are black patent leather Air Jordan basketball shoes, but still.

My lovely, but somewhat confused, wife
One evening last week, Katie informed me that she would be home late the following day because she was helping out at some event at Cross Middle School. I didn't say anything, but I did wonder why she was helping out at Cross, since none of our kids are there this year. So the next day, she got home from helping out and said, "I was just finishing up with the setting up when the principal came and asked me how Carrie was doing in high school, and I realized that I don't have a kid at Cross - so why did I volunteer to help out?" Apparently, the principal didn't know, either.

Parenting 101
Many readers will already know that my son, Connor, like his mother, has a wicked sweet tooth. Because of this, we often have to hide things like chocolate chips or girls scout cookies, or they disappear in approximately 2.3 seconds. So Katie went to Trader Joe's the other day and got her weekly supply of dark chocolate, which she stores in the freezer and eats a little bit at a time to soothe the savage beast of chocolate craving that lives within her, and when Connor asked who the chocolate was for, she lied and told him it was mine so he'd be too scared to steal it. I'm not sure whether I'm flattered or offended by this, but it did make me laugh.

Happy birthday to you, you work in a zoo
Apparently, the chorus director at my school has a birthday policy which involves bringing the chorus to a person's classroom on their birthday and singing them a birthday song. She told me about this on the morning of my birthday, and I told her I didn't have a class that period, so she asked if I could come to them so they didn't have to haul all their stuff, and I said sure. Later that morning, I went into the chorus room expecting a souped-up version of the happy birthday song - or maybe the Beatle's Birthday song, or something along those lines. But is that what I got? No, it was not. They did sing a Beatle's song, but it was "Yesterday." As in, "Yesterday, all your troubles were so faraway…" and "Now I need a place to hide away…" and "I'm not half the man I used to be…" O-kay. Quite the picker-upper.

Newsflash
Many years ago, on one of our expeditions, Katie and I drove through the Four Corners area and stopped so that we could say that we had experienced the amazing experience that is standing at the only point in the US where you can stand in four states at the same time (AZ, CO, UT, NM). It was, without a doubt, one of the most thrilling experiences of my life. I still remember the chills that ran down my spine as I realized that I was standing - in - four - states- at -the - same - time. Needless to say, tears flowed and goosebumps tingled. Well, imagine my shock and dismay when I opened up the paper the other day and discovered that the spot that marks the four corners isn't actually the four corners spot at all. The real four corners spot is about 1 1/2 miles away because the surveyors who completed the survey that located the four corners way back in the 1800's messed up (apparently pretty badly if they were 1 1/2 miles off). So for all these years, millions of four corners visitors have been duped and deluded and are basically living a lie when they claim that they've stood in four states at the same time. And I'm one of them. Oh, the shame.

That's all I've got for now, so until next time may your shoes fit snugly but comfortably, may your mind remain clear and lucid, and may your claims to fame never be invalidated.

N.P.M.

In honor of "National Poetry Month"

According to the Academy of American Poets (now there's a group that probably has some rip-roaring parties), back in 1996, the Academy of American Poets decided to create a National Poetry Month which is now held every April and is a time when "publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools and poets around the country band together to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events." Hmm. Isn't the whole idea of a group of dedicated poets creating a month that's dedicated to the thing they're dedicated to kind of suspicious? Kind of like if the Academy of American Novelists (is there such a thing?) were to declare a "National Novel Month". Or if the Academy of American Essayists (again, is there such a creature?) declared a "National Essay Month" (now that's just silly). Or if the Academy of American Memoirists decided that memoirs actually had to be true (yikes). Or how about if the American Dairy Farmers conducting a study that concludes that drinking chocolate milk after vigorous exercise is just as effective for recovery as sports drinks (oops, I guess they actually did that). Anyway, the point, if you missed it is this: isn't this a blatant example of self-promotion. And I actually like poetry, so imagine the uproar from people who have a negative attitudes towards iambic pentameter, rhymed couplets, metaphorical imagery, etc. Well, in the interest of maintaining some semblance of forward momentum, I imagine that you're probably wondering exactly what's involved in celebrating a "National Poetry Month" which we're currently in the middle of celebrating. Here are just a few ideas you can try on for size (all of these, and more, can be found at http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41):
-You can sign up to receive a poem-a-day
-You can enter a "Free Verse Photo Competition" (not sure what that would be)
-You can purchase a copy of the official "National Poetry Month" poster (from this year or years past)
-You can go to a "National Poetry Map" to find out what's happening in your neck o' the woods
-You can read a book of poetry
-You can memorize a poem
-You can bring a poem to your place of worship (okay, this one seems like a stretch)
-You can play "Exquisite Corpse" (I've played it, and I have to say the name is better than the actual game)
-You can hear a poem (not sure if this is only for those who hear voices, or if it's open to all)
-You can take a poem out to lunch (now that just sounds pitiful and desperate - "Table for two"?)
-You can celebrate "Poem in Your Pocket Day" April 30 (I could make a snide comment here, but I won't because this is a family-friendly site)
Okay, that's enough for the here and now, but there are other suggestions and more if you are interested in perusing the above-mentioned website and getting into the spirit of things.

Let's celebrate "National Poetry Month" with some poems
Nothing says, "I love poetry" like writing/reading some really, really bad poems, so I always hold a "bad poetry" contest to encourage my students to write bad poems. Why? you ask. Well, I answer, because the ability to write a truly bad poem is a skill that comes in handy many times in the "real world." Just think of all the times you've been in a job interview and the interviewer has asked you to make up and recite, on the spot, a really bad poem, and when you were able to do so, he/she was so impressed that he/she offered you the job at a substantially higher salary than what they were planning on offering. I'll bet that has happened to each and every one of you more times than you can remember. Or how about those times when you've been lost in the wilderness with nothing but of those really big survival knives - how did you pass the time (after you got sick of whittling)? That's right, you composed really bad poems which made the time will fly by - plus you were then able to devise an amazingly intricate plan for getting rescued when you released your subconscious. Or what about the times when you were driving down the interstate and had a blowout and spun out of control, and at the moment when you began to panic, you calmed yourself by composing a bad poem that was so amusing that your heartrate slowed, your adrenaline spike leveled off, and rather than jerking the wheel in an overcorrecting manner, instead you were able to gradually regain control and decelerate safely. This is a life skill, people, and that's what I'm all about. So without further ado, here are a few of the better, and shorter, bad poems from this year.

The Best (by Garrett B.)

When you think you are the best,
you are wrong.

When you think you are not,
you are right.

Unless you are me,
which you're not.

Be Prepared (by Tara B.)

There was a guy in space
He was having a race
Then his mask broke
He began to choke
And gravity sucked out his face

Poems (by Galen V.)

Poems are like
flowers.

I don't know why.

People just say stuff like
that.

Windy Day (by Chloe M.)

I love the wind!
It's a great thing!
I love the sun!
And also the - -



Excuse me.
I do believe
I had a bug
in my trachea.

Driving Haiku (by Alex C.)

Driving my car through
the town. Chasing the people
and running them down.

I could go on with more selections, but you get the idea, and I'm tired of copying and pasting, so until next time, may your rhymes be slanted, may your allusions be clear, and may your heartfelt expressions of heartfelt feelings be completely and utterly heartfelt.

An Easter Pageant

Easter Morning - The Drama
Easter begins as I shuffle out of my room and am met with Connor's proclamation that, "The Easter Bunny isn't real, and I know it because the chocolate bunnies are still in the cabinet, not in the basket, and you and Mom hide the eggs." Oh well, I think, the kid is in fifth grade, so I guess we've passed a major milestone and don't even have to pretend to perpetuate the holiday myths of childhood any longer. I get the feeling that I should be sad about this, like one of those "Sunrise, Sunset" moments where parents get all nostalgic and wonder where the years have gone, and all that jazz, but to be honest, it's kind of a relief. Maybe I really am a holiday humbug. The day proceeds, and Grandma and Grandpa swing by with Caitlyn, and even though the kids are older, they still want to have an egg hunt (Katie says she wants to participate as well, but when push comes to shove, she's too busy chatting to look for eggs). In fact, Connor has decided to challenge me by saying that I'm not very good at hiding the eggs and they're always way too easy to find, so with that gauntlet thrown down, I shoo them off to their rooms and begin to hide the eggs - and by hide, I don't mean place in plain sight like I did when the kids were little. They want an Easter egg hunt? Fine - I'll give them an Easter egg hunt. And for the first time, I'm taking the whole hiding thing seriously. There's a good spot, I think, as I move through the living room and out to the backyard. There's no way they'll find that one. And when the last egg is hidden, I send the kids off searching. Connor finds one egg quickly, but over the next five minutes, he doesn't find another. Meanwhile, Caitlyn finds five or six, and Carrie finds one or two, at which point, the whole thing pretty much falls apart (should have seen this coming) as we all revert to our lowest common denominators. Connor decides looking for Easter eggs is "stupid," because Caitlyn and Carrie are finding eggs and he isn't, and when anything gets hard, his first reaction is to throw in the towel, only in this case what he throws is his basket (and the one egg he found) on the ground and stomps off. While this is going on, Carrie goes into her poor-me routine and announces that, "I'm just not as good as Caitlyn at finding eggs," and starts moping around with her shoulders drooped. She won't quit - she's way too stubborn for that - but she will play the "poor me" role as far as it will take her. Caitlyn, though, continues to soldier on. I watch all this unfold, then roll my eyes and go inside to get away from the drama for a few minutes. When I peek out again to see if things have improved, I find that Connor has decided he'd rather watch "Sponge Bob" than participate, so being the rational, mature adult that I am, I tell him that he now has a choice - either he loses every form of entertainment in his life for the rest of the day or he looks for eggs (as I write this, it seems really, really ridiculous, but at the time it seemed to sort of make sense - to me at least) and he grudgingly turns off the TV and starts shuffling around while mumbling "Stupid eggs," and "Stupid Easter," and who-knows-what-else. Eventually, the majority of eggs are found (hints are needed to discover the final few), Connor's tantrum is semi-forgotten, Carrie's "poor me" routine is part of the past, and Caitlyn, bless her heart, shows us that she really has grown up quite a bit by admitting that she feels kind of bad about finding most of the eggs, and that she was trying to hold back and let the other two find some, but what's she supposed to do? I have to admit that I don't remember there being this much drama in the Easter egg hunts of my childhood, but maybe I've just blocked it out. I'll have to check with the padre y madre on that one.

Speaking of Caitlyn
I generally try really hard not to brag about my kids - for a variety of reasons - but about a week ago, we went to a play she was in at the UA and as I sat there and watched her perform, I kept wondering where on Earth this beautiful, talented, confident, and self-possessed young woman came from. So, yeah, I guess that counts as bragging. Sorry.

So What Else is New?
The UA finally hired a new coach (for $2 million a year), school districts across the city/state are being forced to cut positions and programs as the state slashes spending (does anyone else see the irony dripping down all of this?), the stock market seems to have settled down (keep your fingers crossed), our adopted cat seems to have finally gotten used to us and is starting to venture out from under the bed to socialize, our TNT team continues to train on Saturday mornings, rain or shine (lots of rain - and cold - last Saturday) and people are busting down barriers as they push beyond what they believed was possible, while I, on the other hand, have been sidelined with a flare-up of my leg injury from earlier this year. Hopefully, this too shall pass (keeping my fingers crossed and trying not to get too frustrated by the whole thing).

All righty - that's all I've got time for today, so until next time, may your pencils remain sharpened, may your paper clips remain flexible, and may your tape dispenser remain in plain sight (and filled with tape).

Jack or me - you decide

I decided to deviate from the norm this week for no real reason other than that's what I decided to do, and as sole owner and proprietor of this space I figured I have the right to do whatever I please, so if you've got a problem with that, oh well. Anyway, for the past several years, I've been sort of fascinated by the TV show "24." The whole premise of cramming an entire season into a 24 hour day, then showing how things unfold in real-time intrigued me from the very beginning, and I love the twists and turns - even though it often stretches the bounds of credibility pretty incredibly. Anyway, it got me to thinking about my own life and what it would look like as an episode of 24, especially after seeing all that Jack Bauer has gone through this season. So here we go, with a comparison, hour by hour, of my life to Jack's (since Jack's in the Eastern time zone and I'm in the Pacific time zone, I've adjusted the times accordingly - so his day begins at 8 a.m., while mine begins at 5 a.m). And since I don't know what's going to happen in the future, I've decided to focus on my yesterday, and we'll only go through the point where the show currently is (again, because I don't know what's going to happen in the future). Whose life is more engaging and exciting? You be the judge…

Hour 1: (8-9 a.m. for Jack, 5-6 a.m. for me)
Jack is on trial in front of the Senate for human rights crimes and torturing people - he admits what he's done, but says it was necessary (which, of course, you agree with if you watch the show because Jack is awesome and always right, but there are always weak-willed, ignorant people who stand in his way that he has to either bulldoze through or somehow get around so that he can thwart whatever evil force he's opposing) - then some FBI agents whisk him away and tell him that a friend of his who he thought was dead is actually alive and working with terrorists. Meanwhile, I get up, drive to the Y, and start swimming laps.

Hour 2: (9-10 a.m. for Jack, 6-7 a.m. for me)
Jack tracks down Tony with the help of the cute FBI agent (there's obviously some weird kind of chemistry going on between them, but it's not totally clear where this is going - if anywhere - but her boss/boyfriend is pretty obviously jealous of Jack (as well as being disgusted by Jack's penchant for playing fast and loose with the rules), and figures out there's a leak in the FBI when their suspect is shot. Meanwhile, I finish up my swim, then drive to school (keeping an eye out for terrorists or cute FBI agents - though I didn't spot any of either of these), eat a bagel with peanut butter (which I sniff first to make sure it's not laced with some kind of truth-telling serum or nerve agent that will paralyze me, or anything like that), and write the day's agendas on the whiteboard (which, sadly, doesn't include the FBI, terrorists, the President of the United States, or government moles).

Hour 3: (10-11 a.m. for Jack, 7-8 a.m. for me)
Jack nabs Tony (the guy he thought was dead), but when he's interrogating him, Tony whispers a code word which lets Jack know that Tony's actually a good guy, so Jack breaks Tony out of the FBI building so Tony can rejoin the terrorist group - which is their only hope of foiling the plot to terrorize (Jack is now pretending to be a bad guy - so the cute FBI agent is incredulous because you can tell she was starting to kind of like Jack's whole bad-boy aura, but this is too much bad even for her and her boss/boyfriend is all smug and "I told you so" to her). Meanwhile, I read through the directions for the AIMS test, then teach my first class (which is only twenty minutes long because of AIMS testing and conferences).

Hour 4: (11 a.m-12 p.m. for Jack, 8-9 a.m. for me)
Jack takes Tony to the new, underground "CTU" headquarters and finds out Chloe and Bill (former colleagues) are working with Tony and know about some huge corruption within the government, so basically, they can't trust anyone, and Tony and Jack decide to both go rejoin the terrorists so they can find out what's going on from the inside. Meanwhile, I give the AIMS math field test, which is a bunch of math questions they're testing out for future AIMS test, so basically, it's a test of the questions, not the kids, which seems like a really good use of instructional time to me, and I would rather be teaching students important life-skills like how to infiltrate a terrorist group so you can uncover conspiracies, which would probably come in a lot more handy in the "real world."

Hour 5: (12-1 p.m. for Jack, 9-10 a.m. for me)
Jack pumps poison gas into a safe-room to get a guy to come out for the terrorists (which means he's acting like a really, really bad person in order to ultimately foil the bad guys, which is quite dramatic and angst-filled) and the cute FBI lady that seems to kind of have this thing for Jack tortures a suspect to get information, which shocks her boss/boyfriend and just shows how much Jack has influenced her (and, we have to assume, reinforces the message that the "real heroes" of the world are willing to do anything, no matter how distasteful, for the greater good - like pump poison gas into safe-rooms or torture bad guys to get them to spill their guts). Meanwhile, I finish up the AIMS field test and start teaching another class (at no point do I even entertain the possibility of pumping poison gas into the room or torturing anyone to get them to "give it up").

Hour 6: (1-2 p.m. for Jack, 10 -11 a.m. for me)
Jack and Tony convince the guy that they forced out of the safe-room with poison gas that they're actually good guys, and they wind up killing some bad guys in a fire-fight. but figure out a way to make it work for them and continue to work undercover by taking this guy to the other bad guys so they can use him as a hostage. Meanwhile, school dismisses for the day so we can have conferences, and I eat lunch and read the newspaper, then chat with a colleague about this, that, and the other thing (we do talk about plots at some point, but terrorists never enter into the conversation).

Hour 7: (2-3 p.m. for Jack, 11 a.m-12 p.m. for me)
Jack confronts the bad guys, who are attacking a chemical plant in the midwest, which threatens a fair-sized town nearby with catastrophe, but Jack stops them in the middle of their plan while others put a stop to their threat (the plant manager sacrifices himself to shut things down). Unfortunately the bad guy leader manages to escape in the confusion, which leads Jack to utter his trademark cuss-phrase several times (sounds kind of like, "Darn it!"). Meanwhile, I work on my career ladder plan that's due next week, which involves going back to the previous parts of the plans and reminding myself of what I was doing, then searching for data I need to fill out the forms and putting it all together (but does not involve deadly chemicals or gunfire in any way, shape, or form).

Hour 8: (3-4 p.m. for Jack, 12-1 p.m. for me)
Jack and Bill manage to get the guy they saved (the one they forced out of the safe-room with poison gas) to convince the President of the U.S. to grant them an audience so they can explain what's going on and what they've been up to, while the cute FBI agent threatens the wife of a bad guy (whose only "crime" was to be fooled by this bad guy) in the worst possible way in order to get her to cooperate, which again just goes to show how much of an influence Jack has had on her and how much she's changed since she met him (which, if you're keeping track, was about 9 hours ago). Meanwhile, I keep working on my career ladder plan, which I plan on sending to the President of the U.S. just as soon as it's done.

Hour 9: (4-5 p.m. for Jack, 1-2 p.m. for me)
Jack and the cute FBI agent go to rescue the President's husband from the bad guy leader (he was kidnapped at some point) and in the scuffle that follows, the President's husband is shot (darn it!) and the bad guy leader gets away (again, darn it!), but Jack and the cute FBI agent find the bad guy leader's girlfriend and convince her to lead them to the bad guy leader, even though the cute FBI agent has misgivings because it's so dangerous, but Jack sways her by reminding her that, "It's the only way, darn it!" and she goes along with the plan reluctantly. Meanwhile, I meet with a couple of parents and discuss some issues about placement and services, and though I was thinking that one of the meetings might have the potential to be stressful, it really isn't because everyone is quite civil and reasonable and listens to each other with respect, so I don't have to resort to torture or poison gas or electric shots or those really scary hypodermics they always show that seem like they must be just about the worst possible thing to ever be injected into a human being, because everyone always freaks out when they pull them out of the case (plus, they've always got a whole bunch of them in a case, which is pretty creep in and of itself).

Hour 10: (5-6 p.m. for Jack, 2-3 p.m. for me)
Jack and the cute FBI agent get arrested while trailing the girlfriend of the bad guy (because the mole in the FBI put a fake alert out for them) so while they're detained, they lose her, but then they eventually find her and there's a big crash and the cute FBI agent tries to get her out of the car before it explodes but she can't and there's a big dramatic moment between her and Jack which seems to sour her affection for him quite a bit. So they catch the bad guy, but he winds up dying so they lose their lead, although Jack does discover a chip under his skin which he digs out and sends in for analysis - which is a threat to a whole bunch of people who are in on the conspiracy because their names are included on the chip. Meanwhile, I finish up my conferences and go up to the track to run, where I put in four miles at a very easy pace while listening to "The Fray" on my Ipod.

Hour 11: (6-7 p.m. for Jack, 3-4 p.m. for me)
Jack convinces Chloe (his computer buddy) to take a name off the list he provided so he has time to interrogate the suspect in the White House which means that he's going against what he's been ordered to do, but, "It's the only way, darn it!" so he goes ahead and does it and is just about to get the guy to spill his guts when the President and her crew find out what Jack's doing and stop him, which means Jack's put in handcuffs once again and taken into custody, plus the plot is still in the works and nobody knows what's going on. Meanwhile, I wrap things up at school and head across the district for a meeting with the other gifted specialists where we'll discuss reasons why the sky is falling and what we wish we could do about it.

Hour 12: (7-8 p.m. for Jack, 4-5 p.m. for me)
While Jack is being taken into custody, the bad guys attack the White House(!) in an attempt to take the President hostage, but Jack manages to get her into a safe-room (safe-room #2 today) and the bad guys can't get her out until they find out from another bad guy that the President's daughter is in the White House, so they grab her and threaten to cut her eyeballs out, at which point, the President caves and makes Jack open the door. At the same time, the cute FBI agent and her boss/boyfriend are trying to convince the Vice President to let them storm the White House and save everyone inside, but he decides not to let them (for political reasons, naturally), which frustrates everyone involved and makes us all angry at these bureaucratic types who aren't willing to do what's necessary when it's so clear what's necessary is what's needed - darn it! Meanwhile I continue to jabber and moan in the meeting - wishing I was in charge of the world so I could wave my magic wand and make the bureaucrats who run things quit posturing and politicizing and start doing what's necessary and right - darn it!

Hour 13: (8-9 p.m. for Jack, 5-6 p.m. for me)
This is a big one, as the standoff in the White House comes to a conclusion with explosions and another fire-fight, and Jack tries to sacrifice himself, but Bill takes his place because Jack's the only one that can move forward with uncovering yet another layer to the plot that he discovered, so Bill gets blown up, Jack starts shooting, the President and her daughter get rescued, and Jack is redeemed. This is only temporary, though, because he convinces them to let him go back and finish the interrogation he started earlier, but winds up getting knocked out with nerve gas by an assassin who kills the guy Jack was interrogating and makes it look like Jack did it, which means Jack is once again seen as the bad guy and has to take off before he's taken into custody once again (how many times has he been taken into custody today?). Meanwhile, I drive home from the meeting and start making dinner.

Hour 14: (9-10 p.m. for Jack, 6-7 p.m. for me)
Jack goes to the Senator who was originally after him for human rights crimes and torturing people (in the first hour) and manages to convince him that there really is this conspiracy and Jack really is a good guy, and just when he has the Senator convinced, the same assassin from the last hour shows up and shoots the Senator, which, of course, makes everyone believe Jack did it ("He did what?" exclaims the President when she's told) and the cute FBI agent is taken into custody because she helped Jack with all of this and her boss/boyfriend found out. Meanwhile, I eat dinner with my family, make my breakfast/lunch for tomorrow, and do the crossword puzzle.

Hour 15: (10-11 p.m. for Jack, 7-8 p.m. for me)
Jack and Tony manage to track down the bio-weapon the bad guys have smuggled into the U.S. and there's another fire-fight, during which Jack decides to save a security guard rather than let him get killed (which would have been the more prudent course of action, but it shows that even Jack doesn't always do what's necessary, darn it!) but because of this, Tony winds up being captured by the bad guys. Still, Jack manages to highjack the truck carrying the bio-weapon and take off, only one of the cannisters is damaged and when Jack stops to fix it, he's exposed to the chemicals and the bad guys show up in a helicopter and reacquire the bio-weapon (darn it!). Meanwhile, I kick back and watch the episode of "Lost" I taped last night, which is getting more and more confusing the further they go with it (but that's a whole other topic which we won't even get into here and now).

Hour 16: (11 p.m-12 a.m. for Jack, 8-9 p.m. for me)
Jack finds out he's tested positive for the chemical (which means he's going to suffer a terrible, painful death at some undetermined time) so he's taken back to the FBI building for "debriefing" by the cute FBI agent who is heartbroken when she finds out about Jack - which shows that there's still something going on there - especially when she finds out Jack saved the security guard and that he has awful scars from the time he was taken by the Chinese government and tortured (not sure which season that was). At the same time, Tony gets released by one of the bad guys and calls the FBI who swoop in to re-reacquire the bio-weapon, only the bad guy was playing them all and leading them on a wild goose chase to buy time for the bad guys to arm the bio-weapon, which works perfectly, and Jack is stuck at FBI headquarters with the cute FBI agent and a death sentence hanging over his head. Meanwhile, I brush my teeth and settle down in bed to read for a little while before turning off the light and going to bed.

The remaining hours
Jack's future is up in the air, though it's clearly not looking too rosy right about now, what with his impending death and all. But we'll have to tune in for the next few weeks to see what happens. Meanwhile, I slept through the night - and didn't die, which I consider to be a good thing even thought it's not nearly as dramatic. So looking this over, I guess Jack's life may be exciting and TV-worthy, but I still would rather be me - go figure. With that, I'll wrap things up once again, so until next time, may your plots be thick and juicy and filled with twists and turns, may your FBI agents be cute and sympathetic, and may your chemical weapons remain safely stored so they don't leak and leave a trail of death and destruction in their wake.