If something is really, really bad, what do you call it?
The other evening, I was watching TV with my lovely daughter, Caitlyn (actually, Caitlyn was reading a book, texting, and watching TV at the same time - kids these days) and a commercial came on for a new movie starring some chubby guy with curly hair (not sure what his name is) and Caitlyn said something along the lines of, "That guy really bugs me," and I said, "What guy?" and she said, "That guy in this movie - he's really annoying and he was in this really bad movie," and I said, "What movie was that?" and she said, "I can't remember, but it was really, really bad," at which point, I was ready to let the whole thing go because I didn't care that much one way or the other (about the actor, the movie he was in before, or the movie he was going to be in) but Caitlyn's obsessive button had been pushed, so she had to go and get her computer so she could search for the actor's name and the name of his "really, really bad" movie, which turned out to be called - can you see this one coming - "Superbad." As in, the name of the really, really bad movie turned out to be Superbad, which is pretty ironic - or maybe not really ironic, but it was definitely mildly amusing.
Idea for a new invention
The other evening, I was watching the "American Idol" finale (are you noticing a pattern here?) and I came up with a great idea for a new invention - the "Mute Ryan Seacrest" button. When you push the button, it mutes everything Ryan says, so you don't have to listen to his annoying nonsense. "So now did you feel when you were singing that song? So how did you feel when the judges said you were terrible/great/mediocre/pitchy, dog?" I could probably make millions of dollars.
Peripheral viewing
The other evening, I was watching TV with everyone but Connor, who was doing something on the computer in the other room. But the thing is, even though Connor isn't watching TV, he still makes comments on everything that happens on the show - from the other room while he's doing something on the computer. I don't know why I'm writing about this, but it's kind of funny when you're sitting there and every once in awhile, Connor fires off some random comment from the other room (guess you had to be there).
This next one has nothing to do with TV
I happened to spot an article in the newspaper the other day that caught my eye. Apparently, Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol is "hitting the speaker's circuit" and will be paid between $15,000 and $30,000 per appearance, with the price depending on "which group she's addressing and what she must do to prepare." There are so many things wrong with this, that I can't even begin to list all the things that are wrong with this. Seriously? Bristol Palin? Who would pay to hear her speak? For that matter, who would sit and listen to her speak - even if it was free? All I can say to this is, "Wow."
Last Days
Every year, students and teachers all across this great nation (and possibly the world) experience the last day of school for the year. For me, this day is always a little bittersweet. It's strange to spend so much time with a group of people, and then suddenly it's all over. I still remember sitting all alone in my classroom after my first year of teaching and feeling strangely empty. That feeling hasn't really changed much over the years - I guess that's probably a good thing, though.
That's all for this edition, so until next time, may your movies all be super-good, may your idols remain American, and may all your speakers command top dollar.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
More Bees, Annoying Children, and an Empty Heart
Bad Day=Good Run
Last week, I had one of those days (actually, it was much worse for my lovely wife than for me, but I took a vow way back when, so when she suffers, I suffer). First, Katie found out that our adorable son is somehow managing to flunk P.E. (apparently, he hasn’t been finishing “The Ram” within the time limit). For those of you not in the know, “The Ram” is a 1-1/4 mile run that the kids at his school are supposed to do each week. And the time limit? That’s the kicker – it’s 24 minutes. Seriously? The kid can’t cover 1-1/4 miles in 24 minutes? I’m not even sure how it’s possible to go that slow – I mean, you would think he could crawl faster than that. So Katie went to school to talk to the P.E. teacher and see if there’s some way he can make it up, and in the course of their conversation, she burst into tears because this is just one of those final straws that’s broken the camel’s back (not to mention the whole irony thing here where both of his parents run marathons, and he can’t even cover 1-1/4 miles in 24 minutes – sheesh). Then, as she was leaving Cross and heading to her school, she got a phone call from our daughter who had nearly crashed the truck into a fire hydrant and/or a wall on her way to school because it (the truck) cut out on her just as she was turning a corner and she wasn’t able to steer/brake effectively. Luckily, she managed to avoid the wall and the fire hydrant, but it shook her up and Katie had to go rescue her and take the truck into the shop to find out why it suddenly cut out (vapor lock, apparently). I, on the other hand, was going along with my day, oblivious to all of this, until I got a message on my phone, which was Katie, who left a long and heart-wrenching message explaining all of the things that had happened, so I spent the rest of the day worrying about my son (the slacker), my daughter (the reluctant driver), my wife (the basket-case – justifiably so), and my truck (the clunker). Because I was feeling a little on edge when I got home from work, I went for a run. And I knew I was a little on edge, but I didn’t realize how much on edge I was until I finished my first mile (the “warm-up” mile) and looked down at my split and realized that I was running at a sub-8-minute pace. And I wasn’t even breathing hard. And it pretty much stayed that way for the whole run. I was knocking off the 8’s and sub-8’s without even trying. It was like I was running in a cloud. As a matter of fact, I did run into a cloud of sorts – a swarm of bees that I didn’t even notice until I was in the middle of it and they were buzzing all around me in a dust-devilish sort of way, so I kind of went, “Hey, I’m in the middle of a bee swarm,” but the bees didn’t seem to mind (or even notice) me, and I kept on running one way and they kept on swarming the other way and we went our separate ways (what is it with me and bee swarms – it’s kind of creepy). So I guess the takeaway from all this is whenever I enter a race, I need to have a really bad day right before (or maybe Katie has to have a bad day, then tell me all about it) cause I was seriously fast that afternoon (for me).
Speaking of my son…
I remember several years ago, I used to joke in a semi-serious way about what I was going to do when my daughters were both teenagers. I said something along the lines of, “When the girls are both teenagers, I’m going to take Connor and we’re going to go live in the woods.” Why would I say such a thing? you may be asking. I had this idea that when the girls were both teenagers, it was going to be pretty crazy, seeing as they were both going to be teenage girls, and my son would provide the point of sanity in my life. Oh, how wrong I was. I love the kid, but I don’t think I would last long in that situation (nor would he).
10/23
That’s the number of principals I’ve now worked for in the number of years I’ve been teaching. And I’m sure it’s significant in some highly significant way.
On a Serious Note
Twelve years old is too young to die. That’s all I could think when, on Monday morning, I opened up an e-mail and learned that one of my students had passed away in a tragic accident. There are certain kids who, for whatever reason, get under your skin (in a good way) and this was one of them. At the beginning of the year, he was kind of a slacker and didn’t seem to be putting much effort into things. It was obvious that he was smart, but he didn’t seem to be very engaged. I’ve always had a soft spot for this kind of kid – when you can tell there’s something there if only you’re able to find the key to get them motivated. And that’s what happened this past semester. I’m not exactly sure what it was or why it happened, but he turned things around and became one of the best (and definitely most prolific) writers in the class. He went from barely completing work to turning in lots and lots of extra pieces and going way above and beyond on projects. And all the time, it was obvious that he was enjoying himself – according to his parents, he was having the best year of his life. Which makes the empty feeling I have inside ache even more.
I ache for his siblings, for his parents, for his grandparents and great-grandmother (imagine attending a great-grandchild’s funeral) and for his friends. I ache for all the kids who knew him and who are struggling to understand what they’re feeling right now. And I ache for myself. For the loss of one of the kids that I know I reached. I take it for granted that the kids are going to return to my class everyday, and looking at that empty desk during 7th period is a stark reminder of how fleeting life can be. And yet, I can’t help but also be encouraged by these same kids who amaze me with their ability to deal with difficult circumstances - the compassion and support they show for one another when they’re hurting - the 7th grader who got up in front of everyone at the funeral and shared his experiences and his perspectives on what had happened, putting into words what just about everyone was feeling. I’ve said before how I feel like middle-school kids get a bad rap, and I feel it even more after the past couple of days. They really can be amazing if you give them half a chance.
Nothing more to report, so until next time, may your bee swarms stay far away, may children (if you have any) remain motivated, and may your moments of sorrow remain manageable.
Last week, I had one of those days (actually, it was much worse for my lovely wife than for me, but I took a vow way back when, so when she suffers, I suffer). First, Katie found out that our adorable son is somehow managing to flunk P.E. (apparently, he hasn’t been finishing “The Ram” within the time limit). For those of you not in the know, “The Ram” is a 1-1/4 mile run that the kids at his school are supposed to do each week. And the time limit? That’s the kicker – it’s 24 minutes. Seriously? The kid can’t cover 1-1/4 miles in 24 minutes? I’m not even sure how it’s possible to go that slow – I mean, you would think he could crawl faster than that. So Katie went to school to talk to the P.E. teacher and see if there’s some way he can make it up, and in the course of their conversation, she burst into tears because this is just one of those final straws that’s broken the camel’s back (not to mention the whole irony thing here where both of his parents run marathons, and he can’t even cover 1-1/4 miles in 24 minutes – sheesh). Then, as she was leaving Cross and heading to her school, she got a phone call from our daughter who had nearly crashed the truck into a fire hydrant and/or a wall on her way to school because it (the truck) cut out on her just as she was turning a corner and she wasn’t able to steer/brake effectively. Luckily, she managed to avoid the wall and the fire hydrant, but it shook her up and Katie had to go rescue her and take the truck into the shop to find out why it suddenly cut out (vapor lock, apparently). I, on the other hand, was going along with my day, oblivious to all of this, until I got a message on my phone, which was Katie, who left a long and heart-wrenching message explaining all of the things that had happened, so I spent the rest of the day worrying about my son (the slacker), my daughter (the reluctant driver), my wife (the basket-case – justifiably so), and my truck (the clunker). Because I was feeling a little on edge when I got home from work, I went for a run. And I knew I was a little on edge, but I didn’t realize how much on edge I was until I finished my first mile (the “warm-up” mile) and looked down at my split and realized that I was running at a sub-8-minute pace. And I wasn’t even breathing hard. And it pretty much stayed that way for the whole run. I was knocking off the 8’s and sub-8’s without even trying. It was like I was running in a cloud. As a matter of fact, I did run into a cloud of sorts – a swarm of bees that I didn’t even notice until I was in the middle of it and they were buzzing all around me in a dust-devilish sort of way, so I kind of went, “Hey, I’m in the middle of a bee swarm,” but the bees didn’t seem to mind (or even notice) me, and I kept on running one way and they kept on swarming the other way and we went our separate ways (what is it with me and bee swarms – it’s kind of creepy). So I guess the takeaway from all this is whenever I enter a race, I need to have a really bad day right before (or maybe Katie has to have a bad day, then tell me all about it) cause I was seriously fast that afternoon (for me).
Speaking of my son…
I remember several years ago, I used to joke in a semi-serious way about what I was going to do when my daughters were both teenagers. I said something along the lines of, “When the girls are both teenagers, I’m going to take Connor and we’re going to go live in the woods.” Why would I say such a thing? you may be asking. I had this idea that when the girls were both teenagers, it was going to be pretty crazy, seeing as they were both going to be teenage girls, and my son would provide the point of sanity in my life. Oh, how wrong I was. I love the kid, but I don’t think I would last long in that situation (nor would he).
10/23
That’s the number of principals I’ve now worked for in the number of years I’ve been teaching. And I’m sure it’s significant in some highly significant way.
On a Serious Note
Twelve years old is too young to die. That’s all I could think when, on Monday morning, I opened up an e-mail and learned that one of my students had passed away in a tragic accident. There are certain kids who, for whatever reason, get under your skin (in a good way) and this was one of them. At the beginning of the year, he was kind of a slacker and didn’t seem to be putting much effort into things. It was obvious that he was smart, but he didn’t seem to be very engaged. I’ve always had a soft spot for this kind of kid – when you can tell there’s something there if only you’re able to find the key to get them motivated. And that’s what happened this past semester. I’m not exactly sure what it was or why it happened, but he turned things around and became one of the best (and definitely most prolific) writers in the class. He went from barely completing work to turning in lots and lots of extra pieces and going way above and beyond on projects. And all the time, it was obvious that he was enjoying himself – according to his parents, he was having the best year of his life. Which makes the empty feeling I have inside ache even more.
I ache for his siblings, for his parents, for his grandparents and great-grandmother (imagine attending a great-grandchild’s funeral) and for his friends. I ache for all the kids who knew him and who are struggling to understand what they’re feeling right now. And I ache for myself. For the loss of one of the kids that I know I reached. I take it for granted that the kids are going to return to my class everyday, and looking at that empty desk during 7th period is a stark reminder of how fleeting life can be. And yet, I can’t help but also be encouraged by these same kids who amaze me with their ability to deal with difficult circumstances - the compassion and support they show for one another when they’re hurting - the 7th grader who got up in front of everyone at the funeral and shared his experiences and his perspectives on what had happened, putting into words what just about everyone was feeling. I’ve said before how I feel like middle-school kids get a bad rap, and I feel it even more after the past couple of days. They really can be amazing if you give them half a chance.
Nothing more to report, so until next time, may your bee swarms stay far away, may children (if you have any) remain motivated, and may your moments of sorrow remain manageable.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Bees, Making Out, and High Temperatures
When Bees Attack
As many of you may be aware, Arizona is one of the places that has been infiltrated over the past decade or so by “killer bees” and this is “bee season” so one has to be on the lookout for swarms. In the past few years, we’ve had bees in our house, bees in our wall (both these swarms had to be removed by professionals) and bees in one of the wooden posts on our patio (I got rid of this one by spraying them with a bunch of insecticide, then cramming steel wool into the cracks in the post so they couldn’t get in or out). Because of all these experiences, not to mention the stories in the newspaper where people are killed by killer bees, whenever I see a swarm of bees swarming, I get a little itchy – which is what happened just the other day as I was preparing to turn into our driveway. I glanced up at one of the trees in our yard and saw this strange thing that looked like a bird’s nest, and I thought, “Hey, that’s a strange looking thing that looks like a bird’s nest, I wonder what it is?” So I parked the car and went out to take a gander, and when I did, I saw that it wasn’t a bird’s nest at all, but instead, it was a bunch of bees. They were hanging all over each other on one of the branches, buzzing around and squirming like an amorphous mass of, well, I guess, bees. I figured it wasn’t a big deal since they weren’t going in or out of anything, just hanging out on the branch, so I did what anyone of the male gender would do in my situation - I picked up a couple of rocks and threw them at the bees to see what they would do. When I hit the amorphous mass of bees, they buzzed a bit and flew around in a tizzy, which kind of was a scary sound, so I got ready to run for it, but then they settled down and went back to whatever it was they were doing. At which point, I did what anyone of the male gender would do in such a situation and threw another rock. Same result as before. At that point, I kind of “thought outside of the box,” and did what most anyone of the male gender would not do, which was to go inside and leave the bees alone (in case you’re wondering, the thing that most males would do at this point would be to throw some more stuff at the bees – or get a long stick and poke the bees – or get a can of WD-40 and a lighter and climb up on a ladder and use the WD-40 as a flame-thrower to throw flames at the bees – or get a pillowcase and try to capture the bees – all of which I considered but ultimately rejected by embracing my more feminine side). I figured the bees would fly off soon, but they were still there the next morning, and they hung around all that day, but by the following morning, they had disappeared without a trace. Quite an adventure, wouldn’t you say?
P.D.A.
No, this is not a story about a “personal digital assistant” (what would be amusing about that?). Instead, this is about the other PDA, which is, in case you’re not in the know, is a “public display of affection.” This all came up when Katie was relaying some information about a certain friend of hers (who shall remain nameless to protect their anonymity and spare them from any possible embarrassment) who, apparently had recently been making out in a parking lot (at this point, you’re probably burning with curiosity as to who this person is, and who they were making out with, and why it’s considered “news-worthy” that they were making out in a parking lot – you may also be wondering what parking lot they were in, though I’m not sure why since that really doesn’t have anything to do with anything - but we’re not going to get into any of these issues here, because I figure all of that stuff is that person’s business and no one else’s, and for that matter, I might be making this whole part of the story up, and there might not have been a making-out incident in a parking lot that ever happened, and the only reason I even mentioned it was because it served as a clever lead-in to the anecdotal incident that I’m reporting on – so let it go, already). Anyway, when our middle child heard about this possibly fictional event, she said, in that horrified tone that teenagers have at certain times (usually when they’re slapped in the face by the fact that adults are people too), “That’s ridiculous! Why would old people make out in a parking lot?” to which I said something like, “What’s wrong with old people making out in a parking lot? Are parking lots only for young people to make out in?” at which point she became even more horrified and said, “It’s gross. Like that time when we were at the Denver zoo and you and mom were making out in front of the penguins.” Apparently, this happened back when she was in 3rd grade, and she (and I’m assuming the penguins also) have carried the scars for lo these many years. I guess this is just another one of those incidents she’ll be covering with her future therapist at some point in her future. Not sure about the penguins, but I suppose it’s safe to assume they’ll need therapy as well.
Runnin’ in the 90’s
No, this isn’t referring to running in the 1990’s (or the 1890’s for that matter), instead it’s referring to the temperature – as in 90˚ F (which is approximately 32˚ C – which seems like it should be fairly chilly - or 305˚ Kelvin – which sounds really, really scorching). For whatever reason, be it El Niño or global warming or global cooling or whatever, it’s been a pretty mild spring in the “Old Pueblo” and we didn’t officially hit the 90˚ F mark until much later than usual. In fact, we made it all the way to May without ever breaching that particular benchmark (and we’re still waiting for the “ice to break on the Rillito” which is “Old Pueblo-ese” for hitting the 100˚ F mark). Anyway, we’ve lucked out weather-wise for the past few months, and have managed to hit nice temperatures on pretty much all of our Saturday morning group runs. It’s rained a lot (for the “Old Pueblo”) but always on Saturday afternoon or Sunday, so we’ve been pretty much cool and dry, which is really nice when you’re putting in the long miles (or any miles, for that matter). Actually, we just had our first real warm weather run (over 90˚ F) this past Saturday. And our final long run (the 20-miler) is scheduled for the upcoming Saturday, which is supposed to be in the low 90’s, so we’ll get a little taste of heat, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Anyhow, our group is gearing up for San Diego in a little less than four weeks, where I’ll be the official “Head Coach for the Desert Mountain States Chapter” which I volunteered for without having any idea what it actually entails, and which I’m a little surprised they accepted me for, since I’m the guy who couldn’t even manage to keep a mylar balloon safely inflated overnight when it was entrusted to my care. I guess we’ll just have to see how it all goes.
That’s all I have for now, so until next time may your temperatures remain temperate, may your balloons remain inflated, and may your make-out sessions remain your own personal business and not be spread all across the internet for any yahoo to read as they please.
As many of you may be aware, Arizona is one of the places that has been infiltrated over the past decade or so by “killer bees” and this is “bee season” so one has to be on the lookout for swarms. In the past few years, we’ve had bees in our house, bees in our wall (both these swarms had to be removed by professionals) and bees in one of the wooden posts on our patio (I got rid of this one by spraying them with a bunch of insecticide, then cramming steel wool into the cracks in the post so they couldn’t get in or out). Because of all these experiences, not to mention the stories in the newspaper where people are killed by killer bees, whenever I see a swarm of bees swarming, I get a little itchy – which is what happened just the other day as I was preparing to turn into our driveway. I glanced up at one of the trees in our yard and saw this strange thing that looked like a bird’s nest, and I thought, “Hey, that’s a strange looking thing that looks like a bird’s nest, I wonder what it is?” So I parked the car and went out to take a gander, and when I did, I saw that it wasn’t a bird’s nest at all, but instead, it was a bunch of bees. They were hanging all over each other on one of the branches, buzzing around and squirming like an amorphous mass of, well, I guess, bees. I figured it wasn’t a big deal since they weren’t going in or out of anything, just hanging out on the branch, so I did what anyone of the male gender would do in my situation - I picked up a couple of rocks and threw them at the bees to see what they would do. When I hit the amorphous mass of bees, they buzzed a bit and flew around in a tizzy, which kind of was a scary sound, so I got ready to run for it, but then they settled down and went back to whatever it was they were doing. At which point, I did what anyone of the male gender would do in such a situation and threw another rock. Same result as before. At that point, I kind of “thought outside of the box,” and did what most anyone of the male gender would not do, which was to go inside and leave the bees alone (in case you’re wondering, the thing that most males would do at this point would be to throw some more stuff at the bees – or get a long stick and poke the bees – or get a can of WD-40 and a lighter and climb up on a ladder and use the WD-40 as a flame-thrower to throw flames at the bees – or get a pillowcase and try to capture the bees – all of which I considered but ultimately rejected by embracing my more feminine side). I figured the bees would fly off soon, but they were still there the next morning, and they hung around all that day, but by the following morning, they had disappeared without a trace. Quite an adventure, wouldn’t you say?
P.D.A.
No, this is not a story about a “personal digital assistant” (what would be amusing about that?). Instead, this is about the other PDA, which is, in case you’re not in the know, is a “public display of affection.” This all came up when Katie was relaying some information about a certain friend of hers (who shall remain nameless to protect their anonymity and spare them from any possible embarrassment) who, apparently had recently been making out in a parking lot (at this point, you’re probably burning with curiosity as to who this person is, and who they were making out with, and why it’s considered “news-worthy” that they were making out in a parking lot – you may also be wondering what parking lot they were in, though I’m not sure why since that really doesn’t have anything to do with anything - but we’re not going to get into any of these issues here, because I figure all of that stuff is that person’s business and no one else’s, and for that matter, I might be making this whole part of the story up, and there might not have been a making-out incident in a parking lot that ever happened, and the only reason I even mentioned it was because it served as a clever lead-in to the anecdotal incident that I’m reporting on – so let it go, already). Anyway, when our middle child heard about this possibly fictional event, she said, in that horrified tone that teenagers have at certain times (usually when they’re slapped in the face by the fact that adults are people too), “That’s ridiculous! Why would old people make out in a parking lot?” to which I said something like, “What’s wrong with old people making out in a parking lot? Are parking lots only for young people to make out in?” at which point she became even more horrified and said, “It’s gross. Like that time when we were at the Denver zoo and you and mom were making out in front of the penguins.” Apparently, this happened back when she was in 3rd grade, and she (and I’m assuming the penguins also) have carried the scars for lo these many years. I guess this is just another one of those incidents she’ll be covering with her future therapist at some point in her future. Not sure about the penguins, but I suppose it’s safe to assume they’ll need therapy as well.
Runnin’ in the 90’s
No, this isn’t referring to running in the 1990’s (or the 1890’s for that matter), instead it’s referring to the temperature – as in 90˚ F (which is approximately 32˚ C – which seems like it should be fairly chilly - or 305˚ Kelvin – which sounds really, really scorching). For whatever reason, be it El Niño or global warming or global cooling or whatever, it’s been a pretty mild spring in the “Old Pueblo” and we didn’t officially hit the 90˚ F mark until much later than usual. In fact, we made it all the way to May without ever breaching that particular benchmark (and we’re still waiting for the “ice to break on the Rillito” which is “Old Pueblo-ese” for hitting the 100˚ F mark). Anyway, we’ve lucked out weather-wise for the past few months, and have managed to hit nice temperatures on pretty much all of our Saturday morning group runs. It’s rained a lot (for the “Old Pueblo”) but always on Saturday afternoon or Sunday, so we’ve been pretty much cool and dry, which is really nice when you’re putting in the long miles (or any miles, for that matter). Actually, we just had our first real warm weather run (over 90˚ F) this past Saturday. And our final long run (the 20-miler) is scheduled for the upcoming Saturday, which is supposed to be in the low 90’s, so we’ll get a little taste of heat, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Anyhow, our group is gearing up for San Diego in a little less than four weeks, where I’ll be the official “Head Coach for the Desert Mountain States Chapter” which I volunteered for without having any idea what it actually entails, and which I’m a little surprised they accepted me for, since I’m the guy who couldn’t even manage to keep a mylar balloon safely inflated overnight when it was entrusted to my care. I guess we’ll just have to see how it all goes.
That’s all I have for now, so until next time may your temperatures remain temperate, may your balloons remain inflated, and may your make-out sessions remain your own personal business and not be spread all across the internet for any yahoo to read as they please.
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