When Birds Attack: Part 1
A friend of mine was attacked by a hawk the other day. Apparently, she was jogging along the road after setting out a sign for her yard sale, and the hawk saw her ponytail bobbing and swinging and must have decided she was a squirrel or some other tasty tidbit (she is a rather small person) and swooped down and tried to snatch her up. Luckily, she isn’t tiny enough for a hawk to be able to snatch up and carry away, but when she told me this story, I thought the whole thing was pretty mildly amusing, so I, being the kind and understanding person that I am, made fun of her mercilessly for being attacked by a hawk. Because you have to admit, it’s kind of a weird thing to have happen.
When Birds Attack: Part 2
Apparently, there’s this thing called “Karma” which, according to a website I just glanced at, is a fundamental doctrine in Buddhism and is the law of moral causation. There’s a whole lot of explanation on this website, but it all boils down to, “What goes around comes around.” Anyhow, “Karma” seems to be alive and well. How do I know this, you might be asking. Well, here’s the answer.
So yesterday afternoon, I went out in the backyard to turn on the spa and get it warmed up. To do so, I have to walk under the big pine tree we have out back. Several weeks ago, we were thrilled to notice that a pair of hawks had built a nest in that tree, which was quite exciting because we were going to be able to watch as the hawks tended their eggs, and we might even get a chance to spot the little raptor babies after they hatched, which I imagine would be all cute and fluffy and fierce looking and adorable, and which would be a pretty cool thing to see. So as I walked out in the backyard, I looked up at the nest, as I’m in the habit of doing, and I saw that both the hawk parents were in the nest, and I thought things such as, “Oh, how cute – the hawk parents are in their nest. I wonder if/when the eggs will hatch?” What I didn’t think is what I should have been thinking, which was, “I need to keep my senses keenly attuned to my surroundings just in case something unexpected happens, because you should always expect the unexpected, plus you were just laughing at someone yesterday for being attacked by a hawk, and everyone knows there’s this thing called “Karma” that is the law of moral causation, and it would serve you right if one (or both) of those hawks sitting up in their nest decided to attack you.” But I didn’t think any of those things, and instead focused on the task at hand, which was to turn on the spa so it could warm up, which I did, and right after turning on the spa, I was… okay, if you didn’t see this one coming you really should pay closer attention… attacked by a hawk. And it was exactly like my friend described it. First I heard a strange whooshing sound. Then I sensed the air pressure shifting around my skull. And before I could react – WHAMMO! – I had been attacked by a hawk. Which, I have to say, is both surprising and painful, because hawks are pretty big birds (though not big and yellow and goofy and friendly like “Big Bird” from Sesame Street) and they have really sharp talons, and they use those talons when they attack. So the hawk knocked me in the noggin and flew off, and I was like, “What the heck was that?” and then I was like, “I think I just got attacked by the hawk,” and then I was like, “Ouch, my head hurts,” and then I started feeling my scalp to see if it was bleeding (which it was, but only a little bit because the hawk didn’t tear and gouge, it just struck and retreated) and then I looked around and saw the hawk flying off. It landed in a nearby tree and sat staring at me with its evil hawk-eyes (which are pretty creepy, I have to say, when they’re staring at you right after the hawk has attacked you) and I was like, “Dude, why did you just attack me?” but it didn’t answer – it just continued to stare at me. Then it swooped down at me again, and I was like, “Whoa Nelly,” and I ducked and waved my arms and it flew off and landed on the roof of my house and did that staring thing again. So I started walking, very slowly, away from it, but it swooped again, and I ducked and waved again, and finally, after a couple more swoops/ducks/waves, I finally made it into the house, where I breathed a deep sigh of relief. And when I went out to take my spa, I made sure to scan the skies and I wore a towel on my head. Just in case.
When Birds Attack: Part 3
Okay, this isn’t actually about a bird attack, but it is about birds, and I hate to break the pattern, so whatever. The other day, approximately eight hours before I was attacked by a hawk, I was riding my bike on River Road just west of La Cañada, when I spotted a couple of strange looking creatures standing on the side of the road. I slowed down a bit to get a closer look and realized that they were… turkeys. One white turkey and one brown turkey bobbing their heads and walking along like turkeys do. Since I spotted these turkeys several hours before I was attacked by a hawk, I wasn’t at all scared/worried as I pedaled by them, which turned out to be okay, because neither of the turkeys attacked me.
That’s all the bird stories I’ve got, so until next time, may your nesting hawks remain in the nests, may your soaring and circling hawks continue to soar and circle, and may your turkeys continue to hang out peacefully by the side of the road, ignoring each and every passerby.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Lamborghinis, Facial Hair, Bobcats, and Batman
Impulse Control
Those of you who know my youngest child, or who have heard stories of his exploits, which are few and far between since he doesn’t actually do all that much other than eat Frosted Flakes, go to school, go on the computer, and wrap up in a blanket to take naps on the couch, are probably aware that he sometimes has a bit of an issue with impulse control (as in, creeping out of his bedroom in the middle of the night and eating his way through half a dozen boxes of girl scout cookies). The other evening, the phone rang, and he answered it, and said, “Hello,” and then got a funny look on his face and hung up the phone. When we asked what that was all about, he mumbled something about the person asking for him by name, which totally freaked him out (imagine the horror of such a thing happening to you – doesn’t it send shivers down the spine?). But since this is my son, I figured it was just another odd little quirk of his and didn’t think much more about it. But then I came home a couple of days later and got the mail, and there was a letter from an insurance company addressed to my son, which I thought was kind of odd since he’s only thirteen and doesn’t own or operate an automobile, so why would they be sending him mail, but I figured it was some kind of mistake, so I opened it (yes, I am aware that this is a violation of the postal code and that I could be sent to prison for lots and lots of years for this heinous offense – so let’s keep it on the q.t. shall we?) and found that it was a price quote for car insurance for his four vehicles. Hmmm, I thought, this is strange (since, as mentioned before, the boy doesn’t own any vehicles, let alone four). So I looked through the quote and saw that three of the vehicles matched the vehicles that we actually own. The fourth, however, was a bit of a surprise, because it was a Lamborghini – and we don’t own a Lamborghini, nor have we ever owned a Lamborghini, and to be honest, I don’t really want to ever own a Lamborghini. Now thoroughly puzzled by this mystery, I decided to investigate further, so I listened to our phone messages and discovered that there were around eight or nine messages for my 13-year-old son from various automobile insurance companies about the quotes he’d requested. Even more strange, I mused. So then I decided to cut to the chase and talk to the boy, who hemmed and hawed for awhile, then finally ‘fessed up and said, “Fine, I’ll show you,” then opened up the internet and went to the game site he’d been playing on and showed me how there was a place he’d been going where he could get powers and points for the characters in the game by clicking on various ads and then filling out forms (applications for a Discover card, insurance quotes, and what-not). At that moment, I was torn between conflicting emotions, including, but not limited to, the following:
• Anger/frustration that my son had apparently not learned from an earlier incident of random clicking and choosing that cost him the use of his Xbox until he reaches a point in life where he no longer is living in the same house as his parents.
• Irritation at the companies who set up such a blatantly manipulative system that’s aimed at people with poor impulse control (such as 13-year-old boys) and that’s quite obviously aimed at taking advantage of their poor impulse control and using it against them.
• Mild amusement that he applied for car insurance for a Lamborghini (fits right in with our other three vehicles - a Honda Odyssey, a Prius, and a 22-year-old pickup – wouldn’t you think that might send up some red flags at the insurance company?).
• A mixture of sympathy and “you-got-what-you-asked-for” towards the insurance agents who continue to leave messages for my son about the quotes they’d sent out. And no, I’m not planning on returning any of their calls.
And the winner is…
Several of my 8th graders decided to do an “award show” for their presentation last week, and gave out a number of humorous awards to members of the class. Overall, it was pretty entertaining, and I’m now gazing fondly at my own award (which is a cardboard cutout of an Oscar with a strange-looking, toothy-grinned, google-eyed smiley face where Oscar’s face normally is seen). I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t win for “Most Sarcastic,” but I did bring home the gold for “Best ‘Stache” which is not that surprising since I’m the only one in the class with any facial hair to speak of (though not the only staff member). Plus, I remember when I was a lad who was knee high to a grasshopper, way back before I was able to generate facial hair and how much I wanted to have a mustache – so much so that one of the first things I did when I was able to grow facial hair was to grow my facial hair until I had that much coveted mustache that I had coveted for lo those many years covering my upper lip. Once it was grown I twirled it, stroked it, washed it, cooed at it, and generally pampered it so much that it became a bit spoiled – so much so that I eventually had to shave it off and start all over again, which I did, quite successfully, as you can see by the award that I just won. So the roosters have finally come home to roost, the pigs are on the griddle, and I feel a strong sense of satisfaction from a job well done.
Good Stuff
In the not too distant past, I posted a few of the things that I find irritating, so in the interest of fair play, karmic balance, and all that kind of jazz, here are a few things I’ve noticed over the past week or so that serve as the wind beneath my wings:
• Seeing both a rattlesnake and a bobcat during the same run the other afternoon (and avoiding being bit by both).
• Waking up on May 1 and needing to put on a sweatshirt because it was so chilly in the house.
• Ceiling fans – this isn’t something that just happened, but I always love this time of year when it starts getting just a little warm and you can fire up the ol’ ceiling fan and enjoy the breeze (and the whooshing sound).
• Sleeping with the windows open (and the ceiling fan whooshing above).
• The backstroke (call me a convert, but I’ve now made it through 100 yards of backstroking without slamming into the ropes, and I no longer feel like a complete spaz while backstroking).
• Cactus flowers.
I am Batman…
My official Team in Training wetsuit arrived this week (with the official “Team in Training” logo emblazoned across the chest) and I immediately tried it on so I could see how it fit. With a fair amount of coaching from my lovely bride, quite a bit of squirming and cinching, and a dash of good old-fashioned elbow grease and American ingenuity, I managed to squeeze myself into the wetsuit. As I peered at myself in the mirror (especially if I squinted enough to make the image blurry) I realized that, if I only had a cowl and cape, I could pass for Batman (might need to work on the ol’ physique just a bit, but the squinting did work wonders). So I immediately tracked down my 13-year-old son (since he’s a big fan of The Dark Knight) to see what he thought. “What do you think?” I asked once I’d tracked him down. “Don’t I look like Batman?” He looked up at me from where he was (which was wrapped up in a blanket on the couch), took a second to let the image sink in, and said, “No, you look like a dork.” Ah well, what does he know?
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your insurance company remain reputable and above-the-board, may your mustache remain lustrous and sleek, and may your self-image remain untarnished in spite of any malicious and misguided efforts to tear you down.
Those of you who know my youngest child, or who have heard stories of his exploits, which are few and far between since he doesn’t actually do all that much other than eat Frosted Flakes, go to school, go on the computer, and wrap up in a blanket to take naps on the couch, are probably aware that he sometimes has a bit of an issue with impulse control (as in, creeping out of his bedroom in the middle of the night and eating his way through half a dozen boxes of girl scout cookies). The other evening, the phone rang, and he answered it, and said, “Hello,” and then got a funny look on his face and hung up the phone. When we asked what that was all about, he mumbled something about the person asking for him by name, which totally freaked him out (imagine the horror of such a thing happening to you – doesn’t it send shivers down the spine?). But since this is my son, I figured it was just another odd little quirk of his and didn’t think much more about it. But then I came home a couple of days later and got the mail, and there was a letter from an insurance company addressed to my son, which I thought was kind of odd since he’s only thirteen and doesn’t own or operate an automobile, so why would they be sending him mail, but I figured it was some kind of mistake, so I opened it (yes, I am aware that this is a violation of the postal code and that I could be sent to prison for lots and lots of years for this heinous offense – so let’s keep it on the q.t. shall we?) and found that it was a price quote for car insurance for his four vehicles. Hmmm, I thought, this is strange (since, as mentioned before, the boy doesn’t own any vehicles, let alone four). So I looked through the quote and saw that three of the vehicles matched the vehicles that we actually own. The fourth, however, was a bit of a surprise, because it was a Lamborghini – and we don’t own a Lamborghini, nor have we ever owned a Lamborghini, and to be honest, I don’t really want to ever own a Lamborghini. Now thoroughly puzzled by this mystery, I decided to investigate further, so I listened to our phone messages and discovered that there were around eight or nine messages for my 13-year-old son from various automobile insurance companies about the quotes he’d requested. Even more strange, I mused. So then I decided to cut to the chase and talk to the boy, who hemmed and hawed for awhile, then finally ‘fessed up and said, “Fine, I’ll show you,” then opened up the internet and went to the game site he’d been playing on and showed me how there was a place he’d been going where he could get powers and points for the characters in the game by clicking on various ads and then filling out forms (applications for a Discover card, insurance quotes, and what-not). At that moment, I was torn between conflicting emotions, including, but not limited to, the following:
• Anger/frustration that my son had apparently not learned from an earlier incident of random clicking and choosing that cost him the use of his Xbox until he reaches a point in life where he no longer is living in the same house as his parents.
• Irritation at the companies who set up such a blatantly manipulative system that’s aimed at people with poor impulse control (such as 13-year-old boys) and that’s quite obviously aimed at taking advantage of their poor impulse control and using it against them.
• Mild amusement that he applied for car insurance for a Lamborghini (fits right in with our other three vehicles - a Honda Odyssey, a Prius, and a 22-year-old pickup – wouldn’t you think that might send up some red flags at the insurance company?).
• A mixture of sympathy and “you-got-what-you-asked-for” towards the insurance agents who continue to leave messages for my son about the quotes they’d sent out. And no, I’m not planning on returning any of their calls.
And the winner is…
Several of my 8th graders decided to do an “award show” for their presentation last week, and gave out a number of humorous awards to members of the class. Overall, it was pretty entertaining, and I’m now gazing fondly at my own award (which is a cardboard cutout of an Oscar with a strange-looking, toothy-grinned, google-eyed smiley face where Oscar’s face normally is seen). I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t win for “Most Sarcastic,” but I did bring home the gold for “Best ‘Stache” which is not that surprising since I’m the only one in the class with any facial hair to speak of (though not the only staff member). Plus, I remember when I was a lad who was knee high to a grasshopper, way back before I was able to generate facial hair and how much I wanted to have a mustache – so much so that one of the first things I did when I was able to grow facial hair was to grow my facial hair until I had that much coveted mustache that I had coveted for lo those many years covering my upper lip. Once it was grown I twirled it, stroked it, washed it, cooed at it, and generally pampered it so much that it became a bit spoiled – so much so that I eventually had to shave it off and start all over again, which I did, quite successfully, as you can see by the award that I just won. So the roosters have finally come home to roost, the pigs are on the griddle, and I feel a strong sense of satisfaction from a job well done.
Good Stuff
In the not too distant past, I posted a few of the things that I find irritating, so in the interest of fair play, karmic balance, and all that kind of jazz, here are a few things I’ve noticed over the past week or so that serve as the wind beneath my wings:
• Seeing both a rattlesnake and a bobcat during the same run the other afternoon (and avoiding being bit by both).
• Waking up on May 1 and needing to put on a sweatshirt because it was so chilly in the house.
• Ceiling fans – this isn’t something that just happened, but I always love this time of year when it starts getting just a little warm and you can fire up the ol’ ceiling fan and enjoy the breeze (and the whooshing sound).
• Sleeping with the windows open (and the ceiling fan whooshing above).
• The backstroke (call me a convert, but I’ve now made it through 100 yards of backstroking without slamming into the ropes, and I no longer feel like a complete spaz while backstroking).
• Cactus flowers.
I am Batman…
My official Team in Training wetsuit arrived this week (with the official “Team in Training” logo emblazoned across the chest) and I immediately tried it on so I could see how it fit. With a fair amount of coaching from my lovely bride, quite a bit of squirming and cinching, and a dash of good old-fashioned elbow grease and American ingenuity, I managed to squeeze myself into the wetsuit. As I peered at myself in the mirror (especially if I squinted enough to make the image blurry) I realized that, if I only had a cowl and cape, I could pass for Batman (might need to work on the ol’ physique just a bit, but the squinting did work wonders). So I immediately tracked down my 13-year-old son (since he’s a big fan of The Dark Knight) to see what he thought. “What do you think?” I asked once I’d tracked him down. “Don’t I look like Batman?” He looked up at me from where he was (which was wrapped up in a blanket on the couch), took a second to let the image sink in, and said, “No, you look like a dork.” Ah well, what does he know?
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your insurance company remain reputable and above-the-board, may your mustache remain lustrous and sleek, and may your self-image remain untarnished in spite of any malicious and misguided efforts to tear you down.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Weird Habits, Announcements, and a Birthday Bash
More Weird Stuff
According to daughter #2, another weird thing about me (in addition to having a special bowl and a special coffee cup) is that I have a specific place that I sit on the couch and that place belongs to me, so if someone is sitting in the spot, I will make them move out of that spot so I can sit in that spot. Okay, so I guess this is true, and I guess it is kind of weird, but I also eat the same thing for breakfast just about every morning, do all the puzzles on the puzzle page every day, and recently downloaded “Raise Your Glass,” onto my IPod. I never claimed to be normal, so what can you do?
Heard on the Announcements
Every once in awhile, there’s actually something said on our morning announcements at school that I find worth paying attention to. Today, there were two such somethings. The first was during an announcement about the baseball game yesterday afternoon – apparently, one of the dramatic moments occurred when the shortstop drove for the ball (can’t you just picture him jumping in his car and peeling out?). The second was during a warning about a “Stranger Danger” situation (which is not a laughing matter, and which shouldn’t be seen as amusing in any way, because “Stranger Danger” is scary and dangerous and not funny at all) when kids were told to make sure that they, “Don’t touch strangers.” Hmmm. Definitely good advice, that I believe I will be incorporating into my own life immediately.
My Inbox Runneth Over
Birthdays are kind of funny things when you think about it. I mean, it’s not like you, personally did anything all that special on that day, other than happen to enter into the world – it was your mom that did all the work (in my case, apparently that was a whole lot of work – and after watching my lovely wife birth three children, I can honestly say that the whole birthing thing seems like an awful lot of work and not particularly comfortable, and I’m glad I was the one fetching ice chips and telling her when to breathe as opposed to being the one who… well, you know). And when you reach a certain age, maybe in your twenties or thirties, the whole birthday thrill kind of gets toned down (at least it has for me) and it becomes, in the immortal words of my father, “Just another day.” So I don’t get all that hyped up about birthdays anymore, other than the ones where I get to change age groups, but a couple of things did come up on mine (which was yesterday, in case you missed it).
First, apparently, I’ve “beaten the curve” when it comes to the degeneration of my near-vision ability according to my eye doctor. I told him I was starting to have just a little bit of blurriness in one of my eyes when I’m reading, so he checked me out and said there was a little bit of degradation of vision, but it’s still not bad enough to have to do anything about it (other than hold things farther away – and since I’m a “pretty tall guy” that shouldn’t be a problem) and what’s more, most people start having a problem with this in their early forties (hence the “beating the curve” comment from earlier). I think it’s only fair that this is so since I started losing my vision when I was 7 years old and I have pretty awful vision overall and can’t see a darned thing without my contacts or glasses (definitely didn’t beat that curve).
Second, when I opened up my email yesterday afternoon (and again this morning) instead of the usual three or four messages waiting for me, there was an entire page-full – and all of them from Facebook, announcing that someone had posted on my wall or left a comment. As I opened up the multitude of messages, I discovered that all of them centered around the theme of, “Hope you have a happy birthday.” I have to say that all these messages from friends, family, colleagues, former classmates, former students, and other miscellaneous people wandering around the internet landscape (hopefully, though, no strangers that I need to avoid touching) warmed this old curmudgeon’s cold, cold heart just a wee bit, and I was tempted to race to the tip-top of Mount Crumpit so that I could save the presents from being dumped into oblivion and go sledding down into Who-ville, where I would join all the Who’s, tall and small, for a glorious rendition of, “Happy Birthday to You,” before carving the roast beast.
Third, I realized (actually realized this a couple of weeks ago) that I have now been married for more than half of my life. That’s right, and if you doubt me, you can do the math just like I did. Take my age (which is now 47) and divide it by two and what do you get? Twenty-three and a half – which translates to 23 years and 6 months. And I was married when I was 23 years, 3 months, and a handful of days old, which is, if you’re doing the math correctly, less than 23 years and 6 months. So I’ve now been married for longer than I’ve been unmarried, which is actually kind of overwhelming and a little surprising to think about – as well as, of course, heart-warming and romantic and all that junk since every single nano-second of that 23 years, 8 months and 21 days has been nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss. Rock on.
Fourth, I realized that I will now be able to shoot lower than my age in mini-golf without too much cheating, I can still easily bowl my age, and what’s more, I can run more miles in a day than my age (sorry, I just had to add a running reference to this post – I’m jonesing bad after two posts in a row with no mention of running whatsoever, dudes).
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your weird tendencies be interpreted as endearing rather than creepy, may your curves remain beaten into submission, and may your vision remain unsullied by blurriness or those strange little floaties that float around in your vision every once in awhile.
According to daughter #2, another weird thing about me (in addition to having a special bowl and a special coffee cup) is that I have a specific place that I sit on the couch and that place belongs to me, so if someone is sitting in the spot, I will make them move out of that spot so I can sit in that spot. Okay, so I guess this is true, and I guess it is kind of weird, but I also eat the same thing for breakfast just about every morning, do all the puzzles on the puzzle page every day, and recently downloaded “Raise Your Glass,” onto my IPod. I never claimed to be normal, so what can you do?
Heard on the Announcements
Every once in awhile, there’s actually something said on our morning announcements at school that I find worth paying attention to. Today, there were two such somethings. The first was during an announcement about the baseball game yesterday afternoon – apparently, one of the dramatic moments occurred when the shortstop drove for the ball (can’t you just picture him jumping in his car and peeling out?). The second was during a warning about a “Stranger Danger” situation (which is not a laughing matter, and which shouldn’t be seen as amusing in any way, because “Stranger Danger” is scary and dangerous and not funny at all) when kids were told to make sure that they, “Don’t touch strangers.” Hmmm. Definitely good advice, that I believe I will be incorporating into my own life immediately.
My Inbox Runneth Over
Birthdays are kind of funny things when you think about it. I mean, it’s not like you, personally did anything all that special on that day, other than happen to enter into the world – it was your mom that did all the work (in my case, apparently that was a whole lot of work – and after watching my lovely wife birth three children, I can honestly say that the whole birthing thing seems like an awful lot of work and not particularly comfortable, and I’m glad I was the one fetching ice chips and telling her when to breathe as opposed to being the one who… well, you know). And when you reach a certain age, maybe in your twenties or thirties, the whole birthday thrill kind of gets toned down (at least it has for me) and it becomes, in the immortal words of my father, “Just another day.” So I don’t get all that hyped up about birthdays anymore, other than the ones where I get to change age groups, but a couple of things did come up on mine (which was yesterday, in case you missed it).
First, apparently, I’ve “beaten the curve” when it comes to the degeneration of my near-vision ability according to my eye doctor. I told him I was starting to have just a little bit of blurriness in one of my eyes when I’m reading, so he checked me out and said there was a little bit of degradation of vision, but it’s still not bad enough to have to do anything about it (other than hold things farther away – and since I’m a “pretty tall guy” that shouldn’t be a problem) and what’s more, most people start having a problem with this in their early forties (hence the “beating the curve” comment from earlier). I think it’s only fair that this is so since I started losing my vision when I was 7 years old and I have pretty awful vision overall and can’t see a darned thing without my contacts or glasses (definitely didn’t beat that curve).
Second, when I opened up my email yesterday afternoon (and again this morning) instead of the usual three or four messages waiting for me, there was an entire page-full – and all of them from Facebook, announcing that someone had posted on my wall or left a comment. As I opened up the multitude of messages, I discovered that all of them centered around the theme of, “Hope you have a happy birthday.” I have to say that all these messages from friends, family, colleagues, former classmates, former students, and other miscellaneous people wandering around the internet landscape (hopefully, though, no strangers that I need to avoid touching) warmed this old curmudgeon’s cold, cold heart just a wee bit, and I was tempted to race to the tip-top of Mount Crumpit so that I could save the presents from being dumped into oblivion and go sledding down into Who-ville, where I would join all the Who’s, tall and small, for a glorious rendition of, “Happy Birthday to You,” before carving the roast beast.
Third, I realized (actually realized this a couple of weeks ago) that I have now been married for more than half of my life. That’s right, and if you doubt me, you can do the math just like I did. Take my age (which is now 47) and divide it by two and what do you get? Twenty-three and a half – which translates to 23 years and 6 months. And I was married when I was 23 years, 3 months, and a handful of days old, which is, if you’re doing the math correctly, less than 23 years and 6 months. So I’ve now been married for longer than I’ve been unmarried, which is actually kind of overwhelming and a little surprising to think about – as well as, of course, heart-warming and romantic and all that junk since every single nano-second of that 23 years, 8 months and 21 days has been nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss. Rock on.
Fourth, I realized that I will now be able to shoot lower than my age in mini-golf without too much cheating, I can still easily bowl my age, and what’s more, I can run more miles in a day than my age (sorry, I just had to add a running reference to this post – I’m jonesing bad after two posts in a row with no mention of running whatsoever, dudes).
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your weird tendencies be interpreted as endearing rather than creepy, may your curves remain beaten into submission, and may your vision remain unsullied by blurriness or those strange little floaties that float around in your vision every once in awhile.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Bowls, Boulevards and Backstrokes
Cereal Bowls
The other day, I was accused not once, but twice, of being “weird,” and each of these accusations came from a 7th grader – which is, as the saying goes, probably an example of, “the pot calling the kettle weird.” Anyhow, the first occurrence occurred when a student accused me of wearing a “weird-looking shirt,” which technically isn’t accusing me of being weird, but since it’s weirdness by association, we’ll go ahead and split the difference and go with it for now. What I was wearing was a Hawaiian shirt that I’d gotten in Hawaii, and which I consider to be quite stylish. I asked him why he thought my shirt was “weird” when I viewed it to be quite stylish, and he said he liked it, but it just wasn’t my normal style (which, to be fair, it probably isn’t since it has buttons and a collar and my usual shirt has neither of those). The second incident occurred when a student asked me if I had a special bowl that I used for cereal, which may seem like kind of a random question for someone to ask (and I guess it might be, but these kinds of things happen on a regular basis when one is dealing with 7th graders). Apparently, there’s a reference to having a special bowl for one’s cereal in a song called “Friday” which I was supposed to have heard of because it’s fairly popular and is sung by some fairly popular teeny-bopper. I hadn’t heard the song before, so I went and listened to it later, and I have to say I wasn’t impressed (especially by the really lame video accompanying the song) but then I listened to the original version by Bob Dylan, which was actually pretty good, and I was kind of depressed by how horribly the teeny-bopper had mangled Bob Dylan’s pretty decent song. Anyway, I told this 7th grader that I did, in fact, have a special bowl for my cereal, and she thought that was pretty weird, which led to her accusing me of being weird, because, as she put it, “Can’t you just pull out any old bowl and use it?” but I explained that I like big bowls, so I’d bought a big plastic bowl that I use for cereal and salad and grapes and other food items that go into big bowls, and what’s more I have certain cups for my coffee because I like the size and feel of them and she decided that was even weirder, to which I guess I had to sort of agree about my weirdness, because I guess I am a little weird about the whole bowl/cup thing, but what are you going to do?
Oracle Revisited
I experienced/observed yet another strange occurrence on Oracle this morning (previous strange sightings have included nuns in a Ford Taurus, a ninja runner, and a monkey in a car). Today, as I was driving down Oracle on my way to work after a lovely swimming workout (marred only slightly by the presence of a gaggle of giggling boot-campers) I was in the far left lane cruising along between Ina and Orange Grove when I spotted a car ahead of me that was stopped. Right in the middle of the road – just stopped. No hazard lights on – just stopped in the lane I was driving in. So I slowed down, wondering what was going on, and switched lanes so I wouldn’t plow into this car that’s stopped in the middle of the road, and as I approached, I tried to figure out why he had stopped in the middle of Oracle (which is a pretty busy road – even at 6:35 in the morning) and near as I can tell, he had stopped because there was something (about as big as a breadbox) sitting right next to the median and he was checking to see if it was worth picking up. I deduce this from the fact that he was stopped in the middle of the road, that he opened his door and leaned out of the car to take a closer look at whatever the object was (I wasn’t able to make out what the object actually was) and that he apparently decided it wasn’t worth picking up, because he closed his door without picking the item up and continued on his way (this happened after I’d passed him by). I will admit that I’ve stopped while riding my bike a few times to pick something up (usually a pair of sunglasses) but I don’t think I’d ever stop my car in the middle of a busy road to do so. And neither should you (consider this your driving tip of the day).
Speaking of swimming…
As I was finishing up my swim today, I decided to try a couple of laps of backstroke as a cool-down. This was suggested to me by my swimming coach, Josh, who claims that it’s a good way to stretch out the muscles and has been trying to get me to backstroke through my cool-down at our practices. Actually, I think he’s only encouraging me to backstroke through my cool-down because he thinks it’s funny to watch me thrash about aimlessly and run into the ropes on the sides of the lane. The problem is, I’m not a swimmer by nature (or nurture, for that matter) so I haven’t done much backstroking in my course of my life, so I have a tendency to run into the ropes on the sides of the lane while attempting to navigate down the pool. But as the old saying goes, “Practice makes perfect” (or maybe it’s, “That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”) so I figured I’d give it a shot since I had a lane to myself and nobody was really paying attention to me (there are lifeguards, but I don’t think they’re paying all that much attention to us at these early morning swims – especially with all the gyrating and giggling and what-not that the boot-campers are doing). Anyway, the point of all this is that I actually made it all the way from one end of the pool to the other without once whamming into the floats on either side of the lane (I will admit I cheated by peeking over every once in awhile to reorient myself). So there you go.
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your passages through whatever town you pass through be worry free, may your cereal bowls be large enough to accomodate whatever cereal you choose to eat, and may your backstroke remain smooth and unfettered by herky-jerky motions that misdirect you off the desired course and into hazardous waters.
The other day, I was accused not once, but twice, of being “weird,” and each of these accusations came from a 7th grader – which is, as the saying goes, probably an example of, “the pot calling the kettle weird.” Anyhow, the first occurrence occurred when a student accused me of wearing a “weird-looking shirt,” which technically isn’t accusing me of being weird, but since it’s weirdness by association, we’ll go ahead and split the difference and go with it for now. What I was wearing was a Hawaiian shirt that I’d gotten in Hawaii, and which I consider to be quite stylish. I asked him why he thought my shirt was “weird” when I viewed it to be quite stylish, and he said he liked it, but it just wasn’t my normal style (which, to be fair, it probably isn’t since it has buttons and a collar and my usual shirt has neither of those). The second incident occurred when a student asked me if I had a special bowl that I used for cereal, which may seem like kind of a random question for someone to ask (and I guess it might be, but these kinds of things happen on a regular basis when one is dealing with 7th graders). Apparently, there’s a reference to having a special bowl for one’s cereal in a song called “Friday” which I was supposed to have heard of because it’s fairly popular and is sung by some fairly popular teeny-bopper. I hadn’t heard the song before, so I went and listened to it later, and I have to say I wasn’t impressed (especially by the really lame video accompanying the song) but then I listened to the original version by Bob Dylan, which was actually pretty good, and I was kind of depressed by how horribly the teeny-bopper had mangled Bob Dylan’s pretty decent song. Anyway, I told this 7th grader that I did, in fact, have a special bowl for my cereal, and she thought that was pretty weird, which led to her accusing me of being weird, because, as she put it, “Can’t you just pull out any old bowl and use it?” but I explained that I like big bowls, so I’d bought a big plastic bowl that I use for cereal and salad and grapes and other food items that go into big bowls, and what’s more I have certain cups for my coffee because I like the size and feel of them and she decided that was even weirder, to which I guess I had to sort of agree about my weirdness, because I guess I am a little weird about the whole bowl/cup thing, but what are you going to do?
Oracle Revisited
I experienced/observed yet another strange occurrence on Oracle this morning (previous strange sightings have included nuns in a Ford Taurus, a ninja runner, and a monkey in a car). Today, as I was driving down Oracle on my way to work after a lovely swimming workout (marred only slightly by the presence of a gaggle of giggling boot-campers) I was in the far left lane cruising along between Ina and Orange Grove when I spotted a car ahead of me that was stopped. Right in the middle of the road – just stopped. No hazard lights on – just stopped in the lane I was driving in. So I slowed down, wondering what was going on, and switched lanes so I wouldn’t plow into this car that’s stopped in the middle of the road, and as I approached, I tried to figure out why he had stopped in the middle of Oracle (which is a pretty busy road – even at 6:35 in the morning) and near as I can tell, he had stopped because there was something (about as big as a breadbox) sitting right next to the median and he was checking to see if it was worth picking up. I deduce this from the fact that he was stopped in the middle of the road, that he opened his door and leaned out of the car to take a closer look at whatever the object was (I wasn’t able to make out what the object actually was) and that he apparently decided it wasn’t worth picking up, because he closed his door without picking the item up and continued on his way (this happened after I’d passed him by). I will admit that I’ve stopped while riding my bike a few times to pick something up (usually a pair of sunglasses) but I don’t think I’d ever stop my car in the middle of a busy road to do so. And neither should you (consider this your driving tip of the day).
Speaking of swimming…
As I was finishing up my swim today, I decided to try a couple of laps of backstroke as a cool-down. This was suggested to me by my swimming coach, Josh, who claims that it’s a good way to stretch out the muscles and has been trying to get me to backstroke through my cool-down at our practices. Actually, I think he’s only encouraging me to backstroke through my cool-down because he thinks it’s funny to watch me thrash about aimlessly and run into the ropes on the sides of the lane. The problem is, I’m not a swimmer by nature (or nurture, for that matter) so I haven’t done much backstroking in my course of my life, so I have a tendency to run into the ropes on the sides of the lane while attempting to navigate down the pool. But as the old saying goes, “Practice makes perfect” (or maybe it’s, “That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”) so I figured I’d give it a shot since I had a lane to myself and nobody was really paying attention to me (there are lifeguards, but I don’t think they’re paying all that much attention to us at these early morning swims – especially with all the gyrating and giggling and what-not that the boot-campers are doing). Anyway, the point of all this is that I actually made it all the way from one end of the pool to the other without once whamming into the floats on either side of the lane (I will admit I cheated by peeking over every once in awhile to reorient myself). So there you go.
That’s all I can think of for now, so until next time, may your passages through whatever town you pass through be worry free, may your cereal bowls be large enough to accomodate whatever cereal you choose to eat, and may your backstroke remain smooth and unfettered by herky-jerky motions that misdirect you off the desired course and into hazardous waters.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Final Burger and Pet Peeves
The Final Burger
Several people were wondering after the last posting exactly what kind of burger I ordered at Zinburger and what that might suggest about me. For those of you who want to know, here’s the rest of the story… As I usually do, I ordered a “Samburger” on that fateful eve (which is a burger with bacon and cheese – quite delicious). So what does this suggest, you might ask? Is there some connection to the bacon (some subconcious “pig-man” type of thing) or is it the name itself that compels me to place this particular order. I would say the latter (I don’t think I want to be a pig-man) and that this probably suggests a deep-seated and latent desire to be named “Sam.” If only, I often think as I lay tossing and turning late and night, I had been named Sam. How different my life would have been. A life filled with action, adventure, romance, suspense, and drama – a life including alien abductions, thwarted love, suffering and torment and overcoming unbelievable odds - instead of the plain old humdrum life that is mine. Actually, that’s more the life of someone named “Jack” than someone named “Sam” so if there was a “Jackburger” this scenario might make more sense (which makes me wonder, exactly why a burger with bacon is called a “Samburger” in the first place – was it invented by someone named Sam or is Sam the word for bacon in some exotic language and locale?). So if that’s not it, perhaps there’s some other “Sam” connection. I do remember I once had a friend named Sam who lived down the block. And I was always jealous of Sam because he had all the newest and coolest GI Joe paraphernalia (like the GI Joe tower that had a zip line and working searchlight, and the six-wheeled all terrain vehicle/mobile command post that also had a working searchlight, and a really cool wind-powered vehicle with wheels and a sail that we used to take outside so that GI Joe could go whooshing down the sidewalk, and other various/sundry cool stuff). Or maybe my Sam connection is related to the first dog I remember our family owning, a fat old basset hound who used to lie in the middle of the road by our house. Or it could come down to the simple fact that I really like bacon on my burger. Who’s to say?
These are a few of my least favorite things
With apologies to Julie Andrews, there are certain things that are just annoying. Not major, earth-shattering things that make your stomach turn and your heart hurt, just minor peeves that itch under the skin and make you grit your teeth slightly and question the laws of the universe. Several of those things reared their heads the other day, and they are as follows.
First on the list is “Aqua Boot Camp,” which is held every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 5:30 in the pool at the Y. This is the pool where I put in my laps every Tuesday and Thursday at 5:30, and up until the advent of “Aqua Boot Camp,” these morning constitutionals were peaceful and soothing, and I would be able to get in a quality workout along with a few other dedicated souls who rose before the sun to soak up the chlorine. But now, we have “Aqua Boot Campers” joining us, and they’ve recently expanded into a group of a dozen or so, when I was hoping they would just fade away after a couple of weeks. So I’m fearing that they’re probably here to stay. What’s so bad about this, you might ask? What’s wrong with a program that gets people out and exercising? Well, sure, that’s a good thing, but here’s what bugs me about the whole situation. First, they’ve now taken yet another lane (up from two lanes to three) from the lap-swimmers (leaving us with only three), which means we often have to “circle swim” which is pretty much a hassle. Second, they play loud, really cruddy music (like “Heart of Glass” by Blondie - only this isn’t the version by Blondie, it’s a cover band version made to fit a particular tempo conducive to Aqua Boot Camping and once you’ve heard it, it’s stuck in your head for the rest of the day). Third, the person running the boot camp is drearily cheerful for 5:30 in the morning, cheering on her “Aqua Boot Campers” as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. I was under the impression (from my extensive experience as a viewer of movies portraying boot camp) that boot camp is about demanding drill sergeants who berate naïve young souls for being “namby-pambys” not people who encourage and urge on in a positive and cheerful manner, telling everyone what a “great job” they’re doing as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. Fourth, and perhaps most annoying of all, the annoyingly cheerful person running the boot camp wears camouflage. Every day. I peek over at her every once in awhile through my slightly foggy goggles and shake my head in disgust – because I have to tell you, she’s not blending into the background at all, and isn’t that the point of camouflage (to blend into the background)? And if she’s not trying to blend into the background, what the heck is she doing wearing camouflage? It’s just wrong.
Second on the list is people who refuse to put their dog on a leash. I get that there are some very well-trained dogs who probably don’t need a leash, and that don’t chase after people who are running and try to bite them, but there are a lot of other dogs that aren’t that well-trained, and they do chase after people who are running and they do try to bite them, and that’s exactly what happened the other day, ironically enough, just outside a dog park that I was running by. This person who refused to put their dog on a leash let their dog run over to the dog park entrance (so it could say, “Hello,” to one of its dog friends) while she was getting out of the car, and sure enough, when the dog spotted me running by, it barked and chased and snapped at me, making me very uncomfortable, so I said something along the lines of, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your dog on a leash so that it doesn’t chase after me and try to bite me,” to which she responded, “He’s only trying to play,” to which I responded, “He tried to rip out my Achilles tendon,” to which she responded by getting huffy, (and her response – surprise, surprise - was supported by all the other people with their dogs in the dog park, who booed and hissed at me for getting upset about being chased and snapped at by a dog that wasn’t on a leash).
Third on the list is people who drive great big trucks with horse trailers on dirt roads by my house and try to run me over – even though it’s a dirt road with just about no traffic on it and I’m way over on the side of the road. Just after the dog incident, I was running along the side of the dirt road near my house, and this big truck with a big horse trailer passed by going very slowly and as soon as the truck passed me, the driver cut immediately in front of me to turn into a driveway, forcing me to stop, or I would have run smack dab into his truck. So I stopped and waited for him to turn very slowly and waited for the trailer to follow him very slowly, and I wondered what the heck was the matter with him to do such a thing. But I guess he proved his point (whatever it was).
Whew – glad to get all that off my chest. Until next time, may your peeves be paltry, may your Achilles tendons remain intact, and may your burgers remain Sam-a-licious.
Several people were wondering after the last posting exactly what kind of burger I ordered at Zinburger and what that might suggest about me. For those of you who want to know, here’s the rest of the story… As I usually do, I ordered a “Samburger” on that fateful eve (which is a burger with bacon and cheese – quite delicious). So what does this suggest, you might ask? Is there some connection to the bacon (some subconcious “pig-man” type of thing) or is it the name itself that compels me to place this particular order. I would say the latter (I don’t think I want to be a pig-man) and that this probably suggests a deep-seated and latent desire to be named “Sam.” If only, I often think as I lay tossing and turning late and night, I had been named Sam. How different my life would have been. A life filled with action, adventure, romance, suspense, and drama – a life including alien abductions, thwarted love, suffering and torment and overcoming unbelievable odds - instead of the plain old humdrum life that is mine. Actually, that’s more the life of someone named “Jack” than someone named “Sam” so if there was a “Jackburger” this scenario might make more sense (which makes me wonder, exactly why a burger with bacon is called a “Samburger” in the first place – was it invented by someone named Sam or is Sam the word for bacon in some exotic language and locale?). So if that’s not it, perhaps there’s some other “Sam” connection. I do remember I once had a friend named Sam who lived down the block. And I was always jealous of Sam because he had all the newest and coolest GI Joe paraphernalia (like the GI Joe tower that had a zip line and working searchlight, and the six-wheeled all terrain vehicle/mobile command post that also had a working searchlight, and a really cool wind-powered vehicle with wheels and a sail that we used to take outside so that GI Joe could go whooshing down the sidewalk, and other various/sundry cool stuff). Or maybe my Sam connection is related to the first dog I remember our family owning, a fat old basset hound who used to lie in the middle of the road by our house. Or it could come down to the simple fact that I really like bacon on my burger. Who’s to say?
These are a few of my least favorite things
With apologies to Julie Andrews, there are certain things that are just annoying. Not major, earth-shattering things that make your stomach turn and your heart hurt, just minor peeves that itch under the skin and make you grit your teeth slightly and question the laws of the universe. Several of those things reared their heads the other day, and they are as follows.
First on the list is “Aqua Boot Camp,” which is held every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 5:30 in the pool at the Y. This is the pool where I put in my laps every Tuesday and Thursday at 5:30, and up until the advent of “Aqua Boot Camp,” these morning constitutionals were peaceful and soothing, and I would be able to get in a quality workout along with a few other dedicated souls who rose before the sun to soak up the chlorine. But now, we have “Aqua Boot Campers” joining us, and they’ve recently expanded into a group of a dozen or so, when I was hoping they would just fade away after a couple of weeks. So I’m fearing that they’re probably here to stay. What’s so bad about this, you might ask? What’s wrong with a program that gets people out and exercising? Well, sure, that’s a good thing, but here’s what bugs me about the whole situation. First, they’ve now taken yet another lane (up from two lanes to three) from the lap-swimmers (leaving us with only three), which means we often have to “circle swim” which is pretty much a hassle. Second, they play loud, really cruddy music (like “Heart of Glass” by Blondie - only this isn’t the version by Blondie, it’s a cover band version made to fit a particular tempo conducive to Aqua Boot Camping and once you’ve heard it, it’s stuck in your head for the rest of the day). Third, the person running the boot camp is drearily cheerful for 5:30 in the morning, cheering on her “Aqua Boot Campers” as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. I was under the impression (from my extensive experience as a viewer of movies portraying boot camp) that boot camp is about demanding drill sergeants who berate naïve young souls for being “namby-pambys” not people who encourage and urge on in a positive and cheerful manner, telling everyone what a “great job” they’re doing as they tread water and dance in the water and gyrate in the water. Fourth, and perhaps most annoying of all, the annoyingly cheerful person running the boot camp wears camouflage. Every day. I peek over at her every once in awhile through my slightly foggy goggles and shake my head in disgust – because I have to tell you, she’s not blending into the background at all, and isn’t that the point of camouflage (to blend into the background)? And if she’s not trying to blend into the background, what the heck is she doing wearing camouflage? It’s just wrong.
Second on the list is people who refuse to put their dog on a leash. I get that there are some very well-trained dogs who probably don’t need a leash, and that don’t chase after people who are running and try to bite them, but there are a lot of other dogs that aren’t that well-trained, and they do chase after people who are running and they do try to bite them, and that’s exactly what happened the other day, ironically enough, just outside a dog park that I was running by. This person who refused to put their dog on a leash let their dog run over to the dog park entrance (so it could say, “Hello,” to one of its dog friends) while she was getting out of the car, and sure enough, when the dog spotted me running by, it barked and chased and snapped at me, making me very uncomfortable, so I said something along the lines of, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your dog on a leash so that it doesn’t chase after me and try to bite me,” to which she responded, “He’s only trying to play,” to which I responded, “He tried to rip out my Achilles tendon,” to which she responded by getting huffy, (and her response – surprise, surprise - was supported by all the other people with their dogs in the dog park, who booed and hissed at me for getting upset about being chased and snapped at by a dog that wasn’t on a leash).
Third on the list is people who drive great big trucks with horse trailers on dirt roads by my house and try to run me over – even though it’s a dirt road with just about no traffic on it and I’m way over on the side of the road. Just after the dog incident, I was running along the side of the dirt road near my house, and this big truck with a big horse trailer passed by going very slowly and as soon as the truck passed me, the driver cut immediately in front of me to turn into a driveway, forcing me to stop, or I would have run smack dab into his truck. So I stopped and waited for him to turn very slowly and waited for the trailer to follow him very slowly, and I wondered what the heck was the matter with him to do such a thing. But I guess he proved his point (whatever it was).
Whew – glad to get all that off my chest. Until next time, may your peeves be paltry, may your Achilles tendons remain intact, and may your burgers remain Sam-a-licious.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Burgers and Birthdays
Half a Burger is Better than None
To celebrate our oldest daughter’s 21st birthday, we took her out to Zinburger for a burger and a glass of wine to celebrate the extreme momentousness of this extremely momentous occasion. The whole thing reminded me of my own “coming of age” which happened in the great state of Wyoming, which is where I was living when I “came of age,” which is worth mentioning because a person “came of age” in the great state of Wyoming earlier than they “come of age” in Arizona today, that is to say, back then we “came of age” at the tender age of 19 rather than 21 (not sure if it’s still the case today) because, if you haven’t guessed, this whole “coming of age” business has to do with the age when it becomes legal for a person to enter a bar and purchase an adult beverage. The main thing I remember about my 19th birthday is that there was a huge snowstorm that afternoon/evening that dumped a whole boatload of snow on the city/town of Laramie, and all the dorm denizens streamed out of their dorms and engaged in a free-for-all snowball fight that escalated into a mob scene where a group of students eventually turned over a Domino’s pizza delivery car (with the poor pizza-guy trapped inside - I was not part of this group, but I did witness this spectacle from a safe distance). Needless to say, there wasn’t any snowball-flinging or car-tipping going on at Zinburger (for which I’m quite grateful).
There’s a well-documented (but not particularly well-known) scientific study that suggests that what a person orders at a restaurant, such as, say, Zinburger, reveals a great deal about that person’s personality, values, etc. With that in mind, I paid close attention as each person in our party ordered their meal. Carrie started out by ordering a burger with extra mushrooms – suggesting that what’s good enough for the common folk just isn’t good enough for her and that she demands more from everything in life, especially when it has to do with fungi. Next, Caitlyn ordered. In addition to a glass of wine (she asked for a recommendation of what was the sweetest wine they served – which obviously suggests she needs some sweetening up) she ordered half a burger that she would split with my wife. This takes care of each of them, and suggests that they’re satisfied with less than something that will fill them completely, that they’re able to share (this was shocking in Caitlyn’s case, because as a child, she was not exactly a sharer, but perhaps her new-found adulthood has brought about some adult-like attitudes and behavior – like sharing, for example). And finally, Connor ordered a “Plain and Simple Burger,” which is a burger without a whole lot on it, only even without a whole lot on it, it still had too much on it for Connor, so he had a special request to make the “Plain and Simple” part even more plain and simple by requesting that the “Plain and Simple Burger” should come with nothing but a patty and bun and nothing else. While this might, at first blush, seem to suggest that Connor is undemanding and easy to please, in fact, it suggests the exact opposite, which is that he is extremely high-maintenance (and if you know Connor at all…).
So once we ordered, we chatted for awhile, and then the food began to arrive. First came Carrie’s burger with extra mushrooms, Connor’s plain and simple “Plain and Simple” burger, and Caitlyn’s half a burger. Which seemed a bit odd to me, because wouldn’t they bring out both halves of the burger at the same time? Then they brought out my burger… and that was it. No second half of the burger for Katie, which, at this point, really raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t imagine, for the life of me, what could have happened to the missing half of the burger. I mean, it’s not like they prepare half a burger at a time, is it? So why wouldn’t both halves be out at the same time? After speculating over this for several breathless minutes, the mystery was resolved when a very official-looking type of person (I’m assuming it was the manager – or at the very least, the assistant manager) showed up at our table and very apologetically explained that both halves of the burger had indeed been ready to go, but unfortunately, one of the halves was accidentally tipped off the plate onto the floor, so they were preparing a new half (which makes me wonder what they did with the other half of that new burger? Didn’t this mean that for the rest of the night, they would always be off by a half a burger? I mean, I kind of doubt a single person is going to come in and order half a burger – in fact, I doubt if that is even allowed. So how do they account for this? Or does someone in the kitchen get to eat the extra half? I was going to ask the assistant-manager-type person about this, but before I could, she get distracted by the wobbly table I was sitting at and set about fixing it, and in the hulabaloo that ensued, I forgot about the half a burger completely. Which leaves me now, pondering this whole thing late at night when I should be sleeping.
That’s it for this entry, so until next time, may your burgers remain firmly anchored on their plates, may your meals be made to order, and may your life remain just as plain and simple as you want it to be.
*Did you notice that nowhere in this entire entry did I mention running, cycling, or swimming? Wonder what that’s all about?
To celebrate our oldest daughter’s 21st birthday, we took her out to Zinburger for a burger and a glass of wine to celebrate the extreme momentousness of this extremely momentous occasion. The whole thing reminded me of my own “coming of age” which happened in the great state of Wyoming, which is where I was living when I “came of age,” which is worth mentioning because a person “came of age” in the great state of Wyoming earlier than they “come of age” in Arizona today, that is to say, back then we “came of age” at the tender age of 19 rather than 21 (not sure if it’s still the case today) because, if you haven’t guessed, this whole “coming of age” business has to do with the age when it becomes legal for a person to enter a bar and purchase an adult beverage. The main thing I remember about my 19th birthday is that there was a huge snowstorm that afternoon/evening that dumped a whole boatload of snow on the city/town of Laramie, and all the dorm denizens streamed out of their dorms and engaged in a free-for-all snowball fight that escalated into a mob scene where a group of students eventually turned over a Domino’s pizza delivery car (with the poor pizza-guy trapped inside - I was not part of this group, but I did witness this spectacle from a safe distance). Needless to say, there wasn’t any snowball-flinging or car-tipping going on at Zinburger (for which I’m quite grateful).
There’s a well-documented (but not particularly well-known) scientific study that suggests that what a person orders at a restaurant, such as, say, Zinburger, reveals a great deal about that person’s personality, values, etc. With that in mind, I paid close attention as each person in our party ordered their meal. Carrie started out by ordering a burger with extra mushrooms – suggesting that what’s good enough for the common folk just isn’t good enough for her and that she demands more from everything in life, especially when it has to do with fungi. Next, Caitlyn ordered. In addition to a glass of wine (she asked for a recommendation of what was the sweetest wine they served – which obviously suggests she needs some sweetening up) she ordered half a burger that she would split with my wife. This takes care of each of them, and suggests that they’re satisfied with less than something that will fill them completely, that they’re able to share (this was shocking in Caitlyn’s case, because as a child, she was not exactly a sharer, but perhaps her new-found adulthood has brought about some adult-like attitudes and behavior – like sharing, for example). And finally, Connor ordered a “Plain and Simple Burger,” which is a burger without a whole lot on it, only even without a whole lot on it, it still had too much on it for Connor, so he had a special request to make the “Plain and Simple” part even more plain and simple by requesting that the “Plain and Simple Burger” should come with nothing but a patty and bun and nothing else. While this might, at first blush, seem to suggest that Connor is undemanding and easy to please, in fact, it suggests the exact opposite, which is that he is extremely high-maintenance (and if you know Connor at all…).
So once we ordered, we chatted for awhile, and then the food began to arrive. First came Carrie’s burger with extra mushrooms, Connor’s plain and simple “Plain and Simple” burger, and Caitlyn’s half a burger. Which seemed a bit odd to me, because wouldn’t they bring out both halves of the burger at the same time? Then they brought out my burger… and that was it. No second half of the burger for Katie, which, at this point, really raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t imagine, for the life of me, what could have happened to the missing half of the burger. I mean, it’s not like they prepare half a burger at a time, is it? So why wouldn’t both halves be out at the same time? After speculating over this for several breathless minutes, the mystery was resolved when a very official-looking type of person (I’m assuming it was the manager – or at the very least, the assistant manager) showed up at our table and very apologetically explained that both halves of the burger had indeed been ready to go, but unfortunately, one of the halves was accidentally tipped off the plate onto the floor, so they were preparing a new half (which makes me wonder what they did with the other half of that new burger? Didn’t this mean that for the rest of the night, they would always be off by a half a burger? I mean, I kind of doubt a single person is going to come in and order half a burger – in fact, I doubt if that is even allowed. So how do they account for this? Or does someone in the kitchen get to eat the extra half? I was going to ask the assistant-manager-type person about this, but before I could, she get distracted by the wobbly table I was sitting at and set about fixing it, and in the hulabaloo that ensued, I forgot about the half a burger completely. Which leaves me now, pondering this whole thing late at night when I should be sleeping.
That’s it for this entry, so until next time, may your burgers remain firmly anchored on their plates, may your meals be made to order, and may your life remain just as plain and simple as you want it to be.
*Did you notice that nowhere in this entire entry did I mention running, cycling, or swimming? Wonder what that’s all about?
Monday, March 7, 2011
An Ultra-Long Ultra Description
March 5, 2011 will be one of those days that I remember forever, not just because I managed to finish my first 50-mile endurance event, but because of the way it happened. First off, thanks to the generosity of many of you out there, we managed to raise over $2,500 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society before the starting gun went off at 6 in the morning. Second of all, it was an absolutely beautiful day, and the event was held in a spectacular location. And finally, things went just about as well as I could have hoped for them to go. The following is my attempt to recreate the experience for anyone who's interested in what it was all about (for me, at least).
4:20 a.m.: The alarm goes off, but I'm already awake, and have been since around 3:00. I haven't slept particularly well, but I don't feel bad about it, because I was kind of expecting it. I've been fairly nervous about this for the past few weeks. Not sure if I'll be able to make the distance - especially because the course is so tough (8,000 feet of elevation gain – and 8,000 feet of descents - on some pretty rough trails and roads). What if something goes wrong? What if I take a wrong turn? Twist an ankle? Tweak a calf? I've tried to stifle the doubts and remember all the time and effort I've put into training for this. It's been a long haul, and the time is finally here, so I get up, get my gear together, get my act together (as much as possible) and go out to the common area to meet the rest of the group (there are five of us running today).
5:00 a.m.: As soon as we step outside, the cold air hits us. We drive to the starting area, get our numbers, and find a spot to store a drop bag for the finish (the course starts and finishes in the same spot).
6:00 a.m.: The race begins, but rather than immediately running, everyone around me is walking up the first hill. There’s definitely a different vibe in this group than in the usual marathon crowd – kind of mellow and relaxed – plus there are only around 150 of us. I’ve got a couple of guiding principles for the day (taken from Born to Run, a great read by the way). The first is to walk up all the hills. The second will serve as my mantra throughout the day – “If it feels like work, you’re working too hard.” With that in mind, I set off in an easy shuffle-jog on the flat portions and walk up all the hills. The sun rises, and we move from road to trail and back again as we wind up and down hills. There’s no opportunity to really get into a groove, but I don’t mind that – I’m kind of enjoying the constant changes in terrain and conditions. Sometimes the road is rocky and steep, sometimes it’s gradual and smooth. I focus on eating and drinking enough, and the time goes by quickly.
11:00 a.m.: I reach the halfway point after about 5 hours on the trail. This is faster than I was planning, but I know that the second half of the course is supposed to be even tougher than the first half. I change socks, eat and drink as much as I can, and hit the road again. The wind has picked up and is in our faces as we head up a long 4-mile uphill stretch. I try to run, but with the wind it’s just not happening, so I resign myself to a slow uphill climb.
1:00 p.m.: I pull into the 33-mile station. The wind has died down, the temperature has climbed a bit (still pretty comfortable, though), and I’m eating and drinking as much as possible. I can’t believe I still have 17 miles to go. My legs are feeling it now – but nothing is really bugging me, just general fatigue, so I’m still feeling pretty confident. The next portion is one I’ve never run before, so I’m not sure what to expect.
2:45 p.m.: At the 40-mile station, I realize I’ve now gone further than ever before. I’m tired, but I know I’m capable of another 10 miles. The last stretch was really tough – lots of steep, rocky hills. I change socks again, eat and drink as much as possible, and hit the road.
4:15 p.m.: The final station at mile 46. The final section is one I’ve run before, so I know now I’m going to make it. As I set off through the last five miles (the race is actually 51 miles), I’m just soaking it all in. As I run, I get a little choked up as I my thoughts wander. I think about all the people who donated to the cause – helping us raise over $2,500 to support the fight against cancer. My mom, who’s going through a tough time right now. Wendy, Susie, Kathy, Colleen, and Kathleen – the other four runners in my group. All our friends and family members who came out today as our support crew – especially Sandy and Katie, who have been on the course all day (and will stay till after 9:00 when our final runner finishes). All the people who have encouraged and supported me along the way. The runners I’ve coached over the past few years and run with as they’ve completed their own events. It’s kind of overwhelming to think that I’m going to actually do this – something I never really believed I’d be able to do, and I’m a little surprised that I’m still feeling pretty strong as I pass by several people who are walking. The last section is deceptively long, and I keep thinking I’m almost there, then find out I’m not.
5:30 p.m.: For a little while, I think I’m going to be able to finish in under 11 ½ hours, but 5:30 passes and I’m still not in sight of the finish area, so I decide to relax and savor the moment. I slow to a walk and soak it all in. The sight of the mountains around me, the feel of the breeze cooling the sweat on my face, the taste of salt on my lips, the grit in my shoes, and the aching fatigue in my quads and glutes. It’s all good. I pass through a gate and head up a slight hill to the finish area, and as soon as I round a corner, people start cheering and encouraging me forward. “It’s just around the bend. You’re almost there.” I continue on to the top of the final hill, where I can see the finish line about a hundred yards away, and with a smile on my face, I reach down for one last burst of energy, and I start to run.
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