Kindred Spirits
I believe I've mentioned before on this site that I'm cheap. Partly because of that, and partly because I'm a curmudgeonly homebody, we rarely go to the movies. However, I received a gift card for the theater recently, so Katie and I have gone to a couple of movies in the past month. When we do this, though, I make sure that we go to the first showing because it's only $5 apiece, and even though I've got a gift card, I still feel cheated somehow if we don't go to the bargain show (this, by the way, is totally my issue - Kate doesn't think twice about paying full price to go to a movie). Anyway, we decided to go see "Gran Torino" last weekend (which is a pretty powerful movie that makes you laugh, makes you cry, blah, blah, blah) and because I'm cheap and refuse to pay full price, we went to the first showing on Sunday afternoon. Well, as we entered the theater and got in line to buy tickets, I couldn't help but notice that the crowd was on the, shall we say, mature side. As in, we were (by about thirty years) the youngest people in the joint (other than the concessionaires and ticket takers - the typical collection of pimply-faced whippersnappers). Seriously, though, everyone was really old, and I'm sure it wasn't just because we were at the Oro Valley Cineplex. No, I'm going to hypothesize that they (like me) were swayed by the bargain prices. As you might imagine, I wasn't exactly sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, it made me feel kind of old and out of touch - and cheap (but then, I figured hey, I am kind of old and out of touch - and cheap - so what?). On the other hand, it made me feel kind of proud, like I was part of a savvy group who could reminisce about the "good-old-days" when we trudged through snowdrifts for ten miles to get to school and reused tinfoil and turned out the lights when we left the room and knew the value of a dollar (when a dollar had some value). It was like I'd finally found my kindred spirits. But then I noticed that just about every one of my kindred spirits was also buying popcorn before going into the movie ($4 for a small bag, $7.50 for the jumbo) and I was like, people, what's up with that? Four bucks for a bag of popped corn? What happened to smuggling in your snacks? Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway) I was sorely disappointed by their flippant attitudes and wasteful behaviors. But what are you going to do?
A story too weird not to share
As I was skimming through today's paper, a headline about fingernails caught my eye. Apparently, the woman who holds the record for the world's longest fingernails (total length of over 28 feet - the longest single nail 2 feet 11 inches long) was in a car crash. She suffered minor injuries, but her fingernails weren't so fortunate. Paramedics did all they could, but it sounded like they didn't pull through. Bummer for her.
These are a few of my least favorite things
In honor of my 5 a.m. wake-up call this morning, here's a list of ten things I'm tired of (oddly enough, getting up at 5 a.m. is not on the list)
•A. Rod - apparently, he's a cheater (in more than one way), a liar ("Did you ever take performance enhancing drugs?" "No, I did not."), and he's making 100's of millions of dollars to play baseball - and people are still going to be willing to pay him thousands of dollars for his autograph
•Michael Phelps - he's a great swimmer and he did some stupid things - time to move on, media
•Chris Brown - before this week I thought he was annoying - now he's on this list
•Valentine's Day - and it's not until tomorrow - can't we just call the whole thing off?
•Bad attitudes - if you choose your attitude, what does it say when you choose to have a bad one?
•Whiners - why is it that the people who seem to have the most to complain about actually complain the least - and vice-versa?
•Being injured - I seem to be on the mend, so hopefully I can stop whining about this soon
•The elliptical trainer - on the one hand, I'm glad I can still work up a sweat - on the other hand, it's really tedious and boring (and it always makes the bottoms of my feet and the tips of my toes tingle)
•The economy
•People who attempt to be clever by making negative lists
Clearly, I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself, so I'll slap myself silly before slinking off into the sunset. Until next time, may you discover you have many things in common with your kindred spirits, may your fingernails grow quickly, and may any hypocritical tendencies you might be harboring confine themselves to private quarters.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Doorknobs, Mysterious Maladies, Clocks, and Birthday Cakes
I'm stuck in the bedroom and can't get out
Last weekend, Carrie sequestered herself in the room formerly known as Caitlyn's bedroom to talk on the phone with one of her friends. Time passed, and I didn't hear anything from her, which isn't all that unusual, but then I heard a muffled call for help accompanied by the sound of a doorknob turning, over and over again. Katie went to investigate, and I listened as the two of them called out to each other through the door. "Is the door locked, Carrie?" "No." "Try turning the knob." "I tried that." "Try again." Twisting sound. "It's still not working." Jiggling sound. "How about now?" Twisting, jiggling, thumping sound. "Still doesn't work." Nervous laughter. "Am I going to be stuck in here forever?" Exasperated sigh. Jiggling, twisting, thumping, bumping. "The doorknob must be broken." At this point, I figured I might as well see if I could help. More back and forths through the door, more jiggling, more thumping and twisting, but the stupid door wouldn't work. "Guess I'll need a screwdriver," I muttered. Of course, my screwdriver wasn't in the toolshed where it belonged, and of course, no one had used it, so when I asked, "Who took my screwdriver and didn't put it back?" which is one of those questions you are taught to ask when you go to fatherhood school (where they teach you how to be a father) all I got in response was a bunch of blank stares (actually, only two - one from Katie and one from Connor since Carrie was still stuck in what was formerly known as Caitlyn's bedroom). Which made me even more frustrated, so I started grumbling and grabbed a different screwdriver that would work but wasn't going to be nearly as effective as the one I wanted, then proceeded to remove the knob from the door. This led to some tinkering and jiggling, and having Carrie try the knob again. Then I told her to remove her half, but she said she couldn't, so I told her to pull hard, and she said it was stuck, so I gave up and told her to climb out the window so I could climb in and see what I could see. Which she did, and I did, and I pulled the knob off (it was stuck because of the paint on the door) and once I did that, it was pretty easy to open the door and remove all the rest of the hardware. So now we have a knobless door, which I'm in no big rush to fix because I just don't feel a strong sense of urgency about it, plus Connor likes having the peephole so he can spy on his sister.
How dry I am
You would think that someone who was born in one of the hottest spots in the United States of America (Yuma, AZ) and who had spent her entire life (18+ years) living in a desert environment would know that it's important to drink water. And yet, my adorable, charming, and intelligent oldest daughter called us up complaining about feeling dizzy and light-headed and having tingling sensations in her fingers and toes. Of course, Katie immediately asked her about her diet, as in - "Are you eating and drinking enough?" - and was assured that Caitlyn was, indeed, eating and drinking well. So Katie drove down to the University to rescue poor li'l Caitlyn and brought her home, where Caitlyn proceeded to spend the next 24 hours moping around and looking pitiful and continuing to feel dizzy and light-headed. But she decided to soldier on and returned to her home away from home, but she didn't feel better so she went to Student Health, where they discovered that she was - can you see what's coming, because it's pretty darned obvious - dehydrated. Go figure.
A Miracle on Orange Grove Road
About two or three weeks ago, the clock in my classroom suddenly stopped working. I didn't particularly care, because I wear a watch, so I didn't do anything about it. One of the students running in the election simulation my 8th graders were participating in, though, decided to use it to her advantage and posted a sign saying, "Ellie will fix this clock if elected" on the clock, which I thought was pretty clever. Time passed (yes, time continues to pass even when a clock is broken, which seems pretty deep and philosophical, doesn't it?) and someone would occasionally mention the clock, but I didn't really give it much thought. And then today, because it was election day, I took down all the signs and posters, including the one covering the clock, and lo and behold, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a fully functional clock. And what's more, the time was correct. Now that is a tale for the ages.
A classic headline
Every once in awhile, I run across a headline that catches my eye. The best one I saw this week read: "Man's Pocketknife Kills Dog." I just hate it when pocketknives go all crazy and start stabbing man's best friend without provocation.
A boy named Adolph
Speaking of the newspaper, did you happen to see the story about a month ago where a family got upset because the bakery wouldn't make a birthday cake for their son? Pretty horrible of the bakery, wouldn't you say? Apparently, they had a problem with writing, "Happy Birthday, Adolph Hitler" on one of the cakes. I kid you not, these people named their kid (who looked like a pretty adorable little tyke, and not at all like a monstrous villain-of-the-ages) after a monstrous villain-of-the-ages. Just imagine if he someday became a superstar basketball player and made it to the NBA Finals, and after the big dramatic build-up, the announcer would say, "And starting at point guard, Adolph Hitler!" and the crowd would go wild and cheer like crazy. Or what if he grew up and did something heroic like pulled someone out of a burning building and was featured on the news and they would have to say, "Today, an ordinary man turned into a hero when Adolph Hitler of Spokane, Washington risked his life by…" Or what if he grew up and won the Nobel Prize in physics for some amazing discovery, and all the headlines would read "Hitler is a Hit in Physics." It just don't seem right.
Okay, that's all I've got for this edition, so until next time may your doorknobs continue to function, may your sons/daughters/siblings/significant others/distant acquaintances maintain adequate hydration, and may your clocks continue to tock (and tick).
Last weekend, Carrie sequestered herself in the room formerly known as Caitlyn's bedroom to talk on the phone with one of her friends. Time passed, and I didn't hear anything from her, which isn't all that unusual, but then I heard a muffled call for help accompanied by the sound of a doorknob turning, over and over again. Katie went to investigate, and I listened as the two of them called out to each other through the door. "Is the door locked, Carrie?" "No." "Try turning the knob." "I tried that." "Try again." Twisting sound. "It's still not working." Jiggling sound. "How about now?" Twisting, jiggling, thumping sound. "Still doesn't work." Nervous laughter. "Am I going to be stuck in here forever?" Exasperated sigh. Jiggling, twisting, thumping, bumping. "The doorknob must be broken." At this point, I figured I might as well see if I could help. More back and forths through the door, more jiggling, more thumping and twisting, but the stupid door wouldn't work. "Guess I'll need a screwdriver," I muttered. Of course, my screwdriver wasn't in the toolshed where it belonged, and of course, no one had used it, so when I asked, "Who took my screwdriver and didn't put it back?" which is one of those questions you are taught to ask when you go to fatherhood school (where they teach you how to be a father) all I got in response was a bunch of blank stares (actually, only two - one from Katie and one from Connor since Carrie was still stuck in what was formerly known as Caitlyn's bedroom). Which made me even more frustrated, so I started grumbling and grabbed a different screwdriver that would work but wasn't going to be nearly as effective as the one I wanted, then proceeded to remove the knob from the door. This led to some tinkering and jiggling, and having Carrie try the knob again. Then I told her to remove her half, but she said she couldn't, so I told her to pull hard, and she said it was stuck, so I gave up and told her to climb out the window so I could climb in and see what I could see. Which she did, and I did, and I pulled the knob off (it was stuck because of the paint on the door) and once I did that, it was pretty easy to open the door and remove all the rest of the hardware. So now we have a knobless door, which I'm in no big rush to fix because I just don't feel a strong sense of urgency about it, plus Connor likes having the peephole so he can spy on his sister.
How dry I am
You would think that someone who was born in one of the hottest spots in the United States of America (Yuma, AZ) and who had spent her entire life (18+ years) living in a desert environment would know that it's important to drink water. And yet, my adorable, charming, and intelligent oldest daughter called us up complaining about feeling dizzy and light-headed and having tingling sensations in her fingers and toes. Of course, Katie immediately asked her about her diet, as in - "Are you eating and drinking enough?" - and was assured that Caitlyn was, indeed, eating and drinking well. So Katie drove down to the University to rescue poor li'l Caitlyn and brought her home, where Caitlyn proceeded to spend the next 24 hours moping around and looking pitiful and continuing to feel dizzy and light-headed. But she decided to soldier on and returned to her home away from home, but she didn't feel better so she went to Student Health, where they discovered that she was - can you see what's coming, because it's pretty darned obvious - dehydrated. Go figure.
A Miracle on Orange Grove Road
About two or three weeks ago, the clock in my classroom suddenly stopped working. I didn't particularly care, because I wear a watch, so I didn't do anything about it. One of the students running in the election simulation my 8th graders were participating in, though, decided to use it to her advantage and posted a sign saying, "Ellie will fix this clock if elected" on the clock, which I thought was pretty clever. Time passed (yes, time continues to pass even when a clock is broken, which seems pretty deep and philosophical, doesn't it?) and someone would occasionally mention the clock, but I didn't really give it much thought. And then today, because it was election day, I took down all the signs and posters, including the one covering the clock, and lo and behold, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a fully functional clock. And what's more, the time was correct. Now that is a tale for the ages.
A classic headline
Every once in awhile, I run across a headline that catches my eye. The best one I saw this week read: "Man's Pocketknife Kills Dog." I just hate it when pocketknives go all crazy and start stabbing man's best friend without provocation.
A boy named Adolph
Speaking of the newspaper, did you happen to see the story about a month ago where a family got upset because the bakery wouldn't make a birthday cake for their son? Pretty horrible of the bakery, wouldn't you say? Apparently, they had a problem with writing, "Happy Birthday, Adolph Hitler" on one of the cakes. I kid you not, these people named their kid (who looked like a pretty adorable little tyke, and not at all like a monstrous villain-of-the-ages) after a monstrous villain-of-the-ages. Just imagine if he someday became a superstar basketball player and made it to the NBA Finals, and after the big dramatic build-up, the announcer would say, "And starting at point guard, Adolph Hitler!" and the crowd would go wild and cheer like crazy. Or what if he grew up and did something heroic like pulled someone out of a burning building and was featured on the news and they would have to say, "Today, an ordinary man turned into a hero when Adolph Hitler of Spokane, Washington risked his life by…" Or what if he grew up and won the Nobel Prize in physics for some amazing discovery, and all the headlines would read "Hitler is a Hit in Physics." It just don't seem right.
Okay, that's all I've got for this edition, so until next time may your doorknobs continue to function, may your sons/daughters/siblings/significant others/distant acquaintances maintain adequate hydration, and may your clocks continue to tock (and tick).
Monday, February 2, 2009
Spandex and a Couple of Kickoffs
Awkward attire
It may be inevitable that at some point in your life as a parent, you realize that you are, at some level, an embarrassment to one or more of your children. For whatever reason, I hadn't ever seen myself that way. I knew that they (and their friends) thought I was kind of strange for various reasons (some justified, some not so much), but I also believed I was seen as kind of cool (for a parent) and somewhat amusing - or scary, depending on their experience(s) with me. Anyhow, my view of myself through my children's eyes changed slightly last weekend when I came home from a bike ride. Carrie had a group of friends over for her birthday, and they were watching a movie in the living room when I came in, and since I was coming back from a bike ride, I was wearing bike shorts, which are made of - as you may or may not be aware - 87% nylon and 13% lycra/spandex. So what's the problem, you ask? Apparently, according to at least one of her friends, it's "awkward" when someone's dad comes into the house (which he owns, I might mention, and which the aforementioned friend was visiting as a guest who was only there because of the gracious nature of the owner of the house, which in this case, was and is me) wearing spandex. Carrie thought the whole thing was mildly amusing, because she's so used to seeing her parents attired in various types of exercise garb that she doesn't think anything about it. I, however, am deeply scarred by this callous comment, and I'm not sure if I'll ever recover my lost self-esteem. O woeful day, callooh, callay.
Summer season kickoff
We kicked off our latest TNT season this Saturday, and as always it was highly inspirational. It's amazing to hear people's stories and to see so many who are willing to commit to raising funds that go towards eliminating blood cancers. For the next few months, I'll be helping to coach a group of runners and walkers as they prepare for marathons (or half-marathons) in Nashville, San Diego, and Seattle.
Speaking of kickoffs
There were a couple of minutes, there, when I actually thought the impossible, the inconceivable, the absolutely incomprehensible was going to happen. The Cardinals had the lead, momentum was on their side, and all they had to do was keep the Steelers from moving the ball within field goal range. And then it all fell apart. Hopes were dashed, dreams deferred, and once again, I was left shaking my head in disappointment. Every year since the Cardinals moved to Arizona, I've tried to root for them - partly because of the whole regional thing and partly because their games often superseded the national game of interest being shown on Sunday afternoons - and there's not much worse than watching two 5-10 teams going through the motions in their final game of the season. So I'm not a rabid fan, but I've still suffered through Buddy Ryan and Joe Bugel, Emmit Smith creaking through his twilight years, Jake the Snake tossing yet another bone-headed interception, that epic collapse against the Bears on Monday Night ("they are who we thought they were!"), and all the other times when I was left shaking my head in disappointment. And then, somehow, magically, miraculously, the team manages to make it to the Super Bowl, where they fight back from a 13-point deficit in the fourth quarter and take the lead - but with too much time left on the clock. As soon as Larry Fitzgerald broke into the clear for that final touchdown, even while I was cheering and yelling, I was also thinking, "Oh no." If only he could have run around for another couple of minutes before diving across the goal line while the final seconds ticked off the clock. If only the blitz had arrived a split second earlier. If only the defensive back hadn't slipped. If only Santonio Holmes hadn't been able to tap his right toe down. If only… Crud.
Sorry about that - it's more depressing than mildly amusing - but it's all I've got. So until next time, may your attire be appropriate at all times and in all situations, may your causes be furthered, and may the team you're rooting for finish with a final flourish.
It may be inevitable that at some point in your life as a parent, you realize that you are, at some level, an embarrassment to one or more of your children. For whatever reason, I hadn't ever seen myself that way. I knew that they (and their friends) thought I was kind of strange for various reasons (some justified, some not so much), but I also believed I was seen as kind of cool (for a parent) and somewhat amusing - or scary, depending on their experience(s) with me. Anyhow, my view of myself through my children's eyes changed slightly last weekend when I came home from a bike ride. Carrie had a group of friends over for her birthday, and they were watching a movie in the living room when I came in, and since I was coming back from a bike ride, I was wearing bike shorts, which are made of - as you may or may not be aware - 87% nylon and 13% lycra/spandex. So what's the problem, you ask? Apparently, according to at least one of her friends, it's "awkward" when someone's dad comes into the house (which he owns, I might mention, and which the aforementioned friend was visiting as a guest who was only there because of the gracious nature of the owner of the house, which in this case, was and is me) wearing spandex. Carrie thought the whole thing was mildly amusing, because she's so used to seeing her parents attired in various types of exercise garb that she doesn't think anything about it. I, however, am deeply scarred by this callous comment, and I'm not sure if I'll ever recover my lost self-esteem. O woeful day, callooh, callay.
Summer season kickoff
We kicked off our latest TNT season this Saturday, and as always it was highly inspirational. It's amazing to hear people's stories and to see so many who are willing to commit to raising funds that go towards eliminating blood cancers. For the next few months, I'll be helping to coach a group of runners and walkers as they prepare for marathons (or half-marathons) in Nashville, San Diego, and Seattle.
Speaking of kickoffs
There were a couple of minutes, there, when I actually thought the impossible, the inconceivable, the absolutely incomprehensible was going to happen. The Cardinals had the lead, momentum was on their side, and all they had to do was keep the Steelers from moving the ball within field goal range. And then it all fell apart. Hopes were dashed, dreams deferred, and once again, I was left shaking my head in disappointment. Every year since the Cardinals moved to Arizona, I've tried to root for them - partly because of the whole regional thing and partly because their games often superseded the national game of interest being shown on Sunday afternoons - and there's not much worse than watching two 5-10 teams going through the motions in their final game of the season. So I'm not a rabid fan, but I've still suffered through Buddy Ryan and Joe Bugel, Emmit Smith creaking through his twilight years, Jake the Snake tossing yet another bone-headed interception, that epic collapse against the Bears on Monday Night ("they are who we thought they were!"), and all the other times when I was left shaking my head in disappointment. And then, somehow, magically, miraculously, the team manages to make it to the Super Bowl, where they fight back from a 13-point deficit in the fourth quarter and take the lead - but with too much time left on the clock. As soon as Larry Fitzgerald broke into the clear for that final touchdown, even while I was cheering and yelling, I was also thinking, "Oh no." If only he could have run around for another couple of minutes before diving across the goal line while the final seconds ticked off the clock. If only the blitz had arrived a split second earlier. If only the defensive back hadn't slipped. If only Santonio Holmes hadn't been able to tap his right toe down. If only… Crud.
Sorry about that - it's more depressing than mildly amusing - but it's all I've got. So until next time, may your attire be appropriate at all times and in all situations, may your causes be furthered, and may the team you're rooting for finish with a final flourish.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Birds, Nuns, and Miscellaneous Trash Talk
Another weird bird story
What is it with me and birds? Or is just birds in general? Anyhow, one day about a week ago, we discovered that our beloved, noble, and honorable guinea pig, Thunder, had passed away, so I went out back to dig a hole for him (yes, I do realize that a guinea pig is not a bird - in fact, it's a mammal - but if you stick with me, we'll get to the part with the bird). As I was digging, I couldn't help but remember some of the other pets we'd put to rest underneath the back forty, and I got to feeling a little melancholy remembering Caitlyn sobbing as we put her pet rat (mammal, not bird), Frisky, to rest, or Connor announcing to anyone willing to listen, "Barney's dead. He died in the bar, and I saw him when he was dead (Barney, by the way, required a jumbo-sized hole - he was a gentle giant, after all - but a dog, not a bird). So I finished digging the hole and went to see who else wanted to attend the services, but it wound up only being Katie and me (Carrie said it would make her too sad, and Connor doesn't do ceremonies of any kind - he still runs and hides when we start to sing "Happy Birthday" to him). Katie picked up the shoebox that was serving as a coffin, and she and I headed for the gravesite. As we passed under the big ol' pine tree out back, all the sudden, the back half of a dead rabbit (mammal, not bird) dropped from the sky and thumped to the ground right in front of us. I kid you not - there were hind legs, hips, and about half a torso lying there, and we were like, what the heck? Then we looked up and saw a hawk (finally, the bird makes an appearance) sitting on a telephone pole. He/she was glaring down at us as if to say, "Get away from my dinner you wimpy, wingless, featherless creatures, or I'll peck your eyes out and beat you around the head until you cry uncle." Normally, I would back down when faced with such a fierce and intimidating foe, but we were on a mission, so we went ahead and buried Thunder, stood for a moment with bowed heads, then walked back inside, leaving the hawk to (hopefully) swoop down and finish up his/her meal.
It's the little things in life
Way back in November, I cut back all our century plants, then in subsequent weeks, trimmed some of the trees, raked up a bunch of leaves and pine needles and twigs and branches beneath the eucalyptus, mesquite and pine trees, pruned the bougainvilleas, and did a little bit of weeding. Which is all well and good, only there's only so much of this landscaping debris that you can fit into a trash can, and our service will only pick up the one can, and it only comes by twice a week. The upshot of this is that I had way more trash than can, which always kind of bugs me, because it means I have to load up the trashcan over and over again right before the pickup day which isn't always particularly convenient, plus there are piles of landscaping debris piled around the property, which looks kind of tacky. But I stuck with it, getting rid of one pile at a time until finally, last week, supply no longer exceeded demand, and I managed to squeeze in the last stack of pine needles into the trash and wheeled it out to the street for pickup. For whatever reason, I felt an inordinate sense of pride and accomplishment when I came home and realized that finally, it had all been hauled away. And yes, I could have loaded it up in the back of the pick-up and hauled it off to the dump myself, but that just wouldn't have been the same.
More on the four nuns in the Ford Taurus
I think Katie's always been a little skeptical about my whole "nuns in the Ford Taurus story," because whenever I mentioned it, she would look at me in a skeptical way as if to say, "Yeah, right." But that all changed when Katie was driving to work and pulled up to the light at La Cañada and Magee, glanced over to the right and saw… wait for it… four nuns in the car next to her, which just happened to be a Ford Taurus. When I saw the four nuns, I just stared, but Katie, being much more cool, calm, and collected (not to mention a whole lot friendlier), smiled and waved, and then then nuns - waved back! So they do exist, and since then, Katie has seen them several times as they motor around town, which makes you wonder - where the heck are they going? I mean, aren't nuns supposed to spend their days cloistering and praying and shuffling around with their palms pressed together and smiling enigmatically, or rapping knuckles and making naughty children stand in the corner? What's going on that would require them (four of them, no less) to drive around northwest Tucson? Definitely weird. Maybe even some kind of sign. These are scary, scary times.
Yet another weird bird story
The Cardinals are in the Super Bowl.
There's no way I can top that, so until next time, may your hawks hold onto their rabbit carcasses so they don't fall out of the sky and startle you, may your trash fit snugly and securely into your receptacles, and may your Super Bowl dreams come true so that you, too, can be paid untold millions for smiling into the camera and announcing, "I'm going to Disneyworld!"
What is it with me and birds? Or is just birds in general? Anyhow, one day about a week ago, we discovered that our beloved, noble, and honorable guinea pig, Thunder, had passed away, so I went out back to dig a hole for him (yes, I do realize that a guinea pig is not a bird - in fact, it's a mammal - but if you stick with me, we'll get to the part with the bird). As I was digging, I couldn't help but remember some of the other pets we'd put to rest underneath the back forty, and I got to feeling a little melancholy remembering Caitlyn sobbing as we put her pet rat (mammal, not bird), Frisky, to rest, or Connor announcing to anyone willing to listen, "Barney's dead. He died in the bar, and I saw him when he was dead (Barney, by the way, required a jumbo-sized hole - he was a gentle giant, after all - but a dog, not a bird). So I finished digging the hole and went to see who else wanted to attend the services, but it wound up only being Katie and me (Carrie said it would make her too sad, and Connor doesn't do ceremonies of any kind - he still runs and hides when we start to sing "Happy Birthday" to him). Katie picked up the shoebox that was serving as a coffin, and she and I headed for the gravesite. As we passed under the big ol' pine tree out back, all the sudden, the back half of a dead rabbit (mammal, not bird) dropped from the sky and thumped to the ground right in front of us. I kid you not - there were hind legs, hips, and about half a torso lying there, and we were like, what the heck? Then we looked up and saw a hawk (finally, the bird makes an appearance) sitting on a telephone pole. He/she was glaring down at us as if to say, "Get away from my dinner you wimpy, wingless, featherless creatures, or I'll peck your eyes out and beat you around the head until you cry uncle." Normally, I would back down when faced with such a fierce and intimidating foe, but we were on a mission, so we went ahead and buried Thunder, stood for a moment with bowed heads, then walked back inside, leaving the hawk to (hopefully) swoop down and finish up his/her meal.
It's the little things in life
Way back in November, I cut back all our century plants, then in subsequent weeks, trimmed some of the trees, raked up a bunch of leaves and pine needles and twigs and branches beneath the eucalyptus, mesquite and pine trees, pruned the bougainvilleas, and did a little bit of weeding. Which is all well and good, only there's only so much of this landscaping debris that you can fit into a trash can, and our service will only pick up the one can, and it only comes by twice a week. The upshot of this is that I had way more trash than can, which always kind of bugs me, because it means I have to load up the trashcan over and over again right before the pickup day which isn't always particularly convenient, plus there are piles of landscaping debris piled around the property, which looks kind of tacky. But I stuck with it, getting rid of one pile at a time until finally, last week, supply no longer exceeded demand, and I managed to squeeze in the last stack of pine needles into the trash and wheeled it out to the street for pickup. For whatever reason, I felt an inordinate sense of pride and accomplishment when I came home and realized that finally, it had all been hauled away. And yes, I could have loaded it up in the back of the pick-up and hauled it off to the dump myself, but that just wouldn't have been the same.
More on the four nuns in the Ford Taurus
I think Katie's always been a little skeptical about my whole "nuns in the Ford Taurus story," because whenever I mentioned it, she would look at me in a skeptical way as if to say, "Yeah, right." But that all changed when Katie was driving to work and pulled up to the light at La Cañada and Magee, glanced over to the right and saw… wait for it… four nuns in the car next to her, which just happened to be a Ford Taurus. When I saw the four nuns, I just stared, but Katie, being much more cool, calm, and collected (not to mention a whole lot friendlier), smiled and waved, and then then nuns - waved back! So they do exist, and since then, Katie has seen them several times as they motor around town, which makes you wonder - where the heck are they going? I mean, aren't nuns supposed to spend their days cloistering and praying and shuffling around with their palms pressed together and smiling enigmatically, or rapping knuckles and making naughty children stand in the corner? What's going on that would require them (four of them, no less) to drive around northwest Tucson? Definitely weird. Maybe even some kind of sign. These are scary, scary times.
Yet another weird bird story
The Cardinals are in the Super Bowl.
There's no way I can top that, so until next time, may your hawks hold onto their rabbit carcasses so they don't fall out of the sky and startle you, may your trash fit snugly and securely into your receptacles, and may your Super Bowl dreams come true so that you, too, can be paid untold millions for smiling into the camera and announcing, "I'm going to Disneyworld!"
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Tales from the Back of the Pack
The tail end of a marathon…
Is not, I discovered last Sunday, all that fun of a place to be. Because of my leg issue, I decided to step up and take one for the team by volunteering to be the TNT pacer for the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon. Basically, I was supposed to maintain a 16:40 pace - while carrying a big mylar balloon - for the first 13.1 miles so that everyone could make it to the official cut-off and avoid being removed from the course and bused to the finish line. Sounds pretty simple, doesn't it? Well, my problems began when I got up in the morning and discovered that the mylar balloon they'd given me so people would be able to spot me had lost all its oomph and was lying listlessly on the floor. Now if you have any experience with mylar balloons, you'll know that they're practically indestructible and last for weeks (or even months). Not this one, apparently. Luckily, while we were sitting around waiting for the race to start, I ran into the other pacer who was taking over for me at the halfway point, and she let me borrow her balloon - although she did seem a little reluctant to hand it over, like she had some questions about my abilities as a balloon-bearer and was wondering if she was ever going to see her balloon again. Anyway, after securing the borrowed balloon securely, I ambled over to the starting area and took my position at the back of the last corral (with approximately 11,000 people in front of me). Pretty soon, the gun went off, there was a whole lot of cheering and shouting, and I started shuffling forward, then stopped, then shuffled a little, and so on until I crossed the start line and hit the start button on my GPS so I could keep track of my pace and stay on track. I may not have really wanted to do this, but by golly, I was going to do it right.
In case you're not aware, 16:40 is not all that fast of a pace. It's somewhere between a stroll and a determined stride, but I used my GPS to get in a groove and tried to ignore the fact that I was falling behind the back end of the marathon. Every once in awhile, one of the stragglers who must have hit the snooze button too many times would pass me and my balloon, but I just kept to the pace. I have to say that this whole thing was pretty surreal. It was like there was a marathon with thousands of participants happening just ahead of me, but I wasn't really a part of it. There's usually a surge of adrenaline and a sense of excitement and energy, but I was feeling none of it. I could see the people at the tail end about 200 yards ahead of me, and it looked like they were having a pretty good time, but there in the back, it was just me and my balloon, maintaining our 16:40 pace.
Nothing much happened until about mile 4, when some guys in a truck drove by, then pulled over by the mile marker and started tearing it down. They took down the sign and the clock, then held it up for me until I waved at them, and then they loaded it into the back of the truck and took off for the next marker. This pattern continued for the next 9 miles, and I have to say, it was pretty darn discouraging. I kept wanting to say - "You know, I really can go faster than this, but I'm supposed to go at this speed. Really. I swear." Instead, I just smiled, waved, and trudged onward, towing my mylar balloon behind.
Which soon started to bug me, because as I walked, the balloon would twirl around in the breeze, and pretty soon, the 8-foot long string/ribbon attached to the balloon got so tangled up that it became a 1-foot long string/ribbon, and the balloon was bonking me every time I took a step. So I unfastened the string, untangled it as best I could, and continued on my 16:40 pace way, waving at the crew taking down the markers every mile. At about mile 6, I spotted Uncle Lou and Aunt Susie (their house is right along the course) and I stopped and chatted with them for a few minutes (I'd built up a little cushion, so I had time to spare), and soon after that, a cop on a motorcycle drove up beside me and told me I was the last walker and that I needed to pick up the pace or he was going to make me start walking on the sidewalk so they could get traffic moving. I was like, "But I'm the pacer," and he was like, "You need to catch up with the rest of the group or move to the side," and since my self-esteem wasn't all that strong at that point (plus, he did have a gun, a nightstick, and probably pepper spray) I figured I'd better go ahead and speed up a bit, so I started doing 15 minute miles and gaining on the group ahead of me, which had thinned out quite a bit. While I was doing this, here are some other things I noticed:
-There aren't any lines for the port-a-potties at the back of the marathon, but they've all been, shall we say, well-used.
-Cheerleaders continue to refer to you as a "runner" (Way to go, Runners! Squeal! Shriek!) even though it's pretty apparent that you're walking and not running - and they refer to you in the plural even when you're clearly alone.
-Cheerleaders really like mylar balloons - a lot (I really like your balloon! A lot! Squeal! Shriek!).
-It's pretty discouraging to watch the water station volunteers breaking down their station as you're approaching.
-If you're used to running instead of walking and you suddenly have to walk instead of run, it's pretty likely that you'll develop some pretty nasty blisters (started about mile 9).
-I really don't like mylar balloons.
-It's pretty discouraging to look down at your watch and realize that people are starting to finish the marathon, but you haven't even reached mile 8.
-I'd always heard that the people at the back of the pack are way more fun than those closer to the front, but I'm not believing that one anymore - of course, I mostly walked by myself, so maybe all I'm saying here is that I'm not all that much fun to be around during a marathon (which I already suspected).
-People start telling you you're "almost there" even earlier when you're a walker than when you're a runner - I first heard that one at mile 11 (personally, I don't think you're "almost there" until you can actually see the finish line).
-There is no way I could have walked the entire marathon - nor do I ever want to do so.
At about mile 10, I finally caught up with the last TNT walker, and we walked together up until the 13.1 point, which we reached almost exactly 3 1/2 hours after starting (which, coincidentally enough, was the same amount of time it took me to run my last marathon). I gratefully passed off the mylar balloon, hopped on a bus, and rode to the finish line where I got my blisters bandaged and headed out to the course where I spent the next few hours running in as many of my teammates as I could (which actually turned out to be quite a few and made me feel better about the day as a whole). Then all the coaches hung around until the final finishers came in at right around the 8 1/2 hour mark. The second to last finisher was a guy who'd recently had a heart transplant, which was pretty amazing, and all of us lined up at the finish and gave him a hero's welcome as he jogged the last fifty yards. Most importantly, all 34 of our Tucson/Sierra Vista athletes finished their event successfully, and TNT as a group raised around $3.2 million at the event. So tomorrow evening, we have our first recruitment meeting for the next season, which officially begins in about a week and a half (Nashville, San Diego, and Seattle). Here's hoping I manage to stay healthy this go-round.
With that, I'll wrap up this tragic tale, hoping that until next time, your balloons remain inflated, your strings remain untangled, and your feet remain blister-free.
Is not, I discovered last Sunday, all that fun of a place to be. Because of my leg issue, I decided to step up and take one for the team by volunteering to be the TNT pacer for the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon. Basically, I was supposed to maintain a 16:40 pace - while carrying a big mylar balloon - for the first 13.1 miles so that everyone could make it to the official cut-off and avoid being removed from the course and bused to the finish line. Sounds pretty simple, doesn't it? Well, my problems began when I got up in the morning and discovered that the mylar balloon they'd given me so people would be able to spot me had lost all its oomph and was lying listlessly on the floor. Now if you have any experience with mylar balloons, you'll know that they're practically indestructible and last for weeks (or even months). Not this one, apparently. Luckily, while we were sitting around waiting for the race to start, I ran into the other pacer who was taking over for me at the halfway point, and she let me borrow her balloon - although she did seem a little reluctant to hand it over, like she had some questions about my abilities as a balloon-bearer and was wondering if she was ever going to see her balloon again. Anyway, after securing the borrowed balloon securely, I ambled over to the starting area and took my position at the back of the last corral (with approximately 11,000 people in front of me). Pretty soon, the gun went off, there was a whole lot of cheering and shouting, and I started shuffling forward, then stopped, then shuffled a little, and so on until I crossed the start line and hit the start button on my GPS so I could keep track of my pace and stay on track. I may not have really wanted to do this, but by golly, I was going to do it right.
In case you're not aware, 16:40 is not all that fast of a pace. It's somewhere between a stroll and a determined stride, but I used my GPS to get in a groove and tried to ignore the fact that I was falling behind the back end of the marathon. Every once in awhile, one of the stragglers who must have hit the snooze button too many times would pass me and my balloon, but I just kept to the pace. I have to say that this whole thing was pretty surreal. It was like there was a marathon with thousands of participants happening just ahead of me, but I wasn't really a part of it. There's usually a surge of adrenaline and a sense of excitement and energy, but I was feeling none of it. I could see the people at the tail end about 200 yards ahead of me, and it looked like they were having a pretty good time, but there in the back, it was just me and my balloon, maintaining our 16:40 pace.
Nothing much happened until about mile 4, when some guys in a truck drove by, then pulled over by the mile marker and started tearing it down. They took down the sign and the clock, then held it up for me until I waved at them, and then they loaded it into the back of the truck and took off for the next marker. This pattern continued for the next 9 miles, and I have to say, it was pretty darn discouraging. I kept wanting to say - "You know, I really can go faster than this, but I'm supposed to go at this speed. Really. I swear." Instead, I just smiled, waved, and trudged onward, towing my mylar balloon behind.
Which soon started to bug me, because as I walked, the balloon would twirl around in the breeze, and pretty soon, the 8-foot long string/ribbon attached to the balloon got so tangled up that it became a 1-foot long string/ribbon, and the balloon was bonking me every time I took a step. So I unfastened the string, untangled it as best I could, and continued on my 16:40 pace way, waving at the crew taking down the markers every mile. At about mile 6, I spotted Uncle Lou and Aunt Susie (their house is right along the course) and I stopped and chatted with them for a few minutes (I'd built up a little cushion, so I had time to spare), and soon after that, a cop on a motorcycle drove up beside me and told me I was the last walker and that I needed to pick up the pace or he was going to make me start walking on the sidewalk so they could get traffic moving. I was like, "But I'm the pacer," and he was like, "You need to catch up with the rest of the group or move to the side," and since my self-esteem wasn't all that strong at that point (plus, he did have a gun, a nightstick, and probably pepper spray) I figured I'd better go ahead and speed up a bit, so I started doing 15 minute miles and gaining on the group ahead of me, which had thinned out quite a bit. While I was doing this, here are some other things I noticed:
-There aren't any lines for the port-a-potties at the back of the marathon, but they've all been, shall we say, well-used.
-Cheerleaders continue to refer to you as a "runner" (Way to go, Runners! Squeal! Shriek!) even though it's pretty apparent that you're walking and not running - and they refer to you in the plural even when you're clearly alone.
-Cheerleaders really like mylar balloons - a lot (I really like your balloon! A lot! Squeal! Shriek!).
-It's pretty discouraging to watch the water station volunteers breaking down their station as you're approaching.
-If you're used to running instead of walking and you suddenly have to walk instead of run, it's pretty likely that you'll develop some pretty nasty blisters (started about mile 9).
-I really don't like mylar balloons.
-It's pretty discouraging to look down at your watch and realize that people are starting to finish the marathon, but you haven't even reached mile 8.
-I'd always heard that the people at the back of the pack are way more fun than those closer to the front, but I'm not believing that one anymore - of course, I mostly walked by myself, so maybe all I'm saying here is that I'm not all that much fun to be around during a marathon (which I already suspected).
-People start telling you you're "almost there" even earlier when you're a walker than when you're a runner - I first heard that one at mile 11 (personally, I don't think you're "almost there" until you can actually see the finish line).
-There is no way I could have walked the entire marathon - nor do I ever want to do so.
At about mile 10, I finally caught up with the last TNT walker, and we walked together up until the 13.1 point, which we reached almost exactly 3 1/2 hours after starting (which, coincidentally enough, was the same amount of time it took me to run my last marathon). I gratefully passed off the mylar balloon, hopped on a bus, and rode to the finish line where I got my blisters bandaged and headed out to the course where I spent the next few hours running in as many of my teammates as I could (which actually turned out to be quite a few and made me feel better about the day as a whole). Then all the coaches hung around until the final finishers came in at right around the 8 1/2 hour mark. The second to last finisher was a guy who'd recently had a heart transplant, which was pretty amazing, and all of us lined up at the finish and gave him a hero's welcome as he jogged the last fifty yards. Most importantly, all 34 of our Tucson/Sierra Vista athletes finished their event successfully, and TNT as a group raised around $3.2 million at the event. So tomorrow evening, we have our first recruitment meeting for the next season, which officially begins in about a week and a half (Nashville, San Diego, and Seattle). Here's hoping I manage to stay healthy this go-round.
With that, I'll wrap up this tragic tale, hoping that until next time, your balloons remain inflated, your strings remain untangled, and your feet remain blister-free.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Bats, Cats, and Trivial Facts
A day late and a dollar short
The bad news is that I put off writing an entry this week - largely because I was busy feeling sorry for myself due to the fact that I wasn't able to run all week because of a bum wheel. I figured if I tried to post an entry, I'd just wind up whining about how much of a bummer it is not to be able to run, and how I'm worried because I'm supposed to coach at the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon next weekend, and I'm never going to be able to run again, and the world is spinning into an endless vortex of gloom and doom, and so on, and who wants to read (or write) that. Certainly not me. Therefore, since I'm now posting an entry, it would be reasonable to assume that something has changed (which would be correct - good job all of you who made this assumption). The first piece of good news is that my fellow coach, Lauren, actually commented about me not posting an entry, which means that at least one person out there is actually reading this thing (always good to know). The second piece of good news is that I think I've gotten over my gloominess, largely because I went to my TNT practice this morning, and even though I wasn't able to run with the group, I was still able to walk, and I wound up walking with a couple of teammates for several miles, including one whose husband is currently in chemo for melanoma, which was one of those, "What the heck do I have to complain about?" kind of deals for me. Seriously, what the heck do I have to complain about? Plus, if my leg doesn't clear up in the next week, the worst thing that happens is I wind up being the "sweeper" in the marathon - which means I'll have to walk really slow for a really long time carrying a bunch of mylar balloons. Hmm… not sure about that one. Guess I'll keep hoping I heal.
The cat's in the cradle and the bat's in the belfry
My son, Connor, as many of you already know - is somewhat unique. He's a good kid, but he's got some very definite quirks (we have no idea where these quirks came from - some recessive gene that's lurked in the shadows for generations, I'm sure). Along with all that, though, he is pretty funny at times. Like yesterday afternoon, when we were talking about when we would watch the movie "Batman Forever" which he had taped earlier in the week. First of all, you have to know that Connor is a complete Batmaniac. He's pretty much obsessed with Batman, and there are times when he'll spend (literally) several hours talking about nothing but Batman. Literally. I'm really not kidding (and yes, it is pretty darned annoying after awhile). If you know anything about the Batman movies, you probably already figured something was kind of quirky about Connor, seeing as how he taped "Batman Forever" which is the one starring Val Kilmer as Batman, Tommy Lee Jones as Two-Face, Jim Carrey as The Riddler, and Nicole Kidman as the love interest for Batman/Bruce Wayne (plus, it's the one that introduces Robin - Chris O'Donnell - into the story). Anyway, the story itself is pretty ridiculous (something about an invention that sucks out people's brainwaves and makes The Riddler super-smart, although he never seems to actually get smarter even though he's sucking out the brainwaves of just about every person in Gotham City - which is a lot of people) and the acting is really, really bad (at times, Tommy Lee Jones actually seems like he's trying to out-overact Jim Carrey, which, if you think about it, is a pretty much like me trying to out-run the elite runners in a marathon). Anyhow, I had this whole "Batman Forever" thing going for awhile, as in, "Are you going to watch Batman Forever, Connor? Or are you going to watch Batman, forever? Or are you going to watch Batman Forever forever?) which was kind of funny - at least to me. Although I have to admit that after reading this over, it doesn't really seem very funny at all, so I guess it was one of those you-had-to-be-there deals. At some point, though, I got tired of that whole thing and asked Connor if he would like to watch "Batman Forever" with me that evening since his mom (who is also my wife) was going to the Y to swim and lift weights. I figured it would be a great bonding opportunity for a boy and his father - sitting on the couch watching a poorly written and terribly acted movie that the boy really, really likes and the dad (in the interest of full disclosure) also kind of likes, even though it's really poorly written and terribly acted. So I expected Connor to say something like, "Sure, Dad, that would be great!" Instead, he said, "Let me check my calendar." O-kay. Luckily, he was able to squeeze me in.
Rockin' and Rollin'
As mentioned earlier, today was our final team practice before the marathon next Sunday in Phoenix. As always, it's amazing to realize how far people have come in the past five months. We have runners and walkers of all abilities and experience levels, and quite a few of them started, pretty much, from scratch. In addition to putting in all those hours of training, they've also raised tens of thousands of dollars for cancer research and support. When we get to the event, we'll join up with team members from all over the country, and when all is said and done, we will have raised tens of millions of dollars. We'll walk/run across a large portion of Phoenix, and after the last walker has stumbled across the finish line, we'll pack up our gear and head back to the hotel for a well-deserved rest. And then, just a couple of days later, quite a few of us will start the whole process over with a new group of athletes who will train for marathons/half-marathons in Nashville, San Diego and Seattle. For many of us, the beat does go on.
All right, it's just about time for me to go watch the Wildcats take on the Beavers, so until next time (which may not be till after the marathon) may your good news balance out your bad, may your movies enlighten and entertain, and may your rock continue to roll.
The bad news is that I put off writing an entry this week - largely because I was busy feeling sorry for myself due to the fact that I wasn't able to run all week because of a bum wheel. I figured if I tried to post an entry, I'd just wind up whining about how much of a bummer it is not to be able to run, and how I'm worried because I'm supposed to coach at the Phoenix Rock 'n' Roll marathon next weekend, and I'm never going to be able to run again, and the world is spinning into an endless vortex of gloom and doom, and so on, and who wants to read (or write) that. Certainly not me. Therefore, since I'm now posting an entry, it would be reasonable to assume that something has changed (which would be correct - good job all of you who made this assumption). The first piece of good news is that my fellow coach, Lauren, actually commented about me not posting an entry, which means that at least one person out there is actually reading this thing (always good to know). The second piece of good news is that I think I've gotten over my gloominess, largely because I went to my TNT practice this morning, and even though I wasn't able to run with the group, I was still able to walk, and I wound up walking with a couple of teammates for several miles, including one whose husband is currently in chemo for melanoma, which was one of those, "What the heck do I have to complain about?" kind of deals for me. Seriously, what the heck do I have to complain about? Plus, if my leg doesn't clear up in the next week, the worst thing that happens is I wind up being the "sweeper" in the marathon - which means I'll have to walk really slow for a really long time carrying a bunch of mylar balloons. Hmm… not sure about that one. Guess I'll keep hoping I heal.
The cat's in the cradle and the bat's in the belfry
My son, Connor, as many of you already know - is somewhat unique. He's a good kid, but he's got some very definite quirks (we have no idea where these quirks came from - some recessive gene that's lurked in the shadows for generations, I'm sure). Along with all that, though, he is pretty funny at times. Like yesterday afternoon, when we were talking about when we would watch the movie "Batman Forever" which he had taped earlier in the week. First of all, you have to know that Connor is a complete Batmaniac. He's pretty much obsessed with Batman, and there are times when he'll spend (literally) several hours talking about nothing but Batman. Literally. I'm really not kidding (and yes, it is pretty darned annoying after awhile). If you know anything about the Batman movies, you probably already figured something was kind of quirky about Connor, seeing as how he taped "Batman Forever" which is the one starring Val Kilmer as Batman, Tommy Lee Jones as Two-Face, Jim Carrey as The Riddler, and Nicole Kidman as the love interest for Batman/Bruce Wayne (plus, it's the one that introduces Robin - Chris O'Donnell - into the story). Anyway, the story itself is pretty ridiculous (something about an invention that sucks out people's brainwaves and makes The Riddler super-smart, although he never seems to actually get smarter even though he's sucking out the brainwaves of just about every person in Gotham City - which is a lot of people) and the acting is really, really bad (at times, Tommy Lee Jones actually seems like he's trying to out-overact Jim Carrey, which, if you think about it, is a pretty much like me trying to out-run the elite runners in a marathon). Anyhow, I had this whole "Batman Forever" thing going for awhile, as in, "Are you going to watch Batman Forever, Connor? Or are you going to watch Batman, forever? Or are you going to watch Batman Forever forever?) which was kind of funny - at least to me. Although I have to admit that after reading this over, it doesn't really seem very funny at all, so I guess it was one of those you-had-to-be-there deals. At some point, though, I got tired of that whole thing and asked Connor if he would like to watch "Batman Forever" with me that evening since his mom (who is also my wife) was going to the Y to swim and lift weights. I figured it would be a great bonding opportunity for a boy and his father - sitting on the couch watching a poorly written and terribly acted movie that the boy really, really likes and the dad (in the interest of full disclosure) also kind of likes, even though it's really poorly written and terribly acted. So I expected Connor to say something like, "Sure, Dad, that would be great!" Instead, he said, "Let me check my calendar." O-kay. Luckily, he was able to squeeze me in.
Rockin' and Rollin'
As mentioned earlier, today was our final team practice before the marathon next Sunday in Phoenix. As always, it's amazing to realize how far people have come in the past five months. We have runners and walkers of all abilities and experience levels, and quite a few of them started, pretty much, from scratch. In addition to putting in all those hours of training, they've also raised tens of thousands of dollars for cancer research and support. When we get to the event, we'll join up with team members from all over the country, and when all is said and done, we will have raised tens of millions of dollars. We'll walk/run across a large portion of Phoenix, and after the last walker has stumbled across the finish line, we'll pack up our gear and head back to the hotel for a well-deserved rest. And then, just a couple of days later, quite a few of us will start the whole process over with a new group of athletes who will train for marathons/half-marathons in Nashville, San Diego and Seattle. For many of us, the beat does go on.
All right, it's just about time for me to go watch the Wildcats take on the Beavers, so until next time (which may not be till after the marathon) may your good news balance out your bad, may your movies enlighten and entertain, and may your rock continue to roll.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Communication Breakdown, Birds, and a Brand New Year
Apparently, I don't speak fluent female
About a month ago, I was going to buy new running shoes, and since Katie needed to go to the Home Depot to get some paint, we, being environmentally-aware citizens of the world, decided we should go together rather than make two trips. As we climbed into the car, Katie asked me if there was a dry cleaner on the way, and I said I wasn't sure but thought there might be one. So off we went, and I said that I believed there might be a cleaner next to the supermarket, and she didn't really say anything, so I drove right on by the supermarket without turning in for a look-see, and then I spotted a cleaner up the road a bit and I pointed it out, and she didn't really say anything, so I kept on driving, which was apparently a really stupid thing to do, because I should have known that she wanted me to go to the cleaner. I pointed out that she hadn't said she actually wanted me to take her to the cleaner, just that she wanted me to find one, which I had done. She said that was ridiculous because if I was a woman, I would have known what she meant rather than listening to what she actually said (like a man), to which I replied, "But honey, I am a man," to which she made a snarky comment that I replied to in what I thought was a mildly amusing manner but she found irritating (in my defense, Carrie, who was riding along with us, found the whole argument to be pretty entertaining). Anyway, we went to the running shop and got my shoes, and as I was paying, Katie asked them if there was a cleaner in the shopping center, which there was, and we took the dress in there. I only recalled this little incident, because yesterday, Katie asked Carrie to go and get her some socks, which Carrie did, then Katie got on her case because she didn't bring her the "fluffy socks" that she really wanted, and Carrie said (quite reasonably, in my opinion), "But you didn't ask for the fluffy socks," and Katie said, "But you knew I wanted the fluffy socks," and they went back and forth like this for awhile, and I was sitting there listening and feeling a little bit vindicated. Which is probably petty, but oh well.
Weird bird incidents
Incident #1: When I was just a lad, I loved to play golf as much as possible, and one day as I was playing, I hit a beautiful nine-iron into the second green at the Airport Golf Course in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I stood there admiring my shot, watching the ball soar through the air, when suddenly, the ball smacked into a bird that was flying along and bird and ball fell to the ground, both of them well short of the green and deader than doornails (not surprising for the golf ball, of course, since it had never been alive). I'm not sure if this is an official rule, but my friend and I decided that as far as we were concerned, anytime you hit a bird in flight with your golf ball, your score on the hole is - can you see it coming? - a birdie.
Incident #2: Some of you may remember the epic battle from several years back when I tried to overseed my lawn with rye grass. I spent the entire day prepping the lawn, spreading seed and fertilizer, and hauling and raking mulch, then came out the next morning and found approximately nine thousand birds eating all the seeds. And in the middle of this ocean of birds sat Barney the dog, not doing a darn thing to stop them.
Incident #3: Most people think of the bald eagle as a majestic, noble creature, seeing as how it's all noble and majestic looking, with its steely gaze and fierce visage and all that jazz. Plus, it's the symbol of our great nation and symbolizes how noble and majestic and fierce-visaged and steely-gazed all of us Americans are. Well, all of that changed for me one day a couple of years ago when Katie and I were in Valdez, Alaska and saw a bunch of bald eagles being chased by seagulls. Apparently, the bald eagles are scavengers, and the gulls chase them away from their food, and even though the bald eagles are much larger (not to mention more noble and majestic-looking) than the gulls, the gulls must be tougher because the eagles seem pretty scared of them. So there was one particular bald eagle being chased by several seagulls, and this particular bald eagle was flying as fast as it could, swooping and swirling and taking other evasive actions until finally, in a desperate attempt to get away from the seagulls, it flew straight into a tree - thunk - and fell to the ground, where it sat shaking its head and then stumbled around like an eagle that's just flown into a tree.
Incident #4: Yesterday, Katie and I were driving home from a movie ("The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," which actually was a pretty darned curious case). I was going about 45 miles an hour on Oracle Road (what is it about Oracle Road? Among other things, I've seen four nuns in a Ford Taurus, a ninja jogger, and a monkey in a cage all on this one road) when all the sudden, out of nowhere, a large something flashed across my vision and - wham - smacked into the top of the windshield right in front of Katie, scaring the heck out of both of us and cracking the windshield. I'm pretty sure it was a hawk, and if it would've been a few inches lower, I think it might have come right through the windshield and wound up on Katie's lap. And no, I don't know what happened to the hawk, but I doubt if it could've been good.
Sunrise, Sunset
The Lute Olsen era has ended at the University of Arizona. The Mike Shanahan era has ended in Denver. I saw Larry Bird on a commercial the other day, and he looked older than Greg Oden (who's actually pretty young). Caitlyn went to orientation for her first job this morning. Carrie is going to turn 15 in a few days - which means she'll be driving before we know it (and we'll be adding another driver on our insurance - ouch). It's 2009(!). Wow.
With that, I'll sign off until next time, hoping that your communication with loved ones remains fluent and clear, your birdies stay on the golf course and out of your vehicles, and 2009 turns out to be the best year yet.
About a month ago, I was going to buy new running shoes, and since Katie needed to go to the Home Depot to get some paint, we, being environmentally-aware citizens of the world, decided we should go together rather than make two trips. As we climbed into the car, Katie asked me if there was a dry cleaner on the way, and I said I wasn't sure but thought there might be one. So off we went, and I said that I believed there might be a cleaner next to the supermarket, and she didn't really say anything, so I drove right on by the supermarket without turning in for a look-see, and then I spotted a cleaner up the road a bit and I pointed it out, and she didn't really say anything, so I kept on driving, which was apparently a really stupid thing to do, because I should have known that she wanted me to go to the cleaner. I pointed out that she hadn't said she actually wanted me to take her to the cleaner, just that she wanted me to find one, which I had done. She said that was ridiculous because if I was a woman, I would have known what she meant rather than listening to what she actually said (like a man), to which I replied, "But honey, I am a man," to which she made a snarky comment that I replied to in what I thought was a mildly amusing manner but she found irritating (in my defense, Carrie, who was riding along with us, found the whole argument to be pretty entertaining). Anyway, we went to the running shop and got my shoes, and as I was paying, Katie asked them if there was a cleaner in the shopping center, which there was, and we took the dress in there. I only recalled this little incident, because yesterday, Katie asked Carrie to go and get her some socks, which Carrie did, then Katie got on her case because she didn't bring her the "fluffy socks" that she really wanted, and Carrie said (quite reasonably, in my opinion), "But you didn't ask for the fluffy socks," and Katie said, "But you knew I wanted the fluffy socks," and they went back and forth like this for awhile, and I was sitting there listening and feeling a little bit vindicated. Which is probably petty, but oh well.
Weird bird incidents
Incident #1: When I was just a lad, I loved to play golf as much as possible, and one day as I was playing, I hit a beautiful nine-iron into the second green at the Airport Golf Course in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I stood there admiring my shot, watching the ball soar through the air, when suddenly, the ball smacked into a bird that was flying along and bird and ball fell to the ground, both of them well short of the green and deader than doornails (not surprising for the golf ball, of course, since it had never been alive). I'm not sure if this is an official rule, but my friend and I decided that as far as we were concerned, anytime you hit a bird in flight with your golf ball, your score on the hole is - can you see it coming? - a birdie.
Incident #2: Some of you may remember the epic battle from several years back when I tried to overseed my lawn with rye grass. I spent the entire day prepping the lawn, spreading seed and fertilizer, and hauling and raking mulch, then came out the next morning and found approximately nine thousand birds eating all the seeds. And in the middle of this ocean of birds sat Barney the dog, not doing a darn thing to stop them.
Incident #3: Most people think of the bald eagle as a majestic, noble creature, seeing as how it's all noble and majestic looking, with its steely gaze and fierce visage and all that jazz. Plus, it's the symbol of our great nation and symbolizes how noble and majestic and fierce-visaged and steely-gazed all of us Americans are. Well, all of that changed for me one day a couple of years ago when Katie and I were in Valdez, Alaska and saw a bunch of bald eagles being chased by seagulls. Apparently, the bald eagles are scavengers, and the gulls chase them away from their food, and even though the bald eagles are much larger (not to mention more noble and majestic-looking) than the gulls, the gulls must be tougher because the eagles seem pretty scared of them. So there was one particular bald eagle being chased by several seagulls, and this particular bald eagle was flying as fast as it could, swooping and swirling and taking other evasive actions until finally, in a desperate attempt to get away from the seagulls, it flew straight into a tree - thunk - and fell to the ground, where it sat shaking its head and then stumbled around like an eagle that's just flown into a tree.
Incident #4: Yesterday, Katie and I were driving home from a movie ("The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," which actually was a pretty darned curious case). I was going about 45 miles an hour on Oracle Road (what is it about Oracle Road? Among other things, I've seen four nuns in a Ford Taurus, a ninja jogger, and a monkey in a cage all on this one road) when all the sudden, out of nowhere, a large something flashed across my vision and - wham - smacked into the top of the windshield right in front of Katie, scaring the heck out of both of us and cracking the windshield. I'm pretty sure it was a hawk, and if it would've been a few inches lower, I think it might have come right through the windshield and wound up on Katie's lap. And no, I don't know what happened to the hawk, but I doubt if it could've been good.
Sunrise, Sunset
The Lute Olsen era has ended at the University of Arizona. The Mike Shanahan era has ended in Denver. I saw Larry Bird on a commercial the other day, and he looked older than Greg Oden (who's actually pretty young). Caitlyn went to orientation for her first job this morning. Carrie is going to turn 15 in a few days - which means she'll be driving before we know it (and we'll be adding another driver on our insurance - ouch). It's 2009(!). Wow.
With that, I'll sign off until next time, hoping that your communication with loved ones remains fluent and clear, your birdies stay on the golf course and out of your vehicles, and 2009 turns out to be the best year yet.
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