Runnin' with the Dorado-ettes
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Long Rides and Dead Batteries
Strange characters dressed in spandex
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Fingerprints, Boston and Balloons
Book 'im, Dano
Thanks to the wise and powerful Arizona legislators, I, as well as all other public school employees (and probably a lot of other employees) am required to get fingerprinted in order to prove that I'm not a criminal (at least, I'm guessing that's the reason, though I suppose I could be wrong). So about 8 or so years ago, I submitted to this, and I remember feeling disgruntled and disrespected - which is often a feeling I have when the wise and powerful Arizona legislators stick their noses into the education business. Anyway, I got over it and figured it was a one and done deal. Little did I know that for whatever reason, the fingerprints only last for 8 years. So I found out a couple of weeks ago that I needed to go and get fingerprinted again. Now let's think about this. I mean, I thought it was pretty stupid to have to get fingerprinted in the first place, but having to get fingerprinted in the second place makes no sense whatsoever (at least to me). I assume that if I had decided to commit a crime in the past 8 years, and if I had been arrested and convicted of that crime, they would have matched up my fingerprints and said, "Hey, this guy is a criminal and a teacher. That's not a good thing." But what happens after eight years? Do my fingerprints change? I don't think so. Are they worried that I might have burned them off with acid or something (like getting them surgically altered) in order to be able to commit crimes, get arrested and be convicted without having my fingerprints reveal that I'm also a teacher? I just don't get it. But because I didn't see that I had a choice in the matter, I went ahead and signed up for a time to get my fingerprints taken, got my money order (to make this even better, it also cost me around 80 bucks to get the fingerprints that I didn't want to have done, done). And I drove all the way across town to the Sheriff's station, found the fingerprint division, and went in. I have to admit, I was kind of taken aback. I'm not sure why, but I was thinking this would be a "cop place" with a bunch of cops sitting at desks and a gruff sergeant at the desk. I imagined there would be shady looking characters sitting on wooden benches with handcuffs securing them in place, bad coffee, and some juicy "cop talk" about perps and un-subs and the like. This was nothing like that. Instead, it was like an old folks' home. The lady at the front desk - was old. The guy taking someone else's prints - was old. And the lady that called my name to take my prints - was old. And when some volunteers came in from whatever it was they'd been doing - they were old too. And the "cop talk" sounded a lot like bickering about why they were back so soon and why they didn't take the right box of whatever they were supposed to take, and stuff like that. Anyway, as the lady took my fingerprints, she made a comment about how nice my fingerprints were. Now what do you say to that? I mean, I've been told I have nice teeth, and nice eyes and even some other stuff that I won't go into here because I doubt anyone wants to hear it, but this was definitely a first, and I have to admit that I was kind of flattered. I mean, I always thought I had some pretty nice prints - sometimes I'll press my fingertip on a piece of metal and admire the resultant print - but it's nice to hear it from someone else. Especially someone who has probably seen thousands of fingerprints.
Official confirmation for Boston
As many of you are probably aware, last December I ran the race of my life and managed to qualify for the Boston marathon (with exactly 26 seconds to spare). Figuring this was a once in a lifetime opportunity (seeing as how I ran the race of my life) I went ahead and signed up several weeks ago. Now usually when I sign up for a marathon, it's a simple matter of filling out the information and paying the fee, but for this one I had to submit my time and the event so they could check and make sure I wasn't trying to scam my way in. So it took several weeks, but just the other day I received my "official confirmation" from the Boston Athletic Club, and I have to admit it gave me a little bit of a goosebumpy moment.
Balloon Boy
How stupid was that whole thing?
The U of A game is on, so I guess that's all for now. Until next time, may your fingerprints remain breathtakingly beautiful, may your aspirations remain achievable, and may your feet remain planted firmly on the ground (unless you're taking a trip and flying… or skydiving… or hang gliding… or cliff diving… or traveling in a zeppelin… or jumping for joy… or experiencing zero gravity… or, okay I think you get the idea).
Thanks to the wise and powerful Arizona legislators, I, as well as all other public school employees (and probably a lot of other employees) am required to get fingerprinted in order to prove that I'm not a criminal (at least, I'm guessing that's the reason, though I suppose I could be wrong). So about 8 or so years ago, I submitted to this, and I remember feeling disgruntled and disrespected - which is often a feeling I have when the wise and powerful Arizona legislators stick their noses into the education business. Anyway, I got over it and figured it was a one and done deal. Little did I know that for whatever reason, the fingerprints only last for 8 years. So I found out a couple of weeks ago that I needed to go and get fingerprinted again. Now let's think about this. I mean, I thought it was pretty stupid to have to get fingerprinted in the first place, but having to get fingerprinted in the second place makes no sense whatsoever (at least to me). I assume that if I had decided to commit a crime in the past 8 years, and if I had been arrested and convicted of that crime, they would have matched up my fingerprints and said, "Hey, this guy is a criminal and a teacher. That's not a good thing." But what happens after eight years? Do my fingerprints change? I don't think so. Are they worried that I might have burned them off with acid or something (like getting them surgically altered) in order to be able to commit crimes, get arrested and be convicted without having my fingerprints reveal that I'm also a teacher? I just don't get it. But because I didn't see that I had a choice in the matter, I went ahead and signed up for a time to get my fingerprints taken, got my money order (to make this even better, it also cost me around 80 bucks to get the fingerprints that I didn't want to have done, done). And I drove all the way across town to the Sheriff's station, found the fingerprint division, and went in. I have to admit, I was kind of taken aback. I'm not sure why, but I was thinking this would be a "cop place" with a bunch of cops sitting at desks and a gruff sergeant at the desk. I imagined there would be shady looking characters sitting on wooden benches with handcuffs securing them in place, bad coffee, and some juicy "cop talk" about perps and un-subs and the like. This was nothing like that. Instead, it was like an old folks' home. The lady at the front desk - was old. The guy taking someone else's prints - was old. And the lady that called my name to take my prints - was old. And when some volunteers came in from whatever it was they'd been doing - they were old too. And the "cop talk" sounded a lot like bickering about why they were back so soon and why they didn't take the right box of whatever they were supposed to take, and stuff like that. Anyway, as the lady took my fingerprints, she made a comment about how nice my fingerprints were. Now what do you say to that? I mean, I've been told I have nice teeth, and nice eyes and even some other stuff that I won't go into here because I doubt anyone wants to hear it, but this was definitely a first, and I have to admit that I was kind of flattered. I mean, I always thought I had some pretty nice prints - sometimes I'll press my fingertip on a piece of metal and admire the resultant print - but it's nice to hear it from someone else. Especially someone who has probably seen thousands of fingerprints.
Official confirmation for Boston
As many of you are probably aware, last December I ran the race of my life and managed to qualify for the Boston marathon (with exactly 26 seconds to spare). Figuring this was a once in a lifetime opportunity (seeing as how I ran the race of my life) I went ahead and signed up several weeks ago. Now usually when I sign up for a marathon, it's a simple matter of filling out the information and paying the fee, but for this one I had to submit my time and the event so they could check and make sure I wasn't trying to scam my way in. So it took several weeks, but just the other day I received my "official confirmation" from the Boston Athletic Club, and I have to admit it gave me a little bit of a goosebumpy moment.
Balloon Boy
How stupid was that whole thing?
The U of A game is on, so I guess that's all for now. Until next time, may your fingerprints remain breathtakingly beautiful, may your aspirations remain achievable, and may your feet remain planted firmly on the ground (unless you're taking a trip and flying… or skydiving… or hang gliding… or cliff diving… or traveling in a zeppelin… or jumping for joy… or experiencing zero gravity… or, okay I think you get the idea).
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Joe D., Dissing the Cat, and the Running Roller Coaster
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
The short answer is that I've been too busy/distracted/lazy/slothful/irresponsible/etc. to post any entries. Or maybe nothing has happened that seems worth writing about (though that hasn't really stopped me before - case in point, I'm currently writing about not writing, which is either a clever and insightful example of irony or a desperate attempt to fill this space, and in the end, does it really matter?). So the bottom line is that millions of readers world-wide have been desperately craving a fix of mildly amusing anecdotal entries. Can you imagine the horror of such a situation? Grim-face, empty-eyed automatons shuffling joylessly through the long and tedious hours of their days without even a ray of hope to shine a light at the end of the tunnel. It's enough to make one shudder. And I feel really bad about it. So bad, that I'm currently entering an entry in an effort to alleviate the gloom and cut through the fog. So if you're reading this, we'll assume your day just got a little bit better. And on we go.
More cat news
In my desperate search for events worth mulling over and then spewing out on these pages, I turn once again to the cat known as "She-she Squeakers Kittyface" because she's a highly interesting character whose struggles and exploits shed light on the human condition in highly metaphorical ways that require deeply thoughtful analysis. Or not. Anyway, she's a very strange cat, as all cats seem to be, but she's becoming even friendlier as time goes by. Case in point, the other night, she even allowed me to pet her while she sat next to me on the couch - and I only had to hold her a little to keep her from getting away. But she's still weird, and Carrie and I were commenting on one of the weird things she was doing the other day, when Katie happened to overhear us and got quite offended because we were making fun of "her" cat. For some reason, she decided to perceive this as a personal attack on her as a cat owner, don't ask me why. Now I've heard about certain people who get all wrapped up in their children and feel that everything their kids do is a reflection on them, and even certain people who get all wrapped up in their dogs and dress them up like people and let them sleep in their bed at night and stuff like that, but this seemed like a little bit of an over-reaction to me (and to Carrie). Anyway, to be forewarned is to be forearmed, so the next time you see Katie, make sure you only say complimentary things about the cat or she'll probably get all up in your face and slap you down - or she'll cry. And I don't know which would be worse.
The life of a runner…
At least for me these days, is filled with ups and downs and fits and starts. The good news is that I recently had the first two-week stretch of the year where nothing really hurt. No bursitis in my hip flexors, no achilles aches, just nice relaxed runs that felt good before, during and after. The bad news is that since then my calves have decided to act up - first the left and then the right, and while neither seems to be a major issue, it's enough to be frustrating and make me wonder what the heck is going on. But I'm still able to get out and about, and I've only really missed a couple of runs, and maybe it all serves as a reminder of how great it is when everything goes well, but maybe it's also a reminder of the fact that I'm not a spring chicken anymore and there are even dark moments when I wonder whether give the whole thing up and switch over to full-time cycling or something. Of course, then I read about 70-year-olds who run sub 3-hour marathons or who've run tens of thousands of days in a row without ever skipping a day and I make a wish upon a star and hope for the best. And this afternoon, I'll go for a run. And I'll enjoy the heck out of every mile.
A few more random magnetic word sentences found in my classroom at the end of the day
•We could make you poison prisoner's pie, but life always smiles.
•Blow off love for champagne.
•Santa is kissing my ferocious squirming reindeer.
Can anyone believe the Broncos are 5-0?
It's a strange and mysterious world.
There's no topping that last one, so until next time, which will hopefully be sooner than it was this time, may your deadlines be reachable, may your ups outweigh your downs, and may your favorite football team beat the Patriots in overtime (unless your favorite team happens to be the Patriots, in which case I hope you wind up in a tie).
The short answer is that I've been too busy/distracted/lazy/slothful/irresponsible/etc. to post any entries. Or maybe nothing has happened that seems worth writing about (though that hasn't really stopped me before - case in point, I'm currently writing about not writing, which is either a clever and insightful example of irony or a desperate attempt to fill this space, and in the end, does it really matter?). So the bottom line is that millions of readers world-wide have been desperately craving a fix of mildly amusing anecdotal entries. Can you imagine the horror of such a situation? Grim-face, empty-eyed automatons shuffling joylessly through the long and tedious hours of their days without even a ray of hope to shine a light at the end of the tunnel. It's enough to make one shudder. And I feel really bad about it. So bad, that I'm currently entering an entry in an effort to alleviate the gloom and cut through the fog. So if you're reading this, we'll assume your day just got a little bit better. And on we go.
More cat news
In my desperate search for events worth mulling over and then spewing out on these pages, I turn once again to the cat known as "She-she Squeakers Kittyface" because she's a highly interesting character whose struggles and exploits shed light on the human condition in highly metaphorical ways that require deeply thoughtful analysis. Or not. Anyway, she's a very strange cat, as all cats seem to be, but she's becoming even friendlier as time goes by. Case in point, the other night, she even allowed me to pet her while she sat next to me on the couch - and I only had to hold her a little to keep her from getting away. But she's still weird, and Carrie and I were commenting on one of the weird things she was doing the other day, when Katie happened to overhear us and got quite offended because we were making fun of "her" cat. For some reason, she decided to perceive this as a personal attack on her as a cat owner, don't ask me why. Now I've heard about certain people who get all wrapped up in their children and feel that everything their kids do is a reflection on them, and even certain people who get all wrapped up in their dogs and dress them up like people and let them sleep in their bed at night and stuff like that, but this seemed like a little bit of an over-reaction to me (and to Carrie). Anyway, to be forewarned is to be forearmed, so the next time you see Katie, make sure you only say complimentary things about the cat or she'll probably get all up in your face and slap you down - or she'll cry. And I don't know which would be worse.
The life of a runner…
At least for me these days, is filled with ups and downs and fits and starts. The good news is that I recently had the first two-week stretch of the year where nothing really hurt. No bursitis in my hip flexors, no achilles aches, just nice relaxed runs that felt good before, during and after. The bad news is that since then my calves have decided to act up - first the left and then the right, and while neither seems to be a major issue, it's enough to be frustrating and make me wonder what the heck is going on. But I'm still able to get out and about, and I've only really missed a couple of runs, and maybe it all serves as a reminder of how great it is when everything goes well, but maybe it's also a reminder of the fact that I'm not a spring chicken anymore and there are even dark moments when I wonder whether give the whole thing up and switch over to full-time cycling or something. Of course, then I read about 70-year-olds who run sub 3-hour marathons or who've run tens of thousands of days in a row without ever skipping a day and I make a wish upon a star and hope for the best. And this afternoon, I'll go for a run. And I'll enjoy the heck out of every mile.
A few more random magnetic word sentences found in my classroom at the end of the day
•We could make you poison prisoner's pie, but life always smiles.
•Blow off love for champagne.
•Santa is kissing my ferocious squirming reindeer.
Can anyone believe the Broncos are 5-0?
It's a strange and mysterious world.
There's no topping that last one, so until next time, which will hopefully be sooner than it was this time, may your deadlines be reachable, may your ups outweigh your downs, and may your favorite football team beat the Patriots in overtime (unless your favorite team happens to be the Patriots, in which case I hope you wind up in a tie).
Friday, September 4, 2009
Missing Socks and Birthday Cake
The Amazing and Mysterious Case of the Missing Socks
I'd be willing to bet that just about anyone who has these four items - a pair of socks, a washing machine, and a dryer - has at some point in their life been faced with this great, universal mystery of life, namely, why is it that you often put two socks into a washing machine or dryer but only one sock comes out? For years, my answer to that question was to blame my lovely and long-suffering wife, Katie, because she was the one doing the majority of the sock-washing (and drying), and since she was doing the sock-washing, it made sense to blame her when my socks went into the laundry two-by-two, then returned, solitary and alone. Now before you jump up out of your chair (or wherever you're sitting) to defend Katie and blame the villainous appliances, I should note that the culprit in this situation, quite often, was Katie, in that she would mistakenly put my sock with laundry belonging to one of the kids, so they would take my sock and stow it away in their dresser drawers (which, in my mind, means that they're really the ones to blame, because my socks are quite distinct from theirs and they should recognize an unfamiliar sock among their own, say to themselves, "Hey, that doesn't look like one of my socks, maybe I should find out who it belongs to," and return it to their rightful owner, which would be me). But because they were thoughtless and nonchalant, they didn't do that, and instead, crammed my sock into their drawer with their socks, where it would languish for days/weeks until I went searching through their drawers and discovered/rescued it from this purgatorious state. So this might seem like a whole lot of to-do over something pretty minor, and in the grand scheme of life the universe and everything, I suppose that might be true, but ever since I converted to the non-cotton-sock club, I've grown quite attached to my specially constructed running socks, so when one of them goes missing, I get a little upset (plus, the darned things are pretty darned expensive, and I am, as has been previously noted on previous occasions, a bit of a miser when it comes to monetary issues).
So the upshot of all this is that I started washing all my socks (and other running/cycling gear) separately so that I would be in complete control of the process from start to finish. And, for quite awhile, that seemed to solve the problem. I would put a pair of socks in the washing machine, and when it was done washing, spinning, rinsing, and cycling through all its cycles, I would take a pair of socks out. Perfect. Until last week, that is, when I pulled my laundry out of the machine, began to sort it and discovered… that I was missing two socks! Seriously. Not just one, but two. And not a pair of two, but one from one pair and one from another. Imagine my sorrow and dismay. Well, needless to say, I was quite dismayed and sorrowful (as well as frustrated) and I immediately set out to find the missing socks. First, I figured they might still be in the machine, and maybe I overlooked them in my haste. So I took a second, and even a third look, but found no socks. Then I thought maybe I had dropped them on the way from my bedroom to the laundry room, so I carefully retraced my steps, examining the floor carefully for any sign of a stray sock, but once again, found nothing. Then I thought maybe I had accidentally tossed them past the laundry basket so they might be lodged in an odd nook or cranny in my room, but though I searched all nooks and every cranny, I still found neither sock. Needless to say, I was heartbroken as I went to bed that night. Where could the missing socks be? How could my perfect system have failed so miserably? All night, I tossed and turned as nightmare visions of my socks, lonely and neglected, plagued my dreams. But at some point, I decided that I must soldier on. So soldier on I did.
For several days. Until, out of the blue, I had a sudden thought. A strange and wonderful and slightly zany idea popped into my head. The cat. Likes to hide under the bed. And cats are strange animals. And this cat is especially strange, even for a cat. And strange cat-type animals might like to steal socks. So maybe our cat (She-she Squeakers Kittyface) had stolen two of my socks out of the basket, pulled them under the bed and… well, I can't describe what she might have done with them, partly because I really don't have any idea, and partly because I'm making an effort to keep these entries appropriate for all ages. So I went to the bedroom, got down on hands and knees, and peered into the dark and mysterious world that makes up the world under the bed - and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of missing socks, and eight tiny reindeer (not really, it was just the socks). The mystery was solved. And now, I make sure to put my socks underneath something substantial (like a shirt) whenever I put them in the laundry basket - hopefully all will be well that will end well.
Let them eat cake
Connor celebrated his birthday last week, and we decided to participate in the strange birthday custom in which you bake a cake for the birthday person (where does this come from, anyway?). So he came up to me before I went to the store and said, "Dad, will you get me cake mix for my birthday cake at the store?" and I said, "Sure. What flavor do you want?" and he said, "German Shepherd," and I said, "Are you sure?" and he said, "Yeah, I always get that kind," and I said, "Really? You want to eat a cake that's flavored like a dog?" and he looked at me like I was crazy for a second until he realized what he had said, and we both had a pretty good laugh about that one. Yeah. Good times. For sure.
Okay, that's all for this time 'round the rodeo range, so until next time, may your socks remain safely mated, may your pets remain non-kleptomanic, and may your cakes be light and fluffy and moist and deliciously enticing.
I'd be willing to bet that just about anyone who has these four items - a pair of socks, a washing machine, and a dryer - has at some point in their life been faced with this great, universal mystery of life, namely, why is it that you often put two socks into a washing machine or dryer but only one sock comes out? For years, my answer to that question was to blame my lovely and long-suffering wife, Katie, because she was the one doing the majority of the sock-washing (and drying), and since she was doing the sock-washing, it made sense to blame her when my socks went into the laundry two-by-two, then returned, solitary and alone. Now before you jump up out of your chair (or wherever you're sitting) to defend Katie and blame the villainous appliances, I should note that the culprit in this situation, quite often, was Katie, in that she would mistakenly put my sock with laundry belonging to one of the kids, so they would take my sock and stow it away in their dresser drawers (which, in my mind, means that they're really the ones to blame, because my socks are quite distinct from theirs and they should recognize an unfamiliar sock among their own, say to themselves, "Hey, that doesn't look like one of my socks, maybe I should find out who it belongs to," and return it to their rightful owner, which would be me). But because they were thoughtless and nonchalant, they didn't do that, and instead, crammed my sock into their drawer with their socks, where it would languish for days/weeks until I went searching through their drawers and discovered/rescued it from this purgatorious state. So this might seem like a whole lot of to-do over something pretty minor, and in the grand scheme of life the universe and everything, I suppose that might be true, but ever since I converted to the non-cotton-sock club, I've grown quite attached to my specially constructed running socks, so when one of them goes missing, I get a little upset (plus, the darned things are pretty darned expensive, and I am, as has been previously noted on previous occasions, a bit of a miser when it comes to monetary issues).
So the upshot of all this is that I started washing all my socks (and other running/cycling gear) separately so that I would be in complete control of the process from start to finish. And, for quite awhile, that seemed to solve the problem. I would put a pair of socks in the washing machine, and when it was done washing, spinning, rinsing, and cycling through all its cycles, I would take a pair of socks out. Perfect. Until last week, that is, when I pulled my laundry out of the machine, began to sort it and discovered… that I was missing two socks! Seriously. Not just one, but two. And not a pair of two, but one from one pair and one from another. Imagine my sorrow and dismay. Well, needless to say, I was quite dismayed and sorrowful (as well as frustrated) and I immediately set out to find the missing socks. First, I figured they might still be in the machine, and maybe I overlooked them in my haste. So I took a second, and even a third look, but found no socks. Then I thought maybe I had dropped them on the way from my bedroom to the laundry room, so I carefully retraced my steps, examining the floor carefully for any sign of a stray sock, but once again, found nothing. Then I thought maybe I had accidentally tossed them past the laundry basket so they might be lodged in an odd nook or cranny in my room, but though I searched all nooks and every cranny, I still found neither sock. Needless to say, I was heartbroken as I went to bed that night. Where could the missing socks be? How could my perfect system have failed so miserably? All night, I tossed and turned as nightmare visions of my socks, lonely and neglected, plagued my dreams. But at some point, I decided that I must soldier on. So soldier on I did.
For several days. Until, out of the blue, I had a sudden thought. A strange and wonderful and slightly zany idea popped into my head. The cat. Likes to hide under the bed. And cats are strange animals. And this cat is especially strange, even for a cat. And strange cat-type animals might like to steal socks. So maybe our cat (She-she Squeakers Kittyface) had stolen two of my socks out of the basket, pulled them under the bed and… well, I can't describe what she might have done with them, partly because I really don't have any idea, and partly because I'm making an effort to keep these entries appropriate for all ages. So I went to the bedroom, got down on hands and knees, and peered into the dark and mysterious world that makes up the world under the bed - and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of missing socks, and eight tiny reindeer (not really, it was just the socks). The mystery was solved. And now, I make sure to put my socks underneath something substantial (like a shirt) whenever I put them in the laundry basket - hopefully all will be well that will end well.
Let them eat cake
Connor celebrated his birthday last week, and we decided to participate in the strange birthday custom in which you bake a cake for the birthday person (where does this come from, anyway?). So he came up to me before I went to the store and said, "Dad, will you get me cake mix for my birthday cake at the store?" and I said, "Sure. What flavor do you want?" and he said, "German Shepherd," and I said, "Are you sure?" and he said, "Yeah, I always get that kind," and I said, "Really? You want to eat a cake that's flavored like a dog?" and he looked at me like I was crazy for a second until he realized what he had said, and we both had a pretty good laugh about that one. Yeah. Good times. For sure.
Okay, that's all for this time 'round the rodeo range, so until next time, may your socks remain safely mated, may your pets remain non-kleptomanic, and may your cakes be light and fluffy and moist and deliciously enticing.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Courtesy Calls, Popcorn Salesmen, and Magnetic Messages
Yo Howdy!
Usually I kind of tune out the announcements at school, but every once in awhile something catches my ear. Which happened just this week when the announcer (who shall remain anonymous, but who is well-known to anyone who attends, attended, or has a child who attends Orange Grove Middle School) made an announcement aimed at discouraging kids from visiting the office without a pass by saying something like, "Don't just come to the office to say, 'Yo howdy!' without a pass." Why did this catch my ear? you may ask. Well, because I found it to be mildly amusing, so I then dared my first period class to, at some point during the day, go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass). I also stipulated that they had to say, "Yo howdy!" in an enthusiastic and ebullient manner - not just mumble it - for it to count. During the day, I continued to dare students to go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass) and apparently quite a few of them took me up on it. I had instructed them not to tell anyone who dared them, but of course the little rat-finks ratted me out, so the next day, there was an announcement that students were supposed to either, "bow or curtsey whenever entering Mr. Bindschadler's room," and ever since then, I've had quite a number of students bowing and curtseying (7th grade boys especially seem to enjoy the curtseying - I guess it's not surprising since 7th grade boys also seem to enjoy dressing up like girls for Halloween - not sure what the significance of all that might be) to me as they enter the classroom, which actually isn't such a bad thing and I'm doing everything I can to encourage them to continue.
Another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
The other day after school, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, when some kid (I have no idea who he was) knocked on my door, opened it up, poked his head in, and said, "Would you like to buy some popcorn?" I've been a teacher for 22 years, and I can honestly say that this is the first time this has ever happened. And I'm guessing it will never happen again.
Yet another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
I have those little magnetic words on the doors of a metal cabinet in my room (the ones that can be arranged into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases) and every once in awhile, a small group of kids (usually 7th grade boys) gather around them and giggle while arranging them into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases. Here are a couple of the ones I found today:
•"Mom always blows horsefly whips."
•"Caramel is chocolate."
•"Celebrate Christmas pie - ho ho ho."
•"Dad kisses brilliant women's bellies in the morning."
•"My cat likes sweet melon cakes."
As I read these little snippets (and others like them) I'm always reminded of that old tale about the million monkeys typing at a million typewriters for a million years. Eventually, brilliance will emerge.
Speaking of cats…
As you may remember from a previous post, we adopted a cat a few months ago. The reason we adopted the cat was because she was, literally, a scaredy cat. As in, when her previous family added a dog to the household, this cat hid under the bed and never came out. So we took her in, and for the first three weeks, she hid under the bed and never came out. But now she's much better, and she only hides under the bed about 50% of the time, and the rest of the time, she'll actually come out and interact with the family (except when we had the crazy little puppies in our house for about a week this summer, but that's a whole other story). Anyway, we weren't really sure what to call the cat for quite awhile (maybe because we never really even saw her for the first three weeks while she was hiding under the bed) but finally, after much deliberation, she has been officially named, and her name is… Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface. Sheshe because that's what her name was when she came to us (don't ask me why, because I have no idea why anyone would ever name anything "Sheshe," though I'm guessing it has something to do with being young and cute - at least that's what I hear from Katie), Squeakers because she's very squeaky and makes this squeaky meowing sound when she tries to meow, and Kittyface because, well, she's a kitty and she has a face. So now whenever I see her, I say things like, "Hello there, Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface, how are you today?" which may sound kind of goofy but is actually oddly satisfying. Don't have any idea why.
Which leads us to a gerbil update
Connor seems to have recovered from the tragic loss of his beloved gerbil "Snake Eyes," and after much hand-wringing and agonized pondering, he did finally decide that he wanted to get another gerbil to take the place of the one that passed away, and the new gerbil (who started out as "Snake Eyes, Two," but I think has been renamed but I don't remember what) seems to have bonded with the remaining original gerbil (Stormchaser) so all seems to be good for now.
That's all I've got, so until next time, may your magnets remain uncluttered, may your secrets remain hidden, and may your animals all be memorably named.
Usually I kind of tune out the announcements at school, but every once in awhile something catches my ear. Which happened just this week when the announcer (who shall remain anonymous, but who is well-known to anyone who attends, attended, or has a child who attends Orange Grove Middle School) made an announcement aimed at discouraging kids from visiting the office without a pass by saying something like, "Don't just come to the office to say, 'Yo howdy!' without a pass." Why did this catch my ear? you may ask. Well, because I found it to be mildly amusing, so I then dared my first period class to, at some point during the day, go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass). I also stipulated that they had to say, "Yo howdy!" in an enthusiastic and ebullient manner - not just mumble it - for it to count. During the day, I continued to dare students to go to the office and say, "Yo howdy!" (without a pass) and apparently quite a few of them took me up on it. I had instructed them not to tell anyone who dared them, but of course the little rat-finks ratted me out, so the next day, there was an announcement that students were supposed to either, "bow or curtsey whenever entering Mr. Bindschadler's room," and ever since then, I've had quite a number of students bowing and curtseying (7th grade boys especially seem to enjoy the curtseying - I guess it's not surprising since 7th grade boys also seem to enjoy dressing up like girls for Halloween - not sure what the significance of all that might be) to me as they enter the classroom, which actually isn't such a bad thing and I'm doing everything I can to encourage them to continue.
Another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
The other day after school, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, when some kid (I have no idea who he was) knocked on my door, opened it up, poked his head in, and said, "Would you like to buy some popcorn?" I've been a teacher for 22 years, and I can honestly say that this is the first time this has ever happened. And I'm guessing it will never happen again.
Yet another mildly amusing school-related anecdote
I have those little magnetic words on the doors of a metal cabinet in my room (the ones that can be arranged into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases) and every once in awhile, a small group of kids (usually 7th grade boys) gather around them and giggle while arranging them into weird/disturbing/borderline inappropriate sentences and phrases. Here are a couple of the ones I found today:
•"Mom always blows horsefly whips."
•"Caramel is chocolate."
•"Celebrate Christmas pie - ho ho ho."
•"Dad kisses brilliant women's bellies in the morning."
•"My cat likes sweet melon cakes."
As I read these little snippets (and others like them) I'm always reminded of that old tale about the million monkeys typing at a million typewriters for a million years. Eventually, brilliance will emerge.
Speaking of cats…
As you may remember from a previous post, we adopted a cat a few months ago. The reason we adopted the cat was because she was, literally, a scaredy cat. As in, when her previous family added a dog to the household, this cat hid under the bed and never came out. So we took her in, and for the first three weeks, she hid under the bed and never came out. But now she's much better, and she only hides under the bed about 50% of the time, and the rest of the time, she'll actually come out and interact with the family (except when we had the crazy little puppies in our house for about a week this summer, but that's a whole other story). Anyway, we weren't really sure what to call the cat for quite awhile (maybe because we never really even saw her for the first three weeks while she was hiding under the bed) but finally, after much deliberation, she has been officially named, and her name is… Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface. Sheshe because that's what her name was when she came to us (don't ask me why, because I have no idea why anyone would ever name anything "Sheshe," though I'm guessing it has something to do with being young and cute - at least that's what I hear from Katie), Squeakers because she's very squeaky and makes this squeaky meowing sound when she tries to meow, and Kittyface because, well, she's a kitty and she has a face. So now whenever I see her, I say things like, "Hello there, Sheshe-Squeakers-Kittyface, how are you today?" which may sound kind of goofy but is actually oddly satisfying. Don't have any idea why.
Which leads us to a gerbil update
Connor seems to have recovered from the tragic loss of his beloved gerbil "Snake Eyes," and after much hand-wringing and agonized pondering, he did finally decide that he wanted to get another gerbil to take the place of the one that passed away, and the new gerbil (who started out as "Snake Eyes, Two," but I think has been renamed but I don't remember what) seems to have bonded with the remaining original gerbil (Stormchaser) so all seems to be good for now.
That's all I've got, so until next time, may your magnets remain uncluttered, may your secrets remain hidden, and may your animals all be memorably named.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A More-Reflective/Less-Mildly-Amusing Posting
Every once in awhile, something happens that makes you look at someone you think you know in a whole different way. They say something, or do something, and you realize that the person you thought you knew isn't really that person at all. For me, it happens with my kids quite often, which I suppose makes sense because they change so much as they grow older. We'll just be going along in life, and suddenly, something will happen that will make it abundantly clear that they're not the same person I'm holding onto in my memory. With Caitlyn, I remember this happening when I went and watched her perform in a play last year at the UA. Seeing her up on stage - the confidence she had and the ability to become her character and perform so convincingly - it was like seeing a whole different side of her. Just the other day, Carrie was telling us that she was going to be on an Odyssey of the Mind team this year, and Katie asked her how she was going to fit that in with everything else she was doing, and Carrie just said, "I'll make it work," with this quiet sense of conviction, and I realized that she has a sense of self that's very strong and a motivation to push herself to do as much as she can. I'd seen glimpses of these things in the girls before, but those moments cemented them in my mind. And then there's Connor.
We've always known there's a lot going on in Connor's head, but we're never quite sure exactly what it is because he's pretty good at locking it in. When he's sad, he'll make jokes and laugh things off, or he'll hide under blankets in his room. But not today. A couple of weeks ago, he decided he wanted to get gerbils for his birthday. He'd taken care of all the various animals (cat, guinea pigs, tortoise) over the summer, and we were impressed by how responsible he'd been about feeding them and paying attention to them, so we figured he could handle his own pets. Katie suggested he should spend some time learning how to take care of gerbils, so he checked out several books from the library, then spent a week or two reading all about them. Then Katie took him to the pet store and he got two gerbils and brought them home. Even though they're girls, he named them after "GI Joe" characters (Snake-eyes and Storm-something) and every day he's been feeding them and putting them in their little hamster ball so they can roll around the house and generally taking really good care of them. Yesterday, he spent his own money to buy them a fancy new habitat with an "Xtreme spiral slide," a "petting zone," and an "Xtreme wheel" that goes in circles when it rotates. So everything was good.
Then this morning, while I'm reading the paper, Connor comes holding a shoebox. His hands are shaking and his eyes are swollen, and I just know what I'm going to see in the box. One of his gerbils is lying very still, and Connor starts to cry. I'm thinking, "This is the kid who laughed when Barney the dog died. This is the kid who took his grandpa out in the backyard and said in a jovial tone, 'The dog's dead. Dad buried him here. Barney died.' This is the kid who hides his sorrow and laughs off his pain, and now I'm holding him in my arms while his body is shaking and his eyes are overflowing," and pretty soon I'm crying too, and I realize that this scrawny little kid I'm holding isn't the same person he was three months ago. Something fundamental has changed. And I guess that's good. But it's also a little sad.
We've always known there's a lot going on in Connor's head, but we're never quite sure exactly what it is because he's pretty good at locking it in. When he's sad, he'll make jokes and laugh things off, or he'll hide under blankets in his room. But not today. A couple of weeks ago, he decided he wanted to get gerbils for his birthday. He'd taken care of all the various animals (cat, guinea pigs, tortoise) over the summer, and we were impressed by how responsible he'd been about feeding them and paying attention to them, so we figured he could handle his own pets. Katie suggested he should spend some time learning how to take care of gerbils, so he checked out several books from the library, then spent a week or two reading all about them. Then Katie took him to the pet store and he got two gerbils and brought them home. Even though they're girls, he named them after "GI Joe" characters (Snake-eyes and Storm-something) and every day he's been feeding them and putting them in their little hamster ball so they can roll around the house and generally taking really good care of them. Yesterday, he spent his own money to buy them a fancy new habitat with an "Xtreme spiral slide," a "petting zone," and an "Xtreme wheel" that goes in circles when it rotates. So everything was good.
Then this morning, while I'm reading the paper, Connor comes holding a shoebox. His hands are shaking and his eyes are swollen, and I just know what I'm going to see in the box. One of his gerbils is lying very still, and Connor starts to cry. I'm thinking, "This is the kid who laughed when Barney the dog died. This is the kid who took his grandpa out in the backyard and said in a jovial tone, 'The dog's dead. Dad buried him here. Barney died.' This is the kid who hides his sorrow and laughs off his pain, and now I'm holding him in my arms while his body is shaking and his eyes are overflowing," and pretty soon I'm crying too, and I realize that this scrawny little kid I'm holding isn't the same person he was three months ago. Something fundamental has changed. And I guess that's good. But it's also a little sad.
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