It was the best of times…
Last Sunday, I stood somewhere between Catalina and Oracle, shivering in the dark and waiting for the Tucson half-marathon to start. I was feeling good. Confident. Well-trained and well-rested, and ready to try to set a P.R. on the mostly downhill course. When the race began, I could tell it was going to be a good one. My pace was steady, my body felt good, and the day was pleasantly cool. The crowd around me quickly thinned out as the quick-starters fell back and everyone settled into their pace. My mile splits were consistent - within 10 seconds of each other - and the only question I had was whether I would be able to hold on throughout the entire 13.1 miles. I hit the three-mile mark at a little under 23 minutes, just a little over a 7:30 pace, and continued to tick off the miles while holding steady. Six miles in just under 46 minutes. Ten miles in 1:15:30. Three miles to go, and I still felt pretty good. All I had to do was maintain and I'd have my P.R. I started thinking about how good it would feel to hit that mark - how all the speedwork I'd been doing had paid off and how much easier this was than running the whole marathon. I was tired, but I felt good and knew I wasn't going to have any problem finishing it off. Little did I know, danger was lurking just around the corner. If only it had been a ten mile, or even an eleven mile, or even an eleven-and-a-half mile race, everything would have been grand and I would have been feeling good. But that was not to be. Because…
…it was also the worst of times…
Right around 11 miles is when I started to feel the slightest bit of a tugging sensation in my right calf. At first, it didn't seem like a big deal - nothing different than what I've experienced in various body parts on many other runs. A minor glitch that quickly worked itself out. That was what I hoped. That was what I tried to believe. I adjusted my pace a little, focused on relaxing the calf, focused on posture and form, and it seemed okay. I made it through that mile, and we turned off Oracle and headed up a pretty good hill. My calf was a little achy, but I thought maybe the hill would stretch it out (dumb thought, that one) but as soon as I reached the top of the hill, I knew it wasn't good. Still, there was part of me that just couldn't stop. That had to keep going. That believed somehow, if I could just run through it, everything would be okay. But it wasn't, and by the time I reached the 12 mile marker, I knew I wasn't going to be able to run anymore. There's a part of me that understands that this doesn't even register as a blip on the great radar screen of life, but in that moment, I was, to put it mildly, upset. I slowed to a limping walk, which still hurt with every step I took, and began the "walk of shame" to the finish line. Meanwhile, all kinds of people, those I had been well ahead of throughout the entire race, started passing me. And as they ran by, many of them, trying to be encouraging, said things like, "Come on, you can do it," or, "Don't give up now, you're almost there." While a part of me realized that they meant well, a larger, darker, and more evil part of me was really irritated by this, and I had to bite back comments like, "No I can't, you idiot. If I could do it, I'd be doing it," or, "I didn't give up, you idiot, my calf gave up and there's nothing I can do about it," or, more simply and to the point, "Shut the heck up, you idiot." (okay, I wasn't really "heck," but as I've mentioned before, little jugs have large ears, so we're keeping this family oriented and appropriate for all ages). Anyway, I limped the last mile or so feeling angry and frustrated and sorry for myself, and I limped down the homestretch to the finish line as they announced my name, and I scowled at the guy taking my picture, and I smiled grimly as they handed me my medal and told me "good job," and then I waited for my wife (who did a fantastic job and finished in under 2 hours). And I tried to be happy for her, and a little part of me was, but the larger, darker, and more evil part of me continued to mope.
And the aftermath of all this is that I've been limping around for the past week, hoping my calf will heal quickly but it's still really sore and this afternoon I'm going to pay someone to stick needles in me, so that's where we are with that.
With that, we'll wrap up this edition and hope that your holidays are happy, your calves are well-stretched, and your dark and evil side is much less dark and evil than mine.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Utopia, Clementines, and More Missing Socks
Moments of perfection
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.
Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.
An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.
700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!
With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.
Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.
An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.
700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!
With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Runnin', Recordin', and Religion
Runnin' with the Dorado-ettes
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
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 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.
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