"I'm just a little bit caught in the middle..."

I don't watch a lot of movies.  At home we have HBO and Skintothemax, so I might catch a movie once in a while, but I'm not taking out a loan to go to the theater.  However, a few weeks ago DirecTV was offering Starz or Encore for the weekend so I managed to Tivo a few things that I hadn't seen yet.  One was Moneyball and I finally watched it last night. 

It was a good movie, not exactly factually correct, but still a good movie.  In the movie there's a song played a couple times that I didn't find on the credits at the end of the movie.  But, after a 1 AM Google search, I found my new favorite song.

It's first heard while Brad Pitt's character is shopping at some guitar place with his daughter.  She finds a guitar she likes, then starts singing this song.  Somewhere along the way, the daughter burns the song of her playing to DVD and at the end of the movie, Brad Pitt's character plays the DVD while driving in his truck.

Google tells me it's some chick named Lenka that sings the song, and here it a YouTube video of Lenka playing my new favorite song on some TV show I don't watch.

It reminds me a lot of a song that used to be my favorite that was played on some commercial over and over.  I think it was an Apple commercial or something like that, but I dont really remember.  The singer of that song was Faust and I'm sure you all remember it.  Watch both videos and see if both songs aren't similar.

Happy Birthday

In July 2000, my second daughter, Macey, was born near Rockport, Indiana.  She was great.  She helped keep my first daughter, Murray, young by fighting with her and chasing her all over the place.  In December 2000, Macey had been feeling lethargic.  A couple days later, she seemed to be fine, back to her old self.  While playing with her one day at lunch, I noticed she had what appeared to be a small hole in her stomach.  I called the vet and they figured she'd been bitten by something, an abscess had formed making her lethargic, and when the abscess popped open, relieving the pressure, she felt good again.  However, since there was a small hole in her stomach, they wanted me to bring her in.

They gave her antibiotics.  She had an allergic reaction, died on December 16 and I buried her a couple days later.  I still think of her daily and miss her a lot.  I never understood why it happened, only concluding that she was such a good girl that God was ready to play with her.  

I think God soon realized he took her too soon, because on December 20, 2000 Morgan was born.  

Today is Morgan's birthday.  She would have been 12.  

Morgan had more style than any dog I've had, as evidenced by the picture above.  Not that I played favorites, but Morgan was special in her own way.  She completely ran our house and if you didn't fall into line, you were forced to deal with her.  

I went to look at her in February 2001.  Her litter was the third I'd seen and I think she more or less picked me.  I wanted a female and a smallish sized dog.  Of her litter, she was one of two ladies and by far the smallest.  Each time I put her down to play with her sister, Morgan would come over and untie my shoes.  This happened three times before I decided she was the one.  Murray wasn't too excited about a new sister, but Morgan grew on her (or forced her will onto Murray, I'm not sure which).

A year or so later, Jennifer and I bought a new house and we combined my two dogs with her one dog that had been living with her parents.  Early on there was a feeling-out process and Morgan was the smallest by far of the three.  However, it didn't take long to see who the alpha dog was at our house.

One of the first instances took place when we'd let the dogs out in the backyard.  Murray and Morgan would immediately take a leak, only to have Jennifer's dog walk over and piss right on top of where one of the dogs had just pissed.  Over the next few days this behavior continued.  It ended one day with me laughing hysterically as Morgan showed the two larger dog whose house they were living in.  Murray was the first to take a piss in the yard (Murray was so sweet, never wanted to hurt a flea, never considered herself a dog and usually didn't play in these stupid dog games).  Morgan went right over to where Murray peed and took a whiz right on top.  Jennifer's dog followed suit, and that seemed to be the end of it.  Wrong.  Morgan went right over to where the three dogs had just pissed, made sure the two other dogs were watching, and dropped a huge deuce on top, effectively setting the chain off command.  In looking at her as she pranced off, her glare to the two other dogs said, "Top that, bitches."

We were treated to this kind of behavior for another 9 or so years.  She only lived slightly more than 10 years as congestive heart failure eventually took her down.  But, those years were such a joy, and Morgan was such an amazing girl that I still haven't fully accepted that she's gone.  Not a day goes by that I don't think of her or talk to her.  I've got a fourth daughter at home now, Memphis, and half the time when I'm yelling at her for being bad, I call her Morgan.  I never call her Murray or Macey, always Morgan.  

Several times a week, Jennifer, Hayden or I will talk about Morgan.  I pity poor God for having to deal with her for the last couple years.  I wonder how many times each day He utters the phrase, "MORGAN!!!  Really?"

Happy Birthday, Girl.

Thanks and wow

I have to take a minute to thank my wife for not being a bitch last week when I went on my epic beer run.  While I don't have a beer drinking problem (though I'm working on it), I have a beer buying problem.  And it's not a little problem, I have big issues.  Some people collect baseball cards, others collect stamps, I collect  bottles full of yummy beer, then when I'm done, I collect the empty bottles (but only one bottle for each kind).

Last year she got on my case a little bit in February.  In the previous December, I'd gone to the same Louisville (yes, I sometimes have to travel to satisfy my addiction) beer place as I went this past week.  I again filled up the trunk and came home with a haul.  I still had plenty of new stuff left in February, but two new seasonals came out and I had to buy those.  Jennifer at the time struggled to understand my constant need to have copious amounts of beer available, but I explained that I have issues and she never mentioned it again.

Things are different this year.  I'm no longer rich, but still buying beer like I am.  My beer haul this year will likely go into the record books.  I spent more than the gross national product of some third world countries and now have both empty bottles filling up two rooms, as well as cases of full bottles.  It's a beer paradise for me...for her, not so much.  But the only time she chimes in is when I need to move my stash from one room to another.  So, thank you.

And now for the wow.  Yesterday, I went to Shoe Carnivore to take advantage of their last cheap weekend of the year.  I'd asked Jennifer a while back to ask her shoe people to let me know the best running shoes out there.  Not the best-selling, but the best.  They said something Asics sells that has gel in the sole, so yesterday I went to find the suggested shoes.

When I finally found a color of shoe I could stomach (Asics has without question, the ugliest shoes on the market), I checked the price on the box.  After throwing up a little in my mouth when I saw that the box price of $119.99 (WTF...for a pair of shoes?), I noticed it had been knocked down to a still staggering $99.98.  Even with the huge discount Jennifer gets, it was still more than I was willing to pay for a pair of shoes, but I thought I'd try them on just to see what all the hype was about.  OMG.

I can't put into words what it felt like to wear the shoes.  I have several pairs of adidas that feel like you're walking on a cloud.  But these shoes went beyond that.  I figured if the government can spend more than it brings in, so can I and I bought the over-priced shoes.

This morning, I put them through their first test on the dreadmill, and again, I'm struggling with putting into words how good these shoes felt on my feet.  It felt like I was in a pool treading water.  There was no constant pounding, I could barely feel a thing.  It was amazing.  Wow.

Epic beer run

Yesterday was my beer run to Louisville.  A beer that's never been released outside Belgium made it's way to the States because the monks that brew the stuff wanted to expand their monastery.  Previously, the only place to get the beer was the visit the monastery in Belgium.  Or, you you begged someone who had visited the monastery to sell you the beer.  The monks who brew it brew just enough for them to drink and enough to cover the expenses of the monastery.  They don't distribute it anywhere, you can't find it in beer stores, in order to get it, you literally visit the monastery, call on the 'beer phone' and make a reservation to pick up the beer.  They make three kinds, you never know when they're making what, and you're only allowed one case per car...they take your phone number and license plate number.

I was lucky enough to get a hold of two bottles of all three beers last year when a guy from Belgium sold me the package through eBay.  You might remember I posted some pictures of it when the box arrived.

Anyway, for the first and likely only time ever, gift packs have been sent out to raise funds for an additional wing at the monastery.  They were supposed to show up in April and when I heard about it, I contacted a lady that owned a beer place in Louisville.  I'd made some substantial purchases with her in the past and at the time, I asked if she'd hold a couple gift packs for me.  She said 'no problem.'  That was then but things changed.  When I talked with her last week, she said there was no way she could hold any as it was to be sold on a first come, first served basis.  So, I planned a beer run.

In addition to the monk beer, I ordered a whole bunch of seasonal Christmas/Winter beers that I can't get around home.  The beer lady told me she'd have Ricky pull whatever they had and put it in boxes for me behind the bar.  My beer run was set.

The store was to open yesterday at noon...appropriate, 12/12/12 and it opened at 12.  That was Eastern time, an hour ahead of me.  I left my house just after 8 AM so I could be there at 11 local time in case there was a line.

To leave at 8, I had to be up a bit earlier and I'm not used to that, so I was tired on the drive over.  At some point, I had to take a leak and was trying to stay awake, so I pulled into a Shell station to drain the dragon and pick up some bubble gum.

Above is the gum money I took with me into the Shell station.  I took this picture at home after I got back in town.  The reason...the fucking place didn't have any bubble gum.  What the hell kind of gas station/food mart doesn't have bubble gum?  They had chewing gum, but no bubble gum.  WTF?  I was pissed so I left without making a purchase, though I was very tempted to grab three quarters and go back into the pisser so I could buy a glow in the dark condom.

Back on my way to Louisville. I arrived at the beer store to be met with a line.  I was fearful of such a thing, but was happy I'd arrived early...and pleased that I brought a hat, gloves and a long coat because it was 29 degrees out.

I was roughly 20th or so in line.  Here are the lucky souls in front of me.

This was at roughly 11 AM local time, meaning we still had an hour to kill in the freezing weather.  Though I'm not a people person, I struck up some conversation with some of the other fools in line in hopes to stay warm and not think about the cold.  Several people passed the long line and asked what we were waiting for, dumbfounded to hear it was for beer.

With about 30 minutes to go, the news crew showed up.  Some dude and some chick were doing a story on the release of the beer.  As soon as the camera went on, several people ducked out of the way because they were 'sick' and couldn't make it to work.

The dude in the red jacket is the camera guy and the chick in the black staring at the street is the chick who does the talking.  They too were amazed we were dumb enough to stand in line to get beer.

Just a few minutes before the store opened, one of the owners walked up front with a roll of tickets.  He said we could get one or two tickets and once they were gone, they were gone, and anyone without a ticket was shit out of luck.

Rumor has it they had 80 tickets, one for each gift pack available and since I was about 20th in line, I was golden.  You can see my two tickets below.

Just a couple minutes later, they opened the doors to the front of the store, but had the people with tickets to move to the side of the building, eventually working our way to the back where the gift packs were being sold.

This was an amazing relief because for the last hour or so, we'd been stuck in the shadows of the buildings and now, on the side, as you can see above, we had sunlight.  It felt...so...good.  The picture above shows the people behind me and you can see, we're in the sun now.

At the back of the store, there was a line for cash and another for credit.  I'd bought both and went into the cash line.  I started handing the guy twenties til I was almost out before he said, "Tyler, this guy just paid for two."  Tyler, one of the co-owners, handed me my gift packs.  I made my way inside the store and walked from the back to the front and toward my car so I could keep my prize safe while I did more shopping.

Here (above) is a picture of my trunk, with two gift packs of Westvleteren 12, generally rated as the best beer in the world by most beer forums and books.  I've had it before and it's not the best beer in the world, but it's right up there.

After double checking the trunk was shut and the car was locked, I walked back into the beer store and asked the guy at the bar if he had any boxes of beer up front for some idiot from Indiana.  He said, "Are you Rick?"  I smiled and he started pulling the bottles from the boxes and putting them on the bar.

Below is Ricky ringing up my order.  Not everything on the bar was for me, just most of it.

The poor bastard spent a good 20 minutes trying to match up the bottles on the bar to what the computer said.  It didn't help that I kept finding stuff to add to my order.  Eventually, everything matched, I mortgaged my first born, and was on my way.

Before heading home, I had to make a couple more stops.  The first was to some place called Sergio's that the people in line told me was a shithole of a beer store, but it had good stuff.  I told the phone wench that lives inside my phone to 'give me directions to Sergio's in Louisville, Kentucky.'  She gave me step by step directions til she announced I'd arrived at my destination.  I saw some shithole of a place, but it wasn't in a part of town where I felt comfortable A) parking my car and/or B) getting out of my car so I got the hell out of there.

Still, though, I wasn't done.  I wanted to visit Liquor Barn and see what kind of trouble I could get into there.  The map lady who lives inside my car helped me with directions there and I arrived in no time to a place I wasn't scared of.  I spent another hour looking for beer and when I'd finished, this is what my trunk looked like.

Another box wouldn't fit and I had to call it a day, so I started to head home.  I told the map lady who lives in my car to take me home and she set a path.  However, as luck would have it, on the way home I received an e-mail that said three of the Liquor Lockers in Evansville had just received a supply of Stone 12.12.12 Vertical Epic Ale.  (Each year, Stone--a brewery-- releases a Belgian-inspired ale on the day when the month, day and year are the same...first one came out on 2/2/2002, second was 3/3/2003 and so on...so this is the last one in the series.).  What a great way to end an epic beer run than by buying a beer with Epic in its name.

When all was said and done, and I'd emptied the boxes from my trunk and taken out the bottles I'd picked up for a friend of mine who wasn't able to make the trip, this is what I could call mine (below).

I did come up with something genius on the way home, though, in an effort to minimize the ridiculous cost of this trip.  In thinking about my monk beer, it occurred to me that the monastery is a non-profit organization. Therefore, I'm writing off the cost of the beer as a contribution, as well as the gas to get to Louisville and back.

All in all, it was a helluva day.  Wish you could have been there to enjoy it with me.

Operation: Fat Bastard

I came.  I saw.  I made it my bitch.  The poor scale never stood a chance against my jogging twice a day routine.  It was just a matter of time before I hopped on and the scale started waving the white flag.  That day was this morning.

After a brief jog on the dreadmill and a chance to cool off, I showered and hopped on the scale.  Damn thing couldn't go any higher than 179.0.  And with that, Operation: Fat Bastard has come to a close.

However, I've been getting reports of other threats and Black Ops may continue.  The 175.0 pound mark may need to be breached.  I've got a lot of beer that needs to be enjoyed, but I might be able to semi-contain myself til Christmas.  Another five pounds in two weeks sounds possible. 

We'll see.

I don't ask for much.

Really.  I don't.  My wife will chime in with a boatload of disagreement, but I really don't ask for much.  As long as everyone sees things my way, I'm really laid back.  It's just one simple thing.

Each morning, I ask for something relatively trivial.  It doesn't cost anything and it doesn't require anyone to do anything for me.  Ultimately, it affects and puts out no one.  NO ONE.  In the grand scheme of things, it's just a minor detail.

As you know, I've been running some Black Ops under the codename Operation: Fat Bastard.  My recent attempt went ok, but wasn't the most efficient way to kick the scale's ass.  Running several miles a day was a great way to get exercise and get me started on a future Op of running some sort of mini marathon.  However, I was constantly out of energy because I wasn't eating enough and ultimately had to start eating more so I had gas to run again.  I was eating almost as much as I was burning and over 4 weeks I lost 8 pounds. Sounds great, but I've lost 8 pounds in a week before without changing my eating habits so this was a minor set-back.

So, I went back to what's worked a half dozen times before (running in the morning and then again at night, just enough to build up a sweat).  I started that a couple weeks ago and made good progress.  Last Friday I was down to 180 or 181.  As you know, Operation: Fat Bastard doesn't end til the scale starts with the numbers 1 and then 7.

I didn't do a very good job of watching what I ate this past weekend.  I knew I was being bad, but didn't really care.  I had a third beer for the first time in I can't remember when and that bag of chips never stood a chance.  However, I ate reasonable meals and mostly kept my running schedule (my doctor told me even with my limited running distance--only a mile or so at a time--I needed to take a day off once in a while...and what better day to do that than on a Sunday loaded with football).  I was shocked to see the scale at 181.4 yesterday morning.

Last night, I had a small sandwich for dinner, a single beer during the Monday Night Football beatdown that took place, the crumbs left over from the BBQ potato chip bag (seriously, there wasn't a full, unbroken chip in the bag), and a handful of cooked spaghetti noodles left over in the fridge (by midnight last night, I was starving and it was either the spaghetti or one of the cats). 

When I got up this morning, I did my business and then hopped on the dreadmill for my morning jog.  I played around on Facebook while I cooled off, then got in the shower.  I was thinking today would be the day I captured the other team's flag and put and end to Operation: Fat Bastard.  I didn't think it was asking too much.  Again, no one's day is affected by what MY scale says.  I just wanted a bone thrown to me for once.

I was all prepared to title this blog entry as "I came.  I saw.  I kicked its ass."  But, the scale read 180.2 instead.  One eighty point freaking two!!!  Really?  Four tenths (my scale reads in tenths of a pound, but only even numbers after the decimal point--WTF?) of a pound less is all I asked for.  In hindsight, I should have cut my hair last night, I'm sure that would have done it.  Had I know I'd have been so close, I'd have spent longer this morning relaxing with my thoughts on the can. 

179.9 or better...is that asking too much?

My physical

I went to see the doctor for my annual physical.  Well, it used to be annual, but I think my doctor is a bit fond of me because for the last couple years he's been seeing me every six months.  He's either sweet on me or simply milking me as a revenue stream. 

Anyway, I went in last Friday to have blood drawn because my blood is better on Friday than on Monday because I drink on the weekends and the good stuff I drink is bad news for my blood.  Initially, they couldn't find any of the results, and then after realizing my name defies English grammar with an 'e' before 'i' even though it doesn't follow a 'c,' the doctor came back with the numbers.

He said my weight was down, my blood pressure was good, and my wit was as sharp as ever.  He asked how I'd been doing and I explained that I was in the process of wanting to run a minimarathon, as well as in the middle of Operation: Fat Bastard.  His next question, "Still drinking the fancy beer?"

I replied, "You've got the results of the blood work, you tell me." 

My cholesterol was fine and my triglycerides sucked (par for the course for me).  He shook his head and said, "Damned, you've been exercising, your bad cholesterol is down, but so is your good cholesterol."  He smiled, looked at me, and said, "I never can understand your results."

He said to just keep doing what I was doing.  Then I got the best news ever.  Instead of saying, "Drop your britches so I can mess with your plums," he said, "Ok, I'll see you in six months."  And with that, I was out of there.

I'm still old, I'm still mostly fat, but I'm reasonably healthy, as long as my triglycerides don't go any higher. 

All that said, the scale did get a bit of revenge.  The damned thing went all the way up to 181.0 this morning.  I'm not sure how, as I didn't eat much last night and ran both before Hayden's Advent program, and again this morning.  Oh well, I'm still going to kick its ass shortly. 

I'm totally kicking the scale's ass

As you know, I'm a fat bastard.  I enjoy drinking and I enjoy eating and I really enjoy drinking and eating.  I'm pretty sure it's my purpose in life, to test drive every beer I can and have some potato chips while I'm doing it.  Unfortunately, there is a side effect to drinking and eating when you combine it with sitting in a recliner for 10 hours on a Sunday watching football.  You get fat (at least I do).

A while back, I decided I wanted to run a mini marathon.  Part of that desire was to simply do it and another part was to lose some pounds in the process.  Running 4+ miles a day did little for my weight.  I lost a little bit, but I knew there was a better way to lose pounds quicker (and you know me, I have no patience).

Last Monday I changed my running habits.  Instead of running 3 or 4 or 6 miles once a day, I went back to what's worked for me in the past--running once in the morning and running again at night.  5 or 6 or 7 years ago I went from 198 pounds down to 166 pounds by running a couple times a day.  Also, I started drinking more water, something I hadn't been doing a very good job of.  On that day I changed my plan, I weighed a little over 187.8. 

This past Friday, I was down to 182.8.  Then came the weekend.  I'm always bad on the weekends.  Too much football takes place, too much TV watching, and too much eating/drinking.  However, I continued to run twice a day.  Yesterday, Monday, which is always a bad day because I learn how much I gained over the weekend, I tipped the scales at a not so whooping 183.4.  I was delighted, but didn't want to talk about it because I feared that the meal I had Sunday would just show up a day late. 

So, today was the day to pay the piper for the roasted pork loin, mashed potatotes and pumpkin pie I had on Sunday.  I would have been happy for the scale to show something in the 183.X.  It didn't happen. 

Excuse me for a second so I can do my happy dance.

Ok, I'm back.  The scale only went up to 181.6 today.  I'm dressed up like I'm getting married today so Hayden and I can go to Tuesday night mass tonight and my jeans (yeah, jeans; Tuesday service is VERY laid back) fit so well I'm going to actually have to button them.  Not only that, I'm going to have to wear belt.  If I can find one, it's been a while since I've needed to wear one. 

My doctor is going to be very pleased to see me on Thursday for my physical.  Not only does he get to play with my balls, a treat all by itself, but he's going to get to tell me I'm not a fast bastard anymore, I'm just simply overweight now.

Hide and seek

One of Hayden's favorite games is hide and seek.  I'm not sure what about the game he enjoys, but he giggles and cackles the whole time we play.  For me the game gets old quickly as there are only so many places to hide, and the dog never really helps in the hiding part of the game but is an ace in the seeking. 

Recently, Hayden took the game to a new level.  The other night, as I was taking the dog out for the final time, I noticed a sign on Hayden's door:

I think it was Sunday night he put the sign up.  I had no idea what it meant.  When I picked him up from school yesterday, I asked him what the sign was all about.  He just started laughing as we drove home.

After catching his breath from the guffawing, he explained that he was tricking his Mommy and me into thinking he'd left.  While generally a good speller, he missed the boat badly on Tennessee and I'm not sure of the significance of that state; Bozeman, Montana is a place he'd just read about in Social Studies; my annual May golf trip takes place in Florida; and two of his grandparents live in Owensboro.  So, he was trying to let us know he was 'hiding' in one of those places.

As for the reminder part of the note (yes, we love his mastery of the English language), that was to let us know not to look in his room, for fear of catching onto to his true whereabouts.

I do love how the mind of a third grader works. 

Just trying to help a brother out

I'm considering a weekly post on helpful hints.  Stuff I've observed over the week that you may want to take advantage of, or to avoid altogether.  Wondering about a name for this new piece, something like "Helpful Hints" or "Just trying to help a brother out."

Anyway, the tip for this week:  Don't stop at the gas station on a Friday unless you've got a large tube of Vaseline.

I'm pretty ok with driving on fumes.  My wife likes to fill up when it dips below a half tank, but driving on 'E' doesn't bother me.  So as I've been driving home the last few days with the needle approaching empty, I continually thought "I'll just fill up tomorrow."

Today I had to stop and have blood drawn in preparation of my doctor playing with my balls next week.  He likes to have my lab work in his hands so he can yell at me when I'm there instead of calling and doing it over the phone.

Unfortunately, we've got a lot of road construction going on near where we live and there is no easy way to get to the doctor's office.  I knew one of the roads to the south of us was closed, but didn't realize the road to the north was closed as well.  It didn't seem that big a deal when I pulled out of the garage because the needle was just above the E.

Sadly, I drove all over the damned city trying to get to the doctor's office and when I finally arrived, the needle was below the E and I wasn't near a station.  Leaving the doctor's office was the first time I actually thought I might be pushing my big ass car because the engine cried "no mas."

Luckily, I had a tailwind and used the draft of the car in front of me to find the closest gas station.  Not so luckily, the price was some 20 cents higher than yesterday.

I left the gas place $62 lighter, with a throbbing in my backside and a funny walk, not to mention no pride and my butt cherry nowhere to be found.

Heed my advice because I'm just trying to help a brother out-->Do not need gas on Friday unless you're carrying some form of lube.  You'll regret it.

Get your insurance from this guy

Some time ago in the 1990s, I was getting paid to do nothing at my first real job ever.  One day we were having a routine audit for our liability insurance.  Being my first job and my first audit, I was a bit concerned over the term 'auditor' and the bad connotations that always go with it.  In one of my accounting classes, I recall a professor explaining that auditors weren't looking to find the things you did wrong, they were confirming that you did things right.  No one in the class bought that line, but I never forgot it.

Anyway, the audit went fine, but took the whole day.  I've never been a people person and spending the whole day with the auditor wasn't exactly what I'd bargained for.  After the audit, I contacted our insurance agent, we'll call him 'Bob,' and I asked him some questions so I'd be better prepared for the next audit.  In talking with Bob, he explained that the auditor didn't want to be there any more than I wanted him there and the best way to have a good audit experience is to have everything ready for the auditor.  He went on to explain that the more information you can provide and the more organized you appear, the less likely the auditor is to ask questions and spend all day invading your space.

I took Bob's words to heart and over the years became so well versed in handling the various audits, that most times I could simply e-mail an auditor the information I wanted him to have and that was that.

Bob was always a huge help, so much in fact that I eventually turned all my personal insurance needs over to him.  Because I was a cheap bastard, I always wanted to turn things into insurance.  I recall the garage door finally dying.  It was made of some shitty fiberglass and eventually just fell apart.  I remember calling Bob and saying, "Bob, my garage door died and I don't feel like paying for a new one."  Bob said, "Call me back and tell me your wife backed into it."

I called him back, told him my wife backed through the door, and was told by Bob he'd send me a check.  That, my friends, is what you want in an insurance agent.

Bob used to call me every year with new insurance rates.  When I'd get a phone call that started with, "Rick, it's Bob, do you have a pencil?" I knew it meant my rates had gone up and that Bob had shopped around and found me new ones.  He's tell me how much up one sort of insurance went and how much down a different type went, and then he'd let me know the net effect, which was generally lower than I was previous paying.

Over the years, Bob was trying to get his oldest son going in the industry.  Along with working on our accounts at work, Bob turned my personal insurance over to his son, we'll call him 'Andy.'

Andy was like an extension of his dad and my insurance needs never missed a beat as we switched from Bob to Andy.  Through the years, Andy and I became friends, even though Andy always seemed to have taken a personal interest in my account.  As a matter of fact, my account has been assigned to someone in his office, I think her name is Marilyn.  I'm not really sure because I've never talked with her.  If I have an issue, I just call Andy on the cell number he once gave me.

Our friendship grew after we both joined Bushwood Country Club (it might have been Oak Meadow, I can't recall the exact details) to play golf.  Andy was great to play golf with, always providing funny material to use against him in the future.

Andy would line up about 30 yards right of where he thought he was aimed.  Then he'd swing and hit the ball  40 yards left of his intended target.  One time Andy was leading his flight of a golf tournament heading into the last hole.  He only needed something like a 9 to win but carded a smooth 13 to finish 3rd (again, the details are a bit fuzzy on that one, but I never let the truth get in the way of a good story).

While playing golf, Andy was never afraid to lend a helping hand when others wouldn't.  There was a time Andy and I were playing with a couple other friends.  After a particularly wayward approach shot by me, my arms suddenly had a spasm and my 3-iron inadvertently got tossed into a tree.  Unfortunately, said 3-iron got stuck in the trees on the 11th hole at Oak Meadow and refused to come back down.  While 2 of my 'friends' laughed as they walked toward the green, Andy stayed behind and helped me throw my 9-iron into the tree to dislodge my 3-iron.  That's what friends are for.

There were other times on the course where Andy would provide good insurance tips.  If he'd notice my ball heading towards the water, he'd immediately chime in to let me know not to throw the clubs because they weren't covered by insurance.  It's hard to get help like that.

Not quite ten years ago, I upped my life insurance when Hayden was born.  One of the insurance companies didn't like the results of my blood work, so they turned me down for an increase (my triglycerides were too high, always have been, always will be, because Psycho Dad loves beer and chips).  Not to worry Andy said, "we'll just get you two small policies that total the amount you're looking for."  In explaining everything to my wife, she got confused with all the numbers and what to do if I died.  Noting her confusion, I asked her if she wanted the details or if she just wanted Andy's cell number so she could call and say, "Rick's dead, now what do I do?"

Andy has since set up a Facebook page for his alter ego, Insurance Dude where he provides answers to every insurance question you could ever think of.  For those of you looking for insurance, go to Insurance Dude's Facebook page for information:

http://www.facebook.com/InsuranceDude?fref=ts

If you already have insurance with someone else, drop it and then go to Insurance Dude's Facebook page.  You won't be sorry.  I've never been.

Any suggestions?

I never knew what a good cat Sneaky was until Jennifer brought home the little son of a bitch you see above.  Porter has been pain in the ass since the day she came to live with us.  She's always getting into shit, always invading our personal space (I don't need her sitting ON my face while I try to watch TV in my recliner), and always makes sure we're up at 5 AM.

She does funny things; she chases her tail like a dog, she chases shadows, and sometimes she just chases things that simply aren't there.  This morning I was relaxing with my thoughts downstairs and could have sworn someone had broken into the house.  When I left the latrine, it was just her running all over the house banging into shit and the dog and cat sitting back and watching, trying to figure out what this idiot kitty was doing.

It's gotten worse since Friday, and that's really when I realized what a good cat Sneaky has been.  When I put up the Christmas tree when Sneaky was still a kitty, he played with the ornaments and chewed anything he could fit in his mouth.  I yelled at him and beat his ass and he never did it again.  I expected the same with Porter, but she's had different ideas.

I've got one of those fake trees where the lights are already on the tree.  Basically you hook a couple things together and the tree is up and lit in maybe five minutes.  Because it's fake, it looks almost perfect--all the branches exactly where they should be.

On Saturday morning, when I got downstairs, I noticed the tree no longer looked perfect.  Every branch on the bottom was hanging a little lower than normal and the tree looked like shit.  Yesterday morning, Jennifer woke me up much earlier than I wanted to explain to me that she knew why the tree was moving...the damned cat was climbing it.

Later when I woke up, I went downstairs and glanced at my ugly tree.  I heard a meow and looked at the floor, only to find nothing.  Instead, about 4 feet high, there was a black cat laying on a branch.  I wanted to beat her.

Since then, I've managed to put up some barriers to keep her out, but it's not working. She either climbs the barriers or just jumps over or through them.  I keep a spray bottle nearby to squirt the little shit, but it does little good.  Sneaky catches on after a few splashes and stops doing whatever it is he's been doing, but Porter doesn't seem to care.

She's going in next week to have her front claws removed.  While she's there, I'm going to see if they can just remove her front legs while they've got her.  Other than that, I'm out of ideas.  I've considered tossing her against the wall the next time she does it, but I'm saving that as a final option.

Any suggestions?

Charlie Brown and turkey

While changing clothes last night, I was in my bedroom listening as Hayden and Jennifer watched the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving show.  I wasn't paying much attention until I heard this gravelly sounding guy that I'd guessed had been smoking a few packs a day for the last 30 years.  Not recalling many adults in any of the Charlie Brown episodes (seriously, where were the parents), I turned to watch, only to discover it was Pestermint Patty. 

It's been some years since I've watched any of the shows I enjoyed as a kid (I believe Frosty the Snowman is on Friday night), but I don't recall Pestermint Patty being so butch.  Amazed, I watched for a few more minutes.  In watching I discovered that not only was Pestermint Patty extremely butch, but Marcie was her bitch.  If you haven't noticed the same thing, I suggest you give the old shows a viewing and see if you agree.

I started wondering if maybe it was a bit too mature for Hayden to be watching, but my worries were put to ease as he only seemed to enjoy the parts where the adults speak in that mumbled 'whah whah whah' noise. 

Regardless, Merry Thanksgiving to all.

Throwing in the towel

Well, not quite, but I've got the towel in my hand. 

Today was beautiful out.  55 degrees and mostly overcast with the sun popping its head out occasionally.  Since I don't have to be at work til 12:30 or so today, it was the perfect opportunity to run as long as I pleased.  I set my goal at 4 miles, thinking that would allow me to work up a crazy mess of a sweat and drops some unwanted water weight so I could hit my longer term goal of weighing less than 180 by Thanksgiving.

I had a good, long run on Saturday, ran a couple miles Sunday morning and Sunday night, then ran a couple more miles yesterday morning.  Originally I wanted to put in a couple more miles last night, but as night approached, I wasn't feeling it and combined with the fact that I had a lot of free time planned for this morning, I just decided to give myself a break.

Slightly refreshed, I headed out today for what I'd hoped was a 4-mile run.  However, it didn't take long to realize I didn't have it today.  I don't know what 'it' was, but I knew immediately that whatever 'it' was, it was lacking.  I could tell I was running at a slower pace than usual, and even at the slower pace it was hard to maintain. 

After one mile, I pulled up lame and walked a bit.  I made it home to finish the second mile, and again, pulled up lame and walked.  At that point, I was starting to get annoyed but then I remembered on Saturday, when I went for my longest run yet, it was after taking a full day off of doing nothing...something I haven't done yet this week.

I made it another half mile before walking, then another half mile before walking, then another half mile, and so on.  I hated doing so much walking, but several people have told me it doesn't matter how fast you go it's all about finishing.  So, I finished the day at just over 5 and a quarter miles.  I was proud of that, given how the day went, but felt pretty indifferent about the experience as a whole.

After peeling off my clothes and hopping in the shower, I topped the scale at 182.2.  Given that a small group of us are getting together tomorrow night for a Thansgiving Get-Together, I've got to see 179.9 by tomorrow and that's pretty unlikely at this point. 

In looking back as some previous posts, I'd down 8 pounds in 4 weeks.  That sounds good to some people, but I should have lost more by now.  My cousin, Bryan, hit the nail on the head when he said training for a mini-marathon would be more about maintaining weight than losing it because I'm burning more calories and have no choice but to consume more to provide energy.  The same thing happened a few years ago.  I ran over 100 miles in one month and didn't lose a pound.  I was eating full meals 4-5 times a day.

After the holiday, I'll re-evaluate and consider smaller runs a couple times a day to kick start my metabolism, with a longer run on the weekend.  I'll likely set my goal to not only run a mini next summer, but to see 169.9 pounds. 

Shooting at the walls of heartache, bang, bang

I had a nice run on Thursday morning, just shy of 5 miles.  I didn't feel spectacular on Thursday night and Friday I was feeling worse, with a sore throat and achy legs getting the better of me.  I did nothing on Friday.  I'd mentioned before that because I was still too fat, I was cutting back the beer and chips this weekend and a sore throat and not feeling well made that easier.  While I've still got an amazing collection of beer just calling my name at home, I'm down to only two bottles of beer from what's generally considered the best brewery in the world.  Since I was going to limit the intake to one bottle a night, I thought I'd make them count by knocking back a bottle of Westvleteren 8 on Friday night and Westvleteren 12 on Saturday night.  However, the sore throat prevented me from having much in the way of taste buds (yes, I drink beer for the taste, not to get shit-faced), so I'm holding onto my two remaining Holy Grails.

Just one beer last night and God only knows what I weighed when I got up.  Jennifer had been telling me not to run this weekend since I had a sore throat (my sore throats usually turn into strep, so we're both cautious when my throat gets 'scratchy'), but I'm not a great listener.  This morning it was nice and sunny and when I got the paper, about 10 degrees warmer than normal (it was a balmy 48).  So, I decided to go for it because I'm a warrior.

My previous long run was something like 5.2 miles.  There's a stretch of road that I ride my bike on quite frequently and since I've done it so often, I know different landmarks to figure 1.3 miles, 2.0 miles, 3.0 miles, 3.65 miles, etc, all the way up to 7.3 miles.  It's a mostly quiet, straight stretch of road that's mostly flat, but has some gentle, easy inclines along the way.  I decided to set out for the 3-mile mark and then turn around.  It was ambitious, but like I said, I'm a warrior.

The run itself was non-descript, but it was nice to get out of the neighborhood.  At two miles in, I saw a dog and thought, "Great, I don't feel well and I'm either going to have to outrun this dog or kick its ass."  As I approached the dog stopped and stared.  I think he was trying to determine how tasty I'd be, but I noticed a flaw...his tale-tell tail gave him away, he was a lover and not a fighter.  His tell was a slight wag.  So I started talking to him and telling him what a pretty boy he was...the wag grew in enthusiasm.  I continued telling him what a good boy he was til we reached the next house (there are only a handful of houses during the three mile stretch, so he was running with me for a good while), when I told him to go on home and I'd catch him on the return trip. 

About a mile later, I saw a bigger, louder dog.  Fortunately, this dog was being visited by a friend so he barely gave me a look.  At the 3-mile mark I slowed to a walk and checked the GPS thingy.  It was right on the money, though it gave me a very slow pace. 

By four miles, I was starting to get tired, my throat was starting to feel dry, and I was ready for the recliner.  I visited my dog friend again and told him to be a good boy and I'd see him later.  During the last couple miles, I did stop for a walk twice, but only for a few paces. 

As I climbed the only major hill, I saw a familiar, unexpected sight.  Jennifer and Hayden were out to run errands and thought they'd drive by to see if I was lying in a ditch or needed a ride home for any other reason.  I declined and they were on their way.

On the last mile, I had a bit of a second wind and thought long and hard about an extra mile.  Ultimately, I gave in and decided to save it for later.  My run ended up at 6.05 miles, and that's less than 1% off what I expected it to be.  The downside is that my average speed sucked.  Granted I didn't feel great, but I never felt like I was going slow.  I think mostly it just showed that all my previous runs are a bit off (to the high side) in what the GPS tells me is the distance, and since the distance is inflated but the time isn't, the pace is artificially high.  Oh well, as of today I know I can run half of a half marathon.  I'll worry about speed as soon as I can crack off a 13-mile run. 

As expected, I was soaked in sweat when I got home.  I peeled off the wet clothes and hopped in the shower.  I still have put the clothes in the laundry room because I can't catch the little boogers...my socks, pants and shirts are all running around the house and I don't have the energy to chase them. 

I've had little to eat so far, and not much to drink, so all I've done is burn calories and lose water weight.  When I got out of the shower, the scale read 182.4 so hitting my goal of seeing 179.9 or less by Thanksgiving is still reachable, but will require a little more will power and since some of us from the class of 1987 will be getting together the night before Thanksgiving, I've got to see that number by Wednesday morning.  But, I'm a warrior so I'll keep trying (in case you didn't figure it out, that's what the video at top is all about...being a warrior).

Not much in the tank today

I was worn out yesterday.  Fortunately, Hayden didn't have much homework so we finished in no time and we each decided to relax.  I didn't feel bad, but I didn't seem to have much in the tank as far as energy.  I've been running a lot lately, the broken foot is doing great, and I haven't really taken any days off to rest since I can't remember when.  After sitting in the recliner most of the night and loading up on every vitamin pill I had (I've been trying to remember to take a multi-vitamin every day, something my doctor suggested a year or so ago), I decided a beer and the day off on Thursday would be great.

However, I woke up feeling much better today.  While today is a bit warmer than it has been, it's still nipply out and somewhere in the house I knew I had a pair of runner's pants so when I got up I decided to look for them.  It only took a few minutes to find them, so I thought, "screw it," and figured I'd try them out. 

I recall a friend of mine telling me she liked her runs to be deep and hard (or long and slow, I can't remember), so I went for a run, taking it very easy.  It occurred to me while running that my legs don't hurt all that much when I run and my lungs can handle 50+ minutes of jogging, so I decided that even though I was running on empty I wanted to see if I could put 4 miles behind me.

As I headed west, I noticed I was running directly into the wind.  When I turned left and headed south for a bit, I noticed, again, that I was running directly into the wind.  Eventually I turned and was heading east when I noticed that, once more, I was running directly into the wind.  I thought maybe I should have listened to myself last night when I decided to take the day off.  Seriously, the freaking wind was in my face unless I ran north. 

Though my legs felt a big heavy and my ankles weren't exactly interested in a longish run, I managed 4.6 miles today in just over 45 minutes.  I stopped after two miles and dropped my hat and gloves off by our gate (it was 37 degrees when I started, but after two miles, I have sweating like a whore in church).  After three miles, I stopped and walked for about 50 feet.  Other than that, I piddled along at a 6.1 MPH clip (which I was a bit encouraged by, given how slow it felt).

Even after taking off the gloves and hat, I continued to leak sweat.  I wish you could have felt my shirt when I got home.  OMG. 

After getting off the scale, I wasn't exactly doing a happy dance.  The other day I was down as low as 183.2.  Yesterday, I weighed myself before running and weighed 186.4 and then 184.2 after running.  Today, after the run I was at 184.0.  I was hoping to be a bit lower, especially considering that as soon as I start eating I'll be back up to 186 or so tonight.

I'm not giving up on seeing 179.9 or lower by Thanksgiving, but now I have no choice but to limit the damage this weekend, something I didn't want to have to do.  I so look forward to the weekends because that's when I allow myself to pop the cork on a $10 bottle of beer.  That's not looking likely at this point.

Regardless, I was pleased that I managed 4.6 miles on what I'd planned to be a day off.

No beer last night

The football game last night sucked.  It was played on a shitty field in shitty weather and one of the teams is shitty and the other is playing shitty.  Had I not had a wiener and been obligated to watch it, I probably wouldn't have.  I actually fell asleep during the game as it more resembled soccer than real football as it was mostly a field goal fest.  As such, I didn't even feel like having a beer last night. 

This morning, I opted against running through the neighborhood (I saw ice and decided I'd prefer the warmer confines of my mancave) and instead ran on the dreadmill.  In trying to work within the framework of something my cousin suggested, I started off with a half mile jog before enduring a series of eighth-mile runs at an incline and then slower eighth mile 'runs' at no incline to mimic running up a hill and then back down.  He uses it for strength training.  For two miles, I alternated between tear-inducing uphill climbs and slower trots to catch my breath.  With one stop in the middle for a drink and to blow my nose, I didn't stop.  After finishing the uphill-downhill parts, I finished with an easy half mile jog to end the morning with what amounted to a 3-mile run overall.

After dicking around on Facebook and allowing my body temperature to get back below triple digits, I hit the shower.  I dryed off, shaved and hopped on the scale.  183.2.  (Doing my happy dance now)

Granted, I'm not weighing myself at the ideal time, but I'm weighing under the same conditions everyday.  I can't wait to see less than 180 because there's a new buffet place that just opened in Evansville and I'm looking forward to leaving my mark on the place. 

Any questions?

Does anyone not remember this commercial from back in the day?  It was a PSA about drugs being bad for you.  I think they need to start airing it again.

I'm not sure at what age kids start drinking or doing drugs these days but it's obviously in the 3rd grade or earlier.  I'm sure my lawyer cousin will provide a statistic saying otherwise, but I've got proof that kids start hitting the hard stuff far earlier than we believe.

Yesterday afternoon, Hayden and I were working on some homework he had as he learned about Veteran's Day.  He had a worksheet where he had to fill out certain words that were missing--words like Armistice, Vietnam, Soldier--and since most 3rd graders aren't familiar with those words, there was a blank dash for each letter and under dash was the letter that came after the intended letter.  For example, in Armistice, the first letter was B.  So all you had to do was write down the letter that precedes the letter you were given.  To make it even easier, Hayden's got a list of all the letters printed and written in cursive taped to the wall in the kitchen, where we do most of the homework.

I read him the directions and asked him which letter came before the letter "B."  He replied, "9?"

I first thought he was being funny.  He's got a good sense of humor and makes me laugh every day. However, he didn't appear to be joking.  I asked again.  Again, he replied, "9."

He still had that "I'm not joking" looking on his face, so I said, in a bit of a different, darker tone, "Hayden, which letter in the alphabet comes before the letter B?"  Just as calmly as he could, he said, "3?"

My second thought was that I was being Punk'd.  I looked around for Ashton Kutcher, but it was only Hayden and me, and the animals around.  "Hayden, are you shitting me?  What letter in the alphabet comes before the letter B?  And don't tell me a fucking number."

It really would make sense if he's been drinking.  I've got two rooms full of empty beer bottles and full beer bottles in three different refrigerators and more in the pantry.  But I keep a pretty good eye on what I've got an nothing seems to be missing so I'm sure it's not alcohol (plus, he doesn't like the smell of it when he takes a whiff of whatever I'm drinking).  So, I'm ruling out alcohol, but I think Holy Rosary might have a drug problem. 

Slowly but surely

I felt great on Saturday and had the house to myself for a few hours.  It was beautiful out so I grabbed my running shoes and shock absorber socks (along with britches and a shirt) and went for a run.  My previous long run was just over 3 miles but I knocked out the 4- and 5-mile walls with a 5.2 mile jog through the neighborhood.

The run went so well I even felt pretty good afterward, enough so that I went for a short bike ride and then later that night took the pup for a walk.  Was tired yesterday and could tell I had been running, but looked forward to another week of wearing out my running shoes.

This morning wasn't quite as nice as Saturday, or even yesterday.  Storm rolled through last night and brought cold temps and wetness.  This morning's run took place in 37 degree, wet, windy weather.  It didn't take long to realize today wasn't going to be as much fun, though I did learn a few things.  First, my shoes aren't made for the colder temperatures.  They're adidas running shoes and they're made out of the same stuff as some of my golf shirts.  Not sure what it is, but the shoes breathe to let the nasty, sweaty foot stank out and keep my tender little toe toes cool.  That's great when it's hot out, but not so much when it's 37 and wet.  I could feel the wind blowing through my shoes and after the first puddle, my big toe started to get numb quick.  I made a mental note to either get another pair of shoes or avoid puddles like the plague.

The second learning experience consisted of learning something new and confirming something I was pretty sure I knew.  Running into the wind isn't as much as running with the wind.  It's obvious, but for some of you who might not be playing with a full deck, I thought I'd mention it again.  I'm not sure how long I've been working toward running a mini, but I'm picking up on things that I hadn't before.  After riding my bike all summer, I was able to tell which way the wind was blowing by looking at the lakes I'd pass (It may seem silly not to be able to know which way the wind is blowing, but when you're wearing a helmet and pedaling along at 15-20 MPH, you sometimes can't tell, especially in the midwest where it might be blowing in several directions at once).  Anyway, I'm not much of a spitter, but I've found I do spit a few times during each run.  When I'm running with the wind, my spit travels a good deal in front of me.  When I'm running against the wind, I end up wearing my spit.  Again, it seems obvious, but your mind wanders when you're out there picking them up and putting them down.  I decided that spitting to the side took the guesswork out of the equation.

Between the cold, the wet, the wind, and being a Monday morning, I wasn't out for some marathon of a run.  Just a bit more than I've been doing to help push my endurance a bit.  I set my goal for three miles.  That was out and back once, then back out again half way and back again.  I really wanted to stop after a couple miles, but I kept telling myself, "You're a fat bastard...you're a fat bastard...you're a fat bastard" and I kept going.

I was out for just shy of 3.25 miles and just over 30 minutes.  I went with the phone app that seems to be the most accurate (though it's a bit shy on the calorie counting), and also because it's got a split time thingy showing time and speed for each mile.  My first mile was in 9:51 and a barely upright 6.09 MPH.  I expected it to suck because it was into the wind most of the way and I was still trying to wake up.  The second mile was downwind, though you can't really tell as it was in 9:46 at 6.15 MPH.  I got a bit of a second wind after that second wind and several times had to slow myself down.  That third mile was 9:34 and 6.27 and consisted of both into the wind and with the wind.  A couple times I actually found myself running instead of jogging.  I noticed as I get closer to home and my running is almost done that my legs start running a bit faster than I want them to.

Despite the cold, I was sweating something fierce.  I peeled off the layers of clothing and ordered them upstairs to the hamper.  After a shower and a shave, I hopped on the scale.  Last Monday was a disappointing 187.2 on my way to Friday's 184.8.  Today was a mostly good 184.8.

There's Monday Night Football tonight, but it'll suck so I'll keep it to one beer.  Also, to make sure I drink a lot of water during the day, I picked up a way fancy 28-ounce water bottle with the impressive 'freezer stick' in it to keep my agua cold. (Thought I'd throw in some Spanglish to impress my Latino contingent)

My goal is still to see 179.X or better by Thanksgiving morning.  I'm going to have to move that up a day early because some of us are planning on going to Bar Louie the night before Thansgiving and that'll add a couple pounds probably.  To drop 5 pounds in 9 days is likely going to mean I have to cut out the beer this weekend.  That'll suck because I've still got some quality brew at home.

Regardless, I'm getting there slowly but surely.

Bad Kitty

I should have seen it coming.  Deep down, it just made sense.  She's been a bad kitty since we brought her home.  She's always knocking shit over, always getting into things she's not supposed to, always sleeps 23 hours a day and that one hour she's awake is from 4:30 AM to 5:30 AM. 

She's quite the talker too.  Never shuts up.  I thought Jennifer and I sounded like a broken record in dealing with Hayden and the thousand times a day we say, 'No,' but now the only thing we seem to say is 'shut up,' because all Porter does it talk.  She just never shuts up.  She's like a teenage girl on a brand new cell phone...talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

So, to summarize, she's a royal pain in the ass.  Sure, she's cute, and honestly, who wants an animal that doesn't have a little attitude?  But jeez, once in a while it would be nice to have a second cat like Sneaky.  Sneaky is a great cat, very similar to me--rub our bellies once in a while and leave us alone the rest of the time.

Ok, enough background, onto the story.  A couple weeks ago, I took Porter to the vet to have her lady pieces removed.  The vet went in and changed her plumbing and said to bring her back in a couple weeks to have the stitches removed.  He said to keep her from the other animals for a couple days immediately following the surgery and that he'd take care of the stitches when I brought her back. 

Honestly, with the way Porter always starts fights with Sneaky and Memphis (the beagle), I fully expected to have to rush her back after one of the other animals gave her a good kidney punch, but that never happened.  Or so I thought.

I took Porter in today.  I handed the Kitty Carrier to the lady with the nice hair at the receptionist's desk and she said she'd be back in a few minutes.  I sat down and maybe 45 seconds later the lady with the nice hair was bringing back the kitty. 

I mentioned how quick that was, and she informed me that the stitches had already been removed.  I said, "Well...I didn't do it and you didn't do it, who took them out?"  We paused and both looked over at a very guilty looking kitty.  Porter just turned her head and started staring out the window.

It very easily could have been Sneaky or Memphis, but knowing Porter I think I have a good idea who the bad kitty is.  I asked the lady with the nice hair, "Can I set up an appointment to get her declawed, or have she already removed those too?"  I'll probably have another similar story in a month. 

Figured it out

I think I might be onto something.  I've been thinking about it for a few days now, but I finally did something about it yesterday.  Back in the day when I was working full-time (and by working, I mean I was at work), I used to drink a lot of water every day.  At work, I'd drink water all day long, easily 6-8 ten ounce glasses, plus a 20-ounce bottle at home with dinner and maybe another 20-ounce bottle if I did any exercising. 

Since I stopped working/being at work full-time, I haven't been doing that.  For the last few months, I've had maybe 6-8 ten ounce glasses during that whole period of time.  On Monday, I was going to start drinking more at work.  However, the water dispenser thing on the fridge at work stopped working.  I rectified that by filling my own half gallon water bottle, which I promptly forgot and left at home on Tuesday. 

Wednesday was different.  I remembered the bottle and began my process of drinking water again.  Why is this important?  Well, in the grand scheme of things, it's really not.  But I think it has a lot to do with my being pregnant.  As you're well aware, I weigh myself every day and have for years.  I can recall different times over the years where one day, for no apparent reason, I'd weigh 3 pounds more than the previous day.  I'd bitch about it at work and feel like shit. 

However, on the next day, I'd weigh myself and I'd be down 4 pounds.  I'd sit around and work and do nothing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.  Eventually, I'd come to the same conclusion each time...when I'd recall the previous day's events, it usually included me spending all the in the bathroom meeting with my leetle friend. 

So, I've been fat for a few weeks and am not having any success this week ridding myself of this unwanted baby I'm carrying.  Yesterday I went through roughly a quart of the water during my few hours at work.  When I got home and Hayden and I finished homework (they're now working on division...little shits still can't multiply, and they're being introduced to division...WTF?), I drank a little more and continued hydrating til a few hours before bed. 

This morning I woke up and felt good.  The construction guys weren't doing anything in the neighborhood, my broken foot felt better, and I'd recently downloaded a couple new apps to take on my runs.  When I walked out to get the paper, it felt warmer than usual.  I was excited about my run. 

I threw on some sweats and a shirt I'd sometimes wear on a long bike ride--one of those thin, breathey ones.  I grabbed my sunglasses (gotta look cool when I run) and headed out.  I turned around as I got to the gate leading out of the yard and went back inside for a new shirt.  It was 48 degrees, and that's a hell of a lot colder than it seemed earlier.  Take 1 was a fail.

Take 2 went better.  Properly attired (mostly anyway, but I was still cold), I headed out with my new phone app running to track my journey.  It was a relatively easy run.  My foot never hurt and eventually I worked up a nice sweat.  Nothing like a sweaty head and torso and freezing cold hands.  The two miles came and went and when I returned home, I grabbed the phone to check the stats.

It read 2.08 miles and 20 minutes and 30 seconds.  The problem was I didn't know how to stop the damned thing.  There was no pause/stop button like every other program I've seen.  When I finally realized I had to slide a button to stop it, it read 2.10 miles and 20:59.

This is the same run I've been doing for the last week and have gotten different results each time.  This was the closest to the supposed 2.00 miles, but I'm not sold yet on the app.  One nice feature is that it showed split times in the history, something the other app I'd been using is supposed to have but not so much for me. 

After taking off my sweat-soaked shirt and chasing it around the room to get it in the hamper, I hopped in the shower and then shaved when I got out (I wanted every last gram of weight removed before I got on the scale).  I got an extra bonus when I shaved because I cut off half my chin and the resulting blood loss was much appreciated, as evidenced by the scale showing 184.8.  That's down a couple pounds from yesterday, and all week really.

I was very excited and then it occurred to me that maybe the scale was wrong and I should try again.  The next weighing was even better--184.6.  I thought maybe I should weigh myself a few more times and see if I could crack a 183, but decided I didn't want to push my luck. 

Tonight is a Thursday Night Football and tomorrow starts the weekend, so I'm not expecting good things but it's nice to know that I don't have to tell Hayden he's going to be a big brother. 

Nothing to see here

187.2 again today (he says, shaking his head in disgust, and wiping away tears).

I don't ever recall weighing the same thing three days in a row, especially when I've not been lazy and I'm eating well.  I'm going to call a gynecologist to see when I'm due.

Addtraction and Subdition

Working with Hayden on his math is becoming more and more entertaining.  I've noticed they skip around in what they do, which doesn't make sense to me, but whatever.  We've managed to make math somewhat fun at home and he's becoming more and more enthused about working on it.  We've got a whiteboard on the wall in his room and almost every night, we work on some multiplication.  He still doesn't know the tables (they just starting to move on from 0s, 1s, and 2s), but he knows the basics of how to multiply two-digit numbers times two-digit numbers (well, the basics as I've taught him, not the shit he learns in school).

Once in a while, the teacher throws in some sort of review material, consisting of little more than a worksheet with addition and subtraction problems.  Hayden does mostly OK with this, but he still doesn't pay enough attention to detail.

For example, he likes to consolidate the two disciplines of addition and subtraction.  Sometimes he'll take

        76     or    76
     - 23          + 23
        93             59

He'll subtract the one's column and add the ten's column, or vice-versa.  When I mention he might need to look at those again, he'll argue that he's right, because when you add or subtract the given numbers, you do indeed come up with what he's got...at least in his world.

I'm reminded on one of Hayden's favorite cartoons, the one where Bugs Bunny is in Transylvania and he keeps casting spells of 'Hocuscadabra' and 'Abracapocus.'  I like to call this new math 'Addtraction' and/or 'Subdition' and it's extremely enteraining to work on.  You should give it a try.

Still at rock bottom

I did a good job of managing what I ate last night.  Had very little fat and calories for dinner, only had one beer and a few potato chips during the football game.  When I got up this morning, I took a huge heater and went for a jog.  Came home sweating like a pig despite the 41 degree weather, grabbed a sip of water and took a shower.  I shaved and blew my nose to remove all excess weight.

Keeping in mind that I typically weigh more on Mondays than any other time of the week (as I've mentioned, weekends are bad for me), I was anxious to see how much I had dropped from yesterday's 187.2 showing (my weight changes are pretty extreme, me gaining or losing 3-4 pounds in a day is nothing out of the ordinary).  After the scale got through its calculations, it showed a staggering net loss of exactly 0.0 pounds.

I called the scale a few dirty names and kicked it to the side of the bathroom in disgust.  I weighed the same as yesterday, a rarity as I generally lose chunks of weight from Monday to Tuesday, Tuesday to Wednesday, etc, before packing it on again over the weekend.  I dropped a few more F-bombs as I went downstairs to grab a bite before heading into work.

While eating I read the latest car magazine and kept telling myself all the bullshit excuses that people tell fat bastards...it's probably just water weight, it's probably just muscle, blah, blah, blah.  I almost started to believe it.

I suffered the ultimate embarrassment while getting dressed.  Convinced the weight gain was nothing more than muscle or the like, I grabbed a pair of jeans that I normally wear on Tuesdays (Hayden and I go see Father Bernie at church on Tuesday nights for a very laid back service.  People dress in shorts, sweats, whatever, so jeans at church isn't as bad as it sounds.).  The damned things felt tight the second I 'slid' the on.  And by 'slid,' I mean I tugged the shit out of them.  I finally got them on, and while there was no need for a belt, there really wasn't a reason for the button either.  It just wasn't going to happen.  Talk about the indignity of getting kicked when you're down.  I'm starting to think I've got a tumor in my stomach.  A very large tumor.

I've decided I'm going back to exercising twice a day like I used to.  Work up a nice sweat first thing in the morning, and then another when I get home from work.  The bad foot is just going to have to man up and deal with it.  I'm sick of being the butt of my own jokes.  I don't like fat people, so now I'm forced to not like my favorite person...another humility.

As I mentioned, I did go for another jog this morning.  Despite being a few degrees warmer (and dryer) than yesterday, I froze my cherries off.  I wore gloves but my hands were cold the whole trip.  Taking the exact same route as yesterday, I somehow managed to do it in 0.06 miles less than yesterday.  Apparently, I'm getting bigger but the neighborhood is getting smaller.

I did use a different phone app to track my jog, but it's from the same place as the one I used yesterday.  I believe the route to be 2.00 miles, meaning yesterday was off 9% and today was off 6%.  Kind of begs the question, how much is it going to be off tomorrow and in which direction?

My bum foot remains sore-ish after each run, but if I give it some decent rest at night, it seems to be handling it.  We'll see how well it handles the uptick in activity.  I think the new shock absorber socks will shine.  Speaking of which, here's a picture:

Pretty sweet, huh?  Two pairs have the gray shock absorbers and one pair has a red shock absorber (can't wait to see how bitchin' the red ones are).  It was a pretty stellar purchase if you ask me.  They're very comfy because they stretch a little, and while they're fairly thin, they have the shock absorber part on the bottom.  Don't be jealous.

I'm still fat

Because I'm pretty sure I fractured my foot a week and a half ago, I took it fairly easy last week.  I rode my recumbent bike in the mancave mostly, while giving my foot some time off.  I tried to eat a little better, and by that I mean I cut back on potato chips and tried my best to only drink one beer a night.  That sounds easy enough, but I just went to the beer store last week and brought home some choice swill (Goose Island Bourbon County Stout for the win.  15% ABV.  Can't wait.)

There are a couple ways of looking at the results.  Last Monday I was 'down' to 190.2.  I saw as low as 184.8 on Friday morning but the weekend killed me again somehow.  I really did make it a point to eat better, but the scale suggested it was all for naught this morning with a 187.2 showing.  So, depending on how you want to look at it, I gained another 2.4 pounds over the weekend or I lost 3 pounds from the previous Monday.  I'm a pessimist, so I choose to look at the 2.4 pound gain.

Giving my foot some rest was a big help.  I'd been talking with my cousin, Bryan, about his training to run in a marathon and he forwarded to me a training program for speed training.  In going over what he sent, I thought it made good sense to use a dreadmill, since it's more or less just running up a hill at race pace.  He confirmed that he used a dreadmill sometimes, so that's what I went with.

Bryan told me the workout was brutal and that I'd hate him.  He was correct on both assertions.  I even toned it down because I'm not like the other crazies who can run forever.  I started off with a nice little half mile run, then started the hill part.  I went for an eighth of a mile at a incline of 9 at what I thought was my race pace, then slowed way down for the next eighth of a mile at no incline to catch my breath.  Then did it again, and again, and once more after that.  I took a couple minutes to get a drink and went 'up the hill' two more times.  I was completely worn out.  But if felt so good, though it was still brutal and I still hate my cousin for it.

On Saturday, I had the house to myself so I thought I'd run on the dreadmill again, this time just to burn some calories and avoid the pounding of the pavement outside.  At no incline, I jogged a mile, walked a quarter and repeated that three more times.  I stopped once in the middle to get a drink, but that was my only stop.  5 miles and I was completely soaked in sweat but again, it felt so good.

Yesterday I went to Wally World to pick up some groceries.  It turned out to be quite entertaining (as it usually is).  As soon as I got out of my car, I heard some guy screaming.  It's not uncommon for me to get accosted at Wally World (I've been lectured on my parenting by one lady, and another lady actually followed my  into the parking lot to tell me my driving sucked), but this was the first time I can recall the yelling hasn't been directed at me.  I looked around and finally spotted a Mexican looking dude just ripping someone a new one.  I tried not to look, but this was just too good. I never saw who was the beneficiary of this fatherly advice, but apparently it was one of his children, and I'm guessing a child who isn't exactly an angel, as evidenced by him screaming, 'What did you steal this time?"

Most of the rest of my Wally World trip was uneventful, except I did happen to find some running socks that have cushioning on the bottom.  Given my broken foot, I felt it would have been irresponsible of me not to run around the neighborhood with shock absorber socks on, so I picked up the three pack.

This morning I went out to get the paper and it was chilly.  I did some P90X leg exercises yesterday, but wanted to go ahead and get in a short run today.  Armed with my shock absorber socks, I left the house in the 37 degree weather and headed out on what I'd measured to be a two-mile round trip run.  The socks did ok and I came home in the still-37 degree weather, albeit in a slight drizzle, and only a hint of a sore foot.

My stupid GPS registered that I'd run 2.18 miles, so something is off to the extent of almost 10%.  My bike computer says the round trip should have been 2.00 and for some reason I believe that to be correct.  Another thing that leads me to believe the running GPS thing is wrong is because it tells me I'm going a bit faster than I think I am.  I went out reasonably slow today and it said I averaged 6.3 MPH.  However, on the dreadmill, I can't keep up even at 6 MPH for much more than a half mile.  When I adjusted the distance down to 2.0 miles for 20 minutes and 46 seconds it tells me I ran 5.8 MPH which seems more reasonable.  I'm going to try another GPS thing next time and see what it says.

Regardless, it's disappointing because I'm still fat.  I'd like to think I ate too much salt yesterday and I'm retaining fluids.  Jennifer and Hayden made potato soup yesterday and any kind of soup usually packs on pounds to my frame.  Normally it's just water weight and I lose it pretty quickly.  Sadly I don't think that's the case this time.  I think I'm just still fat.  Based on the scale, I need to drop 7 pounds by Thanksgiving because I'm going to put on at least that much over the holiday weekend.

Thanks guys

I want to take this opportunity to thank all the construction guys that have been working in our neighborhood over the past few weeks.  They've been there replacing a good portion of the 3.5 linear miles of concrete that make up our subdivision.

Because of their diligence over those weeks, they've ensured that I haven't overslept once, making it a point to start making noise just before the sun starts to shine every morning.  Granted, I don't get into the office until 10:30 two days a week and 12:30 on two other days so I don't need an alarm, but I'm damn happy they've been looking out for me just in case I try to oversleep.

They're very kind in many other kinds of ways, notably the way they've been showering me with gifts.  As I walk out to get the paper, I notice the guys leave me their cigarette butts almost every day.  I'm not a smoker, but it's nice to know the guys are taking care of me in case I want to start.

On Sunday I finally got my lawn mower started.  It's been a couple weeks since I cut the front yard and the grass was getting long and the leaves were growing deep.  I appreciate the empty Coke can that had been hiding under the leaves.  My lawn mower made a really neat sound when the empty can was discovered.  I don't consume much caffeine, but again, I appreciate that the guys were looking out for me in case I needed that late morning pick-me-up.

Finally, I want to thank the guy who left the empty pack of cigarettes in my mailbox.  That was truly kind of you to show me which brand was your favorite, just in case I want to boil up a nice batch of lung cancer.

I'm sure all the households that make up Green River Estates III is equally pleased.  Each time I walk the dog, ride bikes with Hayden, or go for a run, I see remnants of the construction team in everyone's yard and drive way.  Guys, keep up the good work.

Annoyed twice before noon

I left the office at 11 this morning and stopped at the bank on the way home.  I hate going to the bank because it's like being on trial with all the questions they ask (in addition to all the old people that congregate there).  After answering how my day is going I don't want to talk again until I say 'thanks' and start walking towards the door.  While I try not to look grumpy, I don't think I've ever had a talkative look on my face.

Anyway, I handed the bank lady a few checks and a deposit slip.  My A.D.D. kicked in and I started thinking about other things when she asked if I was aware of their new programs.  For whatever reason, I shook my head and said 'no.'  Big mistake.

She spent several minutes explaining to me all the new shit they've got and how much I could save by not paying bank fees (which I already don't pay), on top of all the extra cash I could receive by earning 0.35% interest instead of 0.25% interest on my checking account.  I explained I already one of their new savings account type things and that I'd just transfer some extra funds from my checking to my savings account.  But that wasn't good enough.  She wanted to let me know that I would be earning extra on my checking account too.  After doing some quick math in my head, I'd make an additional $1.67 a month in interest. 

I calmly declined because I just wanted to get out of there.  But the bank lady kept going...explaining that my account number wouldn't change and that they were trying to get customers to switch over because eventually they were going to automatically convert everyone's account anyway.  I asked, in as nice a tone as I could muster, 'if you're going to do it automatically, why is this an issue right this moment?'  She paused, flashed me that 'God, you're really good looking but not very pleasant' look (I get that a lot), and asked if there was anything else she could do for me today.  I thanked her and said 'no.'

When I got home, I decided I was going to cut the grass.  It's been a while and it's a nice warm day and will likely be the last time of the year.  I went out and put on my grass-cuttin' shoes and pulled out the mower from our detached garage.  I pulled the pull cable thing and nothing happened.  I pulled again and got only a slightly better response from the mower.

At this point, I was starting to get pissed.  Earlier in the year, I bought a new mower.  It's some special turbo supercharged propelled mower that is supposed to start on the first pull every time.  As such, there is no choke, no primer button or anything to help when it won't start.  Since the mower has been in the outside garage for the last few weeks in the mostly cold weather, a choke would make perfect sense.  But, since I've got the special mower that starts on the first pull every time, there is no choke.

I pulled a few more times and it tried to fire, but each time it gave up early.  A few times, it spit out some dark smoke.  I laughed and took it as a lawn mower fart, thinking surely that would make it feel better and it would now want to start.  No dice.  So glad I bought the special lawn mower that always starts on the first try.  #(do I even have to say it)