A Picture Really Is Worth A Thousand Words

To all of you still checking in regularly, I appreciate it.  Unfortunately, though, I've lost my mojo.  For nearly three years, I kept this up at a pretty regular pace.  I didn't ever seem to have a shortage of something to say.  But, since July, I just haven't had any motivation.  I've been too tired, too burnt out, just too "done."

Interestingly, right around the time that my thoughts dried up and I stopped posting regularly, the tree in front of the shed of knowledge also started to die.  In late July, the leaves started to wither and turn brown.  By mid-August, they started to fall.  It's now completely bare.  Yes, I know that fall is here.  But, as you can tell from this picture, all the other trees still have green leaves.

Coincidence?  I don't think so. 

The More Things Change ...

I had a productive day working in the yard.  I put in about 6 hours, starting with my ongoing fight against the invasive clover-like weed that's crept out of the bed around the mailbox and started to take over my lawn.  I finally beat the quack grass after doing battle with it for the past few years and now this little bugger starts to cause problems.

It's been difficult to get rid of this particular weed.  The problem is that it's all wound up in my creeping juniper.  That means I can't use Round Up.  The only way this stuff is going away is through hand-to-hand combat.

I spent almost three hours down there this morning.  My guess is that I got rid of about 95% of it.  But, I also had to dig up part of the lawn that surrounds the mailbox bed so that I can re-seed it.  If the weed comes back, I'll have to do my best to keep it contained to the bed so that I can at least have a weed-free lawn.

After finishing that job, I moved on to trimming forsythia bushes, splitting and moving iris bulbs, transplanting daisies, and trimming the foundation bushes.  All in all, it was a pretty nice day and I was feeling good.  Until I came inside, that is.

I walked in around 3:30PM.  I checked www.espn.com and, much to my surprise, the Bills were actually leading the Patriots 21-17 early in the 4th quarter.  I went upstairs and turned on the TV to see if the local channel was actually showing the game.  They weren't but I decided to settle in to watch the end of the Titans - Steelers game and watch the scores crawl across the bottom of the screen.  Midway through the 4th quarter, the Patriots cut the lead to 21-20.  I started to get a bad feeling (or, should I say, a familiar one).  Rather than continue watching the ticker, I decided to jump in the shower.

When I finished cleaning up and came back out into the bedroom, lo and behold, CBS was just switching over to show the final 3 minutes of the Bills - Patriots game.  That was just enough time for me to watch:

• Two successful third down conversions by the Patriots
• A 20-yard run by the Patriots' third-string tail back when all he was trying to do was kill time
• The winning 35-yard field goal with all of 5 seconds left that allowed the Patriots to, once again, beat the Bills.

New coach, new quarterback, same result.  So much for feeling good.

Where Have You Been?

Over the last three weeks, I have had absolutely no motivation to post anything.  So, I haven't.  I've seriously considered packing up and moving on to something else.  I still may do that.  We'll see.

But, for now, let's take a look at five things I failed to comment on while I was on my little sabbatical:

• My future son-in-law, Prince George, was born.  I sent a congratulatory note to William and Kate, along with a brief bio on Hannah.  Let's see what happens.
• This silly little site hit 10,000 page views in a single month in July.  What is up with that?  It seems like the less I post, the more interest there is.  Maybe I really should stop all this nonsense.
• I found myself spending a couple hours putting together IKEA furniture for Hannah.  I thought I'd finally graduated from that particular activity but apparently not.  Thank goodness I had Jay and Nick to help me figure out the instructions.After spending countless hours trying to figure out which song is better -- "Blurred Lines" or "Get Lucky" -- I've finally made up my mind.  But, I'm going to leave you guessing.
• That idiot, Mark Emmert, was in the news again when the NCAA came under fire for selling player jerseys on its web site.  As if that wasn't bad enough, their site was also still carrying a t-shirt commemorating Joe Paterno's 400th career victory.  Yes, that would be the 400th career victory that the NCAA now says never really happened.  Could someone please just make Mark Emmert go away?

See, you weren't really missing anything.

Adrift at Sea

Over the weekend, we had a treading water contest.  The last one we had was probably 7-8 years ago and Hannah emerged victorious.  None of us could remember how long she actually treaded water but we knew it was over an hour.  It's time around, it was Nick who won out.  Hannah and I dropped out at 30 minutes, Jay went for 45 minutes, and Nick beat out Becca (Hannah's friend) by going for a full 1 hour and 15 minutes.  In case you're wondering, Kim was the timekeeper.

During the course of the contest, we had the inevitable "How long do you think you could really tread water if you capsized in the middle of the ocean?" conversation.  None of us really know.  We all say we could hold out for hours or even a full day.  Hopefully, unlike the frogs around here, we'll never have to find out.

Last night, we had a torrential rain storm with plenty of thunder and lightning. It woke me up at 1:08am.  The power went out about twenty minutes later.  As I lay there in bed, a number of questions raced through my head.  Is my phone fully charged?  Will the basement flood again?  Will the power come back on by morning?  If it doesn't, should I go running anyway and just "rinse off" in the pool?  The answers were no, no, yes, and (thankfully) the question no longer applies.  The one question that didn't pop into my head was how many frogs will I find in the pool in the morning.

When I took Wally and Ginger out in the morning, I saw that, as bad as my night had been, it wasn't nearly as bad as that of the local frogs.  I counted 31 of them having their own involuntary treading water contest in the pool at 6:45am.  You see, when a frog happens to find its way into the pool, there's no way out. They swim around endlessly, getting increasingly water-logged and drugged up on chlorine.  A few of the lucky ones make their way onto the vacuum cord that just skims the surface.  They sit there forlornly while the others swim in unending circles around the pool. Who knows what they're thinking in those tiny frog-sized brains of theirs.

Remarkably, all 31 frogs were still alive when I got out there.  I picked up the skimmer and started scooping them out, one by one.  I tossed them into the landscaping.  After flying through the air, they'd scramble back upright, probably wondering what had just happened.  A few hit a holly bush a little harder than they probably liked.  But, I don't think they were complaining.  They were back on solid ground.  The contest was over and they'd all won.

Mrs. Butterworth is Watching You

Nick just threw a minor hissy fit because we ran out of Aunt Jemima syrup for his pancakes.  We found a new container of Mrs. Butterworth's and thought that would fit the bill.  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of pointing out that, just like the Mona Lisa, Mrs. Butterworth is always watching you.  That was a mistake.

If you don't believe me, check it out for yourself.  Turn her to the left, she's watching you.  Turn her to the right, she's watching you. It's actually kind of scary.  We're definitely going back to Aunt Jemima.

The Pecking Order

I've never really thought of myself as an Andy Murray fan.  Today, though, I was definitely pulling for him in the Wimbledon final against Novak Djokovic.  I think it started last year at Wimbledon when, after losing to Roger Federer in the final, Murray started his post-match interview by shaking his head, rubbing his face, searching for words, and finally stating "I'm getting closer ..." before trailing off and beginning to cry.  I thought that was pretty raw emotion.

So, as I watched the match this morning, I was hoping that Murray would finally get his elusive Wimbledon title.  After he wasted three match points in the final game, I was certain he'd fold.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to come back after being that close to the championship.  But, that's why he was playing at Centre Court in front of a live audience of 15,000 desperately hoping that he would win while I was at home watching in my recliner.  Murray managed to fight off that disappointment, pull himself together, and finally win the title on his fourth match point.

After the match, he went up another notch in my book.  It's customary for the winner of a Grand Slam title to climb up into the box of their friends and family and celebrate their victory.  After seeing shot after shot of Judy Murray, Andy's mother, throughout the match, I wondered if she'd get the first hug.  Would he skip right over his girlfriend, the lovely pet portrait artist (seriously) Kim Sears, and his coach, the great Ivan Lendl who never could quite manage a Wimbledon title during his own career, and run straight to his mother?  As he began his climb to their box, I couldn't wait to see what would happen.

As it turns out, it was Lendl who got the first hug.  Then, it was Andy's brother.  After that, there was a short hug and kiss for Kim.  From there, Andy kept right on acknowledging everyone in the box -- everyone except for Mom, that is.  He was actually headed back down to the court before he remembered that good old Mom was still waiting for her hug.  He turned back and gave her the longest embrace of all.

All this isn't to say that Judy didn't deserve a hug.  And, knowing that my own mother is surely going to read this at some point, yes, I would give you a hug if you were in the friends and family box watching me win my first Wimbledon championship.  Just not the first one.  You see, if you hug your mother before your girlfriend, your girlfriend will never forgive you.  That's just the way it is.

Too Much of a Good Thing

Cheesecake is my favorite dessert.  I used to think that you could never have too much of it.  Now, I'm not so sure.

Last week, Kim surprised me by coming home from BJ's with a box of The Cheesecake Factory's original cheesecake.  The box contained 12 single-serve slices.  Of course, for The Cheesecake Factory, a single slice is really two normal-sized slices.  So, we had a bit of a challenge in front of us.

That first night, we made it through three slices (Jay hates cheesecake -- I'm not sure how that happened -- and Kim was smart enough to just have a few bites from someone else's plate).  That left nine slices.  On night two, Hannah and I split a piece.  Now, we were down to eight slices.

Night three came and Hannah, Nick, and I were feeling gluttonous.  We made it through two more slices between us.  That seemed like progress but the reality was that, after three full days, we still had half of the cheesecake to go.

On night four, I told myself to be strong and take on a whole slice.  I gave myself two full hours after dinner to get ready.  Then, I bravely walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out the box, opened it up, and put a slice on my plate.  I sat down, took a deep breath, and got started.  It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be and, soon enough, I was putting an empty plate in the dishwasher.  "Five more to go," I thought to myself.

Last night was night five.  As we cleared off the table, I halfheartedly asked if anyone wanted cheesecake.  I was surprised to hear Hannah and Nick sign up for the challenge. With them on board, I had to join in.  Nick took on a full slice while Hannah and I split one between us.  Not surprisingly, Nick couldn't get through the whole thing.  Even less surprisingly, I refused to let his cheesecake go to waste and found myself trading plates with him once I'd finished my own half-slice.

That left three slices.  It was our last night at home as we were going away for the rest of the week the next day.  I looked at Kim and asked "How are we going to get rid of this?  Should we bring it with us for your father?"  She didn't say anything.  Sensing a need to help out, Nick said that, if we left the box at home, he'd try to eat one slice a day for the next three days.

That's when it hit me -- we'd managed to turn eating cheesecake into a chore.  Only in America.

Another Job for the Neighborhood Clean-up Crew?

If you take a left out of our neighborhood, you soon come upon another, smaller neighborhood about one-quarter of a mile up the road.  There's nothing terribly special about this neighborhood.  It's got about 10 houses, most of which sit back from the road a bit.  That means you can really only see 4 of the homes as you pass by.

Anyone who's ever spent any time with me in the car, knows that I keep up a running commentary about the homes in our neighborhood and those in the neighborhoods that surround us.  If your landscaping looks particularly good or you just added a new patio, you get some words of praise.  But, more often than not, I've got a "suggestion" for you.  Too many weeds in your foundation plantings? You better be out there early next Saturday morning.  Lose a branch in the last storm?  Why haven't you gotten out there and hauled it into the woods?  Have a pile of mulch that's been sitting in your driveway for more than a week?  What's the hold-up?

That brings me back to the neighborhood up the road.  A few years back, one of the homeowners purchased a trampoline.  Now, most people would put their trampoline in the back yard.  Not this family.  They set their trampoline up in the front yard.  It's not like they didn't have a spacious back yard -- their house sat on a 1-acre lot.

For over a year, I cursed that trampoline each time I drove by the house.  I watched as the grass underneath it grew higher and higher.  I watched as the safety barriers on the trampoline got torn and were left to dangle over the edge.  Each time I drove by, I let loose a diatribe against that trampoline.  It pretty much sounded like this: "Look at that thing.  I can't believe it's just sitting there.  Doesn't anyone on their street care about it?  Why should I have to see it each time I pass by?  One of these days, I'm going to do something about it."

I'm sure that sounded like an empty threat to anyone else who was in the car with me at the time.  But, one night, while hanging out with some of our neighborhood friends, I got a bright idea.  "Hey, anybody want to go move a trampoline?"  Without much cajoling, I soon had two accomplices.  The three of us found our way over to the next neighborhood.  Quietly (we think), we approached the dreaded eyesore, and began to haul it away.  It was surprisingly light.  In no time at all, we had placed it where it belonged in the first place -- in the back yard.  We congratulated ourselves and headed back to our house, a job well done.

Fast forward to 2013.  The offending house in the other neighborhood was sold a couple years ago.  The new owners hadn't really done anything to their yard since they moved in and, as a result, I don't think they'd gotten a single comment from me since they'd arrived on the scene.  Until yesterday, that is.  We were heading up the small hill towards their house.  As we got to the top of the crest, I saw it.  There was a shed -- in their front yard!  That's right.  These people  put a shed literally right in their front yard!  "You have got to be kidding me," I yelled.  "Who the hell puts a shed in their front yard?"

Now, if you're a faithful reader of this blog, you know I love sheds.  It's called "Thoughts From Mike's Shed," for crying out loud.  But, a shed in your front yard?  Who does that?

I've got to get rid of that shed.  I'm not sure how I'm going to do it.  It's only been 24 hours so I haven't yet developed my master plan.  But, that shed is going to have to go.  Someway, some how, I've got to get it out of there.  

It's All Downhill From Here

Tomorrow is June 21st, the first day of summer.  I know I should be happy about that.  Summer is supposed to be fun, relaxing, and full of possibilities.  Yeah, right.  All I can think about is that, after tomorrow, the days get shorter.

I know it will take a while for those shorter days to really become apparent.  In fact, it probably won't be until August that I start to notice the sun setting earlier.  And, it probably won't be until September that I'll need to get the reflective vest back out for my morning run.  September is almost three months away.  But, I don't need to wait that long before I start getting bitter and depressed, do I?  I hope not.  I like being bitter and depressed in the summertime.  It helps me prepare for my annual wintertime bout of seasonal affective disorder.

On the bright side, when tomorrow arrives, the NBA season will be officially over.  That's definitely something to get excited about.

P.S. Go, Spurs.

It Happens To All Of Us

Yesterday, Hannah headed up to Penn State for the weekend.  She left directly from work, which means she didn't get on the road until shortly after 5PM.  The trip from Ashton to State College should take a little less than three-and-one-half hours.  But, because it was Friday night, I knew she'd probably get stuck on I-70 West.  So, I wasn't exactly sure how long it would take her.

Promptly at 8:30PM, I started wondering if she'd arrived safely.  Of course, I didn't actually say that I was wondering if she was there.  I left that to Kim.  "She told me she'd text me when she gets there," Kim said.  Good, I thought to myself.

At 8:45PM, there was still no word from Hannah.  "I'm going to text her," said Kim.  "Don't do that," I said.  "If she's driving, she shouldn't be texting.  Plus, if she's running late, she's already going to be distracted."  So, Kim left it alone.

Soon enough, 9PM came and went.  Now, I was starting to get worried.  A four hour trip to State College is pretty unusual.  I wondered what could have happened.  But, I kept that to myself.  Finally, at 9:10PM, Kim's phone buzzed.  It was Hannah.  She'd arrived safely.  I breathed a sigh of relief and finally allowed myself to settle in and enjoy the last hour of "The Lost Boys."

As I sat there watching Kiefer Sutherland and Jason Patric play dueling vampires, I found myself trying to answer three questions.  The first was why Edward Herrmann, who plays the head vampire, was the commencement speaker at my college graduation.  The second was why the two Corey's were such a big deal back in the late 1980's.  (I kind of get the Corey Haim thing.  But, I completely don't get Corey Feldman.)  The third was exactly when I'd started to turn into my parents.  You see, whenever we leave Elmira to drive back home, my mother always says "Call us when you get there."  Sometimes, I just ignore her.  Other times, I'll say "OK."  But, when we get home, I never call. 

Now, the tables have turned.  I'm the parent sitting at home, wondering if my kid (who, no matter how old she is, will always be my kid) has arrived at her destination safely.  I'm glad she let us know.  In fact, I may have to re-think my stance on doing the same for my own parents.

Hell On Earth

There are only a few things I can think of that are worse than being at an airport, waiting to fly home, late on a Friday afternoon.  Sitting through an elementary school band concert comes to mind.  So does a visit to the emergency room.  But, the airport is right up there.

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself at the Hartford airport.  I'd been in Hartford since Wednesday morning and I was ready to get home after a couple of days of sitting through meetings, eating too much, and sleeping poorly.  We ended up winding up our last meeting about one hour earlier than expected.  I was booked on a 6:20PM but I knew there was an earlier flight leaving for Baltimore at 4:35PM.  So, I hurried to the airport, scampered through security, and headed to Gate 4 to see if I could switch onto the earlier flight.  "I can put you on stand-by," the gate agent told me.  Somewhat dejectedly, I told her "OK" and resigned myself to hanging out at the airport for two-and-one-half hours.

Even though I'd been gone for a couple days, I was pretty caught up on work.  I had a half-read New Yorker with me but I didn't want to start on that quite yet.  So, I didn't really have much to do.  I settled into a chair across from Gate 4 and waited to see if my name would get called.

Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from the next gate.  It was music.  It sounded like the type of music you hear from a merry-go-round.  It was kind of loud and definitely annoying.  I tried to block it out, figuring it would go away.  But, it didn't.  Instead, it just got louder.  "What is that?" I asked myself.  I could see other travelers around me looking up and asking themselves the same thing.  The music was awful -- and it wasn't stopping.  Finally, I leaned forward and peered to the right to see what it was.

Just one gate over, a full-fledged party had broken out.  There were three guys playing accordions.  About two dozen of their traveling companions were dancing.  The dancers were of all ages.  There were a couple kids under ten.  There were teen-agers.  I saw people my age.  Finally, there were senior citizens.  The dancing wasn't spontaneous -- they were like a dance troupe, with everything perfectly choreographed.  "I think they're Gypsies," I said to myself.

I waited for the song to end.  After a minute or two it did.  "Thank God," I thought.  Unfortunately, before that thought had even faded away, the next song started.  Have you ever listened to an entire song played by an accordion?  Try it.  Then, to really test yourself, listen to another one.  I'm not sure you can do it.  In fact, rather than playing thrash metal at Guantanamo, we probably should have just gone with accordion music.  That's how bad it is.

After song two ended, song three started right up.  Do you remember claves from your elementary school music class?  Well, this number featured claves accompanying the accordions.  Claves are fun when you're eight years old and you have them in your hands.  When you're forty-six, tired, sitting at Bradley International Airport, and somebody else has the claves, they're not nearly as much fun.  Trust me.  "Please, Jesus," I prayed.  "I didn't win the Powerball.  You have to get me on this next flight."

We were now in the middle of song five.  The 4:35PM flight was boarding.  I kept praying.  Then, my little miracle happened.  My name was called!  "Thank you," I shouted (literally).  I got on the plane, took my middle seat happily, and opened my New Yorker.  Good-bye, Hartford.  I'll see you again on Tuesday.

The Latest "Best Show Ever"

I've plowed through quite a few favorite television shows over the past few years.  At various times, that slot has been held by "Selling New York," "House Hunters International," "Million Dollar Listing - Los Angeles," "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills," and "Yard Crashers."  Each of those shows occupied the top position for a couple of months and, during that time, became quite an obsession for me.  Even now, those are my go to shows when I'm looking for something to unwind with before heading to bed. 

In the past few weeks, I've discovered a new number one -- "Chopped" on The Food Network.  I just can't get enough of that show.  The format is perfect with each episode a self-contained, one-hour competition to determine the "Chopped" champion.  It's got a C-level (at best) celebrity host in Ted Allen and an almost laughable first prize of $10,000.  Best of all, it's got crazy ingredients.

Speaking of crazy ingredients, earlier this week I was watching an old episode in which the contestants opened up the picnic basket for the appetizer round and found a whole pig's head.  A whole pig's head!  It was both disgusting and remarkably compelling.  As the contestants worked frantically to create an appetizer in twenty minutes by frying pig ears, dicing pig tongue, and sauteeing pig cheek, I hung on everything.  When they moved on to pig offal (in case you're wondering, that would be heart, kidneys, and liver) for the main course, I thought I might have to switch channels.  But, I couldn't.  Finally, there were just two contestants remaining for the dessert round in which they had to create something sweet out of pig tails.  It was awesome.

I'm now trying to convince the family that we should have our own version of Chopped at home.  I suggested that Kim purchase some mystery ingredients, place them in picnic baskets on the kitchen island, and have each of us then whip something up for a Saturday dinner.  At the end of the night, we'd vote on who did the best job with what they were given.  Strangely, I can't get anyone else on board with this idea.

I Need A Vacation -- Again

Kim and I took a 9-day vacation earlier this month.  We had a great time -- plenty of sun, beautiful sights, and delicious food.  It really was a pretty awesome trip.  The only problem is that, just two weeks later, I already need another vacation.

This three-day holiday weekend should have helped.  But, here I sit, just after 8PM on Monday evening, wondering if I'll be able to stay awake for another hour.  I'm exhausted and in need of a re-charge.  I have no idea why.  It's not like I did anything strenuous this weekend, unless you count watching Jay play 5 soccer games as strenuous activity.  Come to think of it, I do get kind of exhausted watching him play.  My heart rate really gets going as I sit in my chair, critiquing the game, the officiating, and the substitution patterns, all while continuously checking the clock to see how much time is left in the game.  Thank God there's not a videotape (or an audiotape) of me watching the game.  It would not be pretty.

But, back to my need for a vacation.  It started as soon as we got home.  From the very first day back at work, a little voice inside my head kept telling me I needed a break.  Soon enough, all I could think of was where we could go next.  So, after being home for all of two days, I asked Kim to find somewhere for us to go over Christmas break.  Ever since, the whole family has been poring through www.vrbo.com and www.homeaway.com, searching for that perfect Caribbean getaway.  Unfortunately, despite all the man hours we've logged on those sites, we're still no closer to finding the perfect spot.  That means I'm still sitting here, obsessing over the need to get away again, no closer to knowing where we're going to go.

For someone who never vacationed anywhere other than Lewis Run for the first 20 years of my life, I don't know where this fascination with vacations started.  Speaking of Lewis Run, maybe I can convince the family that we should just go there.  If I remember correctly, the last time we visited, we had an awesome fish fry, sang karaoke, and played Penny Pitch.  Who could ask for anything more?

Things I Would Have Done Today If We'd Won the Powerball Drawing

It's been almost three full days since I found out we didn't win the Powerball drawing.  My disappointment this time wasn't quite as bad as it was the last time we played.  Perhaps that's because I only threw $10 down the toilet this time in my quest to get rich quick.

Even though our numbers didn't come up on Saturday night, I can still imagine what life would have been like if we had won.  Here are just a couple things that would have been different today if I had drawn the winning ticket:

• Someone else would have gotten up at 4:15AM with my new best friend Wally to let him out the front door.  And, that someone else would have installed a doggy door first thing this morning after the sun came up so this new little ritual of his could come to a quick end.
• I would have just thrown my dirty running clothes away after their daily use instead of washing them out by hand in the bathroom sink.  How much of a dent in that $590 million could a lifetime's supply of running clothes really make, anyway?
• I would have had my driver take me to work (yes, I'd still be going there) rather than wonder if the "Check Engine" light was going to come on again when I started my car up this morning.
• The phrase "That's too expensive" would not have immediately come to mind when Hannah showed me the vacation spot she's picked out for the post-Christmas trip we're trying to plan. In fact, that entire phrase would have been permanently erased from my mind.
• Rather than watch Robyn's 2010 Pitchfork Festival performance of "Fembot" yet again on YouTube (yes, I'm addicted), I would have just flown her over here from Sweden to dance around the back yard.

A boy can dream, right?

Guilty Pleasure

I'm sitting here watching "Titanic" for what must be, conservatively, the tenth time in my life.  OK, it's nothing to be proud of but it's one of those movies, like "Mean Girls," "Terms of Endearment," "The Shawshank Redemption," and -- now -- "The Last Song" that I can't turn away from when I see it on TV.

What is it about "Titanic" that's so captivating?  Here are just three reasons.

• The clipped, breathless way that Kate Winselt says "Jack" throughout the entire movie.  It doesn't matter if she's taking a leisurely stroll with him on the deck, dancing madly with him in steerage, or shyly asking him to draw her in her sitting room.  Each time, she gets it just right.
• Leonardo DiCaprio's hair, particularly that little strand of bangs that falls across his forehead.  As much as Rose likes Jack's look when he shows up in a tuxedo for his "reward" dinner after saving her from her suicide attempt, I'm not a big fan of his slicked back hair.
• Captain of the ship Bernard Hill.  I admit that my fascination with him didn't really start until after "The Lord of the Rings" movies.  As Theoden, he gets the best line of that trilogy (If you're wondering, it's "And Rohan will answer.")  Too bad that he's the goat of "Titanic."

Unfortunately, there's no way I'll be able to make it through the whole movie since, with commercials, it's going to run til midnight.  I can't stay up that late.  So, I'm going to miss my favorite scene.  That would be the one with the whistle.

Mahalo

Kim and I just got back from our big Hawaiian vacation.  Kim has always wanted to go but I didn't think I'd ever get there.  It just seemed to be too far away and not worth the effort it would take to get there.  Of course, now that I've been, I can't believe it took me so long to visit.  What a wonderful place.

Our trip had many highlights.  Here are just a few.

• Yes, it takes forever to get to Hawaii  On our way there, we had to take three separate flights to arrive on Lanai.  The final flight was on an eight-seat, single prop plane.  Before boarding, each passenger had to weigh-in on a scale at the gate with their one carry-on.  I came in at 149 pounds with my backpack; I didn't look at what anyone else weighed.  After weighing in, we got placed on the plane based on our weight.  Once we all got past that little humiliation, we walked out, climbed on board, said hello to the 20-something pilot, and took off.  The flight over from Maui was spectacular.  Even Kim, who was terrified when she first saw the plane, admits that this was one of the best parts of the trip.
• I've been wearing zipper pants for years.  But, I don't think I've ever actually had a reason to unzip them and turn them into shorts -- until Hawaii.  You don't know how awesome it was to arrive back on Maui, get to the rental car, take off my sneakers, unzip my zipper pants, and step into my flip-flops.  How freeing!  I might have to do it more often.
• Only in Hawaii can you get in a traffic jam, stop for a minute, and say to yourself "Well, if we're going to be stuck here for an hour, we might as well pull off and sit on the beach."  That happened to us just outside of Lahaina.  While we were stopped for lunch, we heard that there had been a fatal accident on the road back to Wailea and that traffic would be stopped in both directions.  We weren't sure that was true and decided to press our luck.  Unfortunately, the rumor was true.  Normally, a traffic jam would have me cursing my bad luck.  This time, it just so happened that we hit the road block right next to a beach.  So, we turned around, parked the car, sat by the beach, and watched the surfers.  After an hour relaxing, we hopped back in the car and were on our way.  I'll take a traffic jam like that any day.
• I hate the beach but, in Hawaii, I sat on the beach happily wo separate times, once for 4 hours and another time for 7 hours(!).  The reason -- people watching.  The highlight was the guy who walked onto the beach in his jeans, wrapped a towel around himself, and proceed to remove his jeans and underwear and step into his bathing suit.  He went through this whole process in about 30 seconds and never once came close to exposing himself.  I'm going to have to try this -- in my bathroom, of course, until I get it down pat.
• Fish tacos are everywhere.  In fact, I had fish tacos three separate times, the last time from a food truck on the beach at Makena.

The best thing, though, was the 20-mile drive we did along the north coast of Maui.  I thought it would be a neat way to get over to Kapalua with going back through Maalaea.  It wasn't until we were a mile or two into the trek that Kim read from the guide book that we were now on a one-lane road that tourists were advised not to take.  At that point, there was no turning back.  Oh, well.  We're still alive.

What a trip.  I may just have to go back.

Will It Fit?

My after-dinner job is to put away the leftovers.  I'm not sure how that one fell to me, but it did.  I actually like this job.  Why?  Because, each night, it's like a little game.  The objective of the game is simple -- find the smallest possible container in which to fit each leftover item.

This obsession of mine is something I'm pretty sure I inherited from my mother.  She is particularly skilled at the art of storing leftovers.  Her calling card is the way in which she transfers leftovers into increasingly smaller containers as the leftovers begin to disappear.

For example, assume that she made three pounds of spaghetti for dinner but we were only able to eat two pounds.  The extra pound of spaghetti would get stored in the appropriately-sized container.  The next day, that container would get pulled out for lunch for whoever wanted it.  Let's say that another half-pound would get eaten.  Most people would just put the remaining spaghetti back in the refrigerator in the same container.  Not my mother.  She'd pull a smaller-sized container out of the cupboard, transfer the remaining spaghetti into it, and put the new container into the refrigerator.

Kim cured me of that habit many years ago.  But, I'm still extremely focused on using the smallest container I can to store each night's leftovers.  Usually, I'm pretty darn good.  Tonight, though, I had a major problem with the mashed potatoes.  I sized up what remained and pulled one of the smaller Pyrex bowls out of the corner cabinet.  I began spooning mashed potatoes into it.  About two-thirds of the way through, I was pretty sure that I'd guessed wrong.  That didn't stop me.  I kept right on going.

When I was done, the mashed potatoes stood a good quarter-inch above the top of the bowl.  I decided to try and get the lid on anyway.  Slowly, I started to push it down.  Sure enough, excess mashed potatoes soon started pouring over the edge.  I scraped them off with my finger, licked that finger, and then grabbed the serving spoon.  I took out a spoonful of mashed potatoes, ate it, and tried again.  I still had too much in the leftover bowl.  So, I helped myself to another heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes and tried once more to get the lid on the bowl.  And, once again, I failed.  Finally, after three tries -- and three heaping spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, I got the lid on the bowl.

The only good thing about this little fiasco is that Kim wasn't home to see my failure.  The bad news is that I'm stuffed so full of mashed potatoes that I'm going to have to take a pass on the apple pie that's just sitting there in the refrigerator waiting for me to eat it.  That's probably a good thing.  If I ate a piece, I'd just be tempted to take the remaining amount out of the pie plate and stick it back in the refrigerator on a more appropriately-sized plate.  We couldn't have that, now could we?

Why Him?

Imagine just for a moment that you're Prince Charles.  You've had your ups and downs in life.  First, you had to go through a very public divorce with Diana.  Then, Diana died.  When that happened, you saw first hand how your entire country loved her so much more than they loved any of the other royals, including you.  As if that weren't bad enough, your darn mother just won't go away.  As long as she's around, you'll never be King of England.  Never.

Despite all that, things haven't really turned out that bad.  You married Camilla, the woman of your dreams.  Now, you're about to be a grandfather.  Life is pretty good.

Until ... you find out that today, just over the pond in the Netherlands, Willem Alexander somehow convinced his mother to abdicate her throne.  That's right.  Willem Alexander, all of 46 years young, is now the King of the Netherlands. 

Who knew that the Netherlands even had a royal family?  Before today, the only things I knew about the Netherlands were that they're really good at speed skating, their soccer team woefully underperformed at Euro 2012 (thanks for nothing, Arjen Robben), and they can't decide if they want to be called the Dutch, Holland, or the Netherlands.

In any event, Willem Alexander is now the youngest monarch in Europe.  Poor Prince Charles.  You know what makes it even worse for him?  While he's married to a woman by the name of Camilla, that young rascal Willem Alexander is married to a woman named Maxima.  Queen Maxima.  Is that the perfect name for a queen or what?

Thank God Some Things Never Change

The NFL draft wrapped up today.  The draft has always been a big deal in our house, largely because of Nick.

Nick loves the NFL draft.  Each year, he would wait for it as eagerly as most kids wait for Christmas morning.  In the months leading up to the draft, he religiously followed Mel Kiper's prognostications, diligently absorbed all the combine stats, and knew exactly which players would best fit the needs of the Ravens.  Then, as the big day drew closer, his excitement would build.

Once the draft started, you couldn't drag Nick away from the television.  As soon as the telecast would start, he'd wait patiently for the Ravens to be on the clock.  When it finally came time for the Ravens to make their pick, he'd rise from the couch and stand up about 3 feet from the television.  He'd sway back and forth, waiting to hear the draftee's name announced.  Then, as soon as he heard who it was, he'd either whoop with delight or moan in despair.  I'm telling you, there was nothing like watching the draft with Nick.

This year, he wasn't at home to watch the draft.  Neither was I.  I was traveling on Thursday night, all alone in a hotel room in Virginia Beach.  As the draft started, I thought of Nick.  I wondered if he was still as fascinated with the proceedings as he used to be.  My guess was that he had finally realized that there were better things to do than sit around watching a glorified version of what we all used to go through as kids on the playground when teams were picked for kickball.  As the night wore on and I didn't hear anything from him, I sadly concluded that my son had finally grown up.

I was having a hard time falling asleep.  The Bills had traded back in the first round but I decided to stay awake to see who they would pick.  Just after 10:15PM, they finally made their selection.  It was E.J. Manuel, the quarterback from Florida State.  "Seems fine to me," I thought to myself and prepared to turn off the light.  Just as I reached over to do that, my phone buzzed.  It was a text from Nick.  "Gutsy pick," was all it said.

It wasn't quite the same as watching with him.  But, it was close enough.

Reese vs. Rolando

In one corner, we have Reese Witherspoon, the 5' 1" Academy Award-winning actress, best known for her timeless comedic role as overachieving Elle Woods in everyone's favorite movie about Harvard Law School, "Legally Blonde." 

In the other corner, it's Rolando McClain, the underachieving 6' 4", 260 pound, former first round pick of the Oakland Raiders, recently signed by your Super Bowl champion Baltimore Ravens.

What do these two have in common?  Well, both were arrested for disorderly conduct over the weekend.  Let's play a little game with that.  Here's how it works.  I give you a fact about the disorderly conduct arrest and you tell me who's arrest it was, Reese's or Rolando's. 

Here goes:

• Question #1: For which contestant was it the third arrest in 18 months?
• Question #2: Which contestant, upon being told to get back in the car, proudly said "I'm an American citizen and I have the right to stand on U.S. ground?"
• Question #3: Which contestant came up with the always good "Do you know who I am?" line shortly before being arrested?
• Question #4: Which contestant finally got arrested after refusing to follow a direct order from the police?
• Question #5: Which contestant is accused of cursing out the arresting officer?

Here are your answers:

• Rolando.  This arrest doesn't sound nearly as good as the one where he "fired a gun next to a man's head," whatever that means.
• Reese.  This reminds me a bit of Elle Woods' triumphant questioning of Chutney about the physics of a permanent wave during the dramatic courtroom scene at the end of "Legally Blonde".
• Reese.  I've got to hand it to her -- haven't you always wanted to say that to a cop?
• Both of them.  This one was too easy.  It was disorderly conduct, after all.
• Rolando.  I've got to imagine that Reese did the same thing.  She's just getting away with it.

My Birthday Present

Even though my birthday's not until June, I just got my present.

This year, Kim decided to surprise me with a painting that shows the view across the water from Fox Point.  Unfortunately, I surprised her by picking up her cell phone a few months ago when it buzzed with a message from our sister-in-law (who just happens to be the artist).  The message said it had a picture attached.  Without thinking, I clicked on the picture.  "Hey," I called out, "Deena just sent you a great picture she painted."

Of course, I wasn't supposed to have seen the picture then.  But, I did.  That's how I ended up hanging it in the kitchen today, a good month-and-a-half before my birthday.  The painting looks great and I love it.  I'm a little concerned, though, that there are going to be a couple family members who may not be big fans of it.  That's because I hung it on the wall that used to hold our montage of family photos.

When we moved into this house, we decided to turn one of the walls in the kitchen into a display of pictures of the kids through the years.  Over time, it grew to hold almost 50 photos.  That wall has always been a focal point.  Whenever someone came into the house for the first time, they invariably were drawn to it.  "Who's that in this picture?" they'd ask.  Or, "How old was so-and-so when this picture was taken?"  And, most frequently, "Wasn't (s)he cute?"

As much as the kids sometimes claimed to embarassed by the picture wall, I'm pretty sure they liked it.  In fact, after the two older ones headed off to college, I noticed that they started paying more attention to it when they're home on break.  So, taking down those photos is probably going to get me in a bit of trouble.

Just in case, I've decided to cover myself.  There's a new photo wall in the house.  You can find it in the basement.

The Best Thing About the Masters

I've realized what I like best about the Masters.  It's not the golf course.  It's not the drama.  It's not the relative lack of commercial interruption.  Nope.  It's the people who chase after the wayward balls that even the best golfers sometimes hit into the trees.

These people fall into three categories:

• First, you have those who just want to get on TV.  When they spot the ball bounding into the trees, they're primary concern isn't getting as close as possible to the ball.  Sure, they'll chase it down like the best of them.  But, what they really want is to be seen by their buddies back home. Before they even get to the ball, they start turning as they run, waving like mad, hoping and praying that the camera will catch them.  You would think that the Masters would attract a slightly higher class patron than the Greenbrier Classic.  But, it doesn't look that way when you consider these guys.
• Second, you have the self-proclaimed golf police.  They're the ones who chase after the ball and, as soon as they get to it, decide that it's their duty to take over.  They start waving their arms, holding people back as if their life depended on it.  You can read the thoughts going through their minds: "Don't these other people know they're not supposed to get too close to the ball?  The world might end if one of these crazies actually touched the ball.  I must keep them all away from it.  The golf gods need me now."  Who are these people?
• Finally, there's the wayward father.  This is the guy who momentarily forgets that he's at the Masters with his young son.  He's easy to spot.  When he sees the golf ball go bounding past him, he immediately starts chasing after it.  About two-thirds of the way there, he stops short, remembering that he just left his seven-year old in the dust.  A few seconds later, you see the little guy come into view.  Dad sheepishly reaches down, awkwardly puts his arm around his son's shoulder, and then half-drags, half-carries his son over to the crowd that's gathered around the ball.  I always feel the worst for this guy.  For one thing, everyone watching on TV saw him abandon his son.  To top it off, he's now on the outside looking in as he's been too slow to get close enough to the ball to get a good view.  Poor guy.

What To Eat When You're Not Eating Chips

After I got my 229 cholesterol reading last fall, I've made one change to my diet -- I've cut out my post-dinner potato chip habit.  It's been hard but I would say I'm down to about two nights a month of binging on chips.  I think that's pretty good.

To be honest, I'm not really sure why I decided I needed to break the potato chip habit.  For one thing, all the bags of chips I've looked at say that they don't even have any cholesterol in them.  But, I needed to do something.  So, in my infinite wisdom, I cut out the chips.

I should feel good about myself, right?  Unfortunately, that's not possible.  You see, I've switched to dessert.  Now that I know I'm not going to treat myself to chips, I've gone right to the sweet stuff.

As I'm typing this, I just finished off my fourth sugar cookie.  Kim made a fresh batch using my mother's recipe earlier today.  When I got home, they were just sitting there on a plate.  Not only did they look pretty good, but there was also only one piece left of the butter creme-filled chocolate roll.

We bought the chocolate roll (two of them, actually) on Saturday.  You see, after Friday's dinner, I asked if we had anything "creme-filled" in the house.  It seemed like a logical question.  Hearing that the answer was "no," I resolved to change that.  So, on our Saturday trip to BJ's, I selected a chocolate roll.  Starting that night, I had a slice -- or two -- of the chocolate roll for five nights straight.  That chocolate roll was pretty darn tasty.  Then again, so were the sugar cookies.

I'm pretty sure there's no cholesterol in either sugar cookies or butter creme-filled chocolate rolls.  If I'm wrong, please don't tell me.  I'm on to something good and I wouldn't want to mess it up.

The Trash Man's Tale

When you turn left out of our neighborhood onto Howard Road, you enter onto a stretch of road that is one of my favorites in western Howard County.  You cross a stream, meander through a wooded section, and then come upon Mullinix Farm on your right.  All in all, it's less than a mile.  But, it's a wonderful reminder of why we moved out here in the first place.  Lately, though, the road has become a mess.  Literally.

All winter, I've watched the amount of trash lining both sides of Howard Road pile up.  I remember commenting in the past about how it always amazed me that I never saw much litter along that stretch of road.  Kim's response was to tell me that was because one of our neighbors used to periodically walk along it, picking up the things that had been thrown out of passing cars.  I didn't know whether that was true or not.  I wanted to believe that everyone passing along the road found it as beautiful as I did and wanted to keep it that way.  Unfortunately, I was wrong.

You see, that particular neighbor moved away last summer.  Ever since, Howard Road has become pretty disgusting.  Everywhere I looked, I saw trash.  Finally, I decided I couldn't take it any more.  That's why I was down there at 7:30AM this morning with a trashbag in my (gloved) hands.  I hoped that a single trash bag would be enough.  Not quite.  After about 200 yards on just one side of the road, I couldn't fit anything else in the bag.  It was jam-packed with soda cans, beer bottles, empty packs of cigarettes, take-out coffee cups, soda fountain cups, fast food wrappers, plastic bags, and candy wrappers.  I'd also found my fair share of random household trash from the few homes that line that stretch of the road.

It completely amazes me that people just throw trash out of their car windows as they drive.  Don't they remember Iron Eyes Cody, the Crying Indian, in that famous "Don't Litter" commercial from the 1970's?  I guess not.  And, if you put your trash out for weekly pick-up and an animal gets into it during the night, don't you think you'd pick it all up the next morning and re-bag it?  Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, I owe my old neighbor a "thank you" for how clean he kept Howard Road for all those years.  I'll try to take it from here.

John Wooden Was Right

John Wooden is famous for being one of the most successful college basketball coaches of all time.  He's also remembered for some of his quotes.  The quote that I kept thinking of today is this one: "The true test of a man's character is what he does when no one is watching."

Tim Pernetti is the athletic director at Rutgers.  Robert Barchi is the president of the university.  Pernetti is the guy who, last November, watched the now infamous video of former Rutgers basketball coach Mike Rice pushing, hitting, and kicking his players during practices over the course of the past 3 years.  As if that wasn't bad enough, Rice was also throwing basketballs at players' heads, cursing them out, and using homophobic slurs to belittle them.  So, what did Pernetti do after watching the video?  He suspended Coach Rice for 3 games, fined him $50,000, and required that he go to anger management class.  You know what else I think Pernetti did?  He hoped that no one else would see the video.

Unfortunately for him, the video got out and now we've all seen Rice's despicable behavior.  I watched the tape.  The things Rice does and says to his players are pretty unbelievable.  How Pernetti didn't fire him in November is beyond me.  In fact, it's pretty shocking.

I probably shouldn't be shocked in this day and age at how quickly Pernetti flip-flopped on the issue as soon as it became public.  His behavior today, and that of President Barchi, is really a classic example of poor leadership.  Pernetti and Barchi made a decision in November which they believed to be an easy one.  They decided to keep their coach, sweep his poor behavior under the rug, and hope that it would never come to light.  Then, when they found out we were watching, they immediately caved to the public, fired Rice, and went into damage control mode.

I think we just found out quite a bit about your true character, gentlemen.

Impending Victory?

I'm sure you've noticed that I haven't commented on the NCAA tournament so far this year.  I had a "Bucknell is Awesome" post all ready to go but, after they fell to Butler in the first round, I had to shelve that.  I really had high hopes for the Bison this March, picking them to make it to the Sweet Sixteen.  Oh, well.

As usual, we've got a family pool under way.  Through the first three rounds, I've been bringing up the rear.  So much for my sports expertise, I thought.  That all changed last night, though, with Michigan's overtime win, Louisville's dominance, and Duke's victory.  Yes, it pains me to admit it, but I did pick Duke to get to the Elite Eight.  You know that I'll do anything to win.

The result of all this is that I'm now sitting here tied for first with Hannah.  But, I've got Louisville winning the whole thing while she's got Gonzaga taking down the nets.  So, I'm feeling pretty good.  First prize (I think) means that I get to pick the restaurant for a family dinner.  I'm thinking Korean food.  It's time to give something new a try.

The sad thing is that, even if I win, I'll walk away this year with an empty feeling.  College basketball just won't be the same next year without Syracuse in the Big East.  The only saving grace related to that move is that Maryland is exiting the ACC just as Syracuse joins.  Thank goodness.  I don't think I could have put up with an annual match-up with the Terps.   

The Final Judgment

One of Jay's frequent critiques of me is that I'm too judgmental about people.  Whenever he says that to me, I always think to myself that it's awfully judgmental of him to even tell me that.

Of course, I don't say that to him. That's because he's right.  I am too judgmental.  It's just how I go through life.  I form quick opinions of people.  I look at you, assess your clothes, your hair, your height and weight, the people you're with, and immediately jump to a conclusion.  Notice that I haven't said anything about talking to you before I form that opinion.  God forbit I do that.  That would actually take some effort on my part and I don't have time for that.

I'm never more aware of this then when I'm flying.  Let me give you three examples from today.

• It started in the security line on my outbound flight.  The guy in front of me couldn't decide whether he needed to keep his boarding pass with him while he went through the TSA scanner.  First, he had it in his hand.  Then, he put it in his bag, only to take it out once more.  He headed over the scanner only to stop once more, turn around, and frantically grab his bag just before it went through the conveyor bag x-ray.  He pulled his bag back out, grabbed his boarding pass, and -- finally -- went through the scanner.  "Indecisive time-waster," I told myself.
• On the return flight, I had another security line experience.  There was a large multi-generational family in front of me.  When they got to the checkpoint where you're asked for your boarding pass and your photo ID, several of the family members presented them.  The rest of the family members, it turns out, were just in the security line hanging out with them.  So, there I was, ready to present my boarding pass and photo ID but I couldn't move.  I had to wait while the family in front of me (all thirteen of them -- I counted) kissed, hugged, and said their good-bye's, one by one.  It was like the Walton's.  "Good Lord, they're inconsiderate," I told myself as I stood there waiting.
• When I got to the gate, I had just enough time to survey the crowd and see who would be flying back to Baltimore with me.  Only one person really stood out.  It was the businesswoman on her cell phone.  She wasn't talking too loudly, I'll give her that.  But, wasn't she a little too old to be wearing a skirt that short?

On the flight, I finished my work with about 15 minutes left in the air.  Unfortunately, I didn't have anything to read.  Bummer.  So, I had no other alternative than to eavesdrop on the two women seated in the row across from me.  God would forgive me for that.

These two women seemed like good friends.  They seemed to be having a very nice time together.  They'd been talking and laughing together throughout the flight.  But, they'd been doing so pretty quietly so I really had to strain to hear what they were saying.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that they were strangers who'd never met before the flight.  One lived in Baltimore and the other lived in DC.  At the end of the flight, as we taxied to the gate, they exchanged cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses and made a date for dinner.

"Sure they will," I thought to myself smugly.  "They'll never actually get together."  Then I caught myself.  Why did I need to tell myself that?  What good did it do me?  I think I need to figure that one out.  I owe it to Jay.

The End of an Era

The economic downturn is officially over.  You know how I know?  The vacant house on our street is vacant no more.

The house I'm talking about hasn't been occupied for a long time.  In fact, it's been empty since well before the Great Recession.  I'm guessing it was 2006 when the owners moved out.  It seemed odd at the time since home prices were still rising.  I don't even think I knew what a "foreclosure" was back then.

In any event, we had an empty house on the street.  I became just a little bit obsessed with it.  You see, I'm the annoying guy in the neighborhood who notices when you've got a crooked shutter, your foundation planting is infested with weeds, or your front light is burned out.  Just do me a favor and don't point out that I've currently got a dead tree in my front yard -- I know that already.

Soon enough, the vacant house became quite the attraction for me.  At one point, it had window screens lying on the front lawn, Virginia creeper climbing up the garage door, and its house number hanging at a 45-degree angle.  During a late night of neighborhood carousing, we also found out that the basement door was open.  Of course, we had to take a tour.  We traipsed through the house, admiring the stained carpets and mildew.  We excitedly decided that we needed to convince the HOA to buy it and turn it into a neighborhood clubhouse.  But, like many of our bright (read, drunken) ideas, that one never took shape.

So, there the house sat, empty and alone.  A couple more years went by since our impromptu tour.  I never went back inside.  But, the house seemed to come up in conversation around the dinner table every few months.  It gave me something to pick at and I always seem to need to have that.

Then, all of a sudden, there was activity this week.  First, there were cars in the driveway on Monday when I came home from work.  On Tuesday, there was a work truck with some sort of hose contraption affixed to it sucking something out of the house (I don't want to know what it was).  On Wednesday morning, there were all sorts of lights on when I ran past it at 5:30AM.  And, last night, there it was -- a moving truck.  Our neighborhood was finally back to being fully occupied.

I guess it's nice to finally be rid of our vacant house.  But, I have to admit that part of me is going to miss it.

Things to Think About While Mulching

I decided to get a one-week head start on the mulch this year.  Usually, I wait til the opening weekend of the NCAA tournament.  But, I had a feeling this year that I'd lost a step and that this was going to be a two-weekend job.  That's why I found myself outside at 7:30AM this morning, staring at 30 yards of dyed black mulch.

When you're all alone with nothing but a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork, and an iron rake for ten hours, you have a lot of time to think:

• I am fully prepared for my meeting on Monday afternoon.  I've run through the darn opening at least ten times.  That's probably too many, to be truthful.  I should have had mulch delivered to the homes of all my team members so that they could be equally prepared.
• I finally figured out what I should have said to the guy who followed me into the MARC parking lot in Jessup back in the early 1990's to complain that I'd cut him off on Route 32.  Yes, it took me about 20 years, but I'm now ready, should I ever see him again.
• I'm really not that great at landscaping.  As proof, here's a list of all the things I've planted out front that just didn't work.  Winterberry, dogwoods, Russian sage, miniature yews, cherry laurels.  The list is entirely too long.  And, with all those things now dead, that just means even more mulching.
• Kim's right -- I really should have all the remaining scrap pines in the front yard cut down.  Every year, another one seems to die.  I guess I could just wait for them to fall, one at a time.
• Wally really is no fun.  Poor Ginger tries desperately to get him to run around with her but all he'll do is sit stoically and stare into the distance, waiting for Kim to return.  He's pathetic.

By the way, it's true -- I have lost a step.  One hour in, my back hurt.  Two hours in, I needed a snack.  By hour four, I was wondering if I'd ever give in and pay someone else to do my mulching.  That's when I'll know I've finally arrived.  

Politics

At 3:45PM today, we were doing some last minute prep before meeting with the Lieutenant Governor.  It dawned on me that I didn't know what to call him.  So, I asked our lobbyist.  Here's that exchange:

• Me: "What do we call him?"
• Lobbyist: "Call him Governor."
• Me: "Really?"
• Lobbyist: "Yes, really.  Unless the real Governor is in the room.  Then, you call him Lieutenant Governor."

I'm not making this up.  This conversation actually happened.  And, sure enough, when I met him, I did what I was told and called him "Governor."  So did everyone else in the room, including his staff.

That got me thinking.  Had I been given bogus information?  I needed to know.  So, I just went to Google and typed in "What do you call the Lieutenant Governor?"  Thankfully, there's a website with an answer to that question.  According to The Protocol School of Washington's 'Honor & Respect: The Official Guide to Names, Titles, and Forms of Address,' you are not supposed to address the Lieutenant Governor as Governor.  The reason is pretty simple -- there is only one Governor.

Now that the meeting is over, this all seems so obvious.  Of course there is only one Governor.  This whole thing about referring to the Lieutenant Governor as "Governor" is a scam.  I feel dirty.  That's politics, I guess.

Notes From a Snowstorm

Here's what I learned today during the big "snowstorm" of 2013:

• Never trust www.weather.com.  Kim's been telling me that for years.  Now, I believe her.
• WBAL meteorologist Ava Marie is married!  Who knew?  Perhaps she's mentioned that before but, if so, I hadn't picked up on it.  I thought she was just a young, always-smiling, ready-for-anything, small city, single weather girl.  Now, I realize she's a young, always-smiling, ready-for-anything, small city, married weather girl.  Things will never be the same.
• If Wally poops outside in the morning and then it snows just enough to cover his poop, he'll still find it when he goes back outside in the late afternoon.  Trust me on that.
• God really does love me.  When I went to bed last night, the forecast was for 6-12 inches of snow starting in the early morning hours and lasting all through the day.  Sure enough, when I woke up at 3 AM this morning and looked outside, it was already snowing.  I lay there dejectedly, thinking about how I was going to be out there shoveling at some point this evening.  Worst of all, I was going to have to watch that snow come down all day.  But, nope.  The storm didn't amount to anything and my shovel is still where it's been all winter -- hanging on the garage wall.  That's just where I like it.

Wasting the Day Away

Every once in a while, I have a day where I've got absolutely no motivation.  Today was one of those days.  I did do the kids' taxes.  But, seriously -- using TurboTax to complete a couple Form 1040EZ's doesn't really qualify as an intellectual challenge.  Other than that, I've spent most of my day channel surfing.  I found a couple winners (Arsenal - Tottenham and Joan Rivers' annual Oscar's fashion commentary were well worth my time) but quite a few clunkers (TRON: Legacy, The Honda Classic, and Restaurant: Impossible), as well.

That got me thinking.  Why do I have days like these where nothing holds my attention and I can't get motivated to do anything productive?  I'd like to think it's my mind's way of telling me that it's overworked and needs a break.  But, I don't think that's it.

Instead, I think it's just laziness.  I could have gone outside and trimmed the spirea and bayberries.  Too cold.  I could have read a book.  There are at least a half-dozen sitting on the bookshelves in the study that I've acquired in the past few years, telling myself that I'd  read them.  Too intimidating.  I could have taken another shot at re-painting the water spot on the kitchen ceiling.  God knows I've looked at it enough times today.  Too much effort required.  

Nope, I'm not doing anything.  I'm going to sit here in my recliner and continue to do nothing.  Right now, I'm really liking this laziness thing.  It just feels too good.

To Storm or Not to Storm

On Wednesday, Penn State beat Michigan 84-78.  It wasn't the greatest basketball game ever played but it was significant in that Penn State came into the game riding a 14-game winless streak while Michigan was ranked #4 in the country.  So, when Penn State pulled off the upset (coming from 15 points down in the last 10 minutes), the meager crowd at the Bryce Jordan Center celebrated by storming the court at the final buzzer.

Storming the court to celebrate a big victory is a time-honored college basketball tradition.  It's been going on for as long as I can remember.  Usually, the only reason anyone talks about storming the court is to debate when it's "acceptable" to do it.  There are a couple of basic rules upon which most sports fans can agree.  Here are five of them:

• If you're ranked outside the top 10 and you just beat the number one team in the nation, you're allowed to storm the court.
• If you're ranked outside the top 5 and you beat a top 5 team on a buzzer beater, you can storm the court.
• If your team plays for a mid-major conference and you upset a perennial power from one of the big name conferences, you can storm the court (although, given the economics of collegiate sports, you'll probably be playing this game on the road and might find yourself storming the court all on your own).
• If your team plays for a mid-major conference and you just won your conference championship to advance to the NCAA tournament, you can storm the court.
• And, finally, there's the cardinal rule about when you're not allowed to storm the court.  That rule applies if your school has won the national championship more than once.  In that case, you're never allowed to storm the court.

This all brings us to Duke and their long-time coach Mike Krzyzewski.  Last night, after seeing his Blue Devils lose on the road for the fourth time this season, he got to experience the court-storming sensation for a fourth time.  He was not a happy camper.  At his post-game press conference, Coach K went on a little diatribe (without raising his voice, of course) about how all this court storming has gotten out of control.  He claims to be concerned about his safety and that of his players.

Now, I am not a Duke fan.  The best explanation I can give you for why I don't like Duke basketball is that I'm jealous.  Yep.  Jealous.  I freely admit that I struggle with other people who are better looking, or more successful, or more well-liked than me.  Sometimes, I can get past all that.  But not with Duke's basketball teams.  You see, Duke's basketball teams generally meet all three of those criteria.  So, when I heard Coach K complaining on Sportscenter this morning about how unfair and scary it was that his poor little Dukies were getting swallowed up in the crowd at U-VA last night, I didn't feel badly for him at all.  In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.   

Famous Last Words

Today, I finally looked myself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and admitted what you've known all along -- I can't stand not having the last word.

I'll spare you the long, drawn-out, work-related story that led to my having this revelation.  I'm pretty sure that you don't want to hear the details of the completely ridiculous administrative process that was being forced down my throat and my Quixotic attempt to fight back.  And, as entertaining as I'm sure you'd find them, I'm certain you don't want to see the long trail of e-mails that went back-and-forth all day as I continued to push back against the "man."  Instead, I'll leave you with my last act of the work day.

Just after 7PM, I drafted one final rebuttal to the longest and most frustrating e-mail string known to man.  I re-read my missive with smug and absolute satisfaction.  "It's perfect," I said to myself.  Why shouldn't it be?  I'd had a full day to stew on things, pick apart the flaws in the argument of my foes, and organize my defense.  Now, I was ready.  My logic was brilliant.  My choice of words was perfect.  Victory was imminent.  All that was left to do was to hit "Send" and then log-off for the day in triumph.

Then it hit me.  What, exactly, would I be winning?  There wasn't going to be a trophy.  And, how many times have I told people to pick up the phone and talk to their colleagues rather than rely on e-mail?  How many times have I read someone's snide e-mail and cursed them out from one thousand miles away?  Just today alone, the answer to that was close to a dozen.

So, instead of hitting "Send," I hit "Delete."  I told myself that I wasn't giving up -- I was giving in.  And, you know what?  It actually felt pretty good.  We'll see how I feel tomorrow. 

Now I Get It

The last few years that Nick was in high school, he used to talk about Qdoba quite a bit.  From what I could tell, Qdoba was the place where every Howard County high school kid with a driver's license would head for their after-school snack.

Up until yesterday, my experience with Qdoba had been limited to Jay's postseason soccer dinners the past two years.  Knowing that their sons' were addicted to Qdoba, the team parents made sure that was what we had to eat at the banquet.  The first year, whoever ordered the food didn't get quite enough.  By the time I made it to the buffet table, all that was left was chips and salsa.  The second year, the food held out a little longer and I was able to get a pretty good pile of chicken, cheese, guacamole, salsa, and chips on my plate.  It was pretty good but I still hadn't had the entire Qdoba experience.

That changed last night.  We were out on Route 40 and decided to stop at Qdoba for dinner.  I approached the counter pretty warily as I wasn't completely sure how to order.  After letting Kim and Jay go first, I had it figured out.  I got a burrito with chicken, black beans, brown rice, guacamole, tomatoes, lettuce, and ranchera sauce.

We had decided to get take-out rather than eat at the restaurant.  Since the cashier put our purchases into a bag and handed the bag to Kim, it wasn't til I got home that I found out how much my burrito weighed.  It was mammoth, almost the size of a brick.  I'm the kind of person who appreciates the size of my fast food serving almost as much as its taste.  So, I was feeling pretty good.  I only felt better after taking my first bite.

At last, I understood Nick's fascination with Qdoba.  Yes, my burrito was messy.  Yes, I'll admit that it was so big that it actually got a little bit monotonous eating it.  And, yes, I can't imagine it was that good for me with all that ranchera sauce oozing out of it.  But, who cares?  It was absolutely delicious.  The only thing wrong with it was that it almost didn't leave me any room for my applie pie for dessert.  Almost.

Excuses, Excuses

There are all kinds of reasons not to go running at 5:30AM on a Thursday morning in February:

• First, there's the temperature. It was just 21.4 degrees this morning.  That's a bit better than the 15.2 degrees on Tuesday morning but it's still pretty darn cold.
• Second, there's the dark.  By this time of the year, we're working on three straight months of trudging outside when it's still pitch black.That's pretty depressing.
• Then, there's the fact that it's cold & flu season.  Do I really want to take the risk of getting worn down when Kim and Jay have been hacking away for the past few days?

Those are some pretty good reasons not to head out, right?  But, when I got up this morning, grabbed my gear, and headed downstairs, it wasn't any of those things that stopped me in my tracks when I got to the door.  Instead, it was the laundry.

I have a confession to make -- I don't wash my running clothes each time I wear them.  You read that right.  They do go through the regular wash on Mondays and Fridays with the rest of the dirty clothes in the house.  But, on the other days of the week, I wash them by hand.

"Wash" is probably not the right word.  After I get back from my run, I fill my bathroom sink up with water, throw my shorts and shirt in the sink, and let them sit there while I shower.  When I get out of the shower, I swish things around a bit, drain the water out of the sink, and then wring out my clothes.  It's that last part that I hate.

It's one thing to wring out a singlet in the summer.  It's something entirely different to try and wring out a long sleeve shirt in the winter.  Water gets everywhere.  It drips on the counter.  It drips on the floor.  Most mornings, it even manages to get on the mirror.  Worst of all, while I'm wringing out one part of the shirt, the excess water invariably just runs down and soaks another part of the shirt.  That means I have to start all over again.  The whole process is just ridiculous.  This morning, I just decided I couldn't do it any more.

Of course, I could just buy a couple more shirts and shorts and wear a different one each morning.  That would be too easy, though.  And, it would take away one of my excuses.  I couldn't have that happen.