Hoops

All the advice about bloggers sticking with one blog is true.  I've nearly abandoned See Chrisy Run [my other blog].  It's still there, but I haven't updated since Supermodel and I finished our final race last September.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

More importantly, I don't know what my next event/goal will be, if any.  Supermodel kind of broke up with me after the trauma of the Triple Trail Challenge.  I might have pushed her too far when I enthusiastically made reference to how great the events would be next year because we would be experienced trail racers.  I had this discussion with her less than an hour after she crossed the finish line of our last event -- a grueling trail marathon.  She was clearly irritated by my attempt to muscle her into being my training partner again while she was still trying to hydrate, catch her breath and wipe the blood from her body as she repeatedly mumbled, "That sucked."

I reminded Supermodel that it was just like having a baby.  We forget the pain moments after delivery.  She told me she's had six children and vividly remembers the pain of each birth.  She also informed me she didn't want to run with me during the winter months. 

I workout before the kids get up for school, so I'm typically out the door by 5:00 AM.  Supermodel had a little more flexibility with her schedule so she didn't need to run in the middle of the night in the winter.  I don't run alone in the dark, so Chris said he'd run with me at the offensive hour.

Winter has come and gone.  Chris ran with me on several cold, dark, snowy mornings.

One morning I was waiting for him to come downstairs.  Steam was swirling above his lovingly poured cup of coffee and our cold weather gear was thoughtfully displayed on the counter.  I was in the office checking my email... and the windchill.  Chris entered the office dressed in his warmest running tights and turtleneck, looked out the french doors at the snowfall [which would have been pretty had the wind not been driving it horizontally -- it was harsh], and calmly said, "I'm not running in this shit."  He turned around and walked back upstairs.

Supermodel asked how it was going running with Chris.  I told her it was great -- he'd only called one run.  She said she wouldn't have wanted to run in that weather either.  "He just has the balls to stand up to you," I believe were her exact words.  Whatever.

Now what?  I'm reviewing training plans, plotting event dates against our summer plans, and working on Supermodel and/or Chris for a commitment to... something.  So far, no dice.

I do have one goal...

We have an arcade-style basketball game in the basement.  On occasion, I play by myself.  A couple of weeks ago I hit what I thought was a family high-score for a one-minute solo game.  I called Chris and left him a message.

"Know your busy, but I was in the basement tidying... anyway... I played a few games of basketball.  What's your high-score?  I think I beat it.  Sixty-four.  Uh-huh.  Six. Tee. Four.  Call me."

Chris returned my call and said he didn't remember his exact score, but knows he broke 80 once and hit the 70s a few times.  I didn't believe him.  He said he was in the zone and one of the boys was his witness. Further probing revealed that Middle Boy [10] witnessed the high score, however he's been known to stretch the truth, and succumb to the power of suggestion.  Doesn't matter.  The score to beat is 80.

Chris has taunted me with email subject lines that say "made it to 80 yet?"  And salutations like "Hey Hoops."

Sixty-eight.  That was my highest score until a few moments ago.  I went downstairs to take a picture for this post.  I played one game before returning upstairs.  One game.  My score?  SEVENTY-EIGHT.

I feel a sore trapezius muscle coming on...

My Money Troubles

Our four-year-old son attends preschool three afternoons a week for a couple of hours. We live just far enough away from the school that it doesn't make sense for me to return home. I went through this with our two older sons when they were preschool age. In the past, I've used the time to run errands, go for a jog near the school, meet Chris for lunch, and purchase [then return] stuff we don't need. It's amazing how many things you think you can't live without at Target, Home Depot or Costco when you're killing time three afternoons a week...for a year.

My current goal while the 4YO is at school is to accomplish real, productive, must-be-done [not buying-stuff-we-don't-need] errands, or find free Wi-Fi so I can dork around on the internet. For one dollar per visit, I can use the public library's Wi-Fi, not have to purchase an expensive cup of coffee or too-large muffin, and "work" in a quiet environment. I've enjoyed my afternoons at the library and consider my time there a display of sincere effort to adhere to one of my 2010 resolutions—living more frugally.

I arrived at the library one afternoon last week, and I handed the young, persnickety, male librarian-in-training a one-dollar bill. Not just any one-dollar bill, but a crisp, clean, wrinkle-free, good bill.

Self-Disclosure:  When I have good money in my wallet, I hate to spend it. I can't get rid of bad money fast enough. Handing a cashier a good $20 bill, then receiving crumpled, bad bills as change makes me feel like I've lost a bet. When I receive good bills as change, I win...obviously.

I hated handing over that perfect dollar. I ensured no other perfect bills were clinging to it, as is a common occurrence with good money. The librarian-in-training handed me my temporary Wi-Fi card and I headed to the Quiet Area.

As I approached the information desk located in front of the Quiet Area, I saw an 8 1/2" x 11" piece of white paper taped to the front of the desk with the words, "NO WIFI TODAY".

Grrr.

I made eye contact with the older, heavy-set woman sitting behind the desk. She shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, "Sorry." I softened my expression and mouthed, "Oh well..."

I returned to the librarian-in-training and told him that the Wi-Fi was unavailable today, and asked if I could please have my dollar back. He apologized and thanked me for letting him know. I handed him the temporary library card and he handed me...a soft, faded, over-used, dirty one-dollar bill. It was not my dollar.

It had been less than 60 seconds since our initial exchange. It was a straight shot from the information desk to the library entrance. No one had entered or exited after me. I would have noticed with my peripheral vision, or the eyes in the back of my head  My dollar should have been the first dollar on the small pile of dollars in the drawer.

The young, persnickety, male librarian-in-training looked at me, and in an instant, I knew that he knew that I knew that he purposely gave me the bad dollar.

I have been known to request a different piece of money from a cashier if I'm handed a particularly ratty bill. Some cashiers are noticeably annoyed, but occasionally, a more mature [or equally neurotic] person sympathetically apologizes and honors my request.

On this day, I was looking into the eyes of an equally neurotic, yet competitive [likely bored] individual.  Without uttering words, we had a conversation with our eyes. He began...

"I know you want the good dollar back, but I'm going to make you ask for it so you'll feel awkward and petty as you out yourself as a neurotic person."

"I won't give you the satisfaction, because I know that you prefer having my dollar in your cash drawer to satisfy your own neurosis. You like good dollars, too. I'm tougher, more flexible, less neurotic than YOU."

"Ha! I win! You lose! Now you'll have to thank me, walk out of the library, bathe your hands in the giant container of Purell, that I'm certain you have in your car, then you'll drive to the nearest Starbucks so you can unload that bad dollar in the tip jar. Ha!"

"You may have gotten the good dollar this time, you weird, little, librarian-in-training person, but I'll be back. And next time...I'll have a bad dollar. A reeeally bad dollar."

I gave the librarian-in-training a pursed-lip smile as I tried to smooth the flimsy hard-lived dollar into the type of bill that stays where it's supposed to when placed in a G-string, willing the bad dollar to behave like it had been starched. Didn't work.

I shoved the dollar in my wallet...then I drove straight to Starbucks.

Tamale and Slash; A Boy and His Personal Brand

A couple of weeks ago, Middle Boy's beloved fish, Rainbow, went to the big fishbowl in the sky.  Rainbow was a betta and Middle Boy's first personal pet.  Mary, our dog, doesn't really count because Mary and Middle Boy never hit it off, especially after the two unfortunate pooping incidents of 2003.  One on his bed, and one almost on his lap.  It was as if the dog and the boy knew immediately that they didn't like one another seven years ago. 

Middle Boy [now 10] has always loved animals, so one year, his deductive reasoning skills led him to the conclusion that because Mary was an animal, and because he loved all living creatures, he must love Mary.  He's a logical child so the sound arguments left him no other choice.  I'm certain he continues to rely on this rationale every time Mary glares at him or chews holes in the carpet under his bed.

Rainbow's passing was heavy in our home.  The sadness he experienced surprised Middle Boy, which subsequently surprised and moved me.  He came down the stairs nervously saying, Rainbow's dead. He was fine this morning. Together we confirmed that, in fact, it was curtains for Rainbow.  Middle Boy wanted to execute the flushing ceremony himself, even after the color drained from his face when he thought he saw blood in Rainbow's habitat. [There was no blood.]

It was a long, sad afternoon.  I cleaned the fish tank.  I also removed some fishsticks from the freezer, per Middle Boy's request.  "Too painful," he said. [He's since managed to choke down salmon and shrimp, so I think he's recovered from the "seafood-is-Rainbow" PTSD.]

Middle Boy found comfort in processing his thoughts aloud.  I don't think I fed him too much.  He didn't act sick.  I've had him for almost two years.  That's old for a betta.  I think he died of old age.  Probably in his sleep.  That's gotta be it.

I finally asked, "Would you like a new fish?  Would that make you feel better?"

He tried not to jump on the offer, but I could tell it was exactly what he wanted.  "I think so," he said.  "Not to replace Rainbow, of course.  Just to help me with my grief."

We went to the store to purchase a fish.  Middle Boy wanted to make sure the new fish didn't resemble Rainbow.  Again he reminded me, Rainbow could never be replaced.

The new fish is bright red and perky.  He flutters and swims when he hears voices.  Middle Boy noticed that Tamale [the fish's name] does not like to be observed eating and we've been instructed to leave the room when the fish is fed.  He needs PRIVACY, Mom.

 

Middle Boy gave me permission to share this tender fish story.  In an effort to balance his soft side, he also gave me permission to share a drawing he created a few days ago.  It's Slash from Guns N' Roses, one of Middle Boy's idols.

Middle Boy -- a fish loving, electric guitar playing, softhearted, appreciative of the edgy and cool set, ten year-old.  I hope he never changes.