I think I've got achilles tendonitis again. Don't ask me what that is, but it comes up when I google "my achilles hurts". (I'm on the verge of informing my rarely-used medical insurance that Google is now my primary care physician).
That means I'm now suddenly taking an unscheduled running break. This is a bummer because I've been running really well lately and I had hoped to build upon my current fitness level for my races coming up later this year. I've committed to being a pacer for half of the San Francisco Marathon in about 2 months (at an aggressive pace for me), and I hope to qualify for next year's Boston Marathon by running well in the Portland Marathon 4 months from now.
I've had this achilles injury before and there's not much you can do to treat it except for rest. Now, not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty damn good at resting, so there's no reason why I can't nail this sort of physical therapy regimen. Rest, however, doesn't get me any closer to my goal of qualifying for Boston this year. It just feels like I'm wasting time.
Oh, time, you taunt me so.
So, I had to ask myself what I could do during this time of inactivity to keep progressing towards Boston. The answer, sadly, was to lose some weight.
Although the Body Mass Index chart lists me in the "Normal" range (okok, at the higher end of normal), it's pretty clear that being thinner will make long-distance running easier. Carrying 5 or 10 "extra" pounds during a marathon is basically like carrying a dumbbell during the race. You COULD run a marathon that way, but wouldn't it be easier to put down the dumbbell first?
So, just now I stripped down to my skivvies and stepped on the scale. I'm 157.8 pounds.
I hereby do establish the goal of losing 7.8 pounds before my race in August and then maintaining that weight for my marathon in October. I choose that number because 150 is a nice round number, like my ass.
And, *poof*, just like that, I've made my life crappier in a new and boring way.
I've never been overweight, so this will be my first time on a diet. I'm not exactly sure how I should approach this, but I can tell you that yesterday (before my diet began) I bought a chocolate cake and some really good chocolate chip cookies. Since Daisy is allergic to them, and Hank is now a crazy no-sugar person, and I'm morally opposed to throwing away delicious desserts, I can tell you that Step One in my diet will be to consume large quantities of cake and cookies.
I'll keep you posted, but so far dieting is going great!
7.8 pounds to go.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
An Open Letter to drinking glasses that have a concave bottom that allows water to pool when placed upside down in my dishwasher and then drips on me when I put them away:
Dear drinking glasses that have a concave bottom that allows water to pool when placed upside down in my dishwasher and then drips on me when I put them away,
Screw you!
Respectfully,
Mike
Dear drinking glasses that have a concave bottom that allows water to pool when placed upside down in my dishwasher and then drips on me when I put them away,
Screw you!
Respectfully,
Mike
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
An Open Letter to the upstanding beings who stole my wife's ATM card info:
Dear Doucheboxes,
I will admit that I'm impressed that you managed to get a copy of my wife's ATM card and her pin number. Hell, I don't even know her pin number. If you know any other secrets about my wife that you'd like to share, like where her goddamn G-spot is, I'm all ears.
Anyway, kudos to you for your technical wizardry. Your thievery-fu is most impressive.
If I may be so bold, however, I'd like to offer you a bit of advice. The daily withdrawal limit on my card is $400 or $500. Many ATM cards have a similar limit. So, the next time you successfully steal someone's ATM card information, and possess that information for a whopping 19 undetected days, might I suggest that you steal more than $270?
I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, and I mean no disrespect here, but I think you should aim a little higher. I realize that you used the fake card in places where the cost of living is cheaper than San Francisco, so you've maximized your buying power that way, but what's up with the two $100 withdrawals in North Carolina? I guess there's only so much you can spend on smokes, and moonshine is pretty cheap.
And the two paltry $35 purchases in Mexico? Buy the muy expensive tequila, compadre!
So, next time, go for the gold. Try withdrawing $400! EVERY DAMN DAY! I know you can do it, ya big douchebucket.
Love,
Mike
Dear Doucheboxes,
I will admit that I'm impressed that you managed to get a copy of my wife's ATM card and her pin number. Hell, I don't even know her pin number. If you know any other secrets about my wife that you'd like to share, like where her goddamn G-spot is, I'm all ears.
Anyway, kudos to you for your technical wizardry. Your thievery-fu is most impressive.
If I may be so bold, however, I'd like to offer you a bit of advice. The daily withdrawal limit on my card is $400 or $500. Many ATM cards have a similar limit. So, the next time you successfully steal someone's ATM card information, and possess that information for a whopping 19 undetected days, might I suggest that you steal more than $270?
I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, and I mean no disrespect here, but I think you should aim a little higher. I realize that you used the fake card in places where the cost of living is cheaper than San Francisco, so you've maximized your buying power that way, but what's up with the two $100 withdrawals in North Carolina? I guess there's only so much you can spend on smokes, and moonshine is pretty cheap.
And the two paltry $35 purchases in Mexico? Buy the muy expensive tequila, compadre!
So, next time, go for the gold. Try withdrawing $400! EVERY DAMN DAY! I know you can do it, ya big douchebucket.
Love,
Mike
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The items auctioned off at the annual fundraising auction for Daisy's school can generally be classified into one of three buckets: products and services donated by local businesses, art made by the students, and whatever crap or abilities parents have in excess.
For example, the skills that Hank and I have available are the abilities to deal cards and serve drinks. Other more respectable families offer to host gourmet dinners. Among the parent community at Daisy's school are skilled Korean chefs, brew masters with chef friends, sushi chefs, and people who can just plain cook.
This Saturday night the Psychologersons invited us along to the gourmet dinner that they had bid on and won at the auction. What was the theme of this dinner? Raw.
I know. Jesus salmonella Christ, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but they had purchased a gourmet raw dinner and invited us to attend. Equally ridiculous is that Hank accepted the invitation on our behalf. It seemed pretty obvious to me that the Psychologersons were using us as test subjects for one of their psychological studies, but I gotta write about something in this blog, right?
I discussed the theory of raw food with Larry the night before the dinner. We agreed that the notion of raw food was not intuitive. Fire was discovered a long freaking time ago. It's a fairly proven technology at this point. Trying to prepare dinner without heat would be like trying to eat without using your teeth. You COULD, but why?
And as for auctioning off a raw dinner, I'm not gourmet chef, but I'm pretty sure that one of the hard parts of cooking is the actual COOKING of the food. I can grab a bunch of ingredients and serve them raw too, but that doesn't make it dinner. I mean, a raw dinner seemed just a smidge more effort than handing your guests a gift card for the local grocery store.
Some people would probably prepare for attending a raw dinner by studying the cuisine or boning up on the theory. I decided to just eat a gut-busting unch. I ate a big burrito and then part of Daisy's burrito. An hour later I snacked on Hank's massive meatball sub. Then, an hour before we left for dinner, I ate a tamale and a handful of tortilla chips. I was NOT going to show up to a raw dinner hungry. I considered whether it was rude to bring beef jerky or maybe a small cooked steak to a raw dinner.
We left Daisy with the babysitter and headed over to the dinner. We were, of course, the first guests to arrive (sorry, Hank, that's just how I'm built). So, we chatted with the hosts while they performed some last minute preparations. I expertly delivered the jokes I had saving up all weekend. After one too many of my comments about looking forward to the pork course, the hostess smiled at me and asked if Hank and I got to spend much time without our kid.
"No, not too often," we replied.
"Well, then feel free to go hang out in the living room while we finish up in here," she offered.
And thus we were banished from the kitchen.
So, how was the actual dinner? It was really freaking weird! We sat at a table in the host's backyard, amidst his impressive vegetable garden while a handful of chickens ran underfoot. Every once in a while during dinner, the host would pop up, disappear into the garden, and return with some fresh ingredient to chop and add to the dish.
We had coconut ceviche, some crazy soup that I can't explain or remember, a portobello rectangular prism, a salad that had nary a single kind of leaf, and an "ice cream" dessert that was made of pureed fruit and nut creams. Every course was unlike anything I had ever eaten in my life. We drank coconut water and many bottles of red wine (fermentation doesn't count as cooking).
I love spicy food, but these flavors were intense in a way that was unfamiliar to me. I wouldn't be able to describe a single one of the courses because my food vocabulary is limited to words like "salty", "yummy" or "venti".
Was it good? I'm told it was.
For example, the skills that Hank and I have available are the abilities to deal cards and serve drinks. Other more respectable families offer to host gourmet dinners. Among the parent community at Daisy's school are skilled Korean chefs, brew masters with chef friends, sushi chefs, and people who can just plain cook.
This Saturday night the Psychologersons invited us along to the gourmet dinner that they had bid on and won at the auction. What was the theme of this dinner? Raw.
I know. Jesus salmonella Christ, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but they had purchased a gourmet raw dinner and invited us to attend. Equally ridiculous is that Hank accepted the invitation on our behalf. It seemed pretty obvious to me that the Psychologersons were using us as test subjects for one of their psychological studies, but I gotta write about something in this blog, right?
I discussed the theory of raw food with Larry the night before the dinner. We agreed that the notion of raw food was not intuitive. Fire was discovered a long freaking time ago. It's a fairly proven technology at this point. Trying to prepare dinner without heat would be like trying to eat without using your teeth. You COULD, but why?
And as for auctioning off a raw dinner, I'm not gourmet chef, but I'm pretty sure that one of the hard parts of cooking is the actual COOKING of the food. I can grab a bunch of ingredients and serve them raw too, but that doesn't make it dinner. I mean, a raw dinner seemed just a smidge more effort than handing your guests a gift card for the local grocery store.
Some people would probably prepare for attending a raw dinner by studying the cuisine or boning up on the theory. I decided to just eat a gut-busting unch. I ate a big burrito and then part of Daisy's burrito. An hour later I snacked on Hank's massive meatball sub. Then, an hour before we left for dinner, I ate a tamale and a handful of tortilla chips. I was NOT going to show up to a raw dinner hungry. I considered whether it was rude to bring beef jerky or maybe a small cooked steak to a raw dinner.
We left Daisy with the babysitter and headed over to the dinner. We were, of course, the first guests to arrive (sorry, Hank, that's just how I'm built). So, we chatted with the hosts while they performed some last minute preparations. I expertly delivered the jokes I had saving up all weekend. After one too many of my comments about looking forward to the pork course, the hostess smiled at me and asked if Hank and I got to spend much time without our kid.
"No, not too often," we replied.
"Well, then feel free to go hang out in the living room while we finish up in here," she offered.
And thus we were banished from the kitchen.
So, how was the actual dinner? It was really freaking weird! We sat at a table in the host's backyard, amidst his impressive vegetable garden while a handful of chickens ran underfoot. Every once in a while during dinner, the host would pop up, disappear into the garden, and return with some fresh ingredient to chop and add to the dish.
We had coconut ceviche, some crazy soup that I can't explain or remember, a portobello rectangular prism, a salad that had nary a single kind of leaf, and an "ice cream" dessert that was made of pureed fruit and nut creams. Every course was unlike anything I had ever eaten in my life. We drank coconut water and many bottles of red wine (fermentation doesn't count as cooking).
I love spicy food, but these flavors were intense in a way that was unfamiliar to me. I wouldn't be able to describe a single one of the courses because my food vocabulary is limited to words like "salty", "yummy" or "venti".
Was it good? I'm told it was.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
It's hard to write a blog post after having been whisked away to Vegas for a surprise party. What am I going to write about after that? The answer: work. Sorry.
Work has been unintentionally hilarious this week. Not hilarious in the knee-slapping way, more in the face-slapping way.
For the last couple months we've had a Very Angry Customer in Singapore. Somebody gave them some bad advice a year ago, and since then it's spiraled completely out of the land of sanity and reason. Management keeps making ominous noises that someone is going to be sent to Singapore to sit next to the customer for a while. Now, don't get me wrong, I'd love to visit Singapore, I just wouldn't want to spend my trip sitting in a computer server room with an angry customer glaring at me and tapping their cane of punishment in anticipation of my failure.
My boss, Scott, sat on a teleconference earlier this week with multiple levels of management. Scott stayed quiet through most of the call, listening to various smart people say ridiculous things in the name of pleasing the Very Angry Customer, who was apparently demanding that we make our software run 5 times faster. After 30 minutes of this Scott finally spoke up, explaining that we couldn't possibily begin to make our software run faster without knowing why it was running slowly in the first place. He explained the technique our team typically uses in these situations.
There was silence for a few moments until the Executive Vice President spoke.
"Scott, that's the first smart thing I've heard anyone say about the Very Angry Customer. We need you on the ground in Singapore now."
And so the back-pedaling began. Scott wove a tale of remote-access-this and tele-that. Eventually the executive VP relented and offered to send one of the field engineers to Singapore instead of someone from our team.
"For how long?" the field engineer's manager tentatively asked
"Forever!" the VP replied.
So, now, some poor sap is being sent indefinitely to sit in a server room in Singapore while my team thinks of smart things for him to do, say, click, and maybe pantomime. Then, each night, he'll attempt to circumvent the Very Angry Customer's security so that he can send us the data files that we'll need to remotely solve the problem.
Poor bastard. I can only hope that the USB drive he uses is smooth and smaller than his sphincter.
Work has been unintentionally hilarious this week. Not hilarious in the knee-slapping way, more in the face-slapping way.
For the last couple months we've had a Very Angry Customer in Singapore. Somebody gave them some bad advice a year ago, and since then it's spiraled completely out of the land of sanity and reason. Management keeps making ominous noises that someone is going to be sent to Singapore to sit next to the customer for a while. Now, don't get me wrong, I'd love to visit Singapore, I just wouldn't want to spend my trip sitting in a computer server room with an angry customer glaring at me and tapping their cane of punishment in anticipation of my failure.
My boss, Scott, sat on a teleconference earlier this week with multiple levels of management. Scott stayed quiet through most of the call, listening to various smart people say ridiculous things in the name of pleasing the Very Angry Customer, who was apparently demanding that we make our software run 5 times faster. After 30 minutes of this Scott finally spoke up, explaining that we couldn't possibily begin to make our software run faster without knowing why it was running slowly in the first place. He explained the technique our team typically uses in these situations.
There was silence for a few moments until the Executive Vice President spoke.
"Scott, that's the first smart thing I've heard anyone say about the Very Angry Customer. We need you on the ground in Singapore now."
And so the back-pedaling began. Scott wove a tale of remote-access-this and tele-that. Eventually the executive VP relented and offered to send one of the field engineers to Singapore instead of someone from our team.
"For how long?" the field engineer's manager tentatively asked
"Forever!" the VP replied.
So, now, some poor sap is being sent indefinitely to sit in a server room in Singapore while my team thinks of smart things for him to do, say, click, and maybe pantomime. Then, each night, he'll attempt to circumvent the Very Angry Customer's security so that he can send us the data files that we'll need to remotely solve the problem.
Poor bastard. I can only hope that the USB drive he uses is smooth and smaller than his sphincter.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Random memories of my surprise party in Vegas:
1) The LOVE Cirque du Soleil show was really enjoyable. I don't think it was a typical Cirque show in that the music was showcased more than the usual contortions and acrobatics, but if you love the Beatles (and if don't, you should get that checked by a physician) then you'll have a great time. Just hearing the Beatles songs on such a great sound system was worth a couple digits of the price of admission.
2) We flew to Vegas on Virgin America and mmmm mmmm mmmmm, that is one sexy virgin Actually aside from the one girl I lost my virginity too, I've never pursued having sex with a virgin. What's the appeal? I don't want to play tennis with someone who has never held a racket, and I don't want to eat fried chicken made by a non-cook, and I sure as hell don't want to entrust my penis to someone unversed in the sexy sexy. Anyway, Virgin America Airlines rocks. They've got a new-fangled in-seat entertainment system that lets you watch videos, chat with people in other seats, and play video games. The system is still a little buggy, but I got to play Doom while flying to Vegas and drinking a cocktail. My all-time favorite video game! Killing monsters! While going to Vegas! And drinking a screw-driver! That's a slice of pinch-me right there.
3) Even being in the land of Vegas, whose motto is "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas", could not persuade my rule-following eight year-old daughter to let loose. At one point while we stood in the lobby of our hotel, we saw a couple walk through a door labeled as the "Emergency Exit" to take a shortcut to the pool. No alarm sounded. Nothing bad happened. I then offered to pay Daisy a dollar to also walk out that door. You'd have thought I asked her to slaughter puppies. She was aghast. The next day when we strolled around the Venetian to show Daisy the indoor canals, she nearly whimpered with fear that we'd get kicked out because we weren't guests of that hotel. Oh, baby, live it up a little. When she does finally snap and rebel, it will be a sight to see.
4) Being dealt blackjack by the Treasure Island casino dealers was like sitting in a personality deprivation tank. Special mention to Minh The Humorless. I did my best to fill the void.
1) The LOVE Cirque du Soleil show was really enjoyable. I don't think it was a typical Cirque show in that the music was showcased more than the usual contortions and acrobatics, but if you love the Beatles (and if don't, you should get that checked by a physician) then you'll have a great time. Just hearing the Beatles songs on such a great sound system was worth a couple digits of the price of admission.
2) We flew to Vegas on Virgin America and mmmm mmmm mmmmm, that is one sexy virgin Actually aside from the one girl I lost my virginity too, I've never pursued having sex with a virgin. What's the appeal? I don't want to play tennis with someone who has never held a racket, and I don't want to eat fried chicken made by a non-cook, and I sure as hell don't want to entrust my penis to someone unversed in the sexy sexy. Anyway, Virgin America Airlines rocks. They've got a new-fangled in-seat entertainment system that lets you watch videos, chat with people in other seats, and play video games. The system is still a little buggy, but I got to play Doom while flying to Vegas and drinking a cocktail. My all-time favorite video game! Killing monsters! While going to Vegas! And drinking a screw-driver! That's a slice of pinch-me right there.
3) Even being in the land of Vegas, whose motto is "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas", could not persuade my rule-following eight year-old daughter to let loose. At one point while we stood in the lobby of our hotel, we saw a couple walk through a door labeled as the "Emergency Exit" to take a shortcut to the pool. No alarm sounded. Nothing bad happened. I then offered to pay Daisy a dollar to also walk out that door. You'd have thought I asked her to slaughter puppies. She was aghast. The next day when we strolled around the Venetian to show Daisy the indoor canals, she nearly whimpered with fear that we'd get kicked out because we weren't guests of that hotel. Oh, baby, live it up a little. When she does finally snap and rebel, it will be a sight to see.
4) Being dealt blackjack by the Treasure Island casino dealers was like sitting in a personality deprivation tank. Special mention to Minh The Humorless. I did my best to fill the void.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A few years ago Hank turned 40. It was an occasion that compelled me to throw the only surprise party that I've ever had to organize.
This week I turned 40. Months ago my wife and I discussed what would be an appropriate celebration. She understood that I had no desire for a big party or a surprise of any kind. Instead, I wanted to gather my close local friends and go out for a nice dinner at one of my old favorite restaurants here in SF. Hank volunteered to undertake the organization of this event. The dinner was planned for this weekend.
Hank, of course, completely disregarded my wishes. Behind my back she planned a surprise. She contacted our friends months ago, hid credit card charges, faked confirmation calls from restaurants, and spent countless hours planning my surprise birthday.
The final bit of deception was to get me at the right location at the right time. What made this difficult was that the events began on Saturday morning and I ALWAYS go running on Saturday mornings. Hank crafted the solution with Pablo. So, a couple of weeks ago Pablo informed me that our friend Leonarda was going to have her photographs displayed in an art show. Pablo gave me a fake brochure about the art show and explained that the show, which was listed as occurring on May 17th, was in an unusual location. I realized that I needed to move my Saturday run and go support Leonarda.
So, that's why on Saturday morning this weekend, I was wandering around the San Francisco airport with my family in tow, looking for Leonarda's art show. Various friends of mine watched me from hidden locations, as I "helped" Hank and Daisy scour the airport for the mythical art exhibit. We asked the guy at the information booth, peered into the closed museum, and generally scratched our heads.
After about 10 minutes of this, Hank took pity on me. She asked Daisy if she had anything to say to me.
"Uh, daddy, there's, um, kind of no art show here," Daisy began, clearing her throat and stammering so as to extend my confusion, "Instead, we're going to Vegas."
I'm not sure exactly how many seconds it took me to figure out that Daisy was saying something significant and not speaking the potential nonsense of an eight year-old. Someone handed me a boarding pass. I was stunned.
There was, of course, no art show. Hank had packed our bags earlier in the week and given them to Liz and Larry to check in for us. Our flight to Vegas was leaving in about an hour. Liz and Larry were coming along and were bringing their nanny to help watch the kids.
Pablo appeared soon thereafter, along with Jay and Laila. Leonarda wasn't far behind and even Scott made his way to Vegas to help me celebrate my 40th year.
We spent about 24 hours in Vegas and I had a tremendous time. We stayed at Treasure Island, had a delicious meal at Japonais, saw the immensely enjoyable Beatles LOVE Cirque du Soleil show, and hunkered down at the blackjack table for several hours of cards, banter, and booze. It was awesome.
I can't believe Hank (with the help of many others) pulled this off. Several times during the last few weeks I sat down and contemplated whether Hank was trying to hide some sort of surprise. Each time I reviewed the evidence and concluded with certainty that there was no surprise. There was no way. I thought that MAYBE she invited more people to the dinner than I had specified, but I knew that she knew that I had hated the logistics of large groups. It didn't occur to me that she'd take my invite list and just move the party to Vegas.
I'm still a little stunned, but I'm grateful for my creative, thoughtful, and generous family and friends. I've never been so pleased to have my wishes ignored.
This week I turned 40. Months ago my wife and I discussed what would be an appropriate celebration. She understood that I had no desire for a big party or a surprise of any kind. Instead, I wanted to gather my close local friends and go out for a nice dinner at one of my old favorite restaurants here in SF. Hank volunteered to undertake the organization of this event. The dinner was planned for this weekend.
Hank, of course, completely disregarded my wishes. Behind my back she planned a surprise. She contacted our friends months ago, hid credit card charges, faked confirmation calls from restaurants, and spent countless hours planning my surprise birthday.
The final bit of deception was to get me at the right location at the right time. What made this difficult was that the events began on Saturday morning and I ALWAYS go running on Saturday mornings. Hank crafted the solution with Pablo. So, a couple of weeks ago Pablo informed me that our friend Leonarda was going to have her photographs displayed in an art show. Pablo gave me a fake brochure about the art show and explained that the show, which was listed as occurring on May 17th, was in an unusual location. I realized that I needed to move my Saturday run and go support Leonarda.
So, that's why on Saturday morning this weekend, I was wandering around the San Francisco airport with my family in tow, looking for Leonarda's art show. Various friends of mine watched me from hidden locations, as I "helped" Hank and Daisy scour the airport for the mythical art exhibit. We asked the guy at the information booth, peered into the closed museum, and generally scratched our heads.
After about 10 minutes of this, Hank took pity on me. She asked Daisy if she had anything to say to me.
"Uh, daddy, there's, um, kind of no art show here," Daisy began, clearing her throat and stammering so as to extend my confusion, "Instead, we're going to Vegas."
I'm not sure exactly how many seconds it took me to figure out that Daisy was saying something significant and not speaking the potential nonsense of an eight year-old. Someone handed me a boarding pass. I was stunned.
There was, of course, no art show. Hank had packed our bags earlier in the week and given them to Liz and Larry to check in for us. Our flight to Vegas was leaving in about an hour. Liz and Larry were coming along and were bringing their nanny to help watch the kids.
Pablo appeared soon thereafter, along with Jay and Laila. Leonarda wasn't far behind and even Scott made his way to Vegas to help me celebrate my 40th year.
We spent about 24 hours in Vegas and I had a tremendous time. We stayed at Treasure Island, had a delicious meal at Japonais, saw the immensely enjoyable Beatles LOVE Cirque du Soleil show, and hunkered down at the blackjack table for several hours of cards, banter, and booze. It was awesome.
I can't believe Hank (with the help of many others) pulled this off. Several times during the last few weeks I sat down and contemplated whether Hank was trying to hide some sort of surprise. Each time I reviewed the evidence and concluded with certainty that there was no surprise. There was no way. I thought that MAYBE she invited more people to the dinner than I had specified, but I knew that she knew that I had hated the logistics of large groups. It didn't occur to me that she'd take my invite list and just move the party to Vegas.
I'm still a little stunned, but I'm grateful for my creative, thoughtful, and generous family and friends. I've never been so pleased to have my wishes ignored.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
For many people running is a meditative experience. It clears their mind. Others use the time to wrestle with mental issues, perhaps a thorny relationship issue or maybe a problem at work.
Those people are freaks.
Have you ever gone running? It's exhausting! And painful! Trying to solve mental problems while running is like trying to perform calculus while being stabbed in the eye. I suppose it's possible, but doesn't it seem likely that you'd get distracted by the blood spurting out of your retina?
Actually I do perform some simple calculations while I run. At any point during one of my runs I can tell you, with reasonable accuracy, how many miles I've run and how many miles I've got left. I'm constantly calculating and recalculating what percentage of my run is behind me. I guess this is analogous to informing the stabber, "My eyeball is only 62% demolished! 38 to go!"
My current favorite game to play while running is a little bit of excitement I call: Guess How Many Seconds Have Elapsed Since I Last Looked At My Watch. I can say with a great deal of certainty that this is pretty much the most fun I can have while pounding out the miles. Sometimes I let 8 or 9 seconds go by before guessing, other times as much as 90 seconds will elapse before I breathlessly (literally) check my watch to see how good my guess is.
The real fun comes in when I then calculate what percent I'm off by. Then, over the course of the run, I average out those percentages. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Typically my guesses are off by around 14%. Awesome!
Honest to god, this is the most fun thing I can think of while running.
Those people are freaks.
Have you ever gone running? It's exhausting! And painful! Trying to solve mental problems while running is like trying to perform calculus while being stabbed in the eye. I suppose it's possible, but doesn't it seem likely that you'd get distracted by the blood spurting out of your retina?
Actually I do perform some simple calculations while I run. At any point during one of my runs I can tell you, with reasonable accuracy, how many miles I've run and how many miles I've got left. I'm constantly calculating and recalculating what percentage of my run is behind me. I guess this is analogous to informing the stabber, "My eyeball is only 62% demolished! 38 to go!"
My current favorite game to play while running is a little bit of excitement I call: Guess How Many Seconds Have Elapsed Since I Last Looked At My Watch. I can say with a great deal of certainty that this is pretty much the most fun I can have while pounding out the miles. Sometimes I let 8 or 9 seconds go by before guessing, other times as much as 90 seconds will elapse before I breathlessly (literally) check my watch to see how good my guess is.
The real fun comes in when I then calculate what percent I'm off by. Then, over the course of the run, I average out those percentages. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Typically my guesses are off by around 14%. Awesome!
Honest to god, this is the most fun thing I can think of while running.
Monday, May 12, 2008
If I were to make a short list of the times in recent years when I firmly inserted my foot into my mouth and then kind of deep-throated it a bit, that list would include:
Me: I think Malcolm is the funny one.
Maggie: What did you say?
Me: Malcolm. Out of you two, Malcolm is The Funny One.
Maggie: Oh, look at the time.
It occurred to me at this moment that I was an idiot. I looked for the backspace key.
Me: I mean, he's funny, right?
Maggie: Whatever, Mike.
Me: Dammit. I totally forgot how you hold grudges. You're going to be mad at me... forever, huh?
Maggie: I officially reserve the right to speak at your funeral.
Me: Malcolm, help me out here. Who's funnier, you or Maggie?
Malcolm: I can't believe you did this to me.
Eh, who needs friends.
- When I discovered that the Mute button on my work phone is really just a Muffle button.
- When I mistakenly asked the PTA President if she was inviting me to a sex party.
- When I mistook someone's mom for a transvestite.
Me: I think Malcolm is the funny one.
Maggie: What did you say?
Me: Malcolm. Out of you two, Malcolm is The Funny One.
Maggie: Oh, look at the time.
It occurred to me at this moment that I was an idiot. I looked for the backspace key.
Me: I mean, he's funny, right?
Maggie: Whatever, Mike.
Me: Dammit. I totally forgot how you hold grudges. You're going to be mad at me... forever, huh?
Maggie: I officially reserve the right to speak at your funeral.
Me: Malcolm, help me out here. Who's funnier, you or Maggie?
Malcolm: I can't believe you did this to me.
Eh, who needs friends.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Hank and I host a poker game for our friends every month or so. It's a pretty fun evening between the game-playing, the boozing, and the joking around. Although there's plenty of games based on mathematical constants, pot odds calculations, jokes about which players at the table are really Cylons, and other geek humor, it's a genuinely amusing crowd. Most of us may make our living by sitting on front of computers, but we're generally a pretty outgoing bunch.
And, of course, after about one drink, I launch into a litany of dick jokes. I'm classy that way.
Earlier this year, however, we had offered to host a poker night for the highest bidder at the annual fundraising auction for Daisy's school. It was bought for $450 by a group of parents, some of whom I had never met before. We held the game last night.
Logistics-wise, we were all set. We stocked the booze cabinet, snack trays, and even provided a few cigars. Hank produced a poker-themed cocktail menu and set herself up as bartender. I donned a white shirt and black vest and pronounced myself dealer for the evening. Really, the only thing that concerned me was making sure that everyone was going to have a good time.
Given that this was kind of a staid PTA-crowd, I realized the burden would fall upon me to goose the conversation and interject the humor. I contemplated whether ribald humor would be appreciated or offend. I doubted this group was a bunch of drinkers, so I couldn't count on booze to lubricate the laughing muscles. In the hours leading up to the event, I internally wrestled with how to bring these people out of their shells.
When the magic hour rolled around, the guests arrived and immediately launched into the cocktails. By the time I started dealing, about an hour later, some of them were already drunk. Hank was taking drink orders and pouring non-stop.
We finished the first tournament in a couple of hours. By that time the party was in full swing, and it was becoming apparent that this was not the staid crowd I had anticipated. It was at this point that one of the guests screamed "DANCE PARTY!" and cranked the music. Suddenly, for the first time since I was in my 20's, people started dancing in my living room.
There were men grinding on women, men grinding on men, one dude dancing with a pineapple on his head, and someone with unpleasant stubble who kept nuzzling me while I was trying to deal. The yelled-above-the-music conversation seemed to center around questions about my sex life with Hank. It occurred to me then, that my previous worries about offending these people with penis references were a tad unfounded. I was the quiet conservative one in this group.
I stood to the side at one point, with the one other quiet guy, watching the coordinated people dance. Suddenly, the other quiet guy got pulled onto the dancing fray, leaving me as the sole undancing dork. I made myself as busy as I could be, given that we were in a poker-break, but was finally forced the acknowledge the awkwardness of being the one person not dancing in a party I was hosting. So, I scooted onto the "dance floor" and did my usual awkward Mike jig.
Eventually we agreed to play another tournament. A couple people dropped out. One guy stood up abruptly to go stagger into the walls in our hallway. Another woman disappeared presumably to go puke in the bathroom. Their more-sober spouses took over their hands for them when they weren't busy dancing in the kitchen. I deftly managed to deal the tournament given that at any point in time, at least one person was wandering off to dance, drink, or just wander aimlessly.
When the last person left, at around 1:15am, after we scoured the house for any stragglers who may have passed out, I turned to Hank and said, "HOLY CRAP! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
Is this what non computer programmers do on Friday nights? Jesus puking Christ, I had no idea.
And, of course, after about one drink, I launch into a litany of dick jokes. I'm classy that way.
Earlier this year, however, we had offered to host a poker night for the highest bidder at the annual fundraising auction for Daisy's school. It was bought for $450 by a group of parents, some of whom I had never met before. We held the game last night.
Logistics-wise, we were all set. We stocked the booze cabinet, snack trays, and even provided a few cigars. Hank produced a poker-themed cocktail menu and set herself up as bartender. I donned a white shirt and black vest and pronounced myself dealer for the evening. Really, the only thing that concerned me was making sure that everyone was going to have a good time.
Given that this was kind of a staid PTA-crowd, I realized the burden would fall upon me to goose the conversation and interject the humor. I contemplated whether ribald humor would be appreciated or offend. I doubted this group was a bunch of drinkers, so I couldn't count on booze to lubricate the laughing muscles. In the hours leading up to the event, I internally wrestled with how to bring these people out of their shells.
When the magic hour rolled around, the guests arrived and immediately launched into the cocktails. By the time I started dealing, about an hour later, some of them were already drunk. Hank was taking drink orders and pouring non-stop.
We finished the first tournament in a couple of hours. By that time the party was in full swing, and it was becoming apparent that this was not the staid crowd I had anticipated. It was at this point that one of the guests screamed "DANCE PARTY!" and cranked the music. Suddenly, for the first time since I was in my 20's, people started dancing in my living room.
There were men grinding on women, men grinding on men, one dude dancing with a pineapple on his head, and someone with unpleasant stubble who kept nuzzling me while I was trying to deal. The yelled-above-the-music conversation seemed to center around questions about my sex life with Hank. It occurred to me then, that my previous worries about offending these people with penis references were a tad unfounded. I was the quiet conservative one in this group.
I stood to the side at one point, with the one other quiet guy, watching the coordinated people dance. Suddenly, the other quiet guy got pulled onto the dancing fray, leaving me as the sole undancing dork. I made myself as busy as I could be, given that we were in a poker-break, but was finally forced the acknowledge the awkwardness of being the one person not dancing in a party I was hosting. So, I scooted onto the "dance floor" and did my usual awkward Mike jig.
Eventually we agreed to play another tournament. A couple people dropped out. One guy stood up abruptly to go stagger into the walls in our hallway. Another woman disappeared presumably to go puke in the bathroom. Their more-sober spouses took over their hands for them when they weren't busy dancing in the kitchen. I deftly managed to deal the tournament given that at any point in time, at least one person was wandering off to dance, drink, or just wander aimlessly.
When the last person left, at around 1:15am, after we scoured the house for any stragglers who may have passed out, I turned to Hank and said, "HOLY CRAP! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
Is this what non computer programmers do on Friday nights? Jesus puking Christ, I had no idea.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
A few weeks ago our general contractor basically finished the work on the room we had added to our house (and, yes, Liz your algorithm for assuming one month of real time for each week the contractor estimated was pretty accurate). Now, in the evenings, we retire to the new room, which is pretty nice looking.
When I sit in the new room, I think "Hey, it's nice here!"
When Hank sits in the new room she thinks, "Man, the rest of the house is a dump."
So, for the last several months, Hank has been poring over color charts. Paint is the next great frontier. She stares at online virtual rooms, color wheels, redecorating books, something called a color triad and other people's houses. Mostly she stares right through me, but that's understandable. I'm usually babbling about my jogging pace or maybe boobs.
Hank was tormented by the color choices. I offered to step in and assist a while back.
Hank: Really? You want to help?
Me: Sure.
Hank: What color palette were you thinking about?
Me: White
Hank: (exasperated) We can't pick white.
Me: Duh! I know we can't pick white. I just like the white palette. How about antique white or eggshell white?
Hank: NEVERMIND!
You'd think I'd suggested that we paint the house with the blood of our daughter. White is apparently the most absurd color you'd ever want to paint a hallway. It would be so... crap, I can't even finish that sentence. I have no idea what's wrong with white. Before we moved into this house, every single place I ever lived (with the exception of Barrington Hall) had white walls. They didn't clash with furniture or art or cause people to spend man-months staring at color triads.
Anyway, Hank found a painter she liked who had some availability this week, so that forced her to pick a color palette. Today the painting began. What colors did she pick? They are:
Midsummer Gold
Butterfly Wing
Peruvian Evening Lily
I know! I KNOW! Those aren't even colors! I mean, at least "Midsummer Gold" has a color in the title, but the other two are as likely to be yoga stretches as wall colors.
The midsummer gold went up on the walls today. It's kind of brownish gold. I haven't seen the Butterfly Wing yet, but I've been informed it's kind of yellow. And the Peruvian Evening Lily? Red, obviously.
I'm beginning to fear that this process of "fixing" the design of our house is a process that will never end. On the plus side, however, as long as Hank is distracted with replacing colors, she won't have time to think about replacing her husband. I am pretty white, I'm told.
When I sit in the new room, I think "Hey, it's nice here!"
When Hank sits in the new room she thinks, "Man, the rest of the house is a dump."
So, for the last several months, Hank has been poring over color charts. Paint is the next great frontier. She stares at online virtual rooms, color wheels, redecorating books, something called a color triad and other people's houses. Mostly she stares right through me, but that's understandable. I'm usually babbling about my jogging pace or maybe boobs.
Hank was tormented by the color choices. I offered to step in and assist a while back.
Hank: Really? You want to help?
Me: Sure.
Hank: What color palette were you thinking about?
Me: White
Hank: (exasperated) We can't pick white.
Me: Duh! I know we can't pick white. I just like the white palette. How about antique white or eggshell white?
Hank: NEVERMIND!
You'd think I'd suggested that we paint the house with the blood of our daughter. White is apparently the most absurd color you'd ever want to paint a hallway. It would be so... crap, I can't even finish that sentence. I have no idea what's wrong with white. Before we moved into this house, every single place I ever lived (with the exception of Barrington Hall) had white walls. They didn't clash with furniture or art or cause people to spend man-months staring at color triads.
Anyway, Hank found a painter she liked who had some availability this week, so that forced her to pick a color palette. Today the painting began. What colors did she pick? They are:
Midsummer Gold
Butterfly Wing
Peruvian Evening Lily
I know! I KNOW! Those aren't even colors! I mean, at least "Midsummer Gold" has a color in the title, but the other two are as likely to be yoga stretches as wall colors.
The midsummer gold went up on the walls today. It's kind of brownish gold. I haven't seen the Butterfly Wing yet, but I've been informed it's kind of yellow. And the Peruvian Evening Lily? Red, obviously.
I'm beginning to fear that this process of "fixing" the design of our house is a process that will never end. On the plus side, however, as long as Hank is distracted with replacing colors, she won't have time to think about replacing her husband. I am pretty white, I'm told.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
When Monday mornings roll around, I kick the wife and the kid out the door, I sit my candy ass down into my "office" chair and I make my "Monday morning" noise. It sounds like this:
Ahhhhhhh
That's because Mondays mean that I get to spend nearly 8 consecutive hours sitting on my butt. This activity is in stark contrast to how I often spend my weekends, which sadly, generally consist of keeping my butt in the air. My butt HATES the air.
On Saturday morning, for example, I ran about 16 miles, which is further than I've run in 3 years. Then I walked around the neighborhood with the kid, handling various errands. Afterwards, she wanted to go on a bike ride, and due to logistical difficulties, this basically required me to roller-blade alongside her for about 5 miles. I finished up Saturday, with an exciting evening trip to the damn supermarket.
Today, I took Daisy, along with another 8 year-old girl, to the Maker Faire. It's a great event (although REALLY crowded this year), but limiting yourself to the booths that 8 year-olds find exciting is probably not the most satisfying way to experience it. More to the point, wandering around an event center for 6 hours makes for another tiring day.
I know, bitch bitch bitch, poor Mike was forced to go jogging one day and then was dragged to the pinnacle of fun geek events, but it really was a tiring weekend!
I can't wait for tomorrow's "ahhhhhh". TGIM, baby.
Ahhhhhhh
That's because Mondays mean that I get to spend nearly 8 consecutive hours sitting on my butt. This activity is in stark contrast to how I often spend my weekends, which sadly, generally consist of keeping my butt in the air. My butt HATES the air.
On Saturday morning, for example, I ran about 16 miles, which is further than I've run in 3 years. Then I walked around the neighborhood with the kid, handling various errands. Afterwards, she wanted to go on a bike ride, and due to logistical difficulties, this basically required me to roller-blade alongside her for about 5 miles. I finished up Saturday, with an exciting evening trip to the damn supermarket.
Today, I took Daisy, along with another 8 year-old girl, to the Maker Faire. It's a great event (although REALLY crowded this year), but limiting yourself to the booths that 8 year-olds find exciting is probably not the most satisfying way to experience it. More to the point, wandering around an event center for 6 hours makes for another tiring day.
I know, bitch bitch bitch, poor Mike was forced to go jogging one day and then was dragged to the pinnacle of fun geek events, but it really was a tiring weekend!
I can't wait for tomorrow's "ahhhhhh". TGIM, baby.
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