There are countdown clocks in my house. Lots of them. All over the place. They are a constant reminder that for two of the three members of the family, school is quickly coming to a close. My daughter’s first year of elementary school — she’s in kindergarten. My wife’s first year of school — she’s a pre-school assistant teacher. Soon they go into summer-time bliss. Semi-retirement. Partial shutdown. Or whatever it is you do when you have months at a time without school or work or anything imperative to do. Summer camps. Jobs around the house. Counting spider webs.
Memories of senior prom on the cheap … with a coupon
I was trying to remember my high school prom the other morning: How I did my hair. What my makeup looked like. If I had dropped anywhere near $1,000. One-thousand dollars?!? On shoes. On a limo. On my nails. On a dinner in a fancy restaurant where other diners stared at me and wondered, “Is that socially-awkward dufus the future of America?” No, $1,000 was never in my prom budget. Probably closer to $32.50, thanks to a coupon.
Never make a deal with a college student
Never make a deal with a college student. It comes with too many conditions. Too many clauses. You give in to one thing and then they want another. It never ends well. You find yourself in some unknown territory, like cross-country, bare-handed turkey hunting. Or in this case, writing a column about my Opinion Writing class. What was I thinking?
Injured fingers and trips to the hospital
Put a Band-Aid on it. It’s about as typical an injury response as you’ll ever get from a father. Kid is missing three layers of skin? Put a Band-Aid on it. Bone is protruding at a 90-degree angle? Grab a stick from the yard as a splint and put a Band-Aid on it. Major gastrointestinal problems? Crush up a Band-Aid, add to boiling water with a pinch of lemon and drink it. Soothes the savage beast.
Save our pennies!
I, for one, won’t stand for it. No, not in America. As the guy painted blue in “Braveheart” screamed, “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our PENNIES!” (I wasn’t paying close attention, but I’m pretty sure that’s what the movie was about.) Either way, I’m concerned about a campaign to remove our great 1-cent piece from circulation. The debate has been sparked by Canada — a proud country whose national bird is the maple leaf. The Canadians decided to eliminate the penny because it will save, of all things, money. It costs 1.6 cents to make the copper-plated coin, and they don’t believe that makes cents.
Marching in … I mean through … the St. Patty’s Day Parade for Pepper
I never thought I would march in New York’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Yet, there I was among the blaring bagpipes that echoed across 5th Avenue’s skyscraper canyon. The high school bands. The kilts. That undulating sea of green that swarmed like ants through the city. For a brief moment — a break in the swarm — I was part of it. The pomp and circumstance. The Irish pride. The cop yelling, “Let’s go, people! Get across that street!” Run! Run! Run!
Tips on surviving a 15K race … whatever that is
Just a week or so ago I shared tips on training for a race. A race that was coming up. Only, now it’s in the past. The Jacksonville River Run. A 15K. I have no idea what a K is, but the race was 9.3 miles long. It had a big, hulking bridge on the ninth mile. Gusty winds blew over the top, threatening to throw skinny little runners like me off the side. Yet, somehow I dropped 46 seconds off last year. I finished 273rd (or 237th if you’re dyslexic like me.) That’s out of more than 16,000 runners. Not bad for a skinny boy who almost went over the bridge.I feel pretty good about it. Especially considering a couple years back I suffered a surfing injury that almost ended my running career. I’m not elite or super fast, but pretty proud of where I am. So I’m back to offer some new running advice. It’s my philosophy of running, along with how I survive a race with lots of Ks in it:
Famous figures in my food?! Count me rich
It is time for me to get rich. Long enough have I wallowed about, toeing the line of abject poverty when I could be tap dancing into the lap of luxury. Why shouldn’t I be rich? I look nice in good clothes, have expensive tastes in shoes, and how else will I afford gas for my stretch Hummer? Lucky for me I’ve finally figured out how to do it. Not by working hard. Not by playing the lottery. Not even by trying to convince Nigerian email scammers that I am an American prince who has been overthrown by his people and now needs to transfer $32 million from a seed bank in Kansas to my newly adopted home in Botswana. (That one had real potential!)
Focus. Run. Keep training … must … resist … beer!
Must stay focused. Must keep running. Must stay on schedule. Keep the pace up. Not slack. Not … give … in … to … the … tempta … Oh, the heck with it. I want a beer and some pretzels. So goes my on-again, off-again training regimen for the upcoming 15K River Run in Jacksonville. Mostly it’s on-again. I’m on an overly ambitious quest to get back down to the times I was running in college. At 39, that’s no easy feat. Even more remarkably, I might just be on track. “Might” is the key word, and only if I STAY on track.
Curse of the alarm clock
The alarm clock goes off. It’s a liar. Every morning it’s the same thing: MORE LIES! It’s not 5 a.m. Probably more like 4 or 4:30. Cruel trickster. Hit snooze. Go back to sleep. I want my hour back. Alarm clock goes off again. It’s 6 a.m. No longer so sure it was lying to me. Who thinks that?!? Quite a hole I’ve dug for myself. Precious little time to go running, get cleaned up, make a kid’s lunch, eat, walk a dog and get the whole family off to where they’re supposed to be — school and work. So stupid of me! Oh well. Hit snooze. Go back to sleep. Alarm clock goes off at 6:15. GET UP!