Exercise (from 2010)

"P-zing!" The button shot off the waist of my pants, rocketed across the room, ricocheted off a vase and careened off the skull of the dozing cat. In the spastic flurry of pain and surprise, the cat did a double rollover and then laid in a semi-conscious state meowing pitifully. My increasing waistline almost killed. I now knew I had a problem.

After self-analysis, a shirtless fifteen minutes in front of the bathroom mirror sucking it in and then jiggling my belly which included whistling while making my belly-button appear as a tiny mouth, I decided that I needed to change my diet and exercise plan. Being that I have been known to close down a buffet, I took a look at my diet and concluded that my caloric intake suited my active lifestyle of teaching, coaching, marriage and children. After all, a busy sports car like myself burns up fuel. So that left exercise.

So, the first thing I did was sit up. After I caught my breath, I thought some Internet research would be the way to go. Yet, this led to the question, which -inizer device should I purchase. There was a abdominizer, the bunninizer, the flabanizer, the glutomaxinizer and something called a full womanizer; it sounded like something that would hurt, so I stayed away from it. All these devices "targeted" specialized muscles and would build a better body for 20 minutes a day. Reflecting back to my minutes in front of the mirror, I seemed that I would have to buy seven different devices and then work out 140 minutes a day. That seemed a bit extreme.

This was going to take some time. I decided to get a bag a chips and a large glass of cola while I searched for one of those complete gym set ups. I had not even started on the French onion dip when I had a heart attack. The darn things were expensive. I could exercise on my own without spending any money. All I had to do was recall what I did in gym class back in high school.

There were sit ups, pull ups, jumping jacks, windmills and toe touches. There were all those running games and dodge-ball. I could get some of the red rubber balls and have my kids chuck them at me. Of course, I would need a cup. I had too many days where a flying ball or sports apparatus interrupted my breathing pattern by hitting me in the groin. I wonder how many calories I could burn when I "walk it off."

So, now I have a plan of the regular, day to day, no cost program from the old school day gym class. The next step is to find my gym shoes and the tube socks that went up to just below my knees with the colored strips. If I get up early, I can get to the sporting goods store and find a spot right by the front door. I hate walking from the back of any parking lot.

And as of 2012, I have gotten to the sporting good store several times to buy athletic shoes! Don't say congratulations. I keep buying them for my growing athletic kids. My plan is still not doing so well.

Dog Poop and Cat Litter

Scylla and Charybdis. Rock and a hard place. Hell and high water. Dog poop and cat litter. All are tough places to be between.

The dog poop is in the yard, and the cat litter is in the basement of the house. In between these two places are where the daily battles are fought: bills, raising kids, lawn and car maintenance, laundry, the dishes etc, yet I find myself prioritizing the care of their daily constitutions.

Pets are one of the ironies of the American Dream. We pursue this happiness of a dutiful dog and a cuddling, purring cat, yet we dread the crap that comes with it.

Our dog, Duke, is a chocolate lab for the most part. We got him last spring, a year after we lost our golden, Padme (yes, Star Wars), to cancer. Duke’s name was a string of factors that included Duke kicking butt in the NCAA tournaments, Grace’s favorite movie G.I Joe had a character named Duke, and John Wayne, The Duke, is a favorite in the house. Chewbacca was a close second for a name.

For the most part, Duke is a pretty good dog. But, even after training him to go in the lower backyard, he still does is business where it suits him. And with the autumn leaves in its hues of browns over the yard, we have a virtual mine field of doggie bombs. One wrong step, and the victim’s shoes are tagged with a substance that does not stick to a dog’ rear end, but to everything else non-dog.

We have two cats too many. There is Chance; Christopher’s cat since he was three. He is a cantankerous feline that only let’s Christopher carry him anywhere, yet he insists on sleeping on whoever’s bed he deems most fit for his highness. Lo, thou darest disturb his slumber when you seek to rest. Thou will be hissed upon. I swear this cat actual grumbles inappropriate language as he shuffles off.

Princess, yeah that’s her name, is Grace’s cat. She may not be the king of the pets, but the name fits. She seems to know that someday that she will inherit the lands and dominate. Her favorite pastime other than lounging is to harass the dog when he is in his kennel by lounging out of his reach.

King Chance, Princess and Duke. I just realized that I just subjugated myself to my family’s pets. And I, the court jester, stands outside in the early morning dark dressed in my robe, stand dutifully by as his lordship leaves another gem in my lawn. And I, the stable boy, kneel before the throne of cat littler with my plastic scoop. I place the royal feces in small plastic bags and tie them shut so the order does not overpower the land.

I have this bazaar dream that thousands of years from now, archeologists will dig up these precious nuggets of bowel movements and determine that our culture held cat crud in high regard.

I must go. Duke is whining at the door and Princess is sitting in dignified repose by her food dish and eyeing me with a dour look. I am remiss in my duties.

Has anyone seen the pooper scooper?

I must walk carefully. It is a jungle out there.

Mailbox Survival

I went out into my yard to find my mailbox had fallen prey to some road beast. It and the support bar had been knocked from the cedar post. I was furious.

You see, I have been battling the denizens of the busy road for a year now. My mailbox was knocked off last winter three times by the snow plow. With the heavy amounts of snow being launched of the road, it took a beating. Then Christmas morning(2008), as I shuffled a bag of wrapping paper, cardboard and those darn plastic ties that require wire cutters to shear through them, I saw that my green box lay in the gray-brown clumps of plowed snow.

"Oh, well," I thought, "stuff happens."

This was the beginning. I spent the rest of the winter battling the increasing snow drift by the mailbox (postal service left me a note to clear it, so they could get to it), and battling the tidal waves of snow play snow whihc resulting in me half standing, half kneeling in the monstrous bank reattaching the box two more times.

When winter finally subsided, I thought the mailbox was safe. Yet, a cruel turn of events, or should I say "drift and swerve" of events happened. My mailbox was hit by a car. Heidi, my wife, heard an awful noise in the mid-morning of a spring day. Upon investigation, she found the black plastic mailbox shattered along with the white pole (3" pipe) in shards about the yard and driveway. After calling the police, she had learned that a witness had seen a car veer off the road and hit our mailbox. The woman driver was on her cell phone. Unfortunately, the witness did not get a license number and the car itself was a generic enough make and model to make a search far from successful.

A weekend trip to the hardware, a cedar post, quick dry cement and a new mailbox put us back in business. I was quite proud, and I did pound on my chest and strut about. Sura, handyman, lord of his yard!

The repair of the mailbox this morning only took a little time if you subtract the fifteen to twenty minutes to find the drill, the Phillips head drill bit, nails, screws and hammer. I am proud to say that my mailbox is a little worse for wear, but attached and sturdy.

What gets me is the how and why of the incidents along with the recent frequency of mailbox injury. Why did the lady on the cell phone not stop and apologize and make amends? With the recent late night incident, was there malicious intent or some vandal sport involved? Did I scare the innocent motorist who drove by as I repaired the mailbox with my scowl and threatening hammer waving? And lastly, how many more mailboxes will suffer this year?

I tell ya, its a jungle out there.