• Checking in

    I’ve been away for a little while, so I thought I’d check in… make sure no one’s broken in or vandalized the place.

    Although I run a considerable risk of being sat on, I’d like to discuss something that’s plagued humanity as long as modesty. However, in typical fashion, I’m going to wait a bit for the grand unveiling… long enough for me to ramble on a bit and fluff the word count on my blog stats (not that I’m keeping track, of course).

    There’s something in my life that gets me up almost as reliably as a child in distress – and with almost as much dread. The difference is it’s not a surprise. It happens all the time, more than once a day. It only feels constant. It’s the buzzer on the washing machine or dryer.

    Forget about wrinkle free – I could care less about wrinkles. Someone needs to be working on dirt, liquid, grime, and smell free. Imagine a fiber that made the washing machine obsolete. Imagine “doing laundry” meant taking the clothes out back, giving ’em a good shake, and all the extra stuff they picked up during the day magically sloughed away on a breeze. That’s what I’m talking about. I’d own two outfits – only because I’d be paranoid I’d destroy one in a freak scissors accident, leaving me with nothing to wear.

    What? You’re not afraid of Mr Shears? We show the metal dude respect in this house.

    Any-hoo, this entry is really an excuse to foist my latest theory on you. Some folks say the bad stuff in life makes you stronger, as long as it doesn’t kill you. Well I was thinking about laundry (fresh off a triple header) and decided I had to disagree. The stuff that doesn’t make you stronger or kill you drives you crazy. There ain’t nothin’ strong about bein’ crazy.

    All I need is a slick name for this particular crazy, but the well’s running dry. Laundry loony and washer wacky is all I’ve got left.

    I’m sorry.

  • Going against the grain

    Weather wise, it was a great weekend. Emotionally, it wasn’t so great. Depression had the claws out. And yet, it was a productive weekend. Determined to do something, I did – a project I’d been putting off for cooler temperatures. Unfortunately, this meant while many of you were enjoying the mild weather, I was crawling around in our attic.

    Why? I’d been meaning to expand our network to Adam’s room and while I was buying cables, I decided to go ahead and buy enough to upgrade the rest of our network – making it gigabit ethernet “ready.”

    Why? In my defense, I do a lot of file sharing between my Macs, and eventually I’d like to hook up a network drive for backups and storing large files. Transfering data measured in gigabytes makes you appretiate network speed.

    Why? Wouldn’t doing something fun ease the blues more than a close encounter with fiberglass and pine?

    No. Depression eats fun for breakfast, but it can’t touch my kid’s smile and what it does for my soul. Putting in a day of work to put it there, running cable through the attic and snaking it down through the walls, was just what I needed.

    I’m wearing my battle scars proudly today – countless nicks and scrapes from crawling/swinging around and through rough cut trusses. In between mindless tasks at the office, a smile of my own creeps up.

  • Mutiny on the pitch

    It didn’t take long. Adam just had his first soccer practice, and already the parents are planning the coach’s ouster. From what I hear it might be deserved, but I’ve never coached little kids so what do I know?

    First, there was the last minute way it was organized… as in: nine o’clock the night before we got a call from the coach – complete with a shopping list of what Adam would need.

    I suspect she’s a stay at home mom – not that there’s anything wrong with that.

    When the kids showed up the next evening our coach organized a game of tag. Meanwhile, the other team (from the same age group) was led through some basic drills, and went over some basic rules – like not using your hands. Our coach’s son was playing catch.

    When she did decide to run some drills, her son practiced his kicking on the cones she was setting up (when he wasn’t making a break for the parking lot). The chorus rang out: “If you can’t control your son, how will you control a team?”

    When the parents asked if she wanted some help she replied, “I don’t know.” When one of the parents offered to help set up a drill, or go over some of the basics she replied, “Oh no, that’s ok. I thought the kids would just play this time. You know, get to know each other.” The chorus rang out: “Can my kid play for that other team?”

    When she finally got a drill set up the kids had spent an hour playing tag. The chorus rang out: “The kids have to go home now.”

    The other night we got a clandestine call from one of the parents, planning to go rouge on drills. “I figure we need to set up three drilling stations. I’ve got one parent who’s agreed to run one of them. Will you run the other? The kids should learn at least a little soccer.”

    Their first game is this Saturday. It’ll be fun to see how well tag translates to soccer. It’ll be almost as fun as explaining to Adam why adults can be just as bad as the kids.

    They say sports can teach you a lot about life, but I wonder if we’re headed for understatement country.