I lost about 30 pounds this year. I would probably have lost more if I were to have kept up with the running after I finished the Warrior Dash. So now I'm getting back on that bandwagon of runners so I can continue in my pursuit of better health.
Well, isn't the weather too bad, blustery, and downright cold to be running?
You forget that I started running in February this year, when our winter was at its coldest. I hate running in intense heat. I ran around the White River Canal here in Indianapolis over the summer, and I'd swear I sweat a whole person out of me by the time I was done.
Its not that I don't like sweating, I just don't like the heat that makes me sweat. Especially when there's no wind. Man, I just don't like that at all.
Call it laziness if you like, but it is what it is. I don't like running in extreme heat. I'd rather be jogging when the thermometer says its closer to freezing than having a heat stroke. Call me crazy, too, its literally less sweat off my back.
The motivation to get back at it came when I was realizing my daughter is getting heavier and I was getting more winded than I had been just carrying her up the stairs. I hadn't gained all my weight back or anything, but I clearly had gotten more out of shape than I had been in the spring or even later in this past summer.
It will surely be another struggle, but that's fine. Anything worth having is worth working for.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Fatherhood Engineering
My dad once claimed he could fix anything but a broken heart. I remember a few broken toys he glued, taped, or snapped back together and so I fell for this blatant lie for years. Then, when my 1971 Oldsmobile decided to need a new freeze plug and was leaking water and anti-freeze all over the yard, Uncle Tommy could fix anything but a broken heart.
Need a ceiling fan installed, call dad. Need a car fixed, he'd help you find someone else who could do that, but it never was going to be a cheap fix.
I sold the car soon after for a few hundred dollars.
But this was not before I learned a lesson. Or three.
Lesson one: Dads are liars.
I have thoroughly convinced my daughter that I am as strong as the Incredible Hulk, as smart as Einstein, and as interesting as that old fart who drinks rarely drinks beer (I never drink anything except soda or water, so I would argue I'm even more interesting).
Dads keep this lie going for as long as they can, I believe, for two reasons. 1. Dad's need all the ego boost they can get. We work hard (well, some of us do) and often times at thankless jobs where we don't feel appreciated. Our wives know that we're human, but no matter how much they appreciate us, our kids make us feel like super-powered-zombie-killers. 2. Its okay for our kids to be a little bit scared of us. I'm not saying that they should be afraid in the way the gypsies were afraid of Count Dracula (If you don't understand this, read a book once in a while, sheesh!). I mean in the way the citizens of Gotham are afraid there's a Batman out there in the streets. Sure, he must be a powerful being, but he's there to protect them and has their best interests at heart.
Lesson two: Dads are going to fail you sometimes.
Hey, we're human. My dad couldn't fix my car for free just like I won't be able to explain all of Evie's geometry homework to her one day. It doesn't mean I won't try my hardest to figure everything out and take our combined knowledge to crank out some serious math, but I promise she's still going to miss a few equations and angles and whatever else goes on in math besides balancing a checkbook.
Lesson three: Dads all want to be MacGyver.
Mac could find find a way to escape from a bank vault with a Q-tip and a rubber band. A Q-tip!
Today, I fell prey to this. I was having lunch with a friend and brought Evie along, but noticed she kept getting her hair in the food. I had forgotten a hair-tie. Ponytail holder. Whatever you call it.
I did, however, have a shoelace. A spare, clean shoelace, so don't go thinking I yanked something off my sneakers. Don't ask why I had a spare, that's not part of the story. But it was clean and I had one, so I looped it a couple of times and tied up Evie's hair. It worked wonderful.
Then some lady took pity on my daughter like any person with a heart and a hair band would, and gave me a spare hair tie of her own.
Either way, my hair thingy worked beautifully. I stand by it one hundred percent.
Just don't pick at it or it may come untied.
Need a ceiling fan installed, call dad. Need a car fixed, he'd help you find someone else who could do that, but it never was going to be a cheap fix.
I sold the car soon after for a few hundred dollars.
But this was not before I learned a lesson. Or three.
Lesson one: Dads are liars.
I have thoroughly convinced my daughter that I am as strong as the Incredible Hulk, as smart as Einstein, and as interesting as that old fart who drinks rarely drinks beer (I never drink anything except soda or water, so I would argue I'm even more interesting).
Dads keep this lie going for as long as they can, I believe, for two reasons. 1. Dad's need all the ego boost they can get. We work hard (well, some of us do) and often times at thankless jobs where we don't feel appreciated. Our wives know that we're human, but no matter how much they appreciate us, our kids make us feel like super-powered-zombie-killers. 2. Its okay for our kids to be a little bit scared of us. I'm not saying that they should be afraid in the way the gypsies were afraid of Count Dracula (If you don't understand this, read a book once in a while, sheesh!). I mean in the way the citizens of Gotham are afraid there's a Batman out there in the streets. Sure, he must be a powerful being, but he's there to protect them and has their best interests at heart.
Lesson two: Dads are going to fail you sometimes.
Hey, we're human. My dad couldn't fix my car for free just like I won't be able to explain all of Evie's geometry homework to her one day. It doesn't mean I won't try my hardest to figure everything out and take our combined knowledge to crank out some serious math, but I promise she's still going to miss a few equations and angles and whatever else goes on in math besides balancing a checkbook.
Lesson three: Dads all want to be MacGyver.
Mac could find find a way to escape from a bank vault with a Q-tip and a rubber band. A Q-tip!
Today, I fell prey to this. I was having lunch with a friend and brought Evie along, but noticed she kept getting her hair in the food. I had forgotten a hair-tie. Ponytail holder. Whatever you call it.
I did, however, have a shoelace. A spare, clean shoelace, so don't go thinking I yanked something off my sneakers. Don't ask why I had a spare, that's not part of the story. But it was clean and I had one, so I looped it a couple of times and tied up Evie's hair. It worked wonderful.
Then some lady took pity on my daughter like any person with a heart and a hair band would, and gave me a spare hair tie of her own.
Either way, my hair thingy worked beautifully. I stand by it one hundred percent.
Just don't pick at it or it may come untied.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
I'm a Robot!
About a week ago, very randomly, my daughter walked up to my wife and said, "Mommy, I'm a robot!" and then began walking around in a very robotic manner.
Who taught her this? Where did it come from? Did she learn it at daycare? Did she learn it from TV? We have no idea.
At times like that, I start to really dislike having to take her daycare. I'm not some guy who firmly believes his wife needs to be "barefoot and pregnant" and stay at home with the kids while the man goes out and spears a woolly mammoth or anything. My mom was a stay at home mom for most of my childhood, only taking up a part-time job here and there to help make ends meet. After a while, my dad would want her to quit because he firmly believed a woman's place was in the home.
Look, I'm not my dad. I don't think my wife needs to quit her job (to be honest, we couldn't afford for her to do so) or anything like that.
Its just that, sometimes, I think it would be great if we were independently wealthy and could just be full-time parents.
Then I could teach my kid how to say "I'm a zombie" and then bite the dog. You know, normal parent stuff.
So, if anyone has a spare couple of million dollars lying around they'd love to just give to someone, let me know!
Who taught her this? Where did it come from? Did she learn it at daycare? Did she learn it from TV? We have no idea.
At times like that, I start to really dislike having to take her daycare. I'm not some guy who firmly believes his wife needs to be "barefoot and pregnant" and stay at home with the kids while the man goes out and spears a woolly mammoth or anything. My mom was a stay at home mom for most of my childhood, only taking up a part-time job here and there to help make ends meet. After a while, my dad would want her to quit because he firmly believed a woman's place was in the home.
Look, I'm not my dad. I don't think my wife needs to quit her job (to be honest, we couldn't afford for her to do so) or anything like that.
Its just that, sometimes, I think it would be great if we were independently wealthy and could just be full-time parents.
Then I could teach my kid how to say "I'm a zombie" and then bite the dog. You know, normal parent stuff.
So, if anyone has a spare couple of million dollars lying around they'd love to just give to someone, let me know!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
How to Eat a Sandwich
How to eat a sandwich, by Evelyn Williams
Today I get to share with you my sandwich eating process, something I hope you'll find educational and entertaining as we enjoy another moment to laugh at our frustrated parents.
First, have your daddy or mommy make you a peanut butter sandwich. It may also be a ham sandwich, bologna (also called "baloney), turkey, or even honey. The type of sandwich your parent brings you is really irrelevant to this, as the title is how to eat a sandwich, not how to eat a specific sandwich.
The parental unit who brings you the meal may also add a side of fruits - my personal favorite being of the banana variety - or chips, crackers, or even vegetables. Sometimes I get vegetables. Those days are harder than most.
But I digress.
Take the sandwich apart. I know, you're destroying their hard work, but believe me when I tell you there is a method to my madness. Take that bread apart!
Choose the piece of bread with the least amount of other stuff stuck to it. If your parents put mayonnaise, for instance, on your ham sandwich, just leave the meat on the other slice of bread and enjoy the mayo and bread. Take the piece that has the least amount of peanut butter stuck to it. The piece that only has ketchup. "But I like peanut butter," you say? That's okay, this is part of the process.
Eat one slice of the bread slowly, so they notice what you're doing. It may be difficult to stomach at first, but again, slowly. You're not trying to set a world record for eating disgusting food fast or anything.
Once daddy (or mommy) has seen how you are eating your food, they may try to correct what you're doing by pushing what's left of the first slice of bread back together with the original piece.
As soon as their back is turned, take the entire sandwich and try to stuff it in your mouth as fast as possible. When this obviously fails, take whatever is left and smear it all over the front of your shirt, your face, your hair, and anything else you can think of.
Two results are possible:
Daddy: Sees your shirt, exclaims "Oh no!" and rushes upstairs to get you a clean shirt. If you have done your job properly, you'll get a free Happy Meal and won't have to go through this process again for a few days.
Mommy: You get a bath and an early nap time.
I highly recommend waiting until it is just you and your daddy to try this.
Today I get to share with you my sandwich eating process, something I hope you'll find educational and entertaining as we enjoy another moment to laugh at our frustrated parents.
First, have your daddy or mommy make you a peanut butter sandwich. It may also be a ham sandwich, bologna (also called "baloney), turkey, or even honey. The type of sandwich your parent brings you is really irrelevant to this, as the title is how to eat a sandwich, not how to eat a specific sandwich.
The parental unit who brings you the meal may also add a side of fruits - my personal favorite being of the banana variety - or chips, crackers, or even vegetables. Sometimes I get vegetables. Those days are harder than most.
But I digress.
Take the sandwich apart. I know, you're destroying their hard work, but believe me when I tell you there is a method to my madness. Take that bread apart!
Choose the piece of bread with the least amount of other stuff stuck to it. If your parents put mayonnaise, for instance, on your ham sandwich, just leave the meat on the other slice of bread and enjoy the mayo and bread. Take the piece that has the least amount of peanut butter stuck to it. The piece that only has ketchup. "But I like peanut butter," you say? That's okay, this is part of the process.
Eat one slice of the bread slowly, so they notice what you're doing. It may be difficult to stomach at first, but again, slowly. You're not trying to set a world record for eating disgusting food fast or anything.
Once daddy (or mommy) has seen how you are eating your food, they may try to correct what you're doing by pushing what's left of the first slice of bread back together with the original piece.
As soon as their back is turned, take the entire sandwich and try to stuff it in your mouth as fast as possible. When this obviously fails, take whatever is left and smear it all over the front of your shirt, your face, your hair, and anything else you can think of.
Two results are possible:
Daddy: Sees your shirt, exclaims "Oh no!" and rushes upstairs to get you a clean shirt. If you have done your job properly, you'll get a free Happy Meal and won't have to go through this process again for a few days.
Mommy: You get a bath and an early nap time.
I highly recommend waiting until it is just you and your daddy to try this.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Time Management
I think one of the hardest things to do, at least for me as a parent, is manage my time. I want to sleep in on my days off - I don't get to do this anymore. I haven't really for about two and a half years. I want to do what I want to do, when I want to do it, I haven't ever really been able to do that all day, every day, since I started school when I was five years old. Now that I have a kid, I keep fighting this uphill battle with the clock.
I wake up, try to get myself ready, then get the kiddo up to start the day. That's the plan. Except, my daughter doesn't sleep in. Ever.
This kid is up and bright eyed awake, I kid you not, at 7-freaking-AM every morning! Thankfully, on rainy days, she'll sleep in it seems but those days are few and far between when I have a day off (today being an exception).
It doesn't help that I work late nights three days out of the week and days on the weekends. Not only does this constantly mess with my sleeping schedule, it throws off my circadian rhythm every week. Mostly because I'm one of those people who can't come home strait from work and go right to bed. I just can't do it.
This is extremely frustrating.
Then you factor in the time I want to spend with my kid, writing a blog, making a somewhat healthy lunch, picking up the house, and my own personal time to read or watch television shows that do not have colorful monsters. I am starting to understand why some parents check out.
A week ago, during work, we visited a house where the next door neighbor literally told her son and daughter (the oldest was around six) to go outside and play. Play where? They lived in an apartment complex, so obviously they played in the parking lot. Seriously.
I'm not ready to check out like that. I may even be days where I'm ready to, but there is no way in you-know-where that I'll do that.
It could be that I'm blaming a lot on my work schedule where I need more self-discipline. I'll admit that. Maybe I should force myself to go to bed early. I don't know.
Whatever the case may be, I'm learning more and more that taking the time to just manage my time is taking up too much time.
So I'm going back to bed. Evie can play with the dog, right?
I'm only kidding!
I wake up, try to get myself ready, then get the kiddo up to start the day. That's the plan. Except, my daughter doesn't sleep in. Ever.
This kid is up and bright eyed awake, I kid you not, at 7-freaking-AM every morning! Thankfully, on rainy days, she'll sleep in it seems but those days are few and far between when I have a day off (today being an exception).
It doesn't help that I work late nights three days out of the week and days on the weekends. Not only does this constantly mess with my sleeping schedule, it throws off my circadian rhythm every week. Mostly because I'm one of those people who can't come home strait from work and go right to bed. I just can't do it.
This is extremely frustrating.
Then you factor in the time I want to spend with my kid, writing a blog, making a somewhat healthy lunch, picking up the house, and my own personal time to read or watch television shows that do not have colorful monsters. I am starting to understand why some parents check out.
A week ago, during work, we visited a house where the next door neighbor literally told her son and daughter (the oldest was around six) to go outside and play. Play where? They lived in an apartment complex, so obviously they played in the parking lot. Seriously.
I'm not ready to check out like that. I may even be days where I'm ready to, but there is no way in you-know-where that I'll do that.
It could be that I'm blaming a lot on my work schedule where I need more self-discipline. I'll admit that. Maybe I should force myself to go to bed early. I don't know.
Whatever the case may be, I'm learning more and more that taking the time to just manage my time is taking up too much time.
So I'm going back to bed. Evie can play with the dog, right?
I'm only kidding!
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
A Funny Thing Happened at White Castle
I took work off today. I have some stuff I need to work on this afternoon and decided a personal day was in order.
Also, I had to go to the South side of Indianapolis and get my oil changed this morning. So after we took the Toyota in and got the work done, Evelyn and I stopped by White Castle (oh the diapers I'll be a changing later!) for a quick lunch.
As we set, eating our sliders and fries, Evie decided to do something absolutely hilarious. This is exactly what happened, I kid you not.
Evie picked up one of her sliders and began going, "Moo! Moo!"
"Evie," I said, "Stop trying to communicate with the dead spirit of that cow and eat your burger."
Obviously I do not believe my daughter is in the habit of consorting with spirits, nor does she practice any kind of necromancy, witchcraft, or satanism. There would be more than a spanking coming her way if this were true. I was only making a joke.
My daughter looked at me and in a very articulate way informed me very matter of factly, "Cows eat corn." She then began mooing again and laughed.
Where did that come from?
Also, I had to go to the South side of Indianapolis and get my oil changed this morning. So after we took the Toyota in and got the work done, Evelyn and I stopped by White Castle (oh the diapers I'll be a changing later!) for a quick lunch.
As we set, eating our sliders and fries, Evie decided to do something absolutely hilarious. This is exactly what happened, I kid you not.
Evie picked up one of her sliders and began going, "Moo! Moo!"
"Evie," I said, "Stop trying to communicate with the dead spirit of that cow and eat your burger."
Obviously I do not believe my daughter is in the habit of consorting with spirits, nor does she practice any kind of necromancy, witchcraft, or satanism. There would be more than a spanking coming her way if this were true. I was only making a joke.
My daughter looked at me and in a very articulate way informed me very matter of factly, "Cows eat corn." She then began mooing again and laughed.
Where did that come from?
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