What Goes Through the Mind, What Comes Out of the Mouth…

As THEBOY wound himself into a full-blown “gimme gimme gimme” frenzy Friday evening about wanting a new TOY, a COMIC, a new SOMETHING, I muttered something about instant gratification before telling him, “You know son, in some parts of the world talking like that would get you sent to live in a monastery.”

International Wife found that highly amusing for some reason, and you know, the more she laughed, the more I laughed.

***

I ran. 93 degrees at 10pm, and I was out there, seeing how I’d fare after a few months off. The summer seemed like a good time to let the calf heal up, do some other work to keep up the cardio while the earth bakes.

My hat’s off to Sensei L’Onis and his killer workouts; three miles went by fairly easily, even in the heat. I don’t know that I’ve lost a thing.

***

It was therapeutic. I needed that, just needed it.

THEGIRL went into another stunning display of bowel terror this evening while her mother was away. The record is still six diapers in an evening, okay, but she managed to destroy three in about five minutes tonight.

Do I need to mention again that I never, ever got used to this? That it’s a gut check (sorry) every time?

And as I hauled out, I think, the second plastic bag full of noxiousness, I watched her walk straight back to the same corner of the bedroom where she’d just messed up a diaper. She turned to me, got that look on her face, and I asked in vain whether she was done.

She wasn’t.

***

And THEBOY, the poor boy… see, at some point recently he decided it’s cute or funny or whatever to pop his folks on the rump. It was behavior that was pushing it as far as I was concerned.

And as I stared in disbelief at grunting, red-faced THEGIRL tonight, he walked up behind me and hit me in the small of the back about six times.

OUCH.

He missed my rump altogether.

I turned around and spoke in DADDY DEMON VOICE: “You! Knock it off!”

He knocked it off.

***

Maybe it’s the smell. I’m guessing it’s not just the smell…

***

I can remember mowing the yard as a teen, running over a fresh pile in the summer heat. It made me furious. Whatever dog did that, if he was around right now I’d KILL HIM!

***

I wouldn’t really.

***

So I hit the track, and immediately felt like I had a lot in the tank. iPod was blasting, and as Sea of Green sang, “The moon is full now, waiting for the sun” I got chills. How can I get chills while jogging in 93 degree heat?

And something darted beside me there on the track, going inhumanly fast. It startled me.

It was a rabbit.

I said hi.

He was inside the fence, startled to see me loping along, and he ran on pure instinct, scared I was a predator. I couldn’t begin to catch him, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was instinct that moved him at blinding speed until he found that gap in the fence and put some distance between us. Instinct.

***

A few days ago I was speaking to a roomful of people who work in drug and alcohol education and recovery, presenting their own curriculum back to them in a 10 minute audition.

Pressure. This is my first step into the industry, hopefully. This is the type of work I envision myself doing until I can be a counselor. I daydream about working in prevention until I’m certified to help those on the other side of that line.

I can usually do okay in a presentation, and in this situation, I thought my conviction would carry me through. I know this stuff. I live and breathe it.

You all know this.

They told me I had 10 minutes, that they’d be timing me. Showed me the hand sign for “one minute left.” Okay, they’re strict on the time limit. Fine.

“Once alcohol has worked backwards from the higher cognitive functions of the brain and through the gross motor skills, it will begin to affect those parts of the brain we share with lizards, simple creatures. These are the parts that control instinct, involuntary movement, heart and lung functions…”

A voice from the crowd: “You mean I have a lizard inside of me?”

(Pause)

I’m unemployed, giving one of the most important, meaningful, emotionally resonant presentations of my life, and someone in the room wants to be a class clown. The clock is ticking down the time, MY time to get this done, and everything comes to a grinding halt as a bad joke cuts the air.

“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m not allowed to make that diagnosis until I have my counseling license.”

The room erupts in laughter, and I can continue.

(Yes, I imagine she was planted there, told to do exactly that to see how I'd handle it. This ain't my first rodeo.)

***

Rabbit shit. That’s what I smelled out in the first curve at the track. A distinctly county fair-like smell.

***

It’s a dark place, this track. It’s the sort of place that would be trouble were it located in lots of other areas. No lights, and the goings-on aren’t visible from the freeway, though the noise from up there might mask a scream.

Yeah, I’m a bit high-strung about that sort of place sometimes. And that’s why I don’t blame the women who jog out there some nights who give me a wide berth. I couldn’t begin to explain to them that I’m not a bad guy, and in fact, if something happened while I was out there I’d be in the thick of it, be on her side against whomever.

***

Headlights. Two cars pull up to the side fence, away from the access ladder. In short order five youths hop the fence and stand on the track, mostly in the lane I’m jogging in.

Harmless? Just some young punks with no sense of track protocol, no idea that they should get the hell out of my way?

I swing wide, and I’m fifty feet ahead of them when they take off running behind me.

It’s a track. Is this harmless running? Probably, right? They’ve done no stretching, no warming up, and they’ve taken off at a sprint just as I pass them.

Five of them. I’ve been outnumbered before. At the KM school I practice a move: right foot back, swing the whole body to the right to deliver a hammer fist to the face of an attacker to the side. Continue turning around and follow up with a right hook to the head in case they’re still standing.

They’re catching up.

This is nothing, right?

I’m so paranoid. I know I can make a point with one of them. Five?

***

I carry a knife when I jog. I’ll say here what I’ve said to many people: It’s not for humans. Dogs will do some crazy crap when you run. One place I run regularly is by a tennis court, and it seems like there’s always a guy playing who leaves his unleashed pit bull waiting there beside the track.

I wouldn’t really, would I?

***

They sprint by. One cuts to my left, making some teenaged point by passing me in the grass.

Another makes this clopping sound I can’t place for a minute.

Does this turkey have a wooden leg or something?

No, he’s in flip flops.

***

Like lots of nights where lots of runners blaze past me, they’re soon on the sidelines, hands on their knees as I trudge past them, counting my laps.

Nine, Ten…

They hop the fence—much more slowly this time—and get in their cars and leave.

***

Good run.