God Likes Me Just the Way I Am

Otherwise, why would He make it so difficult to get my friggin’ knee fixed? (Yes, there is a house post on the burner but you’ll just have to wait for it).

 

Remember how I finally – finally! – went to Casper to get my knee looked at? And how the doctor had said something to the effect of, “Well, I’m not sure what it is exactly and we’d need to do surgery to get a better look, so think about it and get back to me”? Well, I’ve been thinking about it for two months, the knee still hurts occasionally, and dammit, I want my knee back.

 

So about three weeks ago, right as Paris was heading for jail and the house purchase looked as if it might really happen, I decided to contact my doc in Casper to schedule the appointment. The doctor, it turned out, was very busy, which didn’t surprise me one bit. Why wasn’t I surprised, you ask?

 

Allow me to explain.

 

In the mid ’80s I lived in Casper with my dad, an ER doc. Dinner conversations often involved, unsurprisingly, local events and frequently, Casper medical politics. I distinctly remember my dad and stepmom talking about this new doctor in town, a Dr. Barrasso, and how he was a nice enough guy but definitely a scheming politician. If memory serves, my dad said something to the effect of, “that guy’s trying to jockey for political office. Bet on it.”

 

Fast forward a few years. I’d left Wyoming but kept in touch and visited every now and then, and I’d seen Dr. Barrasso on news spots on TV, and I’d heard he’d become a state senator. Wow, I thought to myself, Dad totally called that one.

 

Fast forward to November 2006. One of Wyoming’s senators, Republican Craig Thomas, wins reelection but shortly thereafter announces he has leukemia.

 

Fast forward to May, when I went to Casper for my knee. Dr. Barrasso remembered my dad, obviously, and me, but even more impressively, he said “and doesn’t your stepmom have a birthday coming up?” Whoa, I thought to myself. Not bad people skills, there.

 

Soooo, Dr. Barrasso looked at my knee, looked at my MRI, told me he didn’t know what was going on, that we’d need surgery to have a better idea, that the mysterious spot on the MRI is close to the nerve that runs to my foot and could therefore complicate the surgery, but that if I wanted to do it anyway just call him – at home is fine, since he knows me. Fine, I thought. I’ll think about it and get back to him.

 

Fast forward to June 4, when Senator Thomas passes away. Now, even a tree hugging Democrat like myself has to admire a guy like Thomas – he was just basically a good human being and a hell of an advocate for Wyoming’s citizens. The state is a better place because of him and he’ll be missed. Whoever fills his shoes has a hell of a legacy to live up to.

 

And who is going to fill his shoes, you ask? Oh, you already know.

 

After an odd and mercifully brief selection process, the GOP came up with three candidates, from which Wyoming’s Democrat governor selected Dr. John Barrasso.

 

So now yours truly has to go back through the whole damn examination process with a new doc if I want to get the knee fixed.

Kathryn and Paul and House

So, we closed on a house yesterday. WOOHOO!

I Totally Called It

In the winter of ’96-’97 I was in Phoenix, recently laid off from my dream job and slinging lattes in purgatory. “Winter” in this sense is a relative term: it was cooler than 100 degrees at night; Christmas lights hung from palm trees and reindeer ornaments in gravel yards. But with no real seasons to mark time and no reason to in the first place, when the future wasn’t hazy, it was terrifying. Samuel Beckett, meet young adulthood a la the Desert Southwest.

 

So when two regulars approached me about a business opportunity my ears pricked up. They were sincere, professional, and just plain nice. They seemed genuinely interested in my life story; what I really wanted to do; how I wound up in a place like this, obviously underpaid considering my talents. I can still hear some of their initial pitch – “you know, Paul, we really think we have a place for you in our business. You have remarkable potential and clearly you’re not doing what you love.”

 

These people were very alluring and clever, folks. They picked up on the notion that I thought I was special and deserving of something much better and subtly convinced me they had the answer. In hindsight it’s laughable – everyone thinks they’re special and deserving of something better – but one’s BS detector tends to weaken in a temporal vacuum. So I agreed to meet them after work to discuss my role in their company.

 

Three minutes into our conversation over dinner at Denny’s I realized how silly it all was. They were with a certain company that begins with “AM” and ends with “WAY”* and I was their newest mark. I politely heard them out and choked down my Breakfast Slam as fast as I could.

 

Fast forward to a few days ago, when Kathryn said that an acquaintance had mentioned something about a business that she, the acquaintance, did on the side and had tentatively invited Kathryn to join. They’d scheduled a meeting this morning to discuss it further, and since I don’t have anything going on today (well, except for house-buying errands and a battery of phone calls, but that’s a different post entirely), I agreed to go along. It had something to do with the Internet and it seemed entirely reasonable that there is still (honest) money to be made online. A small part of me, however, hoped we weren’t about to repeat the Phoenix experience.

 

The woman was very nice but something about her spiel sounded uncomfortably familiar. Maybe it was the vagaries surrounding “the business” itself, maybe it was the jargon, but something didn’t feel right. Shortly after she left I did some research and sure enough, it was an online version of that company that begins with “AM” and ends with “WAY.”*

 

Now, this in no way is a neener-neener aimed at Kathryn – I think she agreed to meet with this lady because she’s nice and hey! who doesn’t want more money? And honestly, I don’t really have anything against that company that begins with “AM” and ends with “WAY”*, other than the fact that it relies on duping people in the name of profits. I just think it’s funny that they keep finding me.

 

*Not using the full name for fear of hired goons and/or localized searches. Please also do not use the full name in comments.

Paul’s Sweet Soccer Skillz

The soccer fields at the high school serve as all-purpose community pick-up game centers during the summer: soccer on Tuesday and Thursday; ultimate frisbee on Wednesday; open fields on Monday. Lander draws athletes, alright, but we have no rec league soccer because there simply aren’t enough adults to form a leauge – they’re all climbing, fishing, camping or cycling.

The average age at a pick-up soccer game is therefore about 24. Of the 30 people playing last night, three were female. Many high school players were there, some recent graduates, some returning starters, and at least two incoming freshmen. Most of the other players were very good, especially the Mexican guys of questionable citizenship status. Everyone had clearly played before.

Now, before I start telling stories about the actual game, let me preface this by saying that while my skills simply did not measure up to the average player’s ability on the field last night, for a 35 year old with a bum knee I did okay. I’m out of shape, so there were moments when I got smoked because I simply couldn’t keep up – I knew what I should do; I knew how I would have played the situation 10, 15, or 20 years ago; I knew what the opposing strikers were thinking and how to efficiently shut them down. My body just wouldn’t let me do it.

I played left fullback, by the way, since fullback and outside half are my favorite positions. I’ve never had a killer instinct in terms of scoring but I’ve always taken a sick and perverse joy in defense. My goal as a fullback is not just to acquire and clear the ball, it’s to get strikers so frustrated that they pitch little hissy-fits. There is nothing funnier than a prima donna striker losing his or her cool. Funny, funny stuff.

I was matched against a guy who goes about 6’3, 200 pounds. I’m about 5’9, 160. He beat the hell out of me physically all night long but he only scored once: late in the game, he snuck by (this was definitely a “no offsides rule” game), one of our varsity guys placed a beautiful cross into the box, and he got a nice header. Fair enough. Mostly I shadowed him all night and made sure that either he or the ball didn’t get by me, but never both. Being the considerate fullback I am, I let him pick.

More often than not he chose to force crosses that were tracked and cleared by the other defenders. At least three times I pulled the ol’ ninja surprise steal when he waited for a limp pass instead of charging it; I blocked his crosses a few times; I tailed him to the corner so that if nothing else I beat him by discouraging his teammates from passing it to him. It was the breakaways that got nasty, though: I went flying several times and even wound up kicking at the ball when I was on the ground once. I think that was the height of his frustration, because he wouldn’t let me get up – a definite foul – and after the play I overheard his teammate tell him “Uh, you should have probably let him up there.” I wouldn’t swear to it but I’m pretty sure he tried to rake me a few times, too. Classy.

So it got physical, and in a silly way that felt great. The tally this morning is: two parallel cleat scrapes on my right knee; matching bruises on both knees from various knee-knocks; an extremely sore right ankle; and finally, a weird tenderness on my left elbow that’s probably going to evolve into an awesome bruise. Not sure when that one happened.

With a little effort I think I can regain a step or two on the sprints, and since Kathryn and I are going to the gym with more focus and purpose than before, I’m planning on losing some flab (but not necessarily pounds) by the end of summer. If I can muscle up and speed up just a little tiny bit, I’ll be able to hang with – not necessarily impress, but hang with - this group of players. However, I think I’d prefer to just form a reduced-testosterone pick-up B league, which is probably reasonable.

Tonight: ultimate frisbee.

To Subaru, Or Not to Subaru?

That is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous repair costs, or to take wrenches against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them? To shift: to speed; no more; and by a speed we say to end the bore and the thousand natural hazards that winter driving is heir to. . .

 Okay, okay. So the metaphor doesn’t quite work out. Hamlet was considering suicide; I’m considering a Subaru. I’ve been talking about it for a year now and I would imagine those who know me are sick of hearing about it. But we’re dealing with important stuff – one might call it “heady” as we shall see in a moment – and I’m hoping to work it out by writing.

One way or another I’m buying a Subaru by September. Let’s be clear about that part. I’m not buying a domestic car; I’m not buying a poobox truck. I’m buying a Subaru because they are winter cars in their souls and I’m not putting Kathryn or myself through another Wyoming winter in what are essentially unsafe vehicles. Oh, our respective cars have been decent vehicles by and large, and we’re keeping my truck around for a while, but neither are great in snow. Her Honda Accord actually beats the tar out of my 2wd Tacoma on snow, but front wheel drive alone does not a winter snowbeast make.

If it’s a snowbeast one wants, one wants a Subaru. No, the AWD system cannot compensate for crappy driving or ice, but AWD does provide immediate traction to all wheels as necessary. I won’t get into the mechanics of it. Just trust me: the AWD systems (even the less fancy versions of AWD found on lower end Subarus) are effective.

Now, getting the car loan won’t be a problem – USAA has treated me remarkably well and wants to keep lending me money. Which is, you know, nice. Sans trade-in I can get into an ’07 Outback for about $23k, especially by late summer when the lots are flooded with ’08s. Somewhere in the intermountain west there will be a dealership with an ’07 Outback with a manual 5 speed transmission, and a very nervous car salesman ready to bargain.

Keep that part in mind, by the way. We’re going with a manual. Yes, resale might potentially be tricky someday, but for the mileage and just plain zippypants fun, I’m dying to drive a stick again.

The trouble is this: we’re buying a house in a week and a half. We’re about to incur higher monthly payments and every little expense associated with home ownership you can think of. Mostly, though, it’s the expenses we can’t think of that terrify us.* This all adds up, if you will, to potential cash flow problems. And although I get a hefty raise starting in August, the raise would only cover the cost of the new car loan. So essentially I don’t want to overextend myself financially by getting into a new car. Additionally, Kathryn has very wisely pointed out that a car is definitely one of those things one should always buy used.

So I’m willing to buy a used Subaru. Hell, there’s even an ’02 Outback for sale here in town for 11 grand – and it’s a manual. What’s the problem you ask?

Headers.

The headers were defective on some Subaru engines produced between 1999 and 2002. They eventually traced the problem to a design flaw – something about poor heat dissipation resulting in internal and/or external coolant leaks – and Subaru recalled some models for head gasket jobs. Apparently the “fix” amounted to injecting an additive to the coolant to help seal the gasket, which sounds iffy to me at best. On top of that, I have no idea if this local car for sale was ever recalled and fixed. I could probably (and probably will) research the VIN to determine if it was even affected in the first place, but even if not, I’m counting on some major engine work.

So if I buy a used Subaru, especially this local one, I’m planning on a gasket job at the very least. More likely I’m looking at a header replacement – and hell, since some Subarus need timing belt replacements at around 100k miles, we might as well get that done too (this car has 88k miles on it). We test drove it and it sounded alright, but there were some strange minor rattles. Then again, if any of our readership hopped into my truck they would likely hear some strange minor rattles, too. And I guarantee that my truck is in pretty good shape. So much for strange minor rattles.

One final point. I’m dying – dying, I say! – to do minor car repairs of my own again. I haven’t changed the oil in my truck in years. That is to say the oil in my truck has been changed, just not by me. My dad’s bringing out some ramps he doesn’t use anymore, so I’m about to inherit not just a driveway but also a way to lift our cars. What’s more, I’m ready to move beyond pedestrian oil, filter, and hose changes and tackle bigger stuff. Maybe not header replacements, necessarily, but certainly things that require some true wrenching. The wonderful thing about Subarus is that there are legions of gearheads out there who love tweaking Subies – and that means tons of aftermarket accessories. Parts are more expensive than domestics, of course, but they’re fairly accessible. If I bought new, I’d probably null the warranty just by looking at the oil filter. I can see it now…

Subaru Warranty: Don’t touch it!
Paul: Well I wasn’t going to touch it, I was just pointing at it.
Subaru Warranty: Well… don’t point!
Paul: Don’t point, okay. Can I look at it?
Subaru Warranty: No. no. That’s it, you’ve seen enough of that one.**

So I dunno. New? Used? The mind reels.

———————-

*The first reader to correctly identify the movie reference wins a pony.

**Because that first paraphrased movie reference was tricky, here’s a softball.

More Weird Dreams

Over the years I’ve heard teachers talk about the dreams they have beginning a week or so before school starts. I ain’t had no high-fallutin’ psychology trainin’, but I’m guessing – and this is just a wacky hunch – that those dreams are related to their anxieties about a profession that is about managing anxieties - our’s and others’ – at its core. Your job is to organize and deliver information? Huh. Funny that you might dream about forgetting lesson plans. Your job is socially high profile and you’re held to a higher moral standard than Joe Citizen? Huh. Odd that you dream about forgetting your pants.

So why on earth am I dreaming about school now that it’s out? I didn’t dream about teaching sans pants last night (I haven’t had a naked/underwear dream in years, and even then it was probably a good naked/underwear dream). I did, however, dream about forgetting lesson plans. 

I was in one of my 9th grade classes and I learned in the course of the dream that summer break was not, in fact, for summer – only for a week. Further, we had to pick up right where we left off. This was scary: in waking reality I’d taught about as much Romeo and Juliet as their little hormone soaked brains could handle, and as far as I was concerned, there was nothing more to learn in 9th grade.  Here I was in dreamland required to teach more of it. Kathryn was in the classroom and at some point she reminded me that we had to review the final exams, too. Not good, I thought to myself. I never even checked to see if the key was right (we use standardized tests written in-house by other teachers years ago). Some of the smarter ones might want to argue answers and scrap for points. Great googelly moogelly.

And sitting here in waking reality I know why the dream bothered me so much: know-it-alls really irritate me, and while I respect kids who want good grades, sometimes I simply lose patience with sharp kids justifying every one of their wrong answers. The fact is, sometimes the A+ students are wrong and/or don’t perform up to their own standards. I wish I could advise them how to deal with this but I struggle with it myself. 

I’m heading into school here in an hour or so to take a whack at some yearbook stuff. We won’t get everything done today but will hopefully get the final ad pages in and the last shipment sent off. Then it’s just dealing with proofs later this summer, which won’t be a big deal at all.

 To kill time I’m working out some Hendrix solos. My auntie and uncle in California sent me Hendrix Signature Licks sheet music, and finally – finally! – I’m learning how he pulled off some of the stuff he did. Jimi had remarkably large hands and I have remarkably dainty wee hands, so I can’t bend and shake the strings quite like he could… but I know how he did it, and I’m hoping to get some finger strength back over the summer. Meanwhile, I’m at least getting my brain around the notes, scales, and hand positions Jimi used and can damn near play the “Red House” intro note for note.

 I can’t wait to plug in the amp and turn it up LOUD in the new house. Sweeeeeet.  

School’s Out (for Summer)

Well well well. School’s out, mostly, and yours truly is in a very weird place. For three consecutive mornings I’ve woken up confused and/or feeling weird. Monday was like waking up still drunk (which I wasn’t but thanks for your concern); Tuesday I woke up with the grumbling remnants of the screaming headache I’d had all night long; this morning I woke up somewhat relieved that the horror movie starring me and a grumpy coworker was only a dream.

You know how random crap winds up in dreams? I dreamt that school was not, in fact, out until next Monday and that I was in trouble for missing the past two days. In itself this wasn’t all that strange or horrible. The horror evolved when I had to bike back home from school – but it wasn’t really school and it wasn’t really my bike. To complicate matters I had to load a ton of books and papers into my backcountry pack and try to bike with it on; the hip pads got in the way and made for an unbalanced trip. And then there were the administrators with folded arms at the construction zone, frowning as I went the wrong way on a gravelly and crowded walkway. 

 Strange, no?

 The backpack bit is in fact a direct reference to the biking I’ve been doing lately; namely, loading up my new fishing vest (a sweet Fishpond Wasatch) and riding to a local park to fish. It’s fairly bulky and I feel a little odd wearing a fishing vest while I ride across town, but as Kathryn wisely pointed out, “this is Lander.”

I have no idea where the frowning administrators bit comes from, other than my pathological fear of and aquiescence to authority. Also, the yearbook isn’t done yet and I’m catching a little heat about it.

In other news, Kathryn and I are buying a house. We’ve been relatively mum about it not out of superstition but because everything has been so damned tentative.  Seriously – this deal has been in the works for well over a month, the last several weeks involving crazy-assed second appraisal/contingency purgatory, and we simply didn’t know if we’d ever close. Turns out we will, on the 19th of this month. Yay, us!

This morning we’re moving furniture around in Kathryn’s office. When she asked me at breakfast this morning if I was interested in helping, I replied that I had a pretty busy morning of coffee, Sportscenter, and couch-laying scheduled. For some reason I wound up here instead.