Weights, Body Mass, and an Annoyed Alma

Just once in my life I’d like to fit what textbooks say is “normal.” I’d also like to lose 15 pounds, gain an inch and a half in height, and discover a workout that doesn’t require the physical effort. Winning the lottery would be nice, too.

I recently added, or I should say returned to, bent-over rows, more flyes, and other upper back and shoulder exercises. I do this with some trepidation, in part because of injuries in the past, and in part because I can’t afford to replace any more shirts. Continue reading

For Peter Grant

A semi-shade-tree mechanic owned a dog named Mace. Mace was a basset, and a pretty good dog, although he had one major flaw, at least as far as the mechanic’s wife was concerned. Mace ate grass. Lots and lots of grass, to the point they had to reseed the yards at least twice. Enough was enough, and she ordered Mace to stay inside unless one of the kids walked him on a leash.

Now, the mechanic did most of his work in the back yard, near his shed. He didn’t bother with a lawn mower. The grass did pretty well over winter, and then really took off the next summer. But he had a lot of work, as did his wife, and the grass started to look more like a prize pasture. Continue reading

Overheard in the Halls: Part Six

Angry Student: Why is it doing that?

Mr. Long-Slavic-Last Name: Because it hates you.

A.S.: Mutter mutter, snarl.

Mr. L-S-L-N: What are you doing in the workroom, pray tell?  [Students are verboten in the workrooms without an adult present. Their adult]

A.S.: Trying to make a copy for Fr. Martinez.

Mr. L-S-L-N: There’s the problem. It knows you are a student and it rejects your imposition on its nap.

A.S. [deflated]: Oh.

The problem with the student’s effort was that A.S. did not have the pass code for the teacher in order to make a copy, and should have gone to She-Who-Knows-All, the school secretary, to have a copy made. Thus the printer’s refusal to function. You can’t skip any steps when dealing with the Printing Gods. Continue reading