Money Laundry

So here is the moral dilemma. Over lunch, a friend gave me 30 bucks so I could pay the babysitter he forgot to pay yesterday. I said sure, and cinched the money in my shorts because I didn't have any pockets. Drove home. Had to crap. So I sit on the can and do my business, and as I get up to flush and leave, I see my buddy's 30 bucks circling the bowl. So I reach in and grab it (of course), but now what do I do? I mean, I soaped and rinsed it, but do I still give it to the babysitter? Does she need to know? And if I don't give it to her, do I use it for something else. At some point, someone's going to have to touch it. Is it better or worse if it is a stranger?

I guess the best thing to do is to burn the money. But it's 30 bucks! That's a lot of cash. So what would you do? How would you solve this problem? Needless to say, my first experience with money laundering has been a filthy one.

Running Takes On Whole New Meaning at the Boston Marathon

Marathon running is the gold standard for human perseverance. Nine years ago I was coaxed into my first experience with it at the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. Since then, I have run four more: renegade at the Disney Marathon in 2000, the Louisville Marathon in 2002 (Lia ran half), then the OBX marathon with Robbie last year...it was during that run in the pouring rain that I decided to see if it was possible: if I could train my body into running fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon...so I did, and last March, I managed to post a qualifying time at the Ocean Drive Marathon in New Jersey. A year later, it was time to go to Boston.

Training had gone fine. Because of Haiti, a speaking engagement, and the delightful inconvenience called parenthood, I was unable to get in the distance that I would have wanted, but I was definitely in fine enough shape to have a pleasant experience. However, things changed last week. Most likely, the bug was the one that Lia had the weekend before. It got to me on Thursday morning as I proceeded to crap out everything that I had eaten Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Friday was more of the same. I lost my appetite. Friday, I ate two pieces of bread and four bites of chicken. Saturday morning I stepped on the scale: 136; I hadn't weighed this little since high school! We flew to Boston. I ate one captain wafer and dinner with Dave and Katie (which was fantastic - which I pooped out later). Sunday (race eve) I ate one pancake, half a sandwich, and some pizza. Didn't feel great, but was pretty confident I could gut the run out the next day. But I was definitely bummed about how I was feeling. (An added disappointment was that because of the timing of naps and what not, we were unable to get to the registration bib pickup until they had run out of cool shirts; all they had left were X-large, XX-large and women sizes. I got a woman's large. See picture. Sucks to be me.)

At 4:30am, I woke myself up in mid puke, fortunately (if you really can say such a thing) catching it in my mouth and keeping Dave and Katie's blankets clean. I cannot say the same for their commodes. For the next hour, I barfed one more time, and dookied seven. About 5:30 or so, the dookie became straight water. My head was throbbing, I read cover to cover their toilet reading (Worst Case Scenario: Parenting - I give it a 6). Around 7:15, I called my father-in-law for some advice (Rich is an expert in many things). After talking it through, we decided to drink some Gatorade and if I could manage to keep it down, then I would go for it.

So I packed up my stuff, and Lia and I (and A-Ro) went to the CVS for Gatorade and Immodium. Lia stayed in the car; I grabbed her purse and walked in. And as I get to the drink aisle, my head starts spinning, and I begin to blackout. The next thing, I was leaning up against the cold glass doors, sliding down to a knee. Tears started rolling. I staggered to my feet and knocked over a stack of paper towels. People were looking. I decided to take a lap around the store to regain my composure and wiped the crying into my cheeks. I paid for the Gatorade with Lia's card, but I was having difficulty focusing on the key pad. The numbers were moving on me. And I mistyped. I started crying again. I couldn't see straight. And the lady at the counter patiently helped me push the buttons as I tried again. I walked to the car a broken man, painfully clear that I was too dehydrated to make a go of it. Lia held me as I weep in her lap.

Over the day, I managed to keep some fluids in. We did get to watch some of the race. It is quite an event. It was hard not to be devastated. My stomach is still up and down. I have been to the can already once during this journal entry. (I need to go now). But what can you say, marathon running is what it is - a test of perseverance - in many ways. There are going to be good days and bad days. The Boston just happened to land on a very bad one for me. But as our angelic stewardess counseled me last night on the airplane ride home: character is what matters and things like this build character. And things could be worse. And I still have my legs. And if I can qualify once for Boston, I can do it again. For me, it will just take a bit more work.

Unexpected Christmas Present

We were eating at a friend's house last night. It was great time, enjoying easy food and long friendship. And though it was tight around the table - the three of us, the five of them, and the two dogs, Nalo the mutt and Shadow the one-fanged Pekingnese, sharing elbow and knee room - we were making merry of it. And things got better in the personal space category when Little Annie excused herself and started stirring a pot of Christmas cookie cutouts on the floor. Up on chairs, the rest of us continued sharing our cozy quarters and telling stories in between bites of pepperoni pizza.

A few minutes later, from behind me, a little finger started tapping my behind. So I turned to find Anna Rose looking up at me with a smile on her face. "What's up, A-Ro?" I asked. She was rocking back and forth and I could tell she was excited. "Boop!" she exclaimed. "Boop? Oh dear," I said. (Boop, I have learned, means that she has done something malodorous down below.) So wiping my chin free of pizza sauce, I reached down and took Annie in my arms and carried her to the livingroom grabbing her diaper bag on the way.

I pondered the best place for a changing but was having a hard time. The couch, the coffee table, the hearth - they all felt a little too invasive. So I proceeded to the foyer and spread out the changing thingy on the floor.

This being my millionth diaper change, things went along fine. It wasn't the largest of poos, but it was plenty. So I placed the dirty Pampers to the side and started wiping the vestiges off her rump. My right hand holding her ankle, my left holding the wet wipe, I was amost done when all of the sudden, I looked over and Shadow, our friend's one-fanged Pekingnese, had her face in the discarded diaper! "Oh crap!" I shouted as I lunged. But it was too late. Shadow's mono-toothed chops were chomping down and munching away.

I apologized to my girl for saying crap (something I need to work on), and immediately started laughing. "Anna Rose," I said, "That was your very first Christmas present. It was even partially wrapped." She smiled up at me and said, "Boop!" "That's right," I replied.

(to protect Shadow's fragile esteem, the above picture is merely a representation)