If I could bottle a day I would pick this past Monday. The weather was perfect and I felt fit, productive, and content. The only thing missing was a head first dip into a tub of melted chocolate. Cooled off, of course.

All kinds of good stuff happened. I dug a small garden and planted four tomato plants and two pepper plants. I pedaled down the heart of Glen Carbon, from Enterprise to Panera, without being squashed by a truck. I even avoided two common, negative occurrences: cutting my finger with our sharpest kitchen knife and having my nose pierced by our puppy’s razor teeth.

In the evening with my trike and trailer I hauled home a bag of soil, four zucchini plants, a pineapple sage plant, and some other obscure herb I can’t think of. We’re already members of a food co-op, so I’m sure we’re going to have zucchinis falling out of our asses this summer. (It’s much more comfortable than when they’re going in. I’m kidding and it’s a small miracle I allowed this joke to stay in because, well, “that’s not right,” which is something I hear people saying quite often.)

The problem with my good days is that they’re usually followed by days of spectacular crapiness, just a shit-storm of crap. I’m totally open to follow great days with medium quality days if The Universe is open to that. What do you think? Universe?

If I ever experience two almost-perfect days in a row, I’ll probably fill my pants with moist zucchini muffins from the shock. And we all know what that feels like, don’t we?

But seriously, I know that happiness is, like, a choice or something. At least that’s what I’ve read. If a cat barfs on my keyboard, I can choose to smile and laugh. If I crash my bike into a bush and emerge with a dog turd stuck to my cheek, I can choose to smile and laugh.

So . . . our assignment for today: to smile and laugh (even when you don’t feel like it).

The first four abstract nouns in today’s title are also names of kids I’ve heard my daughters speak of. Last night I noticed that my old, half-wasted brain groups these four people together into one general ultra-moralistic female student with a face I can’t quite keep in focus. Ten years ago I would have been able to pack them into my mind labeled with a face, what school they go to, and where the girls know them from (band, Girl Scouts, Soccer, Track, Volleyball, gymnastics, etc.)

Now, if Ainsley tells me that Justice got in trouble at recess on Monday and Chloe tells me that Honor ran the mile in seven mintues on Tuesday, Wednesday I’ll ask Jennifer how Hope got into a 2nd grade track & field program. On Thursday, Chloe might mention how Hope said something hilarious in Math, and I’ll be left wondering what she was doing at Ainsley’s school on Monday and what she did to get in trouble. This all leaves me horrible fearful of how I’ll keep anything straight another ten years from now. Every human being I know will become one rainbow-colored blob of a human named Bill Smith.

The latest example: Last night Chloe mentioned Hope doing something or another.

Me: Hey, I know where Hope lives. I saw her dad in this yard when I was on my way home from the cafe yesterday.

Chloe: How do you know it was Hope’s dad?

Me: It’s the guy who rides his bike all the time. We saw them both at Books-a-million that one day, remember?

Chloe: (blank stare)

Jennifer: Hope’s dad?

Me: Yeah, Hope’s dad.

Chloe: (blank stare continues)

Jennifer: (blank stare)

Me: (worried look as I ponder the possibility that they’ve spent significant time near some high voltage power lines and are slowly losing their mental faculties)

Then it hit me as I pedaled to town this morning that it was Honor I was thinking about, not Hope. I have no idea where Hope lives or what her dad looks like, but, really, if I can’t keep the girls straight it’s nonsensical to even attempt to categorize their parents.

Oh God, just set me down in a wooden rocker, cover me with a shawl and a cat, put on some old-time radio (80s), and don’t forget to wipe the spittle from my chin every once in awhile.

Yesterday I overheard this in Panera between two guys just a little older than me:

Guy 1: I think I’m going to stop at Best Buy; I don’t have an iPhone yet.

Guy 2: uh-oh.

I hope to God that Guy 2′s “uh-oh” was meant to be sarcastic. Of course, the interesting part of this snippet is the “yet,” like it’s inevitable or somehow shameful to be walking around without an Apple product.

So I typed “smart phone addiction” into The Google and found some interesting articles, like this one, that pretty much confirmed that’s it’s a legitimate phenomenon.

Don’t worry, I don’t feel at all superior for not having a smart phone. I had one and it was cool at first, but then it became a constant interruption to whatever I was doing. Ultimately, I decided it was unhealthy for my sanity, which is a fragile thing anyway. It’s impossible to be “in the moment” with a smart phone in my hand or in my pocket (or in the waist band of my underwear for those crazy morning when I forget my pants).

From now on I’m done calling my phone “dumb.” The benefits are pretty special: It’s small, sturdy and fits into useful crevices; it stays charged for, like, ever; and it’s costing me a mere $7 a month. Smart, indeed.

I’ve also cut down on the time spent online in general. A part of that has to do with the emergence of beautiful weather after a long sucky winter, but after the Boston Marathon bullshit I realized I was spending way too much time reading news.

The epiphany was delivered by God (juuuust kidding) when the kid was captured in the boat. I was in bed on my tablet hopping from Twitter to Google news for updates like some kind of addict trying to score some smack. As soon as they caught the mo-fo, it hit me: what the hell am I doing? I thought This has nothing to do with my life. If anything, it’s depressing. Ever since I’ve pretty much opted out of being a well-informed citizen. I hear stuff on NPR throughout the day, but I’ve freed up some precious time cutting all the crap.

And less time online means less time on Facebook. I’m not anti-Facebook. Actually it’s too fascinating, too much for my pea brain to disentangle from.

Peace, ya’ll!

Yeah! We’re winning! We’re winning!

We’re kicking ass in emissions from burning fossil fuels. The following is in billions of metric tons of carbon dioxide.

USA 95.4  (gold)
Russia 38.9 (silver)
China 33.9 (bronze)
Japan 24.4
Germany 22.7
UK 20.1
India 9.7
France 9.4

I’m not a scientist. But I do read. Here’s what’s going on in the atmosphere:

the concentration of climate-warming carbon dioxide in the atmosphere has passed the milestone level of 400 parts per million (ppm).

Here’s an excellent column from the same publication on this milestone.

Here’s why I care about this: I have two young daughters who might well have their own children. Their children might have children. And on and on. My life philosophy is based on fear that something horrible will happen to my descendants due to how we’re living today and how humans in the western world have been living since the industrial revolution.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead before the real terror begins, but I have a good imagination and I already love my great, great, great grand kids.

That’s part of the reason Ainsley and I used bicycles to take our big cat, Trouble, to the vet last week. We hooked the flatbed trailer to my recumbent trike, strapped a giant storage container to the trailer, and then lowered the cat crate into the bin and set off for Edwardsville Pet Hospital.

After he received his shots and we forked out $92, we had an unexpected adventure outside when we noticed a little black boy in ill-fitting clothes walking down the sidewalk, unattended. He was heading towards busy-as-hell Buchanan Street, so we pedaled over to follow him.

My heart pounded as he reached Buchanan and turned the corner around a building out of our sight. When we reached the corner he was approaching a particularly dangerous area where people drive too fast and where they enter and exit a busy little shopping center. I yelled at him to stop and, amazingly, he did. I motioned him over away from the road into the landscaping.

Where’s your mommy or daddy? 

Mom left.

Did you leave your house without telling anyone?

Yes.

Where are you going?

To find John.

How old are you?

Three.

What’s your name?

It’s all right.

I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What’s your name again?

It’s all right.

Either he was telling me it was okay that he was wandering around downtown Edwardsville by himself or I didn’t understand what he was saying.

A truck pulled into the parking lot.  They had seen him walking alone too. A woman asked him the same questions. We learned his house was green.

We called the police.

We pedaled away shortly after they showed up and were stopped twice on our way home by concerned citizens in the neighborhood: a group of old men sitting outside at a donut shop who had watched the police arrive and then a cosmetology student around the corner who had heard a rumor of a missing child.

This was not a fun experience, but it made me think about our involvement and how it would have differed if we had driven our cat to the vet like normal people.

Would we have noticed the boy walking down the sidewalk? If so, would I have followed? Would we have been stopped to get the scoop afterwards? The answer to all three could be no, sadly.

Automobiles keep us sealed away from the real heartbeat of the community. We’re going too fast to notice much of what’s going on. We fly by all kinds of interesting and important things.

So, sure, we didn’t add to the pollution that day, but it turned out to be another example–it happens over and over–to confirm that there’s something special about exploring our community on bicycles, outside of the cage, at a comparable snail’s pace.

Note: I assume the police quickly figured out where the little boy lived, but I have a sinking feeling that there’s some less-than-optimal care and nurturing going on inside those walls.

Out of 350 students, our little Ainsley was chosen to represent LeClaire Elementary Thursday morning at the 16th Annual Earth Flag Celebration Assembly held at SIUE.

Previously, we received a letter from her principal declaring Ainsley a great recycler at school. We recycle at home of course, but we’re not tyrannical or fanatical about it. I decided it had more to do with her all-around awesomeness that deemed her worthy of this honor and not only her ability to sort trash.

Anyway, we were proud.

After enjoying an excellent brunch buffet they began handing out awards for recycling and waste reduction among 60 Madison County schools. On the surface, it’s a worthwhile event. We had fun, ate well, and Ainsley was able to skip half a school day without being sick or without a foot of snow on the ground. But, really, the best way to celebrate environmentalism is to NOT hold an event that includes harming the environment.

We did use real utensils and plates, but the organizers fell short on drink cups–everything was plastic, possibly recyclable, but still. Real mugs would have been much better. And of course, hundreds of cars had to drive and pollute to get to the event, but what are you gonna do?

Here’s an example of an award. The school that collected the most tab tops from soda and beer cans (measured in pounds) won an award. And it was some outrageous number that I don’t remember. By the way, here’s a crazy stat:

“Worldwide production for all beverage cans is approximately 475 billion cans per year worldwide.”

And it was kind of hinted at that schools need to work harder next year to collect even more tab tops. But that left me thinking about the underlying problem that went unmentioned all morning: We need people to reduce their soda, beer and other canned, bottled beverage consumption. It’s like they would be fine with people consuming more unhealthful beverages just to collect more aluminum for recycling. Same goes for plastic bags, six-pack rings, clothes, shoes–everything!

I wanted to grab the microphone and say something like:

Good job Madison County, but next year I want to see much lower numbers. I want kids to be crying because they’re having a hard time finding tabs. Everyone in this room, I want you to spread this message: REDUCE CONSUMPTION. Remember, it’s REDUCE, Reuse, Recycle. REDUCE is the most important of the three R’s.

Anyway, each award offered the opportunity to remind people to consume less, and each time: fail! The wasteful attitude in this country is so ingrained that it just goes without saying. People don’t even think to challenge it. We count the number of shoes collected for this program and celebrate without questioning how so many pair of shoes were collected. Why not mention that we all probably buy more shoes than we need.

I stumbled upon this article this morning that says U.S. Americans have an average of 19 pairs of shoes. That’s 27 for women and 12 for men. If you click on that link and scroll down you will see that several people posted a photo of all their shoes, which, to me, is, like, the most fascinating thing in the world. And I don’t even have a foot fetish. 

For someone like me who’s always jabbering about the topic of “stuff,” you’d think I’d have less than seven pairs. This post will either justify all seven or show me that I can drop one or two. They’re in order from shoes I love down to shoes I want to strangle.

Saucony trail running shoes

Where I got them: This Spring at Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: They fit perfect and they’re in like-new condition. They’re extremely versatile (cycling, running on all surfaces, walking the dogs) Why I might get rid of them: They’re not so versatile that I can wear them with jeans. Still, I’ll have these for a long time.

Vivo Barefoot “minimalist” running shoes

Where I got them: I bought them online a couple of years ago through The Clymb. Why I keep them: They’re the only shoes I’ve received compliments on since I rocked bright orange Converse high tops in Junior High. They’re comfortable, easy on/off, and multifunctional. They’re cool enough to wear with jeans. Why I might get rid of them: They beginning to show some wear. If my toes bust through I’ll have to retire them.

Crocs, Dark Blue

Where I got them: I bought them in 2012 at Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: Comfortable. Light. Utilitarian. They’re my all-season house shoe, but I can also wear them for the quick bike trip to the library or around town. Why I might get rid of them: No chance.

Crocs, Stealthy, Brown

Where I got them: I bought them at Goodwill this Spring, again for $8. Why I keep them: I just bought them, so it’s too soon to jettison them; that would make me sad. They’re a stealthier version of my blue Crocs so I feel better about wearing them in public. Why I might get rid of them: If I find a good pair of shoes that I can wear with jeans, they could be cut from the team. The fabric on top make them less water resistant than regular Crocs.

Muck Boots

Where I got them: I bought them online over five years ago. Why I keep them: I want to spend more time outdoors; outdoors gets messy and moist. So these waterproof shoes will keep my other shoes clean. They also serve as my winter boots. Why I might get rid of them: I have used my old Crocs (below) for wet, dirty, warm weather activities. They’re not very comfortable. Still, I don’t want to buy snow boots, so I can’t see myself getting rid of them.

Crocs, Brown & Dirty

Where I got them: I think from Amazon several years ago. Why I keep them: Super comfortable! They were demoted to mowing shoes two years ago and they serve very well in that role, saving my other shoes from grass stains. Why I might get rid of them: They’re tread-less and stained, slick and potentially dangerous. I could mow in the mucks.

Dress Shoes

Where I got them: I bought them at–guess!–Goodwill for $8. Why I keep them: I can’t find a business that rents dress shoes. I don’t live close enough to anyone with size 9 or 9.5 feet with a well-stocked closet. They’re Kenneth Cole shoes, so they seem to be well-made and should last awhile. Finally, I’m not brave enough to be the freak wearing Crocs to weddings, funerals and dressy events. Why I might get rid of them: I only wear them once or twice a year. They’re uncomfortable. Jennifer’s father lives 70 miles away, but he’s in town often. We have similar feet. If he could take them off my hands, I could borrow them when I need them. Besides, I’ve never have been called on to wear dress shoes on short notice.

I’ve recovered from a three or four week period (I lose track) of unexplained depression. I’ve given up trying to figure out why it hits me so suddenly and leaves the same way. It’s such a wicked affliction that when it hits, I don’t think “Oh crap, here’s depression!” It’s more like “I feel worthless today.” Then the next day it’s “I still feel like a piece of garbage today.” It takes ten days to get it: I’m having a legitimate depressive episode. I feel for those who have it worse.

Hedge Trimmer Update

Despite receiving no help from readers, I scored a minor victory over clutter and over-consumption when we returned the hedge trimmer to Home Depot this weekend.

Shopping Update

Depression is tied up into shopping. If I feel like crap, I can go to Target and feel better for an hour, especially if I walk out with something other than food, like a pair of shorts of a Bluetooth speaker. During certain periods of 2011 and 2012 I participated in some of this “retail therapy.”

Now, blue moods or not, I’m trying to avoid purchasing anything at retail, relying on Craigslist and thrift shops for legitimate needs. But some things are hard to find. I’ve been thinking about somehow acquiring a pair of well-made, fast-drying shorts in a neutral color with at least one zippered pocket that will practically LIVE on my skinny ass for the rest of the warm season.

Pretty much giving up on used, I’ve been looking online (REI, Campmor, Patagonia) at shorts that cost at least $60, but yesterday in Goodwill I hit the goddam jackpot, finding–for $2!–a pair of, tan Columbia shorts in my size with two zippered pockets, a hidden key pocket inside the waistband, and a built-in liner that will negate the chance that I’ll be wearing underwear this summer. If I try to articulate how happy this paragraph makes me, I’ll wee my pants and get booted from Panera.

Underwear Update

Without underwear, I will be a little bit lighter and nimbler, allowing faster sprinting, biking, and tree-climbing. I will be quicker in and out of the shower and I will spend less time doing laundry. Along with my awesome and über-comfy Lululemon liner-sporting running shorts I don’t see myself wearing under until October. (I don’t think I’m cool–maybe a bit lame, even–for owning something from this ridiculously expensive company, but I am thrilled with the quality of these shorts. In their stores, the men’s department is the size of a phone booth. Okay, maybe more like 8 phone booths put together in a 2 x 4 grid.)

My five pairs of boxers will have the summer off for a frolicking vacation or something. I might ship them off to The Keys. Then again, down there it’s quite easy to get caught up in the dangerous world of drug smuggling. Hmm, I’ll have to think about that.

Stuff Update

I created a new page up above next to ABOUT so I can keep track of all my stuff. And now I’m going to add 17 items to the inventory, sadly, without photographs.

• Sweatshirt (gray, hooded, zipped)
• Sweatshirt (blue, hooded, zipped)
• Sweatshirt (brown, hooded, zipped)
• Pants (workout, black, Adidas)
• Pants (sleep, gray)
• Pants (workout, gray)
• Pants (jeans, blue)
• Pants (blue)
• Pants (thermal)
• Pants (Cuddl Duds)
• Shorts (tan, Columbia)
• Shoes (trail running, Saucony)
• Shoes (running, Vivo Barefoot)
• Shoes (Crocs, brown)
• Shoes (Crocs, brown, old & worn, for mowing)
• Shoes (Crocs, blue)
• Shoes (Muck Boots)

You better sit.

Here it is: I have replaced my two belts with a single black belt I purchased at our local Goodwill. If you follow this blog closely, you’ll know that Jennifer bought my two belts at Goodwill. Well, not all thrifty purchases are created equal; both belts fell apart shortly after I laid my fingers on them. I thought for awhile that they were “trick” belts, some kind of practical joke, like an exploding golf ball.

Also in Goodwill, I found some awesome Saucony trail running shoes (glad I don’t have to worry about the pronunciation of “Saucony”) that make my New Balance shoes (also purchased at Goodwill) look like a couple of turds. I’ve spent $16 on two pairs of like-new shoes. The 2012 version of me would have kept both, but I’m going to sell the old pair on eBay. If Edwardsville had homeless people concentrated under an overpass I could bike on over to find a dude with size nine feet, but I guess all the homeless are over in St. Louis.

In other news, I’ve become enamored with freeganism, which I previously thought to be synonymous with dumpster diving. Sure, that’s a part of it, but it’s much more.

Freegans are people who employ alternative strategies for living based on limited participation in the conventional economy and minimal consumption of resources. Freegans embrace community, generosity, social concern, freedom, cooperation, and sharing in opposition to a society based on materialism, moral apathy, competition, conformity, and greed.

(I can’t figure how I’ve gone this long without Googling “freeganism.”)

I’m not an official freegan yet; I have to think about it and see how far I can go with the “alternative strategies.” Namely, I have to get over my fear of being spotted rooting through garbage. Also, the ick factor; I sometimes gag messing with OUR garbage. How am I going to react to stumbling upon a bunch of rotten eggs or a hastily wrapped poopy diaper? Oh, I know what will happen: I’ll pass out and hit my head on a concrete block, or, worse, I’ll land with my face on the poopy diaper or something equally disgusting.

Yesterday I got nervous simply riding my bike in the vicinity of dumpsters. I kind of slowed down and looked over there wondering if I could actually do it and I felt like I was breaking the law. Good thing I’m not a serial killer. I just know I’d fall over dead of anxiety just preparing for my first kill.

(On a side note, I want to document for my future self how I just did this funky hand dance trying to trigger Panera’s motion-activated paper towel dispenser. My enthusiastic gyrations failed to stir the machine. I’d love to see video of people doing the same this morning, but, sadly, I think it’s against the law to set up video cameras in public restrooms.)

I stumbled upon the term freeganism while reading about van dwelling, which is a whole strange world with a vibrant online community. I know, It’s bizarre, but I feel in my bones that I’ll eventually be living this kind of simple life once the kids are off to college or joining the circus or whatever. I would like to have one of these Volkswagen vans to customize. No mortgage. No car payment. No utility bills. No lawn to mow. No big home to maintain. It’s dropping out of “The American Dream” and living life on my own terms.

Girl living in a van

If you’re wondering where Jennifer fits into the van, that’s a good question–I guess under the false floor I’ll  build in it for storage.

As you’d expect, this is a contentious issue in our house. Examples: If something turns up missing I’m instantly accused of donating it. I say downsize and simplify; she says shut up. I say let’s rent out a room; she says you’re f***ing crazy. She talks about the yard and how awesome it’s going to look; I yawn and say cool. She shows me the new wreath for the front door; I force a smile and tell her it’s the best f***ing wreath I’ve seen in my whole life.  

When the girls are in school and Jennifer’s at work, I stand in the center of that big house and feel lost and desperate. Why? It’s such a waste of space. It’s a bitch to clean. The yard is huge and needs constant attention. Warm air leaks out in the winter. I see hundreds of toys that go untouched. Upstairs, to get from the top of the steps to the bedrooms you have to cross an expanse of space I could easily live in. Tiny house designers are creating homes smaller than this unappreciated part of our house. 

It’s not like I’m just intentionally trying to be obstinate or weird. I really do sit around thinking about how most of the world lives: in filthy poverty. Almost half the world — over three billion people — live on less than $2.50 a day. I am a filthy rich bastard compared to the population of Earth. That’s baffling to me.  See “first world problems” on twitter.

It’s not our fault. We’re force-fed what it is we need to be happy. Here’s a few things I thought up in, like, a minute:

• Multiple televisions pulling in 250 channels
• Multiple gas-powered vehicles
• Electronic gadgets of all shapes and sizes (iPhones, iPods, iPads)
• A closet full of clothes and shoes
• Extra rooms, completely furnished, rarely used
• Throw or “show” pillows
• Souvenirs and sports memorabilia
• Decorative glassware
• Fancy plates and stuff for “special” occasions
• Boxes and boxes of decorations for all four season and major holidays
• Maybe a boat, a motorcycle, an ATV, or a camper (to “get away from it all”)
• Gear (hunting, camping, hiking, etc.)
• Random “collections”
• Lawn tending machines and tools

If you’re not getting me here, you’re probably reading through that list and thinking “Yeah, and?”

Well, I guess it’s my job on this planet to be the freak say no to some of the most standard American values.

Occasionally I like to present marital conflicts in this space for educational purposes. If you’re a human you know what I’m talking about. Married people can’t agree on much of anything. If I tried to write about every marital conflict that pops up in our home my fingers would be bloody stubs by now. So I pick and choose.

This conflict is about what we decide to bring into our house and store for (possibly) decades. As you may know this is a serious topic to me.

This morning I went into the garage to find an umbrella and noticed the unboxed hedge trimmer on the floor. Jennifer bought this hedge trimmer two weeks ago. Her dad owns a hedge trimmer. Her dad lives an hour away and visits regularly. We need a hedge trimmer one time a year, in the Spring. We used his hedge trimmer last Spring.

You can probably guess what’s going on here. I would like to return the hedge trimmer, borrow her dad’s hedge trimmer, and knock out all the hedge trimming on a Saturday afternoon.

Why I want to return the hedge trimmer:

• I’m a fan of collaborative consumption. Start a tool library in your neighborhood.
• I don’t want to find a place to store the hedge trimmer
• I don’t want to look after and maintain the hedge trimmer for forty years.
• I don’t want my daughters, after their parents’ deaths, to be responsible for disposing of an old hedge trimmer.

My wife is not around at the moment to list the benefits of hedge trimmer ownership, but her reasoning at the time of purchase was that she needed to trim the hedges and cut back the fountain grass RIGHT NOW. That was two weekends ago. Her dad has been to our house twice.

Please, if you know my wife–and I know some of you do–reach out to her, see if you can douse her hedge trimmer ownership ambitions. Maybe say something offhand and subtle like “I think you should return that hedge trimmer to Home Depot and go eat at Sugo’s with the refund.”

If you think we really do need a hedge trimmer, I would love to take a peek into your cluttered garage.

Let me start by stating that I have never, ever ran over a person with a car. Furthermore, I have never accidentally, unknowingly dragged a live being for a full mile, again, with a car. I’m sure it could happen, especially since I’ve hit the half-way point of my life where the odds of shit like this happening will now rise with each passing year as I slowly lose my faculties. (But, seriously, I hope to GOD this never happens because, well, I’m just too fragile to recover from killing someone.)

This morning, though, I kinda got the idea of how it would go down.

Yesterday’s storms knocked over one of the stuffed lawn waste bags that were stacked out by the road next to our driveway. It’s the size of a chubby eight-year-old. As I carefully backed out of the drive with Chloe and slid the car into drive, I noticed our across-the-street neighbor’s slightly bemused expresssion as I gave a hearty wave. I checked the mirror to make sure I wasn’t wearing a rainbow clown wig and then motored on without another thought.

A half mile and half way to Lincoln Middle School I noticed a storm of leaves trailing us. I looked ahead expecting to see more leaves blowing across the road in the fierce wind, but no fierce wind existed.

I looked in the rear-view mirror again. With the dark clouds still in the area, it seriously looked like a fresh thunderstorm was whipping up right behind us. In front of us: nothing.

“Are we dragging a freaking lawn bag?” I asked, more to myself than to Chloe.

Then I heard what I think it would sound like to be dragging a human body with a car.

“Yep, we are. We’re dragging a lawn bag all the way to your school.”

When we made our final left turn mere yards from the school, the bag, apparently all out of strength, let go and parked itself right in the center of our lane. A clutch of dead, moist weeds–not wanting this wild, unexpected ride to end–fluttered about and behaved as if they wanted to finish the trip with us.

Then, convulsing with laughter, we almost cheerfully blew by her school.

Then when I got home, to my horror, I discovered an 8th grade science teacher clinging to my bumper. Heh. Just kidding on that part, but the rest is “for real.”