No More Watermelons In My Shirt!

It started when I saw the man with a watermelon hidden in his shirt.

Truth be told, it wasn't hidden very well. There was, pretty obviously, a watermelon right there under his shirt. It had to be a watermelon, right? It couldn't have just been his gut. Guts aren't normally that big. Or shaped like a watermelon.

Of course, I didn't actually see  the man. I saw a picture of him. Because, (as some of you may have guessed by now) the Man With the Watermelon In His Shirt was me.

The Man With the Watermelon In His Shirt. (Even Baby Roni isn't happy about it.)

It was the summer of 2009. My daughter, Roni, was a little over one year old, and we went as a family on a camping vacation to south/central Utah. (Travel Hint #1: One year old babies generally do not like sleeping in a tent. And they tend to do their best to make sure everyone else in the tent shares the same view before the night is over.) (Travel Hint B: Though camping out in 100 degree weather near St. George, Utah may sound like fun, there is much to be said about the comforts of an air-conditioned motel room, and all of it is good.)

While visiting Bryce Canyon National Park, I thought it would be a good idea to have a picture taken of me holding Roni, with the canyon in the background. It was not a good picture. (I had this picture up on the computer screen this morning. I asked the now five year-old Roni, "What's wrong with this picture?" Without hesitation she said, "You're fat.")

It wasn't until we were home from the vacation, downloading photos from the camera to the desktop, that I saw just how horrible the picture was. (It was one of the few moments where I wish I had gotten a smaller monitor.) There he was, The Man With the Watermelon In His Shirt, in color and taking up the entire screen.

It was then that I decided I needed to do something about my weight.

Now, I didn't immediately do something about my weight. (Except keep eating.) It wasn't until later that winter that I finally started to take action. I had let myself get up to 268 pounds, which is skinny if you are an NFL offensive lineman, but pretty heavy for everyone else.

I started to play basketball, exercise, and watch what I eat. (I wrote about it at the time. See: The Slow Joe Two-Step Never-Fail Weight Loss Program.) [A quick summary if you don't want to click on the link. The two steps of the "Slow Joe Two-Step Never-Fail Weight Loss Program?" #1: Exercise, and #2: Watch what you eat.] Using this approach, I was able to lose 30 pounds over the next eight or nine months. I got down to as low as 235 pounds.

And then, I stopped losing weight. I settled in and spent the next two and a half years hovering around 240 pounds. Oh, every once in a while I'd put on five pounds. And then I'd go on a push to lose weight again and lose a few pounds. But, I generally was stuck around 240 pounds. I figured that's where I was pretty much going to be stuck at for the rest of my life.

Then, this spring, The Wife came across a weight loss program called "Feel Great In 8." It is an eight-week program developed by a woman named Tiffany Rudd. The program consists of a weekly points system based on things like calorie count, servings of fruits and vegetables eaten, and amount of water dranken dranked drinked drunkened drank drinkened drunkified taken in by means of drinking. Points were also awarded for exercise, reading, meditating, and avoiding addictions, among other things. (Here is a link to her site: Feel Great In 8.)

The Wife started the program and enjoyed it. She was losing weight and feeling healthier. I noticed that, as a family, we were eating healthier, mostly because The Wife was cooking healthier meals. The Wife finished the eight week program and was going to sign up for another eight weeks. She asked me if I wanted to try it, too.

I was hesitant. The program didn't seem very manly. I had my "Two-step-never-fail-I-don't-need-any-help-I-can-do-this-on-my-own" approach that I had always used successfully in the past. Only, it wasn't working anymore. I couldn't get over the hump.

There was one other thing about the "Feel Great In Eight" program that I found trepidatious. I did not want to count calories. I had never counted calories before, and I wasn't about to start now! I didn't want to be one of those people who looks at the label of every food and adds everything up. I didn't want to be the guy who looks at a package of donuts and says, "Nope, too many calories. I think I'll eat this celery stick instead."

I thought about it for a while, then finally decided, "What the heck." I figured if the calorie counting got to be too much of a hassle, I could always just drop out of the program.

So, in early June, I joined up for an eight-week cycle of "Feel Great In 8." It didn't take long for me to figure out this was a good thing for me. I lost about ten pounds in the first three weeks. By the time the eight week program was finished, I had lost about 20 pounds!

So, whereas I thought I was going to be stuck at 240 pounds for the rest of my life, I have now dipped under 220 pounds for the first time in over ten years! I'm actually entertaining the idea of getting under 200. (Of course, there is a difference between "entertaining the idea" and "actual reality.") I used to joke that I wanted the first number of my weight to be something other than a "2," so that meant either gaining 60 pounds or losing 40. Now, with only 20 more to lose, it's in the realm of possibility.

Yes, I am sucking in my gut. But, part of the point is that I now actually CAN suck in my gut!

But, it wasn't just the "Feel Great In 8" program. Early in June we also bought a new elliptical exercise machine. I had had one from when I was single, but it was old and wobbly, and at one point while exercising on it, a bolt popped off and flew across the room. So, it had long ago been exiled to the garage. The Wife wouldn't get on it at all. (For some reason she didn't like the idea of having to dodge flying bolts.)

So, since we were both interested in exercising, The Wife and I decided on a new elliptical machine that we could put in our bedroom. And, I've found that it's a lot easier to exercise in the bedroom than it is to move the cars out of the way and work out in the garage. (Plus, the garage is too hot in the summer.) The only problem with the bedroom is that sometimes the kids like to wander through and be spectators.

Now, I'm still not where I should be. I just looked it up, and according to one website a person of my height (6'2") should weigh 174 pounds. 174 pounds! I haven't weighed 174 since before Frankie first say "Relax." I think I crossed the 174 pound barrier during that freshman year of college, gorging on the dorm room cafeteria food. (Unlimited desserts!!!)

The website did say that while 174 was "ideal," I could also be considered "healthy" if I was in a range between 155 and 194. And, while 194 might actually be possible, if I weighed 155 pounds I would look anything but "healthy."

One of the disadvantages of losing this much weight is that my clothes don't fit me very well anymore. A couple weeks ago at work I was tugging up my pants so often that I popped a belt loop. (Lesson learned: don't pull up your pants by the belt loops.) In fact, the other day I actually took some size 32 waist jeans into the dressing room of the Walmart to try them on. Once I got them into the dressing room the size 32 jeans laughed at me and said, "Nice try, fat boy, but not even close!" Still, it was worth a try. (Why don't they make a size 33 jeans? Not everyone changes waist sizes two inches at a time!) (See: One Size Fits Sometimes.)

So, despite my macho, two-step plan, it turns out there have been several factors in helping me lose this weight. They include:

1. The Wife. Her support and her cooking have helped out considerably. (Who knew this beef-eating Idaho farm boy would like eggplant or something called "spinach pie?") (It's easier to eat healthy food when it actually tastes good!)

2. Exercise. The elliptical machine has been a blessing. I load up some songs that get me going at a good pace, and I'm off. ("One Way Ticket To Anywhere" by the Osmonds is a particularly good exercise song. Yes, I said the Osmonds. Snicker if you want, but I'll stand by my results.) Plus, I've found I'm enjoying basketball more now that I'm not carrying all that extra weight while trying to run. (Unfortunately, the weight loss hasn't helped my shooting percentage at all.)

3. "Feel Great In 8." I found that just that little bit of accountability, having to turn in my point totals every week, would help me stay on the straight and narrow.

D. Eating more fruits and vegetables. Everyone knows it's better to eat fruits and vegetables than processed/packaged/man-made foods. We just don't always act on it the way we should. (It's tough, because some of that processed/packaged/man-made stuff tastes really good!)

5. Calorie counting. Yes, the thing I dreaded most about the "Feel Great In 8" program is probably the thing that will have the most lasting impact on how I eat for the rest of my life. It was really an eye-opener for me when I actually started looking at the calorie content of different foods. I was amazed (and appalled) when I saw that one "fruit" pie (may or may not contain actual fruit) had more calories than an entire entree of Italian chicken in cream cheese sauce over noodles! I'll still have an occasional candy bar or donut, I just won't have three or five at a time. (And I'm sorry, but I don't care how much calorie counting I do, you'll still never catch me eating a piece of celery.) (Disgusting, stringy stuff.)

6. "My Fitness Pal." This is the program (or "app," as the kids today call them) that I use to keep track of my calories for the day. I'm not perfect. I still go over my calorie count one or two days a week. But this "app" helps me keep track and keep things under control (relatively.)


Of course, I'm still not skinny. I still have a gut. But, I'm not The Man With the Watermelon In His Shirt anymore. Yes, I can stick out my gut and make it look like a basketball, only now instead of a regulation sized basketball it's more like a WNBA basketball. It's not perfect, but it is progress.

Guy With Dolls

I used to play with dolls.

At least, that's what my wife thinks. I told her a story once, and ever since she'll occasionally tease me about when I used to play with dolls. (Sometimes you have to be careful what stories from your past you tell your spouse. They can come back to haunt you.) (For example, I'm sure The Wife regrets ever telling me about that time she danced in Vegas.)

Of course, I didn't actually play with dolls.

I played with action figures.

Yes, there is a difference. Barbie is a doll. Iron Man is an action figure! Ken is a doll. The Thing (from the Fantastic Four) is an action figure! The Cabbage Patch Kids? Dolls. Big Jim and his crew? Action figures!

Iron Man, ready for action!

Yes, I was a comic book nerd as a kid, and my Iron Man doll action figure and my Thing doll action figure were two of my prized possessions. (Is it ironic or coincidental that both of those dolls action figures can be seen in the collection of the lead character in the movie The 40 Year-Old Virgin? I'll let you make that call.) (And no, I did not have a doll action figure of the Six-Million Dollar Man's boss like he did in the movie.) (But I wouldn't have been opposed to it.)

Marvel Comics dolls action figures were pretty hard to find back in the day. I was on constant lookout at all the toy stores in Pocatello for any sign of them, usually to no avail. (Of course, it didn't help that at that time Pocatello didn't really have any toy stores, just a few drug stores with toy sections.) In fact, if I remember correctly, I purchased my Thing doll action figure while on a trip out east to visit family in Virginia. (From that point on I would think of the east coast as a land where every store had a full supply of every Marvel Comics toy available.) (Of course, these days you can't walk into any store anywhere without a Marvel Comics toy falling on your head. They are everywhere!)

There was such a scarcity of Marvel Comics toys in eastern Idaho that I became so desperate I decided to order some of the toys from the ads in the comic books themselves. I believe it was before my trip out east, and I wanted to have a Thing doll action figure.

Yes, this is the "Thing" that I wanted.

So, I cut out the order form from one of my comic books, and I saved up my quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Literally. Yes, I literally filled the envelope with the order form from my comic book and about seven or eight dollars worth of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. I can still remember the "THUD!!!" it made when I dropped it into the mailbox at the post office.

Then, I patiently waited my "six to eight weeks" for delivery. And I waited, and I waited, and I waited. But my order never came. Of course it never came! The envelope I sent my order off in, full of change, probably weighed about seven pounds, and had one little stamp on it.

To this day, I'm not sure of my Mom's intentions regarding my comic book order. Did she innocently let me send off my "envelope o' change," not really thinking about whether the post office would deliver it or not? Or, did she plot to let me waste my hard-earned money ("THUD!!!"), knowing that if my order never came that I wouldn't ever want to order anything else from a comic book again? (If I got my Thing doll action figure, what would I try to buy next? The hypno-x-ray glasses? The Charles Atlas bodybuilding course? The switchblade comb? I needed to be stopped!)

If it was a ploy, it worked. After counting down my six weeks, and my eight weeks, and up to 16 weeks, I finally gave up. And I never ordered anything from a comic book again. That said, I tend to believe Mom was innocent. I just can't picture her being that mean.


But, Iron Man and Thing weren't the only dolls action figures that I had. I also had a collection of "Big Jim" dolls action figures. Big Jim looked an awful lot like a Ken doll. In fact, maybe a little too much like a Ken doll, plastic hair and all.

Big Jim: similar to a Ken doll, but much manlier!

There were three big differences between Big Jim and Ken, (other than Big Jim being marketed toward boys and Ken being marketed toward girls.)

A) Big Jim had bulging biceps. Literally. If you bent Big Jim's arm, his bicep would get bigger. Each Big Jim doll action figure came with a metal band that you could place around his arm. When you bent his arm, his bulging bicep would pop the metal band, like in the picture on the box above.

2) Big Jim had "karate chop action." If you pushed a panel in Big Jim's back, his right arm would swing down forcefully, as if engaged in a karate chop.

And, 3) Big Jim had permanent plastic shorts. Whereas a Ken doll's crotchatic region was a smooth, skin-colored area of confusion, Big Jim's "stuff" was safely ensconced in permanent plastic orange shorts.

At the time, Big Jim was much more easily available for purchase than the Marvel Comics heroes, so I owned a few of them over the years.  I even at one point had the Big Jim Kung Fu Studio, which was a play area where Big Jim could break wooden boards in half with his "karate chop action." (Maybe is was "kung fu action." I don't remember for sure.)

A two-page comic book ad for Big Jim and his Kung Fu Studio.

The thing I most remember doing with Big Jim, though, was having him race down the river! My brother and I (yes, I'm outing my brother as having played with dolls action figures, too) would take a couple of Big Jim dolls action figures down to the stream that ran through the cow pasture at my Grandma and Grandpa's ranch. 

We would throw the dolls action figures into the stream and have them race each other. The stream wound its way through the cow pasture for about a quarter of a mile, and in that stretch the Big Jims would have to navigate their way through rapids, waterfalls, and whirlpools. They couldn't have swam their way through all that danger if they were mere "dolls." No, only an action figure could have made it through that treacherous course!


Of course, there was always more than just Big Jim. He had his own crew of buddies. There was Big Jack, Big Jim's African-American friend. There was Big Josh, his mountain-man, bearded friend. And, there was Big Jeff, his blonde-haired Australian friend. (I know I had a Big Jeff doll action figure. He joined Big Jim on many a race down the river.)

A few years later, Big Jim got a whole new pack of friends, called the P.A.C.K. (Professional Agents/Crime Killers!) They included "Warpath," a native American with a bow and arrow; "Dr. Steel," a bald, tattooed tough guy with a steel hand; and "The Whip," a weapons specialist who was bearded and vaguely foreign.

A comic book ad for Big Jim's P.A.C.K.

I never owned any of Big Jim's P.A.C.K., because by the time they came out, I had started to become too old to play with dolls action figures anymore. I put Big Jim, Big Jeff, Iron Man and the Thing away and didn't think of them for quite some time. 

And then, a funny thing happened. As an adult, I started to get nostalgic thinking about my old dolls action figures. And, being single (for a long, long time) with some disposable income, I disposed of some of that income on some new dolls action figures. It helped that not only were the new dolls action figures available for sale (at stores and through eBay), but they were also way cooler looking than they had been when I was a kid. Here's a quick comparison:

1970's Iron Man

Today's Iron Man

And another:

1970's Thing

Today's Thing

That said, I didn't actually play with the new dolls action figures I was collecting. I was just collecting them for the sake of collecting. (Much the same way other people collect stamps, or coins, or baseball cards.) (Or some women collect shoes.) Besides, even as "cool" looking as the new dolls action figures are, I doubt they could hold up to a trip or two down Big Jim's river race.

Now that I'm married and have kids, disposable income is more a dream than a reality. I haven't bought a doll action figure for myself for years. But, as the kids get older, I do like to make sure that they have plenty of fun toys to play with. And, if some of those toys happen to be dolls action figures, then so be it. 

So yes, I did play with dolls action figures as a kid. And now, I'll gladly play with dolls action figures with my kids. (Sometimes actual dolls, too. I often get asked by Roni to help her change dresses on her Polly Pockets. It's not easy, because my fingers are big, and those Polly Pocket dresses are tiny. And tight.) (Polly should really invest in some looser fitting clothing!) 

It was the story of Big Jim's river races that prompted The Wife to tease me about playing with dolls. It doesn't really bother me because it's true. I did play with dolls. And I turned out okay. 

(Well, relatively okay.)

Truck Drivers Say the Darndest Things

One time, at work, I came upstairs to find a truck driver waiting for his load to be unloaded and his paperwork to be processed. He looked like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite (from the movie Napoleon Dynamite) and his brother Kip (also from the movie Napoleon Dynamite) if they were 50 years old.

As he sat, he reached into his backpack (yes, a fifty year old man with a backpack!) and pulled out a Rubik's Cube. He began to twist the cube, trying to align the colors. As he did, he kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. It seemed to me he was trying to goad me into a conversation. He wanted me to ask him about the Rubik's Cube. He wanted me to ask about his backpack.

But, I knew better. You see, I've been around enough truck drivers to know the basic rules: 1) Never initiate conversation with a truck driver; B) Never look a truck driver directly in the eyes; and C) Whatever you do, do NOT sniff a truck driver!!!

The life of a truck driver can be a lonely, solitary existence. They can be on the road for days, weeks, and sometimes months at a time. Not all, but some of them will look for any opportunity they can get to talk to an actual person. And they will talk to (or at) you for hours and hours if you let them.

It doesn't really matter if you talk back at all. Just having an actual living being acknowledge their existence with an occasional "uh-huh" or nod of the head will be enough to keep them talking until the cows come home. (And it doesn't really matter where the cows have been.)

And, the topic of the conversation isn't important, either. They might tell you their life story. They might discuss politics. They might talk about the price of food in the vending machines. They might talk about those a*#holes at the port of entry. They might talk about the latest episode of Honey Boo Boo. It really doesn't matter as long as they are talking and someone actually seems to be listening.

The other day I came up to the office to find a truck driver had cornered one of the secretaries. As I ate my lunch I listened to him expound about a wide variety of topics, including the George Zimmerman trial. He seemed (at least in his own mind) to be an expert on the case, recounting details not known to the press, the police, the jurors, or probably even Zimmerman himself.

Then, he started into a story about himself. "These kids kept revving their engines really early in the morning. So, I went down and I was going to talk to them. I was just going to talk to them. Now, you see, when I was in the Special Forces I was trained how to kill a man with just these two fingers..." (I was tempted to turn around to see which two fingers he was talking about, but that would have put me at risk of making eye contact with him. I did not want that to happen. He was talking to Vicki, he wasn't talking to me. And I wanted to keep it that way.)(Vicki is a big girl. She can take care of herself.)

I had some work of my own to attend to, so I didn't hear the end of his story. But, I had doubts as to its veracity. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that people who actually were in Special Forces are not usually the type of people who talk and brag about how they were in Special Forces and were trained how to kill people with just two fingers. They tend to keep that kind of information to themselves.

Anyway, as Vicki finally fended off the driver with her third, "I've got to get back to this work" comment, he turned toward me. I tried my best to pretend he wasn't there. It didn't matter. He started talking to the back of my head. Eventually, the personal decency I was raised with (curse you, personal decency!) forced me to acknowledge him. I gave him a head nod and a "Yup" or two. The next thing I knew I was listening to a ten minute "conversation" about the return of Twinkies and the politics of the Hostess shutdown.

I tried to get away by walking downstairs back to my truck. He followed me. It wasn't until I had actually gotten into my truck and started to back away from him before he finally closed the conversation. (At least I think he did.)


Some of the things truck drivers say leave me totally baffled. A few weeks ago a truck driver came up to me and said, "Has anyone ever told you you look like Eric Clapton?" "No," I said. "No one ever." I then wondered if I should call the police to get this truck driver a sobriety test before letting him get out on the open road. To compare:

Eric Clapton

Me. (He plays the guitar better, too.)

Another time a guy told me, "I just spent the last three days moving. I filled up my neighbor's garbage bin. I waited until they weren't home, and I filled it up! He'll be mad at me, but he won't be able to find me, because I moved."

Now, why in the world would he tell me this story? Did he tell me because he wanted me to not like him? Because if that's the case, it worked.


The other day a driver came up to me and the conversation went like this:
Truck driver: "Do you have any funny jokes you can tell me?"
Me (not really expecting this question): "Umm, no."
Truck driver: "What do you call a seagull that flies over the bay?"
Me: Silence, trying not to make eye contact.
Truck driver: "A bay gull!"
Me: Polite chuckle; looking for any avenue of escape. (Actually considering feigning my own death.)


It's not just the guy truck drivers, either. Women truck drivers can talk your ear off, too. Women truck drivers are a special breed. They didn't get the memo that the mullet is no longer a fashionably acceptable hairdo. (A female truck driver convention would feature more mullets and flannel than a Billy Ray Cyrus concert!)

One of the funniest thing a truck driver has ever said to me was spoken by a female truck driver. I approached her because I thought she looked confused. She could see that I was trying to help her, and told me she didn't need any help, saying, "I'm not lost. She done told me where to go." (The "she" referring to one of the secretaries in the office.)

"I'm not lost. She done told me where to go." Now, if that's not the makings of a good country song title, then I don't know country music! (Actually, I don't really know country music. I'm more of a rock and pop fan. Still, even I know a good country song title when I hear one!)

So, to sum up, unless you want to hear someone babbling on for hours it's best to remember the three rules of talking to truck drivers: A) Never initiate conversation with a truck driver; 2) Never look a truck driver directly in the eyes; and 3) Whatever you do, do NOT sniff a truck driver! (That last one doesn't really need any explanation, does it?)

 

Idaho vs. Utah

Where are you from?

That's a simple enough question, isn't it? Where are you from? Sometimes, it is an easy question to answer. But sometimes it's not.

When I asked my mother-in-law where she was from, she said it depended on who was asking and what the context of the question was. She has lived in Orem, Utah for over 30 years, so most often she would answer "Where are you from?" with that. But, if someone is asking who knows she's not originally from Utah, she might answer with "Boston." And, since she didn't grow up in Boston, just near Boston, if someone from Massachusetts were to ask her that question, she would probably say "North Attleboro."

Meanwhile, when I asked my oldest daughter "Where are you from?" her answer was, "Mommy's belly."

It's not quite as easy of a question as it seems.

So, where am I from? Well, for the last five years I've been living with my little family in the small-ish town of Santaquin, Utah. (I say "small-ish" because we do have two traffic lights and a Dairy Queen now. So, we're moving up in the world.) For the last 21 years I've been living in Utah, either in the Salt Lake City or Provo/Orem areas.

But, if you ask me where I'm from, I'll probably say "Idaho." I was born and raised in Idaho, and part of me will always be an Idaho farm boy.

Yes, I am an Idaho spud.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately because, I did the math, and sometime within the past month I crossed over to the point where I've now spent more of my life living in Utah than I have living in Idaho. And, while I love living here in Utah, this fact has made me a bit sad.

I lived in Idaho until I was 18 years old. Then I spent a school year in Utah, attending BYU. I then spent two years living in West Virginia (as a Mormon missionary), then spent another school year in Utah at BYU. I then moved back to Idaho, where I went to Idaho State University for four years to finish up my degree. (Yes, that's six total years of college to get a four-year degree. Yet another reason they call me "Slow Joe from Arimo.") And then, 21 years ago next month, I made the move to Utah to get a job. And I've been here ever since.


The job I left Idaho to move to Utah for was driving truck for a grocery store warehouse. (Yes, putting all six years of my four-year Idaho State University bachelor's degree in Mass Communication to good use.) (That's sarcasm, by the way.)

Since I drove for a living, my driver's license was pretty important. The law says you should update and change your driver's license within 30 days of changing your address. I did not do this. I waited the two or three years until my Idaho license was about to expire. It was a desperate attempt to cling to my Idaho-ness. ("Yes, I'm from Idaho. It says so right here on my driver's license!")

When I finally had to change over to a Utah license, I had to take a written test. I wasn't too worried about it, except for some of those poorly worded "common sense" questions. Like:
          When stopping at a railroad crossing, how many feet away from the crossing should you stop?
           A. 5 feet
           B. 20 feet
           C. 50 feet
           D. 200 feet
           E. 14 meters
(I always want to answer this with: "Far enough back that you don't get hit by a train! Duh!" But that is never an option.)

Another question that worried me a little was the one about the legal blood/alcohol level for drunk driving. Since I don't drink, I've never really paid too much attention to what the exact percentage is that constitutes "drunk" driving. Since I'm always at 0.0%, the actual legal limit has never concerned me.

So, when the examiner called me to the counter with my test results, I had a few small concerns. I needn't have. I'll never forget what he said to me: "You're not from around here, are you?" I replied that I wasn't, and asked him why he would ask that. He said, "Because you got every question correct!"

(You see, he was used to dealing with Utah drivers.)

When I was growing up in Idaho, the term "Utah driver" was a commonly used derogatory pejorative. The three main offenses of the "Utah driver" that earned our ire were: 1) Driving and staying in the left lane on the freeway. (In Idaho, we called that the passing lane. Because you are supposed to use it when you pass someone...and then you get back into the right lane!) 2) Not using turn signals. (I know that in the 1970s the "energy crisis" was all the rage, but those little blinking light don't use up much energy, and sometimes it's important to let the other vehicles on the road have some kind of idea as to what you are doing!) And, C) Generally clogging up the freeway (I-15) with all of their Winnebagos as they headed to and from Yellowstone. (Back in the day, we used to call them "Winnebagos." Nowadays we call them "RVs.") (I think Winnebago lost more of their market share than Polaroid did in the instant camera market.) (Do they even still make Winnebagos?) (And are you paying attention iPhones? Don't rest on your laurels.)

Of course, now that I have a Utah driver's license and have officially been a "Utah driver" for over twenty years, the things about drivers in Utah that most annoy me are: 1) People driving and staying in the left lane on the freeway. (It doesn't matter if there are two, three, four, or five lanes, you are supposed to stay to the right except to pass!) 2) People not using their turn signals. (Because while I do get ESPN on the radio in my car, I do not have ESP.) And, C) Slow-driving RVs and boats clogging up the left lanes of the freeway as they head to and from Lake Powell and St. George. (And maybe even Yellowstone.)


Back when I used to live and work in Idaho, I would frequently drive by a billboard just south of the town of Blackfoot that promoted the Idaho Potato Museum. I would always chuckle to myself as I read the blurb that said visitors to the museum would be rewarded with "free taters for out-of-staters!" I never stopped. (I was an "in-stater." Why stop if I wasn't going to get a free tater?)

Then, last month, as we were driving past Blackfoot on our way back to Utah after visiting my Idaho-loving, Idaho-living sister, I decided the time was right for a stop at the potato museum. The Wife rolled her eyes; she was not very interested. But, she loves me and often grants me my goofy indulgences, so we stopped.

The kids and a wall full of potato mashers!

I was glad we did. The kids enjoyed the "Mr. Potato Head" display, the giant collection of potato mashers from around the world, and the "World's Largest Potato Crisp." (Apparently there is a difference between a potato "crisp" and a potato "chip," though I don't quite grasp the distinction myself.) And, because I am now an "out-of-stater," I looked forward to getting my "free tater!" I was a bit disappointed, however, to find that my "free tater" came in the form of a small carton of hash browns. I was kind of hoping for an actual potato.

The "free taters" for this "out-of-stater."

Sometimes I have to remind myself that my kids aren't from Idaho. So, I try to let them know that they do have Idaho heritage, and I've tried to instill in them a love for Idaho. I think some of it is taking hold.  When I wear my "Idaho State University" t-shirt, Buzz will point at it and shout, "Idaho!" And, after our recent Idaho adventures, when we now get in the van to go somewhere and I ask the kids where they want to go, they will often answer, "Idaho!"

One of the best things about the Idaho Potato Museum is the chance to pose in front of a giant potato!

In the past, I've generally thought negatively about American immigrants who display the flag of their native country. I thought, "Hey, you're in America now! Wave the flag of the United States, not the flag of Mexico! (Or Italy, or Brazil, or Sweden, or Germany, or Peru, or New Zealand, or Ghana, or Israel, or Egypt, or France, or Japan, or Kazakhstan, or wherever it is you were from!) (Even the Land of the Maple Leaf!) These negative thoughts usually end with a declaration along the lines of, "If you like it there so much, go back!"

But, as I've pondered on my Idaho/Utah situation, I have a bit more understanding as to how these people feel.

I love Idaho. I'm from Idaho. But, I love Utah, too! I've explored more of Utah than I ever have of Idaho. There are large chunks of the Idaho panhandle that I've never been to. But, I've been almost everywhere in Utah. I've been from Snow Canyon and St. George in the southwest, to the top of Naomi Peak in Cache Valley and Bear Lake to the northeast. I've been from from Moab and Monticello in the southeast to Snowville and East Wendover in the northwest. (Although I'll say that East Wendover was a "once." I don't ever need to go back there again.) I've been to the National Parks and National Recreation areas of Zion's, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonlands, Natural Bridges, Dinosaurland, Flaming Gorge, Cedar Breaks, and Grand Staircase Escalante!

I love Utah! It's a great place to live! But, I also love Idaho. It's where I'm from.

So, when I think of immigrant Americans displaying the flags of their native countries, I don't have a problem with that. It's great to be proud of your heritage and love where you came from. However, if those same people start to protest against America, then I have a problem. Then I'll revert back to the "if you don't like it here, go back" mentality. (I would never protest against Utah!) (Unless Donny and/or Marie Osmond were to become governor.)

So, when you ask me, "Where are you from," it is a difficult question to answer. I love Idaho. I love Utah. I'm from Utah. I'm from Idaho.

Living It Up, Motel Style!

Ah, motels!

We just got back from vacation. We drove over 2,000 miles and spent four nights in motels. And, I dare say, the motels were wonderful, insomuch as they got us out of that mini-van for a few hours! There are some experiences that are unique to motel living. Here are some of my thoughts:

The Decor: One of the first things I noticed about our motel was the carpet. What the heck? Are they trying to disorient me? Here's a picture:

The dizzying motel carpet

Do you see that carpet? I'm at a loss for finding words to describe it. The best I can come up with is that it looks like a robot coughed up some hairballs. Would anyone, anyone put this carpet in their house? Heck to the no! It's horrendous! And if you think it's bad in the hallway, check out what it looks like on the stairs:

The disorienting stairway of death!

Add up that crazy carpet, a couple of armfuls of luggage, and my new bifocals (see: Bifocal ) and it's amazing that I didn't break my neck!

But, while the carpet at the motel is bold, their choice of artwork is bland and/or drab.

At our second motel of the trip, we had a larger room. The room had two queen-size beds and a pull-out couch. Above each bed and the couch was a bland, drab, nondescript painting. I think they were paintings of vases. (The paintings were so bland I can't really remember what the subject of them was.) The paintings were pretty much just one color, too: a dull gray-ish, tan-ish drab. The paintings were dull, boring and absolutely unmemorable except for one fact: they had placed the exact same painting in the room three times, one over each bed, and one over the couch! That's right, three drab, forgettable paintings, exactly identical, all in the same room!

But wait, there's more! At that motel my sister-in-law and niece had the room next door to ours. Guess what? Yes, that's right, the exact same picture was in their room, too! And not once, not twice, but three times as well!!! (At this point I'm really kicking myself for not taking a picture of these paintings, both as proof of their sameness, and so I could remember what exactly the bland paintings were of.) 

Now, I can't be sure that every room in the motel had the same painting in it three times, but if so that would be about 300 prints of the same forgettable painting in one motel! Why would they do this? It's like they were furnishing the rooms and said, "Hmm, we need to put something on these walls. Hey, Ed, didn't your wife Brenda just take an art class at the community college? Did she paint anything we could throw in the copier and stick in a few hundred frames?"

(And while I'm ranting, why is it that art teachers are so fascinated with making their students paint pictures of vases? Really? A vase? Has anyone ever said, "Hey, you know what I want a painting of? A vase! I want a painting of a vase!!!" No. No one ever.)

So, I'm not sure why there is such a contradiction in the boldness of the carpet and the blandness of the art. But there must be a reason, right? Surely someone has done research on this and knows that there must be some purpose for this, right? Because if not, I'm completely befuddled.

The Amenities: We stayed in Upper-White-Trash motels, so our rooms came with the standard Upper-White-Trash amenities: Cable television (with remote!), coffee maker, hair dryer, ironing board and iron, microwave, and small refrigerator. The second motel we stayed in was even so modern that it had a recharging station with USB ports for the recharging of our electronical gadgeteries. 

While the refrigerator is great to have in the room, we learned, by sad experience, that it is best to check and make sure it is turned on before loading it up with foodstuffs. (Traveler's tip: Ice cream sammiches don't stay frozen in a refrigerator that is not turned on.) 

I always like to turn on the motel television and flip through the channels. Nowadays, when I watch television at home I don't flip through the channels because there are too many channels to flip through. Instead, I use the channel guide. But, at a motel, the best way to find what you're looking for is to flip through. 

One of my favorites is to stop for a minute or two at the local news. For some reason, the local news personalities from a different city always seem a little less competent, and a little more hokey. And they usually have funny names. (Seattle has a weather guy who goes by the name of "Jim Guy." Jim Guy. I don't know why I find that so funny, but I do.)

The problem, when traveling with kids, is finding appropriate children's programming at night-time for them to go to sleep to. One night the best we could come up with was one of those Disney channel shows for "tween" girls. Five-year-old Roni watched for a minute and disapproved, repeatedly saying, "That's not a kid show!" (Although she did pick up a math joke with the punch line "apple pie are squared" that she thought was hilarious enough that she kept repeating it for the next several days.)

Of course, one of the standard amenities of every motel room is the shower. If our first motel room of the trip had a glaring weakness (besides the dizzying carpet), it was the height of the shower head. Now, I'm a tall person (6'2"), but I'm not unusually tall. And The Wife stands at 5'10", which is definitely not an unreasonably height. The shower head, however, seemed to be made for people who stood about 5'5" or so. Here, let me demonstrate:

Standing in the shower. Pointing at my chest.

As you can see (maybe) from this poorly staged photograph, I am standing in the shower/tub, taking a picture of myself in the mirror, and pointing to the spot in the middle of my sternum where the water from the shower hits while I try to take a shower.

This is fine if you are the height of Tom Cruise or Mary Lou Retton, but for anyone taller than Spud Webb it means that if you want to wash your hair you had better be able to do a squat thrust or a deep knee bend, exercises that you probably haven't performed since your junior high gym class. (And you thought those exercises would never be useful once you got out of school!) (Now if I could only find an everyday use for algebra.) (Totally unrelated: Hey, you know what would make a good name for a junior high school gym teacher? Yes, that's right, "Jim Guy!")

Personally, I have never used the coffee maker, the hair dryer, or the iron and ironing board at any motel room I have ever stayed at. Perhaps I should have used the iron, but I figure if I don't use it at home, why should I use it on the road? 

Of course, one of the amenities I didn't mention earlier is one of the biggest: the swimming pool. No one likes the parents who let their kids stay up late to play in the pool. Well, on this trip we were those parents! 

I'm sorry, but after a long day of riding in the car, the kids needed to have a place to get some wiggles out, and since most motels don't have a playground, the swimming pool was our best option. So, if we pull in to the motel at 9:45 PM and the pool stays open until 11:00 PM, our kids are going to be in that pool, wearing themselves out so they will actually sleep, until it is 10:59 PM (and 59 seconds!) 

The Continental Breakfast: At the Continental breakfast at our motel, there were two kinds of people: people who have used the waffle maker before and people who have not used the waffle maker before. I, of course, am an experienced waffle maker user. As such, I know that if you walk into the breakfast room and the waffle maker is not being used, you immediately go to the waffle maker and make a waffle. It doesn't matter if you want a waffle or not. Make a waffle! Because the last thing you want to do is decide later that you want a waffle, but find yourself in line behind a person who has no idea how to use the waffle maker. Not only will you be in for a long wait while the person tries to figure the waffle maker out, you'll probably end up scraping the burnt remains of their failed attempt out of the waffle maker before you can make your own. 

Aside from the waffle maker, our breakfast nook included scrambled eggs, bacon or sausage, some yogurt, toast, mini-muffins, danishes, assorted fruit juices, milk, and three plastic bins of cold cereal. The three choices in the cereal bins always seem to be: 1) Off-brand Froot Loops (those things ain't real Froot Loops, that's for sure!); 2) Off-brand Corn Flakes; and c) Off-brand Raisin Bran. I am not sure how often these cereal bins are changed, but there is a pretty good chance some of that off-brand Raisin Bran has been in that bin since the Clinton administration.

One last thing I don't understand about the Continental breakfast is the fact that the breakfast nook seems to contain about five small tables, even though the motel has well over 100 rooms. Somehow, the math doesn't seem right here. There are never enough tables for the people who want to use them. (Perhaps this is where I could use that junior high algebra?) (If only I remembered any of it.)

I See (If I Squint Hard Enough)

I'm getting older. We all are. (Yes, even you.) It's inevitable. It's like the song says, "You're older than you've ever been. And now, you're even older. And now, you're even older. And now, you're older still." ("Older" by They Might Be Giants.)

The saying goes that you are as young as you feel. That's great, but there are certain old age checkpoints that we all eventually pass. I recently reached a big one. What are some of these checkpoints? Here are a few:

*You find yourself complaining about "those kids today and their music."  (Bieber? Really??? BIEBER!!!???) [CHECK.]

*You have lived through at least three changes in music-listening formats. (For me, 8-track to cassette to CD to MP3 to...cell phones or The Cloud or Pandora or however the heck these kids today are listening to their Bieber.) [CHECK.]

*Television shows that began airing after you graduated from high school are now airing as reruns on Nick At Nite, and have been for several years. (Full House, Doogie Howser, Friends.) [CHECK.]

*You are told you have to wear bifocals. [CHECK.]

New bifocals for an old man

Yes, a couple of weeks ago I made the switch from regular glasses to bifocals. What's scary about that is I used to be the one in the family with good eyesight.

My brother and my sister were both pretty impaired without their glasses from a very early age. I didn't get my first pair of glasses until I was in high school, and even then I only wore them part of the time (to see things far away and to watch television.)

In fact, I made it all the way into my mid-40s before I needed my glasses to pass the eye test for my driver's license renewal. Even though I've always worn my glasses when I drive, I didn't want it put on my driver's license that I had to wear my glasses while driving. It was a point of pride that I could legally still drive without them.

So, every time I went in to renew my license I'd spend an hour or two without my glasses on, to acclimate my eyes. Then I'd walk in, put my face in their eye-testing machine, and play a nice little game of "Squint and Guess." I'm telling you, I could squint with the best of them! (Clint Eastwood's got nothing on me!) And I've always been good at guessing multiple choice answers. Once I'd squint that letter down to where I knew it was either an "R" or a "K," my guessing prowess would take over. And I would ace it every time!

Yes, I was the king of "Squint and Guess." Until four years ago. That's when old age started to catch up to me. I put my face in the eye-testing machine and I squinted, and I squinted, and I squinted until it felt like my eyeballs were going to pop out the side of my ears. And then I guessed. And I guessed wrong.

The test administrator gave me a look of disapproval and asked if I had any glasses. (He asked it in a tone that said, "For your sake I hope you have glasses, 'cause you ain't even close.") (I don't think it was his first time thwarting someone at the game of "Squint and Guess.")

So, I pulled my glasses out of my pocket, put them on, and...wow! It was amazing how much easier it was to read all those letters without having to squint so much!

That was four years ago. In the interim, my eyesight has gotten worse.

So now, I have bifocals. Because my eyesight is bad two ways. The idea behind bifocals is that the top two-thirds of the glasses have a subscription prescription that helps you see things that are far away, while the bottom third has a subscription prescription that helps you read things that are close.

It used to be that bifocals had a very distinct line in them where anyone could tell where the see-things-far-away part ended and the read-things-that-are-close part starts. Well, not anymore! The bifocals that "these kids today" (Hey! That's me!) are wearing have no discernible line between the sections of the two different subscriptions prescriptions. They do this because bifocal wearers don't want people to think they are old because they have to wear bifocals.

I've been wearing my bifocals for three or four weeks now, and I'm still not used to them. Sometimes I wish they did have a line so I could tell if I was looking out the far-away or the up-close sections.

One of the biggest problems I have with the bifocals is when I'm trying to look down to see things that are far away. Usually, things that are far away are things that you have to look up or look out for. It's very rare that someone has to look down at things that are far away. Unless, say, there happens to be a big, long flight of stairs that you have to walk down several times a day.

Yes, at my work there is a long, dark stairway that I have to go up and down 10 to 12 times a day. I have no problems going up the stairs with my bifocals. But, it's a bit different when I try to go down the stairs.

What I should see is this:

Stairs!

What I actually see out of the lower part of my bifocals is more like this:

Stairs! (As seen through bifocals.)

But that's not all. I also have problems reading. The bifocals were especially supposed to help with reading, and they do...most of the time. If I'm sitting at a desk or in a chair and reading, they help just fine. 

For Father's Day, The Wife got me a book titled Dad Is Fat. (She swears it's not a statement about my weight.)  (It's actually a very funny book by comedian Jim Gaffigan.) So, the other day I took my new book (and my new bifocals) to a place where a lot of people do a lot of reading. (No, not the toilet.) I took my new book to bed, where I hoped to get a good bit of reading done. 

Well, once I got myself propped up on my pillow, I attempted to read. But, I was having a hard time finding the right spot in the bifocals to read through. I tilted my head back. That didn't help. I tilted my head forward. That didn't help. I slid my glasses to the end of my nose. That didn't help. I tilted my head to the side. That really didn't help.

And then, I took my glasses off. And that did help! Sure, I had to squint a little bit. And guess what the words were every so often. But hey, I always have been pretty good at "Squint and Guess!"

Things I Learned On My Yellowstone Vacation

Vacations are supposed to be fun. But, they can also be learning experiences.

We went on a family vacation last weekend to Island Park, Idaho (at Buffalo Run Campground) and Yellowstone National Park. We had a lot of fun. But, we also learned a few things. What did we learn? I'm glad you asked:

1. Don't forget bug spray! On our first night in Island Park we decided to go see Upper Mesa Falls. This, in and of itself, was not a bad decision. Upper Mesa Falls is a very beautiful and powerful waterfall, and I would encourage everyone to see it. However, I would not recommend going to view it  at dusk in early June.

Upper Mesa Falls (Photo taken on a not-so-mosquito-ish day)

Why not? A) Mosquitoes thrive near water. And b) Mosquitoes are most prevalent around dusk.

We didn't think of those things. We just loaded up the mini-van to maximum capacity (five adults and two children) and went to see the falls. We didn't bring any bug spray.

As soon as we opened the van doors, the swarm descended upon us. It was like something out of a Stephen King story. Or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Or a bad episode of Who's the Boss.

We made the short hike to the falls, slapping and swatting at ourselves the whole time. We glanced at the waterfall (because that's why we were there), then we darted back to the "safety" of the van. (I put "safety" in quotation marks because in the time it took us to open the doors of the mini-van and load our herd back in, enough mosquitoes entered the vehicle that if they had chosen to work together as a team they could have all flown to the inside roof and lifted the entire van off of the ground.)

Amazingly enough, five year-old Roni, who is often afraid of the most mundane things (like toilets that are too loud when they flush) was not in the least bit afraid of the attacking, never-ending swarm of blood-sucking skeeters. In fact, just the opposite: she thought it was hilarious!

After we shut ourselves back in the van, we all began swatting, slapping, and shooing away at the multitudinous horde that had followed us into the vehicle. People were slapping themselves, slapping each other, and slapping the walls, windows, and seats of the van. Roni deemed this a "Slap Party," and began to giggle uncontrollably. Her infectious giggling lightened the mood for all of us.

Eventually, with windows down and the van in motion outside of the "Mosquito Zone," we were able to slap, swat, and shoo the majority of the bugs out of the car. (So that only several hundred remained.) Roni had so much fun with it that over the course of the trip she requested a couple of times that we have another "Slap Party." We didn't. (We did, however, have a "Scratch Party" or two because of all the bug bites.)

I don't know if bug spray would have helped. But, it certainly wouldn't have hurt.

2. If a buffalo wants to be in the road, a buffalo will be in the road. This one is pretty self-explanatory. If you drive through Yellowstone National Park, you are probably going to see some buffalo. Buffalo are large animals. If they want to be in the road, there is not much you can do about it. The buffalo does not care about traffic. He doesn't care about how many vehicles are brought to a standstill because he decided to go for a stroll. The buffalo is large and in charge.

Some of the traffic waiting for the buffalo to roam.

Shuffling Buffalo

After this buffalo finally sauntered by, Grammy told Roni that she'd probably never see a buffalo so close in the road like that for the rest of her life. (Hold on to that thought.)

3. If a police car turns on its sirens, it's best to pull over to the side of the road. Unless the reason it turned on the sirens was to make sure you don't pull over to the side of the road. Confused? So were we.

First of all, it wasn't exactly a police car. It was a park ranger car. But, the car looked like a police car. And the sirens looked like police sirens. And, in a place like Yellowstone National Park, you should probably treat park rangers with the same respect you would treat police officers if you were outside of the park.

We were pulling along a large herd of buffalo that was near the side of the road. Cars in both directions were slowing down to look and take pictures. Here is one of the pictures I took from my window while driving:

Roadside Buffalo

The park ranger car was coming from the opposite direction. As soon as I took this picture, the park ranger turned on his sirens and flipped a U-turn so that he was behind the car that was behind mine. (The car that was now between the ranger and my van was driven by my sister-in-law Kimmie, who was following us on our way to Old Faithful.)

I wasn't sure what to do. Was he pulling me over for taking pictures while driving? (Admittedly, it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but since we were coasting at a rate of about one mile per hour I took that risk.) I decided to keep on driving, figuring if he was trying to pull me over he would wave his arms in the universal "pull over to the side of the road" motion. 

Kimmie, meanwhile, tried to do the right thing and pull over to the side of the road to let the "police" car with flashing lights go by. As she did this, the ranger pulled up along side of her and, through his window, yelled at her to not pull over to the side of the road. It was all very confusing.

Apparently, the reason he was flashing his lights was because he didn't want people stopping to take pictures of the buffalo. But, in doing so, he was actually getting more people to pull over because of our training to pull over to the side of the road when we see a police car with lights a-flashing.

(Perhaps a bullhorn yelling, "Keep it moving. Keep it moving. Move along," would have been a better choice.)

4. When approaching a crowded parking lot, it is best to take the first available parking spot. As we made our approach to the parking lot of the Midway Geyser Basin, we could see that the lot was pretty full. I saw that the third spot in the lot (which was quite a distance from the trailhead) was open, so I immediately pulled right into it. It was a good choice, because most, if not all, of the closer spots were already full.

We hiked up the boardwalk and saw the sights, which were breathtaking. (Sometimes literally.) (It can be quite windy on the boardwalk. We chuckled at the humorless park ranger who came along the trail carrying a long pole. His job was to use the pole to retrieve hats that had blown off unsuspecting heads into the wet bacteria mat that surrounds the boardwalk.)

Midway Geyser Basin (with no hats at the moment)

Anyway, as we finished our hike and approached the van, a vehicle who was just entering the crowded parking lot saw us. He decided he wanted our parking spot, so he backed up and waited for us to load and leave. Well, he had a bit of a wait. We weren't all yet back to the van. We had four adults and two children to load. That meant the taking off of backpacks, loading packs back into the van, getting treats and drinks, and getting two kids into car seats, among other things. He had quite a wait to get his coveted parking spot. (Which was not a very good parking spot at all.)

We saw him waiting, but we were in no hurry. (I did feel a bit bad for the people who were lining up behind him who would have liked the opportunity to try their luck for a different, closer parking spot.) We eventually got everyone loaded and finally pulled out. Our stalker immediately zipped into our vacated spot. But, sure enough, as we pulled around the lot there were several open and available parking spots, all much closer to the trailhead, that our Lurky-lurk could have had if he had just followed the rule of taking the first available parking spot.

5. Retired English teachers still know a lot about English. My mother-in-law (also known as "Grammy,") retired last year after teaching high school English for thirty years. As we were viewing the Fountain Paint Pots, Roni read a sign that said, "Don't throw rocks in the pool." This made Grammy cringe. Apparently, it should say, "Don't throw rocks into the pool." Saying "Don't throw rocks in the pool" literally means that you shouldn't throw rocks that are already in the pool. (Which, I guess, is also good advice. But, it's a lot less likely for foolish tourists to do than throwing rocks into the pool.)

To be fair, despite her English-teaching background, Grammy actually doesn't make corrections like this very often. And I'm very grateful for that. If she did, I'd probably be getting weekly critiques of the grammar problems in my blog posts. (Because I know I have problems with knowing "how" and "when" to use quotation marks, parenthesis, and semi-colons; and also with prepositions, which, even though I know I'm not supposed to, sometimes I end sentences with.)

6. Sometimes it's okay to let the buffalo set the pace. Remember how Grammy had told Roni that our experience with the buffalo in the middle of the road was "once in a lifetime?" Well, sure enough, a few hours later there was another buffalo in the middle of the road. This time, we were in a more remote area of the Park, and we were the first ones to come upon it.

Waiting for a passing lane to pass the buffalo.

The buffalo was moving very, very slowly. I wanted to pass it. But, we were on a corner. I knew it probably wasn't a good idea to try to pass the buffalo with a solid double-yellow line. I was afraid that someone might come barreling around the corner from the other direction. So, I decided it would be best to just let the buffalo set the pace. It's a good thing I did, because a car did come around the corner at the moment when I would have been in the wrong lane trying to pass the buffalo. And I don't think even Roni would think a "Crash Party" would be very fun.

So, to sum up, we had a great vacation. We slapped ourselves and each other. We pulled over to the side of the road, and we didn't pull over to the side of the road. We learned a thing or two about grammar and parking. (Like when it's a good time to pull in.) And, we learned that sometimes it's best to just take the buffalo's pace.