Roger Creates a Web Page!

I have now spent two months looking for a new job. The chief thing I’ve learned is that looking for a job is very much like having a job except that nobody pays me to do it. I’ve just about got Indeed.com memorized. I keep checking back on the listing for editor of Arkansas Bride magazine. I’m just not sure if I’m exactly what they’re looking for.

There have been some other odd bits along the way. For example, the placement agency I’m working with gave me a long list of new careers I might want to pursue. There were probably 500 listed, but for some reason, my eye went immediately to “poultry slaughterer.” I gave it some serious thought, but in the end, I chose to stick with writing and editing.

And then, insult of insults, my niece in Florida turned me down for a job as her personal dishwasher because I only wash the sides of the plates that we actually use. Whatever.

I’ve noticed a lot of editing jobs require proficiency in HTML. Prior to this week, everything I knew about HTML could be summed up in this sentence — “It has something to do with computers.” (Actually, I found out that I’ve known a fair amount of HTML for a long time. I just never knew what to call the coding I’ve been doing on my blog for the past 15 years.)

But now I’ve taken an online course and have created my own web page. Watch out world. An exciting new age of the Internet is right around the corner.

You want to see the website? Here it is.

Never mind.

I apparently still don’t know how to make it an actual web page. That’s probably in the next lesson.

But here’s what it would have looked like.

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Cubs vs. Angels — Wrigley Field

All season long, I’ve seen posts from friends who were at Wrigley Field watching the Cubs and, frankly, I’ve been jealous. Why them and not me? And then I found $30 left over from a birthday present and I hatched a plan. I visited StubHub and found tickets for $30 in the upper deck by the infield for  a game on the very next Tuesday night. (It had to be a sign, right?) It didn’t take me long to convince a friend to go along.

Tickets in hand, the next question was how to get there. On weekday night games, parking isn’t allowed within 412 miles of the field unless you pay with a major body organ. We opted for the Wrigley Express from Woodfield.

This being Illinois, the system they have in place there is odd. The website says the buses leave at 4:30. I got there at 3:30 and there was already a line. At 3:45, buses began loading and taking off. By 4:00, four of the six were gone. My friend arrived about then and we took the final two seats on bus five, far in the back with no leg room to speak of.

And then we sat until 4:30 so they could load all the late-comers onto our bus and bus #6 where they packed into the aisle. Two young men were standing close to the back door. For the next hour and a half, as we sat in traffic on the Kennedy Expressway, we heard a constant plea from the intercom — “Please move away from the doors.” Every time the message repeated, one of the young men would look up at the top of the door and then … stay right where he was.

We finally arrived at 6:15, about 45 minutes before game time. Our seats were high up in the upper deck right next to the press box. It was a hot, muggy day, and we felt very little breeze, but the view was great. We could see a slice of Lake Michigan way off to our right.

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I left to find a bathroom (not easy to do at Wrigley) and buy $15.25 worth of supper.

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I didn’t leave my seat again. Because I only had my cellphone, all the rest of my photos will look remarkably similar.

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Willson Contreras on his way home after his game-tying blast in the third.

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Chris Bryant rounding third after his monster shot onto Waveland in the fifth.

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Mike Trout about to strike out against Strop to end the game in the ninth. I posted this because Trout will probably be in the Hall of Fame someday, and I wanted to prove I saw him play (although you’ll have to take the video board’s word for it).

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It was a great game, with two homers, great pitching by John Lackey, some amazing fielding by the Cubs and some humorous fielding by the Angels. We stuck around afterwards for the singing of the silly song and the raising of the “W” flag, which are mandatory parts of the “Cubs are the best team in baseball” experience. Near the end of the video, you can see a blurry replay of Bryant’s home run on the video board.

 

There were still a lot of fans around as we pushed our way out through the metal detectors and struggled to find a place where we could breathe. It was probably as close as I’ll ever come to knowing what it feels like to be born.

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I’d been texting back and forth with my daughter all game long. She was downtown and volunteered to give us a ride home. We took her up on it. About 35 minutes after the final pitch, we met her on a side street two blocks from the park. After dealing with some extraordinarily rude traffic police, we were on our way in air-conditioned comfort and arrived back at the bus depot where we’d left our cars just a few minutes after the buses arrived, but without the knee pain and numb butts.

Here’s the box score. It put the Cubs at 29 games over .500 with a 70-41 record, by far the best in baseball. It was also their eighth win in a row.

As a life-long Cub fan, it feels very strange to write that.

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Cats on Chairs

All the other cats that have lived in this house had to be bribed to go anywhere near the red chair. But Millie and Lucy are social — they want to be where we are. So, when I’m working at my desk they’re right behind me hanging out on the chair.

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Our bird feeders are right beneath this window. The House Finches and Goldfinches like to hang out in the pear tree and on the roof of the bay window, both of which are RIGHT THERE!

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The Thrill of OPK

If you’ve ever had children in music, theater, dance or similar activities, you’ve experienced the dreaded OPK. It stands for “Other People’s Kids.”

With every commitment there comes an endless series of programs and recitals. Add to that Sunday school and Christmas programs and award ceremonies. Sooner or later it occurs to you that you’ve attended an awful lot of these things.

Of course you go to support your child. It’s what parents do. You don’t even mind that part of it. The problem is that your child is only center stage for about five minutes. But you have to stick around for another hour and a half and watch other people’s kids. And let’s be honest — only rarely are you entertained.

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Years ago, my daughter had a piano recital. Her teacher didn’t have a room in her house large enough for the families of all her students. She divided the performing children into three groups and staged the attendees accordingly. The families of kids in the first group were in the living room where the piano was. The second group was stationed in the family room. The third group, with the more advanced students, gathered in the dining room.

As we sat with a group of random people in a stranger’s dining room, the dulcet tones of “The Happy Clown” and “Winter Sleigh Ride” wafted down the hallway.

Finally it was our turn to move to the living room. The only chairs left were in the front row, three feet from the piano. We listened patiently to the students until finally it was our daughter’s turn to play. Of course, she was the last pianist of the afternoon.

When she finished, we began to gather our belongings. The piano teacher stood up to make some final comments. Or so we thought.

Instead, she announced that she wasn’t only a piano teacher. She also taught voice. As a special treat, we were being given the opportunity to hear two of her students.

At which point, two 12-year-old girls got up, stood two feet in front of us and sang the ENTIRE SOUNDTRACK from The Lion King. We were stuck. The aspiring stars stood directly in front of us, and their parents sat directly behind us. We couldn’t leave. We couldn’t sleep. We couldn’t in any way show that we were annoyed or bored.

I’m sure those two girls have since grown up to be lovely young ladies and delightful singers. But this was in the early stages of their careers. Probably the first stage. And the stage was running late that afternoon.

I had two ideas during those 45 minutes.

First, I coined the term OPK.

Second, I decided that my daughter would soon have a new piano teacher.

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Dog Owners

Many people are more comfortable with their pets than they are with humans. I know this from personal observation.

On my daily hike around the neighborhood, I meet people out walking their dogs. Frequently, as we approach each other, the owners begin talking out loud to their pets in an obvious effort to avoid talking with me. And they almost always use a goofy, high-pitched voice like they’re sucking helium and speaking to an infant.

“Come on Nibbles! We’re almost home! Just a little further and you can have a treat! Would you like a treat! I know you like treats!”

I make a friendly effort to wait until I-ve passed them by before I roll my eyes.

It gets even more awkward when they talk to their dog about ME.

“It’s OK Doofus! He’s a stranger but he won’t hurt you! Do you think he’s going to bite you? He’s not going to bite you. Leave the man alone. Let’s go, Doofus!”

It so happens that they’ve judged me correctly — I won’t, in fact, bite their dog. In fact, I think the risk is so slight that anyone they meet is likely to bite their dog that it could probably safely remain unsaid.

But yesterday morning I experienced the apex of awkwardness. Ahead of me I saw a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s, standing in the grass along the path. He had a miniature, long-haired dachshund on a leash. A jogger came from the other direction and passed by. The dog owner and his dog immediately set out after him, about three feet behind his heels. After perhaps 20 yards, the jogger looked back over his shoulder. The dog owner explained, “He’s chasing you.”

Mind you, the dog was on a leash. It would have been doing no chasing if the owner hadn’t been chasing along with him.

About that time, the three of them passed by where I was walking. The dog owner and his dog immediately gave up their pursuit of the jogger and began following right behind me. I heard the guy say to his dog, “Do you want to smell his legs?”

I found this decidedly uncomfortable and determined to give him about six seconds to stop before I turned around and told him his behavior was odd and unacceptable. But I didn’t need to do that. After five seconds, they dropped back and stopped.

I guess the dog didn’t want to smell my legs after all.

(NOTE: The names have been changed to protect innocent animals that are not responsible for the behavior of their owners.)

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