Last Monday, I went to a movie with a friend. Having sort of skipped dinner, I did something uncharacteristic and actually bought food (or the closest approximation thereof) at the theater. My hotdog came with a medium drink. When the clerk hoisted the beverage onto the counter, the resounding thump was followed by a beat of total silence, before my friend and I burst out laughing. The receptical before me was a 44 ounce trough. I would only be exagerating slightly if I said I could fit my cat Weasley in that cup. And Weasley? Not small.
On Sunday, I was strapping on my gear for a hockey game in the team's changing room and marveling at the curiously different experience this environment provides in contrast to other active pursuits in my life. If you hang out with a bunch of guys who play hockey, do you know what they want to talk about? Hockey. Just hockey.
On Saturday, my six-year-old niece approaches me while I'm making lunch. She has a fist full of leaves clutched in one hand and is towing her mom along in the other. She stops, looks through her collection, and picks one out. It's a sycamore leaf. Green, and a little crunchy brown around the edges. She hands it to me. "This is a leaf. It's a present for you."
"Thank you," I said. "I love it. And this is a present you for."
She accepts a piece of cheese on a cracker.
"Thank you," she says, and continues towing her mom in pursuit of leaves.