paul·a·ver

I wasn’t planning to run Chicago next fall–it turns out to be a pretty expensive weekend–but I was stunned when I received an email from LaSalle Bank Sports indicating that registration is already closed.

Evan was in a pretty sour mood.

Graham is in the bathroom brushing his teeth, and I am cleaning up. “You know what kind of son you are?” I ask placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I said to him, I said…” I caught myself saying in a bout of storytelling at dinner with friends the other night as I relished another swallow of Tsing Tao.

“Yah!” I screamed. “What? What, Dad?” Evan came running. “Um,” I paused. “Nothing,” I told him and went back to sorting laundry. He pursued the matter further, because he is a six-year-old training for a position as inquisitor and it’s required for him to reach next rank. “Why did you scream?”