Introductions

When the future seemed endless, I never even thought about stuff like this.  But, with the possibility of Boy going to boarding school in August, I figured it was time.  I am talking about teaching him about some things he'll need to know when he's living away from home.  Stuff like how to do laundry, where food actually comes from, what a bathroom cleaner is for and how to use it - you get the picture.  So I decided to start by introducing him to the concept of laundry.  It went something like this.  

We stood in front of the washing machine.
ME:  Okay, this is how it works.  You take clothes that you have worn and...
BOY:  How long?
ME:  (confused) How long what?
BOY:  How long have I worn them?
ME:  (still confused) What do you mean 'how long have you worn them'?  What difference does that make? 
BOY:  Well, what constitutes dirty clothes?  What if I put on a pair of pants and only wear them for like, um, 20 minutes?  Are they dirty then?  Do they need to be washed still?
ME:  Why would you put on a pair of pants and then change them after 20 minutes?
BOY:  I don't know.  Maybe I was going to take a shower or something.
ME:  Well, why would you take a shower after you got dressed?  That seems sort of illogical.
BOY:  Well, what if I decided that I really didn't like the way the pants looked on me?  Or maybe I was going to go to sleep.
ME:  Why don't you like the pants?  (raising my voice just a smidgen) You should have told me you didn't like the pants before you cut the tags off them and wore them.
BOY:  (confused) What pants?  Who said I didn't like them? Maybe I just thought another pair of pants would look better with the shirt I was wearing.
ME:  Well, what shirt are you wearing?
BOY:  (looking down at his shirt) I don't know.  This one?
ME:  NOT THE ONE YOU'RE WEARING NOW.  The one that doesn't go with the pants!
BOY: (relieved) Oh.  I don't know.  I'm just saying...
ME:  And it seems REALLY silly to change your pants right before you're going to go to sleep, so just don't do that, okay?  Let's skip over the dirty question for now and go on.  Okay, so you take your DIRTY clothes and you need to decide what water temperature they should be washed in.  Generally, light clothes use warm or hot water and...
BOY:  What do you mean 'light clothes'? 
ME:  Colored.  Light COLORED clothing.  Like white or tan or pink...
BOY:  I don't have anything pink.
ME:  (under my breath)I bet you will soon.  Anyway, you put the clothes in the washing machine.  You don't PACK them in, you have to leave room in there for the water and the soap and for them to move around and everything.  Then you select the water temperature and add the soap and push this button over here and let the machine take it from there.  Now, the machines up at school will be different but that's the general idea. Any questions?
BOY: (looking at me blankly) Yes.  How do the clothes get from the floor of MY room all the way to the LAUNDRY room?
ME: =sigh=

[techy garbage]

My level of frustration is increasing with every passing day.  The older my computer gets, the harder it is to maneuver.  One case in point:  the screamingly SLOW transitions between my e-mail folders.  Now, it is not a complicated task – I simply want to see what has gone into my “deleted mail”  folder.  ‘Why?’ you ask?  Because I somehow made it so that pretty much every e-mail I get winds up there, even those from my preferred senders and approved contacts.  Don’t ask why I did this or how I did this because I don’t have an answer for you.  I have tried to change this – even going as far as to re-create an extensive list of contacts.  Which turned out to not only be unnecessary, but useless as well.  Man even stepped in and helpfully pointed out that my e-mail is behaving badly, but somehow that didn't help the situation.  I changed from my normal e-mail provider to one of those anonymous ones, and created an entirely new account.  This has not helped.  Frustratingly enough, solicitations from Neiman Marcus and others of some interest, like those advertising  potential jobs, still go into the trash file.  After changing from ‘hotmail’ (not so hot) to ‘gmail’ (not so great), I am still having the same issue.  So, I still have to toggle between the inbox and deleted items folders, which because my technology is a little dated, takes a while.  And, to make the situation even worse, I now have four different e-mail accounts which I can’t figure out how to get rid of so my computer really gets cranky and goes even s-l-o-w-e-r.  And then there is the adventure of trying to open an internet connection, which  is comparable to an old lady running and trying to catch up with a freight train. Not gonna happen.   My computer, once the darling of the cyber circuit, wheezes and whirrs and makes a lot of effort and takes a lot of time and runs her fan a great deal but most of the time, such as on days that have the letter “s” in them, will not complete an internet connection.  When this happens, I often scream in frustration and occasionally use swear  words to express my displeasure at its performance.  Which, surprisingly, does nothing.  I have a very low tolerance for non-performance.  I am somewhat ashamed to say I neither know how my computer and phone and iPod and even my television work, and I care even less...my disinterest is even recognized by the normally obtuse Boy, who in a recent e-mail in which he was sending me some software which could potentially fix all the issues I am having, said “this may not work because [ techy garbage ].”  This is now how I will refer to this and others related problems with mechanical things, as it is a perfect expression which describes not only the problem, but my view of it.

Joy to the World

Yes, I have been away...so much to say and catch up on, but I am going to start at the present.  But first, a huge thank you to you all who have continued to check back and request that I write something -  I am giving you this small offering, with the promise of more and better to come.  

So I have survived another Thanksgiving holiday with minimal pain and angst.  Only one of my guests drank entirely TOO much and sort of slept through dinner and then needed to leave before dessert.  In her last moments of semi-lucidity, she regaled us with maudlin stories about her cat whom she had euthanized the previous day.   We hurriedly tried to ship her off at that point in the evening - luckily she is a petite woman, and so we were able to sort of sling her up and around and stuff her into the car.  Other than that, the day was a reasonable success.  Boy overdosed on sugar, and Man, turkey.  As for me, I lustily and uninhibitedly imbibed in all the delights the day had to offer, effectively saying "go to hell"  to my usual healthful diet.   All in all a lovely day!  

A portmanteau of the words "Spiced" and "Ham"...

So, this blog post is for Boy. He specifically requested that I write about Spam. Not electronic spam, because he knows I know nothing about that, but the other one. Much to his surprise, I know nothing about the other kind, either. I was 50 years old and had never tasted Spam. I had never even held a can of Spam in my hand. So because he is a teenager and gets obsessed with things like this and believes it is his mission to expand his parents horizons, the other day Boy coerced Man into buying a can of Spam at the grocery store, insisting that it tastes good. Man was doubtful (he was a Spam virgin, too) but relented and home came the tin of Spam. Spam is evidently an cultural icon. There is an actual Spam museum in Austin, Minnesota (Spam Town USA) which is the Spam capital of the world. And, there are about twelve different varieties of Spam, including (I am not kidding) Honey Spam and Hot & Spicy Spam with Tabasco flavor. Spam is so popular in Hawaii that Burger King added it to it's menu in 2007. In South Korea, Spam is such a delicacy and so desirable that it is often presented as a gift to one's host. There are restaurants that serve nothing BUT Spam, and Spamarama Festivals. Spam Cook-Offs and Spam Parades. The list goes on. So, when Man asked Boy what he wanted for lunch the next day, Boy decided he wanted a Spam sandwich out came the little blue can, and Boy had a Spam sandwich with mustard on whole wheat. Boy proclaimed his lunch as "Delicious". The next day, I was making eggs on English muffins, and Boy suggested that he would like some cooked Spam on his. Cooked Spam? Were you supposed to cook it? What would happen to it when it got hot? And more importantly, how was I to cook it - grill it? roast it in the oven? fry it? I decided to mush it up with the back of a spoon into a paste and sauteed it like a pancake and put it on Boy's egg sandwich. It also rated a "Delicious. You should try it". But I did not. The next day (for such a small can, we sure got a lot of miles out of it) Boy thought it might be a good lunch if I made it like a stir fry - his reasoning was that I really love vegetables, and so I might be tempted to try it. So I diligently cubed the Spam and stir fried it with broccoli and celery and onions and carrots and some garlic and ginger and soy sauce. I was thinking at this point it might actually be like firm tofu and I was pretty interested in tasting it now. So I did. And all I can say is I don't like Spam.

Cluck

So, I want a chicken. A real live clucking pecking egg bearing chicken to keep in the backyard of my suburban home. I don't really know why I want a chicken but in my mind, I picture myself, in a Zsa Zsa Gabor-like ensemble gracefully traipsing through the grass, beneficently dropping feed for my new pet as it adoringly follows me through the yard. I can envision the perfectly constructed and charming coop which the chicken, after a long day of cavorting and frolicking, will return to at night so that she can rest soundly for her adventures the next day...In the dewy morning hours (in my fantasy, I actually awake before noon) with a porcelain egg basket on my arm, I quietly and gently remove the numerous eggs she has so generously bestowed upon me. I tenderly pick her up (I think her name might be Eugenia or maybe Portia, I can't decide) and remove her from the coop and place her in the green grass. As I wander down to the pond she follows happily, and the two of us spend the day enjoying the warm spring day, me daydreaming in the sun and she...well, doing what chickens do. Man however, unequivocally does NOT want a chicken. He can not appreciate and share my vision, but instead regales me with tales of how the four vicious and territorial cats that share our home will torture and eventually mangle the poor thing to death and how the coop will smell really disgusting unless it is cleaned all the time and how chickens really don't frolic but rather cluck incessantly and peck at the ground and eat bugs and all manner of disgusting things. He has also provided edification regarding the egg bearing habits of chickens, in that despite being named Eugenia or Portia they will only lay, at the most, one egg a day and only then, when they feel like it. So in order to provide just our family with sufficient eggs one or two times a week, one chicken will not do. Man says we would need probably six or maybe even more chickens to get the job done, at the rate Boy eats. And SIX chickens would be even noisier and smellier and even more entertainment for the cats. And then, he dealt the final death knell to my fantasy: with all those chickens, when I strolled languorously through the grass, I would likely get chicken poop on the hem of my dress.

My Soapbox

I don't often get serious here, but I have something to say. Since a lot of you that regularly read me are actual friends of mine, let me apologize if I am telling you stuff that you a, already knew, or b, didn't know until now. And, please don't be offended if what you read here is news to you as I am really not very good at sharing stuff like this. Even with y'all.

OK, so way back when I was in my very early 30's, I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma, a type of cancer that affects my immune system. Because it is a blood related cancer, it is very difficult to treat and impossible to cure. When I was first diagnosed, I elected to try an experimental treatment regime which, while it did nothing to stop the progression of my disease, acted as a fertility drug and I wound up preggers after trying to NOT have a baby for the nine or ten years I had been married. We all know how that turned out...I always say that while I may have gotten an incurable fatal disease, I got Boy out of the deal, and that's a fair trade. So, after many years of general medical related suckiness here I am, still beating the odds. Just an aside: survival statistics are very depressing things, but if you are interested, visit http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/types/non-hodgkin. That I even got this disease was kind of a kicker, because about 70% of all diagnosed cases are in MEN OVER THE AGE OF 67!!!! (see, I've always been special!) Anyway, after many rounds of radiation therapy and chemotherapy and all manner of "shitotherapy", there was a drug that was released which acts like a "smart bomb" towards lymphoma cells in that it only kills off the cancer cells, not my healthy cells. This drug, Rituxan, is intravenously injected once a week over the span of four weeks. So every six months since around 2001 or so, once a week I would go get hooked up to a pump for about 8 hours and get this stuff injected. Which was great, because it actually worked and killed off any lymphoma cells, even those which were hiding in bone marrow, etc. Great stuff, huh? But, about four years ago, the treatment available to me for years became UNAVAILABLE to me because my insurance company decided to refuse to insure me anymore. Every time I got an injection of this drug, it was very expensive, adding up to the tune of about $65,000.00 a year expensive. So, after I had no insurance, I realized I am lucky enough to live in a state that can actually force an insurance company to provide me with coverage. A good thing, right? Except that the insurance company could (and did, in my case) exclude treatment for an existing condition for 18 months, and the monthly premium was MORE THAN MY MONTHLY MORTGAGE PAYMENT. I am not kidding. So, after paying insanely high premiums for 18 months, I was able to get treatment again. After getting my first Rituxan in almost two years though, I had to cancel that insurance coverage because I simply could not afford it anymore (don't worry, I'm not hitting you up for a loan or anything, I promise). Today, I finally have health insurance again that does cover the expensive treatment I need without a waiting period, thanks to the Affordable Health Care Act enacted by the Obama administration. And now here I come with my soapbox: I have to ask you that no matter what you believe or think about our current administration, that you do NOT support the efforts to repeal the Affordable Health Care Act, because quite simply put, me and many others will probably die way sooner than we should without the health insurance we so desperately need. And, I don't want to die because you know I still have A LOT to say! Thanks for reading.

My Life in Home Improvement

So, I recently started a part time job at one of the big national chains of home improvement stores.  I am not really terribly excited by this, but I have gotten even more antsy and bored while looking for work in my field.  I figured I have some skills that I might be able to share with some other hapless homeowner who, due to tough economic times must launch themselves into the land of "D-I-Yville".  On the first day at my new job, I learned how NOT to cut vinyl flooring.  Evidently, that long red string that runs under the flooring roller is the accelerator for the roller...not a stray piece of carpet fiber to be yanked and pulled, as I thought.  The roller/cutter machine does not have an emergency braking system, either.   And, I also learned that a new full roll of vinyl flooring can be as much as 168 linear feet, which is an awful lot of very heavy material to wind up by hand, back onto its spool, after one causes the rolling machine to go nuts and spew yard after yard onto the floor...

Tiny Rat Vests

Stuff people are doing...

Capitalizing on people's love of fried foods, a local restaurateur has now added to her menu... Fried Beer. A beer-filled pretzel pocket is deep-fried to a golden brown. One bite and the escaping beer serves as a dipping sauce.

Authorities in California's Riverside County say that a woman with a gun robbed 11 customers at a farmer's market - but only got away with $6, for a total take of just under 55 cents per person threatened. Just 166,667 more crimes like that and she'll be a millionaire.

A prospective employee at Man's company listed her current job as an "administrative ass."

Scientists at Penn State University are sewing tiny weighted vests to put on healthy laboratory rats. The scientists are hoping to discover how animals’ muscles respond to changes in body weight.

A British researcher from Cardiff University has determined that February 17 was 2012's most depressing day. His formula for this bleak prediction took into account factors like post-holiday blahs and debt and failed New Year’s resolutions, and...clothing size? Go figure.

Yup, that's kinda how I felt about this stuff, too...

One more thought about Boy...

Until Boy becomes not a teenager, I will have to try and be smart enough to understand him.  I will root around and soul search for enough compassion to forgive him his rude ways and work at being patient enough to deal with his moodiness.  I will truly work at allowing him to make all the mistakes he needs to in order to learn and grow.  I will NOT, however, pray for strength because I do not want to beat him to death.  

Teenage Boy

Note:  I may diminish my credibility as a loving and caring parent because of this post.  But I need to vent, so please don't be too harsh.
Everyone makes jokes about their teenagers, but no one does anything about them...
Seriously, I was warned by parents way more experienced than I about the plethora of insane behaviors I could expect from my child when he got to be 14 or 15.  Despite the many ways I have tried to forget the follies of my own youth, I still remember how difficult it was to be a teenager and how silly and irrelevant my parents were and how just about EVERYONE over the age of ME was really annoying and basically a big pain.  So I sort of get Boy's erratic behavior, but only to a point.  

A few things I don't understand:

• Why does he dig through the dirty clothes hamper to find a shirt to wear rather than wear one of the clean ones hanging in his closet?
• Why, if he is "not hungry", does he eat an entire bag of potato chips, 2 quarts of orange juice, three peaches and my secret stash of KitKat bars in one sitting?
• Why are pork chops and broccoli "disgusting" and sour Gummy Worms "really legit"?
• How can this brilliant and gifted sprout fail a biology test because he neglected to answer the questions on the back of the test paper?  (The question which ended mid-sentence on the FRONT of the test paper was apparently not enough to clue him in that there were some additional questions on the reverse of the page.)
• Why can he get completely showered and dressed and out the door on a weekend morning in approximately 6 minutes but must take a 40 minute shower on a school morning thereby requiring he eat his breakfast either in the car or running through the halls of the school while he desperately tries to beat the bell?

I know this is so cliched, but I just don't get it.  I mean, I really really try but I still find myself, huddled in my bathroom, silently screaming "WHY?"  So many people I know are just rolling through their kids' teenage years with way less stress than me.  When I question them about how they manage and cope, they say things like "Oh, just choose your battles" and "It could be even worse" and basically act like it is no big deal that their once lovable and sweet and funny and interesting kid is now essentially a tsucheppenish*.  I think that they are probably not being straight with me...I bet they silently scream in their bathrooms, too.  And I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they probably drink way more than I do or that prescription sedatives play a major role in maintaining their calm and cool demeanor.  Whatever their secrets, my manner of coping will continue to require that I spend way more time in my bathroom...
* Huge pain in the ass

The Real Chopped Champion

So, the other night I was thinking about how the program managers or producers at the Food Network ought to create an amateur version of their show, "Chopped". In case you're not familiar with it, it basically goes like this: four professional chefs compete to put together a meal using a bunch of strange ingredients. Think octopus and avocado and cactus pear strange. So anyway, the mystery ingredients, as they are called because the chefs don't know what they're cooking until right before each round, must all be used in some combination and turned into a pleasing, palatable dish and served to three judges. After the dish is prepared, the chefs go to the chopping block to await the judges decision of whose dish is the best, and whose is so bad, the chef gets chopped from the competition - hence the name of the show.  It is a pretty entertaining show, all in all. But, the more I thought of how I should present my idea for the amateur version of the show, I realized that I basically have lived "Chopped" every single day since becoming a parent! Poor Boy was (and still is, for that matter) pretty much my judge and my chopping block. But unlike the judges on the TV show, no matter what I turned out, he had to eat it. Of course, back in the day, he really didn't have many pre-conceived ideas about what made a great meal. Because no one ever told us we shouldn't, Man and I, from the time Boy was just Baby, fed him exactly what we ate. We just chopped it up into a slurry in the blender.  On Boy's first Thanksgiving, he enjoyed a complete traditional turkey day dinner, including the sweet potato pie! And food we cooked, like Chicken Caccitore, replete with hot red pepper and onions and garlic was stuffed into the Mix Master as well and he ate right along side of me and Man. We simply fed him what we ate, just a mushier version. And as Boy began to grow up, and life got more hectic, some days I did stand in front of him and justify that a cucumber omelet was an excellent meal choice. As was Mom's Magic Pizza (catsup and oregano on white bread topped with any kind of cheese. Once, there was no cheese in the house, so I smeared blue cheese salad dressing on the bread and Boy loved it)! Not unlike probably every other mother faced with providing a healthy and delicious meal for their child, I got creative with what was on hand. I mean, I probably will never have octopus in my pantry, but I would like to see those professionals create a satisfying family meal from bullion cubes, Boy Scout gourmet popcorn, Swiss cheese and a handful of elbow macaroni!  Bet they couldn't do it.

What to Wear...

In honor of NY Fashion Week, I am cleaning out my closet so I can make room for whatever new stuff I might buy.  It's not really a big job, because I truly have no clothes, except for gym and running wear, that same one "grown-up" white shirt that's been hanging around for some time now, a bunch of bathing suits (which I hang in my closet because the drawer space is taken up by my shorts and tee shirts) and a shirt I bought while I was obviously under the impression that I have a glamorous and socially active lifestyle and would therefore need an orange chiffon ripple blouse, to compliment my (non-existent) silk charmeuse trousers and my (also non-existent) Christian Louboutin's.  So, as I stared dismally at the tangled mass of bathing suits I realize that, fashion-wise, I am pretty much a hot mess. And, I realize that what I need is a personal shopper.  As in the "What Not to Wear" variety of personal shoppers.  Because I am pretty sure that any personal shopper worth their Channel* bag would have steered me away from the orange ripple blouse.  In fact, I probably wouldn't have even been in the same department as that blouse, or even the same store, for that matter!  I used to have some fashion smarts and a pretty decent sense of style, back before I became a parent.  While some women easily make that transition back from Mother to Style Maven, if they even ever allowed themselves to go over to the "mommy side" category of dress - me...well, not so much.  Some time ago I did throw away all the really grungy tee shirts and only kept the nicer ones.  And, I did ditch the unflattering one-piece bathing suit I wore only twice after my son was born.  But I never quite made it back to my former stylish self.  While I'll not ever make it onto someones best dressed list, on the upside, I do have bikinis in fourteen different colors and how many other Mom's can say that?

*This just reinforces that fashion-wise, I am in trouble.  My misspelling of one of the most famous design houses ever is a cry for help...

At the Table

Another conversation from our dinner table:

Me (to Boy): Please stop trying to fling your green beans into Daddy's glass.
Boy:  OK.
Me (to Boy): Please stop tapping your fork on the side of your plate.
Boy:  OK.
Me (to Boy): Please don't lean back in the chair like that.
Boy:  OK.
Me (to Boy): Please stop trying to fling your green beans into MY glass.
Boy:  OK.  Hey, do you realize that in almost exactly TWO months, I can get my Learners Permit?
Man:  Hey, that's right!
Me: Heaven help us all.

Dinner at Eight

OK, so more domestic chatter...
I am a good cook.  A VERY good cook.  I have to preface this post with that to save face a bit.  For a recent meal, I caved to popular opinion and purchased a meat thermometer to use on my planned dinner entree. I have to say that I never under cook, or worse, overcook food despite not ever using a meat thermometer, except for that time I got way too drunk on Thanksgiving and cooked the turkey for about three hours more than it needed...(Hello, Domino's?).  But, I decided to use one as I was feeding people who preferred their beef cooked a bit more than me and Man and Boy do, and it was a pretty big roast, so I wasn't exactly sure about the timing.  On the day of my dinner party, I did all the prep work and created an aromatic dry rub for the roast, let the beef sit and relax and warm a bit, and when the time came, put it on the grill.  I know you're thinking "Grilling a Roast Beef?  What, is she NUTS?" but I always cook on the grill; in this case, I treated it like the oven and used a roasting pan for the food.  Anyway, I had tentatively planned on needing to cook the roast @1 3/4 hours.  After it had cooked for one and a half hours, I stuck the thermometer in the roast and checked the internal temperature.  Hmmmm...The temperature was only just around 100 degrees.  That's pretty much raw, so I set a timer for another half hour and re-thought my strategy for appetizers.  I also brought the thermometer inside and tested it under hot water to make sure it worked.  It did.  So after another half hour, I stuck the thing in the beef again and the temperature registered about 110 degrees.  Still a little too rare for my guests, so I left the thermometer in the roast and planned on coming back in ten minutes or so.  Well, when I checked (using a flashlight because it was dark by this time) the temperature hadn't budged, so I let it to cook some more.  And some more.  And then some more.  Finally, I decided to take the damn thing off the heat and bring it inside because it was surely cooked enough by now despite what the thermometer indicated.  I brought the roast into the kitchen and was letting it rest and waiting for the temperature to climb a few notches when I realized that meat thermometer was broken...The glass covering the little dial had melted and 'frozen' the needle at 110 degrees...
Hello, Domino's?

When a Door Closes...

So my friends do it.  Others I hardly know do it and encourage me to try it.  I didn't believe any of them or their tales of newly found freedom and the joyful transformation of the mundane to the extraordinary they so gloriously described.  Man and Boy were highly suspicious and really doubted I could or even would attempt to do it.   But, in spite of their somewhat scathing remarks and jokes, I decided to try it one day when I was home by myself, so I wouldn't be interrupted.  I approached the open doorway to Boy's bedroom with trepidation - this would be the supreme test.  Would I have enough nerve to do it here?  If I could, I knew I could, and would do it anywhere.  I reached out my hand, grasped the door knob, took a deep calming breath and pulled the door towards me until it clicked shut.  There.  I had done it.  I looked around guiltily and turned back to the now closed door.  Phew...I had successfully cleaned Boy's room in approximately 1/10th of a second.  My friends were right!  Now on to the rest of the house...

Running Woman, Part 2

How can I best describe the scene?  There I am; one in a crowd of perhaps 200 people.  We are all dressed in running clothes and adorned with some combination of bells or reindeer noses or antlers or flashing Christmas lights or elf ears or striped socks - there is even a person in a bright red Santa suit standing next to me whose pants seem to be playing Christmas carols.  What was I thinking when I chose this venue, the annual Marine Corps Jingle Bell Run, for my first foray into the world of recreational running?  All but me and maybe four or five others seem to be US Marine Corp active duty soldiers.  It is obscenely early (as in "it is STILL dark out" early and you KNOW how I feel about early morning activities) and I am abjectly TERRIFIED that I will not be able to complete the five kilometers.  I am also terrified that should I by some chance wind up in front of a group of the insanely FIT runners, I will either be a) trampled  or b) forced to run blindingly fast so I don't get trampled by the over-zealous elves and reindeer and possibly even Santa.  The race officials herd us to the start line, explain the route (which I really hope is marked because I am pretty sure to get lost if it's not), point out the HUGE electronic device ticking away which will time us and then there is a shot...I am startled...unaware that yes, that is really how they start a race.  I collect my thoughts, swallow my fear and off I go.  I try to be aware of my pace so that I don't run too fast and get too tired early on, but my fears are realized and there is suddenly a WAVE of soldiers behind me, chanting and ringing bells, each and every one politely yelling "Excuse Me, Ma'am" to me as they pour past me.  We come to a small 'funnel' on the course and I am forced to run as fast as I can to keep out of their way...I look longingly behind me at the safety of the gym, then back at the crush of Marines coming at me quick and I put my head down and just start running like hell.

Finally, the course opens up and I am able to sprint to the side of the column of runners and fight to catch my breath.  As I recover and struggle to regain my rhythm, the song "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" comes into my head, only I hear it as...

"Penny got trampled by the Marine Corps...
Running her first 5K one fine day
You can say she had no business running
But you know she's stubborn and had to have her way.

So she donned all her running gear
And stayed up all the night
To make sure she didn't miss it
'Cause she had to be there before the day's first light

When they found her on the course
After all the others had come and went
She looked up at her rescuers
And said "Y'all are heaven sent"

(chorus repeat)

For the remainder of the race, my idiotic words played endlessly in my head and I laughed my way to the finish line.  I am proud to say I RAN the entire course, not once did I cry and,  hold on to something solid: I finished...next to last place!

Running Woman

            "...he was probably just beginning his mid-life crisis, hence the jogging stuff. So, the message here is twofold: First, you never know when you're going to die, so you should be sure to have fun while you can. Second: this story reinforces my belief that jogging, whether on a treadmill, a neighborhood nature trail or even a beautiful beach, is truly a BAD thing." - from AIRPLANE, originally published in The Penny Chronicles March 17, 2010.

OK, so now do I have to eat my words?  I have, I am deeply ashamed to admit, taken up running.  I am now one of those crazy road weenies you see at all times of day and night in ill-fitting and unattractive clothing, bobbing crazily through crosswalks and between parked cars and around stopped school buses, and even worse, one of those who stop for traffic signals but keeps running in place.  I have joined their ranks. For some reason, I have a deep seated desire to run some sort of footrace.  So, I am currently training for a 5 kilometer race which will be held in three short weeks.  I have NEVER run before and I have a few theories why.  

• First and foremost, I have now proved what I have long suspected; that my body is not made for running - it is made for fishing and eating and playing at the beach and sleeping and other pleasurable pursuits.  
• Second, inclement weather is best enjoyed from either the cozy cabin of a warm, dry pilothouse or the plush sofa of a home with a well-stocked kitchen or at least a good and reliable source of take out food.  
• Third, I am an embarrassingly SLOW runner.  I am so slow that I have nightmares of the race officials closing up and leaving before I finish...  Of Boy graduating from High School while I am trying to finish this race...  Of missing dinner...

Despite the compelling reasons I have to NOT run,  I still put on my tennies and head out the door and slog around the neighborhood for a bit a few times a week.  I keep putting one foot in front of the other and smile through the complaints my body is making.  What's getting me off my big comfy couch?  I just keep imagining my triumphant dash across the finish line.  In my case, my 'dash' is likely to be a slow jog or even a walk or perhaps even a crawl but as long as I make it to the other side of that line, I don't really care.

 

Beautification

Over the years, I have experimented with probably hundreds of skin care products purchased (depending on my financial solvency) at drugstores, supermarkets, department store cosmetic counters, salons and spas. I have also gone the route of door-to-door products, mail order and the internet. I am a skincare junkie. An addict, if you will. I will try out pretty much any product on my face. I have also experimented with skincare of my own invention in my own kitchen (after all, I do have a science background), developed after painstaking detailed research spanning actual minutes.

My latest experiment was with canned pumpkin. Pumpkin is loaded with all kinds of good stuff your skin needs so I thought, "Why not?" So I opened up a can of pumpkin, smeared it on my face and throat and waited about 15 minutes. After rinsing it off, while my skin did feel noticeably smoother, my face and neck and the palms of my hands were a ghastly shade of...well, pumpkin orange. From the neck up, I looked like a spray tan gone bad. My peculiar coloring lasted about 3 days. Neither man nor boy noticed. (Note to self: next time, use the white pumpkins.)

Other things I have tried and suggest you avoid -

Plough (pronounced 'pluff') mud: I thought this would be a great detoxifier and be loaded with luscious nutrients from the sea. However, when I let it dry out on my skin, I was encased in this incredibly hard crust...sort of like a mummy. Took FOREVER to wash off. And then, learning from my mistake, I thought maybe regular mud puddle mud might work...you know, with the rain water and all that. Got a horrible rash...

I had high hopes for whipped cream and honey - When I started out, I actually was using MILK and honey, but by the time I blew up the hand mixer trying to blend these two things together, I had made whipped cream with some lumpy calcified honey blobs. Whipped cream, and therefore I assume milk, on my skin, makes me itch terribly! Egg whites were almost as difficult to remove as the plough mud. And, I also can't recommend oatmeal, watermelon, coffee grinds or balsamic vinegar as skincare treatments.

So, while I like and use "natural" and "unprocessed" and "organic" products to eat or clean my house with, when it comes to my face, I run like hell from any product that makes any of those claims!

Hell No; I Won't Go!

So the southeastern coast of the US, where I live, is maybe-possibly-could-be-in-the-path of a hurricane that is predicted to make landfall near me sometime in the next couple of days. I really don't worry about hurricanes anymore, not since the BIG one of 1998. Now, I have a lot of respect for Mother Nature, but once you've been through what I've been through, you kind of take it all in stride. In 1998, there was a massive storm approaching the coast. This sucker, Bonnie, was so huge and so terrifyingly strong that pretty much the entire southeastern seaboard was required to evacuate. Boy was just a toddler at the time, still in diapers in fact, which is why we decided to evacuate. We figured we owed it to him to make sure he lived long enough to at least be potty trained. So I packed a small cooler with snacks and water, loaded the kid into his carseat and headed north to Atlanta to stay with friends. Man was following us a little later in the day with the cats and a few other irreplaceable items. My goal was to get on Interstate 16, which would pretty much take me where I wanted to go. I was driving the Mommy Mobile (a little Volvo station wagon which was quite possibly THE un-hippest vehicle one could drive), but I had my little guy, good music and some food so I was all set for the 4 hour trip. The short drive to the Georgia border went quick. I was zipping along, belting out the 'Winnie-the-Pooh' song, crossed over the Talmadge Bridge and had the interstate in my sights when I came to a stop...

There was literally a sea of cars in front of me. I downshifted all the way to first gear and there I stayed for TWELVE HOURS, creeping along at maybe 5 miles an hour. We were going so slow, people were picnicking out of the beds of their pick-up trucks and the trunks of their cars WHILE THEY WERE STILL DRIVING! Families were walking behind their cars, pushing little ones in strollers, tossing frisbees, etc. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. It was like Interstate 16 was a Wal-Mart parking lot on a Friday night. It was the worlds biggest and slowest parade and it totally sucked. After 3 hours in traffic, I left the first of many messages on my friends answering machine. It was something along the lines of "Way more traffic than I expected...I'll be there a little bit later than I thought." Another hour later, I called her back and said "This is really getting on my nerves...I have been driving at like, 2 miles an hour for HOURS now...hopefully I'll be there soon." The next message was "I was going to turn around, but all the southbound lanes have been changed into northbound only. Things are looking up, though...we're cruising along at almost 20 miles an hour now! Be there in no time at all!" The next call was a bit more panicky..."OK, it's been 7 hours now, I am out of food, I have to pee, Boy is crying, people are getting UGLY out here. I'll call you when I get closer." Another hour or so later, I left this message: "My house AND my entire city better be LEVELED by this bitch, or I am going to be REALLY mad I have sat in this freakin' horrible car on this damn road for MORE THAN EIGHT HOURS FOR NO REASON." Hour nine's phone message was unintelligible, as I was by that time hyperventilating. An hour later, my message held the promise of death to the jerks who had erroneously forecast this monster storm hitting the Florida/Georgia/South Carolina coast. Later still, gut-wrenching sobs and shrieks of frustration that I still had not even reached the half way point to Atlanta were preserved on on the celluloid of my friends machine. My last message, at 11:00 at night explained that I was spending the night at some church a mere 85 miles from home...I was not being allowed to turn around and go home, even though the emergency had long passed. Man, who left our home some 6 hours AFTER me and Boy did, turned around and doubled back on the 'back' roads to meet us at the church that housed us all for the next two days, until the southbound lanes of the interstate had been re-opened and we could get home again.

So that's why hurricanes don't freak me out...I have been and am going to continue to be one of those weird people you see being interviewed on The Weather Channel who says "hell no, I'm not evacuating..."

Im ok u r ok 2

Every time a friend of mine has a thought to share, she texts me. And she usually sends long, involved texts - discourses on an outfit she is thinking about buying; what she thinks our kids should do next summer; a new recipe for hush puppies. Stuff that really requires a face to face conversation or at least, a telephone call. But, for some reason, she has decided that talking on the phone is not for her anymore and so I am forced to try and communicate with her on her terms. But, I'm afraid that our friendship is suffering because of it. Part of the problem is my technology impairment - stuff like this requires that I learn a new skill set - namely learning to push the very small buttons on my cell phone the required number of times to enter the correct letter, symbol or number. I do NOT have one of the phones that has a little keyboard built in and so I rarely capitalize or punctuate any texts I send. The keypad on my phone has numbers and a pound key and a few others, but it is certainly not a mini typewriter by any stretch of the imagination. When faced with answering her texts, I am also forced to try and use the fewest possible letters and respond as QUICK as I can, because if I don't answer her right away, she sends another text which causes my phone to delete whatever I am in the middle of typing. And, on top of poorly composed responses I always misspell stuff, too. So this is how a usual text session goes...

(her text) Do you want to go 2 Target w/me?

(my text) i thinl...

(her text) I want to leave @ 11. Is that good?

(my text) i think thavwould bfun and...

(her text) Would you rather go to Savannah to the mall? I want to see if I can get a new espresso machine at that groovy kitchen store that just opened.

(my text) i thinktgat target would be bditter becausei have to b...

(her text) Ooohhh...I know - let's go to the mall and then scoot over to "Ulta" and get some of that peppermint soap we love so much!

(my text) yer that will bfin...

(her text) Well, I guess you can't go today. Too bad. Maybe another day - text me back when you get this. XOXO

(my text) ZES!!!

You see what I mean?