So, what’s new with you?

I know I hadn’t been by my own blog in a while, but I just realized it hasn’t been since January of this year.  It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say; it’s a rare thing when I’m completely speechless.

A quick re-cap of 2009:

Sonny Boy and I want to ride “America’s Most Beautiful Bike Ride” together in June, 2010.  I’ve been trying to think of creative ways to fundraise in advance so we can hit our goal early.

Sonny Boy and Girlfriend are still together. They have moments of  ‘I love you, I hate you’, but seem to work it out — or they just ignore the problems, which is bad.  One of his very good friends was killed in a car accident June 12; this sent him emotionally reeling.

Sweet Pea is doing some nannying in Delaware until early August.  She got her birthday present early (cell phone).  We told her it was for her overall safety, but, come on, the truth is I need to talk to her and hear her voice.  We’ve become texting monsters. She misses us, and admits to it, but this will be a good experience for her.

Sugar Bug got busted for cheating on her blood sugar testing logs — she wasn’t testing at all!  I don’t know how we missed that for FOUR MONTHS, but we trusted her, perhaps too much.  She is only 11 after all.  We, no– I, got chewed out by the nurse educator at her follow-up for not being more careful to double-check her meter to the log sheets.  Lesson learned by all involved, and it won’t happen again.  She wants to get an insulin pump, but the application asks her doctor if two months of blood sugar testinglogs are kept.  We do not have that since she was cheating, at least not yet.

Satchel, the cat, has turned out to be a very good hunter, and has caught and killed his keep in mice.  He’s a funny cat, snuggly up to a point and loves to sit on my books, papers or keyboard, or whatever else I happen to be working on.

Lady Bear is now on Fat Dog dog food.  She’s not the best behaved when she meets other dogs while on a walk, so she doesn’t get to go often.  We have a lot of dogs in the neighborhood, and I can’t control her if she starts lunging toward them.  It’s too bad, she’s getting better about not dragging me through the first half-mile.

I have been coaching with Team in Training since January, as a walk coach. I haven’t been sent to any event yet and will likely be staying here for the first-ever TNT participation of the local marathon.  I would love to go back to San Francisco as a coach, but there’s only one first time for TNT to be at any event, so staying here would be pretty cool.  If I keep coaching there’s always other opportunities to travel with the team.  I still do childcare at home, but otherwise am still (un)gainfully unemployed.

My Darling Husband has had some changes with his responsibilities with work, and is now a partner in the shop.  The whole company had to make some drastic changes or risk having to close their doors for good.  He’s busy, the shop is busy, the mechanics and salesmen are busy and that’s all good for the bottom line.  We’re not gonna get rich any time soon, but we aren’t losing the house either.

Well, it’s a sunny, blue-sky July afternoon and the kids are wanting to go swim.  The pool needs a good vacuuming before that can happen, and I’ve just gotten “the look” and “you haven’t even started yet?”.  Flav-R-Ice to the rescue!

Inauguration Day

Tomorrow is Inauguration Day for incoming President Barack Obama. If you are alive and breathing in the US, I’m sure you know this already. I’m not going to carry on about how he’s this or that.  I don’t trust him, personally; his agenda is far too liberal for me to accept from a man who proclaims to be Christian.  I know, I know, there are lots and lots–oodles & gobbs, scads & scads, even– of good Christian people who call themselves Democrat.  I just struggle with how the two can be side-by-side.

That’s not what I want to get at.  I’m going to speak my mind, and risk sounding like some sort of hater bigot.  Call me that if you think you must, but I’ll disagree, and reserve the right to delete comments.  Comment if you like, but keep it clean: no vulgarity, no swearing, no playground-esque name calling.  Here goes…

I’m worried that some of my more liberal friends are going to become self-righteous smug caricatures of themselves in their bubbling rapture at Mr. Obama’s swearing in.  I’m not sure if the root of their joy is a deep despisal of President Bush, their giddy joy in a non-Anglo President or a combination of the two.  I just don’t want to see a bunch of ’sore winners’ dancing around the Washington Mall over the next two days.

President Clinton had the same Svengali hold on his party, and with some across the aisle.  There just wasn’t a throng of people a million strong crushing on Washington DC for his inauguration– either of them– and he came into office after 12 years of Republican presidencies, war, economic recession and terror attacks.

I am celebrating with our country over breaking the racial barrier for our highest elected office.  I can not celebrate having a Democrat move into that same office.  So I hope we can revel in this moment as an historic achievement, but please, no “Booyah! We win, you guys suck!” attitude.

What do You Make of This?

Allergan, the company that turned an obscure muscle paralyzer for eyelid spasms, Botox, into a blockbuster wrinkle smoother, hopes to perform cosmetic alchemy yet again. At the end of the month, the company plans to introduce Latisse, the first federally approved prescription drug for ______.

You answered: burning fat

Sorry! The correct answer is growing longer eyelashes

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

This was on the New York Times quiz-of-the-day on Facebook today.  I can’t believe that someone somewhere really thinks it necessary to have an Rx medication for growing longer eyelashes!

Who needs this?! Ponder that a moment….. ummm…. no one.

Of all the things a pharmaceutical company could spend billions of dollars researching, why on earth LONGER EYELASHES! Botox wasn’t created as a wrinkle reducer, but that’s one of its alternate uses, which is really good for sales and helps recoup research costs.  Now if this drug was created to treat hair re-growth for Alopecea patients, and longer-than-before eyelashes came as a bonus for them, well that’s fabulous!

As if the world doesn’t see Americans as self-involved, elitist pricks already, this shall surely add to that opinion. Of course, this will feed the self-involved vanity for women– and a few men I’m sure– worldwide, but that won’t matter in the world of public opinion.

While we’re still absorbing this astonishing news, let’s add this little head shaker:  think about where the money came from for this desperately needed new drug.  If the US government spent any of my hard-earned tax payer money on this project, someone in Washington DC needs to be recalled and lobbyist definitely need more control and oversight.  If all the money came from Allergan’s own deep pockets then I’ll un-ruff my feathers a little, but we still end up paying for it somehow or other in higher retail prices for other products sold by and through them, or their parent- or sister-company.

There was a time when medications were developed to actually prevent, treat and cure physical ailments.  Now we develop them to prevent, treat and cure our perceived genetic flaws. Steroids for your eyelashes, what’s next: steroids for non-public hair? puhleeze.

Just a Little Nudge

It’s quite late on evening of our Presidential Election and the polls in Michigan closed more than seven hours ago, and yet I find myself still seated, staring at a computer monitor and enjoying an unexpected conversation with a friend on Facebook.  This night has brought several events I wasn’t expecting.

Michigan had a state constitutional amendment proposal on the ballot concerning loosening state control over embryonic stem cell research. We spent some time discussing just what this amendment would actually mean– for science and for the sought-after-embryos. I’ll save my opinion on that issue for a later date, and I do have a strong opinion on it, by the way.

Our talk drifted into other things as well.  Artistic endeavors, Spiritual gifts, a little of this, a little of that.  It’s been delightful, and stimulating.  My friend has encouraged me to continue writing– he thinks I have a little talent for it! At least that’s the impression I got.  I don’t know how one gauges such things, but I’m a little biased about my own writings.

So I’ve gotten  a little nudge with some wonderful encouragement and an invitation to join  Creative Community, though no formal invitation was ever required.  With that little bit of sweet contentment I’ll be on my way to curl up under my covers, which we both said we needed to do about two hours ago– and save my commentary on politics, ballot proposals or any other potential hot button issue for another day.

Taking a Break to Make Decisions

I’ve just gotten off the phone with a friend who was asking if I’d be using or be interested in selling a science text book we have. She wanted to know if we’d be using it for Sugar Bug when she gets old enough.  I told I was still thinking about sending Sweet Pea to the co-op class that’s starting in a couple of weeks, which would use the book.  Problem: no money to sign her up, or pay the class fees.  She’s a good friend, and would probably let me make installments over the semester, all I’d have to do is prob’ly ask.

There’s a history/Lit/Bible class also offered.  It would be worth 3 high school credits, which Sweet Pea needs to have.  She wants to go to MSU and go through their Veterinary Medicine program and, well.. be a vet.  She loves animals, but thinks she wants to take care of large ones– horses, hippos, elephants, giraffe.  I think she’d cry just as much as any family to have to put a sick or injured animal down.

Sonny Boy has been tolerant of his parents of late.  He’s convinced we’ve screwed up his life, which isn’t entirely true.  We (read: I, me) have made some mistrakes with parenting and schooling decisions, and they can’t be undone.  I need to sit with him, have a long talk and ask for his forgiveness.

I was trying to work hard at getting caught up on a lot of housework that’s been pushed aside for a very long time when I got that call. I decided to take a break, grab some lunch and write. Only I haven’t eaten yet.  I think I’m actually making progress– with the housework, but I’m not nearly done.  I’ve decided to save laundry folding for later tonight, after sunset, so I can do it and listen/watch some TV. I’ve got stacks of books that need to be sorted and re-organized into subjects.  That may be a good job for tomorrow, after my walk.

Tomorrow is my next long (group) training day.  We have 14 miles on the agenda, but I may do 16.  Last week was supposed to be 16, but I didn’t see that until after I was home, showered and ready to devour a side of beef.  I wasn’t going to go back out to finish those last 2 miles.  I’ve realized the marathon is just 7 weeks away now! I have fundraising to do still– almost $1500. Any takers!?!  No? well, how about $30 or $50? As much as I’d love for an anonymous stranger to just 15 Benjamin’s into my lap, I know that’s not realistic– well, as realistic as winning tonight’s Mega Millions $134 Million jackpot.

So, to recap, I’ve decided: A) Sweet Pea should take the co-op classes.  I’ll have to find the money from somewhere. B) I need to talk to my son, really talk to him and apologize for not being the parent he needed. C)  Fold laundry during Numb3rs tonight D) Go eat some lunch, then scrub the kitchen floor.  E) Resist the urge to spend $1 on the voluntary tax that is the Michigan lottery.

Must dash off now, hunger beckons, and the cookies are screaming Eat me! so I better find something healthier than that.

Symbiosis or Falling off the Wagon

Where did the term “Falling off the wagon” come from?  *stopping to google it, and see what comes up*

Okay, so now I know, and for your enjoyment the history ( I found) behind it refers to the days of Prohibition when ladies would ride wagons through towns espousing the evils of alcohol.  When they could, they’d find a reformed drinker to ride the wagons with them to give more credibility to their speech.  And, if they started drinking again they “fell off the wagon”.

That phrase gets used by a lot of people for a lot of things besides drinking these days; myself included.

My recent wagon was supposed to be one of better eating, exercise, good night’s rest.  I fell off, and got back on, then fell off again, then on, off, on.  All this up and down nonsense is making my emotional legs ache for all the running to catch up and climbing.  Too bad THAT doesn’t help a body get fit.

I can’t seem to get all three phases to abide symbiotically.  I can sleep *great*, but then the exercise and eating struggle; same goes for eating, or exercise, then the other two falter.  Sometimes–sometimes– I can get two going at the same time.  Why not all three?  I want, I need all three to work together.

Why such a fuss?  A couple of reasons. 1) I flat out refuse to be a fat Mother-of-the-Bride. No, no one is even close to getting married here–sheesh Sweet Pea is only 13! Sugar Bug is 10.  But it took a long time for the pooch to go from pup to full-grown dog. And I’m not talking Chihuahua, okay?  It’s gonna take a while for it to disappear.  2) I’m almost 40, need I explain more? Thought not.  3) I can’t multi-task to save my life, but if I can’t multi-task this it may cost me my life.  I need to prove to myself I can do this, and finally be able to say I quit quitting.  Only because then I can say I don’t have to start again.

Well, I guess tomorrow I have to go find the next wagon stop and climb back on.  Hopefully all three of my partners board together and try not to escape the ride.

Popcorn on Picnic Tables

After my walk with Lady Bear tonight we came home to find my Dear Husband sitting out back with a fire going in his outdoor fireplace.  We said our “hello’s”, and Lady Bear drank her fill from the pool, as she is apt to do.  I excused myself to get washed up.  While the water was running the breeze wafted some of the smoke up through the window.  Those two combined, and in an instant I was transported to the summer I was six.

We had a ritual, of sorts; at least it seems like one in as far as nostalgia goes.  We lived in a neighborhood filled with kids, where neighbors got to be life long friends, and so did their kids.  On our little corner of Burke street my dad would pile on the Kingsford, let us soak it with lighter fluid, and fire up the grill.  It was Saturday night, and we were cooking burgers outdoors. The Dads, mine and Mr. S, our neighbor, would sit at their picnic table, still in their Saturday work clothes, and play cribbage while we ran around, waiting for the coals to be ready.  The method of scoring cribbage baffled we little ones, and figured it was definitely a game for the grown ups, and we mostly left them alone.  The Moms would be in their respective kitchens forming patties, slicing tomato, washing lettuce.  If one of us was lucky enough to come in at the right time, Mum would let us pour the sugar down the funnel and shake up Kool Aid in the old milk jug we reused so many times it was stained pink.

Most often we’d eat indoors, but every once in a while both families would sit together at the picnic table, and feast on homemade potato salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and lots of burgers.  I loved that picnic table. It had wooden benches and a wooden top, and curved wrought iron scrolling leg supports.  Mr S. had to scrape and sand it every spring and then re-shellac it after a hard Michigan winter would make it all peel.  It was a rich golden amber color.  We’d play games of Monopoly on it, and I’d always want to be banker, not because I was good at math (which I was), but because I would cheat and give myself extra money whenever I passed GO, or bought my properties. I hate Monopoly, I never win, even when I’d cheat.

After dinner was done we were off to take our Saturday night baths, with lots and lots of bubbles from Avon’s pink bubble bath. Those were the best, because we’d sit in there so long we’d get all wrinkly, my two sisters and me, all together in the tub.  And if there were enough bubbles we didn’t even have to use soap! We’d just make mermaid shell bras, Santa beards and Pippi Longstocking pigtails until we were clean.  I’m sure a Barbie or two had to do some acrobatic high dives inbetween saving the Fisher Price Little People from killer sharks and swimming the wide, wide ocean.  Afterward came Johnson & Johnson’s “No More Tears” detangler, and sometimes, pink foam curlers.

But the night wasn’t finished. O no, there was one last thing.  We’d all be cleaned, combed, curler-ed and dressed in our nightgowns then head back out to the picnic table in the neighbor’s back yard, sometimes in slippers, but usually barefoot.  The dads would sit with a cold beer, maybe the moms too, and we’d have a huge bowl of freshly popped popcorn, rich with melted butter and lots of salt, and a little more Kool Aid if any was left.  We kids would melt the leftover styrofoam cups and Dixie plates in what was left of the coals in the grill.  I remember once having marshmallows, and watching them puff up in the heat before they’d catch on fire.  If there were any sparklers left over from the Fourth of July, we’d get to light them up too, twirling and dancing, pretending they were our magic wands.

Thoroughly exhausted, we were ushered up to bed.  We’d have our bedtime Bible story and prayers, be kissed and told not to have any feet fights.  This was a constant problem–the feet fights– since I shared a bed with my little sister.  It didn’t matter, we’d had a great night.

Knees, Revisited

I had my appointment with the orthopaedist.  I’ll get to what he said later. First, I need to give an impression of his office.

On the wall was a list of all the doctors who participated in the practice itself.  There must have been at least a dozen, all etched in a glass wall plaque that measured a good 18″ x 36″– good to see where my co-pays are going.  They also had three –3!– receptionists working the front desk receiving patients as they arrived for their appointments.  There was seating for at least 50 in the waiting room, which explains this next part: pagers.  You know the kind, too; the kind you get when your favorite restaurant is busy and “buzz” you when your table is ready.

I get buzzed and a minute later a medical assistant takes me back to get x-rayed.  After I’m excused from the x-ray room I’m left on my own to find my way back to where I started from.  The hallways aren’t marked, and it’s a labyrinth.  I wander past another administrative work station with at least 6 staff milling about, chatting.  (More co-pays at work, I see.) I end up back in the waiting room, but at the opposite end from where I had originally found a chair.  I have no idea how I managed this. At least this end wasn’t as crowded, and I was relieved to not have to sit directly next to anyone else.  We’re a curious lot, we humans, and I didn’t want to get caught staring blankly into space and have someone think I was staring at them.  Worse, I didn’t want anyone staring at me.  “She’s too young to have joint problems…If she lost some weight, maybe that would help…Poor thing, she’s here all alone…”

Okay, so maybe no one was going to judge me and why I was there, but I just hate the thought of the possiblity. Ladies, I know you know what I’m talking about here, because we’re all guilty to some degree.  Gents, if you think I’m over reacting, then you really won’t understand.

I am called back in to an exam room– I think–the place is so big I can hardly hear my name.  I’m usually the only one with my first name, but the place is still packed, and now I’m not so sure about that, as the waiting room is filled with people older than myself, all born in a era when my name was more popular. Again, I can see the need for pagers, as impersonal as they are.  But they don’t use them for this part of my visit. I wish they had.  Thinking to myself, if it weren’t for all the privacy rules, wouldn’t it just be easier to send someone through the office with the patient’s name on a placard, like the limo drivers at the airport.  Wouldn’t you feel more special to have someone come searching for you, eager to escort you to your next stop in your day as opposed to have your name called out anonymously from a doorway?

I meet with the doctor, who flips a switch on a digital monitor, and there are my knees on the screen.  (More co-pays at work; what happened to the lighted wall board?). We talk about my problem, he touches my kneecaps, has me do some extensions to feel for himself what’s going on inside.  I tell him I’m training for a marathon, and he looks at me like I’m nuts. (More time to think I’m being judged, o joy.) He tells me running would not be good for my knees– this I already figured out, that’s why I came; now tell me ‘why’.  He says it would be helpful if he could have seen the kind of shoes I was training in.  TA DA! I produce two pair from a back pack, and now he’s no longer judgemental, and is slightly impressed.  (Yeah, uh huh, I got you on that one!) Bigger surprise, they are the kind I should be wearing for the kind of ankle structure I have (Double boo-yeah!)

Chondromalacia patellae It’s a big fancy word for bad kneecaps, they are getting pitted on the back side where the joint itself rubs against it.  It doesn’t hurt-yet- but I expect it will some day. It is a form of arthritis, and there is no ‘cure’ and I asked about possible kneecap replacement.  Not possible without doing the whole knee.  So I have to live with it, which is what I’ve been doing for a while now.

And so I walk. I’ll still be doing the marathon in October.  I’ll just finish about three-and-a-half hours after the winning runner.  That’s okay with me, finishing is what I’m after, and that is a WIN for me.

Un-ordinary People

I went for a walk with Sugar Bug a couple of hours ago. We went up the main street past the city cemetery. After I told her I love cemeteries, she wanted to know why.

“There’s so much history buried in there. People who have lived their lives, gone places, done things. You know, just ordinary people who went about their business.”

“What kind of people?” she asked.
“Well, some were parents raising their families, dads who went to work. Some were in the military and fought in wars.”

“I don’t think they would be ordinary. I think that makes them un-ordinary”

“Which ones are ‘un-ordinary’?” (I knew she meant extra-ordinary, but I didn’t want to correct her; grammar lessons could wait. I wanted to hear what she said.)

“The ones in the military. That makes them special, because they were there ready to give up their life so someone else could be free. That makes them un-ordinary.”

“I suppose that does, then, doesn’t it. There are a lot of people who don’t think the same way today.”

“Why don’t they?” (She has no idea how loaded that question is in a post-modern 21st Century USA.)

“Well, back when those people were alive, they –and the culture and society — used to think it was a privilege and a duty to serve their country. It was an honor for them to be in the military. They did it out of respect and honor for their country.”

“O, that definitely makes them un-ordinary.”

[ I thought of telling her that back then they didn't think about whether it was the nations business to be there, if the military action could be politically and socially justified, or if it was 'the right thing to do'. They left that to politicians and government to sort through; they joined because they wanted to serve, not earn a free college education. That's what I wanted to add, but I didn't. I'll let her 10 year old innocence stay intact for as long as it can. I'll let her patriotism stay strong, so she can still think people today serve their country in the military because of love of country-- nothing more, nothing less. ]

Un-ordinary indeed! To her, they are heroes, and that’s the kind we need to look up to more often.

Milestones

Yesterday was Sonny Boy’s 16th birthday.  He was very excited.  I am handling this birthday/milestone much better than when he turned 10– much, much better.  When he turned 10 I didn’t feel old enough to have to a kid hit “double digits”. I’ve got three of the “double digit”-ers now, it got easier with each one.

We didn’t have big plans, but did plan to take his driver’s road test, and if he passed we would go get his drivers license.  To his great joy, we got there on time.  He passed the basic skills part pretty easily.  ( “I don’t know why everyone freaks out about parallel parking.  It’s no big deal, you just go do it”, says he.)  I was glad that didn’t take very long; it was a little chilly with a breeze and the parking lot still had massive snow piles trying to melt, which I happened to be standing next to.  If you’re not sure what that feels like, just think walking into a walk-in beverage cooler with the fans blowing and waiting there for 10 minutes, not moving.  At least it’s not the middle of February.

We hit the road.  The instructor deliberately practices using monotone commands at home, I’m sure of now.  “At the next light, turn left…After you make the stop, turn right…When attempting to avoid a head-on collision, what must you do?..” Imagine Ben Stein in the Visine commercials.  Sonny Boy did just fine getting onto the highway, making his turns (not swinging too far over/near the other lanes), but he was nervous.  Boy! could I tell he was nervous.  As he progressed through the road test I started to notice all the things he was doing wrong– things I knew he knew how to do properly, but just wasn’t.  “He’s going to choke! He’s going to fail!! His bad mood will totally ruin MY day–crap!”  I almost thought of sending a text message to my husband: “He’s choking; start praying”, but decided not to, in case Sonny Boy would hear the buttons clicking on my phone.  I didn’t want to make him any more tense than he already was.

I’m not sure how many points are on a driver’s road test, but the driver is only allowed 25 negative points (mistakes) and still be allowed to pass.  At 26 and beyond, you fail.  I told him earlier that we would pay for this one, but if he failed he would have to pay for any and all re-tests.  Toward the end I could see that he knew he was on thin ice.  For a kid whose tendency leans toward perfectionism, and self-defeatism it was hard to guess what he would do.  Would he try harder to prove he was actually a good driver, or throw in the towel, and just scrap the whole thing?  If we had been on the road much longer I think the self-defeatist would have won out.  He did pass– but barely– with 25 points off.  I was advised to reconsider letting him get his driver’s license that day so he could get more road time in to practice.  I thought about it for about 5 seconds.  I also think that ‘near miss’ to failure knocked the over-confidence out of him.

He’s a good driver. If you know my Sonny Boy personally, you know he’s a young man of good character, a little impetuous, and loads of energy, but all-in-all, a pretty good kid.  I’m not saying this just to sound like Rain Man (“He’s a really good driver”.) His girlfriend’s father won’t let her get into a car with him just for the sake of joy-riding.  They have to be going somewhere, with a purpose to it.

I hit a parenting milestone today, too. I let him take the car to go run an errand to use a gift card he got over the holidays before it expired.  He said he wouldn’t be gone long.  After an hour, I was starting to think:  ‘Okay, it’s been an hour, he should be home soon. I’m glad he has his cell phone so I can call if I need to.’ Then  good sense prevailed.  I reminded myself he was headed to Best Buy and had to drive up one of the busiest retail streets in town, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, get his stuff in a store he loves to wander in and then come back home on the same busy street. Mentally, I decided to give him another half an hour, then I’d call.  If he answered while he was driving, I’d have to yell at him for talking while driving.  He was in the driveway about two minutes after this whole thing ran through my head.

Later, I gave him the keys and sent him to the grocery store to go get some stuff we needed for dinner.  I didn’t panic, hyperventilate, and worry the whole time.  But after dinner I was ready to work up a really good *mad* because he was gone and so was the car and he didn’t clear it with me.  Turns out he talked to his dad about that one, and had to run his girlfriend home for some reason or other.  Good thing she lives less than half a mile away.

He moved toward the next phase of independence, that first, faraway step to adulthood.  I let him go and didn’t even cry;  milestones indeed.