LifePundit

How I Trained My Husband Not to Shower in a Lightning Storm

While I'm on the subject of lightning, there are several stories I could tell but I'll tell them one at a time. I've had lightning strike close to me twice -- once at the beach when I felt electricity run through the wet sand, and once here at home when I was outside and my hair stood on end, then a bolt hit the house.

I respect lightning.

As regular readers know, I married a Yankee. He's spent most of our marriage scoffing at me and my lightning cautions. But one day, I trained him not to shower in a lightning storm.

Actually, I had nothing to do with it. But I got to watch and it's the funniest thing I've ever seen.

It was two summers ago and Paul had been mowing. He was filthy, so when a storm blew up and he had to come inside, he jumped right into the shower.

Don't talk on the phone or take a shower during a lightning storm, okay? At least not a phone that's connected by wires to your wall.

Paul thought I was silly. So he was taking his shower. He might be a Yankee, but he's a very clean Yankee.

The lightning was striking all around our house. So I burst into the bathroom and demanded that he get Out Of The Shower NOW. He was drying off anyway so he stepped outside of the tub to humor me. And then WHAM! Lightning struck a giant pine tree not far from the house. The force blew all the photographs off of the wall and the glass in their frames shattered on the bathroom floor.

Paul instinctively ran to put on his rubber-soled tennis shoes. And was wearing nothing else. I guess he figured the shoes would keep him safe from shock.... Not really sure but it was great fun to watch.

The ground at the base of the pine tree looked like it had been hit by a bomb. The pine tree died.

Nobody showers in a lightning storm around here anymore unless they're really dirty and really really fast.

Another storm has blown up and I've been racing it, trying to finish this post. I need to unplug the computer. I guess I was finished anyway.

It's spectacular to watch and I love the smell afterwards. Which is a good thing, because I have a feeling we're skipping our showers tonight. (TMI. Sorry.)

Lightning Strikes Twice! Maybe More.

Don't stand too close to me. We've bit hit by lightning the past two weekends.

The first time we were struck by lightning last week wasn't too bad -- just hit the modem. However, that kept me off the Internet for a few days while I waited for it to be fixed.

Then, on the Fourth of July, we had some serious fireworks -- major lightning storm. It hit the streetside cable box which serves us and several neighbors and it hit the phone/tv/Internet connection on the side of the house. Zowey! You should have heard it. You KNEW something was fried.  And because so many people's connections were hit by lightning and we had to wait in line, we didn't get fixed until this afternoon.

A friend of mine said I need to stop sinning so I'll no longer be a lightning magnet. All I know is that I'm staying out of the shower (or outdoors) in the next storm.

Hope to be visiting my friends and posting soon!

Don't You Even Think About Lowering the Speed Limit

It's already painful to pay close to $4.00/gallon for gas. And now Senator John Warner from Virginia wants to lower the national speed limit to 55 mph. That's hitting us where it really hurts. I'm not slowing down. If I find a clear spot on the road, I'm going to move along at a nice, fast, legal pace.

How about passing a law where senators can travel on MWF and members of the House can travel TTh? If we're going to start restricting how we travel, let's start at the top.

And I said travel, not drive, because I figure they're flying as much as driving. I remember the 55 speed limit, and that's only good in a school zone. (Just kidding.)

If I'm burning up that much money to gas up my car, I should get to burn up my fuel at the rate of speed  -- and mpgs -- that I choose so long as it's safe for the road and driving conditions. If I want to save money and gas, I can drive my SUV slower, or I can drive my hybrid just about any way I want.

Driving over 70 and running the air conditioning in my Prius, I can still get close to 50 mpgs. If I turn off the air conditioning, I can get in the low 50s. Why should I be forced to crawl like a snail to save gas when I'm already saving gas?

The car has a consumption screen that shows what kind of mpgs you're getting. Everyone who makes it through their first year of driving a Prius without an accident should get an award, because that screen is a major distraction. I drive like that screen is a video game and I'm not winning unless I'm staying above the 50 mpg. line (and manufacturing "turtles," which are these little leaf-shaped things that really look like turtles and signify how much energy you're regenerating). That screen has taught me how to drive to maximize my mileage.  It's also taught me that I'm only once glance away from getting killed, so I'd better pay attention to the road.

The market is responding to high gas prices. People are dumping their SUVs as fast as they can. Senator, you don't need to change the speed limit.

You need to start drilling Here and Now.

What Kind of Pants Would You Stab Someone For?

There's a strange local news story about a 36-year-old man who stabbed a teenager at a convenience store "over a pair of pants." The teenager is in the hospital and the grown man is in jail.

I think it should be illegal for a reporter to leave us hanging with a story like that. Read it yourself and see if you don't come away with the same question:

What kind of pants were they?

Where did the pants come from? Do they sell pants in convenience stores? What kind of pants are so desirable that you'd stab someone over them?

Is there a pants shortage? Are these pants that would make my butt look small? Can I stab somebody and get a pair?

I wrote the reporter asking for more info. on the pants. I explained to him that I need this information to try to make sense of the world.

I'll let you know if I find out.

Physical Therapy and Immortality

If only he worked out more, my father would live forever. He believes this and he's about to prove it. He'll be 96 one month from today and he's passed his doctor's generous predictions for his longevity, given his aortic stenosis and congestive heart failure, by one year.

So my father's given up on working out in his room with his dumb bells and he's going back to physical therapy at the assisted living place where he lives. He says he can tell that it's helping him. He's stronger and feels better.

He's still on oxygen, still struggling to stay vertical, still hits the floor about once a week. I think the floor is starting to complain.

I told this story about my father's return to physical therapy and his improvement to my husband, Paul, who's been such a wonderful support during my father's brinkmanship with death over the last couple of years.

"That's great he's working out," said Paul, who's 51. "When I move up there to the nursing home, I'll join him."

I thought this was funny, so I told Saintly Brother. He said, "The difference is our father can run on fumes; Paul can't."

It's a wondrous thing what the human will can overcome.

The Time I Used My Gun in Self-Defense

I'm a gun owner. I've got a Beretta .22 pistol similar to the one pictured. Its main attraction is that it's small and that I can flip open the barrel to see if there are any bullets inside so I don't kill myself. (It's still loaded even if it is empty.)

It's not big enough to kill somebody unless I get off a lucky shot. If somebody's on drugs, it probably won't stop them. But it's better than a pea shooter.

I used to carry it in my purse, but jostling with lint and lipstick was making it where it misfired so I quit. (I guess I could have put it in a ziplock bag....)

Anyway, since the Supreme Court Heller decision is all the news that's not about Obama, I thought I would write about the time I used my gun in self-defense. I am convinced that my little prone-to-misfiring weapon kept me safe.

And I agree with Megan McArcle (hat tip: Instapundit) that Guns Are a Feminist Issue.

First off, I decided before I bought my first gun (a beautiful Smith & Wesson .38 special) that if necessary, I would kill somebody with it. No reason to have it if you're not willing to use it. In fact, if you're not willing to use it, don't have it.

I was in my late 20s. There were a bunch of break-in rapes in my neighborhood and I lived alone. That's when it occurred to me to get the gun.

My father told me to take the gun, which had never been loaded, home and "dry fire" it at the light switches and other targets in my apartment. This would help me improve my aim while not wasting ammo. So I sat there at night (I also had my father's loaded S&W .357 magnum with me, in case the criminals didn't wait until I was good with my new gun) with my empty new gun and practiced squeezing the trigger as its site floated past the light switch. One of the first things my father taught me was that nobody can hold a gun still, so what you have to learn is to squeeze the trigger at the exact moment when your gun site is floating over the target. This was a good lesson because it kept me from fighting against myself and trying to make me hold the gun still when nobody can hold it still. Go with the flow. And learn to squeeze at exactly the right moment.

I became a pro at dry-firing at doorknobs, light switches, shoes, roaches, the TV and other things in my apartment. I had the feel for it. Then it was time to go shoot something using bullets.

I met my father in the country (where his famed garden is). Non-Saintly Brother had made a target out of iron at least an inch thick, and it was cut into the shape of that most vicious of all creatures -- a chicken. Don't ask, I don't know. He made it for his own target practice.

I killed that metal chicken. I killed it first by taking my time and letting my hand float by it while squeezing the trigger. Then my father starting telling me that the chicken was getting close and I needed to hurry.  He was yelling, "It's coming at you! It's coming at you! Shoot NOW."

He was so serious. That was the only thing that kept me from cracking up.

So we pretended that the chicken was attacking me and I fired and fired. That was one dead metal chicken. I was ready. I gave my father his .357 back.

My apartment did get broken into but I wasn't there. They got everything but the gun. They even took my telephones!

It wasn't until I was filling up my car with gas about 10:00 p.m. one night that I needed to use my gun. It was a different gun -- the little Beretta I mentioned first. The .38 was too big to carry so, over my father's objections (since the Beretta was Italian, an automatic and too small caliber), I got the Beretta.

A carload of up-to-no-goods pulled up next to me at the gas pump. I won't go into a blow-by-blow, but they began to harass me so I quit gassing my car before I was finished and went inside to pay. (This was before pay-at-the-pump.) The up-to-no-goods followed me. I could see them through the gas-station windows talking and pointing at me. I went into the bathroom and stayed for a while. When I came out, they were still there. A couple had come into the store.

There was a woman behind bullet-proof glass at the cash register. I don't know why I didn't seek her help, but it never occurred to me. I did mention them to her, and she agreed that they looked like trouble.

They clearly weren't going away, so when they were distracted I hurried out of the door. One followed me, kept yelling for me to wait up, kept trying to engage me in conversation.

What were his plans? I don't know. But I felt threatened and had no need to talk to him and his gang of friends alone in a gas station parking lot. So I walked faster. I could hear him coming up closer behind me, telling me to stop.

That was when I reached into my purse, pulled out my Beretta, and held it out to the side, where he could see it. I never pointed it at him but I made sure he could see me pull back the top thingie that loads the chamber. It made a loud click. He heard that.

And he and his friends left me alone.

To me, that is the perfect use of a gun in self-defense. I never fired a shot. I never pointed it at anybody. But suddenly, I was at least as big and strong as he and all of his friends were. We were on equal footing.

I will never know if they meant me real harm. It's not up to me, outnumbered, intimidated and outsized, to fathom their intentions. All I know is that I "used" my gun that night. And I'm still here to tell the story.

Addicted to Self-improvement Books

There are so many ways I could improve myself. All I have to do is buy the right book.

Yes, yes, I know that as a Christian the only self-improvement book I need is the bible. Maybe I can pick up a self-improvement book about that. Maybe I already have. I'm not low on self-improvement books.

In the middle of the clutter I have several on getting rid of clutter. Some have even been opened, marked up, mused over, tossed back into the clutter. I have books on how to write, how to eat, how to exercise, how to make yourself happy, how to improve your love life (not the racy ones, sorry to disappoint), how to raise a daughter, how to deal with Alzheimer's, how to train a horse, how to take care of a farm, how to save enough money for retirement by not buying books....

My current self-improvement books seem a bit at odds with each other. I'm part of a bible study that's examining the other gods that we let slip into our life, the ones that turn into "putting another god before Me." I do a lesson in the morning. Sometimes the lessons mention how body image and the effort devoted to losing weight/getting fit can be a kind of interfering god that comes between you and the real God. After I've finished that lesson, I pick up the diet solution book (mentioned in previous post) and work on how I'm going to care more about myself and put my body image and health first. Well, that's not exactly what it says, but it feels like there's something in conflict with these two.

I can make a very good case for taking care of my body with diet and exercise because it is the temple of the Lord. I'd be lying about why I'm doing it, but I could make the case. The truth is, I'm doing it because I'm VAIN.

Maybe there's another self-improvement book I could use to balance out these two. Bridge the gap. Smooth over the conflicts.

A friend of mine is also addicted to self-help books. When she and her husband were getting married and were consolidating their book collections, he was amazed at all the self-help books on her shelf. He said, "If I'd known you needed this much help, I never would have married you. I hope you're all fixed now."

We're never all fixed. And that's okay, too. But what I need to do is start WRITING self-help books instead of buying them.

First I'll need a clever title. Something like: Help Yourself! Stop Buying Self-Help Books and Start Living.

Bathing Suits, Weight Watchers and Hunger

This is me in a few weeks. I've ordered this suit from Lands End. It's on backorder. That will give me time to get down to this size AND grow my hair long.

Well, maybe not quite this size. This may be a few months away. And I'm actually going to get my hair cut, not grow it out. But you get the idea.

I like swimsuits that look like tennis dresses. Yes, I am that old. The last time I wore a bikini was three years and many pounds ago. Lapse of judgment in a foreign country, egged on by my husband. I felt silly wearing the bikini, and right now, nobody would want to see me in one. They'd be scarred for life. So, it's tennis dress-looking swimsuits for me. And if this one doesn't come in on time (or look okay), I've already received this one below, also from Lands End. Mine is just the same but has a blue skirt bottom.

Somehow, I can't muster the smiles these models have when wearing these suits. And honestly, if I looked like these models, these would not be the suits I'd be wearing.

For the first time in forever, I am motivated to change. I joined Weight Watchers last Monday night at a local church. Sadly, I just got a phone call that they didn't have enough people sign up so they're canceling for now.

Paul said the funniest thing he has ever said. "Why don't you go stand in front of Wal-Mart and recruit? You'd find a lot of eligible people."

I'd probably lose a lot of weight in the hospital, too, recovering from the assaults. "What you mean 'Would I like to join Weight Watchers?' Do I look fat to you?" And then she'd beat me to death. Or just sit on me till I was squashed into nothingness.

But motivation is motivation. I'm going to diet off some of the moving parts I have acquired in the last few years. Those places that keep walking after I've stopped. Those pointy little things on my hips that made Lily think I had tennis balls stuffed under my new tennis-looking swim skirt (since that's what I do with real tennis balls in my real tennis skirt). Mean child. Tells the truth.

I've downloaded The Beck Diet Solution to my iPod and am going to brainwash myself into "thinking like a thin person." I got the workbook on Amazon. It looks just right for me.

I've got sticky notes all over the house with my motivations on them. And cards where I've written the reasons I'm going to do this. (None of them say, "so I can wear a bikini.")

My cleverest one is "Baggy clothes only hide who you really are."

My saddest one is "People treat you differently (better) when you are smaller."

My scariest one is "You're going to live a long time. You'd better be sure you're healthy."

My truest one is "So what if you're hungry? You're going to eat again in a couple of hours. Hunger is good."

My best one is "I like me so much I'm going to choose me over food."

Do I dare say I'll be reporting my progress here? Will I be posting a photo of me in these suits?

Not unless I can figure out how to Photoshop my head onto these pictures.

Wish me luck! And send carrots.

I Miss My Mother

My mother has had Alzheimer's for ten years. For ten years, I haven't been able to call her and have a sensible conversation. For ten years, she's suffered the confusion of not knowing who she is, where she is or whether she is safe or not, and there's very little we can do for her other than tell her lies to comfort her, which she'll forget in an instant anyway. It's a far worse disease than merely forgetting. I had no idea.

Since she's been "gone" so long, you'd think I was used to it. But I still find myself thinking, "I'll call Mama and tell her what happened. That will make her laugh (or she'll come to my defense, depending on the situation)." Or, "I'll call Mama and ask her how to cook this (or handle that)."

But I can't call Mama. She's still among the breathing and sometimes among the laughing and talking, but those phone calls are gone, along with her memory. It's been ten years. You'd think I wouldn't still have the impulse to call her, and then have to remember that's not a possibility.

I have a friend whose mother died when my friend was a pre-teen. Her growing up was hard, but she says now that she's grateful that she's not having to deal with an aging mother. Though that sounds cold, there is some truth to it. And elderly parent can be a blessing and/or a burden. Since my friend had no choice about losing her mother when she needed her most, she may as well have reconciled that with something positive.

I'm beginning to realize that when my mother is really gone, and has been gone for decades, I'll still be seconds away from picking up the phone to call her. It's not quite as good as the real thing, but at those times I can summon up something from my memory about her and visit with that. When she could still answer the phone, I believe I called her up enough to almost be able to predict what she would say. No, that's not true. Sometimes the call wasn't about the question, but about the loving presence on the other end of the phone.

People who love a person with Alzheimer's are said to have "frozen grief." Mama is gone. But she's still here. So my grief is frozen somewhere, stuck between loss and not-yet-lost. It would be a mercy if she were released from this terrible disease, sent to heaven where her wits and her own mother wait. Could I, would I, miss her more if she was really gone? Would knowing that she's free but no longer here be worse than seeing her captive and confused but within my touch?

A counselor once told me that grief is a blessing because at least you have something to grieve -- something good that was lost.

That's my mother, one foot planted in the here and one in the hereafter, straddling the abyss of Alzheimer's. Still here, but surely lost.

Is it Just Me, or Do These Designs Make You Sea Sick?

I've been on two cruises, both on Norwegian Cruise Lines, and found much to like about cruising. If I had my druthers, I'd go stay at a beachfront resort somewhere where the water is turquoise blue (it's greenish-navy off the S.C. coast, which is still nice) rather than cruising with just a "drive by" encounter with the beaches. But my druthers are frequently not the guiding force behind our decision making, and we've found that NCL cruises out of Charleston are a deal. Fun, too.

So I'm on NCL's mailing list and I actually read the e-mails. I'm all set to go again, whether this is first druthers or second druthers, I don't care. Both cruises were about as relaxing a time as you can get. (Whereas if I were at a beachfront resort, I'd have much exploring and other things on my agenda to keep me busy instead of just unplugging.)

Anyway, I do get seasick. Not easily, but eventually. I can feel it coming on and take measures to prevent it, so it's all good. (Fresh ginger, ginger ale and seasick pills all work, depending on how bad it is.)

But just looking at the new room designs (click on photo above) in NCL's new ships makes me somewhat seasick. I mean, they're all wavy and curvy. Really pretty and much nicer than the rooms we had, but I think straight lines have a place on a ship. Something to stare at and give you hope that there are straight lines and flat plains somewhere in the world for those times when the ginger ale isn't quite working. I'd hate to be on that round bed with the ship tossing.

Though I'll certainly give it a try at the first opportunity.

Is it just me? Click here to see more. (This is not an ad.)

What Doesn't Cost More

If you haven't had a chance to read the paper or turn on the TV news, let me sum it up for you: Gas prices, flooding, droughts, shortages and market imbalances are all leading to one thing. Everything costs more and we're all going to die. (Then we won't be able to afford the funerals.)

So, on a Sunday morning, here's a post that will probably make me late for church but I hope will help us all enjoy our day a little bit more and get life back into perspective. Here are a few things that don't cost more:

• Smiling at a sunny day
• Smiling at a cloudy day
• Hugging your child and telling her you love her
• Hugging your husband/wife and telling him/her you love him/her (and this could lead to something fun and free)
• Reading good books from the library
• Reading good blogs (and bad ones)
• Praying
• Staying in touch with friends
• Not watching bad news on TV or elsewhere
• Taking a walk or run with your dog, who loves you more than anything
• Riding your bike
• Scratching your pet where it itches (was there ever such gratitude?)
• Getting "Keeping Up Appearances" DVDs from the library and laughing your head off because the terrible main character is based on my mother-in-law, only the terrible main character is nicer; laughter is good and helps to keep even wicked mothers-in-law in perspective

Feel free to add your own cheerer-upper.

Writing! Writing! Writing!

I haven't posted as much lately because I am WRITING!

Yes, I'm back at work on my novel. That fills me with joy. I have this excel spreadsheet that my accountability partner and I have agreed to use (and she created) as we race to finish our first drafts in three months. We have to write a certain number of words every day. They don't have to be good words or even the right words. I am ahead of my goals and push a little more ahead every day. Those of you who have known me for a while will be surprised to hear this.

It helps that school is out so I'm not driving so much. It helps that the mornings are quiet and I can work on my novel before starting my paying work. It helps that I signed up for a writer's conference in October and want to be sure I take full advantage of it.

But what helps most of all is that I've quit pressuring myself about it all. I write to find the story. And slowly, it's coming.

Now I've just jinxed it.

Overheard in the Father's Day Card Section of Wal-Mart

I'm looking for a Father's Day card in Wal-Mart. There's a woman and her teenage daughter standing next to me doing the same thing. The daughter hands the mother a card. The mother looks at it.

"That card don't say nothing," the mother says.

"Well, he ain't nothing," says the daughter.

The mother makes her put it back. They leave without buying anything.

Vacation over for Florida Crocodile in S.C. Beach Waters

The vacationing crocodile went home today. You can read the story here.

Here's an excerpt:

The toothy reptile was snared near the Charleston County park pier after spending at least one winter in a Mount Pleasant pond.

It's headed for Gatorama, a 15-acre park of wetlands and hammocks that features daily alligator and crocodile shows, farm-raised alligator meat and boardwalk tours "teeming with alligators, crocodiles, monkeys, bobcats, panthers, birds and other Florida wildlife."

And here's my favorite part:

The transfer was approved by the Florida Wildlife Commission, which handles crocodiles, a tropical species recently downgraded from endangered to threatened. Its natural range is thought to reach only as far north as southern Florida. The commission decided not to release it in the wild for a number of reasons, including the fact that crocodiles will attack each other when they are strangers in the wild, said Steve Bennett, of S.C. Natural Resources.

A bigger reason might be that once a crocodilian roams, it tends to continue roaming. A 6-foot alligator was trapped in a pond near Beaufort and released on Bears Island in Bull's Bay more than 30 miles and five river basins away. It was caught again in its home pond 14 years later — as a 10-footer.

Crocodile Captured Swimming with Tourists at S.C. Beach

South Carolina has too many alligators (for the most amazing photo, click here). Now they're going to the beaches. That's right. Just when you thought it was safe to go in the water, a six-foot long crocodile turns up. Yes, right in the surf on S.C.'s Isle of Palms, a beach outside of Charleston. Hundreds of people were ordered out of the ocean.

This isn't even a local 'gator. It's a tourist 'gator. I've waterskied past native alligators in brackish water (and didn't dare let go of the ski rope), I've been afraid they might be under the bed when I was a kid but I have never, ever worried about an crocodile eating me in the ocean. That's the shark's job. And I thought alligators didn't "do" salt water.

But this one did. That's because it's a rare American Crocodile, native from the Florida Keys to Florida Bay. Officials are speculating that someone either released it illegally or it swam up from Florida. For the complete story, which is about as informative as this post, click here.