LifePundit

Only Eleven Weeks Left

In spite of the fact that today is a holiday, our Biggest Loser coaches expected us to show up for our team workout. This meant that I missed the barbecue and dessert party at the pool. She busted our behinds and did it with a lovely smile and a great deal of passion. I doubt I could work my jaws to eat barbecue and dessert right now.

I couldn't be having more fun and had a very happy weigh-in. My team members are interesting, my coaches are great and this all feels shiny and new.

I'm writing this before I collapse in a heap. First off, there's a great free web site for exercise and diet information that I've started using. Lance Armstrong's Livestrong. Makes it easier to keep my exercise and nutrition diary, which I have to show to my leader every time I see her. She's very kind about it and makes suggestions that sometimes make me very happy, such as that I'm not eating often enough. I'm to eat every 2.5 hours and never go beyond 3 hours before eating. No pie or cake was mentioned, however.

I'm learning about perspective, too. Before she released us and I got to crawl out of the door to finally leave, she gave us a pep talk. She said, "Ladies, we've only got 11 weeks left so you really have to start working hard."

A short time to her. A lifetime for those of us dead on the floor.

S. C. Authorities Search for Mother and 555-lb. 14-year-old Son

I wish this news was really a movie because then it would be funny. A South Carolina mother didn't show up for a custody hearing and so the authorities are looking for her and her 555-lb. 14-year-old son. The reason she is in trouble with the law is that his size critically threatens his health.

You can read the breaking news story here.

Somebody suggested they look for them in all-you-can-eat restaurants. But I didn't just type that, did I?

How can you hide a 555-lb kid? How can you fit him in the car?

And I know from personal experience that 14-year-olds can be a bit frustrating. Obstreperous. Difficult. And that's without messing with their food.

I'll resist all the things I want to say, like maybe he ate her.

We Are Low on Cats, or, How I Couldn't Manage Tiger's Diabetes

Can there be a worse blog post than how sad I am that my cat died? Well, my cat died, and the only crying on the Internet's shoulder I need to do needs to be the helpful sort.

1. First off, a diabetic cat is hard to manage. Especially if they are the indoor-outdoor type. Try as I might, I couldn't manage Tiger's diabetes. I gave him insulin shots twice a day as directed. I increased the dosage as directed. But I'm not a vet. I don't think we ever got it right, and Tiger's blood sugar fluctuated wildly. I rubbed Karo syrup on his gums when I thought he was in an insulin crash (turns out his blood sugar was sky high, so I only made it worse). I gave him insulin when I thought his blood sugar was high, and it turns out it wasn't.

A few days ago he went into some kind of crisis, and we had to put him to sleep. We miss him. That's good, because that means he was a character whose personality we enjoyed immensely (most of the time). And the other thing that's good is that he had a life where he did whatever he wanted (until he was put outside for stealing food off the table or the baby bird was snatched from his mouth), he had no notion of his own death or sickness, and he got to boss the dog around. Even the neighbor's dog. He had a good life. Go out. Get a cat. They'll make you happy.

2. If you have a cat, don't let it get fat. Tiger carried a lot of extra weight around for several years of his life to the point where people would see him and say, "Now that's a fat cat," and that predisposed him to diabetes. Sure, he looked like a street-fighting man, all swagger and beer belly, but it wasn't good for him. Maybe if he'd been a healthy weight most of his life he'd still be here. I've had lots of fat cats, and I'm going to love the ones I have in the future (and the remaining cat, Izzie) enough to not feed them when they don't need feeding. I don't get to eat everything I want. Why should a cat just because they're cute and know how to ask for it?

 Finally, one last Tiger story. A few weeks ago it was very cold and he looked like he wasn't feeling that great, so I kept him inside until the weather got kinder. Then I gently laid him out in the sunshine, like he was an old person pushed out of the nursing home in a wheelchair to soak up the sunshine and fresh air. I ran to the grocery store. When I got back, there was Tiger, enjoying the sunshine -- and what little was left of a very fresh Blue Jay.

Spring is coming, and this will be the first year in nine years that we won't be chasing Tiger across the yard with a baby bunny in his mouth. I'm not sad about that. Did you know baby bunnies could scream? (And they did. It's a sound that will make your hair stand up.)

Tiger, Mighty Hunter, Incorrigible Trash Can Turner-Overer, Attacker of Grocery Bags Before I Could Unload Them, Vet-Slasher and King of the Neighborhood, RIP. Or, don't eat all the bluebirds in heaven before I get there.

I think this just turned into one of those "my cat died" posts. Sorry.

The Treadmill Desk

Here's my new desk. It's the brownish-tannish board clamped down on the arms of my Christmas present from Paul (I asked for it: one should not receive a piece of exercise equipment unless one asks for it). He really struggled building this desk. I can write with no trouble at 2 mph, but it's difficult to use the mouse because my hand is moving. For a while I was having trouble getting a little bit seasick while I walk because apparently there's a little bit of waddle thrown in with the walk. If you notice on the left wall there's a small calendar there. I get a gold star for every day I walk. It's called an Honesty Calendar, and I've found I'll do anything for a gold star. No, rather, I'll do anything to have a calendar filled with gold stars and no voids. Or few voids.

Here's a better photo of the desk part. The colored fabric (blue) covering the clamps so as not to scratch the treadmill arms is VetWrap (also called CoFlex), which is used to bandage horses. You can't very well use sticky tape on a hairy leg. The desk can be removed so other people can use the treadmill. I find that I while I can write creatively and sometimes answer e-mails and talk on the phone on the treadmill, I'm not so good at blogging, so blogging has been light.
I'll try to add that to my treadmilling skills, but forgive me in advance for the typos. Can't walk, chew gum and spell right at the same time.

I feel better and I'm getting a lot of writing done. But the poor dog isn't getting to go on as many walks. Better go take him now before it gets down to 10 degrees or whatever awful thing it's supposed to do tonight. He and Tiger get to sleep inside. Izzie, the indoor cat, won't like that. Ah me. It's kind of like the Middle East, only I'm in charge and I say that the dog and outdoor cat get to stay. So there.

Off to walk outdoors. What a concept!

Turkey Holds Her Ground

I have so much to be thankful for that it seems ungracious to make such a stink about hosting Thanksgiving. Or rather, about NOT hosting Thanksgiving.

For those who have been following the saga with my MiL, I've held my ground. Paul worked until 11:30 Monday night and will be working late again tonight. I still have plumbing fixtures in my den though the toilet is gone. I hauled some lumber outside because  I couldn't stand tripping over it anymore, and besides, I couldn't vacuum and heaven knows I need to vacuum at least twice a year or I'll go crazy.

So, my MiL, bless her heart, sent out an e-mail to everyone that since I couldn't host Thanksgiving she will have it at her SMALL house and even though we will all be CRAMPED and she doesn't know what the children will do in her SMALL house or where she will put everyone and that she doesn't have room for the food in her SMALL refrigerator, we would just make do.

She wrote that she was overwhelmed by it all and really needed my help (this was on an e-mail sent to multiple people in multiple states). I had already told her that I would bring some of the dishes and all of the desserts. So I sent her an e-mail repeating myself and she responded to all people in all states that she felt like the cavalry had arrived.

Then she (in an e-mail to all) asked to borrow my turkey platter since all of her platters are too SMALL. She wanted me to send it to Paul's job site and they would pick up from there. I told her I didn't want to do that because the platter has sentimental and monetary value. So she wrote back to all of us in all states that she didn't want to use that platter because her sink is too SMALL to wash it. I told her that my sink is too small to wash it, too, and that I have to wash each end separately. I think her sink is bigger than mine, but hey! Who's measuring?

Paul offered to bring a fried turkey. My MiL said that she would have to make do with a breast because her refrigerator is too SMALL so he's not to bring it.

She lives in a two-bedroom, two-bath freestanding house in a luxury retirement community. She has a full-sized kitchen only slightly smaller than mine. She has closets galore, some of them EMPTY. My refrigerator is normal sized, not giant. This is all hooey.

Back to the platter. So she rejects my turkey platter and wants me to bring another, smaller platter. I'm not a store or a platter collector. I've got one turkey platter. So I suggest to her that perhaps she should carve the turkey and put it on her two smaller platters. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

Then she writes (to all) for me to be sure to keep all my dishes and desserts small and simple because her refrigerator and house is so SMALL.

And she also writes (to all) that she has no idea how to entertain all these people she's invited for the weekend so she's leaving what we do on Friday completely up to me. Oh no she's not!

I wrote back (to all) that there is nothing worse than having somebody plan your life and your time for you, and I would not be doing that to her guests. I gave her a list of things they could do and told her to let them choose how they wanted to spend their day. I may even be home writing which is what I planned to be doing back before my MiL invited everyone for Thanksgiving. Not that I'm not glad to see them but don't I get to say how I spend my holiday? Apparently not. I probably won't be home writing because that would be rude, plus I'm thinking my house is too SMALL for me to actually be able to write in or do anything so I'd better go sit in the car and possibly drive it somewhere far away.

In the meantime, Saintly Brother has invited me over. I'm thinking of sending the food to MiL's since it's too SMALL for me to fit in there and go to Saintly Brother's. Don't know where or if I'll eat (I've lost my appetite for all this) but I will be visiting at both places. Saintly Brother has some wonderful relatives coming whom I never see so I'm looking forward to stopping by there. I haven't spent a holiday with any of my side of the family in several years.

I do look forward to seeing Paul's brothers and his family. There's just such a high cost.

Am I being SMALL minded?

And I've got so much to be grateful for. I hate that it's so difficult to keep that focus in the middle of these SMALL concerns.

Happy Thanksgiving to you!

Sick Kids and Field Trips

The bus taking the eighth graders on their much anticipated field trip to Washington, D.C., just left. Lily's not on it. She caught a bad cold on the church retreat over the weekend.

She's a healthy girl who rarely gets sick. But she gets sick every time she goes on a field trip. It's partly a matter of not enough sleep (there's not even eight hours scheduled for sleep on these trips), getting run down and getting exposed to the sick kids on the trip. Because there are always sick kids on the trip.

I agonized all yesterday and last night over whether or not to send Lily. If sh'es just got a cold, she could power through. But what if it's the early stage of something else, and she gets worse?

And whatever it is, who else might catch it?

I was surprised to find myself rationalizing all the reasons that Lily should go anyway. I was surprised because every time she comes home sick from a field trip and tells me that so-and-so was on the trip and was sick from the moment she got on the bus and sneezed on everybody, I feel like calling so-and-so's mama and asking her just what was she thinking to send a sick kid on a trip? It can't have been fun for the kid, and it's sure not fun for the rest of the  now sick kids.

When Lily was in private school she went on a field trip to Williamsburg, Virginia, that was nearly a week long. A doctor's daughter got on the bus sick. And by the end of the field trip, one-quarter of the children were sick. At least one-quarter. And one-quarter of these kids missed the next full week of school. I know this is unusual, but one of the children developed lung-scarring and missed part of the next year of school as well!

Lily is still talking about how awful it was to be sick and to be marched all over Williamsburg. Not the memory we were hoping for.

But even with those experiences behind me, I tried to rationalize a way it would be all right to send Lily. Oh, she's probably not contagious. Probably all of them have colds. She'll feel fine by tomorrow and can just rest on the bus. We don't want her to miss anything. And for goodness sakes, we've paid our money which we probably can't get back!

But Lily was so droopy this morning. No fever but not well. I didn't have the heart.

I called the lead teacher to tell her that Lily wouldn't be going. And although I heard disappointment in the teacher's voice, I heard something else: Relief! She said that two other sick girls were going and she was worried about them. They've been sick with something and had been running fevers. I could tell the teacher was concerned that they weren't as well as their mothers thought or claimed.

The group is going to be walking a lot in what we consider cold weather. They're going to be walking all day. That's not how you get over being sick. The lead teacher said that Lily would be miserable, and I'm sure that's true. Unless she suddenly gets well tomorrow. Oh well. That is life.

I'm surprised that the two other sick girls are going. And I'm even more surprised with what mental gyrations I was willing to perform in order to justify sending Lily, too. I was going to use the time alone this week to power through NaNaWriMo.

And I'm glad that the child is in bed, getting better (I hope). That's where she needs to be.

Even though I'm not happy about an Obama administration coming in, I do expect that Washington will still be there later and available for exploration.

Life, Death, Hemorrhoidal Cancer, Evolution, Sub-prime Mortgages, God's Will and Everything Else

Teddy Kennedy got brain cancer and P. J. O'Rourke got hemorrhoidal cancer, which I can't  even spell.

Very funny, touching and even theologically profound op-ed here.

I wish him well, and if he figures out the right color of bracelet he should be wearing, I'll wear one for him.

Hat tip: Instapundit

Blogging is Too Much Fun to be Permissable Procrastination Tool

Nancy, you missed me! Thank you!

I haven't been blogging for three reasons:

1. I didn't have anything nice to say, and so I didn't say anything;

2. When I wasn't whining about how nothing works in this house, I was out having fun with friends (yes, I have one or two left) or inside getting really mad at technology and putting more duct tape on my computer (figuratively speaking) because I'm not about to get a new one as long as they all come with Vista;

3. I've had a chance to "audition" to be a speech writer for a person (non-politician) for whom I'd very much like to be a speech writer. I'd like to say that I've been working non-stop to land this great gig, but I've mainly been stressing over it, losing sleep and doing acceptable procrastination activities, such as cleaning my office, doing laundry, exercising and hauling lightning-damaged electrical equipment to the dump. I also took two carloads of stuff to the church garage sale (proceeds go to Habitat). I didn't allow myself to blog because blogging is fun and nothing fun is allowed while procrastinating.

Approved procrastination activities are the things you should do every day or every week, but save them up until you have a project.

If my house is clean, my laundry is sparklingly done and my blown TVs are in the dump, you know I am procrastinating heavily.

There are others "auditioning" for the speech writer job. I sent my speech in yesterday and am not sure how I feel about it. I don't know the man, have never met him, and have only seen short clips of him on the Internet. I don't know his message or his style or what he wanted to say to this particular audience. I don't know the history or future plans of the institution he heads, though I am impressed by it. I suspect my style is too conversational and not eloquent and dignified enough, but who knows. Maybe he'll like it. I have him being humorous in several places in the speech I wrote for him, which is something entirely missing from everything else I've seen or read that he's done. He's more a "thousand points of light" kind of guy than a "did you hear the one about ....." fellow.

Still, all audiences like a little levity, and I don't think he's anti-humor. Or maybe I'm just not all that funny. Or maybe I am funny and he's not. Or maybe he'll love me because he'll love the adoration of awake, laughing audiences. Assuming he gives the speech a try and doesn't use one of my competitor's more grandiose ones that start off with stupid, convoluted structures like "Four-score and seven...." Who'd hang around and listen to that? Nothing memorable there.

Anyway, in theory, I would love this steady work and love to write speeches (especially since I don't have to give them, in case the jokes fail). But, if he doesn't feel like my style works for him, it probably wouldn't be a good fit anyway.

In the meantime, you won't believe how clean my house is.

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.)

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.