It's been a wild ride for the last few weeks. There was no real point in posting because my weight loss issues were heaved laboriously onto the back burner, there to simmer and fill the house with an enticing aroma. Hmm.
My oldest daughter and her husband have been out of work for a while, and his mom offered him a place in the Hill Country to live rent free, since she had recently evicted her tenants. Son-in-law flew up to look for work (no luck so far) and child-o-mine and her 3 li'l punks convoyed up across 6 states last week in a rental truck (me and chatty grandson) and minivan (daughter and 2 dozy toddlers).
The week prior we made a mad dash down to the Beaches to visit Young Daughter since the punks had never beached before and the sisters won't see each other again until that Fateful Wedding Day next spring. In between, my own 83 y.o. mother managed to come down with pneumonia and require a short hospital stay, with Faithful Self at her side. So really, I haven't been home in something like a month. I actually packed dirty clothes because I knew I could wash them here.
The House in Hill Country isn't nearly ready to move into yet (the aforementioned tenants trashed the place) so the family of five have been bunking with Mother-in-law and her boyfriend, a crotchety old man if I ever met one. It's a tiny house, and nine of us have been sharing a bathroom. It has snowed 3 times since I arrived, and the fellow refuses to turn on his furnace. The bedroom I'm sharing with the 2 dozy toddlers is colder than Sister Mary Albert's knickers, with no curtains on the large window and only a heap of woodenish handmade quilts for warmth. At least the punks have footie pajamas!
Tonight I fly home to warmer climes, and will control my own thermostat, diet and schedule again. I'm not diving right in to anything, but I have an appointment to speak to Derrick the Giant at one of the gyms I visited, and at least I won't be sneaking cheese out of a stranger's fridge and trying to explain why all the bread is gone again.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Gym-gym-cheeree
Another delay as I plan to manage to mean to think of something to write. I visited a local gym, finally, and swaggered in with a big grin loudly saying, "Okay, fellahs, tell me why this should be the 20th gym I join!" At least I got a chuckle from the steriod junkies at the front desk. The blustery one swung himself out from behind the counter and shook my hand, introduced the other guy (his physical clone but a shy, shrinking violet) and launched into his screed. He asked me to name the other 19 fitness centers to which I have belonged, and stopped me after the FOUR I've joined since landing in this state 12 years ago. I haven't done it for more than three years now, I told him, and I murmured "I used to be very thin," and he actually drew a breath and said, "Really??" But his patter was otherwise pretty good, and the gym cost is reasonable. It's huge, in a old supermarket, and very well-appointed. Still, I would have to drive past all four of my previous gyms to get there. I think there are seven traffic lights. I can already hear myself making excuses.
I smiled and looked enthusiastic and drove to the other place. That was in the opposite direction, in the middle of nowhere, closer to my house and in a brand new building. It's a 24/7 gym; they give you a keycard and you let yourself in, and if you have a heart attack at 3 AM your body just lies there as the treadmill gradually bumps your skull up and down and rips out all your hair. The staff is only there 4 days a week, and this wasn't one of the days.
It took another week before I remembered to go back on a staffed day, but I finally did and got a lackluster tour by a pretty young woman who didn't curl her lip at my bulk nor seem to work on commission. This place is tiny. My husband once had a megillionaire boss who gave us a tour of his palatial home one Christmas, (there was a strongly implied tone of This is how I live. This is how you shall never live) and he had more equipment in his basement than this gym has. But honestly, I'm only going to be walking on the treadmill for a long, long time. They had three of those and three ellipticals, too.
The smaller gym charges more monthly but they don't charge anything upfront. The larger gym doesn't require a commitment, but they charge an annual fee, payable every January, even if you join in December. The larger gym offers two different memberships; one includes a free session with a personal trainer, and other includes four sessions. The smaller gym doesn't do the PT thing. Neither one offers much in the way of classes, but I have never been drawn to group activity, either. 20 years ago, the idea of slipping out of the house and getting a workout at 2 AM would have been as appealing as baby bunnies delivering a cheesecake, but realistically I can't see myself having a nice workout in the pre-dawn. Not anymore.
And suddenly the point is moot. At the end of this week I promised Big Daughter to take her and her 3 children the visit Little Daughter at the beach. We'll be gone only 6 days, but a week after our return I'm helping Big Daughter move out of state. Driving the truck while she drives the minivan, dontcha know. I'll be gone another week and home after Halloween.
Steroids #1 called my cell and left enthusiastic messages every day for a week, offering more and more enticement and one-time-only deals. Gym #2 has my number but has never called. I'm not sure which approach I find more attractive. In any case, I shall have to wait until November to make a decision. I guess I could pop in an exercise DVD or something in the meantime. I mean, I guess I could....
I smiled and looked enthusiastic and drove to the other place. That was in the opposite direction, in the middle of nowhere, closer to my house and in a brand new building. It's a 24/7 gym; they give you a keycard and you let yourself in, and if you have a heart attack at 3 AM your body just lies there as the treadmill gradually bumps your skull up and down and rips out all your hair. The staff is only there 4 days a week, and this wasn't one of the days.
It took another week before I remembered to go back on a staffed day, but I finally did and got a lackluster tour by a pretty young woman who didn't curl her lip at my bulk nor seem to work on commission. This place is tiny. My husband once had a megillionaire boss who gave us a tour of his palatial home one Christmas, (there was a strongly implied tone of This is how I live. This is how you shall never live) and he had more equipment in his basement than this gym has. But honestly, I'm only going to be walking on the treadmill for a long, long time. They had three of those and three ellipticals, too.
The smaller gym charges more monthly but they don't charge anything upfront. The larger gym doesn't require a commitment, but they charge an annual fee, payable every January, even if you join in December. The larger gym offers two different memberships; one includes a free session with a personal trainer, and other includes four sessions. The smaller gym doesn't do the PT thing. Neither one offers much in the way of classes, but I have never been drawn to group activity, either. 20 years ago, the idea of slipping out of the house and getting a workout at 2 AM would have been as appealing as baby bunnies delivering a cheesecake, but realistically I can't see myself having a nice workout in the pre-dawn. Not anymore.
And suddenly the point is moot. At the end of this week I promised Big Daughter to take her and her 3 children the visit Little Daughter at the beach. We'll be gone only 6 days, but a week after our return I'm helping Big Daughter move out of state. Driving the truck while she drives the minivan, dontcha know. I'll be gone another week and home after Halloween.
Steroids #1 called my cell and left enthusiastic messages every day for a week, offering more and more enticement and one-time-only deals. Gym #2 has my number but has never called. I'm not sure which approach I find more attractive. In any case, I shall have to wait until November to make a decision. I guess I could pop in an exercise DVD or something in the meantime. I mean, I guess I could....
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Grocery Shopping, in person
Where am I headed with this? I want this blog to be entertaining, maybe occasionally poignant and ultimately uplifting (take that as many ways as you can get it). But the subject depresses me, and lately I've had to erase an entry as soon as I've written it, because the last thing I want to be is pitied.
There are moments, however, that can be humorous and still inspire. I raised 4 kids for 30 years, and did all the grocery shopping for all those decades. As a lifelong insomniac, I thrilled at the introduction of the 24-hour market and used to do my shopping in the middle of the night, when I could think clearly and be less-distracted. But I hate shopping. All kinds of shopping, and food shopping most of all.
Now, rather suddenly, we are empty-nesters, I don't have a job and my husband works from home. We eat whatever we want, whenever, often calling a bowl of cereal "lunch" and an egg-and-potato omelet "dinner". It's all yelling up the stairs "I'm reheating the spaghetti? You want some?" and down the stairs, "No, I just had a burrito." He does community theater and keeps odd hours, and is not above wolfing down fast food on his way to or from.
Like this, we suddenly run out of food in the house. OUT. In manners that could never have happened when I was "doing for" others. The bag-o-salad is rediscovered as a slimy bag-o-goo, the cheese crusted at the edges, the eggs are gone, the fruit is gone, the frozen veggies are down to discolored, frost-singed balls twisted in plastic bag ends, the bread is gone, and unlike my granddaughter I do not find the prospect of a "peanut butter spoon" to be the beginning and end of haute cuisine.
This generally leads us to eat out, defiantly guilty. We start our meal with dammit we deserve this once in a while and end it with, geez, did you know that wine was $8 a glass? So the following day I slink back to the grocery store. This is a major deal for me. Nowadays I have mostly in-house clothing which I won't even wear to the mailbox until after sundown. To go out to the grocery store requires the same casual dress as eating at our neighborhood bistro, but the payoff is diminished, so I'm reluctant to squeeze into it. Anyway, once I'm dressed I zip over to the supermarket. If I have planned at all I get there early on a weekday. I never see anyone I know because after 12 years in the same community I don't know anybody.
Rarely do I make a list, or if I do, rarely do I remember to bring it with me. We were simply OUT of food, and I made the additional mistake of arriving at the grocery store hungry. I was anxious to get out of there with as little as possible, but also fell prey to my appetite in more than one aisle. I also remembered my husband, who does NOT have any weight problem, had run out of his bedside candy. He loves to keep miniature chocolate bars and licorice and a few others things for late night. I rarely accept one, but I knew that he was presently bereft of all of it.
I worked with handicapped people for most of my adult life, so it does my heart good to see the local markets making an effort to hire mentally-challenged adults as baggers and stock people. This week had a new young woman bagging, barely out of her teens, and eager and energetic. She gave me a lopsided smile and helped me unload the grocery cart. As she did, she shouted loudly into the air, "I got your DONUTS! I got your SOUR CREAM! I got your HERSHEY BARS! I got your PIZZA! I got your OTHER DONUTS! I got your ICE CREAM! I got your TWIZZLERS!"
She did not holler out "I got your broccoli" although I had bought some of that, too. In fact, the "sour cream" she proclaimed was actually low-fat soup in a sour cream-type container, but I guess she was enjoying announcing the products she most admired. After unloading the cart she whooshed down to the end of the conveyor belt and began bagging the items, holding each one up to the light and bellowing the most-embarrassing ones aloud.
I haven't been back to the store, although I know I forgot a few things and have run short of a few others. I really do have to go out again. Maybe I should look for this young lady and make an effort to only buy things I want everyone to know I have?
There are moments, however, that can be humorous and still inspire. I raised 4 kids for 30 years, and did all the grocery shopping for all those decades. As a lifelong insomniac, I thrilled at the introduction of the 24-hour market and used to do my shopping in the middle of the night, when I could think clearly and be less-distracted. But I hate shopping. All kinds of shopping, and food shopping most of all.
Now, rather suddenly, we are empty-nesters, I don't have a job and my husband works from home. We eat whatever we want, whenever, often calling a bowl of cereal "lunch" and an egg-and-potato omelet "dinner". It's all yelling up the stairs "I'm reheating the spaghetti? You want some?" and down the stairs, "No, I just had a burrito." He does community theater and keeps odd hours, and is not above wolfing down fast food on his way to or from.
Like this, we suddenly run out of food in the house. OUT. In manners that could never have happened when I was "doing for" others. The bag-o-salad is rediscovered as a slimy bag-o-goo, the cheese crusted at the edges, the eggs are gone, the fruit is gone, the frozen veggies are down to discolored, frost-singed balls twisted in plastic bag ends, the bread is gone, and unlike my granddaughter I do not find the prospect of a "peanut butter spoon" to be the beginning and end of haute cuisine.
This generally leads us to eat out, defiantly guilty. We start our meal with dammit we deserve this once in a while and end it with, geez, did you know that wine was $8 a glass? So the following day I slink back to the grocery store. This is a major deal for me. Nowadays I have mostly in-house clothing which I won't even wear to the mailbox until after sundown. To go out to the grocery store requires the same casual dress as eating at our neighborhood bistro, but the payoff is diminished, so I'm reluctant to squeeze into it. Anyway, once I'm dressed I zip over to the supermarket. If I have planned at all I get there early on a weekday. I never see anyone I know because after 12 years in the same community I don't know anybody.
Rarely do I make a list, or if I do, rarely do I remember to bring it with me. We were simply OUT of food, and I made the additional mistake of arriving at the grocery store hungry. I was anxious to get out of there with as little as possible, but also fell prey to my appetite in more than one aisle. I also remembered my husband, who does NOT have any weight problem, had run out of his bedside candy. He loves to keep miniature chocolate bars and licorice and a few others things for late night. I rarely accept one, but I knew that he was presently bereft of all of it.
I worked with handicapped people for most of my adult life, so it does my heart good to see the local markets making an effort to hire mentally-challenged adults as baggers and stock people. This week had a new young woman bagging, barely out of her teens, and eager and energetic. She gave me a lopsided smile and helped me unload the grocery cart. As she did, she shouted loudly into the air, "I got your DONUTS! I got your SOUR CREAM! I got your HERSHEY BARS! I got your PIZZA! I got your OTHER DONUTS! I got your ICE CREAM! I got your TWIZZLERS!"
She did not holler out "I got your broccoli" although I had bought some of that, too. In fact, the "sour cream" she proclaimed was actually low-fat soup in a sour cream-type container, but I guess she was enjoying announcing the products she most admired. After unloading the cart she whooshed down to the end of the conveyor belt and began bagging the items, holding each one up to the light and bellowing the most-embarrassing ones aloud.
I haven't been back to the store, although I know I forgot a few things and have run short of a few others. I really do have to go out again. Maybe I should look for this young lady and make an effort to only buy things I want everyone to know I have?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Elevators
Sigh. The elevators at my mother's senior living complex have to carry thousands of pounds every day, including the heavy motorized scooters driven around by disabled people. The buildings are around 30 years old, and probably built by graft and payoffs in the first place, and those elevator scare the beejeebers out of me. Mom lives on the 3rd floor and I do all her grocery shopping for her, so most of my visits there are solo. I come in on the ground floor and ride up to the third (top) level, and the elevators creak and shake and whine all the way up. There is an occasional CLUNK or even a whistling noise, and the little boxes shudder and seem to sway just a little. I'm almost always alone when I ride up (or down) and I never fail the think this will be the time. The cable will break and they'll haul my lifeless corpse out of the basement and say "She was more than Old Otis could handle!"
Worse, I wonder if three flights is enough to kill me. I'd hate to be alive and hear them say that.
Worse, I wonder if three flights is enough to kill me. I'd hate to be alive and hear them say that.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
"A fat stomach never breeds fine thoughts" - St. Jerome
"A fat stomach never breeds fine thoughts" - St. Jerome
My world-view has grown much smaller in the past few years. I used to be very deeply concerned about mankind, womankind, childkind, animal welfare, social politics and the environment. While I still feel the same, my brain chemistry has altered (or sumpthin) and I no longer experience the drive to DO anything about these issues. (Kvetch, maybe.)
I sorta hope that will change, but I'm like "meh" about it right now.
I've had two blogs for years and I don't use them at all. Once an uncorkable writer, I'm now pretty stretched to fill a Twitter (not that anyone is following).
But two days ago my youngest daughter, Molly, got engaged to her lovely boyfriend Matt. We like him. She likes him. He likes her. They are thinking about next May (2011) for a wedding. I guess that's fine. But it only gives me 9 months to lose about 50 pounds.
And that's as good a reason to blog as any.
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