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 |  Who knows what's to be found inside my head? |
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March 12, 2007 Life in transition. It’s a common theme for everyone, I think. In one way or another all our lives change day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Sometimes though, the changes come fast and hard. When I got married I moved out of the home I’d lived in since I was eighteen months old. In a few weeks I’ll move out of the house I’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years, and away from the local I’ve lived in my entire life. After thirty years of being the wife of an executive who worked sixty hours a week, and took numerous business trips out of the country each year, I will find myself the wife of a semi-retired man who works from home. After a lifetime of suburban living, where no convenience is out of walking distance, we’ll be living in the mountains, thirty minutes out of town. Yeah, life is changing. Can I keep up with it? That’s the question. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sunset in April on the lake in our Forest Lakes back yard. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thank you to Voxxylady  for the fantastic sig!Thank you to carlton607  for the gift of the awardicon. If you have time, visit his port. He's a talented writer, and I'll bet you enjoy the Cash N'Advance and Gil and Dolores stories.{/b}
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| After Ron and I got the tandem, I got the bug in me and wanted to ride during the week as well as on the weekends, so I began taking my cross country bike out for a ride on the days when I didn’t hike. After about a week and a half of this, I was ready to be done with it. Not with the riding, but with the bike. I’d never ridden it for such extended periods of time, or over so many miles as I was doing now. And I discovered it’s not the ideal bike for such riding. The upright posture doesn’t facilitate climbing paved hills, and the semi-knobby tires are asphalt loving suction cups. The ratio of work to fun was out of balance. What I needed was another real road bike, like my old ten-speed. With some savings I had, I walked down to the bike store where we had purchased the tandem, and rode home on a custom-fit road bike, light enough for me to pick up with one hand and fitted with those special pedals that clip into cycling shoes. NOW I could go places. And I do. My virus is currently under control and as I become more cycling fit my enjoyment increases. I still don’t like sucking fumes, but I go out at a time of day when there is less traffic, and choose quiet routes, when I can. I’m a regular cycling momma. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Here she is. She glides and flies and works like crazy on the climbs. And I love her blue. So, we’ve got this vacation planned, right? For the past several years we’ve taken hiking vacations, choosing places where there are lots of trails to explore. Now that I’m enjoying riding I wondered if we could take a biking vacation this year. Ron liked the idea. But, taking the tandem posed a problem since transporting it requires partial disassembly and stowing the big frame in the back of Ron’s car. Not much room left for luggage in that scenario. (Now we know we can put it on the bike rack, but that knowledge came too late.) Which meant, if we were going to bike on vacation, Ron was going to have to get a bike of his own. I was glad of that necessity because I want him to be able to ride and get conditioned in the evenings after work. As I get better conditioned, I want him to keep up so we can be a matched pair. Plus, he needs the exercise as a guard against falling victim to heart disease that runs in his family. Riding a road bike holds no attraction for him at all. If you read his blog entry "Invalid Entry"  you’ll understand why. He’s always been into dirt and trail biking. So he agreed to dip into the bank account one more time and get himself a mountain bike, making it possible for us to take that fantasy biking vacation.My compromise was to leave my beloved road bike at home and bring my cross country bike on our trip so together we could ride on both roads and trails – whichever presented itself to us. How glad I was I made that choice when our first day at the Grand Canyon yielded a first-time-in-my-life experience I would never have had on my road bike. |
| sentimente requested pictures of my bikes, so I’m sharing a couple of them here. It’s nothing like pictures of the grandbaby, I’ll grant you. No need to ooh and aah. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** The tandem, in case you couldn’t tell ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This is the mountain bike that I rode on vacation Fair warning. The next few blog entries will be following a train of thought on the current theme of bike riding. Same topic, different stories. But they’re all personal. * * * * * The other day I took a thirty-one mile bike ride that made our first tandem ride of thirty-four miles seem like a stroll in the park. Up, up, up hills – one after another. Long sustained uphill rides and short, intense ones. I have developed my around town rides and have the short, medium and long ones that I cycle through. I have rides planed that will cover many more miles or harder, longer hills. If this sounds crazy, maybe it is. But the feeling of riding, of moving forward at a speed that generates wind, under my own power; of moving my joints and balancing my body over two thin tires; of hunkering down and driving my energy into the bicycle, powering from my hips though my legs and into my feet while collecting more energy in a mysterious cycle of regeneration; of pressing through with all I can muster and then enjoying the reward of relaxing at the end with circular strokes that come effortlessly – all this combines to create enjoyment. But mostly, it opens a valve in my brain and soul that allows all the crap I’m dealing with to drain away. In these days when I’m faced with the reality of leaving my home in half a year; of leaving my kids, granddaughter and dog; of relinquishing to someone else the home where I bore and raised my children – a home I only two years ago got fixed up according to my dreams – in these days when I get smothered in sadness and fear and regret, an escape is welcome. Getting out on the bike and riding hard helps me find balance and perspective. It releases my emotional tension and drenches me in endorphins; it allows me to feel good about myself and exchange sorrow for hope and expectation. This is a good drug. |
| Before the blog, I have a question for those of you who have made submissions to magazines. stephenm reminded me that I have continued to put off making a submission I’ve had ready to go for a few months. I sat down today to format the manuscript for sending off, then realized I have no idea about how to write up a cover letter. Is one necessary for a magazine submission? Can anyone supply an example that I can learn from? I want everything to be perfect when I finally send the story off. If (when??) I get the rejection slip, I want to know it wasn’t because I made a submission mistake. My copy of the Writer’s and Illustrator’s Market gives good guidelines for formatting a manuscript, but none for a cover letter. I’d appreciate any and all comments. FYIThanks to lots of help from friends here, I got the pictures compiled, and have embedded them in the blog entries to which they apply. Check the bottom of these two entries for their pics: "Invalid Entry" and "Invalid Entry" Others in the album are awaiting their blog entries to make their debut!Invalid Photo #1004980 I recall getting my first bicycle. It was a birthday gift. I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember the stingray bike with high handlebars trailing plastic tassels. It didn’t come with a banana seat, but it wasn’t long before my daddy replaced the standard short saddle with one of those long, sleek seats. I spent hours riding up and down our block in the early mornings of summer, speculating on the reason I had to pedal from my house to the corner but could coast back home. Ignorant of such things as topography and grading, I figured it was the curve of our round earth that made the uphill  With a basket on the handlebars, I frequently ran shopping errands for my mother, and eventually I rode my bike the two miles to Jr. High school. I have to say that I did this only once, since my girlfriends didn’t bike and we all rode together to school in a carpool. Anyway, by the time I reached the eighth grade, stingrays were going out of fashion, and I was wanting a ten-speed road bike. As a neighborhood babysitter I earned $.50 an hour. It took a lot of babysitting to earn the $110.00 plus tax it took to buy that bike I wanted, but I finally got it the summer before entering tenth grade. Dang, wasn’t I just all that, riding my green road bike with the turned down handle bars and ten whole gears??? The boyfriend I had at the time taught me about using the gears and I loved shifting down before stopping and changing gears to get the maximum power out of my push, as well as challenging myself to get up any hill in as high a gear as I could manage. I rode that bike everywhere, and even took it with me after I got married and moved to our little valley, where I rode here, there and everywhere. I don’t remember when or why I got rid of it, but life moved on, children came, and I quit riding around. When I was done homeshooling and began working a few miles from home, I thought I’d like to cycle back and forth, so got another bike, but this time I chose a cross country bike with slightly knobby tires and upright handle bars – and twenty-one gears. With saddlebags on the back to hold my stuff, it served quite well, and I took it out from time to time just to ride the hilly streets and make some wind. I enjoyed the difference all those extra gears made in precision futzing for the varied terrain around my house. Riding on the tandem though, is a different experience than riding on my own. With Ron in the driver’s seat, I must relinquish all control. He decides which gears to use, and though I may from time to time make a suggestion about gearing up or down, I follow his choice, pedaling by his command. I have no control over the breaks either, and since I’m in the back, stopping can come as a surprise. With an unexpected stop, I may lose the pedals when they halt their rotation but my feet continue in the cycle. When Ron wants to stretch his left leg, I stretch mine. When he decides to coast with his right leg extended, I ride the same. In all ways I give up control and follow his lead. My job is to enjoy the pedaling, to work hard, and to stay balanced and neutral so Ron can steer and maneuver. We work together; the effort of each of us vital to the success of the ride. If I take it easy, he’ll tire and our ride will be cut short. Once we start up a hill we must both work as hard as we can to make it to the top. Our combined efforts drag us panting to the crest. We feed on each other’s energy, and sometimes it’s only because one of us has the undeterred will not to quit that we both make it to the goal. While we ride we can talk and point out sights to each other – in tandem emotionally as well as physically. We are also traveling in tandem through life. There are times when my spirit keeps him moving forward and others when I’m the one who wants to throw in the towel, and he gives me the motivation to keep going. As un-PC as it sounds though, I still generally follow his lead, allowing him to provide the overall guidance and direction of our lives. I can do this because our personal goals rarely conflict, and when I offer my opinion or thoughts, he listens and pays respect to my ideas and wishes. He often seeks my input, which is factored into our mutual decisions. So I don’t lose anything by taking the back seat. In fact, I’ve gained more than I would have, as the driver. Ron has taken us places and on adventures that I would have chosen to detour around, and if sometimes I’d rather ride in a different gear, so what? We get where we intend going, and we get there together. The thing is, in life, as on the tandem bike, each of us has to work continuously. I remind myself of this on those days when I’m just so tired of “dealing” with whatever issue keeps cropping up between us. I can’t stop pedaling. If I do, we will come to a stand-still, and getting started again, especially on a hill, can be hard. He doesn’t quit working either, and eventually we come to the crest and get to coast down the other side. Each time we ride that bike I get a life-reminder, and we have a blast. Seriously, who’s missing the Harely?? Not us. |
| Well, Ron and I took Rowdy for a hike this morning, then hubby had to go to work and I went on a bike ride. Now I’m showered, tired and sitting down with a cup of hot tea. OK, so it’s still summer, but at nearly two in the afternoon it’s only just past eighty degrees and I’m in the mood for a spot of tea. Orange Ginger Mint, with a drip of orange essential oil added in. Oh Yeah. I’m sitting on the couch with my laptop and Trading Spaces, to be followed by What Not to Wear, and working on putting together some pictures of our recent vacation. If all goes well, by Monday I’ll have a photo album set up to share. Never having done this before, and with Ron away, it’s a toss up as to weather this techno-ignoramus can make it happen. Wish me luck |
| This recent vacation was different from ones we’ve taken in the past. Besides the fact that we allowed ourselves a full two weeks (four or five days is generally the maximum we get at a time), this trip was a biking, not a hiking one. This is the first time we’ve biked, and there is some history behind the decision to vacation in this way that reaches back to June, when I visited my sisters in the Midwest. This is how the story begins: Little did my sister and her husband know, but they created a monster when they took me on that little fourteen mile bike ride in Ohio this past June. Up until then, I’d taken my exercise hiking. From the valley where we live, we have access to numerous trails that climb the surrounding mountains, and making those strenuous climbs with Rowdy as a companion is invigorating and something I looked forward to. Ron would go with us on the weekends and all told, I might hike over forty miles in a week. It’s a problem in the winter after rains, when the trails are slick for quite a while. So, at that time of the year, the dog and I will stomp the sidewalks of our hillside neighborhood. Sometime ago Ron suggested he get a bike so the two of us could go riding together. I’d given up my ancient ten speed bicycle many years ago, and had purchased a cross country bike to ride to and from work. Since I quit working a few years ago, I quit riding, taking up the hiking instead. Ron’s suggestion that we cycle together was met by tepid agreement, I’m sad to say. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of riding on the streets sucking fumes, had no desire to ride my hiking trails, and we couldn’t take the dog with us on rides, so I’d have to do double exercise to accommodate Rowdy’s needs. Finally, I didn’t much care for the notion of bike riding with Ron – I’d rather hike with him. When we hike, we can chat and be together. Riding separate cycles is something I thought you did at the same time, but not so much together. I kept telling Ron to wait until Spring, reasoning that we wouldn’t do much riding in the winter, and hoping he’d forget about it. Spring came and went, and Ron didn’t broach the subject again. Then I went on that bike ride in Ohio and remembered how much I loved riding. I wanted to do this more, and with Ron. But my Ohio biking experience reinforced my opinion of riding with others. My sister, brother-in-law and I were riding the same path, but we weren’t together for the ride, not like Dianne and I were when we went walking together. Then, I got a brainstorm. This came courtesy of my other sister, Karen. She and her husband have for many years done road cycling. In addition to their personal bikes, they have a tandem road bike that they ride all the time and love. That was it. On a tandem, Ron and I could ride together, talk and work together, and enjoy all the fun of cycling. After soaking in the irony of my new enthusiasm for a pastime previously blackballed, and testing out a tandem bicycle, Ron was on board and we were off riding! We have been enjoying the weekends like crazy. Our first ride was a thirty-four mile round trip jaunt from the beach up into the valley where Nada lives, and then back. The next day we tackled the toughest hill in or valley. In the sweltering heat, on the heavy bike, and Ron unconditioned, we had to walk for some way at the top, but we had a blast screaming down the other side. So, the monster was born, but this tandem bicycle turned out only to be the critter’s antennae. More was to come. PS Is anyone else missing the happy birthday banners? All that color cheered me. How cool to have that all the time! |
| Sometimes it pays to be the smallest on in a group. Like when you’re going on a helicopter ride. The six passengers are assigned specific seats according to body weight, in order to balance the copter properly. I noticed the small women were being seated up front with the pilot so I wasn’t surprised when I got the coveted seat assignment number 1. I was a little sorry though, because this ride was Ron’s special adventure, and I had been hoping that he’d get to sit up front. Oh well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I got escorted to my seat and buckled in beside the pilot, who was a red haired, freckle-faced CHILD! I really begin to feel old when folks like doctors and helicopter pilots are half my age. James was quite friendly and as it turned out, capable. In fact, he had a good grasp of drama, which I discovered about six minutes after take off. It’s a little creepy, that feeling of loosing grip with the earth and rocking in a huge machine, then watching the ground recede beneath your feet. But the sight of tree tops passing underneath the clear dome soon expunged all thoughts of apprehension. At this lower cruising altitude, the shadow of the helicopter bopped from tree to tree, a black silhouette that enlarged as it passed across the bigger trees, as if they were massive green magnifying lenses. And those trees seemd close enough to gently break the fall of any unfortunate passenger who might fall out a carelessly closed door. We glided slowly to the sound of music from The Last of the Mohicans playing in out headsets. Gradually, James took us higher; our shadow fell behind us as he altered course, and we traveled more quickly over the forest. From within my transparent bubble I watched as we passed over land shadowed by ancient fir and pine trees – land whose dust had never been raised by the footsteps of man. The treetops sped by more and more quickly, the music rose to its climax, and at the exact moment of its crescendo, I was catapulted over the cliff, into the great canyon, whose Colorado River ran a mile below. There really is no way to describe the experience of flying at a helicopter’s leisurely pace along the inside rim of the canyon, up close and eyelevel with the rock face that looks for all the world as if it’s multi colored layers have been chiseled by giants, then striped with a black-tipped paintbrush. Or of skimming the forest growing at its edges. Or of the mesmerizing sight of the turquoise waters of the Little Colorado merging with the muddy brown water of her big brother. Of hovering over a mile of empty space, sheltered by the monumental walls of prehistoric earth. Of watching it all through the Plexiglas bubble that affords a surrounding view of it all. The 45 minute ride was well worth the cost. Even poor Ron, facing backwards in the belly of the chopper, is the first to acknowledge that. Coming or going, the views were spectacular, and he actually took better pictures. And so our vacation began. With a bang. The next day we’d hear those helicopters bat over our hotel room before we took off to the canyon for our first bike ride along its rim. So many ways to experience that place. Invalid Photo #1004940 Invalid Photo #1004939 Invalid Photo #1004938 Invalid Photo #1004937 Invalid Photo #1004936 Invalid Photo #1004935 Invalid Photo #1004934 Invalid Photo #1004933 Invalid Photo #1004932 Invalid Photo #1004930 Invalid Photo #1004929 Invalid Photo #1004928 Invalid Photo #1004927 Invalid Photo #1004926 Invalid Photo #1004925 |
| It’s been a much needed vacation. Now we’re home and ready to take up the mantle of real life again, but with a little more hope, thanks to good news we received while away that will ease our moving to Colorado next spring. A few of our worries about the transition have been lifted. After spending a week in Durango, Bayfield, and the mountain resort – enjoying that mountain environment, biking in places where cows, not cars, are the main obstacles, breathing the fresh, clean air and making new friends, we look forward with more enthusiasm to relocating there. We finished our planned renovations to our rental condo – what a monkey off our backs that is! If anyone is ever interested in vacationing at the Durango Mountain Resort, I can recommend a great condo to rent! We couldn’t pry ourselves away, electing to stay an additional two days to enjoy the view, the comfort and the fun activities. Yesterday, Labor day, marked the official end of our vacation time. All I have to do is fully get over this cold I came down with Sunday evening – always a risk when the stress of constant vacation activity is over and the let down happens. Sometimes I make it through unscathed, but this time I got hit. But, cold or no, the time has come to get back into the swing of life, and prepare for Rebecca to move in before the end of the month. How long will it be before our adventures are a vague memory? ronnylm has shared in his blog a few thoughts about our time away, and I’ll have my own words to add. For now, I’ll leave you with a bit of prose. Sad to say, it’s on an overly written about topic, but something we’ve experienced numerous times on our visits to the Grand Canyon. * * * * Shadows, like goblins, creep up the canyon walls from the deep crevasses carved by rivers eons ago. Passing through extra miles of atmosphere as the sun nears the horizon, attenuated light reaches the upper cliffs not yet devoured by twilight. This concentrated illumination brightens the colors that, under the glare of daylight are washed out, bleached. Gold, orange, russet, red, yellow, even brown are brought to vibrant life in these moments of day’s death. It’s interesting that this drama of colorful explosion unfolds opposite the setting sun. Beneath the lowering orb, the canyon walls are shrouded in a mist of lavender and grey, their earthy layers obscured and muted. Visitors, in turning their backs to the object of their journey to this lookout at the end of the day, realize the REAL beauty of the Grand Canyon sunset. The sun sinks quickly; the silent goblins move rapidly and swallow the offering of the setting sun. Daily, the ritual is repeated; grey shadows gorge themselves on a repast of vibrancy and color, which disappear into invisible gullets, ready to be spread out anew upon the tables of the great canyon walls with the next sunrise. * * * * * This makes me think about what I miss when I focus on the most attention demanding object or event in my life. What lessons or beauty am I missing when I look at the setting sun, instead of turning my back on it to look in the opposite direction? What lies opposite the tension, stress, sorrow, anxiety, worry? Is there wonder there? Invalid Photo #1004944 Invalid Photo #1004943 Invalid Photo #1004942 Invalid Photo #1004941 |
| Ah, finally. Anyone reading ronnylm’s blog will know we’ve been on vacation. His most recent entry, posted last night, relates his experience of our second day out, but in reality today is day twelve. Tomorrow we head home and will pull into our driveway sometime around the dinner hour. As is typical, this vacation has been a rampage of continuous movement. When he goes on vacation, my husband likes to use up every moment with play and fun and exploration – partly because it’s his only opportunity to do so with impunity, and partly as an attempt to stave off the inevitable moment of return to real life. If he says, “do you want to……?” I’ve learned to say, “Sure!” knowing that he’s really telling me he wants to stop off to visit that museum, or hike that Petrified Forest. The end result is always a bit of fun and new experiences, which is what vacation is all about. We do have fun and adventures, but I get wore out, let me tell you. I struggle to stay awake in the car, even when I’m driving. And when we finally come back to our hotel room (or condo) after the usual late dinner, I’m toast. While Ron stays up and does work or blogs, I’m sound asleep. Even the room lights don’t keep me up. Last night we arrived here in Zion, at a hotel we’ve stayed in before. We get a room just a few hundred yards across a green lawn from the river. At the base of the vertical cliffs that comprise the canyon, this little spot receives a continuous breeze that cools and freshens. It is a quiet respite at the end of a long two weeks. The problem is we never spend any time enjoying the spot!!!! Last time we were here, we hiked all day, each of the two days we stayed, and came back in time to soak in the spa before the area closed for the night, then we crawled aching into bed. Today started out with the promise of a repeat of that scenario. Ron wanted to bike ride into the canyon, then while there, stop off to take a long, four – five hour hike UP to the top of the canyon; a hike we did last time. It would have been an exhausting capper to our trip, that’s for sure. Somehow, he noted my lack of enthusiasm for his plan. What I wanted to do was take the bike ride, then come back to the hotel for a few hours to sit on the patio across from the river and just BE. Peaceful and quiet and resting and enjoying this spectacular place. Bless him, Ron understood, so here I am, showered and sitting comfortably in one of the Adirondack chairs, writing and day-dreaming to the background music of the river. The sun is lowering in the western sky and will momentarily fill my lap, but the little tree off the patio is casting its shadow just at my toes, ready to evict the sun and shade me. Birds are chirping at each other, clouds float across the sun from time to time, the breeze ruffles my still damp hair, monarch butterflies weave among the tree branches, and the worries of home are seven hours away. What more could I want? |
| Sometimes, life is an empty box. This doesn’t always mean depression, just that the soul is weary and needs rest. I’ve had a soul-weary week. Conflict, altercation, worry, planning – it eventually adds up to a fatigue of mind and spirit that can’t be overcome without just plain checking out for a while. I don’t expect I’m alone in this experience. When it comes on me, I fall into a routine of physical exercise outdoors (something I do, anyway), house chores, and whatever other mindless tasks or activities I can find. When I’m not responsible for watching the baby, I end up visiting with my daughters or running errands – there have been a lot of errands lately. The three afternoons and evenings a week I have Theren, I plan my activities around her, and end up enjoying what seems to be unproductive time, just sitting, watching her play in the front or back yard, playing with her in the floor, laughing at her antics and wondering at her problem solving as she masters this art of walking and climbing. Or, I walk s-l-o-w-l-y with her in the park, waiting for her to collect her souvenirs of bottle caps, sticks and colored bits of paper, or watching as she takes in the marvel of children playing soccer, running in the water, flying kites. This can occupy hours and take us right up to dinner time. So, at the end of the day, I find I haven’t written a word, looked at email – or wanted to. Ron and I watch a few episodes of a missed season of 24 and I finish my day happily, my mind marinated in a mass of Alpha waves taking me nowhere. I find I’ve enjoyed being lost in floating thoughts and quiet, un-stressed moments – one linked to another until the chain equals my day and it’s time to go to bed. For all I know, the rest of the month may slip by me in a similar manner. Ron and I have a two week vacation planned for the end of August, so I may just take advantage of that and let my brain and heart rest this month. There is a restless core within me, and I know that while I enjoy the mentally sedentary days now, I will eventually be craving mind stimulation and be longing to spend every minute at my computer. Then, I’ll have to fight the battle of choosing between that extra hour of biking (and perhaps a needed nap) and an extra hour of writing, reviewing, or blogging. That will be hard. I can already feel the urge to be back in the creative mode descending, but I sense that I need more quiet days. Over the years of my life I have come to believe in the value of giving ourselves permission to back away from reaching for our goals – to stop pressing and working so hard, and allow life to unfold around us instead of striving to create it. Sometimes it’s good to sit back and listen, rest, heal, strengthen, then come back and embark on our journey. This evening is peaceful. A cool breeze tickles past; the shade of the peach tree, weighed down with not yet ripened fruit, dances on the lawn; the baby wanders through the soft grass, picking pink geranium petals to decorate the lounging dog; the chimes play softly. I could stay just like this forever. |
| What is it about weather and moods? I’ve read about the depression that descends on some during winter months, due to lack of UV light. I am one of those who struggles through winter, but I don’t think it’s the UV so much as the sunshine in general that affects me. It’s that yellow brightness and the warmth it carries that sparks me. I do have a harder time getting motivated during the winter months, but over the years, I’m coming to be more accepting of the sunless days that time of year. Winter is, after all, a season of rest and refreshment for the land. What I seriously can’t take is the gloom and overcast we get in early summer. You’ve heard Nada and me complain about our June Gloom. This year we had a Grey May too, and everyone wondered if summer would ever arrive.Summer finally encamped, in a dome of heat – three weeks of triple digit temps, with enough humidity to create a heat index. Even for those of us who love the sun, it was a bit much to take, but deep in my heart I was grateful for the heat; our grey months were still a fresh memory. That high pressure system has moved on and now, for the first time I can recall, our July mornings are smothered in low cloud cover. It burns off in the early evening, just a few hours before dark. This is one of the consequences of living near the pacific coast, the marine layer that creeps over the boarderlands and sneaks into the valleys where it settles on moist haunches to await the elusive burn off. This is the fourth day of it, and I’m ready to scream. Or jump off a bridge. Or dig a hole and climb in. When I awaken in summer to an overcast sky, my brain rebels. If such mornings repeat, I get seriously depressed. There is no attraction to get out and exercise, to read, to write, to do anything but retreat into a mental stronghold of light. I am crabby, impatient, sorrowful, on the edge of anger all day long. I look forward to dark so I can’t see that the sky is once again fluffy with low, grey clouds. It feels like I’ve been body-snatched. Today, the sun is teasing and I can’t help but hold out hope it will emerge sometime soon. But, it teased yesterday and never showed its full face until just a few hours before dark. Ach! This weather is in our forecast for the next few days. I’m holding on. Holding on. Holding. PS. I held on long enough. The sun came out and I got in a nice bike ride  I’m crossing my fingers for tomorrow. |
| The following blog is a teaching one, so be prepared! School is in session once again. The other day I read an article stating that they’ve discovered the AIDS virus hides in the gut, and replicates in the lining of the intestines, doing much of its damage to the immune system there. I’m glad they published this, for a few reasons. I am a health coach and I have a hard time convincing people that most of their immune system is in their gut. This is not a logical or pleasant thought, and most people discount the importance of paying attention to, or taking measures to enhance the health of their colon. The fact of the matter is, fully seventy percent of our immune system is located in the lining of our digestive tract and intestinal mucus. Taking care of this important immune system outpost is largely a matter of eating correctly; consuming foods and supplements to replace the bacterial flora, which support the immune system; eliminating foods that destroy those flora; getting enough exercise. Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezie, right? Not so right. Our Standard American Diet (otherwise known as SAD) serves us poorly here. High in sugar and harmful fats, low in fiber and mineral rich grains, it daily destroys the sentinels our body needs for the protection and nurture of the immune system set in place to keep us healthy. The sentinels are, believe it or not, bacteria. When all is as it should be, we have 400 to 500 friendly types living and growing in our digestive system. Their total weight is about four pounds – the weight of our liver!! The problem arises when our diet and toxins kill off our helpful friends – the void is filled by unfriendly bacteria, fungi and viruses that create illness and disease. What we want is to make sure we’ve got an army of good guys to protect and do battle for us. These flora have many important jobs, among them: The manufacture of vitamins Regulation of regular bowel movements (one or two per day is a MINIMUM) Production of natural antibiotics and antifungals (anyone fighting Candida?) Increasing the number of immune system cells Activating antitumoral and anticancer effects Protection from toxins, such as mercury, pesticides, radiation, and pollutants Normalizing serum cholesterol Converting flavonoids into useable forms (remember those, from "Invalid Entry" ?)The breakdown and rebuilding of hormones (think menopause and hot flashes) Though this list exceeds FIVE, it’s an abbreviated one.Building and maintaining a healthy gut isn’t all that hard, but it does take a little dedication. Here are a few of the simplest things anyone can do: 1. Cleanse the colon. A Google search for Master Cleanse will yield instructions on how to accomplish this. 2. Take a daily dose of a high quality probiotic. This will be one with a wide variety of bacteria, and lots of them. It will also be specially formulated to bypass the stomach and release its warriors in the gut so they are not killed by digestive acid. 3. Avoid sugar (again, with the sugar!), antibiotics, and regular use of Acetemetiphin or Ibuprofin, all of which destroy the flora. 4. Take fish oil in the summer and cod liver oil in the winter, along with extra vitamin E. These essential fatty acids are anti-inflammatory and protective. Many still recommend eating fish, but I’m not comfortable with the mercury risk – almost all fish is contaminated now. Taking the oils is far safer. 5. Make sure you get adequate fiber. The adage “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” has some truth to it. And not only do fruits, vegetables, whole grains and legumes (beans) have lots of fiber, they are also rich in magnesium, which helps encourage your colon to empty itself with regularity. Add regular exercise to keep everything moving and active, drink plenty of water, and you’ve got a winning formula. May be easy for some, not so easy for others. I don’t know about the rest of you, but living a long life isn’t the most important thing to me. Living a healthy life is. I want to be an old, retired fart still hiking and bike riding and who knows what all, enjoying life. That’s not going to happen if I don’t take measures now to ensure it. And of all the things I can do, taking care of my gut is The Most Important.The ancients used to believe their brains resided in their bellies, and now we call the gut our “second brain.” Taking care of it is not an option. If anyone would like specific recommendations or feedback, feel free to email me. |
| I’m not going to begin this blog with a gripe that I was not with Rebecca today when she had an encounter on the freeway I’d die for. I’m not going to even talk about it – it’s so unfair I missed all the fun. But I know she’s going to be writing about it so you all can learn about it in her "Invalid Item" , if you want to. But I am going to gripe. Have you heard that the US winner of the Tour de France has tested positive for doping? His tests showed high levels of testosterone/epitestosterone. The positive results came from the test he was given in stage seventeen of the race, the same stage that saw him make an incredible comeback, cycling over the finish-line way ahead of the pack – a finish that elevated him from eleventh to third place. Evidently, there’s a backup sample for a second test so the final verdict isn’t in just yet. But his team seems to think it’s a done deal. I remember, a day or two before the race began, nine riders were ousted for drug violations. I know such behavior is nothing new. Olympic champions have been toppled in the past, after drug tests. I just don’t get it. As I’ve confessed, I have a rabid competitive streak in me, but winning at any cost would make a victory meaningless. How do the athletes who drug themselves to artificially enhance their stamina or strength savor their win? Those who do an astounding job are generally accused of cheating. Lance Armstrong was dogged by accusations and allegations, but he never tested positive for drugs. It appears he actually WAS a winner in his own right, by his own might, discipline and mental prowess. A winner seven times over. He had plenty of opportunity and motive to enhance the odds so as not to let down those expecting repeat performances, but he also had enough character to know taking drugs would guarantee his loss, even if he came home with the cup. Perhaps it’s the cup. Or the gold medal. Or the ring. But mostly, maybe it’s the fame and fortune accompanying such icons of achievement that temp the athletes. We’ve built a culture that worships athletic winners and rewards them in an exorbitant manner. The first Olympic athletes got a crown of olive leaves. Did they also get social status and advancement? Financial compensation that outdistanced their yearly wages? Did it all start there? When did we begin to believe that winning is all that matters? All you have to do is sit in the bleachers of a little league baseball game, or an equestrian competition, or a soccer game or any swim or gymnastics meet where children are the competitors. Listen to the parents. Hear them complain and criticize; watch them lecture and harass their children for the missed goal, or dropped ball, or sloppy start time. Notice their comments revolve around the loss, or the win – not the experience, the effort, the improvement – the fact that the kids simply took part. Are they setting a standard for those children, who may eventually justify any means of winning? Even high school athletes are taking steroids to ensure victories. Has the idea of cheating been relegated to the school desk and math tests? I will confess here and now to having cheated a few times in my life. But I’ll also say that when I did, the prize was not all that wonderful. In fact, I can’t even tell you the specifics of the rewards I got from those cheating wins. But I can remember the details of victories I won by sweat and agony and hard effort – all on my own, and maybe with the cards stacked against me. Those are the rewards that mean something and that made me a better person. When I read about the cyclists who were sent home before the Tour de France began I asked myself, “When are they going to get it figured out?” Maybe never. |
| Don’t even talk to me about losing documents into the vast void of black emptiness, where they are irretrievable – gone forever. I backup my work, but one document, where I kept blog ideas, and even a few pre-written entries (in case of emergency) lived outside my Writing folder, and got lost. It was all my fault. I don’t want to talk about it. I cried like a baby. Theren has nothing on me. I went to bed to sleep it off. So, after this day of busy-ness and not-at-home-ness, I am blog-less. No emergency stores. Wait a minute while I blow my nose. OK, there is one bit of brightness to the moment. Wallace and Gromit. In spite of the fact that they won an Academy Award a few years back, I’ve never seen the duo in action until this afternoon. They are a riot. The animators and directors don’t miss a step or neglect a single subtle movement, and the result is thirty minutes of sheer delight. Ever seen a creepy, scary penguin – one who you KNOW has evil on its mind? Or an oven that seems more human than some actors? I have, now. All I can say now, is Oh My Gosh. Another WDC blogger in my family. rjoym has a blog, "Invalid Item" which she opened last night. I’m hoping she can connect to the twenty-somethings on the site, and the ladies with young children. It might be interesting, if nothing changes and we end up living together, to compare our thoughts on the experience.Did I create a monster? I’m working fervently to ergonomize my workstation. The problem is my chair, which doesn’t hurt my back while I sit in it, but is responsible for the backache I wake up with in the mornings. No, it’s not the bed. I’ve done several experiments, and the chair is definitely the culprit. Finding an alternative isn’t all that easy since there is no store that sells a variety of truly ergonomic chairs. There’s no place to go where I can try out an Aeron chair and Jobri or Tempur-pedic chairs. So right now, I’m sitting on my Ball. My exercise ball, that is. It required a bit of futzing to get it the right height, and I had to go get a foot rest. It’s still in the experimental stage, but I can say, my back hurt noticeably less this morning. I guess I blogged, after all  |
| Thank all of you who have read ronnylm's blog. Thanks for making him welcome and encouraging his continued efforts. From the time he arrives home from work, to bed time, he has about three hours, so if you don't hear much from him personally, that's why! Ach, what was I thinking??? * * * I’d like to thank Nada for her energy conservation efforts. We never lost power yesterday, and I’ve no doubt her electrical sacrifices contributed to our continuous internet access, and my ability to get the car out of the garage  It’s a funny thing how life shifts just a tad when the power zapps off. The most noticeable effect is the silence. Outside, pool pumps go quiet, AC compressors shudder to a sudden stop. In the heat birds aren’t singing, dogs aren’t barking, and kids aren’t splashing in their sun-drenched backyard pools, so when the electrically generated sounds vanish, the world seems somehow without familiar boundaries. It’s surprising to sense a feeling of disorientation when the blanket of background noise, unnoticed but comforting, slides away. Inside the house, it’s no different. I’ve come to believe every electric appliance must emit sounds, some of which never register in my brain, until they’re gone. A power interruption is announced by the click of the fridge and oven clock turning off, and of the fan inside the electronics cabinet halting its spin. But the absence of these sounds can’t account for the complete silence that surrounds me. Even the air is void of the energy that generally pushes against me. I notice that inside the quiet house, we talk in hushed tones. Why are we hesitant to fill the silence with our voices? I move slowly and my thoughts decelerate to a manageable, peaceful rate. Things that needed doing seem not to matter, and it’s OK to sit on the couch and let thoughts wander, or just read. When the power goes off, the plug of my hectic day is pulled, too. As my familiar boundaries float away with the electrons, into the ether of the universe, my spirit responds, floating away from the grip of “must do’s.” There’s no turning back time or progress, and I wouldn’t want to, but these few afternoons without electricity have made me wonder how much more accommodating to the natural world our ancestors were, and if they didn’t daily enjoy the benefits I snatch occasionally when my world stops for the few hours electricity quits flying. |
| I’m not going to write much today, for two reasons. The first is that this is going to be a short day for me. Not only am I babysitting, but our power is sure to go out in a little while. OK, so it’s nothing like those poor souls in Queens, NY, who were without power for SIX days, as of Saturday. We’re only getting hit for half a dozen hours per day. But it puts a crimp in one’s schedule, you know? And though I’m not one to complain about the heat, I do gripe when it creeps up into the eighties inside the house and there’s no way to make the air move. It’s better out in the hundred-plus temps on the patio where at least a little breeze blows by from time to time. Anyway, there’s just not time to write a decent blog today. Secondly, I’d rather you all take your precious blog reading minutes and mosey on over to ronnylm’s blog. We had a discussion and I told him if he didn’t blog on it, I would, but I thought he’d do a better job. I was right. He went in a direction I didn't expcet and focused on thoughts we hadn't talked about. The man blows me away, and I'm forever learning from him. Keep cool you all, and hubby and I will visit as power allows! |
| My lovely hubby, ronnylm has gotten himself a blog. In a FIRST, I was the one who got him started, setting up his account and blog. I started him off with a few links to bloggers I thought he’d especially enjoy - without overwhelming him. (It was hard to pare down my list, I'll tell you that!) Now he’s on his own. He just posted his first entry last night, before setting up his bioblock, or writing a real blog description, or anything! Stop by and visit him, if you can. I think you’ll come to like the guy * * * “The time has come,” the walrus said, “”to talk of many things.” And I think the time has finally come for me to talk about the big drama of our lives. As with most of the drama stirring our pot in the past three years, Rebecca is at the center of it, and in truth it began three years ago, when she picked up dating a man twice her age (only ten years younger than me!). He’d never been married and I could understand the reason. Despite his obvious personal and relational issues, our daughter refused to let him out of her life. No matter how many times he exploded and ran away from her, leaving hateful words and hurt in his wake, she always allowed him back, and even dreamed of a life with him. Well, she got it. Sort of. They have a beautiful daughter and managed a whole year of marriage, sprinkled with his violent behavior, before she kicked him out. For two weeks. Two months later, another blow-up – this time with glass pitchers missiled at Rebecca’s head, and a death threat levied – and he was out again. Last night, he got served his divorce papers. At the end of September, Rebecca and Theren will be moving in with us. That’s the abbreviated version. When Rebecca got pregnant and they got married, Ron and I figured out that we had no path to travel other than the one that included friendship with our daughter’s husband. To our surprise, he turned out to be a likable fellow – thoughtful and considerate. Last Christmas we welcomed him into our home as if he were a son, and he wept at our acceptance of him. This had been the first time in his life he’d received such acceptance and love. We were getting to know him and actually like him. We were thinking he’d turned a corner and had figured out how to be a man. We aren’t ostriches, content to live in ignorant bliss – there were genuinely good reasons for us to feel optimistic. We believed they’d make it and be happy. We missed the guess. His issues go deep and are rooted solidly. He’d covered them with the loose mulch of good intentions, but that wasn’t enough. It was a long time before we learned the details of his hair-trigger temper, and longer before Rebecca finally realized she can’t change him. So much has transpired through all this, and we’ve each learned and grown in huge ways. For Rebecca, there are still miles of the path of growth for her to traverse, and for some time she’ll be doing it under our roof. Her husband’s ability to pay the amount of childcare mandated by the courts, and that would be adequate to fill the gap left by Rebecca’s income, is questionable. In fact, there is the possibility that before this is all over, he may be in prison – thanks to outstanding warrants and probation violations. (More we never knew about). The waters are murky, indeed. We are glad we have the space for Rebecca and our graddaughter, and to have the relationship that permits all of us to consider living together, but it’s going to be hard. Hard for her to lose her independence, hard for me to lose my peace and quiet. Hard for both of us to live in a house that is also occupied by others twenty-four hours a day. When Elizabeth and Ryan lived here it was easy because they were away from home most of the time. They were wonderful company, but I didn’t have to live every minute of my day with them Rebecca does have a job, but it’s an evening shift. The time during the mornings and afternoons that I’m accustomed to having to myself to clean house, write, read, or whatever, will vanish. In the evenings of course, Ron is home. I wonder how I’ll do when I no longer have alone time. I’ve done it before, when I was raising and homeschooling my girls, but at that time, it was my own choice, and it was a different time of life for me. Rebecca’s used to alone time too, during the day. It’ll be an adjustment for both of us. I expect it will all work out – I tell myself that, over and over, but Rebecca and I will have to come to some agreements on space and personal disciplines. Like I say, she’s still got a lot of growing up to do. As for me, some mornings – like today – I wake up sick to my stomach and wonder if we will really survive it all. And you, lucky readers, may occasionally get a glimpse into how we’re faring – what it’s like to fight these battles. I hope, after enduring the reads of traumas and sorrows and frustrations, you’ll also get to enjoy posts of victory and joy. Maybe they’ll be interspersed. These are uncharted waters for me, and I’m inviting you to come along for the ride. Climb into my boat and help me paddle, if you will. |
| What if my parents had never moved from the Midwest to settle in Southern California? What if my sisters and I had grown up in the Missouri or Illinois countryside instead of the suburbs of Los Angeles? What if I were raised in a place where the identity I attached to myself through my name had never been tainted by mispronunciation – where I never had to wonder why people don’t like me enough to say my name correctly? What if I had known my grandparents and aunts, uncles and cousins? What if I had called backroads and mile after mile of undeveloped farmland home? Last month, I met some of my cousins for the first time in our adult lives. We gathered at the home of the cousin who is my own age – a beautiful home on the edge of a wood, with a large swimming and fishing pond in the yard, and a barn housing three horses that get turned out into their own private pasture for overnight grazing. The life and lifestyle of my Midwest relatives is a world away from my own. In a dozen ways I envy it. Wouldn’t I love the freedom of week-long trail rides, and the fun of huge family gatherings, especially holiday ones? The grocery and drug stores are not two minutes away; the drive across miles of country roads to get into town is automatically soothing and stress reducing. There is no odor of exhaust and other city fumes lying low over the land. These relatives I spent time with are people who live in a relaxed state of being that is palpable. It is one of the most striking of their characteristics that attracts me, as is their innocence. I don’t mean that in an insulting or condescending way. They are not stupid by any means, but living where they do, as they do, there is simply a galaxy of information they don’t have, or even know exists. Are their lives compromised by this lack? Not necessarily, but in some ways, perhaps. Certainly they don’t feel the loss of it, and maybe that’s the attraction. In many ways, I could imagine myself as my cousin. But the fact is, I grew up in the metropolis, and I can’t say I regret that. My parents settled here after the doctor told them they had to move west for the sake of my sister’s health. We tease Karen that we have her to thank. As much as I am now disenchanted with the LA area and long to leave, I’m glad I grew to adulthood here. This place wasn’t always so bad, and I have been the recipient of a world of opportunities, experiences and knowledge that have woven together to make me into the person I am. Los Angeles. Hollywood. The San Fernando Valley. They’re three different places, if you go by the map, but in reality they blend into one huge population, and a person growing up here can’t possibly get through life and fail to gather thoughts, ideas and information without even trying. We’re like bees, pursuing sweet nectar as we move day to day, without realizing we’re also collecting gobs of pollen. And if one pays just the slightest bit of attention, those gobs become megabytes of knowledge and experience that have the potential to flesh out and enrich life. This is the legacy our parents unwittingly gave us girls. We missed out on the pleasures of country living, but I’m not so sure I’d trade it, even if I rarely hear my name correctly pronounced. |
| OK boys and girls, spit out your chewing gum, pull up your chairs and face front. It’s time to learn something you perhaps did know before. It’ll be painless, I promise * * * I imagine most of us have heard the news regarding the benefits of red wine, blueberries, and green tea – especially regarding protection against heart disease. The thing that makes these foods healthful is the high levels of antioxidants they contain. And antioxidants are special because they are instrumental in dismantling the free radicals that trigger cancer, heart disease and stroke, as well as contribute to the aging process. Antioxidants are found in plant foods, especially brightly colored vegetables and fruits, but some fruits and veggies have more than others, and studies have discovered antioxidants are more abundant in the above mentioned foods. There is however, another food that has an even greater concentration of these life-saving molecules: Chocolate! Can you believe it? Chocolate is actually GOOD for you! Dark chocolate, that is. Adding milk to the chocolate cancels out the antioxidant effect because milk proteins bind to the antioxidants, decreasing their bioavailability (the ability of the body to absorb them). Pure cacao has two times the antioxidants of red wine, and two to three times that of green tea. It is also high in important minerals, including magnesium. An individual’s craving for chocolate is generally an actual craving for this mineral, which is lacking in our modern diet. Cacao is full of one particular antioxidant that has been shown to improve blood flow and relax vascular tissue. The interesting thing is tests have shown that eating dark chocolate has much the same effect as taking the pure antioxidant. Want to hear more? Cacao is extraordinarily rich in a particular subset of antioxidants, called flavonoids, that are known for: Improving memory and concentration Regulating blood flow Preventing blood clots Lowering “bad” LDL cholesterol Lowering high blood pressure Improving sexual function in men Reducing inflammation (which contributes to aging) Bolstering immune function They may also help prevent Alzheimer’s, relieve Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and slow down aging. In fact, studies have shown that eating the right kind of chocolate in moderation can lead to a longer life. And that’s the rub. The Right Kind Of Chocolate. Commercially processed chocolate is not the ticket, friends. It not only contains lead, but standard manufacturing of chocolate eliminates up to half the flavonoids. The percentage of dark chocolate is important – it must be at least seventy percent, and not many commercially available brands offer a choice that dark. And the addition of sugar counters the benefits of the antioxidants. (for more info on the sugar deal, check out: http://www.mercola.com/article/sugar/dangers_of_sugar.htm) In order to reap the benefits of cacao, it’s important to choose organically grown, minimally and correctly processed chocolate. Chocolate with little to no sugar. I won’t lie. Eating this kind of chocolate is not like biting into a Hershey bar. For those of you who already eat a diet void of sugar, such chocolate is a delight to the palate. For others, it’s an acquired taste. But if you are a lover of Chocolate (not just things sweet), the intense flavor will thrill and satisfy you. A bite after dinner cuts the grease and leaves a pleasant taste that lingers. I eat some every day, not only for the health benefits, but as a special treat, because I love it. I’m offering a couple of links to sites that offer high quality chocolate, of the sort that will provide all the antioxidants in all their glorious bioavailable form, without too much added sugar. Understand I’m not marketing. I have nothing to do with these companies, apart from the fact that I enjoy their chocolates. If anyone is interested, check out: http://www.dagobachocolates.com This company offers an Eclipse bar, with eighty-seven percent dark chocolate. This is what I eat because it also has only four-tenths of a gram of sugar in each little section. There is a wide variety of flavors, but all contain more sugar, and less dark chocolate, than the Eclipse. http://www.silvertonchocolates.com These are my favorites. They are made by a man named Josh, who lives in Durango, Colorado. He is an extraordinary artist, when it comes to chocolate making. His chocolates are a beautiful blend of cacaos from around the world and he does some fun things with flavors, without adding extra sugar to the mix. He’ll work with you personally, if you have a particular creation you’d like to try. Sorry for another food entry, but this was inspired by an article I read announcing that scientists have finally developed a chocolate that resists melting and doesn’t taste waxy. For those in the tropics and soldiers serving in the Middle East, these chocolates – melt-proof, thanks to the addition of corn starch – will be a gift of the gods. |
| I don’t often eat red meat, simply because I don’t care for it – unless it’s ground. My mother used to cook pot roast and pork chops and stew and stroganoff, and I found a dozen creative and secretive ways of not eating the meat. It always smelled so good cooking, but I seriously disliked the way it felt in my mouth, and the way and tasted. Upon maturing, I’ve come to appreciate the taste of meat. Offer me a bite of the most tender, expensive cut of beef tenderloin, cooked medium rare, and I’ll savor the flavor of it. But I still won’t care for the tactile oral experience – that much hasn’t changed. In the way of meat eating, I am still my child-self. Happily for me, my mother also used ground beef with some regularity. We made tacos and casseroles, and Hamburgers. Every Saturday of my youth used to be house cleaning and shopping day. After arriving home with a car-full of groceries and unloading them, it was time to prepare the regular weekly traditional meal: Hamburgers. No matter how tired we were after a long day of labor, making the Saturday hamburgers was never considered a chore. Fatigue was lost in the anticipation of the meal. A pound and a half of ground beef for six burgers, broiled in the oven and topped with cheese. Buns warmed, but not toasted, and an offering of lettuce, sliced tomatoes and onions, along with a variety of condiments, including dill pickle slices. As heavenly as that was, Mother recognized the need for variety, and she sometimes altered the menu, giving instructions to add chili for Chili Size, or trading buns for toasted rye bread and condiments for grilled onions to make Patty Melts. Little did I know we were barely scratching the surface of burger invention. A trip to the local Red Robin restaurant will enlighten the casual diner with one glance at the menu. A whole host of burger amendments, including BBQ sauce, bacon, pineapple, mushrooms, bleu cheese and peppercorns, can result in serious burger overload. Making a decision can become an eeny-meeny-miney-moe choice. But these exotic burger offerings seem run of the mill in a way. I’ve seen them on the menu for ages and by now the seem un-novel. There are however, a few burger creations that I’ve only recently become aware of. These burgers won’t be found on any restaurant menu. They are specially made and served at tiny, often family run, establishments. (Sorry, Scarlett , this list has more than five items  ! The Deep Fried Burger. This burger is balanced on a spatula and dipped into sizzling grease until it’s done. Cheese is placed on top, then the whole thing gets a second dipping. They’ve been made this way for ninety-one years, and the restaurant sells 300 a day. If you can believe it. ! The Steamed Burger. The meat is ground loosely to provide a crumbly burger, and packed into a rectangular form for steaming. The secret cheese is steamed in a separate form, and the creamy, melted mass is spooned over the finished burger. This is supposed to be a superior way of cooking a burger, as the grease is released and disposed of, rather than being seared into the meat. ! The Goober Burger. You can get drive-in service and enjoy a grilled burger, topped with peanut butter, while listening to the Bee Gees on your car radio. ! The Butter Burger. Some two hundred to five hundred people a day eat a burger with three tablespoons of fresh Wisconsin butter dolloped on top. The trick is to take the last bite before the butter melts and the sandwich becomes “wet.” People line up around the block, even in twenty degree winter weather, to get these things! ! The Meers Burger. This is made from fresh, grass fed Texan Longhorn beef. It’s a half pound burger on a seven inch bun, served “cowboy style,” with mustard. If you prefer mayo, you’ll get a “sissy burger,” and for those who insist on ketchup, it’s a “Yankee burger.” ! Green Chili Cheeseburgers. From New Mexico, naturally. Eighty pounds of chili per week get slathered over these 9.5 oz burgers, which are then topped with melted cheese. No condiments or tomatoes needed! ! The Original Hamburger Sandwich. Cooked vertically in the original, 1898 stoves, these burgers are identical to the very first hamburger sandwich ever served. They get a smear of cheese spread, a tomato, and are served on toasted white bread. No ketchup is allowed on these burgers. Are you hungry yet? Would you even get near some of these culinary creations? It’s all very fascinating, but I’d still prefer my regular old homemade burger. Maybe with some onion soup mix to season the meat – for a change. The butter and chilies I can live without. But, I’d like to go to the Billy Goat in Chicago, just to hear the proprietor hollering, “Double cheeseburger! Double cheeseburger! Double cheeseburger! Double cheeseburger! Hey, you come too late, I only doin’ doubles now! No fries! Chips! No Pepsi! Coke!” |
| Gentlemen, be prepared. This is a ladies’ entry. But you can sit back in your chairs and glance at the ceiling while offering a prayer of thanks for your gender. After all, the only result of “maturing” you have to concern yourselves with is male pattern baldness, right? At 11:20 pm EDT, on June 24, 2006, I had my first one. Hot Flash, that is. I’ve finally passed that milestone every woman eventually encounters. It is no longer a vague pillar blending into the background of my future, but has transformed into a new vest that I wear with fascination. I slipped it on in a traffic jam on a Missouri freeway. My niece was the first unknowing witnesses, along with a semi driver who nodded at me from his elevated cab. It happened in the front seat of my niece’s car, with the vents blowing cool air over me. That’s how I knew it was a hot flash, and not just me feeling overly warm in the summer night. I’d always wondered what it was going to be like. I’ve had night sweats for some time, and never really minded them, but suspected hot flashes would be a bit different. And they are. For one thing, I’m awake and can feel them happen. With night sweats, I just wake up in a slippery sheen of dampness. Hot flashes though, don’t make me sweat so much. I feel the warmth creep up on me from the inside; it starts in my gut and moves up to my chest, then snickers down my arms. My neck, face and head are the last to realize the event. Occasionally, I feel a few small beads of sweat bleed from my forehead and temples. I’m fascinated by the process – the movement of warmth through my body and the following cool-down. It’s a new anomaly to feel hot, even though air-conditioning is blowing on me. I’ve had a variety of flashes since that first one, in a number of locals and under a few different conditions. I pay close attention and notice what’s happening; it’s still so novel that I’m interested in feeling every bit of the experience. It probably sounds strange, but I want to savor this bit of growing up. (Notice I didn’t say, “Growing old!”) The novelty will wear off soon enough, I’m sure, and I’ll then take in stride these new additions to my life. My sisters tell me that now is the time I start losing my nouns. While the three of us were playing together last month, they offered up my hot flash as a defense for me whenever I went fishing for words. Well, I’ve been fishing for words for some years now, but I’ll happily use this new excuse! So, from now on, if I ever write something that doesn’t make any sense, just say to yourself, “Lauren’s having hot flashes.” Feel free to send me an email and bring to my attention the fact that my burning brain cells are showing. I’ll go stick my head in the freezer and start all over! |
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