**This post is not for the squeamish or cowardly--only those who can handle the truth.**
When we females are 9 or so, our mothers have "The talk" with us about the changes that will soon be happening in our bodies. I think another talk from Mom should be mandatory as we approach 50 and our bodies again start throwing us curveballs.
Right now I have a lot in common with a 14-year-old boy. My face is breaking out. While he can't wait to show off the downy new mustache on his upper lip, what the heck am I supposed to do with mine?? I'm also getting a unibrow as hair starts filling in between my eyes, my eyebrows becoming bushy and wiry like Great-Grandpa Schroeder's used to be. I think my voice is a little lower, too.
When you're talking to a woman in her 40s or 50s, pay close attention. If she laughs, sneezes, or coughs, then gets a stricken look on her face, it means "I just peed a little." Our bladders are betraying us; "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now!" is not just an advertising slogan.
These are just a couple of the indignities I'm currently experiencing. According to Project Aware at www.projectaware.org, hundreds of women have put together a list of 35 "common symptoms that occur during perimenopause and menopause." Our husbands should read this and be afraid--be very afraid.
1. Hot flashes, flushes, night sweats and/or cold flashes, clammy feeling
2. Irregular heartbeat
3. Irritability
4. Mood swings, sudden tears
5. Trouble sleeping through the night
6. Irregular periods; shorter, lighter periods; heavier periods, flooding; phantom periods, shorter or longer cycles
7. Loss of libido
8. Dry vagina
9. Crashing fatigue
10. Anxiety, feeling ill at ease
11. Feelings of dread, apprehension, doom
12. Difficulty concentrating, disorientation, mental confusion
13. Disturbing memory lapses
14. Incontinence, especially upon sneezing or laughing
15. Itchy crawly skin
16. Aching, sore joints, muscles, and tendons
17. Increased tension in muscles
18. Breast tenderness
19. Headache change; increase or decrease
20. Gastrointestinal distress
21. Sudden bouts of bloat
22. Depression
23. Exacerbation of exisiting conditions
24. Increase in allergies
25. Weight gain, often around the waist and thighs, resulting in the "disappearing waistline"
26. Hair loss or thinning; increase in facial hair
27. Dizziness, lightheadedness, loss of balance
28. Changes in body odor
29. Electric shock sensation under the skin or in the head
30. Tingling in the extremities
31. Gum problems, increased bleeding
32. Burning tongue, burning roof of mouth, bad taste in mouth, change in breath odor
33. Osteoporosis after several years
34. Changes in fingernails
35. Tinnitus: ringing in ears, bells, whooshing, buzzing
Sounds like fun, huh? Ironically, some women go through menopause with nary a symptom, while I'm up to 15 and counting. I'll spare you any more gory details and go shave.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
WDALYIC**
Confused about instant message and texting abbreviations, my sister was looking for some kind of dictionary to explain all the acronyms. Some of the terms have been in use for a long time, and most of us understand them: LOL, ROFL, BRB, IDK. Others are part of our general vocabulary: SNAFU, FUBAR, PITA. I've always enjoyed trying to figure out what these word short-cuts mean, kind of like deciphering personalized license plates. But I did find an online source that defined the abbreviations and read a bunch that I've never heard before. I doubt that most of them get much use--who could remember them all??
"I don't have a SNERT anymore, do you?" I could ask. "My snot-nosed egotistical rude teenagers are both over 20 now." I could make my fellow conversationalists choke on their breakfast by telling them I'm NIFOC--naked in front of computer. And I'll be back in a flash when MNC: Mother Nature calls. If you're at work, you can refer to your HUB (head up butt) boss and SLAP him or her--sounds like a plan. At your next committee meeting, maybe you DKDC--don't know, don't care--that your new idea is a WOMBAT (waste of money, brains, and time).
Your kids will work hard at KPC--keeping parents clueless--and warn each other about MOS (Mother over shoulder) You'll ask why they are texting when you're speaking to them and they'll say, SHID (slapping head in disgust) "IASB!!"--I am so bored.
I might use YGG (you go, girl!) or L8RG8R--Later Gator--but I don't think the others will find their way into my instant messaging vocabulary. I do want Fred to learn one important one, though--SWMBO: she who must be obeyed.
**Who died and left you in charge?
"I don't have a SNERT anymore, do you?" I could ask. "My snot-nosed egotistical rude teenagers are both over 20 now." I could make my fellow conversationalists choke on their breakfast by telling them I'm NIFOC--naked in front of computer. And I'll be back in a flash when MNC: Mother Nature calls. If you're at work, you can refer to your HUB (head up butt) boss and SLAP him or her--sounds like a plan. At your next committee meeting, maybe you DKDC--don't know, don't care--that your new idea is a WOMBAT (waste of money, brains, and time).
Your kids will work hard at KPC--keeping parents clueless--and warn each other about MOS (Mother over shoulder) You'll ask why they are texting when you're speaking to them and they'll say, SHID (slapping head in disgust) "IASB!!"--I am so bored.
I might use YGG (you go, girl!) or L8RG8R--Later Gator--but I don't think the others will find their way into my instant messaging vocabulary. I do want Fred to learn one important one, though--SWMBO: she who must be obeyed.
**Who died and left you in charge?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Shopping 101
Sunday was a rainy, gloomy day, so Fred and I went to town. First we shopped at Menards for basement windows and a rake. (boring) I admit that Menards has improved its appeal for women by adding new items/departments, but it's still basically a "man's store"--not my favorite place to indulge in retail therapy.
After Menards we went to Kohl's, where Fred had his first experience as a Most Valued Customer. It was a Kohl's Cash weekend--you get $10 back in "Kohl's Cash" for every $50 that you spend. I patiently explained to him that we had to spend money to save money. After almost 25 years of being married to me, he still doesn't get that concept. When I was manager of Country Treasures and had a 30% discount, he questioned the value of the numerous bags of stuff I brought home over the years. Men! Now he can be satisfied knowing that I'll never have to buy another thing for the house as long as I live. Was I thinking ahead or what?!
We went to the shoe department to get him a pair of running shoes so we can start training for the Rump Roast Run. $31 on the way to 50. There were some nice Wisconsin Badgers hats 55% off, so we grabbed one of those. I picked out a couple reed diffusers for Mother's Day at $3.99 apiece. Ok, only four more bucks and we get our first $10 in Kohl's Cash. I cruised through the picture frames and found a $4 frame, then had a brainstorm. Since Fred was there with me, it was a good time for him to pick out some jeans and pants for work. He tried on a pair of khakis and took them, along with another pair of a different color, as well as some jeans. $60!! We're over $100 now, but I also have a 15% off coupon and don't want that to put us under 100 and jeopardize my second $10 in Kohl's Cash. I could use some athletic socks, so while Fred investigates the kitchen gadgets, I throw some socks in the cart. Now we're set; I've done the math in my head and it's all good. I check out while he goes out in the rain to get the truck. After my 15% off coupon, my total is $103 and I get $20 "cash" back to use there this week. Woohoo! Fred can't say I bought a bunch of useless stuff for myself because most of it was for him. I think he actually enjoyed shopping there. He kept saying, "Yup, old Herb Kohl saved us so much money, he'll probably have to get a second job now." Hopefully he now understands that we saved more because we spent more. (Just so he doesn't think this concept also applies at Menards.)
After Menards we went to Kohl's, where Fred had his first experience as a Most Valued Customer. It was a Kohl's Cash weekend--you get $10 back in "Kohl's Cash" for every $50 that you spend. I patiently explained to him that we had to spend money to save money. After almost 25 years of being married to me, he still doesn't get that concept. When I was manager of Country Treasures and had a 30% discount, he questioned the value of the numerous bags of stuff I brought home over the years. Men! Now he can be satisfied knowing that I'll never have to buy another thing for the house as long as I live. Was I thinking ahead or what?!
We went to the shoe department to get him a pair of running shoes so we can start training for the Rump Roast Run. $31 on the way to 50. There were some nice Wisconsin Badgers hats 55% off, so we grabbed one of those. I picked out a couple reed diffusers for Mother's Day at $3.99 apiece. Ok, only four more bucks and we get our first $10 in Kohl's Cash. I cruised through the picture frames and found a $4 frame, then had a brainstorm. Since Fred was there with me, it was a good time for him to pick out some jeans and pants for work. He tried on a pair of khakis and took them, along with another pair of a different color, as well as some jeans. $60!! We're over $100 now, but I also have a 15% off coupon and don't want that to put us under 100 and jeopardize my second $10 in Kohl's Cash. I could use some athletic socks, so while Fred investigates the kitchen gadgets, I throw some socks in the cart. Now we're set; I've done the math in my head and it's all good. I check out while he goes out in the rain to get the truck. After my 15% off coupon, my total is $103 and I get $20 "cash" back to use there this week. Woohoo! Fred can't say I bought a bunch of useless stuff for myself because most of it was for him. I think he actually enjoyed shopping there. He kept saying, "Yup, old Herb Kohl saved us so much money, he'll probably have to get a second job now." Hopefully he now understands that we saved more because we spent more. (Just so he doesn't think this concept also applies at Menards.)
Monday, April 27, 2009
Cat-Astrophe
Many of you have probably read the hilarious forward about trying to give a cat a pill. In the many years that we've had cats, I've so far been spared that challenge--but I recently had a flea and tick collar adventure. Three of our kitties are the indoor-outdoor variety, so I wanted to make sure that no little pests--besides the cats and Fred--ended up in bed with me now that flea and tick season is here. So I bought three collars, the instructions on the box seeming simple enough. "Place the collar around the cat's neck, adjust for proper fit, and buckle in place." Of course, they probably wrote this after practicing on inanimate cat mannequins.
I waited until Russ and Smokey were dozing and easily buckled the collars in place. No problem! Piece of cake! Crunchy, however, was suspicious as soon as I sat down next to her. The growling started when I looped the collar around her neck, and she ran before I could buckle it. I sat reading the paper until she finally came out from under the end table, then nonchalantly sat on the floor next to her. She looked wary, but soon started rubbing her head against me and purring. I grabbed her with my left hand, and as I reached for the collar she bit my forearm, snarled, and dashed behind the couch. Round two to the cat. I washed my arm off so none of the tetrachlorvinphos--the collar's active ingredient--would get in the bite and cause "excess salivation, muscle fasciculation, vomiting, and diarrhea." An hour or so later--trauma apparently forgotten (hers, not mine)--she again sidled up to me. No messing around this time! I scooped her up and went for the full frontal assault, sliding the already-buckled collar right over her head. "Rreeeoooww!" she objected, digging her back claws into my thigh and launching herself with all her weight. I opened the door, and she raced outside.
Success!! That will teach her to mess with me, I gloated as I wiped the blood from the three claw marks on my leg. When I let her back in the house a half hour later, the first thing I saw was that the collar was gone! What?! $5.37 for the stupid collar, two cat-inflicted injuries, and it's gone in a half hour? I marched outside and searched around the yard, finding it beneath my birdfeeders. The "safety release buckle" had come open, probably from her scratching at it with her foot. I brought it in the house and temporarily put it in a Ziploc bag. Round 4 to the cat. And I think my cheek just twitched.
I waited until Russ and Smokey were dozing and easily buckled the collars in place. No problem! Piece of cake! Crunchy, however, was suspicious as soon as I sat down next to her. The growling started when I looped the collar around her neck, and she ran before I could buckle it. I sat reading the paper until she finally came out from under the end table, then nonchalantly sat on the floor next to her. She looked wary, but soon started rubbing her head against me and purring. I grabbed her with my left hand, and as I reached for the collar she bit my forearm, snarled, and dashed behind the couch. Round two to the cat. I washed my arm off so none of the tetrachlorvinphos--the collar's active ingredient--would get in the bite and cause "excess salivation, muscle fasciculation, vomiting, and diarrhea." An hour or so later--trauma apparently forgotten (hers, not mine)--she again sidled up to me. No messing around this time! I scooped her up and went for the full frontal assault, sliding the already-buckled collar right over her head. "Rreeeoooww!" she objected, digging her back claws into my thigh and launching herself with all her weight. I opened the door, and she raced outside.
Success!! That will teach her to mess with me, I gloated as I wiped the blood from the three claw marks on my leg. When I let her back in the house a half hour later, the first thing I saw was that the collar was gone! What?! $5.37 for the stupid collar, two cat-inflicted injuries, and it's gone in a half hour? I marched outside and searched around the yard, finding it beneath my birdfeeders. The "safety release buckle" had come open, probably from her scratching at it with her foot. I brought it in the house and temporarily put it in a Ziploc bag. Round 4 to the cat. And I think my cheek just twitched.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Motherhood by Marriage
Having been a step-mother for almost 25 years, I hope I don't yet merit a "wicked" in front of the word. It is a position that nothing can really prepare you for, and sometimes the best way to get better at it is by screwing up. Looking back over those years with Katrina, Cameo, and Heidi, I wish I had been smarter, more empathetic, more secure in myself--along with many other "mores." My idealistic picture that we would be the Von Trapps--minus the singing--wasn't exactly the way things always went.
Establishing a specific role in the girls' lives was difficult--not their mother, but more than a big sister or friend. Resentment and anger were felt on both sides, with Fred caught in the middle, drowning in estrogen. Living at a distance wasn't easy, but proximity had its issues, too. We all had to relearn the family dynamics after being apart for weeks or months. I cringe when I recall some incidents, knowing now how differently I'd have handled them at 40 than I did in my 20s.
In spite of our "growing pains", there were also good times--memories that I hope they haven't forgotten. Fred took all 5 of us, plus the cooler and tent, through the rapids of the Pike River in the canoe, and we didn't tip over! We spent time in the summer at his dad's, the girls playing with Brutus, the St. Bernard, and splashing around in the swimming hole. Trina became known as "Go-Bang, Go-Boom" for repeatedly tumbling down Grandpa Andrist's narrow staircase. During an Easter vacation, Cameo and Heidi accidentally started a Westboro field on fire while launching a rocket with a neighbor boy. I can still see the looks on their faces when they got home! We had family picnics and time at the cabin, holiday get-togethers and birthday celebrations. They were a big help when Erica and Katie were little, and the girls idolized their older sisters. I know that my experiences with them made me a better mother, having learned some things about the tween and teen years before Erica and Katie reached those stages.
Time heals many things, and I hope most of my mistakes have been forgiven. The girls have become wives and mothers themselves, having given us 11 beautiful grandkids. Fred and I only wish we all lived closer to each other and could get together more often.
I'm proud to be their step-mom, and lucky to be their friend.
Establishing a specific role in the girls' lives was difficult--not their mother, but more than a big sister or friend. Resentment and anger were felt on both sides, with Fred caught in the middle, drowning in estrogen. Living at a distance wasn't easy, but proximity had its issues, too. We all had to relearn the family dynamics after being apart for weeks or months. I cringe when I recall some incidents, knowing now how differently I'd have handled them at 40 than I did in my 20s.
In spite of our "growing pains", there were also good times--memories that I hope they haven't forgotten. Fred took all 5 of us, plus the cooler and tent, through the rapids of the Pike River in the canoe, and we didn't tip over! We spent time in the summer at his dad's, the girls playing with Brutus, the St. Bernard, and splashing around in the swimming hole. Trina became known as "Go-Bang, Go-Boom" for repeatedly tumbling down Grandpa Andrist's narrow staircase. During an Easter vacation, Cameo and Heidi accidentally started a Westboro field on fire while launching a rocket with a neighbor boy. I can still see the looks on their faces when they got home! We had family picnics and time at the cabin, holiday get-togethers and birthday celebrations. They were a big help when Erica and Katie were little, and the girls idolized their older sisters. I know that my experiences with them made me a better mother, having learned some things about the tween and teen years before Erica and Katie reached those stages.
Time heals many things, and I hope most of my mistakes have been forgiven. The girls have become wives and mothers themselves, having given us 11 beautiful grandkids. Fred and I only wish we all lived closer to each other and could get together more often.
I'm proud to be their step-mom, and lucky to be their friend.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Channeling Debbie
My daughters call me Debbie Downer. If you don't know, Debbie is a character from Saturday Night Live who finds the cloud in every silver lining. No matter what positive remark someone else makes, Debbie has a fact or statistic to curdle their happiness. Friend: "I just got a new kitten!" Debbie: "Feline AIDS is the number one killer of domestic cats." Her dire pronouncements are followed by a musical postscript: "WAH, WAH."
The girls think that I, like Debbie, want to suck all the joy from their carefree college existences. That's not true. I think of it as Mom-on-the-Job, the devil's advocate, pointing out hidden dangers that would never occur to them in their youthful and invincible outlooks. For example, after Erica's snake, Squirt, died a few months ago, she wanted to give away his aquarium and other paraphernalia. She found some guy on Craigslist who was interested in the stuff. As soon as she told me this, I super-speed-sifted through the gloom and doom files in my maternal gray matter, and warning bells started ringing. "I remember reading about a girl who answered an ad on Craigslist and was murdered when she went to buy the couch," I told her. As I said it, I realized that this was actually a Law and Order episode I'd seen--but still...it could happen. I told her not to let the guy into her apartment, to meet him at the outer door of her building with the items, and to leave his phone number and name in a conspicuous spot in case the police needed the info later. (WAH, WAH) Even though she ridiculed my concerns, she did follow through on meeting him at the outside door, and the exchange went without incident. Now that the "Craigslist Killer" has been arrested out East, doesn't my paranoia seem a little more reasonable??
Last weekend Katie wanted to drive to St. Cloud to visit her friends there from freshman year. I have 30 more years of driving experience than she does, and Twin Cities traffic makes me nervous--so I was extremely reluctant to let her drive. "Can't you take the bus? You'd be driving in rush hour traffic on a Friday night, into the sun, with no navigator." (WAH, WAH) She grumbled and argued, but bought a bus ticket anyway. The Greyhound was over an hour late leaving Eau Claire, and she was hit on by a weirdo before they were even past Menomonie. (I didn't even recount to her the story about the guy who cut off his seatmate's head on the bus a year or so ago!) She got there and back safely, and now she has another travel experience under her belt. I promise to let her drive herself next time.
I know I can't protect them from everything and that my worrying just annoys them. I went through it with my parents, too, when I was younger. But since they're still (mostly) just laughing at me and haven't told me to butt out, I'll continue to be their Debbie. After all, it's a fact that kids who don't listen to their mothers have a 100% chance of getting in trouble. (WAH, WAH)
Here's a link to a Debbie Downer skit, just to prove I'm not quite as pessimistic as she is. And, I have better hair. http://www.hulu.com/watch/19280/saturday-night-live-debbie-downer-birthday-party
The girls think that I, like Debbie, want to suck all the joy from their carefree college existences. That's not true. I think of it as Mom-on-the-Job, the devil's advocate, pointing out hidden dangers that would never occur to them in their youthful and invincible outlooks. For example, after Erica's snake, Squirt, died a few months ago, she wanted to give away his aquarium and other paraphernalia. She found some guy on Craigslist who was interested in the stuff. As soon as she told me this, I super-speed-sifted through the gloom and doom files in my maternal gray matter, and warning bells started ringing. "I remember reading about a girl who answered an ad on Craigslist and was murdered when she went to buy the couch," I told her. As I said it, I realized that this was actually a Law and Order episode I'd seen--but still...it could happen. I told her not to let the guy into her apartment, to meet him at the outer door of her building with the items, and to leave his phone number and name in a conspicuous spot in case the police needed the info later. (WAH, WAH) Even though she ridiculed my concerns, she did follow through on meeting him at the outside door, and the exchange went without incident. Now that the "Craigslist Killer" has been arrested out East, doesn't my paranoia seem a little more reasonable??
Last weekend Katie wanted to drive to St. Cloud to visit her friends there from freshman year. I have 30 more years of driving experience than she does, and Twin Cities traffic makes me nervous--so I was extremely reluctant to let her drive. "Can't you take the bus? You'd be driving in rush hour traffic on a Friday night, into the sun, with no navigator." (WAH, WAH) She grumbled and argued, but bought a bus ticket anyway. The Greyhound was over an hour late leaving Eau Claire, and she was hit on by a weirdo before they were even past Menomonie. (I didn't even recount to her the story about the guy who cut off his seatmate's head on the bus a year or so ago!) She got there and back safely, and now she has another travel experience under her belt. I promise to let her drive herself next time.
I know I can't protect them from everything and that my worrying just annoys them. I went through it with my parents, too, when I was younger. But since they're still (mostly) just laughing at me and haven't told me to butt out, I'll continue to be their Debbie. After all, it's a fact that kids who don't listen to their mothers have a 100% chance of getting in trouble. (WAH, WAH)
Here's a link to a Debbie Downer skit, just to prove I'm not quite as pessimistic as she is. And, I have better hair. http://www.hulu.com/watch/19280/saturday-night-live-debbie-downer-birthday-party
Friday, April 24, 2009
Canine Angst
I have been sick all week with a lousy cold. My days have consisted of sleeping, drinking oj, tapping out my blog, and sleeping some more. The laundry is a mountain and the house is cluttered; I haven't cooked a meal since Sunday and the Easter decorations are still up. I can live with all of those things--what bothers me most is not being able to walk the dogs. It took all I had just to haul myself out to the kennel each day to feed them--no way could I have handled being dragged through the woods on their energetic romps. But knowing that in my head didn't make my heart feel any better when I looked into their questioning and hopeful blue eyes through my bleary ones. "Why isn't she walking us in all this new, wonderful snow?" "The sun is shining and it's warmer--are we going??!" Without being told, they sit and raise a paw to be shaken, saying "See? I'm being good! Can we walk?"
Fred thinks I empathize with them too much. I project my human emotions onto them and forget they are "just dogs." I give these furry Huskies warm blankets for the winter months so they won't be cold. (They urinate on each other's, then chew them up) I put them in the shed during storms becuse Bum is afraid of thunder and lightning. I feel bad that after years of living in separate kennels, the boys and Kaya don't recognize they are mother and sons. Maybe I do treat them more like kids than dogs, but it's because they look to me for everything: food, shelter, exercise, companionship, love. It hurts to let them down, even if the guilt is self-imposed.
Wednesday night, lying around in my congested misery, I watched the movie Eight Below for about the tenth time. Based on a true story, it's about a dogsled team of eight Huskies who are left on their own in Antarctica for 6 months due to uncontrollable circumstances. Every time I see it, I just want to go out and hug our dogs. Instead, I vowed that barring pneumonia, I would walk them yesterday. I woke up feeling the best I had all week, and we walked in the afternoon sunshine. I know I'm forgiven for the 6-day lay-off--they each gave me a kiss afterwards. I hope they don't catch my cold.
"God, give me the strength to be the person my dogs think I am."
Fred thinks I empathize with them too much. I project my human emotions onto them and forget they are "just dogs." I give these furry Huskies warm blankets for the winter months so they won't be cold. (They urinate on each other's, then chew them up) I put them in the shed during storms becuse Bum is afraid of thunder and lightning. I feel bad that after years of living in separate kennels, the boys and Kaya don't recognize they are mother and sons. Maybe I do treat them more like kids than dogs, but it's because they look to me for everything: food, shelter, exercise, companionship, love. It hurts to let them down, even if the guilt is self-imposed.
Wednesday night, lying around in my congested misery, I watched the movie Eight Below for about the tenth time. Based on a true story, it's about a dogsled team of eight Huskies who are left on their own in Antarctica for 6 months due to uncontrollable circumstances. Every time I see it, I just want to go out and hug our dogs. Instead, I vowed that barring pneumonia, I would walk them yesterday. I woke up feeling the best I had all week, and we walked in the afternoon sunshine. I know I'm forgiven for the 6-day lay-off--they each gave me a kiss afterwards. I hope they don't catch my cold.
"God, give me the strength to be the person my dogs think I am."
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Dear Diary...
From the ages of 11 to 24, I faithfully wrote in a diary every day. Not because I had such an interesting life. but because I liked putting down on paper the things that I thought, felt, and did. It was interesting to me, and wasn't for anyone else to read anyway.
Feb. 6, 1971 (6th grade) "Math was hard today. Doug is such a dreamboat!! My sisters are brats."
Not exactly the stuff that biographers care to immortalize, but what can I say? I recounted the highs and lows of growing up.
Jan. 8, 1976 (jr. year) "Wrote my whole crummy term paper tonight. My hand almost fell off. If Mr. R. doesn't like it, he can shove it!! I'm a zit-head. I laughed so hard at lunch--we had blueberry dessert and I blacked out my teeth with it." Deep, huh?!
I was obsessed with my weight back then, even though I recognize now that I wasn't overweight at all. These are all from August 1976 entries, right before starting my senior year: "I ate a ton, and I just hate myself." "I've been eating from boredom and I'm an absolute moose!" "I'm gonna try to go all weekend without eating anything." How do teenage girls get such distorted self-images??
Sept.12, 1977 (freshman year at UW-Eau Claire) I AM 18!!! A bunch of us from my floor went down to Water St. and they bought me drinks. I had 6 slow gin and ojs. On the way back to the dorm, I had to stop in the Fine Arts building to pee, and I dropped my keys in the toilet." Classy.
Jan. 7, 1982 (first year of teaching) I'm so sick of these freshmen!!!! They don't do their work, then moan about their grades. I went to college 4 years for this??!"
Okay, I admit, not everything I wrote was frivolous and routine. I also recounted my feelings about the people in my life, the things I learned, and events that changed me. I gradually got too busy to keep up with daily entries, and my journaling lapsed. Over the years I did try starting again, but it would usually only last for a few months. Now that I'm blogging, a journal would be sort of redundant. But what should I do with the old ones? Some of them got lost or have been thrown out, but I still have several. I suppose I should get rid of them, too. I don't want to die and have Fred and the girls discover them. Not because I have deep, dark secrets--just the opposite. "This is what was going on in Mom's brain?! Scary! Boring!"
Sept. 3, 1994 Erica's 8th b-day. Headed over to the cabin with Tracey's family and Kelley to meet Fred. Grilled out for supper and Erica opened her presents. Had a campfire--kids were tired and wild. Katie got marshmallows in her hair and Annie threw up." The stuff of life.
P.S. Please go to http://www.rhinelanderdailynews.com/ sometime today and check out the Pet Pin-Up contest. Vote for my cat Smokey or dogs, Bum and Koko! Thanks! **UPDATE:the pictures are posted. Go to the website, click on the "Pet Pin-up" box on the right side. Smokey is on page 2 and the dogs are on page 3.--voting ends April 30th.
Feb. 6, 1971 (6th grade) "Math was hard today. Doug is such a dreamboat!! My sisters are brats."
Not exactly the stuff that biographers care to immortalize, but what can I say? I recounted the highs and lows of growing up.
Jan. 8, 1976 (jr. year) "Wrote my whole crummy term paper tonight. My hand almost fell off. If Mr. R. doesn't like it, he can shove it!! I'm a zit-head. I laughed so hard at lunch--we had blueberry dessert and I blacked out my teeth with it." Deep, huh?!
I was obsessed with my weight back then, even though I recognize now that I wasn't overweight at all. These are all from August 1976 entries, right before starting my senior year: "I ate a ton, and I just hate myself." "I've been eating from boredom and I'm an absolute moose!" "I'm gonna try to go all weekend without eating anything." How do teenage girls get such distorted self-images??
Sept.12, 1977 (freshman year at UW-Eau Claire) I AM 18!!! A bunch of us from my floor went down to Water St. and they bought me drinks. I had 6 slow gin and ojs. On the way back to the dorm, I had to stop in the Fine Arts building to pee, and I dropped my keys in the toilet." Classy.
Jan. 7, 1982 (first year of teaching) I'm so sick of these freshmen!!!! They don't do their work, then moan about their grades. I went to college 4 years for this??!"
Okay, I admit, not everything I wrote was frivolous and routine. I also recounted my feelings about the people in my life, the things I learned, and events that changed me. I gradually got too busy to keep up with daily entries, and my journaling lapsed. Over the years I did try starting again, but it would usually only last for a few months. Now that I'm blogging, a journal would be sort of redundant. But what should I do with the old ones? Some of them got lost or have been thrown out, but I still have several. I suppose I should get rid of them, too. I don't want to die and have Fred and the girls discover them. Not because I have deep, dark secrets--just the opposite. "This is what was going on in Mom's brain?! Scary! Boring!"
Sept. 3, 1994 Erica's 8th b-day. Headed over to the cabin with Tracey's family and Kelley to meet Fred. Grilled out for supper and Erica opened her presents. Had a campfire--kids were tired and wild. Katie got marshmallows in her hair and Annie threw up." The stuff of life.
P.S. Please go to http://www.rhinelanderdailynews.com/ sometime today and check out the Pet Pin-Up contest. Vote for my cat Smokey or dogs, Bum and Koko! Thanks! **UPDATE:the pictures are posted. Go to the website, click on the "Pet Pin-up" box on the right side. Smokey is on page 2 and the dogs are on page 3.--voting ends April 30th.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Honoring Pat Tillman
Today is the 5-year anniversary of Army Ranger Pat Tillman's death in Afghanistan. If you don't know Pat Tillman's story, the short version is this: Pat was a pro football player with the Arizona Cardinals. Deeply affected by the events of 9/11, he gave up his successful football career to join the army with his brother Kevin in 2002. After serving one deployment in Iraq, he was sent to Afghanistan where he was killed on 4/22/04. His family was told that he had died heroically, pursuing the enemy up a hill, and he was awarded the Silver Star. A month after he died, they learned the truth: Pat had been killed by his own men, a "friendly fire" incident. Since that time there have been seven investigations into his death, and two Congressional hearings. The government and the Army gave the family false information and covered up many of the details surrounding Pat's death. The Tillmans still don't know what really happened to their son in that Afghanistan canyon.
Mary Tillman, Pat's mother, wrote a book in his honor called Boots on the Ground by Dusk. I read the book last summer and was extremely moved by Pat's story and all his family had gone through in seeking the truth. I wrote to Mary to tell her so, and was pleasantly surprised when she wrote back to me to say thank you. The family is still searching for answers.
We may never know the truth about Pat's death, but in my view he is a real hero. He gave up a life of fame and wealth to serve the country he loved because he felt it was the right thing to do. You can honor his memory by learning more about him, starting with his mother's book. She also did an interview on 60 Minutes last May with Katie Couric, and several soldiers who were with Pat in Afghanistan are interviewed, too. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/05/01/60minutes/main4061656.shtml (If this link won't work, you'll have to type in the address--sorry!) There are numerous other articles available online about his life, death, and the cover-ups. You can also donate to the Pat Tillman Foundation, which "seeks to forward Pat's legacy by inspiring and supporting young people striving to promote positive change in themselves and the world around them." (www.pattillmanfoundation.org)
Pat Tillman's life ended at 27, far from home in a desolate war zone. But his legacy has affected millions of people who never knew him--including me.
Mary Tillman, Pat's mother, wrote a book in his honor called Boots on the Ground by Dusk. I read the book last summer and was extremely moved by Pat's story and all his family had gone through in seeking the truth. I wrote to Mary to tell her so, and was pleasantly surprised when she wrote back to me to say thank you. The family is still searching for answers.
We may never know the truth about Pat's death, but in my view he is a real hero. He gave up a life of fame and wealth to serve the country he loved because he felt it was the right thing to do. You can honor his memory by learning more about him, starting with his mother's book. She also did an interview on 60 Minutes last May with Katie Couric, and several soldiers who were with Pat in Afghanistan are interviewed, too. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/05/01/60minutes/main4061656.shtml (If this link won't work, you'll have to type in the address--sorry!) There are numerous other articles available online about his life, death, and the cover-ups. You can also donate to the Pat Tillman Foundation, which "seeks to forward Pat's legacy by inspiring and supporting young people striving to promote positive change in themselves and the world around them." (www.pattillmanfoundation.org)
Pat Tillman's life ended at 27, far from home in a desolate war zone. But his legacy has affected millions of people who never knew him--including me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Mother's Wrath
I had planned to write about something else today, but my chagrin over the weather changed the plan. We have gotten 10 inches of heavy, wet snow since Sunday night. We may get 1-3 more before it's done this afternoon. It is April 21st, right? I didn't turn the calendar ahead a month too early or something? Our plow is back at the cabin, the shovel and snow boots had been put away, and the scrapers are out of the cars. Any brave flowers that were starting to peek out of the ground are now buried. I heard a couple robins making plans to head back south. The power has been out twice, for two hours yesterday and one this morning, and many areas have had much longer outages.
But--I can't keep complaining about this without 'fessing up to my role in it. Last week when it was in the 60s and 70s, I put away my winter clothes and got out the spring/summer stuff. Anyone who has lived in Wisconsin her whole life should know better than to tempt fate in that way. We all know summer doesn't really start here until mid-June or better, so how dare we pack up the sweaters and long johns in April??! Mother Nature took one look at me in shorts last Friday and brought winter back with a vengeance. I'm not sure if it was my flouting the gods or my glaringly white legs, but either way, winter has returned. To add insult to injury, I also caught my only cold of the season. Fred got it last week, and now I'm aching and coughing too. But, I can't go back to bed. I have to put on my boots, sweatshirt, and sweatpants, slog through the drifts to take care of the dogs, and then haul the garbage and recyclables down to the end of the driveway. And Friday, when it is again going to be 70 degrees, I am leaving my winter clothes and the snow shovel out, in plain sight, so nobody thinks I think winter is over!!
I have to congratulate my brother-in-law, Terry Stanton, who ran in the Boston Marathon yesterday. He finished with a time of 3 hours, 36 minutes and placed overall 9127 out of 25,000 runners. He is 48 years old, and I am very proud of the job he did representing our age group and the family! Way to go, Terry!!! Now come up here and get Fred and me in shape for the Rump Roast Run, will you?!
But--I can't keep complaining about this without 'fessing up to my role in it. Last week when it was in the 60s and 70s, I put away my winter clothes and got out the spring/summer stuff. Anyone who has lived in Wisconsin her whole life should know better than to tempt fate in that way. We all know summer doesn't really start here until mid-June or better, so how dare we pack up the sweaters and long johns in April??! Mother Nature took one look at me in shorts last Friday and brought winter back with a vengeance. I'm not sure if it was my flouting the gods or my glaringly white legs, but either way, winter has returned. To add insult to injury, I also caught my only cold of the season. Fred got it last week, and now I'm aching and coughing too. But, I can't go back to bed. I have to put on my boots, sweatshirt, and sweatpants, slog through the drifts to take care of the dogs, and then haul the garbage and recyclables down to the end of the driveway. And Friday, when it is again going to be 70 degrees, I am leaving my winter clothes and the snow shovel out, in plain sight, so nobody thinks I think winter is over!!
I have to congratulate my brother-in-law, Terry Stanton, who ran in the Boston Marathon yesterday. He finished with a time of 3 hours, 36 minutes and placed overall 9127 out of 25,000 runners. He is 48 years old, and I am very proud of the job he did representing our age group and the family! Way to go, Terry!!! Now come up here and get Fred and me in shape for the Rump Roast Run, will you?!
Monday, April 20, 2009
Soldier Mail
Friday I opened the mailbox, expecting the usual newspaper, junk, and bills--but in addition to all that, I had SOLDIER MAIL!! There was a thank you note from a Wisconsin Army major in Afghanistan to whom I'd sent a bunch of cigars at Christmas--compliments of Fred, left over from hunting season at the cabin. There was also a package from Brian in Iraq, containing a stuffed bear wearing a T-shirt with the name of his base, KALSU, on it and a magnet with a scene from the base. I had supported Brian when he was in Afghanistan, so have known and kept in touch with him for almost four years. He invited us to his wedding in Virginia three years ago, and I receive picture updates of his 2-year-old son. He is the third soldier I've seen through two deployments, one in each war zone.
When I sent my first package to a soldier in June 2004, I really wasn't expecting anything in return. I figured any recipient of mail from a total stranger would be too busy in a war to write back, let alone send me something! Was I wrong! I totally misjudged the amazing character of the men and women who represent us in uniform around the world. I've sent packages and letters to people in every branch of the military, and have had responses from over 100 in the past 5 years. The scrapbook I started is now loaded with pictures, e-mails, letters, and certificates of appreciation from these terrific people, as well as a big box with more e-mails and handwritten letters and cards. Several letters were written just to say thank you for a card of mine that they had received from the many "card swaps" we've done on the anysoldier.com forum. It is humbling to find out how much a simple note of support means to these troops so far from home in dangerous places.
In my "shrine" I have the gifts received over the years on display. There are 3 American flags flown in Afghanistan, along with certificates with my name, the date they were flown, and over which base. There is a plaque from a Marine helicopter unit that flew in the November 2004 raids over Fallujah, Iraq. A stained glass wall hanging made by an Iraqi craftsman for us on behalf of an Iowa National Guard captain. Two sets of nesting dolls from Afghanistan, sand from the Persian Gulf, a lapis lazuli trinket box from A-stan, mugs, T-shirts, and medals.
The best gifts, though, have been actually meeting four of my contacts in person. The fact that they took the time to express their thanks face-to-face is something I will never forget. SSG Ryan Johnson of the Iowa National Guard has met our whole family, and I've met his in Iowa. Maj. Sean Gustafson of the Minnesota National Guard came to our house in Elk Mound for dinner two summers ago. Cpt. Melinda McGregor of the Iowa National Guard met me in La Crosse for lunch, and most recently I had dinner with Darrin Troyer of the U.S. Navy and his family in San Diego. I currently have a contact who is from Whitewater, WI and hope to meet her some day, too. (Got that, Theresa??!!)
Two of my soldiers just returned to their families in the past couple months, and another one will be deploying again soon. When I started this, I didn't expect that I'd still be doing it 5 years later with no end in sight. But it's one personal way that we can help make life a little better for those with the courage and character to defend freedom for the rest of us. I hope you will think about trying it, too--I'd be happy to help.
When I sent my first package to a soldier in June 2004, I really wasn't expecting anything in return. I figured any recipient of mail from a total stranger would be too busy in a war to write back, let alone send me something! Was I wrong! I totally misjudged the amazing character of the men and women who represent us in uniform around the world. I've sent packages and letters to people in every branch of the military, and have had responses from over 100 in the past 5 years. The scrapbook I started is now loaded with pictures, e-mails, letters, and certificates of appreciation from these terrific people, as well as a big box with more e-mails and handwritten letters and cards. Several letters were written just to say thank you for a card of mine that they had received from the many "card swaps" we've done on the anysoldier.com forum. It is humbling to find out how much a simple note of support means to these troops so far from home in dangerous places.
In my "shrine" I have the gifts received over the years on display. There are 3 American flags flown in Afghanistan, along with certificates with my name, the date they were flown, and over which base. There is a plaque from a Marine helicopter unit that flew in the November 2004 raids over Fallujah, Iraq. A stained glass wall hanging made by an Iraqi craftsman for us on behalf of an Iowa National Guard captain. Two sets of nesting dolls from Afghanistan, sand from the Persian Gulf, a lapis lazuli trinket box from A-stan, mugs, T-shirts, and medals.
The best gifts, though, have been actually meeting four of my contacts in person. The fact that they took the time to express their thanks face-to-face is something I will never forget. SSG Ryan Johnson of the Iowa National Guard has met our whole family, and I've met his in Iowa. Maj. Sean Gustafson of the Minnesota National Guard came to our house in Elk Mound for dinner two summers ago. Cpt. Melinda McGregor of the Iowa National Guard met me in La Crosse for lunch, and most recently I had dinner with Darrin Troyer of the U.S. Navy and his family in San Diego. I currently have a contact who is from Whitewater, WI and hope to meet her some day, too. (Got that, Theresa??!!)
Two of my soldiers just returned to their families in the past couple months, and another one will be deploying again soon. When I started this, I didn't expect that I'd still be doing it 5 years later with no end in sight. But it's one personal way that we can help make life a little better for those with the courage and character to defend freedom for the rest of us. I hope you will think about trying it, too--I'd be happy to help.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Rump Roast Run
No kidding, that's the name of the 5K I found in Minocqua. How appropriate, huh?! It is on Saturday, September 26, at 9 AM. This is the description from the entry form:
"The 45th annual Beef-A-Rama is started bright and early on Saturday morning at 9 AM with the Rump Roast Run, sponsored by the Lakeland Rotary Clubs. This 5k/10k fun run is capped off with the winners in each bracket receiving a unique prize, a 20 pound beef roast! All runners receive a T-shirt and goody bag."
Fred and I are sending in our registration money--$25 each--on Monday, and then the training will commence. Who wants to train us? Erica? Heidi? Ryan A.? I'm thinking we should make this a family and friends extravaganza. The race date is on Cora's 6th birthday, the day after Fred's 56th, 2 weeks after my 50th, 9 days after Heidi's 33rd...23 days after Erica's 23rd...We can celebrate everybody's birthdays after the race, assuming Fred and I are still alive. Give it some thought! I can send you entry forms, or go to www.rumproastrun.com for information. Sara, with your birthday on the 30th, any chance you'll be home for a visit?!!
We are having friends from Eau Claire visit this weekend, so I have things to do today...will catch up with you all on Sunday or Monday. Have a great weekend!
"The 45th annual Beef-A-Rama is started bright and early on Saturday morning at 9 AM with the Rump Roast Run, sponsored by the Lakeland Rotary Clubs. This 5k/10k fun run is capped off with the winners in each bracket receiving a unique prize, a 20 pound beef roast! All runners receive a T-shirt and goody bag."
Fred and I are sending in our registration money--$25 each--on Monday, and then the training will commence. Who wants to train us? Erica? Heidi? Ryan A.? I'm thinking we should make this a family and friends extravaganza. The race date is on Cora's 6th birthday, the day after Fred's 56th, 2 weeks after my 50th, 9 days after Heidi's 33rd...23 days after Erica's 23rd...We can celebrate everybody's birthdays after the race, assuming Fred and I are still alive. Give it some thought! I can send you entry forms, or go to www.rumproastrun.com for information. Sara, with your birthday on the 30th, any chance you'll be home for a visit?!!
We are having friends from Eau Claire visit this weekend, so I have things to do today...will catch up with you all on Sunday or Monday. Have a great weekend!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
No Sleepy = Grumpy and Dopey
Getting a good night's sleep seems to be an unattainable luxury for me these days. After being sleep-deprived for years when the girls were younger, I learned to function successfully on just a few hours of shut-eye. But now if I don't get at least 8 hours, I feel spacey and off kilter all day--an increasingly frequent condition.
Some of the reasons are my own fault. The night before last, we had 3 of the cats in bed with us. Smokey was sprawled between us, Crunchy was at my feet, and Russ was curled up next to my neck. She has a chronic respiratory thing going on, so she sneezes a lot. Getting sprayed with cat snot just as I'm dozing off is a rude awakening. If I roll over, she has to climb over my head and be on the side that I'm facing, which is some weird cat rule. None of this is conducive to sleep--or anything else--wink,wink!
Last night I was up till 11:30 finishing a book with an intense, suspenseful ending. Revving my adrenaline at that hour is a mistake if I hope to conk out within 10 minutes. I was still awake, with a headache, after midnight. Then the sun shines into our bedroom right in my face early in the morning, better--or worse--than an alarm clock. I really need to shop for shades--or an eye mask.
Sometimes I wake up during the night feeling like I'm on fire, sweating profusely. HOT FLASH!! I kick off the covers and a cat or two and shed the PJs until my temperature is back to normal. Then I start thinking about something and lie there for an hour or more, listening to Fred snore.
I don't drink caffeine after 2 in the afternoon, avoid chocolate in the evening (unless it's PMS week) and seldom have alcohol. A drink used to help me relax before bedtime, but now it makes me hot. (and I don't mean that in a good way)
Fred is actually a worse insomniac than I am. Three or four times a week, he wakes up between 3 and 4 AM and doesn't go back to sleep. Obviously this keeps me awake, too. He wants to cuddle (I'm a sprawler); have the radio on (I want quiet); or talk (it's 4 AM!) Often he'll get up and watch TV--I don't know how he can put in 14 hour days on the amount of sleep he gets. His new plan is to get up as soon as it's light out and start training for the 5K we are talking about doing together. He wants me to get up and do this, too. Get dressed, go outside, and exercise. Do people go crazy after 50??!!
I'm going back to bed.
Some of the reasons are my own fault. The night before last, we had 3 of the cats in bed with us. Smokey was sprawled between us, Crunchy was at my feet, and Russ was curled up next to my neck. She has a chronic respiratory thing going on, so she sneezes a lot. Getting sprayed with cat snot just as I'm dozing off is a rude awakening. If I roll over, she has to climb over my head and be on the side that I'm facing, which is some weird cat rule. None of this is conducive to sleep--or anything else--wink,wink!
Last night I was up till 11:30 finishing a book with an intense, suspenseful ending. Revving my adrenaline at that hour is a mistake if I hope to conk out within 10 minutes. I was still awake, with a headache, after midnight. Then the sun shines into our bedroom right in my face early in the morning, better--or worse--than an alarm clock. I really need to shop for shades--or an eye mask.
Sometimes I wake up during the night feeling like I'm on fire, sweating profusely. HOT FLASH!! I kick off the covers and a cat or two and shed the PJs until my temperature is back to normal. Then I start thinking about something and lie there for an hour or more, listening to Fred snore.
I don't drink caffeine after 2 in the afternoon, avoid chocolate in the evening (unless it's PMS week) and seldom have alcohol. A drink used to help me relax before bedtime, but now it makes me hot. (and I don't mean that in a good way)
Fred is actually a worse insomniac than I am. Three or four times a week, he wakes up between 3 and 4 AM and doesn't go back to sleep. Obviously this keeps me awake, too. He wants to cuddle (I'm a sprawler); have the radio on (I want quiet); or talk (it's 4 AM!) Often he'll get up and watch TV--I don't know how he can put in 14 hour days on the amount of sleep he gets. His new plan is to get up as soon as it's light out and start training for the 5K we are talking about doing together. He wants me to get up and do this, too. Get dressed, go outside, and exercise. Do people go crazy after 50??!!
I'm going back to bed.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
A Healthy State of Mind
Yesterday I wrote about the difficulty of losing weight after 40. Not only does my genetic make-up conspire against me in the battle of the bulge, but I also live in Wisconsin. The food pyramid here has a base of fried cheese curds, layered with brats and beer, topped by the Friday night fish fry. Sure, you could have the fish broiled and substitute a baked potato for the fries. But if you're going to ruin it that way, you might as well stay home and gnaw on a chunk of tofu.
Living in Rhinelander will also make dieting harder. Usually, fitting into summer clothes is an added incentive to shed some pounds. But here, I'll probably have two weeks of shorts weather and then it will be winter again. I'll need that extra flab to keep warm.
Fred and I are not each other's best support group when it comes to losing weight. I love to bake, and he complains that I'm sabotaging his diet. "We don't need that stuff around here! And don't buy ice cream, either!" A couple nights later while watching TV, he'll ask, "Do we have any ice cream?" I've lived by two misguided credos: Food is Love, and Always Clean Your Plate. I know in my head that the first isn't true and the second isn't necessary, but habits of a lifetime are so hard to change.
Ok, yes, I'm making excuses. After doing a little research at calorielab.com, I learned that in 2007 Wisconsin ranked 22 in the U.S. for overweight people--which is actually down 4 spots from the year before. 62.3% of us Badgers are overweight or obese!!! WOW--though if you've ever gone to a Dells waterpark in the summer, that number probably doesn't surprise you. The fattest state is Mississippi (let's see what Brett Favre looks like in a couple years!) and Colorado has the thinnest citizens--probably from all that mountain climbing and pushing vehicles out of snowbanks. Does it really matter where you live? I think being slim is a state of mind, and until you hit bottom with a loud thud and leave a big-butt-sized crater, nothing will change.
I seem to have struck a chord with my readers when I mentioned wanting to do a 5K yesterday. Both here and on Facebook I have received encouragement and suggestions to make it a reality, not just a vague goal in the far-off future. Thanks, everybody! I have to keep reminding myself that making changes starts with small, steady steps--they don't happen overnight. So today I will start by not eating any sweets--and I'll research upcoming 5Ks in this area. Stay tuned...
Living in Rhinelander will also make dieting harder. Usually, fitting into summer clothes is an added incentive to shed some pounds. But here, I'll probably have two weeks of shorts weather and then it will be winter again. I'll need that extra flab to keep warm.
Fred and I are not each other's best support group when it comes to losing weight. I love to bake, and he complains that I'm sabotaging his diet. "We don't need that stuff around here! And don't buy ice cream, either!" A couple nights later while watching TV, he'll ask, "Do we have any ice cream?" I've lived by two misguided credos: Food is Love, and Always Clean Your Plate. I know in my head that the first isn't true and the second isn't necessary, but habits of a lifetime are so hard to change.
Ok, yes, I'm making excuses. After doing a little research at calorielab.com, I learned that in 2007 Wisconsin ranked 22 in the U.S. for overweight people--which is actually down 4 spots from the year before. 62.3% of us Badgers are overweight or obese!!! WOW--though if you've ever gone to a Dells waterpark in the summer, that number probably doesn't surprise you. The fattest state is Mississippi (let's see what Brett Favre looks like in a couple years!) and Colorado has the thinnest citizens--probably from all that mountain climbing and pushing vehicles out of snowbanks. Does it really matter where you live? I think being slim is a state of mind, and until you hit bottom with a loud thud and leave a big-butt-sized crater, nothing will change.
I seem to have struck a chord with my readers when I mentioned wanting to do a 5K yesterday. Both here and on Facebook I have received encouragement and suggestions to make it a reality, not just a vague goal in the far-off future. Thanks, everybody! I have to keep reminding myself that making changes starts with small, steady steps--they don't happen overnight. So today I will start by not eating any sweets--and I'll research upcoming 5Ks in this area. Stay tuned...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Not Born to Run
My family has a disproportionate number of marathon runners. Erica has run four of them so far. Cameo and Heidi, my step-daughters, have done a few, as well as my niece and nephew April and Ryan. My niece Molly did one before injuring her knee, and my nephew Michael and wife Anne compete in race-walking. Right now my brother-in-law Terry is heading out east where he will compete Monday in the Boston Marathon, having qualified in Duluth last summer with a time of 3 1/2 hours. He is 48 years old, a year younger than me, and ran 26.2 miles in 3 1/2 hours. So how come I'm the captain of the Couch Potato Brigade?!!
I've never been particularly athletic. In grade school there were perpetual scabs on my knees from unsuccessfully trying to jump on the moving merry-go-round. In phy ed I never got more than a foot off the ground in rope-climbing--I was afraid of heights, plus my noodle arms couldn't pull my chubby butt any higher. No President's Physical Fitness award for me! Once during a gymnastics unit, I was attempting to vault the horse. As I made my leap, my feet got stuck between the horse and my upper body. For a second I was motionless--before toppling backwards onto the mat, much to the amusement of my Olympic-prospect classmates. That incident left me petrified of the hurdles in track and field, where I would prissily lift my leg over the side of the hurdle--like a dog peeing--with no actual jumping involved.
I did become a dedicated jogger a few times in my 20s when I was dieting for various occasions. I'd even do daily exercises for thighs, butt, and abs. Amazingly I was down to 115 pounds for awhile when Katie was around 2 years old. (Right now you're all thinking "What the hell happened?!")
As we learned in school, there are 3 basic body types: ectomorph = thin; mesomorph = muscular; endomorph ="having a heavy rounded body build often with a marked tendency to become fat." I call it endo-rear-endo. I come from a long line of endomorphs on both sides of my family, especially the females. Between that, my love of food, and indifference to exercise, am I doomed to this apple shape forever? Getting the weight off is one thing; keeping it off is another. Since hitting 40, even getting it off is way harder than it was in my 20s and 30s. I do walk a lot with the dogs, go bowling, and do housework marathons--none of which qualify as high-level vascular work-outs. My dad died at my age--what am I waiting for??
When I made my life list in January, I said I wanted to get in decent enough shape to do a 5K. I'd better throw out the rest of the Easter candy and get my endo-rear-endo in gear.
I've never been particularly athletic. In grade school there were perpetual scabs on my knees from unsuccessfully trying to jump on the moving merry-go-round. In phy ed I never got more than a foot off the ground in rope-climbing--I was afraid of heights, plus my noodle arms couldn't pull my chubby butt any higher. No President's Physical Fitness award for me! Once during a gymnastics unit, I was attempting to vault the horse. As I made my leap, my feet got stuck between the horse and my upper body. For a second I was motionless--before toppling backwards onto the mat, much to the amusement of my Olympic-prospect classmates. That incident left me petrified of the hurdles in track and field, where I would prissily lift my leg over the side of the hurdle--like a dog peeing--with no actual jumping involved.
I did become a dedicated jogger a few times in my 20s when I was dieting for various occasions. I'd even do daily exercises for thighs, butt, and abs. Amazingly I was down to 115 pounds for awhile when Katie was around 2 years old. (Right now you're all thinking "What the hell happened?!")
As we learned in school, there are 3 basic body types: ectomorph = thin; mesomorph = muscular; endomorph ="having a heavy rounded body build often with a marked tendency to become fat." I call it endo-rear-endo. I come from a long line of endomorphs on both sides of my family, especially the females. Between that, my love of food, and indifference to exercise, am I doomed to this apple shape forever? Getting the weight off is one thing; keeping it off is another. Since hitting 40, even getting it off is way harder than it was in my 20s and 30s. I do walk a lot with the dogs, go bowling, and do housework marathons--none of which qualify as high-level vascular work-outs. My dad died at my age--what am I waiting for??
When I made my life list in January, I said I wanted to get in decent enough shape to do a 5K. I'd better throw out the rest of the Easter candy and get my endo-rear-endo in gear.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunrise, Sunset
Saturday I spent much of the day watching and commenting as my first-born tried on a parade of wedding dresses. She had been shopping for "The Dress" a couple times before, but it was important to her that I come along at least once. A beautiful young woman stood before me in beads, satin, and lace, but I was seeing much more....
A newborn baby with thick black hair who had to be forcibly brought into the world after 23 hours of tormenting her mother. Even then, Erica knew the impact of the grand entrance. She was a sweet-faced toddler--potty-trained herself at 19 months and talked early. She couldn't say her "k" or "g" sounds, so conversation with her could be funny. She called herself Erita, and her favorite Muppet was Termit the Fraud. At her babysitter's house, a stray cat appeared one day, and Erica announced when I arrived, "The white titty's here! The white titty's here!" We told her to stay off the step-ladder on the front porch where Fred was doing some work. Of course, the next time we turned around, there she was on the top step, grinning with triumph. She rolled my bowling ball into the bathroom and shattered the toilet--not the last damage she'd cause with a ball of some kind.
School was Erica's forte, and she tackled every activity with the desire to excel. She never had to be pushed to do her homework or practice her instruments because she disciplined herself. She saved $100 so she could buy herself a pet snake, refusing to be side-tracked by impulse purchases until meeting her goal. In high school we went to her concerts, volleyball games, parades, plays, forensics, track meets....all of which explained the continued disaster-area state of her bedroom and bathroom. "Mom, I don't have TIME!" for that meaningless drudgery. Always in a hurry--tired of waiting for her dad to go to town with her one Christmas vacation day, she drove off without him!! I could not believe a smart girl having a death wish like that--it got her grounded for the rest of vacation. She worked with me at Country Treasures, then Rogan's Shoes, coming home with enough footwear to get her through her 20s. When she got a ticket for not stopping at a railroad crossing in Elk Mound, she went to court to have her say. Wearing a suit, glasses, and hair pulled up, she looked like a character from "Law and Order"--and did get the fine reduced by a few dollars.
In August 2004, we left her crying in the dorm parking lot at UW-Madison, all of us bawling, too, as we drove away. She cried for about a minute and then took the town by storm for the next 5 years...and now she's heading to medical school in the fall and planning her wedding. "How do you like this one, Mom?" brings me back. She looks lovely in all of them--so poised, confident, excited about the future. I will cry at the wedding, no matter what she wears.
P.S. Actually, I'll probably cry before that, too. We looked at a few mother-of-the-bride dresses before leaving one shop. They were all long, beady/sparkly/brocaded--like something Queen Elizabeth would wear to a state dinner. Can't wait to go shopping for MY dress--not!!
A newborn baby with thick black hair who had to be forcibly brought into the world after 23 hours of tormenting her mother. Even then, Erica knew the impact of the grand entrance. She was a sweet-faced toddler--potty-trained herself at 19 months and talked early. She couldn't say her "k" or "g" sounds, so conversation with her could be funny. She called herself Erita, and her favorite Muppet was Termit the Fraud. At her babysitter's house, a stray cat appeared one day, and Erica announced when I arrived, "The white titty's here! The white titty's here!" We told her to stay off the step-ladder on the front porch where Fred was doing some work. Of course, the next time we turned around, there she was on the top step, grinning with triumph. She rolled my bowling ball into the bathroom and shattered the toilet--not the last damage she'd cause with a ball of some kind.
School was Erica's forte, and she tackled every activity with the desire to excel. She never had to be pushed to do her homework or practice her instruments because she disciplined herself. She saved $100 so she could buy herself a pet snake, refusing to be side-tracked by impulse purchases until meeting her goal. In high school we went to her concerts, volleyball games, parades, plays, forensics, track meets....all of which explained the continued disaster-area state of her bedroom and bathroom. "Mom, I don't have TIME!" for that meaningless drudgery. Always in a hurry--tired of waiting for her dad to go to town with her one Christmas vacation day, she drove off without him!! I could not believe a smart girl having a death wish like that--it got her grounded for the rest of vacation. She worked with me at Country Treasures, then Rogan's Shoes, coming home with enough footwear to get her through her 20s. When she got a ticket for not stopping at a railroad crossing in Elk Mound, she went to court to have her say. Wearing a suit, glasses, and hair pulled up, she looked like a character from "Law and Order"--and did get the fine reduced by a few dollars.
In August 2004, we left her crying in the dorm parking lot at UW-Madison, all of us bawling, too, as we drove away. She cried for about a minute and then took the town by storm for the next 5 years...and now she's heading to medical school in the fall and planning her wedding. "How do you like this one, Mom?" brings me back. She looks lovely in all of them--so poised, confident, excited about the future. I will cry at the wedding, no matter what she wears.
P.S. Actually, I'll probably cry before that, too. We looked at a few mother-of-the-bride dresses before leaving one shop. They were all long, beady/sparkly/brocaded--like something Queen Elizabeth would wear to a state dinner. Can't wait to go shopping for MY dress--not!!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Pet Pin-ups
The Rhinelander Daily News is having a "pet pin-up" contest in recognition of National Pet Week in May. People can send in pictures of their pets and readers will vote for their favorites. Since we have 8 pets, I'm having trouble choosing which pictures to enter. I have more good photos of the cats because they are 100 times lazier than the dogs and sit still when the camera points their way. I probably shouldn't enter Smokey, the sweetheart tabby I adopted from the local shelter in November. His original owner might see him and want him back! Jasmine is already conceited enough--winning a contest would make her insufferable! Russ--well, she only has one ear, chronically gunky eyes--but a good personality. Koko and Bum almost have to be entered as a matched set--how can a mother choose??
So, please help me out. Take a look at the pictures here, or if you read this on Facebook check out my photo albums "Cheryl's Cathouse" or "Me and My Gang." I need to have my entries in by April 15th. I'll let you know who makes the cut!! Thanks!
Have a happy Easter weekend! Eat chocolate in moderation. (Riighht!!)
(I'll be out of town, so may not post again till Monday.)
So, please help me out. Take a look at the pictures here, or if you read this on Facebook check out my photo albums "Cheryl's Cathouse" or "Me and My Gang." I need to have my entries in by April 15th. I'll let you know who makes the cut!! Thanks!
Have a happy Easter weekend! Eat chocolate in moderation. (Riighht!!)
(I'll be out of town, so may not post again till Monday.)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Writing Again
Blogging is changing my life. I feel like a maple tree with the sap running, as the "creative juices" flow like they haven't in a long time. I wake up at 3 AM, my mind racing as an entry is practically writing itself in my head. I have to get up and write it down in case it is forgotten (very likely!) by morning. I carry a pen and little notepad when I walk the dogs to jot down ideas as they strike me. Several drafts have flowed with few corrections, while others have required extensive rewriting and even a little research. I've had one in progress for over a month, and still haven't fine-tuned it to my satisfaction.
I have loved writing since I was a kid. I composed a song for our Barbie doll rock group that my sisters still torture me with. "There's a strange, strange world comin' round the bend. It's so cool I hope it never ends..." In grade school I took a long epic poem that my class read and set it to music. The teacher thought it was wonderful and had me sing it, along with my pitiful guitar accompaniment, in front of the class. "The moon was an ivory saber (TWANG) snared on an ebony gown" (TWANG TWANG) Ten or more verses of this, all to the same tune. It's a wonder my classmates didn't stone me at recess.
Junior high was my most prolific period, when I churned out 40 or more stories of mystery, romance, and intrigue. My characters had hip names like Mux Pendretti and Scooter Avery. The guys had cleft chins, and the girls had dialogue like "Janet, I love your new hip-huggers!" I typed these masterpieces on a dysfunctional manual typewriter, and my sisters were my first audience. They loved to recite my typos in dramatic voices: "Her heart was in her thrat." (My daughters have read them now, too, so I've endured a second generation of gleeful ridicule.)
Poetry has always come easily to me--not the image-filled, profound meaning stuff that I taught to bored high school freshmen--but rhymed and rhythmic verses. I wrote a corny poem about friendship for my high school graduation speech, then tried to pass it off in an assignment for my college creative writing class at UW-Eau Claire. "D!!! Too cliched!" the professor wrote on it. I'd never before gotten a D on anything! He later gave me an A on a short story I wrote, and it was published in the campus fine arts magazine. I sent a poem on homesickness to my mom: "The ache begins in tiny swells, then rises to a peak. You want to leave, but know that you must face another week." Etc... Mother, #1 literary agent, sent it to the Melrose Chronicle for publication. In recent years I've specialized in stuff written for friends' birthdays, retirements, and other irreverent occasions.
In the '90s, I sold a few greeting card ideas. I got no attribution on the finished cards--the artist got that--but the biggest thrill of my writing life was seeing one of my cards in a Wausau gift shop!! I ran screaming out into the mall to drag Fred in and show him. My plan is to get a new Writer's Market and try my hand at that again.
In the meantime, blogging is a blast. I feel like Dave Barry or Erma Bombeck--with an audience of a dozen! But that's ok, I'm having fun--and I hope my readers are, too.
I have loved writing since I was a kid. I composed a song for our Barbie doll rock group that my sisters still torture me with. "There's a strange, strange world comin' round the bend. It's so cool I hope it never ends..." In grade school I took a long epic poem that my class read and set it to music. The teacher thought it was wonderful and had me sing it, along with my pitiful guitar accompaniment, in front of the class. "The moon was an ivory saber (TWANG) snared on an ebony gown" (TWANG TWANG) Ten or more verses of this, all to the same tune. It's a wonder my classmates didn't stone me at recess.
Junior high was my most prolific period, when I churned out 40 or more stories of mystery, romance, and intrigue. My characters had hip names like Mux Pendretti and Scooter Avery. The guys had cleft chins, and the girls had dialogue like "Janet, I love your new hip-huggers!" I typed these masterpieces on a dysfunctional manual typewriter, and my sisters were my first audience. They loved to recite my typos in dramatic voices: "Her heart was in her thrat." (My daughters have read them now, too, so I've endured a second generation of gleeful ridicule.)
Poetry has always come easily to me--not the image-filled, profound meaning stuff that I taught to bored high school freshmen--but rhymed and rhythmic verses. I wrote a corny poem about friendship for my high school graduation speech, then tried to pass it off in an assignment for my college creative writing class at UW-Eau Claire. "D!!! Too cliched!" the professor wrote on it. I'd never before gotten a D on anything! He later gave me an A on a short story I wrote, and it was published in the campus fine arts magazine. I sent a poem on homesickness to my mom: "The ache begins in tiny swells, then rises to a peak. You want to leave, but know that you must face another week." Etc... Mother, #1 literary agent, sent it to the Melrose Chronicle for publication. In recent years I've specialized in stuff written for friends' birthdays, retirements, and other irreverent occasions.
In the '90s, I sold a few greeting card ideas. I got no attribution on the finished cards--the artist got that--but the biggest thrill of my writing life was seeing one of my cards in a Wausau gift shop!! I ran screaming out into the mall to drag Fred in and show him. My plan is to get a new Writer's Market and try my hand at that again.
In the meantime, blogging is a blast. I feel like Dave Barry or Erma Bombeck--with an audience of a dozen! But that's ok, I'm having fun--and I hope my readers are, too.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
When Hormones Attack
Picture it: a husband and wife, companionably eating breakfast and watching the morning news. Suddenly a sinister fog creeps over the woman, her eyes glazing over as a forked tongue pokes out from clenched jaws. The desire to rip off a table leg and gnaw on it skitters through her head while her husband munches obliviously on his bagel. He reaches for his juice glass and she snarls, "THAT'S MY GLASS!!" (It's not) Life as he knows it is about to end for a week...as they enter...THE PMS ZONE.
I'm really not that bad. I've never once chewed on a table leg, though I've considered it. I used to get backaches and headaches and sore boobs once a month--but now I mostly just get MAD! Everything annoys me: the TV anchor-woman's hairdo, all the junk e-mail in my inbox, the way Fred's lips flap when he snores. The cats hear me say words that I'd never use any other time. Sometimes I wonder if people on the street can tell from my facial expression that it's wise to give me a wide berth. Any mugger, solicitor, or bear who dares approach me is going to be one unhappy camper.
Sure, the experts give us advice on making it through these days with minimal disruption. "Avoid caffeine, chocolate, salt, and alcohol." Are they nuts?! Those are the four food groups of PMS!! Dumping a pounder bag of M & Ms into a bucket of popcorn before plopping on the couch to watch "The Biggest Loser" just might get me through the evening without committing assault and battery. Having a glass of wine might make my face turn crimson and cause sweat to pour out of my hair, but is this a freaking beauty contest?!!
"Get exercise." That might be a good idea, but I have officially declared it "No Bra Week"--not just Sunday--and thus, energetic movement is unwise. Living in PJ pants all day is also a sensible alternative to those binding zippered waistbands when you're feeling bloated.
"Take magnesium to decrease symptoms like sugar cravings and breast tenderness." And oh, yeah, it can cause sudden diarrhea, too--just what a woman on a rampage wants to have.
In addition to being mad, I also become ultra-sensitive. Sniffling in the Walgreens parking lot after the clerk said I had the wrong coupon. Fighting back tears when the bank teller asks for my ID, like she hasn't waited on me at least twice before! Fred asks, "How was your day?" and I wail, "Why are you always ragging at me???!"
Then, just as suddenly as the scourge came upon us, it quickly departs. All is now right with the world. The cats come out of hiding, Fred moves back in from the dog kennel, and I hum, June Cleaver-like, while ironing his shirts. It has once again been convincingly demonstrated that when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!
I'm really not that bad. I've never once chewed on a table leg, though I've considered it. I used to get backaches and headaches and sore boobs once a month--but now I mostly just get MAD! Everything annoys me: the TV anchor-woman's hairdo, all the junk e-mail in my inbox, the way Fred's lips flap when he snores. The cats hear me say words that I'd never use any other time. Sometimes I wonder if people on the street can tell from my facial expression that it's wise to give me a wide berth. Any mugger, solicitor, or bear who dares approach me is going to be one unhappy camper.
Sure, the experts give us advice on making it through these days with minimal disruption. "Avoid caffeine, chocolate, salt, and alcohol." Are they nuts?! Those are the four food groups of PMS!! Dumping a pounder bag of M & Ms into a bucket of popcorn before plopping on the couch to watch "The Biggest Loser" just might get me through the evening without committing assault and battery. Having a glass of wine might make my face turn crimson and cause sweat to pour out of my hair, but is this a freaking beauty contest?!!
"Get exercise." That might be a good idea, but I have officially declared it "No Bra Week"--not just Sunday--and thus, energetic movement is unwise. Living in PJ pants all day is also a sensible alternative to those binding zippered waistbands when you're feeling bloated.
"Take magnesium to decrease symptoms like sugar cravings and breast tenderness." And oh, yeah, it can cause sudden diarrhea, too--just what a woman on a rampage wants to have.
In addition to being mad, I also become ultra-sensitive. Sniffling in the Walgreens parking lot after the clerk said I had the wrong coupon. Fighting back tears when the bank teller asks for my ID, like she hasn't waited on me at least twice before! Fred asks, "How was your day?" and I wail, "Why are you always ragging at me???!"
Then, just as suddenly as the scourge came upon us, it quickly departs. All is now right with the world. The cats come out of hiding, Fred moves back in from the dog kennel, and I hum, June Cleaver-like, while ironing his shirts. It has once again been convincingly demonstrated that when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Happy Birthday, Katie!!
Today our baby is 20 years old. Wow! The years have flown by, but I can still see her in my mind from the moment she arrived until now. Born at 10:50 AM on a Friday, she looked just like Erica had--thick black hair and close to 9 pounds. We named her Katelyn Nicole, but she soon became Katie Patatie. She was a smiley, cheerful baby, even though she had me up every night of her first year. She had Fred's blue eyes, and by two, her hair had transformed to curly blond ringlets. She didn't talk until she was 3, but quickly made up for lost time.
In the kindergarten play she was a bear, wearing a costume made by grandma. We cut her long hair, and she "graduated" with perfect attendance. Throughout her elementary years, the teachers' consistent comment at conferences was that "Katie talks too much."
The night before her 7th birthday, she was mad at me for some reason and "punished" me by cutting her bangs to within an inch of her hairline. Another time she packed her little suitcase with mismatched clothes and a bunch of fruit snacks to run away from home. She went as far as the corner at our Westboro house before coming back. At the cabin, she found a fuzzy brown and black caterpillar and named him Isaac. He didn't survive the trip home, but it wasn't from lack of love. Katie has a heart for animals of all kinds, growing up with bunches of dogs and cats and volunteering at the Humane Association.
Over the years, her "big loves" were Justin Timberlake, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Walker, and Christian Bale. She loves music--except the kind where she had to practice her clarinet for band! She and I went to two concerts together during junior high, Smashmouth and Good Charlotte.
In high school, with Erica away at college and Fred often gone for work, she and I were the Gilmore Girls--minus the witty dialogue and cool soundtrack. I did most of the behind-the-wheel driving practice with her, and we nearly took out several mailboxes before she lost her fear of the center line. She got her license on the first try, and a bigger smile has never been seen! She's had or still has jobs in fast food, retail, and hotel housekeeping--pretty ironic for the girl whose bedroom always looked like the aftermath of a tornado.
High school graduation came all too soon (for me) and we took her to St. Cloud for her first year of college. Leaving her there was harder than I imagined, and I cried half the way back to Wisconsin. After a year there and a second, now, in Eau Claire, she is spreading her wings. She got a taste of travel from our San Diego trip last month, and yesterday found out that she's been accepted to study in Ireland for spring semester next year. She'll turn 21 surrounded by pubs!!
Have a great birthday, Patatie! Make the most of the next 20, and always know how much you're loved.
In the kindergarten play she was a bear, wearing a costume made by grandma. We cut her long hair, and she "graduated" with perfect attendance. Throughout her elementary years, the teachers' consistent comment at conferences was that "Katie talks too much."
The night before her 7th birthday, she was mad at me for some reason and "punished" me by cutting her bangs to within an inch of her hairline. Another time she packed her little suitcase with mismatched clothes and a bunch of fruit snacks to run away from home. She went as far as the corner at our Westboro house before coming back. At the cabin, she found a fuzzy brown and black caterpillar and named him Isaac. He didn't survive the trip home, but it wasn't from lack of love. Katie has a heart for animals of all kinds, growing up with bunches of dogs and cats and volunteering at the Humane Association.
Over the years, her "big loves" were Justin Timberlake, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Walker, and Christian Bale. She loves music--except the kind where she had to practice her clarinet for band! She and I went to two concerts together during junior high, Smashmouth and Good Charlotte.
In high school, with Erica away at college and Fred often gone for work, she and I were the Gilmore Girls--minus the witty dialogue and cool soundtrack. I did most of the behind-the-wheel driving practice with her, and we nearly took out several mailboxes before she lost her fear of the center line. She got her license on the first try, and a bigger smile has never been seen! She's had or still has jobs in fast food, retail, and hotel housekeeping--pretty ironic for the girl whose bedroom always looked like the aftermath of a tornado.
High school graduation came all too soon (for me) and we took her to St. Cloud for her first year of college. Leaving her there was harder than I imagined, and I cried half the way back to Wisconsin. After a year there and a second, now, in Eau Claire, she is spreading her wings. She got a taste of travel from our San Diego trip last month, and yesterday found out that she's been accepted to study in Ireland for spring semester next year. She'll turn 21 surrounded by pubs!!
Have a great birthday, Patatie! Make the most of the next 20, and always know how much you're loved.
Monday, April 6, 2009
On the Street Where You Live
Moving from 720th Ave. in Elk Mound to Silver Lake Road in Rhinelander was a step up, in my opinion, because I like the name of the street better here. In Elk Mound, all rural roads were called by number, with a "real" name in small letters below it. 720th Ave. was also Skyline Drive, which I thought had much more character and ambience. Fred thinks I'm weird, but I gave consideration to the names of the streets when looking for a new house to buy. I really didn't want to live on Dump Rd. or Van Nocker Rd. Silver Lake had a nice Laura Ingalls Wilder flavor to it and looked good on my address labels. Every time I drive to town, I pass by Dead End Rd. and Lonely Drive. I feel sorry for those people, especially the Lonely ones! Then I turn onto Pinos St.--which is probably pronounced differently than the immature way I say it!
Every city has unusual place names--maybe even the city's name itself is rather unfortunate. It would be interesting to learn where these names originated. In Eau Claire you can live on Epiphany Lane, Fear St., Seclusion Drive, or Uranus Ave. (Yes, all the planets are represented there, but again--I'm immature!) In the subdivisions you could reside on Erica or Katelyn Court.
On the way to the cabin Friday, I kept my eyes open for strange street names in the little towns and rural areas we passed through. I wouldn't want to live on Fatla Rd., but Petite Lane would be ok. Black Sam Rd. seems awfully racist in this day and age, and Dirt Road Drive is just plain sad. Any poor kid who lives on Drury Lane is bound to be known as the Muffin Man.
Let me know if you have any humorous, unappealing, or bizarre place names in your neck of the woods. In the meantime, I won't be moving to Athelstane.
Every city has unusual place names--maybe even the city's name itself is rather unfortunate. It would be interesting to learn where these names originated. In Eau Claire you can live on Epiphany Lane, Fear St., Seclusion Drive, or Uranus Ave. (Yes, all the planets are represented there, but again--I'm immature!) In the subdivisions you could reside on Erica or Katelyn Court.
On the way to the cabin Friday, I kept my eyes open for strange street names in the little towns and rural areas we passed through. I wouldn't want to live on Fatla Rd., but Petite Lane would be ok. Black Sam Rd. seems awfully racist in this day and age, and Dirt Road Drive is just plain sad. Any poor kid who lives on Drury Lane is bound to be known as the Muffin Man.
Let me know if you have any humorous, unappealing, or bizarre place names in your neck of the woods. In the meantime, I won't be moving to Athelstane.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Fun at the Amberg Hilton
Fred built our cabin, the Amberg Hilton, in 1990. It's on acreage in Marinette County given to him by his grandpa, the first Fred W. Andrist. We have added to the land since then and now have 79 acres. In the early years, we spent many weekends and summer vacation days at the cabin, Fred making improvements while the rest of us provided minimal help and mostly relaxed. When the girls were little, they loved going up there and playing in the dirt, swimming in the Pike River, playing "fort" on the bunkbeds, and getting sticky with s'mores around the campfire, usually past their bedtime.
As they got older, though, cabin time cramped their teenage style. Dad always had the "w" word planned for them--and working outdoors among the mosquitos, ticks, and heat wasn't much fun. They've picked rock, done firewood, raked, painted...whatever needed doing--sometimes with a smile, but just as often with a pout. They spent days at a time there being his "carpenter's helpers," even getting paid for it! But having to wash up in the Pike and use the outhouse during the night was less than civilized, almost more than no TV! It can be scary going up those steps to the biffy in the dark, when every shadow looks like a bear or coyote. (Trina once took a header down the stairs in her hurry to get back to her warm and safe bed!)
Fred would live over there full-time after retirement, but I've told him I'm as far east as I'm going. Over the years we've had many friends and family there for canoe trips, hunting, and hanging out around the campfire. The photo albums up there chronicle the bruises and scrapes from the spills in the Pike's whitewater rapids, the deer and turkeys Fred and his buddies have taken, and Fred's projects in progress, including the front addition (in the picture) that will get finished this summer. Now that we have the Mule, it's fun riding around on the roads he has made through the woods with a backhoe. We have our pet cemetery in the red pines, with old Kaya, Kimo, Beatle, and Baby the Hamster as residents so far. Fred even has a big granite rock picked out as his tombstone, on the edge of a hill overlooking the swamp.
We were over there this weekend and enjoyed a walk in the woods, painting, several games of cards, and relaxing with reading and a crossword puzzle. Sleeping over there is the absolute best--10 hours or so was our average. We visited Uncle Johnny, who had just finished his maple syrup season, and had Fred's sister Wendy over for supper last night. When he opened the grill to make chicken, a red squirrel jumped out of the huge nest she'd built inside! I heard Fred scream like a girl! (We caught two mice in traps, too!)
On my "life list", I've made it a goal to spend at least 20 nights at the cabin this year. I can think of nothing better than an all-day Harley trip this summer that ends at the Amberg Hilton. Our annual canoe trip is the first weekend of June, and we'd love to have visitors the rest of the summer, too! We promise not to feed you red squirrel.
As they got older, though, cabin time cramped their teenage style. Dad always had the "w" word planned for them--and working outdoors among the mosquitos, ticks, and heat wasn't much fun. They've picked rock, done firewood, raked, painted...whatever needed doing--sometimes with a smile, but just as often with a pout. They spent days at a time there being his "carpenter's helpers," even getting paid for it! But having to wash up in the Pike and use the outhouse during the night was less than civilized, almost more than no TV! It can be scary going up those steps to the biffy in the dark, when every shadow looks like a bear or coyote. (Trina once took a header down the stairs in her hurry to get back to her warm and safe bed!)
Fred would live over there full-time after retirement, but I've told him I'm as far east as I'm going. Over the years we've had many friends and family there for canoe trips, hunting, and hanging out around the campfire. The photo albums up there chronicle the bruises and scrapes from the spills in the Pike's whitewater rapids, the deer and turkeys Fred and his buddies have taken, and Fred's projects in progress, including the front addition (in the picture) that will get finished this summer. Now that we have the Mule, it's fun riding around on the roads he has made through the woods with a backhoe. We have our pet cemetery in the red pines, with old Kaya, Kimo, Beatle, and Baby the Hamster as residents so far. Fred even has a big granite rock picked out as his tombstone, on the edge of a hill overlooking the swamp.
We were over there this weekend and enjoyed a walk in the woods, painting, several games of cards, and relaxing with reading and a crossword puzzle. Sleeping over there is the absolute best--10 hours or so was our average. We visited Uncle Johnny, who had just finished his maple syrup season, and had Fred's sister Wendy over for supper last night. When he opened the grill to make chicken, a red squirrel jumped out of the huge nest she'd built inside! I heard Fred scream like a girl! (We caught two mice in traps, too!)
On my "life list", I've made it a goal to spend at least 20 nights at the cabin this year. I can think of nothing better than an all-day Harley trip this summer that ends at the Amberg Hilton. Our annual canoe trip is the first weekend of June, and we'd love to have visitors the rest of the summer, too! We promise not to feed you red squirrel.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Remembering Daddy
Today it is 23 years since my dad died of a heart attack at 49. While I can't remember where my car keys are, I remember every moment of that night like it just happened. My sister Tracey calling at midnight to say he was in Mauston in congestive heart failure. I was four months pregnant, shaking and praying as I held his picture and waited for Fred to get home from late bowling. Driving to Mauston as fast as we could, arriving at 3 AM to learn he'd just been flown by helicopter to La Crosse. Getting to the hospital there at 5:30 to find out he had died at 4:42. Going in to see him and touching his curly hair, saying "I love you, Daddy..."
My dad was so many things to us. He was funny. After my fifth grade science fair when my project was Organs of the Body, he wrote me a note: "I'm proud of you with all my heart and liver." He brought a baby pig into the house and it got loose--to our delight and our mother's dismay. When I was reading Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," he scratched on my window screen in the middle of the night, pretending to be a vampire.
He was a hard worker, usually having more than one job. Sometimes I rode in the gas truck with him after school and filled out delivery sheets for him. He would always sing, and we kids learned all the truck driving songs of Dave Dudley and the albums of Johnny Cash. He knew everybody, had connections everywhere, and would help anyone who needed it--which accounted for the steady line of people out the funeral home door for three hours at his visitation.
He could be stern. I would have preferred a spanking to the dreaded "talking to" from Daddy. To know I'd disappointed him was the worst punishment ever. He didn't tolerate foolishness. Once he had us picking corn by hand in a December snowfall, and I was blubbering over my boyfriend dumping me. After listening to this awhile, he told me to knock it off or he'd give me something to cry about! My sister and her high school boyfriend got stuck in the mud when they were "parking." My dad took the tractor and pulled the car out--I was already away at college and don't remember how he reacted to that one! Yet he didn't get mad over the really big things when he knew we needed his support and understanding. Inside, he was a big softy. The first time I ever saw him cry was over my brother having to be hospitalized again for his spina bifida. He cried at "Old Yeller" and when he took me to college and at our weddings.
My biggest regret is that he didn't get to meet his granddaughters. Erica was born exactly 5 months after he died, followed by Molly, Anne, Katie, Depresha, and Alexis. He adored Tracey's boys, and would have so enjoyed watching them all grow up.
I still have a birthday card that he sent me from the road when I was in college and he was driving semi. I dug it out of a box the other day. He wrote, "Annie, don't get carried away on your birthday. I think of you every day. Love, Daddy." I think of him every day, too. I was lucky to have married someone who is a lot like him. But I still miss him--with all my heart and liver.
My dad was so many things to us. He was funny. After my fifth grade science fair when my project was Organs of the Body, he wrote me a note: "I'm proud of you with all my heart and liver." He brought a baby pig into the house and it got loose--to our delight and our mother's dismay. When I was reading Stephen King's "Salem's Lot," he scratched on my window screen in the middle of the night, pretending to be a vampire.
He was a hard worker, usually having more than one job. Sometimes I rode in the gas truck with him after school and filled out delivery sheets for him. He would always sing, and we kids learned all the truck driving songs of Dave Dudley and the albums of Johnny Cash. He knew everybody, had connections everywhere, and would help anyone who needed it--which accounted for the steady line of people out the funeral home door for three hours at his visitation.
He could be stern. I would have preferred a spanking to the dreaded "talking to" from Daddy. To know I'd disappointed him was the worst punishment ever. He didn't tolerate foolishness. Once he had us picking corn by hand in a December snowfall, and I was blubbering over my boyfriend dumping me. After listening to this awhile, he told me to knock it off or he'd give me something to cry about! My sister and her high school boyfriend got stuck in the mud when they were "parking." My dad took the tractor and pulled the car out--I was already away at college and don't remember how he reacted to that one! Yet he didn't get mad over the really big things when he knew we needed his support and understanding. Inside, he was a big softy. The first time I ever saw him cry was over my brother having to be hospitalized again for his spina bifida. He cried at "Old Yeller" and when he took me to college and at our weddings.
My biggest regret is that he didn't get to meet his granddaughters. Erica was born exactly 5 months after he died, followed by Molly, Anne, Katie, Depresha, and Alexis. He adored Tracey's boys, and would have so enjoyed watching them all grow up.
I still have a birthday card that he sent me from the road when I was in college and he was driving semi. I dug it out of a box the other day. He wrote, "Annie, don't get carried away on your birthday. I think of you every day. Love, Daddy." I think of him every day, too. I was lucky to have married someone who is a lot like him. But I still miss him--with all my heart and liver.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Losing It
Yesterday I couldn't find my cell phone. I employed my often-used method in these increasingly common situations: backtracking. Filled water jug for dogs, put dog food in pail, went to the bathroom (oh please, don't let me have flushed it!!), put in contacts, got a pop.....and there was my cell phone, on the top shelf in the fridge. That's pretty bad, even for me. Call them senior moments or brain farts, they happen to me every day. ( See Hell's Kitchen last week.) Actually, I don't know if I have enough functioning brain cells to produce a cerebral fart.
Twice this week I tried to enter a car that I wasn't driving. In my defense, I was using a loaner car--but still. At the post office as I struggled with the key, I noticed a combination lock beneath the door that I didn't remember being there before. Just then a smiling young woman appeared and said I might have better luck with the right car. (Snot!) I did it again not two hours later in the parking lot at Fred's office, where there are only four other cars!
I regularly push my cart around store parking lots, convinced someone has stolen my car. Sometimes I find it, but other times I resort to pushing the horn button on the clicker.
I put important papers in "safe places" and forget what those places are. I still haven't found my current photo album since we moved five months ago. Fred's glasses got tossed in the garbage with the junk mail, and the keys I left on top of the truck are lying in a ditch somewhere. I've walked off several times with someone else's cart, lucky that no one has yet accused me of stealing a purse. Last fall I took a disposable camera over to the cabin to use up, and it has never been seen again. It had our pictures of the Harley 105th anniversary weekend on it, and we turned the cabin and outside area upside down--no luck. Of course, we didn't bother looking down the outhouse hole...I locked my keys in the house and had to break the kitchen window to get in....wrote a $518 check for the phone bill, which was actually the balance in the checkbook...have spent at least a year of my life going into rooms and then wondering why I'm there.
Is there a support group for this? If not, maybe I'll start one. "My name is Cheryl, and I'm here because...I forgot."
Twice this week I tried to enter a car that I wasn't driving. In my defense, I was using a loaner car--but still. At the post office as I struggled with the key, I noticed a combination lock beneath the door that I didn't remember being there before. Just then a smiling young woman appeared and said I might have better luck with the right car. (Snot!) I did it again not two hours later in the parking lot at Fred's office, where there are only four other cars!
I regularly push my cart around store parking lots, convinced someone has stolen my car. Sometimes I find it, but other times I resort to pushing the horn button on the clicker.
I put important papers in "safe places" and forget what those places are. I still haven't found my current photo album since we moved five months ago. Fred's glasses got tossed in the garbage with the junk mail, and the keys I left on top of the truck are lying in a ditch somewhere. I've walked off several times with someone else's cart, lucky that no one has yet accused me of stealing a purse. Last fall I took a disposable camera over to the cabin to use up, and it has never been seen again. It had our pictures of the Harley 105th anniversary weekend on it, and we turned the cabin and outside area upside down--no luck. Of course, we didn't bother looking down the outhouse hole...I locked my keys in the house and had to break the kitchen window to get in....wrote a $518 check for the phone bill, which was actually the balance in the checkbook...have spent at least a year of my life going into rooms and then wondering why I'm there.
Is there a support group for this? If not, maybe I'll start one. "My name is Cheryl, and I'm here because...I forgot."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Letter is Better
When was the last time you took a pen and some paper, or maybe a pretty note card, and wrote someone a letter? Stuck it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and thought about how the recipient's face would light up in a couple days when it showed up in their mailbox?
With all of today's "immediate" methods of communication, writing a letter is becoming a lost art. Why compose something that won't arrive for 1-3 days when we can send a text or e-mail message that's instantly available? Well, allow me to tell you.
A hand-written card or letter is like a gift, a heart-felt piece of yourself that you create for someone you care about. It involves your time, thought, preparation, and expense. Those things alone tell the receivers they are special--before they've read a word.
Saying "I don't have time" is probably the #1 reason many people don't write anymore. I say that's baloney! We have time for TV, video games, sports, Facebook, shopping--making time is the difference. We all have free time and make the choice on how we spend it. I have a big box and full scrapbook of handwritten letters from soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen that I've received over the past five years. If they can make time in a war zone to write to someone they've never even met, how can we not have time for the important people in our lives??
I have saved hundreds of letters over the years, many from those dear to me who are no longer with us. Just looking at the penmanship on them can bring back so many wonderful memories, and the words convey the personality that I loved. These letters are treasures, still with me long after the deleted e-mail or text message are gone.
This isn't meant to be a lecture or guilt trip. (though the girls will probably say it sounds like that) I hope it will be encouragement for anyone missing out on how special personal correspondence can be. So buy some stamps and pick up a pen--you just might start a trend.
With all of today's "immediate" methods of communication, writing a letter is becoming a lost art. Why compose something that won't arrive for 1-3 days when we can send a text or e-mail message that's instantly available? Well, allow me to tell you.
A hand-written card or letter is like a gift, a heart-felt piece of yourself that you create for someone you care about. It involves your time, thought, preparation, and expense. Those things alone tell the receivers they are special--before they've read a word.
Saying "I don't have time" is probably the #1 reason many people don't write anymore. I say that's baloney! We have time for TV, video games, sports, Facebook, shopping--making time is the difference. We all have free time and make the choice on how we spend it. I have a big box and full scrapbook of handwritten letters from soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen that I've received over the past five years. If they can make time in a war zone to write to someone they've never even met, how can we not have time for the important people in our lives??
I have saved hundreds of letters over the years, many from those dear to me who are no longer with us. Just looking at the penmanship on them can bring back so many wonderful memories, and the words convey the personality that I loved. These letters are treasures, still with me long after the deleted e-mail or text message are gone.
This isn't meant to be a lecture or guilt trip. (though the girls will probably say it sounds like that) I hope it will be encouragement for anyone missing out on how special personal correspondence can be. So buy some stamps and pick up a pen--you just might start a trend.
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