How I know I'm noticeable:
I walked the outlet stores in Vacaville today(and surrounding area) rather than suck up 18 miles in Dixon, and around mile 10, just as I was getting ready to stop for lunch, I passed a couple and overheard one of them, just as I passed, say, "holy $hit, just how phcking far does she walk?!"
I'm guessing he's local and has seen me in Dixon...kinda wonder if he thought I walked all the way there...
Friday
Monday
Tuesday
7 September 2010
In the interest of giving me some additional time walking hills, the Spouse Thingy and I headed for San Francisco again. Bonus: the BART train didn't smell like pee today. Since it's a 45 minute ride from Concord to the place we get off of the train, that's a definite plus.
As soon as we got there we met up with Diva Kitty's Mom for lunch at Max's (who knew Max had a side endeavor? Not surprised it involves food, though...) ...hell, we've lived within 40 miles for years and just now got around to meeting. Stupidly, there are no pictures. We had a camera, didn't even think of taking pictures.
Afterward, Mike and I headed out to walk, and the first steep street we encountered was this one...from the bottom. And we walked up.
Holy carp...the picture doesn't do it justice. It felt a hell of a lot steeper than it seems looking at this.
My knee decided halfway up that it was stupid steep.
But...once at the top we were rewarded with this view (click the image to biggify)...peeking through the buildings, you can see the Bay Bridge. I would guess that on a clearer day, it would be even more noticeable.
We spent about 5 hours walking around, but probably only 90 minutes or so was hills.
Face it, after not too long, walking steep streets fades from a good workout into unbridled masochism. And that's not something in which one should engage publically.
So, we walked around China Town, went to the Cheesecake Factory, and then to Westlake mall for the hell of it.
There's still a couple of weeks left before the Walk...that's a couple more opportunities to go walk the inclines and see more of the city.
It's a hardship, truly ;)
As soon as we got there we met up with Diva Kitty's Mom for lunch at Max's (who knew Max had a side endeavor? Not surprised it involves food, though...) ...hell, we've lived within 40 miles for years and just now got around to meeting. Stupidly, there are no pictures. We had a camera, didn't even think of taking pictures.
Holy carp...the picture doesn't do it justice. It felt a hell of a lot steeper than it seems looking at this.
My knee decided halfway up that it was stupid steep.
We spent about 5 hours walking around, but probably only 90 minutes or so was hills.
Face it, after not too long, walking steep streets fades from a good workout into unbridled masochism. And that's not something in which one should engage publically.
So, we walked around China Town, went to the Cheesecake Factory, and then to Westlake mall for the hell of it.
 |
| China Town |
 |
| Union Square from TCF |
 |
| Westlake Mall, looking up |
It's a hardship, truly ;)
Saturday
4 September 2010
Bah.
I stopped taking my growth hormone a couple of months ago. Between insurance headaches and my age--the older I get the closer I slide towards a cancerous family history--I decided to stop taking it, and just see what happens.
I worried about increased pain, but that hasn't happened.
What happened?
I got flabbier. A lot flabbier.
I'm not gaining weight (not losing any, either) but I'm getting reallllly flabby.
That sucks.
I stopped taking my growth hormone a couple of months ago. Between insurance headaches and my age--the older I get the closer I slide towards a cancerous family history--I decided to stop taking it, and just see what happens.
I worried about increased pain, but that hasn't happened.
What happened?
I got flabbier. A lot flabbier.
I'm not gaining weight (not losing any, either) but I'm getting reallllly flabby.
That sucks.
Tuesday
31 August 2010
How to turn 49:
The day before, go check out a Dave & Busters, be really disappointed in it, so instead wander around a mall you've never been to.
It'll be cool. Really. Much bigger than your local mall.
Then, do something you've always wanted to do. Like, go see the Golden Gate Bridge. Walk on it. Then go into the gift shop to get a sweatshirt that actually fits...
Then go see other things. Like Union Square. And Pier 39. and express incredible disappointment that there's a sign forbidding anyone to get on that giant macaroni noodle, because you realy really wanted to sit on it ;)
Then, go to a flea market:
Spend the day walking around, looking at other peoples' crap, but chances are, you won't find any fleas...
Then...go to Six Flags.
Walk around all day, but take the time to see the tigers...even if they do get a little dramatic and lie prostrate on the ground, as if wailing No...stop taking my picture...! and one of the coolest parts of the day will be seeing two baby tigers, and then two grown ones playing Thundering Herd of Elephants.
Oh, and when you caually say "It would be really cool if he got into the water" while sitting there looking at a beautiful tiger, and he gets up and gets in the water, your day will totally be made.
Next, go to San Francsico. To avoid the driving nightmare of having been there to see the Golden Gate Bridge, take the BART train in, even though it smells like pee.
First order of business: walk. Walk and walk and walk. Up the biggest damn hill you've ever walked. Keep walking, until you've gone halfway across San Francisco and are at the Wharf.
Finally get to see Ghiradelli Square...
See all kinds of unique people...
Then walk some more so that you can catch a cable car back to where you were:
...because you've never ridden one before, and if you're going to do the tourist thing, you have to ride it at least once.
Then walk around a whole lot more. See the big mall. See the people. Take the BART train back, even though it still smells like pee.
Oh, and don't do all of this in one day. Not possible. At least not advisable.
Do it all...it'll make turning 49 fun. Or at least take the sting out if it.
The day before, go check out a Dave & Busters, be really disappointed in it, so instead wander around a mall you've never been to.
It'll be cool. Really. Much bigger than your local mall.
Then, do something you've always wanted to do. Like, go see the Golden Gate Bridge. Walk on it. Then go into the gift shop to get a sweatshirt that actually fits...
Then go see other things. Like Union Square. And Pier 39. and express incredible disappointment that there's a sign forbidding anyone to get on that giant macaroni noodle, because you realy really wanted to sit on it ;)
Then, go to a flea market:
Spend the day walking around, looking at other peoples' crap, but chances are, you won't find any fleas...
Then...go to Six Flags.
Walk around all day, but take the time to see the tigers...even if they do get a little dramatic and lie prostrate on the ground, as if wailing No...stop taking my picture...! and one of the coolest parts of the day will be seeing two baby tigers, and then two grown ones playing Thundering Herd of Elephants.
Oh, and when you caually say "It would be really cool if he got into the water" while sitting there looking at a beautiful tiger, and he gets up and gets in the water, your day will totally be made.
Next, go to San Francsico. To avoid the driving nightmare of having been there to see the Golden Gate Bridge, take the BART train in, even though it smells like pee.
First order of business: walk. Walk and walk and walk. Up the biggest damn hill you've ever walked. Keep walking, until you've gone halfway across San Francisco and are at the Wharf.
Finally get to see Ghiradelli Square...
See all kinds of unique people...
Then walk some more so that you can catch a cable car back to where you were:
...because you've never ridden one before, and if you're going to do the tourist thing, you have to ride it at least once.
Then walk around a whole lot more. See the big mall. See the people. Take the BART train back, even though it still smells like pee.
Oh, and don't do all of this in one day. Not possible. At least not advisable.
Do it all...it'll make turning 49 fun. Or at least take the sting out if it.
Monday
23 August 2010
Why Ask Why?
(cross posted to A Wabbit Walking)
Simple enough question. “Why are you doing this?”
Look, I've kind of expected that question all along and have had a pat answer: nothing I've gone through—none of the chronic pain (I'm not proud, I'll list it: Fibromyalgia, Chronic Myofascial Pain, and arthritis in my lower spine and in both hips), the months in the wheelchair, the brain tumor, the marathon peeing and drinking and wondering when the hell my meds will kick in, or worse when they'll wear off—has been half as hard as someone else hearing they have breast cancer, and then what they go through in treatment. The chemo. The radiation.
It sounds like a great answer, right? Doing this long walk because even when you add it onto everything else, it still seems insignificant.
But before I could type out my at answer, I was hit with, “And don't give me any of the typical bullshit. I don't really need to know why you're doing it. YOU need to know why you're doing it.”
Well...fine. Color me stumped and momentarily speechless.
“Don't tell me either that you're doing it because The Grate Jeter Harris Hizself's mom asked you to. Why are YOU doing it?”
The person posing the question? He doesn't really expect an answer. He's the kind of person that asks random crap just to make other people ponder themselves. I imagine he asks himself random crap like this all the time, just for the exercise of self-introspection. I imagine he asks his wife things all the time to just get her to stop in time and in place for a moment, to simply consider.
I had plenty of time over the weekend to ponder the why of it all. I distracted myself from the sheer number of steps required to complete 17 and then 13 miles with a really good audiobook, but that didn't keep my brain from working in the background while I was listening to Joshilyn Jackson read her own work. The last two miles of Saturday's 17 hurt like hell, and I pondered it over and over.
What the hell am I doing to myself?
When I got up Sunday morning and had knee pain that rated an 8 on a 1-10 scale, I briefly considered not walking at all. Why go through the pain? After all, this is the training portion, this isn't the “real walk.”
Except that it is.
I got up and walked, not because I'm a masochist, and not because I'm some wonderful person who said she'd do it, so she's doing it. I got up and walked because all the steps leading up to The Walk count. They're part of the process. They're part of bigger picture. They're just as real as It is.
I'm not kidding anyone; this training is kicking my ass, and it fucking hurts. That pain you feel the first day after starting a new exercise routine? I start from there. My best days start from some version of that. I knew that when I accepted the invitation to sign up for this walk, and I decided to do it in spite of it.
And the truth is that I didn't say I'd do it because getting a diagnoses of cancer is harder than anything I've gone through; I didn't do it because chemo and radiation and mastectomy are more difficult. When it comes down to it, I wanted to do this because what I've gone through has been hard. It's been gut wrenchingly hard, and it's been Phuckit-am-I-going-to-die? hard.
Hearing a bad diagnoses? I've been there. I remember what it felt like to be told I had a tumor clinging to the underside of my brain, and that it was big. I remember the dread of being told that because it was big, and because they just couldn't tell from the MRI exactly what type of tumor it was—something harmless or something insidious—that it had to come out; I know now how fear drips from your fingertips in electric slivers. I will never forget the feeling of checking into the hospital and just not knowing. How badly will this hurt? How long will it take? Will I wake up and hear “Sorry, but it sucks to be you”? Will I wake up at all? I still feel the resignation of knowing that I wasn't getting out of it, that someone was going to reach into my head and cut something out, and if I bolted it just meant more uncertainty.
Will I live, or will I die?
I've done hard.
I don't want other people to do hard.
I don't want some 20-something young woman who hasn't even started her life to have to face anything that hard. Or some 20-something young man. Or 30 or 40-something. 90-something.
This wouldn't even have to be a walk for breast cancer. My mother had lymphoma; I could easily do a walk for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and I may at some point. Hell, I probably will. My father had kidney cancer. I could easily walk for symptom awareness, how to save your own life.
It's all hard. It's all fucking hard.
But this? I can do this. If any or every step I take means there's a small chance that someday someone else won't have to sit there and hear about some wayward thing growing in their body, that's some of the why of it all.
The possibilities.
The hope.
That doesn't make me some Pollyanna tightass halo-glowing wonderdork; I'm not doing anything thousands upon thousands of other people aren't doing and haven't already done this year. Hell, if I hadn't been asked to join a team*, it never would have crossed my mind. And when I was asked, it scared the hell out of me.
Because I knew it would be hard.
I will probably find myself weighed down with more doubts over the next month; the next long walk weekend is 18 miles one day and (I think) 15 the next. It's going to hurt, and I'm going to complain about it. Not whine, but complain, because it's going to hurt, and it's going to be hard.
The thing is, hard isn't fatal.
Why am I doing it? I think the answer is because I need to know that I can. That everything that's been hard hasn't been in vain. So that I can say I damn well did it.
It's a selfish motivation.
:::shrugs:::
I can live with that.
*Blogger Babes for Boobies...if you haven't donated yet, please consider picking one of my kickass teammates to toss a few bucks at.
(cross posted to A Wabbit Walking)
Simple enough question. “Why are you doing this?”
Look, I've kind of expected that question all along and have had a pat answer: nothing I've gone through—none of the chronic pain (I'm not proud, I'll list it: Fibromyalgia, Chronic Myofascial Pain, and arthritis in my lower spine and in both hips), the months in the wheelchair, the brain tumor, the marathon peeing and drinking and wondering when the hell my meds will kick in, or worse when they'll wear off—has been half as hard as someone else hearing they have breast cancer, and then what they go through in treatment. The chemo. The radiation.
It sounds like a great answer, right? Doing this long walk because even when you add it onto everything else, it still seems insignificant.
But before I could type out my at answer, I was hit with, “And don't give me any of the typical bullshit. I don't really need to know why you're doing it. YOU need to know why you're doing it.”
Well...fine. Color me stumped and momentarily speechless.
“Don't tell me either that you're doing it because The Grate Jeter Harris Hizself's mom asked you to. Why are YOU doing it?”
The person posing the question? He doesn't really expect an answer. He's the kind of person that asks random crap just to make other people ponder themselves. I imagine he asks himself random crap like this all the time, just for the exercise of self-introspection. I imagine he asks his wife things all the time to just get her to stop in time and in place for a moment, to simply consider.
I had plenty of time over the weekend to ponder the why of it all. I distracted myself from the sheer number of steps required to complete 17 and then 13 miles with a really good audiobook, but that didn't keep my brain from working in the background while I was listening to Joshilyn Jackson read her own work. The last two miles of Saturday's 17 hurt like hell, and I pondered it over and over.
What the hell am I doing to myself?
When I got up Sunday morning and had knee pain that rated an 8 on a 1-10 scale, I briefly considered not walking at all. Why go through the pain? After all, this is the training portion, this isn't the “real walk.”
Except that it is.
I got up and walked, not because I'm a masochist, and not because I'm some wonderful person who said she'd do it, so she's doing it. I got up and walked because all the steps leading up to The Walk count. They're part of the process. They're part of bigger picture. They're just as real as It is.
I'm not kidding anyone; this training is kicking my ass, and it fucking hurts. That pain you feel the first day after starting a new exercise routine? I start from there. My best days start from some version of that. I knew that when I accepted the invitation to sign up for this walk, and I decided to do it in spite of it.
And the truth is that I didn't say I'd do it because getting a diagnoses of cancer is harder than anything I've gone through; I didn't do it because chemo and radiation and mastectomy are more difficult. When it comes down to it, I wanted to do this because what I've gone through has been hard. It's been gut wrenchingly hard, and it's been Phuckit-am-I-going-to-die? hard.
Hearing a bad diagnoses? I've been there. I remember what it felt like to be told I had a tumor clinging to the underside of my brain, and that it was big. I remember the dread of being told that because it was big, and because they just couldn't tell from the MRI exactly what type of tumor it was—something harmless or something insidious—that it had to come out; I know now how fear drips from your fingertips in electric slivers. I will never forget the feeling of checking into the hospital and just not knowing. How badly will this hurt? How long will it take? Will I wake up and hear “Sorry, but it sucks to be you”? Will I wake up at all? I still feel the resignation of knowing that I wasn't getting out of it, that someone was going to reach into my head and cut something out, and if I bolted it just meant more uncertainty.
Will I live, or will I die?
I've done hard.
I don't want other people to do hard.
I don't want some 20-something young woman who hasn't even started her life to have to face anything that hard. Or some 20-something young man. Or 30 or 40-something. 90-something.
This wouldn't even have to be a walk for breast cancer. My mother had lymphoma; I could easily do a walk for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and I may at some point. Hell, I probably will. My father had kidney cancer. I could easily walk for symptom awareness, how to save your own life.
It's all hard. It's all fucking hard.
But this? I can do this. If any or every step I take means there's a small chance that someday someone else won't have to sit there and hear about some wayward thing growing in their body, that's some of the why of it all.
The possibilities.
The hope.
That doesn't make me some Pollyanna tightass halo-glowing wonderdork; I'm not doing anything thousands upon thousands of other people aren't doing and haven't already done this year. Hell, if I hadn't been asked to join a team*, it never would have crossed my mind. And when I was asked, it scared the hell out of me.
Because I knew it would be hard.
I will probably find myself weighed down with more doubts over the next month; the next long walk weekend is 18 miles one day and (I think) 15 the next. It's going to hurt, and I'm going to complain about it. Not whine, but complain, because it's going to hurt, and it's going to be hard.
The thing is, hard isn't fatal.
Why am I doing it? I think the answer is because I need to know that I can. That everything that's been hard hasn't been in vain. So that I can say I damn well did it.
It's a selfish motivation.
:::shrugs:::
I can live with that.
*Blogger Babes for Boobies...if you haven't donated yet, please consider picking one of my kickass teammates to toss a few bucks at.
Sunday
15 August 2010
 |
| Norval G. Whisler 5/7/27 - 8/10/10 |
 |
| Color guard bugler |
After the playing of taps, the folding of the flag, and presenting it to my mother, the minister spoke; he didn't drone on and on and never tried to make it seems as if he knew my father, which I appreciated; he picked the right scriptures, and kept his part of it short and sweet, and then began to read pages of memories written by some of the grandkids and of my sisters.
That's when the laughing started.
Appropriately or not, my father's funeral soon swelled with laughter; their remembrances were touching and loving, but some of the things they shared were flat out funny and we couldn't help but laugh. And the common thread was the funniest, something my father did that trickled down from his kids to his grandkids.
Every night my father sat in his chair in the living room with a canned drink--sometimes beer, sometimes not--and when he wanted a new one, he grabbed the can and squeezed until it crinkled. We all knew what that meant: get up and get your father (or grandpa) another drink. There was no question about it; we just did it. When my oldest sister's twins were little, they raced to the kitchen to see who could be the first to get Grandpa his drink. It meant something to them; they wanted to win, to be the one who got to get it for him.
Everyone remembered the crinkling of the can. And every shared page of memories made mention of that, it was so ingrained. And in looking back, it was freaking funny.
The funeral was simple and sweet, with mostly close family in attendance, which is what he would have wanted. And I think he would have loved that he left us with laughter.
 |
| Me, my niece Shannon, and her way-too-cute baby boy Caleb |
My dad, for whatever reason, was never a jewelry person; other than a wristwatch, I don't think I ever saw him with anything remotely resembling jewelry on. But when he was on a ship headed for Korea, he wrote my mom and asked her to get him a wedding ring and send it.
I don't know why; it was surely an all-male crew back then and he likely wasn't fending off unwanted female attention, but he wanted a wedding ring. So she went out and got it for him and sent it off. He wore it through the rest of his service time, but afterward he worked with machinery that made it a little dangerous to have a ring on his finger. I'm guessing that he rather enjoyed having the use of all ten digits, so the ring came off and went into my mom's jewelry box. He never wore it again.
Until now.
"I got the last laugh," my mother said impishly. "I'm sending him through eternity with that ring on."
I can hear my dad now.
Dammit!....Heh...
Tuesday
10 August 2010
It's August 10th, 2010.
In 16 days I turn 49 years old.
My father died this morning.
It was not unexpected, but that doesn't lessen the sting any. His health had been on the decline and he'd gone from being this stoic, strong man to being frail and needing help for just about everything. He had Parkinson's Disease, had survived kidney cancer, and had lost most of his hearing, and I'm sure he hated all of that.
But, he died at home, which is where he wanted to be. And it's where he could be because my sister Dorothy quit her job a couple of years ago and dedicated herself to caring for our parents. She gave up having any real life for herself, and has done the full time job of at least four people, providing them with hands-on dedicated care, doing it all.
Yeah, we owe her. We owe he a lot.
But, my dad. I wrote this on his 81st birthday, and it seems fitting to run again:
The world is just a bit dimmer today without him. While he's in a better place—and I do believe that—it sucks for the rest of us.
Truly sucks.
In 16 days I turn 49 years old.
My father died this morning.
It was not unexpected, but that doesn't lessen the sting any. His health had been on the decline and he'd gone from being this stoic, strong man to being frail and needing help for just about everything. He had Parkinson's Disease, had survived kidney cancer, and had lost most of his hearing, and I'm sure he hated all of that.
But, he died at home, which is where he wanted to be. And it's where he could be because my sister Dorothy quit her job a couple of years ago and dedicated herself to caring for our parents. She gave up having any real life for herself, and has done the full time job of at least four people, providing them with hands-on dedicated care, doing it all.
Yeah, we owe her. We owe he a lot.
But, my dad. I wrote this on his 81st birthday, and it seems fitting to run again:
When I was a little kid, mid-to-late 60's - early 70's, women were burning their bras and fighting for equality, while little girls were banned from things like Little League baseball and auto shop. Girls were discouraged from developing friendships with those dirty, dirty boy because ONE DAY those dirty, dirty boys would harbor dirty, dirty thoughts about them. While the boys played rough games of Kick Me Off The Monkey Bars during recess, the girls were expected to swing (with their legs crossed if they were in a dress, of course) or play hop scotch.
Girls had Girl Things to do, and boys had Boy Things. One certainly did not teach his young daughter to hook a worm and cast a fishing pole, and one certainly did not spend fatherly one-on-one time at the side of a small lake teaching her the difference between trout and crappie.
Except for my dad.
Whether it was a conscious effort on his part to blur the gender lines or if he just wanted to teach one of his kids to fish, my father ruined many of his own fishing trips by taking me along. He taught me how to get the worm on the hook in a way it wouldn't wash off, he taught me how to cast my own rod and what it felt like when I had a bite. He made me hold my catch myself, all slimy and gross, and get the hook out.
When we were in Germany, I spent more mornings with him out by the water than I can readily count. It couldn't have been much fun for him, sitting there with an overly talkative and whiny little girl, but he did it. He allowed me to step over those gender lines as if it was a matter of course.
There were no arguments about his little girl playing baseball in the giant community backyard with the boys. He even bought me a baseball glove.
He once bought me a guitar while he was on TDY and held it on his lap on the plane ride home; while other little girls were learning feminine woodwinds, I learned to rock out.
I played on the junior high school basketball team, and never once heard "girls don't do that."
I mowed the lawn; one summer he hired the son of a family friend to cut the grass, but when I wanted to save money to buy a 10 speed bike, the job was mine. I never heard "that's not girl's work," though many of my friends heard it from their fathers. Mine handed over the lawn mower to his 12 year old daughter, paid her $4 a week, and when I had almost enough money, he drove me to pick out my bike and he covered my monetary shortfall.
About a mile from home he pulled the station wagon over, and told me to ride it the rest of the way home. I hadn't asked, but he knew how badly I wanted to ride my new toy. He pulled the bike out of the car and let me go.
My dad, whether he intended to or not, whether he was comfortable with it nor not, stepped a little bit ahead of the times and let his daughter soar. I don't know if he went with the changing times or if he saw that no matter what, his youngest daughter was never going to be a girly-girl and accepted it for what it was, but he allowed me to be me before the climate of the times would.
Whatever his reasons, what he gave me was the gift of being comfortable with myself. My parents are amazing people, but it really sticks with me that my father was a little progressive when my friends' fathers were not, and could not, be. Very quietly, he gave me that sense of comfort, he showed me strength, he showed me what real men are made of.
Today my dad is 81.
You may thank him for the gift of me. I am that special ;) Oh, and wish him a Happy Birthday, too. He deserves all the good wishes the world can muster.
The world is just a bit dimmer today without him. While he's in a better place—and I do believe that—it sucks for the rest of us.
Truly sucks.
Sunday
1 August 2010
All the walking has taken a bit of a toll on my feet, keeping me mostly off them during part of this last week. Murf suggested I soak my feet in strong brewed tea to help toughen them up, and I figured why not? I can't hurt and might help.
Max, on the other hand, wasn't too sure about the whole thing.
For starters, I used a litter box to pour the tea into (a new one, cripes) which had him staring like WTF? and then sat with it in the living room while I watched a couple things that were on the DVR.
That was as close as he got; even though he's well acquainted with the litter box, he wasn't taking any chances with something that was obviously wet, and at his level.
It's way too soon to know if the tea will help--only soaking once is probably not going to tell me diddly squat--but it felt soothing enough to keep trying.
But what felt really good...
After walking fourteen miles today, I had this waiting for me in the back yard.
The water is still too cold--it was only filled the day before yesterday--but as hot and sticky and sweaty as I was, it felt great.
This is our cheap-assed Sam's Club special, an 18' vinyl pool on ground that's not exactly level--though the Spouse Thingy got it a hell of a lot more level than it would have been--and the one we figure made more sense than popping for something like a Doughboy. If we keep using this, maybe in a year or two we'll get the permanent pool, but for now, this is awesome.
Even if Max does look out the back window with an expression like "Dood, you're taking a bath outside?"
 |
| Is that my freaking litterbox??? |
For starters, I used a litter box to pour the tea into (a new one, cripes) which had him staring like WTF? and then sat with it in the living room while I watched a couple things that were on the DVR.
That was as close as he got; even though he's well acquainted with the litter box, he wasn't taking any chances with something that was obviously wet, and at his level.
It's way too soon to know if the tea will help--only soaking once is probably not going to tell me diddly squat--but it felt soothing enough to keep trying.
But what felt really good...
 |
| No, it's not that deep... |
The water is still too cold--it was only filled the day before yesterday--but as hot and sticky and sweaty as I was, it felt great.
This is our cheap-assed Sam's Club special, an 18' vinyl pool on ground that's not exactly level--though the Spouse Thingy got it a hell of a lot more level than it would have been--and the one we figure made more sense than popping for something like a Doughboy. If we keep using this, maybe in a year or two we'll get the permanent pool, but for now, this is awesome.
Even if Max does look out the back window with an expression like "Dood, you're taking a bath outside?"
Tuesday
27 July 2010
The last week or so my life has been wrapped around my feet: blisters, hot spots, the right socks, the wrong socks, is the Glide working, is it not...? I walk, I whine. I think if I liked wine, I'd whine less.
While I've been preoccupied with my feet, the Spouse Thingy has been leveling a 19' diameter circle in the back yard; he dug up the grass, figured out how many inches each side needed to be, and has hauled around 30 sixty pound bags of sand, 6-8 at a time, home from Home Depot to aid in leveling the area.
When it's ready, we have a cheap assed Intex pool we're going to put up. You know, the vinyl kind you buy at Sam's Club on a “Hey, that looks spiffy!” impulse, though it was less impulse than that we've wanted a pool, but we don't have 30 grand lying around, and we want to be sure we'll actually use a pool enough to warrant popping for something like a Doughboy in a few years, and a house we rented before this one had a giant Intex pool that was nice to have. Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence. no, I'm not going back and fixing it.
Still. While it's cheap it's been a lot of work for him. I've watched as he's sweated (and sometimes slept because sometimes? He's a little odd and gets up at bumfrak o'clock in the morning and goes outside to dig) and I've sat inside and rubbed my tender feets, but when it's done, I'll reap the benefits.
A pool will be good for cross training, you know.
Tomorrow or Thursday the space should be ready for the pool (you know we actually set it up once before, only to discover that our level-looking backyard was five inches higher on one side than the other...we couldn't get the box back into the car to return the pool, so a-leveling he went...) and hopefully by Sunday or Monday it will not only have water in it, be level, but will be warm enough to use.
I'm delicate, you know.
While I've been preoccupied with my feet, the Spouse Thingy has been leveling a 19' diameter circle in the back yard; he dug up the grass, figured out how many inches each side needed to be, and has hauled around 30 sixty pound bags of sand, 6-8 at a time, home from Home Depot to aid in leveling the area.
When it's ready, we have a cheap assed Intex pool we're going to put up. You know, the vinyl kind you buy at Sam's Club on a “Hey, that looks spiffy!” impulse, though it was less impulse than that we've wanted a pool, but we don't have 30 grand lying around, and we want to be sure we'll actually use a pool enough to warrant popping for something like a Doughboy in a few years, and a house we rented before this one had a giant Intex pool that was nice to have. Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence. no, I'm not going back and fixing it.
Still. While it's cheap it's been a lot of work for him. I've watched as he's sweated (and sometimes slept because sometimes? He's a little odd and gets up at bumfrak o'clock in the morning and goes outside to dig) and I've sat inside and rubbed my tender feets, but when it's done, I'll reap the benefits.
A pool will be good for cross training, you know.
Tomorrow or Thursday the space should be ready for the pool (you know we actually set it up once before, only to discover that our level-looking backyard was five inches higher on one side than the other...we couldn't get the box back into the car to return the pool, so a-leveling he went...) and hopefully by Sunday or Monday it will not only have water in it, be level, but will be warm enough to use.
I'm delicate, you know.
Thursday
22 July 2010
People must be getting used to seeing me walk around town. I have not been asked if I'm lost in the last few weeks.
Nope.
What I got a few days ago? A kid at the park pointing and saying loudly to his mother, "Look! It's that street walker!"
~sigh~
Nope.
What I got a few days ago? A kid at the park pointing and saying loudly to his mother, "Look! It's that street walker!"
~sigh~
Friday
17 July 2010
Dear Dixon Parks & Recreation Department,
When the sign outside the restroom says that it's open from 7 am to dusk, one would expect that at 9 am, it would be unlocked and available for public use.
One would really expect that at 10:30 am, it would be unlocked and available for public use.
One does not expect, when partaking of the big public park with big public restrooms, that they would have to walk a freaking mile and a quarter to get to the closest maybe-they'll-let-me-use-it restroom.
Because really? By then, once would expect to need to pee like the proverbial racehorse, and that would be a VERY UNCOMFORTABLE WALK.
Today, you get a giant FAIL from one of your local residents.
Sincerely,
Kinda Pissed Off, but not in a literal sense because THE DAMNED RESTROOMS WERE LOCKED...
When the sign outside the restroom says that it's open from 7 am to dusk, one would expect that at 9 am, it would be unlocked and available for public use.
One would really expect that at 10:30 am, it would be unlocked and available for public use.
One does not expect, when partaking of the big public park with big public restrooms, that they would have to walk a freaking mile and a quarter to get to the closest maybe-they'll-let-me-use-it restroom.
Because really? By then, once would expect to need to pee like the proverbial racehorse, and that would be a VERY UNCOMFORTABLE WALK.
Today, you get a giant FAIL from one of your local residents.
Sincerely,
Kinda Pissed Off, but not in a literal sense because THE DAMNED RESTROOMS WERE LOCKED...
Thursday
15 July 2010
Lacking anything better to do, I finally got the tape measure out, because the more I looked at my legs, the more I began to think the kid in McD's was right.
And damned if my right calf isn't half an inch bigger than my left.
Worse, they're both bigger than they were a year ago when I started losing weight. Now, truly, this is due to massive muscle gains. I mean, that's obvious. Those muscles just happen to be sheathed in a thick layer of fat, but...so?
When I started walking, I had visions of finally losing more weight and hitting my goal, but damned if I haven't lost anything. My diet is fine, my exercise level is good, my energy levels are wonderful, but I'm stuck at this weight. I think I've added all the muscle I'm going to add, so I don't think that's it.
But...for the most part, I'm fine with it. It's now not so much dropping more body fat as it is being healthy, getting healthier, and staying there.
Even if I am gonna go through life with mah right laig bigger'n mah lef laig... ;)
And damned if my right calf isn't half an inch bigger than my left.
Worse, they're both bigger than they were a year ago when I started losing weight. Now, truly, this is due to massive muscle gains. I mean, that's obvious. Those muscles just happen to be sheathed in a thick layer of fat, but...so?
When I started walking, I had visions of finally losing more weight and hitting my goal, but damned if I haven't lost anything. My diet is fine, my exercise level is good, my energy levels are wonderful, but I'm stuck at this weight. I think I've added all the muscle I'm going to add, so I don't think that's it.
But...for the most part, I'm fine with it. It's now not so much dropping more body fat as it is being healthy, getting healthier, and staying there.
Even if I am gonna go through life with mah right laig bigger'n mah lef laig... ;)
Saturday
10 July 2010
For the most part, people in this little town are friendly. When I'm out walking, I'd guess up to 90% of the people I pass greet me. No clue who they are; it's just what people do here. They say "'Morning" or just "Hey" as we pass, and I always respond. Nicely.
I've started actually greeting people first once in a while. Because, hey, I live here, I should become one of the masses, try to fit in, right? So as I approached an older guy jogging slowly ahead of me, just before we passed each other I said, "Good morning!"
The response: "It's morning, there's nothing phking good about it."
See? I do fit in here!
I've started actually greeting people first once in a while. Because, hey, I live here, I should become one of the masses, try to fit in, right? So as I approached an older guy jogging slowly ahead of me, just before we passed each other I said, "Good morning!"
The response: "It's morning, there's nothing phking good about it."
See? I do fit in here!
Thursday
8 July 2010
Tomorrow I am walking 12 miles again. I will do it, I will be successful at it, I will look forward to it!
You know why?
Because tomorrow Big Spoon Yogurt has Very Raspberry frozen yogurt on tap, and at mile 10 when I take a break, I am totally going to be there to get a mix of vanilla and very raspberry.
Hey. No one said I had to be adult about this...
You know why?
Because tomorrow Big Spoon Yogurt has Very Raspberry frozen yogurt on tap, and at mile 10 when I take a break, I am totally going to be there to get a mix of vanilla and very raspberry.
Hey. No one said I had to be adult about this...
Sunday
4 July 2010
I walked 45 miles this week; my feet hurt, my legs are like jelly, my left big toe has an odd numb spot, there's a weird little blip on my upper lip where I obviously missed the sunscreen coverage, and I'm tired.
But, I feel decent.
Today it was 88 degrees at 11 a.m. and the wind is blowing, but it's my rest day, so I'm not out there pounding the pavement in the heat; I'm just sitting here, practically drooling on myself.
Not a half bad way to spend a holiday.
Happy 4th, Peoples. I hope you're spending it doing as little or as much as you want.
Thursday
Wednesday
30 June 2010
Dear people who keep using my email address:
Please stop it already. This is my email address. You cannot have it. Stop registering for websites using it, because getting this in email
is not funny.
It's not!
Please stop it already. This is my email address. You cannot have it. Stop registering for websites using it, because getting this in email
It's not!
Monday
28 June 2010
I stopped at McDonald's during my walk today, as I usually do; I want the a/c and the $1 giant-assed drink and a chance to sit for a few minutes before pushing on. As I sat there sipping on my Diet Coke, a kid across the dining room kept staring at me, intently focused on my lower legs.
Now, I have fat calves. I know that, I'm okay with that; they've always been big, even when the rest of me wasn't. But it was a little odd to have this kid just staring, like he'd never seen someone else's shins before.
I got up to refill my cup, and as I passed he said, seemingly puzzled, and with a thick southern accent, "Yo right laig is bigger'n yo left laig."
If I'd taken a sip right then, I would have choked on it.
He wasn't trying to be mean or rude; he seemed truly curious about why someone's legs would be differing sizes.
And you know I kept looking at them on the rest of my walk, trying to figure out if the kid was right.
I think he might be.
Mah right laig, it's a mite bigger'm mah left, Ah think...
Now, I have fat calves. I know that, I'm okay with that; they've always been big, even when the rest of me wasn't. But it was a little odd to have this kid just staring, like he'd never seen someone else's shins before.
I got up to refill my cup, and as I passed he said, seemingly puzzled, and with a thick southern accent, "Yo right laig is bigger'n yo left laig."
If I'd taken a sip right then, I would have choked on it.
He wasn't trying to be mean or rude; he seemed truly curious about why someone's legs would be differing sizes.
And you know I kept looking at them on the rest of my walk, trying to figure out if the kid was right.
I think he might be.
Mah right laig, it's a mite bigger'm mah left, Ah think...
Thursday
24 June 2010
I sat down tonight to pay some bills as I am wont to do every couple of weeks; for some reason when you own people money, they want it paid back. Go figure.
Like millions of other people, I pay most of our bills online; I pulled out the checkbook, pulled up the URL for the Spouse Thingy's credit card, and typed in the user name.
No such user exists.
Must have made a typo. No biggee.
No such user exits.
Now, he's had that account for over 25 years; he's had the account user name for as long as we've been able to pay the bill online. That user exists.
I tried once more; a customer service chat window opened up asking if I needed help. And obviously I did, since a nearly three decades old account apparently vaporized since the last time I needed to make a payment. I said I did indeed need help, and I answered all the requisite questions.
"I'm sorry, but I don't find an account with your name."
All I wanted to do was make a payment. The more questions she asked (OK, so maybe it was a she...she said her name was Natalie...) the more uncomfortable I got, and the less info I wanted to impart. Yes, those were things a customer service rep would need to know to find the freaking account, but online? Not answering those questions.
I said I would just call the number on the back of the card.
"If you give me the account number, I can provide you with a direct link to the account."
Um. No. Not clicking any link, thank you. Because, you know, you might have hijacked my computer and you're going to suck all the information up and I'll get a 35 billion dollar statement next month.
(No, I didn't say that but I wanted to.)
I closed the chat window, set the bill aside, and went to pay my own credit card.
No such user exists.
WTF?
I didn't even try to get help. I set it aside, thinking I would left the Spouse Thingy call them both tomorrow and sort it out.
I went on to other things, still annoyed.
I looked at the statements again. What the hell? Did they change the account numbers again? They've done that before, but they gave notice.
I muttered "B of A sucks" under my breath, then looked again.
The accounts are with Citibank.
Duh.
Somewhere, there's someone claiming to be Natalie who works for Bank of America, and she thinks the Spouse Thingy is paranoid. Because, you know, it was his account so I totally claimed to be him...
Like millions of other people, I pay most of our bills online; I pulled out the checkbook, pulled up the URL for the Spouse Thingy's credit card, and typed in the user name.
No such user exists.
Must have made a typo. No biggee.
No such user exits.
Now, he's had that account for over 25 years; he's had the account user name for as long as we've been able to pay the bill online. That user exists.
I tried once more; a customer service chat window opened up asking if I needed help. And obviously I did, since a nearly three decades old account apparently vaporized since the last time I needed to make a payment. I said I did indeed need help, and I answered all the requisite questions.
"I'm sorry, but I don't find an account with your name."
All I wanted to do was make a payment. The more questions she asked (OK, so maybe it was a she...she said her name was Natalie...) the more uncomfortable I got, and the less info I wanted to impart. Yes, those were things a customer service rep would need to know to find the freaking account, but online? Not answering those questions.
I said I would just call the number on the back of the card.
"If you give me the account number, I can provide you with a direct link to the account."
Um. No. Not clicking any link, thank you. Because, you know, you might have hijacked my computer and you're going to suck all the information up and I'll get a 35 billion dollar statement next month.
(No, I didn't say that but I wanted to.)
I closed the chat window, set the bill aside, and went to pay my own credit card.
No such user exists.
WTF?
I didn't even try to get help. I set it aside, thinking I would left the Spouse Thingy call them both tomorrow and sort it out.
I went on to other things, still annoyed.
I looked at the statements again. What the hell? Did they change the account numbers again? They've done that before, but they gave notice.
I muttered "B of A sucks" under my breath, then looked again.
The accounts are with Citibank.
Duh.
Somewhere, there's someone claiming to be Natalie who works for Bank of America, and she thinks the Spouse Thingy is paranoid. Because, you know, it was his account so I totally claimed to be him...
Monday
Saturday
19 June 2010
I don't mind natural landscaping, but this is a little too natural for even my tastes.
It should make the Spouse Thingy feel better about the odd times when our grass is about a half inch too long.
In other news, I'm trying to kick my fundraising into a higher gear (alone with my walking; I did 10.25 miles yesterday, tankeweveddymuch) and have upped the You-Want-This ante.
Thanks to a generous friend, if you donate to my Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk for the Cure fund, you have a chance to win (among other things) a Kindle e-reader.
Yep...a brand new, unregistered, very spiffy Amazon Kindle. Valued at $250.
Jump on over to A Wabbit Walking or Rocking the Pink for the details, and to see the other nifty prizes.
My goal for this walk is to raise $2300; I'm not quite halfway there, and I really would like to be by the end of July. The training for the walk is coming along nicely--I'm hitting the distances I need to and I haven't croaked--but I haven't gotten to the super-mileage days yet.
They're coming...
Tuesday
15 June 2010
The nice thing about living in a small town is that you can cover a lot of ground on foot, and for the most part you don't have to worry about the people you encounter. Ninety percent of the people I pass while I'm out walking are out doing the same thing: they're sweating their way from point A to point B.
Many of them are taking their dogs along, and I'm starting to notice the same paired people and dogs quite often.
Something else I'm noticing...Dixon smells a lot like dog poop.
I have to admit, I haven't witnessed someone out with their dog not cleaning up after it, but there are obviously a whole lot of pooches pooping randomly with no human scooping up behind them. There's a lot of poop on sidewalks, a lot just off sidewalks, and with summer settling in and the heat rising...it stinks.
I like the town, I love the (for the most part) nice wide sidewalks and the quiet and relative safety of this place, but damn...eau d'doggy droppings is not the aroma I would like wafting by me as I amble around town.
Really, people...how hard is it to scoop?
Many of them are taking their dogs along, and I'm starting to notice the same paired people and dogs quite often.
Something else I'm noticing...Dixon smells a lot like dog poop.
I have to admit, I haven't witnessed someone out with their dog not cleaning up after it, but there are obviously a whole lot of pooches pooping randomly with no human scooping up behind them. There's a lot of poop on sidewalks, a lot just off sidewalks, and with summer settling in and the heat rising...it stinks.
I like the town, I love the (for the most part) nice wide sidewalks and the quiet and relative safety of this place, but damn...eau d'doggy droppings is not the aroma I would like wafting by me as I amble around town.
Really, people...how hard is it to scoop?
Thursday
10 June 2010
More shameless self promotion. Or begging. Kind of.
I'm still walking. If you ever peek in at A Wabbit Walking, you've picked up on my whining about the miles. But, I'm doing it. And I still need donations.
But!
I like to dangle incentive in front of my potential donors! And with a really cool anonymous donation, there's a really sweet prize up for grabs.
A GoWear Fit Lifestyle and Calorie Management System AND a GoWear fit Display Device. It's like the technogoody worn by contestants on The Biggest Loser...theirs is a Body Bugg, but this is the same thing, basically.
This is a $260 prize, peoples!
Visit Rockin' The Pink for more details.
$5 peoples...every $5 gets you a shot at it!
I'm still walking. If you ever peek in at A Wabbit Walking, you've picked up on my whining about the miles. But, I'm doing it. And I still need donations.
But!
I like to dangle incentive in front of my potential donors! And with a really cool anonymous donation, there's a really sweet prize up for grabs.
A GoWear Fit Lifestyle and Calorie Management System AND a GoWear fit Display Device. It's like the technogoody worn by contestants on The Biggest Loser...theirs is a Body Bugg, but this is the same thing, basically.
This is a $260 prize, peoples!
Visit Rockin' The Pink for more details.
$5 peoples...every $5 gets you a shot at it!
Friday
6 June 2010
Bear in mind I am night blind...
After I'd headed off to go to bed last night, I realized I was pretty freaking thirsty, and bathroom water was not going to cut it. I wanted something ice cold, so I headed for the kitchen. Now, I didn't turn a light on because 1) I know the way and 2) there was enough light bleeding trough from the front porch light.
I got to the kitchen entry and blocking my way was a stubborn black kitty.
I asked him to move so I wouldn't step on him.
He didn't budge.
I asked him again.
Not a twitch.
I told him to move or I would pick him up and dip his feet in the water bowl.
Nada.
So I bent over to pick him up and consider dipping at least his tail in the water.
I was threatening a black Walmart shopping bag.
Just to get even, I kicked it.
After I'd headed off to go to bed last night, I realized I was pretty freaking thirsty, and bathroom water was not going to cut it. I wanted something ice cold, so I headed for the kitchen. Now, I didn't turn a light on because 1) I know the way and 2) there was enough light bleeding trough from the front porch light.
I got to the kitchen entry and blocking my way was a stubborn black kitty.
I asked him to move so I wouldn't step on him.
He didn't budge.
I asked him again.
Not a twitch.
I told him to move or I would pick him up and dip his feet in the water bowl.
Nada.
So I bent over to pick him up and consider dipping at least his tail in the water.
I was threatening a black Walmart shopping bag.
Just to get even, I kicked it.
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