Numbers have no business in exercise. I learned that today. Instead of getting on the treadmill at 4 p.m. like I usually do, putting channel 10 on (Oprah), and walking for 45 minutes, I picked up my son's iPod. Hmm. I thought about the big hillside we have for a backyard, just sitting out there. And, that view of the Sierra from the top of it.
A narrow loop up, around the two big oaks, and back down is 110 steps. It's approximately a twelve to fourteen percent grade, I figure, based on my comparison of it to the big hill my grandparents lived at the top of when I was little. That hill was a bitch. This one is slightly less bitchy - more of a shrew. Enough with the numbers.
I set off with Radiohead playing in my ears. I had never heard Radiohead, but I've heard that Coldplay copies them, and that they copy Coldplay, and since I like Coldplay, I decided to begin my circular hike listening to them. I completed ten loops in two songs: "Just" and "Paranoid Android." Those are the only two Radiohead songs on my son's iPod. I liked them so much that I kept hiking and started the songs over again. I lost count of my laps, thank god, and then switched to White Stripes, another group I've never heard, but have heard a lot about - mainly from much younger people and people on TV who seem to know about these things.
Turns out, I like the White Stripes too. After listening to "Hello Operator" and "My Doorbell", the latter of which I really liked, "We're Going to Be Friends" started. I have the Jack Johnson version too. I love that song. I love it even more now, after exercising and discovering there's more to life than Jack Johnson. When the thumping "Blue Orchid" began, I tried to keep time with the beat. It worked on the way down, but I stopped pretty soon after the uphill leg began.
My son even thinks I'm cool. He just asked me why I still have the iPod on if I'm done hiking. I told him I liked the music he had on it. He smiled.
I'm setting a goal for the end of next week: "Blue Orchid". Not miles, or minutes, or heart rate. The next time someone asks me what I do to stay in shape, I'm going to say White Stripes.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Of Yoga and Hookers
It’s probably getting really tiresome reading about my eleven year old son all the time. Unfortunately, the guy just won’t stop providing me with fodder…
Yesterday, I was helping him with an essay that he had to write summarizing what he has learned as part of the D.A.R.E. project, which helps educate kids about the evils of making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol. In order to help him put his thoughts into words, I said, “Tell me what you have learned about making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol?” He thought for only a split second before spitting out this little nugget of wisdom:
“Well, I know I won’t marry a hooker someday!”
“Reeeeaaallly” I replied, nodding in complete agreement. “That’s a good start. Shall we put that in the essay?” I asked. I began to type. I'm a fast typer.
“NO MOM! I just meant that, well, I don’t know what I meant! Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that!”
“So you’re saying you WOULD consider marrying a hooker someday?” I said, laughing. I love tripping him up in his own words. Love it, love it, love it.
I hope he has lots of boy children someday (and three girls just for good measure).
Meanwhile, one of my lovely little ladies has adopted a new pet: my yoga mat. I do yoga in her bedroom because it is the only room with the perfect combo of VCR and floor space. She found the mat one day and proceeded to roll it up and carry it around the house off and on for a couple of days. I mostly ignored it, stopping occasionally to tell her and Yoga Buddy to pick up their sandals. It was her buddy. The last "buddy" she adopted was a 12-inch stick. It's name was Stick Buddy. She whittled it to such a sharp point that it really should have been called "Shank Buddy," so I confiscated it.
I didn't think too much of Yoga Mat Buddy, though it did seem a little odd. Then again, I have known my daughter for all of her almost nine years, so it really wasn't that strange. Fine, it was normal for her. Until a few nights ago. On my way to the laundry room, I walked past the bathroom at the same time the door opened. She had just emerged from the shower, clad in her robe and jammies, with the yoga mat rolled up under one arm. This one stopped me in my tracks.
"Um, you had the yoga mat in the bathroom with you?"
"Yes," she said, in the most neutral voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth. In fact, it's the only time I've ever heard Neutral Tone. I hear harsh, sassy, sad, even bored, but never neutral. I could tell by the look on her face that even she knew that this qualified as bizarre - even by her high standards.
We stared at each other for about five seconds. Then, I kept walking. I just kept walking.
Yesterday, I was helping him with an essay that he had to write summarizing what he has learned as part of the D.A.R.E. project, which helps educate kids about the evils of making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol. In order to help him put his thoughts into words, I said, “Tell me what you have learned about making bad choices regarding drugs and alcohol?” He thought for only a split second before spitting out this little nugget of wisdom:
“Well, I know I won’t marry a hooker someday!”
“Reeeeaaallly” I replied, nodding in complete agreement. “That’s a good start. Shall we put that in the essay?” I asked. I began to type. I'm a fast typer.
“NO MOM! I just meant that, well, I don’t know what I meant! Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that!”
“So you’re saying you WOULD consider marrying a hooker someday?” I said, laughing. I love tripping him up in his own words. Love it, love it, love it.
I hope he has lots of boy children someday (and three girls just for good measure).
Meanwhile, one of my lovely little ladies has adopted a new pet: my yoga mat. I do yoga in her bedroom because it is the only room with the perfect combo of VCR and floor space. She found the mat one day and proceeded to roll it up and carry it around the house off and on for a couple of days. I mostly ignored it, stopping occasionally to tell her and Yoga Buddy to pick up their sandals. It was her buddy. The last "buddy" she adopted was a 12-inch stick. It's name was Stick Buddy. She whittled it to such a sharp point that it really should have been called "Shank Buddy," so I confiscated it.
I didn't think too much of Yoga Mat Buddy, though it did seem a little odd. Then again, I have known my daughter for all of her almost nine years, so it really wasn't that strange. Fine, it was normal for her. Until a few nights ago. On my way to the laundry room, I walked past the bathroom at the same time the door opened. She had just emerged from the shower, clad in her robe and jammies, with the yoga mat rolled up under one arm. This one stopped me in my tracks.
"Um, you had the yoga mat in the bathroom with you?"
"Yes," she said, in the most neutral voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth. In fact, it's the only time I've ever heard Neutral Tone. I hear harsh, sassy, sad, even bored, but never neutral. I could tell by the look on her face that even she knew that this qualified as bizarre - even by her high standards.
We stared at each other for about five seconds. Then, I kept walking. I just kept walking.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Can I, Can I, Can I...
In my house, wanting things that other people have is a dangerous contagion the likes of which haven’t been experienced since the plague brushed Europe clean of a third of its population over six centuries ago. Back then the carriers were rats and fleas; now, it’s perfectly healthy children.
When one of my little people sees one of their siblings with something, about to get something, or even thinking about the potential possibility of receiving something in the distant future, the secondhand barely moves before the “Can I’s…” tumble out like wet dominoes on a hot skillet.
Of course, when I say “things,” I obviously mean precious commodities like empty shoeboxes, or a slice of American cheese. And, by now you realize that when I say “little people” I mean the youngsters I live with. I used to call them “little people” all the time until that hit show aired featuring the official little people of this world. Now, my kids are actually more like “medium people.” The exception is my ten year old. There is, in fact, a medical term for her condition and that is “shrimp.”
Recently, the thing they all wanted was toothbrushes. It began with one asking for a new toothbrush. Unbeknownst to me, she'd followed me into my bathroom (my medium people actually glide silently over the carpet) and saw me get the huge multi-pak of instruments for brushing out of the cupboard. That’s all they are after all, a thing that cleans one’s teeth. What's the big deal? The needy one said, “Can I have the blue one?” Then another not-so-needy one, from where she came I have no idea and seeing two empty slots said, “Who else already got one? Can I have one?” Then, a third, but not so stealthy one, sensing that somewhere, someone was getting something, burst into the room and said, “What-are-you-guys-getting-can- I-have-one?”
Oh how I wished I'd been giving out spankings.
Tossing the package up to a top shelf I said, “Brushing is overrated anyway,” and left the room.
I’m pretty sure that in our house a driving force behind the competition for things being equal is probably due to their subconscious, yet diabolical wish to drive me insane. If it isn’t helping with dinner (Can I stir the pasta? Can I stir it next? Can I stir it after that? Can ANYONE stir my Martini?) it’s helping at the grocery store or sitting up front. The other day all three girls clamored to help me hold the bag in the bulk foods aisle. I only wanted pine nuts, but ended up getting dried cranberries, which I already had at home, and something called quinoa, because it was cheap and served to quickly even the score before my head popped off and rolled down the aisle with its eyes still blinking.
As I sat and stared into space a few evenings ago while the eleven-year old rubbed my feet as punishment for not cleaning his room (it’s all about logical consequences), the moment I’d been waiting for finally arrived. In an instant, my kids’ unchecked competitive spirit was no longer a mystery; my problem wasn’t solved, but it certainly was understood. It was, of course, my husband who provided my moment of illumination when he walked in the door and after quickly surveying the scene, said eagerly:
“Can I have a foot rub?”
When one of my little people sees one of their siblings with something, about to get something, or even thinking about the potential possibility of receiving something in the distant future, the secondhand barely moves before the “Can I’s…” tumble out like wet dominoes on a hot skillet.
Of course, when I say “things,” I obviously mean precious commodities like empty shoeboxes, or a slice of American cheese. And, by now you realize that when I say “little people” I mean the youngsters I live with. I used to call them “little people” all the time until that hit show aired featuring the official little people of this world. Now, my kids are actually more like “medium people.” The exception is my ten year old. There is, in fact, a medical term for her condition and that is “shrimp.”
Recently, the thing they all wanted was toothbrushes. It began with one asking for a new toothbrush. Unbeknownst to me, she'd followed me into my bathroom (my medium people actually glide silently over the carpet) and saw me get the huge multi-pak of instruments for brushing out of the cupboard. That’s all they are after all, a thing that cleans one’s teeth. What's the big deal? The needy one said, “Can I have the blue one?” Then another not-so-needy one, from where she came I have no idea and seeing two empty slots said, “Who else already got one? Can I have one?” Then, a third, but not so stealthy one, sensing that somewhere, someone was getting something, burst into the room and said, “What-are-you-guys-getting-can- I-have-one?”
Oh how I wished I'd been giving out spankings.
Tossing the package up to a top shelf I said, “Brushing is overrated anyway,” and left the room.
I’m pretty sure that in our house a driving force behind the competition for things being equal is probably due to their subconscious, yet diabolical wish to drive me insane. If it isn’t helping with dinner (Can I stir the pasta? Can I stir it next? Can I stir it after that? Can ANYONE stir my Martini?) it’s helping at the grocery store or sitting up front. The other day all three girls clamored to help me hold the bag in the bulk foods aisle. I only wanted pine nuts, but ended up getting dried cranberries, which I already had at home, and something called quinoa, because it was cheap and served to quickly even the score before my head popped off and rolled down the aisle with its eyes still blinking.
As I sat and stared into space a few evenings ago while the eleven-year old rubbed my feet as punishment for not cleaning his room (it’s all about logical consequences), the moment I’d been waiting for finally arrived. In an instant, my kids’ unchecked competitive spirit was no longer a mystery; my problem wasn’t solved, but it certainly was understood. It was, of course, my husband who provided my moment of illumination when he walked in the door and after quickly surveying the scene, said eagerly:
“Can I have a foot rub?”
Monday, March 23, 2009
Where Have All the Name Brands Gone?
I’m writing this with a heavy heart and an even heavier cart: that is, a cart laden with jumbo-saving sized packages whose providence isn’t Italy, France or even Mexico. My grocery cart, ever since I left teaching and its monthly salary, such as it was, no longer contains items that have crossed any borders save for the ones between some factory town in Scranton, Ohio and my little hamlet in the foothills of Northern California. I’m saving money, to be sure, but my palate is paying the price.
It warms my heart to know that a lovely little factory in a quaint, smog-choked town somewhere in the middle of the United States is the place my canned tuna calls home. Gone are the days of the tender fish packed in olive oil and imported from Genoa, or Sicily. Now, my cupboards overfloweth with items from places not even remotely Mediterranean. Western Family Spaghetti Sauce has replaced Pietro’s Marinara. I don’t even like spaghetti. The very least these mass-producing food manufacturers can do is a little research. If they did, they’d find out that a sauce isn’t defined by what it tops; it’s defined by what’s in it. That’s why the Italians call it marinara – because if you would like to, you can put the meatless sauce on fettuccini, eggplant, polenta or any number of other things beside boring old spaghetti.
Speaking of pasta, too bad the only brand I can afford now doesn’t even offer anything as exotic as angel hair. I bought Billy Bob’s Noodles the last time I went shopping. Why would a company call their pasta product Billy Bob’s when it would have been just as easy to pick Salvatore or Luigi? Can’t they at least humor me?
Now when I shop, I do it with a calculator in my hand instead of an iced mocha. Not only that, but the once entertaining business of reading labels to make sure that the oil in my salad dressing is virginal has been replaced by the punishing practice of comparing costs per ounce of various brands. How the mighty have fallen. Now, I buy three pounds of ham at Costco and slip half-pound portions into plastic fold-over baggies which are stored in the freezer until needed. I can no longer afford the nifty little re-usable plastic tubs that I used to buy. Sniff, sniff.
What’s worse, I’m becoming my mother: I buy things like that giant, dreaded green canister of parmesan cheese (or so they say it is) that I’ve long criticized her for doing. Don’t for a second think I splurge on Kraft. Nope, it’s Select Brand Parmesano, with the fake fancy ending thrown in, as if it has any more connection to Italy or its culture than my neighbor’s German Shepherd who dumps on my lawn every morning.
I must admit that my new adventures in grocery shopping are adding some spice to my life. Granted, it’s Steve-O’s Chile Seasoning and not Miguel’s Mole, but you can’t have everything. In fact, I’ve got a mantra that I repeat to and from the store, one that motivates me to keep my chin up and my eyes on the prize (lower grocery bill): “I’m working from home, I’m working from home, I’m working from home…”
It warms my heart to know that a lovely little factory in a quaint, smog-choked town somewhere in the middle of the United States is the place my canned tuna calls home. Gone are the days of the tender fish packed in olive oil and imported from Genoa, or Sicily. Now, my cupboards overfloweth with items from places not even remotely Mediterranean. Western Family Spaghetti Sauce has replaced Pietro’s Marinara. I don’t even like spaghetti. The very least these mass-producing food manufacturers can do is a little research. If they did, they’d find out that a sauce isn’t defined by what it tops; it’s defined by what’s in it. That’s why the Italians call it marinara – because if you would like to, you can put the meatless sauce on fettuccini, eggplant, polenta or any number of other things beside boring old spaghetti.
Speaking of pasta, too bad the only brand I can afford now doesn’t even offer anything as exotic as angel hair. I bought Billy Bob’s Noodles the last time I went shopping. Why would a company call their pasta product Billy Bob’s when it would have been just as easy to pick Salvatore or Luigi? Can’t they at least humor me?
Now when I shop, I do it with a calculator in my hand instead of an iced mocha. Not only that, but the once entertaining business of reading labels to make sure that the oil in my salad dressing is virginal has been replaced by the punishing practice of comparing costs per ounce of various brands. How the mighty have fallen. Now, I buy three pounds of ham at Costco and slip half-pound portions into plastic fold-over baggies which are stored in the freezer until needed. I can no longer afford the nifty little re-usable plastic tubs that I used to buy. Sniff, sniff.
What’s worse, I’m becoming my mother: I buy things like that giant, dreaded green canister of parmesan cheese (or so they say it is) that I’ve long criticized her for doing. Don’t for a second think I splurge on Kraft. Nope, it’s Select Brand Parmesano, with the fake fancy ending thrown in, as if it has any more connection to Italy or its culture than my neighbor’s German Shepherd who dumps on my lawn every morning.
I must admit that my new adventures in grocery shopping are adding some spice to my life. Granted, it’s Steve-O’s Chile Seasoning and not Miguel’s Mole, but you can’t have everything. In fact, I’ve got a mantra that I repeat to and from the store, one that motivates me to keep my chin up and my eyes on the prize (lower grocery bill): “I’m working from home, I’m working from home, I’m working from home…”
Has anyone seen my funnybone?
By Lisa Lucke
Lately, I’ve felt lost. I’ve felt…separated from something important. Recently, I put my finger on it, and came up with what it is I need to locate: my sense of humor. More specifically, I need to find my sense of humor at critical times of the day when it seems so very far away from me.
There are times when I really could use a good laugh, like around seven-thirty in the morning, as my eleven-year old son gets into the shower when he should be getting into the car. Now, this doesn’t mean I want one of my eight-year old daughters to walk up to me and say, “Knock-knock!” like they’re so famous for. It means that I simply wish I could embrace my son’s eleven-year-oldness with a smile and perhaps, just maybe, a brief roll of the eyes and a funny-sounding cussword, like “fiddlesticks,” instead of a silent “Mother F!” and a not-so-silent foot stomp that sends my other three children scurrying for cover like infantrymen into a foxhole.
Why can’t I just roll with the punches? Why can’t I be more like Carol Brady and throw my perfectly coiffed head back and laugh it off?
Sometimes, the need for a sense of humor strikes in the middle of the night – when I least expect it. Surprisingly, it isn’t any easier to come up with a lighthearted perspective at two a.m. when the family beagle is howling in two part harmony with the sound of daughter number three puking. I try so hard at those times to conjure up the spirit of Erma Bombeck, or even Marge Simpson, women who showed the world how to navigate the streets of domestic Crazytown with their eyes closed and wearing a grin from ear to ear. As my husband breaks for daughter’s room, I sprint down the stairs to rescue the dog, where he’d been trapped in the eleven year-old’s room – since eight. I was too late. Thank goodness the dear boy didn’t have his sleep interrupted – by the noise or the odor.
About that time I realize that pubs all over town are announcing “last call” which means that technically, it’s an acceptable time to relax and have a cocktail. I pour one. Sure enough, I’m just beginning to feel funny, when it all comes crashing down around me.
“Watcha doin’?” My husband asks as he pads down the stairs, and sees me sitting on the couch, in the dark.
“Just hanging out, enjoying a Scotch.”
Silence. The worry lines on his forehead deepen into Everest-like crevasses.
“Honey,” he says gently, carefully sitting down next to me.
“Yes,” I respond cautiously.
“Knock-knock.”
Lately, I’ve felt lost. I’ve felt…separated from something important. Recently, I put my finger on it, and came up with what it is I need to locate: my sense of humor. More specifically, I need to find my sense of humor at critical times of the day when it seems so very far away from me.
There are times when I really could use a good laugh, like around seven-thirty in the morning, as my eleven-year old son gets into the shower when he should be getting into the car. Now, this doesn’t mean I want one of my eight-year old daughters to walk up to me and say, “Knock-knock!” like they’re so famous for. It means that I simply wish I could embrace my son’s eleven-year-oldness with a smile and perhaps, just maybe, a brief roll of the eyes and a funny-sounding cussword, like “fiddlesticks,” instead of a silent “Mother F!” and a not-so-silent foot stomp that sends my other three children scurrying for cover like infantrymen into a foxhole.
Why can’t I just roll with the punches? Why can’t I be more like Carol Brady and throw my perfectly coiffed head back and laugh it off?
Sometimes, the need for a sense of humor strikes in the middle of the night – when I least expect it. Surprisingly, it isn’t any easier to come up with a lighthearted perspective at two a.m. when the family beagle is howling in two part harmony with the sound of daughter number three puking. I try so hard at those times to conjure up the spirit of Erma Bombeck, or even Marge Simpson, women who showed the world how to navigate the streets of domestic Crazytown with their eyes closed and wearing a grin from ear to ear. As my husband breaks for daughter’s room, I sprint down the stairs to rescue the dog, where he’d been trapped in the eleven year-old’s room – since eight. I was too late. Thank goodness the dear boy didn’t have his sleep interrupted – by the noise or the odor.
About that time I realize that pubs all over town are announcing “last call” which means that technically, it’s an acceptable time to relax and have a cocktail. I pour one. Sure enough, I’m just beginning to feel funny, when it all comes crashing down around me.
“Watcha doin’?” My husband asks as he pads down the stairs, and sees me sitting on the couch, in the dark.
“Just hanging out, enjoying a Scotch.”
Silence. The worry lines on his forehead deepen into Everest-like crevasses.
“Honey,” he says gently, carefully sitting down next to me.
“Yes,” I respond cautiously.
“Knock-knock.”
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