Coffee heat rising

Another Saturday Morning at the Funny Farm…

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Rescued another little old lady.

It’s not 8 a.m., and I’ve walked Cassie about half a mile, run a tenth of a mile (which is not very far), rescued the old gal, bicycled about two miles, and jumped in the pool. Pretty quick, it’s off to the Costco to buy a pair of jeans that fit.

Yes. By the light of dawn I came across another elderly damsel in distress, trying to make her way along Feeder Street. She could barely stand on one leg and was trying to hold herself up against a wall. Looked to me like she’d had a mild (I hope) stroke.

Stopped and asked if she needed help; she said she was in a bad way but lived right around the corner. I said I’d get my car and drive her, so ran the dog back to the house and picked up the chariot. Asked her if this had ever happened to her before; she said no. I said, “Maybe we should go to the ER instead of to your house.” She said no, her son was at home.

When I got her the two hundred feet to her house, she revealed that her son was asleep and she didn’t want to wake him up. 🙄 I suggested maybe she’d like me to go in and roust him out. She, understandably, wasn’t anxious to have a stranger in her house, to say nothing of one that would create a little drama.

She said she’ll be 80 next weekend. Hope she makes it…still kickin’.

The old gals around here are dropping like proverbial flies. Must be the climate change.

Down to 136.7 pounds this morning! That is 1.7 pounds short of CardioDoc’s announced goal. In theory.

Whereas CardioDoc thinks 135 is a healthy weight for an old bat of my build, I’m targeting 130, for a couple of reasons. Main reason is that these bright and shiny weigh-ins occur the minute I roll out of the sack in the morning. By early afternoon, the weight has gone up a couple of pounds. So, IMHO, the real weight is two or three pounds higher than the morale-boosting dawn figure.

And also, you know and I know that shortly after I arrive at the goal weight, I’m gonna backslide. So I figure that under the best of circumstances, an ego-stroking 130 pounds at the crack of dawn will mean the real figure hovers around 132 to 134. And if I decide to scarf down a pizza with a couple of beers, there’ll be some wiggle room in the calculations.

At any rate, all my pants and shorts are literally falling off me. Even the stretchy jeans look like sacks held up with a belt. So I need to go over to the Costco and buy a couple pair of blue jeans in a smaller size.

My friend Harriet, who lost her excess weight in the wake of colon cancer surgery from which she has recovered and never gained it back, urges me to donate all the “fat clothes.” Her theory is that if you have nothing in the house that you can fit into, you’ll be forced to avoid gaining the weight back.

However, I’ve found that not to be true. After I lost a comparable amount of weight on the Atkins diet — this was about eight or nine years ago — I got rid of all my size 12 Costco jeans. And that was fine for about 18 months, until I decided I simply had to have some pasta!

Pasta is my comfort food. And I believe it needs to be ingested with beer. Dark beer. Guinness. Young’s Double Chocolate. That sort of thing…

Well. Within minutes, of course, I gained all the weight back and didn’t care because I’d missed my pasta so much!!! I had to go out and buy another wardrobe of jeans, the garment of choice around here.

That was fine when I had a job. But now there’s just no way I can afford to buy a whole closetful of jeans. Two whole closetsful: I’ll need several pairs now, and if I throw out the Gloria Vanderbilt Collection and then fatten up again, I’ll need several new pairs of 12s.

So. My plan is to wash all the baggy jeans, fold them up, and stash them in the garage. Then if this whole project turns into a Fail after a year or two, I’ll at least still have some pants that fit.

In another 15 minutes it’s off to the Costco in Paradise Valley, which a) is upscale enough to have a better choice of loot (and their wine selection is better — got one of the worst bottles of wine ever from the Safeway yesterday…it’s not even good enough to cook with!), and b) is close to a Sprouts, a Whole Foods, and a Trader Joe’s, allowing me to pick up my weekly dose of fresh produce and absurdly coddled meats in the same shopping trip.

Happy Saturday!

 

 

Things You Should Know About…and a Song for George

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Let’s start with something truly wonderful: Kimisho Ishizaka’s amazing open-source Goldberg Variations. You can hear this exquisite music of Bach, download and follow along in the scores(!), and even listen on your favorite mobile devices…all for free.

Moving on to the Annals of the Floored and Flabbergasted, I’m sure you read about the replicator hamburger science is trying to foist on us. Yuch. If I hadn’t already adopted the “less meat but much better meat” scheme, this one would have done the trick. The day the butcher counter starts peddling fake meat is the day I turn into a vegan. If you didn’t already have some doubts about the fake food and the chemical-laced setting in which it is served up to us, contemplate the fact that animals in the wild, domesticated animals, and lab animals in strictly controlled environments are getting fatter and fatter, just like us.

Then we have this: if you haven’t read it, you should. And while enjoying that tour de force of investigative journalism, bear something in mind: when someone else’s rights are violated, so are yours. What we see there is an unjust law — if not unconstitutional then certainly in direct contravention of the spirit of the U.S. Constitution — taken to its natural end by blatant official corruption.

Also in the Department of Unconstitutionality, we have the news that not one but two e-mail encrypting services have been shut down, one of them apparently as a direct result of secret government action and the other because its management is flat-out scared sh!tless. Big Brother is determined to read over your shoulder, whether you like it or not.

Ve haff vays of making you show us your mail…

And, my dears, if you’re not scared sh!tless, too, you have the nerves of an old oak fencepost.

While you’re contemplating these things, consider the actions of a man whose actions in the office to which we elected him directly contradict what he promised to do while he was talking us into voting for hm.

And speaking of the frightful aspects of America’s Brave New World, we see that someone somewhere would like to take some action to improve mental health care in this country, given the number of unhappy souls who have taken to the streets, the cinemas, and the schools with heavy armaments. Sounds hopeful, doesn’t it?

But what, really, does it mean? Given the state of organizations, private as well as public, that institutionalize the vulnerable, what really will be the outcome of this? Maybe a new rug under which to sweep sick people? How much hope do you hold out that we’ll do a decent job of reforming mental health care?

Along those lines, we have this little bit of double-think, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so effing gut-wrenching.

The other day, George, my favorite curmudgeon, posted a comment in which he first alluded to and then installed all the lyrics of a Country Joe McDonald song. Make no mistake about it, my friends: if anyone can save what little remains of this republic and its storied freedoms, it will be the curmudgeons, the sinkers of heels into the sand, the angry, and the vocal.

And so, a toast to George and all the curmudgeons of America: keep on truckin’!

A Measure of Success

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Yesterday a small miracle occurred: I was able to tuck a shirt into my blue jeans, run one of my favorite old leather belts through the loops, and buckle it!!!!

Not only that, but the buckle fit on the SECOND HOLE!

Lordie! I haven’t been able to get that belt around me in years. Not that one nor any of the other belts that have been hanging in the back of the closet gathering dust for all these past years. And yesterday was the first time in living memory that tucking in a shirt did not make me look like an overstuffed walking sausage.

Couldn’t believe it.

This morning the fat-o-meter broke 138: if you can imagine, 137.8! And that was in spite of yesterday’s greasy restaurant breakfast of twice-fried potatoes and four slices of (apparently undrained) bacon. Thought for sure I’d be up a pound today, not down almost a full pound.

So that leaves a little under three pounds to reach CardioDoc’s expressed goal of 135. I think, however, that I’m going to try to get down to 130, since these elegant measures are being taken the first crack off the bat in the morning. In reality, by the middle of the afternoon, the scale (should I dare to get on it) is running two or three pounds heavier. So it seems reasonable that if one shot for 130 pounds, one’s real-life, mid-day weight would hover around 133–34 pounds.

Yesterday was so cool — only 80 degrees all day long — that I didn’t have to turn on the air conditioning! That will save about $7.20 off the electric bill. The Nest sent its monthly AC power use report, grutching about my having run the contraption 52 hours longer in July than in August. It scolds, too, about my noxious habit of turning the thermostat down at night so as to get more than four hours of sleep (if that much):

• In July, the lowest temperature you set at night was 76°F.
• Top savers in your area like to keep it at 78°F or higher at night.
• Nesters in your state are setting Nest to 78°F or higher at night.

Oh yeah? Well, dear Nest, just because some sheep like to lie in a puddle of sweat all night doesn’t mean they all have to. Grrrrr!

LOL! Lest you think I keep the thermostat at 76 all night, the Nest is programmed to drop from 83 degrees to 78 along about 6:00 p.m.; then to go down to 76 around 10:00 p.m. when I might be expected to go to bed; then rise back up to 78 at 1:00 a.m. — by which time, if I’m not asleep yet, I’m not going to get to sleep at all.

Because the morning was so mild, I ventured to take the first walk around the park since the 21st of June. That’s about a mile and a half, including a short detour through the prettiest part of the neighborhood. Tried to maintain a stately pace, not charging along like a Marine making a run on Tripoli. And it worked: hardly any pain, and no aggravation of what there was. Did it again this morning, and walking actually felt good!

So there’s hope, maybe, for that 130-pound goal.

What hurts, as it develops, is sitting in front of the computer. This morning it occurred to me that when the feet are up on the stool that resides under the desk, it causes me to cantilever back and sit on my tailbone. And the tailbone does hurt. Along with just about everything else.

So the footrest came out and got shoved way across the room.

How lovely it is to stroll around the rich folks’ part of the ’hood!

The corporate lawyer, who favored expensive vacations, once took us to a very swell resort in Santa Barbara, the sort of place the likes of Ronald Reagan would hang out in. We walked all over the residential area around this retreat, and I remember thinking holy mackerel! Just imagine being able to live in a place like this!

Well, amazingly, today I live in a place like that. Right on the fringe of it, actually. Because of the patchy nature of Phoenix’s in-town neighborhoods, it’s possible to buy a middle-class (or lesser) home in an area that abuts a very upscale district, and that’s the nature of my present living arrangement. I look at newer houses — as I was doing online just this morning — plopped in amid the far-flung square miles of homogeneous suburban tracts that have been smeared across the desert, and think i am so lucky to have this pretty little house in a quiet corner of the middle of everything, a block from a beautiful park and a five-minute walk from what is probably the loveliest street in the entire city.

Yes. In addition to the solidly upper-class housing surrounding the park, we have the cutely named Why Worry Lane, a little piece of high-toned Santa Barbara transplanted to West Hell. The entire area is shaded by gorgeous, mature (as in 30 to 50 years old) trees, and because the acreage is irrigated (it all used to be agricultural land), every house has deep, rich lawns front and back. Because the real estate is so expensive, the people who live there are the sort who can afford to maintain it. And maintain it they do: in stately splendor.

WhyWorry

Some of these big old spreads are just gorgeous. Walking past them is great entertainment…and getting back to my little house, just a few yards from theirs but eminently less work, less expense, and less of a headache to care for, is a real joy. 🙂

A measure of success in itself.

If You’d Asked Me, I Would’ve Told You…

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Some of us prefer paper and pencil (yea verily, graphite) for making notes and keeping calendars. Consider:

• A pencil does not have to be turned on, rebooted, or turned off.
• Pencils are never updated.
• Once you know how to use a pencil, there’s never a new learning curve to figure out how to keep on using it.
• Pencils never stop working just because the power goes out.
• Pencils cannot be hacked by some jerk in Russia.
• Pencils cannot readily be watched by Big Brother.
• If you lose it, a pencil can be replaced easily and cheaply.
• No one can call you on a pencil while you’re in the middle of lunch or dodging homicidal drivers on the freeway.

The best button on the TV remote is the “Off” button.

PBS’s beg-a-thons are more intrusive than advertising because they take whole shows off the air and replace them with garbage.

I never could understand why PBS imagines people who are affluent enough to donate are fascinated by bloviated lectures and superannuated pop musicians.

whiteseatA person who would upholster the seat of a dining-room chair in white fabric with satiny-looking fleurs-de-lis either never eats or is crazy as a loon.

Loons get a bad rap as crazies, especially as compared with the jabbering great ape that has taken over the planet.

Subjecting yourself to plastic surgery because you imagine it will make you look younger is amazingly stupid.

The pathetic idea that you must get cosmetic surgery to hide your age so you can get or keep a job reflects a truly ugly loathing for the elderly already widespread and rapidly growing in American culture.

Except in the direst emergencies, cop helicopters should be banned from flying over residential neighborhoods.

Gawker “news” helicopters should be banned, period.

Stilettos-heels-publicdomainHigh heels were and still are designed by men who hate women.

Images: Pencil, heels: public domain. Chair: shamelessly ripped off from an estate-sale ad.

How to Annoy the Queen of the Universe…and other weekend exploits

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So, how do you annoy the Queen of the Universe?

By cleaning.

Dogs hate it when you clean house. They particularly resent vacuum cleaners. But if you really want to jump the shark, then the trick is to gather up all the (stinky! ratty!) Toys in the house and throw them in the wash machine.

Anyone who thinks dogs have no feelings or are incapable of sentience should wash a Toy in front of a dog, and note how the behavior resembles that of a four-year-old who sees his Blankie sinking into the washer.

“What are you doing?”

“Give that back!!!!!”

“But it’ll drown!”

“You’re killing it!“

“Is it done yet?”

“When will it be done?”

“Where is it?”

And finally, defeated and destroyed: “How on earth could you do such a thing?”

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The Pinkbird of Joy had to be fully deconstructed to be washed, after Cassie eviscerated him and ripped off one of his ears. His tennis-ball-sized squeakers came out of his weird-looking head and fat little belly, the incisions secured for laundering by a pair of safety pins. Once laundered, partly dried, restuffed, and sutured up, he looked none too worse for the wear, except for lacking an ear. Or a wing. Or whatever it is:

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Well, he was fine until he found himself in the clutches of the Jackal of Despair, who snatched him away from the Underling forthwith:

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hmm… You have to allow, don’t you, that as aliens go, a dog is one scary critter. Lucky for us this one just about comes up to the middle of my shin. Few of us, I suspect, would care to be the size of the Pinkbird of Joy. Not with that animal around, anyway.

Speaking of dogs, Charley the Golden Retriever (the lowliest of the underlings) is in Colorado with M’hijito. Here he is trotting around Grand Junction:

Charley

Click on the image to view its full glory.

The Queen was mightily aggravated by the full-day-long cleaning frenzy. This being about the third day I’ve felt almost normal after the recent infirmity, I took it into my pea brain to make up for two months’ worth of neglect. Started with some light yardwork, replacing busted sprinkler heads and the like. Then on to the interior of the Funny Farm, after laundering Toys and handwashing a sweater.

It took the entire afternoon to vacuum, dust-mop, and mop the flicking floors. And that was with mopping only the kitchen, dining room, and living room… Yuck!

Her Majestic Highness sheds a steady snowfall of stray fur wherever she goes. Since I’ve been in bed the better part of two weeks and she’s been hanging around the bedroom with me, the dog dunes under and around the bedroom furniture were up to my ankles. Just after cleaning the bedroom, the vacuum was jammed with as much dog hair as it normally picks up from the whole house!

At any rate, now the house is dog-dune free, dust-free, soap-film-free, water calcification-free, grease-free, floor-grime-free, paperwork-on-the-desk-free, and grody-Toy-free. The back hurts, the hip hurts…again. But at least the place is fit for human and canine habitation, for a change.

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Entire court of the Queen of the Universe, drying out in the garage.

Weekend Explorations

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A couple of new-to-me blogs: Don’t Quit Your Day Job. Proprietor PK asks if you’re doing better financially now than you were six years ago.

And the founder of the brand-new A Terrible Husband tells us he had an epiphany one day that’s led to a project to recreate himself as a better human being.

Have you been following the newlyweds’ adventures at NZ Muse!? Eemusings should do an e-book after she gets settled in her new home! The current stop is in Munich after the amazement that is Berlin. In the Black Forest, they had a great experience working as volunteer instructors in an immersion English-language program.

Money Beagle has a surprisingly entertaining post on preparing to exit the jobsite for vacation.

At Windy City Gal, Linda is doing battle with plantar fasciitis — not terminal, but damned excruciating!

Speaking of doing battle, the Asian Pear has a frustrating moment with her diet after a difficult month at the job.

Mrs. Accountability reports on a little shopping secret most of us have probably lost track of.

Evan’s post on the life-changing potential of money has elicited a lot of commentary!

Planting Our Pennies has a great post on the transition from an undergraduate degree in the liberal arts to a six-figure income in the business world.

There’s hope for the hypereducated, after all!