Of the sea

Ever wonder why the bulk of human population lives in coastal areas? Me neither. I do wonder - and often - why I live as far from oceans and seas as possible. Probably a combination of luck, chance, and maybe a choice or two, I guess. By the way, I live in a state that boasts the monument that marks the (approximated) Geographical Center of North America.   

I can’t get much further from the sea than that, even if I tried.

*****

The trip to The Bahamas was lovely, if ever always too short. A week is a long time to be away from home and yet not near long enough to be at the beach. The weather was warm-ish…high 70’s to low 80’s. Windy, depending on where you were and what time of day it was.

But oh, the sea. Every cell in my body soaked up the salt in the air and the gloriously warm humidity and I was euphorically happy for seven whole days. No need for a hair dryer. No need for makeup. No need for an alarm clock. No need for socks…or jackets, or mittens or anything but rum, flip-flops, a swim suit and maybe a nice dress to wear to a late dinner. 

Just the sound of crashing surf lowers my blood pressure in a way no pharmaceutical or exercise regimen ever could.

I ate way too much at every meal. Drank even more, including several-too-many rum punch drinks served in a coconut whilst lounging under an umbrella on the beach. I did no ‘on purpose’ exercise, despite access to a full gym and spa, but I walked and walked and walked like it was my damn job. My lands the place we stayed at was ENORMOUS. In fact, on the last full day there, Chad was feeling a little under-the-weather, so I left him to nap in the room and roamed around an area of the resort I hadn’t managed to find before. I put on nearly 8 miles. Eight. Miles. Walking around the resort, looking at stuff, and wandering into the Private Residence area by mistake. I just acted like I belonged there and smiled at everyone. No one kicked me out for breathing the gold and diamond encrusted air.

We took a taxi into Nassau and shopped the straw market. On another day, we and another couple signed up for a snorkeling excursion on a catamaran. We toured a rum distillery and rum cake factory. We played in the resort’s water park. We drank too much at Margaritaville. I tried to buy some Kush, just to see if I could. (I could have, but didn’t. Really.)

It was a Resort in every way - very much catering to American tastes, which I didn’t like much. If I wanted to eat at Johnny Rockets, I’d have stayed stateside. But it was clean, if excessively expensive. Maybe spending $300 on dinner for two is normal for some people, but I thought it was obscene.The staff were welcoming and helpful. I made friends with the doorman, Aaron. He forgot me before the airport shuttle van door closed behind me, but that’s ok.

 Muffin and Smoke nearly murdered me for being away, and despite a few cold shoulders were happy to have me home again.

Suits

In the process of purging my closet and various dressers, I learned many things. One interesting lesson was that I no longer own a decent swim suit. The black tank suit I’ve worn for the past few years is faded and, to be blunt, ugly. And it doesn’t fit anymore, regardless. 

Why am I thinking about swim wear in January in the Northland? Funny thing: we are going to the Bahamas at the end of the month for about a week, courtesy of the company from which The Farm buys chemical and seed. I’m looking forward to sand and surf and sunshine and too much food and far too many tropical drinks with little umbrellas for garnish. I foresee sunburn and sugar comas.

*****

For Christmas, Chad bought me the RTIC 30 oz tumbler. He has a Yeti. I don’t see much of a difference, besides the obvious branding. I should have asked him to wait until RTIC came out with the sliding top lid, making it spill-proof, but I’m guessing I can pick that up later.

I like it. Coffee stays hot. Mmm, coffee.

*****

Muffin and I are now workout partners. Or at least until the gym decides to tell me how much all of this is costing me. The plan is to get and keep Muffy in shape during the off season. And this will be how I die. At the gym, whilst muscle bound gym-rats gawk and point as I drown in my own sweat.

Purge, purge, purge

I read somewhere that people are choosing a “word” to describe, represent or otherwise mark (denote?) the year 2016. Weird, right?

So. A word. A word, with enough gravitas to hang on all 366 days of 2016 (Leap Year, right?). 

“Meh” comes to mind.

I’m not committing to a word, but so far the word Purge would fit.

I finally got myself motivated enough to go through my closet. It took me the better part of a day to try everything on (1) and make Keep It/Donate It decisions.(2) 

That was exhausting. So exhausting that I only managed to get through the hanging clothes. There was also a shelf that runs the full length of the closet stacked with shoes and sweaters and probably the lost treasure of the Flor do Mar, and that took another day or so to go through.

And then, of course, the Dust Dragon Wrangling commenced.

I have an obscene amount of clothing. 

HAD. 

I HAD an obscene amount of clothing. This time around, I donated five(5) storage bins and a giant bag stuffed full of clothes to a local charity. A full 90% of the items were “office” type outfits (pants, blazers, jackets, blouses, twin sets, etc.) that cost me a fortune when I bought them new (even on sale, which at one time I was pretty good at). I really do hope someone will find uses for some of that stuff.

(1)If/When I lose all the weight I need to lose, nothing in that closet will fit me, save for the bathrobe. Too big is best, when it comes to bathrobes, I say.

(2)Let it be duly noted in the record: I did not purge one shoe. Not one. I have issues, obviously.

*****

The purging continued this week as I finally dove into The Once and Future Office/Guest Room. I’m so glad I’m not the type to do Before/After pictures, because damn, how embarrassing. Not one square inch of that floor was visible, having been stacked with boxes and books and random broken printers and whatever else I didn’t have the energy to deal with for the past year (probably longer than that…I’ve been writing at the kitchen counter for quite a while, now that I think of it). It was so much easier to just push stuff in there and shut the door.

The bed was buried under CPR mannequins, for crying out loud.

And I did. Cry. Out loud.

The big stuff in there is now dealt with and done:  boxes removed, books re-shelved, mannequins re-homed, printers…well, the printers are still in there, but I can now see the floor and successfully pull a chair up to my desk. I cleaned. The spare bed has freshly laundered sheets and blankets.

If a guest (singular…not plural…it is a twin bed, after all) were to wander up to my door and require overnight shelter, I would be able to accommodate without batting an eyelash.

And now I’m just sifting through the detritus in drawers and random boxes: business cards, old newspapers and magazines, receipts… from 2008.

Maybe I’ve been writing at the kitchen counter longer than I thought?

*****

Happy New Year, 2016.

And I bother because of course

The longer the list
I have a list of things I need to get done today. It is a very long list and every task is hugely time consuming and overwhelming and my stars and garters, why do I even bother?

The Internet beckons, and I will answer. ’Tis Friday, after all.


Temporary grounding
Muffin is one of those kids that I’ve never worried about much. I mean, she makes good choices and tries her best and works hard and all that, so I’m not really concerned she is going to do something silly or stupid and land in jail or launch her pickup off a bridge. You know? The stuff some parents of kids her age are dealing with…wow. I just don’t have those concerns with her.

Anyway, she decided to be a teenager last weekend. The plan was for her to go to a (local) college volleyball game - actually a tournament - and watch. After that, she wanted to go to the movies with her friends, and I was totally ok with the agenda as she explained it to me. Except she didn’t go to the volleyball games. She went to the mall instead, and then went to the movies. She didn’t tell me her plans changed, and when I asked her about the games, she lied.

Ooo, baby.

I’m ok with plans changing, but the not telling me and then lying about it? That is a line one does not cross with me, especially if you are my offspring.

Anger didn’t factor in. I was hurt and disappointed about the lying. The lying concerns me.

So she is ‘grounded.’ For her, that means she still has her phone and driving privileges, because where we live and how we operate on a daily basis - taking those things away from her would punish ME, not her. What she isn’t allowed to do is anything extra, such as attending football games, movies or anything that is beyond school, volleyball and home. And I decided that it would last about one month. When Homecoming rolls around the last week of September/first week of October, she will have served her time and she will have her “fun” back.

I am obviously The Meanest Mom On The Planet since I’m bent on ruining my child’s life.

Last night on the drive home from a volleyball game (her team won and played great - fun to watch and all that), she was almost yelling, trying to argue her point about knowing what she did was wrong and that because she learned her lesson, she should be able to go to the Corn Maze this weekend with some friends.

Um. Nope. Not gonna happen, Kid.

I had to stop the conversation before *I* started yelling. Unimpressed with my inflexibility, she plugged in her headphones and ignored me for 20 minutes.

And today she sent me a text asking to go to the football game tonight.

Um. Nope. Not gonna happen, Kid.

She is just testing me to see if she can wear down my resolve. Grounding is such a weird punishment, really. But how else would or should a parent deal with something like lying? I dunno. There have to be consequences, I think.


Moar coffee
As someone who typically takes her caffeine ice cold, carbonated and from a can, I’ve recently developed an unhealthy need for HOT COFFEE in the mornings. String together a few super early mornings and you’ll find me leaning so heavily on the MOAR COFFEE, STAT!

As in: Set That IV Caffeine Drip To Wide Open, FTLOG.

I can’t (read: won’t) drink just black coffee, and because of self-imposed diet restrictions, I’ve resorted to lacing it with Premier Protein shakes. Because, of course. All my breakfasts are pre-fab.

Oh, what I would give for a giant Dirty Chai Tea from Caribou Coffee or Starbucks. And a colossal-sized bag of Cheetos.


Playlist:
Echosmith’s Talking Dreams
Beach House’s Depression Cherry

(I know. Still. But I’m really trying to figure out if I like this stuff or if it just lives in the background. Either way…)

Cheat day

More Like Cheat Weekend:
The cousin managed to get married, despite the rain and wind and outdoor setting. Mud. Lots and lots of mud. And a very steep hill. And women in high heels (me, being one of them). And battered umbrellas. But the deed has been done, and I’m so very happy (that it is done).

Friday was the rehearsal dinner, and the weather was quite lovely for that, of course. But the meal was served buffet/picnic style, which means lots and lots of Things I No Longer Eat were taunting me. I stayed away from the chocolate cake frosted with buttercream and Heath candy bar crumbles and stood instead next to the deep fat fryer where perch and walleye fillets were being cooked to a tasty crisp.

Saturday, the diet officially flew out he window. Pulled pork with BBQ sauce. Potato salad. Baked beans. Wedding cake. Vodka Sours. I would have been fine, really, with what little I ate of The Bad For Me Stuff. The drinking part? Wow. I don’t remember the last time I drank that much vodka and remained coherent and conscious. And vertical.

And then we went to the lake on Sunday and Monday for Labor Day, and there was much too much food consumption going on.

All told, I gained back three pounds. Not bad, really. Chad gained back seven.

Gravity:
Did you know that Diamond Dallas Page of professional wrestling fame sells Yoga DVD’s? Did you know that I own several of them? Did you know that I’ve never cussed a blue streak while attempting yoga moves, except when I use those DVD’s? Insane, I know, and it is really a good thing no one is home to see me sweat and hear me curse - and fall down - while trying to be graceful. (Ha!)

Falling down is hugely humbling. I tell myself it is a good thing, get back up, and cuss and swear and sweat some more. Some mornings I wonder if there is a dial for gravity and someone has spun that thing to 11.

New Music:
I recently purchased Depression Cherry by Beach House and Talking Dreams by Echosmith. Not sure how I feel about either, yet, but they are on constant rotation during the day.

Cornbread muffins on the easy

On dieting:

I hate it. I hate it - oh for the love of all things holy - I so very much hate dieting with the white-hot heat of a million suns. I hate counting calories. I hate figuring out how many carbs (and therefore how many teaspoons of sugar) is in the food I want to eat. I hate reading labels and obsessing about what is in a recipe that I’ve used for 30 years.

But what I hate even more than all that is not feeling comfortable in my own skin. Feeling fat. Feeling unhealthy. Feeling…not like myself.

I love the results that come from all that miserable dieting. As of this morning, I’m down 31.5 pounds. And while it is kind of fun to brag about losing that much, I truly find it mortifying that I had it to loose to begin with. I’m not done. I have a long way to go before I can say I accomplished my goals - and really, with dieting, is one ever really done? There is always a Peanut Buster Parfait lurking around the corner just waiting to smack me into a (much welcomed) sugar coma.

The thing about dieting, though, is that, no, you are never done. It isn’t like many other behaviors that attach the word ‘addiction’ to it. For example, you wouldn’t tell a drug addict to shoot up three times a day (with a snort in the afternoon and another in the evening to hold you over ‘till morning). Well, maybe you would. But a recovering drug addict, trying to get and stay clean? I’m guessing no. But that is what we do with people like me with - essentially - an addiction to food.

So I diet. I cut out (or severely limit) sugar. No beer. No chocolate. No Cheetos. (My lands, I miss Cheetos.) I drink water like a crazy person. But I have to eat.

Not a fun party-goer, am I.

Back in a jiffy
 
Jiffy makes a cornbread muffin mix that is so simple and so good: milk, egg, muffin mix, and 15-20 minutes at 400 degrees. And now my house smells positively delicious.

I think I may be getting a sugar high just from the aroma.

Excuse me - I may have to step outside until I have regained control.

Slum-Lords-R-Us
 
The rental property we own in town is currently rented to three college students. That is a very misleading, overly simplified statement. To get that rental property ready for those students to move in to was a Herculean Effort. I have earned my place at the side of Zeus, let me tell you. Washing walls. Painting every flat surface I could throw a paint brush at. Scrubbing floors. Taking apart light fixtures so as to remove 4+years of neglect. Moving appliances. Cleaning carpets. Fixing garage door openers.

Oy.

After I had everything back together, fully functioning, and clean, I wanted to move in there myself because I could only imagine how desperately my own house - you know, the one I actually live in - needs to be overhauled.

Misplaced anger

Club volleyball season is upon us and thus goes the weekends in the spring. Muffin has practice a couple of times during the week, and man-o-live, I really appreciate how much easier my life is now that she has a license to drive and a vehicle with which to do so. Of course, I now get to worry about her eating at Budget Burger before practice instead of going over to her sister’s house or her grandparents house for something to eat that does NOT come from a greasy spoon.

But the weekends. Oy. Driving hither and yon. Spending an entire Sunday watching volleyball match after volleyball match - from 7:30 am to whenever they finish tournament play (after what is probably hours and hours of pool play) - gets long. And exhausting - and I’m not the one playing.

For whatever reason the scheduling gods have graced our team with a weekend off this weekend. I plan to spend Sunday with my feet planted firmly on the kick-out footrest on my recliner.

*****

I finally had it with all the plastic containers clogging up my cupboards and random lids for said containers stuffed into various drawers and cabinets in my kitchen. Muffin and I went through them all, pitched the ones that were cracked or missing lids or were just random Cool Whip containers (Why? Why do I keep such things? AH AXE YE?), sorted all of the containers and lids purloined from my mother-in-law (and gave them all back to her). Then I ordered Pyrex storage containers complete with matching lids.

No. More. Random. Plastic.

 It felt awesome to do that - to purge and then to replace with something of value and function. I like finding containers for leftovers now. Unbelievable, I know.

Next is the spice cabinet. Maybe tomorrow or Friday.

Hey - I never claimed to be an overachiever. At least, not that I recall.

*****

The oldest child is going to walk the stage for college graduation in May. Granted, she officially finished her degree in December of ’14, but you gotta know that walking the stage is the only way to commemorate such an accomplishment. That and a party. So we sat down with some fancy-ish stationery and invited a few family members and some friends over to her house in town to celebrate.

My mom is ordering cake. I’ll throw some hors d’oeuvres together and call it a win.

I’m looking forward to it. Very little fuss. Even less muss. The best kind of party to throw.

Funny to think that she will have graduated twice before Muffin manages it once. Such is the sitch when siblings are spaced that far apart.

*****

This morning, I tried on a bunch of clothes in my closet. Specifically, dresses and skirts that have not seen the light of day for about six or seven years. Some fit. Some didn’t. Some really didn’t. In fact, I gave myself that claustrophobic my-god-I’m-going-to-have-to-rip-this-off-my-body panic feeling more than once, trying to pull a wow-that-is-way-too-tight-sheath dress back over my head.

I have more work to do. Not that one can tell I’ve done any work at all. So I walk. And I yoga. And I drink water (and occasionally sneak in a Diet Coke, because come on). And I grill instead of fry. Bake instead of … I dunno.

I’m not seeing or even feeling any improvement at all. Unless you consider my achy, tired, and crabby self an improvement over my previously uncomfortable, exhausted, and ornery self.

*****

Playlist: paused