This is one of the most defended websites in the U. S. of A. There is not one single word about the Sandy Hook horror, and you can't contact them with just any comment, either. If your remarks don't fall within their recognition software, you are given a message saying that you need to send a valid message.
Well I guess so! My message was valid as hell. It said that it was incredible that there was not a single word on their homepage in the news section about Sandy Hook (the "news" resembled Fox "news"--only what concerns them and let's try real hard to ignore the rest), and that somebody in a Florida swamp turned over a rock, and there they were....
Considering the almost Alzheimeric memory span we have for the news, a month from now we will have forgotten about Sandy Hook and gone back to our day to day activities. Once again, the gun store sales are at all-time highs because all the people who live in mortal terror of Arabs or Federal agents stealing their freedoms right out from under their beds are stocking up, because even some of the most noteworthy troglodites are talking assault weapon control. Oh, that it were so.
That intellectual NRA giant, Charlton Heston, said his right to arm himself to the teeth would be ripped only from his cold, dead hand--to huge applause. Well, folks, his hand is good and cold and dead.
lunes, 17 de diciembre de 2012
sábado, 15 de diciembre de 2012
Guns
Sandy Hook, Connecticutt. Another name to add to the list of horrors. Oddly enough, according to those who have studied the matter, these events tend to take place in small towns or rural environments, not because there is something inherently amiss in these places, but because the opportunity to be different and to find a group of people who share your oddness is remote. Who knows why the shooter developed such a profound mental illness; since he killed members of his family, we will probably never know for sure.
What is clear, however, is that the specious, self-serving arguments of anti-gun-control people carry part of the responsibility. People who hunt have hunting rifles; people who have a gun at home for self-protection don't usually choose assault weapons unless they are part of the crazies who think the government is going to invade their space and snatch up their precious freedoms. I come from a military family, and although we had rifles at home, you never really saw them or cared where they were. They were used for hunting.
All this bullshit about people killing people, not guns, is just that--bovine excrement. You don't read about a disturbed kid or man entering a shopping mall and killing 30 people with a dagger. Ex-mayor Mario Cuomo, who apparently is an idiot, stated that if someone had had a gun in the movie theater, that person would have shot and killed the shooter who cut loose during the showing of the latest Batman movie. Oh, what an intelligent solution, what depth of analysis, what almost mythical stupidity. Do you want to go to the movies knowing that several people there have entered the theater armed, perhaps with assault weapons?
But there is no penetrating the concrete skulls of the people who don't want any kind of weapons banned, because they refuse to read studies, view statistics, understand the complexities of crime control and rates, or compromise. Their motives are not constitutional, they are psychological. They are the gun equivalents of screwball religious sects and other groups motivated by something on the boil in the depths of their brains.
It must really be miserable to live a life so invaded by fear or the need to make yourself big and important that you need assault weapons, bazookas, hand grenades.
Not to mention that sociopath in Arizona who bought weapons for the drug cartels in Mexico and shipped them here! He claims he is so, so sorry, wished he hadn't done it, but that is what any sociopath says once he gets caught. Well, he should have thought of all this before he did it, not after the fact. He has blood on his hands.
What is clear, however, is that the specious, self-serving arguments of anti-gun-control people carry part of the responsibility. People who hunt have hunting rifles; people who have a gun at home for self-protection don't usually choose assault weapons unless they are part of the crazies who think the government is going to invade their space and snatch up their precious freedoms. I come from a military family, and although we had rifles at home, you never really saw them or cared where they were. They were used for hunting.
All this bullshit about people killing people, not guns, is just that--bovine excrement. You don't read about a disturbed kid or man entering a shopping mall and killing 30 people with a dagger. Ex-mayor Mario Cuomo, who apparently is an idiot, stated that if someone had had a gun in the movie theater, that person would have shot and killed the shooter who cut loose during the showing of the latest Batman movie. Oh, what an intelligent solution, what depth of analysis, what almost mythical stupidity. Do you want to go to the movies knowing that several people there have entered the theater armed, perhaps with assault weapons?
But there is no penetrating the concrete skulls of the people who don't want any kind of weapons banned, because they refuse to read studies, view statistics, understand the complexities of crime control and rates, or compromise. Their motives are not constitutional, they are psychological. They are the gun equivalents of screwball religious sects and other groups motivated by something on the boil in the depths of their brains.
It must really be miserable to live a life so invaded by fear or the need to make yourself big and important that you need assault weapons, bazookas, hand grenades.
Not to mention that sociopath in Arizona who bought weapons for the drug cartels in Mexico and shipped them here! He claims he is so, so sorry, wished he hadn't done it, but that is what any sociopath says once he gets caught. Well, he should have thought of all this before he did it, not after the fact. He has blood on his hands.
lunes, 10 de diciembre de 2012
Dog people
There are dog people, and then there are the rest. My brother, my son-in-law, and my daughter are dog people. We can easily be distinguished from the rest of the world by our homes, and I don't mean the rousing greeting offered by our hairy pals.
Our houses are different. From the minute you step into my house via the front door, you notice two dog beds placed around the entrance, one of which is in a huge dog crate--Lusso and TootSweet vie for crate space, since TootSweet loves a crate. It doesn't matter to me that these are the first things people notice. The beds are only moved if we are having some kind of major event with a cast of thousands, such as Beto's birthday party, mainly to protect the dogs, not the guests.
Sometimes our houses smell, too, although not often--usually only when a wet dog has come in from outdoors.
In the kitchen, under the bar/countertop, two sets of raised bowls for food and water and two bins for dogfood grace the area. As a dog person, I don't find anything repulsive in sharing my kitchen with my four-legged friends. The bowls and the bins are kept clean (no mean feat with a Spinone) and the dogs like to eat breakfast when we are having coffee.
And of course, the permanent presence of four-footed friends who are thrilled to see you.
I have come to understand how some people in my family, whose names will forever remain unmentioned because I love them in spite of their failings, have difficulty dealing with a Spinone puppy that drools occasionally; I can understand that it isn't the greatest experience to get soaked even if the puppy is looking at you with adoration. But it irritates me anyway. I am willing to crate the puppy under these circumstances (although I am going to use a trainer to see if I can get him to calm down when visitors come and obey in spite of being mindlessly ecstatic), but it irritates me. I was a dog in a former life (some would say I still am...) and somehow can't imagine life in an empty house--empty, as in occupied solely by humans.
Dog people are not elegant. Those pictures you may have seen showing a highly fashionable lovely young woman walking down a Paris street with a show-clipped, perfectly groomed poodle at the end of a leash are a sham. No one like that would ever go on poop patrol in the back yard, recovering Tootsie Rolls with two plastic bags, one for your hand and the other as a receptacle. Dog people have dirty back seats in their vehicles, we wear jeans and grungy hats, and our clothes are often covered with dog hair seconds after putting them on. Only a dog person, in fact, would take a shower with her dog in order to relieve his itching skin.
And it isn't thinking a dog is a person that is so entrancing; that is just neurosis and people like that need professional help or perhaps they should just get a life. It is sharing one's days with a different species that is so much fun, a species that retains the ability to have fun and to play, to feel, to communicate.
Maybe it isn't true that there are dog people and then the others; there are animal people and the others. Even though my very dearest and most beloved friend is one of those "others", I don't understand her when it comes to animals. Doubtless she feels the same way about me when she sees me dash around the back yard with Lusso and TootSweet, when she sees them eat in my kitchen or sleep inside my house. Hey, my immune system can take it! So can yours, that isn't really the problem or the difference.
If I am to be totally honest, I think non-animal people have a part of their souls missing. But then, that's just my opinion.
Our houses are different. From the minute you step into my house via the front door, you notice two dog beds placed around the entrance, one of which is in a huge dog crate--Lusso and TootSweet vie for crate space, since TootSweet loves a crate. It doesn't matter to me that these are the first things people notice. The beds are only moved if we are having some kind of major event with a cast of thousands, such as Beto's birthday party, mainly to protect the dogs, not the guests.
Sometimes our houses smell, too, although not often--usually only when a wet dog has come in from outdoors.
In the kitchen, under the bar/countertop, two sets of raised bowls for food and water and two bins for dogfood grace the area. As a dog person, I don't find anything repulsive in sharing my kitchen with my four-legged friends. The bowls and the bins are kept clean (no mean feat with a Spinone) and the dogs like to eat breakfast when we are having coffee.
And of course, the permanent presence of four-footed friends who are thrilled to see you.
I have come to understand how some people in my family, whose names will forever remain unmentioned because I love them in spite of their failings, have difficulty dealing with a Spinone puppy that drools occasionally; I can understand that it isn't the greatest experience to get soaked even if the puppy is looking at you with adoration. But it irritates me anyway. I am willing to crate the puppy under these circumstances (although I am going to use a trainer to see if I can get him to calm down when visitors come and obey in spite of being mindlessly ecstatic), but it irritates me. I was a dog in a former life (some would say I still am...) and somehow can't imagine life in an empty house--empty, as in occupied solely by humans.
Dog people are not elegant. Those pictures you may have seen showing a highly fashionable lovely young woman walking down a Paris street with a show-clipped, perfectly groomed poodle at the end of a leash are a sham. No one like that would ever go on poop patrol in the back yard, recovering Tootsie Rolls with two plastic bags, one for your hand and the other as a receptacle. Dog people have dirty back seats in their vehicles, we wear jeans and grungy hats, and our clothes are often covered with dog hair seconds after putting them on. Only a dog person, in fact, would take a shower with her dog in order to relieve his itching skin.
And it isn't thinking a dog is a person that is so entrancing; that is just neurosis and people like that need professional help or perhaps they should just get a life. It is sharing one's days with a different species that is so much fun, a species that retains the ability to have fun and to play, to feel, to communicate.
Maybe it isn't true that there are dog people and then the others; there are animal people and the others. Even though my very dearest and most beloved friend is one of those "others", I don't understand her when it comes to animals. Doubtless she feels the same way about me when she sees me dash around the back yard with Lusso and TootSweet, when she sees them eat in my kitchen or sleep inside my house. Hey, my immune system can take it! So can yours, that isn't really the problem or the difference.
If I am to be totally honest, I think non-animal people have a part of their souls missing. But then, that's just my opinion.
Kind of a red-letter day...
After weeks and weeks of a tiredness seeped into the bone, and after months of being sick to the point of vomiting at the idea of going back yet again to see my rheumatologist (supposedly every three months, but I hadn't seen him in almost a year), I went. Told him I got up in the morning wishing it was night and time to go back to bed, so he gave me a muscle relaxant that has enabled me to sleep and not feel like the aftermath of some kind of train wreck when I get up.
The upshot is that I can now take both dogs out most mornings for a nice 5k walk/trot (I walk, they trot), and we manage to trot, all of us, about two kilometers.
Lusso is growing up to be the sweetest dog on the face of the earth, although not everyone enjoys his worshipful, pink-nosed, drooling attention. He doesn't drool all the time, but his beard soaks up water when he drinks and spreads it around the floor, your lap, legs, and shoes.
The only problem we have with him is his allergy to flea bites. Systemic flea treatment for both dogs means fleas don't reproduce in the house, but it can't keep fleas off the dog if they are picked up from the birds, 'possums, and stray cats that enter the yard.
It has been an incredible amount of work; Lusso needs to be bathed with a soothing shampoo that reduces his need to scratch. Otherwise he might have to have cortisone, which has potentially severe side effects over time. So I opt for the bath deal. Lusso finally will get into the tub I have in the laundry room with a modicum of cooperation, but once in, he is resigned. I have a telephone-type shower head that makes things easier, but this weekend we were at the quinta, which has no tub of any kind at all, not even a tin washtub. The dogs adore the quinta because they can run and run forever, find fascinating smells, hunt to their hearts' content--and Lusso gets dirtier than any dog I have ever seen or heard of.
Not only that, after his bath and before he hits the hunting trail at the quinta, he has to be sprinkled with flea powder in an effort to keep fleas off him, or sprayed with cedar oil which acts as a repellent.
When we were ready to think about coming back to town, Lusso was so dirty that it was unthinkable getting him into the car. So, in a definite first for me, I took a shower with my dog. Lusso is a water retriever, and he doesn't hate the water even though I have yet to get him into the swimming pool, so the shower was a success and I managed to get him thoroughly clean with his special shampoo. Not only that, it was SO much easier getting him into the shower than over the edge of the laundry room tub. Nevertheless, it isn't something I plan to do routinely. There is something slightly disconcerting about standing naked under the shower with a wet dog watching you. Makes you feel kinda fat, flabby, drooping, and very out of shape...
The upshot is that I can now take both dogs out most mornings for a nice 5k walk/trot (I walk, they trot), and we manage to trot, all of us, about two kilometers.
Lusso is growing up to be the sweetest dog on the face of the earth, although not everyone enjoys his worshipful, pink-nosed, drooling attention. He doesn't drool all the time, but his beard soaks up water when he drinks and spreads it around the floor, your lap, legs, and shoes.
The only problem we have with him is his allergy to flea bites. Systemic flea treatment for both dogs means fleas don't reproduce in the house, but it can't keep fleas off the dog if they are picked up from the birds, 'possums, and stray cats that enter the yard.
It has been an incredible amount of work; Lusso needs to be bathed with a soothing shampoo that reduces his need to scratch. Otherwise he might have to have cortisone, which has potentially severe side effects over time. So I opt for the bath deal. Lusso finally will get into the tub I have in the laundry room with a modicum of cooperation, but once in, he is resigned. I have a telephone-type shower head that makes things easier, but this weekend we were at the quinta, which has no tub of any kind at all, not even a tin washtub. The dogs adore the quinta because they can run and run forever, find fascinating smells, hunt to their hearts' content--and Lusso gets dirtier than any dog I have ever seen or heard of.
Not only that, after his bath and before he hits the hunting trail at the quinta, he has to be sprinkled with flea powder in an effort to keep fleas off him, or sprayed with cedar oil which acts as a repellent.
When we were ready to think about coming back to town, Lusso was so dirty that it was unthinkable getting him into the car. So, in a definite first for me, I took a shower with my dog. Lusso is a water retriever, and he doesn't hate the water even though I have yet to get him into the swimming pool, so the shower was a success and I managed to get him thoroughly clean with his special shampoo. Not only that, it was SO much easier getting him into the shower than over the edge of the laundry room tub. Nevertheless, it isn't something I plan to do routinely. There is something slightly disconcerting about standing naked under the shower with a wet dog watching you. Makes you feel kinda fat, flabby, drooping, and very out of shape...
sábado, 29 de septiembre de 2012
The long, long road back to 5K
The last four months or so have been terribly stressful. My mom's fading health, the rollercoaster ride of her being well enough to go the beauty shop one day, and unable to get out of bed the next, plus the necessity of picking up a puppy and driving him back to Monterrey, and finally Mom's death on the very day I was driving home with Karina and the puppy in tow, all have combined to set my running perhaps not to square one, but certainly square two. All my conditioning has been lost, and somehow I am going to have to get my fat derriere out there and begin regaining all the lost ground.
It may not be as difficult now that the summer is gently leaving us, since I can't run in the heat--period. And I am also going to have to let the dogs run and play in the back yard until my condition improves, because I can't jog with both of them in the security that all of a sudden Lusso may not jig when I jog and trip me up big-time. He seems to do fine, and TootSweet is superb, but I need to concentrate on my own physical condition right now.
If it rains today, I am going out to trot in it. Otherwise...well, it may be too hot. We'll see.
It may not be as difficult now that the summer is gently leaving us, since I can't run in the heat--period. And I am also going to have to let the dogs run and play in the back yard until my condition improves, because I can't jog with both of them in the security that all of a sudden Lusso may not jig when I jog and trip me up big-time. He seems to do fine, and TootSweet is superb, but I need to concentrate on my own physical condition right now.
If it rains today, I am going out to trot in it. Otherwise...well, it may be too hot. We'll see.
jueves, 27 de septiembre de 2012
Dog Tails
Lusso has been here now since August 1, and there is hope for both him and me. He gains over two pounds a week, and I am beginning to wonder what I have gotten myself in for when it comes to size, but in the civilization area, he is doing great.
Every morning he and TootSweet either go for a long walk/trot with me, or they play in the back yard. Lusso has learned all the commands by watching what TootSweet does when I say "stop", "heel", or "sit". The most fun for me is to watch them in the yard: They chase each other, try to head each other off at the pass, steal dog toys from one another, and basically expend energy that may not be surprising for a six-month-old puppy, but an 11 year-old poodle?? They charge at each other full speed, Lusso galumping ahead on his long adolescent legs with their none-too-reliable braking system, TootSweet with a lightning stride he doesn't even try to control when he meets up with Lusso--he just jumps over the puppy, avoiding a collision.
People are finally beginning to wonder what kind of dog Lusso is when we go for walks. Everyone initially oohs and ahhs over TootSweet with his elegant prancing gait and nifty haircut, but now that Lusso is getting so big, they notice his marvelous eyes and magnificent pink nose. There is nothing elegant about Lusso's trot, however. He kind of swings along, looking like a teenager who isn't in complete command of his feet.
TootSweet is a unique dog, smarter than many people I know, especially politicians, but he has a certain aloofness too. He is basically a one or two-man dog, but Lusso never saw a stranger and thinks his owners represent the culmination of human evolution. He doesn't sit still tolerating being brushed; he collapses into your lap with a groan of pleasure, putting his head on your leg. If anyone comes to the door, he dashes to pick up a dog toy and hotfoots it to the door, making a sound that can be mistaken for growling but in reality is a kind of excited greeting. If in a bind there is no dog toy close by, he might grab one of my sandals to present to the arriving guest, or even one of my doormice--woolen mice filled with heavy pebbles and designed to hold the door open on windy days. The doormice are a big no-no because if he ever gets one open, it will take hours to sweep up its innards.
TootSweet, on the other hand, will dash to check out who is ringing the doorbell, and if it is someone known, he will do a few excited turns and then head off to whatever he was doing earlier. He will bark, too, and so far Lusso hasn't done that. Thank God! They both have huge barks, and if they start off together, it will trigger one of my migraines.
Soon as I figure out how my iPhone works, I'll post a picture or two.
Every morning he and TootSweet either go for a long walk/trot with me, or they play in the back yard. Lusso has learned all the commands by watching what TootSweet does when I say "stop", "heel", or "sit". The most fun for me is to watch them in the yard: They chase each other, try to head each other off at the pass, steal dog toys from one another, and basically expend energy that may not be surprising for a six-month-old puppy, but an 11 year-old poodle?? They charge at each other full speed, Lusso galumping ahead on his long adolescent legs with their none-too-reliable braking system, TootSweet with a lightning stride he doesn't even try to control when he meets up with Lusso--he just jumps over the puppy, avoiding a collision.
People are finally beginning to wonder what kind of dog Lusso is when we go for walks. Everyone initially oohs and ahhs over TootSweet with his elegant prancing gait and nifty haircut, but now that Lusso is getting so big, they notice his marvelous eyes and magnificent pink nose. There is nothing elegant about Lusso's trot, however. He kind of swings along, looking like a teenager who isn't in complete command of his feet.
TootSweet is a unique dog, smarter than many people I know, especially politicians, but he has a certain aloofness too. He is basically a one or two-man dog, but Lusso never saw a stranger and thinks his owners represent the culmination of human evolution. He doesn't sit still tolerating being brushed; he collapses into your lap with a groan of pleasure, putting his head on your leg. If anyone comes to the door, he dashes to pick up a dog toy and hotfoots it to the door, making a sound that can be mistaken for growling but in reality is a kind of excited greeting. If in a bind there is no dog toy close by, he might grab one of my sandals to present to the arriving guest, or even one of my doormice--woolen mice filled with heavy pebbles and designed to hold the door open on windy days. The doormice are a big no-no because if he ever gets one open, it will take hours to sweep up its innards.
TootSweet, on the other hand, will dash to check out who is ringing the doorbell, and if it is someone known, he will do a few excited turns and then head off to whatever he was doing earlier. He will bark, too, and so far Lusso hasn't done that. Thank God! They both have huge barks, and if they start off together, it will trigger one of my migraines.
Soon as I figure out how my iPhone works, I'll post a picture or two.
miércoles, 5 de septiembre de 2012
Puppyhood
Well, Mom would have had a good, long laugh over Lusso, the new puppy, and our trials and tribulations with him.
It has been a long time since I had a puppy--eleven years, in fact. And the one I had was a standard poodle, so easy to train that I really got spoiled.
Lusso is smart and sweet, filled with energy and longing to chew on the nearest item; it has been an uphill task to get him to distinguish between approved chew items and the rest. He has caught on, but once in a while he can't resist testing me, just to make sure I am going to stick to my guns.
All in all, he has been great. He is not very destructive, he stays in his lane when on the leash and walking with TootSweet, and TootSweet is teaching him the commands too. Lusso watches the Toots to see what is expected of him.
Lusso is a Spinone Italiano, a hunting dog--pointer/retriever, and a strong swimmer. However, so far Lusso has only gotten his feet wet in the shallow area of the pool, the steps. I keep a large clay bowl of water in the yard for the dogs, since they spend quite a while running, playing, and horsing around. Lusso has stuck his entire head into the water, blowing bubbles under the surface with his pink nose. The desire to be in the water is there, it just needs to be developed.
Yesterday, having made a momumental effort to get Lusso to try the steps, to my amazement it was TootSweet who jumped in and had to be rescued by me--he had never before been in water over his head, and I had to grab him and point him toward the steps. Ah, the joys of a wet poodle! They are only matched by the joys of a Spinone who gets into the waterfall in the backyard and then rolls in the nearest dirt.
It may be months before I know what color Lusso really is. I have an old dishtowel I keep handy in order to clean his face and feet, since half the time he wouldn't be able to enter the house in his usual condition after being outdoors. This is worse than little kids. Last night we went out to dinner with friends, and the woman mentioned that she is out of the house almost all morning; I told her I almost never left the house except to go to the store and the vet, but I wasn't about to tell her most of my morning was spent managing dogs.
And it doesn't matter, either. You've heard that old saw: "The more I get to know people, the more I love my dog."
It has been a long time since I had a puppy--eleven years, in fact. And the one I had was a standard poodle, so easy to train that I really got spoiled.
Lusso is smart and sweet, filled with energy and longing to chew on the nearest item; it has been an uphill task to get him to distinguish between approved chew items and the rest. He has caught on, but once in a while he can't resist testing me, just to make sure I am going to stick to my guns.
All in all, he has been great. He is not very destructive, he stays in his lane when on the leash and walking with TootSweet, and TootSweet is teaching him the commands too. Lusso watches the Toots to see what is expected of him.
Lusso is a Spinone Italiano, a hunting dog--pointer/retriever, and a strong swimmer. However, so far Lusso has only gotten his feet wet in the shallow area of the pool, the steps. I keep a large clay bowl of water in the yard for the dogs, since they spend quite a while running, playing, and horsing around. Lusso has stuck his entire head into the water, blowing bubbles under the surface with his pink nose. The desire to be in the water is there, it just needs to be developed.
Yesterday, having made a momumental effort to get Lusso to try the steps, to my amazement it was TootSweet who jumped in and had to be rescued by me--he had never before been in water over his head, and I had to grab him and point him toward the steps. Ah, the joys of a wet poodle! They are only matched by the joys of a Spinone who gets into the waterfall in the backyard and then rolls in the nearest dirt.
It may be months before I know what color Lusso really is. I have an old dishtowel I keep handy in order to clean his face and feet, since half the time he wouldn't be able to enter the house in his usual condition after being outdoors. This is worse than little kids. Last night we went out to dinner with friends, and the woman mentioned that she is out of the house almost all morning; I told her I almost never left the house except to go to the store and the vet, but I wasn't about to tell her most of my morning was spent managing dogs.
And it doesn't matter, either. You've heard that old saw: "The more I get to know people, the more I love my dog."
miércoles, 22 de agosto de 2012
Devil in the Details
Today I thought, "I have to write Mom about that recipe...", and "I want to write Mom about the new puppy's first bath..."
The devil really is in the details, the small, reliable details that make up days and lives, more important than one knows until one of the links is gone. Mom was always interested in the funny, quirky details of each day--the recipe that was great or that flopped hugely, the antics of two dogs climbing over the waterfall in the back yard and then rolling in the dirt, what her great-grandchildren were doing, all the emails with pictures. She wanted to know everything. I wish she still could.
The devil really is in the details, the small, reliable details that make up days and lives, more important than one knows until one of the links is gone. Mom was always interested in the funny, quirky details of each day--the recipe that was great or that flopped hugely, the antics of two dogs climbing over the waterfall in the back yard and then rolling in the dirt, what her great-grandchildren were doing, all the emails with pictures. She wanted to know everything. I wish she still could.
martes, 7 de agosto de 2012
Mom
On August 1, my mother died.
My brother was with her at the last. When he texted me that she was gone, I was driving with my daughter from Austin to Monterrey with a new puppy. I had tried to put off picking up the dog as long as possible because it was evident that Mom's health was failing fast, but the breeder's husband had just been diagnosed with lymph gland cancer and she needed to clear the decks for her own particular nightmare.
Mom was ready to die. She was spared pain, but she was tired, breathing was hard, and life was a burden that no longer held any satisfaction or pleasure. Her funeral was wonderful--Elizabeth, the minister, gave a magnificent eulogy, just as she had done for my father. She is a dear and beloved friend whose words came from the heart.
It's different when the person who dies does so at the end of a long life. There is as much celebration as loss--anecdotes, memories, funny incidents, accomplishments, and in the case of Mom, no regrets. She wasn't perfect, but she did the best she could, and it was a lot. Some of the choices she made have had consequences we are unable to appreciate, perhaps, but I think she made the right ones.
For some reason, funerals in our family seem to be raucous affairs. The funeral home that took care of Mom and Dad is a family-owned business and the owners have known my mother's family almost since the founding of the city. They have buried generations of our relatives. I guess they are used to the way we handle grief--or maybe I should say, life. A sense of humor is the hallmark of most of us. You can't get through life very well without it, and believe me, we've needed it.
Even Elizabeth, the minister, was cackling--when she wasn't the instigator! My only first cousins came, a childhood partner in crime of mine (that's you, Cary!), and others who knew Mom from these last years. Even the funeral home personnel couldn't resist grinning at some of the silliness that went on: Mom's tendency to order everyone around so that things would come out well included all the information we would need to expedite things after her death, she had picked out her casket in 1995 (!!), she had given me everything she especially wanted me to have, and to top it off, when the nurse came in to see how she was doing and it was evident Mom was in her last moments, she ordered the nurse "Do not resuscitate!" Mom had a horror of not being allowed to die because she was ready to do so.
Her partner Hutch, very hard of hearing, was listening to Elizabeth greet him and say that she would be visiting him. He told her that "he couldn't hear that fast", typical of his sense of humor.
My brother and sister-in-law have shown a generosity of spirit and a sincerity of the truest Christian values that should be a lesson to others, especially to those who espouse Christian values but don't live them. "For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead." James 2:26.
Their works include transfering my mother and her partner to assisted living and experiencing the uproar and stress of both of them at having, suddenly, to leave their belongings behind, including many of their clothes, in order to move into a modified hospital room at the senior community where they lived. Mom and her partner had barely settled in when she died.
Their good works also include not just making the funeral arrangements but also advising many people and organizations that she had died; and especially the care and affection they have lavished on Mom's partner, who is crushed by her death and is suffering from Alzheimer's disease. This wonderful man had been with her for years and paid for their stay in the senior community, and now he is alone, far from relatives (which in some cases, is just as well). He has a social life where he lives, but my brother says he finds him sitting alone staring into space, overcome surely by a grief that no one can lighten.
Each of us will miss Mom in our own ways. I notice I no longer open my email frequently. She won't be there any more. I almost decided to stop this blog: she was my follower every time I wrote and she got news about family, dogs, adventures, complaints, everything that is here. At the moment, I don't know if I will write or not, but it was necessary to say goodbye to Mom here.
We love you, Mom. We will miss your terribly.
My brother was with her at the last. When he texted me that she was gone, I was driving with my daughter from Austin to Monterrey with a new puppy. I had tried to put off picking up the dog as long as possible because it was evident that Mom's health was failing fast, but the breeder's husband had just been diagnosed with lymph gland cancer and she needed to clear the decks for her own particular nightmare.
Mom was ready to die. She was spared pain, but she was tired, breathing was hard, and life was a burden that no longer held any satisfaction or pleasure. Her funeral was wonderful--Elizabeth, the minister, gave a magnificent eulogy, just as she had done for my father. She is a dear and beloved friend whose words came from the heart.
It's different when the person who dies does so at the end of a long life. There is as much celebration as loss--anecdotes, memories, funny incidents, accomplishments, and in the case of Mom, no regrets. She wasn't perfect, but she did the best she could, and it was a lot. Some of the choices she made have had consequences we are unable to appreciate, perhaps, but I think she made the right ones.
For some reason, funerals in our family seem to be raucous affairs. The funeral home that took care of Mom and Dad is a family-owned business and the owners have known my mother's family almost since the founding of the city. They have buried generations of our relatives. I guess they are used to the way we handle grief--or maybe I should say, life. A sense of humor is the hallmark of most of us. You can't get through life very well without it, and believe me, we've needed it.
Even Elizabeth, the minister, was cackling--when she wasn't the instigator! My only first cousins came, a childhood partner in crime of mine (that's you, Cary!), and others who knew Mom from these last years. Even the funeral home personnel couldn't resist grinning at some of the silliness that went on: Mom's tendency to order everyone around so that things would come out well included all the information we would need to expedite things after her death, she had picked out her casket in 1995 (!!), she had given me everything she especially wanted me to have, and to top it off, when the nurse came in to see how she was doing and it was evident Mom was in her last moments, she ordered the nurse "Do not resuscitate!" Mom had a horror of not being allowed to die because she was ready to do so.
Her partner Hutch, very hard of hearing, was listening to Elizabeth greet him and say that she would be visiting him. He told her that "he couldn't hear that fast", typical of his sense of humor.
My brother and sister-in-law have shown a generosity of spirit and a sincerity of the truest Christian values that should be a lesson to others, especially to those who espouse Christian values but don't live them. "For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead." James 2:26.
Their works include transfering my mother and her partner to assisted living and experiencing the uproar and stress of both of them at having, suddenly, to leave their belongings behind, including many of their clothes, in order to move into a modified hospital room at the senior community where they lived. Mom and her partner had barely settled in when she died.
Their good works also include not just making the funeral arrangements but also advising many people and organizations that she had died; and especially the care and affection they have lavished on Mom's partner, who is crushed by her death and is suffering from Alzheimer's disease. This wonderful man had been with her for years and paid for their stay in the senior community, and now he is alone, far from relatives (which in some cases, is just as well). He has a social life where he lives, but my brother says he finds him sitting alone staring into space, overcome surely by a grief that no one can lighten.
Each of us will miss Mom in our own ways. I notice I no longer open my email frequently. She won't be there any more. I almost decided to stop this blog: she was my follower every time I wrote and she got news about family, dogs, adventures, complaints, everything that is here. At the moment, I don't know if I will write or not, but it was necessary to say goodbye to Mom here.
We love you, Mom. We will miss your terribly.
jueves, 19 de julio de 2012
Not your mother's mac and cheese...
Mind you, there is nothing wrong with your mom's mac and cheese. But here is a variation that is dangerously delicious: Adjust recipe for number of people. I have no amounts here, that is how I cook when the recipe is my own. Sorry. I make enough for around three people.
Macaroni, ziti, or some other short pasta
One chile poblano
Cream
Chicken consomé powder or cube
Manchego, Chihuahua or Monterrey Jack cheese
Cook the pasta and drain well. Pour into a baking dish.
Prepare the chile: if you live in an area where you can find frozen chile poblano, go for it. They are already charred and ready to use. If you have to buy a fresh chile poblano, notice the stem end. If the stem is sunk into the chile with a big indentation around it, avoid this chile because it will be hot. Hunt for a chile with the stem end minus the indentation.
Char the chile over a direct flame until the skin is blackened and splitting. Put the chile into a plastic bag in order to sweat it, ten to fifteen minutes. Strip off the skin as well as you can, cut off the stem end, and remove the seeds and veins. Be careful not to touch your face; you can use rubber gloves or you can oil your hands in order to avoid the chile's heat. Poblanos are not very powerful but they are uncomfortable when rubbed into your eyes!
If using a frozen poblano, just thaw out, remove the stem end, seeds, and veins.
Put the chile into the blender with cream and chicken consomé powder or a crumbled cube; I use half a cube for a three-serving amount. Add the cream and chile mixture to the macaroni and stir well. Cover the macaroni with grated cheese and pop into the oven until the cheese is melted and beginning to brown.
If the chile poblano makes your eyes burn or makes you cough as you remove the seeds and veins, it may be too hot unless you really enjoy heat. It can be toned down by the salt in the dish, or by letting it soak a while in salty water. Dry and proceed to blend. If you pay attention to the shape of the chile and the stem end, you should be okay.
Macaroni, ziti, or some other short pasta
One chile poblano
Cream
Chicken consomé powder or cube
Manchego, Chihuahua or Monterrey Jack cheese
Cook the pasta and drain well. Pour into a baking dish.
Prepare the chile: if you live in an area where you can find frozen chile poblano, go for it. They are already charred and ready to use. If you have to buy a fresh chile poblano, notice the stem end. If the stem is sunk into the chile with a big indentation around it, avoid this chile because it will be hot. Hunt for a chile with the stem end minus the indentation.
Char the chile over a direct flame until the skin is blackened and splitting. Put the chile into a plastic bag in order to sweat it, ten to fifteen minutes. Strip off the skin as well as you can, cut off the stem end, and remove the seeds and veins. Be careful not to touch your face; you can use rubber gloves or you can oil your hands in order to avoid the chile's heat. Poblanos are not very powerful but they are uncomfortable when rubbed into your eyes!
If using a frozen poblano, just thaw out, remove the stem end, seeds, and veins.
Put the chile into the blender with cream and chicken consomé powder or a crumbled cube; I use half a cube for a three-serving amount. Add the cream and chile mixture to the macaroni and stir well. Cover the macaroni with grated cheese and pop into the oven until the cheese is melted and beginning to brown.
If the chile poblano makes your eyes burn or makes you cough as you remove the seeds and veins, it may be too hot unless you really enjoy heat. It can be toned down by the salt in the dish, or by letting it soak a while in salty water. Dry and proceed to blend. If you pay attention to the shape of the chile and the stem end, you should be okay.
More odds and ends...
On this month's reading list, "The Future of Freedom: Illiberal Democracy" is a must for anyone who would like a succinct statement of how democracy works--or doesn't work that well--in the aftermath of laws permitting more democracy but inhibiting real freedom. Sounds strange, but it explains beautifully why so many of us think Congress is the biggest collection of rogues, con men, and idiots to come down the tubes--and that holds on my side of the border as well, although for different reasons.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the husband is on the mend, mother on the mend, dog and horse in the hands of vets, and I am waiting for everyone to get shipshape so that I can take my turn being hospitalized or sick!
My park companion, TootSweet, has an eye infection that may actually be an allergy; although I don't know how it is possible for something two blocks away to cause an allergy in my dog when whatever it is doesn't affect him in his own back yard, there is always that possibility. At the moment the vets are trying a change in antibiotic, although they are beginning to suspect the allergy. The next step is either a biopsy of eyelid tissue, or a few days away from the park to see if that helps. Obviously, the Toots will not go to the park for a while if the change in antibiotic doesn't do the trick.
Gitano, on the other hand, has developed a kind of blister over his backbone, almost over the haunches, which seems to be a sequelae of his former owner's use of a big, heavy, stiff saddle that was poorly fitted to the horse. It reminds me of the Animal Planet series on animal intelligence: every kind of animal has unplumbed depths of perception and smarts that we are just beginning to understand, but I notice that people aren't included on the show. If only my horse's former owner could be one of the test subjects! With luck, he might rank up there with the invertebrates.
People are incredibly cruel to animals, and I am sure that Nature is going to wreak some kind of horrendous vengeance. Maybe that will happen when we overfish the seas into emptiness, or eliminate the habitats of so many species, or when the rain forests no longer exist and our sources of medicines have dried up along with them. It seems odd to me that so many people who believe in a benign deity don't take the trouble to care for the Earth. The short term goal always seems to predominate, as if we were never going to have to pay the piper--you know, a kind of ecological subprime loan.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the husband is on the mend, mother on the mend, dog and horse in the hands of vets, and I am waiting for everyone to get shipshape so that I can take my turn being hospitalized or sick!
My park companion, TootSweet, has an eye infection that may actually be an allergy; although I don't know how it is possible for something two blocks away to cause an allergy in my dog when whatever it is doesn't affect him in his own back yard, there is always that possibility. At the moment the vets are trying a change in antibiotic, although they are beginning to suspect the allergy. The next step is either a biopsy of eyelid tissue, or a few days away from the park to see if that helps. Obviously, the Toots will not go to the park for a while if the change in antibiotic doesn't do the trick.
Gitano, on the other hand, has developed a kind of blister over his backbone, almost over the haunches, which seems to be a sequelae of his former owner's use of a big, heavy, stiff saddle that was poorly fitted to the horse. It reminds me of the Animal Planet series on animal intelligence: every kind of animal has unplumbed depths of perception and smarts that we are just beginning to understand, but I notice that people aren't included on the show. If only my horse's former owner could be one of the test subjects! With luck, he might rank up there with the invertebrates.
People are incredibly cruel to animals, and I am sure that Nature is going to wreak some kind of horrendous vengeance. Maybe that will happen when we overfish the seas into emptiness, or eliminate the habitats of so many species, or when the rain forests no longer exist and our sources of medicines have dried up along with them. It seems odd to me that so many people who believe in a benign deity don't take the trouble to care for the Earth. The short term goal always seems to predominate, as if we were never going to have to pay the piper--you know, a kind of ecological subprime loan.
miércoles, 4 de julio de 2012
In Praise of Technology
All kinds of bad things are happening as a result of technology; to hear people talk, you'd think the devil himself had turned up on the motherboard.
Yes, people are forgetting how to use cursive script because they don't write much any more except by keyboard, but somehow this is like lamenting the loss of washing clothes by hand--it may be an artesanal skill, it may have cultural value, but most of us do so much better with the washing machine. It is truly a shame that people no longer write letters, because letters have been the record of history itself. But in the age of information, your main worry is that you don't show up on YouTube. There are plenty of people writing about history and contemporary politics, and information--good, bad, and mediocre--flood us now.
It makes me think of the European enchantment with Mexican Indians and their culture. Europeans come over to study them, to wear Indian jewelry or clothing, to adopt political stances about conserving the Indian cultures and mores, but those mores are responsible for the abject, hunger-causing poverty of these tribes, for the total subjugation of women in these tribes, and for the almost universal lack of higher education even among the boys. If that is the price to pay for a few Indian dances and some woven baskets, it isn't worth it by a long shot. I have visited these tribes, and know whereof I speak.
Technology has permitted my mom to stay in touch with dozens of friends and family; now that she is seriously ill, it has enabled me to stay in touch with my brother by iPhone. That alone has been worth the trip for me. So let's hear it for technology. It doesn't mean you can't write a letter in longhand or learn how to spell and punctuate, so what's the problem?
Yes, people are forgetting how to use cursive script because they don't write much any more except by keyboard, but somehow this is like lamenting the loss of washing clothes by hand--it may be an artesanal skill, it may have cultural value, but most of us do so much better with the washing machine. It is truly a shame that people no longer write letters, because letters have been the record of history itself. But in the age of information, your main worry is that you don't show up on YouTube. There are plenty of people writing about history and contemporary politics, and information--good, bad, and mediocre--flood us now.
It makes me think of the European enchantment with Mexican Indians and their culture. Europeans come over to study them, to wear Indian jewelry or clothing, to adopt political stances about conserving the Indian cultures and mores, but those mores are responsible for the abject, hunger-causing poverty of these tribes, for the total subjugation of women in these tribes, and for the almost universal lack of higher education even among the boys. If that is the price to pay for a few Indian dances and some woven baskets, it isn't worth it by a long shot. I have visited these tribes, and know whereof I speak.
Technology has permitted my mom to stay in touch with dozens of friends and family; now that she is seriously ill, it has enabled me to stay in touch with my brother by iPhone. That alone has been worth the trip for me. So let's hear it for technology. It doesn't mean you can't write a letter in longhand or learn how to spell and punctuate, so what's the problem?
lunes, 2 de julio de 2012
Old and Tired!
We have had a difficult few weeks, to put it mildly. First, Beto was hospitalized with dehydration and has spent over a week recovering at home. Although I got too tired with the stress of his hospitalization, nothing could keep me from going to Laredo with my daughter to pick up my new saddle, which even as we speak straddles the back seat of my car.
Unfortunately, three days or so before our trip, my throat began to hurt on one side and I noticed that walking the dog and trotting really tired me out; but since fibromyalgia tricks you into thinking that it is responsible every time you feel bad, I paid no attention to how I felt.
In Laredo, even though we stayed overnight, I did too much on our first day. That night I could have recovered except that our next-door neighbors were candidates for this year's "Colossal Butt-Bung Prize", awarded to people so idiotic and lacking in consideration that only a CAT scan could be presented as proof of the existence of a brain. The kids and the father ran up and down the hall laughing and slamming the door to the room until around eleven-thirty, at which point I whipped open my own door, caught them in full swimming gear on their way to the hotel pool, and gave them an instant dressing-down. It could have been my own state of dress, though, that shocked them, since I had my pajamas on and my hair looked like a victim of a Texas tornado.
Although there was no more loud talking in the hallway, the kids did manage to slam the door to their room enough to wake me up periodically until about one a.m. I was too tired to call the management, since that would have kept me awake even longer.
I got my revenge in the morning. Karina and I woke up early, and I began taking our stuff out to the car. Every time I left our room, I slammed the door hard enough to register on the Richter Scale. There was a "Do Not Disturb" sign on our neighbors' doorknob, so that added fuel to my flame. Gosh knows how many times I slammed that door, and Karina added her own dose as well. I hope we woke them up each and every time.
Our car loaded and the last of our shopping taken care of in the morning, off we went to Nuevo Laredo. At first we were going to declare Karina's clothes purchases for the girls, but it was evident we would be there waiting in line the rest of the morning, so we decided to go for broke and forget the whole thing. But everything was odd--check-point after check-point, traffic reduced to one lane as we were carefully inspected by soldiers. I guess we looked fairly harmless--a nice-looking lady and her ancient mother--and it was only late in the day after getting home and putting my feet up that I saw on the news that a car bomb had gone of in front of the Nuevo Laredo municipal townhall just about the time we were crossing the border into Nuevo Laredo. No wonder no one gave a hoot about what we had bought. The authorities were concerned about explosions (no, we heard nothing), not ladies buying clothes for little girls.
By this time I had a cold sore on my lower lip and Sunday came with me feeling like death warmed over. I invited everyone over for tiramisú and coffee in the afternoon because Beto and I hadn't seen our grandkids in ages. That night I stayed up again, this time watching the election results; Mexico elected a new president, and several governorships were up for grabs. The coverage was great, so once more I didn't get enough sleep. Today is a disaster, so I am going to vegetate completely, see no patients, and live on Advil.
It rained, though, soaking our lawn. It even hailed, but my dill plants and cilantro came through just fine. They are doing a lot better than I am!
Unfortunately, three days or so before our trip, my throat began to hurt on one side and I noticed that walking the dog and trotting really tired me out; but since fibromyalgia tricks you into thinking that it is responsible every time you feel bad, I paid no attention to how I felt.
In Laredo, even though we stayed overnight, I did too much on our first day. That night I could have recovered except that our next-door neighbors were candidates for this year's "Colossal Butt-Bung Prize", awarded to people so idiotic and lacking in consideration that only a CAT scan could be presented as proof of the existence of a brain. The kids and the father ran up and down the hall laughing and slamming the door to the room until around eleven-thirty, at which point I whipped open my own door, caught them in full swimming gear on their way to the hotel pool, and gave them an instant dressing-down. It could have been my own state of dress, though, that shocked them, since I had my pajamas on and my hair looked like a victim of a Texas tornado.
Although there was no more loud talking in the hallway, the kids did manage to slam the door to their room enough to wake me up periodically until about one a.m. I was too tired to call the management, since that would have kept me awake even longer.
I got my revenge in the morning. Karina and I woke up early, and I began taking our stuff out to the car. Every time I left our room, I slammed the door hard enough to register on the Richter Scale. There was a "Do Not Disturb" sign on our neighbors' doorknob, so that added fuel to my flame. Gosh knows how many times I slammed that door, and Karina added her own dose as well. I hope we woke them up each and every time.
Our car loaded and the last of our shopping taken care of in the morning, off we went to Nuevo Laredo. At first we were going to declare Karina's clothes purchases for the girls, but it was evident we would be there waiting in line the rest of the morning, so we decided to go for broke and forget the whole thing. But everything was odd--check-point after check-point, traffic reduced to one lane as we were carefully inspected by soldiers. I guess we looked fairly harmless--a nice-looking lady and her ancient mother--and it was only late in the day after getting home and putting my feet up that I saw on the news that a car bomb had gone of in front of the Nuevo Laredo municipal townhall just about the time we were crossing the border into Nuevo Laredo. No wonder no one gave a hoot about what we had bought. The authorities were concerned about explosions (no, we heard nothing), not ladies buying clothes for little girls.
By this time I had a cold sore on my lower lip and Sunday came with me feeling like death warmed over. I invited everyone over for tiramisú and coffee in the afternoon because Beto and I hadn't seen our grandkids in ages. That night I stayed up again, this time watching the election results; Mexico elected a new president, and several governorships were up for grabs. The coverage was great, so once more I didn't get enough sleep. Today is a disaster, so I am going to vegetate completely, see no patients, and live on Advil.
It rained, though, soaking our lawn. It even hailed, but my dill plants and cilantro came through just fine. They are doing a lot better than I am!
viernes, 15 de junio de 2012
Odd and ends
Our weather in the morning has been decent enough for me and my poodle to go for walks, but then I got hit by George Washington's Revenge, the American version of Moctezuma's Revenge which strikes American tourists inevitably at some point during their vacation time here in Mexico. My cousin Cary may be the exception to that rule, but I'm not sure; he and friends have covered the roads on motorcycles and stayed in some places one would hesitate to recommend, but he seems to have either escaped untouched by digestive disaster, or is unwilling to share this vital information.
My mother's creative writing teacher sent me a link to a university-level poetry appreciation course that is wonderful. It is wonderful because it's free, and it is wonderful because the lady professor is magnificent. Talk about opening up new worlds! The downside--and there always is one--is that I now contemplate my own few attempts at poetry with a newly-critical eye, but without enough distance to accomplish that task--evaluating--successfully. I just like them, and they express what I had to say at the time, so that's enough for me. A friend of mine, a Catholic priest, read them and said he found them "picturesque", not exactly a rousing endorsement, but he may have been affected by one of my poems that made a statement about eternity which was not exactly within the bounds of Catholic dogma.
In fact, during the time I worked with this man at his immigrant shelter, I had occasion to disappoint him perhaps fatally as far as the friendship went. We were discussing religion. He seemed to console himself at my lack of religious belief by stating that I "believed in people". I should have left him with that thought, but no, I had to pipe up and say I thought mankind was going to Hell in a handbasket, do not pass "Go", do not collect $100. What I did say was that in my scheme of ethics, I felt that every person had the moral imperative to try to leave the world a better place in some small measure. I ascribe to that Spanish saying, roughly translated, that says that good works are love (meaning love of life and mankind). All the sermonizing, writing, scolding, and philosophizing are pointless if that is all you do. You've got to get out there and do something as far as I'm concerned, no matter how small you may think that something is. In today's world, where violence, rudeness, smart-aleck comebacks, anonymous ranting and insults made possible by social networks and the Internet seem to define our times, just being polite to a stranger or calm in traffic are no minor works. It may not seem like much if you live in Texas where the standards of politeness and friendliness are pretty high, but imagine if you lived in New York!! A kind word there might cause someone to pass out!
My mother's creative writing teacher sent me a link to a university-level poetry appreciation course that is wonderful. It is wonderful because it's free, and it is wonderful because the lady professor is magnificent. Talk about opening up new worlds! The downside--and there always is one--is that I now contemplate my own few attempts at poetry with a newly-critical eye, but without enough distance to accomplish that task--evaluating--successfully. I just like them, and they express what I had to say at the time, so that's enough for me. A friend of mine, a Catholic priest, read them and said he found them "picturesque", not exactly a rousing endorsement, but he may have been affected by one of my poems that made a statement about eternity which was not exactly within the bounds of Catholic dogma.
In fact, during the time I worked with this man at his immigrant shelter, I had occasion to disappoint him perhaps fatally as far as the friendship went. We were discussing religion. He seemed to console himself at my lack of religious belief by stating that I "believed in people". I should have left him with that thought, but no, I had to pipe up and say I thought mankind was going to Hell in a handbasket, do not pass "Go", do not collect $100. What I did say was that in my scheme of ethics, I felt that every person had the moral imperative to try to leave the world a better place in some small measure. I ascribe to that Spanish saying, roughly translated, that says that good works are love (meaning love of life and mankind). All the sermonizing, writing, scolding, and philosophizing are pointless if that is all you do. You've got to get out there and do something as far as I'm concerned, no matter how small you may think that something is. In today's world, where violence, rudeness, smart-aleck comebacks, anonymous ranting and insults made possible by social networks and the Internet seem to define our times, just being polite to a stranger or calm in traffic are no minor works. It may not seem like much if you live in Texas where the standards of politeness and friendliness are pretty high, but imagine if you lived in New York!! A kind word there might cause someone to pass out!
lunes, 11 de junio de 2012
The Trip
It has been quite a long time since I've written in this, but things have been too hectic for old me. Literally, old me, because if anyone needs some sedate time, 'tis I.
I was fortunate enough to take a trip to visit my mother and got to see my brother, cousin Cary, and sister-in-law. It was during this trip that plans to get a companion for TootSweet firmed up, and around September he will be joined by Lusso, a Spinone Italiano, or gun dog--the kind that point and then retrieve. These are the tasks standard poodles were bred to do, and why the Toots refuses to get into the water is a mystery. Nevertheless, Lusso definitely will enjoy a daily dip, so maybe the Toots will be tempted as well. It's good exercise for man or dog.
Upon my arrival yesterday the temperature here was 100°F. This morning I don't know what the temperature is and don't want to know. So far I can't decide if Toots and I will go for a walk or not. Meanwhile, this mystifying blooper:
"Ants are of two kinds: insects and lady uncles."
I was fortunate enough to take a trip to visit my mother and got to see my brother, cousin Cary, and sister-in-law. It was during this trip that plans to get a companion for TootSweet firmed up, and around September he will be joined by Lusso, a Spinone Italiano, or gun dog--the kind that point and then retrieve. These are the tasks standard poodles were bred to do, and why the Toots refuses to get into the water is a mystery. Nevertheless, Lusso definitely will enjoy a daily dip, so maybe the Toots will be tempted as well. It's good exercise for man or dog.
Upon my arrival yesterday the temperature here was 100°F. This morning I don't know what the temperature is and don't want to know. So far I can't decide if Toots and I will go for a walk or not. Meanwhile, this mystifying blooper:
"Ants are of two kinds: insects and lady uncles."
jueves, 10 de mayo de 2012
Almost back to normal
The Toots is almost back to normal and all set to head out to the park, so that's what we did this morning--a cool, breezy morning, nicely clouded over. What a reprieve from our usual May weather! And, Happy Mother's Day to all the moms, today is the big date in Mexico.
What the world needs now is bloopers because since Bush left office, we have been left high and dry in the whacky language department. My mom gave me a book of her brother's, an ancient tome from 1938, with bloopers so brilliant we should all be humbled.
In the first place, kids are no longer challenged by such questions as "What is Socratic dialogue?" or vocabulary words such as "psaltry" or "abbatoir". Some of the bloopers are so inspired that I've decided to include the Blooper of the Day when I have time to write in this blog. Hats off to the blooperers of yore, who have let us know that acumen is the white of an egg, and a tantrum is a two-seated bicycle. It is almost impossible to choose among the jewels offered, so it's just going to be whatever hits my funny bone the hardest on any given morning.
"Coroner's inquest means when you have died unexpectedly you are cross-examined by a coroner."
"An eavesdropper is an icicle."
Gosh, what inspiration!
What the world needs now is bloopers because since Bush left office, we have been left high and dry in the whacky language department. My mom gave me a book of her brother's, an ancient tome from 1938, with bloopers so brilliant we should all be humbled.
In the first place, kids are no longer challenged by such questions as "What is Socratic dialogue?" or vocabulary words such as "psaltry" or "abbatoir". Some of the bloopers are so inspired that I've decided to include the Blooper of the Day when I have time to write in this blog. Hats off to the blooperers of yore, who have let us know that acumen is the white of an egg, and a tantrum is a two-seated bicycle. It is almost impossible to choose among the jewels offered, so it's just going to be whatever hits my funny bone the hardest on any given morning.
"Coroner's inquest means when you have died unexpectedly you are cross-examined by a coroner."
"An eavesdropper is an icicle."
Gosh, what inspiration!
lunes, 7 de mayo de 2012
The God-Awful Bores
Happy to report that WeightWatchers has finally kicked and I lost weight this week. Part of the reason may be stress since TootSweet had to have some cysts removed, and I went against medical advice and wisdom and did not allow the vet to dig out two probable cysts under his skin.
My reasoning is simple: If the two tumors are cancer and not seborrheic cysts, then the cancer has already spread and there is no point in subjected the dog to the procedure. If it isn't cancer, nothing is going to happen to him by leaving the tumors there. One has gotten smaller in size and become encapsulated, which doesn't happen with lymphoma (the most common kind of canine cancer). Of course, it could be some other kind of cancer, but it is also a fact that standard poodles have a definite tendency to develop these cysts. If he should have a cancer that is limited to just those two tumors, well, that will have been my mistake.
I almost never go against reasonable medical advice, but this time I did. The Tooters is eleven years old and with the energy of a puppy, but if he has something serious, I'll know soon enough. There are people who subject their dogs to chemotherapy and radiation in order to gain a few months of life, but the gain is for the owner, not the dog. No animal should be subjected to chemotherapy unless you have a HUGE probability of curing the animal. It is unlikely that pets suffer when sacrificed humanely, but you can bet your little butt they do suffer when subjected to chemotherapy, hair loss, etc.
On one of my WW message boards, with the theme of "Writers", a new guy has joined the group, a "Christian minister", no brand name given. He has written a couple of "Devotional books", note that capital D, and he hopes we will check out his blog. Fat, oh, so Fat chance that. These purveyors of the word, or as they would say, the Word, have got to be the most boring people under the bright, hot sun. They don't know it, of course, because they are so excited about having been saved that they think we haven't heard all this a million times before. I can't think of a worse way to live than to slouch around wondering what sin you've committed today--does that extra piece of cake count, both in calories and sin? Can I lust after Johnny Depp in my mind and get roasted in Hell for it? It is always disquieting when someone comes up to you and claims to have foregone that chocolate fudge cake in order to support your dieting efforts. Hey, I didn't ask for that, and if you think it puts me in your debt, you'd better think again--well, imagine the guilt trip when your figure of divinity says he sacrificed a child for you, and that child was tortured to boot. The guilt alone would have you grovelling abjectly in the dirt, hoping against hope that your miserable, sin-ridden life will get the Big Reprieve--that being, of course, the reward for hauling around all that sinfulness from birth unto death and, in passing, making sure the word purveyors don't lose their jobs.
Let's face it, if this guy's god was going to do him any favors, he wouldn't be fat. He must writhe in misery at the idea of going to Hell for the sin of gluttony, poor bastard.
My reasoning is simple: If the two tumors are cancer and not seborrheic cysts, then the cancer has already spread and there is no point in subjected the dog to the procedure. If it isn't cancer, nothing is going to happen to him by leaving the tumors there. One has gotten smaller in size and become encapsulated, which doesn't happen with lymphoma (the most common kind of canine cancer). Of course, it could be some other kind of cancer, but it is also a fact that standard poodles have a definite tendency to develop these cysts. If he should have a cancer that is limited to just those two tumors, well, that will have been my mistake.
I almost never go against reasonable medical advice, but this time I did. The Tooters is eleven years old and with the energy of a puppy, but if he has something serious, I'll know soon enough. There are people who subject their dogs to chemotherapy and radiation in order to gain a few months of life, but the gain is for the owner, not the dog. No animal should be subjected to chemotherapy unless you have a HUGE probability of curing the animal. It is unlikely that pets suffer when sacrificed humanely, but you can bet your little butt they do suffer when subjected to chemotherapy, hair loss, etc.
On one of my WW message boards, with the theme of "Writers", a new guy has joined the group, a "Christian minister", no brand name given. He has written a couple of "Devotional books", note that capital D, and he hopes we will check out his blog. Fat, oh, so Fat chance that. These purveyors of the word, or as they would say, the Word, have got to be the most boring people under the bright, hot sun. They don't know it, of course, because they are so excited about having been saved that they think we haven't heard all this a million times before. I can't think of a worse way to live than to slouch around wondering what sin you've committed today--does that extra piece of cake count, both in calories and sin? Can I lust after Johnny Depp in my mind and get roasted in Hell for it? It is always disquieting when someone comes up to you and claims to have foregone that chocolate fudge cake in order to support your dieting efforts. Hey, I didn't ask for that, and if you think it puts me in your debt, you'd better think again--well, imagine the guilt trip when your figure of divinity says he sacrificed a child for you, and that child was tortured to boot. The guilt alone would have you grovelling abjectly in the dirt, hoping against hope that your miserable, sin-ridden life will get the Big Reprieve--that being, of course, the reward for hauling around all that sinfulness from birth unto death and, in passing, making sure the word purveyors don't lose their jobs.
Let's face it, if this guy's god was going to do him any favors, he wouldn't be fat. He must writhe in misery at the idea of going to Hell for the sin of gluttony, poor bastard.
jueves, 3 de mayo de 2012
Keys to the kingdom
This morning, in spite of a bone-deep laziness, I took TootSweet to the park. Once there, we warmed up for a kilometer and trotted a kilometer. The Tooters behaved like a pro. I walked toward home, planning maybe to leave the dog and go back to trot a bit more. When I arrived at the front gate, I reached down to get the keyring attached to the dog's collar hook, only to find that the keys no longer formed a part of our ensemble. Horrified, back I went to the park. One of the team trainers offered to walk with me back to Narcissists' Corner, searching along the way.
Nothing. We asked the other trainers at the Corner, looked on the bulletin board there where lost keys are hung (some had been there for weeks and weeks), but no sign of my keys. I went home and left the dog--fortunately my husband was still there--and went back to the park to do a last search before calling for reinforcements to change the locks--four of 'em.
While I was searching, my son showed up. He had finished his morning run, so I introduced him to my trainer. Rodrigo will soon finish his master's degree and will have time to train again for half-marathons.
When I told Rodrigo I had lost the keys, he had the gall to laugh. He said it was just one more adventure of mine at the park. He seems to think I'm the only person in town for whom the park is actually dangerous. He may have a point. Considering the times I've crashed and burned, tripped over my dog, had to fight off yowling beagles, and now this, well, there is a lesson here for us all.
All I can say is that my knees are still holding up.
Nothing. We asked the other trainers at the Corner, looked on the bulletin board there where lost keys are hung (some had been there for weeks and weeks), but no sign of my keys. I went home and left the dog--fortunately my husband was still there--and went back to the park to do a last search before calling for reinforcements to change the locks--four of 'em.
While I was searching, my son showed up. He had finished his morning run, so I introduced him to my trainer. Rodrigo will soon finish his master's degree and will have time to train again for half-marathons.
When I told Rodrigo I had lost the keys, he had the gall to laugh. He said it was just one more adventure of mine at the park. He seems to think I'm the only person in town for whom the park is actually dangerous. He may have a point. Considering the times I've crashed and burned, tripped over my dog, had to fight off yowling beagles, and now this, well, there is a lesson here for us all.
All I can say is that my knees are still holding up.
martes, 1 de mayo de 2012
Shoot 'em dead, no matter who they might be
Anyone who wants a few moments entertainment should check out the NRA webpage. They seem to be having a hissy fit over the movement to make gun shops register multiple assault weapons purchases along the border with Mexico, since the assault weapons used by the Mexican drug cartels mainly come from these sources--smuggled, to be sure, but purchased along the border. The NRA tries to convince everyone the guns are coming from Guatemala, but hey, please, put down the Acapulco Gold and get real.
You can certainly understand how they feel. No red-blooded, big-dog Southern citizen wants to have home and hearth put at risk by having to register the purchase of machine guns, AK47s, bazookas, grenade launchers, ground-to-air missiles and other items necessary to stand off the....well, let me see...people ringing the doorbell? Jehova's Witnesses? A massive attack by...hmmmm...okay, a ravening, wife-raping gang of liberals, for example. A bunch of foaming-at-the-mouth lawyers from the ACLU. Or even, God forbid, some very pigment-blessed folks trying to register voters door to door. The skin crawls at the danger, women swoon, men go around with solemn faces and glower determindly into the sunset while attempting to pull in that beer gut so as not to ruin the effect.
Who knows why they worry. It is now legal to mow down that guy at the curb who gave your vintage Mustang a longing glance, as long as you claim self defense. And that little girl two houses down in a brown uniform selling Girl Scout cookies...well, I mean, brown, for the love of Christ! The very color suggests a nightime raid by some kind of mob determined to rip those stuffed animal heads from the wall and run off with them. With that kind of danger looming, there is full justification for breaking out the bazooka and having at it.
You could stay up nights in a sweat just thinking about opening the front door to find an African American teenager standing there trying to get you on his newspaper route, or a Mexican gardener wondering if you'd like him to mow your lawn. Nothing says "security" like a machine gun behind the door.
Nothing says "paranoia", either, as well, or "I've left the bonds of earth and now float several feet above Myrtle Beach, dressed in my cowboy outfit, because I stopped taking my medication."
You can certainly understand how they feel. No red-blooded, big-dog Southern citizen wants to have home and hearth put at risk by having to register the purchase of machine guns, AK47s, bazookas, grenade launchers, ground-to-air missiles and other items necessary to stand off the....well, let me see...people ringing the doorbell? Jehova's Witnesses? A massive attack by...hmmmm...okay, a ravening, wife-raping gang of liberals, for example. A bunch of foaming-at-the-mouth lawyers from the ACLU. Or even, God forbid, some very pigment-blessed folks trying to register voters door to door. The skin crawls at the danger, women swoon, men go around with solemn faces and glower determindly into the sunset while attempting to pull in that beer gut so as not to ruin the effect.
Who knows why they worry. It is now legal to mow down that guy at the curb who gave your vintage Mustang a longing glance, as long as you claim self defense. And that little girl two houses down in a brown uniform selling Girl Scout cookies...well, I mean, brown, for the love of Christ! The very color suggests a nightime raid by some kind of mob determined to rip those stuffed animal heads from the wall and run off with them. With that kind of danger looming, there is full justification for breaking out the bazooka and having at it.
You could stay up nights in a sweat just thinking about opening the front door to find an African American teenager standing there trying to get you on his newspaper route, or a Mexican gardener wondering if you'd like him to mow your lawn. Nothing says "security" like a machine gun behind the door.
Nothing says "paranoia", either, as well, or "I've left the bonds of earth and now float several feet above Myrtle Beach, dressed in my cowboy outfit, because I stopped taking my medication."
The team picture
My training team got together at the park this morning with our new t-shirts and had our picture taken. I think I managed to close my eyes for every shot. Being shortest and oldest, I was in the front line. Well, it was fun, no matter what I looked like! And TootSweet was outstanding; our only problem occurred when an idiot with two untrained beagles on long leashes went by. The beagles barked and went slightly mad, but I couldn't swear in court that the owner didn't bark too.
An article came out in a news magazine about the new "Christian right"; I didn't read it, I must confess, since I've had enough of Christians on the right to choke a hog. They don't seem to understand the most basic precepts of their own beliefs, poor devils. Starting with the fact that "Christian right" is an oxymoron, and in fact many of the said individuals are also morons.
For those who believe in the figure of Jesus, it should occur to them that he was a rebel of the first order, not some fundamentalist jerk trying to get people to believe the earth is six thousand years old and man walked with the dinosaurs. Jesus didn't give a hoot how old the earth is. He was much more concerned about not judging people because of their gender or occupation (Mary Magdalene, for example). He was incensed at the economical exploitation of others, and he had the poorest opinion of the hidebound, the prejudiced, and the excluders. The things that Jesus are supposed to have said make up an infinitesimal portion of the writings in the Bible; everything else is editorializing, politicizing, and pure fantasy. As far as actual history goes, the accuracy of what Jesus is supposed to have said is no more reliable than the flood of "pieces of the True Cross" that circulated among the royalty during the middle ages and later.
But among people who take him seriously, they should realize that he was an enemy of orthodoxy, yet they have now turned his figure into an excuse for out-Poping the Pope. They are a form of American jihad, willing to sacrifice anyone who doesn't believe as they do, willing to subordinate half of humankind to the category of slaves devoted to reproduction--since this half of mankind, according to these people, has no right to govern its bodies or determine how they are to be used. These folks are willing to accord a collection of cells incapable of living outside the body of the mother more rights than the mother herself, who is not a potential human being, but is one already. Jesus never said a word about reproductive rights, by the way. This stuff has been invented since his time and to serve other interests.
To end on a positive note, the NYTimes had an article last week about how Cheney's heart treatments have more or less followed the entire history of heart health. Funny, isn't it, how someone like Cheney doesn't seem to have any trouble at all getting a heart for transplant while others have to wait unto death? But, as one perspicuous reader noted in the comments section, settling the issue once and for all, Cheney's heart transplant is to be celebrated since he didn't have one before.
An article came out in a news magazine about the new "Christian right"; I didn't read it, I must confess, since I've had enough of Christians on the right to choke a hog. They don't seem to understand the most basic precepts of their own beliefs, poor devils. Starting with the fact that "Christian right" is an oxymoron, and in fact many of the said individuals are also morons.
For those who believe in the figure of Jesus, it should occur to them that he was a rebel of the first order, not some fundamentalist jerk trying to get people to believe the earth is six thousand years old and man walked with the dinosaurs. Jesus didn't give a hoot how old the earth is. He was much more concerned about not judging people because of their gender or occupation (Mary Magdalene, for example). He was incensed at the economical exploitation of others, and he had the poorest opinion of the hidebound, the prejudiced, and the excluders. The things that Jesus are supposed to have said make up an infinitesimal portion of the writings in the Bible; everything else is editorializing, politicizing, and pure fantasy. As far as actual history goes, the accuracy of what Jesus is supposed to have said is no more reliable than the flood of "pieces of the True Cross" that circulated among the royalty during the middle ages and later.
But among people who take him seriously, they should realize that he was an enemy of orthodoxy, yet they have now turned his figure into an excuse for out-Poping the Pope. They are a form of American jihad, willing to sacrifice anyone who doesn't believe as they do, willing to subordinate half of humankind to the category of slaves devoted to reproduction--since this half of mankind, according to these people, has no right to govern its bodies or determine how they are to be used. These folks are willing to accord a collection of cells incapable of living outside the body of the mother more rights than the mother herself, who is not a potential human being, but is one already. Jesus never said a word about reproductive rights, by the way. This stuff has been invented since his time and to serve other interests.
To end on a positive note, the NYTimes had an article last week about how Cheney's heart treatments have more or less followed the entire history of heart health. Funny, isn't it, how someone like Cheney doesn't seem to have any trouble at all getting a heart for transplant while others have to wait unto death? But, as one perspicuous reader noted in the comments section, settling the issue once and for all, Cheney's heart transplant is to be celebrated since he didn't have one before.
lunes, 30 de abril de 2012
Ever onward, sort of...
There are many, many message boards and groups at WeightWatchers online, but one in particular has put its finger on the problem: It is a group of short gals who "only" have 20-25 pounds to lose.
Not only is it harder for short people to lose weight, but the less you have to lose the harder it gets also. The WW program (it is excellent, let's face it) has a number of ways to allow the obese to manage their weight loss program without getting sideswiped by terrible cravings: You are allowed a number of food points per week that you can chose to use for desserts or whatever your weakness happens to be, and you can also use your exercise points in exchange for food. This is fantastic if you are a million pounds overweight, but if you are only a little overweight, use those points and you'll wind up fatter than when you began! I know, I used them last week and gained back half of what I lost.
Meanwhile, TootSweet is swiftly becoming the smartest dog on the planet. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly, but not much. We have a training session this afternoon, and he has already learned to turn right and left on command, stop, sit, stay, heel...The trainer is proud of him, and it is fun to have a long walk with an obedient dog and a trainer who can discuss any topic under the sun (he's from Mexico City, where mental agility is necessary for survival).
I am off to find danged batteries for my camera, some that will actually work. And tomorrow, horror of horrors, my training team gets its picture taken, and I'm supposed to be there. It's ridiculous, all I have managed to do is buy my running shirts, on the outside hope they will work magic and make me run like the wind. Only a tornado would accomplish that particular feat, and then only if it manages to engulf me...
Not only is it harder for short people to lose weight, but the less you have to lose the harder it gets also. The WW program (it is excellent, let's face it) has a number of ways to allow the obese to manage their weight loss program without getting sideswiped by terrible cravings: You are allowed a number of food points per week that you can chose to use for desserts or whatever your weakness happens to be, and you can also use your exercise points in exchange for food. This is fantastic if you are a million pounds overweight, but if you are only a little overweight, use those points and you'll wind up fatter than when you began! I know, I used them last week and gained back half of what I lost.
Meanwhile, TootSweet is swiftly becoming the smartest dog on the planet. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly, but not much. We have a training session this afternoon, and he has already learned to turn right and left on command, stop, sit, stay, heel...The trainer is proud of him, and it is fun to have a long walk with an obedient dog and a trainer who can discuss any topic under the sun (he's from Mexico City, where mental agility is necessary for survival).
I am off to find danged batteries for my camera, some that will actually work. And tomorrow, horror of horrors, my training team gets its picture taken, and I'm supposed to be there. It's ridiculous, all I have managed to do is buy my running shirts, on the outside hope they will work magic and make me run like the wind. Only a tornado would accomplish that particular feat, and then only if it manages to engulf me...
lunes, 23 de abril de 2012
Nature strikes back
First of all, to my astonishment, I've lost weight this week, much more than I would have thought. At least is serves as motivation to keep on.
On Saturday we went to the quinta and stayed overnight. Sunday morning, in the cool of the front porch under a lazy ceiling fan, I began to wax poetic in my mind about Nature. The sky was a washed, water-color blue, clouds of butterflies (pale green, yellow, orange, white) jostled with hummingbirds around flowering shrubs and the rose bush, high in the air hawks glided gracefully, dipping and soaring, and the horses grazed calmly in a far field.
As if it weren't reality aplenty that there were enough cattle ticks around to supply a major feed lot, and when the wind was right the eau de steers knocked us off our feet, as I sat there ignoring these minor inconveniences, a dove suddenly came whipping under the porch roof and tried to land on my head. Discovering at the very last minute that the landing place was a living creature, in a frenzied flurry of wings and feathers that caught in my hair, it took off again.
That was all it took to break up the moment of poesy, by dang! My main concern was whether it had pooped on my head. That it hadn't seemed almost miraculous. (I have a long history of being pooped on by birds...) It also confirmed my opinion that doves are unbelievably dumb and it is amazing there are so many of them. They are the last birds to get out of the way on a road or highway and the only ones my cats caught often enough so as to supply themselves with a complete meat diet. Every other kind of bird in our yard seemed to know exactly where the cats were hiding out, except for the doves. The starlings would even flutter around scolding the cats, sounding warnings, or occasionally divebombing them, but doves don't seem to speak starling.
No poetry, but poetic justice, I suppose, considering that I fed my dog braised dove breasts the other day.
On Saturday we went to the quinta and stayed overnight. Sunday morning, in the cool of the front porch under a lazy ceiling fan, I began to wax poetic in my mind about Nature. The sky was a washed, water-color blue, clouds of butterflies (pale green, yellow, orange, white) jostled with hummingbirds around flowering shrubs and the rose bush, high in the air hawks glided gracefully, dipping and soaring, and the horses grazed calmly in a far field.
As if it weren't reality aplenty that there were enough cattle ticks around to supply a major feed lot, and when the wind was right the eau de steers knocked us off our feet, as I sat there ignoring these minor inconveniences, a dove suddenly came whipping under the porch roof and tried to land on my head. Discovering at the very last minute that the landing place was a living creature, in a frenzied flurry of wings and feathers that caught in my hair, it took off again.
That was all it took to break up the moment of poesy, by dang! My main concern was whether it had pooped on my head. That it hadn't seemed almost miraculous. (I have a long history of being pooped on by birds...) It also confirmed my opinion that doves are unbelievably dumb and it is amazing there are so many of them. They are the last birds to get out of the way on a road or highway and the only ones my cats caught often enough so as to supply themselves with a complete meat diet. Every other kind of bird in our yard seemed to know exactly where the cats were hiding out, except for the doves. The starlings would even flutter around scolding the cats, sounding warnings, or occasionally divebombing them, but doves don't seem to speak starling.
No poetry, but poetic justice, I suppose, considering that I fed my dog braised dove breasts the other day.
miércoles, 18 de abril de 2012
Dog Days
The hour set for dog training couldn't be better for our purposes: There are what seem like hundreds of people up and down the running path, and plenty of pooches. TootSweet did quite well, in fact, not once actually trying to pull off in another direction, although it cost him quite an effort. There are some really good tricks this guy is teaching me, too, on how to calm the dog down; now if only he will get in his order of collars, I'll be able to take Toots with me in the morning without dislocating my right elbow.
We passed a woman jogging who shouted a salutation to the trainer and said she couldn't wait until her dog looked as obedient as the Tooter. With a rather cynical laugh, the trainer told me it would be a warm day in Hades when that finally happened; the woman has an Italian greyhound fueled by atomic energy, and it ricochets off the walls of her home. He said the dog can be trained but it will take a long and determined effort plus a massive amount of regular exercise (no wonder the woman is running, she's got to get in shape for the dog).
On this morning's very short walk/run for me, sans the dog, it again looked like rush hour in Seattle. Either I'm going to have to get out there earlier, God knows how, or later when in the summertime I'll pass out from the heat and wind up hospitalized. Waking up very early is not an issue, but people with fibromyalgia get up in the morning as if rising from a particularly severe train wreck in which they have fully participated by being hit by runaway derailed cars. I don't even know what shape I'm in until after my cup of coffee, when my senses manage to fire up a bit and let me know which parts ache, which parts are okay, and which parts are probably missing. I figure that in order to hit the park around five-thirty at the latest, I will have to have my caffeine infusion around 4:45.
Somehow I've got to manage it or the summer is going to be a total loss. The Tooters also needs to avoid the worst of the heat, and the more people on the running path, the greater the amount of information you overhear that you really don't want to hear at all. This morning, for example, a couple of old codgers about my age trotted past me as one mentioned that he has varicose veins of the nose. I wasn't feeling particularly good this morning anyway because yesterday I had a migraine and had to dose myself with a strong medication, but the overheard remark ended my desire to keep on. I felt slightly sick, because in my altered mental state (thanks to the medication), I imagined some kind of nasal hemorrhoids.
I went home then, but perhaps that was a mistake. I should have continued on, hoping that some other grotesque physical ailment would be revealed in random conversation, something that, by God, would put me off my feed. Because ever since I've been on WW, no matter how delicious the recipes (and they are), each day I get hungrier and hungrier. That would be fine if I were losing weight, by dang, but as it is, I am nearing the point of cramming every single one of the points allowed each day into one meal. But stay tuned.
We passed a woman jogging who shouted a salutation to the trainer and said she couldn't wait until her dog looked as obedient as the Tooter. With a rather cynical laugh, the trainer told me it would be a warm day in Hades when that finally happened; the woman has an Italian greyhound fueled by atomic energy, and it ricochets off the walls of her home. He said the dog can be trained but it will take a long and determined effort plus a massive amount of regular exercise (no wonder the woman is running, she's got to get in shape for the dog).
On this morning's very short walk/run for me, sans the dog, it again looked like rush hour in Seattle. Either I'm going to have to get out there earlier, God knows how, or later when in the summertime I'll pass out from the heat and wind up hospitalized. Waking up very early is not an issue, but people with fibromyalgia get up in the morning as if rising from a particularly severe train wreck in which they have fully participated by being hit by runaway derailed cars. I don't even know what shape I'm in until after my cup of coffee, when my senses manage to fire up a bit and let me know which parts ache, which parts are okay, and which parts are probably missing. I figure that in order to hit the park around five-thirty at the latest, I will have to have my caffeine infusion around 4:45.
Somehow I've got to manage it or the summer is going to be a total loss. The Tooters also needs to avoid the worst of the heat, and the more people on the running path, the greater the amount of information you overhear that you really don't want to hear at all. This morning, for example, a couple of old codgers about my age trotted past me as one mentioned that he has varicose veins of the nose. I wasn't feeling particularly good this morning anyway because yesterday I had a migraine and had to dose myself with a strong medication, but the overheard remark ended my desire to keep on. I felt slightly sick, because in my altered mental state (thanks to the medication), I imagined some kind of nasal hemorrhoids.
I went home then, but perhaps that was a mistake. I should have continued on, hoping that some other grotesque physical ailment would be revealed in random conversation, something that, by God, would put me off my feed. Because ever since I've been on WW, no matter how delicious the recipes (and they are), each day I get hungrier and hungrier. That would be fine if I were losing weight, by dang, but as it is, I am nearing the point of cramming every single one of the points allowed each day into one meal. But stay tuned.
lunes, 16 de abril de 2012
WW, but not II
A funny thing happened to me on the way to a WeightWatchers message board. As I meandered through the topics being discussed, there was a lone soul who had done a baddie by bringing up politics. The ground rules ask you to avoid controversial topics "such as politics" as being inappropriate, as if people with political ideas didn't get fat. Anyway, there are dog lovers who are fat, fat riders (that's where I am), fat cat lovers, knitters, you name it, a group for every interest.
Oddly enough, however, considering the ground rules, there are groups of people who profess every kind of crackpot religious opinion, and talk about boring! Not to mention, of course, controversial, but somehow these possessors of THE truth haven't caught on to that. The big question is, how come agnostics and atheists also loose weight?? Is it a trick of the devil? Does God make these rabid Christians fat to put them to the test? And will I get kicked out of WW if I ask some of these questions on the religious message boards? Let's try it and see...
Meanwhile back at the proverbial ranch, our dog training course begins this evening at seven. I can't take the dog with me in the morning until I get my new collar, which the trainer will probably get on Tuesday. One of my grand-daughters is interested in watching the training; she is an animal lover par excellence.
The house is unbearable; there are people working on three doors and two bathrooms, pounding and drilling and painting and installing and getting stuff dusty and dirty. We are having spinach quiche for lunch today, complete with gruyere cheese, but the stress alone around here will prevent me from gaining weight.
And for the dad-gummed record, after being hungry all week, I only lost a small portion of a pound!!
Oddly enough, however, considering the ground rules, there are groups of people who profess every kind of crackpot religious opinion, and talk about boring! Not to mention, of course, controversial, but somehow these possessors of THE truth haven't caught on to that. The big question is, how come agnostics and atheists also loose weight?? Is it a trick of the devil? Does God make these rabid Christians fat to put them to the test? And will I get kicked out of WW if I ask some of these questions on the religious message boards? Let's try it and see...
Meanwhile back at the proverbial ranch, our dog training course begins this evening at seven. I can't take the dog with me in the morning until I get my new collar, which the trainer will probably get on Tuesday. One of my grand-daughters is interested in watching the training; she is an animal lover par excellence.
The house is unbearable; there are people working on three doors and two bathrooms, pounding and drilling and painting and installing and getting stuff dusty and dirty. We are having spinach quiche for lunch today, complete with gruyere cheese, but the stress alone around here will prevent me from gaining weight.
And for the dad-gummed record, after being hungry all week, I only lost a small portion of a pound!!
viernes, 13 de abril de 2012
The "intense" dog...
Having mulled it over, somehow I think "intense" is dog-trainer code for "You are dumber than your dog"....
This morning's run...
It is just as I suspected. Taking the dog with me to walk/run is double the work, even walking, than it would be on my own. After a 1K warm-up, I ran 2K almost without effort, then walked the remaining 2K so I won't be so sore tomorrow. I sweated just as much as when I take the dog for a measly 3K walk. On the WeightWatchers activity tracker, I think I'll give myself double the points for a dog-assisted run. (A dog-impeded run?)
Today's WW recipe, also from the vegetarian section, is a kind of delicious Greek sandwich usually made with philo dough. I think I've made myself clear on philo dough. It is the Greek answer to the Spanish Inquisition. This recipe, though, is made with none other than giant burrito-sized flour tortillas. If these recipes get any easier, they'll cook themselves, and so far, there have been rave reviews.
Today the trainer reports back on the TootSweet schedule. This definitely is going to be fun.
Today's WW recipe, also from the vegetarian section, is a kind of delicious Greek sandwich usually made with philo dough. I think I've made myself clear on philo dough. It is the Greek answer to the Spanish Inquisition. This recipe, though, is made with none other than giant burrito-sized flour tortillas. If these recipes get any easier, they'll cook themselves, and so far, there have been rave reviews.
Today the trainer reports back on the TootSweet schedule. This definitely is going to be fun.
The Trainer
The very day I contacted the trainer, he had time to come to the house and check out my nutty poodle. We took him to the park and walked for about an hour. The trainer changed his collar, and that was the breakthrough I wanted.
The trainer is a guy about 50, a professional of animal behavior, who specializes in dogs, cats, and ferrets. He said Toots was highly trainable but very "intense". We are going to schedule 15 sessions plus a new collar. Meantime, I took the Toots to the quinta with me yesterday when I went to deal with my other animal problem, Gitano, who behaved like a gentleman and galloped with the correct lead for once. The Toots spent the whole time a full blower tearing around the quinta from one end to the other until I thought he would drop, so today he gets a rest. I don't, however, so off I go to the park. More later.
The trainer is a guy about 50, a professional of animal behavior, who specializes in dogs, cats, and ferrets. He said Toots was highly trainable but very "intense". We are going to schedule 15 sessions plus a new collar. Meantime, I took the Toots to the quinta with me yesterday when I went to deal with my other animal problem, Gitano, who behaved like a gentleman and galloped with the correct lead for once. The Toots spent the whole time a full blower tearing around the quinta from one end to the other until I thought he would drop, so today he gets a rest. I don't, however, so off I go to the park. More later.
miércoles, 11 de abril de 2012
Desperate measures
This morning my forearm was so sore there was no question of taking the dog to the park, and this was the absolute last damned straw. I went to the vet clinic this morning and had a long talk with one of my two favorite vets, and he highly recommended a dog trainer right in town.
I trust my vets implicitely, and up until now they have been reluctant to recommend any of the con men who claim to be dog trainers around here. My dog's groomer, a man who worked his way up from nothing to a position of prestige and relative comfort, is unfortunately not the world's greatest judge of character; he gave my name to a "trainer", after asking my permission, who phoned me and simply refused to speak Spanish to me even though I said everything to him in that language. His English was very good, but everything about the man (and this was only over the phone!) was irritating. But when he extolled his own virtues and said he'd do the job for only "five hundred bucks!", I told him I wasn't interested; what I really wanted to tell him was that he was a narcissistic jerk, and up his with pineapples.
But this trainer is like day to the other guy's night: polite, smart, organized and punctual--and this only over the phone! He said he will call today at three to set a day and time for him to see just how much of a problem the Toots is, although I already made it clear that I just can't get any respect from the mutt. Whatever happens, it should be interesting and surely an eye-opener.
So there was no run today, and the weather threatens rain. Tomorrow I'm taking a grand-daughter to the quinta to ride, and maybe my arm will be better by Friday. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we are having French salmon salad and potato-apple pancakes with sour cream. The peppers yesterday were magnificent. I haven't been able to use all the points I'm allowed, including the weekly "treat yourself" points, so I am going to give myself a small Coke. Three points.
I trust my vets implicitely, and up until now they have been reluctant to recommend any of the con men who claim to be dog trainers around here. My dog's groomer, a man who worked his way up from nothing to a position of prestige and relative comfort, is unfortunately not the world's greatest judge of character; he gave my name to a "trainer", after asking my permission, who phoned me and simply refused to speak Spanish to me even though I said everything to him in that language. His English was very good, but everything about the man (and this was only over the phone!) was irritating. But when he extolled his own virtues and said he'd do the job for only "five hundred bucks!", I told him I wasn't interested; what I really wanted to tell him was that he was a narcissistic jerk, and up his with pineapples.
But this trainer is like day to the other guy's night: polite, smart, organized and punctual--and this only over the phone! He said he will call today at three to set a day and time for him to see just how much of a problem the Toots is, although I already made it clear that I just can't get any respect from the mutt. Whatever happens, it should be interesting and surely an eye-opener.
So there was no run today, and the weather threatens rain. Tomorrow I'm taking a grand-daughter to the quinta to ride, and maybe my arm will be better by Friday. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we are having French salmon salad and potato-apple pancakes with sour cream. The peppers yesterday were magnificent. I haven't been able to use all the points I'm allowed, including the weekly "treat yourself" points, so I am going to give myself a small Coke. Three points.
martes, 10 de abril de 2012
We are all on the drawing board...
In spite of the inferior vanilla wafers (something my daughter's girls did not confirm), the pudding was delicious, but my pigging out was the last straw. So, I joined WeightWatchers online, and the program is fantastic. With the point program, you don't have to count calories, and you can track you foods, your activity, your terminal depression, and your moments of ravenous hunger that make you bite your spouse.
There are two fabulous pluses: the recipes are to die for, and you can swap the points gained in your exercise program for food. This is day two, and I've already earned enough exercise points to eat an entire meal. I'm not going to do it, however, since I'm saving up for a vanilla ice cream cone. The cone "costs" about five points--what I've earned so far, in fact--but I don't want to sidetrack healthy eating right out of the gate. A Coke is three points. I can see that WeightWatchers has modernized its information and its stance on junk food, too. The site has the latest scientific info on weight and healthy eating, and I'm thrilled to see that eggs are now on the "you gotta have 'em" list, because I love eggs.
The recipe I am trying today for lunch is Mediterranean-spiced quinoa in red peppers, baked with a topping of feta cheese. I've made the filling and stuffed the peppers, and I can say that the filling is delicious. Quinoa seems to be the next miracle food if one is to judge by how often it is popping up in recipes from CooksIllustrated and Bon Appetit. It contains all eight amino acids, is easy to cook, has a nice nutty flavor, and can be made into pudding just like tapioca.
By the way, for those of you who some day may have leftover chile cascabel, you slice the chiles down the side, remove the seeds (don't remove the stem end) , hydrate in hot water, stuff with panela or farm cheese, or if you want to really go for broke, with Monterrey jack; place chiles in an oil-sprayed baking pan.
In the blender, blend some cream, onion, tomato, garlic, and season with chicken consome powder or crumbled consome cube, and pour over chiles. Bake at 350 until hot, bubbly, and brown.
Stay tuned for more compensatory recipes to satisfy my foodie cravings. I've got one for ravioli stuffed with sweet potato that will give you a heart attack, but oh, you will die happy!
There are two fabulous pluses: the recipes are to die for, and you can swap the points gained in your exercise program for food. This is day two, and I've already earned enough exercise points to eat an entire meal. I'm not going to do it, however, since I'm saving up for a vanilla ice cream cone. The cone "costs" about five points--what I've earned so far, in fact--but I don't want to sidetrack healthy eating right out of the gate. A Coke is three points. I can see that WeightWatchers has modernized its information and its stance on junk food, too. The site has the latest scientific info on weight and healthy eating, and I'm thrilled to see that eggs are now on the "you gotta have 'em" list, because I love eggs.
The recipe I am trying today for lunch is Mediterranean-spiced quinoa in red peppers, baked with a topping of feta cheese. I've made the filling and stuffed the peppers, and I can say that the filling is delicious. Quinoa seems to be the next miracle food if one is to judge by how often it is popping up in recipes from CooksIllustrated and Bon Appetit. It contains all eight amino acids, is easy to cook, has a nice nutty flavor, and can be made into pudding just like tapioca.
By the way, for those of you who some day may have leftover chile cascabel, you slice the chiles down the side, remove the seeds (don't remove the stem end) , hydrate in hot water, stuff with panela or farm cheese, or if you want to really go for broke, with Monterrey jack; place chiles in an oil-sprayed baking pan.
In the blender, blend some cream, onion, tomato, garlic, and season with chicken consome powder or crumbled consome cube, and pour over chiles. Bake at 350 until hot, bubbly, and brown.
Stay tuned for more compensatory recipes to satisfy my foodie cravings. I've got one for ravioli stuffed with sweet potato that will give you a heart attack, but oh, you will die happy!
domingo, 8 de abril de 2012
The Verdict
We are all grateful that it has drizzled today, and thick clouds to the north are promising perhaps more drizzle. TootSweet not only went for his walk yesterday (in his case it's a trot, he doesn't seem able to walk), then went to the quinta with us and played with my son-in-law's two dogs, since he and his family showed up too. Playmates were a beagle and a Springer spaniel. Today I am going to make sure he rests.
Meanwhile, back at the homestead, I made the vanilla wafers and the banana pudding. Tasting the wafers showed that they are inferior to the commercial wafers, but the pudding is going to be wonderful anyway with loads of bananas and the fantastic filling.
Back to the drawing board, however. Next time I'm in the States, I will have to stock up on Nilla Wafers.
Meanwhile, back at the homestead, I made the vanilla wafers and the banana pudding. Tasting the wafers showed that they are inferior to the commercial wafers, but the pudding is going to be wonderful anyway with loads of bananas and the fantastic filling.
Back to the drawing board, however. Next time I'm in the States, I will have to stock up on Nilla Wafers.
viernes, 6 de abril de 2012
Vanilla wafers
No one should be without banana pudding. The entire world would benefit both physically and emotionally from a big dose. Unfortunately, as of several months ago, vanilla wafers have been notably absent from our stores here.
There is a specialty store not far from my house that specializes in stuff imported from the U.S., such as fondant for cakes, spices, buckwheat pancake mix, etc. They may or may not have vanilla wafers, but the prices in the place are outrageous. It's cheaper to drive to Laredo and stock up on cooking ingredients. But never fear, the Internet is here!
Yes, it's true, I found a recipe for vanilla wafers. I will report on the results as soon as I have a chance to try it out. Banana pudding looms in my future, and probably on my butt as well.
There is a specialty store not far from my house that specializes in stuff imported from the U.S., such as fondant for cakes, spices, buckwheat pancake mix, etc. They may or may not have vanilla wafers, but the prices in the place are outrageous. It's cheaper to drive to Laredo and stock up on cooking ingredients. But never fear, the Internet is here!
Yes, it's true, I found a recipe for vanilla wafers. I will report on the results as soon as I have a chance to try it out. Banana pudding looms in my future, and probably on my butt as well.
A claim to fame...
Today I managed to trot over a kilometer, with the Toots acting like a totally civilized dog. Now he pays attention to verbal corrections, and it looks like we are on our way.
After Beto staggered away from the table after lunch (sweet potato stuffed ravioli with brown butter and hazelnut sauce, smoked porkchop with fresh, roasted pineapple, and fig and arugula salad with prosciutto and shaved parmigiano cheese), it brought to mind that Monterrey has the dubious claim to fame of having had, at one point, the world's two fattest men living here.
They were HUGE. Their legs were so fat that the couldn't keep them together, and they stuck out at right angles to their bodies. In fact, you would be hard pressed even to identify the limbs as legs, since they had no real recognizable shape. "Grotesque" doesn't cover it.
One of these men literally ate himself to death, and the other pleaded for help and got it. Hordes of people descended upon his humble abode, put him on a diet, helped him exercise even while bed-ridden. (Neither of these men had gotten out of bed in years since neither could move under his own steam.) This man probably no longer holds the record as the world's fattest man, because he has lost a couple of hundred pounds and seems to be forging ahead with his diet and exercise program. I think he still hasn't gotten out of bed on his own, although he has been hauled out by pulley and taken for medical evaluations.
Let's face it, these men are the victims of attempted--or successful--murder. If you are bedridden, you can't chow down unless someone brings you the masses of calories and crap that are keeping you too fat to move. One of the mothers was interviewed for the Discovery Channel (and surely there are others things more inspiring to discover than this), and she was a humble, passive woman who seemed simple-minded, no doubt trained from birth to cater to everyone's needs except her own. She was no sylph herself, mind you, but it is probable that no one every taught her anything about nutrition. She entered into the diet regime with gusto, though, so her heart is in the right place. According to her, her son threw such temper tantrums when he didn't get enough food that she would wind up giving in. They live in a tiny house with only three or four rooms, so maybe she was afraid the neighbors would intervene if he kept up the ranting. Poor woman!
Every now and then, our local paper comes out with some article about this man, and believe you me, I've seen enough of him. I'm not amused by his massive self, unable to wear clothes in the summer because nothing fits him, wrapped barely in a sheet. But morbidity seems to be the byword in television viewing too, so if you want to look up this individual, just google "world's fattest man", and you may find him even though he has probably lost his title by now. But you never know.
After Beto staggered away from the table after lunch (sweet potato stuffed ravioli with brown butter and hazelnut sauce, smoked porkchop with fresh, roasted pineapple, and fig and arugula salad with prosciutto and shaved parmigiano cheese), it brought to mind that Monterrey has the dubious claim to fame of having had, at one point, the world's two fattest men living here.
They were HUGE. Their legs were so fat that the couldn't keep them together, and they stuck out at right angles to their bodies. In fact, you would be hard pressed even to identify the limbs as legs, since they had no real recognizable shape. "Grotesque" doesn't cover it.
One of these men literally ate himself to death, and the other pleaded for help and got it. Hordes of people descended upon his humble abode, put him on a diet, helped him exercise even while bed-ridden. (Neither of these men had gotten out of bed in years since neither could move under his own steam.) This man probably no longer holds the record as the world's fattest man, because he has lost a couple of hundred pounds and seems to be forging ahead with his diet and exercise program. I think he still hasn't gotten out of bed on his own, although he has been hauled out by pulley and taken for medical evaluations.
Let's face it, these men are the victims of attempted--or successful--murder. If you are bedridden, you can't chow down unless someone brings you the masses of calories and crap that are keeping you too fat to move. One of the mothers was interviewed for the Discovery Channel (and surely there are others things more inspiring to discover than this), and she was a humble, passive woman who seemed simple-minded, no doubt trained from birth to cater to everyone's needs except her own. She was no sylph herself, mind you, but it is probable that no one every taught her anything about nutrition. She entered into the diet regime with gusto, though, so her heart is in the right place. According to her, her son threw such temper tantrums when he didn't get enough food that she would wind up giving in. They live in a tiny house with only three or four rooms, so maybe she was afraid the neighbors would intervene if he kept up the ranting. Poor woman!
Every now and then, our local paper comes out with some article about this man, and believe you me, I've seen enough of him. I'm not amused by his massive self, unable to wear clothes in the summer because nothing fits him, wrapped barely in a sheet. But morbidity seems to be the byword in television viewing too, so if you want to look up this individual, just google "world's fattest man", and you may find him even though he has probably lost his title by now. But you never know.
miércoles, 4 de abril de 2012
Mexican fire-roasted sauces
If you are into real Mexican cuisine, you might like to make a fantastic fire-roasted sauce that only gets better once it sits in the fridge.
You'll need a cast-iron griddle or comal (a round iron griddle). The best are by Lodge, and you can often find them at Academy; if not, you can order one directly from Lodge. They are the best way to heat up corn tortillas also.
Ingredients:
One onion, quartered
Three or four Italian tomatoes
Two or three garlic cloves, unpeeled
A chile ancho, mulato, guajillo, pasilla, or cascabel (I really like cascabel chiles); these are dried chiles but they should still be flexible so you can use the rest for stuffing if you want to. Recipe for that later.
Ground chipotle powder
Cover the griddle with aluminum foil and heat. Place onion and tomatoes on the griddle and allow to roast, turning with kitchen tongs. Have your blender handy, and as the onion and tomato begin to char, put them into the blender. Put garlic on griddle and remove as the peel becomes toasted. You can do this at the same time you do the onion and tomatoes if you are careful not to let the garlic burn. Without taking off the peel, use a garlic mincer to mince the garlic right into the blender.
Put a small pan of water on the stove, add some salt, and heat to just boiling. Meanwhile, remove the seeds and the stem from your chile of choice (I only use one) and place on griddle. Turn chile, pressing it down lightly, but only until fragrant. If it burns it becomes bitter. Pop it into the hot water, turn off the heat under the pan and allow chile to rehydrate.
Place chile into blender with other ingredients and a little of the water in which the chile soaked. Add salt and pepper. Blend until smooth.
Heat a skillet and add some neutral-tasting oil. When hot, "fry" sauce, stirring, until the raw taste has worn off. Check the salt, and add just a touch of chipotle powder to add a smoky taste.
Store sauce in fridge. Use for flautas, enchiladas, with a fried egg, in beans, you name it.
The aluminum foil allows you to use the griddle without having a clean-up afterward. Enjoy!
You'll need a cast-iron griddle or comal (a round iron griddle). The best are by Lodge, and you can often find them at Academy; if not, you can order one directly from Lodge. They are the best way to heat up corn tortillas also.
Ingredients:
One onion, quartered
Three or four Italian tomatoes
Two or three garlic cloves, unpeeled
A chile ancho, mulato, guajillo, pasilla, or cascabel (I really like cascabel chiles); these are dried chiles but they should still be flexible so you can use the rest for stuffing if you want to. Recipe for that later.
Ground chipotle powder
Cover the griddle with aluminum foil and heat. Place onion and tomatoes on the griddle and allow to roast, turning with kitchen tongs. Have your blender handy, and as the onion and tomato begin to char, put them into the blender. Put garlic on griddle and remove as the peel becomes toasted. You can do this at the same time you do the onion and tomatoes if you are careful not to let the garlic burn. Without taking off the peel, use a garlic mincer to mince the garlic right into the blender.
Put a small pan of water on the stove, add some salt, and heat to just boiling. Meanwhile, remove the seeds and the stem from your chile of choice (I only use one) and place on griddle. Turn chile, pressing it down lightly, but only until fragrant. If it burns it becomes bitter. Pop it into the hot water, turn off the heat under the pan and allow chile to rehydrate.
Place chile into blender with other ingredients and a little of the water in which the chile soaked. Add salt and pepper. Blend until smooth.
Heat a skillet and add some neutral-tasting oil. When hot, "fry" sauce, stirring, until the raw taste has worn off. Check the salt, and add just a touch of chipotle powder to add a smoky taste.
Store sauce in fridge. Use for flautas, enchiladas, with a fried egg, in beans, you name it.
The aluminum foil allows you to use the griddle without having a clean-up afterward. Enjoy!
The Yard Rat
Two days ago, as I watered my newly-planted flowers in the back yard, suddenly a large rat scuttled across the lawn and made its escape. I was horrified, because each morning Toots dashes into the backyard sniffing the ground from one end to the other, obviously enthusiastic about something unusual that has been here in the night. Okay, I can take opossums and raccoons, but I draw the line at rats. It was off to the store to find some kind of trap. Rats can give dogs toxoplasmosis and gosh knows what else.
There was poison, but I didn't want to kill some harmless visitor to our lawn, such as our squirrel. There were the snapping-type traps, but only mouse size, and besides, it seems like a ghastly way to die. I have a wire cage trap I've used to get rid of opossums and stray cats, but where would I let the danged rat out? ]And what else might I catch instead of the rat? Could I let the rat loose far enough away to keep it from returning? Heaven forbid it should be reproducing somewhere in the yard, because not only might it come back, but then what to do with the offspring?
Finally I bought a sticky trap. It consisted of a couple of strips of thick plastic (two traps, or a double dose of stickiness if you needed it) covered in something unbelievably adhesive; I accidentally got a finger into the stuff and thought I'd never get free again.
But somehow this didn't seem like a particularly stress-free solution; the instructions showed a rat, dead, stuck in the stuff and being tossed into the trash in a very sanitary fashion. Well, something wasn't right, because why was it dead? And who in his right mind would pitch the cadaver into his trash can and hope for the best, smell-wise?
It took me two days to work up the nerve to set the traps out, baited with some almonds and a toasted tortilla. The instructions were clear that no cheese or bacon could be used since greasy substances were banned. Might they allow the rat to slip away, lubricated by cheese or bacon? Who knows?
During the night, I had nightmares that the trap was loaded with radioactive material such as uranium and strontium 90. That would sure explain the dead rat in the instruction drawing!
First thing this morning before allowing Toots outside, I checked the trap, which I had placed on a patio close to the laundry room. The entire trap was gone. I couldn't find it anywhere. I pictured a 'possum making off with the trap stuck to its paws, strong enough to function in spite of this minor bother.
Finally I found the sticky thing, overturned and crammed into a drain grill next to our patio that keeps water from accumulating along a wall. The danged beast, whatever it was, was not only strong but vindictive. If it had rained we would have had water flooding the whole patio, thanks to the natural dam created by the trap.
I've declared a truce on the vermin front. As long as whatever they are stay outside, so be it. After last night, though, I don't think we will be visited again for a while. That could not have been a pleasant time, finding yourself stuck to a big black plastic tray and having to drag it around the yard while trying to free your paws. I wish I could have seen it.
There was poison, but I didn't want to kill some harmless visitor to our lawn, such as our squirrel. There were the snapping-type traps, but only mouse size, and besides, it seems like a ghastly way to die. I have a wire cage trap I've used to get rid of opossums and stray cats, but where would I let the danged rat out? ]And what else might I catch instead of the rat? Could I let the rat loose far enough away to keep it from returning? Heaven forbid it should be reproducing somewhere in the yard, because not only might it come back, but then what to do with the offspring?
Finally I bought a sticky trap. It consisted of a couple of strips of thick plastic (two traps, or a double dose of stickiness if you needed it) covered in something unbelievably adhesive; I accidentally got a finger into the stuff and thought I'd never get free again.
But somehow this didn't seem like a particularly stress-free solution; the instructions showed a rat, dead, stuck in the stuff and being tossed into the trash in a very sanitary fashion. Well, something wasn't right, because why was it dead? And who in his right mind would pitch the cadaver into his trash can and hope for the best, smell-wise?
It took me two days to work up the nerve to set the traps out, baited with some almonds and a toasted tortilla. The instructions were clear that no cheese or bacon could be used since greasy substances were banned. Might they allow the rat to slip away, lubricated by cheese or bacon? Who knows?
During the night, I had nightmares that the trap was loaded with radioactive material such as uranium and strontium 90. That would sure explain the dead rat in the instruction drawing!
First thing this morning before allowing Toots outside, I checked the trap, which I had placed on a patio close to the laundry room. The entire trap was gone. I couldn't find it anywhere. I pictured a 'possum making off with the trap stuck to its paws, strong enough to function in spite of this minor bother.
Finally I found the sticky thing, overturned and crammed into a drain grill next to our patio that keeps water from accumulating along a wall. The danged beast, whatever it was, was not only strong but vindictive. If it had rained we would have had water flooding the whole patio, thanks to the natural dam created by the trap.
I've declared a truce on the vermin front. As long as whatever they are stay outside, so be it. After last night, though, I don't think we will be visited again for a while. That could not have been a pleasant time, finding yourself stuck to a big black plastic tray and having to drag it around the yard while trying to free your paws. I wish I could have seen it.
Sandles, sandels and sandals...
This is what happens when you are too lazy to look up a word that has whisked out of your brain. It's not as if the dictionary were in another room, either. It is on a stand right by the computer, but that means I have to get up and turn pages, God help us. And try learning another language. It will make your English go to the devil. I have a wonderful computer program for learning Italian, and it has made me grind to a halt, communication-wise. My brain goes into some kind of gear-stripping buzz that can't come up with the right word in any language at all until, perhaps, several hours later.
Today the Toots and I only went two kilometers because I was tired, sore, and hungry, but he behaved wonderfully. I may be able to trot with him before long. It has dawned on him that there will be no leash, thus no walk, if he goes bananas at the very thought of going out. So now the uproar of getting him into the underleg doo-dad has calmed to a mere routine. Today we went by another wonderful Sheltie, the soul of civilization, and a black Lab totally out of control that was dragging its owner down the path. The Toots did not try to dash to one side, he didn't yank on his leash, he didn't whine. Is victory within sight??
Today the Toots and I only went two kilometers because I was tired, sore, and hungry, but he behaved wonderfully. I may be able to trot with him before long. It has dawned on him that there will be no leash, thus no walk, if he goes bananas at the very thought of going out. So now the uproar of getting him into the underleg doo-dad has calmed to a mere routine. Today we went by another wonderful Sheltie, the soul of civilization, and a black Lab totally out of control that was dragging its owner down the path. The Toots did not try to dash to one side, he didn't yank on his leash, he didn't whine. Is victory within sight??
lunes, 2 de abril de 2012
Last tango in Monterrey
You've probably heard that ancient joke about the Aggie who heard that most accidents take place within 25 miles of home, so he moved. It always reminds me that of all the times I've fallen off horses, the only time I really hurt myself falling was when I tripped on a tennis court.
It was bad enough that I have been sore from crashing on the running path. Yesterday, while some of our kids and grandkids were getting their gear out the front door, my husband, who was humming a tango, grabbed me and started to dance. At this point, I need to discuss Mexican arts and crafts.
While in Querétaro last year, I bought some delightful woolen mice, stuffed with sand, that are meant to keep your door from slamming when a breeze whips through the house. I bought two, one for the front door and one for a door that goes to the breakfast room. The grandkids love them, of course.
Well, in a move that only a very young man should try, Beto went swirling around, and I was just holding on and trying not to get stomped on, since I had on sandles and it would have killed my foot. I backed into the doormouse and, of course, began to fall down. It was Keystone cops there for a while, except that Beto seemed to hit every object in the room before finally striking the floor a mighty blow with his right gluteous maximus. Unfortunately, his gluteous isn't very maximus and there isn't much cushioning. In a matter of a fraction of a second, he looked like he'd been mugged.
I'm glad to say he is fine, nothing broken, but plenty is sore. I, on the other hand, am now evenly sore on both sides of my body--from my flying leap on the running path and from my flying leap during the tango. I keep telling people that fibromyalgia wreaks havoc with your sense of balance, but no one believes me. But they will now--"they" being Beto, of course. I took ballroom dancing a million years ago and loved it, but we didn't learn this tango move. I think it was one of those spontaneous things Beto does from time to time, but from now on, it aint gonna be with me!
It was bad enough that I have been sore from crashing on the running path. Yesterday, while some of our kids and grandkids were getting their gear out the front door, my husband, who was humming a tango, grabbed me and started to dance. At this point, I need to discuss Mexican arts and crafts.
While in Querétaro last year, I bought some delightful woolen mice, stuffed with sand, that are meant to keep your door from slamming when a breeze whips through the house. I bought two, one for the front door and one for a door that goes to the breakfast room. The grandkids love them, of course.
Well, in a move that only a very young man should try, Beto went swirling around, and I was just holding on and trying not to get stomped on, since I had on sandles and it would have killed my foot. I backed into the doormouse and, of course, began to fall down. It was Keystone cops there for a while, except that Beto seemed to hit every object in the room before finally striking the floor a mighty blow with his right gluteous maximus. Unfortunately, his gluteous isn't very maximus and there isn't much cushioning. In a matter of a fraction of a second, he looked like he'd been mugged.
I'm glad to say he is fine, nothing broken, but plenty is sore. I, on the other hand, am now evenly sore on both sides of my body--from my flying leap on the running path and from my flying leap during the tango. I keep telling people that fibromyalgia wreaks havoc with your sense of balance, but no one believes me. But they will now--"they" being Beto, of course. I took ballroom dancing a million years ago and loved it, but we didn't learn this tango move. I think it was one of those spontaneous things Beto does from time to time, but from now on, it aint gonna be with me!
jueves, 29 de marzo de 2012
Getting there
Today we went out sans the belt but with the under-leg halter. Things were better, but it was because TootSweet was somewhat cautious after yesterday; the fall upset him. Maybe that's the key to training him--I can crash to the ground periodically.
He did well today, because even when a dog went past him, he kept one eye on the end of the leash in case I wanted to whop him. He was completely aware of why he was getting whopped, too. It is hard to train a dog that is smarter than you are and is certain he is the boss of the household. I did a search yesterday on the Internet about leash problems, and I've never read such a pile of garbage in my life. One so-called "expert" went into a long spiel about how a misbehaving dog is stressed and needs understanding and gentle coaxing. What balderdash. A dog that is misbehaving needs correction, not a shrink. An undisciplined dog puts himself and his owner in danger. All the real experts say so.
It is an enormous advantage to go out with a long-legged, active dog. It has forced me to walk with a vengeance, doing 5K in 40 minutes even at a walk. When summer hits, I'll have to be out at four a.m. in order not to overheat TootSweet, but we'll be there.
He did well today, because even when a dog went past him, he kept one eye on the end of the leash in case I wanted to whop him. He was completely aware of why he was getting whopped, too. It is hard to train a dog that is smarter than you are and is certain he is the boss of the household. I did a search yesterday on the Internet about leash problems, and I've never read such a pile of garbage in my life. One so-called "expert" went into a long spiel about how a misbehaving dog is stressed and needs understanding and gentle coaxing. What balderdash. A dog that is misbehaving needs correction, not a shrink. An undisciplined dog puts himself and his owner in danger. All the real experts say so.
It is an enormous advantage to go out with a long-legged, active dog. It has forced me to walk with a vengeance, doing 5K in 40 minutes even at a walk. When summer hits, I'll have to be out at four a.m. in order not to overheat TootSweet, but we'll be there.
miércoles, 28 de marzo de 2012
Crashing and burning, again...
Having sung victory yesterday, it was inevitable that today would be a minor disaster. Off TootSweet and I went, doing just fine for almost two kilometers, when two small dogs and owners trotted by in the opposite direction. A poodle gone bonkers, a swift lane change, and we were both lying by the side of the jogging path with two concerned runners asking if we were okay. I said I was fine, but could they help me hang the dog from the nearest tree?
From that point on, I kept the dog on the same side (to my right), but I held the leash quite short in my left hand and swung the rest of the leash in my right hand and whomped my poodle on his butt at the next attempt to loose control. It's a cloth leash, so it isn't much in the way of discomfort for the dog, but at least it got his attention and let him know things were not as they should be. I've decided to toss the choke collar because it is going to wind up hurting the dog, but I have another weapon in my arsenal, a kind of doo-dad that puts pressure under the dogs front legs if he leaps ahead. I also have a runner's belt that you can use to attach a leash so your hands are free (to break your fall...), so I will look like someone in medieval armor by the time we are geared up. So be it.
Meanwhile my knee is bandaged and my sternum hurts. Damn it! Adrián is getting a HUGE headstart in this bet.
From that point on, I kept the dog on the same side (to my right), but I held the leash quite short in my left hand and swung the rest of the leash in my right hand and whomped my poodle on his butt at the next attempt to loose control. It's a cloth leash, so it isn't much in the way of discomfort for the dog, but at least it got his attention and let him know things were not as they should be. I've decided to toss the choke collar because it is going to wind up hurting the dog, but I have another weapon in my arsenal, a kind of doo-dad that puts pressure under the dogs front legs if he leaps ahead. I also have a runner's belt that you can use to attach a leash so your hands are free (to break your fall...), so I will look like someone in medieval armor by the time we are geared up. So be it.
Meanwhile my knee is bandaged and my sternum hurts. Damn it! Adrián is getting a HUGE headstart in this bet.
lunes, 26 de marzo de 2012
Losing bets
Last week as I joined some members of the training team at the corner where we gather in the park, I innocently asked Adrián why he didn't run (his preferred exercise is swimming). Guffaws resounded, including his own--though a bit sheepishly. Adrián is one of those "Do as I say, not as I do" people, who can train you to perfection but is lazy himself.
The upshot was a bet between the two of us that in three months he would be running 5K in 25 minutes, and I would be doing it in 35. Not a hope in Hades on my part, but it doesn't matter, maybe Adrián will get into shape pressured by the bet (a lunch or dinner) or by the jokes of his trainees.
For my part, I decided my standard poodle was going to run/walk with me and behave if I gave out in the effort. He is a great dog, but he goes bonkers when he sees other dogs (he wants to socialize and play) and you can forget about "sit", "down", or "heel".
The first day was terrible. I made the mistake of going out a bit late in the morning when there are plenty of other dogs with their owners, so the work was a nightmare. If you've ever seen a small poodle leap around like a circus dog, just ramp it up to standard size and you get the picture. He could have leapt over me in a single bound, but thank gosh he didn't. My main task was trying to keep him in his lane beside me. Since lane-changing could send me crashing over him, I keep him on my right side by my stronger arm. But it was very, very hard.
The second day he did much better. He actually allowed one dog to pass by us without going into his circus act. He couldn't keep up the self-control, but I did managed to walk a bit. He begins to pay attention, and I can change directions suddenly with him reacting too instead of heading off to some other place.
Today I went out a little after six a.m., and it was great. He passed a small dog without becoming hysterical, although a larger dog presented him with a near-breakdown of mental health. The good thing, though, was that with TootSweet walking with me, there is no getting distracted and slowing down, so even with a minimum of trotting, I had quite a workout. He gets tired, since he isn't in optimum condition, so that helps keep him more or less under control.
We may win the bet. Adrián has probably not even started yet. I'll find out tomorrow, but the Tooters may haul us to victory and a free dinner.
The upshot was a bet between the two of us that in three months he would be running 5K in 25 minutes, and I would be doing it in 35. Not a hope in Hades on my part, but it doesn't matter, maybe Adrián will get into shape pressured by the bet (a lunch or dinner) or by the jokes of his trainees.
For my part, I decided my standard poodle was going to run/walk with me and behave if I gave out in the effort. He is a great dog, but he goes bonkers when he sees other dogs (he wants to socialize and play) and you can forget about "sit", "down", or "heel".
The first day was terrible. I made the mistake of going out a bit late in the morning when there are plenty of other dogs with their owners, so the work was a nightmare. If you've ever seen a small poodle leap around like a circus dog, just ramp it up to standard size and you get the picture. He could have leapt over me in a single bound, but thank gosh he didn't. My main task was trying to keep him in his lane beside me. Since lane-changing could send me crashing over him, I keep him on my right side by my stronger arm. But it was very, very hard.
The second day he did much better. He actually allowed one dog to pass by us without going into his circus act. He couldn't keep up the self-control, but I did managed to walk a bit. He begins to pay attention, and I can change directions suddenly with him reacting too instead of heading off to some other place.
Today I went out a little after six a.m., and it was great. He passed a small dog without becoming hysterical, although a larger dog presented him with a near-breakdown of mental health. The good thing, though, was that with TootSweet walking with me, there is no getting distracted and slowing down, so even with a minimum of trotting, I had quite a workout. He gets tired, since he isn't in optimum condition, so that helps keep him more or less under control.
We may win the bet. Adrián has probably not even started yet. I'll find out tomorrow, but the Tooters may haul us to victory and a free dinner.
martes, 20 de marzo de 2012
Offical Springtime today
We went to the quinta on Sunday since Monday was a national holiday; all the orange trees are in bloom and the air is redolent with the fragrance of the flowers. Birds sang, roosters crowed, sheep baaahed, horses neighed, and insects buzzed. Even our favorite toads were out after the sun went down.
Just so this doesn't seem like some kind of earthly paradise--it almost is--we came back with mosquito bites bigger than anything in the whole history of blood. The danged insects could only be heard as they buzzed around our ears deep in the night, but by then it was too late. I'm surprised we didn't find them in the morning, the size of sparrows, staggering around on the floor filled with several liters of blood--our blood.
They shouldn't have been in the house, but there is no way to guard against them during the moments of carelessness when a door is left open--this is what happened, too, as we hauled in the books I mentioned on my last post. We have the Asian mosquitoes, that bite during the day, and the familiar variety, that attack you at night. We spend small fortunes on insect repellent, including what we get for the horses.
A great wind is blowing outside on this first day of spring, which means we are having a change in the weather. The plants in my garden are sprouting--peas and squash for the moment. I love springtime--it's one of the two times a year you can actually sit outdoors comfortably, as long as you have mosquito netting...
Just so this doesn't seem like some kind of earthly paradise--it almost is--we came back with mosquito bites bigger than anything in the whole history of blood. The danged insects could only be heard as they buzzed around our ears deep in the night, but by then it was too late. I'm surprised we didn't find them in the morning, the size of sparrows, staggering around on the floor filled with several liters of blood--our blood.
They shouldn't have been in the house, but there is no way to guard against them during the moments of carelessness when a door is left open--this is what happened, too, as we hauled in the books I mentioned on my last post. We have the Asian mosquitoes, that bite during the day, and the familiar variety, that attack you at night. We spend small fortunes on insect repellent, including what we get for the horses.
A great wind is blowing outside on this first day of spring, which means we are having a change in the weather. The plants in my garden are sprouting--peas and squash for the moment. I love springtime--it's one of the two times a year you can actually sit outdoors comfortably, as long as you have mosquito netting...
sábado, 17 de marzo de 2012
Springtime, again
Here it is springtime once more, and a long weekend to boot. Everyone is out on the running path again, including Nordic Walking Woman. I hadn't seen her in a long time. My training team gets new shirts soon, although I have promised to hide mine under another shirt when I'm doing spectacularly badly. Either that or I have to print my age in big numbers on my shirts.
Once more, the doves seem to be working up to crashing into my windows, the parrots are so loud you can't be outdoors in peace, the mosquitoes have made a big comeback, and I decided to do some spring cleaning. Having put off going through our medicine cabinet for years, I decided it was high time; there are deposits in pharmacies where you can toss your outdated medications to make sure they aren't re-used or resold. By the time I was through, I was appalled. The cabinet was almost empty, and one of the medications had an expiration date of 1997! This seems to be the week for other old stuff, too. You may know that Encyclopedia Britannica will no longer be published in book form but will now be available on the Internet. Several people think this will make the lovely books a collector's item before long, and today when my husband went to tour a house on a property he just bought, he found a complete set of abandoned Britannica plus a large number of good books in English, all of which are now in his car. We, too, have a set of Britannica including the Children's Britannica and the gorgeous set on the great thinkers. Maybe they will become valuable and our kids can do something with them after we croak. All I can say is, the younger generation needs them. They can't spell or punctuate, and I'm thinking about sending the great thinkers series to the Republicans this year as a political donation. Maybe like a virus or osmosis, something of cognitive processes will seep through to them. God knows they need help. (This is a mere figure of speech, I'm an atheist...)
Ever wondered why liberals don't go bonkers and shoot people like that old deaf drug addict Rush Limbaugh or try to blow up the local NRA chapter?
For anyone looking for a good escape read, there are the Henning Mankell books about Detective Kurt Wallander, and all the Inspector Morse books are good reading too. I made the horrible mistake of reading the last Wallander book first (there was no clue it was the last book when I bought it) only to be stunned with it ending as Wallander sinks into Alzheimer's disease. I've managed to get over the shock by reading the other books, but they are all somewhat dark. What is it about these Swedes who are doing police or suspense novels? The books are excellent but they seem to be profoundly affected by Swedish winter weather.
Next week we are celebrating my husband's 70th birthday with a big bohemian musical party with plenty of food and drink. I have ordered a really nice cake, just the right size to manage to get 70 candles on it. None of this silly business about candles in the shape of a 7 and a 0. Like the birthday card said, there'll be a hot time at the birthday party, especially if you're in the room with the cake. One of my kids suggested we get a blowtorch to light the candles. Otherwise we will need a team of candlelighters in order to get the last ones lit before the first ones have burned to stumps. I think four people are enough to get the job done without setting each other's hair or clothing ablaze.
There was near tragedy today. I spilled coffee all over the breakfast room table and got some on my Kindle!!!! I think it has come through okay, but I'm not sure yet. There are controls on each side of the device to turn the "page", and one side seems to be on the fritz. This is not a problem since the other side works, but maybe after the coffee dries out inside the thing....well, I'll wait and hope for the best.
Once more, the doves seem to be working up to crashing into my windows, the parrots are so loud you can't be outdoors in peace, the mosquitoes have made a big comeback, and I decided to do some spring cleaning. Having put off going through our medicine cabinet for years, I decided it was high time; there are deposits in pharmacies where you can toss your outdated medications to make sure they aren't re-used or resold. By the time I was through, I was appalled. The cabinet was almost empty, and one of the medications had an expiration date of 1997! This seems to be the week for other old stuff, too. You may know that Encyclopedia Britannica will no longer be published in book form but will now be available on the Internet. Several people think this will make the lovely books a collector's item before long, and today when my husband went to tour a house on a property he just bought, he found a complete set of abandoned Britannica plus a large number of good books in English, all of which are now in his car. We, too, have a set of Britannica including the Children's Britannica and the gorgeous set on the great thinkers. Maybe they will become valuable and our kids can do something with them after we croak. All I can say is, the younger generation needs them. They can't spell or punctuate, and I'm thinking about sending the great thinkers series to the Republicans this year as a political donation. Maybe like a virus or osmosis, something of cognitive processes will seep through to them. God knows they need help. (This is a mere figure of speech, I'm an atheist...)
Ever wondered why liberals don't go bonkers and shoot people like that old deaf drug addict Rush Limbaugh or try to blow up the local NRA chapter?
For anyone looking for a good escape read, there are the Henning Mankell books about Detective Kurt Wallander, and all the Inspector Morse books are good reading too. I made the horrible mistake of reading the last Wallander book first (there was no clue it was the last book when I bought it) only to be stunned with it ending as Wallander sinks into Alzheimer's disease. I've managed to get over the shock by reading the other books, but they are all somewhat dark. What is it about these Swedes who are doing police or suspense novels? The books are excellent but they seem to be profoundly affected by Swedish winter weather.
Next week we are celebrating my husband's 70th birthday with a big bohemian musical party with plenty of food and drink. I have ordered a really nice cake, just the right size to manage to get 70 candles on it. None of this silly business about candles in the shape of a 7 and a 0. Like the birthday card said, there'll be a hot time at the birthday party, especially if you're in the room with the cake. One of my kids suggested we get a blowtorch to light the candles. Otherwise we will need a team of candlelighters in order to get the last ones lit before the first ones have burned to stumps. I think four people are enough to get the job done without setting each other's hair or clothing ablaze.
There was near tragedy today. I spilled coffee all over the breakfast room table and got some on my Kindle!!!! I think it has come through okay, but I'm not sure yet. There are controls on each side of the device to turn the "page", and one side seems to be on the fritz. This is not a problem since the other side works, but maybe after the coffee dries out inside the thing....well, I'll wait and hope for the best.
domingo, 12 de febrero de 2012
The Nose as Simple Decoration
Lots and lots of people don't like their noses; mine suits me just fine. Yesterday, however, I discovered that it has been nothing more than a decorative item on my face for, oh, say six months or so.
We have had day after day of rain and cold, but I ran anyway until yesterday when I had a headache that had all the earmarks (literally, it would seem..) of a sinus problem, and my ears had been stopped up since my last trip to Querétaro, snapping, crackling, and popping but not opening. Thanks to my husband's nagging and some internal impulse that was yelling "Alright already!!!", I went to the ENT specialist we see--it's more fun in Spanish, he's known as an otorrinolaringólogo--only to discover that whatever could be blocked up in the ENT zone, was. It was so acute that he gave me a wonderful shot that opened up my nose almost within five minutes, and I was shocked to discover what it was like to breathe without opening my mouth.
It was even more of a shock to find out what it was like to sleep without my nose stopping up on the side upon which I was sleeping, forcing me to turn to the other side in order to open up each side by turns. My treatment will last at least a month, and the pills I take at night keep me up, but they keep me up and alert, so maybe I can take a night class somewhere. I can't wait until the weather is decent enough to go for a run just to see if this makes a difference or not. Maybe juiced up with my allergy pills and a big dose of bronchial inhaler, I can increase my distance and speed! Add a cup of coffee to that, and man alive, I may be a contender!
We have had day after day of rain and cold, but I ran anyway until yesterday when I had a headache that had all the earmarks (literally, it would seem..) of a sinus problem, and my ears had been stopped up since my last trip to Querétaro, snapping, crackling, and popping but not opening. Thanks to my husband's nagging and some internal impulse that was yelling "Alright already!!!", I went to the ENT specialist we see--it's more fun in Spanish, he's known as an otorrinolaringólogo--only to discover that whatever could be blocked up in the ENT zone, was. It was so acute that he gave me a wonderful shot that opened up my nose almost within five minutes, and I was shocked to discover what it was like to breathe without opening my mouth.
It was even more of a shock to find out what it was like to sleep without my nose stopping up on the side upon which I was sleeping, forcing me to turn to the other side in order to open up each side by turns. My treatment will last at least a month, and the pills I take at night keep me up, but they keep me up and alert, so maybe I can take a night class somewhere. I can't wait until the weather is decent enough to go for a run just to see if this makes a difference or not. Maybe juiced up with my allergy pills and a big dose of bronchial inhaler, I can increase my distance and speed! Add a cup of coffee to that, and man alive, I may be a contender!
sábado, 4 de febrero de 2012
Legal Drugs
Today's unusual news is that I've found a legal, performance-enhancing drug. No, I do not refer to caffeine, although that is certainly part of my repertoire.
It's my asthma inhaler. And no, I have never had an acute attack of asthma, but my allergies have given me what are called hyper-reactive bronchials, sort of a precursor to acute asthma. Many years ago, after going to an allergy clinic in Texas, it was suggested I use an inhaler before exercising, but since my exercising died down to making coffee or brushing the dog, I forgot all about it until yesterday when I used the inhaled medication.
It surprised me that I was even able to trot along a couple of blocks yesterday, after so long a period of feeling like a reheated cadaver, and I decided to walk most of the distance in order not to overdo anything right off the bat. Then this morning after another big puff of the inhaler, I warmed up for a kilometer then ran the second one the whole distance, plus another block or two. No struggling, either. Let's hear it for legal drugs!
It's my asthma inhaler. And no, I have never had an acute attack of asthma, but my allergies have given me what are called hyper-reactive bronchials, sort of a precursor to acute asthma. Many years ago, after going to an allergy clinic in Texas, it was suggested I use an inhaler before exercising, but since my exercising died down to making coffee or brushing the dog, I forgot all about it until yesterday when I used the inhaled medication.
It surprised me that I was even able to trot along a couple of blocks yesterday, after so long a period of feeling like a reheated cadaver, and I decided to walk most of the distance in order not to overdo anything right off the bat. Then this morning after another big puff of the inhaler, I warmed up for a kilometer then ran the second one the whole distance, plus another block or two. No struggling, either. Let's hear it for legal drugs!
viernes, 3 de febrero de 2012
Square 2
Well, FINALLY, after weeks of feeling like el crapo, it turns out I have one of the usual intestinal parasites that fly around, and in two days I will have finished with the ghastly medication. The good news was that I felt well enough to hit the park today, thanks be to the Force. I may be beginning yet again, but at least I am not at square one, but square two. Every little bit helps. My rheumatologist prescribed a goal of five days of exercise per week, and this after I told him I was so tired I was shrivelling up like a salted snail. Did I get any sympathy? No!
Some kind of equipment was bought by the largest running club at the park and installed at Narcissists' Corner. They still have the barbells that end in lumps of cement, and the pull-up bars are still the main attraction, but now they have some kind of odd affair the purpose of which seems a mystery. Two pieces of equipment: you stand on a type of floating pedal arrangement, hold on to some bars at shoulder level, and you swing from side to side. Since gravity is doing all the work, I couldn't figure out what the equipment was supposed to be doing. There are always a couple of people swinging away every day at most hours, but no one was using them this morning since it was very early. I looked at the lettering on the things. Apparently the arrangement gives you some kind of massage. Who knows how, but one day when no one catches me, I'll get on one and see if that swinging really does anything.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my Italian conversation classes consist of the teacher conversing and me trying to patch together enough words to say something. It is unbelievably frustrating because I can read all kinds of things in Italian now, such as the short stories of Leonardo Sciascia, and I can understand someone who speaks fairly slowly, but converse?? It's probably because what the teacher and I talk about is way beyond my current abilities--I don't have enough verb tenses, to begin with. Oh well, maybe if I eat enough homemade pasta a sort of cultural osmosis will occur and I will burst out singing O Sole Mio.
Some kind of equipment was bought by the largest running club at the park and installed at Narcissists' Corner. They still have the barbells that end in lumps of cement, and the pull-up bars are still the main attraction, but now they have some kind of odd affair the purpose of which seems a mystery. Two pieces of equipment: you stand on a type of floating pedal arrangement, hold on to some bars at shoulder level, and you swing from side to side. Since gravity is doing all the work, I couldn't figure out what the equipment was supposed to be doing. There are always a couple of people swinging away every day at most hours, but no one was using them this morning since it was very early. I looked at the lettering on the things. Apparently the arrangement gives you some kind of massage. Who knows how, but one day when no one catches me, I'll get on one and see if that swinging really does anything.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my Italian conversation classes consist of the teacher conversing and me trying to patch together enough words to say something. It is unbelievably frustrating because I can read all kinds of things in Italian now, such as the short stories of Leonardo Sciascia, and I can understand someone who speaks fairly slowly, but converse?? It's probably because what the teacher and I talk about is way beyond my current abilities--I don't have enough verb tenses, to begin with. Oh well, maybe if I eat enough homemade pasta a sort of cultural osmosis will occur and I will burst out singing O Sole Mio.
viernes, 20 de enero de 2012
Italian and Chicken Soup for the Mind
No, this is not going to be one of those treacly, positive-thinking writings that claim to cure what ails ya. I have a recipe for you if you like Mexican food (real Mexican food, not the Taco Bell stuff).
Chicken soup for two:
In a heavy bottomed pan, fry a single whole chicken breast, skin-side down first, until golden. Turn and brown other side. Remove from pan onto a plate.
Saute finely diced carrot, celery, and onion until soft; add diced garlic and fry only until fragrant. Add low sodium chicken broth and the chicken breast. Broth does not have to cover chicken, add enough for soup for two people. Add salt and pepper. Lower heat and simmer covered until chicken is tender.
Meanwhile, toast cumin seed until fragrant and grind in a morter or molcajete (I use a lot because I love it; play it by ear). Chop coriander (also, according to your taste).
When chicken is tender, remove from pot, strain out the vegetables, and return soup to pot. Shred chicken and add to pot, along with coriander and cumin. Add a small dose of chipotle chile powder or canned chipotle, check seasoning again, and heat until simmering. Turn off heat.
Top soup with slices of avocado and shredded Monterrey Jack cheese, and serve with hot tortillas or tostadas. If the soup is to be a whole meal, you can top the tostadas with refried beans and sour cream as well. Delish!
It is possible that some people have a brain capacity for a limited number of languages; my limit seems to be two. Now that I'm trying to add Italian, odd things are happening. Yesterday before my conversation class I went to the store and found myself addressing people with an occasional Italian phrase, but once I sat down with my teacher, after a while I short-circuited and couldn't think in any language at all--no English, no Spanish, even less Italian. As I ground to a halt, the girl took pity on me and carried the conversation herself--good practice for my listening, at least. She seems to think I'm doing well, but compared to what? My dog? And even that is a risky assumption--since I've been using a little Italian with him, he may remember more of the lingo than I do.
My running has also ground to a halt. The weather and barometric pressure changed and put me out of action all week. This may be a losing battle. If I could run five kilometers the way I can run one, I would be down to 35 minutes for a 5K. Ha! The only remedy at the moment is to go off and make a chocolate pound cake.
Chicken soup for two:
In a heavy bottomed pan, fry a single whole chicken breast, skin-side down first, until golden. Turn and brown other side. Remove from pan onto a plate.
Saute finely diced carrot, celery, and onion until soft; add diced garlic and fry only until fragrant. Add low sodium chicken broth and the chicken breast. Broth does not have to cover chicken, add enough for soup for two people. Add salt and pepper. Lower heat and simmer covered until chicken is tender.
Meanwhile, toast cumin seed until fragrant and grind in a morter or molcajete (I use a lot because I love it; play it by ear). Chop coriander (also, according to your taste).
When chicken is tender, remove from pot, strain out the vegetables, and return soup to pot. Shred chicken and add to pot, along with coriander and cumin. Add a small dose of chipotle chile powder or canned chipotle, check seasoning again, and heat until simmering. Turn off heat.
Top soup with slices of avocado and shredded Monterrey Jack cheese, and serve with hot tortillas or tostadas. If the soup is to be a whole meal, you can top the tostadas with refried beans and sour cream as well. Delish!
It is possible that some people have a brain capacity for a limited number of languages; my limit seems to be two. Now that I'm trying to add Italian, odd things are happening. Yesterday before my conversation class I went to the store and found myself addressing people with an occasional Italian phrase, but once I sat down with my teacher, after a while I short-circuited and couldn't think in any language at all--no English, no Spanish, even less Italian. As I ground to a halt, the girl took pity on me and carried the conversation herself--good practice for my listening, at least. She seems to think I'm doing well, but compared to what? My dog? And even that is a risky assumption--since I've been using a little Italian with him, he may remember more of the lingo than I do.
My running has also ground to a halt. The weather and barometric pressure changed and put me out of action all week. This may be a losing battle. If I could run five kilometers the way I can run one, I would be down to 35 minutes for a 5K. Ha! The only remedy at the moment is to go off and make a chocolate pound cake.
sábado, 14 de enero de 2012
The Book List
Now that I have spent my little all on books for my Kindle, at least let me recommend some reading that can be found in the usual paper book form also.
For a magnificent and harrowing history of the Sicilician Mafia, right up to the present time, there is "Cosa Nostra: A History of the Sicicilian Mafia" by John Dickie. Well researched and leaving out myths and silliness, it's enough to make the blood run cold--and abundantly.
Also, one of my discoveries is yet another Swedish police-novel writer, very different from Stieg Larsson (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and the creator of detective Kurt Wallander. There is even a Swedish t.v. series about Wallander. The author is Henning Mankell, and he has written several books about the Wallander character.
"Death in the City of Light" is a fascinating factual account of a serial killer (a doctor) in Nazi-occuppied Paris who spent his time convincing French Jews that he could arrange their escape across the border into free France and onward; after murdering them he took all their possessions.
And don't miss (on a lighter note!) the magnificent biography of Julia Child called "An Appetite for Life" by Noel Riley Fitch. That was one marvelous lady!
We are off to the quinta today, and my back will be put to the test once more. It should be a lot stronger now. Enjoy your weekend, folks.
For a magnificent and harrowing history of the Sicilician Mafia, right up to the present time, there is "Cosa Nostra: A History of the Sicicilian Mafia" by John Dickie. Well researched and leaving out myths and silliness, it's enough to make the blood run cold--and abundantly.
Also, one of my discoveries is yet another Swedish police-novel writer, very different from Stieg Larsson (Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and the creator of detective Kurt Wallander. There is even a Swedish t.v. series about Wallander. The author is Henning Mankell, and he has written several books about the Wallander character.
"Death in the City of Light" is a fascinating factual account of a serial killer (a doctor) in Nazi-occuppied Paris who spent his time convincing French Jews that he could arrange their escape across the border into free France and onward; after murdering them he took all their possessions.
And don't miss (on a lighter note!) the magnificent biography of Julia Child called "An Appetite for Life" by Noel Riley Fitch. That was one marvelous lady!
We are off to the quinta today, and my back will be put to the test once more. It should be a lot stronger now. Enjoy your weekend, folks.
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