En tierras de nadie....

The Nose as Simple Decoration

2012-02-12T09:16:00.000-08:00

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!

Legal Drugs

2012-02-04T06:55:00.000-08:00

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!

Square 2

2012-02-03T05:54:00.000-08:00

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.

Italian and Chicken Soup for the Mind

2012-01-20T08:19:00.000-08:00

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.

The Book List

2012-01-14T04:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Venison Tamales II

2012-01-13T06:39:00.000-08:00

Had one of the tamales this morning after a short run and weight training, thinking I had probably managed to boost my metabolism enough to justify such an indulgence. It was very tasty indeedy! Went down quite nicely with a cup of coffee and some orange juice made from oranges from our quinta.

Since the mornings are quite cold now, and since I've been going out early in the morning, the park is nicely scarce of people. If I am going to continue eating venison tamales, this is a good thing, especially for any potential victims of my digestive turmoils as a result of chile consumption. I think I can cut off two minutes per kilometer in my efforts to distance myself from the rest of the pack before something akin to a supersonic whoopee cushion kicks in.

Venison Tamales

2012-01-12T09:53:00.000-08:00

The luncheon yesterday exceeded all my expectations in every way. There was a nopalito salad that was stupendous, and my compadre gave a riveting talk on how the Mexican IRS violates the Constitution but you can do almost nothing about it. It may have provoked indigestion in some listeners, but we were glued to our seats either in fascination or horror.

One of the members of the club that sponsered the luncheon is a vet who hunts, and each year he treats the whole club to venison tamales; he has a little old lady in some tiny town around here who makes them, and she hits gourmet heights. Apparently the whole club waits eagerly for the date when the tamales are served. It is complicated; on January 6th, day of the Three Kings, a big crown of sweet bread festooned with sugared fruit is shared with friends and family. In the bread, at least one tiny doll is hidden, and if you get it in your piece (assuming you don't swallow it and choke on it), you then have to offer tamales on the Día de la Candelaria, or a festive day related to the Virgen of the Candelaria. That occurs on 2 February. Mexicans never miss an occasion to eat, you may have noticed, and every celebration of any kind seems to involve food. Sort of like Italians in that way.

Anyway, the vet drove by my house this morning and proceeded to deliver an industrial quantity of venison tamales just for us. He said some people just couldn't wait, and since he was doing the rounds, he included us in the abundance. I'm not a fan of venison because not many people can prepare it well, but I'll eat anything in tamal form. That probably means extra kilometers in my daily run....

The Best Laid Plans...

2012-01-11T07:06:00.000-08:00

You know how everything you think of during the night seems like something huge and terrible? It occurred to me very early in the morning that I needed to run, do weights, clean the refrigerator, go to the store, and get ready to attend a luncheon to hear a friend who is going to speak on a subject I have absolutely no interest in whatsoever--some kind of fiscal reform, but these things come along every five minutes or so because the Mexican equivalent of the IRS just can't seem to squeeze enough money out of the tax payer and spends its time thinking up news ways to throttle us. I'm only going to this thing because I've never heard my friend and compadre give a talk, and it is going to be entertaining, one way or another. Besides, the food is pretty good.

I got up around four-thirty, which was okay because I went to sleep around eight-thirty last night. I'm going to have to start drinking coffee later in the day, dang it. Anyway, I went out to run before six, and the attendance was pretty sparse at the park. There was practically no traffic, either, so it was quite nice. Then I got home and did some weight work while watching a season of the The Sopranos, and my fridge is now clean. I don't really need to go to the store until tomorrow, but these things loom like the end of the world during the night. What should have loomed, but didn't, was the book I need to finish translating into Spanish, and the Italian conversation classes I need to arrange so I don't forget every single thing I'm learning for lack of use.

And the dog's hair is so long he looks a giant bouffant stuffed toy. His hair salon appointment has been made. Heck, he looks a lot better than I do.

There is a 5K here in March, and since it looks like I won't make it to Austin in February, I'll enroll in that one and won't have any excuses not to run it. Or walk it, as the case may be.

Gitano

2012-01-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

This is Gitano, when we just brought him to our quinta. He is underworked and overfed in this picture, thus his obesely barrel shape. He's a lot handsomer now. He's a sweetie. Breed:Azteca, a combination of Spanish and quarter horse.

Wallowing at Square 2

2012-01-09T09:08:00.000-08:00

After a hectic but wonderful Christmas season that included six days with the entire family of kids and grandkids in Querétaro--a beautiful colonial town in central Mexico--, too much food, too little exercise, and oddly enough, not enough rest even though I did nothing whatsoever, it's back to the park where I am dragging myself, kicking and screaming, to do a measly 2K on a 6/4 minute schedule: six running, four at a walk.

Not to get behind on other things, either, I rode my horse last week so long at a sitting trot that I wound up with a muscle spasm in my back. That seems to be waning, however, and let me tell you, it aint due to acupuncture, either. I made the mistake of going to my treatment (I have agreed to finish three months of acupuncture for fibromyalgia in order to keep my husband quiet and in exchange for a new Australian saddle worth a king's ransom) and asking for help with my back. Okay, the massage felt good, but my usual doctor had warned me not to lie on my stomach. I had to do just that for a massage and acupuncture session for my back, and it set me back a couple of days at least. The truth is, I place no credence in acupuncture because no one is able to explain the physiological basis for it--that business about "energy" activated by the needles, or "pulling the pain down and away" sounds like bovine faeces to me, folks. I can think of at least six different reasons why it would work, too, without all the ancient Chinese mysticism having to be true:

The ever-popular placebo effect, which is quite legitimate and sometimes can last a long time if you renew it again and again. If it works for you, then go for it. It's worth it.
The therapeutic effect of doing something, anything, for a chronic ailment, especially if what you are doing is a court of last resort, or if you are trying to avoid taking medications and need for it to work. Even going to see a doctor, the act itself, is therapeutic, so acupuncture is surely no different.
The imposed relaxation of a session, which leaves you lying quietly, with your eyes gently covered with a warm (or cold) cloth, for over half an hour while some kind of calm music aids your relaxation.
The wonderful magical effect of the unknown--two thousand years of Chinese mysticism coming together just for you. Every fraudulent remedy offered on t.v., in fact, for losing weight or getting in shape without moving a finger has some kind of pseudo-scientific double talk behind it, along with cartoon portrayals of what is happening in your body--your body being, of course, the ultimate human mystery.
The persistent Western notion that the mysterious Orient hold truths we haven't caught on to yet. Yes, perhaps. But which ones? And why are we so quick to discount Western reasoning? For gosh knows how many centuries, Chinese mothers taught babies to eat solid food by chewing the food themselves first and then feeding it to the babies. Talk about contagion! No one seems to be hurrying to adopt that particular ancient method (which the Chinese themselves have left off, too).
The therapeutic effect of human contact. Acupuncture includes a kind of soothing touch and charming care that of itself is quite nice.

But let me go on no further. The whole point of this is that I am going to persist in order to earn that saddle. Of course, I could get the saddle anyway, but this way my husband will be relieved that I tried everything, and I will be relieved to have it over with, much as I enjoy the sessions. I mean, they aren't free, and my stingy bone gets activated because I don't think there is a point to acupuncture for me. If it works for you, have at it.

Meanwhile I struggle on at the park...

The Legacy

2011-12-26T06:14:00.000-08:00

On Christmas Eve, after the children had opened their gifts, it was time for the adults to throw dice and choose one of the fine, tasteful gifts piled in the center of the room--good stuff such as a capsule of emergency underwear, fake vomit, a pink plastic tiara, the ever-popular fake dog poop, and the worst Mexican movie ever made. One of my elegant contributions to the pile was technology's most amazing creation: a self-inflating whoopee cushion.

When the gift was opened, and oddly enough I managed to get it, and tried out, every kid in the house suddenly appeared as if convoked by magic. There is nothing like flatulence to cause grandkids to gather round.

They took the cushion off, and throughout the house the same event was lived over and over again: a total silence, then a magnificent emision by the whoopee cushion, and a huge explosion of delighted childhood laughter. Apparently they tried out the cushion in every room and on every surface, vying for the best effects.

Karina and I, who were more or less incapacitated by laughter as well, became quite philosophical.

"Your legacy," said Karina, wiping tears of laughter from her face.

"Yeah," I said, "a couple of whoopee cushions and some fake shit!"

The thing is, it is quite true. If a parents' job is to transmit to their children the ruling values of the culture, then ours as grandparents is to make sure the civilization process doesn't go too far. Our main concern should be the preservation of silliness in all its life-saving glory. My office has been populated by patients who may have had all kinds of fairly unique problems, but a lack of silliness has been a common trait shared by most.

Silliness can sometimes get you through very tough times, so here's to my legacy: children exploding with laughter, a pool of fake vomit on the kitchen floor, and the song of the whoopee cushion.

I couldn't have asked for more. Life is complete.

Still launching..

2011-12-21T10:55:00.000-08:00

As you can see by how little I've posted since last week, there has not been a spare moment around here, what with family in residence, parties, and cooking. The big tamal supper has been eliminated and we are eating Italian, but that is not happening until tomorrow when I may have more time.

My trainer and I are considering starting a group for fibromyalgia patients. I really like the idea, although I am not overly confident that we will get any takers--people with fibro tend to have much more pain that I do, and in spite of that, they need to exercise. But when it is that uphill, well, it is easier to go in for yoga. That doesn't do much for your cardiopulmonary conditioning.

I am pleased to announce that Gitano's trot has improved and is no longer the unmitigated torture it was when he first came to me. He has figured out we are not going to ask him to do that idiotic dancing he was taught to do by some nincompoop who thought he was doing something akin to the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, so now Gitano has lightened up and is beginning to get some verticle, springy movement. He seems to be doing well adjusting to being with us, and as with most friendly horses, he is a goodie glutton. That means carrots or apples.

Out to run tomorrow; I suspect I have a foot injury, but with fibro you can never tell. Tomorrow may clear up my doubt. Man, aint old age a bitch??

Mission control

2011-12-12T10:42:00.000-08:00

My kitchen this morning was like the launch of a space vehicle. Since our U.S. family arrives on Wednesday, I decided to bake up a batch of cookies for neighbors, vets, consuegras, and other people I like to remember at Christmas with something homemade.

I had decided on chocolate chip cookes, loaded with--of course!--butter. By the time I had mixed up my multiple batches, I could smell the motor of my industrial-strength mixer as it began to struggle. I fired up my gas oven and my electric counter-top convection oven, got out every baking sheet and wire rack I own, and spent an hour leaping from counter to ovens to racks at a pace that left me no time even to go to the bathroom. As the cookies began to come out of the ovens, I thought there wouldn't be enough and that I was going to have to bake biscotti to complete the gifts, but once I started filling the containers, there were just enough cookies to give everyone a really fine dose of butter.

This afternoon, it's Yucatan tamales with mole poblano filling, but those I'll freeze until time to serve them on Christmas Eve. My mouth is watering as I write this!

Not to get behind, I am also trying to get out the last cooking class assignment for my course--thin-crust pizza with tomato sauce, baked on a baking stone so damned hot it may heat the whole house until tomorrow night and beyond. This I will have to take a picture of, so I'll post it later. I am going to serve it with a salad. Right now I'm also making a carrot soup with one of Julia Child's tricks--cooked rice in the soup that makes it so creamy you only need to add a mere dribble of the real thing at the last minute. (This is from her book, "The Way to Cook", her last.)

On the running front, I am going to slow to a swift march to see if that helps my fibromyalgic back pain--it's right between the shoulder blades and can even wake me up if I have to turn over! If the jolting of running isn't affecting it, it will be back to the faster pace after a week's pain trial.

Racing against the butter...

2011-12-07T10:28:00.001-08:00

Maybe it's all the rest I get between runs, or the acupunture, but I have been feeling much better lately. It could also be the melatonin capsules that I take at night, who knows? But that means my exercise is still alive and I have a fighting chance of offsetting the amount of butter my recipes call for.

After yesterday's excess (it wasn't just good mac and cheese, it was epoch-making), today we are having something sensible (chicken tostadas), but since my daughter and her girls are coming to lunch, I broke down and made apricot pecan bars--redolent from the oven of--natch--loads of butter. I even got vanilla ice cream for the girls to eat with the bars. The only way for us to survive here when I make desserts is to have guests for lunch and send them home with any leftover goodies. I'm with ya, Julia, on the food police!

Butter

2011-12-06T11:18:00.001-08:00

As I stood at the stove grating nutmeg into the roux for my gourmet mac and cheese, it occurred to me that I had some leftover butternut squash ravioli filling thawed out in the fridge, and wouldn't that be good mixed in with the roux and the pasta?

After I mixed the pasta and the milk sauce with butternut squash, and after piling on three kinds of cheese, it thought maybe I'd better omit the breadcrumb topping this time. But no, those buttery bread crumbs bake up to a toasty, savory crunch, so I put my French bread in the food processor and processed away.

Then as I was about to melt the butter to add to the crumbs, I remembered that I also had some brown butter hazelnut sage sauce left over from the ravioli, so why not use that to butter the crumbs? After all, everything I had in the pasta melded with the nutmeg-parmesan-pasta-cheese theme. So that's what I did.

I'll let you know later how this turns out, but in the meantime, the calorie count is obscene. Julia Child would be proud of me though--there is enough butter in this dish to satisfy even someone who said you just couldn't have too much butter. I think maybe you can. I think maybe I have.

Cold and RAINY!

2011-12-06T05:39:00.001-08:00

It doesn't matter if it's cold--I can climb on the treadmill--but what really matters is the rain. Our part of the country was declared a disaster area because of the drought, and though this may not last long, at least my back yard won't be a disaster area too.

Time to break out the Sopranos and hop onto the machine.

Red Bull

2011-12-05T09:46:00.001-08:00

This has been "Let's Destroy Our Knees" week on the running path. Suddenly--perhaps because I go out later now--there has been an abundance of older, overweight people with knee braces on both knees, or those bands worn under the knee to keep the knee cap from moving down too much. If there is anything a running book will tell you, it's never, never ignore the slightest amount of knee pain. Today on the running trail, ailing knees could be seen all over the place, and the only overweight gentleman who was being cautious was a younger man who was doing that kind of not-really-a-trot movement. Good for him, and more power to him.

Some products should not be sold to people over 30 years of age. One of them is Red Bull, the so-called energy drink. I've been told that young people at nightclubs drink it between rounds of booze in order to keep going all night. My son Rodrigo suggested it might help my morning fatigue so that I could get back out in the park, so I tried it today.

First of all, you should not have it on an empty stomach, but if you are going out to run, the most you've got in your system is coffee and a banana. I began sipping the stuff as I cleaned up the kitchen and made the beds, and I noticed I was really going at it with a vengeance, hopping from task to task like a frisky teenager. Not that a teenager would clean anything up in a frisky manner, but you know what I mean.

By the time I got to the park it was almost ten o'clock, and my stomach had been empty since six-thirty except for my coffee, the aforementioned banana, and a big can of Red Bull. The company may deny it, but I think the drink contains amphetamines. After a one-K warm-up, I began trotting; I had the odd impression that my head had gently separated from my body and was floating a few inches above my neck. The kilometer I trotted seemed to last about two or three minutes, as if it were foreshortened. The kilometer I then walked didn't seem to last more than 30 seconds. At that point, however, I was hit by hunger pangs that made me feel faint. Visions appeared of a large bowl of hot oatmeal with a big pat of butter melting in the center, sprinkled with brown sugar and studded with raspberries. Or an egg with my homemade hot sauce and refried beans. The last kilometer was torture. By then my head seemed to be floating several yards ahead of my body, which tried desperately to catch up with it. God knows how I made it home and managed to cook myself the oatmeal.

Be warned: energy drinks are for the young. If you are around my age, stick to water or Gatorade.

Autumn

2011-11-29T09:31:00.001-08:00

As it turned out, L. was hospitalized yesterday after arriving home, and she was released at eight that night. A stomach infection, of course, but no one told her if it was rotavirus or not. She is at home resting and taking care of herself, thank gosh, and I am alone in a quiet house! Only my wind chimes and the birds are singing.

Here is a picture of the flowers produced by the plants I nursed like babies during the god-awful summer. Behind them you can just make out the rosemary bush. Also, many years ago, I dug up a weed I found growing in my neighbors' sidewalk, and its small purple flower has been going strong ever since, a real draw for hummingbirds.

Old Slave-Driver Me

2011-11-29T05:32:00.001-08:00

You just don't know what to think. There is a fine lady who cleans my house for me, and another fine lady who comes a couple of times a week to ride herd on the outdoors part of the house--patio, yard, and vehicle park (a place where all the grandkids' bikes are stored). Yesterday these women showed up, and a few minutes afterwards, M. came in to say that L., my full-time help, felt very bad and needed to lie down, that she was vomiting.

Horrified, I went to find her and she was dragging herself around my bathroom, trying to clean up after me and my husband--her usual Monday task. She was pale and shaking, and I immediately had an employee of my husband (who happened to be here doing something) drive her home. As she left, she told me she had had diarrhea all night and had been vomiting. By the time she left my house, she had fever.

How does one interpret her coming to work when any right-minded individual would have stayed at home? My daughter Karina told me she thinks it is some kind of cultural message drilled into Mexican women (not men, mind you...), that you show up to work even if you are embalmed. No logical reason made L. come to work: I do NOT dock pay for sick days since my ladies are almost never sick. I give them days off whenever they need or want them, knowing that they never abuse the privilege. They have time off for family emergencies, family events of importance, official holidays, one day a week just to give myself a rest from having the house full of people, appointments with doctors, you name it.

Was it a misguided sense of loyalty that made her want to fulfill her work obligations even though she might be giving all of us--us, then our kids, then the grandkids--something like rotavirus or a raging stomach infection? Karina said she has told everyone who ever worked in her home that coming to work even with a cold was verboten, but she says they just don't listen--so of course, she sends them home and docks their pay not for being sick but for not paying attention to her.

As she left, L. threatened to come to work today. I told her not to, but I may have to send her home again if she darkens my doorway.

Meanwhile, I sit here wondering if I have the energy to go walk/trot...

Overload

2011-11-28T07:27:00.001-08:00

Mexico is a terribly noisy country. You are overloaded day in and day out. Dogs bark night and day, hysterically, and all you get by calling the police is disgruntled neighbors, but no solution to the dog problem. People seem unable to undertake any activity without a radio going, CDs playing, singing, non-stop conversation. Restaurants usually have some idiot box blaring, toward which your eyes seem to gravitate whether you want them to or not. It always struck me that when my family travelled, especially in Europe, the only place we could go where we weren't the loudest and most raucous people around was Italy.

Acupuncture involves a soothing cloth placed over the eyes and an even more soothing Chinese music piped into your torture chamber. Except, of course, for the fact that I can hear every obese patient being weighed and the subsequent congratulations--or not--provided by the doctor. Every remark made in the waiting room seems to be made at the top of someone's lungs. The receptionist of course has a t.v. on, playing some ghastly Mexican soap opera. The combination of these things is worse than no effort made at all to create a gentle atmosphere: At least if there was no Chinese music, you could easily eavesdrop on other people's conversation without impediment, which can be pretty entertaining and under these circumstances, guilt-free.

There is no peace to be had anywhere except at home, and that only once in a while.

The night after my first acupuncture treatment, I felt like I'd been electrocuted but, due to faulty execution equipment, had managed to survive. On Saturday it dawned on me that only a mild weight workout was going to help, so I did that after a 5K walk. Worked like a charm. Next day, Sunday, instead of being horribly sore from fibromyalgia muscle pain, I was agonizing from the muscle overload. As someone who wrote a book on fibro so succinctly put it, you're going to ache like hell no matter what you do, so you might as well be strong and sore instead of weak and sore.

On Sunday morning I went out planning to do another walk; the traffic was closed off around the park and every individual in the municipality was there--games for kids, chalk painting, those inflatable jumping areas, a kind of harness-and-frame bungee setup for children, people on skates, bikes, skateboards, and one woman who had us mesmerized as she bounded down the street with a pair of objects strapped to her feet that look miniature shock absorbers. She wasn't bounding too high, mind you, because she seemed a bit unsure of herself, but without doubt she was going to run injury-free unless she lost control of her feet and propelled herself into a concrete abutment.

By the time I had marched 3.5K, the noise was getting to me. There was music of some kind the whole length of the park, and a local rock band was warming up and getting ready to take off. Finally I decided it was too much and I broke into a trot that I managed to keep up over hill and dale until I finished the distance right at the turnoff to my street.

Then I made the mistake of going with my husband to the mall. We hadn't started out going there; I talked him into going to Mass at a Jesuit chapel, since the Jesuits are thinkers, and he has enjoyed the sermons every since. But lo and behold, the traffic was blocked off because of some blasted road work that is itself like God--eternal. So naturally, we decided to stock up on Christmas wine instead of going to Mass.

The wine store was closed. It was high noon. On the door was a sign that said "Open on Sunday from 11 to 2". That was when we went to the mall. I detest Christmas shopping. I went to wait for Roberto at the restaurant where we were going to have lunch. While I sat there, I realized that even without a t.v. set, the decibel level in the place superseded anything I had been subjected to so far. It's a good thing our table was so small our knees met beneath it or we wouldn't have heard each other talk.

Then, when Rodrigo and gang came over in the early evening, I offered to go with my daughter-in-law to the store because she needed to stock up on groceries. Sunday evening is a favorite grocery shopping time in our town because so many women work and because mornings are so hectic. But when we got to the nearest supermarket, there was a line of cars waiting just to get into the parking area, so we went to Walmart.

I don't ever again want to hear Christmas music, especially songs in Spanish sung by nasal pre-pubescent individuals. This kind of spurious holiday cheer makes me want to puke. The noise was made worse by the sensation that I couldn't escape because of the numbers of people stopped mid-aisle, apparently suffering an attack of petite mal (and I don't blame them) or catatonia. When we got home, I blessed all those around me, and went to bed with my Kindle. I can do that, they are used to it.

Back to the needle...

2011-11-25T09:25:00.001-08:00

It's back to acupuncture for me, but not because I want to or because I believe it actually will work. It's the only way to get Roberto to see that it does not work for what ails me--fibromyalgia! The Mayo Clinic did a study that showed symptom relief after six sessions, so one would assume that if you don't get results by then, you may as well give up.

People react differently to the frustration of seeing someone they care about undergoing some kind of problem that can't be solved--my husband, for example, is convinced that trying everything is a real option. It's true he found my current excellent rheumatologist by undergoing a determined search, and it's true his allergy has been almost eliminated by acupuncture, but back when I went with him to the sessions, I didn't seem to get much relief, frankly. Oh, the experience is nice--gentle Chinese music, a friendly and very competent general physician who learned acupuncture as an adjunct to medical practice--but I'd rather hire someone to give me a foot massage every day! Ha!

Well, let the needling begin, at least Roberto will see for himself what does, or doesn't, result from this.

No pictures...

2011-11-24T05:19:00.001-08:00

Not even the cooking school is going to get pictures this time, because Rodrigo came over to lunch and dishes were served as they appeared. I didn't have the batteries in my camera, and with the ravioli on the plate and with me riding herd on the chicken saltimbocca, there was just no time to stop to fiddle with the camera. Roberto wants to taste the food today since he was not her for lunch yesterday, so maybe today I can get shots of the stuff. Let's just say it got rave reviews. Suggestions of opening a restaurant were heard, and my marinara has been voted something I should can and sell. No, that would ruin the flavor.

If I had the energy, I'd think about said suggestions, but I am completely under the weather now with fibro and wondering when I'll be able to get back to running even minimally. I miss it, and it misses me. Time to grin and bear it and stock up on the ingredients for tiramisú.

Comfort Food

2011-11-23T10:03:00.001-08:00

Running is temporarily out of the question, just in time for me to lose all conditioning for Austin, but fibromyalgia has me at home consoling myself with comfort food--not a great choice of handling downtime, but what fun!

Today's Italian homework is, as first course, butternut squash ravioli with a sage-hazelnut-brown butter sauce, and then chicken saltimbocca, which is a thin chicken cutlet panfried with prosciutto and served with a white wine sauce and crispy sage leaves. If my ravioli don't explode in the boiling, I'll post the picture of the goodies that I have to send to the cooking school anyway.

The rest of you, keep training, for God's sake.

Risotto, effortlessly..

2011-11-18T11:02:00.001-08:00

Risotto is famous for having you standing by the stove carefully stirring and adding hot liquid by the half cupfill until it is ready, but yesterday the cooking school had us make effortless risotto that came out creamy and perfect. While risotto is usually served before the main dish, in this case it had chicken. My husband asked if I thought he was gaining weight. I said no, you weren't here the day I had to make fettucine Alfredo and you avoided the massive calories.

On the other hand, my husband usually serves himself more than he can eat, but he may be on to something because he has been having seconds since I've been using him as my Italian food guinea pig. It's a good thing, maybe, that the course doesn't include desserts.

No run today, I got off to a late start and have been behind ever since. The dog seems fine, by the way...

Upping the calories in my run...

2011-11-17T09:01:00.001-08:00

Today I managed to consume ever so many more calories on a short 4K run/walk because I took my dog with me. His tendency to pull me along--and the savings in effort--was offset by his tendency to go bonkers every time some other runner went by with his/her dog. I had to make him sit and stay while the others went by, and I had him on a leash so short I could have superglued him to my running pants. By the time we were through, he was tired enough to be more or less obedient, and I hope that this routine will finally tame his "I'm so much smarter than this woman" attitude that makes him the height of gentlemanliness at home and a terror outdoors where he knows I can't force him to obey because I can't catch him.

My whole right side is aching from hanging on the the leash and correcting him. It's Advil time, as usual...

Cream in the arteries...

2011-11-16T10:36:00.001-08:00

Today was fettucine Afredo, and it can be consumed only in very small doses--it is loaded with cream. I could feel my arteries blocking even as I added the cream to the butter (yes, butter, that is the base fat for this sauce).

On a more positive note, the home-made pasta came out perfectly. The recipe and the video have fool-proofed the whole undertaking (the fool usually being me, in this case), and my pasta machine fairly hummed along as I produced a mass of fettucine pasta. When they say to separate the strands as best you can, they are not kidding. Because once you dump this stuff in your boiling water, you can't do it. Unless you want a glutinated mass of fresh pasta that comes out as a single piece, you'd better do just as they say and get those little devils separate from the outset.

What with my Kindle and the Parmigiano-Regiano cheese for this course, I make my way toward bankruptcy apace. Probably just as well.

Tomorrow I will see if I can manage to run; my fibro is at an all-time high. One never knows whether to go at it and damn the torpedoes, or whether after a run you'll wind up on Advil for days and days. Oh well.

Before...

2011-11-15T11:01:00.001-08:00

Unable to leave well enough alone, we have this, bought today, which will be prepared after a nice dose of home-made fresh pasta and Alfredo sauce, my next cooking assignment.

The Barefoot Guy

2011-11-15T07:05:00.001-08:00

The day before yesterday, I was passed on the running path by a tall, Nordic-looking young man--maybe American, maybe German--who was running barefoot. I would have paid good money to have been able to catch up to him and ask about his barefoot running. He was long gone by the time I managed to propel myself up the pedestrian bridges spanning a big intersection, but next time I hope to be able to talk to him even if I have to hang out at the end of the running park (known as Narcisistics' Corner). Because of the frequent winds at this time of year, the running path is often liberally sprinkled with acorns or even pecans, and one section is covered with bird poop that stinks to high heaven. The poop washes off, but stepping on those acorns must be really painful. He surely cannot manage to avoid them all. I'll report back once I've managed to interview the guy.

On the same day, leaving Narcissitics' Corner at a healthy trot, was a guy no taller than I but absolutely bursting with muscle. Obviously heavily into pumping iron, he was short enough that weight work could build him up in no time flat, but lordy! A tad more and he would be wider than he was tall, and if you've ever seen the charge of a mountain gorilla on the Discovery Channel, you've seen this guy.

Yesterday and today are rest days, thanks to fibromyalgia, and this afternoon we celebrate the birthday of our little Ian, a cutie of the first order. He is seven today. He's the same honest little fellow who looked deep into my eyes while giving me a big hug and told me I looked like an iguana. He's into reptiles, so it isn't as terrible as it sounds. Well, okay, it is, but he meant well.

Artie Choked to Death

2011-11-13T08:40:00.001-08:00

The reason my blog was nonfunctional was due to an IE upgrade necessary for me to take an online course in Italian cooking. So far the course has been fabulous--delicious salads, great manicotti, fresh and filled pastas, you name it. The only recipe that was a dismal failure so far was stuffed artichokes alla Romana.

The video was clear as a bell on the cleaning and stuffing of the artichokes. Now, they have always seemed to me too much work for very little payback. That little bit of meat at the end of the leaf and the heart seem fairly tasteless, frankly, only being redeemed by dipping the leaf in butter or mayonnaise. But, hey, if the Italians like them, then there must be something to it.

Cut off the top fourth of the artichoke, our chef advises. Good luck on that one. My knives are literally sharp enough to cut paper, and my bandaged fingers are proof. After a while I felt like I needed a chain saw to get that top fourth off. The results were less than aesthetic, but even at that point I knew something was not right here. My artichokes were a different color, a very lovely purple inside; the instructions said to strip the leaves until the artichoke was a pale green. Then carefully pushing the leaves aside, you dig out the choke with a spoon and rinse to make sure you've gotten it all. It is ever so inedible.

I kept pulling off leaves until I realized there was never going to be any pale green. Then, I found that the choke was protected by a tightly closed, minute set of purple leaves that would have to be dug out first. I thought I would never get rid of the blasted choke, but as it was, it really didn't matter. I prepared the stuffing (delicious indeed) and tried to get it into my artichokes. Artichokes, by the way, are members of the thistle family, and as far as I'm concerned, that says it all.

The instructions said to cut thick rings of onion, lay them in a pot, add some parsley and a little salt, place the artichoke stems in the onion rings so the artichokes would be held upright, add water, and steam. Halfway through, you are supposed to turn the artichokes over, "being careful not to spill the filling".

My onions had wilted in the process, releasing their liquid, and there was no way I could turn the beasts over without soaking the filling. I turned them on their sides.

Just to give the chefs a laugh, I dutifully took a picture of these god-awful things and sent it on to the school. The instructor came to the conclusion that I had some other breed of artichoke, and I used the filling for stuffed baked mushrooms that came out spectacularly. For your delight and amazement, I include the culprits here.

Am I here yet?

2011-11-13T04:33:00.001-08:00

Folks, I may be able to post now with Internet Explorer 9, in which case let me update you: my running has gone to pot, and I have now given up my hope of winning the Austin 5K in all age groups in a record time of 20 minutes. Okay, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration and I shouldn't have hoped for that anyway. But so far I have been unable to recover from the summer low, and any trip sets me back by weeks, so now my trainer has put me on a run-6-minutes, walk-2-minutes schedule for 5K. Even that is uphill.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Gitano is turning out to be a difficult ride, not because he is badly behaved, but because his trot is like driving a Beetle with no shock absorbers. Every bone in your body gets loosened. He's a handsome devil, however, and that often makes up for a lot, and he is sweet--perhaps too sweet since he follows me around trying to find out if I have carrots, making a pest of himself when I am outdoors at the quinta.

Well, in spite of every instinct I have, out I go to run. If only you knew how loosely I am using the term "run"....

Back at last...

2011-10-25T06:58:00.000-07:00

Our trip to Seattle was marvelous, just to see such huge trees and run in the misty mornings. In Los Angeles, the weather was all right but the smog was awful, and I didn't run there except for one day at the gym. It was very unpleasant, however: the treadmill arm supports were sticky and the treads themselves had some kind of spilled liquid on them which had dried, leaving streaks. I felt like going over the whole thing with a Lysol cleaning cloth, and it was so disgusting I didn't go back.

Here I have managed a run since our return on Saturday night, but I'm having the ever-famous fibromyalgia post-trip fall-out in which every spot on your body aches. The Austin 5K looms, and I see myself walking it now!

Rain, and more rain...

2011-10-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

It's either feast or famine. The rain began yesterday, and from the news we see it was so bad in some parts of town that at least three people were drowned when they were swept away by flash floods--in the streets and underpasses! Apparently the amount of rain that fell in a short time qualified as a cloud burst. I've lived in Mexico for 43 years, and this town has never failed to have natural disasters associated with water each year. The incredible part is how dangerous the streets get.

However, when I went out to run in the rain this morning--just a misty rain, no big deal--the park was almost empty. Thank God for small favors. I expected to see the hard-core runners, but no, it was just us old folks trying to lighten old age by keeping moving somehow. It is supposed to rain on and off until Thursday when we leave for Seattle, so maybe there won't be the usual park traffic jams.

And of course, it will rain in Seattle too! Well, I'm off to pack and to get my closet in some kind of order. That is an easy task--most of my clothes need to be thrown away. This tendency of mine to cling fiercely to a pair of silver hotpants left over from the 70s has just got to stop. Even if I could get into them, and even if summertime here is ideal for them, and even if my legs still look good, the rest of me has gone to pot with a vengeance.

So I'm going to Seattle with two pairs of jeans and tops, a sweatshirt, running gear, pajamas, and that's it. I have GOT to buy new clothes--this is what happens when you keep thinking, "I'll wait until I get back to my real weight...", as if I were EVER going to get back into the clothes I've saved. Merciless, that's what I'll be while I toss clothes...

How Holmes Really Ended Up

2011-10-09T07:43:00.001-07:00

"Quick, Watson, the game's afoot!" cried Holmes, bursting into Watson's sitting room one morning.

Watson, seated in an easy chair by the window, slowly lowered his newspaper. He took a swig of tea from a cup resting on the side table. He replaced the cup on its saucer; the chink of crockery could be heard.

"No, Holmes, the game is not afoot. They are having a 5K and 10K event along the road by the park today. Everyone and his uncle are participating, including ladies with racing strollers, old men with dogs, and experienced runners. Everthing except the game is afoot."

"Oh...well...nevertheless, remember the old gal wearing those rocking chair shoes that are supposed to lift your buttocks, tighten your abs, and make you look ten years younger? She was out again today, and alone this time, no one to hold her up! She was wearing gloves, too, Watson. Do you get the deeper meaning of that? What hideous crime is she up to?"

"Oh, good Lord, Holmes, she's wearing gloves to protect her hands when she falls down in those ungodly shoes. For years now, Holmes, I've played straight man to your narcissistic arrogance, affectation of eccentricity, and cold personality. Oh, I admit it, I'm a sentimental, warm-hearted man, with just enough interest in crime to put up with your foolishness. Maybe I'm masochistic, but I've coddled your need to have someone pretending to be dumber than shredded paper so you could bounce your ideas off me and look like a genious. Holmes, let's face it, I have a cactus in a pot with more deductive reasoning than you've got. Can I serve you a cup of tea, by the way?"

Holmes stood stunned.

"If that's the way you feel, Watson, then there is nothing more to say. I take my leave of you, and let me wish you a good day."

Holmes moved toward the door, head held high, with an expression of cold disapproval.

"By the way, take that assinine hat you wear, Holmes, with its silly ear flaps, and just toss it onto that cactus plant by the window there. Any criminal with two neurons still firing can spot you a mile off with that monstrosity on your head."

Holmes slammed the door, and Watson went back to his paper.

Three K today, as yesterday and the day before; my plan is that one of these days, it will suddenly be easy to pass the 3K mark and keep on going. It was even easier today, in fact, but it helps to have a lot to think about so you don't pay a lot of attention to distance. My shoes are beginning to need replacement, too, so in Seattle next week shopping is in order.

Running can be highly productive; I came up with a whole plan for our mayor in order to get the cops in our area in some kind of physical shape. I'm gonna write it up and take it to him. Keep your fingers crossed.

Instant Panic

2011-10-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

No sooner did I sign up for the Austin 5K than I began to panic: I'm only doing a maple-syrup-in-wintertime 3K right now; I have barely begun to make up for everything I lost during the summer; what if I actually come in last behind the 100-year-olds who walk and the wheelchair competitors?

The actual possibility that anyone on the face of the earth will even see me are infinitesimal. Hundreds and hundreds of people enter the 5K, which is an event that supports the finances of the Paramount theater. People are still strolling through the finish line as the marathoners dash by, and all the excitement is with the marathon and half marathon. You are completely authorized to make as ass of yourself in the 5K, the crowd will roar its support of you no matter how slow you are or how foolishly dressed. People have been known to run in fancy dress costumes or running gear so old there are more holes than material. They run with dogs. They run in teams, they run in pairs. That's the thing about these events: you've got more support than you could ever imagine, and Austin being weird as it is, you too can be weird--you'll get applause.

The Food Revolution

2011-10-06T10:57:00.001-07:00

And speaking of food, check out Jamie Oliver's website and sign the petition to make school lunches something edible instead of the horror usually inflicted upon students. There is something wrong happening when first-grade kids in Southern Italy (the poorest area of the country) in a public school get organic products in school lunches, and they can identify red peppers, eggplant, asparagus, and other good stuff--when in the U.S. you could be talking about nuclear physics if you mention an eggplant to kids that age. Join the campaign.

Three K today at a continuous trot; it is the weather--so much cooler. Hope springs eternal. Two of my kids are going to the Austin events in February, so I guess I'll sign up for the 5K. Heck, even if it's at a crawl...

A Hectic Two Weeks

2011-10-03T10:13:00.001-07:00

Had a wonderful trip to Querétaro to meet with my two closest friends, and the results were marvelous. One lives in Querétaro, one in Mexico City, and of course moi, in Monterrey. One is Spanish, one is Mexican, one is, of course moi, gringa. We've been friends for over 30 years and in spite of our cultural differences, we've always been on the same page.

However, because of the altitude difference, I didn't go out to run. We have had rain, and our weather continues to be cooler, so slowly, slowly, I'm working my way back into shape after a summer that has convinced me and my husband that next year we are going to spend it somewhere else. Mexico City or Querétaro, for example.

While wandering around in the supermarket, still in my running gear, a woman (also in running gear) came up to say how much she admired me. I was taken aback since I didn't know her, but she is out in the park when I am and watches me struggle past her at my geriatric jog. This gal has just begun to go out and walk, having become terminally bored on her treadmill, so I told her to stick with it no matter what. Now she waves each time she sees me.

It also appears that our team is about to get team tees, which according to Adrián, will be phosphorescent green. Or, as I imagine he really means, radioactive green...Maybe he should put a disclaimer on the back of mine in order not to discourage potential trainees: "This old gal has a training tee only because she bought it, folks." Either that, or maybe he should mention my age: "Sixty-seven and still hot-footing it! Join us and wind up like this old lady--except for the wrinkles, we can prevent that too!" You never know what will be a selling point.

And speaking of selling points, here in the land of the overweight and obese, a regular meal supplement war has broken out. There is the York system, and now the Cambridge system, both of which cost a king's ransom and promise to make you look like...hmmm...well, take your pick, your fantasy is as good as mine. Two friends of mine are selling the competing brands. I got one can as a protein supplement, but it tastes like medicine. My other friend gave me some samples of the next brand, so I will try one tonight. I am not optimistic, but this friend and his mom and dad have lost a lot of weight and claim the stuff is delicious. I suspect the parents have invested in the project and this has affected their perception of the taste. I happen to be of the Julia Child persuasion, with a marked dislike of the food police: nothing is good for you, except things you wouldn't feed a hog; you are encouraged to avoid gluten even if you are not intolerant, and yesterday on television a couple of the food police were preparing a pizza made of some kind of bird seed (I kid you not) mixed with herbs and Parmesan cheese, covered with roasted garlic and onions and more cheese, baked in the oven till the crust is "crunchy"--I don't buy that, it looked pretty darned floppy to me. There they sat, the two food coppers, as the credits rolled by, choking down the birdseed pizza in very small bites. Why can't we just have good, unprocessed fruits and vegetables and proteins in moderate amounts and enjoy our meals, for gosh sakes?

If any of you have ever watched "You Are What You Eat", you know what I mean. This Gillian character locates real fatties and subjects them to the same process each week--she scolds, she horrifies, she browbeats them into eating almost purely vegetarian meals, some of which look ghastly. Don't get me wrong, I love vegetarian, but I've tried one or two of her recipes, and no thanks. And this gal may be saving the lives of the people whose diets she revamps, since she also gets them off their butts and moving--but how tiresome the show is!! I don't like seeing fat people being used for entertainment purposes, but I guess if you volunteer for it, who am I to complain?

From the Mouths of Little Boys

2011-09-19T04:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening, after my husband and I had returned from the quinta, our grandkids Sofía and Ian came over with their dad. Sofía was sound asleep and was deposited on a couch, but Ian was full of life and had much to say.

Ian is six. He is adorable. He has big brown eyes, lashes to die for, and a non-stop personality. He sat at the table with me and my husband while he polished off an orange, and he filled us in on the latest:

"There are bad guys on the road to the quinta," he calmly asserted.

My husband and I looked at one another.

"Who told you that? What bad guys?"

"Dad told me," he replied.

"I'm going to have to speak to your dad, then," I said. What in the world was going on? Why was Rodrigo scaring Ian about going to the quinta? Ian adores the quinta.

"You can't do that, he's Dad," stated Ian flatly.

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm your dad's mom, so I can set him straight any time I need to," I clarified.

"They stole Felipe," added Ian.

"What??? Who's Felipe?" chimed in my husband. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse.

"I don't know," said Ian with irritation, as if Felipe's identity was a minor matter, "but they stole him. Bad guys," he added, since it was evident his grandparents were not the sharpest crayons in the box.

At that point Rodrigo came in and we demanded to know why he was scaring Ian about going to the quinta. Rodrigo was totally perplexed and never could find out from Ian who Felipe was or who told him these things. My suspicions lie with Alejandra, who is frightened of everything going on in Mexico (justifiably so) and thinks driving to the quinta is taking your life in your hands.

Then my husband proposed taking the children to get an ice cream cone, and while he was getting an umbrella (it rained last night!), Ian was giving me a big hug and climbing into my lap. He looked deep into my eyes and said:

"Hey, you look like an iguana! You've got that thing under your chin that hangs down!"

As soon as I reach my desired weight, it's off to the plastic surgeon, by dang.

Running Path Oddities

2011-09-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was rheumatologist day, a routine visit which takes place every couple of months (the man is a stickler for monitoring fibromyalgia), and I made the mistake of going to get blood drawn straight from the running path. Apparently exercise alters the results, and it did, but fortunately my doctor--being an exercise fan himself--took it into account. This guy, I may have mentioned before, used to run but had to change to bicycling when his orthopedist found he had a loose vertebra that tends to slip around.

Since the good doc lives in mortal fear of the notoriously bad drivers in our area, he took up the mountain bike, much to the horror of his wife. The gal has a point: what is the improvement over running when you risk crashing and breaking bones? In fact, this year the doc broke his collar bone falling off his mountain bike when he hit a patch of ice coming downhill.

"It's like I told my wife," he stated, "a broken bone heals, but an injured heart is another matter entirely."

I say all this because it might help explain his instructions to me. At the moment my fibromyalgia pain has decided to settle in my back right between my shoulder blades, so yesterday I got put through the wringer: had to touch my toes (with no warm-up!), twist this way and that, and then get pounded on hard enough to get toppled over if the man hadn't been holding me upright at the same time. Man, he hit every single fibro pain point.

Then, after prescribing a muscle relaxant, he told me--and I quote--"to increase your usual training by one kilometer". This after I told him it was all I could do to finish 5K trotting and walking since summer hit.

"Are you daft? Half the time I finish on my hands and knees as it is!" I protested.

"Oh, you'll get used to it, then you can increase up to ten K."

The man has taken leave of his senses, but after hearing about his adventures on his mountain bike, we find all the earmarks of a fanatic. I can understand and identify fully: as far as I'm concerned, a horse is better than travel, fine food, and sex. Of course, when I talk about me, I prefer to think I'm passionate in my interests, but when my rheumatologist ups my training by a kilometer, he is a some kind of nut.

I was thinking about all this as I did today's 5K at a forced march--this was a light training day. There was no way I was going to add a kilometer, at least not yet. As I marched along (sweating as much as if I had been running), I noticed that the grass bordering the path seemed covered with some kind of pointy black objects, some of which stood straight upright, others lying down. When I put on my glasses, I saw that the objects were long feathers. It was amazing. We have tons of starlings that make a huge racket in the trees that line the park, and it looked like they had gotten into some kind of massive battle that involved pulling out each other's tail feathers. I say tail feathers because for several days now, I've seen starlings in my back yard minus precisely these feathers. I began to look at the starlings I could see on the ground, and several of them looked oddly stunted in the rear. It must be hell flying with no rudder, but the bigger mystery is, what the dickens is going on here?

Things are out of whack. Starlings losing tail feathers, my jacaranda tree is blooming (this only occurs in springtime), doves crashing into our windows. It feels like the ominous build-up in a Stephen King novel!

Blast-off

2011-09-10T15:48:00.001-07:00

Last night, the president of a club my husband has joined invited the members and their wives to a wonderful supper replete with anything you wanted to drink and delicious food. There were some shrimp that were to die for.

To my consternation, an announcement was made that all the women would sit in the living room "to get to know one another", while the men gathered outdoors in the pleasant garden. I thought maybe this was a temporary arrangement, but as the evening wore on and we women had more or less shot our conversational bolt with topics such as how nice the house looked, people we know (not me, I don't know anyone in the rancid aristocracy of the neighborhood, at least not women), and other burning topics, I noticed with horror that there were two tables set up--one indoors and one outside. My head was beginning to ache and I was getting angry at the primitive social arrangement that might have been great in Yemen or Saudi Arabia, but not in my 21st century world.

Finally I decided that even at the risk of being thought forward and rude, I'd had it. Either I went out and joined the men, or I would not be responsible for what came out my mouth. I was not feeling particularly spry anyway, having ridden that morning in a sitting trot until I drew blood. I was also slightly dyspeptic.

So I excused myself, got up, went outside and announced to all concerned that I was going to sit with the men. There was a great, though quiet, rejoicing, since it seems the men were not thrilled with the arrangement either. I told the men they need have no qualms about cursing, either--I'm a clinical psychologist and I've heard it all. In fact, I could probably teach them a few choice phrases.

My compadre Armando then went in and brought his wife out, who was near a comatose state from terminal boredom. She had a kind of fixed smile on her face that she really had trouble removing--her mouth was going into rigor mortis thanks to the living room excitement. And a really good time began to be had by all, especially me. At supper we were not segregated by gender, and the other women seemed relieved to be out of the harem too--one, a financial investment expert, must have been near death by negative numbers of mental stimulation, poor thing, but she perked up and had us fascinated with her travels and ideas.

The evening was so entertaining that my tiredness dissipated, but not my dyspepsia. A few bites of the excellent food and my digestive system went into terminal flatulence. I may have sunk my chances of being invited to join the club, the first woman member, by the fact that the explosions were not under my control. My husband said the conversation was so lively that surely nothing could be heard over it, but I told him that if you were in the northern hemisphere, you knew what was going on.

On another front, however, things weren't quite as serious: in the garden, a number of those anti-mosquito smoke bombs were slowly simmering, so at least I didn't gas anyone. Well, at least not anyone at a certain distance. I'm tempted to ask my comadre if she noted my problem, since she was right by me, but I'm afraid she might say, "Jesus H., yes!!! What was wrong with you??"

Plodding along...

2011-09-08T08:23:00.000-07:00

Something must be working in spite of the heat, in spite of fibromyalgia kicking in with barometric changes, and in spite of the move because I am managing to lose weight rather painlessly. None of this would have been possible without a training group and without an athletic rheumatologist. Almost everyone else has recommended doing, basically, nothing except perhaps some mild yoga, but my rheumatologist told me to fight fibro with running. I think he thinks I'm going to become flooded with endorphins and thus be able to leave off medications.

Well, the endorphins are there but they can't hack the work, and when I tried to leave off one of my medications, after about a month I noticed that my aches and pains began slowly to increase in intensity, so I went back on the medication. Now I'm back to my usual level, some days bad, some days good, but familiar.

There seem to be a considerable number of people running with injured knees, more than I have seen before for some reason. The vast majority of runners appear to have healthy knees, but there are a lot of people running with tight bands below the kneecaps to keep them from moving down, a few with complete knee support with only the kneecap exposed. I was sure that my knees were going to act up when I began trotting because they have been banged up over the years--falls, slipping in the bathroom, being hit by a running dog right on the kneecap, tripping over sleeping black dogs in a dark hallway, you name it. More than once I've had a hugely swollen knee bandaged in order to manage to walk. And yet, for some wild and incomprehensible reason, the old knees have held up just fine, thank you. Not a twinge, not a single groan, nothing whatsoever. If this keeps up, lordy, what tremendous luck.

Moving Day

2011-09-06T06:51:00.000-07:00

Various moving days, in fact. Last Monday our furniture from Austin finally arrived and since then I have had no time to sit down. Now that the house is more or less in order (it's always less in order than more), time to go to the quinta and arrange all the stuff we sent there. Once again I have proven that if you have to stand up and move around long enough, your feet can hurt even if you are wearing high-tech tennis shoes.

The only good thing about the last couple of days is that the temperature has been cooler in the mornings, and today I was able to drag myself to the park and join the training team. Since I spent the weekend at the quinta and rode my new horse, every bone in my body ached in spite of Advil, but the walk/run seemed to relieve the situation. Now, if I can just find some of those doo-dads that hold your glasses on while you run, I may be able to recognize my fellow trainees. Right now I only know who they are because we congregate on the same street corner in the park, so I say "hello" to anyone who happens to be there. At least I can recognize Adrián...

It's off to the quinta again to see if I can finish up there. God.

2011-09-02T15:59:00.000-07:00

The brother of the mayor of Monterrey was videotaped accepting money from casinos; apparently he was too stupid to know what "closed-circuit t.v." means. He claimed he was selling cheese from Oaxaca to the casinos, but you gotta sell one hell of a lot of cheese to get four hundred thousand pesos for it! It has been said that politics is the cheapest form of public entertainment, but that is wrong: it aint cheap, and sometimes it aint entertaining either.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the rumor has it that the reason our municipal district is so safe is because certain individuals in high places have made a deal with one of the cartels--they can sell their drugs as long as they keep other cartels out. This, of course, is just a rumor, and you may have heard how it goes: When someone says "they say that...", just remember that "they" is the world's biggest liar.

Incense

2011-09-01T14:24:00.001-07:00

After today's walk/run, I got to the corner where my trainer and the team meet, but at some distance a terrible, strong scent filled the air. It was like a powerful, old-fashioned perfume. At first I thought someone who had doused himself in aftershave lotion had run by. I went up to the team, one of whom was on a mat and stretching with the help of one of Adrián's fellow trainers.

"What's that god-awful smell?" I asked. Ana roared with laughter and showed me: a small stick of incense burned at a small distance from the mat.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it's better than smelling Rodolfo," she replied--Rodolfo being the sweat-soaked runner stretching on the mat. Rodolfo, being the good-natured young man he is, only smiled. Not only that, it seems the incense remedy is used with some frequency, though only with men.

It's the testosterone that makes 'em stink.

Walking, Trotting, Marching

2011-08-28T17:41:00.001-07:00

This morning was again rather nice, so I was out before sunrise to do my required 5K at whatever speed I manage to work up. The only part where I insist on running is the uphill area; if anything hurts at that point, the uphill trot gets rid of the pain. Don't ask me why.

Today a march was planned to protest the state and local government incompetency in controlling the security situation. My husband was invited to participate with along with other members of his club (one of whom lost his daughter in the casino fire), but it was very hot and the sun much too strong for him. I don't know how many went to the march yet, but the state government must be feeling it--one of those social network uproars has begun demanding the governor's resignation. Fat chance. Rumor has it that if the PRI candidate wins the presidential election, our glorious governor will be given a lateral arabesque opportunity which he won't be able to refuse. From the rumor's lips to God's ear...

Rain!

2011-08-27T05:27:00.001-07:00

It was almost inevitable: the gal who gives the weather report on a local channel (and why are all these girls dressed like inexpensive prostitutes??) told us that after yesterday morning there was "no chance of rain at all". So it rained like the end of the world after five o'clock, and today dawned clear, cool and just begging for a very early run.

All the lights were out on half the running path; it was slippery, and leaves and acorns covered wide swathes, and you couldn't see a danged thing. After what happened here in Monterrey on Thursday, everyone seemed to be waiting until light in order to run--nervousness, perhaps, or the possibility of falling like a bag of cement on that slippery path.

On Thursday at three-thirty in the afternoon, a comando of hitmen entered a casino in the municipality of Monterrey. The casino was filled with older people, women, employees and a few men. The hitmen splashed gasoline over the area and set it afire. The casino had only one entrance open--the main one. A side door was blocked, and a so-called emergency exit turned out to be a fake door. Fifty-two people died in the fire and by being trampled. At the moment, a three million dollar reward is being offered by the Mexican government for information leading to the capture of the perpetrators; these are the kinds of people who would sell their mothers into prostitution if there was money in it, so before long I expect results. Someone is going to rat them out.

At least for me, a totally unexpected outcome of this horrendous incident is that I began writing for our newspaper again on the editorial page after a hiatus of three years. Sometimes you've just got to get involved no matter what. This is the only way open to me to do so, so I'm going to take it.

Back in the Outback

2011-08-23T07:11:00.000-07:00

A hot, tiresome wind blew yesterday all afternoon, which here is the precursor to a drop in the temperature. The humidity was still at a "low" 75%, but this morning dawned just cool enough to make the park an option again. Besides, you get to miss your training buddies and their moral support.

Of course I forgot that school was in session again, and that meant that at seven a.m. the traffic was horrendous both on and off the running path. Nevertheless, I started out mildly by walking four K with an occasional trot just to get back in the swing of things, after trading greetings and remarks with the team and reporting that there are two kilos less of me.

It was a very routine and mild workout, except for one marvelous event which fulfilled a long-held desire. I've mentioned before those people who dash by you so close that you are in danger of being shoved off the path; they are inevitably going a lot faster than you are, too. As I finished my workout today and marched to the end of the block, I put my hands on my hips and stuck out my elbows. To my surprise and secret delight, one of those near-miss runners didn't miss my elbow today and clipped himself right sharp somewhere in the waist region. He may have apologized but it came out as an incoherent mumble. Ah, these are the little moments that make life fun!

Right outside my computer room window there sits a squirrel in a crook of the magnolia tree, peering in at me, finishing off an acorn; a hummingbird is resting on a tiny branch of the same tree, zipping at the feeder from time to time; and two brilliant yellow and black birds are dive-bombing my chile plants that sit on the patio splashed by the dappled, tolerable morning sun. Are they eating the chile seeds? That is the hottest part of the chile! Random events in a calm life, at least for now.

The Little Halter Top as a Weapon of My Mass Destruction

2011-08-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

So far, so good. About three to four pounds less of me, something that will be nice to declare to my training team. And there is a fool-proof way, now, to keep my sensible eating on track:

It's the little halter top, or in my case, the No-Boob Sports Bra. This piece of armor shoves the excess me all over the place, so to contemplate myself all geared up to run is to perceive the full horror of those rolls and curves--they have no place to hide. Since my goal is to be able actually to go out and run in this item of clothing, without having to add the excess layers on top of it as a disguise (only to myself, everyone else knows where the fat is), my most effective weapon is the halter top seen in its full glory in my mirror.

It's either lose weight or die of the heat.

Summer Reading

2011-08-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

Once in a while, something comes along that threatens to undo the family finances. For many, many years now I've been buying books at Amazon.com because when I went back to school to study clinical psychology, there were almost no professional publications in Spanish except those dealing with psychoanalysis. And those were, to put it mildly, quite traditional. I built up a psychology library of such proportions that professors began to recommend to their students that they contact me if they needed some unusual reference material. But no, that didn't break the bank...it was a slow and immensely pleasurable process. I also learned that when you loan a book, you'd better ask for a deposit equivalent to the value of the book plus tax, because you may never see it again in its original condition.

It costs more to have a book shipped to my house than the book itself costs, so for a long time I would make periodic trips to Laredo with friends or family, and there I would visit my post office box to gather up the bookish loot waiting for me. No, this did not put me in the poor house either. Indeed it can be such a pain in the butt to make the ever-so-boring trip that I would often let things pile up in order to make the whole procedure less painful.

But, alas, or hot damn, all that has changed, and my finances teeter on the brink. There on the Amazon page was the irresistable picture of the Kindle, along with a map showing the areas in Mexico covered by Amazon's free Whispernet service for downloading books. You guessed it: I live in the big fat middle of this blessed area. With horror--or elation, depending on my funds--the service even reaches me at the quinta. So I bought the thing, and life has not been the same.

At the click of a blasted key, and the groan of a credit card, books flow to my Kindle apace. If it were possible to keep one's head steady while running on a treadmill--good luck trying that one--I might never see the street again, because I'd be reading for five kilometers.

Here are my recommendations so far, some little things that will distract us from the monstrous weather:

"The Post-American World" by the brilliant Fareed Zakaria.

"Appetite for Life" by Noel Fitch, the fascinating biography of Julia Child.

"Ultimate Punishment" by Scott Turow, his erudite considerations on the death penalty (he can't decide, it seems. Scott Turow is a lawyer, by the way..)

Anything by Ruth Rendell and P.D. James

"Long Walk to Freedom" by Nelson Mandela.

And last but highly enteraining, "Absolute Monarchs" by John J. Norwich, a history of the popes--and a bigger group of scoundrels has rarely been gathered under one roof, but their lives are rollicking indeed!

Still indoors...

2011-08-16T07:47:00.001-07:00

It's official. Our summer has been declared the hottest on record. But there are now other exciting issues to add to the delight: our state government has decided to undergo a major revamping of one of the most-used streets and intersections in the whole metropolitan area, and while drivers roast under the sun with the car a/c going full blast, they must wait sometimes more than an hour to get past the tie-up or try to find an alternative route. The surprise is, there aint one. This means that traffic backs up for blocks and blocks during "rush" hour, and next week the faeces really hits the fan because school starts. Mark my words, there are going to be acts of violence.

As it is, under the indifferent noses of traffic cops, yesterday people drove over medians, made illegal turns, went the wrong way down one-way streets, all in an effort to get out of the traffic jam. Our glorious governor is the instigator of said public works, and I predict he will be hung in effigy (mainly because no one can actually get his hands on the real thing) multiple times.

Anyway, it's back to the treadmill for me until next week. My only triumph is that I am still losing weight, slowly but surely. As I told my mother, my bathing suit no longer fits me--it's too big! Although I attribute this mainly to the fact that it has probably stretched, this represents the second change-of-style bathing suit that is now obsolete. My first bathing suit a few years ago after we got a swimming pool was that ghastly kind that looked more like a burka than a bathing suit--nothing was left uncovered, but it made me look even fatter than I was. Then I graduated to a one-piece, high-leg suit which is now defunct. Also as I told my mom, it's just big enough that I'm always worried something will either fall off or ride up. My next suit is going to be one of those Spandex things so tight that your body is distributed everywhere except where the suit is.

It's off to run, this time with an old favorite, "The Day of the Jackal".

Wilted and Wasted

2011-08-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

In the 21 years I've lived here, this is the worst summer weather. The humidity is now somewhere around six million percent, and everyone feels tired and worn to a frazzle. It has made the treadmill feel like a pleasure because if you run outside, the effort is beyond human endurance--yes, yes, all right, there are tons of people out there slogging through the muggy air, but they aren't old like I am! Indoors the only challenge is what movie to watch while running. The exercise choices seem reduced to dying of the heat and humidity outdoors, or dying of boredom if you can't find a movie you want to watch. (Music won't get me through three miles of running, no matter where I am.

Hell.

"It's not the heat, it's the humility": Yogi Berra.

2011-08-10T07:50:00.000-07:00

After three blocks of walking this morning, it was obvious that my masochism doesn't reach the depth required to submit myself to running is this weather. Back home for me, and on to the treadmill while watching "The King's Speech". Air conditioning on full blast, overhead fan going.

Nevertheless, I've kept the faith with the training group: There are almost two pounds less of me. After the weight I lost two years ago, I may be within striking range of getting myself back into some decent clothes.

The Move from Hell

2011-08-09T12:43:00.001-07:00

When it came time for us to try to move our furniture from our rented condo in Lakeway, TX, to Monterrey, I had rushed to Lubbock to be with my hospitalized mother, and my husband stayed put here because his sister had been hospitalized at the same time. In the meantime I had made four appointments for estimates for an international move, so a friend who also happens to work with my husband went to take charge. It's a good thing he is a triathlon competitor, too, because he needed every physical and mental resource to survive. If my husband or I had gone, some kind of crime might have been committed.

A local firm showed up and stated they would only place the furniture on the border; a woman who was driving in from Houston, representing a second firm, apparently was unable to read a map, estimate time and speed, or ask for directions because although she made it to the Austin airport, that was as far as she got before calling our friend to say that "it just couldn't be done". "It" in this case meant arriving in Lakeway because she had to be back in Houston that same evening. The skin crawls just to imagine where our furniture might wind up under the tender care of someone who couldn't get from Houston to Lakeway under her own steam.

Someone did show up, gave us an estimate (it was horribly expensive) to get our belongings to Monterrey, Nuevo León, México, and this was stated in writing. There is no mystery about what is happening in the United States these days in the area of customer service. Companies seem to think it is okay to send out representatives into the unsuspecting world when said employees are not sure exactly where they are themselves; our hero did understand we were moving to another country, and yes, his company has partners here in Mexico. He thought we could save import duties on our stuff if we just went to a Mexican consulate here in Monterrey to validate our time spent in the U.S.

As far as I know, although at this point I'm not sure of anything, Mexico does not have diplomatic missions to itself. I would have paid good money (although after the move estimate, I couldn't afford it) to have been present in order to suggest that our hero make sure he has all the necessary documents he needs from the United States embassy in Austin. It would have been even more exciting to see him attempt to get the embassy's address. Our hero surely lacked the almost divine inspiration of the Houston lady, and it is doubtful he would have leaped into his car and headed toward Austin, hoping to find the embassy by mental telepathy alone.

Today's excitement came about because my husband and our friend (it's Ironman Hernán) got into a knock-down-drag-out with our moving hero, who wanted to let us know that it was going to cost an additional king's ransom to move the furniture from the border to our home in Monterrey. It was like Saturday night in Belfast, although via telephone. Having signed the contract to move our furniture here for a stated amount, there was no turning back for our international mover, so aside from the import duties, his proverbial goose is done to a nice turn. He accepted the inevitable and signed another statement that obligates him to reimburse us after we have paid the Mexican movers.

None of these people is perverse or ill-willed, but they do seem to be almost mythically uninformed. The moving representative said that the trouble and expense involved in storing our stuff till now has been "unimaginable"--his word. It is of course unimaginable only to someone totally unaware of what his job involves or how to go about whatever it is he has to do. And this, folks, is an associate company of Mayflower movers!

The news two days ago said that the approval rating of the U.S. Congress was at an all-time low; when commentators would ask strategists and Congressmen from both parties why they couldn't hunker down and do something for the country, you couldn't hear the answers because they began shouting at each other--in other words, reinacting the behavior the news commentators were criticizing. Take the moving company representatives and multiply them by a factor of X, and you have Congress!

For those of you who still read, try "The Post-American World" by the brilliant Fareed Zakaria. You won't know whether to laugh and say "I told you so!", or cry, but out of the ashes comes inspiration: Why shouldn't the U.S. State Department open diplomatic missions to all major U.S. cities and consulates in the smaller towns? All those educated unemployed could join the diplomatic corps and serve without leaving the United States.

Dreams

2011-08-09T06:55:00.001-07:00

Last night I dreamed I was in the presence of a number of gigantic cupcakes, and I ate two. It was terrible because I woke up feeling guilty at having fallen off the excess-food-wagon almost from the outset. But, man, were they ever good! Thank gosh it was only a dream. I think my superego needs readjusting...

Withdrawal symptoms

2011-08-08T10:10:00.001-07:00

No, not from the blog, although that too. No sooner did I spout off about having my training routine set when the usual wrench was tossed into the works.

At the beginning of the year, my rheumatologist said one of the benefits of getting into shape and exercising consistently would be the elimination of one of my fibro medications. So, I decided to eliminate it. It was given to me in the lowest possible dose, hundreds of mgs fewer than most people have to take, so I was not worried about withdrawal symptoms. Getting rid of medication was one of my main goals for running, by the way.

This is day four without this particular medication, and it has been hard going. It is supposed to take care of pain, which is not my worst complaint anyway with fibromyalgia, and in that sense I don't miss it. Unfortunately, no one knows why it helps fibro, so no one knows for sure what else it does to you; in my book, that's enough of a reason to wean oneself away. So far I have been nauseated, woozy, with stomach upset and intestinal cramps--it's like a hangover without ever having had the fun of going on the drunk!

I am also having withdrawal symptoms from food. Last Thursday I announced to the whole training team that I have to lose from eight to ten kilos. The only way to do something like this is to say it out loud to supportive people; that way, shame alone can keep you on track. I don't change the way I cook, either, I just stop bingeing on crap like ice cream, cake, and other goodies. The only reason I'm not easier to jump over than to go around is because I'm a very good cook and make killer desserts, so I don't like the bought stuff, but laziness keeps me from baking very often. Once the sweet tooth is tamed or outfoxed, the rest is easier--decent serving sizes, for example. It hurts, but it aint impossible.

It may not have been the best idea in the world to withdraw from two addictions at once, but I figure the digestive upset from medication abstinence will help with the food withdrawal. You just can't get excited about a French chocolate tart made with rich Belgian chocolate if you are thrashing around the floor with stomach cramps.

By tomorrow or the next day, though, I'll be over the abstinence symptoms, and that will leave me alone to face my nemesis in the calorie department.

Adios for now...

2011-07-29T06:20:00.000-07:00

My training schedule has now been set for quite a while, and nothing much will happen until the fall; therefore I am signing off for now, folks, except in Spanish on topics unrelated to running. Once in a while I may check in again in English to report on Gitano. Meanwhile, virtual running pals, forge ahead! You are admirable and true models for us beginners, all my best vibes are headed your way.

May the Force be with you all.

Another day at the park

2011-07-26T04:59:00.001-07:00

One of my patients took a good, long look at my eye and told me that purple is definitely my color for eye shadow. I haven't used makeup in years because everything I do involves sun block or insect repellent, so makeup is pointless. It would only run into my eyes and streak down my face, but maybe I'll get some for my very few evenings out.

When Freud wrote about psychosexual development and used the word "perversions" to describe certain phenomena, the word simply indicated a deviation from the statistical norm and had no negative implications as such. But the negative feelings people had about the phenomena themselves transferred itself to the word, and now a pervert is someone odious indeed.

The same thing has happened with the word "retarded", which simply means an arrest in one's intellectual development and a limitation of abilities. It's as if people could remove their own prejudices and negative feelings by loading the word with the negativity and then eliminating the word itself--thus we come to the increasingly absurd phrases such as "different abilities" when referring to an individual with a mental handicap. We all have different abilities. It isn't the word per se that is the insult, it is the feelings we try to deny by eliminating the word.

The reason I say all this is because two new types of exercisers showed up at the park today, and I'm going to use a word that everyone avoids like the plague: fat. You just don't say someone is fat, at least not out loud. There are atrocious reality shows that feature fat people competing to lose weight, dancing to lose weight, getting surgery to lose weight, etc. To use fat people as entertainment is infinitely worse than calling them fat, which is no more than a term to indicate the truth. They are referred to as "heavy"; "And how long have you been heavy?" some idiot will ask the victim of a reality show.

Four people, ranging from simply fat to obese, arrayed themselves across the running path so that no one could pass. They wouldn't move aside, either. You went off the path or pushed through them if you wanted to get by. I managed to squeeze around one of them on the edge of the path, almost twisting an ankle as one foot slipped off the path. The running culture doesn't include yelling insulting names at people, but the temptation was as fat as the individuals themselves.

I usually admire hugely anyone fat who is marching down the running path because I know that person is taking on a challenge. I've been fat myself and still feel my washboard fat jiggle while I run. But these four people were being passively aggressive and they made me want to give them a swift, sharp kick to their ample butts.

The other kind of runner I noticed today is the Scraper: it is a terrible thing to scrape expensive running shoes along the pavement. The sound itself gives one chills. It's like watching money burn. This older man ran by me, and as each foot came down, he scraped it across the cement with a noise you could hear from several yards away. Ouch! Not to mention the potential for tripping and falling.

But enough of this. I haven't had breakfast yet. Ciao, arrivederci, a domani.

Retraction

2011-07-25T08:42:00.000-07:00

Gonna hafta eat my words there, because there was just no way to get back on a treadmill; it has been back to the park no matter how god-awful the weather. Still on my holding-the-line training program. 5k even if it's crawling--sometimes it is. But I've ditched my glasses in case I crash again. I can't affort to crush my glasses or put my eye out with the damned things. My black eye is unbelievably fashionable: A delicate purple tending to red from eyebrow to eyelid, and the eyelid itself is a slate gray with purple undertones. It actually looks like a rock-star makeup job, and a darned good one.

And speaking of crashing, not another single bird has gone into the windows. In my freezer sits the quite puny little dove breast ready for cooking, all alone.

Meanwhile, if anyone out there has ever hungered after a peanut butter pie, there is one in this month's edition of Bon Appetit that will satisfy your deepest craving while blocking every artery and vein in your body. I made it yesterday for our family lunch--the kids and grandkids. The crust is a graham cracker one, the filling is a peanut butter custard (eight, count 'em, eight egg yolks), then a tower of homemade honeycomb candy, peanuts, and bittersweet chocolate on that. It just seemed like a bit much, so I modified it considerably except for that stupendous peanut butter custard, and there were rave reviews. Next time I plan to alter the recipe even more and come up with something that tastes as good a Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

On a sadder note, if anyone is interested in reading something that makes the horror of the Norway massacre at least understandable, try "Hatred: The Pychological Descent into Violence", by Willard Gaylin, M.D. An excellent book. Another good read along that line is "The Lucifer Effect: How Good People Turn Evil" by Philip Zimbrado, the famous Stanford researcher who did the Stanford Prison Experiment with such unfortunate and fascinating results. This is the first book to detail that experiment and what came of it. And, to top off a list of disturbing but enlightening reading, try "Terror in the Mind of God" by Mark Juergensmeyer. When I first read this book, I was on a plane going from Seattle to Monterrey. It was September 10, 2001. The first botched attempt at blowing up the WTC was described in the book. At that time I was still an editorialist for our newspaper, and next day after the terrorist attacks, the editorial director frantically contacted everyone to ask for a pertinent article on the attacks. I guess I was the only one armed with real information on the causes. It was one of those coincidences one wishes had never happened.

Cary, that book we talked about is "The Arab Mind" by Raphael Patai. You'll enjoy it and it might clear up some misconceptions. It surely did for me.

Equine cross training

2011-07-22T10:39:00.001-07:00

Yesterday when I tried to go to the quinta, the army had blocked the access road at the highway; I discovered later than a body or two had been dumped there, no doubt victims of intercartel conflict. Today the humidity has reached 90% and the temperature edging up toward 100, so my work with Gitano was a torture for both of us. At the moment he needs to work on correct flexion during turns and head placement, but I did everything at an easy trot, and not for long either. We wound up soaked in sweat, but only the horse got a bath and a mane shampoo, provided by the guy who honchoes up the quinta. I was too embarrassed to ask to be hosed down but I managed to stand close enough to the horse, giving him a treat, so that I got a splash or two.

How people manage to run outdoors at noon during this weather is a mystery to me. It is something I am not ever going to be able to do. The treadmill is boring beyond measure, but for the moment it is my only option.

Back to the treadmill, occasionally

2011-07-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

The heat is in the 90s and the humidity is around 85%. This is bordering on the impossible, at least for an old gal like me. Until the mornings get a little cooler (we are expecting rain this week), it's back to the treadmill, dull though the prospect looms.

Bad make-up day

2011-07-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

A quick glance in the mirror has revealed that my right eye looks like someone with really, really bad taste in make-up decided to use deep purple eye shadow, rather poorly applied, over one eyelid only. If applying eye shadow over the eyelid itself makes your eyes look deeper, I've got it made, at least on half my face.

Any excuse is good enough for me, so today will be a rest day.

And, by the way...

2011-07-19T07:49:00.000-07:00

....there is no sympathy for the wicked. My husband is a night person, and before around ten in the morning, as I've claimed many a time, you can tell him the same joke day after day. It will be funny each time because his mind doesn't kick in until later.

However, I thought it might be a good idea this morning to let him know I was developing a black eye. Otherwise he would alarmed and horrified at lunch time when he sees me.

"Hey, I hit myself this morning and I'm getting a black eye," I stated, trying to hide the exact circumstances.

He put on his reading glasses and peered into my face.

"What happened? My God, what did you hit yourself with?"

"The ground," I replied. There was no getting around it, but maybe the story could be avoided.

It took him a while to register my reply; as I say, it was much earlier than ten o'clock.

"The ground??? How did you hit your eye with the ground?"

So, I told him I fell down. He wanted to know if it had happened in the back yard, where most of my misadventures take place--cuts, spider bites, blisters from using a spade, etc.

"No, I fell while running, out on the Calzada..."

It just disgusts the hell out of me that he chortled, even though I couldn't help laughing myself while I told the sorry tale. Dang it, I wanted more sympathy than that. Maybe at lunchtime.

Back to the daily grind...

2011-07-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

This is Gitano. We got him underworked and overfed, so right now he is with Weight Watchers. When he gets in shape, he'll be quite handome. He is very sweet, even with small children.

And now, back to the daily grind.

There is a place on the running path, right where the path and a crosswalk meet, that causes people to trip. It is not evident what the problem is, since the paving is not more uneven than other places, but day after day I see runners trip, stagger, and fight to remain upright.

Today was no exception; as I trotted up to the fatal trap, yet another runner coming in the opposite direction caught his foot on some invisible obstacle and projected himself into the crosswalk at a ragged, wobbly jiggle before recovering. As I wondered what the devil was happening at this particular crosswalk, I proceeded to trip and fall flat. No one was close enough to offer to help me up, but I rose like a rocketing pheasant from sheer embarrassment and dashed away. My main concern was my knees, but they seemed fine. Nothing else hurt, so it wasn't until I got home that I discovered I had managed to clobber myself on the eyebrow, of all places, and now I have a large, colorful lump right under the right eyebrow; the hemorrhage is leaking down, so in a couple of hours I should have a black eye. I'm going to have to think up something more entertaining that falling flat while running to account for it.

On another front, my muscles are sore as all get-out from riding a horse which still needs training. Pure non-stop isometric effort, but at least my abs are getting a good workout. The whole running project seems terribly uphill to me right now, both literally and figuratively, but if it is going to include falling down, well, this is the pits!

What, no more free food??

2011-07-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't you know it? No sooner had I worked up the courage to dress a dove than the danged birds are avoiding my windows in droves.

Poor Adrián, not knowing what to do with me, sent questions to my rheumatologist as to how to program my training sessions. The rheumatologist had some good suggestions (he said my heart rate and cholesterol levels are fantastic) that have to do with just staying at a certain training rate with peaks and valleys depending on hills, etc. He told me, however, that no matter how ghastly I feel, I have to do something even if it is walking a block. He always asks if I've been riding, because that is his parameter for terminal depression--if I don't ride, he gets worried and begins glancing at his prescription pad, wondering if antidepressants are in order. I assured him that I now have another horse, Gitano (Gypsy), and find myself in both mourning and excitement at the same time. The combination is not recommended, believe me. But coming across exactly the kind of horse I was looking for so soon (I expected the search to last weeks and weeks) meant that I either took the chance or let it go, so I took it, and Gitano is installed at the quinta lookin' good. Pictures will come next week.

Yesterday three older ladies were marching along the path covered with pants, long-sleeved shirts, and short-sleeved shirts over those, plus extra pants over the main pair. Someone may have told these ladies that you can loose weight sweating, but the fount of information forgot to mention that it is all water weight and you could end up with heat stroke to boot. Also, another lady, again older, had on a modest top, a pair of sweat pants, and over the pants she wore a gauzy little short skirt that covered her rear end and fluttered flirtatiously in the breeze. What is with these people??

Also, I have located someone in my training group that is anorexic for sure. If she has 10% body fat, I'll eat my running shoes. And speaking of eating, guess who is going to have to pay up with a pastel de tres leches, come August!!!

Random Musings

2011-07-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

After two weeks of total absence of motivation and terminal depression, I managed to force myself to the park today to walk/run 5K. It isn't back to square one for me, but it's darned close to square two.

Motivation is an odd thing. What floats someone's boat, sinks someone else's. I can force myself to the park because I know my children worry less about my fibro if Mom can trot 5K and has a resting heart rate of 40. Ten years ago, my husband survived a terrible illness and six weeks in the hospital because he had excellent cardiopulmonary condition when he went in. I also keep hoping that eventually I will lose some weight. We won't discuss what I've gained during these two weeks of inactivity, either. It may seem like insufficient motivation to do something so that someone else's peace of mind is assured, but that's fine by me. And, last and least reasonably, I keep hoping that I can literally run away from fibromyalgia. But like someone writing about fibro said, you can either hurt and be in rotten shape, or hurt and be in good shape. What's to wonder about on that point? Clear as a bell.

It has struck me more than once that there is only one person I've seen exercising that I would consider anorexic; this is odd since according to an HBO Latin American special, Mexico and Argentina have more anorexics in proportion to population than other Latino countries. That may be, but they aren't running in the park unless they go much later in the day.

And, lo and behold, I saw a woman my age running this morning! I was beginning to despair of my gender. She was tall, slim, and very fit. She is a lone runner. May the Force be with her.

It is possible, slightly possible, that a new horse comes to live at the quinta. I still haven't made up my mind because nothing really appeals to me right now; I compare all horses to Bandolero and they come up short. The one I'm seeing today again is well-behaved, half Spanish, black, bigger than I really wanted, and the vet examination is pending--that happens today. I'll keep you posted.

Adrián wants me to enter a 3K (didn't know there were any) sponsered by the American Consulate here, in August. Well, we'll see. First I have to recover from the past two weeks, and then I can decide.

Bandolero

2011-07-04T07:03:00.001-07:00

Adios, mi Bandolero

2011-07-04T05:28:00.001-07:00

Bandolero died this morning, put down by the vet, after a terrible colic that filled him with toxins. Nothing more to say.

Aunt Joyce

2011-07-02T06:09:00.000-07:00

My aunt Joyce died last week, and because of the crashing birds, she has been on my mind. When I was a little kid, her daughter and I were very close, so I spent a lot of time at her house. Several experiences there were unique: she knew how to prepare beef tongue, but it still looked too much like a tongue for me to choke down.

She kept chickens for a while, and I will never forget the day she grabbed one by the neck and swung it around vigorously by that neck until the chicken died. Maybe I should say, until the head came off and we had a DOA. I was not exactly appalled, but it must have been something traumatic enough to have burned itself into my memory because the event it as vivid as a mental movie.

The reason I thought of her was because I dressed my first dove breast this morning, immediately after the bird killed itself on my glass doors. The plucking was okay, but the fact that the creature was still warm was unpleasant--I kept feeling for a heartbeat before I cut the bird up. It was indeed very dead, but it was scant moments away from life, so dressing it was somewhat unsettling. I can see why people become vegetarians.

Rain, and more rain, but today is a rest day in my training schedule and tomorrow is a long walk. We have two new movies, though, so the treadmill will not be the ghastly bore it could be.

Book reviews: For those of you who like military history, don't miss the wonderful "The Last Battle of the Tin Can Sailors". And for history buffs in general, I can highly recommend Matthew Cobb's "The Resistance", about the French resistance during WWII. For human interest and life lessons, there is "Tuesdays with Morrie", but have a box of Kleenex handy.

Rain, lots of it!

2011-06-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

The relief is profound. I thought maybe there would be fewer runners, especially since I got a late start and had to go to the park at rush hour, but it was crowded as usual in spite of the downpour. But it doesn't matter, the drought has broken, the streets are flooded, and I plan to kick back with my new Kindle and read until I drop. Have a fine day, folks.

Overheard in an email...

2011-06-28T07:33:00.000-07:00

Adrián, who is a genuine dear, is frustrated that he can't do something about my fibro, that he can't come up with a training routine that will eliminate it. I told him that made two of us and not to worry about it. He really must be the sweetest man around. We have settled on a form of interval training until this attack fades away. That 30-minute evaluation looms again, "as soon as you feel well enough", but if he needs it in order to see how I'm doing, so be it. Adrián rules!

Meanwhile, I overheard in an email that someone who reads this blog doesn't like it. Well, it isn't homework, and the fate of the world doesn't hang in the balance if said individual doesn't read it. In fact, not reading it would appear to be the ideal solution for anyone who still has three neurons firing. My suggestion is just that: if you don't like it, don't read it. It won't matter to me because I don't know who reads it and who doesn't, except for the people who make comments. So, considering that life is chock full of irritations, problems, obstacles, and disappointments, why add yet another? It would seem to be a masochistic undertaking to subject oneself time and again to something you don't like when you don't have to do it, but to each his own peculiar psychological quirks, I say.

Rest assured that even if no one at all reads the blog, on it will go. I have my own reasons. If I discovered, however, that a friend was writing a blog that I didn't like, and I made it a point to mention this to my friend, I would be writing unspoken volumes of information about my own disappointments and expectations, and my own unresolved issues with aggression and self-esteem. It's best to keep quiet.

Unless, of course, I was the kind of person who would settle for any reaction at all as long as it was a reaction to me, confirming my importance in my own eyes.

Satisfied?

Searching for vital signs...

2011-06-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have cured my dizziness on my own by a healthy dose of antihistamine before going to bed at night. Guess I could have saved a bit on the ENT specialist if I had tried that first. Well, now I know what to do next time I take a plane trip.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I couldn't help but think of an old joke about a hypochondriac who overheard two doctors at a cocktail party; they were discussing a strange new disease that presented no symptoms.

"Oh my God," exclaimed the hypochondriac, "I've got it!!"

While reading my running book, I've come across warnings about overtraining, stress fractures, and other ailments rather common among runners. (No, my knees do not hurt.) Because of the fibromyalgia, it would be impossible for me to determine whether I am overtraining because I always feel fatigued during hot weather, so I decided the only way to know for sure was to check my resting heart rate; it you are overtraining, it tends to rise as your body tries to recuperate. So after my light workout at the park, I donned the heart monitor and proceeded to sit and watch the news on television.

It reminded me of the time in Mexico City when I was in unbelievable physical condition and went to the doctor for who-knows-what minor ailment (probably digestive, you can't take a deep breath in Mexico City without inhaling some kind of parasite, it seems). After listening to my heart and taking my blood pressure, the doctor (an American expat and good friend) informed me that I had died and that's why I wasn't feeling up to snuff. He said my heart rate was down around 40 or so and my blood pressure was also low although still in normal range. O shades of cardiopulmonary condition of the past! My resting heart rate (in spite of watching the news) was 41. The rest of me is shot to hell, but at least the old ticker is taking it easy. It is, in fact, the heat that is getting to me, not overtraining. Now I've lived here for 21 years this August, and in spite of having fewer aches and pains in the heat, my energy levels simply can't handle it. My plan is to maintain a degree of minimal conditioning so that when autumn comes, I can begin to up my distance and time in order to be ready for Austin in February.

A dove just crashed into the glass doors, but it managed to pull up in time to avoid breaking its neck, and it made it to a tree to recover. Come on, what is this?? Well, anyway, I've got a retriever now and I am waiting for the next one.

By the way, poodles are high maintenance dogs, and it is fine with me that TootSweet doesn't jump into bodies of water. That would only mean ear infections. So be it.

Runner Rehab

2011-06-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

Managed to drag myself out of bed early and go to the park in an effort to get back into shape after days and days of doing nothing because of this attack of fibro. At first I thought I'd walk about 3K, but then I decided to run one block, walk another, to complete the distance, and it felt great.

All this time I have had my throat in my mouth because a lady I met at the Houston airport said she had had to run like crazy to catch a plane and wound up with a stress fracture; at the slightest twinge of my left foot, my mind went back to her remarks and my dash through the same airport. However, if I had really injured my foot it would hurt a lot more than this, and the pain wouldn't go away as I run, so I am going to check off that worry and forget about it.

By the way, virtual pal Wendy, be careful with toads. They exude a poisonous substance on their skins which can kill a dog if the canine mouths the toad a lot. Our quinta is toad city, so we really have to make sure our dog does not attempt to pick one up.

At last, a retriever!

2011-06-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

Our standard poodle has never gotten into the water in his life except for a bath, even though poodles are water retrievers. Today all things seem to be coming together however, because TootSweet came galloping in from the back yard carefully bringing a dead dove in his jaws. Apparently one of the supposed survivors of a crash into the sliding doors managed to make it several yards away before expiring, and the Tooters, as we call him, decided his job was to bring the bird back to the house and hand it over. It was an amazing thing: soft mouth, the whole retriever business, and a singular happiness at being able to offer up his prized dead dove. That does it--I am for sure going to learn how to dress the darned things and freeze them because we have too much food committing suicide and going to waste.

Crashing Birds

2011-06-25T07:15:00.000-07:00

Much as I would simply love to report that "Crashing Birds" is a fabulous new heavy metal rock band, such is not the case. Between our enclosed veranda and our back yard are sliding glass doors that bring nature into the house; perhaps too much so. Ever since our last cat died, our back yard has become a madhouse of birds species taking advantage of water during this terrible drought. And, of course, taking advantage of a predator-free space. But for some reason, the white-winged doves--not the sharpest crayons in the avian box--have been crashing into the sliding doors. At least once a day, the loud bang of a flying object hitting glass can be heard.

Once in a while the stunned bird manages to fly away, but most of them kill themselves. It's a wonder the glass has not cracked. We have not figured out why the doves do this. The other species don't. Are they pursuing one another and not watching where they are going? Is the reflection in the glass fooling them into thinking there is open space there? Why are they the only ones that crash?

Meanwhile, let us note that doves make good eating. I have tossed away the last birdy cadaver, and from now on I plan to clean and freeze the crashing birds. It shouldn't be long before I have enough to make a nice meal. Google has plenty of recipes for dove. Take a look.

On the exercise front, nothing is happening. Maybe next week.

The Food Blog

2011-06-24T10:41:00.001-07:00

At the moment I am temporarily sidelined because of the heat, which is provoking a fibro flare, so mostly energetic walking with a little trotting is the order of the day--or probably the week, if not a month.

Meanwhile, today's lunch is a chicken salad made with baby romaine, shredded chicken breast (cooked in duck stock), Granny Smith apple slices, spiced almonds, red onions, and a fabulous vinagrette made with, among many other things, raspberry vinegar and cranberries heated in cranberry juice. This fantastic summertime salad can be found on Cooks Illustrated website if you are moved to try the two-week free trial period, but watch out! If you ever take the magazine (like I do) or try the online version, you are a goner. The recipes are heavenly, the methods fool-proof, and the equipment testing is a treat. (I finally learned how to use my Italian coffee maker thanks to the magazine).

No, the recipe does not require you to cook the chicken breasts in duck stock, but I had some left over and frozen from the time I made duck tacos.

Blogging on my hands...

2011-06-21T07:35:00.000-07:00

There is a wonderful website, despair.com, which specializes in de-motivational themes, including huge posters and desk calendars with hilarious--and true!--definitions that will discourage anyone except runners and people with a black sense of humor. I'm especially fond of this month's definition on my desk calendar: Blogging--Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few. You gotta love it!

The point is that after today's session, which seemed so difficult in this heat (20' run, 3' rest, 10' run, 3' rest, 8' run, permission to collapse), my husband was reading the paper during breakfast when he came across the earth-shaking news that Sarah Palin's 20-year-old daughter had written a book about her "life". Folks, let's face it, at the half point of her life she was only ten years old. Apparently she has learned that the father of her child is an insect or lower than dirt, and how stupid it was of her to have sex with him after getting drunker than a sailor on shore leave. Fortunately, at my youthful age of 66, I don't need to learn that lesson because I was never that stupid to begin with, and I don't refer to Ms Palin's alcoholic missteps, but to her tendency to mate with someone she qualifies as an insect or lower than dirt. It has been my contention that anyone able to string a couple of words together, or anyone blessed with notoriety even if it be second hand, can get a book published (except me, of course, since I have fallen on deaf ears for years)in these days of drowning in communication whether you want it or not. It fascinates me how anyone with vital signs can publish his or her shallow thoughts, simplistic life view, or autobiography replete with proof positive (spoken by the victim in person) of an idiocy of epic proportions, while others (ahem!!) can't even get an agent. Now, it is quite possible that my mystery novel isn't riveting although it would make a great movie, but some have read it and liked it. Perhaps they are biased since they were my mother, my husband, and a close friend. My self-published book of humorous essays has been hugely enjoyed by any number of readers who weren't related to me and do not know me, so all is not lost.

Now, is that justice? No, it isn't, it's business. The publishing business, in fact, where the prime consideration is to have contacts in order to publish, or to have published in order to have contacts. All right, I've had my rant for the day. Time to shower and get a move on.

Time on my hands

2011-06-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

Monday mornings are usually hectic around here. But last night I got such a jump on things that lunch is made (a slow cooker recipe for Italian Sunday "gravy") and I may have time for a haircut.

Even at 6 a.m., the weather is just barely tolerable in the park. I see people running at noon and in the early afternoon when the heat is at its peak, and I sincerely don't know how they do it. Back in the day, when I was an aerobics fanatic, some people would complain that they didn't sweat; but that was in Mexico City with its cool climate. Here we are raining down on the running path like a summer storm, which is natural in this horrible heat. My body, however, thinks the world is coming to an end at the slightest suggestion of effort on my part, and it begins pouring sweat immediately. I can't even make a bed without sweating, and the better my cardiopulmonary condition becomes, the faster I start to perspire. I get so soaked that it looks like I did a lot more than I really was able to do. Good. I can fake people out.

The other thing my body continues to demand is more calories each day than I've expended in the entire week. This is one miserable trick of nature, frankly, and we are not amused, as Queen Elizabeth would say. This morning after my workout (Adrián be praised, he prescribed another easy session) I made the mistake of going to the store without eating breakfast beforehand. They say you should never shop for food when hungry. They are right, whoever they are. After stocking up on veggies and fruits galore, a sudden urge to get biscuits and cinnamon rolls hit me. I fought off vanilla ice cream although I came away bruised, and my legs propelled me toward the check-out aisle while my upper body tried to cling to the cooler that had ready-made pie dough. My legs gained the upper hand, so to speak, at least this time. They were caught off guard, however, in the cereal section where I managed to grab a box of chocolate Special K before forging on toward the dishwashing detergents. Even there, however, I grabbed a dishwashing liquid that smells like oranges, and only a sense of self-preservation kept me from taking a swig of it. A virtual running pal suggested protein drinks, and they are the only thing keeping me from gaining weight while running longer. I had this fantasy of the new me, slim and trim, by the time I could hack a 5K, but danged if it isn't the same old Karen complete with washboard fat! Next year I may have to try for a 10K to see if that helps.

Uphill

2011-06-18T07:14:00.000-07:00

A series of family emergencies got together and decided to cut loose at exactly the same time. Thus, I found myself in the town of my birth, my husband had to care for his sister who became ill suddenly, and a friend of ours had to honcho up the move from Austin to Monterrey. It has only been a week and a half, but it seems like it was a couple of years. The only upside of this was that I did my second 5K, but it was in the Houston airport and I was wearing sandals.

Thanks to the airplane trip, my ears are acting up again and I am dizzy, but this morning I at least did the mild training session Adrián set up for me--a 50 minute walk. Part of the way I trotted, just for the heck of it, especially the uphill parts. Upon my return I also discovered that a couple of the jerks doing Iron Man training have decided they are informed enough to start their own training groups, and they have abandoned the rest of us, though not without first trying to lure away all the advanced runners/athletes in the group. The whole thing was plotted over coffee one day (according to my spy), and without saying anything to Adrián except "goodbye", off they went. Man alive, you just can't get past politics no matter where you are, even if it's in the park! And for my politically incorrect comment of the day, let me make clear that if you give a Mexican a few ideas and a title (even if it's "I finished the Iron Man!!"), you've got an instant "expert" who casts humility and common sense to the winds. It's one of the national curses.

Nevertheless, just doing the little I did today made me feel alive once more. The heat is so terrible during the day that morning running is the only option, but I have capped the morning's activity by digging in my vegetable plot. This counts as cross-training, I believe. I am going to enlarge the area for next year's veggies and put up a low fence around it to keep dogs and small children out. If any of you out there are gardeners, check out this unbelievable but true fact, straight from Texas A & M, which I have tried and can vouch for: Fungus on plants can be killed by spraying the plants with a combination of skim milk and water. Yes, folks, weird as it sounds, this is a science-based discovery and not some oddball notion thought up by a little old lady who putters amongst her flowers.

Tomorrow is a rest day in my schedule, and it is also Father's Day. All of the family are going to a restaurant tomorrow for lunch to celebrate dads.

Offline but not off street

2011-06-13T09:15:00.000-07:00

Due to a number of problems happening all at once, I have had to go to Texas, my husband has had to take care of his sister who became ill suddenly, and at the same time we are supposed to be moving a bunch of furniture from Austin to Monterrey. Although it has been a madhouse, I have managed to go out early in the morning before the dry, blistering heat gets going. My location is considerably higher than Monterrey or Austin, and I can really feel it. So far I have only been able to run about 20 minutes without having to finish up walking, but every little bit counts. My trainer sends me the daily sessions by email anyway, as I asked him, and I have even managed to make my return travel plans on a rest day! It may sound fanatical, but it has taken me six months to go from zero condition to where I am now, and I aint ready to backslide. More later when I get home and am able to get to the park once more.

Mercy was shown today...

2011-06-07T07:49:00.000-07:00

Thank God Adrián scheduled an easy workout for today! It allowed me to recover from yesterday. I also saw my horse vet running today, and a friend who is a dentist was strolling along too. The latter used to be very, very fat until he had stomach surgery (I'm not sure what kind, but he had it twice, so the second time it must have been gastric bypass). He lost so much weight that once when I saw him at a restaurant I didn't recognize him, but then he began gaining weight again. I was saddened to see this morning that he is again quite fat, though not as much as before his surgeries.

However, I also noticed that there is a business opportunity out there for me, a niche just screaming to be filled: sports bras for men.

And now this breaking news...

2011-06-06T07:26:00.000-07:00

Today I set out without my watch or my Polar monitor, and without my glasses. After warm-up, I set myself a slow, steady trotting pace and concentrated only on maintaining it consistently. And folks, believe it or not, I did 5K today without gasping for air or wondering if my toes were falling off. The circuit including seven sprints as I outran cars and passed clots of strollers and runners coming from the opposite direction. It included four up-hill sections as I trotted over the pedestrian bridges coming and going. At about 4.2 K, I was beginning to feel it a bit, but at 4.5, I knew it was a done deal.

When I say a slow, steady pace, I mean that twice people who were walking actually passed me. They were walking at a good clip and one person had a large dog who was pulling him along. But who cares? Not me! 5K!!!

The Long Walk

2011-06-06T04:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a rest day for me in my training schedule, but since I missed three days in a fibro attack, I decided I couldn't afford to do nothing at all. I went out and did a lively walk the 5 kilometers on the running path (which is marked at each kilometer and half kilometer, which either encourages you or sinks your spirits forever, depending on where you are and how tired you are...). We have a series of winding bridges, very attractive, that go over a major street intersection and which are incorporated into the running path. They are shaded by large trees, making the area hugely pleasant. During my walk, I decided that for once I was going to try to trot uphill on those bridges, and to my amazement I did it without even feeling it. That was the positive part--my physical condition is improving beyond my expectations.

But the walk itself was torture. When I trot, nothing hurts, but when I walk everything does. Don't ask me why because it is a mystery. For the rest of the day the only thing on my body that didn't ache was--guess!!!!--my knees. But these training walks are important. They work the legs and knees differently because at least in my case one doesn't strike the ground with the same stride. Unfortunately, today's training program has turned out to be the walk I did yesterday, so for once I'm a day ahead of the game instead of two days behind!

Breaking news: One of my virtual running pals was right--Ski Pole lady is practicing Nordic walking. I have been saying hello to her now for several days, so yesterday I asked her if that is what she is doing. She seemed thrilled that someone knew what her activity was, too. She is a very nice woman, too, with a lovely smile and very upbeat. Just goes to show there are friends everywhere if you can look for them. If for no other reason, running has been worth it just to meet so many happy people!

Back on track, at least temporarily...

2011-06-04T07:07:00.000-07:00

After three days of a fibro flare, and in fact three weeks of feeling less than what nowadays goes for optimum, I was back in the park. There was a lovely cool breeze blowing even though it will be fairly hot later today.

There are two kinds of runners that can really get your goat: there are those who come pounding along and practically shove you off the path. These are not the Pounders, those runners you can hear from two blocks away. These latter tend to run in tight groups, and if one should trip and fall, they are all going down en masse. Your only concern is getting out of the way by leaping to one side. No, I mean those runners who simply don't care if you are there or not, it is your duty to get out of the way. I've seen one of these jerks almost hit a very elderly woman who was walking by the edge of the path, and today I got brushed by another of the cretins who mistakenly thought I was simply going to step off the path altogether. I warned Adrián that one of these days I was going to stick my leg out and trip one of them.

The other kind of runner that disgusts me is the group that spits on the path. I happen to think that spitting in public is primitive anyway, but to do so on a running path is an act of covert aggression. There aren't many of either kind of runner; most people are upbeat, courteous, and happy to be there enjoying themselves. One cannot identify the spitters, either, because all you come across is the result of their behavior, since the offender has long gone. Phooey!

Narcissus Corner, however, almost makes up for it. Here is where all the show-offs congregate to lift those ghastly weights and to do chin-ups on the monkey bars. This morning the machos were having a chin-up competition, so each competitor didn't have to look around nonchalantly to see if he was being noticed because all of them were there watching each other. It must have been macho heaven. This is one of the best shows on the running path, so more power to 'em.

Stay tuned, folks.

Rural Quietude

2011-05-31T15:07:00.001-07:00

After today's training, which seemed particularly grueling even with other members of my training group yelling encouragement as they passed me, my husband and I took off for our quinta (a small country place) in the orange-growing region to the south of the city.

Since I had already given myself today's dose of physical abuse, I decided not to ride. It would have taken up too much time to jerry-rig a pulley-and-crane system to haul me aboard Bandolero, so I gave him his carrots--that's all he thinks I'm good for anyway, supplying carrots and fawning over him idiotically.

I don't know what comes to your mind when you think "countryside". Perhaps a green, gently rolling English meadow framed by hedgerows and harboring some placid, fat sheep. Or those endless amber waves of grain in the U.S. heartland. Or even the rough, mesquite-infested ranchlands in the Texas hill country. But I'll bet my Asics yet again that you don't imagine a place where the decibel level drives you indoors.

My husband and I settled comfortably on the porch in lawn chairs, a gentle breeze blowing; he had some work to do, and I planned to slip into a comatose state. It was not to be.

Suddenly the cicadas fired up, and it sounded like chain saws at a major logging facility.

"Good grief!!" roared my husband over the din. I knew he was saying something else because I could see his mouth move. He gathered his papers and beat a retreat into the house.

The din came in waves, falling off to a serenade similar to the sound of Italian motorbikes on a busy Rome street. During the relative lulls, the rest of the noise could be heard: birds that chirped, cawed, whistled, crowed, gobbled or screamed. There were sounds I couldn't identify--an odd hooning, and some sort of monotonous animal call. Once in a while, a goat bleated.

Maybe it's the drought that has affected the insects, but we couldn't remember this level of racket during other springtimes when sudden showers would discourage the cicada madness. There was one memorable rainstorm after which the frogs and toads came out in such numbers you couldn't hear yourself think and you couldn't find a clear piece of ground to step on. The only other time we had experienced such an invasion was during a vacation in Hawaii--we were trying to play tennis and had to take "toad breaks" to push the little devils off the court.

I'm indoors now and the cicadas are just a distant whine. This has been one of those days when I can't help wondering if a major rain isn't on its way--hope really does spring eternal--because this decibel level isn't normal. But no matter. If the cicadas don't get us, the toads will.

On a cool day

2011-05-30T06:36:00.000-07:00

Today dawned cloudy, cooler, with a slight northern breeze. At seven a.m. the park was filled with strollers and runners of all ages, and as our weather heats up, it gets more and more crowded in the mornings. My horse vet and my ENT doctor both say that if they can't get out to run in the morning, then that's it; the afternoons are like Hell's waiting room.

Not to overdo it, I did an easy kilometer trot, then a short walk, then another K trot, then a long walk. These moderate sessions are always entertaining because I have time to watch other people. Today brought home some important lessons which I was fortunate enough to learn before I even began this adventure, thanks to Rodrigo and Hernán:

1-Your tendons, joints, and ligaments train up a lot slower than your muscles and cardiopulmonary system. If you don't start learning to run slowly, you will end fast.

2-If you don't get the right shoes for your feet, you will be injured right out of the starting gate. You can decide whether to spend the money on a sports medicine expert from the outset in order to evaluate your feet, or to spend money and lots of time on the injury you may get by going it solo.

3-You may not need a trainer, but you definitely need some kind of good running book that has training schedules and advice for beginners and advanced runners alike. You need specialized books and support from informed runners if you plan to run barefooted.

The reason I thought about these lessons today was because there was a young man on the running path who seemed determined to destroy every joint in his legs. He was overweight and wearing shoes with no cushioning whatsoever. The shoes did not look like running shoes at all, in fact, and were probably built for some other sport. As he pounded toward me from the opposite direction, then passed me, I turned to look at him and was appalled to see he was wearing a backpack which was obviously loaded. What was this young man thinking? Was he unsatisfied with the large amount of extra weight he was carrying in the form of fat and felt he needed to pile on more? Was he hoping to lose weight faster by torturing his joints this way? It occurred to me that maybe he had begun running to lose weight and had fallen into the calorie consumption perception trap: one tends to overestimate the calories used up in exercise and underestimate the calories consumed. That's because after you have struggled, gasped, agonized, and forced yourself through an exercise session, you just can't believe how few calories you have actually used up.

My running book has some very good advice for people who run exclusively to lose weight: Don't. Find other reasons. Run because it gives you a psychological lift that lasts all day. Run because it increases your immune system. Run because you enjoy the outdoors, the company of others or the solitude of a lone run. Do it because you want to improve your over-all health. Do it because it is the time of day that belongs only to you, an activity that you dedicate just to yourself and to no one else. You may lose weight while doing it, but if that is your only reason, you will miss out on so many other things.

Our miserable weather

2011-05-29T07:14:00.001-07:00

The past two mornings have been unbelievably hot and humid--where the humidity is coming from is any man's guess because once more we are rainless and cooking under the sun. My fibro has kicked in big time, so I have stayed at home hoping that Monday will bring renewed energy, or something.

One of my cyber running pals has commented that I should enter a race, that surely people will be walking the 5K and I won't come in last. On the other hand, coming in last is rough work, and someone's got to do it, so maybe I should go ahead and find out what it's like to be in a race. All I can say is, if the weather keeps up like this, a race is almost out of the question. It's possible my body simply isn't acclimated to the combination heat-exercise; we'll see. Stay tuned.

Even the flat seems uphill...

2011-05-27T06:47:00.000-07:00

The minute I woke up this morning and started to leave the bed, I heard a voice:

"What are you doing???"

"Well, after some coffee, I thought I'd go out and try to train..." I replied with a certain hesitation.

"My God, you must be mad! There is no better excuse than fibromyalgia for staying in a prone position!"

By this time, I realized the voice was my body, trying to get me to lie down again, or at least to watch the news on television. It was touch and go there for about half an hour as my body pulled in one direction and my weakened determination in another, but since the training routine for today was an easy one (ten minutes running, five walking, repeated twice), my flabby determination won out, but just barely.

By this time it was seven o'clock and the park was packed to the rafters. But off I went, cutting off a whole minute from my one kilometer time. Big deal. Nine minutes instead of ten! I'm still going to win the bet with Adrián.

It seemed to me like there was a weird crew out this morning. There were some very, very old men, considerably overweight, who looked like they really shouldn't be out in this heat. There was an old gal who looked at me with the most horrific scowl, as if she might be furious with me for being there; on the other hand, she looked at everyone that way. There was a guy I recognized from a few years ago; he had become incensed because I was walking my dogs and said I couldn't take them to the park because they would poop on the path. When I tried to explain that my dogs were trained only to poop in their own back yard or on grass, he would not even listen. I told him he needed a dermatologist, a barber, and a shrink, and I left him fuming while I continued my walk. He must not have recognized me today because he smiled, but I looked at him as if seeing a cockroach on a cake. He probably went home and told his wife that there was a really weird bunch of runners out this morning.

These are the days that I feel best about, because they are so hard. Every fiber of me wanted to do absolutely nothing, but as I managed to find a groove during the first ten minutes of my run, I realized I might manage to make it through. The second ten minutes were uphill even on the flat, perhaps because I had my long distance glasses on and misread my watch, adding an extra ten minutes to my run before I realized my mistake just in time not to actually run them. There is no way I am going to enter some race at this point, however...

Cross-training fall-out...

2011-05-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

Impossible today to finish the whole training schedule! After riding for over an hour yesterday, training my horse and myself, today I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a train. Tomorrow's activity is more feasible. But to my horror, Adrián is trying to get me to enter a 5K that is coming up, trotting 3K and walking 2. I told him I would surely make a colossal fool of myself, but he is going to become insistent, and since he is the trainer, I may wind up doing this. You know how it is these days: You can't make a single false move without winding up on YouTube, so whatever happens, if I enter the race I will have to concentrate on not crashing and burning, or having my sports bra explode, or undergoing a shoe blow-out.

God, with any luck the race takes place when I'm in Austin and I won't be able to enter! Yeah, yeah, lily-livered me!

This is Bandolero....

2011-05-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

He is a Lusitano, the Portuguese version of the Andalusian horse. His name, which means "bandit", is because he assaulted my heart and my pocketbook with one fell swoop. He is my cross training!

The Comeback

2011-05-24T05:08:00.000-07:00

Finally after seeing a ENT doctor, my dizziness is being treated and I hit the park this morning--along with the rest of Adrián's team which had survived the Houston triathlon. These things are superhuman. Can you imagine being in constant movement (swimming, biking, and running) for 10 hours?? The mind, once again, boggles.

It was not on my schedule today, but it was a psychological necessity to run the distance I had been doing before the inner ear problem; the shock was that Adrián informed me the distance is four kilometers, not three as I had thought! Four K!! Okay, okay, it took about ten minutes a kilometer, but hey!! Who cares? Five K is just a stone's throw away, and then I can work on time. I'm still going to win the bet, and Adrián is beginning to look worried at the idea of having to pay me a cake. Ha!

Once more, a comeback.

The Fine Print

2011-05-22T05:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the running park was practically empty, either because there is a big event this weekend in Houston, or because the world ended yesterday while I was busy with something else. Surely the non-end-of-the-world is one of those "Is my face red!!??" moments for the whacky few who divested themselves of their wordly belongings in preparation for the big happening.

They really put out an effort to convince the rest of us, too, in one of those very common human foibles that makes us want to talk others into sharing our idiocy so that we can be confirmed in the truth of our beliefs. People like this can be danged pests; it's the matched pair of Seventh Day Adventists who ring your doorbell while you are trying to make lunch, or the matched pair of nuns from the church down the street who assume you are a Catholic and are pushing their way into your house to ask for a donation while you are trying to catch your cat, who has brought a dead bird into the living room. It's the matched pair of lady volunteers at your local hospital who come into your room to shower you with tiny cards showing the Virgin Mary or which contain prayers, making you wonder if your surgery went a lot worse than anyone is telling you. Some of these people are trying to do you good, but they seem to lack that part of the brain that would permit them to ask you what you want instead of imposing unbidden.

The most recent whackos stated that the Bible "guaranteed" the the world was going to end yesterday. You know how it is with guarantees: There is that fine print at the end of the page that conditions the guarantee, stating that if you misuse the product, fling it about, or stomp on it, the manufacturer will kick you out the door if you try to get your money back. Perhaps all religious-based writings should come with that warning, because if there is anything flung about, stomped on and misused, religion is it.

The most fun I've had with Seventh Day Adventists--although they may have been Mormons, now that I think about it, because the Mormons have just built a singularly uninspired, huge church not far from here--was one day as I was arriving from the store and unloading my sacks of groceries. Two matched pairs of good-news-ers wanted to give me some literature, and one of them (a gringo, no less) asked if I spoke English. They congregated around, all set to save my soul, and were about to be a major pain in the butt until in a moment of inspiration I announced that I was an atheist. It's as if the devil had popped up out of the sidewalk--they hotfooted it off down the street double time, much to my relief.

As I trotted down the running path (doing a bare minimum because of what now turns out to be a middle ear inflammation), running over in my mind the vicissitudes suffered by the people who from one band or another throughout history have claimed to be chosen by God, then I hope to remain a part of the unwashed masses who aren't chosen, by dang. And if heaven is populated by some of the characters who claim to be keepers of the Truth, who the heck needs hell?

The proverbial dog, sick...

2011-05-19T09:55:00.000-07:00

Why do dogs have such a reputation for being sick? That's how upset my stomach is right now, and with this enforced day of time-off from the running path, philosophical matters can be attended to. It could be that the proverbial dog is what you are as sick as (how's that for tortured syntax?) because dogs can vomit at will--or as my mother pointed out one time, they can also vomit at Joe or Bubba. But dogs can't compare with a cat upchucking a hairball or something it ate which it shouldn't have--one of our cats, right after we moved from Mexico City to northern Mexico, was overly excited by the presence of cockroaches, something he had never seen before, and he downed quite a few. Now, that's sick! Nothing a dog could bring up holds a candle to a gutfull of partially digested roaches!

Another burning issue which after my 43 years in Mexico no one has been able to clarify: How could anyone in this country be constipated? It's like being constipated in, say, India. The mind can't get around it. Apparently I'm the only woman in the country who isn't, in fact. I've been tempted to ask these women if they have ever eaten the food here or drunk the water. Let me put it this way: There are desserts made with chile peppers, such as mango ice with chipotle (delish!). The range of chiles is endless, from the mildest to the nuclear chile habanero, yet with all the spices and fiber in the Mexican diet, most women seem to be constipated. One might suspect that the lining of the stomach and intestines has been evaporated by all these chiles and said organs have come to a halt. Some of the remedies are extremely tasty, in fact, and for that alone are worth the effort--nopalitos in salads and tamarind drinks, for example--healthful and vitamin-packed. But if I ate like that every day, I'd be like the tourist on a flight I took one time--he had to be strapped onto the toilet during the entire flight because there was no way he could sit anywhere else for more than 30 to 40 seconds. Now that, I can identify with.

Fortunately, I'm not blond.....

2011-05-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

Since last Saturday, I've been under the weather with a mild stomach upset, a mild headache, and just enough dizziness to make life fairly pesky. Typical fibromyalgia sindrome. Yesterday, however, a plan was set afoot to collect a donation from those of us who volunteer some funds in order to surprise Adrián this weekend because Teacher's Day is coming up. (Mexico never misses a chance to party, by God! You'll have to read Octavio Paz in order to understand why.)

So in spite of my condition, weaving like a drunkard, I made my way to the park early in the morning. I stealthily handed off my donation to Ana, the one in charge of the surprise, said hello to my fellow trainees, and then thought, what the haitch, I'm here so let's trot a bit. You'll realize we are now brushing up against the skirts of fanaticism when the sick, the lame, and the halt drag themselves to the running path in order not to miss out on a training session.

My warm-up walk was somewhat uneven since I had a bit of trouble sticking to my lane; it crossed my mind to rejoice in my non-blond hair since I couldn't be accused of being a dizzy blond, although several people may have wondered if I was, in fact, a drunken grey-headed old gal who had partied all night and was still feeling the effects. Oh God, if only such carousing were possible! It was, however, quite true that I had been up all night feeling the effects, but these latter belonged to an anti-dizziness medication that contained enough caffeine to wire a cast of thousands.

By this time you may be asking yourself if the medication also destroyed neurons by the millions. Well, let me just tell you that it doesn't matter, because in that state I managed a 3.4K run without stopping so much as to tie a shoelace or rescue fallen glasses, and even ended with a small but significant (for me) sprint. You know how training seems to progess by a series of plateaus; I am now past the eight-minutes-of-this, two-minutes-of-that stage and am aiming for a very, very slow 5K now.

I can see now the newspapers that will appear next February: "All categories of Austin 5K taken by old lady expat living in Mexico; drug testing reveals humongous quatities of caffeine. Fight breaks out at finish line as victor's Asics are stolen by infuriated younger contenders who demand that shoes also undergo drug testing."

At last, rain!

2011-05-16T03:57:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, my husband and I took three of our grand-daughters to the countryside, and to our infinite pleasure, it rained! It rained after seven months of drought. After the rain had let up a little, the girls dashed around finding all our "pet" toads, which had left their dens: a couple of them are so big that over the years we have given them names, such as Marcus Aurelius and Julius Caesar. My daughter's mother-in-law, who went with us, said she's never seen toads so big as the crew that inhabit our place in the country.

It has rained for three days so far here in town, and today will be my first day training since the weekend. The weather is downright cold. Great!

Hal, redeemed...

2011-05-14T06:12:00.000-07:00

Hal must have gotten religion, because he replaced the two blogs he had wiped out. Either that, or he is planning something worse. On the other hand, what could be worse than a robot with religion? Sarah Palin?

The Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey Condundrum, or The Single Boob Paradigm

2011-05-13T09:47:00.000-07:00

Let's digress right away: Hal is back, just as I predicted, and he eliminated two whole blogs. There is no measuring his degree of resentment, apparently.

Also, since TrainingPeaks seems to be on the blink also, I haven't received my training program by email, so this morning (after two days of aches and fatigue) the functional part of me dragged my body out to the running path and I finished 3K without stopping--I've done it before, once, but this time it was a lot easier. Not having to keep tabs on my timer, my mind wandered. I started two hours later than my usual time, so it was like a Tokyo traffic jam. But the viewing was even funnier that usual as a result.

At the beginning of the running path, people gather to stretch, exchange running anecdotes, or drink water. Off to the left is a dumbell (I refer to the weight, not to any individual) made up of an iron bar with two big clumps of dried cement at each end--the poor man's version of gym equipment, I guess. It's always there because no one in his right mind would want to steal the thing. Today a man was standing right by the path lifting the dumbell, stopping every lift or so to look around, oh so casually, to see if anyone was watching him. It must have been frustrating, because no one paid him any attention at all. He moved closer to the path. We saw him, all right, and had to swerve away from him in case he dropped the blasted weight on someone's foot. It was fortunately at the beginning of my run because I was struck by an attack of laughter which, had it occurred later on, would have brought my run to a halt. The real burning question is, did whoever had the dumbell constructed choose cement in order to prevent thievery? It worked.

On to our subject. It has been mentioned in another writing that the running culture doesn't care what you wear. It should have been noted that it also doesn't care what you don´t wear. People run without shoes, and in Austin at least not even pants are de rigueur, which adds quite a bit to the general atmosphere of high spirits. And, you can run without a sports bra. It's painful to watch--you can almost feel the tissues tearing and you know that woman's old age will find her boobs down around her knees.

It never occurred to me that anyone might object to the Kevlar-steel-reinforced, no-boobs-at-all look my own apparel produces. I love it, because with my washboard fat bouncing along with each trot, I don't want to add anything else to the sad spectacle.

But one of my virtual running mates revealed that she just doesn't like the single-boob look. She may have more to work with than I do, however, which would explain her tastes in this vital matter. I didn't even know there was a single-boob option. This means that the classification of sports bras needs a revamping. My suggestion would be to eliminate most of the sizes now available and replace them with: No-Boobs, Single-Boob, and Double-Boob options. This latter could even take into account the one-size-fits-no-two-boobs problem and include Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey fitting choices so you could pull up or let off on the reins, so to speak, for each boob.

You'd think someone would have come up with an idea this great long before this, wouldn't you?

Footnote...

2011-05-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

It has to be experienced to be believed. I am online with a ghostly presence who announces his name on the chat support network, and then disappears. My blackest suspicions have been confirmed--people are running like crazy to get away from having to help this old gal in Mexico and her wayward computer. I have actually typed in "Mexico to India, Mexico to India, is anyone there?", only to get no response. When I ended the chat, made another chat request, and got someone on the other end, it turned out to be the same person!

Rosetta Stone wants my profile so it can get me going online, but the profile must be so harrowing the program withdraws like a salted snail. Does Rosetta Stone tremble at the part about me living in Mexico, or just Monterrey? Meanwhile, my messages on the chat are getting more and more, ah, shall we say, original and non-formal in nature. God, I hope I haven't started some kind of international incident....

The Rosetta Stone Nightmare

2011-05-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday and today have been fibromyalgia days, so I have scaled back my activity. It seemed like a great time to fire up my Rosetta Stone course in Italian, which has an online option so you can speak with other students, play games, and also talk to native speakers.

How can I possibly explain the almost insurmountable glitches trying to register for the course and have access to the online options? I have spent literally HOURS during the past few days as a bunch of very patient, very kind people in India have worked through every problem that comes up. And let me tell you, the problems have been at every single step of the way.

First, I couldn't activate my course. The activation code is a string of numbers so long that if I lay the series down on the sidewalk, I'd have to run a 5K just to read them all. When some poor bloke in India finally got that straightened out on the chat support service, it turned out that my course was activated, but I could not access the online options.

Why could I not activate the online options? Well, among all the other things, I had two IDs for the course. This morning, working on the initial part of the problem, again with some poor soul in India, our chat was cut off in mid-solution. Natch, when I tried to get this person back, he was busy with someone else, so I began again with another long-suffering computer nerd who must have thought I was severely challenged, intellectually speaking. Okay, we discovered that my computer was a day ahead of the date, and thus my requests to get online with others involved a time warp the system couldn't handle. We got that fixed. (No, I had never noticed my computer was a day ahead of the date because I never look at the date.)

Now another in what seems to be an endless stream of glitches and malfunctions has taken place: a nice little webpage asks me to tell them something about myself in order to "enhance my learning experience". What I've learned, however, is that the webpage can't save my data, so this is as far as I've gotten now that I'm online. I'm almost afraid to contact those folks in India on the chat support, for fear of getting someone I've already spoken to. I can see people fleeing their computers at the very mention of my name.

All this is subsequent, of course, to other more manageable issues such as installing a headset with integrated microphone so the language program can correct my pronunciation. The reason these issues are manageable is because I didn't manage them--my reliable computer nerd did it for me. He's a nice fellow who insists on showing me what he is doing on the benighted assumption it is going to sink in, so I hate to disappoint him. I nod sagely, every now and then inserting an enlightened "Ah, now I see!" or "Yes, of course", just to prevent him from launching into an even more bone-headed explanation on the outside chance of lowering his standards of teaching to reach even me.

My bravery falters at the prospect of going back to the online chat support, but there is nothing for it. My husband is coming home for lunch early today, so I am going to relax in the kitchen before tackling the next Rosetta Stone problem. Fortunately, I can now tell you che io sono una donna, which does not mean that I'm a donut. I can identify articles of clothing, activities, and conjugate a verb or two. The rest of the course is marvelous, but I refuse to give up on the chance to play games in Italian or talk to others as confused by the online options as I am--assuming there are actually others out there who have managed to get online. Stay tuned.

The Running Culture

2011-05-10T06:28:00.000-07:00

In a place where our headlines every day document the shoot-outs provoked by drug cartels, the arrests, people stealing iron and steel from cargo trains, international problems of intolerance and violence, the epic, abysmal stupidity of our congress in Mexico and the know-no-nothing minority in the States that redefines how low the human race can descend, it is a joy to be among people who don't care how old you are, what you look like, or how much you can do. Whether you are trying to get into shape or training for an Iron Man competition, you are going to be supported because everyone who is part of the running culture knows how hard you have to work to reach your goal. It doesn't matter whether you are brown, black, orange or purple, what kind of clothes you wear, or what language you speak. It is assumed that if you are making the effort, you belong with the rest of the crowd.

People who run suffer much less depression than the general population, and that may be one of the reasons for this atmosphere of happy support. There are not many places outside of family--and certainly not every family--where the negative de-emphasized to this extent. The complaining and whining one hears, from the newspapers to so-called news networks with their ranting proponents of hate, fear, and stupidity, have no place in the running culture. They are consciously set aside.

Maybe for these reasons alone, it is worth the effort to get into better shape. It works on much more than your body. Your soul can use it too.

Back at the daily grind...

2011-05-10T06:15:00.000-07:00

Rain is predicted for tomorrow and Thursday, but no one believes it. For weeks now, it has clouded up every afternoon--big, dark, roiling clouds--but nothing happens. Or it is cloudy in the morning and then the sun comes out to bake us all. The only positive part is that the early mornings are cool enough to enable me to run.

It was back to the daily grind today, but somehow it just wasn't as hard as it was two weeks ago. Nevertheless, I told Adrián that, much as I appreciated his knowledge and dedication, the idea that I could run 5K in 25 minutes by August borders on the hallucinatory. I told him I had virtual running pals who could back me up on this. He laughed and told me to figure out what kind of cake to bake when I was proven wrong, since he loves goodies. At that point I made a formal bet with him--from my end, a dark chocolate French tart with chocolate crust. He will have to go out and buy a cake for me, but I'm going to ask for a "tres leches" cake. Stay tuned for the outcome.

This morning the Ski Pole Lady gave me a beaming smile when she saw me. Did she miss me? I smiled back, and maybe if we can eventually slide into a conversation, I can ask her what the hell she is doing. The curiosity is killing me. It's those ski gloves that put her over the top, and I've simply GOT to know what is up with this gal.

Hal seems to have given up, but he may be waiting in the wings for something worse than the destruction of paragraphs.

It's off to the store with me, again....

2011-05-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

We left cool and rainy Seattle yesterday, where everything is so waterlogged that slugs and other huge, unidentified gelatinous invertebrates attempt to get out of the earth and on to sidewalks, making a simple walk an exercise in goo avoidance. There were some spectacular snails with bright yellow shells, a wealth of ducks and other birds. The place is just gorgeous.

But now we are home and yours truly is in a full fibromyalgia attack, thanks to the plane trip and the change in time zones. Today's training program has been put on hold, but tomorrow is another day, thank God. My mental fog is such that when I went to the store, planning to stock up on meats, I got everything but. It doesn't matter that much since we are having crispy baked shrimp á la Jamie Oliver, however, as I said, tomorrow is another day...at the store. Off I go now to soothe my aching self with a good dose of Advil and to unpack my nifty running clothes, á la Target.