In this past year, I have been able to pretty much conquor some of my vices, like white sugar and carbonated drinks, but there is one I will not give up. For time wasting, it can't be beat. I am talking about the SciFi channel.
Monday nights, a t.v. wasteland in my opinion, has been rescued by Bitten, a SciFi Channel series that has captured my heart, which is just what the main characters want, not to mention other body parts. Bitten is the story of a hot, young career wolf in the city, trying to resolve a human fiancee, lunch dates with the girls, her shrink, also a w.w., and the "boys," her kinky wolf family upstate living in a glam but creepy hunting (get it?) lodge.
High production values, soap opera issues, much like another favorite of mine, Nashville, but with fur and teeth. Well, maybe that, too, but less howling. No wait, that too. Well, it is a lot like Nashville.
One thing that struck me right off the first time I saw Bitten, was how werewolves used to transform into wolves with bad wardrobes - plaid flannel shirts, raggy jeans and so forth. But when this chick transforms, she sheds her fetchingly color coordinated bra and panties, although it is chilly out and pretty damp and misty looking, and leaves them neatly folded so she can get to them later. You have to give her points for neatness and good lingerie.
There is also an African-American werewolf, the shrink, whom she calls her cousin, so without more episodes, I don't know whether he is either or both. Anyway, it probably doesn't matter. High time, I say, for a little werewolf diversity. And please don't tell me Jacob is Native American and that equals diversity. Teenager outsider types who ride motorbikes don't count. Also, he had bad clothes, what clothes he actually had, and this shrink/cousin is impeccably turned out.
And while we are speaking, loosely, of innards and entrails and that sort of thing, I am wondering whether I should get a FitBit or its equivalent, as my trainer suggests. I know a guy who has one, and he is obsessed by how many steps he takes a day. Somebody, somewhere decided we should all take 1,000, steps a day. At least I think that's the number. Maybe it's 10,000. Doesn't matter, it's a heck of a lot of walking around whatever it is is. Anyway, the FitBit counts your steps for you rather than have you mumbling in the grocery store "a pound of sliced turkey, nine hundred fifty," which could lead to all sorts of misunderstandings. It also keeps track of your heart rate, which is the real reason he wants me to get it. I need more aerobic exercise.
Now I have a very slow heart rate. Just this side of zombie. That can make a person lethargic, which I don't really see as a downside. Lethargy gets a bad rap, in my opinion. Anyway, the FitBit supposedly leads to greater self-awareness which in turns leads to jogging up the stairs with a basket of laundry, or something like that.
The guy I know who wears a FitBit is entirely too self aware, as far as I am concerned. One of it's advertied pluses is that it will wake you up (presumbly for your morning meditation and triathalon)
by quietly vibrating on your wrist, so as not to wake up your sleeping partner. I'll bet my friend's wife loves that one. If she's smart, she'll move into a bedroom of her own and leave him and his FitBit to whatever it is they have together.
So the FitBit is on hold for now, until I am convinced to buy yet another tiny adorable electronic device, which I am a sucker for every time. I am at least that self aware. And if I can get it with one touch on Amazon with no shipping charges, so much the better. I'm sticking to werewolves, for now, and a good deal of sitting lethargically in front of the t.v. on Monday nights.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
A Sturdily Built Woman and a Murder of Crows
I have a murder of crows in my backyard. Better than a congress of apes, I guess, although we have learned where that leads. But nearly as noisy. (And don't you just love collective nouns? See the book of the same name, i.e. A Murder... )Five or six of the big guys (the crows, not apes) convene on my birdbath and a bowl-style feeder every morning to plan the day. Another five or six squirrels gather below in a circle for their breakfast club. It is too early in the year for my groundhog to appear, presumably still napping for another few weeks.
But, undeniably, the new year is fully underway, and resolutions, if you made them, may already have begun to slip. I am still slogging along with last year's, actually made on my personal new year, my birthday a couple of weeks before Julian's (Don't remember the Julian calender?Oh, sure you do.) Lose 100 pounds. And I have come 70 pounds of the way before bogging down in points and pounds that refused to move on along. My trainer, who always says "you have to switch it up" once the body gets too comfortable with a particular routine, pointed me to a nutritionist, and yes, boys and girls, it is a whole new world.
Now, I am not counting Weight Watcher points, which can lead you down stale nutritional paths. Now, it is old fashioned calories, carbs and protein grams, and it seems to be working. More work, more specific, but, as Mark the Nutritionist says, think of it this way: "When you are in your twenties, you can use any gas at the pump and not show the effects unless you use way too much and it spills all over the parking lot and your cell phone sparks and it catches fire and burns the whole place down in a big explosion that you can see three counties away. " Actually, he didn't say all of that. He stopped at "any gas" and I filled in the rest. But, continuing more faithfully with what Mark said, "but when you are more mature ( I interject: pretty damn old) you are more like a Ferrari that needs high test gas to run properly."
Mark did of those biometric tests where your (by that I mean I) stand on a scale and then a print out rolls out, telling you everything from your metabolism rate, bone density, fat ratio and so forth.
I won't bore you with the details, although the result was interesting to me, say the least. Just showed me how many misconceptions you can have about your own body. For one thing, I probably need to lose only 20 pounds more, because I have pretty good muscles (thank you, Trainer and heredity) which make up part of what those weight charts (thank you Army and Insurance stats.) classify as fat weight. And speaking of fat, the "fat of death," visceral fat that lurks around the organs waiting to kill you - well, mine is pretty scarce. So that gut I am working off at the gym? Blubber, sitting on top of what must be killer abs just waiting to spring forth and show themselves.
Unfortunately, blubber means three 400 calorie meals a day or a 1200 a day limit, if I want it to go anywhere reasonably soon. And I won't even get into when to eat carbs and what kind, let alone the protein story. Let's just say I have learned a lot in the last couple of weeks.
The most interesting piece of self-misinformation to me: In my childhood, let's say elementary school years, I was a fairly skinny kid. Photos of me in a tutu and ballet slippers, and knobby knees and boney arms, confirm this. "Fine boned," my mother called it, and fine boned is what I believed. That is, until my print-out gave me a body type classification : sturdily built. "Sturdily built?" Why didn't it say "good peasant stock?" Need someone to pull a plow? You got 'er! In three words, I love it. I think it is hilarious that all these years, so many after those pitiful black and white eight by tens, I saw myself as a loving mother saw me, and not with the eyes of reality.
The power of a parent, I guess.
But, undeniably, the new year is fully underway, and resolutions, if you made them, may already have begun to slip. I am still slogging along with last year's, actually made on my personal new year, my birthday a couple of weeks before Julian's (Don't remember the Julian calender?Oh, sure you do.) Lose 100 pounds. And I have come 70 pounds of the way before bogging down in points and pounds that refused to move on along. My trainer, who always says "you have to switch it up" once the body gets too comfortable with a particular routine, pointed me to a nutritionist, and yes, boys and girls, it is a whole new world.
Now, I am not counting Weight Watcher points, which can lead you down stale nutritional paths. Now, it is old fashioned calories, carbs and protein grams, and it seems to be working. More work, more specific, but, as Mark the Nutritionist says, think of it this way: "When you are in your twenties, you can use any gas at the pump and not show the effects unless you use way too much and it spills all over the parking lot and your cell phone sparks and it catches fire and burns the whole place down in a big explosion that you can see three counties away. " Actually, he didn't say all of that. He stopped at "any gas" and I filled in the rest. But, continuing more faithfully with what Mark said, "but when you are more mature ( I interject: pretty damn old) you are more like a Ferrari that needs high test gas to run properly."
Mark did of those biometric tests where your (by that I mean I) stand on a scale and then a print out rolls out, telling you everything from your metabolism rate, bone density, fat ratio and so forth.
I won't bore you with the details, although the result was interesting to me, say the least. Just showed me how many misconceptions you can have about your own body. For one thing, I probably need to lose only 20 pounds more, because I have pretty good muscles (thank you, Trainer and heredity) which make up part of what those weight charts (thank you Army and Insurance stats.) classify as fat weight. And speaking of fat, the "fat of death," visceral fat that lurks around the organs waiting to kill you - well, mine is pretty scarce. So that gut I am working off at the gym? Blubber, sitting on top of what must be killer abs just waiting to spring forth and show themselves.
Unfortunately, blubber means three 400 calorie meals a day or a 1200 a day limit, if I want it to go anywhere reasonably soon. And I won't even get into when to eat carbs and what kind, let alone the protein story. Let's just say I have learned a lot in the last couple of weeks.
The most interesting piece of self-misinformation to me: In my childhood, let's say elementary school years, I was a fairly skinny kid. Photos of me in a tutu and ballet slippers, and knobby knees and boney arms, confirm this. "Fine boned," my mother called it, and fine boned is what I believed. That is, until my print-out gave me a body type classification : sturdily built. "Sturdily built?" Why didn't it say "good peasant stock?" Need someone to pull a plow? You got 'er! In three words, I love it. I think it is hilarious that all these years, so many after those pitiful black and white eight by tens, I saw myself as a loving mother saw me, and not with the eyes of reality.
The power of a parent, I guess.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Ah, Bruce. Where are you when I need you?
In the last week, an odd form of courtesy has befallen me, and I don't like it one bit. It involves parking, a thing I am very good at.
The first incident happened to me while I was parallel parking on a street just off the Marietta Square. Parking was at a premium, and I was elated when I found a largish spot between two parked cars. Or rather, a parked car and one, just in front of me, with a driver still in the car, having just completed what he apparently felt was a spectacularly good parking job and had to pass his skills along to me.
As I maneuvered the rear of my car backward, a silver haired driver sprang from his driver's seat like St. Nick and began waving and gesticulating as if he were guiding a 707 into its berth at O'Hare. When I turned the wheel, he pantomimed the same, shouting when he thought I had turned too far or not far enough. A space I could have whisked into with no fanfare became a three act play with choreography, as I went forward and back, turn to the right, turn to the left, pause, begin again. Left alone, I would have been fine. With this parking aficionado, it took me forever to finally complete the job to his satisfaction.
The second incident, just this morning, involved the simplest of parking maneuvers, a straight back- out from a shopping center parking spot. This was not a particularly busy location, and I was unlikely to be swiped by passing cars. Once again, silver haired and full of human kindness, this gentleman who had parked next to me jumped from his car and swooped in right behind my car. Presumably he couldn't hear my expletive as I nearly knee-capped him. Waving and gesturing to indicate all was clear, he guided me back past the SUV on my other side, and got me into the stream of non-existant traffic with nary a dented fender.
What is this? What have I done to attract the attention of these unwanted helpers? Have I forgotten how to drive? Do I look befuddled? I don't think so. I don't do befuddled, and my children are still willing to ride with me without grabbing for the keys. Is it the gray hair? Misplaced Southern manners? I'm not sure, but twice in a week? Something is afoot.
I suggested to my family that maybe I should do a full McClain. No, not John McClain (think Bruce Willis.) I am talking Shirley. Flame red spikey hair, lots of scarves and jewelry, plenty of make-up.
Scare the Bejesus out of these old guys who want to help a little old lady. It's not as bad as it was in Ireland where everyone calls gray haired women "Mother." That is the definition of ego deflation. But...you old goats, if I want parking help, I'll let you know, O.K? Maybe Bruce Willis' John McClain is a better model for me after all.
The first incident happened to me while I was parallel parking on a street just off the Marietta Square. Parking was at a premium, and I was elated when I found a largish spot between two parked cars. Or rather, a parked car and one, just in front of me, with a driver still in the car, having just completed what he apparently felt was a spectacularly good parking job and had to pass his skills along to me.
As I maneuvered the rear of my car backward, a silver haired driver sprang from his driver's seat like St. Nick and began waving and gesticulating as if he were guiding a 707 into its berth at O'Hare. When I turned the wheel, he pantomimed the same, shouting when he thought I had turned too far or not far enough. A space I could have whisked into with no fanfare became a three act play with choreography, as I went forward and back, turn to the right, turn to the left, pause, begin again. Left alone, I would have been fine. With this parking aficionado, it took me forever to finally complete the job to his satisfaction.
The second incident, just this morning, involved the simplest of parking maneuvers, a straight back- out from a shopping center parking spot. This was not a particularly busy location, and I was unlikely to be swiped by passing cars. Once again, silver haired and full of human kindness, this gentleman who had parked next to me jumped from his car and swooped in right behind my car. Presumably he couldn't hear my expletive as I nearly knee-capped him. Waving and gesturing to indicate all was clear, he guided me back past the SUV on my other side, and got me into the stream of non-existant traffic with nary a dented fender.
What is this? What have I done to attract the attention of these unwanted helpers? Have I forgotten how to drive? Do I look befuddled? I don't think so. I don't do befuddled, and my children are still willing to ride with me without grabbing for the keys. Is it the gray hair? Misplaced Southern manners? I'm not sure, but twice in a week? Something is afoot.
I suggested to my family that maybe I should do a full McClain. No, not John McClain (think Bruce Willis.) I am talking Shirley. Flame red spikey hair, lots of scarves and jewelry, plenty of make-up.
Scare the Bejesus out of these old guys who want to help a little old lady. It's not as bad as it was in Ireland where everyone calls gray haired women "Mother." That is the definition of ego deflation. But...you old goats, if I want parking help, I'll let you know, O.K? Maybe Bruce Willis' John McClain is a better model for me after all.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
A little stir fry sauce in the pantry can be a very good thing.
With the nearly silent hum of the dishwasher in the background, I have a moment to look back on the last few days.
The untimely deceased dishwasher was replaced by by my husband at around 4 a.m. the morning of Christmas Eve, with only the smallest leak dripping into a bucket under the sink. By Christmas Eve, he had that conquered and we could dirty our dishes without fear.
My favorite day of the year had arrived, murky and cold. No, not my birthday. Not even Christmas. No. Winter Solstice. My daughter says it is because I am a Druid, but I share my love for this day with my late father-in-law, who was anything but a Druid. It is the moment that days start getting longer. Spring is stirring, the earth is turning, and it will be green again. He would noticeably brighten and his spirits would lift, just as they sank at Midsummer's Eve, when the days slowly grew shorter. The one thing, I think, that we had in common.
Our two children were with us, and happy to be here, and that, of course, makes me happier than anything else. On Christmas afternoon, we took our two dogs to an open field close to Kennesaw Mountain, where we could walk and they could run with unbridled glee. This time no deer were in evidence, no other people or dogs, and we had just the blazing blue sky, winter woods and soaring hawks for company.
And then home for Christmas dinner. This time, determined to cut down on on the work of producing our traditional replay of Thanksgiving dinner, I had the turkey cooked by Publix, and picked it up Monday. "It's fully cooked," the lady reminded me. "Just warm it in the oven. Directions are on the package."
And so, trustingly following directions, I put the bird, still in it's inner wrapper, into the roasting pan. And when the oven timer summoned me, I pulled it out of the warm oven and cut the cover only to discover... a raw turkey! Publix! How could you do this to me, I who spend an absurd amount on your wares, day after day, week after week?
After my initial panic and too shocked to cry, I sliced the raw meat, just enough for modest servings(our daughter is vegetarian and her tofurkey with wild rice stuffing was perfectly cooked and delicious - I couldn't bear to eat that turkey,) threw the meat into a deep skillet with stir fry sauce and a few other things, and produced edible, if somewhat Japanese restaurant flavored turkey. And only about an hour later than the announced dinner time.
The sides and dressing were great, made by me or Whole Foods. The beet salad, not a hit, no surprise to me, was an experiment. I happen to love beets, the "in" vegetable of the moment. They remind me of childhood holiday dinners, but without the goat cheese and chopped walnuts that graced my beets, resting picturesquely in a nest of butter lettuce and purple radichio. My son even had seconds of the stir fried turkey and is still alive this morning, so all is well.
So we come to Boxing Day. Between now and New Year's Eve, it is time to clean out the fridge, with everything but the truly current food stock cleared away for the New Year. And with a husband who is one of five "kids" who still give one another Christmas gifts, which nowadays consist of baskets filled with forbidden sweets, crackers and cheeses, wines and etc., that means a post Christmas selection that looks like the interior of Dean and DeLucca for friends who wander in had leave with chocolate covered coffee beans, brie en crout and gourmet jelly beans.
To her everlasting credit, our dear daughter took the largest, most lavish (but wine free) basket, given to her in thanks by a very large family of out of town friends whom she hosted for a couple of days last spring, and gave it, along with some kid oriented gifts, to a large family who would never see such bounty. Hers is the very definition of a good soul, and she blesses us in so many ways.
So, I go forward bravely toward the New Year, counting Weight Watcher points, never skipping the gym except for major holidays, and always keeping some stir fry sauce in the pantry, because you never know when you will need it.
The untimely deceased dishwasher was replaced by by my husband at around 4 a.m. the morning of Christmas Eve, with only the smallest leak dripping into a bucket under the sink. By Christmas Eve, he had that conquered and we could dirty our dishes without fear.
My favorite day of the year had arrived, murky and cold. No, not my birthday. Not even Christmas. No. Winter Solstice. My daughter says it is because I am a Druid, but I share my love for this day with my late father-in-law, who was anything but a Druid. It is the moment that days start getting longer. Spring is stirring, the earth is turning, and it will be green again. He would noticeably brighten and his spirits would lift, just as they sank at Midsummer's Eve, when the days slowly grew shorter. The one thing, I think, that we had in common.
Our two children were with us, and happy to be here, and that, of course, makes me happier than anything else. On Christmas afternoon, we took our two dogs to an open field close to Kennesaw Mountain, where we could walk and they could run with unbridled glee. This time no deer were in evidence, no other people or dogs, and we had just the blazing blue sky, winter woods and soaring hawks for company.
And then home for Christmas dinner. This time, determined to cut down on on the work of producing our traditional replay of Thanksgiving dinner, I had the turkey cooked by Publix, and picked it up Monday. "It's fully cooked," the lady reminded me. "Just warm it in the oven. Directions are on the package."
And so, trustingly following directions, I put the bird, still in it's inner wrapper, into the roasting pan. And when the oven timer summoned me, I pulled it out of the warm oven and cut the cover only to discover... a raw turkey! Publix! How could you do this to me, I who spend an absurd amount on your wares, day after day, week after week?
After my initial panic and too shocked to cry, I sliced the raw meat, just enough for modest servings(our daughter is vegetarian and her tofurkey with wild rice stuffing was perfectly cooked and delicious - I couldn't bear to eat that turkey,) threw the meat into a deep skillet with stir fry sauce and a few other things, and produced edible, if somewhat Japanese restaurant flavored turkey. And only about an hour later than the announced dinner time.
The sides and dressing were great, made by me or Whole Foods. The beet salad, not a hit, no surprise to me, was an experiment. I happen to love beets, the "in" vegetable of the moment. They remind me of childhood holiday dinners, but without the goat cheese and chopped walnuts that graced my beets, resting picturesquely in a nest of butter lettuce and purple radichio. My son even had seconds of the stir fried turkey and is still alive this morning, so all is well.
So we come to Boxing Day. Between now and New Year's Eve, it is time to clean out the fridge, with everything but the truly current food stock cleared away for the New Year. And with a husband who is one of five "kids" who still give one another Christmas gifts, which nowadays consist of baskets filled with forbidden sweets, crackers and cheeses, wines and etc., that means a post Christmas selection that looks like the interior of Dean and DeLucca for friends who wander in had leave with chocolate covered coffee beans, brie en crout and gourmet jelly beans.
To her everlasting credit, our dear daughter took the largest, most lavish (but wine free) basket, given to her in thanks by a very large family of out of town friends whom she hosted for a couple of days last spring, and gave it, along with some kid oriented gifts, to a large family who would never see such bounty. Hers is the very definition of a good soul, and she blesses us in so many ways.
So, I go forward bravely toward the New Year, counting Weight Watcher points, never skipping the gym except for major holidays, and always keeping some stir fry sauce in the pantry, because you never know when you will need it.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Rituals and weight loss
We have a ritual in my family. It is not limited to Christmas, just the major holidays that involve a lot of eating. A major electrical appliance crashes just before or even during the holiday, and our local Lowe's delivery man gets a call, brings a new appliance to our house, greets our dogs by name, asks to be remembered to any family members not present and then disappears until the next holiday, next appliance crash.
Last time, our refrigerator checked out the day before Thanksgiving (this was a year or two ago) while entrusted with our turkey and everything else I was planning to serve. This year, our dishwasher gave up on Thanksgiving, refusing to pump adequate water to distribute the soap. It made a brief comeback so that a repair man said it might hold up a while longer. Repair was possible for an estimate equal to the cost of a new dishwasher. It did hold up, unrepaired but with our fingers crossed, until the Sunday before Christmas. Our faithful delivery guy delivered a new dishwasher today, Dec. 23, but alas, no installer will be available until the week after Christmas.
I'm OK with washing dishes, but with four major meals in a two day period, my husband has undertaken to install the dishwasher himself. He is more than moderately handy and installed a dishwasher in another house not long ago, so you might ask why five hours after wrestling it into place (and removing the old dishwasher), and leaving a wake through the living room, den and kitchen, we are not hearing the comforting swish of dishes being washed .
One word. Instructions. No mention of how to hook it to the electricity. Internet not helpful. Suggestion of pulling it back out until an installer can come, not well received.
I'll leave this saga here, since I plan to go to bed soon, but I'll let you know how it turns out.
In other news, three days ago was my one year weight loss anniversary. My goal was 100 pounds. I succeeded in losing 75, so I have the rest to look forward to in the New Year. Since I gained a lot of muscle, and muscle weighs more than fat, the result size-wise is a somewhat slimmer me than the loss of 75 really indicates. But, anyway, it was a full time time job to work with a trainer, completely restructure my nutrition, and retrain my brain. Time well spent, in my opinion.
Last time, our refrigerator checked out the day before Thanksgiving (this was a year or two ago) while entrusted with our turkey and everything else I was planning to serve. This year, our dishwasher gave up on Thanksgiving, refusing to pump adequate water to distribute the soap. It made a brief comeback so that a repair man said it might hold up a while longer. Repair was possible for an estimate equal to the cost of a new dishwasher. It did hold up, unrepaired but with our fingers crossed, until the Sunday before Christmas. Our faithful delivery guy delivered a new dishwasher today, Dec. 23, but alas, no installer will be available until the week after Christmas.
I'm OK with washing dishes, but with four major meals in a two day period, my husband has undertaken to install the dishwasher himself. He is more than moderately handy and installed a dishwasher in another house not long ago, so you might ask why five hours after wrestling it into place (and removing the old dishwasher), and leaving a wake through the living room, den and kitchen, we are not hearing the comforting swish of dishes being washed .
One word. Instructions. No mention of how to hook it to the electricity. Internet not helpful. Suggestion of pulling it back out until an installer can come, not well received.
I'll leave this saga here, since I plan to go to bed soon, but I'll let you know how it turns out.
In other news, three days ago was my one year weight loss anniversary. My goal was 100 pounds. I succeeded in losing 75, so I have the rest to look forward to in the New Year. Since I gained a lot of muscle, and muscle weighs more than fat, the result size-wise is a somewhat slimmer me than the loss of 75 really indicates. But, anyway, it was a full time time job to work with a trainer, completely restructure my nutrition, and retrain my brain. Time well spent, in my opinion.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Never explain, never complain
Regarding the title of this post, just let me add, No one cares, any how. Let's just say it has been a long and strange autumn. And now to what I was talking about when last we met. Or close to it, any way.
About Jack. I went back to my hometown for my 50th high school reunion, which was, all in all, a good experience. I also arranged to meet and old and dear friend who was not in my h.s. class, for lunch, along with another friend of ours from the "old days." This friend, whom I am calling Jack, was a larger than life character, a prodigy, wealthy and good looking, who had just sort of dropped off the radar. It was a long and complicated process to get in touch with hime and to set up a meeting. I could give the CIA and Homeland Security a few tips for reaching those who don't want to be found, but I did reach him, which is all that counts.
I had heard that he had disappeared after his wife died a couple of years ago, that he had sold his palatial home, that he was in a wheelchair, a drunk, a drug addict. And I'll admit that in those few times I actually reached him by phone, the conversations were bizarre. He had a host of charming memories of things we had done and the people we had done them with that never happened. Ideas forgotten in mid sentence, repeated questions, confusion about dates and place. But then, we all do some of that, don't we? Don't we?
So, as he requested, I called him when I got into town to remind him of the lunch we had planned for the next day. No answer. No answer late into the night. Early next morning, the third member of our party called to say he had reached Jack and he was expecting us. Lunch. 11:30.
Jack had moved into a one story home once owned by his family. When I approached the front door, I could see through the extensive front windows, the dining room with glittering chandelier, crystal, plates and cutlery, set for at least a dozen people. Another person, a youngish man ( to me that means 40ish) answered the door. Butler? House manager? Probably not in a golf shirt and Bermuda shorts (it was warm that weekend.)
And there was Jack. Leaning heavily on a walker, blonde hair now white, body thin, features old looking. Long hair works with a tan and blond hair. With white hair, it is just sort of creepy.
We sat in the den , an impeccably decorated, cozy room he said he seldom left. He keeps it at the temperature he likes, has a fire in the fireplace whenever he wants it, and seldom goes outdoors. Read: Never. The beautiful slate terrace visible just outside overlooks a valley of hardwoods. Inviting all weather furniture is scattered about, stone sculpture punctuates expert plantings.
The unknown man who answered the door turned out to be a friend and houseguest, a world traveler, from his tales, who has been in Antarctica six times. Funny, charming. Not exotic by the standard of Jack's friends. We talked at length and Jack broke down and cried once, when his late wife was mentioned. His memory and wit seemed sharp, no signs of drink or drugs. And no signs of food, either.
After a couple of hours, someone dropped a heavy hint about lunch, which passed unnoticed.
Into the afternoon, after a house tour, a discussion of the provenance of a number of pieces of art (We found these Carnival costume designs when we were in Venice...)I excused myself, citing a later appointment with a friend (whom I prayed would feed me.)With my pending departure, Jack cast about for food, which seemed to be an very short supply. That which he had was frozen and not promising. No wonder he's thin. And repeatedly, he urged for me to stay with him, in one of the guest rooms with a bed so high and enormous it would take me a ladder to get into it. No, thank you. Can you say "all the tea in China?"
It was a little bizarre, although not the strangest get together I have ever had. I don't know whether that says more about him or me. I want to go back, maybe in the spring when I plan to pass through town, collecting an old friend for a trip to New York. And next time I'll visit armed with a fully stocked picnic basket.
About Jack. I went back to my hometown for my 50th high school reunion, which was, all in all, a good experience. I also arranged to meet and old and dear friend who was not in my h.s. class, for lunch, along with another friend of ours from the "old days." This friend, whom I am calling Jack, was a larger than life character, a prodigy, wealthy and good looking, who had just sort of dropped off the radar. It was a long and complicated process to get in touch with hime and to set up a meeting. I could give the CIA and Homeland Security a few tips for reaching those who don't want to be found, but I did reach him, which is all that counts.
I had heard that he had disappeared after his wife died a couple of years ago, that he had sold his palatial home, that he was in a wheelchair, a drunk, a drug addict. And I'll admit that in those few times I actually reached him by phone, the conversations were bizarre. He had a host of charming memories of things we had done and the people we had done them with that never happened. Ideas forgotten in mid sentence, repeated questions, confusion about dates and place. But then, we all do some of that, don't we? Don't we?
So, as he requested, I called him when I got into town to remind him of the lunch we had planned for the next day. No answer. No answer late into the night. Early next morning, the third member of our party called to say he had reached Jack and he was expecting us. Lunch. 11:30.
Jack had moved into a one story home once owned by his family. When I approached the front door, I could see through the extensive front windows, the dining room with glittering chandelier, crystal, plates and cutlery, set for at least a dozen people. Another person, a youngish man ( to me that means 40ish) answered the door. Butler? House manager? Probably not in a golf shirt and Bermuda shorts (it was warm that weekend.)
And there was Jack. Leaning heavily on a walker, blonde hair now white, body thin, features old looking. Long hair works with a tan and blond hair. With white hair, it is just sort of creepy.
We sat in the den , an impeccably decorated, cozy room he said he seldom left. He keeps it at the temperature he likes, has a fire in the fireplace whenever he wants it, and seldom goes outdoors. Read: Never. The beautiful slate terrace visible just outside overlooks a valley of hardwoods. Inviting all weather furniture is scattered about, stone sculpture punctuates expert plantings.
The unknown man who answered the door turned out to be a friend and houseguest, a world traveler, from his tales, who has been in Antarctica six times. Funny, charming. Not exotic by the standard of Jack's friends. We talked at length and Jack broke down and cried once, when his late wife was mentioned. His memory and wit seemed sharp, no signs of drink or drugs. And no signs of food, either.
After a couple of hours, someone dropped a heavy hint about lunch, which passed unnoticed.
Into the afternoon, after a house tour, a discussion of the provenance of a number of pieces of art (We found these Carnival costume designs when we were in Venice...)I excused myself, citing a later appointment with a friend (whom I prayed would feed me.)With my pending departure, Jack cast about for food, which seemed to be an very short supply. That which he had was frozen and not promising. No wonder he's thin. And repeatedly, he urged for me to stay with him, in one of the guest rooms with a bed so high and enormous it would take me a ladder to get into it. No, thank you. Can you say "all the tea in China?"
It was a little bizarre, although not the strangest get together I have ever had. I don't know whether that says more about him or me. I want to go back, maybe in the spring when I plan to pass through town, collecting an old friend for a trip to New York. And next time I'll visit armed with a fully stocked picnic basket.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Fighting sugar on the way to remaking myself.There's a mantra for that.
O.K. This is what has come into my house in the last week:
Ten excessively frosted cupcakes.
A jar of Nutella. Honestly, who does that- take a jar of Nutella to someone who is dieting?
A bag of Halloween candy as big as a three year old.
Several Godiva bars.
Vanilla ice cream.
The making of a pancake breakfast. That happens tomorrow.
This sugar excess is the star-crossed combination of Halloween and my daughter's birthday.
Oh, I forgot. Cokes. I gave up Diet Coke a few weeks ago. Not a sip since. Diet carbonated drinks are horrible for you and contribute to belly bloat. Went off them cold turkey. There is now a 6 pack in the fridge. I don't know who I have to thank for that, since no one else in the family drinks them.
On the positive side, I went back to doing Yoga, along with my thrice weekly workouts with a trainer, so now I am not only stronger and can kick some butt, I can do it calmly. I also taught my trainer to use a mantra and how to visualize the floating horizon so he can go to sleep almost instantly. No "monkey mind."
So you can see, I've been busy, with the meditating and all, and haven't blogged. And all on de-caf, too. That's necessary if I am to get to bed before ten. I can't believe this person is me, after thinking 2 a.m.was a reasonable bedtime for most of my life. Tonight I am up way too late so I can write this and watch the Cardinals lose. They were wonderful until they forgot how to play baseball, and the Red Sox probably deserved to win, but it is still a sad outcome in this house.
Next time, back to Jack, my hometown friend, enigma, stranger, wandering soul. It has taken me a long time to attempt objectivity, but who can be objective about parts of your own heart.
Ten excessively frosted cupcakes.
A jar of Nutella. Honestly, who does that- take a jar of Nutella to someone who is dieting?
A bag of Halloween candy as big as a three year old.
Several Godiva bars.
Vanilla ice cream.
The making of a pancake breakfast. That happens tomorrow.
This sugar excess is the star-crossed combination of Halloween and my daughter's birthday.
Oh, I forgot. Cokes. I gave up Diet Coke a few weeks ago. Not a sip since. Diet carbonated drinks are horrible for you and contribute to belly bloat. Went off them cold turkey. There is now a 6 pack in the fridge. I don't know who I have to thank for that, since no one else in the family drinks them.
On the positive side, I went back to doing Yoga, along with my thrice weekly workouts with a trainer, so now I am not only stronger and can kick some butt, I can do it calmly. I also taught my trainer to use a mantra and how to visualize the floating horizon so he can go to sleep almost instantly. No "monkey mind."
So you can see, I've been busy, with the meditating and all, and haven't blogged. And all on de-caf, too. That's necessary if I am to get to bed before ten. I can't believe this person is me, after thinking 2 a.m.was a reasonable bedtime for most of my life. Tonight I am up way too late so I can write this and watch the Cardinals lose. They were wonderful until they forgot how to play baseball, and the Red Sox probably deserved to win, but it is still a sad outcome in this house.
Next time, back to Jack, my hometown friend, enigma, stranger, wandering soul. It has taken me a long time to attempt objectivity, but who can be objective about parts of your own heart.
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