Tennis Shoes

Something's gotta give. I conned my friends and family into joining a little weight loss club I created. If you lose at least 1/2 pound, you don't have to pay. If you stay the same, you only have to pay $1. If you gain weight (even a tenth of a pound) you have to pay $5. We weigh in once a week. This past eight weeks, everyone else has lost weight. All I've lost is $21. Like I said.... something's gotta give. 

The problem is that I already know what I have to do. It's no mystery, really, how to lose weight. Despite all the legitimate variables like metabolic rate, BMI, glycemic index, thyroid function, resting heart rate, muscle confusion, etc..., it really does just come down to eating better and moving more. Sounds so simple. That's what makes it all the more frustrating that I can't seem to get in gear and get the pounds off.

After each of my babies was born, the nurses assured me that the weight would drop right off, especially since I was breastfeeding. They lied. I also heard that once I stopped breast feeding, the weight would disappear. It didn't. These same people swore that chasing after active toddlers is a sure-fire weight-loss exercise. It isn't. I suppose I should be thankful that they were at least trying to be encouraging, but, seriously - it's just not very nice to lie to a new mom, even if you have good intentions.

So, here  I am, staring 30 in the eyes and heavier than ever. I'm out over 20 bucks, rummaging in the closet for my biggest 'big' clothes, and I don't even have any more babies or breast feeding in my future to "help" me along in my quest. Guess it's time to face reality and get serious. Time to make a plan, get in gear, put on my game face. The good news is that I have a secret weapon - tennis shoes. Slipping on a good pair of tennies is the antidote for slothfulness, and can turn even a flabby momma like me into a virtual... um.... virtual..... Babe Ruth? (Sorry. My lack of appropriate sports analogies and inspiring athletic personalities comes from the fact that I have no interest in or knowledge of sports. Maybe that has something to do with my weight too...)

Anyway, back to tennis shoes. Two days ago I put on a pair of slacks and a nice shirt and ended up lounging on the couch for the better part of the afternoon. Yesterday I wore jeans and a T-shirt and was sedentary except for trips to the leftover Halloween candy bowl to get Tootsie Rolls. Today, I put on exercise pants and tennis shoes, and I ended up taking a 30 minute walk, choosing an apple over a chocolate bar for snack, and using the word 'fit' three times during the day. I guess the expression, "the clothes make the man" just might be true.

So, now I've got a choice to make - do I just start saving now so I can pay for the rest of the weight-loss challenge weeks, put on a mu-mu, and forever resign myself to being a big girl? (Perhaps even take to collecting Garfield figurines which feature the feisty feline saying, "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy"?) Maybe I should go ahead and purchase long term care and life insurance, along with stock in Dunkin' Donuts and Tootsie Rolls, just to make sure I've got a 'balanced' portfolio that will see to all my future needs. Is that the kind of person I want to be? Am I really ready to throw in the bath sheet? (Those are jumbo towels, for those of you who are still able to wrap a standard-towel around your whole selves.)

I guess I can't guarantee where I will end up in the future and better than those well-intentioned, lying nurses in the labor and delivery ward, but I can tell you that I'm slipping on my socks and tennis shoes right now. Perhaps I'll find some answers about tomorrow on a long walk this afternoon. I'll let you know what I find.

Rondo Meets Bambi

Last night my husband hit a deer. That's life in the fast lane in Iowa. It was bound to happen eventually, of course, but I didn't particularly care for the timing of it all. Not only was I in the hospital staying with a friend for the night, but Mark had all three girls with him, and he was driving my BRAND NEW CAR (a 2009 Denim Blue Kia Rondo) - the first brand new vehicle I've ever owned. Needless to say, the convergence of circumstance could have been better, but no one was hurt, which is all that really matters in the end. Well, that's not exactly true. I know for a fact that the deer was scared poopless, since the evidence of it was all over the driver's side door, but I'm guessing that she sustained other injuries as well. I'm still waiting for a call from her insurance company since she fled the scene

Or, perhaps she didn't flee the scene... Here's where the personality difference comes in. After ascertaining that everyone was fine, my first thought was to ask my husband to track down the deer. I can't help it. I am a scavenger by nature, and though I've never actually brought road kill home for supper, that's only because I couldn't verify that it was fresh enough. Mark, on the other hand, doesn't even care for the fact that he has to see the animals that he eats while still on the hoof (so to speak). He prefers his meat to come pre-cooked and wrapped in cellophane or a burger box. Thankfully, we've been married long enough that I've learned when to think out loud, and when to keep my mouth shut. The mental image of him on the side of the road, staring at our damaged car, checking the girls over, and clutching his cell phone to his ear, waiting for reassurance from his loving wife, helped me do the right thing. No amount of deer burger is worth my husband's sanity.

Had it been me, though, I know things would have gone differently. I would have waded through the ditch, field dressed the deer with my fingernail file kit, drug the carcass onto the roof rack (isn't that what they make roof racks for, after all?), and had the girls help me cut it, wrap it, and get it into the freezer before putting them to bed. After all - if psychiatrists say you can overcome your fears by facing the thing you've got a problem with, then butchering Bambi seems like the ideal way to get over the emotional trauma of having hit a deer, doesn't it? Sounds right to me.

In the end, I can see that I chose correctly when I kept my hunter-gatherer instincts to myself. I really don't have time to process a deer right now, and don't need to be jumping in over my head on yet another project with a pressing deadline. A few deer roast would have been nice, but a hassle-free weekend with my family sounds even better. Since my girls didn't get the chance to have some 'do-it-yourself' therapy, perhaps it's best if we don't have any reminders of the incident hanging around. Besides, I drove by this morning and checked the ditch. Bambi was gone, and so my roadkill record remains clean (for now).

Hospitals

Sorry, dear and faithful readers, to have been absent so long. During the past week or so I have also neglected laundry, dishes, sweeping, and even advanced personal hygiene. You can see that at least you were not alone. The reason for this absence (though in future I don't always promise to have a reason, just so we're clear) is that a beloved friend of mine has been in the hospital. Though I've had opportunities this past few days to write meaningful, thought-provoking, poignant, or even downright deep blogs, this is the first chance I've had to come up for air and take a deep belly full of humor. Thought I'd share it with you.

I know that the easy path here (which is ALWAYS good for a laugh) is to make fun of hospital food. Of course, I would never stoop to something so pedantic. Or, perhaps more accurately, since my friend hasn't been able to eat during the entirety of her stay, I couldn't even make comments about the food even if I wanted to. So, that topic is off the table. (Feel free, however, to think of all the previous funny jokes you've ever heard about hospital food if you want - to sort of prime the pump, if you will.You may even attribute them to me in your head, but only if they're truly amusing and wouldn't make me blush.) The good new is, the food is far from the only funny thing about hospitals, so the blog might be redeemable after all.

One thing that gets to me is the amount of legal documents you really should have in place when you're in the hospital. You know - 'just in case.' A will, a living will, decisions about executors, power of attorney - the list goes on and on. Forget about all these - even the DNR order. If I have to go to the hospital, the only document I want is a DND - a Do Not Disturb sign. How on earth is anyone supposed to heal if they can't even get a decent nap? (You all know how strongly I feel about napping...)

All night long we had people in and out at intervals ranging from 5 to 30 minutes. If the distractions were evenly timed it would have at least helped create a sleeping rhythm - you know, snore, blood pressure. Snore, air in line. Snore, check your oxygen, etc... But. the pure randomness of both the timing and the procedures leaves one presenting arms, pulling on tubes, and indiscriminately saying things like, "no gas yet" all night long. Plus, just to keep you off guard, they'll send in 3 people in a row within ten minutes, but then wait 45 minutes to respond to the call button - leaving you hanging over the edge of the bed extravagantly leaking some foul fluid or futilely tugging on a gown to try to make it cover both your dignity and your behind.

Then, of course, there is the fact that it's not just the same person interrupting you, but a whole slew of folks. I am beginning to think that they bring people in off the streets, give them a white coat, and offer to let them have a stab (sometimes literally) at their favorite area of medicine - or their favorite area of anatomy. Either one will do. It's nearly impossible to keep track of everyone, and the problem is only exacerbated by the fact that they all trickle in, one group after another, all day. Listen people - if a bunch of women going out on the town for the night can get it together enough to know exactly when to go to the bathroom at the same time in a tidy and well-timed group, why can't residents, pain management people, nurses, technicians, etc... do the same? Perhaps that's the answer - only  allow women in health care, and then tell them their rounds are really a potty break. That way, they're bound to both stick together AND be expedient.

So, you spend all the time you should be sleeping being jabbed and dabbed, prodded at and nodded at, and all the time you should be awake trying to get cell phone reception. Why, in the one place in the world that you really need your cell phone to work, do you find yourself unable to use it without standing on your head or holding statue-still in order to not lose your signal? I've actually come to the conclusion that the only places you can get reception are right next to the signs prohibiting you from using your cell phone. These, of course, are everywhere. There are enough police officers and hospital guards that I don't really want to be caught using my phone while leaning on one of these signs, but it's tempting nonetheless. The only way that I have found to reliably be able to make or receive calls is to lean my head and phone against a window. I must look either depressed or frustrated to the 3,478 onlookers who make their way into the room. Either way, I caught signt of my reflection and noticed that this posture gives the impression that I am relaying secret information that I am trying to conceal, but I'm not very good at it. This is akin to how my three year old will shut herself in the room, then peek her head out and say, "Don't come in here." Somehow the delivery style just isn't meshing with the intent.

Jeesh - hospitals. We put up with beds that can practically get you to the moon, but a guest chair that won't lock to save your life, leaving you careening into the hallway each time you try to lean back. The only source of entertainment when the patient is sleeping is the TV, which always turns on at a volume that would rival most theater sounds systems. They're always too hot, too cold, too noisy, too quiet, too stuffy, too breezy, and ALWAYS too expensive. But, I can tell you this - when we walk out of here, there will be one thing that I will forever feel toward this hospital - gratitude. It's easy enough to dish out insults, but when push comes to shove, I'm grateful for the interruptions. It means there are capable, talented people who are willing and able to come to our aid. I'm grateful for the fact that they will miss out on sleep and not see their friends and families so that I can have more time with mine. I'm grateful for the fact that I have slept in the chair, learned to unhook hoses, pushed the IV cart. It means I've been in the valley of the shadow of death with a loved one, and know more assuredly than ever that I will fear no evil.

Of course, I might still fear eating hospital food, but I guess I promised not to go there, didn't I?

Reprieve

Well, the lambs and goats in my pasture have gotten a stay of execution. They were scheduled to be butchered yesterday, but got a temporary reprieve since my dad ws sick and unable to come help butcher them. "What's that you say? Butcher them!? Surely you mean drive them to a processing plant, don't you?"

Nope. See, we do all our own killin' and guttin' and skinnin' and cuttin' up around here, thank you kindly. When people find that out, the responses range from skeptical but impressed, to ready to call Child Protective Services. One man even called me Laura Ingalls Wilder, saying my survival skills are such that after a nuclear WW III it will just be me and the cockroaches left. (Don't know what I'd have left to butcher if that were the case, but whatever...)

I will admit, that I was not always the 'do-it-yourself' kind of gal that I am now. Contrary to what people might think, I did not grow up raising or butchering animals. In fact, the first thing I actually participated in killing and dismembering (so to speak) was a chicken on my parents' farm about 5 years ago. Funny how far I've come since then!

No, it wasn't that I was cleaning gizzards from the time I was in diapers that brought me to this place. Instead, it's that I am fortunate enough to only have been one generation from people who were cleaning gizzards in diapers. Thankfully, my parents grew up in the time-honored, family-farm tradition of small-town Iowa, and they never forgot their roots. My mom and dad worked their whole adult lives so they could end up literally where they started - cleaning out the barn, baling hay, fixing fences, bottle feeding calves - all on the farm my dad grew up on. They paid their dues so they could earn back their independence.

Their decision to pack it all up, move back to the farm, and start anew (or, perhaps more accurately, 'a-old') was a big turning point in my life. I had already made the decision long before then to live concientiously, but was only walking it out in the shallowest of terms. I knew commerical meat production was dirty business, so I became a vegan. I wanted to do right by the earth, so I only ate organic. I wanted to save fossil fuels and support my local farmers, so I bought at farm stands in our area. I had tried to stop doing the 'wrong' things, and I was doing some of the 'right' things, but I wasn't really doing the best things - not for my body, for the earth, for my community, or for my soul.

Ok, ok... Andrea's gone off the deep end again, equating digging in the dirt with a religous experience. I guess what I'm trying to say is that just doing your best to not live against your principles is a whole different animal than living your principles out each day to the fullest. I believe, at least for me, that true personal satisfaction (that deep-down, in-your-belly, lasting kind of satisfaction) only comes from the latter. 

So, these days I try to do better. I do right by the earth by doing the most I can with MY earth - my garden, my compost pile, my pasture. I support local farmers by visiting the farm stands, but also by getting to know my neighbors, helping them when their cows get out, peeling apples in the shop with them during apple cider season. That is a far more meaningful way to support local farmers than buying a bag of green beans every Saturday. And, I do right by my body by giving it the workout of hauling feed and water, pulling weeds, cleaning out the chicken house. I also choose to give it clean, healthy protein from the animals I raise and butcher.

In doing all of these things, I have found a simple prayerfulness and worship before the Lord that I never before had, a connection to my community I have sought for years, a rhythm for my family that brings us balance, and a connection with my past that grounds me and reminds me of who I am. I have found the expresesion of my desire for concientious living that I sought when I was younger. I have found a way to honor my parents' sacrifice by acknowledging that I, too, will do whatever it takes to continue the tradition and heritage that I received from them and from the generations before them. In short, I received a reprieve from the ordinary, and it sure has been a life saver for me...

Nuked

We finally gave in and got a microwave a week or so ago. I don't know what was the final straw that broke this camel's back. Perhaps it was the fact that my husband switched from the occasional broad hint to a direct, daily inquiry about when we could go appliance shopping. Or, maybe it was the sad look my children had while pleading for the forbidden fruit of microwave popcorn. (Or the even sadder look that people gave to me while listening to the children plead, assuming that surely we must live in abject poverty if we do not have a microwave in our home.)

Truth be told, I had been mulling the idea around for about a week already before I finally gave in, but it was a tough thing for me to do. I liked holding on to some of my crunchy, quirky, all-natural self-righteousne... uh, I mean ideals. It reminded me of who I had been, who I assumed I still was deep down inside (and who my friends and family hope I will never, ever become again). I suppose that trading in the toaster oven for the microwave is the same as trading in broomstick skirts and veganism for a decent professional wardrobe (my "goin' to Des Moines clothes") and a more balanced approach to healthy eating. I am still an Earthmomma, darnit, but I'm a little softer around the edges. (Now that we have a microwave, I'll probably glow around the edges too!)

So, it was with great trepidation that I welcomed our newest addition into the family. I must admit, despite my misgivings, that it is a good fit. It has this funny little habit where the door doesn't close all the way, which triggers the safety switch and doesn't allow you to press the start button. It's got personality. I like that in a machine. Plus, it does make a mean plate of nachos, and can warm up leftovers better than even my beloved cast-iron skillet.  It's quiet. It's sleek. It's neat. It's clean. It has a flat surface on top to stack things on, and it gave us a much-needed west-facing clock that we can see from the front door. In short, I'm in love with the thing. But, I'm not always thrilled with the company it chooses to hang out with.

See, microwaves do not attract health food. They're not made for health food. What they're made for is pre-packaged, 'cheeze' covered, cellophane wrapped preservatives, molded into an approximate shape and size and color of food, and then sprayed with a food-like scent. Trust me, I am something of an expert on this, having just moments ago eaten a Chicken and Cheese Chimichunga that came in a shiny green wrapper.

I did my best to treat this frozen hunk of faux-TexMex like food - putting it on a real plate, covering it with salsa, adding a bit of shredded cheese to the top... In the end, what I had was still appalling and awful. The texture was all wrong. The flavor was all wrong. The guilt I felt was all wrong. The only redeeming qualities that chimichunga had was that it was cheap, it was hot, and it was NOW.

Then again.... I've already swallowed my pride by signing a peace treaty with my arch-nemesis (which has  nuclear capabilities, no less!) and invited it into my home. I've given up all my other long-held ideals about food. Maybe being cheap, hot, and NOW aren't such bad qualities. (Ask many 19-year-olds, and they will think these are the ONLY qualities worth having...) Maybe it is a sign of maturity, of becoming more at peace with the world around me, of finally giving up all my self-righteous attitudes. Yes, I believe it must surely be a good thing that I can eat a TV dinner now and again, wait happily for that reassuring 'ding' when warming up leftovers, and allow my girls to eat microwave popcorn occasionally.

Of course, that's only if it's Newman's Organic, because those others use fake butter that will give you cancer. And, mind you, I care far too much about my internal organs to subject them to radiation by actually standing in front of the thing while it's blasting my food with its Geiger-alerting rays. And, the leftovers would certainly have to be from my home-grown, good-quality, grass-fed, free-range, all-natural, cruelty-and-cage-free, omega-enriched, biosustainable, home-canned, happy animals, and.....

(Ok, maybe the microwave hasn't totally nuked all of my self-righteousness yet... I'll keep you posted.)