Weighty Problems

Obesity runs in both my maternal and paternal families. Anyone who has my kind of genes knows the battle to always be able to zip stylish, tight-legged jeans is unending—unless you also are blessed with a gene for will power. Unfortunately, I don’t even have a smidge of a chromosome with this blessing.

When I find myself only wearing my husband’s sweatpants—and in South Florida that only works in the dead of our 6-7 weeks of winter—I head back to an “in” diet class. Well, winter is long over, and Hubby’s one lightweight workout pants are wearing thin, so I’m back attending what my husband calls “fat class.” The older I’ve gotten, regardless of how much I exercise—and we walk two miles almost every morning as the sun comes up—the slower the fat melts away. Loosing weight for me now is like cooking a turkey at 100 degrees.

The healthy diet I’m on follows the new food pyramid—lots of whole-wheat grains, fresh fruits, and veggies. The scale has gone down ten pounds, but, alas, my tummy isn’t happy since I started this diet. I’ve gone from looking slightly pregnant after each meal to looking as if I’m ready to give birth. In the beginning, since I was determined to shed the extra bulk, I was willing to put up with the post-meal and snack cramps because the scale was indicating progress. However, a few weeks ago, I woke in the middle of the night with labor pains. Since this is a physical impossibility, the next day I scheduled a doctor’s appointment.

I’ll leave out all the details of all the tests that were ordered because they are kind of gross as well as boring. I did have to be put to sleep for one test, and when the anesthesiologist approached my bed to get my medical history, I freaked out. “Is that tattoo on your arm real?” I asked. To me, there are certain professionals that somehow don’t lend themselves to sporting sexy tattoos and doctors are one of them.

The doctor stepped back a bit—body language signaling he didn’t care for my opinion of the artwork on his arm. “Remember, I’m the one putting you to sleep so you shouldn’t feel pain.” he said in a very icy "who does this old lady think she is" voice.

At that point, I kept jabbering away with inane flattering remarks, hoping to neutralize my insult. When he injected the sleeping potion into the IV, I hoped he no longer disliked me. I hadn’t canceled my Bridge game for that evening because having had the test previously, I knew I should be fine once I awoke. But now I was concerned I'd be asleep for hours.

Less than an hour later, according to the wall clock, I realized I must have appeased him. My doctor uttered the words all post cancer patients want to hear as soon as any test is done, “I don’t think it’s cancer…took culture…divaticulosus …IBS.”

The bottom line is I can stay on the diet, but the yummy store bought prepared foods that have sugar and/or sugar alcohol—the candy and cake that have made this diet so easy to follow—need to vanish from my pantry. I can have cake if I bake it myself and control the ingredients, and I’m determined to look svelte again, so I will. Breakfast will be the big challenge because dairy products and eggs, staples for breakfast on this diet, irritate my innards. I’m not one to make Canadian bacon, also allowed for breakfast protein, because Hubby hates the smell.

For a brief moment the next morning, I thought the problem of selecting a breakfast protein would be avoided. I stepped onto the scale as I usually do. As bad as the prep for the colonoscopy was, it did wonders. Somehow, in the 48-hour time period since I last weighed in, I had shed all excess bulk. The scale indicated there was no longer a need to diet. In lieu of numbers, it said, “low.”

Now even if I ignored the fact being suppressed in my subconscious that the scale needed a battery, minutes later when I attempted to squeeze into my goal-weight jeans, the truth would have been exposed— just like my tummy was bulging out of the two-inch gap between the button and buttonhole.

Glass Houses

“I have a fantasy,” my husband said recently, “that we can leave the house without you having to spend half an hour looking for your glasses, your keys, or your handbag.”

The missing keys and purse have been causing me grief for years. While I search for the eluding article, I keep repeating to myself something Atlanta son says, “Matter doesn’t disappear,” and Hubby keeps reminding me I have to focus on what I am doing. Experience has taught me that if I keep retracing my steps, eventually the missing item magically appears.

My problems with misplaced specs started after my cataract surgery about four years ago. Since this procedure, I only need glasses for reading. Before my surgery, I wore glasses 24/7 therefore, I only took them off to sleep or shower. Post surgery, I tried the string on the earpieces and let them dangle from my neck when not in use, but the string irritated my skin. Now I have the bad habit of just leaving them the last place I needed to wear them. If glasses were available with the same gadget that I press to let me know where I parked my car, I would buy the gizmo ASAP, regardless of cost. (If any of you know of such a device, let me know:).

Now to the gut of this blog. Hubby had cataract surgery this past Monday on one eye. He gets the other one done next week. In the meantime, his old glasses are useless and he has a definite depth perception problem. Last night, at dinner, he accidentally knocked over his water, drenching himself. I mopped, and he changed.

Since the surgery, he can see clearly out of his operated eye, but, like me, only needs glasses to read. Yesterday, I gave him one of the several store bought glasses I keep in various rooms to use to read when I can’t find my good ones—the ones that correct my distance stigmatism (for driving), and have progressive lens, which I prefer for computer work.

This morning, as the sun was rising in the east and we were getting ready for our early morning walk, Hubby came into the kitchen and said, “My wallet isn’t in the jeans I wore yesterday.” He was visibly upset.

Could Mr. I Never Misplace Anything handle evidence that he was a mere mortal like me, and when he is tired, he forgets simple things like changing out of wet clothes into dry ones? I was enjoying the moment. I didn’t point out that he had to concentrate more on what he was doing or any of the other bits of wisdom he gives me while I frantically search for glasses atop of my head. I had a better plan. Instead, I simply went into the bedroom, picked up the shorts he had changed into last night, brought them into the kitchen, put my hand in the pocket, and . . . voila! Mr. Organized, Mr. I Always Know Where My Things Are, fell off his pedestal and turned red. He plopped into his chair, picked up the morning newspaper, and stared at it. Then he coughed, looked at me, and said, laughing all the while, “I can’t find my reading glasses either.”

I guess everyone lives in a glass house, but sometimes the dwellers don’t know it until the curtains are opened. Welcome to the “Did you see my reading glasses?” world, Hubby dearest. Now our biggest problem will be whose wearing whose glasses, and I hope that that remains our biggest problem. Then life will be good, as long as one of us knows where the car keys are.

Paper Boy AKA Flat Stanley

I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Flat Stanley. He’s a children’s book character that resembles a cut out gingerbread cookie. I call him Paper Boy. Teachers have their primary grade students send multiple Paper Boys in envelopes to recipients who student’s parents know love the pupil. For a said period of time, these selected “guardians” will go to any extreme to make the children happy, have a camera, and will be willing to take Paper Boy with them no matter where they go and snap away. After the “vacation” is over, Paper Boy and pictures are returned to the teacher.

I spent enough years in front of a classroom to know Paper Boy’s travels are probably a great way to teach creative writing and/or geography. If my grandchild had sent me Paper Boy, I would follow the rules to a “T.” “T” stands for time. I learned when my sons were little, only their grandparents had unlimited time and patience for projects like Paper Boy. Nothing has changed. After one or two anecdotes, most other adults want to switch back to “business on hand.”

The first time I met Paper Boy, a friend had brought him to a women’s luncheon. After ten minutes of enduring Paper Boy’s caretaker posing him with each of us, and then making us snap pictures while she “fed” her charge, the women seated with me began to gently kick or poke each other under the table. Our attention had definitely waned. In the polite world, if Grandma doesn’t get the hint while she’s monopolizing the conversation about her brilliant offspring, the rest of us sit with Botox like smiles on our face while suppressing a yawn.

Fast forward five years. Paper Boy is once again making his rounds of South Florida. Thankfully, unlike the other Grammy, this new Gram obeys the unofficial “talking about your grandkid’s” time limit rule. After spending a few, and I mean few, minutes building Mah Jongg tiles like blocks, Paper Boy was tucked neatly into the side of Gram’s bag where he “napped” for the entire afternoon. Because he was so well behaved and didn’t annoy her peers the first time she brought him along, Gram let him come to a special birthday celebration held at a very, very well known Palm Beach Country Club last week. The doormen smiled as Paper Boy was posed at the entrance next to the name on the door. The hot son must have tired Paper Boy because he immediately wanted to nap in Gram’s oversized purse. After lunch, we toured the estate. The men’s room door was open (for cleaning), and the john, complete with gold plated plumbing, was quite visibly empty. This was a good thing because that’s when Paper Boy awoke and needed to “go.” The kind maintenance man let him use the facilities. A picture was snapped of Paper Boy standing at the urinal.

Now will said Grandma have the courage to send an “indecent” picture back with all the other ones she took showing how eclectic her life in Seniorville is? As of this writing, the retired teacher inside of her says it might cause her to be put in Grammy time-out for kind of making fun of a worthwhile project. What do you think?

The Fear Facto

According to Hubby, I’m lucky my head and arms are attached to my body because my multi-tasking ability “‘taint what it used to be.” As I dash from one “play date” to the next—with doctor’s appointments and marketing my book squeezed in-between—I’m constantly misplacing my glasses, my keys, my cell phone, or whatever I am suppose to bring or take with me.

Supposedly, I’ve been told, forgetting where you placed things, like car keys, doesn’t mean you’re becoming demented. Begin to fear the illnesses if you don’t remember what the keys are for. To that I say, “Bull.” My mother’s illness started with her not being able to find things, but she knew what they were for—right up until the end. Recently I had a 24-hour period of losing track of almost everything that wasn’t attached to me.

My living nightmare began after I played Mah Jongg at a friend’s house. Once home, I realized my Mah Jongg card was missing. For those who do not know the game, playing without this is akin to playing Bridge without cards. A phone call to my hostess let me know it was on her counter. I picked it up the next morning before heading 45-minutes south for lunch and more Mah Jongg. When the afternoon of joviality and games was over, I rushed out because I had a business appointment—I do have a life besides Mah Jongg!

One block before the entrance to the expressway, my cell phone rang. “You left your glasses here,” my friend said.

As I made my u-turn, my head pounded with the fear the dreaded dementia was nibbling my brain. Twenty minutes later, glasses safely tucked in my bag, I was on the highway heading home. I reached into my pocket for my cell so I could call my husband to let him know I was late. The phone wasn’t there. Panic set in, and at 65 mph, this is dangerous. Did I drop it when I had gotten out of the car to get the glasses? With one hand on the steering wheel, I dumped my bag’s contents onto the passenger’s seat. No phone. Tears filled my eyes.

How could I not have heard it crash to the ground when I got out of the car? I felt my ear to double check my hearing aides weren’t MIA also. I’m always in such a hurry I don’t concentrate. I’M NOT DEMENTED, JUST RUSHING TOO MUCH. I guess I didn’t believe my own repeated reassuring thoughts because tears streamed down my cheeks. I also stopped focusing on the road and didn’t notice the sign warning me that my lane was becoming an exit lane that lead me off the highway.

Two long traffic lights and one u-turn later, I was once again on the expressway. The constant pounding inside my head from my fear of the imminent death of my brain halted suddenly at the sound of the melodic music box tune that emanates from my cell phone. Relief was brief. The sound was nearby, but the phone was nowhere in sight. It took two calls—thankfully the caller was persistent—to discover the hiding place.

Okay dear readers. What’s worse? Dementia or having a butt so thick I couldn’t feel the hard phone underneath it? I know the answer. The only upside of my mother’s illness is she no longer cared about her weight.

Announcing...Sort Of

While I was on the phone with a dear friend a few days ago, she received another call and put me on hold. Moments later she got back on, shouting, “It’s a girl.”

I wished her, “Mazel Tov!” and together we sang a short happy Hebrew song of celebration. While singing nagging thoughts whirled through my head. I was sure the baby wasn’t due until late spring. Also, it was weird she wasn’t hanging up the phone, so she could “call the world.” The most puzzling thought was, since she is the kind of grandma who is right near her children for such a joyous occasion, why wasn’t she at the hospital.

Later that day, I shared the good news with a mutual friend. Her reaction dittoed mine. This morning, the two of us again discussed the news that seemed to be being kept a secret. My friend asked me if I was sure she said her DIL gave birth because it is so unlike her (our mutual friend) not to send out a mass email with the great news and catch the next plane to her kids.

Mentally, I reenacted the conversation, and said, “I’m positive she said, ‘It’s a girl.’”

The voice at the other end of my phone said, “Oh. She didn’t say she “had it.” All she said was its sex. I told you she’s not due until the summer.”

If I was an enterprising person, I would start to sell sonogram announcements. Why wait since by the time the baby arrives since nothing is a surprise anymore—unless of course, an unborn hand was over a private part and the tech didn’t realize it.

Oy Vey!

*Kvetch: A relatively healthy adult surrounded by unnoticed blessings whose parents only paid attention to him or her when he or she was little and whined or had a tummy ache. The words, “I’m fine,” aren’t in his or her vocabulary unless laced with terse guilt. If the listener catches the guilt, he or she should learn the art of ducking.

The other day I had to call a known kvetch. She answered with her usual “death is imminent” tone in her voice. I quipped, “Make sure your kids call to tell me when the funeral will be.” The words may sound nasty to you, but they transmitted magic medication through the airwaves because her voice suddenly sounded bright and healthy. I used to feel sorry for this gal’s kids until I realized they are her enablers. They dote on her every whine, just as her parents probably did. She’s learned if she does it with me, I get off the phone ASAP.

Advice to young mothers: If you want to ruin your unborn grandchildren’s adult lives, let your children whine. If you love those unborn kids, only answer your children if they speak in a normal voice and dote on them when they are nice!!!
*Yiddish for constant complaining