…
I recently enjoyed an uncertain moment on the old bathroom scales. I stepped up and read the results. My weight was down another couple of pounds. Hm. I have watched my diet carefully (sort of) over the past couple of years and returned to what I consider “fighting trim.”
Having achieved my goal, I saw no reason to deny myself the occasional quart of ice cream; bar-b-que sandwiches; cookies and milk; smoked spare ribs; fried chicken; cheeseburgers with fries; beer with extra carbs, spicy Mexican foods of any description and other spiritually desirable goodies.
The readout from the scales suggested I had a problem. I lost two more pounds bringing me significantly below my original target. I calmly analyzed the situation and after a few minutes, I concluded I had contracted some rare but horrible wasting disease. “What else could it possibly be?” I wondered aloud.
I moped about, just waiting for the Reaper for almost a week. At that point, I went to see my doctor for a regularly scheduled checkup. In the course of our conversation, I casually mentioned my weight problem. It took awhile to describe it, what with having to stop frequently to blow my nose and dry my eyes, but I got through it.
“How much to you weigh now?” he asked.
I told him, more or less.
Then he reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a little book. He thumbed through it absently and asked how tall I was.
I told him that, too.
His finger came to rest in the middle of a page. He said, “Your ideal weight is fifteen to twenty-five pounds below your current weight.” He seemed unsympathetic, too.
Nightmarish visions of shopping in the boy’s department or riding around in a wheelchair without legs flooded my mind.
“There is no way that’s going to happen.” I said firmly.
He offered no further advice. Go figure.
I sulked most of the way home. As I drove, I recalled I would attend a joint birthday celebration for my daughter and daughter-in-law. This would be a very big deal. First, we would meet at our favorite Mexican food restaurant for a large feast. Then, the assembled multitude would adjourn to my place for cake, ice cream and presents. That is exactly what we did.
With my life being uncertain, I loaded up on cheese enchiladas, rice, beans and tacos. Once home, I gobbled a large piece of cake. It was not as large as I would have liked, but I did not want to explode during the party like that character in that Monty Python movie.
Eventually, everyone went home. The only remaining trace of the party was four pounds of cake. I popped it in the fridge and in a few hours, I began hearing the delicious dish calling me.
“What the heck. I am fighting for my life. Let’s see a disease waste this!” I went into the kitchen and carved a meal-sized piece. For the next few days, I ate hearty and made regular visits to the birthday cake.
Finally, the cake disappeared. I resolved to weigh myself to see how I fared against the mysterious ailment.
I climbed onto the scale. “Arrgggggh! I’ve gained 5 pounds in three days!”
Apparently, birthday cake is an effective cure for unexplained weight loss disease or UWLD, as I call it. I may publish my findings in a scientific medical journal,
The cake is gone now and I have returned to my small diet. I only hope I can shed my gains before the next birthday party rolls around.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Elections 2010
I feel it is safe to turn on my answering machine today. I turned it off a few weeks ago when the robot calls from political groups jammed the line. I'll be happy to hear from a human being again, sometime.
The national pique has been vented. We have many new faces in Washington, D.C., each one zealous to do the right thing and save the country from almost certain doom. (How much worse could it be?)
I have the advantage of low expectations. Accordingly, I will be grateful for anything the Congress produces that is not an obvious fraud on the people. Anyhoo, the die is cast for the next two years and I am hopeful on behalf of the country.
I almost forgot my disclaimer: "Don't blame me. I voted Libertarian."
...
The national pique has been vented. We have many new faces in Washington, D.C., each one zealous to do the right thing and save the country from almost certain doom. (How much worse could it be?)
I have the advantage of low expectations. Accordingly, I will be grateful for anything the Congress produces that is not an obvious fraud on the people. Anyhoo, the die is cast for the next two years and I am hopeful on behalf of the country.
I almost forgot my disclaimer: "Don't blame me. I voted Libertarian."
...
World Serious 2010
...
The San Francisco Giants won the Series in five games. They won because they played better baseball than the Rangers. I congratulate them on their stellar accomplishment.
The Rangers have no reason to hang their head. Short months ago, the team was in turmoil. Ownership was uncertain. The Bankruptcy court had to make the decision on who would own the team. I believe they chose wisely. Likewise, I congratulate the Rangers. They played excellent baseball all year and finished with dignity and style.
Best of luck to both teams in 2011.
...
The San Francisco Giants won the Series in five games. They won because they played better baseball than the Rangers. I congratulate them on their stellar accomplishment.
The Rangers have no reason to hang their head. Short months ago, the team was in turmoil. Ownership was uncertain. The Bankruptcy court had to make the decision on who would own the team. I believe they chose wisely. Likewise, I congratulate the Rangers. They played excellent baseball all year and finished with dignity and style.
Best of luck to both teams in 2011.
...
Halloween 2010: The Pictures
…
Frankly, this was the most fun Halloween I have seen in as long as I can remember and I owe a large debt to my children, children-in-law and grandchildren for re-inventing the occasion.
My son, Ben, was the hit of the neighborhood. As "Papa Smurf," he stole the show for the adults and children alike. The “Smurf” theme was perfect overall.
I wish to retract any mention I might have made about his crabbiness. He was a great sport and contributed much to the enjoyment of hundreds of parents, looters and homeowners that special evening.
Rather than drone on about the cuteness and fun, I’ll include a few snaps so you’ll get the general idea. Me? I am still smiling!
…
 |
| Getting Ready! |
 |
| Last minute instructions |
 |
| Practice booty. |
 |
| The Business end of Halloween |
 |
| Heading Home: Mission Accomplished! |
Friday, October 29, 2010
Halloween 2010
...
I am uncertain if Halloween is Sunday or Tuesday this year.
Halloween is a big deal in my family. My daughter goes all-out decorating her home with skeletons, spider webs, pumpkins, straw and assorted scary icons. No less crafty, my daughter-in-law routinely makes costumes for her brood with a holiday theme. Last year (you may recall) it was Star Wars. My son grudgingly donned a very authentic looking Obi Wan Kenobi suit to accompany his elder son (2), who dressed as Yoda. They were very convincing. There was an issue with the weather as the evening temperature hovered in the 80s as the swarm ran through the neighborhood. Heat exhaustion became a real possibility for my son. Lucky for him, several Trick or Treat stops provided adult beverages in the form of ice chests on the front lawn. These little life preservers helped more than one adult endure the long journey through many blocks of neighborhood.
My eldest grandson was Spiderman. His sister was a princess. (What else?) As befits a superhero, he flew from house to house until; finally, he could fly no more. His dad carried him on the return trip. The princess thought it undignified to schlep door-to-door. Thus, the local oaf carried her for the whole journey. At the end, the oaf, too, wore out and his back was killing him.
We eventually returned to my daughter’s house to inventory the haul of goodies and apply medicine to those annoying aches and pains. Good Bourbon and single malt Scotch were most effective, as I recall.
It was a delightful evening. This year promises to be bigger and better. There will be four grandchildren out for loot this year. Since they are older and stronger, we expect (nay, pray) there will be less toting them about.
My son is the one slightly dark cloud. Rumor has it he will be leading a family of Smurfs this season. As “Papa Smurf”, he seems less than excited about painting himself blue for the occasion. I am sure a little pre-trick or treat lubricant will ease his objections (again this year) but I think I will suggest a longer-term fix to his bride.
We might provide him a large green ogre suit he can wear every year. It would be a natural fit and practically everyone would recognize him as Shrek. Heck, he might even want to wear it year ‘round. I will keep you posted.
BOO! & Happy Halloween!
...
I am uncertain if Halloween is Sunday or Tuesday this year.
Halloween is a big deal in my family. My daughter goes all-out decorating her home with skeletons, spider webs, pumpkins, straw and assorted scary icons. No less crafty, my daughter-in-law routinely makes costumes for her brood with a holiday theme. Last year (you may recall) it was Star Wars. My son grudgingly donned a very authentic looking Obi Wan Kenobi suit to accompany his elder son (2), who dressed as Yoda. They were very convincing. There was an issue with the weather as the evening temperature hovered in the 80s as the swarm ran through the neighborhood. Heat exhaustion became a real possibility for my son. Lucky for him, several Trick or Treat stops provided adult beverages in the form of ice chests on the front lawn. These little life preservers helped more than one adult endure the long journey through many blocks of neighborhood.
My eldest grandson was Spiderman. His sister was a princess. (What else?) As befits a superhero, he flew from house to house until; finally, he could fly no more. His dad carried him on the return trip. The princess thought it undignified to schlep door-to-door. Thus, the local oaf carried her for the whole journey. At the end, the oaf, too, wore out and his back was killing him.
We eventually returned to my daughter’s house to inventory the haul of goodies and apply medicine to those annoying aches and pains. Good Bourbon and single malt Scotch were most effective, as I recall.
It was a delightful evening. This year promises to be bigger and better. There will be four grandchildren out for loot this year. Since they are older and stronger, we expect (nay, pray) there will be less toting them about.
My son is the one slightly dark cloud. Rumor has it he will be leading a family of Smurfs this season. As “Papa Smurf”, he seems less than excited about painting himself blue for the occasion. I am sure a little pre-trick or treat lubricant will ease his objections (again this year) but I think I will suggest a longer-term fix to his bride.
We might provide him a large green ogre suit he can wear every year. It would be a natural fit and practically everyone would recognize him as Shrek. Heck, he might even want to wear it year ‘round. I will keep you posted.
BOO! & Happy Halloween!
...
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sitting on the Sophie
…
Recently, my daughter dropped my three-year-old granddaughter, Sophia, at my house while she kept a dental appointment. Sophia is at a very fun-loving, princessey stage of life and we tend to have great fun together. This visit was no exception.
After some greeting time, I learned Sophie as I call her had not had enough breakfast before she left home. “B-But she ate an entire…” her mother halted in mid astonishment.
No matter, I whipped up a batch of hot buttery toast slathered with peach preserves. Served with a Sippy cup of ice-cold milk, it was an irresistible breakfast treat. My daughter left for her appointment as Sophie finished her “post-breakfast-snack.”
Soon, it was activity time. I asked what she would like to do. Sophie selected pink Play-Doh and several cookie cutter figures.
“Now, turn off the television.” She demanded.
“Uh, okay.” I turned it off with only a trace of resentment that I would miss the morning action in the equity markets. She did not want to share Grandfather with Wall Street. Rats.
Before I knew it, we were making pink snakes, pink bunnies and pink butterflies all over the kitchen table. Pink cherries were next. I rolled a dozen or so spheres and Sophie stacked them like little cannonballs. We even stacked a few of them like pink cherry snowmen.
I still have the [pink] Furby I bought for my daughter when she was four or five. We played with it for a while. Mercifully, it stopped talking around 2007, so it was not interesting for more than a minute. Thank goodness.
One by one, we played with stuffed toys, threw a tea party, built Legos and more. After an hour, Sophie settled down to color in a coloring book. She is more advanced than her older brother. She colors in the general area of the figures on the page. None of the male grandchildren is so dexterous. The hook came when I tried to leave the room to, er, wash my hands.
“I only want to color when you watch me!” she announced.
“Okay, okay. I will stay here as long as I can. Good job! You have a real flair for this! One day you will be a great artist.”
I kept shoveling out the encouragement as she obliterated one figure after another. We both seemed to be having a good time, considering one of us had “to go” and has a chronic sore back.
Then it happened. “Hello! I’m back. Where is everybody?” It was the mommy, come to retrieve her little one.
“We’re upstairs,” I called.
“Baww! Waah! Noooo!” Exclaimed our tyke, wrapping her arms around my leg.
“But Sophia, your mommy missed you and wants to take you home with her.” I tried to console her.
“I don’t wanna gooooo! Waaah!”
It took a while to calm her and I had to agree to carry her to the car and strap her into her federally approved container before she would accompany her mother. I was eager to help because I could see in my daughter’s eyes she was thinking of giving in and going home without her.
I just could not let that happen.
…
Recently, my daughter dropped my three-year-old granddaughter, Sophia, at my house while she kept a dental appointment. Sophia is at a very fun-loving, princessey stage of life and we tend to have great fun together. This visit was no exception.
After some greeting time, I learned Sophie as I call her had not had enough breakfast before she left home. “B-But she ate an entire…” her mother halted in mid astonishment.
No matter, I whipped up a batch of hot buttery toast slathered with peach preserves. Served with a Sippy cup of ice-cold milk, it was an irresistible breakfast treat. My daughter left for her appointment as Sophie finished her “post-breakfast-snack.”
Soon, it was activity time. I asked what she would like to do. Sophie selected pink Play-Doh and several cookie cutter figures.
“Now, turn off the television.” She demanded.
“Uh, okay.” I turned it off with only a trace of resentment that I would miss the morning action in the equity markets. She did not want to share Grandfather with Wall Street. Rats.
Before I knew it, we were making pink snakes, pink bunnies and pink butterflies all over the kitchen table. Pink cherries were next. I rolled a dozen or so spheres and Sophie stacked them like little cannonballs. We even stacked a few of them like pink cherry snowmen.
I still have the [pink] Furby I bought for my daughter when she was four or five. We played with it for a while. Mercifully, it stopped talking around 2007, so it was not interesting for more than a minute. Thank goodness.
One by one, we played with stuffed toys, threw a tea party, built Legos and more. After an hour, Sophie settled down to color in a coloring book. She is more advanced than her older brother. She colors in the general area of the figures on the page. None of the male grandchildren is so dexterous. The hook came when I tried to leave the room to, er, wash my hands.
“I only want to color when you watch me!” she announced.
“Okay, okay. I will stay here as long as I can. Good job! You have a real flair for this! One day you will be a great artist.”
I kept shoveling out the encouragement as she obliterated one figure after another. We both seemed to be having a good time, considering one of us had “to go” and has a chronic sore back.
Then it happened. “Hello! I’m back. Where is everybody?” It was the mommy, come to retrieve her little one.
“We’re upstairs,” I called.
“Baww! Waah! Noooo!” Exclaimed our tyke, wrapping her arms around my leg.
“But Sophia, your mommy missed you and wants to take you home with her.” I tried to console her.
“I don’t wanna gooooo! Waaah!”
It took a while to calm her and I had to agree to carry her to the car and strap her into her federally approved container before she would accompany her mother. I was eager to help because I could see in my daughter’s eyes she was thinking of giving in and going home without her.
I just could not let that happen.
…
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Day Hell Froze
...
I am not a big fan of professional sports, period. Cheering for the pros feels like cheering for a multi-national insurance conglomerate or investment bank. The pros exist for the money. Ho hum.
I have an active dislike for some pro sports teams. The Texas Rangers earned my eternal contempt when they moved to my State. They arrived from Washington, D.C., where they were the Senators and moved into a shabby stadium in Arlington, Texas. At the same time, I was working a day job in Dallas and commuting to Arlington for graduate studies five nights per week. It never failed that game traffic snared me each way. The return trip was the worst. I was exhausted from a full workday and suffering from brain-melt when classes adjourned around ten p.m.
I often sat fuming in the post game “rush” for an extra hour. It seemed they played more home games at night than necessary. Thus, I came to detest the team individually and collectively during my years in graduate school.
Their record did not justify much respect, either. I came to know the team as “Texas Stranglers” for their uncanny ability to choke by the All Star break. They never even looked like a professional team. I developed a routine for those rare occasions I went to the stadium to watch them lose in person. As soon as I got to my seat, I ordered a large beer and a hot dog. I gobbled the hot dog and slurped the beer. Then I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. Sometimes, I could fall asleep before they introduced the teams. The warm Texas sunshine felt good and the drone of reports from the stadium announcer put me in a coma for the duration. I had some anxious moments on a few occasions when I awoke in an empty stadium but overall I enjoyed the game.
Then, last week the unthinkable happened. The Stranglers won the American League Pennant. Even more astonishing, they trounced the Yankees to do it. Yikes! I know we live in strange, interesting times, but this is going too far. The only thing I can think of to explain this aberration is that God is setting them up for even greater humiliation in the World Series. I shall avert my eyes from these games to preserve my sanity, such as it is.
Still, it would be unfair of me to deny the team’s accomplishments this year. Therefore, for the balance of the season, I offer my sincere wishes for success to the Texas Rangers.
They can begin next season as “Stranglers,” so they will have something to strive toward.
...
I am not a big fan of professional sports, period. Cheering for the pros feels like cheering for a multi-national insurance conglomerate or investment bank. The pros exist for the money. Ho hum.
I have an active dislike for some pro sports teams. The Texas Rangers earned my eternal contempt when they moved to my State. They arrived from Washington, D.C., where they were the Senators and moved into a shabby stadium in Arlington, Texas. At the same time, I was working a day job in Dallas and commuting to Arlington for graduate studies five nights per week. It never failed that game traffic snared me each way. The return trip was the worst. I was exhausted from a full workday and suffering from brain-melt when classes adjourned around ten p.m.
I often sat fuming in the post game “rush” for an extra hour. It seemed they played more home games at night than necessary. Thus, I came to detest the team individually and collectively during my years in graduate school.
Their record did not justify much respect, either. I came to know the team as “Texas Stranglers” for their uncanny ability to choke by the All Star break. They never even looked like a professional team. I developed a routine for those rare occasions I went to the stadium to watch them lose in person. As soon as I got to my seat, I ordered a large beer and a hot dog. I gobbled the hot dog and slurped the beer. Then I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. Sometimes, I could fall asleep before they introduced the teams. The warm Texas sunshine felt good and the drone of reports from the stadium announcer put me in a coma for the duration. I had some anxious moments on a few occasions when I awoke in an empty stadium but overall I enjoyed the game.
Then, last week the unthinkable happened. The Stranglers won the American League Pennant. Even more astonishing, they trounced the Yankees to do it. Yikes! I know we live in strange, interesting times, but this is going too far. The only thing I can think of to explain this aberration is that God is setting them up for even greater humiliation in the World Series. I shall avert my eyes from these games to preserve my sanity, such as it is.
Still, it would be unfair of me to deny the team’s accomplishments this year. Therefore, for the balance of the season, I offer my sincere wishes for success to the Texas Rangers.
They can begin next season as “Stranglers,” so they will have something to strive toward.
...
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