My Blog, and Falconry, Are Making A Comeback

I don't even remember how it started, but this is the conversation I had with my husband Rod last night. Wait, I think it was related to him watching ESPN.

Anytime I have a conversation like this, I am reminded of the far wittier and more prolific blogger and author, Jenny Lawson aka @theBloggess.

Rod: Falconry is making a comeback.

Me: What?

Rod: Falconry. It's making a comeback.

Rod again: Someday, I may come home with a surprise for you.

Me: If you come home with a falcon, we're going to have a problem. 

The End. 

NB: This image is from a Groupon for a discounted falconry experience in San Juan Capistrano, California. Apparently, falconry is making a comeback. In California.

I Love You in Minus 25

Today is Valentine's Day. I sort of forgot. I didn't because I bought a card for my husband and my son. Then I forgot.

It was -5 Fahrenheit today, so that may have thrown me off. That is really cold by the way. It was actually -25 with the wind chill. That's also really cold. My neighbor, who is old school New England, said he walked out of the grocery store last night and the bridge of his nose was so cold he immediately got a headache. 

Valentine's this year falls on a Sunday morning.  My husband and I have our Sunday rituals and one is going to the grocery store. Not big fans of grocery shopping, either of us, especially when  it's -degrees temperature. He went out and started the car to warm it up and we took her for a little spin through the neighborhood to make sure everything was A-okay. 

Down the street, we have a relatively new neighbor. I don't know them but I know the guy is a Dallas Cowboys fan because he has a huge Cowboys star on his truck. No one here in Connecticut is a Cowboys fan except me, my neighbor, and like one other guy I met at the DMV.

Anyway our relatively new neighbor has an older son living with them plus the son's girlfriend. I think this phenomenon is very common with millenials who move back home either because they can't find a job or they can't find an affordable place to live. 

Based on handwriting analysis, I'd say the girlfriend went out in the middle of the night last night -- in sub-zero temperatures -- to write I Love You Messages on her boyfriend's freezing cold truck. And I thought wow, that is true, young love. Getting out in this cold to surprise your boyfriend with I Love You on his truck. 

I don't love like that anymore. I'm not getting outside in -25 to spray paint a love letter to my husband. But I did get a very sweet card from him to say Thank You for all you do. We're not young love anymore, but we are love.

Pet Food Looks Eerily Like Human Food. And the Reverse.

I had the funniest catch-up call with my sister-in-law last week. Bunch of great stories. I was reminded of one today when I went for a scoop of peanut butter as a midday snack.

I bought myself a small jar of reduced fat peanut butter to use for snacking during the day, instead of say carbs. Sometimes I just have a teaspoon, and sometimes I put it on something (usually a carb). At the same time or nearly, I bought our dog a large vat of regular fat peanut butter because she also loves it as a snack. I take my snack from my jar and Daisy's snack from her jar, until one day my husband started filling her Kong ball with my reduced fat peanut butter.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

""Giving the dog a treat," said Rod. 

"But that's my treat," said I.

Turns out I have been co-mingling / sharing peanut butter with my dog for I don't know how long now. The other thing I find disturbing is that my husband gave the higher end, lower fat version of the peanut butter to the DOG. 

Along those lines, my sis-in-law was telling me about my brother eating bird kibble at her parent's house. Apparently, it looked very much like trail mix which actually I would buy that those two foods could be mistaken. Except the bird kibble was made for large birds that destroy foods with their beaks, so it contained things like whole nuts in the shell. 

I guess my brother took this as a challenge to eat the trail mix / bird food with whole nuts. Cracking whole nuts probably slows down your snacking and that's why animals are fit and we are fat. Not my brother, but other humans.

I just did a search for whole foods bird food and the first result that came up describes their product as:

This parrot food is so delicious that you may want to share it with your parrot. As with all of Dr. Harvey’s Avian Blends, Exotic Parrot Food contains only 100% human grade ingredients. We use only whole nuts, fruits and vegetables. We never use pieces or “pet grade” with any of our products.

That picture is my son Will around 6 years old with a birdie named Cha Cha.

Reading Between the Lines: Conversation with My 14 Year Old

My conversation with my son yesterday morning went something like this:

Him: Can I go to Kareem's birthday party tomorrow?

Me: Sure. What time?

Him: 12 am.

Me: 12 am? At night? Or do you mean pm in the afternoon?

Him: I think the one in the day time.

Me: Okay. But we need to get him a gift.

Him: (Pause)

Him: Okay because we're going to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: For the party, they're taking us to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: (looking exasperated) What?

Me: No. No way you're going to shoot guns with Kareem. I don't even know his parents.

Me: (I'm lying. I did meet his mom once and briefly spoke with his dad when he came to pick up Kareem. Mom is Lithuanian I think and his father is Egyptian)

Him: Fine.

Me: You can ask your dad but my answer is no.

Him: (walks off)

Me (now upstairs talking to my husband): Did you hear that conversation?

Other Him: No. What?

Me: He wanted to go to a birthday party for Kareem where they are going to shoot guns.

Other Him: Who's Kareem?

Me: You know Kareem. He came over here one time with Knife Boy. (Knife Boy. That's another interesting story. Gave my son a knife as a birthday gift.)

Other Him: I don't remember Kareem.

Me: Yes you do. You thought he was a girl. (Kareem is an extremely handsome kid with long, dark hair)

Other Him: Oh him. You know I think I actually called him a girl. I can't remember.

Me: Perfect.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. Literally. I later explained to Will that I can appreciate that he wants to go, but there's no way I'm letting my only child go shoot a gun with somebody I barely know. And yet here I am up at 5:49 am still thinking about it.

Inherently Unfair

My friend Julie and I were skimming the party photos in Greenwich Magazine today and had a revelation. We're not rich Greenwich housewives because we couldn't imagine marrying any of the men. These two (above) really aren't that bad. You should see the ones with toupées. I think Julie and I would make awesome rich Greenwich housewives. We could tell some seriously funny stories about going to the Big Y grocery in Monroe.

Unfortunately, the only guy we thought was attractive in Greenwich Magazine was a waiter. And let me tell you those photos go on and on and on. I mean there must've been 100+ photos. 
Now the women, that's another story. In fact, it's just unfair what you have to do as a woman to get a rich Greenwich husband.
I would commit hari-kari in my gigantic, Viking range, Sub-Zero kitted out kitchen if I had to wear one of those party dresses. I'd need judiciously placed fly paper to keep my hair from escaping a tight bun. Lipstck, mascara etc? Total disaster.

Greenwich, I'm out.

PS Our convo about the waiter went something like this. Finally. There's a cute one. Hold on. Why is he carrying a tray? Are those bacon-wrapped scallops? He appears to have some kind of biz logo on his shirt. Oh I get it. He's a waiter. Perfect.

Abs Start in the Kitchen

In late summer, my husband and I started a new diet called the Belly Fat Cure. One of the baseball moms lost 30 pounds doing the diet only - no exercise - and the change was noticeable. Belly fat is unfortunately my problem. I don't know if you know this but you can have a butt the size of an aircraft carrier and be relatively healthy. But fat around your belly is a killer. It's basically fat surrounding your vital organs, the ones you need to live. And in the end, your vitals need some breathing room or they will suffocate.

So my husband and I both started this diet because we both have the same body type. Thin legs and belly fat. Much less than me in his case, but some. The diet is a modified Atkins plan. You can have small amounts of carbs and sugars but it's pretty limited. For example, you can have 15g of sugar per day. My oh so healthy greek yogurt with fruit was 17g. By breakfast, I'd had my entire day's allotment of sugars.

You can however eat sausage, eggs, and use half and half in your coffee. No fake sugars though. That was eye opening. No blue or pink or yellow ones. Instead we use something called stevia. It's a "natural" diet sugar if there is such a thing. Stevia has also come under scrutiny but so far has not been shown to cause cancer in lab animals. We have to drink these sodas called Zevia that you can only buy at Whole Foods for a mere $5 per six pack. Obviously we are drinking limited amounts of Zevia.

By the way, I am still planning to walk into Whole Foods and ask for Velveeta.

My husband has obviously lost weight on this diet. His pants are too loose, he has to cinch his belt tighter. I, on the other hand, seem to have lost weight in my ass area. As I've said before I already have my Uncle David's ass, sliding downhill as it were. That's okay, I'm fine with having a smallish butt, BUT I thought I was going to lose major belly fat. That's what the book said. In that department I've seen less change and I am definitely not cured. I have noticed some improvements like my arms seem to be shrinking? But I still have a belly and it's staring at me like, "What the heck? How much more stevia do I have to endure?"

My husband works at a digital advertising agency. One of the big ones. I've only seen the place from a distance. But I'm guessing it's pretty hip and cool and sleek, etc. The atmosphere at work is like the show Entourage except my husband is in his 40's, not his 30's. And this agency is in Connecticut, not LA. Still everyone who works there must be glib, wear metrosexual clothes, be proficient in snark. Knowing flash or HTML is on the list too but not as high as glib.

One of the men who works with my husband is an MMA guy in training. He's twenty-something, single and on a mission to be buff. He's already there by the way - as far as I can tell. But he wants to be more buff. He wants an 8-pack or a 12-pack, as many visible ab muscles as a human being can have. My husband has conferred with him about our diet and exercise - I'm not exercising at all so that was a very short convo. And joy of joys, the MMA guy has agreed to put together a workout program that won't require us to go to the gym!

I'm picturing us befriending the local butcher so we can punch meat before sunrise.

My excuse for not working out has been I don't have time to make it to the gym. And what a beautiful excuse it's been. I've used it for about a year now. Coincidentally around the same amount of time it took me to grow this belly that I now need to cure.

On vacation this week, I'm showing off my belly. I used to hide it from the sun. Then I started traveling and I noticed how many people outside of the US just let it all hang out. Sometimes the women are topless and their bellies and boobs become one big area. That's my plan now. Let it all hang out. Every once in a while I'll say something in the limited German I remember from sixth grade to pretend I'm not from here, and it's okay for me to wear a bikini with my belly on display.

Haben Sie einen krankenschwester? Was machten Sie? (Do you have a nurse? What are you making / doing?)

Wait. Sorry I got distracted again. Okay so coming full circle back to the name of this blog, Abs Start in the Kitchen. As we were sitting by the pool this week I asked my husband what his MMA friend would say about my belly. And he said, "Abs start in the kitchen."

And then my husband said, "I bet you're going to write a blog about this, aren't you?" And he was right.

A Very Short Blog About Osteoporosis and Brad Pitt

As part of my annual physical, my doctor ordered blood work to check on all my vitals. I was pleasantly surprised to learn I am in good health with one exception. I have a slight Vitamin D deficiency. I assumed this was the result of living in a semi-permanent state of sunshine deprivation. Apparently it is also an indicator of potential problems with bone density.

I am trying to be mindful of my posture so I don’t end up hunched over as I get older. But I don’t know that I am winning the fight.

This past weekend I saw an older man I see all the time who takes a vigorous walk along a busy street here in town. He walks very quickly and he carries a short stick that pumps up and down as his arms swing from side-to-side. He’s the picture of health except for his posture. He’s got the distinctive curve in his back that is a sign of osteoporosis.

I was driving down that busy street with my husband when I saw the older man. I said, “Look, it’s a glimpse into my future. You know, when I get older.”

My husband said, “I’m not getting older.”

“Really,” I said. “That’s interesting.”

My husband said, “Look at me, hon. I’m Benjamin Button. I’m getting younger.”

And that, in a nutshell, describes the difference in our worldviews.

Feeling Very @TheBloggess

I really love @TheBloggess aka Jenny. She is funny all the time but some of her posts I love the mostest are recounting conversations she has with her husband Victor.

Last night my husband and I has this conversation that reminded me of her.

Me: Remember that time you said I was the last one? That you'd never marry again?

Roy (not his real name): No.

Me: Sure you do. Remember how I was feeling all superior until you went on to explain that you'd never marry again but you'd have sex again.

Roy: Oh yeah.

Me: So how long would you wait?

Roy: Huh?

Me: You know, until you had sex again?

Roy: I'd wait a year.

Me: A year until you had sex or a year until you started dating?

Roy: I'd wait a year to start dating and then in another six months, I'd have sex again.

Me: So a year and a half all told?

Roy: Yes.

Me: Liar.

Me (again): What if at the point when you decided to have sex again, you had a wooden leg?

Roy: They don't make them out of wood anymore.

Me: Well let's just say they did.

Roy: That's a ridiculous premise.

Me: Okay what if you had a prosthetic face? Or half a prosthetic face like the Phantom of the Opera.

Roy: I'd be incredible. Women would love me.

Me: Right. And then you could perform at the Winter Garden Theater for thirty-five years.

Roy: That was Cats.

Me: Oh

BTW the photo above is my husband if he were a character in the second longest running show on Broadway, Cats the Musical.

The first longest running show on Broadway? Phantom of the Opera.

I should've married Andrew Lloyd Webber.

About Andrew Lloyd Webber from his official website: He was knighted in 1992 and created an honorary life peer in 1997.

Honorary life peer?

It's A Process

You hear this phrase all the time in Ethiopia. "It's a process." In English. Just like that.

Someone will be speaking Amharic, a local dialect, and then say in English, "It's a process."

It's a very popular phrase in say customs or immigrations as you might imagine. But it's something that pervades or permeates the Ethiopian culture.

It's a giving in to or relinquishing of power to the idea that forces are in play beyond our control. It's something that in a developing country is ever present. It's something ever present in a developed country too. The difference lies in our perception.

In Ethiopia, water and power are commodities that can come and go. In the US, transportation is a given, but we are unable to control say the number of accidents on I-95 or a downed train on Metro-North. We think we can. But we can't.

In Ethiopia, the thinking is this too shall pass.

Here in Connecticut the thinking is I can drive illegally on the shoulder or honk loudly enough to change my outcome. The truth is we are the victims of time. Time is killing us. Literally.

"It's a process." It's said with resignation. It's not that people in Ethiopia are giving up. It's that they have enough experience with delays in customs or downed Internet or traffic accidents to know that they may very well end up spending hours in a day not doing anything productive.

For an American, this would be painful. This would require Tums or Prevacid. Americans can't wait.

One lesson I am beginning to learn as I get older, is to look at the continuum. Things take time, even though time is what we lack.

Really we have the time, if we think of life as a process. We don't have forever. But we have years. Years to change our health. Years to work on our marriage. Years to become whatever we dream.

It's a process. Maybe the most valuable lesson I've learned lately.

Digging in the Dirt

My son is digging for buried treasure in our yard. Muttering to himself, “Jewelry, rings, bracelet, something. I’ve got to find something so I can be rich.”

To say he is covered in dirt would be excessive. Dusting is too little. Patchy, mottled, spotted perhaps. It’s running the length of his shin from the one knee he is using to support his efforts. His shorts have a ring around the seat. Dirt is sticking to the green ice cream stain on the front of his shirt. The rims of his nostrils are brown.

“Mom, how come I can’t find any buried treasure?”
“Sometimes you have to switch locations.”
“What? What does that mean?”

“You know, change your spot.”

“Mom, I don’t need this stinkin’ shovel. I’ve got a great idea.”
The boy practically herniates himself trying to lift our broken garage door.

“Need some help?”

“Nope.”
Enter new pogo stick, gift from grandma for Christmas. “What’s he doing?” says my husband, who is bunched up on a short wicker settee. My husband loathes wicker.

Sticking the bottom of the pogo into the hole, my son begins to pump the handle up and down like a jackhammer.

“Well, mom, that flattens nothing out. Well mom, that flattens everything out. Yep, I just need these three things. The shovel, the clippers and the pogo.”
This conversation would go on whether or not I was present to hear it.

I’m tempted to bury some treasure in the hole when he runs inside for dinner. But what effect will that have? Maybe he’ll think there is treasure in every hole, reward from every effort. It will likely end this activity that has gone on successfully for about 1 ½ hours, giving me a chance to write. These are the things you think about as a parent, when you have a moment to think.

Keep digging Will. The digging is reward enough.

NB. I wrote this piece about 4 years ago but I liked thinking about that day. Especially my husband suffering in the wicker. Good times.

NB2: I just found this quote and love it for this story: "There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure." ~ Mark Twain.

The Fight

Today I had an argument with my husband and I went too far. Now he can't look at me. That's not a good sign. That means, "I'm not even mad at you anymore. I just can't stand to be around you."

In any marriage or long-term relationship, there are arguments and people say things they don't mean in the heat of the moment. In my humble opinion, based on 12 years into this relationship, civility is the first thing to go between two people spending night and day together.

First it's a feeling of comfort that you know all their little quirks. Then those quirks begin to wear thin. My husband really loves that I can't find my keys. Ever. I love that he folds his receipts with origami-like precision, a process that takes about 5 minutes. He's a little bit anal, I'm a little bit ADD. The bloom is off the rose as they say.

The difficulty in many relationships is remembering to be civil to one another even when you want to kill someone for doing that annoying thing just one more time. Do unto others. Judge not lest ye be judged. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife. Oh wait, that's something else. (My husband loves when I use humor to avoid serious discussions.)

All I can do now is apologize and wait it out. Hopefully he'll forgive me in a day or so. Tonight we get to have the awkward dinner with my family and pretend to be in love, happily married, close. At a minimum, I know I will be civil. I owe him that at the very least.

Juan Martin

I rarely watch tennis because I prefer to play. Last night was the men's final at the US Open and while I hadn't planned it, I did watch the match. Juan Martin del Potro played Roger Federer. Del Potro is from Argentina and quite a lovely specimen. Unbelievably del Potro came back from losing the first set and being down in the second set to win.

While watching, I was also twittering and pulling for del Potro. Roger is a great guy and all but come on. He hasn't lost a match in years. So del Potro, in reality the person pretending to be del Potro, started following me on twitter. The real del Potro I found out sadly is @delpo

I ran upstairs to tell my husband. about my new follower. "Del Potro is following me. He's following me," I said.

"He's not really your type," my husband said. "With the facial hair and all."

Honestly, I could overcome my aversion to facial hair with JMDP.

To allay his fears that I might run off with Juan Martin, I said, "You don't have to worry."

He said, "I'm not."

My husband has a thing for those old school girls like Angie Dickinson and Barbara Eden.

So I said, "Hey maybe Angie Dickinson will follow you."

He said, "Isn't she dead?"