Dudes

I was feeling a little (self-imposed) pressure to blog tonight since it's been a few days, but came up empty in the idea department. So I turned to that never-ending font of ideas -- Facebook -- and asked for some. The first (and only) response I got came from my friend BgKahuna who suggested that I blog about "dudes."

BK is under the almost true, yet still false assumption that he is the only man who reads my blog. But my husband and my dad read it. And a few others who shall remain nameless in case being associated with the 4th Frog Blog jeopardizes their man cards.

Anyway, for some reason, I decided to take the suggestion and go with it, even though BK's suggestion was made while he was hopped up on morphine in the ER.

Which brings me to the first point I'd like to make about dudes. For all the thousands of pounds they can bench press and all the hits they can take in football, what is it about a little nasal congestion and a cough that renders them useless to society for a period of 2-4 days?

Of course, my main frame of reference here is Mike. As soon as he starts to whimper that he thinks he's getting a cold, I cut that crap off at the pass. "You're fine" and I move out of the room. That's not to say he's never been really sick. He has. But when he's really sick, he doesn't whine and complain. He just lays there, which is so much easier to deal with.

Also, I think someone needs to research the selective gender-based dementia that is so common among the male species. Doesn't anyone out there in the academic world wonder how it is that men (and even boys) can remember how many yards Eli Manning threw four games ago and what Jose Conseco's batting average is, but they can't remember to take out the trash or get milk on their way home from work?

And do the words "put it down" or "wipe it off" not have any meaning to those who stand to go pee?

Now, in all fairness, the world needs dudes. And not just the world, but I need them.

Who else would fix the printer and figure out why the internet is not working? Who would unclog the toilets (especially when it's clogged with man poop) and get the heavy boxes of Christmas decorations off the top shelf?

Dudes are handy to have around for boys who want to talk to someone who knows something -- and actually cares -- about video games and for grilling stuff.  And, as I'm sure we'll find out soon, they are much more intimidating to young men who come to court our daughters. Then there's that whole proliferation of the species business, too.

So there you go, BgKahuna. The 4th Frog Treatise on Dudes. Thanks for the idea. (Of course, the man has the idea, but it's the woman who does all the work to make it happen...)

What is wrong with us?

Every year I get a page-a-day calendar. One of those little desktop jobs that you tear off a page each day (hence the name. In years past, I've had calendars whose themes were The Office (funny quotes), the Biggest Loser (weight loss inspiration) and Scrabble (make your best word). I haven't gotten my calendar yet this year. So the other day I was wasting  spending time nosing around Amazon.com to see what calendars are out there.

What I found just really made me wonder about what is wrong with us. Us being the collective "we, the people." I found calendars and book titles that included the following:

• Insult a Day
• Getting in Touch with Your Inner Bitch
• Life is Crap
• The Daily Bitch
• F My Life

I'm no Pollyanna. I know that life is not perfect and I offer my fair share of complaints. (For reference, back up two posts to "Spontaneous Verbal Combustion.") But why would I spend good money putting those negative messages in front of myself day after day? In a line of thinking along "you are what you eat," I think to a certain extent I am -- or I become -- what I surround myself with.

I'm not suggesting that we have to bury our heads or turn away from everything negative. We need to be aware of the way our world works so we can make choices to keep us clear of trouble or to help change things that need to be changed. But I think we also need to spread joy and laughter and learning and other worthwhile pursuits. Maybe that is Pollyanna-ish. So be it.

I'm not likely to choose a daily calendar of puppies or kittens. But you can bet I won't be choosing "F My Life," either. Instead, I'm thinking of this:

Biggest Loser: Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down

 

Tonight was Week 2 on The Biggest Loser. I thought there were some highs and some lows. Let's call them Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down. 

Thumbs Up:

• Dolvett. Just because he is.
• "The girls may have Bob and Dolvett. But I've got a hot nutritionist. I'll listen to whatever you tell me." - Jeremy upon being introduced to the nutritionist
• The outdoor patio area being called "the prison yard." Did I hear that right? That's awesome.
• Roy and Christine. Just seeing Santa and Mrs. Claus makes me smile. 
• No one threw up on camera today.
• Mafia Mike went home. I think had he stayed there would just be continuous friction.
• Mafia Mike does look a lot like Alec Baldwin.
• Minimal (any?) product placements
• The fast-forwarding of some of the weigh in

Thumbs Down:

• Kimmy and Kim's wild assumption that their team could lose 94 pounds in week 2.
• Dr. H. said Joe has an "advanced case of sleep apnea," waking more than 70 times an hour. In my recent sleep study, I was waking 79 times per hour. Doesn't exactly make me feel like I'm in good company.
• Bob getting mad at Dolvett in the gym. This is not about you, Bob. Keep your focus on the people you're trying to help.
• A small tray of sushi has as many carbs as 5 slices of white bread and 300 calories? Waaaaahhh!
• Conda is still on the ranch. She conjures up memories of Vicki. (I wonder if there's a Heba hiding in the ranks.) 
• Facial hair. Seriously? It's only week 2 and it's already getting out of control. 
• Alison stirring the pot to encourage the arguing in the elimination room. 
• Bob's leggings under the shorts look. Show off the legs, Bob. 

Do you have anything to add?

Warning: Spontaneous verbal combustion ahead

Otherwise known as a rant. This is really directed at no one, except myself.

I am 41 years old. Likely, at least half of my life is over. So why do I still have so much to figure out? I'm not talking about figuring out the solution to Pi or if Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I'm not even talking about how to get Sharpie marker off my dining room table.

Why can't I figure out a workable and stickable chore schedule for my kids so that the house is not always a mess?  Why can't I figure out an organized solution to menu planning and couponing? Why am I still using the "stack it on the counter and deal with it later" method of dealing with the mail?

I look around at other people and try to see how they do it. That just ends up in frustration and I find myself moving further and further from contentment. For the first time in a very long time, both Mike and I have a paycheck. So what do I think would be great?

To quit my job -- (which, Boss, I have no intention of doing, just a delusional fantasy) -- and stay home to do things like laundry on a set schedule and make dinner most nights of the week and use coupons before they expire and volunteer in the classroom. To have cookies and milk or carrots and dip on the table for an after school snack for the kids to munch on as I sit there and help them with their homework. To know what the basketball practice schedule is before the carpool people send a text message asking if I want to drive there or pick up.

Then there are those people who seem spiritually content. Who don't think at 4pm, "oh crap, I haven't prayed yet today." Those people who have figured out ways to live outside of their own bubbles -- who are actually living and breathing V-words...volunteers. They are out there making the world a better place while I'm making PB&J for dinner because I didn't get to the grocery so there is something real to cook.

Which leads me to what am I teaching my children? I want them to loving, caring, giving people -- and I think that they are. But I want giving of self to come naturally to them, yet I'm not modeling that for them. How do I expect them to learn? Am I doing them a lifelong disservice by not caring if their bedrooms are clean? Should I be more demanding when it comes to insisting that they eat more fruits and vegetables? Am I a bad mom if I'm not vigilant about red dye and high fructose corn syrup?

And those couples who go on romantic vacations or even weekly coffee dates? Who have more to talk about than who is picking up which kid when and where? Don't even talk to me about that.

Obviously, I have plenty to learn from those people who wake up in the morning and go to sleep each night counting their blessings. I have lots of them. And I am thankful for them. But, apparently, I am a "glass is half empty and someone is probably gonna come along and knock it over any minute" kind of girl.

I'm not going to fling myself off a bridge or drink my anxieties away (although a little self-medicating with Little Debbie Swiss Rolls sounds good right about now). Sometimes it just feels good to say things out loud. Know what I mean?

Biggest Loser: It's back (and so am I)

 

The 13th season of The Biggest Loser started on NBC tonight and for the first time in at least 2 (maybe more) seasons, I'm watching. I'm not sure what made me tune in tonight. It could be that I'm feeling -- and looking -- positively portly. It could be that there was nothing better on, in which case, what's the point of cable TV? It could be that mighty fine trainer with the unusual name, Dolvett.

I didn't watch it while doing deep knee bends or jumping rope (have you read my latest Fit City post?). But I also didn't watch it while eating ice cream or Nutella on toast.

Some of the thoughts I had while watching:

1. If Bob Harper ever leaves this show, the fat lady will have sung.
2. It's just plain mean and wrong to invite people to the ranch and then send them home before they ever get to set foot inside the gym. 
3. Is the world ready to handle a skinny Santa (who happens to be from Indiana!)? The next thing you know, Cookie Monster will be eating carrots.
4. I just might have to dust off Denzel and change his name to Dolvett. That guy is buff.
5. Other than Planet Fitness, the product placements were kept to a minimum. That was nice.
6. As someone who increasingly views herself as "older," I was glad Gail didn't fall on the age sword and bow out to someone just because they are younger.
7. I was really peeved with Ben for asking to be sent home. But maybe in that one week on the ranch, he experienced what my friend Annie refers to as that moment.

The jury is still out whether I'll become a die-hard fan again, but I definitely will tune in again next week.

More numbers

Yesterday I wrote about 2012 just being a number. And I'm sticking by that.

But today, there are more numbers. Numbers that are more significant to me than a simple change on the calendar.

The first number I encountered was my waking blood sugar level. It's been a long time since I've tested my blood sugar. But lately, I've been noticing some small signs that have let me know that my blood sugar is not well-controlled. That's no big surprise given all the pre-holiday, holiday, and post-holiday eating I've been doing.

This morning when I woke up, I went with the whole knowledge is power idea and pricked my finger for a little diagnostic medicine before breakfast. 165. Not terrible. My doctor likes to see it below 100 first thing in the morning. But not great either. Good to know either way. I tested it a few other times during the day and got similar not bad/not great results.

Then tonight, I got a call from the doctor at the sleep clinic. I have sleep apnea. Well, yes. I knew that based on the fact that they put me on CPAP two hours into my sleep study last week. He explained to me that people with mild sleep apnea wake, momentarily, 5 to 15 times per hour. Those with moderate sleep apnea have the same wakings 15 to 30 times per hour. Anything above that is considered severe.

Being the chronic overachiever that I am, I scored an impressive 79 arousals per hour. Quite frankly, I'm pretty darn impressed I've been able to get done anything during the day considering I'm probably actually only getting a fraction of the sleep I thought I was getting. All kidding aside, there are plenty of reasons beyond fatigue to treat sleep apnea.

And so, I'll be making some health and lifestyle changes. I'm not setting big goal. I'm just committed to taking a more active role in my own health. To check my blood sugar daily. To use a CPAP machine nightly. Not because the calendar now reads 2012. But because I'd like to live to see the calendar read 2013, 2014, 2015 and beyond.

It's just a number

I could be talking about age. Or weight. But today, I'm talking about the year. 2012 is just a number. Just one more than 2011. I refuse to believe it's anything more than that.

Because if I heap a load of importance on the transition of one year into another, then I start getting overwhelmed with self-imposed "I should's," "I need to's" and "I must's." If the turning of the calendar is of real significance, then I start fretting about what I did or didn't do in 2011. I start becoming uneasy with what this new year might have in store for me.

I'm not sticking my head in the sand. Two days ago, I needed to stop eating so much and start exercising more. Two weeks ago, home organization was not one of my better qualities. Two months ago, I was challenged to look outside myself and towards others more often. And today, I still do.

But I'm not looking to make a major statement about goals and deadlines and resolutions just because I'll be writing a different date on my checks.

Call it denial. Call it stubbornness. I'll just call it a number and move ahead one day at a time.