Fall Projects aka That Time The House Nearly Killed Us All

So, the FFG household is abuzz with fall projects. 

Sunday kicked off bright and early when Hubby and The Boy marched out the old washer and dryer and installed the NEW washer and dryer, and while that might SOUND straightforward, the statement itself doesn't come NEAR actually capturing the angst, the straining, the smashed fingers, the dented drywall, the blue flames of profanity that were muttered into shirtsleeves to spare the children (by me, not Hubby) upon discovering that the pedestals from the OLD Whirlpool set that look EXACTLY like the pedestal bases that they NOW sell for $500 bucks won't fit on the NEW Whirlpool set since some sadist made sure that almost NONE of the screw holes match, and the ones that do are only accessible by disassembling the entire pedestal which seems to be made of 17 pieces of sheet metal that have each been honed sharper than a Ginsu knife.

This is ALL eclipsed by the excruciating agony of dropping and losing forever the impossibly tiny, custom-so-that-none-of-the-bajillion-screws-in-your-kitchen-junk-drawer-will-work screws that attach the electrical cord that you MUST have or apparently the ENTIRE machine will burst into a flame ball and take out the entire house, and of COURSE the guy at Lowes barely conceals his horror upon encountering a sweaty, crazed, breathless, angry, menopausal female in his appliances department shoving a miniscule bolt into his face and shrieking about the end of days.

Of course, while you continue to hyperventilate and breathe into your purse, he steps back and smugly informs you that they are machined in Germany, and he chuckles under his breath when you ask if he could give you one off of a floor model, and then his chuckle turns to bald-faced fear when you start to shriek louder and throw yourself against the stainless steel Maytag french door refrigerator on sale this week and he somehow comes up with a makeshift replacement just to get you out of the store before you scare the customers.

When it was over, the washer and dryer were in place with no hint of the human suffering they had caused and Hubby refused to acknowledge me unless I called him Sisyphus.  

Barely recovered from that, and apparently still crackling with the frustrated adrenaline generated from planning the painful and untimely demise of the Lowes guy, I unpacked the flatscreen TV mounting bracket that had been patiently waiting for us to have a lapse in judgement, and today was the day.

I tapped nail holes into the wall above the fireplace with the precision and pace of a sewing machine, looking for the elusive studs, having flung the "piece of s*** studfinder" across the room 45 seconds in. Hubby, with a mixture of exhaustion, resignation, and abject fear that I would turn my wild-eyed frenzy back on the good people of Lowes, looked on while I sank the lag bolts, spinning the ratchet like a spider monkey on crack.

Of course, in the light of day, I can now clearly see that we all risked our lives installing a hulking, aging, 54" 80 lb. monster TV over the fireplace.
Along the way, there was a near fall from a teetering stepladder which I'm pretty sure was straining to accommodate 40 more pounds than it was ever designed to, gritted-teeth cursing of the TV manufacturer, the mounting hardware manual writer, the builder, and anyone who had ever smilingly demonstrated the project in 10 minutes on HGTV.

After the fourth attempt, we heard a satisfying "click" which we all determined was either success, or an indication that the entirety of the fireplace structure was facing imminent collapse. Holding our collective breath, we gingerly released our hold on the hulking bastard of a TV one finger at a time, wincing as we carefully stepped back to either admire our handiwork or watch the house implode.

And there it hung, in all of its majesty, silent and magnificent.

Dusty, sweaty, tear-stained and beaten, we all were barely able to summon a feeble "Yea!" when the infernal thing blinked to life like the Eye of Sauron, pulling us all into its hypnotic trance and dissolving all bitterness that we had harbored into sheer awe of the 8 square feet of blaring, shiny, subconscious-boring media stream.

But those feats of strength were only warm ups for the hell that is to come. The ONE thing I have avoided, nay DREADED since moving here 11 years ago. I am painting the rest of the house. Loyal friends might remember the wailing and gnashing of teeth that occurred when I painted the master bedroom earlier this summer. Like David, I am gathering up my meager tools to slay Goliath. I swear I can already hear the barely-perceptible-but-I-can-hear-it-so-don't-call-me-crazy trash talk coming from the highest pinnacles of our 18 foot ceilings.  I can already taste the chalky castoff drywall dust that will infiltrate my every pore as the never-ending walls stretch out lonely and desolate like a Kansas prairie.

I've committed to putting on one gallon of paint per day until I'm done, which I estimate will be around Valentine's Day 2015. I'm trying to keep my courage up, though. Counting the slapcoat I slung on the wall before the EofS took it's permanent place above our fireplace, as of today I've actually painted 2 walls (if you don't count cutting in the edges, or putting on a second coat, or painting the trim, or removing the electrical plugs and lightswitch covers, or cleaning up the drips, or actually finishing it.) Two walls down, and 19 miles of drywall to go.

Retail Fairytales: Sears Mattresses

Gather 'round kids! It's time for Retail Fairytales!It all begins last May, Sears sends a Memorial Day sale email with huge, one-day-only savings on mattresses. It just so happens I have been looking at mattresses, and see the one I am interested in for a great price.   I proceed to buy it online during the 6 hour sale marathon.   I schedule delivery for July.   

A few days later, Hubby and I, while at our local mall, stop by Sears to see the bed and quickly get the bum's rush by a sweaty, wild-eyed close-talker mattress salesman.

His spittle-fueled patter basically drove home the point that we were sold a TERRIBLE product but not to worry . . .

that he had a MUCH better one for the same price, and he could cancel the first transaction, and take care of everything!

Memorize it!  MEMORIZE IT!

He proceeded to give us a 1 hour and 20 minute dissertation on every mattress in the store.  At one point, there was a PowerPoint presentation and an audience quiz.   Hubby had long fallen asleep on the tester mattress, and I had developed a nervous tic from the indoctrination/reprograming, and would have agreed to ANYTHING at that point.

Sensing our weakness, he showed us a Stearns and Foster mattress that was apparently made of clouds and ground-up unicorns.  It SEEMED quite comfy, but then again, we would have walked across hot coals to escape to the food court.  We gratefully signed the sales slip and watched him scuttle to the back like a roach under a dishwasher.

So, fast forward . . . mattress is delivered, and it is literally like laying on a fabric-covered marble slab. 

Disappointing, yes, but no fear: Mr. Mattress at Sears said that the mattress had a comfort guarantee, so I immediately call Sears to return the slab. The Sears troll that answered said that returns were not allowed, so I battle on to the Assistant Manager troll, who asserts that there IS a comfort swap allowed, for $250. I dodge and parry and encounter the SENIOR manager troll, who admits that the fee was brand new, but waived for us. 

SO . . . Another mattress is purchased, old one is picked up on a Monday, and the new one arrives Wednesday and all is well.

Except.

I fully paid for the first one and was told the funds would be refunded upon its return. In the meantime, I also bought the second one. Weeks go by, no return. Hours on the phone with the Sears mall trolls, who have VERY short memories, Sears customer service, Sears delivery, Sears warranty. Nothing.

Today, I traveled the world via conference call, zinging through space from one overseas Sears Oompa Loompa to the next, each less able to help than the previous one. Records are incomplete, computers are frazzled, every Oompa Loompa says they have no proof of the return despite having all of my scrolls in order, my Sears card number, my receipt number, my local store number, the dates of the purchases and the return.

All hope seems lost.

Except.

I kept a teeny, tiny, little, eensy, weensie slip of inconsequential paper that the deliveryman gave me when he picked up the slab.   It had his initials, the date and a magic code. Once uttered to the Searsians, the heavens opened up, and I was instantly transferred to a chuckling, bubbly Glenda The Good Witch of a woman who uttered the beautiful words, "I have processed your full refund, Mrs. Martin."

Moral of the story: Keep your paperwork. And don't trust mattress salesmen.

All skate . . . EVERYONE skate, please!

All skate . . . EVERYONE skate, please . . .

In 1976, Boogie Nights was THE song to roller skate to on Dollar Night at Jonquil Skating Rink. Usually following a couples skate, you'd wait with breathless anticipation for the DJ's "All Skate" announcement and the dreamy opening harp of "Boogie Nights". 

It was a free-for-all, everyone pushing for the floor like salmon swimming upstream, a human flurry of wheels and elbows. From the chaos emerged the elite . . . and woe be unto you if you stepped in the path of the satin-baseball-jacket-wearing Jonquil Speed Club, each with their custom boots and wood speed wheels. 

There's no room for wall-huggers or crybabies when the mothertrucking Boogie Nights started spinning, y'all. 

It was a mesmerizing choreographed drill team, taking curves in sync at 60 mph, executing perfect crossovers and death-defying backward spins on the straightaways. Combs in the back pocket of Jordache jeans, winged bangs shellacked down to withstand the hurricane-like gale force winds of their passes, round and round and round the rink, wheels and floor like ice on glass.

All skate .... everyone skate, please. 

It was a call to arms, a dazzling introduction, and a sinister warning, all contained within the confines of a prefab metal warehouse with a high-gloss wood floor, carpeted mushroom seating, super sized pickles and the promise of greatness.

Eternally vigilant

Today's a tough day for him.

He was there when the towers came down, you know.

He was there to witness the carnage. He lived through the soot, and the screams, and the sirens, and the shock, and the semblance of life that the survivors were forced to cobble together in the aftermath.  He walked through the streets and the dust and the ash among the confused mass of humanity.

The names of the dead aren't just names that grace a memorial wall - they were people that he joked with, laughed with, welcomed into his bar, talked football with, celebrated births and marriages with, and mourned death with. The normal passages of life, not this horrific hell on earth that no one was prepared to face.

The people that died that day were real.  They were his friends and then in an instant, they were gone.

Like everyone there, he grieved.  He mourned.  He tried to make sense of the whole horrible thing.  When he couldn't shake the visions, he forged the fury and the helplessness and the grief into a hardened steel resolve to love his city and his people.  He marked his body to honor the fallen, and to commemorate the spirit of the city, and the people - both those that perished, and those that survived. I see that symbol on him every day, and I try to imagine what it was like to offer his flesh up as a living memory of the worst day in our country's history.

I try to imagine, but I really can't.

My world is so much smaller than his. I've been sequestered here, in the state of my birth, never venturing more than a few miles from the city I grew up in. I've tried to equate anything in my experience to what he endured.

I don't think I can.

I mean, how do you gain an understanding of that horror and that level of loss? How many words would I have to hear? How many pictures would I have to see? How many times would I have to watch the clips of the attack on the towers to grasp the reality of what happened?

It's human nature, I guess, to try to compare and contrast things that you encounter with the Rolodex of memories and experiences in your own head.

That's what we do, us humans. Compare and contrast. Is this better or worse than that was? Is this anything like what I have seen before?

It's how we cope. We try to make sense of everything that we encounter, and draw parallels to it, dissect it, turn it over and over in our minds to find the logic in it so we can file it away.

And then we do file it away.

So on this day, every year, I put myself through the exercise of reliving that day, or my version of it. Like most of the world, I was far removed from Ground Zero. It almost feels like I don't have the right to participate in the mourning - certainly not in the same way that he has earned the right to mourn.  I've been able to continue on with life, without being continually reminded of the pain and the anguish. I've been allowed to compartmentalize it and distance myself from the fear and the shock.

I think that's one of the most upsetting parts for him in the years since - the "filing away" that seems to have occurred as a nation.    Day to day, that event takes up less and less conscious thought for us as a nation. Fewer channels devote the time to broadcast the ceremony that is held on every anniversary to commemorate the passing of all of the victims.  The memorials are a tour bus stop, along with Rockefeller Center and Seinfeld's diner.

Which sounds cold and unfeeling, and in a way, I guess it is, but the parts of us that allow us to continue on after a tragedy are the same parts of us that "file away" the horror of the experience.

Survival mechanism, I guess.

But for him, and thousands more like him, there is no filing away. It was too big, and too senseless, and too . . . much. So the survivors commemorate the day, and watch the ceremonies, and relive the horror with the rest of us, and on September 12, we go back to our lives, and they are left to process and reprocess, without being able to file it away.

Call it survivor's guilt. Or maybe the mind's inability to handle something that monumentally evil.

Regardless, it never goes away. It just gets tumbled and turned over in the sea of their subconscious like a rough stone, the waves never able to smooth the jagged edges, never able to dull the piercing that hits them out of nowhere when they least expect it.

For some of us, remaining eternally vigilant is a choice.  For others, it's a life sentence.

Sifting through the ashes

Wow . . . while resurrecting this blog, I revisited the comments that were left on some of my prior posts.  Mostly, I clicked on the links back to the commenters, and with the exception of 2, all of them had deactivated their accounts.

Kinda like coming back to your hometown and finding that it burnt down.

Wierd.

Still kicking

I'm still here . . . resurrecting this old dusty corner soon.

Enough bellyaching already

Back in the saddle again!

So . . . I am beginning Day 2 of the 5 Day Pouch Test - a nifty little plan I found online for folks like me that have had bariatric surgery, lost the weight, and gained some back.

Turns out, my carb snacking is a common thing among the post-surgicals . . . something about the simple carbs being easy to digest, easy on the little stomach, but hell on the metabolism. NOW you tell me.

No matter, lesson learned. I have sworn off the evil little pretzels, and I am getting back to the original plan. If all goes well, I and my pouch will ride happily into the sunset, protein shakes in our saddlebags.

Happy trails, ya'll.

The 35 year war rages on

Yep. Read it and weep.

30 pounds. 30 fucking pounds heavier than I was this time last year.

This time last year, my body felt reborn. I was about 2 years post surgery, and my weight had stabilized. My clothes fit the same from month to month. The scary drops in weight had stopped, and the bouts with nausea, and the problems with digestion. Everything seemed to have stabilized.

This time last year, I was packing to take the kids to Myrtle Beach. Matty was recovering from a month in the hospital - he had been diagnosed with cancer just a few months before in February, and the pain that landed him in the hospital seemed to be under control, and the chemo seemed to be working, and we were feeling hopeful.

This time last year, I didn't see my parents much, but I knew my dad was getting weaker, and my mom was growing more forgetful.

Within 6 months, I would watch a great many things.

I watched my dad slowly fade away in ICU. I'd bury my dad, move my confused and addled mom into my house, and see the extent of her dementia first hand and the extent of the cancer in her bones, and in her liver, and in her kidneys on MRIs in her kind doctor's office. It would feel oddly familiar. The same doctor had broken the news to us about my mom's breast cancer recurrence 6 years ago, and had gently told Matty and me about HIS diagnosis just the year before.

I watched Matty endure torturous, inhumane, painful treatments that he bravely faced so that he could live through this goddamned thief called cancer and be here for me and the kids.

I also watched all of his friends gather in his honor in NYC to help us celebrate his being able to be there and our marriage which we managed to wedge in among the tragedy and loss and just before his stem cell transplant - yet another hellacious procedure he faced head on without blinking.

Not once.

I tried to be as brave as him when I saw tubes sticking out of his chest that carried the poisons through his body to kill the intruder, and I tried to keep a steady hand when I flushed the lines with saline solution so he could keep receiving the poison.

I watched my kids go though all this too, without complaint. I watched time tick past, and mourned the time lost with them while I worked, or sat in a hospital, or sat with my parents. I mourned time lost with my mom when I was sitting right with her, seeing the look of confusion on her face and realizing that she didn't quite know who I was.

I watched it all. I sat through it all, very still, with hardly any movement at all.

I worked. I remained calm in the face of this shitstorm. I kept plugging.

And slowly, slowly, I relied on what I've always relied on to keep my nerves in check. Food.

I snacked. I rationalized. I began to fall back on old bad habits.

The worst part is, it all feels like vanity. I didn't care that I wasn't exercising. I didn't care that the weight was hurting my heart, or my back. I cared that my clothes didn't fit anymore. It didn't even dawn on me to step on a scale until my summer shorts felt tight. I blocked everything else - the lethargy, the aches, the depression, the loss of strength. None of that clicked, not one damn thing.

Just the shorts.

Stepping on the scale felt like climbing on to the platform and putting the hangman's noose around my neck. Breath held . . . . watching the numbers flash . . . ..

199.6.

I thought my heart was going to stop right there.

I had fought so hard, gone through so much, endured years of waiting, gone to so many doctors, endured so many exams, endured so many years of illness just to qualify for the surgery, and I had lived through all the aftermath, all the throwing up so that I would never have to see numbers like this again.

It took 2 years to recover and stabilize. 2 years.

I fucked it up in 6 months' time.

I am thankful for small favors, I guess. For whatever reason, seeing that little "1" on the scale made me believe that I could fix it . . .something about still not weighing 200 made the panic immediately flood my brain with "it's ok, you can fix this . . . . it's not so bad . . ."

But it is bad. Bad for my heart. Bad for my back. Bad for my body. Bad for the long term prognosis of me remaining free of this disease, or addiction, or shitty set of genes, or collection of habits determined to kill me, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Bad for my kids that are relying on me to take care of them and bad for Matty that has fought so hard just to be able to LIVE to have me sit here and toss my health in the garbage can.

I owe it to all of them to stay as healthy as I can for their sake. They deserve that.

I barely made it through the day yesterday. Today, the panic is gone, but the sadness is just washing over me in waves.

I must have stepped on that scale 4 times yesterday. I've already been on it twice today.

196 this morning. That little part in my head that always rationalizes was the first to say "See? It will be ok! You'll get back to where you are supposed to! Just need to keep your eye on the ball . . ."

Then that part of me that lived through 35 years of obesity reminds me of how many times I have tried and failed, how many times the weight has come back, how many times I have given up, how many times I have beaten myself up.

I want to do harsh things, of course I do. I want to do nothing but drink hot coffee and melt the weight off through starvation. I want to beat myself up and run until I drop, but I'm so weak, I feel like I can't get up from this chair.

People always say, "Treat yourself kind - take good care of yourself. Don't be so hard on yourself." No part of me wants to be kind or gentle. If kind means eating right, exercising, and abstaining from my crutches, that's about the last thing I have wanted to do lately.

The kind gentle part of ME is the part that lets me keep pretzels in my office drawer, and a bag of jelly beans to absentmindedly pop into my mouth during the long boring hours while I sit here on conference calls, hearing people bitch about our company, and our jobs, and about each other. The kind part of me gives me treats so I can distract myself from the losses, and the sadness and the fear and the shitty hand I'm holding while bluffing fate with an unbreakable poker face. The kind part doesn't make me exercise, and helps me ignore the obvious while I grow weaker and heavier.

That's the part of me that feels kind - the part that feeds the addiction. Making me stick to the plan doesn't feel kind - letting me have what my body craves and playing a nonstop reel of justification in my head feels kind. Like all addicts, I guess.

And that's the part that gets you in the end.

This Old House

I've been really antsy about the house lately.

Since the divorce, it has felt like I have just been marking time here, versus really living here. In case you have ever wondered, I can say with absolute certainty that it's hard to stay in a house after a divorce, especially if you keep all the same furniture, and all the same dishes, and all the same pictures on the walls, and all the same linens . . .

You get the idea.

What (I think) has been a comfort for the kids has been more than a bit uncomfortable for me.

By my choosing.

Since the divorce, I have worked hard to make sure that everything has stayed the same, physically, for them. At first, I thought that was supremely important. Somehow, I thought that maintaining their home and their neighborhood and their surroundings would make the divorce less difficult.

Maybe it has. Then again, maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

Consistency was my battle plan for getting my kids through this whole debacle. Of course, who could have imagined a year and a half ago that we would be sitting here in July 2010 in the situation we find ourselves in now. Matty is here with me, living in this house with me, the kids, the dogs and The Ghost of Marriage Past, battling cancer, and we are living across the street from my ex-husband and his family in a home that I have always loved but now somewhat resent.

Let's don't even talk about the housing crisis, or the economy, or the 2 chances we have for selling this home and walking away with a penny in our pocket (those two chances being slim and none.)

Even if we could sell, it would be a terrible time to try. We need to stay put and get through Matty's treatments, and keep the kids in the schools that they are used to, and I still think it's good for them to have their dad and grandparents closeby, even if that's not the most comfortable thing for the adults (them or us.)

All of these factors have kept me from doing, well . . . anything.

It's taken over a year for me to consider what I could do to this place to make it feel like a living, vibrant home, versus a marital graveyard. I know it's been hard on Matty, too, moving into a ready-made home.

In a perfect world, we would have sold this home, and disposed of the furnishings and found a new place.

But you know what they say . . . nothing's perfect.

But when you find yourself in the situation that we are currently in, you take stock of what's important, and what can be enjoyed in the here and now, and if having Matty here has taught me ANYTHING, it's that the day is what you make of it, and you can choose to enjoy life regardless of the circumstances.

I love him so much for that.

So, with that in mind, I found my mindset start to slowly change about the house.

I do still love it here. I love my kitchen, and I love my walk in closet, and I love my basement office, and my wooded backyard. I love my flowers out front, and I love my dining room, painted just the exact shade of blue as my beloved Pfaltzgraf stoneware.

I even love the neighborhood, and the pool, and the sidewalks.

All of the things that I loved about this house are still here. Everything that made it felt like I would shrivel up and die if we didn't get this house are still here.

That realization has been slow to catch fire in my head, but it's been smoldering for awhile now, and seems to have worked up a little flame. It's only been in the past month or so that I have begun to assess the situation and make plans to remake this home into one that feels less like a monument to what was, and more of a comforting place to enjoy what is.

It really started with a couple of small things, but I've learned that it's amazing how encouraging small changes can be.

Matty bought me a new gazebo for the deck (my old one had been destroyed in a bad storm last year.) Somehow, having him make that effort led me to want to make the deck as nice as I could for us to enjoy, so I ordered some solar light caps for the deck railings.

And, oh my sweet Home Depot . . . it took me FOREVER to pull the trigger on the damn lighting.

I looked online for DAYS, agonizing over every choice. It felt like I was making some kind of life-or-death decision, which is crazy.

Well, it is.

Anyway, I finally took a deep breath and clicked the "buy" button.

Then I noticed how neglected the deck was, and how badly it needed to be cleaned and stained and sealed, so we started collecting bids for that work, and it wasn't too long before I took a good look at my exterior porch and garage lights and ordered some that are as pretty as the deck lights. (Sea Gull Yorktown 1-Light Forged Iron Wall Lantern, retail $104, EBay new in box $54.00.)

They are in boxes at my front door now, and I am giddy with excitement to see them adorn the entrances.

We also picked up some new showerhead sets for our bathrooms. If you don't have a rainshower soaker/handheld shower combo, I can't recommend them highly enough.

This past weekend, we bought some beautiful forged iron pulls for my kitchen and bathroom cabinets ($1 apiece at a closeout of custom order kitchen hardware, retailed for $8ish each), and I've ordered some replacement lights for our bathrooms (this Kichler 3 light set was $225.00 retail, $39.00 new in the box on Ebay. Her 4-light sister was $295.00 retail, got two of those for $49.00 each!)


I've also begun to assemble all of the things that will be leaving our house. I plan to have the mother of all garage sales very very soon.

Once the house has been cleared of all of the unwanted items, the biggest project of all will commence: painting. It's the only project I am actually nervous about, which is silly, of course. I'm sure once I actually start applying the paint, it will be a breeze, but deciding on the colors, and preparing properly, all that . . . it feels like a big challenge.

Additional frugal wisdom from Dwight Schrute

Tough Times? Tough Noogies

The economic crisis began with mortgage lenders throwing money at dolts who couldn't afford their payments. Sad stuff. Lucky for me, I've lived my entire existence in an economized state. I'd like to share suggestions with all those super-sized Baconator chateau-living goons out there, who are making their first attempts at being resourceful and cutting back.

Dwelling
Your house can be more than just the spot where you rest your head or butcher your pigs - it can also be a vibrant moneymaker. The spare rooms at Schrute Farms have provided beautiful memories for excursionists, while bringing in gobs of additional cash for Mose and I. I also rent out my basement to a part-time dentist, which means even more money coming in, and free travel toothbrushes whenever I desire.

Clothing
I laugh in the face of your Goldie Hawns, your Diane Keatons, spending thousands on inane wardrobes that are hot one moment and offensive the next. I sport most of my dead grandfather's garb - classic, durable, free. And Mose knits our wintertime attire.

Sustenance
If you're 85 or younger and your appendages are still mobile, you should be hoeing your harvest every morning. I've been living off the land since I escaped the womb. It's not only cheaper than those preposterous yuppie grocery markets like A&P, but pasturing also gives you brawn. No need for a gym membership. Two birds, one garden stone.

Transportation
I bought a Pontiac Firebird in 1987 and haven't looked back since. No car payment in 19 years. Most of you halfwits forget that your vehicle is a machine, not an ornamental showboat to arouse the neighbors. So trade in your cutting edge Accords and Eclipses for something more affordable. If it has airbags, it's too good for you.

Take all of this advocacy and run with it. Or don't, and forever be a penniless idiot.

Alternative Consumption

So, lately I've been thinking about alternative consumption.

Is that a thing? If it's not, then I hereby claim that as of today, it is.

Finding cheaper ways to do things is nothing new for me - I am a longtime coupon user, thrift store shopper, and bargain seeker. I'm one of those people that turns a $200 grocery run into a $50.00 spree, with a crazed look in my eye, a sales paper in my left hand, and white-knuckle clutching a stack of coupons in the other.

Up to now, my consumption has all been cash-based. Granted, I use less cash than other people, but still . . . when I get things for my family, the bottom line is, cash changes hands.

I am attempting to teach my children the ways as well. They are well-versed in the ways of Play and Trade (game swapping store), Goodwill, yard sales, thrift stores, etc., so much so that I can proudly say that my 9 year old often walks through retail stores scoffing, "Yeah, right . . . I can get that for like a DOLLAR at a yard sale!"

It brings a tear to my eye. It really does.

This past week, I have been seeking out other ways to make my junk/stuff/assets work for me. It started innocently enough when I started taking stock of my "priceless treasures" (aka junk) in anticipation of a mammoth yard sale that I plan to have as soon as Atlanta reaches temperatures that WON'T melt my face off in my driveway.

See, I have a whole list of things that I want to do in the house. Painting, redecorating, fencing, sprucing up, yadda yadda yadda.

I also have lots of things that I no longer want, so that's where the yard sale comes in. Except yard sales are really just a way to throw things out. Generally, yard sales aren't a way to generate any real cash, they're just a way to free up real estate and eliminate clutter.

So I started thinking about that, too. This "clutter" is comprised of things that I purchased. Cash traded hands. Cash that was earned by my work, which is the fruit of my labor. My energy and labor are finite resources.

That made me look at the junk differently.

For instance, I looked at a bulging rack of DVDs that has amassed over the past several years. These days, we don't watch DVDs. We have streaming Netflix, so these movies are gathering dust. At a yardsale, I could reasonably expect to get a couple of dollars each for them.

Which is a shame, considering that they cost $15 apiece new.

Most of them have only been watched once.

Now, is it cheaper to buy a DVD than go to the movie? You bet. By the time you buy tickets, popcorn, candy and drinks, a movie costs a typical family of 4 about $60, so the DVD looks like a great buy in comparison.

But when you have watched the DVD and it takes up space in your house, it quickly turns into clutter, and appears to be of no value.

But you don't want to give it away, either, since you PAID for it.

This guilt has pretty much stopped me from purchasing movies, or music or books altogether. Between the notion of "Pffth, I can get that at a YARD SALE!" and the stash I have at home already, I can't really enjoy walking through a bookstore to contemplate purchasing anything.

But I do love books. And music. And movies.

Imagine my glee at my discovery of swaptree.com. This wonderful place allowed me to create an account and list all of my DVDs and books and games that would have either continued to sit dormant or be given away for pennies at a yard sale, and also create a wish list full of all of the DVDs and books and games that I wish I had instead. Instantly, this magic site matches MY unwanteds with others that have things that I covet, and facilitates a trade.

No money changes hands, yet I am supplied with new movies and books and games. It's like having a big circle of real friends that let you borrow things.

(LOL! Just kidding! I don't actually have a big circle of real friends, since I mostly live in my basement, and rarely go out, but I IMAGINE that this would be what it's like to have a circle of real friends that let you borrow things.)

I've already made 5 trades, and instead of dusty Scooby Doo and Barbie DVDs, I now have 4 really good books that I have wanted to read for a couple of years now.

It's a simple concept, I know, but I think it is going to revolutionize the way that I approach the "consumption" of media.

Swaptree - trade books, CDs, DVDs, and video games for free

Found a cool new site that lets you trade books, movies, CDs, games, etc. with other folks.

It will even import your Amazon wish list and find people that have what you want, and want what you have.

Neato.

Swaptree - trade books, CDs, DVDs, and video games for free

With apologies to Layne Staley. And eggs. And possibly toads.

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Who says Twitter's not good for anything?!?! Au contraire. You can learn many useful things on Twitter, like how to ruin a perfectly good bagel and a few innocent eggs.

Enter: Toad in a Hole.

It's known by many other names, evidently. According to the gospel Wikipedia,

Egg in the basket, also known by a variety of another names, including frogs in a hole, birds nest, cowboy eggs, etc, is an egg fried in a hole of a slice of bread.^[1][2][3] The slice of bread can also be substituted with a waffle or bagel.^[4][5]

Imagine my surprise that I had never heard of this delicacy until Twitter, and for a self-confessed foodie, that's saying something.

I had NO idea what it was when I saw the first mention, and after scuttling across the web like Charlotte, I was eager to try my hand at this interesting little breakfast tidbit.

From what I could gather, it was comprised of carved out bread that served as some kind of egg container while the egg softly cooked to near-done.

Sounded easy.

It was not.

My attempts were a bit shaky at first. What kind of bread? How much do you cut away and how much do you leave? How many eggs?

And in case you are wondering how hard I am able to make this process, I had no idea what to do with the part that you cut out of the middle?!

What I did know how to do, though, was turn a perfectly good song into a horrible breakfast ditty. In my head. While the eggs were scorching.

Maybe that's why I can't figure out the simple things, cause so much (like how to ruin music with a song about burning eggs) is rattling around in my head.

Anyway, please to enjoy . . .and if you need the tune to sing along, here you go!

Toad In A Hole
(An homage to Alice in Chains and eggs everywhere)

Bury my yolk in this bread toooomb
I cut a hole to make some rooooom
Salt rains down and here I sit
Holdin my fork, startin to droooool (on you)

Toad In A Hole, and I don't know if I can behaaaaaaaaaaaaave
It's taking too looong to get from the pan to my plaaaaaaaate
Aw, I don't understand what they thought this was supposed to be
Look at my bagel all carved out and full of debris

Toad in a hole
Mouth is the goal
Toad in a hooooole
Eggs in a bowl
I want to fryyyyyyyyy
But the heat in my pan's way to hiiiiiiiiiiiigh

Toad in a Hole and I put all the eggs in their plaaaaaaaaace
Took one little lick so my tongue has been burned of the taste
I have been guilty of getting egg stuck in my teeeeeeeeeeeeth
Grabbing the jelly and now gettin’ ready to eeeeat

Toad In A Hole
Might need a bowl
Toad In A Hole

Could use a roll
Toast’s always niiiiiiiiiice
And bagels are harder to sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice

Bury my yolk in this bread toooomb (all eggs want to be inside of you)
I cut a hole to make some rooooom (all eggs want to be inside of you)
Salt rains down and here I sit (all eggs want to be inside of you)
Holdin my fork, startin to droooool (all eggs want to be inside … )

Toad In A Hole
Hard to control
Toad In A Hole
Eggs start to roll
Toad In A Hole
Sellin my soul
Toad In A Hole
Might need a bowl
I'll eat a sliiiiiiiiiice
But French toast sure would have been niiiiiiiiiiiiiice

P.S. I love you Layne. You can stop spinning in your grave now.

For the love of puppets

I love puppets.

I know that's creepy. And unusual.

I've just always loved them.

Back in '66, when I was born, TV was fast becoming the babysitter of choice for my generation, but the choices for kids' TV were still pretty limited. Moms were working more, and staying home less (at least mine was), adults were preoccupied with the world that the TV brought into their living room at night, and while they maintained a front row seat for the war, and the moon landing, and the rising national debt, and the climbing divorce rate, and women's lib and bra burning and hippie uprisings and desegregation, TV also (and rather insidiously) filled in large blocks of kids' time that would have otherwise been spent interacting with the big people in their house.

Looking back, my early years (66 - 76) were a kind of golden era for kids' TV, and in those days before CGI and cheap cartoon rendering, puppets often filled in the gap between reality and imagination.

My first puppet was a Romper Room Do-Bee puppet, and I remember being absolutely mesmerized by having the Do-Bee puppet ON MY HAND while I was WATCHING IT ON TV! I was not quite 2, I think, and was pretty convinced that the people I saw on the screen lived IN the screen, and I remember excitedly showing my Do-Bee puppet to Ms. Bonnie (who NEVER saw Rita through her magic mirror, by the way).

No matter, I spent countless hours happily animating my Do-Bee puppet and playing with my Scoop-A-Loop and occasionally tottering around on my Romper Stompers.


I was also already pretty heavily invested in Mr. Rogers by this time, too. Anyone that knows me knows how much I loved Picture Picture, and the trolley, and the Land of Make-Believe. It seemed completely seamless, the transition from real life in Mr. Rogers house to the land where puppets lived and worked and played and ran kingdoms and lived in clocks and talked even though they were platypuses or tigers.

By the time I was 3, the wonder that was (and is) Sesame Street flooded my little world with bright happy friends that taught me how to read, and count, and begin to understand humor, and see kids that looked different than I did. I felt a kinship with Big Bird, being able to see his imaginary friend when those around him couldn't, and I always wanted to see what Oscar had in his trashcan, and I wondered a lot about what it was like IN the trash can, whether he had a chair, or a bed, and I remember feeling a scary-but-not-too-scary thrill when The Count came on to exclaim his glee and conjure lightning with his laughter. It felt ok to think that the puppets were my friends, since Mr. Hooper and Maria and the other big people on the show visited and talked with them every day. Ernie and Bert and Cookie Monster and even that guy that wore a raincoat and asked in a whisper if you'd like to buy an "O" were real to me.

Wonder of wonders, I received an honest-to-goodness Ernie hand puppet for Christmas when I was 5. It looked EXACTLY like Ernie, with his striped shirt, and his crazy hair, and his three-fingered hands. It even had a little rod that you could attach to his arm so that you could make him point and gesture at things. Never has a child loved a toy more than I loved my Ernie puppet.

As the late 60s gave way to the 70s, my tastes matured just a bit, and my show preferences began to expand. While I still loved Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street, I began to become enamored with all things Krofft. I distinctly remember watching The Banana Splits and assuming that they lived at Six Flags (it was filmed at Six Flags over Texas, as were some of the intros for the Kroffts' other shows, like Lidsville.) It was about this time that I actually got to GO to Six Flags over Georgia for the first time, and lo and behold, there were actual Krofft characters at the park, greeting us as we entered the gates - more proof that the people that lived on TV were real! Whee!

This coincided with my entry into public school. To be honest, I wasn't crazy about school. I had served time in crappy daycares, and this seemed like just another flavor of that, but one thing that I DO remember with great fondness are the magical days when The Vagabond Marionettes visited our school! How lucky I was to live in metro Atlanta, where the great Vincent Anthony (who later formed the Center for Puppetry Arts here in ATL) had chosen to come after the 1966 World's Fair in New York City where he had worked on Sid and Marty Krofft's Les Pupees de Paris and began the Vagabond Marionettes. I remember sitting on the cool linoleum floor of our elementary school's lunchroom, breathlessly watching the stage curtains draw back and hearing the music starting as those magic stringed puppets brought stories to life.

As amazing as all of this was for me, it paled in comparison to the day that I heard that The World Of Sid And Marty Krofft was opening at the Omni International in Atlanta.

Here. In Atlanta. Opening May 26, 1976. An amusement park with ALL THE PUPPETS!

It was almost unimaginable . . . I remember nearly stuttering with amazement as we gripped the handrail of the HIGHEST ESCALATOR KNOWN TO MAN and rode seemingly up to the heavens to witness The World atop the breathtaking Omni International. The experience was very nearly like arriving at the gates of heaven . . . the glass ceiling illuminating the cloudless sky, the whole place abuzz with happy, busy characters. Billy Barty himself was there to greet us, and I remember standing there eye to eye with him and realizing I was exactly as tall as he!

You'd think I would have grown out of the fascination as I got older, but I didn't. When PeeWee's Playhouse hit the airwaves in 1981, I was just as enchanted at 15 as I was at 5. Globey, Chairry, Randy, Pterri, Magic Screen, the singing flowers, The Puppetland Band, I loved them all. My Saturday mornings were spoken for (this was in the days before DVR). I had a standing date to discover the secret word (AHHHHHHHHHHHH!) and disappear into the Playhouse, where real people and puppets were equally awesome.

I'm not sure I would like puppets if I had been born sooner or later than I was. Any sooner, and I would have likely written off puppets as silly and childish. Any later, and I would have rolled my eyes at the low-tech experience of seeing a puppet brought to life and suspending my disbelief long enough to step into another world for awhile, courtesy of some wood and string.

Glad I was at the right place at the right time.

Summertime!

Lazy blogger here.

Some folks are probably visiting for the first time via my Twitter ramblings. If so, welcome to my museum of old blog posts! I promise to try to jot something here more often so that everyone knows I am alive and an actual person, and not a spambot.

Kids have begun their summer vacation today, and we are preparing for quite a summer, with a pending stem cell transplant for my sweet Matt, and hopefully lots of improvement for his multiple myeloma.

Some things suck, but there is still lots to be thankful for. Love, healthy kids, stable job (for now), and supportive family.

And Twitter!

March madness

Man - how much can happen in 3 months?

You'd be surprised.

Since Christmas:
My mom came out of remission. Her cancer has become active again, and new lesions have appeared on her liver and kidneys. She's on a new chemo regimen, and she seems to be tolerating it for now. She initially said that she didn't want to go on chemo, that when that time came, she would opt out, but her doctor advised her that she had a better than decent chance of beating the cancer back into remission, so she is trying the meds (for our sake, I think.) I don't know how I feel about it. I don't want her to suffer through a horrible regimen on my account, and I hope I am strong enough to back her decision to stop if it comes down to it.

I hope I am strong enough for a lot of things lately, actually.

I'm nursing some wicked stitches at the moment. At my annual exam, my skin doc noticed some suspicious looking moles, and 3 biopsies later, I was notified that I needed 3 surgical extractions, and that the moles were INDEED suspicious, bordering on malignant, but that they were still on the safe side of the spectrum. Scary stuff, but I am just thankful that they were caught early.

Wear your sunscreen, kids.

Most devastatingly, my dear Matty has been diagnosed with cancer. The holidays were a bit of a struggle for him, and after visiting the doc for some unexplained pain and a scheduled physical, the alarm bells went off and we embarked on a whirlwind of tests and doctor visits, only to land in the office of my mother's oncologist to be given the news that he has multiple myeloma (blood plasma cancer.)

He started treatment, and almost immediately was hit with debilitating pain. He's been in the hospital now for 2 weeks, struggling with the regimen and the excruciating pain that seemed determined to continue regardless of what meds he was given. It's been a hard road, but the docs finally came up with an aggressive treatment plan, and the pain finally seems to be coming under control.

The docs are preparing him for a stem cell transplant later this spring, and they are confident that he will do well, and achieve a long remission, which is the best you can hope for with this kind of cancer. It's not curable, but it's treatable.

In the midst of all of this, I'm still working, and taking care of the kids and the dogs and the every day life stuff. The kids have been so good. I'm so proud of the way they have handled themselves over this past year. Feels like they have gone through 5 years of growing up in less than one year's time, and although I feel guilty that they have been put through so much, I couldn't be prouder of the way that they have handled all of the changes with good humor and optimism.

So - what's that Chinese wish/curse "may you have an INTERESTING life"?

In spades.

Grist for the mill

Well, I got a jumpstart on the Ebay auctions to start bankrolling some moolah for the house renovations.

Went to GW Outlet (my pet name for Goodwill), and cherrypicked a few items that I hope to turn a tidy profit on:

Brand new pair of Dansko leather clogs - still had the little sticky tag inside. Paid $4.90 for them, and I have them listed with an opening bid of $49.00. They retail for $120ish, so we'll see what comes around.

The hoarder in me wanted to keep these precious, teeny tiny Disney Store Cinderella slippers, but I hope that I make some tiny princess deliriously happy (and add to my house fund!) These were $1.90, I believe, and retail for $36.00. Again, fingers crossed!

Post-Christmas, Pre-New Years Resolution

Well, we made it.

I think the kids had 4 Christmases. Maybe 5. There were metric tons of wrapping paper, gift cards, boxes, cookies, ribbons, and tissue paper.

I'm ready to pack every last bit of it away right this minute, but I think you are supposed to wait until after New Years. Something about bad luck if you pack it early, beats me.

ANYWAY . . .

I have big plans that will kick off with the packing of the Christmas Crap. Once the Christmas Crap is boxed, it is going up into the attic with the Thanksgiving Crap and the Halloween Crap that has all been camped out in my garage.

Once the Holiday Crap is up and away, Job 1 of the New Year is going to be to clear out the garage, so that nothing remains outside of cars, bikes and tools. Period.

Building on that, the garage will become a staging ground, of sorts, for my furniture as I begin to revitalize the house. I have big plans this year for Chez Rita. I am going to paint the interior of my house. Myself. Both floors, all rooms. I'm also going to rid myself of some old furniture, and acquire some new furniture. I'd also like to fence the backyard this year, and hire someone to build some additional walls in the finished basement to create 2 additional bedrooms.

Because I'm not made of money (unfortunately), I've also decided to challenge myself to finance all or most of the home sprucing with EBay sales of the crap - I mean TREASURE - that has collected in my house over the years. I got a good start over the holidays, selling some collectibles that I thought I couldn't live without (turns out, I can), and was inspired by the windfall that my daughter gleefully accepted from the sale of her American Girl doll clothes and accessories (better than $250).

So, yep. That's the plan. Ditch some of the old stuff, get some new stuff, paint the scuffed stuff, organize and declutter the remaining stuff with money from the stuff I ditch via Ebay (or maybe a well-timed yardsale.)

Wish me luck!

Happy Holidays

It's been awful quiet around here the past few months.

Not life. God, no - life has been like a tornado.

I mean this blog. It's been like a ghost town.

I've contemplated shutting her down altogether, but I keep thinking that I'll come back here when things settle down a bit and write like I used to.

I think that about a lot of things, actually.

Truth is, I don't do much of anything like I used to. I don't feel, or think or act like I used to, and in turn, nothing around me feels or acts like it used to. Job. Kids. Family. Life.

The only constant is change, I guess. Despite being surrounded by change, most of it stemming from my own actions, I really struggle to accept it with grace. I constantly tell myself to be thankful for what I have, and not give in to the worry and stress.

By the way, I really suck at not giving in to the worry and stress.

Physically, I feel good. It's been a year and 3 months since my surgery, and I've pretty much leveled out, weight-wise. After the huge nosedive of a loss early on, I seem to chart about 1/2 lb. per month loss these days. I anticipate that will probably stop altogether in the next couple of months, which is fine. The one thing that I don't need any reminder for is being thankful for my improved health. Thank God for that surgery, my surgeon, my job and resulting insurance, and my willingness to subject myself to the procedure.

The kids are excited for the holidays, of course, but it's tempered a bit this year. It's been hard for me to watch the kids go through the holidays post-divorce. I put off decorating the house for weeks because I didn't want to divvy up the tree decorations into "mine", "his", "used to be ours - no longer applicable". It's something I should have done prior to the holidays, but I didn't. I thought about it a few times, and I intended to set aside a day to do it while the kids were in school, but I never did. When we finally got the boxes out, I tried my best to slip his things into other boxes, but kids never miss a trick, so I changed tactics and packaged them carefully, sending them over to the ex with the kids, trying to be as positive as I could and telling the kids that I felt sure their daddy would want to the decorations in time for Christmas. Actually, I've tried to put a positive spin on most things, but I often find that it ends up feeling like more of a bribe than encouragement. For instance, I have found myself telling the kids that they are lucky to be able to have multiple Christmases this year, like that's some kind of consolation prize for the divorce.

I really didn't intend to do that, but I admit I have, just because I couldn't bear letting them ruminate too long on the downside of having their family blown apart.

Which brings me to another thing that I've struggled with - determining what effect all of this has had on the kids, really. I mean, there is a chance that none of this bothers them as much as I think it does. I keep telling myself that kids are adaptable, they spring back. Then I think about all of the times I have heard my friends talk about their parents' divorce, and how bad the holidays sucked from there on out.

I think they call it transference.

Maybe I'm projecting things onto the kids that aren't really there. Maybe when they fight with each other, or sass, they are just being kids, and not reacting to the divorce at all. It's still early days, I guess, but I find myself examining their behaviors for clues about which ones to chalk up to the divorce, and which ones to act upon and correct.

By the way, I really suck at not knowing which behaviors to chalk up to divorce and which ones to act upon and correct.

In the midst of all of this transition, my fiance and I planned and postponed a wedding, which has been both a relief and a disappointment. No one lives in a vacuum, and like everyone else, we were subject to the whims of a bad economy and the constraints of time and budget. We underestimated the amount of time and money needed for a relocation, re-employment, stabilizing finances post-divorce, assumption of premarital debt in the post-divorce monthly budget, allocation of funds for growing children with ever-increasing needs and wants, and the demands of hosting a ceremony that would host friends from near and far and pay the proper respect to us and our families.

Yeah, it's been rough.

But, just like with this blog, I'm not giving up. I keep thinking that when everything settles down, I'll be able to revisit the plans with a fresh perspective (and a healthy wallet.)

So here's to 2010. May we all gain a fresh perspective and healthier wallets.

The sins of the fathers

My kid started playing football this season. He's 8.

He wanted to play last year, but I was concerned about him getting hurt, or getting yelled at by overzealous coaches. We have stuck with baseball for the past 3 years, so I was oblivious to the huge differences between little league baseball and pee wee football.

Namely, making weight.

Unfortunately, my kids were saddled with 2 fat parents. Now, there's lots of speculation in the medical community about whether obesity is genetic (i.e. thyroid problem) or environmental (i.e. one too many trips to Stevie B's with your fat parents). Most think it's a little from Column A, and a little from Column B (with three you get eggroll.)

All this to say . . . I had never encountered a weigh-in at the baseball field. Actually, his size was sort of celebrated, since he loves playing catcher and has NO fear of the baseball.

Come to think of it, his size has ALWAYS been celebrated. The day he was born, the nurses cooed and squealed over him at the hospital.

All 10 pounds of him.

From the moment he was big enough to sit upright in a shopping cart and peacefully eat Cheerios while I shopped, grown men have approached me in Target and Walmart on a nearly weekly basis to comment, "You're gonna let that boy play football, aren't you?" followed by a hair tussle and questions about his weight, his height, how tall he might end up ("how big's his daddy?"), whether or not I would consider aiming him toward the Univ. of GA (I've always had my heart set on Ga Tech) and admiring glances at the size of his feet and how much older he looks than he is.

When he was a toddler, we would frequent a chinese buffet (what a shock) where the waitresses would literally whisk him away from me and take him INTO the kitchen to "visit" the cooks and staff there, because they were so enamored of his size, and his blue eyes, and his fair skin and his white blonde hair. "He is VERY lucky! YOU are very lucky!" they would tell me in broken English. Apparently, large boys are just about the best thing you can ever have, where they come from.

No one ever said, "Wow. He's too big," or "Uh oh, that's going to be a problem." Until now.

It was quite the blow to have the football coach lead my littlest giant to a dusty equipment shed and have him step on a rusty old scale and announce, "He's 20 pounds over the weight limit for this team."

What?! What do you mean? Aren't football players SUPPOSED to be big?

There he stood, red and breathless from 2 hours of sweaty practice, being told that he's too big to play. And there I stood, feeling like I had led my kid to this moment, one bite at a time.

Yeah, that turned out to be a pretty rough night all the way around. When you see your frailties and weaknesses visited upon your children, it's impossible not to feel guilty. I played the blame game most of that evening and into the wee hours of the night.

I was fat when I had him. I've raised him to be fat like me. It's my fault.

His dad is fat and wasn't active enough with him. It's his fault.

Our parents allowed us to get fat when we were kids. This is THEIR fault.

Which means if parents are to blame, it's back to being MY fault again.

But in the midst of all the self-abuse, I had such an overwhelming sense of pride for him. He had slogged through the hottest, sweatiest, hardest 2 hours of his life for 3 days before we were told the news, and when we WERE told the news, he said "I want to play."

Just like that. He didn't give up. He wanted to play.

I was adamant that there was NO WAY that my kid was going to drop 20 lbs in time to play football this year, and I was ready to turn in his football equipment until I learned it was possible for him to "play up" to the 9 year old team. Their weight limits were slightly higher.

But he was still 10 lbs. over.

Last week, he slogged through furnace-like temperatures, and walked laps when the others ran, holding his side but never quitting. He dragged himself through the drills, carrying the equivalent of a 20 lb bowling ball while the others sprinted past him, with seeming effortlessness while he struggled.

It's the hardest thing I've ever endured in my life. It was like he was paying penance out on that field for all of my sins.

"The sins of the father will be visited upon the children . . ."

It was all I could do not to break down and cry right there, in front of the parents and the other kids and my fiance and my ex who were all encouraging him to hang in there as he doggedly struggled to do the coach's bidding, over and over and over.

I felt like such a failure, despite the fact that I've now lost over 100 pounds. It's been a source of great pride for me AND my kids. They have been there the whole time for me, waiting at the hospital through my surgery, and worrying about me during my recovery, and watching me through mostly good days and a few really bad days as I struggled to keep food down or regain my strength. Now, it just seems self-indulgent to even celebrate that now, now that I see my kid trying to tread water with the same anvil tied around his neck that I managed to free myself of.

I felt helpless. And guilty. Really guilty. I didn't know what I could do to help him, but I couldn't just sit there and watch him struggle, so I got up, and left the stands and went down to the track to show some solidarity. I vowed to walk the track while he practiced. The first night, I was barely able to make two laps. By the end of last week, I finished 4 laps, and he had finished 5 days of grueling, humiliating, sweaty practice in 90 degree weather.

Not surprisingly, by the end of last week, he was also ready to quit. He was sore, and tired, and his resolve was giving way to the unrelenting temptation to stop moving, that same inertia that held me captive when I was at my heaviest.

Through the weekend, I tried my very best to encourage him to hang in there.

We all did.

I told him how proud I was of him. I told him that I would be right there with him, walking that track and enduring the heat and cheering him on. He managed to suck up his courage and get back out there yesterday to endure another 2 hours of heat and humiliation and hard work.

He's still determined, despite the soreness. He's also lost 4 pounds, which makes me so proud of him and so sad that he has to deal with this at such a young age.

I thought about an episode of "Deadliest Catch" I saw recently, where a greenhorn that had been the sole survivor of a sinking fishing ship was describing what it was like to watch everyone around him freeze to death in the icy water. How seductive the urge to just stop moving was for him, how hard he had to fight to keep moving until he could be saved, and how easy it would have been to just . . . . stop, and allow death to take him, like it had the others.

Not to be overly dramatic, but obesity is like that, too. The heavier you get, the stronger the urge is to just stop moving, to just sit very still and allow yourself to be taken. I kept thinking about that guy when I looked at my son. It was like watching him drowning in the water below me while I was safely on deck.

I have to keep encouraging him to move, to keep trying, to hang in there. I can't let him stop. I have to keep him moving, despite the fact that the sea around him is riddled with the bloated corpses of those in our family that allowed themselves to be taken way too soon by the seduction of the inertia.

I'm not going to let that happen to him. I just won't. I'm still thankful every day that I managed to escape from that, but now it's time to save my kids.