Hey, remember what happened when Sarah turned 50? Let's laugh at that again.

 

I'm not sure if there's something in the water, or if we're all just trying to get free medical stuff done before the end of the year, but this week the discussion amongst a couple different friend circles, hasn't for once, been about Covid....

Apparently 'tis the season for a COLONOSCOPY!

So, in honor of the multiple friends I have who are getting one, or have gotten one this week, I give you this:  my five point list of fun from my colonoscopy a couple years back.  

Enjoy!

(THIS BLOG CONTAINS STUFF NOT FIT FOR EARS YOUNGER THAN 50. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.)

So my doctor decided recently that since I'm anemic, the issue of low blood iron clearly lies somewhere deep inside...either my colon or my small intestine.  

To that end, he scheduled a colonoscopy and an endoscopy for me.

I will be looking for a new doctor.  LOL

The blessed event happened yesterday, but as some of you may know, there is a prep period for both procedures.  The prep for an endoscopy:  Fast starting at midnight before your scope.  Show up on time. Bring ID.

The prep for a colonoscopy is a little more detailed, and thusly I bring you today's five for Friday!

5)  Fasting.

Okay, this is arguably the worst part of the prep.  It was for me.  Basically, you can't eat solid food, or anything that's not clear, for 36 hours before your test.  But it's worse than that.  You have to cut out nuts, popcorn, veggies, fruits, fiber, and pretty much anything with flavor 24 hours before T

HAT.  So you're on a tasteless, fiberless diet for 24 h ours, and then clear liquids after that.  (And that last 36 hours makes you dream of the previous 24.)

Now I'm a fluffy girl.  I don't fast.  I barely diet.  At first the clear liquid diet is funny:  You know, broth, jello that's not red, blue, or purple, tea, coffee (without any creamer) and...that's pretty much it.

When talking to the nurse about my prep. I suggested that vodka was a clear liquid. She agreed, but responded that I should be moderate in my vodka consumption. The packet I was given  (more on that later) suggested I NOT partake of any alcohol.  

Four hours before your procedure you're not supposed to take ANYTHING by mouth.  Now, most people aren't bothered by this because they are able to schedule their scope for early in the morning and they get a good night's sleep and are therefore blissfully unconscious for the worst of the hunger.  

Not me.  I did not sleep at all the night prior to my scope.  Around 1 AM my children made  a frozen pizza and I begged them if I could just lick it.  (The grease on the top of the pizza looked clear enough.)  They laughed at me.  I'm going to put ex-lax in their Easter baskets.

The thing is, I couldn't sleep because the prep med schedule is so...weird.  I was worried I'd forget a step and not get cleaned out enough to get the scope done and then I'd have to do it all over again.  (Which is also the argument hubby made with I asked if I could just eat a little of the pot roast I'd made for dinner.  It should be noted, he was eating a full bowl of pot roast and enjoying it.  I may put ground up ex lax in his coffee this weekend and call it a "mocha")

There are pills you have to take and then there's the liquid prep. They tell you to drink fluids all day long.  8 ounces of fluids every hour. And then...the prepping hour, the stuff I called "the goo."  It's not actually goo.  It's Gatorade mixed with Miralax.  A LOT OF Miralax.  I drank 14 daily servings of miralax in TWO SITTINGS.  

Here's how this works. Two days before your test you take a pill laxative. They don't tell you this will pretty much blow out any back up you have in your system or that an innocent sneeze might turn into a laundry nightmare.  They won't tell you that.  But I will.  The next day you take another pill. This time anything left in your body that hasn't turned to liquid fires out.  One hour after that you drink the first of the goo. 32 ounces downed in an hour.  (It tastes like someone added blades of grass to yellow Gatorade.)  45 seconds after that, your body begins producing what I consider to be the early stages of Soylent Green.  (It's PEOPLE!).  All this while only being able to eat chicken broth and green or yellow jello.  (I don't like either color.)

A couple years ago my friend Marie went through a colonoscopy and she said, "Now I know why those people on Survivor seem so stupid.  Going without food affects your ability to make decisions."

I could not agree with her more.  I mean, I was in a comfortable house, I had indoor plumbing and comforting bum wipes readily available.  And no one was asking me to drag a bag through a maze, swim 200 yards, and do a puzzle.  After going through all of this, I have a new appreciation for just how evil Mark Burnett and Jeff Probst are.

You spend hours thinking about what you're going to eat when you are finally done fasting.  My first meal with an Einstein Brothers toasted Asiago cheese bagel with Veggie shmear and a coffee followed up with two pieces of extra crispy KFC.  Best food ever.

4)  Post goo prep time is alone time.

Once you've started consuming the liquid death, plan to spend time alone.  If you have an en suite bathroom, that's the best.  I lit candles, loaded the bathroom with plenty of reading material, picked out movies I knew very well so that I didn't get too wrapped up in the plot to not go when I had to go.  (I also picked Civil War flicks...lots of noise. Drowned out the bathroom noises.)


Everything that comes out of you...and it's a lot...will be liquid.  Not loose stools.  Nope. Liquid.  And there's no warning fart or anything to let you know it's time to go. Now, some people just sit on the toilet for the duration, but that becomes uncomfortable and your feet go numb. So, if your bed is close to your commode, just be ready to unload at any slightest twinge of your lower body. 

Oh and fun fact...when you're prepping, really, no one wants to talk to you.  Not at all.  hubby celebrated that he got the TV with the cable all to himself and when I came out, he looked a little...insulted.  But at least he talked to me.  The kids spent some time avoiding me.  Granted, all I wanted to talk about was how hungry I was and how my bowels were now expelling something that looked a lot like Gatorade.  Still, they could have been more sympathetic.  Hubby suggested he sleep on the couch. I said, "I'm not sick...I'm prepping."  So he slept in the bed.  I spent the night dozing on the couch and wandering around in a haze of hunger and dehydration.

The packet  (more on that later) instructs you to drink half the goo at 5 Pm before your scope and the other half 6 hours before your scope. In my case, this was 4 AM.  So...I was so worried I'd miss this time (or I'd miss the tiny twinge while sleeping) that I didn't sleep at all the night before.  That's right...I was up from 6 AM Wednesday morning until 2 Pm after my scope.  I'm too old for that.

It's a long, lonely night when you're wandering around, drinking tea and eating green jello and looking at stuff in the fridge wondering if you could pulverize it into a clear liquid.


3) The Packet

Once you've scheduled your colonoscopy, you get a raft of emails and texts regarding the test.  I scheduled that thing two months ago.  The day after I scheduled it  I got an email telling me to purchase my prep packet.  


Purchase.

I'm an idiot, so rather than finding out what was in the packet and saving myself almost $20, I instead bought the packet which was sent to me with detailed instructions.

In the package were the following:  10 pages of directions.  5 laxative pills.  1 bottle of miralax.  2 packets of powdered Gatorade.  three packets of powered soup mix.  A box of lemon jello powder.  five little packets of wipes that look like, but are NOT, fruit snack strips.  (In the throes of my hunger I nearly tore one open and ate it.)

$31.

Yep.

$31.

I ignored the prep packet until it was almost too late.  I opened it on Monday and realized I was already not adhering to the tasteless diet.

I read and reread the instructions.  I cancelled a dentist appointment (the one to fix the tooth that fell out during my trip to Door County.) because after taking the first laxative I realized there was no way I was leaving the house.

I made the soup mix.  I didn't make the jello. I made my own green jello.  And now I'll never eat chicken broth or green jello ever again.  At least, not for the next ten years.

2) Blame it on the lack of food if you somehow imply the nurses are sexy.

I checked with Peaches on this one, and she says I'm okay, but I still feel like I had an uncomfortable moment with at least two of the dozen nurses I came in contact with the day of the procedure.  

First of all there's a team of nurses who all have one duty and they tell you their name, do the duty and you never see them again.  There was the nurse who weighed me and then told me to take all my clothes off except my socks and my bra.  Very sexy look.  Then there was the woman who was supposed to get my IV started.  She stuck me in at least three places  (And all of them hurt) before she settled on the vein on the top of my right hand. 

Then there was Karen, the nurse who fixed my IV because it was leaking all over my hand.  Again, that hurt...a lot.

After that, I think there was a Bonnie, maybe a Kathy, I'm not sure just how many other nurses got all in my face, (At this point I had no glasses, having signed the paper that swore I WAS NOT PREGNANT, I no longer hand any need to read.  So why did they bother wearing name tags?)  and chirped their name while performing one task.

I think it was Karen who rolled me down the hall in what I thought was the worst parade ever.  (This was before they gave me any kind of sedation.)  I felt I should wave, but I had way too many cords and tubes and whatnot attached to both my arms.  

I was parked in an operating room where two new nurses started pushing me into position and putting more stuff on me.  We chatted about children and jobs and plans for lunch and all of that.  Which is when I burst out with this:

"This has got to be the sexist branch of medicine ever."

Again this was BEFORE I got any sedation meds.

Nose Cannula nurse stared at me as if I'd suddenly grown two heads.  That's when I realized I'd probably just implied that I found the nurses sexy.  Now, they were very nice ladies, and they were tidy and clean and all that, but um....that wasn't my point.

I explained.  "I mean, you're sticking scopes down throats and up fannies all day."

Nose cannula nurse relaxed a little and laughed.  "I suppose."

Then I quoted my mother..."Mom always says, 'it's a good thing someone wants to do this.' "

That is literally the last thing I remember.  I'm pretty sure Nose Cannula nurse told the other nurse to plug me full of meds to shut me up.

1)  Some people are fun when they wake up. Apparently I'm annoying and not at all interesting.

Skippy had an endoscopy on Monday and when he came out of his anesthesia everyone loved him. He giggled, he offered discounted pizza to everyone, he was the life of the party.

Apparently, the only thing anyone can say about me is that I repeated myself several times and kept asking what time it was...to the point that Peaches, who I didn't even SEE until 12 hours after my procedure, scolded me for telling her something that Hubby said I'd talked about several times with him.  WELL!

Oh, and seriously, while everyone looked at Skippy's pictures of his clean esophagus and small intestine, no one wanted to look at my pictures.  And my colon is CLEAN!  (They found ulcers in my esophagus.  Nothing to worry about, they tell me.)

You know what, my next step in tracking down why I'm anemic is to go to a GYN specialist. Just for that, I'm not sharing anything with any of the people I live with. HA! That will teach them, because I 

just BET that's going to be a SUPER interesting appointment.

A Fan-Fave Repost: If you broke it, Neville, you shouldn't point out that it's broken.

 

Good morning all!

Since it's #Nanowrimo and I'm off my day job for a week to WRITE THE BOOK (that would be the 5th installment in the Rock Harbor Chronicles, starting a NEW Generation of romantic suspense with "Deal with a Devil" due out summer, 2021.) I thought I'd share an old favorite. Especially since we're rolling into the Christmas season and typically church choirs are gearing up for some weeks of HARD singing.  (Although, thanks to Covid, the work load is much lighter.  So...silver lining for those of us who aren't super enthusiastic singers.)  

Anyway, here's an old post that answers the question: Why did Sarah switch to the alto section.  It also answers the question, "Is Sarah a good, reliable choir member?"

Enjoy!

I belong to a really small church body.  Most people outside Wisconsin don't know much about it.  But it's a very musical church body and, being as small as it is, anyone who's been a teacher or a pastor pretty much knows everyone else because they're either related to other teachers and pastors or they've gone to school with other teachers and pastors or both.

In my case, roughly 87% of my relatives are either teachers or pastors in this small church body and yes, I was even a teacher once  (they put her in charge of children's education?  WHAT?).  Bonus, my mother's older brother is VERY musical and was, during his career, sort of a musical force in this church body. 

I'm telling you all this to explain why I have zero confidence when it comes to my singing.  See, my whole life my parents put me in school and church choirs. Not because I have any talent but because it's what you do in our churches.  I learned the piano, and later I learned all the percussion instruments just to annoy my parents.  I can read music, I can play music. I have a voice that's suitable for a church choir.

But back when I was 13 I didn't realize I wasn't a great musician.  Why?  Because my choir director then, a former classmate of my uncle's, assumed that I'd inherited my uncle's and mother's singing capabilities.  (Not sure how he figured that...oh, and there's no way he'd know from hearing me since I sat LITERALLY behind a wall in the choir rehearsal room.)  Anyway, he decided he'd have me try out for the very select traveling choir.  As a freshman in high school this was a HUGE boost for me, and pretty much solidified my dreams of becoming a world famous rock star. (I was an idiot.)

I was not, as you might guess, super subtle about being picked for a tryout.  Yep, I blared that all over campus. (wow...was I stupid, and I had a big mouth).  I made plans with actual members of the traveling choir to be their best buds forever. (Looking back, I really hate the 13 year old me.  She was so...optimistic and confident.  Moron.)

This is what I sound like in my head.

The day of the tryout came and I was all set to step into my God-given roll and a superstar high school singer.  One tiny problem.  The tryout didn't go so well.

"Um, do you have a cold or something?"

"No."  (I was in perfect voice, I felt.)

"Your voice is really thin. Sounds like you're a third grade girl."

Had the director stuck a fork in my neck I could not have been more crushed.  But then he said this:

"I thought you'd be better.  I mean, look at your uncle."

And I was officially done with singing for a very long time. I went through the motions, I was in choirs both church and high school and college, but the reviews of my voice didn't improve.  I had a high school director later in my life who said I sounded way different from how I spoke, but he put me in the traveling choir because I was teacher's kid and didn't cause trouble.

  In college I joined the scrub choir just so no one would expect much of me. I had to take a vocal 

This is a little closer to what
I sound like in real life.

class and the professor, who happened to direct the super cool travelling college choir, kept telling me I had a great voice. So I asked him for a try out for the choir.  That went pretty much as I expected. No cool traveling choir for me.

Let's flash forward 25...okay 26 years.  I've been a soprano in my church choirs for a long time. I sing soprano, I tell people, because I can belt those high notes.  (And because, since I do like going to rehearsal, I don't actually have to practice that much since church choir sopranos usually since melody.)

A couple Christmas's ago, our wine drinking choir...I mean our contemporary choir, sang "Mary Did You Know?"  If you've heard the song, you know it's got some high parts.  Well, our fearless leader, let's call him Neville, wanted MORE POWER from the sopranos on that high A.  And we gave him MORE STINKING POWER,

And after that service I couldn't sing, AT ALL for eight months. Not one note.  I dropped out of that choir, and pretty much faded from the old people's choir...I mean the ADULT choir.

A couple years passed. I stayed in the adult choir and muddled through the soprano lines, not really wanting to admit I could no longer hit a high A. I could no longer hit an F without pain.  Neville had broken me. 

Recently I decided to rejoin the wine drinking choir...I mean the contemporary choir...again.  But this time I came back as an alto.  My cousin, a boy, once pointed out that the alto voice in a choir really didn't do much.  I sort of see his point, although I come from a long line of alto singers. Sopranos have the high notes, the tenors have the high notes and the bass section get those fun low notes. It's a rare thing to hear anyone say, "wow...the altos in that choir really rock!" Being an alto isn't a glory spot in a choir.  And, given my history of choral singing, I was really, really okay with that.

So we had practice last night.  Again, I'm not a big fan of actually GOING to practice, but I've been trying to be good. It helps that Hubby is in choir with me.   Apparently, however, I missed last week...Hubby wasn't around and the people who live across the street from us who are also in choir said they honked and waved at me while I was sitting in my swing. I thought they were just being neighborly.  Anyway, last night we were going through a song I didn't know terribly well, but I was doing okay. I find if I sit next to, let's call her Suzanna, I do okay.  She sits behind me in the old people choir, and next to me in wine drinking choir.  I thought I was doing okay. And then:

Neville:  Okay, let's have the upper voices, the altos and sopranos, just at the bottom of page five.

So we sing.

Neville:  Okay, let's just have the altos.  Same spot.

So we sing again.

Then there's this silence. 

Neville:  Would you altos like to try this again?

The four of us  (Apparently I'm not the only who skips choir practice from time to time) looked at each other.  Then I had to say it:

Sarah:  No, but we're starting to feel a little picked on.

Neville:  I'm not singling you out.

Suzanna:  You sort of are.

Neville:  Well, I'm hearing something that's flat.

If you've been in choir you know that the altos rarely get told they're flat.  And most of the time if they need to go over something it's because they ask to go over something.  The alto section is literally the comfy sweats of  the choir. They just...work. 

Now, I didn't realize I was giving Neville, "the eye" but apparently I was.Probably because I was feeling all the feelings I have when someone is expressing disappointment at my singing.  (And I realize he was just trying to find out where the flat sound was coming from...and my guess is it came from me. Never had trouble singing flat before...until Neville broke me.)

Neville:  Well, I don't want to do anything that's going to get me into one of Sarah's posts.

And from the back row comes this:


Hubby:  You can't avoid it Neville. It just happens.

So there you go, Neville and all the members of the wine drinking choir!  See you next week at practice!  (maybe.) 

And let you think I was kidding about the wine drinking part, here's a shout out to our favorite local winery.  Many of the members, including Hubby and me, belong to their "case club."  And yes, it means exactly what you think it means.

Thanks Covid! Now I'm the weirdo who cusses.

 

WARNING: THE LANGUAGE IN TODAY'S BLOG IS A LITTLE SALTY. READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 14 SHOULD PROCEED ONLY WITH PARENTAL PERMISSION.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

So, with Covid and sheltering in place and wearing masks and social distancing, I do believe the impossible has happened:  I've become even more weird to my fellow man and woman.

Those of you who know me, or who read this blog more than once a year know that I have a bit of a different outlook on life and that colors my interactions with those around me. I have a problem with my internal edit button, I tend to be very sarcastic, and, in my gentle, conservative, church going circle of friends I'm considered a hilarious, eccentric outlaw.

And then Covid happened and, well, stuff got a little worse.

It was bound to happen, I guess. I mean, I already work at home, so my contact with my coworkers and the general public is by phone or email.  Thanks to Covid, I don't get to exercise my social chat muscle much on people like wait staff or cashiers because, between the masks and the plexiglass walls that have popped up all over the place...well...it's hard to hear anyone say anything.  Plus, you know, actually eating in a restaurant is frowned upon.  (Or forbidden, depending on the state in which you live.)

My biggest form of contact with people who are not in my house is at the pharmacy, which is where, I believe, my newest bout of weirdness began.  See, with the masks and plexiglass, we now have to speak at louder volumes. And since it's the pharmacy, we're sharing fairly private details of ourselves...at louder volumes. As a society, we've just sort of all agreed this is okay to shout at pharmacy techs and pharmacists, regardless of how personal the information might be.  We pinky swear we won't share that any info we hear in line with anyone else.  Especially about that rash cream, man in front of me last week. I'm not sharing any of the stuff you shouted at the tech with anyone.  Who needs those images in their head?

But here's the thing:  Once you're used to shouting, and oversharing, and then not talking to people unless you're shouting or oversharing, well, something happens in your brain.  At least it did in mine.

Which is how, on Tuesday at choir practice, I made a complete normal situation really, really weird.  

So I'm at choir practice...something I haven't done in a while (I'd like to blame Covid for my poor attendance at choir practice, but we all know I'm not a great practice attender.) and I'm sitting in my normal spot, except hubby told me a couple weeks ago that we've gotten a new alto who was sitting in my spot because, well, I wasn't there.  

And I'm sitting in my chair, chatting with the lady next to me when the new lady comes in and she's got a little kiddo with her.  And next to me is an open chair, which I use for my coat and water bottle, phone purse...basically I've claimed the chair next to me as also mine because it's all about me.

So the new alto sees me in what she'd been using as her spot and she's cool, she and the little one sit in the front row and start chatting with the front row altos.

Now, a NORMAL person whose brain had not been damaged by all the Covid stuff would have just leaned over and said, "Hi, I'm Sarah, welcome to this choir, good to meet you."  Or something along those lines. Not me. 

So the new lady sat down in the front row with her young kiddo and instead of leaning over and introducing myself, I look at Sandreen, a woman I've known for the better part of three decades and mouthed to her "is this the new woman?"

And Sandreen says, "Yes."

And then I don't lean over, nope, I just look square at the back of the new woman's head and I say in a voice that's way too loud, "HI! I'M SARAH!"

And the lady startles, turns and says,  in a completely normal adult voice, "Hi I'm......"

(I may have mentioned I'm really terrible with names.  Her name might be Stacey or Stashia or Stanislaw.  I will forever be calling her "new alto with kid.")

And here's where I really go off the rails.  I then say, again, in a really loud voice:  I KNOW YOU WERE SITTING HERE LAST TIME, AND I''M SITTING HERE NOW BUT IF YOU WANT TO SIT HERE I CAN MOVE TO THE FRONT ROW AND I CAN MOVE ALL MY STUFF AND YOU AND YOUR LITTLE ONE, HI LITTLE ONE, CAN SIT HERE IT'S NO BIG DEAL.

Now, New Alto with Kid looks at me, and she looks at Sandreen  and she looks back at me and says, "no, we're fine. Right here. We're fine."

"BUT I KNOW YOU WERE...WELL OKAY. I DON'T WANT TO MAKE IT WEIRD EVEN THOUGH I'VE MADE IT WEIRD NOW!  BUT WELCOME!"

Yeah...

Oh and did I mention that before this little lapse of normalcy, Sandreen's husband, a man who has sat in my front yard during this Covid stuff and enjoyed a nice socially distanced beer with hubby after a long day of work here and there the past couple months...he walked past my chair and said, "Hey, Sarah. Good to see you."  And he smiled.

And I said, "Why?  What do you know? What have you heard?"

And he says, "Can't I just say hello and smile?"

And I say, "I'm not sure."

Seriously, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Oh and something you should probably know about me and the deterioration that is my general self these days:

I come from a very conservative, church type upbringing. I know all the "Thou Shalts" and "Thou Shalt Nots."  Back in college and even beyond that, I was considered sort of an edgy girl (yeah, I know) because I would could do fun things with words (a double entre anyone?) and I wasn't above making a blue joke here and there and peppering my language with a little salt.  Even as a grown up, many of my church friends think I'm hilarious and outrageous because "I tell it like it is" and I "have a unique perspective on things."

Let me tell you. This Covid thing has unleashed some kind of beast.  Well, at least in my house.

There are a couple words I do not care for.  I'm not going to spell them out here, but one of them begins with an F.  My kids, darling adults that they are, love to try and get either hubby or me to spew an F word now and again.  (Long live the memory of the F-bomb Thanksgiving. Hubby may never live that one down.)  Apparently, however, the kids don't have to work on me anymore...nope, APPARENTLY the language cloud over my head has gotten so blue that HUBBY had to ask to me to PLEASE STOP USING THAT WORD!

So there's that!

And, I also realized this fun fact this week:  Remember "That 70's Show?"  Sure, we all do. Well, I know I was never cool enough to be one of the kids. Not even Fez, poor dear Fez.  But I knew, I KNEW I was definitely one of the parents. You bet. I was Kitty Foreman. The fun loving, cookie baking, wine drinking, lard laughing mom who just wanted everyone to be happy and peaceful.

Turns out, Thanks to Covid, I'm not Kitty anymore.

Nope. I'm officially Red Foreman.  

Why?  

Because the words DUMB and ASS come out of my mouth, oh, I don't know, like 700 times a day. 

What I'm saying is that Covid affects us all in different ways. Me, I used to be a funny Sunday School teacher who could get kids interested in reading the Bible by teaching the lessons from the "SPICIER" stories in there.  Now, I'm a loud mouthed weirdo who yells at unsuspecting altos, calls everyone a dumb ass, and makes her husband uncomfortable with her potty mouth.

I want to be loving, patient, funny Kitty Foreman again. I want to love my fellow man and woman and find funny pictures of baby goats and not sit there and listen to this person bark about wearing masks and that person barking about not wearing masks and everything on TV talking about Covid (Seriously, "Grey's Anatomy?"  You think people want to see your season premier mid November after everything else we've slogged through with Covid and terrible weather all over and murder hornets and the election ...you think we want an entire storyline dedicated to more COVID?  REALLY?  Where are the explosions and the brain transplants and the many, many, many, many love scenes in the on call room?  Where's all that?)  

I really want to be happy and loving and joyful enjoy TV shows that aren't "The Great British Baking Show."

Hmmmm, maybe I am Kitty after all!

Have a super weekend all, and hey, since I probably won't be blogging much since November is National Novel Writing Month and I've actually taken a week off my day job next week to try and finish the first draft of my new novel: DEAL WITH A DEVIL  for those of you in the US, happy Thanksgiving, and for the rest of us, Happy Holidays, let's finish strong with peace and hope for better times.

And I know some of you evil people out there are really, really hoping I stay this awkward.  Yeah, I know you are...you mean dumb asses!  LOL

Wearing masks: It's all in how you look at it.

 Hello everyone!

This is quite possibly the last blog you're going to get from me in a while. For those of you who know me, or who have been on this blog for a bit, you know that November is National Novel Writing Month or NANOWRIMO.  (And for those of you pondering writing a novel...this is a great way to jump start your project, PLUS IT'S FREE!)

Nanowrimo means that any writing I do in November, and actually starting this week, has to be dedicated to my newest work in progress "DEAL WITH THE DEVIL"  which is a continuation of the Rock Harbor Chronicles, specifically, Fresh Ice. I'm beyond excited to share the next generation of Rock Harbor stories...especially this time around because I get to bring back a couple favorite characters.  (Will we find out if Cat and Benny really named their daughter Thorina? Does Dave at 'Dirty Dog Dave's' have a romantic past of any kind?  And who, exactly, is Leon McNeon?)

But I'm not here to toot my own literary horn today. No, I have to make a comment on something that's fairly serious and yet...I'm not understanding why all the fuss and bother.

Of course I'm talking about WEARING THE MASKS.

A number of months ago, we were told we should wear face coverings to control the spread of COVID-19.  Well, if you look around the world today, (yes, even countries that aren't the US are having trouble controlling it, for those of you who want to just grumble about the US), you'll note that mask wearing has become a hot button political topic on the level of abortion or gay marriage.  

No, I'm not here to talk about either of those topics. This is about masks. Stay with me here.

People, and by people I mean especially women, what is the big deal?  It's a bit of cloth that, quite frankly, covers some REAL PROBLEM AREAS for us people of the female persuasion.  Don't believe me?  Ponder this:

Got a stubborn chin hair/lip hair issue and can't carry a razor/waxing strips/NAIR bottle with you everywhere?  MASK

Got a crooked smile you've never liked? MASK...and a Tyra Banks inspired "smile with the eyes."

Got an extra chin or two? MASK

Need a nifty little accessory for your ensemble? MASK

Winter's coming and you hate having a cold face, but really don't like the scratchy wool blends of scarves? (Why is this even a question?)  MASK

PEOPLE!  (and by "people", I mean everyone reading this blog)  why are we wasting precious time, energy, and goodwill shouting about wearing a mask?  Do not think of this as a political issue.  Do not think of this as a health issue (because apparently health is also political).

Just as with everything else in life, the amount of shrill screaming you participate in regarding the mask is directly linked to your attitude.  So buckle up, Snowflakes, Boomers, and everyone else,  I'm about to change your attitude and make the world a better place!  (And my mother never thought I'd do anything...)

When, in the history of our lives, have we been able to not only cover up problem areas, but do so in a really cute way?  When have we been so very able to express ourselves without saying a single word?  When have we been able to start a conversation with a stranger (right at at a 6 foot distance of course) about our favorite sports teams, movies, tv shows, catch phrases, whatever?

When have we been able to coordinate and outfit while also protecting our lips from the harshness of winter?

When have we had such an attractive barrier to our bad breath after an onion bagel breakfast?

IT IS ALL HOW YOU LOOK AT IT!

Not since the invention of the printed T-shirt have we had such a wide open way to express ourselves!  And, if you think about it, wearing face masks does NOT contribute to Tim Gunn's horror:  The Schlubifying of America!

 

My mask collection is pretty big for someone who leaves the house roughly three times a week.  It started with a simple polka dotted thing I got on eBay.  I now have six or seven masks, including TWO FORMAL mask, appropriate for a wedding or a formal business meeting (not that I ever have a formal business meeting, but you get it.)  I have a fun "Friends" mask that gets a lot of comments and of course, this being American Football Season, I have 2, count them, 2 Green Bay Packers masks.  Oh yeah, I also have a "Sarah the Author" mask for any book club/book signing appearances that might break out yet this year. (A girl can hope.)

Maybe you're someone who doesn't like wearing the mask because you only have yucky disposable masks to wear. Maybe you need to branch out a bit, and also support individual artists by finding masks hand crafted for websites like Etsy or eBay.  (I have done both.) You can shop at your favorite T-shirt website, or you can just google a tv show/movie/sports team and the word MASK and see what comes up! Find a mask you like. Sure, it might take a couple dollars and a little experimenting when it comes to the ear straps or what style you like best, but TRUST ME...it is impossible to be in a bad mood while wearing a mask with your favorite "Princess Bride" movie quote.  

Masks, unlike t-shirts, jerseys, and the like, tend to be very affordable and SMALL, so, you know, STOCKING STUFFERS!  (Or, for those of you who celebrate Hanukkah, I'm told a mask would be a very nice gift for one of the 8 nights.)  I do not know one single person who isn't running around saying, "Boy, I need just a small gift for Great Aunt Blah Blah."  Well, here you go...a gift for GREAT AUNT BLAH BLAH and all the other BLAH BLAH relatives that are on your shopping list.

There is literally a shop called the Christmas Face Mask Shop

Now, sure, some can argue that wearing a face mask means giving up freedom, that it's a sign of tyranny, that it's the government trying to control us.

Well, hey.  We're forced to wear shirts and shoes in buildings for far more arbitrary reasons than we wear masks.  

And, unless you're s surfer stoner from an 80's movie like Mr. Spicolli, you wear the shirt and shoes and make jokes about not wearing pants.  (Because we're all 8 years old and that's always a funny joke.)

So look. One blog isn't going to change the world. (My mother was right.)  But think about it, what takes more effort and makes the world a less happy place to live?  Griping about wearing a mask.  What makes your day brighter and covers that pesky little 5 o'clock whisker set you've got going on?  Wearing a fun mask.  

Anyone who's known me longer than a day knows my mantra:  Attitude is 95% of the game.  Well, have a good attitude, pick up some fun masks from an independent artist or custom design one yourself at my favorite website:  Vistaprint, and guess what?  Your life, and the lives of those around you might just suck a tiny bit less!

Sarah Attempts to Destroy Another Fitness Professional, but did she Succeed?

 Hello everyone!

I know. I know.  I haven't blogged in a long time. Well, let's face it. There isn't much to laugh about right now.  Even I am struggling to find humor in the dumpster fire that is 2020, what with the raging wildfires, the gigantic number of hurricanes and tropical storms, the protest/riots, the election where, if you're a casual observer, you're thinking the only two choices America has are an old racist white guy millionaire who treats women like second class citizens...or the other old racist white guy millionaire who treats women like second class citizens.  (Not for nothing, but there are 5 legit presidential/VP pairings on the Wisconsin ballot...and you still have the choice to write in Kanye West...so there are plenty of choices. But between the lack of coverage on the other candidates and outright voter shaming for those of us who chose to vote FOR SOMEONE instead of AGAINST THE OTHER PARTY, well...)

And, thanks to Covid, we're all stuck at home with nothing else to do but watch the news and obsess about it all. 

Wait...what was I saying?

Oh, right.  There hasn't been much to laugh about, even for me. UNTIL LAST WEEK!

That's right. Once again, Sarah got to take on another fitness professional and once again, she walked away a winner while the fitness guy sat weeping at his desk.  (Probably. I don't know. I managed to battle this one on the phone.)

Just to refresh your memories...back some ten years ago, I managed to get a personal trainer at Golds' Gym fired because during our introductory meetings he stood around chatting with another trainer and eating a donut. Readers know him as "Crumb Blowing Steve."  Later, I got a trainer fired at Experience Fitness because he lured me in with a phone call telling me "he was concerned about me" because "he hadn't seen me in a while."  I said, "Look, I come to this gym because people leave me alone and no one has tried to pressure sell me into sessions with a personal trainer. That's not what you're going to do, right?" He swore up and down it was not.

Except, it totally was.

While that guy didn't blow donut crumbs at me, he did make me weigh myself with my winter books and coat on. He did make me sit for half an hour and listen to him tell me I was lying to myself and to him about not having $900 a month lying around for personal training sessions.  And he made me run on a treadmill for several minutes.  I allowed him to abuse me in this way because...well...I'm a blogger and my material comes from living life in the 21st century.  

After a well worded email to the corporate office, that guy was never heard from again.

Now, it's not that I'm against personal trainers or fitness in general.  I'm not.  I've had some good experiences with personal trainers in the past.  (Gold's Gym made up for the Crumb Blowing Steve episode and gave me KRAM who featured in several blogs.  Experience Fitness...well...they didn't do crap.  So there's that.)  I have a very good friend who spent years with a personal trainer, lost a bunch of weight and is now a personal trainer herself.  And if I ever do decide that's the way I want to do, I'll have her train me, thank you very much.  

I am, instead, a crusader against high pressure body shaming by anyone.  I am what I am. I am taking steps to be better, and I think anyone in the health and fitness industry worth their salt will understand the importance of encouragement. It takes a village to get a fluffy girl off the couch and into her walking shoes. It takes one tiny,. thoughtless comment to slap her right back on that couch with a bucket of fried chicken and a gallon of marshmallow ripple ice cream.

Which brings us to the phone call last week. 

See, Hubby's insurance requires us, if we want to save significant bucks on our premiums each year, to go through an annual physical, report the results of said physical to our insurance and then suffer through...I mean, participate in, a couple health coaching phones calls. This happens every Autumn.  2 phone calls to pinpoint and coach on any health issue...any one at all...doesn't have to be about weight.

Okay, it's always about weight. At least with me.

The last two years have been fine. We pinpointed the problem, I'm fat.  We came up with a couple solutions:  Eat smaller portions, don't eat after 10 PM.  And, for two years, I've been reasonably good at that, but with no real weight loss.  So this year the random health coach person and I decided I need to eat breakfast every day.  I need to eat something in the morning to get my engines going and then to maybe lighten the giantgantor lunches I put together for myself because I'm starving.     Phone call one: Set the goal.  Phone call two should have been a quick follow up, and then a hearty, "See you next year!"

But no.  The cheerful, chirpy girl, Cindy (Although I imagine she spells it SYNDEE) scheduled a third phone call for me. Not a big deal, I figured this was something new for the 2020 COVID era.  So fine, I'll be available 15 minutes before and 15 minutes after my scheduled phone call time.

The day of Call 3 I weighed myself. I believe I've well documented how much I hate weighing myself.  More so now because Hubby got us a scale that syncs with our fitbits, which means I weigh myself and then that number shoots itself into the memory banks of my fitbit dashboard and there's no hiding from it then. There's no walking away from the scale and forgetting the number.  Sigh.  So on day 3 I weighed myself, and look at that...I lost 3 pounds in 10 days!  All from eating breakfast!  WOW!  I was on cloud nine!  I announced it by text to my family.  I realized 3 pounds isn't a big number, but it was a positive number...the first of its kind for me in a long time!  3 pounds!  I could NOT WAIT for SYNDEE to call me and rejoice with me.

Except...Syndee didn't call me. Nope, at precisely 14 minutes AFTER our scheduled time, a dour, grumpy, pissed off, unhappy, generally negative guy named John called my number.  

How can you picture him best?  Hmmmm....oh here:  

Well, okay. So I got a grumpy guy on the phone. Didn't matter, I LOST 3 POUNDS!  Which is what I said to him.  I said, "JOHN! I LOST 3 POUNDS!"  

To which John said, "Well, now let me look here. You weigh...XXX...and you lost 3 pounds?  That's a good thing, you think?"  

Well, now okay, granted, in the pantheon of weight loss, 3 pounds on a body like mine is...you know...3 pounds on a body like mine.  Still...

"What kind of exercise are you doing?"

Hey, I feel pretty confident on this one.  Syndee was over the moon when we talked about this.  So I started chirping cheerfully.  "I make sure I get 10,000 steps in at least six times a week. I make sure I get 45 active minutes or more each day.  I get up in the morning and I walk for 15-20 minutes just to kick off the day. I am working on drinking more water than just the 64 ounces too!"

"hm. And yet, you're still obese, is that right? So what new steps do you need to take?"

Wow. That was cold.  Still, I plowed on.  "We decided I should eat something for breakfast every day and I worked on that and I lost 3 pounds!"

"And what did you eat for breakfast?"  Asks Grumpy John.

Now, let's be honest. We all know what a good, nutritious breakfast should look like. Just like we all know we're supposed to eat more veggies than bread and more veggies than meat and just eat more veggies.  BUT...and this is key...SYNDEE did not tell me WHAT to eat for breakfast.  She just told me TO eat breakfast. So I ate what I had at hand.

"Let's see, a couple toaster waffles.  Maybe a yogurt.  Sometimes a bowl of cereal."

And that's when it got...rude.  Like, Crumb Blowing Steve rude.  Grumpy John says, "Well, I see we need to work on your eating then.  What, do you think, were your mistakes with your breakfast?"

Not sure about that...but I know my mistake was taking your call.

"Well," says I, "I'm sure cereal and waffles aren't the best selection but hey, the goal was to eat something for breakfast which I did and I lost weight."

"Yes, and 3 pounds is a small move in the right direction.  Although I see, you're quite morbidly overweight, so that's really not a big number, is it?  So, what other mistakes did you make with your breakfast choices?"

Now, at this point, he's using a tone on me like I'm seven and I've just peed outside the toilet bowl because I thought it was funny.  And this is when Sarah the Fitness Professional Killer rose up within me.

"Look, John," says I.  "I know what a good breakfast should look like."

"Then why didn't you eat one?  It could have been so simple.  You just make a whole grain waffle...then boil an egg, cut up some tomatoes, and add some, oh I don't know, lettuce or cucumbers for fun. Then you have a proper breakfast."

"Yes. And you also have me late for work...because I made a lunch instead of a breakfast and it took me twenty minutes to make."

John says, "Well, I know you're busy..."

"Do you, John?  Do you?  I just told you I lost 3 pounds in 10 days because I worked on something you people told me I needed to work on and I did it and it was successful and you're treating me like a child, like a stupid child. I know what a healthy breakfast looks like. I know what I should be doing. This is not about knowing what is right.  This is about coaching me and being supportive and being happy for me when I SUCCEED!"

Boy I thought I'd won the day with that.

Nope.

"Yes, but if you made a whole grain waffle instead of one you just get out of the freezer, that's so much better for you. Maybe sprinkle some flax over it all.  Or you could make just the boiled egg and the tomatoes and other veggies. That would actually be better than piling on carbs."

Never in my life have I wanted to be on a recorded line as much as I did for this phone call.  "I doubt I'll ever have time in the morning to make the kind of breakfast you're suggesting, John. But I'll try and do better with my choices."

"Well there, see, now you're making a little better progress."

I had no words.  I'd been so unbelievably excited...and then this.

There was a pause, then Grumpy John says, "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Not at the moment, no." I respond, trying really hard not to cry.

"Okay, so when do we want our next call to be?"

And this is when I really lost it.  Hubby only had to do two calls. It's always only been two calls.  Now he wants a fourth call?

"Look, John, why are we scheduling another call?  I mean, it's always only been two, and this one right now is my third this year and you want another one?  Why are you treating me like a special case?"

"Oh, well, I mean, if you think you can handle this on your own, then we don't need to schedule another call."

He probably should not have left me open like that.  But he wounded me.  All I wanted was a little bit of cheering.  I would have scheduled another call with Syndee. Instead, I said this.  "Well, if it were with any other person I've ever talked to from your company, then I would do a fourth call. But since it would be with you...then no thank you. I'm good."

There was another short pause.  Clearly, neither of us were finished with this.

"Well, okay. I mean, if you're sure you have a good support system around you."

"Oh I do, John. I do."

"Do you?  Are you sure?"

"Well, John, I'm pretty sure they're more supportive than you've been."  And at that, I hung up.

It's so clear to me how much a word of encouragement does and a word of discouragement destroys.  I'm still plugging away, but John's general tone of disapproval lingers in my brain.  Oh if only I could have sent an email to his superiors.  I'm really good at scathing emails.  Alas...I don't have a direct line to that management team.

Meanwhile, I have 50 more weeks before my next health coaching call.  So there's that.

Star Wars XXX: Rise of the Octogenarians!

 

.Hey!  George Lucas!  Think you're done with the Star Wars movies? Think you can just sit back and let Disney cranky out Mandelorian episodes with that entirely too cute Baby Yoda while you're collecting mounds of cash?

Yeah...wait until you hear my movie pitch.

     

One of the more difficult things people of my age must start to think about is taking away the keys from our parents.  Losing the car keys is one of those last nails on the coffin of independence for the elderly, and many do not let go without a really unpleasant fight, or before they cause some kind of accident someplace because "there wasn't a stop light there in 1954."  (Actual quote from my grandfather several years before he passed away.)

Well, middle agers who are sandwiched between their yoyo-ing kids and their aging adults, TAKE HEART!

Or be afraid.

I'm here to tell you, the elderly are rising and taking back their freedom and taking the streets from us.  And they do not give two dusty farts who they roll over in the process.  

Personally, I blame AARP. These people have been told from age 55 on up that they are strong and independent and active seniors in the best  of their lives. And then we come along and ruin their active fun.  Except now, some dingleberry went ahead and invented a couple things that, much like Mountain Dew, wasn't MEANT to be a weapon for the elderly, and yet here we are.

First of all, the rolling scooter. 

The motorized rolling scooter has been around for some time and has been used by both the disabled and the elderly alike.  In fact, there are ads making these mechanical chairs look downright romantic and fun.  (A Rally, anyone?)  One step up from a golf cart, long the mode of travel for those in enclosed retirement villages (where they were free to run over each other and posed no threat to the outside world) these rolling carts, first meant to be an aid for those who had trouble shopping, or who were starring in "My 600 pound Life," have now become the hottest of hot rods for the active octogenarian.  

At first I thought it was just this one rude guy at the Farmer's Market.  He wheels around the market like it's his own personal Daytona 500. He weighs about 325, smokes a cigarello, which he has no problem blowing in your face if he deigns to stop at your booth, and, yes this is the best part, he is always only half dressed. And not the half you'd like dressed.  

That's right, this whirling dirvish comes dressed to the 9's...(if 9's is a term used for those partially dressed and not all covered)..which his shirt only pulled down halfway and his shorts only pulled up halfway.  Fortunately for us, (and for impressionable children) he drives quickly, is covered in a cloud of smoke, and has a fully backed seat so the world can't view his...line of demarcation, straight on.  The side view is, believe me, enough.

But, here's the thing. He's not so much the problem. Nope...there are those who uses these carts as actual on the road vehicles.  I saw this while attempting to make a left hand turn the other day...here comes this guy in a scooter than has a ROOF and he's purring along at 6MPG, IN THE ROAD.  And he looked at me...our eyes locked...and he smiled a little smile as I sat there and waited, waited, waited for him to cross the intersection.  And he SLOWED DOWN and the light turned red and there we both are, in the intersection, and now the other drivers have to wait for this codger to get his supercharged upgraded wheelchair out of our way.  And I swear to you...I swear...that old man smiled...and he flipped me the bird.

 It was as if he were saying, "Take away my license?  I'll take away a large chunk of your life."

Unfortunately, scooters in all their various versions aren't the only weapon these new non-drivers have.  Nope, ladies and gents, I give you....the E-BIKE.

Now, I've read about e-bikes, pedal bikes with tiny little motors on them (wait...don't we have something like that already...mopeds? Motorcycles?) but I read about them in VELO magazine, a professional cyclist publication.  (Yes, I read Velo.  Just because I don't exercise doesn't mean I can't read about other people exercising.)  I DID NOT read about this in AARP.  ( I did read about Simon Cowel's accident on one of these, which makes what I'm witnessing that much more befuddling.)

E-Bikes are supposed to be good for serious cyclists to help them manage high mountain climbs and extra long rides, like more than 100 miles or whatever.  However, that is NOT how I'm seeing them used. Nope, all I see are the elderly tooling around on these things, two wide, in the road, taking up space ("bike lane?  I spit on your bike lane!") and slowing us all down.

And guess who's riding around the farmer's market, ignoring the rules about riding bikes in the market, and making people get out of the way?  Yep...the old people on E-Bikes.

I should also note...one gent on one of these bikes stopped at our booth. His motor looked like it had been torn apart and rewired.  We'd tried to make polite chit chat with him...but the fact that he'd tinkered with something electronic (my parents can't figure out how to make their Netflix turn on) and he was SHIRTLESS AND STINKY (because...that's the cycling life?) was too distracting.  Also, I mentioned that he should be careful, because, you know, Simon Cowell fell off of one those and broke his back...and that old man...that 80+ year old shirtless, stinky rule breaking man, swore at me and rode off, nearly knocking down two pregnant women and a dog wearing a t-shirt.  And I know, like I know my own name, that he was laughing an evil laugh as he rode off.

So we've got these motorized scooters and these e-bikes, all loaded with ancient ones, all running roughshod through our streets and farmers markets.  

What's next?  I can see it now:  some enterprising retired mechanic opening a black market shop where he motorizes bikes and those giant trikes by the light of the moon.

And then you know what follows?  GANGS!

And that brings me, Mr. Lucas, to your next Star Wars movie: Star Wars XXX (Or whatever number they're on. I don't pay attention) Rise of the Octogenarians!