Spontanaeity at its Worst

Hadley and I are the spontaneous ones in our little family.

This is just a nice way of saying we give our boys ulcers.

But yesterday, Hadley was a bit too spontaneous for even me. At 7:30 a.m., she announced, “Let’s bike to school today!”

This is no small feat. When we had our assessment testing before school started, we tested the waters by biking there and between going up hills, crossing busy streets and traversing the soccer fields, it took us about 25 minutes.

I had been wanting to bike to school before chilly temperatures kicked in and with rain in the forecast later in the week, I agreed, “Let’s do it!”

Sleepy Bode looked at us like we were both lunatics and he was correct. School starts at 8:15 a.m. so we had just 15 minutes to finish getting ready. But we somehow did it and were on our way.

Until we biked up to the top of our hill and I realized we’d forgotten their backpacks.

“Wait here,” I gasped as I raced back to the house. When we reconnected, I knew we wouldn’t have even one moment to spare. Bless their hearts, they pushed onward and had a lovely ride on that beautiful September morning.

Well, with the exception we were in a bit of a frenzy when we arrived mere moments before the bell rang (because stressed and frazzled is an ideal way for any kid to start school).

Now, the following is a glimpse at how I don’t think things through. I had originally intended to go for a bike ride in our local open space that morning and did just that. I had a lovely time and even ran into my friend Lisa.

That would have been dandy if it ended there but then it was time to bike back to school to retrieve Bode from half-day kindergarten an hour later. We stopped at the nearby playground and skate park for a picnic before climbing the big hill to our house. Then a few hours later, I had to repeat the same process by biking back to school to pick-up Hadley and climbing our big hill for the third time that day.

Remember my knee surgery I had two weeks ago today?

Maybe by Spring I’ll be ready to be spontaneous again.

The game’s winners and losers

Last weekend’s winners

1) Partying it up at the Arvada Harvest Festival’s fun booths and midway.

We were really just in it for the over-sized turkey legs.

2) Bode’s first soccer game of the fall season. The little dude is a master dribbler and scored two goals.

He actually got three but the sore losers on the other team said it didn’t count because they weren’t ready yet. Not ready for Bode to score on them again.

3) Jamie golfing with the boys at Keys on the Green in glorious Evergreen, Colorado. One of the bonuses of playing in the mountains is it’s not uncommon to run into entire herds of elk.

He’s a winner because he’s one of those dudes who poses for a picture an arm’s throw away and didn’t get gouged.

4) While Dad was risking life, limb and backside on the golf course, the kids and I were winners because we bought their Halloween costumes from the local thrift store and went to celebrate the money we saved at Yogurtland.
Oatmeal cookie frozen yogurt? We’re now converts.

5) Playing on Squiggles, a 343-foot “Seasaurus” at the Arvada Center Playground. There were two winners here.

a) The kids delighted in scaling the entirety of Squiggles’ concrete and steel backside and getting sprayed by water misters every hour. Other cool features: The “Talking Trash Cans” that talk back when you throw away garbage, the huge sandbox and three additional concrete sculptures.

b) I was a winner because I bought a book at the thrift store and let the kids play to their heart’s content while I kicked back in the shade and read the entire book.

Last weekend’s’ loser

Jamie, who unceremoniously dumped my cherished Canadian flag chair into the garbage at Bode’s soccer game.

Trashing the hallowed Maple Leaf? He may have avoided The Gouging of the Elk but trust me, he’d better watch his backside because the wife’s wrath is that much worse.

In remembrance

Jamie and I have been watching September 11th features on television all week. It has been a sobering reminder of all that happened to change our world. It’s amazing how someone like me who didn’t know anyone who died and who isn’t even American could still feel personally impacted.

I was working as an event manager at Deseret Book’s corporate offices in Salt Lake City on September 11, 2001. I’d heard about the first attack before going to work and by the time I arrived, people were glued to the televisions in the ZCMI Center’s Food Court. I still remember how surreal it felt to watch it unfold, like you had front-row seats in a horror movie that didn’t end when the lights came back on.

When I was in New York City last summer, I went to Ground Zero. There wasn’t much to see and I guess that’s the point. The site was under reconstruction but one photo I snapped of the many efforts to rebuild still resonates today.


Maybe it’s the optimist in me but I sincerely do not believe the world is inherently bad. Watching the many inspiring stories to come out of the dust testify to that. Last week, the Washington Post interviewed some of the world’s most influential religious leaders about faith in a post-attack world.

“It seems that much of the post-9/11 renewal of faith has waned in the years that have followed,” writes Thomas Monson, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “It should not require tragedy for us to remember God.”

Rabbi David Wolpe writes, “Faith can be turned to evil when people believe that God’s word is made as small as a resentful heart. Faith can be as large as the sky and healing as a lover’s touch when we understand that God wishes goodness.”

“Two of the victims who died in the airplanes that crashed into the twin towers were coming to see me,” writes Deepak Chopra. “Looking back, I feel now the way I did back then, 10 years ago. Catastrophes are not a form of divine punishment, a test from God, evidence of sin, or secret messages from beyond. They are part of our divided world, and such a world reflects our divided self.”

T.D. Jakes writes that the lessons of 9/11 are hidden in plain sight. Among them: “We’ve neglected to comprehend that there is more that unites than separates us.”

To see all the essays, be sure to go here.

And remember.

When the devil comes calling

When I hear about wives who had absolutely no idea their husbands were involved in Ponzi schemes, I get it.

Even though Jamie and I both work from home, he is holed up in his den in the basement up to 15 hours a day while I putter around on the upper two levels of the house.

For the most part, I don’t question what he does. He has always proven to be a trust-worthy Mormon boy and our bills are paid. I mean, the guy is obsessed with pumpkins. How much of a trouble-maker could he be?

Until he received a phone call a few weeks ago. From A WHOLE LOT OF SIN.

In his defense, he claims it was his client, “A Whole Lot of Singing.”

The jury is still out.

Limping along

Yep, that’s a picture of my real-life meniscus tear. Sassy, isn’t it?

I’ve been busy trying to play catch-up after my drug-induced stupor last week. My prognosis: good. I started to turn the corner on Saturday and even limped to church and to a friend’s dinner party on Sunday.

I had my follow-up appointment today and the doc said I’m healing nicely. He encouraged me to keep doing low-impact workouts the next four weeks until the pain completely goes away.

I’m opting out of physical therapy. If this was a total knee replacement or ACL, physical therapy would be a must but a meniscus tear is not structural. I’m confident I can tackle healing with my own home exercises because 1) I’m delusional and 2) Our deluge of medical bills has started to hit.

And like that picture, it ain’t purdy.

On my one-week anniversary of my knee surgery on Tuesday, I went biking.

Or rather, made the attempt. I looked like a one-legged gimp trying to bike up the hill to my house without putting pressure on my sore knee. But I felt triumphant after doing it, despite the resulting pain the next day.

My motto these next weeks: One step forward, two steps back.

Fat Kitty’s Soul Mate & Internet Sensation

Thanks to everyone for your well wishes during my painful recovery week. The first five days were decidedly hellish but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Jamie has been a tremendous help though he’s been struggling with some pretty severe rheumatism attacks of his own so I have felt guilty every time I ask for assistance. It’s so like him to steal my thunder.

Case in point: after birthing baby Bode, I sent Jamie home from the hospital immediately thereafter stating “you’re useless to me.” He was sicker than he’s ever been and instead of his mom helping me with Bode those first few days, she had to tend to poor Jamie.

My only constant last week was Fat Kitty. I’ll admit it: sometimes when I’m overwhelmed with stress, I look at his lackadaisical life and think, “I’d just like to be him one day.” Let me tell you: I was him–passed out all week long and it was highly overrated.

When Jamie walked into the bedroom one night, he confirmed, “The only thing more pathetic in this house than you is the cat.”

While on the subject, there is a lot of curiosity surrounding Fat Kitty, usually re: what he eats. I hate to disappoint but he honestly is a light eater–he has about 3/4 of a bowl of kitty food per day and the occasional kitty treat. He does not eat human food.

So, how did he get so fat? He was big when we brought him home from the shelter. Possible explanations are that the fat dude is just big-boned (and large stomached). Or maybe he has a thyroid problem.

But my friend Stacey in Calgary sent me an article about a cat that is assuredly Fat Kitty’s evil twin. I mean, take a gander.

Fat Kitty:

Evil twin, Fat Boy.

Fat brothers from another mother.

Anyhew, for anyone who has ever been on diet, you will get a crack out of Fat Dude’s weight-loss plan…and his MacGyver-esque moves to swipe food. He has become an Internet sensation in Canada.

For obvious reasons. Read on:

A fat cat living at a Saskatchewan animal shelter has managed to squeeze his way into the hearts of many.

Fat Boy, an eight-year-old tabby cat, has eaten himself into becoming the Moose Jaw Humane Society’s poster kitty for healthy eating — even if he isn’t entirely sold on the idea.

Even so, he’s generated quite the fan base, which is growing thanks to the society’s Facebook page that includes what they’ve dubbed “Fat Boy Fridays.”

Karla Pratt, the fundraising and promotions director, said Fat Boy was surrendered to them in 2006 because his then-owners said they couldn’t keep him because he was eating their other cats’ food.

In those days, the tubby tabby was known as Boots — but that soon changed after he was allowed out of his kennel and into the free-range cat population.

“We have free-range feeding stations around the shelter for these cats so they can kind of come at their own leisure and eat,” Pratt said. “This was probably not the best idea for a cat that was already a little bit big. He was able to help himself and he did so gladly, and over time he assumed the moniker of Fat Boy.”

It was during one of the feline’s yearly checkups that the vet warned that if staff didn’t get his weight under control, he’d end up with some serious health problems. It was during that visit they discovered he weighed 23 pounds — almost 10 pounds more than he should.

By then, Fat Boy had already developed quite a local following, drawing regular visitors to the humane society to see him. (He is now a permanent resident and no longer up for adoption.)

“People will make a special trip to the shelter just to say hi to Fat Boy,” she said. “We’ve got our regulars who come to visit him and they’re always upset if they can’t find him.”

But there is a place where the popular puss can always be found — Facebook. The society started its site several months ago, and when Fat Boy’s diet officially started five weeks ago, it became a weekly event on the page — with weigh-in Fridays referred to fondly as “Fat Boy Fridays.”

It’s a slow process, to which many dieters can attest. With a goal to weigh 15 pounds, Fat Boy has some distance to go — and he isn’t making it easy for staff. While he hasn’t lost his easygoing, couch potato personality, he’s shown staff he can be quite the resourceful furball when it comes to food.

They were stumped during a previous weigh-in when they discovered he’d gained back the two ounces he’d lost the week before. The answer soon became clear.

“We went out into the main cat adoption room and here he was stealing food from one of the caged cats’ kennels,” Pratt said. “He had reached in, tipped the bowl over and was scarfing it down off the floor as quickly as he could like a ravenous wolf.”

That particular problem was fixed by putting the caged cats’ food dishes at the back of the cages where they’re out of reach. Staff have had to be equally resourceful in keeping up with Fat Boy’s other methods of securing extra food while contending with restricted-calorie food and smaller, controlled portions.

“He is very determined to get any food that we have down,” Pratt said. “He’s in there like a dirty shirt, so we really have to be careful where we leave the food even around the shelter now. We do have a food room and we have to keep everything else locked up in cupboards where he cannot open the doors or else get a big Rubbermaid tub type of thing where he can’t get into it — because he will actually rip the bags open. So we need to be very strict with him, that’s for sure.”

One method they’ve tried has been a box with a hole cut out — big enough for only the slimmer cats to squeeze through to get the food inside. It’s still a work in progress as staff discovered Fat Boy was reaching in and grabbing the forbidden food.

“He’s a bit of a MacGyver,” Pratt said.

Throughout the process, Fat Boy has had plenty of support, with the Facebook page showing comments from right across North America.

Fat Boy’s girlfriend, six-year-old Mama Cat, has been equally loyal, Pratt said.

“He is her big ball of fun,” she said. “She has told us that she will not judge him by his size and she will remain loyal to him no matter how famous he gets.”

Pratt said she hopes pet owners learn the importance of keeping their furry family members at a healthy weight.

“He’s going to set a good example for all the other overweight felines out there, and dogs too for that matter,” Pratt said. “It’s never too late to lose weight and get onto a healthy regime.”

(See Fat Boy on CNN).

The party continues

I’ve already made it clear I despise being forcibly stuck at home but to spend two entire weeks out of the past three flat on my back? Tedious.

My first couple of days after my knee surgery, I was so doped up on anesthesia and Vicodin, I barely noticed. In fact, during one of Hadley’s half-hour-long “I don’t want to read and you can’t make me” tantrums, Jamie was shocked when I didn’t get frustrated at all. It was a new side of me I didn’t know existed: drug-induced patience.

Now, if only there was a non-narcotic solution for dealing with homework hissy fits.

But yesterday, I hit the wall with the whole thing. Sure, I was in very little/no pain but I also hadn’t slept in a few days, had major internal plumbing issues and was in a miserable haze.

And so I’m weaning myself off the hardcore drugs. This meant Thursday was my most painful day yet but I’d much rather figure out a way to naturally manage my pain than stay up all night hallucinating about cotton balls and rainbows.

Recreational drug users who think it’s fun to live in La La Land are just stupid.

Today, I have a whole new set of problems. I was in an excruciating amount of pain last night due to Said Plumbing Issues so I sent Jamie to to buy me some drugs. I took the maximum dose last night and then again this morning…and nothing.

That’s the maximum dose twice over the course of 8 hours if you’re keeping track.

But then they finally kicked in and I’ve had a whole lot of something which amounts to bathroom trips every five minutes on my painful knee, along with exhaustion and nausea. As miserable as I am right now, I’m trying to remind myself I’m just four days into my recovery and this, too shall pass.

And I can go back to just getting my knee better.

After all the drama, that somehow sounds like the lesser of many evils.

Why there will be no pumpkin weigh-offs this year

Life has been rather silent in the pumpkin patch these days. The reason? There is great mourning in the land.

When Jamie first started his season with two seedlings in his makeshift growroom last spring, they were literally busting out of the pots within a week. Jamie planted them in the ground a bit early, covered them with a hoop house and warmed them with a heater.

That first night, they froze to death.

Since it was still early in the season, Jamie’s pumpkin buddies came to the rescue by giving him a couple of starter plants. He commenced the process again and before long, he was growing one of the biggest pumpkins in Colorado. “Ricky” (Gervais) was on-track to top 1,100 pounds, Jamie’s personal best.

Then August 19, 2011 happened: Jamie discovered a crack in the cavity.

Personally, I think it looks like a pumpkin butt crack picture.

This shot is much better:

An internal crack called a Dill Ring formed inside the pumpkin and intersected a deep rib and split the pumpkin open. This means it is now rotting out. Any pumpkin with a crack in it is automatically disqualified from the weigh-offs to prevent cheaters from pumping water into it to up the weight.

Personally, I’d go for lead.



That left Jamie’s only other pumpkin: Jerry (Seinfeld). From the start, good ol’ Jerry has grown a lot slower and Jamie didn’t have big hopes for it.

Then August 27, 2011 happened: Jamie discovered a crack, which means his pumpkin season is now over. Over the next couple of weeks, he’ll try to fill the cracks with sulphur and caulk to prolong the plants from rotting out before we can showcase them on our driveway this fall.

So, how am I feeling about it all?

I’ll be honest. When Jamie’s pumpkin got taken out from the tornado a couple of years ago, I wasn’t very sad. He was far enough into the season that he couldn’t start over but it was early enough that I could have my husband back for the rest of the summer.

This latest hit is the worst. As a pumpkin widow, this is the one time of the year I actually look forward to. September is replete with pumpkin festivals, our annual pumpkin party and the weigh-offs. Now, he’s put in the work the entire season and has absolutely nothing to show for it.

The other day in the car, I confessed:

“This whole season has been a roller-coaster ride with a big letdown. I have to admit I’m over it.”

Jamie: “You have to be ‘into it’ to be ‘over it.'”

Touché

Partying it up during my inevitably long recovery

So, I’m alive.

I just wish I didn’t have this lovely reminder all night long with my drug-induced insomnia.

I awoke early yesterday to fastidiously shave my knee before surgery. I’m not what one could call vain but apparently I am as it pertains to unsightly knee hairs. Turns out I was better off with a bit of stubble because I gashed my knee.

So kind of me to give Dr. Stahl a headstart in the process.

Knee surgery went fine. Given my recent stint in the hospital for chest pains, getting my knee fixed was the lesser of the many medical evils we’ve endured in 2011. I tore my meniscus two years ago and had my first round of appointments almost a year ago.

By the time I was admitted for surgery yesterday, the staff at Panorama Orthopedic Surgeons & Spine Center kept asking if I was nervous. “No, I just want this to be over with,” I repeated over and over again. And I meant it.

I’m not a person who needs a lot of hand-holding. I insisted Jamie drop me off, go home and work (he’s as overloaded as usual), pick-up Bode late-morning, take him to Seanie’s and reconnect with me in the recovery room (mine was an out-patient procedure and I was home by early-afternoon). Jamie initially insisted upon being there but I was firm.

“Listen, all you’re going to do is waste time sitting in the waiting room for four hours.”

“But what if you need me for something, like an emergency blood transfusion?”

“No offense, Honey. But you’re the LAST person’s blood I’d ever want to have.”

We’re no Edward and Bella.

One of the few nice things about having a husband who’s a medical disaster is he’s been through it before and knows the right questions to ask the doctor. Problem was, the doc and his PA never bothered to do a follow-up after the surgery and the recovery room staff was clueless. It was one of the many things that ticked me off about the sub-par care I received. Call me crazy but if I’m dumping thousands of dollars into a procedure, I’d at least like to know how it went.

But in the end, the only thing that matters is if they were able to fix the knee and that has yet to be determined. My follow-up appointment is next Thursday.

In the interim, I’m outfitted with some nifty ice packs and thigh-high anti- embolism T.E.D. stockings for the next 10 days (try sleeping with a girdle on your legs). But thank heavens for the Vicodin. I’ve been taking it regularly and had minimal pain until about midnight. Three hours later, I’m wired but my pain is in check.

I’m thinking taking an upper + bedrest will not = a restful combination for me. Hopefully I’ll finally get some sleep when the kids are in school.

I have some swell friends from church who are bringing over dinners and Jamie has been taking good care of me. Mostly. He outfitted my room with a nice rose, plenty of DVDs and snacks. He works from his den in the basement and has graciously accepted my many requests via cell. His only failure was when I couldn’t reach him about cranking up the air-conditioning so I told the kids: “Go tell Daddy it’s too hot up here.”

He started to reply he already turned on the air until he double-checked and realized he had accidentally cranked up the heat. Did I mention it’s still upper 90s in Denver, that our upstairs is already a sauna and I’m wearing a leg girdle?

It’s gonna be a long recovery for all of us. 😉

Today’s knee surgery: It’s all downhill from here

I lived in Salt Lake City for five years after graduating from BYU. During that time, I explored every trail along the Wasatch Front but there was one standout. Rain, snow or shine, I’d arise before dawn and would run Red Butte Skyline Trail, arriving at the crest of the mountain just as the sun kissed the Salt Lake Valley.

And yes, I did say run.

As in uphill.

By choice.

Since moving to Colorado, I’ve often longed to return to Red Butte but there has never been the perfect opportunity. When I was in Utah last summer, I finally found one thanks to my mother-in-law who offered to watch the kids for a couple of hours.

I drove through former military garrison Fort Douglas and passed the entrance to Red Butte Garden Arboretum. I followed the tree-lined gravel road to the cosseted parking area.

For the past two years, I’ve had to relinquish running due to my bum knee so I hiked a trail that starts on a closed-off service road and gradually climbs along gurgling Red Butte Creek. Deeply furrowed Western River Birches lined the path as I crossed over the creek and started the steep climb.

I wanted to run. I needed to run. In a move right out of Star Wars when Yoda limps to the fight scene with his cane and proceeds to kick Count Dooku’s butt, I kicked it into gear. Backpack bouncing, hair flailing, I grew wings as I flew along that trail.

OK, so maybe I was going downhill but work with me here.

It was a taste of the former life I loved and desperately missed.

Today, I am going under the knife for my knee surgery.

And hope to take flight again soon.