My Dad

Have you met my dad?

If you haven't, it's too bad (for you).  If you have, you understand why it's too bad for the people who haven't met him.

My dad is the nicest guy on the face of the earth.  I am not exaggerating.  Someone has to be the nicest person on the planet, and I speak without hesitation when I say that my dad is that someone.  If you know my dad, you are in complete agreement with me, right?  If you don't know him, let me fill you in.

His nickname is St. Donald.  We joke that he sometimes has a halo.  He will drive you to the airport at ungodly hours of the morning and not talk about you behind your back afterwards.  He will always, always try to pay for any meal you eat out together (I have resorted to excusing myself and pretending that I need to use the restroom in order to covertly give my credit card to the waitress before my dad can get his hands on the bill).  He will rearrange his schedule to do you a tiny favor.  I don't think the word "resentment" is in his vocabulary.  He truly enjoys doing things for people in a way in which I have never seen anyone else even come close.

My dad is the guy you're talking about when you say things like, "He'd give you the shirt off of his back."  He literally would give someone he doesn't know the shirt off of his back if he thought the person needed it.  At the risk of sounding repetitive, I am not exaggerating.  There are people who say they would do such things, and there are people who do such things.  He's a doer, not a sayer.

When I was in high school, my dad sold his car (and while it may have had grass growing from small patches on the roof, it was in working condition, I assure you) to a man for $1 because the man desperately needed a car and couldn't afford one.  I don't think my dad ever told anyone outside of our family about it.  He's not the kind of guy who needs to trumpet his goodness to others.  Because he doesn't do it for any reason other than it's the right thing to do.

My dad did his student teaching in Harlem.  At a junior high school.  By his own request.  In the 1960's.  Successfully.  He tells a great story about teaching a science lesson on sound to a rambunctious group of middle-schoolers.  The next day one of his students brought in an actual pay phone, ripped from its former home, to see if my dad could do the same lesson with real-life equipment.  The point of the story not being that the kid ripped out a pay phone, but rather that he was interested enough in the lesson to bring it in to class and ask my dad to demonstrate the lesson again.  A lot of teachers would automatically focus on the (possible) crime scenario of the situation.  My dad, at least the way I hear him tell the story over fifty years later, saw a kid who had his curiosity piqued.

He's a "don't dwell on adversity--try to do something to overcome it" kind of guy.  When things are not ideal, he's not a complainer.  Never has been as long as I can remember.  If something's not right, he tries to find a solution.  If there's no solution to be found, he'll simply make the best of it until the situation changes.  Case in point (and this story is now the stuff of legend and lore in our family):

We were traveling on the east coast during the summer.  All five of us: my parents, my older brother and myself (both old enough to be snarky), and my younger brother (young enough to be adorably innocent).  We were on our way, as I recall, to my grandmother's house on the Jersey shore.  We were driving there from somewhere... I can't remember where.  I do remember, however, that our journey involved getting our car onto the Cape May Ferry to get across what I'm guessing was maybe the Chesapeake Bay (I could be wrong about that geographical detail, but it doesn't really matter in terms of where this story is going).  So there we are, mid-July, hanging out in Cape May, New Jersey, waiting for the ferry boat.  It was hot.  Really hot.  New Jersey-in-the-summer hot.  And humid.  Really humid.  Us kids were not exactly the model of patience or fortitude.  We were uncomfortable and we were not trying to hide it.  We were absolutely dwelling on adversity and not trying to do anything to overcome it.  And we most certainly were not making the best of it in absence of any impending changes to the situation.

My dad, on the other hand, was trying his hardest to make the best of the situation, which in this case meant trying for mind over matter.  So he has us close our eyes.  And he tells us to imagine it's very cold, like in the Arctic.  There's wind blowing.  Polar bears are nearby.  We are chilly it's so cold.  I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

I mean, he's trying so hard.  He's really giving it an honest-to-god go of it.  And while it was not working in the least on my older brother and myself (or my mom, but she's trying to play along), my little brother is picturing everything my dad is saying, creating this winter wonderland in his mind, and  my little brother pipes in with, "And an eagle,  CAW, CAW," and he probably was flapping his arms like wings (maybe not, but that's kind of how I remember it).

While the heat did not go away that afternoon, my dad managed to make it disappear, momentarily, for at least one like-minded believer who was willing to suspend a little over-heated reality for a few minutes of Arctic bliss, given the chance.

The End

Of that story.  But there are so many more great stories about my dad.  Honestly, every single story I can think of exemplifies my dad's patience (with perhaps one exception, but my older brother and I really drove my dad to the brink of sanity in that one exception, so I really can't say I blame him for losing it that one time) and/or his belief that given the chance, you always try to do the right thing, no matter how hard that might be.

And maybe one of the things that sets my dad apart is that he is more willing than most to not just recognize the chance, but happily go looking for it.

He's a guy who lives his core values quietly, humbly, and with conviction.

I'm so proud of all of the multitude of things my dad has accomplished in his life--is still accomplishing to this day--that positively impact so many people, from our family to the families of children he and my mom sponsored for decades.  I think the thing that would make my dad the most proud (and he's probably the least prideful person I know) is that the examples that he and my mom set throughout their lives are being continued by their children and passed down to their grandchildren.  My brothers and I and our spouses decided a few years ago that, being more than fortunate, rather than give each other Christmas gifts each year we would donate the money we would have used to buy gifts to a charity.  After passing a homeless young man on a corner, my daughter asked if we could please go back and give him something to help him and his family. My nephew couldn't think of anything he wanted for Christmas (he's a high school freshman), so he asked for a donation to be made to a charity.

That's a legacy worthy of mention, even if my dad would never mention it himself.

Enough

I opened my computer to look at the news on CNN.com.  Because I cannot bring myself to watch the news on TV right now.  I can't do it.  It's too heartbreaking.  It's too draining.  It makes me cry.  It brings overwhelming sadness.

And when I opened up the CNN website, I couldn't even click into anything other than the "entertainment" section.  I have no desire to know about Linsey Lohan's latest rehab, or the Kardashian's exploits, or which movies are getting awards.  But it's easier to read about those mindless, unimportant events than it is to read about the victims of the shooting in Connecticut.

Enough.

Enough already.

Can we please, as a nation, acknowledge that we have a problem with guns?  Yes, we do have a problem with the people who shoot the guns.  But the people who shoot the guns HAVE the guns.  And that's a big part of the problem.

We need to address how easy it is to get a gun.  We need to make it less easy.  We might need to consider that we need to make getting some types of guns illegal.

No one but a trained military soldier should have access to an automatic weapon.  No one.  Let me say that again.  No one.

You want to hunt?  Feel free.  With a rifle.  That you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.

You want to unwind with target practice?  Feel free.  With a gun that you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.

Does that cramp your style?  Does that infringe upon your perceived second amendment rights?  You're alive to have your style cramped.  You're alive to be infringed upon.  Count yourself lucky.  There are twenty innocent kindergartners and six brave adults whose lives are lost too soon because we, as a nation, couldn't get it together to prevent this.

Enough already.

I Need Longer Arms

I need longer arms.

And they aren’t likely to get longer, so yeah, that’s gonna be a problem.  Because my dilemma is that words are getting smaller.  Not length smaller.  Not syllable-smaller.  Size smaller.  As in height.  Font size.  

The written word is shrinking.  I used to be able to read an ibuprofen bottle.  It was so simple.  Just hold the bottle up in front of my face and read it.  It was that way for everything--the newspaper, mail, my computer screen, my iPhone screen.  All of it clear as a bell, right there in front of my eyes.  I would look, and words would reveal themselves.

And then... one day the words just started getting smaller.  I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland.  It was all shrinking right before me, and there was nothing I could do to make it better.  Except start holding things farther and farther away from me.  My arms are only so long.  

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  It’s the words.  It’s not me.  Or my eyes.  

Because if it was me and my eyes, then that would be a sign that I am getting older.  And while, yes, duh, I know I’m getting older, I don’t want to encounter any actual physical signs of my aging.  Like having to hold my iPhone so far away from me to read a text that I had to activate the “large text accessibility” function.  I may or may not have had to do that recently.  It may or may not have really helped a lot.  

Unfortunately, at some point my arms (which, by the way are in direct proportion to my height, which is 5'4", which is a bit on the short side) are not going to be able to outstretch far enough for me to read the correct dosage on the ibuprofen bottle.  Hey, ibuprofen manufacturers, you know that the majority of the people taking your product are doing so because they have a headache, right?  They already aren't feeling top notch.  Possibly they have one of those nasty behind-the-eyeballs aches.  Why not throw people a bone and make your packaging readable?  If you eliminate all the crap you can make the instructions a normal, readable size.  Perhaps you can eliminate the entire section that reads:                                                                            

Stop and consult a doctor if: 

• you experience any of the following signs of stomach bleeding:
  • feel faint
  • vomit blood
  • have bloody or black stools
  • have stomach pain that does not get better
• pain gets worse or lasts more than 10 days
• fever gets worse or lasts more than 3 days
• redness or swelling is present in the painful area
• any new symptoms appear

I mean, really, you have to actually put that on the package?  Isn't that all kind of common sense?  I mean, who would think to themselves, "Hey, I've been taking this medication for three days and it not only doesn't seem to bring my fever down, but my fever is getting worse.  Think I'll keep taking it and hope it starts to work at some point..."?  I say get rid of that section and use the extra room on the bottle to bring the dosage information to a size that does not require ape-like arm length, a magnifying glass, or your kid to read.  

Several people have suggested that, if in fact I cannot get my arms to stretch out to a suitable length, I try “cheaters” reading glasses.  Um, why attack me?  Why do I have to suffer when it’s the words that are the problem?  

And while we're on the subject, grey hair is a sign of increasing intelligence, right?

All Over the (electoral) Map

Today's post has no theme.  You'd think from the title that it's going to be about politics.  It might be .  For a little bit.  But my thoughts are literally scattered today.

I ordered Steven's cap and gown this morning.  That was a little dose of hard reality.  His cap and gown.  For graduation.  So he can graduate.  And go to college.  And leave home.  Yeah, today's going to be a long day.

And incidentally, to order a cap and gown, you have to put the graduate's height and weight down for the sizing.  Today I also found out that my 6'3" son weighs the same as his 5'4" mother.  Yeah, yeah, different builds.  Whatever.  That's an eleven inch height difference with a zero pound weight difference.   So yeah, that really helped make my day better.  I'll be spending the next hour or so at the gym.  Possibly trying to stretch myself on a rack.

It's also election day.  Nervous.  Very nervous.  Pennsylvania, do NOT go red on me now!  I want to turn the TV on, but I've decided not to until at least 4pm, when polls start closing on the east coast and the news channels can post actual results as opposed to hypothetical speculation (yes, I know speculation is hypothetical--did you not get the part about me having a hard day? Leave it alone, ok?).

I cannot fathom the possibility of a President Romney.  My whole body just shuddered.

Talked about the election excitement this morning with the kids as we ate breakfast.  After discussing our fervent hope that Obama prevails, I asked the kids what they'd like for election night dinner.  Sloppy Joes was the resounding answer from both of them.  Then we decided maybe they should be called Sloppy Mitts.  Or Sloppy Romneys.  Which in theory was fun, but actually sounds kind of gross to eat.  We decided just plain old sloppy joes would be fine.

A quiz for you, to see if you've been reading this blog entry with your full concentration:

Kim should go to the gym today to:
(a) run off nervous election-day tension
(b) try to make her mother/son weight/height ratio more acceptable
(c) get out of the house so she doesn't turn on the TV before 4pm
(d) run hard enough on a treadmill so her tears at the thought of her kids leaving home look like sweat

Yeah, today's going to be a long day.

Go Obama!
(Don't go, Steven!)

WOW!

Why are everyone's pants so tight?
Can you put your phone down for just a few minutes?
Girls' shorts are just too short these days.  It leaves nothing to the imagination.
Those boys are going to have hip problems wearing those pants so low and trying to keep them on.
That's not a homecoming dress.  That's a cocktail dress.  You're too young for cocktails.
Too many piercings.
Too many tattoos.
Why on god's green earth would anyone want a gauge in their ear? It just looks gross.
We rode our bikes everywhere, or we walked--you kids drive or are driven everywhere.
I know it's only nine o'clock.  I'm still going to bed.

I don't have much commentary to add to this.  It's just a list of things I've caught myself saying the the last couple of months.

Somewhere along the way I turned into a cranky old lady.

I'm going to work on it.  I can change.  I can be positive.  Here goes:

Wow, I could never pull off pants that tight.  You're lucky you have such a great figure.
Wow, that phone is so small it's as if you can use it and not even realize you're using it.
Wow, those shorts really make you look like you have long legs.
Wow, it's gravity defying how low his pants are,  yet he can keep them from falling all the way down.
Wow.  You look very mature in that dress.
Wow, how did you find someone who would pierce that?
Wow, your psychiatrist must love you.
Wow, do you love the way it looks, or were you just trying to piss off your parents? (sorry, I couldn't find anything positive to say about the whole gauge thing)
Wow, you kids are lazy.  (again, I tried but failed to find a positive spin on that one)
Wow, I've been up for sixteen straight hours!  I'm going to bed.

Not bad.  I can do this.  It's just going to require a lot of sentences beginning with Wow!

So This Is What It Feels Like to Get In Shape

  This is probably not the best time for me to be writing this entry.

  I am on day three of my new workout routine.  I thought I was in decent shape.  I thought my new workout routine would get me into better shape.  As it turns out, I am not in shape at all.
  "Why, Kim, do you think you are not in shape at all?" you might be asking yourself.  Or perhaps you're more of a realist, and you are saying to yourself, "Well, it took her long enough to figure that out!" I'm not really going to address you realists.

  However, I will answer the first question, and I will do it with brutal honesty and complete humility.  I know I am not in shape at all because I am sitting here writing this blog.  I have been doing my 50 minute workout for two hours now.  I was supposed to do two sets of a circuit (a mix of weight lifting, push-ups, leg lifts, planks, etc...that takes about twenty minutes total) followed by 30 minutes of cardio.  Here's how that panned out:

  I did one set of the circuit.  My heart was racing.  I had to stop for water.  I was dripping sweat.  Slightly out of breath.  I paused to check my email (you know, to catch my breath).  I laid down on the couch because it felt cold against my body.  Closed my eyes for a few minutes (I did NOT fall asleep, thank you very much).  Got back up.  Went out to do circuit number two.

  Oh dear god.  Completed the circuit, but then felt like I was going to throw up I was so tired.  Paused for another glass of water.  Checked my phone, hoping there was some urgent message that needed tending to.  Damn it.  Why do my kids only forget their lunches when I'm in the middle of something fun?  Thought about the 30 minutes of cardio that I was now supposed to do.

  And here I sit.  The mere thought of starting that cardio was enough to make me lie down on my now-sweaty yoga mat and say out loud, to no one but myself, "So this is what it feels like to be out of shape."

  I'm telling you this because you would otherwise have no way of knowing it, but since I typed that last sentence, I have been to the grocery store, made the bed, eaten my lunch, and yes, done some cardio.  Maybe not half an hour of cardio.  Maybe not even quite twenty minutes.  Perhaps as little as ten.  But hey, I did some cardio.  After I did all that other stuff.  And again, it winded me.

  Not fun.  This is not a fun place to be at all.  I am utterly unused to not being able to somewhat remotely accomplish my fitness goals.  I've trained for and run nine half marathons (okay, I trained for eight and ran nine--remind me to blog about that one that I ran without training for sometime--good story).  But anyway, I have been in decent shape for most of my adult life.  But no more.

  I let it go.

  Totally my own fault.  After that last half marathon (in Disneyland!), I said to myself, as I say to myself after every half marathon, "Kim, you should just keep running like you're still training.  You're in great shape.  Don't let it all go."

  And yet, after every single half marathon I have run, I have then let all that training go to waste and had to start from scratch again.  I kid you not.  After EVERY SINGLE ONE, I have thought those thoughts and then not followed through.

  But this time feels different.  The base layer, that ability to get right back into the groove and have it feel good to be exercising again--kaput!  Disappeared.  Not making any kind of appearance.  It's just me and my very distraught lungs and my wildly racing heart.  And my profusely sweating brow.  And my slightly wounded pride.

  It's as if my body is older.  Oh, wait....

  Okay, so there's a realization I need to fully confront.  My body is, apparently, not as forgiving as it once was.  It's a little easier to gain a pound.  It's a little harder to lose one. It's going to take more to accomplish less.  Good times, people, good times.

  But, and I am writing this down and publishing it so that it's out there and I cannot deny it, I will get back in shape.  I am determined to follow my new workout routine, eat (more) properly, and generally get my body back to feeling, at the very least, 46 years old instead of any number higher than that.

  I've got my iPod all charged up and I'm ready to go do my cardio run tomorrow. Hopefully, I will not be blogging in the middle of that run.

The Magic Number

I'm wondering, what's the magic number of calories in a can or bottle of soda that will make me actually NOT drink that can or bottle?  I will happily down several Coke Zeros in a day.  Same goes for Pepsi Max (which although it sounds like it would be a lot of calories, is actually calorie free).  I will guzzle Pepsi One.  And Diet Dr. Peppers.  They all, essentially, are calorie free.

Today, however, I discovered a new marketing tactic.  Or ploy.  Or gimmick.  I grabbed a bottle of Dr. Pepper 10.  That's the title of the drink.  I innocently thought it meant that there would be 10 calories in the drink.  Not a particularly bold or, in my opinion, risky assumption there.  But then I noticed, halfway through my refreshing mid-afternoon drink, that in very small letters underneath the very large and bold Dr. Pepper 10 it said, "10 calories per 8 ounces".  Hmmm.  Eight ounces is one cup.  I have never encountered a soda container, be it can or bottle, that was a mere eight ounces.  I did a little detective work.  I read the serving size: one bottle.  Okay, that's good.  I read how many ounces are contained in the bottle: 20.

Twenty?  So my Dr. Pepper 10 just turned into my Dr. Pepper 25.

This seems extremely deceptive marketing to me.

I know that recently the FDA started requiring packaging to show how many calories are in the entire package.  This was done because some foods (junk foods I'm thinking) would put the calories per serving on the front of the, say M&M's bag, and then in very small print on the back tell you that there were in fact 3.5 servings of that 100 calorie/serving food in that tiny bag.

Now, the Dr. Pepper 10 people threw me completely.  They named their product with a 10, causing me to think there were ten calories in the bottle.  They put that it was one serving per bottle, so I'm still thinking I'm drinking a mere 10 calories.  But then they told me that it was in fact 10 calories per eight ounces, and they did it with fine print in a very muted shade, so I wouldn't notice that little fact.  And then to boot, they made the bottle size 20 ounces.  So to my figuring, it would have made just as much sense for them to tell me that there are 5 calories per four ounces and called it a Dr. Pepper 5.  Or perhaps go all James Bond and tell me there are 7 1/2 calories per..... okay, frankly I'm not that good at math and I'm just not going to go to the trouble to figure that one out.  But you get the picture.

So no great epiphany here, just an average consumer noticing that in a society where one in three people are obese, a little straight shooting from the good people who package the food would be nice.

It was a good reminder to me, as well, to read the nutrition labels.  I do realize it's my responsibility to understand what I'm putting into my body (although, again, I would so appreciate it if the packaging didn't require me to do math to figure it out).

And just FYI, I drank the Dr. Pepper 10.  The whole bottle.  All two and a half servings of it.