kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Pets

  • The End of NaBloPoMo: The Heidi Chronicles

    So I’m officially a NaBloPoMo failure. I figured I would be when I never realized in the beginning that Thanksgiving was actually in November…whatever. But I was rolling along, and then when Wednesday hit and I was up until after midnight (looking longingly at the clock watching that minute hand creeping ever closer to the magic hour which would cast me into the ranks of blogging quitters and thinking that I could run upstairs and just squeeze out a fake post to keep in the game….)

    But NO.

    I let my faithful followers down. My NaBloPoMo compatriots. *heavy sigh*

    I was too tired. I was whipped. I was everything but perky in the waning hours of the day, sitting in my chair, enjoying the wafting scent of spiced candles and final bottle glass of wine before retiring for the night. Staring at a chic flick I’ve seen a million times so I wouldn’t dream of scanning lists of ingredients in recipes, and filling small white porcelain dishes for mise en place or whatever the heck that’s called. Watching the time evaporate, ending my quest for NaBloPoMo fame.

    It just wouldn’t be a class act to slam out a crappy post at 11:57pm.

    But the dinner tables (yes, that’s an “s” on the end of tables) were set, the flowers arranged and the candles organized just so. The old linen napkins were lightly starched and softly folded.

    The Primo Seats

    The Not so Primo Seats

    Nary a cat yack stain was visible. Well, maybe one because Freshness, Her Royal Butterballness Barf-o-rama on wheels in disguise did summarily regurgitate her afternoon snack upon my freshly cleaned carpet. Just. Once. To let me know she was still in control of my destiny.

    Dumb ass cat. Lovely pet that she is.

    Blackness & Presh-Ass, The Yack Star

    But I digress.

    We fell into bed for a night of tumultous passion exhausted sleep (we, because the MoH seriously pitches in during the holidays, lovely man unit that he is) with windows open (yes, in Paradise, we’ve still not shut our windows for the winter) and covers nicely fluffed.

    Paradise: Overcast, but warm.

    Ready to begin again at seven-freaking-ay-em the next day.

    But there was plenty of bubbly on hand throughout the day for mimosas and champagne cocktails, or just a plain glass o’ bubbly.

    Thank. Goodness.

    And thank Mr. and Mrs. Diestel who grow turkeys somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas for our lovely bird whom I immediately named Heidi when I saw her cozied up in that little box all tricked out with handles.

    Heidi the Turkey

    She performed well on the day most revered by this foodie — the super bowl of Food.

    Oh. My.

    If there was ever a question that a bird should be ordered by phone ahead of time, fresh-not-frozen, heavily discounted because your son works there WOOT!, artfully brined, and lovingly basted each half hour by the MoH, this was it.

    Simply droolworthy.

    And the guests were jolly, filled to the gills with the tasty fare.

    The highlight of the evening was the iChat session with family in VA which broke into a bawdy session of, well, you’d have to know my family to understand. Suffice it to say that we all seem to have a fixation with the posterior portion of the human anatomy and it’s only a matter of time before a parade of buttocks fill the screen. I do think it must have something to do with not having a proper number of opportunities to share on Show ‘n’ Tell day in kindergarten. Thank goodness for the Internet and family members who are only a sign-in away. We aren’t for the faint of heart.

    The VA iChat Visitors

    They sort of resemble that Chumbawumba album cover, don’t they?

    But the sink backed up, we ran out of counterspace, and I believe there was not a dish in my kitchen left unused. The stacks of dishes and pots, bowls and platters, wine glasses and utensils riveled Dr. Seuss’ buildings in Whoville.

    But I survived.

    Barely.

    Sorry I haven’t been by to visit…I have serious catching up to do, and tagging to unleash on unsuspecting neighbors in Bloggsville. Be warned.

    Life is grand, isn’t it?

  • My Dear Doggo…

    Day eight-thousand three-hundred ninety two of NaBloPoMo. Or something like that. At this point, I’m wondering if I’ll ever see Tara again.

    Doggo

    November 7, 2007

    My dear Doggo,

    You gave us quite a quiet fright last night.

    It took a while for us to realize that you hadn’t engaged in your usual routine of staring us down while we ate until someone (me) relented and allowed you to lick the dinner remnants from our plates. That you didn’t get off the couch when I did place my plate on the floor as I normally do (because you do such a great job of getting the stuff off the plates the dishwasher would have to work a bit harder to remove), was unsettling.

    And when I finally realized you were just laying there on your spot on the couch (which is really a giant dog bed and we should have realized that’s all it was when we bought it) the RT coaxed you down to the floor where you sat uncomfortably, shaking a bit. Your paws were cold, too. Aren’t dogs’ paws always warm?

    Not too long ago the MoH said that he could hear your hip clicking as you walked around the block with him in the quiet of the evening. We’ve known that you have some trouble with your hip because you’re a bit of a plus sized girl, and not quite genetically put together well; your legs are just too short for the bulk of your body. So that’s why we’ve cut back on the distance you walk each day, and have made sure that you get just the right amount of food.

    I’m sure the RT won’t mind that you’re snuggling with his old blan-key. It’s pretty stinky, so I know you like it.

    I encouraged you to lay on your side, and you complied, but seemed afraid and panted a bit. You wouldn’t even eat one of your favorite Milk Bone dog biscuits and it sat just beyond your nose until you nudged it and tried to eat it, giving up after a few seconds. But concern showed in your eyes whenever anyone touched it or moved it, so we knew you were interested in your bone.

    I felt so badly for you (because you are always so perky when we’re all home together in the evening) that I went upstairs to get your bed, pushed you gently (which is no mean feat) to lay on it, and then covered you with the rug, watching your eyes close as you gave in to sleep. Watching the rise and fall of your body as you breathed.

    I began to wonder how we’d get you in the car if we had to take you to the vet. I know we could, but I can imagine that you’d be quite embarrassed with the idea of it, not being able to do it yourself. I asked the MoH how old you were again, thinking that eight or nine isn’t that old — even in dog years, is it? I probably just don’t want to admit it.

    Later in the evening after we’d all gone to bed and I had successfully gotten you to climb the stairs, I watched you sleep in your regular place next to my side of the bed. As I read, I kept watch for the sign of your breathing, just like I used to do with my babies.

    This morning you were fine. Not stiff, tail wagging, and ready to eat that bone we gave you last night.

    I’m glad you’re feeling better, Biggedy. It was unseasonally chilly last night, and I think that chill, coupled with your joint problems, just got the best of you. But I’m still unsettled about your health. I think we’re all getting to the point where we are feeling uncomfortable about the fact that our animals just won’t live as long as we will, and that as time goes on, the idea of starting all over again with someone else, is just more than we can bear to think about.

    We love you Biggedy (Ann Jones the Third — as the MoH would coo in a falsetto),

    Your Doting Family

    p.s. I’ll go to the pet store today to look for some glucosamine. Maybe that way, your joints won’t be so sore. Oh, and I’m so glad we replaced the RT’s sheets and comforter. Goodness knows, I wouldn’t want you to have to take your naps on your dog bed while I’m writing. Heavens no.

  • Sunday Mornings and Floors that Move

    The RT is quite the gamer. I’ve mentioned before that he’s got a passion for tiny figurines and war machines that he spends hours painting. Small enough? So yesterday, the MoH and I drove him and a friend to Games Day up in L.A. Yes, another road trip in less than a week. Thankfully, there was no hotel involved, and we’d decided to leave early to miss any traffic we might have run into, so the prep work for this excursion was nil. The MoH and I would just cruise around the enormous mall near the convention center until it was time to collect the boys, and then race home before the dog released her bladder on our rug. Not that it would matter considering the damage she has done in the past.

    I fell into bed early Friday night, and neglected to straighten up the kitchen. We hadn’t had a big dinner, so it wasn’t that bad and for some reason, I was beat. Since we were planning on being on the road by 7am, I just didn’t want to think about anything. I’d straighten up after we got back home.

    Saturday morning, I quickly made my coffee, ate the RT’s left over Pop Tart (how can anyone not want BOTH Pop Tarts?) and glanced around a bit annoyed that I hadn’t emptied and then refilled the dishwasher the night before. The trash wasn’t full, but did smell a bit, well, like trash. Or maybe it was that sponge. Whatever. It could wait, because I was sure I was just being picky. We really needed to run.

    After grabbing my purse and heading for the garage, I noticed with some irritation that the same fly I hadn’t been able to swat the day before was still lazily buzzing around. Flies are a reminder around here that: 1) the RT didn’t take care of his patio duties cleaning up after the dog; or 2) hot weather is coming…

    We made record time to L.A., dropped the boys off at the convention center, enjoyed way too many carbs at breakfast, and headed to the mall. The day was relaxed and easy, and I scored at the Borders outlet. Yes, I know I made a commitment to not purchasing books until I’ve read all the others I have, but I couldn’t resist. Besides, the MoH was sleepy and took the opportunity to snooze in a comfy chair while I spent a ridiculous amount of time choosing my books. Five for 20 bucks. Not bad. Not bad at all.

    The boys had fun, we only hit a bit of traffic on the way home, and miracle of all miracles, the dog hadn’t peed on the floor. The Guinness Book of World Records needs to know about this dog’s bladder. Seriously. So all was well.

    Or so we thought.

    The ringing of the phone woke me up at about 8:30. My mom was calling from Virginia, and everything was fine. We blabbed about nothing in particular — just an update of switching over the basic things one has to when one moves across the country. The record heat is cooling down, she loves the deer, her cat Emily is adjusting — sort of — and she’s applied for a job. All’s well.

    With a smile on my face, and an attempted glance through my nasty looking puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror, I headed downstairs to say good morning to the guys whom I could hear blabbing in a relaxed manner.

    Ah….Sunday morning. The sun was already out and a soft breeze was ruffling the trees on our patio. The paper was just waiting to be perused. A rich, dark cuppa Joe had my name written all over it. An entire day stretched out before me, waiting to be claimed. What did I feel like doing?

    While meandering over to make my coffee, still ignoring the few dishes (uh, like 10?) on the counter I hadn’t taken care of from two nights ago (no, there was no disgusting food encrusted on them) and a couple of dishtowels I had casually thrown to a corner on the floor to be taken to the laundry room, I grabbed my broom (an obsessive compulsive morning ritual) and began to sweep while listening to the MoH talk about nothing in particular. The brewing coffee began to fill the air with its rich aroma, but there was a twinge of something else coming from…somewhere. What was that?

    And what were those…things on the floor that I couldn’t quite sweep up? They were kind of…sticky…rolling a bit, but getting stuck on the floor instead of being swept up into the dust pan. Where were my glasses? By this time, I’d already created a messy “dust” pile on the kitchen floor and had moved onto the floor in the family room. “Can you see this stuff?” I asked the MoH while peering down at my feet then over at the “dust” I’d swept up in the kitchen which wasn’t quite as neat as I’d left it a few minutes ago. Huh? He’d already figured out something was not quite right. The floor was moving. Or to be exact, what was on the floor was moving. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Especially in the kitchen.

    I had already walked in there and across the floor. Twice. So had the RT to make his morning toast. I didn’t want to think of looking at the bottom of my feet.

    It looked like someone had spilled orzo on the floor. Lots of it.

    And suddenly it all came together. The funny smell. The not quite full garbage.

    And that fly.

    Hundreds and hundreds of maggots were crawling across our floor. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to see maggots on a floor that looks like this? Milk? Or on a wood floor that has bevels where the ugly little undulating larvae can race to where ever the hell they are trying to get to? Bone? YUCK. They had even begun to burrow into the fibers on the edge of the rug. Funny how our Ani-Mules wouldn’t go anywhere near the area. They totally knew what was up, looking at us, and waiting to have their breakfast without having to worry about those disgusting slimy little crawling things.

    It took an hour to scoop them up, trying to keep them in the dust pans while we scooped, and then washing them down the sink with the garbage disposal running and the faucet spraying scalding water into the sink. I didn’t want to think about any of them getting onto the counter, because we’d seriously not be able to see them then. G-R-O-S-S.

    We couldn’t quite figure out where they were coming from because they were EVERYWHERE, crawling in every direction. Even up a wall. Was I going to need to get out the vacuum? And if I did, how exactly would I get them out of that? This was getting uglier by the minute.

    Finally, I did look in the trash, and the smell was a dead give away once I pulled the door open to peer into the bin. I’m not sure what was in there, but I didn’t want to find out. Out it went to the garage, and out our dumpster went to the curb, whether it’s allowed in our CCRs or not.

    Ah…I just love Sunday mornings. Don’t you?

    So much for leaving a lone fly and a half filled bag of trash in my house for 12 hours. Go figure.

    Now you seriously know I’m not Martha. Am I completely distraught over it all. Nah. I’m fairly tough. I just deal with it. Besides, we’d already had a run-in with maggots years ago when the kids left four Easter eggs under the RT’s bed and we couldn’t figure what all the tiny flies we had to swat every day when we came home from work were coming from. For TWO WEEKS. And the smell? Now, that was gross.
    When I see tiny flies tomorrow, I’ll know I didn’t quite get them all.   House Fly

  • That Simple Green Scent

    Okay, so I know this is ugly right now.  But at least notice the effects I learned how to create with Photoshop on the palm tree up there. Yes, I also know there are two boxes above that are supposed to be for ads.  I’m not game on the ads above my header, so I have to figure out how to get them off.  The serious bummer is that I spent a lot of time working on the “kellementology” piece and it doesn’t show up on this stoopid laptop.  I know.  I’m not supposed to have fun with the fonts, but jeez.  I get tired of the boring verdana, helvitica crap.  Life’s seriously more interesting with swirls. 

    I know this (blob transition) is wearing me out (yah, right) because I actually cleaned my house today instead of writing first thing like I always do.  Trying to write when my blog is a mess is like trying to relax when the house is a mess.  Wait.  Blogging usually is relaxing, which is why my house stays messy.

    Does it count as being messy when I have to use Simple Green straight up to get the catfood off the laundry room floor?  Or the catfood out of the laundry sink that has stuck to the sides after I’ve rinsed out the can in the morning?  Messy vs. dirty?  Hmmm…I know.  Gross.  But it’s clean now.  And laundry is swirling around in the dryer, the fresh scent of the RT’s whites wafting up the stairs near the garage — a marked improvement from the odor that was emanating from his bedroom yesterday morning.

    And I’m noticing our motley crew of pets is very content because they got their first dose of warm weather “flea medicine.”  No more Presh-Ass Yack Star Flea in-cu-bus lounging over the cable box and creating more tiny flea eggs than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime of owning cats.  Totally gross.  Biggity, our dog, is snoozing in the family room on the clean couch.  The one that the MoH stripped of its cover last weekend because it was sour smelling and covered with lick stains — a by product of the Big’s obsessive compulsivness.  We haven’t caught her licking it again — yet — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.  It’s a drag sitting on the wet spot…

    And I could bore you even more than I already have to explain the condition of our carpet, beyond cleaning or repair because of the animals.  Yes.  The animals.  I don’t know what’s worse — the stains from the nocturnal hairball launchings, or the cleaning that happens afterwards.  Either way, I’m sick of the whole mess.  I know you’re sick of me ranting about it, but you have no idea how hard I’ve worked to avoid writing about the record size of some of the hairballs I’ve seen lately.  Guiness should have been contacted.  Somehow, taking a picture of a hairball seems a tad bit whacked.  Don’t you think?  Think about the poor RT. 

    “What does your mother do for a living? 

    “Takes pictures of cat hairballs to post them on her blog.”

    Uhhh…nope.  You’ll just have to wonder.  Or not. 

     I’m more convinced than ever that, even though I couldn’t live without them at times, that I have been thinking about how it might be “without them.”  The deal with kids is that they grow up.  Whatever “messes” they make sort of follow in line with their developmental progress.  But even if they’re completely slovenly as my gorgeous and loving sons have been, they grow up, go to college and/or gain relationships with others, and move out of your house.  The animals, the darlins — they stay.  And our house has definitely accomodated our animals.  Cat litter tracked up the stairs, dog “gifts” left on the patio, and rinsed down the drain outside.  Jeez.  It’s more work sometimes than I remember taking care of my two older boys who are only 17 months apart.  Way more work.

    Wait.  I am remembering that ugly sculptured and multi-colored brown carpeting we had when the boys were very little.  It was a complete disguise for myriad raisins, flattened beyond all recognition, and requiring scissors to be removed from their attachment.  Okay.  And I also remember the oatmeal I had to chip off the high chair and the wall next to the high chair.  Oh.  And those cookies — the biscuits that babies eat when they’re teething and disolve (the cookies, not the baby) into a disgusting mess on their cherubic faces.  Well, not so cherubic once it dried.

     But you know?  Blathering about our lovelies has really allowed me to avoid looking at the condition of my newest “pet” that seems to take up as much time as the other darlings I’ve had in my life.  So there you go.  It’s all good.  Except for the carpet.

    So I’ve wasted a perfectly good 20 minutes or so saying absolutely nothing.  Yes, my Warholled self will return as soon as I freaking figure out how the H-E-L-L  to modify it, save it, and paste it in the header.  Well, I can’t paste anything with this skin, so whatever.  Just hold your shorts.  I’ll get there. 

    Thanks for your patience while I’m learning about how to adjust fonts styles, colors, and sizes as well.  Like how all that work I did that looks gorgeous on my Mac looks like crap or non-existent on the MoH’s laptop which is what I’m using right now.  How stoopid is that?  Sheesh.  Thanks again to Thought Sparks who always keeps an eye on what’s up and offers assistant.  Very.  Nice.  Person.

    Okay.  Enough boredom.  Off to the store for coq au vin ingredients.  Yum.  Crusty bread.  Salad.  Wine… No party.  Just us.  I love good food.  So a great meal tonight AND tomorrow night will just allow me to avoid the blob for a bit longer.  Right?

    Toots.

  • Thinking About Dog Turds, Dead Birds & Report Cards

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Sometimes, life leaves you little packages. Some are pleasant, and others require thought. A few are earned, and the rest may be deposited with you whether you want them or not. They make you wince, hold your breath, shake your head in disgust, or shed tears of remorse. Yesterday was one of those days. A thinking type of day.

    Thinking about things like:

    • What that thing was on the third riser from the top on the staircase. That rounded, dark-looking, too big to be one of the RT’s mishmash of military paraphernalia. That…glob…leaning up against the wall. Did the doggo drop a piece of her load on the rug? No. Can’t be. But there it was in all its glory, a turdlett, most likely left accidentally on her way out the door first thing in the morning. She just couldn’t make it. Somehow she knew that I had found it, and avoided making eye contact as I carried it to the trash, her eyes flicking up and away, knowing she had been caught and was embarrassed.
    • Or the sweet little yellow-headed bird Blaxter brought up to me like he was awarding me a bouquet of roses — his mouth full of feathers after laying the no longer breathing feathered beauty softly at my side on the rug. His green eyes searching my face for a response for his deed of gift-giving. What possessed him after eight years to catch a bird? I patted him on the head, gave him a few scratches and rubs, and carefully scooped up the poor bird to take it somewhere a bit more respectful for a while. No little boys at home any more to coo over the loss, and with whom to hold a ceremony. And just a patio with no land or space of dirt to dig a hole and bury it.
    • Or the report card. The RT’s. One last stretch until the end of the semester. Until the end of his first year in high school. A decent report card– excellent in some areas (Biology), definite work needed in others (The Geometry Teacher’s Class). The report card felt more mine than his. What can I have done to support him more? How do we instill in him the need to engage? To connect the dots. To join the world of the practical. Maybe he has it right, and everyone else has it wrong. “RT, I really need you to hop up and down, pull your hair out, look generally miserable about school and stress out about everything that’s going on. You know?” It’s funny that when I remember being in ninth grade–and I do clearly–homework was insignificant, the assignments required little thought, and my classes were less than inspiring. I went every day, did what was expected of me, and spent almost no energy on any of it–but not consciously. So what am I complaining about?

    My ultimate report card?

    Today was weigh-in day for progress on my diet. I’m not feeling very svelte this morning, and it isn’t because of the wrecked hamstring in my left leg. There’s nothing to celebrate, that is unless I consider my health, and all that kind of good stuff often taken for granted. I’m back up about a pound. It must be Thursday night’s very reasonable portion of Chocolate Mousse–Banana Split Style which was so delicious I could have eaten all of it myself, but didn’t. Or pasta a couple of different ways over a couple of different days, or the pizza on Saturday when we were working like dogs, or the Eggs Baked in Cream yesterday morning…Whoa. Oh, and the wine. And the beer. Looks like I’ll have to pop that celery out of the veggie bin. Dinner needs to be on a smaller plate. And I probably don’t need sugar in my coffee.

    On the brighter side of things, a few weeks back, I received a very pleasant review of my blog which I believe I neglected to share. In his review, Billy Mac said, “New kid on the block Kellementology is on the path to stardom. She has all the right who…what…where…and whens in order, her format is set up nicely and she posts on a regular basis. What else can you ask for from a blogger.  Now it’s the waiting game to watch the blog blossom. Keep up the good work…keep the content as good a s it is…and good luck.”  I swear I blushed when I read it.

    Then,  Confessions of a Former Bookworm anointed me with a Thinking Bloggers Award, and in very good company, as well.  Perhaps it makes sense that I gave you all my pensive  thoughts above to consider  while I was thinking about it. Just sharing the thinking one post at a time, whomever, and where ever you are out there.

    It’s a pretty diverse list, but the following people give me pause in their various regions of the blog world, sometimes like a cold splash of water, or others like the brush of tall grass in a gentle breeze. I discovered Wonderland or Not fairly recently. I like her edgy, witty point of view and general voice in whatever she writes–even though I have to scratch my head occasionally, and stew over it. And Dave, of course, at Wandering the Ether, who never fails to make me feel guilty for writing about American Idol, or the RT’s messy bedroom instead of societal issues that are perpetually swept under the rug. Or like Writing Under a Pseudonym whose writing on life and its trials is hauntingly beautiful at times, and so achingly sad others, that I feel as if I’m an intruder as I read, and don’t know how she makes it from one day to the next. I don’t read these blogs the same way, for the same length of time, or for the same reasons. I respond to one, and hover around the other two. They simply make me think each time I check on each of them. They coerce me into a world more serious than the one I’ve wanted to be a part of recently and I appreciate that.

    So, in the spirit of thought, I’m off for my walk early today, to think. Free as a bird, listing to the left a bit, weighing more than I want, but ready to pound the streets in search of anything a bit less serious in Paradise. Because a bit of levity is good for the soul. Would you put this on your house? Really? Shhhhhh…..I’m thinking.

  • My NUTs. And Yours?

    It’s chilly here today, making getting out of bed a bit more challenging in the feeble light coming through the windows above the blinds. But I can hear the RT in his bathroom, and after a quick glance at the clock, know that if I don’t get up, I will miss seeing him off for school. As he passes by our bedroom door, I notice that although he is sporting a different green tee than he did yesterday, he is wearing the same brown cargo shorts, and has yet to don socks.  I know, with very little analysis, that he will recycle the socks he wore yesterday, slung over his shoes where he left them yesterday .

    I make it downstairs on this non-carpool day, and am rewarded by the RT’s Mom smile– a warm and honest gesture that is often accompanied by a hug. Nice. Ten more minutes before he goes out for his ride into this grey and wet day. I know before opening the patio door that Ms. Jones is not going to want to pee on a wet patio, and I’m probably going to have to venture out in front of the neighbors so she can pee on the wet grass instead. Dog logic? She surprises me by pushing through the partially opened door and gingerly stepping across the flagstones and around the corner to take care of her duty.

    I call up to the RT who has gone to get in a few minutes on the Internet even though I’ve graced him with my presence, “You’re going to need your sweatshirt today.” I know that he wears it most days because it’s soft and comfy, and probably makes it easier for him not to pay attention to The Geometry Teacher, but I have to remind him. One of our cats is trying to rush for the door about now, paranoid that I’ll close it on his tail like I did last week, and makes it through only to realize that it’s wet outside. He backs up, sits near my feet and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell is this all about?” and consigns himself to the view from the back of a chair. Today he’ll have to settle for looking through the window at the birds in the jasmine and stalk their movements with flattened ears and that low “cackling” sound he reserves for moving targets on his radar.

    The RT is out the door about now, 50 lb. back pack hoisted over one shoulder, and the notebook I’ve asked him twice to organize in the past two days, tucked under an arm, still sporting the signs of complete disaster from its edges. I tell him to have a good day, hoping it will be better than yesterday. The two of us decided then that a 50% on The Geometry Teacher’s test was better than what we thought it would be, but getting an F on a test never feels great. I’ll have to put “Giving Geometry Another Chance” on my mental NUTs list. NUTs, you say?

    Nagging Unfinished Tasks, according to Michael F. Roizen, M.D., are things that we could fix, but don’t, thereby causing you and I “aging stress,” which is far more harmful than breaking a bone, because we learn to deal with that. He says those kinds of events are “important, but manageable.” Okay, so let me get this straight. In other words, I’ll just adapt to the circumstances of hmmm…. I know — having a humongous cast on my leg that sticks straight out, forcing me to be in a wheel chair; I’ll be able to get in my compact car, drive myself to the grocery store, carry my crying toddler around while trying to get dinner on the stove. Bathe. Go to the bathroom. Of course, there is absolutely no stress involved in any of that. My malleable demeanor will simply adjust. Instead, what will really get to me while the cast is on my leg, is the items on my NUTs list — the items I don’t take care of that are silently driving me crazy, creating unhealthy levels of adrenaline, cortisone, and other hormones in my system, and leaving me susceptible to myocardial ischemia, and at greater risk of a heart attack. What might those more pressing, driving me nuts, NUTs be if my leg actually was in a cast? Shaving my legs? Reaching that dust ball under the wall unit? Painting the chipped polish on the big toe protruding from my cast? The author cannot be serious.

    But back to reality here, and my current state of angst. In an attempt to embrace the concept of Roizen’s NUTs (no pun intended whatsoever) to identify my own NUTs (anatomically impossible) and add “Relearning Geometry” to the list, I can combine my smarts with those of the RT, and thereby assist him in improving his understanding of Geometry. Bear in mind that because the RT is almost 15, and should be learning to employ skills which will last a lifetime, I actually believe he would be better served taking advantage of the student-run tutoring center at school. However, I also believe I can’t take him there and make him do it. He has to want to do it himself. But that’s because I’m a relentless, suck-it-up-and-get-it-done, erstwhile educator.

    My NUTs: 1) Get a job; 2) Complete filing papers; 3) Call the local charity to get rid of things in the garage so my husband can park in it, too; 4) Complete unfinished upholstery job on two bedroom chairs; 5) Complete stain and seal of outside furniture; 6) Paint unfinished patch over downstairs bathroom door; 7) Truly clean refrigerator

    What are your NUTs?