A Hodge-Podge Saturday Morning

When I was little, Mom claimed Saturdays as her day to sleep in, which meant my brother and I spent the morning with Dad. It was awesome. We got to wear anything we wanted – stripes on plaid, Friday’s underwear, one blue and one green sock – and the only mandatory rules were to brush our teeth, wash our hands and flush the toilet. We didn’t even have to brush our hair!

Dressed and unkempt, we’d pile in the car and go to the bakery. Dad bought us whatever donut we wanted (as you can guess, anything with chocolate icing was OK with me). We’d eat our donuts while Dad drove the station wagon through the car wash, then we’d go home and watch cartoons.

When my girls were little, Saturday mornings were my day to sleep in, too. At least until Pee Wee’s Playhouse came on. The girls woke me up for that. But beforehand, they’d get up and “make” their own breakfast* and I let them wear whatever they wanted. As long as they brushed their teeth, washed their hands and flushed the toilet, they could watch cartoons all morning.

(*The night before, I’d place a box of cereal on the counter along with two bowls. I’d pour milk in two plastic cups and juice in two other cups, cover them in plastic wrap, and set them in the refrigerator. The next morning, the girls poured their own cereal and added the pre-measured milk. It was their first cooking lesson!)

As I write this, my hair isn’t combed and I don’t have any one thing I want to address in this morning's blog. So in the tradition of my hodge-podge Saturdays, I offer the following observations and a very tasty recipe:

1. You know how I said a few blogs ago that I was going to be more mindful and to not wish away moments? Well, tell me if this is cheating: I acknowledge that it’s 7 degrees outside, and while I don’t like it, I accept that there’s nothing I can do to change the weather. That’s staying present, right? But in defiance of the thermometer, I made a pretty spring-colored breakfast:

A raspberry-banana smoothie with chocolate soy and Greek yogurt and a cup of Spring Cherry green tea. And even though I shivered in front of my space heater, eating tropical fruit and thinking of cherry blossoms kept me warm in my mind.

That might be cheating a little, but it was a very good moment within a moment.

2. Cammy at Tippy Toe Diet posted a great blog yesterday about how jam packed the grocery stores get whenever the weather’s about to turn bad. What is it about predictions of snow and ice that cause people to suddenly need copious amounts of milk, bread and eggs? It’s like snow causes masses of people to crave French Toast!

3. Sometimes it takes more than will and intention to get me on the elliptical. That’s when I rely on my favorite workout shirt for motivation (you know, the pink one?). But when I put it on this morning, I realized it had already seen its last workout. It’s been washed too many times; shrunk up and threadbare. Goodbye, old shirt. Thank you for the great workouts.

4. Two things I love: Middle Eastern spices and simple recipes. My Moroccan Stew is inspired by two recipes, one from Weight Watchers and one from Taste Of Home. You can make it in a crock pot or on the stove.

1 C onion, chopped
2-3 garlic cloves, chopped or minced
1 large sweet potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks
2 C carrots, roughly chopped
1 C celery, chopped
2 C canned crushed tomatoes
1 C veggie broth
1 cinnamon stick (or ½ t ground cinnamon)
1-2 t cumin (depends on how much you like cumin)
½ t chili powder (you can also use red pepper flakes if you like it a little hotter)
15 oz canned chickpeas, drained and rinsed

Sauté onion and garlic in a pan coated with cooking spray until slightly browned. I also add a tablespoon or two of broth which prevents burning or drying. Throw the onions, garlic and everything else in a crock pot and cook on low for 6-8 hours or in a stock pot and simmer for an hour.

5. If you want to join Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook, click here. We’re a fun little group of losers…and I mean that in a good way.

Wear what you want, don’t worry about your hair, just enjoy your Saturday. See ya’ll Monday!

It’s Still Plenty Good…Even With Accoutrements

When I was a kid, I’d jump on a horse by grabbing its mane and throwing my legs over its back, and we’d run through a field or down a dirt road with no tethers. No saddle,  no bridle. Just me, the horse, the wind, and oh-my-god freedom.

When I was a kid, I’d ride my bike down a hill at breakneck speed, sitting straight up on the seat. Look ma! No hands! Just me, the bike, the wind, and oh-my-god freedom.

When I was a kid, I threw a softball further than any girl before me – almost as far as the record-holding boy – and held the grade school record for more than 10 years.

When I was a kid I walked everywhere. I played cops and robbers, kick the can, flashlight tag, and kick ball. I loved jump rope (Who put the cookie in the coo-cookie jar?), cheerleading (I was the back bend/cartwheel/handstand queen, not to mention I had a set of lungs that could outscream any “We’ve got the spirit” taunt from the other side), soccer, broom ball, ice skating, snowmobiling, and swimming in the lake (actually swimming, not skinny dipping, which came later in my childhood...:))

When I was a kid I could do most anything without assistance. To borrow Great-Great-Uncle George Gjertson’s review of most things in life – including lutefisk and unwashed underwear – my body was “plenty good.”

Now? Well…my body is still plenty good. It just needs some assistance.

As you know, I only mention products here that I believe in, and I’m not paid to say what I say. In fact, none of the manufacturers have a clue that little old blogger me is even talking about them! I just like to pass on my experience with the stuff I love and loves me back.

Right now, I’m really loving my Pattstrap. Because of my arthritic knees (which, for those of you new to my blog, need to be replaced but I’m biding my time), I’ve developed a fun little disorder called Iliotibial Band Syndrome, which in turn aggravates my tensor fasciae latae muscle, giving me a true honest-to-god pain in my ass.

To combat this, I use and ADORE the Pattstrap, a simple little piece of non-latex band I wrap around my thigh or just below my knee, depending on which part of the tendon is hurting. It’s a godsend.

I also use a tennis ball to work out the kinks in my ass, often stopping during a cardio workout to roll around with it on the floor, as dirty nasty as that sounds. But it works! I’ve also stopped a bike ride and sat on a rock or a metal guide post along the road to work out those ass kinks. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when the pain strikes, you know?

I love Perform Better’s foam roller and am considering investing in this Trigger Point Performance massage ball. I’m pretty sure my butt and thighs will hate me for a little while, but they’ll thank me later. Especially when I go to bed and they’re happily at rest on a pillow and warmed by a Thermaphore heating pad.

On to the arthritic wrists and “tennis elbow” (again, both wrists need to be replaced or fused, which would make me look like a mannequin…although without the anorexic skinny part and jutting nipples). I use (on the bad days) what my kids call “floaties” and wrist splints. I look tough with my wrist splints on, but I can’t type for crap. It takes awhile to get all the Velcro in place, but once I’m dressed and ready to go, I’m feeling fine.

I’m telling you all this in hopes that someone reading this is looking to re-inaugurate their body as “plenty good.” We age, we get arthritis, we aren’t kids anymore. I’m not a cheerleader in the physical sense, but I certainly know how to shout out to my weight-losing friends. I would love to ride a horse again, but not with the same abandon as when I was 10. I can’t throw a softball a gazillion feet, but I can toss a ball to my grandkids. I ride my bike with both hands on the handle bars and thank god I’m still able to peddle 10, 15, or 20 miles. I don’t skinny dip or ice skate, but I trust my grandchildren to do that and tell me not to tell their mother.

With the help of a few “friends,” I can still be active. Some day those friends might include a cane, a cast, and even a few bionic parts. Whatever. I trust that even then my body will still be plenty good.

Staying In the Moment, Even in the Snow

I am a most forgetful ZenBagLady/quasi Buddhist. One of Buddhism’s tenets is staying present in the moment and being curious about/mindful of/attentive to what’s happening, and not wishing away the moment.

Yet that’s exactly what I do more often than not, particularly this time of year.

Last week I wrote about Seasonal Affective Disorder (see Four Little Words: A SAD Remedy) and how when I feel the most depressed this time of year I think about when things aren’t so gloomy. While I’m all for looking on the bright side of life…

(Sorry…couldn’t resist)

…seeing and experiencing what’s going on here and now doesn’t have to be such a dreaded thing. 

Never was this more apparent than when I went hiking on Saturday. Yes, hiking. With bad knees in western Pennsylvania in January. And I thought hiking in November in our little piece of nowhere was decadent!

Larry bought me the perfect Christmas gift:

 They look like ballerina legs, don’t they?

They are LEKI Makalu Trail trek poles. I expected to use them in non-snow conditions, but when the temperature edged up to near 40 on Saturday – and suffering from a huge dose of cabin fever – I suggested to Larry that we go hiking. In the snow. He said Why not? and so we bundled up, packed up the poles and some water, and headed to the Longfellow Trail in Cook Forest

As we hiked up to the Ancient Forest, the recent melting and refreezing made for a treacherous trek, at least for Larry. My spiffy poles kept me from wavering. (For the record, I offered him a pole, but being the macho hiking man he is – he’s hiked several mountains in the Adirondacks, after all – he declined.) Except for one set of “stairs” that I had to sit down on my bum (instructions I give my grandkids all the time) and maneuver to the bottom, my poles kept me upright and, more importantly, free from knee pain and injury.

In the last few days, it’s occurred to me that I could have wished for the things I thought were exclusive to my hiking happiness: flowering rhododendrons, fawns bounding through the forest, chirping summer birds, the smell of decaying leaves, the warmth of summer sun. But then I’d have missed the beauty of the ice along the path, the sun shining through leaf-bereft white ash, black cherry and red maple trees, the paw tracks of winter-hardy wildlife, the contrast of water flowing freely through Tom’s Run with the snow on its banks, and the new challenge of winter hiking. I had no idea winter hiking could be so fun and rewarding.

This has me thinking about other things I want but aren’t present here and now; situations and experiences that may not be ideal but are what they are in the moment and require an open minded approach to resolution. SAD and an unexpected weight gain…is it possible to just let them be what they are and investigate my feelings before moving on to solutions? Can I take a step back before lunging into the future, to be present right now?

I am a forgetful Buddhist. I am restless and wanting. It’s the end of January and I have SAD. Things are what they are. So without judgment, I think sit on the old cushion, breathe, and meditate on the Longfellow Trail. It really was a wonderful hike. In January. In the snow.

32:6

2004. I needed something to wear to a friend’s wedding. When every 28 I tried on didn’t fit, I tried 32. I walked out to the 3-way mirror, looked at myself, and thought, “This is nuts. I can’t do this anymore.”

Three years later, I was a size 6.

2009: I opened a letter from one of my credit card companies. They said, cryptically, that even though I was a “valued customer,” they were raising my interest rate to 32 percent. I thought, “This is nuts. I can’t do this anymore.”

As of yesterday, I’m paying 6 percent.

32 might be bigger, but 6 offers a lot more breathing space.

For me, being morbidly obese is a lot like being in debt:

• Size 32: I had no idea how many calories I consumed every day.
• 32 percent: I had no idea how much money I spent every month.
• Size 32: I masked emotional issues with overconsumption of food.
• 32 percent: I masked emotional issues with overconsumption of goods.

Just like five years ago when I confronted my weight, confronting my financial situation wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined. The process also feels familiar because debt reduction takes the same kind of commitment and persistence as weight reduction. I have to get all mom on myself, use tough love, and find alternative rewards for goals, but the freedom that comes from being on a cash-only budget is like knowing I can fit in an airplane seat or won’t be winded climbing stairs. It forces me to be more creative and a better planner. Mostly it’s helping me to better appreciate what I have as opposed to mourning what I don’t.

But familiar doesn’t mean easy. Nothing life-changing is ever easy. Becoming debt free doesn’t happen overnight and it’s taken me into the path of some degrading people. Explaining my personal finances to someone who doesn’t give a ratsass and only wants me to pay my *bleepin* bill feels a lot like being called a fat name when I was 300 pounds. I guess just as people have a million excuses not to lose weight, they have a million excuses to not pay their bills and it’s not easy to know who is sincere. Still, to assume everyone’s lying isn’t fair either. But I digress…

Remember how you felt the first time someone noticed you lost weight? I do and it felt really good. I had the same feeling last week when my change in attitude from “I have no idea how much I spend a month” to hard-core financial diva caught my husband’s attention.

“You’ve embraced this whole financial thing like you did your weight.”

Why, yes. Yes I have. *smile* Thank you for noticing.

The Great Lefse Experiment

After the Great Lefse Debacle last week (let’s just say there was a salt snafu), I was determined to reclaim my crown as Lefse Queen of Western Pennsylvania. (OK, so there’s no such thing, but I do – usually – make a mean batch of lefse. Minnesota worthy lefse, no less.)

Marie at Peas Pass the Beans left a comment on last week’s blog, “Lefse and Facebook,” and it was like she was reading my mind:

“LEFSE!!!! So good…If you ever try it with whole grain flour, let me know how it works. I’m tempted to try, but it’s so much work and I don’t want to waste anything.”

She’s right. Lefse is a LOT of work. You peel a buttload of russet potatoes, cut them up, boil them, rice them, let them cool, make the dough, roll out rounds, cook each one on a griddle, then let them cool under towels for several hours. And the flour mess! Goodness! No matter how careful you are, it gets everywhere.

Lefse is made from potatoes, butter, half-and-half, white flour, salt and sugar. The rolling is intense because you have to get the round paper thin or it won’t cook right. Whoever mans the griddle has to be sure to flip at just the right time to avoid crusty edges.

It’s a very intense process.

Lefse is usually at least a two-person job. But because I’ve been thinking the same thing as Marie about changing the recipe (which might be a felony in Minnesota) and using more healthy ingredients, I decided to venture out on my own, like Hermey in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” After all, I had my reputation to mend. So today, unbeknownst to my lefse-making crew, I made a small batch using fat-free half-and-half, light butter, and whole wheat flour. I’m quite sure my Grandma Katinka rolled over in her grave.

Unlike regular lefse, these rounds popped a little as they cooked on the griddle because of the whole wheat flecks. Sounded like a soft crackling fire in the fireplace. Made me smile. I rolled and grilled and rolled and grilled while listening to Classic Vinyl on Sirius. (Nothing says lefse-making quite like “Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo,” right?)

After letting it cool for an hour, I tried one with a little butter and sugar.

It. Was. FABULOUS. (And hellyes I’m bragging!)

I’m talking I liked it better than the original. And I know good lefse and bad lefse. You don’t eat a food all your life and not be more than a little acquainted with it. Even my husband, who isn’t a lefse fan, liked it. This gives me hope for daughter Carlene, who obviously inherited her father’s Dutch taste buds because she doesn’t like lefse either. In fact, when I told her last week that I was thinking of making it with whole wheat flour she said, “Great. Take a bad food and make it even worse!”

Bite me, Carlene. This stuff’s goooooood.

Of course, selling the rest of the family on whole wheat/light lefse might be a problem. I’m the Mr. Jimmy of lefse. The supplier. The sole provider. I have a laundry list of people who rely on me for their lefse fix. That’s why I’m sending a few rounds to my little sister Emily in California for a taste test. Just as I’m the queen of lefse, she’s the queen of honesty. She won’t let me make a fool of myself.

I’ll still make the “real” stuff, but I think I’ll throw in a few whole wheat rounds in the next shipment. Call it a free sample. The true test will be my dad. If he likes it, I should probably market it. Dad is to lefse what Heidi Klum is to fashion. He should have his own show.

So do you lighten up your tried and true family recipes? Do you even dare? I mean, some things can’t and shouldn’t be messed with. But some foods, those cherished recipes from childhood, if we want to eat them responsibly, are worth trying to give them a healthy overhaul. If you do it in the privacy of your own home, no one would ever have to know.

Whatever Gets You Through Your Weight…It’s Alright, It’s Alright

Today I had another one of those “all or nothing” exercise days, like the kind I wrote about last month at Refuse to Regain. I thought I’d address it here to see if ya’ll have similar kinds of issues.
Here’s how I woke up today, as I do most days: I sat up, moved my neck in a circle (crack, crunch), twisted my lower back side to side (crack, crunch), stretched my feet (cramp!), stretched my arms over my head (oh THAT’S where that rotator cuff tear is!), and asked, “How do I feel today?”

I’d optimistically laid out my workout clothes on the dresser last night because, according to my Excel spreadsheet, I was scheduled to do 30 minutes on the elliptical and 35 minutes of strength training and core work.

But my plan didn’t take into account the pain in my left shoulder and worse, restlessness. My mind’s been going in all kinds of directions lately, and Advil doesn’t touch that.

Just to be clear, I realize when physical takes precedence over the need to exercise. I take pain and inflammation seriously. But in every instance I have to honestly assess if it’s real pain or my head making excuses for not wanting to work out. It’s that double-edged sword of arthritis. On most days, however (and once I press pass that initial discomfort), moving is of more benefit than the heating pad.

Convincing my brain of that before a workout is 99 percent of the battle, however.

Today I implemented the strategy I tried last month. Instead of doing everything or nothing I’d planned on my nifty spreadsheet, I’d do a little.

I told myself before I started that if I only got 5 minutes on the elliptical and half my strength training in, it would be OK. No beating myself up, no regrets.

I hopped on the elliptical and put “Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” on the iPod. Last week’s Lucy Lawless “Not My Job” segment got me to 11 minutes on the elliptical – a full six minutes longer than I’d planned. Success! Old Me would have kept going even though I felt fatigued (having been a staunch supporter of the old “pain is weakness leaving the body” bullshit). Today’s fatigue had more to do with SAD than arthritis, and New Me was OK with that.

I moved on to push ups and some leg work. No problems. Got back on the elliptical for another 10 minutes. Felt much better than the first time. Finished up the workout with only a minor modification to the Thera-Band exercise that is killer on my shoulders. I logged 10 less minutes than I’d planned on the elliptical, but I felt, in a word, good.

Here’s how I see it. My old workout formula was:

“Lynn + Laying Off = You’re Weak and Lazy and Will Gain All Your Weight Back!”

This formula for “success” often left me in pain. Stupid, I know, but I’m still (after how many years?) coming to terms with arthritic reality.

So now I’m slowly adopting this formula:

“Lynn + Laying Off = No You Won’t Gain 170 Pounds Overnight AND You’ll Feel Better The Rest of the Day and Tomorrow AND You’re No Longer Causing Irreparable Damage!”

The same holds true with restlessness. Compassion is the common denominator. I can only concentrate for 10 minutes? No problem. After 10 minutes of cardio, do a strength training circuit. Repeat when willing. What I’ve found is that not only does this break up the workout, it demands more concentration, thus disrupting that restlessness, at least for an hour or so.

Never thought there was a middle ground between pain/restlessness and doing nothing/ doing everything. I think it’s because I have an over abundance of leftover fervor from my weight-loss phase. I was DETERMINED to lose weight and now I’m HELL BENT on not gaining it back. Even though in March I’ll mark three years at goal, I’m still that 300-pound woman who decided five years ago that, by god, she was going to lose weight. I appreciate her chutzpah, but 130-pound me needs to tell her it’s OK to ease off just a bit.

Whatever gets you to your weight, it’s alright, it’s alright…

Four Little Words: A SAD Remedy

When the view from my kitchen sink looks like this:

I think about when it looked like this:

Photos from last summer’s flower gardens line the walls of my office/exercise room. It was my new offensive to stave off or at least ease Seasonal Affective Disorder. For awhile it worked better than doing nothing, which is what I usually did every winter other than grin and bear it, you know? But last Sunday, I was given a new weapon in my anti-SAD arsenal: Four little words uttered for the first time by g-baby Claire: “I love you, ‘Rammy.”

Just typing that gives me happy tears. Take THAT SAD!

Claire was here last Sunday for a sleepover. Cassie and I made the swap at 10 a.m. at a gas station in Kittanning. It was bitter cold and snowing, but somehow the sun was out. I guess it was winter’s version of a sun shower. Claire and I talked and sang all the way home, even though I didn’t catch 90 percent of what she said because she was in the back seat. Back in the day (yes, I’m going to be old for a moment), my kids were legally allowed to sit in their car seats in the front seat. I know, I know…air bags and all that. But how many accidents are caused by parents and grandparents looking at and fussing with kids in the back seat while driving? Probably an even accident swap, I’d guess.

We stopped at the grocery store for some Claire essentials: oranges (which she insists are peaches), yogurt, whole wheat elbow macaroni, orange juice, a potty seat attachment (she’s 99 percent potty trained), and stickers:

She puts them everywhere, obviously.

When we got home, we went to see Mew, the stray kitty who came to visit me one day in November when I was sitting on the porch. I couldn’t keep Mew because I had (at the time) three large dogs. But my next-door neighbor Paula adopted her and Claire’s been visiting ever since.

After dinner, Claire watched a Wow Wow Wubbzy DVD while Papa Larry watched the playoffs. Good thing I had dishes to do. When I was done, Claire wanted to listen to Old MacDonald and Jingle Bells. I found the least irritating renditions I could on YouTube, and Claire started to bounce her bum:


Before long it was bath time. After some ice cream and the book “Hop on Pop,” Claire headed to bed. I tucked her in and turned off the light. I laid down next to her and she told me all about snow trucks and mail trucks and big long choo choo tunnels. Not sure where that one came from since she’s never been on a train. Then, just before she went to sleep, she put her hands on my cheeks and pulled her face real close to mine and said, “I love you, ‘Rammy.”

In the history of all my happy moments – from the birth of my children to walking Cassie down the aisle – this one ranks right up there with the best moment ever. Ever, ever, ever.

AND…I have a real grandma name. Claire used to call me Mum because that’s what her mother and aunt call me, but now I’m ‘Rammy. And Claire loves me. SAD can kiss my arse.

I wonder what Luca will call me? It’s possible I’ll find out during the 2011 SAD cycle. It gives me hope.

SAD is a real and debilitating disorder. Do you suffer (or suspect you suffer) from Seasonal Affective Disorder? If so, what is your plan of action?