Sweatin’ With Izumi

Izumi Tabata.

That name alone causes my butt to clench and makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Mr. Tabata invented a type of high intensity interval training, otherwise known as HIIT.  (As in, “Don’t hiiitttt me again with that move!”)

“High-intensity interval training is an enhanced form of interval training.  It’s an exercise strategy alternating periods of short intense anaerobic exercise with less-intense recovery periods. HIIT is a form of cardiovascular exercise.  Usual HIIT sessions may vary from 4–20 minutes. These short, intense workouts provide improved athletic capacity and condition, improved glucose metabolism, and improved fat burning.”

Professor Tabata’s “regime,” initially involving Olympic speedskaters, uses 20 seconds of ultra-intense exercise followed by 10 seconds of rest, repeated continuously for 4 minutes (8 cycles).

Today at my exercise class we did a full 20 minutes.  It’s been said if you aren’t seeing stars and feeling as if you’re going to croak on the spot, you aren’t working hard enough.

I think I saw my life pass before my eyes, so I guess my session was a success.

Afterward, we had a wonderful 30 minutes of cool down and yoga stretches.  Our instructor, Shannon (AKA the Energizer bunny), told us this was designed to bring our “Chi” down from the high level where we were functioning.

“Chi” is the Chinese term for life force or life energy.

As we began, Shannon said her “Chi” was poking out all over her.

To this I replied:  “With  me, it’s more like Chee-tos.”

Tabata—When garden variety torture won’t do.

 

Reading is FUN-damental

“I’M SORRY, OUR BOOK’S BEEN CHECKED OUT.”

Underwear Horoscope by Jenna Marbles

I read about YouTube sensation Jenna Marbles on the NYT website today and thought this video of hers was especially funny.

In it, she predicts what’s going to happen in your life based on what kind of underwear you’re wearing today.

Also, be sure to check out her video of Sarah Palin giving a cooking lesson.

And, her advice for applying makeup for a night out when you’ve already been drinking all day–”Drunk Makeup Tutorial.”

And, the one where she shows you how to apply makeup to trick people into thinking you look good when you really don’t.

Basically, all of her videos.

(According to Jenna, I guess I need to get rid of the underwear pack.  At least I don’t wear the “granny panty.”  Yet.)

Sweet “Sicks-teen”

Today I am commemorating sixteen years since I had my hysterectomy.

Yay.

Couldn’t get that sucker out of there fast enough, if you ask me.  I suffered through ten years of what they laughingly call “peri-menopause.”

(Otherwise known as “your HMO won’t do a hysterectomy unless you’ve got a mass or are just about dead.”  And they wouldn’t do a sonogram to find out if there was a mass, so the bean counters won that round.)

Anyhoo, I’ve gone from being the sole support of the tampon industry to having a vested interest in Poise pads now.  Life is funny.

THE SITUATION, MARCH 1997

 

APRIL 7, 1997

 

Lady Liberty

“YOU’RE NOT A TRUE PATRIOT UNLESS YOU THINK THE GOVERNMENT IS OUT TO GET YOU.”

Same Old, Same Old

“SAME SEX” MARRIAGE? BIG DEAL. SINCE WE GOT MARRIED, WE’VE ALWAYS HAD THE SAME SEX.

From the G.O.P. Prayer Book

Saw this by Yoni Brenner on The New Yorker website and just had to pass it along:

Peace Prayer

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;

Where there is hatred, let me  sow love;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is faith, the right  kind of faith;

Thou knowest, something with Christmas and Easter,

And a  normative/non-ethnic Jesus.

Where there are taxes, let me lower them,

Where there are regulations, let me lift them,

Where there are capital gains,  let me leave them as is,

For capital gains are awesome,

And what is this,  France?

Where there are immigrants, let me deport them;

Where there are  gays, let me un-gay them;

And where there are women’s issues, let me sidestep  them,

Because, frankly, we’ve really been getting burned on that lately.

Speak, O Divine Master!

Whether directly to my soul or indirectly through  Roger Ailes;

Tell me Thy will, and I shall obey it!

Show me Thy path, and  I shall follow it!

Unless Thy will involves some form of gun control;

Which, as Thou knowest, is a nonstarter.

Amen.

Read more: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/shouts/2013/03/shouts-murmurs-republican-prayers-humor.html#ixzz2OfuGDVnc

Papal Resignation: From Infallible to Just Some Guy in a Dress

Ashes to Ashes…Dust to Calif.

I picked up my mother’s cremated remains at the funeral home yesterday.  Technically, they’re called “cremains” by the funeral home folks.  An odd sounding word, at least to me.  A euphemistic way of stating the facts.

You’re not exactly saying “cremated,” but you’re not saying “remains” either.

It’s like, if we combine the two by saying them reallyfast, we can fool ourselves into thinking what we have in that little cardboard box is neither one.

The funeral home director brought the box out from another room and placed it on the table in front of me.  The gold ring my mother was wearing when she died was taped to the top of the box.  The director wanted me to be aware of that. When we spoke over the phone earlier, he’d made a point of telling me that they’d retrieved it from her when she arrived.

I guess they want to avoid any possible accusations by the family of their not returning valuables.  We do live in a litigious age, so you can’t fault them for that.

The director and his assistant, an older gentleman, were both very nice and accommodating.  Since my mother had pre-paid for her cremation with The Neptune Society, all I owed was $37 for the copies of her death certificate.

When you hear all the horrific tales about people spending huge sums of money on funeral arrangements, it feels a little weird writing a check for only $37.  No bronze casket with satin lining, gold handles or a waterproof concrete vault.

Just a cardboard box with her name on it and a gold ring taped to the top.

Since my mother wanted to be returned to California, we shipped her off to my son today.  He, along with his two cousins (all surfers or paddleboarders), will oversee the scattering of her ashes in the ocean off the beach at the end of the street where she lived with my Dad for 25 years.

Who needs bronze caskets, satin linings and all the rest of it when you’ve got the whole Pacific Ocean?

Have a good trip home, Mom.

 

 

 

The End of the Trail

Notes from the Eldercare Underground:  Final Edition

My mother passed away unexpectedly yesterday at the age of 93.  I suppose at that age death shouldn’t be unexpected, but she had been doing pretty well right up to this week. 

She attended the big Christmas wing-ding at the nursing home on Tuesday last, where they really know how to put out a buffet line.  One that rivals Las Vegas. 

All that was missing was Wayne Newton. 

(Although, they did have their one-man-band of an entertainer, the erstwhile fourth grade music teacher turned comedian, musician and master of ceremonies of these events.)

And on Wednesday my mother got to listen to the Christmas concert performed by her two great-grandkids and their school, so that was a nice touch.

So yesterday it came as a surprise when the night nurse phoned me at 5:30 am to tell me they were transferring her to the hospital ER because her breathing was labored and rapid.  After I got there (and after several tests) the ER doctor, whom we’d seen before on one of her other trips there, told me he thought she was just shutting everything down and all they could offer at that point was a room and comfort care.  She was constantly administered oxygen and was given a small dose of morphine to quell any pain she might be having.

I was asked by a nurse if I wanted what they call “heroic” measures, like a ventilator or CPR to resuscitate her if her heart stopped.  Fortunately I had her advance directive and medical power of attorney and knew that this is not something my mother would have wished.

So I said no.

Not exactly “pulling the plug on grandma.”  More like not putting the plug into the wall in the first place.

My daughter spent the day there in her room with me (a great help) and around 5:00 pm my mother’s labored breathing slowed down and became more shallow.  After about five minutes, it stopped altogether.

Last Tuesday, when we went back to her room after the party, she re-iterated that she really didn’t care for it here and said she was going to go back to California.  I have heard this so many times in the 13 years she’s been in Texas that it didn’t bother me like it used to.

I just said, “Well, if you can swing it, I’m all for it.”

She’s getting her wish. 

Her ashes will be going back to California (as per her request), probably this summer, when we go out there to visit my son and his family.

Before we left her hospital room so the funeral home folks could take her away, I bent over and kissed her on the forehead and told her good-bye.  In my mind I added, “Say hi to Dad for me.”  I know they’re together again after almost 15 years. 

And that’s the one good thing to come out of all of this.

 

(Many thanks to my faithful “Eldercare Underground” readers.  I really appreciated your comments and all of your encouragements.)

Granny and Omar, the camel.