Health | Love, Jimmie

Lynnette, Tony, Hulk, Jane And Dammit Todd, I Am So Mad At You!

13 Jun 2012 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Weight Loss Tags: Humor, Weight Loss

It is with regret that I announce the termination of my contract with my beloved YMCA. When I lost my job I didn’t feel as if I could afford the membership any longer, not knowing what was in store for me down the road. I only was allowed a 30-day window to renew without paying a joining fee and because my new job didn’t happen within that window, I missed my opportunity. Joining fees at the Y will cost you and arm and a leg. Since I am partial to being symmetrical, I looked for other facilities.

It has been a journey, not quite an emotional one, but a journey I have not relished. I miss Lynnette. I miss Jane. I miss my little old ladies with the blue eye shadow from eyelash to brow bone. I miss Cathy who told me she loved me every time she saw me even though she says it to everyone. I miss the guy who hit on me all the time by asking me to meet up in the steam room. (Okay, that was a lie. I don’t miss him at all.) I miss my *people*.

After a time, though, I lit upon a gym I’ve heard good things about. Hermitage Fitness. I tossed my hair up in pigtails, threw on some clothes and drove on over there to check it out. My first impression was, well, not good. It’s in kind of a ghetto shopping center, very run down. There is a Dollar General next to it which always makes me feel a little safe, but the Family Buffet looks like a place I wouldn’t take my ex-boyfriend to and I don’t like him at all. I gave it a shot, though, and was pleased.

I was surprised at how nice the facility was and how reasonable the rates were. I accepted a week’s free pass and made sure I gave the gym a thorough test. I availed myself of the locker room, showers and all. Very nice. I availed myself of the jogging track. Kind of boring but handy. I availed myself of the scale. Sniffle. I’d really like to avail myself of this machine, mostly because I picture myself sipping on a cocktail and filing my nails while the machine does all work. Isn’t that what those “fat shaker” machines offer?

Anyway, finally, I availed myself of some classes. I thought I’d see how they compare to Lynnette’s classes. Obviously there would be no contest, but I thought I should work with what I have.

I have more to say about the classes but first, I want to say this. You notice how on my list of demands I make of a man before considering a date with him I never list “stomach like a brick”? There’s a reason for that. I do find that a lovely feature, really meow-worthy, but I feel that if I demand one of those from him, I’ll have to give one back in return. And there ain’t no way, no how I’m ever going to achieve that. Still, one class at this new gym was of particular interest to me: the abs class. Thirty minutes of straight ab work, which in theory sounds like a fantastic idea.

Then I took the class.

Aw, hell naw. It was awful. The instructor was so friggin cheerful and never gasped for breath even one time. His manner was mild and not at all flustered. His skin stayed a nice flesh color and never turned tomato red. His ab moves looked as fluid as melted butter. As I was his polar opposite, I hated him for every minute of it. He probably has fantastic abs. Mine, on the other hand, hurt so badly right now that if I sneezed I would pass out.

Lynnette, Tony, Hulk, Jane, and Dammit Todd, I suppose you’d like to know why I’m mad at you. Because you are the ones who tell me I can do this, encourage me to do this and have results doing this. You changed my status quo years ago (whether I adhere to it or not) and right now, while my abs are making me want to cry, I hate you for it. I just did arms yesterday so I’m pretty sure I won’t get over it any time soon.

Love,
Jimmie, abs of cotton, arms of rubber

P.S. On my first day at the new gym, a much older man asked me if I was single. Why do I suspect that he might invite me to the steam room soon?

I Have A Bone To Pick With You, Tony

12 Apr 2012 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Health, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Hottie, Humor

*For my new readers and also for my readers who have the memory of a gnat, Woney is my friend in California. She has a personal trainer, Tony, who is a Navy man in his spare time. I got to work out with Tony and Woney once and while the workout nearly did me in, Tony was a joy ogle.

Dear Tony.

I’m quite angry with you, for several reasons. For starters, I’m still upset that you flat refused to use your Navy uniform for good during our memorable workout session. Uniforms have a single purpose, correct? To define those who do good for our nation? (Excluding prison uniforms, of course.) Obesity is rampant in this country, Tony. We are approaching a national crisis status with it and yet you refuse, nay even argue with my logical and compelling request to stand at the end of running paths as ladies jog toward you in an effort to drop pounds and improve health. Your shining chiclet teeth do provide some light at the end of the tunnel, yes, but just imagine how much faster and further we would run if you would merely stand there in all of your uniformed glory, a shining beacon of goodness. I thought you were an American, Tony.

I was perfectly content to be angry with you for your lack of uniform, at least for a while. I figured if I whined about it enough to Woney and through her, to you, you would at last give in to my pleas and wear the uniform the next time I come work out in California. (I’ve got whining skillz, yo.) But then I saw some pics from your fitness website and now I’m mad at you because I think you are pretty stingy with the shirtless workout, too. Tony, do you know what those abs could do for America? Do you have any idea the good you could do? I’ve been struggling with my gym visits these last couple of months. I lack what you call “motivation”. Four a.m. comes awfully early and since Lynnette is very sweet and a girl, it becomes easier and easier to blow her off when the alarm rings in my ear. However, if your abs greeted me every day at 4:30 in the a.m., I believe I could find motivation aplenty each and every day to be a good, healthy American citizen and leap eagerly and spryly out of the confines of my cozy bed. Because have you seen your abs?

Finally, I’m angry with you because someone stole my garbage can. It’s the second time in a month that it has disappeared and I’m really beginning to wonder about the mental stability of my neighbor. If you would come here, Tony, like I’ve nicely asked you to do (and bring Woney, of course) you could solve my garbage can problem. You’ll need to strut around in my yard sans shirt, really swagger it all around, and I’m certain that my neighbor will either a) be so taken with your gleaming abs and chiclet teeth that she forgets all about stealing all my stuff or b) be so terrified of your manly physique that she forgets all about stealing all my stuff. Either way I get to keep my garbage can and America wins because stealing is wrong. We don’t want a country founded on crime, do we Tony?

To make it up to me, Tony, and more importantly to your country, you can do one of three things. You can wear your uniform at our next workout session for which I will leap eagerly out of bed at four in the morning. You can loll around shirtless at our next workout session for which I will also leap eagerly out of bed at four in the morning. Or, and this is my favorite option because it does not involve me leaping out of bed at four in the morning, you can move to Tennessee and make yourself at home on my sofa either in your uniform or shirtless. Or both. I think Navy pants are quite fetching when worn alone. Show us your patriotism, Tony! Or at least your abs!

Your favorite,

Jimmie

This here is Tony. Do you see?! My argument is even more compelling with photos, right? <whimper>

Heartburn

06 Mar 2012 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Family, Health, Imparting Wisdom Tags: Home Remedy, Humor

That title is not a euphemism for a romance gone awry. Nothing that complex here. This post really is about heartburn and since it’s the only thing of note I have experienced lately, this is what you get. For those of you who have gently reminded me that I have not written anything since Feb 20^th (and I luff you guys for it), you are welcome. We now all get to hear about my stomach.

To begin, I’d like to present a list of things that cause Martie heartburn:

Little Caesar’s pizza
Beans
Krystal’s
Do-si-dos and milk
Mexican food
Chinese food
Olive Garden
Alcohol
Grandma’s spaghetti
Meatloaf

As you can see, Martie suffers from heartburn a lot. Because she suffers from heartburn a lot, she generally has a nice supply of antacids stashed at every home she regularly visits (much like me and my toothbrushes – I have one at every house I regularly spend the night in). My house is no different which is lucky for me. See, recently I found myself in need of an antacid or two which is really weird because my list of things that cause me heartburn is as follows:

Bananas

I have eaten no bananas so I’ve been a little concerned about my new condition. Maybe I have some underlying stress that I’m not fully cognizant of or maybe there has been some profound hormonal shift in my body, but whatever it is, I’m now a proud sufferer of heartburn. (An FYI – the first person that suggests to me that my excess acid production is a symptom of getting old gets a box in the kisser.) I’ve raided Martie’s stash these last few days which has helped tremendously but I remain puzzled.

Used to I suffered from heartburn all the time. I spent lots of days feeling burny and uncomfortable, and I took lots of over the counter remedies for it. My list of heartburn causes back in those days consisted of:

Bananas
An unfortunate combination of 75 pounds of excess weight and an unwise choice in marriage partner

Eventually I ditched the weight, both 50 pounds of fat and 180 pounds of husband, and eventually all things seemed to regulate. But before that, there were days of acidic agony that I just never seemed to conquer.

One day in particular, I could feel the acid bubbling around in my stomach. It felt black and lively, and I distinctly remember thinking “Oh, so this is what hydrochloric acid feels like as it eats through your stomach walls.” I was miserable. We had no money and I had no remedy. I tried milk, water, everything. You know what I remembered, though? I remembered that Poppa had a home remedy for acid indigestion. I’d seen him use it a thousand times and it always seemed to work. See, Poppa’s list of thing that causes him heartburn includes:

Everything

Poor man. He’s always got something rumbling away in his tummy and when you find yourself awake in the middle of the night with no easy access to a store, you find what works in your house. His remedy was to mix baking soda and water into a thin watery mixture and then suck it down.

Now baking soda is used for loads of things. It makes cakes bake up nicely. It whitens your teeth when you brush with it. It cleans out funky smells in your refrigerator. All of these things relate in some fashion to stuff that goes in your mouth but generally the taste is masked by sugar or minty toothpaste or something. Drinking it mixed with water is . . . . interesting.

Yep, interesting. But let me tell you, that stuff works. I mixed up a batch of Poppa’s home remedy and I swilled it down. The absolute moment it hit my esophagus, I could feel it start working. I felt it go all the way down into my stomach and I could feel it surrounding all that acid in there. It was the strangest feeling, like the bubbles were racing to the top of the liquid and those bubbles were ANGRY. It only took a few seconds for my baking soda to make its way all the way down to the bottom of my stomach and for me to feel like something big was going to happen and happen soon.

Suddenly, I burped. That sounds so innocent and small. Let me tell you, it wasn’t. Not this burp. It came up from the very depths of all my internal organs and made its way forcefully and urgently all the way through my body and out of me. It literally felt like I had ingested an entire Coca Cola and shot the full acidic, bubbly can of liquid out my nose. I thought my head flew off and was never more shocked in all my life to find it still intact when the belch ended. My eyes were watering and my nose was running and my stomach . . . . well, my stomach was completely settled. Nary a drop of acid left. Not one. It was amazing.

So there, boys and girls, is my story about heartburn. I hope you all enjoyed it immensely and learned something new today. Clearly I am having some writer’s block issues but I’ll be back just as soon as those clear up. Anyone got a home remedy for that?

Venting – A Customer Service Story.

07 Feb 2012 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Aack!, Health Tags: Health Plans, Humor

I’ve waffled a little on writing this post. I don’t want to be unfair to a business because of my one bad experience. Also, the service industry I’m going to discuss is rather an emotional one for me so I realize that I may not be entirely fair. However, they have gone and ticked me off for the last time and I’m not going to be nice to them anymore. I feel like they have fully earned this. Congratulations, LifeSigns. This is for you.

Back story: I signed up for a new type of health coverage this year. I went with an HSA plan which, to make a long plan short, means only one thing of importance here: 1) all preventive care is paid at 100%. Yearly physicals are considered preventive and I heard about a company who classify all of the tests (ie: blood work, pap, mammo, vitamin levels, etc.) as preventive. As a matter of fact, that company has often visited our office to give Lunch and Learns, participated in our health fairs and regularly brings us general healthy information. I liked them a great deal and the representative who visits with us is great. You can see why I was swayed.

I was excited as one can be about having a full physical when I made my appointment. What I was really looking forward to was getting it all done in one fell swoop and working with the staff that I had heard great things about. Unfortunately for them, I need great staff. Actually, I need exceptional staff.

See, I have this issue about going to the Cookie Doctor. (Think about it for a minute. You’ll get it.) I’m not a fan. If you want to know the truth, I’m an emotional hot mess about it and have been known to curse like a sailor, throw a tantrum, cry until I burst a blood vessel and say horrible, horrible things like, “No YOU calm down! If you would get naked, too, and put on this damn paper towel and let me position the headlight and the platypus and the mile-long q-tip near YOUR nether regions, I would calm down! I don’t give a rat’s ass that it would be unprofessional for you to do that. You do it and then you can tell me to calm down!” I’m such a joy to be around.

Next up, though, are all the reasons they failed and truly, have nothing to do with my bad behavior.

They lost my appointment. This is why I never received a reminder call or the emailed paperwork I was to bring with me for my appointment. I was relieved, honestly.
They called me 30 minutes before my originally scheduled appointment to ask me if I had indeed fasted. I was bewildered, seeing as how the day before they admitted that they had no appointment for me.
We rescheduled my appointment and they asked me to bring a check for the services I was to receive. I was indignant. All the information I had received from them indicated that my tests would be considered preventive and thus, covered 100%, no co-pay, no deductible.
I lost the argument and promised to bring the $35 it would cost me for the appointment, an amount we had debated at great length and an amount they assured me would be all I would ever need to pay. I was resigned.
I arrived for my appointment and was asked to pay $45. I was angry. Turns out they forgot to tell me about the administration fee despite my asking repeatedly if there would be other charges.
All exams were performed, all veins were stuck, all ultrasounds of vital organs were completed and I left, exhausted, cried out, and without any lingering mascara. I left it (along with my pride, my dignity and my good graces) on the roll of coloring paper they let you lie on as a nice sanitary crinkly table cover. I was a mess.
The physician (who, even after experiencing the loveliness and calm and raging blood pressure that is me when they hand me the paper towel to put on for the exam, handled me beautifully and never once felt compelled by my arguments or cursing to don her own paper towel while performing all my exams) assured me that I would have all results within the week. I was gullible.
I did receive my results. I did. But only after being promised that they were mailed twice, emailed once, emailed again, and then found in some long lost archive that IT had managed to institute with the implementation of a new program. It seems that only my results had been sent there, though, and no one could figure out why I could never get them. Boy howdy, I was ticked.
Turns out I’m not slated to die any time soon but apparently, I could use an attitude adjustment. I was thankful.
Yesterday, and this will be a complete shock to you, I received a bill for the services LifeSigns performed. You know, those services that fall under the 100%-paid preventive care and also the services that I paid for in advance. I am speechless.

Possibly speechless is the wrong word. There was lots of this: @##%^$%!!!!! And some of this: &^%**$##@@#!!!!!!! And then more of this: @#$$%$!#@#$$%%)*! And then I calmed down and wrote it all up for you.

Really, I feel as if I’m being noble and merciful by giving LifeSigns an F++. Don’t you?

Running

27 Sep 2011 7 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom, Weight Loss Tags: Humor, Running

You guys, this past weekend was the weekend for my half marathon. Apparently I am not a woman of my word because I didn’t run it. I would try to blame it on you for not nagging me but somehow I don’t think that will fly seeing as how Lynnette did nag me as did Jane and no one nagged them and they both ran it just fine. I did, however, run the 5K which is exactly like a half marathon only 10 miles shorter. Go me!

This race marks the one year anniversary of my “racing career.” Ha ha. Hahahahahahahaaaa! That sounds so awesome to say “racing career” but if you could see me run, you’d know that the slogan: Slow . . . . it’s the new fast was totally made for me. Still, I’ve run a number of 5K events and one 10K event over the past year and I’ve learned a few things along the way.

Even though it should, it matters not how steep the hill nor how many hills you run up during a race, your butt will never look like J.Lo’s at the end of it. Believe me, I speak with authority in this matter. Unfortunately.
It is a fantastic idea for food places (specifically, pizza joints) to sponsor a race. They get their name plastered all over the t-shirts which is excellent advertising and they only have to bring six pizzas to feed 2000 people because no one wants to eat pizza at 8:00 am after running three miles in 22 minutes. Win/Win. (Sidenote: Same principle applies to milk sponsors. Chocolate milk after a hot sweaty run = hurk.) (Additional Sidenote: This does not seem to work as well for beer suppliers. Everyone, it seems, runs for beer.)
I will cry every time a service person hands me a medal. Really it’s just too much energy to work up a bunch of tears every time I finish a race. It’s a heady experience when you realize that you just did the whole thing, even at a snail’s pace. So heady, in fact, that you might want to cry. But after a while, you realize that your breathing is more important than your tears and you just stop with the tears already because tears and rhythmic breathing do not go hand in hand. However, when a man in uniform who fights for your country in his spare time stands at the finish line with a medal in his hand just for you, a few tears are in order. (It’s possible that I clutched his shirt and sobbed “Thank you so much, for so many things!” It is also possible that I got some mascara and sweat on his shirt but he took it in stride. Good man, that man, whoever he is.)
I can run 3.1 miles without stopping. I can run 6.2 miles without stopping. I can run 7.5 miles without stopping and still feel like I can continue on. But I cannot do those things when the temperatures are in the 90s and the humidity is above 100. It seems that I’m a winter running person which really blows because in the South, daylight doesn’t appear in the winter until about 9:00 am and it disappears at 4:30 pm, leaving me to run in the dark no matter what time I actually get to run which really, really sucks.
I will be indignant and outraged when a 75-year-old man blows past me on a race course and leaves me eating his dust. And humiliated. I will react in the same fashion when a mom with a stroller full of babies blows past me also.
Sparkly eyeliner helps me run faster.

I’m not sure what is next for me now. I’d still like to run a half marathon but I told you I’m currently hyper aware of my knees. I wouldn’t say they hurt but they don’t feel like 20-year-old knees any longer which is just a crying shame. And since Daddy-O had both knees replaced in recent years (which incidentally made him an inch and a half taller as he is now no longer bow-legged), I know that, genetically speaking, I might want to be careful.

We did start a boot camp class at work. They offer it to us two days a week after work and we have a trainer and everything. She’s awesome, at least for the first five minutes of class. After that she kind of takes on this screechy nasty persona who yells stuff like “You can do it!” and “Give me 5 more laps!” and “That was just the warm-up!”

It is just like me to consider giving up running for a while now that the weather is perfect for it. Hmmm, y’all got any suggestions or words of advice? I can’t rely only on boot camp because even though it should, two days a week of doing 400 million lunges does not a J.Lo butt make. Believe me, I speak with authority in this matter. Unfortunately.

Am I Middle Aged? Surely Not . . . . .

25 Sep 2011 7 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health Tags: Humor

How I Can Tell I’m Getting Old(er)

I lecture people on the benefits of sunscreen and use it liberally myself
I find men who are financially stable very attractive
You could not pay me to eat at Taco Bell, Krystal’s or White Castle now – ugh!
I don’t really get the whole Justin Beiber phenomenon
The moment the sun peeks it’s pretty little head around the horizon, I am instantly and unarguably awake
Sometimes I buy shoes for comfort and not cuteness
When I do the elasticity pinch test on the back of my hand, I’m not all gloat-y anymore
I have an incredible amount of affection for my own bed
Going out on the town during the work week rarely holds any appeal for me
I’m willing to spend an exorbitant amount of money on lotions, serums and creams for my face
When last shopping for a car, I took consumer reviews into consideration rather than deciding on the purchase because the car was pretty
I am hyper aware of my knees now
I find that I really do care how much fiber is in my diet
I have seriously considered using Preparation H on the bags under my eyes
I realize daily that gravity is not my friend

How I Can Tell I’m Still Young(ish)

I yearn for a kick-ass tan
I have pictures of hot boys with giant arms on my desktop
I will pay you to let me eat at Chipotle nearly every day
I will cut you if you disrespect George Michael, gay or not
Even though I immediately awaken when the sun rises, I still lounge around in my bed, making love to my pillows as long as time allows
It is important to me that I have cute running shoes that match my clothes
I still wear pigtails and have freckles on my nose
My desire to travel trumps my affection for my bed almost every time
I don’t care the day or time, I would spend half my paycheck on tickets to see Adele
I’m willing to spend an exorbitant amount of money on mascara that makes my eyelashes look like caterpillars
When last shopping for a car, I made the salesperson get into the backseat with me so I could gauge how much make out room there was back there
I find that no amount of money is too much for a good push-up bra
My wanting to lose weight has a little to do with my health but overwhelmingly to do with how I look in my bathing suit
The thought of purchasing Preparation H for any reason at all mortifies me beyond all belief and I have never quite brought myself to do it
I am in awe of all of the things still left for me to learn and discover in this lifetime

What does it say about me that it took me all of ten minutes to make the Old list and three days to make the Young list?

In Which I Almost See Pee-tah Naked

18 Sep 2011 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, Health, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Humor

I realized recently that I barely talk about Pee-tah on this here blog and that is a tragedy. He is one of my all time favorite people, so I decided to share with you the story of how I almost saw him naked. This is a long one, the longest yet, so go get some coffee or something and settle in. Also, please know that probably I should have asked his permission first but you know, he never told me I couldn’t share it. That’s permission enough for me.

I’ve known Pee-tah for a few years now. Long enough to consider him a very close friend, and long enough that we both know we can count on the other in times of trouble. So when Pee-tah called one day to say he wasn’t feeling well, wondering if I would take him to the doctor, I said yes.

I pulled into his driveway and he came slouching out. This was a bad sign. Pee-tah never slouches. He’s always chipper. He got into the car looking feverish and moany and we took off. I was pretty concerned by this point. He told me about the medicines he had tried already and the conversations he had with his mom about his sickness. Halfway to the doctor’s office, he said, “Jimmie, I’m sorry, but I think I have meningitis.”

“Hahahahaaa! Ha. Ha? Really?” Oh crap. That’s bad, right?

Needless to say I stopped breathing and floored it all the way to the doctor.

Turns out Pee-tah had strep throat which, you know, is close to meningitis. So I drove him around to the pharmacy and got him some drugs and tucked him into his house with strict instructions to at least drink some chicken broth and just go to sleep already.

Pee-tah can be known to have a weak-ish stomach, probably because he never remembers to put food in it, and his stomach gets all befuddled when some strange mixture (like potatoes or lasagna) hits it. His antibiotics were strong, horse strong, and made him nauseous for a while. The barfin’ worked his stomach muscles over pretty good (and I’m certain he will never eat a chicken sandwich again) so he was nice and sore a day later. And still kind of feverish.

He called me and asked if I would come spend the night. He didn’t want to be alone if he resumed the barfin’ and me being a good friend said, sure.

What I really said was, “Well, I have to go to the gym first and then I have dinner with a group and then I will go home and pack my toothbrush and after all that, I will come over.”

And Pee-tah said, “Great. Can you get me some Gatorade and some orange juice too? Please?”

Because I was worrying a lot about him, I bought loads of things at the grocery store. I had orange juice, four different kinds of Gatorade, chicken broth, Jell-O and about two other bags full of stuff. I like to feed people. It comforts me. Also, because I was worrying a lot about him, I drove like a bat out of hell all the way over to his place. I flew out of the car with my giant grocery bags, immediately tripped over a brick and dropped everything in my hands including my phone which broke into lots of pieces. From face down on the driveway I sighed, “Well, f*ck.” Faintly, I heard Pee-tah say out of the front door, “Jimmie? You okay?”

With scraped knees and skinned palms, I made my way into his house and set all my stuff down. Pee-tah looked awful. We chatted for a while, he drank some fluids and I doctored my skinned knees. He had a cozy living room with two giant couches so he was stretched out on one and I was stretched out on the other. We both were kind of dozy and tired, thus we fell asleep on our respective couches. I woke up often in the night and would ask, “You doing okay, Pee-tah?” And he would say, “No,” and I would go back to sleep.

At 5:30 the next morning I realized that Pee-tah didn’t answer my “You doing okay” question and at that time, I decided to take it seriously. I found him upstairs on his bed facedown with his butt up in the air like an infant. He was moaning and writhing around and we knew this was not good. So I bundled him up and stuffed him in my car while he began calling his doctor to get her advice on what we should do. My plan was to wait until 7:00 when the walk-in clinic (which was across the street from my apartment) opened. In the meantime we were going to go to my house so that I could take a shower. Mind you, I had been at the gym the night before and had not showered. I had dinner with the group and had not showered. Then I slept on Pee-tah’s couch in my gym clothes with my gym hair and had not showered. My knees were skinned and I had not showered. Also, Pee-tah had not showered in a couple of days and was wearing two-day old sick pajamas. Hot stuff, we were.

On the drive over to my place I kept reassuring him, “I’ll just run up and take a quick shower and put on clean clothes. This is probably just a bad reaction to the antibiotics and you’ll be fine in an hour. You can hang on for an hour. It’s fine. Drink some Gatorade.” I really wanted that shower.

We pulled into the apartment complex and hit the first speed bump. That was the first time Pee-tah screamed. He then screamed when we went over the second one and the third one. By this time, my apartment was in my sights and I was determined to not smell like rotten bunghole any longer. His screaming was symptomatic of the speed bumps, nothing else, I reasoned. Except by the time we crossed the fourth speed bump, Pee-tah had gotten hold of the doctor, screamed in her ear and she suggested urgently that we go straight to the emergency room. So I swung by my apartment in my rush through the parking lot, waved at it and drove him to the ER.

What a sight we were – neither of us having showered in more than 24 hours, me with skinned knees in wrinkled smelly clothes, Pee-tah walking in bent at the waist like some decrepit old man. I’m surprised they even let us in. He was admitted and we got a room. By this point, Pee-tah was in agony. The only way he could get moderately comfortable was to lie on his side and have me rub his back. I was seated behind him with my mop of hair, my disgusting clothes, my bloody bandages, my head down, rubbing his back when the doctor came in. And asked, “Are you his mother?”

. . . . . . .

Pee-tah stopped breathing. My hand stopped moving. Pee-tah then gasped and said, “Oh, Jimmie. I’m so sorry . . . .” I looked up in horror and for once in my life, was speechless. Pee-tah is a grown man. The doctor realized that suddenly something had gone seriously awry and immediately began the examination. Pee-tah said later that his pain kind of went away at that moment, just for a few minutes. Oh, the humiliation.

Here we began the real waiting process. Pee-tah had every stomach test known to man. They very much wanted a urine sample and kept coming in with this funky bottle, handing it to me and saying, “Any time he can go, please get us a sample.’

Now I don’t know about you, but even though I luff my friends, I don’t particularly want to see any of them naked. I don’t really care if you are dying from the meningitis, I don’t want to see your nether parts. Pee-tah, the one currently dying, kept saying, “Jimmie! I don’t care!” And I kept going out to the nurses’ station saying, “Y’all better come stick this thingamabob up in his nether parts cause I’m not gonna do it. I do not want to see my friend naked.” We finally got a sample and it was determined that he had appendicitis.

Let’s recap. Pee-tah was diagnosed with strep throat on Monday. He spent Tuesday barfin’, we thought due to horse strength antibiotics. Wednesday he went to the ER and was diagnosed with the appendicitis. Then it was all oh-holy-crap-get-him-in-the-operating-room-NOW-NOW-NOW-cause-we-are-gonna-lose-this-kid-and-his-mother-is-already-a-haggard-mess-did-you-get-a-look-at-her-get-him-on-the-table-now! And they left me alone in the room with him with strict instructions to get his clothes off of him and dress him in this fetching paper towel that we call a hospital gown, open in the back, please. So there we were. Pee-tah needed to get naked. And I was his only option.

With much finagling and draping of blankets and tugging at undergarments with my eyes averted, we got him disrobed and re-robed and I saw nary a nether part. Off he was trundled to the operating room and only three point five hours later did he come out alive. He really was near death. Parts of the appendix had started to rupture but those parts were all up in the spleen or something so they couldn’t see them in the x-rays and it took them a while to get the toxic infection all out.

Meanwhile, I went home and finally got my shower and my hair goo and my smell pretty and some proper band aids for my knees (because everyone knows that large bandages on knees don’t spell tramp at all). When I got back and checked on his progress, they asked, “And you are? His sister?” The same people who had me sign release forms and strip him and try to get me to hold bottle thingamabobs up to his nether parts didn’t even recognize me. So you can totally see why the guy at the gym is hot for me, right?

EPILOGUE: A year later, nearly to the day, Pee-tah was visiting a friend in Cincinnati when he had to go to the ER for a serious stomach pain. Turns out the surgery the year before had left some stuff twisted and a part of his bowel died. So he had another major surgery wherein they removed a foot and a half of his intestine. And now he’s fine.

You are fine, right Pee-tah?

The end.

I’m A Loser, Baby!

21 Jun 2011 8 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, Health, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Humor

You want to know how I’m a loser? Oh, in so many ways! And one of them better be good!

I have a new friend to introduce to you. His name is Miguel. He’s been around forever but I’ve never had the opportunity to write much about him. Now I do.

On Friday afternoon I received a phone call from Miguel. We went through the pleasantries and then Miguel asked, “What do you have going on this weekend?”

“Not much. How about you,” I replied.

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to meet you on the Greenway at 10:00 to walk, have lunch with you in Green Hills (Chipotle!) and then we are going to walk around the mall.”

“Oh. I had no idea. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

We met at 10:00 and because it had been raining in Nashville for a couple of hours, our walk didn’t happen. However, Miguel got crafty and persuasive and challenged me to a series of athletic contests instead of walking on the boring old treadmill. Apparently, I have nothing to prove, no pride, no gumption, nothing because here, my friends, is where I fail.

LOSER: We played a game of H-O-R-S-E. I had H-O-R-S-E and Miguel had H-O-R-S. I was proud of that seeing as how I throw like a girl and have never played basketball in my life. I was the manager of the boy’s basketball team in college but I pretty much only did that for two reasons: Chris O’Bryan and to get paid. I got over Chris O’Bryan before too long seeing as how he was taken but the getting paid part was quite handy for a couple of years. Anyway, what I learned from that position was more how to get sweat out of uniforms and how to fill water bottles and not any basketball tricks. Clearly.

LOSER: Miguel beat me by about a minute on the one-mile elliptical race we had. I really should have won that one seeing as how I OWN that machine at least one day a week. I do lunges. I run. I lift weights. That machine should have been my bitch. But it wasn’t.

LOSER: Miguel and I challenged each other to a push-up contest next. He did the real ones and I did the Jimmie ones. I could have kept going but he gave out after a few which I was pretty gloaty about. WINNER! Then we thought it would be interesting to see how many real ones I could do. LOSER. Not even one . . .

LOSER: Miguel opted for one more game of H-O-R-S-E. Naturally I got H-O-R-S-E and he was just a H-O. I think he was pretty proud of that, for more than one reason.

LOSER: At least I had better be. Before that entire American Gladiator-type workout with Miguel, I ran almost five miles on the Greenway. I’m still training for the ½ marathon (and just realized that almost none of you have nagged me even a little) so I needed to get that time in. Besides, I knew that Miguel wouldn’t run with me, mostly because he said “Aw, hell naw!” when I asked him. This was before the monsoon. The weather was perfect for a run – very cloudy and overcast. I mean, I still sweated like a hog but it was nice. About halfway through my run, when I was past the point of turning around to go back, the bottom dropped out and I got soaked.

I’ll call myself a LOSER on that whole running event, not because I got soaked but because all of that stuff had better show up (or not, depending on how you look at it) on the scale. That is the kind of LOSER that counts.

And finally . . . . Eh, I can’t tell on this one: LOSER most likely. After all of our calisthenics and lunch and shopping, I thought I would sit out the thunderstorms (monsoons) in the café where I go to write. I found my favorite spot and got all settled in, but not before a seemingly nice, kind of runty man sitting near me gave me a big grin and said, “Hey.”

I responded with “Hello.” I told you, I don’t meet strangers. Maybe I should.

“I’ve seen you in here. I’m Chuck. What’s your name?”

“Jimmie.”

“Jimmie, are you single?” This right here? This is a lesson I should learn! This is where I speak before I think! This is where, when you are out with me in public, you give me a kick in the shin.

“Yep.” Heaven, help me. I have such a big mouth.

“I think you are cute. Would you like to go out sometime?”

“Um, well, I don’t really know you plus I have a height thing.” I was completely floundering and this was the best I could come up with?

“I’m about 5’8”. I love tall women. I love it when they wear heels and all that.”

And here I have to explain that while you as a man may have no issue dating a taller woman, I as a woman do. “Ooh, sorry, I’m completely flattered, really but I just cannot date someone shorter than me. I really have a thing about it.”

“Oh, okay.”

I don’t think I destroyed him too badly because he got up to come shake my hand. Then he looked down at my feet and said, “You have cute toes.”

“Thanks?”

“Well, are you sure you won’t go out with me?”

“You know, this is very nice, very sweet. But I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, well, you are really hot. I’ll see you around.”

Okay, so see? I’m not really sure how this one fits. I am completely flattered and complimented and that is always nice. However, I suspect he’s one of those guys who plays the numbers game. Ask 100 women out and compliment their toes (?) and surely one of them will say yes. But because I’m trying out this self-confidence thing, I’m going to say WINNER. Right? Who’s with me on this one?

Commitment

10 May 2011 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Friends, Health, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus

I’m ready to make a commitment to you guys. I’m stating it here so that you know you can hold me accountable and nag me about it as you see fit. I’m fairly certain you know I would nag you if the shoe were on the other foot.

I’m going to run the ½ marathon in September, the Women’s one.

Now I’ve said it and posted it. I have to do it. Lynnette wrangled a promise out of me (think along the lines of Major Payne with a pinch more sweetness) and while I will most likely curse her every time I set foot on the Greenway and die a thousand slow deaths as I’m running to some Cee Lo Green, I’m pretty excited about it. Thank you, Lynnette. You do know that I really do want to do this.

The last weekend in April was the Music City Marathon and a bunch of my friends ran it. I trained for it for a little while but I ran out of steam before I ever got there. Besides, the one I had originally planned to run was the Women’s one and I believe I only have one in me. If I’m going to run all that way and train all that much, I’m going for the prettiest t-shirt; clearly the pink one with the girlie logo on it is far better than the blue one they gave away at the Music City Race.

Freddie and I, both of whom had toyed around with the idea of running the Music City Half, decided we would bike down to the Titan’s stadium which is where the half marathoners would finish their races. I wanted to see my friends run in and hopefully snap pictures of them so they didn’t have to pay $39.95 for their photos. Highway robbery . . .

I got up early and drove over to Freddie’s house to borrow one of her bikes. Now with the exception of our trip to Jacksonville, I had not been on a bike in YEARS, probably ten of them. And the bikes we rode in Jacksonville were lovely with no gears and nice cushy sheep fur-lined seats. We pedaled around, about six miles or so. It was a leisurely ride, fueled by pomegranate and pineapple mojitos, and it was on the beach. You can’t get much better than that. It practically wasn’t even a bike ride.

The bike ride to the Titan’s stadium was not at all like that. Firstly, it was far too early for mojitos of any kind but we rallied. We had oatmeal instead. Secondly, the bike seats were not sheep fur-lined but the real deal pieces of granite the bike seat manufactures are so fond of. What’s so wrong with a tractor seat, really? These seats were tiny and wedged themselves perfectly between the bones of our butts so as to cause maximum discomfort. And thirdly, the ride was twice as long, twelve miles total. Oh, and there were gears, lots of them. What am I supposed to do with gears?

I grumble but honestly, the ride was really nice. The Greenway, which has a trail that leads directly to the stadium, is beautiful in the spring. Honeysuckle and English Rose line the walkways and the smells wafting around are amazing. The pathways are shaded in places and sunny in others. And as bikers, we are the fastest things allowed on the Greenway and the breeze from the speed was just lovely.

We pedaled down our chosen path and I do believe we passed the eventual winner of the full marathon. We also passed the men who would place 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th. We yelled encouragement to all of them and were ignored but didn’t take it personally. When you are in that kind of zone, I doubt even a naked Lady GaGa will break your trance. It was pretty exciting for us to whizz past them, knowing that they were working so hard and really accomplishing something very nice for themselves.

Anyway, we arrived in the crowds and made our way towards the finish line, no easy feat. I read somewhere that approximately 33,000 people ran that race so you can imagine how many supporters and spectators were there. And I saw lots of people run in, gobs of them, but not one of our friends. Freddie and I stood in awe of all of those people and watched them stretch, cramp, eat goo and generally look healthy. We decided that if we ever ran one of these big races, we were going to do it in a tutu like some of these other ladies. At least I am. Might as well sweat in style.

I took this picture while we hung around. I just love Nashville.

After a while, we gave up on seeing anyone we might know so we hopped back on our bikes and took off for Freddie’s house again. My butt was doing okay so I thought nothing of it. I was really quite proud of the fact that I had already biked six miles and not made a complete fool of myself by face-planting on the asphalt at the stadium, although it was touch and go for a minute there. We pedaled away and this time, had to ride on real streets with real cars. And I did just fine although I’m pretty sure that Freddie tried to kill me on that one hill but since I lived, I forgive her.

I did lie face first on Freddie’s floor for a little while before I drove home. But I was fine. I could still move anyway, and I counted that as a great accomplishment.

Before I complain a lot about my sore butt, I should throw in another little story.

Martie and Coach and family came up that night to go to a Sound’s game. Also lovely. I took this picture while we hung around. I just love Nashville.

And the next morning, I sweet talked Coach into helping me move stuff around in my bedroom so that I could start painting it. (Actually what I did was stand on a chair in front of him and try to unscrew my curtain rods. When he realized what I was doing he shoved me off the chair and took over. Heh heh. Not my first rodeo . . . .) I painted on my own after they left which generally involves a lot of arm and back work. But I was fine. I could still move anyway, and I counted that as a great accomplishment. Plus the paint fumes helped. Sorry if I drunk dialed any of you that night.

Monday morning rolled around as did my 4:30 am alarm. Let me tell you how much fun it is after biking 12 miles on Saturday and painting for 6 hours on Sunday and then lying prone for 7-ish hours to try to leap out of bed like a young, spry person. I hear you over there laughing! I minced gingerly around my house for a while, prancing like some Arabian horse, and knew that there was no way I was going to plant my butt on a stationary bike for 45 minutes voluntarily. No way. I didn’t care how good the music was. So I skipped the gym which is terrible, I know!

Skipping the gym then led to other instances of skipping the gym which led to the conversation that Lynnette and I had over the ½ marathon and here we are again. Me, making a commitment to you. And to Lynnette. I’ve missed her and I’ve missed Jane and I’ve got to stop missing the gym.

Gah, I’m such a whiner.

So now that we are back to the whining, feel free to nag me about my training. Also feel free to give me advice. I’m running this bitch. I’m going to do it. And when I’m done, I’m going to need you to listen to my whining (again) and tell me that I look pretty despite the huffing and puffing and that no, I didn’t look like a water buffalo at all while I sprinted down Broadway. And also that no one saw me fall down and certainly no one got of a picture of that. I know that all of you will borrow bikes from Freddie and will pedal down the Greenway to watch me run in and try snap my picture but will give up eventually because you can’t find me. And I will be okay with that. Because your butt will hurt like mine did and I will laugh at you when you try to leap out of bed like a young, spry person. You can come back here to whine about it if you like.

I’m so nice.

Rump Shaper, Booty Blast, Shape Shaker – Ultimate Exercuses

26 Apr 2011 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom Tags: Exercise, Friends

Today’s topic, boys and girls, is exercise. I’d love to be able to rhapsodize about it but honestly, I’m not sure I can. I have more of a hate/indifferent/sometimes-like relationship with it. You know what, though? I’m going to give it a go. Maybe that is how this post will end, one of those “you never know till you give it a try” sort of messages. This might be the most positive thing I’ve ever written. Is it scary that I don’t have an end point in mind yet?

Oh, this is gonna get wordy. I can feel it. But I’m here to “Impart Wisdom” so let’s get to it.

How does one choose an exercise program, you ask. Well, first you must be facing forty in a few years. And you must have some extra curves that you want to get rid of. It also helps if you have any kind of desire to actually BE healthy but honestly, age and fat will knock some sense right into you without all that “living healthy” garbage.

There are many types of exercise programs out there. You just have to pick something you like and that you can sustain. Me, I get bored. I try lots of things, most of which scare the pants off of me at first (not literally). Currently I’m into the Body Pump/Spin/Running (read Jogging, slowly) phase of my life. But I’ve gone through several phases over the last few years.

You already know that I’m a devoted member of my local YMCA. Before I joined the Y, though, I was the member of a girlie gym. It was for women only and the program suggested attendance three times a week. I enjoyed it, I suppose, and give them props for getting me started but after a year or so, I outgrew them. I needed more. Plus, the gym burned down so I guess my needing more really just meant I didn’t want to sift through the char and rubble to find a jump rope.

I tried something called I Chi Chin (I think) with a former co-worker for a little while, mostly because he was completely stoked about it and asked me repeatedly to join him. Let me kindly say that Tai Chi is not for me. I felt like a complete dork what with all the hissy breathing. Plus, people made fun of it (always behind his back) and that right there will cause an extra curvy, almost forty-year-old to have a re-think. No, thank you. Also, I have no desire to put my foot behind my head. Ever. So, pass.

Rickkster does a self defense-type thing. The funny part about that isn’t the workout. It’s what happens to him during the workout that makes me giggle. Before we knew he was learning all these specific movements and tricks, we thought he was just getting lucky with a new girl because he had what looked like hickeys on his neck and we were all like, “Way to go, man.” But when he started coming in with bruises in odd places like the giant one on his forearm, we got a bit concerned. “Rickkster – uh, is she large? Is she mean? Beefy, maybe?” He finally told us that it was not a new girl but a self-defense class which in hindsight makes a lot more sense. He’s scrappy but wiry so I think it is perfect for him. Also, he mentioned that he might have been smushed against some girlie parts during the lessons so my guess is that Rickkster is completely happy with his workout choices. Wow, total tangent there. Anyway, self-defense is also not for me. I don’t want hickeys and bruises and smushing up against girlie parts of any kind. Plus I’m nearly 6 feet tall so I don’t really feel the need for any self-defense moves. Pepper spray works just fine.

For now I’ll stick with the running (jogging) thing. I like it. And one day I will run a ½ marathon. Just one. I don’t want to get too crazy.

And what does one wear when working out, you ask. I can tell you what not to wear, specifically if you are man. If you choose running as your activity, the bicycle short is not for you. Just no. No. N-O spells no. Please. I don’t care how seriously you take your running, there are no excuses in the world valid enough for you to showcase every nook and cranny, or bump, that you own in spandex. Please, if you have any love at all for humanity, do not wear this garment and most especially, do not tuck your t-shirt into this garment. Same goes for those of you that wear the tiny flappy running shorts. Imagination is a terrific thing. Let’s not ruin it by putting all you have on display, mkay? Oh, and for the record, only Michael Phelps looks good in a Speedo. No one else even needs to try.

And now for the ladies. I can only speak with authority for the busty girl. Get a harness, preferably one that does not skew uni-boob. The objective here is to have something so tight and confining that you cannot breathe properly. Then and only then will you have enough support to not damage your eyes while running. If you have to sort of shimmy in and out of it with the help of some grease, even better. You are now ready to tackle any method of bouncing, jogging, or movement you choose. Oh, and get good shoes.

Otherwise, I suppose you should just buy whatever you like. I know I don’t look my best when working out but it does help to have a t-shirt that reads “You ♥ me” with the heart in red sequins.

And who does one choose for workout partners, you ask. Not the former co-worker who was so excited about putting his foot behind his head, I’ll tell you that right now. Mostly because he has an odd grunting sniffle that sounds a bit like he’s strangling but that’s my personal hang-up, I suppose.

Also, not people like Dammit Todd. Dammit Todd can eat fast food for months and lie around on the couch being lazy for months and in one week will begin and excel in an exercise program that surpasses everything you ever wanted to accomplish in your entire life. It isn’t fair. So to feel good about yourself and your accomplishments, let Dammit Todd go do his own thing while you go do your own. He currently subscribes to the “Body by the Hulk” program which was designed by a mutual friend who has arms bigger than my head. I cannot sustain that kind of fortitude.

Funny story. When I first started walking in Nashville I was on the Greenway which is this really nice system of walking trails that run throughout the city. Now this should come as no surprise to you, but I don’t meet a lot of strangers. And one day I was walking along when a largish woman with a corkscrew-curl wig asked me if she could walk with me. I had never seen her before but of course I said yes. I was fascinated by the wig and I like talking. We plowed along getting to know each other and when we got to the big monster hill she started praying. She prayed all the way up the hill: “Lord Jesus, help me up this hill. Lord Jesus, please get me up this hill. Lord Jesus, I need You now.” It worked. She and I made it up that hill and still had enough breath to continue on. I learned a valuable lesson that day.

Pick people that you like and that challenge you for workout partners. I prefer Lynnette and Jane. And Lord Jesus, seriously. You should exercise with people that give you good encouragement and training. Sometimes I call encouragement and training “yelling” but that’s usually when I’ve got PMS. As you get better at it, it’s nice to be the one doing the encouraging and training. It’s never called “yelling” then, but “motivation”.

To end, I’ll tell you a story about my first and only 10K I’ve run thus far. I had trained for it and really wanted to do it. But race day was cold and I was second-guessing myself. Martie was there as were Coach, Lynnette, Jane, Pooh and Tigger. And Martie gave me a scolding (which she calls “encouragement”) when I said that I would just do the 5K instead of the 10K because I wasn’t ready. Because she’s the younger sister and because she’s bossy, I ran the 10K. Towards the end of the race, I came to a sign that directed the 5K runners in one direction and the 10K runners in another longer direction, and right there I started to get teary-eyed. I was tired. I didn’t want to run anymore. My chest hurt and my legs burned and I was wiped out. But I didn’t cheat. I sent up a tiny little prayer and I kept running. I paused to walk about 20 steps up one hill but otherwise I ran the entire way. And when I made it to the track for one lap around as the finish, I was just so proud. I ran with all I had in me for that last lap and I crossed that finish line and I did not die. And Martie, Lynnette, Coach, Jane, Pooh and Tigger were all right there, waiting on me. We had all run races that day that challenged us, 1 mile and 5Ks and 10Ks. None of us died and we all completed our runs. And it was amazing.

See there? I did get a positive message out of this after all. And I thought I should share an email here from Quan, who I’m learning is quite wise: I had a great workout last night…. Went home and took a 2 hour nap then ate pizza. I feel great about it.

Sending best wishes to Jamie, Jane, Laura, Julie Ann, Judy, Ginny, Chandra and Christina. Good luck on the half and whole marathons this weekend! And full credit goes to Lynnette for the title of this here post. Thank ya, baby!

Love, Jimmie