Holy $#!* The Size Of The Breast (on that turkey)

Please tell me I am not the only one who thinks the size of turkeys has gotten just a little out of hand.

In a year when we are encouraged not to gather in big groups, not to have plans with family and not to expect to be welcomed with open arms at the typically crowded Thanksgiving table, the turkeys got bigger.

Well, of course they did. It’s 2020 after all, when nothing works as it should.

I started shopping for my bird last week, knowing it would just be The Husband and I for dinner this year. I figured a nice small turkey in the 10 to 13-pound range would be good for the holiday meal, with leftovers for the weekend and bits and the bones for soup stock.

Now the wrapping for turkeys weighs about 10 pounds. At my local big-box store, I saw no bird less than 25 pounds and some at nearly 40 pounds. Who cooks 40 pounds of turkey? I like fowl, but it’s foul to consider how long I’d be eating that much turkey. I am no weak sister, but I’d need a crane to haul a 40-pound bird out the door and into my trunk, and then I’d have to lash it down, or it would slide and thunk along the weather-protected interior like a sugar-high five-year-old in a hockey rink.

When did turkey go from sensibly sized to hormone-fueled huge? I keep imagining these critters bulking up for a year on the feathered equivalent of protein shakes, egg white omelets and energy bars and getting so big they totter around the turkey house, unable to see their own feet or the floor, until Judgement Day arrives and it’s off to the meat market. No, I am not trying to talk anyone out of America’s favorite feast this month. Just consider the really too-big bird as a symbol of what’s happened to us a a society — we got bigger because we could, not because it was a good idea.

One store I stopped in had no turkeys. Turns out they get them in fresh the week of Thanksgiving, which is nice. But you have to order online. The size range for the smallest is 10-14 pounds but it comes with a warning that the final size may vary. That means it is what it is when you pick it up. If only larger birds come in, you are stuck with more gobble than you can gobble, and you’ve already given them your credit card number online.

In the end, I went with two smallish (1 1/2 and a 2 1/2 pounds each) organic hormone-free turkey breasts with the bone in. I’ll cook both; one is enough for dinner and the other is the leftovers. It’s not the Thanksgiving we are used to, but nothing this year is what we’re used to; we’ll savor and sip some good wine and be glad to still be here and healthy.

…And The Headline Said “She Died in TP Avalanche”

Maybe the buying has turned into hoarding now.

I went to the bedroom closet to get two rolls of toilet paper from the shelf, and nearly got conked in the head by a pack of 48 rolls in the mistaken belief than I could just get two rolls out of the pack with a wire hanger.

Before the pandemic, I never bought a pack of 48 rolls of toilet paper. I rarely bought anything in that size, unless that’s the only way it came. My special sport jelly beans come in a box of 60 little bags, but aside from those, packages of four, six, eight 10 or 12 seemed to be the prevailing rule.

Then along came COVID-19 and shortages. All of a sudden, you bought it when you saw it. Didn’t matter what it was: tissues, toilet paper, hand sanitizer, masks, gloves, paper towels, your cat’s favorite food, soup, flour, yeast, or whatever the short supply of the day was, you grabbed it when you came upon it. I ended up with the 48 rolls of toilet paper because of bananas. I stopped to buy bananas at a big-box store after swim practice on Saturday and thought, “We could use some more toilet paper. There is some space in the bedroom closet to store a package.” So from produce to personal care section I went, at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, no shopping cart (I was just there for the bananas, remember) to scope out the paper goods. And there it was: a whole shelf tidily stacked with big packages of forty-eights. And the price was right, relative to the regular supermarket prices (except the supermarket shelves were devoid of most paper goods at that time, and many here still are).

So I grabbed a package, thinking it would be no problem to haul it a half-mile back to the check-out. But there I was, clutch containing my phone, keys and wallet under my arm, bananas in one hand and big-ass (!) pack of toilet paper riding on my shoulder. Good thing the store was fairly deserted. A woman with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, no makeup, dressed in warmups and hauling bananas and toilet paper at 7:30 a.m. is environmental pollution for all the senses.

And that is how the killer TP got home, wrestled onto my bedroom closet shelf, and came to nearly kill me the other day. As The Husband would say, “Happy now?”

I’ve Fallen…And I Got Up And Kept Running

I suffered a fall today while out running. Nothing serious, just a scraped knee and elbow. No excuses; I tripped over one of those plastic road reflectors and just did not catch myself in time. I scared a few people on the road, since they saw blood and assumed I was a zombie (the blood was minimal; it just looked bad due to its mix with excessive sweat). My very nice corner grocery store owner allowed me to clean out the wounds in his store with soap, water, and paper towels. Goes to show there are still kind, decent people in the world. And I admit to being a pretty good customer there.

On arriving home, the knee looked about as bad as I thought it was. The elbow, on the other hand (bad, bad pun) was missing at least a layer of skin. Then again, the average elbow doesn’t have much covering going for it. I showered, got both wounds peroxided, medicated, and covered and took two NSAIDs with breakfast.

Fortunately, I am a VPOP (Very Prepared Older Person) and a well-stocked first aid kit is a good thing to have. I live in hurricane territory, so it’s a must-have, and since I do a lot of yard and garage work, there’s no choice but to expand the kit to an entire closet shelf. Soft and rigid ice packs, bandages of every size from appendage wrappers and butterflies to tiny blister rounds, creams for itching, burning, abrasions, and bites, alcohol and peroxide, gauze flat and round, cloth, paper and adhesive tapes, muscle balm, tweezers, scissors, OTC pain medications, and I even held onto my crutches and surgical shoe from foot surgery 20 years ago.

I want it known that for better or worse, I did get up and keep running after I fell. Heck, I was still two miles from home. It’s not like anyone was going to stop and help the bleeding zombie runner. No one did. One person walking her dog did helpfully point out that my elbow was bloody, after I’d cleaned it up at the grocery store. Yeah, thanks princess. I’ll make a note of it. I guess the look I gave her, combines with the blood, probably wasn’t the friendliest. She picked up her barking doorbell pooch and walked the other way. I’m sure there will be a report about an old, sweaty, bloody zombie wearing running gear and carrying the Sunday paper on the local “Talk of the Town” website shortly.

So I am taking it easy today, but will, as always, live to fight and age hilariously another day.

From Zero To Trail Running In Three Weeks

So I had a bad week a few weeks, back, what with lightning hitting the house and damaging a few things. Everything is fixed, though we do need a new A/C compressor, but that’s nothing to do with the strike; that’s a consequence of living where we live. Most people would have had a few drinks or a dozen bars of chocolate and written off the week.

Not me. I went out and bought trail running shoes and signed up for a 10K mixed run (trails/asphalt) that takes place two weeks from today.

For the record, I counted myself as a trail running hater. Nope, not me, not ever. I was a asphalt aficionado if ever there was. Trails were for the crazy people with better ankles.

But given the pandemic, in-person races are few and far between. So you take what you can get, and when this one came up, I signed up. Then realized there was trail running involved.

Off to the bike/triathlon shop I went, and $145 dollars later, I am fitted with the right shoes. Medium lugs, since the trail is not a high-technical one (flat, grass, and dirt) as opposed to high-technical (hills, rocks, and tree roots). I hit a local park with an extensive trail system; one that offers a variety of dirt, grass, mud, puddle, gravel, and small hill terrain.

The first time out hurt like %$#@@!!*&*^%&%$&. I did not walk well for two days afterwards. My aging self is used to flat, clean, dry, and predictable territory. Nothing on a trail matches that description.

By the second try (last week), it was better. And while it is hot and humid, there is a lot of shade. And no traffic, other than the occasional bike riders and other runners and walkers. Everyone is very polite, maintaining social distance, and respecting the park rules.

Today’s run was really good. I did a mix of trail and road running, to get accustomed to the switch between the two. I don’t hurt as much. People were still nice, respectful, and socially distant. And those trails are quiet. There’s a major highway north of the park, but zero road noise in the park. I could hear leaves rustle, water flow, and my own breathing. That was it.

Am I converted entirely to trail running? No, not at this stage in life. I’d still pick the streets first. But am I adaptable to something new? Turns out I am able to admit I am no longer a never-trailer.

So I wonder what new vice/hobby/sport could be next? Well, I’ve been doing some reading about ice/winter swimming…

I’m Committed Now…Or I Should Be Committed

So I signed up for a 10K race in November. Which got cancelled about two weeks after I signed up for it. Busing issues, the organizer says. We cannot move hot and sweaty busloads of runners to and from the parking areas to the starting point safely given the need to adhere to COVID-19 protocols. OK, so no one thought of this in the planning stages of the race, I guess.

The organizers were fair. They gave runners an option. Refund of the entry fee, donate the entry fee to the race’s nonprofit beneficiary, or use the money for one of a half-dozen other future races. One of the future races is none other than the half-marathon I was thinking about doing next February.

Why another half, when I swore, exhausted and miserable on a dubiously stacked set of definitely unholy tomes, that I would never do another half after my last one four years ago. I finished that one, but it was not a pretty event. The race itself was slightly marred by a poorly marked course (some runners covered more mileage than necessary because of that) but was otherwise not bad. I just did not do well. So I called a halt to half-marathons.

Until a few months ago, when I started to wonder about the “what-ifs” of life; a pandemic will play with your brain this way. Did I really want that half to be my distance legacy?

Apparently not. I started distance training about six weeks ago with no real goal in mind. Until the race cancellation and the chance to move money to a new race venue. Oh, I looked at the other events, including the cancelled race’s November, 2021 date. That’s a long way into the future for an aging person to consider. A lot of other things can go wrong in a year.

I should probably be sent to a home for wacky, wayward seniors to protect me from myself at this point; a place where they could take away my plastic money, my Internet access and my running shoes. But I am intent on outrunning my pursuers at this point. Because what I’ve heard is true: the chase is half the fun.

Say Goodbye To My Little Friend…RIP Landline

I was struck by lightning this week. No, not in the form of a great idea or mental breakthrough. I mean the literal kind. A bolt from the sky that hit my backyard and traveled into my house kind of lightning.

This kind of strike, called a side flash, blew an electrical plate off the wall, sending plastic and metal shards through my home office. It knocked out the thermostat and burned out the control panel of our generator. It produced an alarming smoke smell (aside from the burned wires, nothing caught fire).

And yes, I was sitting in front and slightly to the side of the plate when the bits came whizzing by. No time to get up and go anywhere else, or catch any of the pieces. In the end, I was still finding shards of plastic four days later, scattered under furniture.

It also permanently removed our old friend, the telephone landline, from our lives.

The phone company tech who came out was not “specialist” enough to fix the landline issue; for that matter, telecommunications companies don’t have landline repair people anymore, because few people use them now. So our old reliable, stalwart household member is gone, the fried wires hidden beneath a plain plastic wall plate (well, not plain anymore; I drew a little tombstone on it).

The phones themselves survived the flash, and will be rerouted to VOIP service next week. Cheaper, more reliable and we can easily block the scammers and pests who pretty much used our landline as a playground, calling us for everything from computer problems (for computer brands we’ve never owned) to surveys to Social Security/Medicare issues that only a credit card or bank account number can fix, lest we wind up in jail.

For the record, we like to mess with scammers and phone pests. We do the whole wide-eyed, dumb-as-a-rock routine and play along with them, pretending to turn on the computer or take out the credit card, and proceed to give them all kinds of bogus information or bumble through their instructions. It’s easy to hang up on a scammer. Pissing off one enough to hand up on you is even better.

So we lost an old friend this week, thanks to the wrath of Nature. She’s quite the mother when she wants to be, but it won’t hurt to come into the 21st century, either. I may miss those suspiciously-accented calls from “Microsoft Mike” or “Steve from Apple” about my computer virus. I hope those “techs” find work in these strange times.

It’s A Wonderful Workout …Even If The Pool Is Green

My Saturday morning started out like most Saturday mornings, with my two-hour Master’s team workout at the local pool. After a broken main pipe shut the pool for a few days last week, it was nice to be back.

The 50-meter pool looked nice and clear. The 25-yard training pool was another story. It’s green. Really green. Like alien, otherworldly green. The lane lines are obliterated. Even the frogs who occasionally find their way into the pool from the nearby retention pond were not going near it. You could see them, sitting along the edge, commiserating about how much it looked like their standard swamp abode and kind of daring each other to be the first one in.

Of course, a few of my fellow swimmers were not happy about “only” having a 50-meter pool to use. Fifty meters is a long way, unless you have a reason to do it, like the Olympics or other long-course meet competition. Twenty-five yards is a nice, comfy distance between one wall and another. And throw that on top of (GASP) having to share a lane with someone. Social distancing in a pool lane is attainable, with opposite side breathing and swimmers entering from different ends of the lane. That’s not the issue. It’s more like, oh the horror of having to share the space.

Given that we were two months without a pool at all, courtesy of COVID-19, should make us all grateful to have even one. Given that we are well over the half-million mark in terms of positive virus tests in our own state and approaching 200,000 nationwide should give us a pause and reflect moment on what’s really important: the opportunity to live and breath. Given the increasing number of police shooting protests and the growing unrest and distrust among Americans for each other and among other nations for America, just how big a deal should an off-limits, chemically cranky pool be?

Take a breath, gang. A big dose of chlorine will set the little pool to rights again in a few days. You won’t share forever. The pool, like life, will be normal again. We will be able to see the steady black lines of guidance again when everything clears.

“Sorry, Our Computers Are Down Right Now…”

Oh, for the days when we had to function with a whole lot less technology.

I am trying to re-book a flight out West to see family (they’ve rejected a visit from me for this year, thanks to COVID-19) and doing it online has been miserable. So much for “managing your miles” the easy way. Two calls to the airline’s customer service department has yielded the same results: none.

Bottom line: I have to call back when their computers start working again.

Don’t get me wrong. I like tech. I know you either have to adapt or lose out when it comes to jumping the digital divide. I don’t get my fellow older folks who just refuse to learn how to use a smart device because it’s too complicated or too impersonal. It’s either learn or be left out of pretty much everything.

But I grew up with no personal tech. No smart phones, no portable music or books, no personal computers, no digital connections to people or business. Money was mostly cash or checks, communication was a phone with a dial (you were pretty posh when your parents got a touch-tone phone with buttons), and television was a box with a few channels and rabbit ears if you lived in the boondocks.

Sure, it was slow. But it was also direct. Your bullies were not online and out of sight. You knew who your school yard friends were and who wanted to pound sand in your face at recess. “Ghosting” people you didn’t like had a different meaning back then, and it involved a Halloween prank. Tags, likes, and follows were mere verbs rather than nouns or measures of personal worth.

So while I dislike what technology allows sometimes (ignoring people via blocking, unfollowing, and snooze) and the obvious downfalls (it breaks when you actually need it to work), we are faced with no choice but the big embrace of it and all that it allows us to do, especially those of us at home with limited capability of outside interaction.

And note to the airline: get your act together. I’d still like to travel sometime, hopefully in a safer, post-pandemic world.

This $%!# Just Got Real This Week

I lost a friend to the coronavirus this week.

John wasn’t young, and his health was more than a little compromised. I won’t even deny those things. But that did not mean he deserved a death like this.

He was hospitalized less than 48 hours, and not even sick enough for a ventilator. Respiratory and cardiac arrest brutally arrived like twin freight trains barrelling though his body, and no amount of good medical care from hardworking staff could slow it, stop it or treat it. There wasn’t even time to contact his family to let them know he was losing the fight for life. He lost so suddenly that no one expected it.

John left a wife, kids, grandchildren and a very large gun collection. He wasn’t a survivalist or looking to take target practice at his condo neighbors. He just liked guns and the history they represented. There were a lot of things he did not like about America as it is today, yet he was so perfectly American in his own way; a hardworking every man-type who did his time on the job and retired to lead a decent life with the people he loved, doing things on his own terms.

Until the virus came calling and viciously ended it all. As it has for over 160,000 Americans so far and more than three-quarters of a million people worldwide.

Most of us will end up knowing someone who is sick or dead from this, or face the virus ourselves. I don’t think that statement is a gloom-and-doom prediction; I think that without enough testing and the continued refusal to believe in simple safety precautions such as masks and social distancing, those who insist on their rights and freedoms to live in selfish denial will condemn the rest of us to a fate over which we have little control.

John’s memorial service is next week. Social distancing and masks are required by the funeral home. I am going to pay my respects to his family and see some old friends who are showing up to do the same. And for all of us, share the realization that the virus is no longer someone else’s statistic or another neighborhood’s nightmare. It’s here.

I Bought Shampoo; They Sent Me Stickers, Too

We’ve all coped with COVID-19 in a variety of ways. Some people drink and do recreational drugs; some do those things more than they used to.

Some exercise more, or started exercising, or adapted to new workouts. Some people cooked more, or ordered in more often, or finally realized they’re not the cooks they assumed they were before the pandemic.

I indulged in something new: I ordered customized hair care products: shampoo, conditioner and serum. I have very complicated hair: thick, curly, a mix of silver and original color, prone to dryness, and tortured regularly with chlorine, sweat, and dirt.

So I spent a little money (and I did use a promo code) and tried out the products. Along with the products, the company sent this cute little page of small stickers.

They’re colorful line drawings of fruit, flowers, bathtubs, and fun sayings like “Have A Good Hair Day.” It’s a nice addition to the packaging, but they’re like coloring books to me: I don’t get their purpose as an adult.

I know coloring books for grownups are a big deal. People who engage in the art of the page and colored pencil say it is very creative and relaxing. That’s fine. Whatever swings your hammock. I was always lousy at coloring inside the lines. Time and alleged maturity have not made things any better.

Same with stickers. I have trouble seeing the attraction, especially with our fanatical focus on disinfecting surfaces. I am not in school (at least not at the moment) so I have no books or notebooks to sticker. I don’t like the idea of anything stuck on my personal computer (though I had no such hangup ever when it came to a computer not my own, like a work computer). And they are far too tiny to make an impact on my car bumper. Not that I would ever put anything there.

I don’t think the sticker idea is wrong, or childish, or unnecessary. I’m just not sure how to wrap an adult bah-humbug brain around them. So if you sticker or color your way through our current corona virus life, let me know. I could use some ideas.