Bah bye Nascar

I'm breaking up with Nascar. It's been a long and tumultuous relationship. I've finally seen the light and decided to call it quits.

Nascar hasn't been meeting my needs for a long time. Nascar didn't listen when I tried to explain my need for a new champion. It became defensive and hostile when I pointed out its faults. It was a bad boyfriend. I'm moving on.

Back in the day, our relationship was fun. Owner-drivers like Alan Kulwicki could beat the mega-teams. My favorite driver had a shot at the championship and actually got one in the days when one team didn't hog them all. Drivers with finesse and ability won the races. Even that champion hog Dale Earnhardt was colorful. And a good driver. And added something to my enjoyment, even if it was only to boo him.

Mostly, back then, people won who were good at this. Who were good in any car they got in. And they made it enjoyable to watch. I really didn't like the Intimidator, but watching him catch a loose car out of a turn was truly poetry. He was that good.

I even had a relationship with Nascar when the races were on Wide World of Sports. I watched Ned Jarrett before he was an announcer. I loved the Allisons and I still can't watch the reports of Davy's death. I've been faithful and patient.

The current record holder is NOT that good. He wins on strategy and rules interpretation (cheating). It's like watching a computer run. It's boring. He's boring. It's golf.

Other people have tried to tell Nascar that falling ratings would not be helped by having this little twerp win again. I tried, reporters tried, other drivers tried. I expected one of those usual speeding, too long/too short, unapproved parts calls on the current champ to save Nascar's relationships with its fans. Nascar did nothing. They were busy fining the driver most like Earnhardt for flipping someone the bird, inside his car. And keeping Bowyer out for some weird reason. And letting some people go at it boys, but not others. Seriously?!!! This is what you thought would save our relationship?

With regret, I'm moving on. I love racing, but I'll still have Formula One, Indy, drag racing, and rally. I have taken Dr. Phil's advice to heart--you can only be an abused doormat if you let yourself be an abused doormat. You took me for granted too long. We're breaking up.

Happy anniversary to me

No not that one. That's another month away. This marks one year that I decided to begin exercising every day for an hour. And I didn't give up in the middle. And I lost 15 pounds.

I am so pleased with myself. And I'm shouting it from the rooftops because I am usually my own worst critic. I don't write enough. I don't clean enough. I don't garden enough. I haven't finished everything for Christmas yet. You get the idea.

And I never stay with things like this. I've started an exercise routine a zillion times. This time it worked. Several things contributed immensely to my success this time.

First, Fittv. Simply knowing an exercise routine was available basically whenever I wanted took the time element out of the equation. Having a DVR to expand the time choices available helped tremendously also. So I could (and have)do a routine from 5 in the morning to 3 in the afternoon. Pick one.

My own schedule being as flexible as it is also made it great. I never lost the only chance I had to exercise by having a bad night's sleep or having to be anywhere. I could do it anytime.

And my own determination improves all the time. I still don't like doing this, but I do it anyway. I even managed to swim most days on vacation.

And in January, David started using the treadmill every morning. It encourages me to keep on keeping on. Having someone else to commiserate with really helps.

So it worked for some reason. And I'm so very glad it did. Both of us look and feel better. It literally improves the quality of life.

Back to Ripley

Last night D and I were discussing book shifting. We are attempting to group unread books from books that we love but have read. It's a constantly changing landscape. I daresay a landscape based on mountains because there are very tall piles of books. Very. I am reluctant to part with books that I might read again, a recurring problem as winter approaches. Boredom for me is almost always solved by re-reading.

Anyway, D wanted to move Patricia Highsmith. We have a Ripley omnibus containing the first 3 Ripley novels. I objected because I re-read old Tom on a fairly regular schedule. Almost as often as I re-read Holden Caulfield. So Ripley stayed on the bedroom bookcase.

Then I read Charlaine Harris' book and blog. Apparently, Jack Reacher was put on trial as a panel discussion at Bouchercon. And found guilty. Murdering and what have you. Bad form you know. This made Charlaine think about all the various protagonists who are seriously flawed. Not in that personal, self-destructive way. No the ones who are a danger to the people around them. As she said, she'd want Reacher around on a desert island to work his magic, but if she had a broken leg and he was hungry, maybe not.

So I started wondering about all the characters we love in spite of ourselves. I really, really want Tom Ripley to get away with murder. I want Dexter to continue to rid Miami of pond scum. And as a nod to Charlaine, I don't want people staking my favorite vampire, Eric, even though he kills other people pretty regularly. Examining this impulse closely makes me feel slightly immoral.

My rooting for the bad boys goes beyond actively wanting these murderers to go free. I detest the goody-two-shoes of literature as well. My first memorable experience involved The Heart of Midlothian by Sir Walter Scott. I wanted to shoot the heroic Jeanie Dean. Her dilemma involved telling a lie to prevent the execution of her sister or going all around the houses to prove her sister's innocence. Seriously, she knew the girl was innocent. Tell the lie and be done with it. The other method required her to walk all over Scotland, importuning people. I still shake my head after reading that. Expediency, girl. The end result was the same and much less exhausting.

I know most of my loving these rascals means that the authors are just that good. I understand the murdererer's motivation and approve of it. Mysteries being little moral dramas allow the reader to see the world in black and white. Bad guys and good guys are easy to recognize in this moral drama. The good guy wears a white hat. He has good intentions, even if he uses unconventional methods. He hunts down the bad people. You know you cheer when the bad guy dies. And really you shouldn't. But isn't it delicious to play god? And after this ghastly election, isn't it refreshing when the good guys win?

Hype and all that jazz

Sooooo got home Halloween night after a weekend with the grandkids. I managed to miss trick or treats twice. Des Moines, being obdurate and hindbound, insists on having trick or treat on All Hallow's Eve Eve--October 30. I wasn't home that night, so I missed the little beggars. We left Chicago Halloween afternoon before the right thinking people of Illinois start to trick or treat. Wow. Couldn't have planned it better.

We left earlier than planned and got home in time for Ghost Hunters live. I enjoy Jay and Grant and the things that go bump in the night. One live outing on Halloween was at the Stanley hotel, the inspiration for Stephen King's The Shining. It really was fun and spooky and featured all the regular TAPS guys. This one was at a train station in Buffalo. I'm not really familiar with it, but they have been there before. The original plan for our weekend would have gotten us home almost as the program was ending. So this was an unexpected bonus.

And what a disappointment! The entire show was a thinly veiled promotion for every other show on the Syfy channel. So in a half hour time you might get 6 minutes of the ghost hunters and 24 minutes of ads and hype for other shows. I can see promoting the other ghost hunter shows--international and academy. I can even see the other two paranormally kind of shows. But wrestling? On Syfy? Seriously? Unless they wrestle ghosts or on a spaceship, what is up with that?

And by promoting, I would mean that they are the commercials in the show. I do not mean that they are the show as they were last night. And I just have to ask, is Josh Gates some executive's brother-in-law? nephew? son? The man is ubiquitous. And is grating on my last nerve. I think Jay and Grant should get a percentage of his earnings as his agent, since he is the constant third wheel at their events. Wouldn't watch a show starring him if it were the last thing on tv. And so very unhappy to see him as presenter last night.

And frankly, if the people who were on were supposed to encourage me to watch their shows, they failed miserably. The wrestler and whoever the chick was stood around looking disengaged and cold. They might as well have worn sandwich boards that read "My agent told me to show up here. I have no clue whatsoever." Is it that difficult to pretend ghosts scare you?

The end result was that I turned it over to Dirty Jobs that was a repeat because one more commercial for wrestling would have sent me over the edge. Syfy, you did a rotten job with this, so I'm watching something else next year. I used to enjoy these, but this sucked. I apologize to Jay and Grant, knowing these decisions are not made by them. Syfy, get a clue.

On being a writer?

I have always thought of myself as a writer. I wrote stories for my own entertainment from the age of about 9. Dreck by and large. And in my teens I endured the great poetry experiment. Take it from me, as a poet I make a great plumber. Lugubrious and maudlin doesn't begin.

A friend and I one summer each carried a three ring binder. It contained the continuing saga of marrying our favorite rock stars. We read them to each other every day. It passed a whole summer for us. We wrote every day. A new episode. Portrait of the Artist as Virgin.

During confirmation classes, I wrote letters for my friends which were mash notes to the boys they "liked." Everyone wanted one. I hasten to add none of the aforementioned missives ended in the hands of the boys they were addressed to. So my attempts at being Cyrano didn't actually win the heart of anyone. Just a little sexual release for all involved.

But somehow, I didn't actually keep writing the way I might have. As a young girl, I wrote every day. Every day. Nonsense and ephemera, but writing nonetheless. It's an exercise every writer needs. And I stopped sometime around having children.

I began this blog to get myself back to what used to be the most natural thing in the world. I wouldn't have thought of it as discipline. It was just part of me. Who I was. I feel like someone who has suddenly taken a strange disliking toward her favorite food. What gives?

Time constraints are not the answer. I have time. I lack inclination. I used to enjoy creating stories for myself. Now, not so much.

I am about to decide I have morphed into a reader. No day goes by that I don't read. And I don't mean the backs of cereal boxes. I've read 50 books this year and innumerable magazines. And that seems to fill the space that used to only be filled by writing.

It all makes me a bit sad. But I'm resistant to any more improvement projects for me at this point. Nagging myself is getting old.

So hello being a reader.

Mind Games

I've lately been astonished at the mind games I have to play with myself to get myself to exercise every day. I can't believe I have to use reverse psychology on MYSELF. And that it works.

Last week, I had to tell myself that it was fine if I didn't exercise. Ok, let's go on with the day. No exercising. I went to the bedroom to change into gardening clothes. Are you really gonna do this? kept running through my head. Really. Really. I changed into exercise clothes and exercised.

Some days I tell myself that I'll just start with the first 1/2 hour and when I'm tired I'll quit. This one even I recognize as a trick when I'm trying it on myself. Once I start the routine, I'll always finish. There is no stop. It's not finishing that is the problem. It's starting.

Remember the cartoon with the devil and the angel perched on someone's shoulders? My approach reminds me of that. I have to give the devil his due (literally, even as cliched as that may be) before I can motivate myself. The bad has to come out and be acknowledged before the good prevails. How sad is that?

Yesterday, I had a sleep issue. The alarm goes off at 6, and D and I hit the floor to our respective "gyms." I decided I had all day to get done, so I'd go back to sleep. Woke refreshed, looked at the clock, and wow, it was 15 minutes later. I ask you--15 minutes? I might as well have just gotten up and gotten on with it.

My other trick is to promise myself a reward at the end. Usually this takes the form of a bubble bath. It's not like I can offer myself eggs benedict or some other high calorie/high fat reward. The reward needs to be tangible and yet calorie free. And cheap. If I quit liking bubble bath, I'll be in serious trouble.

I'm glad all these little mind games work, but I find it disheartening, too. Why can't I do this because it's good for me and will help me in the end? Why isn't that enough of a reward? Why is it so hard to convince myself to do something in my own self-interest? I'm astonished at the number of ways human beings do not understand what's good for them. How something "in the long run" is a difficult and sometimes impossible concept.

But the mind games worked for another day. Check an hour of exercise off the list.

It's not about you

I've been thinking about raising kids. Mostly because I'm not doing it anymore. My friends are exhausted by their weekend running around. Soccer, baseball, softball, mock trial, etc. etc. It boggles the mind how much time and money children eat. And not just eat.

When I had 3 little boys, all under 6, I was totally overwhelmed. I was changing a diaper, cooking a meal, or driving someone somewhere constantly. I insisted on cooked breakfast, adding to my load. And I washed clothes constantly. And towels. I had some crazy idea that towels and pajamas could only be worn/used once. You do the math. 3 towels, 3 pairs of pajamas every day. Admittedly, one of them wet the bed, so he had to wear clean every day. Looking back, the towels were a self-inflicted burden.

At this time, David worked for the Associated Press. He was never home. In fact one week, he covered an ATF seige in Northern Arkansas that lasted a week. He did not come home the entire time. There was no break from child-raising drudgery. And I mean the janitorial aspects. Having kids around is delightful. Changing diapers, cooking mac and cheese, doing laundry is drudgery.

Anyway, in the midst of this idyllic time, I had an epiphany. I had just settled on to the couch for a few minutes off my feet when Clark asked for a glass of water. I started to bitch him out for waiting until this moment to ask and thought to myself--it's not about you. He'd much rather be able to do this himself. He can't help it he is two and can't reach the sink. And truly, he didn't get thirsty to bug me.

I can't say that I was never short-tempered with them again, but that moment helped me from them on. It crystalized raising children for me. It was my job to be about them. I could be about me another time.

And now I can't see how it wasn't clear to me sooner. Child raising is about well. . . children. From the moment they come home from the hospital, they call the shots. They decide how often they sleep, when they eat, when they are sick. You are along for the ride. And the sooner you throw out that you can decide, the happier you become. Swimming up stream, fighting the inevitable takes more out of you than going with the flow. You can't make them sleep. You can't make them eat the things you want. This is another little person with opinions. Obviously caving to their every demand is not on. But some things are more about them than you.

Pretty soon, they go off to school all day. They leave. Then, it's all about you.