Playing the banana lottery

I have four guys in my family. Nobody really cooks much, so I try to keep reasonably healthy and easy-to-eat (read: no actual cooks are used in the making of this item) foods around for them. Bananas are on the list.

But my family is funny about bananas. They will love them, devour them, never let them go bad some of the time. I may pick up bananas twice, or even three times in a given week because they are eating so many of them. But sometimes I buy a bunch of bananas and… they sit there. Growing their inevitable brown spots. And I will say brightly to my boys at every new opportunity, "Banana for your cereal, hmm?" or "How about a peanut butter and banana sandwich tonight?" or "Would you like to take a nice banana for your lunch/snack/friend today?"

I am a terrible banana salesperson. They never go for this.

I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that my family has a collective banana toggle switch and it's either on or it's off. There's no place I can check on this switch, either. The only way to know if everyone is "banana on" is to actually purchase some and see. It's exactly like playing the lottery. Insert money, receive bananas. Sorry, you're a big banana loser today. Please buy again!

I used to have a fantasy about making banana bread after losing the banana lottery. I would in complete good faith tuck my bananas into the freezer beside the pot pies, pizza, burritos, and the few other "instant" freezer foods I stock. "Sleep well, little bananas," I would whisper, "I'll be back for you!" Six months later one of the boys would drag them out and shout (because they always shout) for someone (who, do you think?) to throw them out to make room for more pizzas, a science experiment, or even (this is a true story) six Tupperware containers full of rare North Carolina snow.

So now the losing bananas feed our worms. Which, by the way, are now free range worms. Of course I feel guilty, starving children in Haiti and so forth.

But three times in a row now I've brought home bananas and they've all been eaten. I'm on a lucky streak, and I really feel like I can win. I plan to play again.

I got my first boxing trophy

and it's purple. Yesterday it was reddish purple, but it's trending darker today and headed to black, I suppose, then the normal green and yellow. I'm feeling all Fight Club. I've been tilting my chin up and doing show and tell with my "I've been eating uppercuts" bruise for anyone who will listen; I don't know why I'm so proud, but I am. Probably because I blocked more uppercuts than I took on the chin. You gotta let somebody throw 'em before you can learn to block 'em.

This was about my fifth time in the ring, and I'm finally – finally! – beginning to understand a few things. I blocked a significant number of punches, for the first time seeing that you don't have to swat or shove a jab away – which takes too much energy – but simply catch or capture it between your gloves. I'm also learning to keep my right glove higher and my right elbow tucked in to my ribs against Bonnie's wicked double left hook. In fact, several times I defended against that fast and nasty punch and countered with a left jab of my own, and I felt like cheering every time. I did shout and dance a little at the end of the second round. Before she took me to the shed for a serious whuppin.

Here's how my ringtime – during which I earned my trophy, yay! – went.

Anticipating the jabs
My first round I'm feeling great; light on my feet even though I just trained hard for the hour previous. This time I don't even feel the nerves, I'm just ready to get to it. So we go in, she's easy on me, we're both seeing what the other has in store today. After a minute or so I'm suddenly aware that I am anticipating and therefore blocking some of her punches! I stop right in the middle, put my hands on my hips and demand, "Are you 'letting' me see, or can I just… see these coming??" She gives the kind (and possibly truthful) answer that I'm starting to get a feel for being in the ring. I let out a "Hollaaa!" and drop back into my stance, feeling all bouncy and grinning like an idiot. And I eat a few punches 'cause I'm too busy celebrating and not paying attention. My trophy is being constructed. I settle in and she throws a dozen in quick succession and I get better at blocking them. Some of them. These are jabs, though, not her meanest punch. By the final bell I'm pretty full of myself.

From flight to fight, thinking ability returning
The next round I have combos in my head for the first time ever. I'm amazed for the second time in six minutes! Up until now I've been so overwhelmed in the ring that I just can't think. It's been all I could do to… well, to be blunt, to not run away. I know it sounds funny but there it is. You've heard of fight or flight? It's true. And my "flight" siren seems to get tripped far more than my "fight" indicator. So one of my major battles in the ring has been to toggle that switch over to the other side. And today I'm not only blocking punches (and not running away) but I have combos in my head and can throw them! I spend enough time marveling over this minor miracle that I eat more yummy punches. This is gonna be a great trophy when it gets here.

Surviving
The third round is the kicker. Between bells Bonnie waves me over. School is in session, she says, and it's time to Bring It. She tells me to not hold back, to throw what I have, that we're gonna do this thing. I'm breathing hard but still excited. That only lasts for another minute. I don't know it yet, but I'm about to wish I had an oxygen mask and an ice pack. And possibly a bucket to puke in. Trophy time, coming right up!

It's just amazing how hard you can work in three teensy minutes. I mainly remember the sound of her punches, the way the air hisses between her teeth when she gets rolling. I move quickly from attack mode to defend mode to please-God-let-the-bell-ring mode. In boxing there's a warning bell 30 seconds before the round actually ends. It can either be a signal for your final sprint, or it can make you think that if you had enough air you could break into great heaving sobs. You might be able to guess which it is for me. Once, only once, Bonnie gives me an out: "You okay?" she asks, no hint of a grin on her face. "Come on," I tell her, like Rocky to Apollo Creed in the twelfth.

I make it, crawl out of the ring, wrench off my headgear and spit out my mouthguard. The single imperative of my body is to breathe. Oxygen is wonderful. I don't even feel the purple spread of the trophy bruise on my chin.

I can hardly wait to do it again.


The other boxing posts:
I'm Learning to Box
Boxing Update: Curiosity killed the cat
Mike V: 12 blazing seconds on the heavy bag
Getting in Boxing Shape: How many ice packs does one need?

Getting in Boxing Shape: How many ice packs does one need?

I would like to pretend otherwise, but after my first boxing class I hurt so badly I could not sleep soundly for about five nights in succession. I would wake up in tears just trying to roll over in bed. I did that thing where you hook some part of your body that isn't in severe pain (foot? elbow? fingers?) over the edge of the mattress and try to haul the rest of your body into a less agonizing position before falling back into an exhausted half-sleep. And it isn't like I wasn't in reasonable shape, either. I could easily run a 5k and I went to the gym two or three times a week.

I've given birth three times at home with no drugs; it hurt. Getting over my first boxing class was worse.

After the initial shock I began to adjust. I was able to go to one class a week, then two. For the first three months or so I needed an icepack pretty nearly every time I came home. Since I have three boys, we already had one standard-grade icepack in the freezer. It stays cool-ish for about 15 minutes and has soothed many a contusion and more than a few sprains, strains, and black eyes over the years, but I had no idea just how small and inadequate it was until I started boxing.

My local drugstore got me the hookup, though. I gratefully and without whining paid fifteen dollars for a Serious Icepack, the kind that is wretchedly, blissfully, miserably ice-freaking-cold for a good 80 minutes or so; nothing namby-pamby about that bad girl. You can do unanesthetized surgery on yourself after using that thing for a half hour. It has one slick and exposed-to-the glacial-ice side, and one covered-by-fabric but still arctic side, plus a looong industrial-grade four-inch-wide strap with Velcro and a buckle so that you can affix that mother to your dying flesh and still be able to mix a Bloody Mary.

Problem was, the Serious Icepack was frequently a great boon to my shoulder, but my wrist or elbow or knee would still be crying silently in the waiting room, begging to be moved out of triage and into the trauma room where people were paying attention.

So I went back to the drugstore and got a second Serious Icepack.

And truth be told, there were times when I wasn't ashamed to have three ice packs on various parts of my body doing their stop-the-pain routine. But I was actually too much of a weenie to return to the drugstore (although on reflection, I could have gone to a different drugstore) for another ice pack so I just used peas. Peas are great. Not arctic circle great, but still pretty decent little helpers. I kept some at work too. No one notices that you're defrosting dinner on your knee if you roll your chair up close to your desk.

The other boxing posts:
I'm Learning to Box
Boxing Update: Curiosity killed the cat
Mike V: 12 blazing seconds on the heavy bag

Happy Halloween

Halloween Central was at Meme and Papa's house; the First and the Ice handed out candy while the Maker (dressed as an "army guy") trick-or-treated around our block. You can see the Jack carving pics on my Flickr.

The Maker's Pocket Contents

Singing with James Taylor on my lunch break

It doesn't get any better than this. A free concert / Obama rally downtown in Raleigh at Moore Square. It was a gorgeous day, and James Taylor can still deliver. He was funny, engaging, and just as wonderful to listen to today as he was years ago when I first heard him on the radio. He even brought his wife on stage to sing back up with him toward the end.



I was standing about six "rows" back, but pushed forward once to get some close-ups. Wasn't sure how well the shots would turn out with the strong sunshine / shade contrast.



Special thanks to Ginny Skalski for snapping a couple of photos for me (and for shooting this video) from her priviledged spot on the press risers, and thanks to my awesome co-workers Jeff Tippett and Alex Ford for being my James Taylor rally buddies.

Eat Free Every Night

I wasn't terribly surprised by the content of this video. I've known a few people (who were not homeless) who regularly eat the food our country throws away. I've been a part of the system that tries to reclaim some of it by taking it to shelters and even sending it to (yep) pig farms. I can also remember waiting tables as a teenager in high school, and being astonished that the same restaurant where the wait staff was not allowed to get any of the food at a discount (on our loooong 8-10 hour shifts) required us, at the end of the night, to throw out the all-you-can-eat buffet leftovers into the dumpsters and hose down the remains so that no one else could eat it, either.

While it's scary for me to think about eating out of dumpsters, our wasteful practices also concern me. What do you think?

Hat tip to Twitterfriend Jeremy Allen; I originally found this on his blog.

12 seconds is perfect for haiku

Moon Haiku on 12seconds.tv

More Zombies Than Usual

Boxing update: Curiosity killed the cat

Ok, when I first posted about learning to box, I promised to keep you up to date. Those of you who see me regularly in real life (Hi, Mom) have trouble getting me to Shut. Up. about it already. I even convinced one of my instructors to let me film him for 12seconds.tv (he's a machine).

Up until now I've been working on a heavy bag, the focus mitts (a little) and that's about it. So yesterday I stepped in to talk to the woman who runs LA Boxing here in Cary, Bonnie "Queen B" Mann, professional boxer for 13 years and world championship title holder -- the first woman from NC to take home the Big Belt. And it IS a Big mamma-jamma Belt. I actually stepped in to talk to Bonnie about coming with me to a networking event for which I was the keynote speaker; I planned to use boxing as an illustration for how to get started with social media (another story for another day).

As we were chatting, I mentioned my intense curiosity about what it would be like to actually get in the ring and throw a punch at a real person.

You know what they say about curiosity and the cat? Now it's on, baby. I'm getting special dispensation to miss church on Sunday (gasp!) in order to show up for her class, after which she's gonna gear up and put me in the ring with her. Understand, now -- Bonnie will not be throwing any punches. I'm supposed to punch her. Never fear, there's no actual chance that she will be injured in any way. Please worry about me, however.

I was fine fine fine on the heavy bag. Fine, I tell you. Aaargh.

It gets worse. Remember the speech about boxing and social media? Well, Bonnie DID come, and she brought the giant belt, too, and I politely introduced her, raved about boxing, told everyone I was having my debut with Bonnie in the ring on Sunday, ha ha, ended my happy little speech, and started Q & A.

And a woman in the back raised her hand and asked if my bout with Bonnie was going to be broadcast on video. I may have reacted somewhat strongly with my "Absolutely not!" because I saw a dozen sneaky grins light up in the room.

People, this is NOT something you want to see. If you've gone out clubbing with me, and a lot of you have (not you, Mom), you know how dorky and ridiculous I look when I dance. It's not like Elaine bad, but it's bad. I'm probably at least that dorky looking when I box.

I hope for your sake that it's not bad enough to be viral.

Why We Don't Have a TV

Four dead people I'd like to meet

4 dead people I'd like to meet on 12seconds.tv

I love 12seconds.tv, and I'll be SO happy when the site is more stable and doesn't crash my browser every time I use it. Of course, it could be user error as well. Nah. Anyway, if you have a webcam or video-enabled smartphone (I so want to jailbreak my iPhone) and, um, twelve seconds, you too can tell the world all kinds of important things. Just not for very long.

GraphJam, how I love thee

more music charts

Ice solves his hair color quandary

You too can vote. But it looks like he's going to go with purple.

Rain walk at Hemlock Bluffs

How long is a moment?

This reads like it was a short conversation, but there were long (5-10 second) pauses between each question and response.

* * *

The Maker: A moment is a space of time.

Dad: How big a space of time?

TM: As big as you want.

D: Is a year a moment?

TM: Yeah. It's possible to be a moment, yeah. Well, a moment is a short thing of time, I think, a short space of time.

D: How short?

TM: At least a minute. Two minutes is probably the maximum of a moment.

D: So a moment can't be longer than two minutes?

TM: Well, I don't know. I'm guessing two minutes is probably the max.

[Pause]

TM [contemplatively]: "A moment is a short period of time."

Math and Jello

The Husband just sent me this fabulous email:

* * *
A couple of weeks ago, The Maker asked me if we could make some Jello. This morning I asked him if he'd rather read or make Jello and he said make Jello, so I said as soon as he cleaned up his breakfast mess and put away all the clean dishes we'd make Jello.

So I have him read the directions on the back (the word gelatin was challenging), and get out all the stuff we need, including the measuring cup, and as he's getting out the measuring cup he asks if he can do all the measuring because he likes to measure stuff, and then he says, seemingly out of nowhere, "I like numbers."

I asked him why he liked numbers and he said, "Cause you can do so many different things with them. You can measure stuff, you can multiply them, you can add and subtract them, you can count with them. Also, they make patterns." I said I liked the patterns that numbers make, too. Then I said numbers can also be used to predict things, and he asked what that meant and before I could tell him my example of a graph that kept going up so you could predict what the next number was going to be, he said, "Oh, I know!" and proceeded to explain how if you were counting by fours, you'd go 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, etc. and then you'd know the next number would be 24.

Then we made the Jello. Actually he made it, I just sat and typed this email.

* * *

Happy sigh.

First Dance

The Ice has just started public school and his first school dance was a week or so ago. In order to get ready, he got his ear pierced, then we had to shop for the perfect shade of green hair dye (Green Grind, by Color Fiend, available at Hot Topic).

When I asked him if he was going to ask a girl to the dance, he sighed and explained his problem. Apparently there are (were -- this was more than a week ago, and things move quickly in middle school land) FIVE girls who like him, and he didn't want to risk offending any of them.

"So what are you gonna do??" I inquired.
"I'm just gonna go by myself and talk to all of them," he told me.
"Okay, but I don't know if that will work. You may be in for a rough day after," I said.

But he seemed willing to take the risk.

And it worked! They all came, they all loved his hair (don't think they noticed his earring), and he talked with each of them. He even danced the Cupid Shuffle, he said, and it went great.

I can't tell you how relieved I feel.

The clarity you gain after a close call

When I hear the thunder I call his name.
I hear something bumping in the garage; the rain comes in sheets.
Opening the front door, I see him in the yard, carefully arranging white metal folding chairs behind a pitching net. Is it raining?

What are you doing? I call.
I'm doing this, he replies.

I stand on the front porch, thinking how green the grass looks, how the rain has flattened it, and I have slipped through a veil. I take everything in and catalog it.
He smiles crookedly: one front tooth.

I'm going to take a shower, I tell him.
Okay, he says, giving me a small nod to add importance to my actions.
I am the stranger here.

* * *

It's been a long time since I wrote a poem.

Last week the Husband had a close call when he was helping with some demolition at the new facility our church is moving into. He was carrying a large mirror out to the trash when it shattered, fell, and sliced his forearm open to the bone. He was high on the triage list, and got into the ER, sewn up (deep sutures for the muscles, "mattress sutures" for the surface, it was awful -- for me, maybe for him too), and was discharged within two hours, a record in our family. Friends helped me with the boys and transportation, and I have said thank you to God and the connected forces of friendship, medical science, and healing a million times this week. When we got home I felt as if the world had suddenly resolved into high definition, crystal clear focus, and it was beautiful. From the cracked pavement to the unmade bed, beautiful.

The next day, Sunday, I woke up to a heavy rain. The Husband and the Ice had already headed out to church and my oldest was still asleep. The Maker, true to his name, was bumping about in the garage, ferrying equipment through the rain and into the front yard for... a construction of sorts. Like everything else, to my renewed senses it seemed incredible. An act from a play on another planet. I turned around and scribbled the poem on a scrap of paper.

A few days later in the week I emailed local artist Ruffin Hobbs who was going to do a commission for our company. Minutes later I received a reply from his wife, who reported briefly and movingly that her husband had suffered a terrible accident and died two weeks previously. I stopped everything to phone my husband, hug my children, and ache for a woman I've never met.

I have appreciated the intense clarity of focus, but even a middling-proximity to the suffering and pain of the world can become excruciating.

Finally! Clarity about BBQ

Just to recap for you:

1. BBQ does not mean cookout.
2. BBQ is not a verb.
3. BBQ is not a grill.

BBQ is meat prepared in a special way, which varies depending on where you go. I feel so much better, having straightened all that out. I'm headed to lunch now.