While I could easily cultivate a taste for Parmigiani watches and Mont Blanc pens (truth be told, I prefer Pelikans), I, like most folks, live a hamburger existence. Based on the nightmares I had last night, however, my body chemistry has changed enough I don’t need to actually eat a hamburger before bedtime.

I guess the kicker was the one in which Whoopi Goldberg and I were taking care of R. in my buddy Mark’s old house in the Little Town. Two complete strangers, a man and his wife, walked in from the hall and the guy started immediately making out with R. I ran the guy out, only to see that he’d parked an enormous bus on the lawn and was unloading a tent and barbecue stuff to spend the night. (I think there was a chorus line of naked dancers involved in this camp-out as well, but thankfully my memory is dimming.) Incensed, I called the police and told them the whole story. An arrest ensued and much colorful commentary from Whoopi.

That’s when I woke up.

There were three equally Cecil B. DeMille-esque dreams that preceded this one and all were just as wild and improbable. The first one was so disturbing I woke up in a cold sweat, but now I have no recollection of the details. I blame it all on Sonic.

R.’s been pretty down this week and the blood pressure pill incident didn’t help. By way of an apology, I took her to Sonic last night. Although I ate a cheeseburger, I took vegetable chips in lieu of fries and only filched a couple of small onion rings. I never join her for ice cream from Marble Slab afterwards since the stuff hurts my teeth. Instead I opted for several spoonfuls of Light & Fit vanilla yogurt when we got home. (I’ve always been a pudding freak, so it works for me.)

Somewhere at the junction of cheeseburger, baked jicama, and deep fat fried onions, my subconscious obviously started tripping. I’m almost as tired this morning as I was last night and am knocking off my morning ride in two parts after just 40 minutes on the bike after I got up. Beyond the work-related stuff on the laptop, my big plans for the afternoon involve washing the patio door to facilitate photography at the All You Can Eat Critter Bar. The feeders are starting to attract little perching birds I can’t identify without an image from which to work and I’m dying to get a mid-air shot of the Alien Squirrel flinging himself at the hanging feeder.

Thanks to the blood pressure pill incident, I have no need to vacuum today, just must wrestle with some laundry and run to PetsMart for more cat litter. All and all, a normal Saturday and so far, at least, there are no vagrant barbecuers or naked chorus lines in the driveway, which I’m taking as a good sign.

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My mornings tend to follow a predictable routine:

- I get up and make the bed with Mike’s “help.” (I straighten the covers, he attacks same.)

- I feed Dorey and Andy who are standing on first one paw and then the other waiting for me to get the can open.

- I do about 15 minutes worth of warm-up with weights or resistance bands.

- I ride the Bicycle Going Nowhere for an hour minimum.

- I make coffee and turn on the laptop.

- I delete all the “Phentermine without a prescription” emails.

- I write my first article of the day for filthy lucre while drinking my first cup of Joe.

Somewhere in all of this I’ll walk to the patio door and watch a bit of the morning activity at the All You Can Eat Critter Bar. Twice now — once while on the phone with Dr. Susan Wednesday and again this morning, I’ve seen one of the squirrels do something that convinces me the little bushy-tailed devils are the vanguard of an alien invasion.

Okay, let’s set the scene here. There are two tray feeders on the patio itself at ground level that I keep filled with a 5 lb. mix of corn, peanuts in the shell, and sunflower seeds. There is a 12-perch hanging feeder filled with assorted nuts and dried fruits, and just a couple of days ago I added a suet feeder for the little perching birds.

All the squirrels have to do is walk up and eat corn. Heck, one of them stretches out on his belly in the corn and eats propped up on his elbows. But this one guy, this Flying Wallenda of the rodent world, just has to get to that hanging feeder. So what does he do?

He climbs up a slick steel post, uses the “L” bracket from which the suet feeder is hanging as a staging area, and flings himself across about 5 feet of open air, grabbing the feeder and holding on for dear life as it swings wildly to and fro from the impact of his weight.

I want to be mad at him. I know I should rap on the patio door and make him go elsewhere. But damn it, the look on that little beast’s face, the gleam in his eye right before he takes off . . . he’s having fun. And who the heck am I to deny a squirrel his fun?

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Yesterday my personal morning started with an invigorating ride on the bike, while the work day involved research on plasma mount options for work. I was doing my best to get things ticked off the “to do” list because R. was having a manicure/pedicure in the afternoon and I knew that would eat up the rest of my productive day. Of course, when you try to housebreak a schedule, it pees all over the place, which is exactly what my ill-behaved personal calendar did.

After fielding an ill-timed phone call from one of R.’s friends, I finally managed to shower and get three necessary errands run. R. stayed in bed until 2 and to my great relief, Dr. Susan called wanting to drop by with books. For most people a mani/pedi appointment is a relaxing thing, but not so for R. She has trouble keeping the damaged nerves in her left side from jumping. She thinks our sassy manicurist J. finds her difficult, which is ridiculous. J. completely understands about stroke damage as she tends to many elderly clients in their homes. Having Dr. Susan here would, I hoped, distract R. and make things go more smoothly.

Since I often describe J. as a small, ravening beast who will rummage through the cabinets when hungry — and Dr. Susan isn’t far behind — I had already planned to have snacks out. Everything progressed just fine until R. moved her foot and got it caught in the electric bath. She wasn’t hurt, but she absolutely freaked as only R. can freak. Thankfully, everyone chimed in to get her calmed down and distracted and J. was able to finish her work. Plus, Dr. Susan lingered a bit after J. left, which further calmed R.

By the time the evening news was over, R. was ready to lie down. She wanted a Rueben for supper, so I went to Central Market to retrieve one and to get beautiful portabello mushroom caps to grill for my supper. Everything was rocking along just fine until 9 when I walked out of the room to call in a prescription refill for R. She was supposed to take three pills, one of which was for blood pressure. When I returned, she was in a full-blown panic, swearing she had dropped that specific pill.

What ensued was a two-hour search for this pill, which included a call to our patient vet to determine just how dangerous it might be to the cats. (Long story short, dangerous.) I failed completely in keeping my temper. I was still exhausted and had *so* wanted to be in bed asleep by 9. This morning, I’m ashamed of myself, but last night my nerves just snapped.

I wound up shutting the cats up in my bedroom, putting a nearly hysterical R. to bed, and moving every piece of furniture out of the kitchen, sweeping, getting on my hands and knees and inspecting every nook and cranny, shaking out all the cushions and pillows — and finding nothing. That was hour one.

R., still hysterical, was adamant that she dropped the pill and distraught at the thought of danger to the cats. I had passed grumpy by this time and was just plain pissed.

Hour two was taken up by my vacuuming that entire end of the house and crawling every inch of the path from the kitchen to her bathroom and back to the bed with a flashlight looking for this mythical pill. Bottom line, I don’t think she dropped it. And if she did, it evaporated.

Although it’s thrown me horribly off schedule, I simply could not drag my butt out of bed until 7. All the cats are fine, that corner of the kitchen is ridiculously clean, and I figure I burned at minimum 500 extra calories.

I’m trying real hard to look on the bright side here — and of course, the fact that the cats are fine is the brightest of the bright.

But all I’m saying is this . . .

I better be in bed asleep at 9 o’clock tonight.

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If I had been ordering advertising pens yesterday the catch phrase would have been, “Sanity is over-rated.”

It was one of those “catch up with business” days, set against the backdrop of one of R.’s little old lady moods, a factor that came into play around 7:30 and stayed in play until midnight last night.

Beyond my usual work-a-day assignments, I had to straighten out the bills for the homeowners’ association. Since Crazy C. moved out, the new tenants pay two months at a time (and always forget), which throws my bookkeeping into considerable disarray. Add to that a ridiculous pool-related bill, and we are moderately close to being out of money. I was, frankly, doing some robbing Peter to pay Paul paperwork.

Another Crazy C. related factor is that mail delivery has changed over there. We’ve always had an issue with some of our mail winding up at her place, but this time it was not only delivered to the wrong place, but also forwarded. I missed our water bill and the one for the association, leading to begging the water company not to turn anything off. I also missed the notification that a bank with which we deal had been acquired by another entity.

It’s what I call a maintenance account. R.’s Social Security goes in, recurring expenses like mortgage payments and insurance comes out. A small deposit is made to the account each month from her brokerage. Something didn’t get updated with them, the deposit didn’t happen, and suddenly I had an overdraft with a bank with which I didn’t even think we had an account.

It’s taken ten days to get all that straightened out, copies of my power of attorney to the right folks, new routing numbers plugged into the system, and Internet access to the account for me established so I can watch it more closely. It would be difficult for me to describe how much I hate those kind of screw-ups. At least the young banker with whom I dealt was pleasant, but still, that kind of thing sets my teeth on edge.

Basically I’m in “struggling to keep up” mode right now and being incredibly hindered by R.’s fragile psyche. Last night I was so tired I couldn’t breathe. She knows I need to be in bed by 9 with the hours I keep now, but insisted on sitting up in the kitchen through the news. I have to sit with her because she can’t get out of the chair by herself or do the things she needs to do to get ready for bed without help.

Although she would deny it, and I suspect she is not even aware that she does it, if she knows I’m desperate to get to bed, she will manufacture crises with which I must deal to keep me up. Last night it went on until midnight, at which point I was almost in exhausted tears.

Oddly enough, these are the times when I have discovered it is most crucial for me to keep up with my workouts or the stress really does overwhelm me. As is, I know that as a result of being stressed out, I’ve procrastinated on some matters of housekeeping that will bite me in the ass with R. if I don’t get to them soon. She cannot seem to grasp how many hats I’m wearing and gets downright insulting in her Donna Reed-esque disdain for my perceived lack of “domestic” abilities.

Much of the material I’ve been reading lately talks about life sending you the things from which you need to learn. Note to self: In old age, try to skip self absorption. It won’t win you the Miss Congeniality crown.

Sigh.

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As of this moment in my ongoing quest to knock of 10,000 Bicycle Going Nowhere (BgN) miles in a year I’m at 2674.9 miles. Over the weekend, the original BgN went to live with MissMeliss because, in true geek fashion, we are undertaking a virtual ride together and in the company of the Wookie, and hopefully Mrs. Wookie.

Our destination? Middle Earth, retracing the steps of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

We are calling ourselves The Fellowship of the Wheel.

Yes people. This is how geeks exercise.

Credit goes to MissMeliss for the idea, taking inspiration from the Eowyn Challenge. The first leg of our journey will cover the 458 miles from Bag End to Rivendell.

In order to do some light role-playing and actually enjoy the fellowship of the ride, we’re keeping a joint blog here. You’re all welcome to keep up with our travels and to comment at will.

I think I can speak for the other members of the Fellowship when I say that knowing that many of you are also attempting lifestyle changes in regard to fitness and exercise, if you would like to ride with us, you’re welcome. (Email me at rana at ranablog.com.) Any activity that knocks off measurable miles will work and we realize everyone will have a different pace, which is why in my posts I’ve already established that this Middle Earth has the Internet and no matter where you are, there’s always a connection. Through the Fellowship blog, we’ll all stay in touch on the journey to encourage and cajole one another to keep pedaling.

Any activity with role playing quickly takes on a life of its own and I think this is going to be great fun. So whether you’re reading along with us or riding with us, the Fellowship of the Wheel has begun.

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While we aren’t going to be signing up for any luxury vacations, welcome interludes can often be as simple as sharing a meal and after dinner coffee with good friends who are easy and flexible. We were so gifted last evening when Fuzzy and MissMeliss drove over and went out to dinner with me and R.

As usual R. showed reluctance to have company and to go out of the house, but the fact that we were planning to dine at her favorite Mediterranean restaurant, Hedary’s, was the trump card in our favor. (That and the fact that she regards Fuzzy as one of a collection of her young prince charmings, a cadre headed by the Prince Charming in Chief The Wookie.)

We arrived just as the eatery opened for business. Our food arrived quickly and was, as always, first rate. R. and I shared the Maza, a collection of small samples of various dishes on the menu and all the pita bread you can eat. And eat she did, continuing to nibble on this and that long after the rest of us were finished.

On our last Sonic outing R. had expressed interested in the Eurotazza coffee house, so when it was apparent she was having a very good evening, I suggest we walk up to the corner and give it a try. We were pleased to find a warm, inviting independent espresso joint with tasty goodies in the counter and big, generous drinks. After some shifting around and thanks to Fuzzy’s sharp eye, we finally settled at a table that worked with the wheelchair.

MissMeliss had coconut cake, to the horror of her husband and yours truly, and R. munched on an oatmeal raisin cookie that was almost as big as the plate on which it was served. My hot chocolate (which had a much fancier European name), was just this side of decadent. We spent a pleasant hour talking and sending text messages to the Wookies who are on the road back to Texas from a Colarado vacation. And then, as is her wont, R. announced, “I’m ready to go home now.”

We’re all used to such declarations from her and made our exit, pausing in the parking lot to photograph a “Republicans for Voldemort” bumper sticker. (R. didn’t get it.) She was tiring rapidly, so I ambled us home the long way giving her time to recover before she had to get out of the van. She insisted on coming to the kitchen while Fuzzy and I loaded the Original Bicycle Going Nowhere in their car. It’s going to live at their house now and serve as MissMeliss’ steed on a little virtual ride we’ll be taking. (Stay tuned for details on that.)

Finally, when R. really began rambling and repeating herself, I took her back to her room and got her settled. Our friends went on their way not long after and I’m pretty sure I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Outings with R., even the most successful ones, wear me out but it was an excellent evening and I feel safe in saying, “A good time was had by all.”

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I haven’t yet purchased a copy of The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, although I have watched the YouTube video of the original lecture and seen Pausch interviewed several times. If you do not know his story, the former Carnegie-Mellon professor is dying of pancreatic cancer. He will leave behind a wife and three small children.

And he’s doing it his way, with a spirit and a focus on squeezing the most out of every day that is humbling to those of us who presume to complain from time to time. During an interview with Diane Sawyer, Pausch revealed that what his wife whispered in his ear at the end of his now famous lecture was, “Don’t die.” He can’t give her that, but he’s doing his best to give her everything else.

On his webside (randypausch.com, which also contains a link to the video) the man is actually posting box scores of his cancer markers on the update page and refers light-heartedly to “scoring the game.” He was diagnosed in September 2006. In August 2007 after major surgeries and experimental chemotherapy, doctors told him the disease had spread to his liver and spleen. At the time they estimated he had three to six months of good health left. That was eight months ago and all things considered, and in spite of major crises like congestive heart failure, the man is going amazingly strong. No one should underestimate the life-sustaining power of love.

One of the things that has stuck in my mind from the lecture, of which the book is an extrapolation, is this bit of advice: if your kids want to color on the walls, let them. (Both lecture and book were written for his children, a lesson in living a creative, spontaneous life from a father who would otherwise become but a distant memory to them.) As someone who has always struggled to be more spontaneous and less habit-bound and perhaps even a tad bit doctrinaire, the idea is on the one hand horrific — color on the walls indeed! — and appealing.

Like the book “Tuesdays with Morrie,” which had a profound effect on me, first in a sense of gratitude to three highly influential teachers in my life and then in my decision to become R.’s caregiver, I know “The Last Lecture” belongs physically on my bookshelves and spiritually in my heart. A friend and I recently laughed at how many times a day we each tell the loved ones in our care, “It is, what it is.” But, as I continue to learn every day (and have yet to perfect) the important thing is to make the “is” all it can be.

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Let’s face it. Having to call the plumber is more or less the psoriasis treatment of home ownership. It is at least helpful that our plumber’s pants are well belted and even though his rates are higher than the proverbial cat’s back, he comes when I call, does it right the first time, and if possible gives me solid information on how to avoid the problem next time. I can also indulge the dame and/or broad side of my personality with George, who, if truth be told, has a bit of a crush on me.

A few weeks ago when I had to have a necklace chain repaired, I ran into George at the jewelers. Several years back George divested himself of a nagging wife, shed 50 lbs, and had by-pass surgery. Never did divorce and lifestyle change sit so well with a man. He rents a garage apartment near the university, does his moderate drinking in a little neighborhood bar on the adjoining traffic circle, and has acquired a girlfriend. Hence the visit to the jewelers.

As I was coming out of the store, I heard his deep bass greeting. He lumbered out of his big Dodge Ram pick-up to give me a hug and actually lifted my feet a few inches off the ground. That’s no minor challenge. I stand 5′11″ tall in my stocking feet.

Yesterday as he merrily destroyed any pretense of organization under the kitchen sink and snaked out the clogged drain, we chatted profanely about the goings on at the fundamentalist Mormon sect in Eldorado, which is not too far from the Little Town. Men of George’s age and turn of mind have clear-cut answers to suggestions of pedophilia. They involve ropes, slow work with pocket knives, and a finishing blow from the business end of a 30/30.

You may think I’m kidding, but I well remember standing at the counter of our business with Papa one afternoon watching a phalanx of Texas Rangers escort an indicted child abuser down the steps of the county courthouse across the street. The man wore a bullet proof vest and cast nervous glances left and right as he hurried to the waiting DPS cruiser. My own father, a man whom I assure you was quite capable of committing cold blooded murder on behalf of his daughters, observed the ease with which he could have picked the offender off with an open sight rifle.

It’s Texas people. We are not far from our frontier heritage nor a sense of frontier justice. I confess to something of a hanging judge mentality myself for given offenses. As I’ve said repeatedly since this business in Eldorado came up, I have no interest in being the bedroom police. I do not give a tinker’s damn what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedroom. Bring children into the mix, however, and it’s a different matter altogether. Needless to say my conversation with George would not have won either of us entree into any liberal circle.

As he was leaving I promised to be better about putting the baking soda and boiling vinegar down the drain to prevent grease build-up. (It does work. This is our first clog in three years. And I’ve been lax about the maintenance.)

George stopped at the door, looked me right in the eye, and said, “You’re a very good girl. In fact, you’re perfect.” He didn’t say, “And I wish I were 20 years younger,” but the sentiment hung in the air.

I grinned and said, “George, there are plenty of people who would dispute that fact.”

“Lotta dumb bastards in this world,” he growled, a slight flush of embarrassment on his swarthy face. He hurriedly gathered up his tools and marched to his truck. I followed him to shake his hand, a gesture he was having none of. The little old ladies can just talk about me giving the plumber a bear hug in the drive way because honestly, it’s good for a girl’s ego.

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Click thumb for larger image.

For all the photos from the afternoon, click here.

Dr. Susan, R. and I had a wonderful time at the Botanic Gardens this afternoon. It was a beautiful day, windy, but perfect for our outing. I thoroughly enjoyed the elevated nature walk and can see myself stealing down there sometimes when I need to take a mental break. I’m a deck and tree house kind of gal and this fits the bill on both levels.

R. has taken to referring to the good doctor as “my precious girl.” The two of them happily chatted about plants and gardens while I played with the camera. The result? This shot, five years in the making — countless hours chasing tiny green anoles through brush and over rocks. Finally, the coveted throat shot! No need to hold your applause.

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Yesterday afternoon was Big Project Time. The kind of event that has me stringing theater rope and saying, “No feline assistance required.” (That doesn’t work, of course, but it maintains my illusion of control to try anyway.)

You see after my morning ride on the Bicycle Going Nowhere yesterday I had to concede defeat to a condition I’ve been battling for a couple of weeks now. In technical terms it’s called urethral irritation, the bane of women who do long distance bike rides. Essentially you feel like you have a urinary tract infection, but none of the conventional remedies work because there is no infection.

The biggest hurdle to defeating this issue with the original Bicycle Going Nowhere was the fact that the seat on the unit could not be changed out for a woman’s bike seat. After doing my research on the kind of upright bike I would have wanted, with the quality of the ride computer being a big factor, and adding to that the price of a high end woman’s bike seat, I was within $50 of the price of a Schwinn Recumbent.

So yesterday a Schwinn 226 came home with me and I spent the afternoon putting it together. (Fortunately I was able to wrangle a six-month, no-interest, pay off period.) As I told Miss Meliss, I’m going to call it Ricky Recumbent as visions of tight little Cuban backsides dance in my head. (Recumbents work the gluts more than regular bikes.) Her retort was to ask if it would give me a cigar afterwards and ask if it was good for me. What can I say? Women with pink hair tend to be wise asses.

To say that I am already in love with this thing is an understatement. It is much more comfortable. (Said irritation has already almost disappeared.) I can definitely feel the burn in far different muscles than the ones I’ve been using on the upright. The ride computer has 16 resistance levels controlling a weighted flywheel as well as challenging and realistic workout programs. The heart monitor built into the handlebars is spot on accurate with my Polar chest unit, and . . . drum roll please . . . there’s a book holder!

All along I’ve promised myself a really good exercise bike when I was confident I’d stay in “lifestyle change” mode. I had every intention of waiting longer into my biking year to get that reward, but after 4 months and almost 2,500 miles on the upright, saddle sores did me in. For the past ten days my inability to workout at the level to which I’ve become accustomed was driving me nuts and I was shocked at how easily I lost my patience and let frustration take over. I have truly come to rely on those friendly little endorphins to keep stress at bay.

So, I’m back in the saddle, back on track, and feeling completely re-energized about the whole process. And after I put the bike together, I had one bolt left, so I must have done it right.

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