Want to stay fit? Always start at the beginning

The best time to begin a diet is on a Monday. Who in their right mind would start one on Friday? Hamburgers, pizza, hotdogs, chips and salsa. Friday leads right into a weekend of barbecue, homemade ice cream and root beer floats. Monday is a new beginning, a starting line, a chance to begin afresh. Starting a new diet on a Monday just makes sense.

And if you’re going to start a new diet on a Monday, you might as well start a new exercise plan to go along with it. Walking, pushups, deep-knee bends. It makes no sense to start a new exercise program on a Friday. Friday is the diving board into a relaxing weekend on the couch, watching the game. Any game. Multiple games. Let THEM sweat. It’s the weekend. A time to recharge your batteries. Starting a new diet and exercise program on Monday just makes better sense.

Unless of course you’re running late to work and only have time to tie your shoes and, “I wonder if there is any more of that strawberry streusel left? Yes, there is. A million calories per bite? No time to get all mathematical. I’ll eat it on the way.”

It’s possible to start a new diet and exercise program on Tuesday (the perfect day for second chances when Mondays don’t go quite as planned), but I wouldn’t recommend it. Starting on Tuesday is like lining up to race at the Indianapolis 500, but your car won’t start, and the others have already been around the track at least four times. You might as well pull it into the pits and try again next year.

Tuesday IS a great day to start making plans for a new start. Grocery list — fresh vegetables, fruit, beans are good, skip the chips and soda, eggs can’t hurt, lots of fiber-packed avocados. Exercise plan — morning stretches, lunges, plenty of squats and pushups, might need some new walking shoes and some sweat-wicking workout clothes. Online shopping will deliver it by Friday just in time for Monday. And this time I mean it.

Unless of course something unexpected comes up like your house drops into a sinkhole, and then your neighbors are all up in your yard asking, “So, what did you do this time? I told you not mowing your yard would have consequences. And NOW look at your sad, flabby, out of shape and homeless self. What a shame.”

If you really want to start a diet and exercise program off right, not only should you plan to start it on a Monday, but a Monday that just so happens to also be the first day of the month. Like Monday, June 1, 2026. That’s a double-whammy of good-starting vibes.

Unless of course you’ve already planned a cruise to the Bahamas, then never mind. A cruise is the LAST place you want to instigate a “Nope, I’ve had enough. I’m on a diet. And now I’m off to jog around the ship about 100 times. Want to join me?” plan.

As you can tell, I’ve been giving this too much thought.

But if you really want to start a new diet/exercise journey on the right foot, the triple-whammy of all whammies is to begin the adventure on the first day of a new year, when that first day just so happens to be a Monday. Not because of some New Year’s resolution gimmick that we both know never lasts (The next alignment falls on Monday, Jan. 1, 2029, which gives us plenty of time to procrastinate), but because we truly care for our health and fitness.

Finding McVitie's Digestives

I celebrated the day I found McVitie's Digestives in our local Walmart store. I bought several boxes. Took a photo of them and texted them to my wife (hoping she wouldn't happy cry in front of her coworkers). Made a second pot of coffee the moment she got home. We dunked and ate them like we did in our younger days. And we wished we were back in England where McVitie's are just part of the culture.

I've been to Walmart a couple of times since, and the McVitie's spot has been consistently deserted. Maybe others are remembering their younger days, too.

As they should.

Aunt Edna would be a MUCH better president

Does the United States really need a president in the form and fashion that we currently employ? Why not turn it into an honorary position? A figurehead who welcomes visitors to the White House, throws out the first baseball, starts the Indianapolis 500, is a rescue animal spokesperson?

Anybody could be a president like that. Willie Nelson. Serena Williams. One of our local school bus drivers. They’d hold the office for a year, live in the White House, fly on Air Force One, represent Truth, Justice and The American Way, and at the end of the year, pass the torch to the next President.

Age wouldn’t matter. Political party wouldn’t matter. Sexual orientation wouldn’t matter. Religion wouldn’t matter. The only things that would matter would be having a winning smile, a firm handshake, and a cheery disposition. You wouldn’t have to be practically perfect in every way, but knowing how to fly fish would get you close. 

Shouldn’t a President know how to parallel park a dually and plant a vegetable garden? I’d like to see one in office who can ride a motorcycle and has a Hot Wheels collection. Being a pet owner is pert near a prerequisite. If you can juggle or ride a unicycle, you’d be a shoo-in.

Sure, there’d be no “real” power in the position, but is that such a bad thing? Being the one person who can skirt the checks and balances of a system and push a button to turn the whole world upside down may have its advocates, but is that what our world — as Carl Sagan described it: A little planet circling an insignificant star in the obscure outskirts of an ordinary galaxy which contains 400 billion other stars, a galaxy which is just one of 100 billion galaxies that make up the universe — is that what our world really needs? 

I want to see Grandpa from Des Moines sitting by the fireplace, reading the Sunday comics to the nation. I want to see Aunt Edna from El Paso teaching the young how to change the oil in their own cars. I want to see Uncle Harry from Portland discussing the finer points of bird watching. I want to see Cousin Frank from Albuquerque singing along to a Bad Bunny song. 

Let the directly-elected people who have dedicated their careers to serving others take care of the country. Let them worry about carrying the nuclear football, passing bills, taxing, spending, engaging in diplomacy to maintain good relationships with our neighbors and allies. A President needs to be free to attend state dinners, ring the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange, make surprise visits to food pantries just to help out, kiss babies (but not in a creepy way), represent charities that are near and dear to their heart. 

I think you’d make a great President. Sure, you’ve got issues and quirks and insecurities you’d rather not admit, but that’s what is so endearing about you. You’re just like the rest of us. You’re not some gazillionaire who doesn’t have a clue what the rest of us go through just to survive.

You know that an oath to the Constitution is worth fighting for. You know your word is your bond. You know how to be kind to others and forgive their mistakes. You respect that we are all fellow travelers, and that none of us are better or worse than anybody else. Yep. You’d make a great President. I’d vote for you. So, how about it?

The Repentant Rump

I had this great idea. I'd start a social media tornado in the form of What Would Our President Sound Like If He Was Sorry In Any Way About Anything? I'd call it:

The Repentant Rump

I'd post examples of him being sorry about stuff. It would gather a great following. I'd be on talk shows. Write a book. Become Enemy No. One to "you know who." And my life would change for the better.

Here are some examples:

"Forgive me Father, for I don't sin."

"It makes me sad to know that everywhere I am not, there lies a Shithole."

"I gladly bare the weight of Winning, so you don't have to."

"I should eat more Humble Pie, but I'm saving that all for you. You're welcome."

"I always turn a Blind Eye to ugly people because they make me sick."

"Asking for forgiveness sets you free to do it all over again."

"I apologize from the top few inches of my heart."

In the end, I decided I just didn't want to waste my time on an endeavor that would keep me constantly thinking of "you know who." 

I'd much rather spend my time watching the birds and foxes and squirrels who come to my yard for a friendly visit. 

And I'm not sorry about that at all.

It's Just Onions -- a sonnet

"Something smells good. What you cooking tonight?"

It's just onions, I rascally reply.

"Can't be just onions. That doesn't seem right."

Nope. Just onions. Do you think I would lie?

"Let me see. Hmmmm. Onions. Just like you said.

Will you add anything else to the pot?

Maybe potatoes or chicken in shreds?

Don't say those onions are all that we got."

Well, I might add some garlic, cumin, thyme.

Maybe ground turkey. I think that sounds nice.

Simmered in sauce 'til the brew tastes divine.

Spoon it on top of a big bowl of rice.

So, when you ask what's under construction,

I don't know, but it starts off just onions.

The life of a trill-seeker

You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve tried to figure out how to flutter my tongue to produce a perfectly luscious Spanish rolled R. Years and years. Years of doing tongue pushups and jumping jacks inside my mouth; years of making sounds like air leaking from a car tire, which causes concern to any passengers; years of blowing air across, over, under and around my tongue in more ways than you can imagine just to produce a perfectly luscious Rrrrrrroberto or “Mi casa es rrrrrrrrrroja.”

To this date, nothing has worked.

I had to stop making leaky tire noises while I was driving because I was blowing so much air out of my lungs that it was making me light-headed. I hate to even imagine the excuse I’d have to give the police officer who showed up at a possible accident scene: “Officer, I was trying to figure out how to say “Rapido corren los carros, cargados de azucar del ferrocarrill” with perfectly luscious Spanish Rs — and I passed out.”

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Step out of the car, sir.”

Whenever I tell people I can see okay without my glasses, the first thing they say is, “Okay, so how many fingers am I holding up?” Whenever I tell people I’m colorblind, the first thing they ask me is, “What color is my shirt?” Whenever I tell people I can’t roll my Rs, the first thing they do is demonstrate that they can, with long luscious motorboat-sounding Rs with enough fuel in them to meander around the lake all day looking for a good fishing spot, leaving me on the shore without bait or a fishing pole.

Many years ago, in a fit of desperation, I offered $25 to anyone who could teach me how to make a perfectly luscious Spanish R. Many rolled the dice, but all came up snake eyes, or worse. They all were kind-hearted, but saying things like, “Oh, it’s so easy. Listen to me doing it, and then you do it.” Or “Watch my tongue. Now make yours do that.” Or “Have you ever thought about taking up crotchet?” — None of that helped one bit. And now I’m up to $125 for a perfectly taught luscious Spanish R.

I’ve watched dozens of Insta-Tube-O-Gram videos on the subject. Some have furthered my understanding about the mechanics of trilling an R. Some have furthered my understanding that mechanics is not my thing. I’ve even seen diagrams and X-ray movies on the Who, What, When and Where. But the How? I still haven’t a clue.

(I saw a video where the “instructor” was advocating using the eraser end of a pencil to jiggle your tongue while you blew air over it in the hopes of giving it a kickstart — I kid you not. Jiggle it fast enough, and you’ll have success. She wasn’t a Spanish speaker. She was Croatian. I should have known better. Still, I tried it. I was that desperate.)

Often, after a few days of frantically trying to get my tongue to flap in the wind, I give up and give French Rs a go. I can make gargling sounds all day long. Often, after a few days of pointlessly trying to make a French R fit into a Spanish sentence, I give up on Spanish and French and try my hand at German. Often, after a few days of not sounding German at all — not even close — I give up and bark at the dog for awhile. By the looks she gives me, I may be fluent.

It's Dinner Time

 

I squeak, therefore I am

Is there anything to be done with a squeaky pair of running shoes? Obviously not, or I would have found it. They’re not completely squeaky. Just one. The left. And not just a whisper of a squeak. A terrified mouse squeak. Such a terrified mouse squeak that when I walk through a crowded room, people start talking about what kind of mouse traps are best to invest in.

I had a dream way back in 2015 to run a triathlon. A triathlon is a three-part race of swimming, bicycling and running. My swimming ability was slightly better than a dog’s, my bicycle had more rust than wear on it, and the last time I ran anywhere, Uncle Sam was making me do it. So, I took some swimming lessons, greased up my bicycle, and bought a new pair of running shoes.

Good running shoes are expensive. My first pair didn’t squeak at all. If they had, I would have asked for a refund. “First pair” because you can’t have only one pair when you’re starting a running adventure. I’d never owned two pairs of running shoes at the same time in my whole life. I was determined to triathlon my best. The third pair started to squeak about six months after I bought them. Just the left shoe. Terrified mouse squeak.

If I was a running shoe manufacturer and wanted to make sure of a steady stream of income, I’d design my shoes to squeak after a specific amount of mileage, annoying the runner to the point of ditching the old for some new. Squeaky shoes would be like squealing brakes that warn of end of brake life, and if you don’t have them replaced soon, you’ll have nothing but trouble and strife. Keep the old pair for mowing the yard or gardening. That’s what I was thinking.

But then I bought the fourth pair of running shoes, just to walk around in. They started squeaking, too, and not after high mileage. Just the left shoe. Probably out of spite. Very little wear and tear. No stuck pebbles between the treads. Terrified mouse squeak. I only wear them now when I forget not to wear them.

No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t come up with an explanation for why only my left shoes are squeaking. You, on the other hand, probably came up with a perfectly plausible postulation post haste.

“It has nothing to do with his left shoes, expensive or not.”

“Obviously.”

“Are we thinking on the same wavelength?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“The problem is not with his left shoes. It’s with…”

“His left foot. He has a squeaky left foot.”

Sorry. It’s not my left foot. That would be just plain silly. I can walk around barefoot all day with nary a squeak, shriek, squeal, or screech. Unless I step on a rock, of course. But that’s different.

No, I think all that squeaking is a reminder that it’s okay to have a squeaky wheel whenever the universe deems it necessary. It’s okay to make a little bit of noise. To speak out. To transform your every-day Clark Kent persona into the fighting-for-truth-and-justice Superman. If only for a moment. To not would be pert near Lex Luther-ish.

Last year, I bought another pair of running shoes. High quality. Different brand. I don’t run in them. I use them as my daily go-to-Walmart shoes. At first, not a squeak. But recently they’ve been screeching like a pack of rats trying to steal the Feta right out of my fridge. 

Looks like it’s time to dust off my cape.

Red Foxes in East Texas

Being born and raised in the suburbs of Dallas, "wildlife" mainly consisted of birds, squirrels, lizards and an occasional hawk when we visited the grandparents out in the country. Raccoons were a treat to see whenever we went camping, but mostly we had to infer their presence by the wreckage they left behind while trying to get to the food.

Now that we live in the country, we have "real" wildlife. And none to me are more attractive to watch than the fox.

We've been seeing foxes off and on for about 10 years. This year, Mom and Dad and six kits have taken up residence. If I believed that each person has an animal spirit guide, I'd want mine to be the fox.

These are a few photos I took of them recently.

A little more conversation, a little less action, please

“So, how do you think this is going to end?”

“Haven’t a clue. I’m not even sure how it began. Do you know?”

“It started a long time ago, I think. Long before we were born.”

“That long? Sounds like it might continue long after we’re dead and buried.”

“Depressing to think of, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“But it can’t last forever, can it? Everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?”

“I know those chili dogs I ate last night – I’m going to feel the effects of THEM forever.”

“Maybe you should’ve stopped at three. But I guess you learn something new…”

“Every single day. And yes. Everything comes to an end. Eventually.”

“But I guess if people really do learn from the past, then you’ll stop at two chili dogs next time. Maybe?”

“Knowing me, I’ll probably dive right in again, thinking this time will be different. That is, until I’m in the thick of it and remember, oh yeah, this was a bad idea. Just like last time.”

“So, I’m guessing that’s how we got in this mess again? Someone thought it’d be different this time?”

The two were silent for a moment, drinking their coffees and watching people as they walked past the coffee shop. Everybody walking. Nobody running for shelter.

“It’s funny how words change over time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take the word ‘bad.’ It used to mean not good. And then it meant really good. And now some other word means really good. Not sure what. But the meaning of words can change.”

“I guess. So what’s your point?”

“‘Obliteration.’ It used to mean the total annihilation of something. Destroyed in such a way that there’s no way you could pick up the pieces and put them back together again. If Humpty Dumpty had been obliterated, he’d be completely scrambled. No need for the king’s horses and men.”

“And your point?”

“If obliteration meant obliteration, then none of this should’ve ever begun. So I’m guessing the meaning has changed. Maybe now it’s just trash talk. Like if Conor McGregor ever said ‘I’m going to obliterate you.’ He really can’t. He can hurt you a lot. But at the end of the fight, you’re still going home in one piece.”

“Conor McGregor. Haven’t heard that name in a while. Is he still fighting?”

The waiter came by their table and asked if they needed anything else. “Just the check, please.” No slice of homemade apple pie? “Well, okay.”

“Just for a moment, imagine what it would be like if we were over there, sitting at a cafe drinking coffee, eating apple pie, minding our own business, then all of a sudden — WHAM!”

“WHAM?”

“Yes. WHAM!”

“It would be horrifying.”

“And now imagine what it would be like if it happened right here where we’re sitting.”

The waiter came back with the apple pie and the check.

“It really needs to stop. All that WHAMMING. There are other ways to solve our problems than to WHAM everybody, isn’t there?”

“If there isn’t, there’s no telling when this will ever end.”

Hanging on the wall across from where the two friends sat was a framed version of a John Donne poem: “No man is an island entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less; as well as if a promontory were. — Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”