Pounding Away

Blogpost February 2019

Dear family, friends and frenemies,

I started this blogpost in December, but I never got around to finishing it.  My youngest daughter keeps nagging me to write a blog, so here goes.

The whole family was here for Thanksgiving.  Despite their best efforts to ignore me  or excuse themselves, I managed to convince (I just noticed that the word “con” is in that word..) my son-in-law Cody and  my son Tim to  clean out the attic.  Their objections?  Why doesn’t my husband do this? Where is he ? Actually, he was at Starbucks reading a book, but I just acted like I didn’t know where he was.  I have allergies. ( Guess what?  So do I.  And I’m old, too.  )It’s time for us to head home .  (Are you telling me that after all I just fed you, can’t take thirty minutes to clean out the attic?  Surely, you can’t be serious.)  Molly tells me you need me in the attic. (Yes, that’s correct.  Get yourself up there.) One needs to be firm and authoritative or infirm and whiny.  I can go either way.    Just ask them, tell them, or shame them.  Do whatever it takes.   So, what was up there?  Treasures that Antiques Road Show could only dream of?  Long-lost family heirlooms?   No such luck.  It was mostly boxes from bygone VCR’s, Dell computers, TV’s, and even a karaoke machine.  Guess I never had to send any of them back to the manufacturer. There was also a crib and a playpen that, evidently, no modern child could safely spend one minute in without profound physical or psychological harm befalling him.   So, after they unceremoniously tossed a few dozen boxes into the garage, they made excuses before I could think up any other chores for strapping young men, and they hightailed it out of town.   My thoughts?  Next year:  the basement.  Year after that : the garage. Then  he boxes of photos. Do you think anyone will come back for the holidays?  Eventually, I will get my life in order.  I just know it.  My aunt organized her photos in her 90s.  That seems like a good plan to me.

I did have a bit of a “Tizhap”  at our family holiday party.  I was in charge of an activity for the grandkids.  I thought I had the perfect solution.  I had bought  toy “eggs” which look like real fossil eggs.  They were  brown , hard and about twice size of a real egg..  Each came packaged separately with a direction sheet and a little chisel for the kids to chisel the egg and see what was inside.  It could be a butterfly, a prehistoric spider, or some other little plastic creature which was then explained in a brochure.  Well, I got all the grandkids – over twelve of them who ranged in age from three to twelve  - chiseling away in my sister’s  basement.   Did I mention that she had had her carpets cleaned for the party? The kids  were  all having fun, but not making much progress.   There was a huge dust cloud forming over the table from all their chiseling.  I thought, “Wow, I am really getting my money’s worth as this is taking the kids forever and entertaining them.”  I must admit a few of them were getting frustrated.  Then one child – can’t remember which one – began to bang an egg on the table in an attempt to see what was inside.  A few followed suit.  Things were getting out of hand. Something possessed me to lean over and pick up a direction sheet off the floor.   Hmmm .  Seems that the eggs were to be soaked in water for five minutes before being chiseled.  When this came to light, I had to run out and get bowls of water.  Needless to say, the kids didn’t want to wait five more minutes.    What a difference the soaking made.  The eggs became more like mud, they chiseled out their toys in a flash, and Aunt Tizzie had once again outdone herself.   My sister is still muttering  about  the mess that was made in her basement. 

 I got an Amazon Echo for Christmas.  Why someone would think that I need even more access to instant information I’ll never know.  Nonetheless,, Alexa and I have bonded.  However, I do call her Siri once in a while ,and she gets made and ignores me.  The hardest thing so far is trying to teach my husband to stop thanking Alexa.

You might be wondering what’s been happening lately.  Well, I had to take the Walk of Shame this week and rejoin WW, which used to stand for “Weight Watchers”, but doesn’t any more. Like KFC and Dunkin', it’s been rebranded. They don’t want people to think about fried chicken, donuts, or dieting.   Now we attend “workshops," not meetings, and not just to lose weight, but to feel good about ourselves.  Yeah, baby.   Can you tell Oprah is on the board of directors?   Nonetheless, we still can’t eat unlimited numbers of chocolate chip cookies or even the dough.   I’m back to counting points.  Hopefully, I will soon be able to squeeze back into the cute jeans I bought last fall when I was a star pupil.  Luckily, I have clothes in sizes 4-14 in my closet, so usually I can find something.  Excuse me while I drink a sugar-free hot cocoa.  Ok, I’m back.  Wish me luck.

Well, I’ve been sitting here well over an hour, and, like you slackers, I need to get back to doing what we all do best: nothing.  It’s time to measure out two cups of popcorn and exactly five ounces of wine and sit back and enjoy some HTT (happy tube time). 

Eating but not cheating,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Liz/Elizabeth/Grandma/Aunt Tizzie

Having a Grand Time

Blogpost  - Sept 24, 2018

FMM: 62,000 steps

            As I crawled into the chilly waters of Bright Angel Creek fully dressed, I heaved a sigh of relief.  Despite a 105 degree day and a frantic a final hour of searching for cool drinking water (thank you, Linda) while a fellow hiker (ok, it was Bob) carried my backpack, poles, and me as I staggered across the final bridge after nine hours and thirty minutes, I had made it to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.  Yes, indeed.  The only problem was that niggling sign that is posted throughout the the Grand Canyon: “Hiking down is optional.  Hiking up is mandatory.”  But more on that later.

            A little over a year ago, my friend Linda announced at bunco one night that she would like to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back up again.  That seemed like a fun and interesting thing to do as I sipped wine and nibbled hors d’ ouerves in comfortable surroundings .  Sure.  Why not?  I was in.   My husband decided he was, too.   And so began our quest to prove that we weren’t actually old and out of shape.

            We were lucky to get a reservation at Phantom Ranch, the only lodging available at the bottom of the canyon; it can accommodate fewer than 100 people.   Nowadays one has to enter a lottery in order to get a spot; we were able to secure ours by persistent phone calling exactly one year in advance.

            We started a training program in January.  I joined a running group and ran a 5K.  I ran it nearly ten minutes slower than I had run the same distance three years before. That wasn’t too encouraging. Of course, I was carrying a few extra pounds, and I was without my uber-fit former training partner Bunny.   I even joined Weight Watchers.

            We spent June in Germany for a month.  We hiked up the mountainside each week and rode bikes most nights.  We were feeling fitter and firmer.  Miraculously, a few pounds were disappearing.

            Back in Columbia, MO, Bob, Linda, and I started training on hills several nights a week.  I must admit that Chapel Hill is decidedly NOT the Grand Canyon; however, Columbians were most impressed when they learned that we climbed up and down it several times in a row and also that we even went to the eight floor parking garage downtown to hone our skills.  We walked on the treadmill in the air -conditioned recreation center and boldly set the incline at 12%, the steepest incline in the Grand Canyon. We hiked with temperatures in the 90s , went to state parks and reconnoitered  through the woods on the weekends, often getting quite lost, and practiced carrying our backpacks.  Why, I even got a tick bite.  I was ready for anything.   At the last minute, I purchased a snake bite kit lest we encounter any rattlers in Arizona.  I am woman; hear me scream.    And I was sure I would get the lengthy direction book out and read it carefully if the kit should be needed.  

            I also did what I do best:  gathered way too much information about hiking in the Grand Canyon.  Out most trusted source?  You Tube, of course. We watched  GoPro videos created by fit young hikers who made it to the bottom in two and a half hours.  We carefully observed the trails and determined that they didn’t seem that bad.   How hard could it be to walk on a few boulders or down a few steps? Furthermore, no one on the videos – even the jogger – seemed to be scared or out of breath.  Bob announced that it might take us an extra hour or so, but that we would certainly reach the bottom of the South Kaibab Trail in four to five hours.   Then we would have lots of time to enjoy ourselves at the bottom.

            The day before our hike, we got our first look at the Grand Canyon not as a natural wonder, but as a natural adversary.   We listened to a guide pointing and telling two tourists that the green area below called Indian Gardens was a four and a half hour hike.  We could see it with our own eyes; it didn’t look that far away.  Bob looked at me and whispered, “No way will it take us that long.”  I felt reassured. 

Finally, we began our descent down South Kaibab Trail  (7.5 miles) at 5:48 a.m. on Saturday, Sept. 8, 2018.    One hour later when we still hadn’t covered quite a mile, we discovered just how long a mile could be.  I also learned just how tall those steps are and just how short my legs are.  

            When we had visited the Grand Canyon a few years ago, Bob had purchased the book Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon.  It contains “gripping accounts of all known fatal mishaps in the most famous of the World’s Seven Natural Wonders.”

He read it avidly before our trip, and later was able to recount mishaps that had occurred at nearly every point along our journey.  It was a bit unnerving to hear, “this is the spot where a 35-year-old very fit woman stepped back to let a hiker by and fell into the canyon. “ Or, “this is where the marathoners got off the trail.”  You get the picture?   The three of us made a pact that should one of us fall into the canyon, the other two would make sure that the story got into the next edition of the book.   I promised to make Bob’s story extra gripping.

           

          The temperature at bottom of the canyon is about twenty degrees warmer than the temperature at the top.  So, as we climbed down, it got hotter and hotter .  The day we went, the temperature at the top was predicted to be 85; the temperature at the bottom reached 105. 

          We had packed lots of high calorie foods such as Clif bars, trail mix,  peanut butter, etc.  By Weight Watchers standards, I had way exceeded my daily points count before I got to the first mile.    I thought I was just fine.  We were also drinking lots of water and electrolytes.

          As our journey dragged on hour after hour, we began to wonder just how long it was really going to take us.  We had already exceeded the average descent time of four to five hours. Bob was reminded of his three knee surgeries, and began to feel a bit unsteady. Linda was reminded of her previous trip down and despaired a bit at Skeleton Point. Me?  Linda deemed me “Tough trekkin’ Tizzie ” as I had no real complaints.  I seemed to be faring better than my partners.   I wasn’t hungry, thirsty, tired, or overly hot.  At least I didn’t think I was any of those things. Furthermore, turning back was not really an option.

            As the day wore on and the sun beat down, the water in our water bladders got hotter and hotter.  It wasn’t very refreshing, so I didn’t drink it as often.  It was so hot that I didn’t want to eat much, and I wasn’t hungry. And I hate electrolyte drinks anyway, so I drank what I thought was the bare minimum of them.  And I keep trekkin’ along.

          Finally, we saw the Colorado River, a sign that we were nearing the bottom.  Linda and I were out in front, and we began to pick up our pace.  We had only a few more steep switchbacks to maneuver.  On we went.  The next milestone was the bridge across the river followed by a tunnel that promised shelter and relief from the heat.  We got inside and sat down.  Now we were just a mile from Phantom Ranch, and that mile was blessedly all flat.   I had made it!  Or had I?

          I suddenly felt very ill.  I was nauseous and light-headed.  Bob and Linda were urging me on as we were, officially, at the bottom.  We had just a flat and easy mile to go.  I could not be urged along.  I was weak, wobbly, and on the verge of something bad happening.  Bob took my backpack and poles, and helped me along.  He urged me to drink the last of the water, which was hot and made me feel worse.  Linda found some drinking water, and they deposited me in Bright Angel Creek for a cool down.  After about forty-five minutes, I felt a little better.  I had just plain gotten overheated.  I should have rested more, drunk more, and eaten more.  I didn’t realize that I was getting dehydrated as I felt fine.

          We mostly enjoyed our two nights at the bottom of the canyon.  We wandered a very short distance to some scenic nearby areas.   As we were taking a photo, Bob asked, “I wonder if there’s a name for this canyon.”  Linda’s reply, “Grand?”   

          Remember that sign about “ hiking up is mandatory”?  It ruined Bob’s time at the bottom as he was worrying about getting me to the top.  We consulted the ranger and several other hikers and came up with a plan.   The most torturous part of the plan was the day before our climb up.  Bob determined that I needed to be plied with constant bottles of flavored electrolyte water.  I hate the stuff.  To me, it tastes like colonoscopy prep drinks.  Most of you readers know what those taste like.  Nonetheless, he continuously gave me never-ending large  room-temperature water bottles filled with the stuff to guard me against the next day’s depletion.   Can I say that it ruined my day?  However, I was at his mercy as I was now the weak one who might derail our journey. Previously, I had been worried how I might explain his demise to the kids should his knees give out as this whole thing was my idea .  Turns out he was worried about explaining my demise to the kids if he failed to deliver me to the top.   Luckily, neither of us had any explaining to do.

          I’m happy to report that the hike up Bright Angel Trail (9.5 miles) occurred without incident.  There was much more shade.  The higher we got, the cooler it got.  We took off our backpacks every thirty minutes and rested, ate, and drank.  It only took us nine and a half hours to get up.  Best of all, we didn’t have to write any gripping tales about each other.

          Would I do it again?  Well, it is going to make a great tale at bunco tonight where I am headed shortly to nibble and sip once again.   Ask me again a year or two when I’ve forgotten the details, and I might be talked into it.  In the meantime, I’m happy to wear my Phantom Ranch tee shirt and have begun to prepare for a hike up Taum Sauk, the highest peak in Missouri.  Ok, it’s not really that high, but the book say that it is located in a real mountain range.  I wonder if YouTube has a video on it.

Marching and parching,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/ Tizmom/Liz/Elizabeth/Grandma Tizzie/Grizzie/Tough trekkin’ Tizzie

           

           

Talkin' Trash and Coming Clean

June 20, 2018

Tuesday

FMM:  10,492 steps

Talkin’ Trash and Coming Clean

Guten morgen, faulenzer,

How does one recycle a piece of paper with a dead fly in it? Does it go in the compost bin or the paper one?  Do I have to extricate the fly from the paper?

How does one recycle trash into six categories when one only has four wastebaskets?

What should one do when faced with a sign such as this at the locked metal bar garbage facility?

Hier nur zugebunde Gelbe Sacke ablegen!

Alles andere, mit Ausnahme von Sperrmull,

muss uber den Restmuil oder Kompostmull entsorgt warden!

Zuwiderhandlungen warden kostenpflichtig geahndet (100 Euro)!

Now you might say that I could go to Google and attempt to translate this.  But, after all, I am a faulenzer just like you.  I must say that the three exclamation points and the capital letters make me shudder.   So, I try to put out the garbage only when no one is around.  I do know that it is supposed to be in specific bags for separate containers.  The problem comes when there’s no garbage already in the dumpster. Then what?  Is the bag biofab or restmull (very frowned upon) or whatever goes in the orange bins?  I have also been known – before I knew the rules – to put the garbage out in a couple of Target bags I brought from home.  I have lain awake nights (more on that later) worrying about whether they can trace those bags back to me and fine me 100 euros or worse.  So far, I have escaped capture, and I only have about two weeks to go.  Wish me luck.

Not only are the Germans very fastidious about their garbage, they are also very stingy with their lighting, especially in hallways and basements.  That means that when you enter a building or room, you often have to push a button to have light.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen King had a hand in designing my path to the laundry room. Those of you who live in high rise apartments know that when an elevator door opens, you never know who is going to be on it or who will step onto the elevator with you.  In my case, a rather creepy guy who reeks of tobacco and always has on a cardigan sweater and is a few years older than I (ok, I can’t say for that sure) has joined me.

 On my first elevator trip with him, I must have said, “Hello” instead of the German “Hallo.”  This caused him to smile widely and burst into a song in English about love and kissing girls while he raised his arms for dramatic effect as he leaned into me.  I would’ve backed up, but remember I was on an elevator.    He did the same thing – song and all  - when Bob was in the elevator with me.  However, Bob deemed him just a friendly guy.  Whatever. 

In order to brave a trip to the laundry room, I must take my phone – just in case I need to dial the emergency number, which I thought was 411 until I was reminded that it’s actually 112. Whatever.   With my laundry, detergent, keys, and tokens, I must then go down to floor -1 .  When I step out of the elevator, it is pitch black.  I quickly push the light button and look around for interlopers.  Then I go down one hall, turn left into another hall after which I must remember which is the correct key to unlock the laundry area (trust me; this itself is quite scary for me).   I then must pass a long dark hallway filled with locked storage closets on my left, a bolted door on my right where anyone could jump out (Jack Nicholson maybe, yelling, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!”), before I turn into the laundry room which is pitch black.  Can you imagine all the places someone could hide on that journey?  I can.  Once I get into the laundry room, the nightmare is not over.  I must have the correct tokens, put them into the correct slots, and pray that I have set the machine on approximately the right settings.  If I accidentally set the dryer to 30 seconds instead of 30 minutes, it will keep my token and leave me 3 euros poorer with a wad of wet clothes.  Then I begin my dark journey back to the elevator where I very tentatively push the button and wait for the door to open……..

Last time I promised to tell you about my life of possible crime over here.  Well, the Target bags could still catch up with me, but they haven’t yet.  However, something else may cause my downfall. 

Shortly after we arrived, our landlord provided a new bed and mattress.  When she came a few days later and asked how I had been sleeping, I said that I had had my first full night’s sleep since arriving.  I told her that I had had to take a sleeping pill on a few previous nights.  Wide-eyed, she looked at me and made the sign of cutting her throat.  Then she said,  “That’s against the law here. “ I said, “Oh, I have a prescription.”  She said, “It doesn’t matter.  Don’t tell anyone.” Well, I decided to check this out with another source.  We went to dinner with a group of teachers and the director of the school where Bob is teaching.  At the dinner, I asked him about it.  He said that no German would ever admit to taking a sleeping pill.   So, now I guess I’ve broken the law and ruined my reputation here in Deutschland.  Dang.  I wasn’t even trying.  Don’t tell anyone, ok?

Well, I am sitting at McDonald’s, and, no, they don’t put ice in Cokes here.  Mine is empty, and they don’t provide free refills either.  And it costs a half-euro to go to the bathroom. So, I think my time is up.  

Pondering and laundering,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Mom/Tizmom/Grandma Tizzie/Grizzie/Frau O’Connell

P.S.  If you have a Google account, please sign in and make comments below. 

A Whisper Campaign

A Whisper Campaign

June 5, 2018

Heidelberg, Germany

Guten tag from Heideleberg.

Before we begin, if you are long time readers, you are probably asking yourself these questions:

Has she gotten lost yet?  Yes, of course.

Has she locked herself out of her apartment? Yes, of course.

Has her water been turned off unexpectedly? Yes.

Has she done anything illegal?  Maybe.

Has she had any experiences worth reading about?  It depends on what your standards are.

My husband is teaching a class here, so I’m back once again to pester the Germans, or at least make a few of them guffaw or at least snicker into their beer steins. 

Currently, I’m in the University of Heidelberg Library being buzzed by a very large black fly.   I’ve already gotten into trouble once since entering the library, so I’m trying not to bring more bad attention to myself.  I think that my sweat is attracting the fly as I’ve just trekked 6,702 steps and countless stairs to get here. Of course, my Google Maps konked out when I was in the vicinity and I only walked an extra half mile or so before giving up and asking for directions.  I was told to keep walking until I saw a bunch of people outside smoking.  And here I am.

Why am I here?  I was tipped off by U of Heidelberg law student that the library offers quiet, air-conditioned rooms for study.  Since our apartment is not air conditioned, that sounded most appealing.  Well, I would say that the A/C here is probably set a few degrees cooler than I leave my house when I’m going on vacation, but who’s complaining?  However, it is certainly quiet here.  When I came in to ask if I might study (that’s a very loose interpretation of what I’m actually doing; I hope no one comes to check on me…) , the woman at the information desk replied, “Yes, but first you’ll need to lower your voice.” All right, already. Furthermore, even the tour guides in the hallway whisper to the students they are showing through the library.  Absolutely not talking aloud is allowed. Now this rule is to be enforced on a girl who once spent an hour with her nose in a circle on a chalkboard for talking during study hall?  Never mind.  I know I can do it.

 Since no bags are allowed, I had to take my purse deep into a back basement room to put it in a locker. The stress of finding the locker room and the key and remembering to retrieve my euro are almost paralyzing me…

The law student also told me that I could only access WiFi here at the library if I used his login and password.  He insisted on providing both to me.  My, he is a trusting fellow.  Doesn’t he know what I can do with such information?  Why I could be stealing his identity right at this minute or even becoming a German spy.  But since I have tried every possible configuration of the info he gave me to get on the internet and I haven’t succeeded in so much as checking my Facebook – which is probably illegal in the room I’m in anyway – I think he knows exactly what I can do with his info.  Who needs the internet anyway?  I will get back to what I do best:  wasting my time and others’,too.  Thanks for joining me.

So, what are we up to?  Just like last summer, all the TV shows are in German.  Can you believe it?  But that doesn’t stop Bob.  He watched an entire episode of Chicago PD in German.  As long as someone is being beaten up, chased, or shot, he ‘s happy.   

We are in a studio apartment.  That means no couch, no chairs, only a bed on which to sit.  We are living very simply.  Since I’ve been on Weight Watchers the past six weeks, Bob says I’ve even cured him of hunger.  That’s great as now we don’t even have to eat.  That saves a lot of time.

We wandered around on the weekend.  At the riverfront, we saw a boat cruise ready to take off.  We ran and got on, even though we didn’t know where the boat was going.  As long as it came back in three hours, we didn’t care.  By the way, it was going to Neckarsteinach.  Do you care?  Neither did we.

We also went to a British movie that was in English.  It was called  Tanz  In Leben or “Finding Your Feet.”  It’s about love and life in ,dare I say, very late middle age.  As we find with most British productions ,  Bob and I could have had starring roles in the film, Weight Watchers or no Weight Watchers.  And we have better teeth, too.  Nonetheless, it was a very entertaining movie that will no doubt make its way to the U.S. eventually.

Well, it’ time for me to locate my stuff and trek back home.  Wish me luck.  Just because I found my way here in no way ensures that I will find my way home.  Wish me luck!

Next time we’ll talk garbage, recycling, and laundry.  Don’t miss  it.

Silent but dead-on,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Mom/Grandma Tizzie/Grizzie/Frau O'Connell