Reflections on my Sablogital*

Sablogital: (n) def: brief break from blogging, designed to encourage other forms of creativity, regenerate writing juices, engage in actual self reflection without posting it as if it is relevant to anyone else.  (origin: Larry D of acts of the apostasy).

Today, I testified in an annulment over the phone.
The taxes are due.
The bills are due.
My oldest is out all day so I've lost my driver.
A middle child has a low grade fever and is thus home.

I picked a stupid day to start a diet, i.e. no self medication by chocolate. ...sigh.

Happy New Year to all of you. I'm back.   There are scads of stories to share. 

First, I joined Small Stones, a private writing community where you write poetry every day for 3o days.  Poetry and I have never been friends, but it turned out to be a fun exercise.  I do however wince a bit because to me, a lot of time, the moments I tried to capture came out feeling a touch on the precious side. 

Here are a few of the pieces:



Day 1
Keeping Christmas

Every morning when she rises, she takes my hand. She leads me past the kitchen. She will not eat. She does not want television. She walks to the tree. "Lights. Turn the tree. On." she commands. Only then, can ordinary needs be met. She is not yet two. She understands the season better than us. Her eyes are awake to beauty. Now, she can have breakfast.

Day 2
Butterfly

At 15, she cannot see what she will become, she resents what she has been. She does not believe those who love her and does not believe others can or will. Even her favorite song betrays her longing and her fear. She only knows the cocoon and cannot dream beyond it. We are waiting, knowlingly, for her Spring.

Day 8
Trying to Read Joyce

I've decided reading Ulysses
is like going to the coffee shop.
I love the smell
I love the hearthy atmosphere
I want to be this wordy intellectual.
So I open the book and take a sip
and then I remember,
I have never acquired a taste for coffee.

Day 9
The crush of time
the rush of the morning
to find a shoe, a sock, a lunch
to stop a fight, load the car and put on coats
all ended in an instant
as an amber sleek fox loped across the back yard.
"If we'd been on time, we would have missed it." my daughter said.
and the day would have been duller and harder for it.

Second, as it is the new year, I am trying once again to get back into shape.  I joined a blogging round robin group, Writing to lose, 12 writers all seeking to shed a few by keeping each other honest.   So far, it has meant I've done 90 push ups and not eaten pizza or chocolate...and believe me, I wanted the chocolate.   We will go on a blog tour in this process and thus I will get to visit other blogs and have them visit me.  

Third, a story from daily life.

We all know the parable Jesus tells about the master giving three of his servants varying amounts of talents, ten, five, one. I always both love and find troubling this story. Am I burying my talents or growing them?  I would stipulate, when I spend hours on the internet, I am digging a hole for my talents to bury them.

When I surrender my desire to do things in favor of them, it is investing. I know how much a temptation vigilant sloth (checking the emails/facebook/blogs) and hyper sloth (reading reading reading) encourage digging that hole. The hardest part of trying to live an authentic Catholic life is knowing, if I want to do God's will, I need only look at my choices. Whichever one demands more of me, demands I surrender more, demands I serve others more, (and is thus probably harder), that's God's will. It is the humor of embracing the cross like a lover. Joy comes through sacrifice, but we have to chose to sacrifice joyfully.

Thus it is that I get the "BINGO!" sign from God, as my 7th grade son calls me over for a quick reminder that I have forgotten more than I ever learned about math. I was reduced to being the reference guide who could look up things in the index to verify his information. I did learn a few things about scientific notation but that won't mean I'll remember tomorrow or that I could apply it.

God is laughing at me. My son reassured me that I probably won't need to use scientific notation in my daily life at any point soon. Humility. A fruit of the Holy Spirit. Probably good for a 7th grade son and his self esteem as well. He just jigged out of the room bemused at his ignorant mother.

Eat Healthy Today

Today, being the day after Christmas, I was slumming on some Yuletide fudge and a diet coke.  My son who is seven, came into the kitchen and began assembling food for lunch.  He took out the turkey and the apples and grapes and carrots.  He asked if we could have healthy foods for our meal. 

Assuming it was a commentary on my selected repast, I agreed and quickly downed the last bit of my chocolate Christmas goodness.  "We have to eat healthy Mom." he explained as he counted out the apples and got out the apple slicer. 

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Because when we grow up, it will be important."  He answered.
Sensing he had given this a great deal of thought, I asked, "Why?"
"If all ten Antonetti's grow up and get married and have ten kids," he paused and smiled, "there will be 144 birthdays in a year.  That's a lot of cake and ice cream!"

Starting my new year's resolution of fitness early, I'll be noshing on Lean Cuisine for the near future, to get ready for the far one.   

2010 Resolutions

I've never really gotten into resolutions, but then I don't like budgets and diets either, and usually January 1st is about restraint, moderation, about self discipline. Already, the animal part of me can feel the presence of a proposed bit and bridle, (to use the Aristotle image) at the mere suggestion of eat less sugar and fat, exercise and cut up the credit cards. Even though I know intellectually, these would be helpful to my well being and long term goods, the horse chafes at the prospect, stamping, snorting and glowering at the would be charioteer in me proposing such a crazy idea.

I've never had much luck with all things in moderation and my chariot is the proof. I haven't asked in prayer for that assistance, and more so, I haven't asked because it isn't my heart's desire. I guess having nine children makes it obvious, mine by nature, is not a moderate soul.

But I know it is not what we do but how we do it that makes a day full, makes a life sparkle. In writing, what determines a writer from a person who writes as a hobby is BIC time. (body in chair). A hobbyist writes when they get to it, when they're inspired, when the ideas are crackling and popping like bacon. When the muse is with us, the very smells of the ideas jazz us to want to do more. But when there are no lines in our head so good we keep repeating them until we can find a crayon and torn envelope to write them down, the blank page of a word perfect program feels like a K2daring the unprepared hiker to take the first step. A hobbyist will wait for inspiration, a Sherpa to guide. A writer starts up the hill daily with or without one.

Now my sister is the introspective one in the family; she is also a natural rider and an expert on horses. She understands what goes on in her own head and heart immediately, intuitively; and she rides magnificently. My charioteer's a bit slow on the uptake and my capacity to ride a horse; it's shamefully amature and worse, seasoned with my own Texas bravado. I can do it, but anyone who knows anything, knows I know nothing but that I think I know what I'm doing.

The one thing I can do, is get on a horse and go VROOM. I love that flying feeling until I remember, I'm not entirely in control and we're going way too fast and man am I an idiot who is going to break her neck if she doesn't pull up, whoa, Whoa, WHOA! It's probably why when I was at camp, they put me in horse musical chairs with the oldest horse in the stable. But I digress.

When I write things, I usually go VROOM and then pull up and have that "Whoa." moment about whatever it is I've been hashing over on the page about my own life after I've written at least 1000-2000 words. She half jokingly told me, "You should write more."

So it is, that I had the "Whoa" moment that writing, like jogging, like riding, budgeting, is a process of being first and foremost, willing to take on whatever it is, to start, and then to edit and refine as you go and keep doing it every day. That whispering to the horse how the chariot could go VROOM if only she submitted a little, might be the charioteer's best bet. The horse might not be receptive to being attached to a chariot via a bit, bridle and all of that, the chariot could use some care and a bit of paint and trim, and the charioteer should get more willing to practice and become more educated about the whole direction they need to be going, but being allowed to run full throttle once they get started, that they all three understand.

So this year, I resolve to stop treating any of my life like a hobby. Every day is a new document demanding my attention and dedication, and every day is also, an old piece requiring editing and refinement. This year, I resolve to go Vroom and learn to say Whoa before I come close to breaking my neck, and also to talk to my sister more often.

23 Boxes of Powdered Sugar

I hate summer math workbooks.

I know the kids need to keep their skills sharp. Heaven knows I need a calculator to double check my sums when I write checks. But making your kid do math on a daily basis, when you add in trying to get them to read, make their bed, in some cases, indulge in a daily shower, not leave clothing on the floor and eat the occasional vegetable, it gets to be a bit much.

But now that I'm working with my 7 year old daughter and I'm dieting, I hate the math books even more.

Word problems currently try to be hip, interactive and engaging. Take three cans out of the cubbard. Take three boxes. Arrange them according to net weight. Which is heaviest? Which is lightest?

So we got out the powdered sugar, the instant jello vanilla pudding and a box of jiffy muffin mix, and a can of pineapple, tomato paste and refried beans.

The powdered sugar and the pineapple won the weight contest for heaviest.
The jello and the paste won the least.

Putting the items back away, I stared at the One Pound box of powdered sugar suddenly struck by its size and realized, I had 23 boxes left to lose, probably 25 if I used that one box on a cake frosting I'd been hoping to make. If I was truely serious about losing weight, I should use the tomato paste.

Damn I hate math.

Father's Day

My oldest son is sixteen and likes to keep on top of current events.

So when he told me that the Federal Government, in the interest of public health has deemed that all fast food commercials now must refrain from showing people actually consuming food and not mention the word "eat" as part of their advertisement, I asked why?

He told me "This parallels the restrictions currently in place regarding alcohol and cigarettes, where beers can be shown being poured, being admired, being discussed, being held and being passed around but not actually being sipped, and cigarettes which can only be shown, not smoked." He talked about how this was part of an overall campaign to "slim down America." and thus hopefully reduce long term health costs for all.

I considered the recent commercials I'd seen, where waitresses brought food and people were spooning it but not eating, the fast food where people were preparing to dig in at dinner, and the kids favorite place, which showed someone...hey wait a minute, I saw him take a bite. I asked, "When did this take place, because I know I saw the guy take a bite of the Big Mac?"

He was grinning. I'd been suckered completely. So I did the only thing I could do in such a situation, I told him to go tell his dad.

Why Resolutions Don't Work in 2009

It's 2009. I didn't make a resolution. But then I haven't bought a converter box yet either. Maybe it's the times. Maybe it's emotional and intellectual and physical sloth but resolutions these days seem very fossil fuel. Much of what we seek to change or improve has been either rendered unnecessary or made mandatory, such that it isn't so much a resolution involing personsal responsibility as an obligation we didn't know we signed on to before getting the New Year's To-do list.

10) Resolving to be fiscally responsible. In this day and age, with Congress doling out the dough to every institution that knocks on the door, it would be the height of folly to practice frugality in light of the free largesss the government wishes to pass out to the needy massive corporations. Saving money in 2009 is the equivalent of passing up 20 Trillion sitting on the street waiting to be picked up. You could do it but in heaven's name why?

9)Losing weight. Southbeach, Adkins, Tae Bo, Lippo, Gastro, Phen phen, Jenny Craig, Weight watchers, even Oprah couldn't manage it and she's got personal chefs cooking for her. If millionare president pickers can't beat the bulge, what chance do the rest of us have against Krispy Kremes, french fries and all things chocolate. Let's just call Congress, ask them to rewrite the Body Mass Indexes/average weights to incorporate our greater girth and change the standard deviation such that 75% is within the 3/4th range.

8) Becoming better educated. Between Google and Wikipedia, there is so much information and misinformation, everyone can become an instant expert or idiot on virtually anything, just ask Caroline Kennedy, Al Franklen, Blago, Burris, the list goes on. Today, all you need is a staff and and a blackberry and you need never crack a textbook again. So kids, cram for the tests and forget all the rest.

7) Being Counter-cultural. What would this mean? What would it look like? Reading a newspaper? Using incandescent bulbs? The Amish?

6) Volunteering. With the economy going down the drain, this formerly noble impulse to serve without pay is rapidly become the norm of the actual capitalistic business model. We Americans need to work more and get paid less. It's more "patriotic." Break out the fireworks and the cheap hotdogs and pay your taxes. Whee.

5) Green living. Perusing all the "simple everyday tips" for being more Earth friendly offered in this week's paper alone, I should give up all paper products, coffee, heat, electricity, fruits not in season, one's car, use of planes, computers, printers, baths, tin foil, milk, beef, fish, chicken, processed sugar, leather products, bottled water, appliances and beauty products. I've seen this some place before...oh yeah, Europe.

4) Correcting/improving spelling, writing and grammar. These days, who would notice?

3) Becoming famous. With Youtube, Facebook, blogging, call-ins to every television show and reality television shows popping up faster than kudzu alongside the highways, this isn't so much a goal of any year, as it is something one must actively seek to avoid.

2) Learning all the things that are on the 2009/2008 In/Out list. It's simple. If you knew what they were, and what they are, you're in. If you didn't, you're out. If you have to ask...(Note, saw the list, was able to identify 6 of the in, 10 of the out, of 100).

1) Having more actual fun. I'm not sure this is still allowed by federal law.

On a personal note: Planning to lose weight, save money and stay organized while learning to play the drums on the Wii, master french, finish my book, keep my house neat, get published 52 times and learn three pieces on the piano, read 12 actual books and have more fun daily, pray the rosary and maintain my Saint Bridgette's discipline. There, I made resolutions. Now That's Counter-cultural.

Happy New Year!

Dieting in Middle Girth, A Hobbit's Tale

The scale has reached its Gandalf fighting the Balrog in the Lord of the Rings moment. I stepped on it this morning and declared "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

Being American and naturally impatient, I opted for the promised immediate gratification of Atkins. So far, I had remained faithful to my carb free lifestyle for eight hours.

It has been a long day.

I ate two eggs for breakfast. I hate eggs.

Being a hobbit (I'm very short), eggs with toast and orange juice and butter and strawberry jam, I can deal. Just eggs with pepper and hot tea. Sigh. When is second breakfast?

I had two slices of Canadian bacon too. I am convinced that Canada produces Canadian bacon so that we will never be tempted to invade. Between the food, the weather and the moose, it just isn't worth it.

For lunch, I got a drive thru version of a Chicken Ceasar Salad. I didn't finish. Why? Because I'm already disturbingly bored by my options. Adkins just markets don't eat sweets or fried foods via a specific dietary regimen. If I was able to deny myself pasta and bread and ice cream and maple syrup and yes, chocolate, I wouldn't need to be on a diet.

I'm currently dutifully baking chicken for dinner. Normally, I'd be psyched that I already have dinner half way done, but I'm looking at the box of couscous that will be a side and feel a desire to eat the box. “We’ve had nothing to eat but meat and salad for three stinking hours!” Half way through the day, I'm thinking...maybe I'll switch to South Beach.

The fruit is calling...Sherry, don't you want some HEALTHY fruit? Healthy. Nice little fruit. Just one little fruit...I feel my resolve failing, just as surely as the carpet cleaner of the same moniker did to erase the three swipes of blue on the rug in the guest room. Grabbing a string cheese, I diligently eat and remember the scale. Focus on the BAD number. Anyone who says weight doesn't matter is either among the 2% whose natural metabolism keeps them fighting trim past the age of 40, or lying. I finish the cheese stick. I'm still hungry.

My children's sugar frosted cereals that I never eat, start to look appealing.

I start considering what if any options I might have. You see, I know the numbers game. 21 carbs is all you get. 21 precious carbs. IF and if is a big word in this sentence, I don't eat any OTHER carbs, I....can have a dove bar. A dove bar. Don't think about it! No. No. No! Think Big number No. Have another piece of cheese....yum yum...doesn't that taste good? No. It does not taste Dove Bar good. It does not even taste Nacho good because it isn't melted with jalepenos on top of chips. My inner Borrimir is thinking of staging a rebellion.

I drink a diet coke. Then, to be sure I don't impulse eat, I open another, this one with lime.

Just as I successfully beat down my id's desires, the children arrive to undermine my discipline. My toddler brings an apple. He's eaten half of it and is "finished." I can 1) throw away the leftover, 2) cut away the eaten part and cut the remainder into bits for his sister or 3) Cut away the bad and dip that sucker in hot carmel to snack.

It's fat free....I start to move towards the apple. I know how Eve must have felt. I personally would never have sold out for just an apple, well maybe, if I had been on Adkins and chocolate hadn't been invented yet. Original sin for a piece of fruit. Eve should have at least held out for something choice. Frodo is fingering the apple when fortunately for me, the toddler asks for it back.

I give the toddler the rest of the apple. My older daughter, eyes bright, brings home "an extra snack." meaning, someone in her class had a birthday and passed out hersheys with almonds and she saved it "just for me." Meaning, she doesn't like chocolate with nuts. "Thanks honey." I say, taking the bar. "I'll put it in the freezer for later."

The kids relay eye contact to each other that translates, "What's happened to Mom?" as they back away quietly and announce unprompted, "We're going to go do our homework."

When they come back to state, they've cleaned their rooms, practiced their instruments and want to know what they can do to help with dinner, I finally ask, "What's going on?"

"Well, you refused the chocolate."
"No, I just denied myself it now. I'm keeping it safe, I'm keeping it secret." I explain.

"That means you're on a diet."
"Yes. So?"

"It means you'll be grumpy soon."

"I'm a hobbit, not a dwarf!" I explain. She gives me a look of bewilderment.
"No, I'm just starting a diet and Hershey bars aren't on the menu yet."

The kids know the numbers game too. She scans the bar and says, "You can't have this, too many carbs." and with that, whisks the bar away to bring to her older brother. I want to protest, "My Precious! It's mine! It came to me! You tooks it!" but I know better and so does she.

Now my eleven year old knows I'm on a diet. She'll food police me Samwise style until I reach my target number and cast the ring into the fire of Mount Doom or snap, whichever comes first.

It's been ten hours on the Adkins diet. Have I lost any weight yet? No. Takes a shower, shaves legs, brushes teeth, blow dries hair, exhales. How about now? No? Rats, I'm still stuck in the first part of LOTR when they're mucking around the swamp with Tom Bombadil who no one understands or likes.

It will be a long first two weeks.

Man Shop

The battle of the sexes is never more clearly thrown into relief than in the quest for food. There is something of a primal revolution between the hunter/gatherers and the nurturer/growers that takes place when one or the other utters the phrase, “Honey, I’m going to the store, do you need anything?” When this Darwinian battle between male and female is combined with the stated New Year’s Objective to be frugal about spending and only buy what we need, not what we want, there are issues.

First day. Man makes the offer, more as a courtesy, as he already has a preconceived notion of what he will get. Woman responds by saying, “Wait a minute, I’ll make a list.” Man is impatient. Wants to get going. Waits for list. List is left in car. Woman angrily goes to grocery store to get items on list, also feels entitled to free associate spend, after all, he did. Critical items get forgotten until a third necessity shop via running into the 7-11 is done.

Four days later. Man makes the offer. Woman is ready, having pre-prepared the list with legible print. She hands him list and coupons. Man follows list fitfully and willfully ignores coupons due to hassle factor. Woman complains about budget. She shops the next day, uses coupons and gets things, makes a point of how she saved money. Man points out they would have saved more if she hadn’t shopped at all.

Friday. Man is driving home. Gets drafted to shop by Woman via a text message list. Man goes in to get target items only. Man cannot find items on list. Buys every possible alternative he can think of, except the ones that would actually serve as acceptable substitutes.

Weekend. Woman decides to go shopping for the week. Man gives budget. Discusses need to pare down and simplify. Woman goes and gets items SHE KNOWS she will need . Blows budget by a factor of 4. Man shakes head.

The Next Week. Man decides to go shopping next week. Gets items sparingly. Stays in budget. Brings home humble offerings. Woman and man both complain that there aren’t any special things on the menu. Midway through week, order take out the rest of the nights for dinner.

The following week. Woman decides to go shopping and splurges just a little bit, staying mostly on budget, cutting corners where she can and still getting a few extras for a gourmet meal that evening. Man has invited friends over for dinner that weekend. A splurge shop at the high priced gourmet grocery store follows.

The Tipping Point. Man goes to shop with sole stated goal of staying on budget. Comes home with Four gallon Jar of Ragu and seventeen boxes of pasta. “We’ll drink water.” He says. After three days, both go together to the store and buy like drunken sailors.

They also order pizza to eat for dinner, being too exhausted from gathering food to cook.

Next Week’s Battle of the Sexes: The Laundry would take up much less of our time if you just followed my system.

Quantum Leap Year

If you’ve ever studied Quantum physics or even watched the series, “Quantum Leap,” you know the principle behind Schrodinger’s Cat.

For those non followers of the captain of Enterprise before he was Captain Jonathan Archer, the theory works as follows: The scientist puts a live cat in an enclosed chamber with a compressed bottle of poisonous gas. The gas is released into the chamber. At some point, the cat inhales the substance and ceases to be alive. But until one opens the box, one cannot know if the cat still lives or has ceased to be. In the interest of full disclosure, this summation comes via the internet and it's many wise references, I am not taking physics on the side in my spare time.

Schrodinger meant it as a mental illustration of more complex issues that are beyond my wee brain. Some yahoos who didn’t get this as a theoretical exercise, created the Many Worlds interpretation, and gave rise to multiple bad cross issue storylines in comic books and television shows in the late 80’s.

In the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, which does not single out observation as a special process, both alive and dead states of the cat persist, but are "decoherent" from each other. When the box is opened, that part of the universe containing the observer and cat is split into two separate universes; one containing an observer looking at a box with a dead cat, one containing an observer looking at a box with a live cat.

In other words, in one universe, I am looking at a winning ticket for the lottery. In another universe, I’m looking at a worthless scrap of paper that entitled the state of Maryland to two extra bucks of my money. I have trouble with this theory if only because I wonder what determines a decoherent universe creation. The flap of a butterfly’s wing? Chosing Diet Coke over Diet Pepsi? The consequences of not just a decision but every action and even inaction take on cosmic significance. Inhale, a universe now exists. Exhale, oh look, another.

The range of alteration I presume depends upon the origin of that other world’s existence. For example, in some universe other than this one, decoherent is a word that means something other than how I am before my first diet coke in the morning, because someone created a “Don’t Tase Me Bro Leave Brittany Alone!” moment for Youtube that made it “The Word for 2008.” I imagine in that other universe, I fulfilled the resolutions I made last year, rendering this year’s resolutions superfluous.

Living in that wonderverse, where Wikipedia is accurate, baseball players never used steroids and campaign commercials are banned until after the 4th of July the year of the election, I’m a discovered highly financially and professionally revered author. SUV’s emit gases that smell faintly of chocolate chip cookies, eliminates unwanted cellulite and provides additional conditioning for dry or dyed fine hair. All toddlers in my home are toilet trained and I’ve mastered Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, including the hard middle part that has kept me trying to learn the piece since I got the piano back in 2003. I’ve also lost twenty pounds via diet and exercise.

So this year, my resolution is to find a way to live in the universe where the Schrodinger cat still lives, and hope this week’s winning lottery numbers are 3, 7, 8, 11, 23, and 25.

Happy New Year!

Fun with Treadmills

There have been many fitness fads and I have tried them all. In my closet and basement are the remains from past overzealous new convert obsessions that, over time, lost their luster and ability to steer me towards a size eight or even ten jeans, as I returned to the comfort of daily chocolate, large fries and the occasional Krispy Kreme. Jazzercise t-shirts, Jane Fonda tapes, Tae-bo equipment, the ill-conceived daily jogging regime pedometer and walking log, along with ankle weights and the never opened Abdominator await the next garage sale or call to 1-800 Got Junk. None of these greatest crazes to encourage exercise can compare, however, with the impulsive decision one Christmas to buy my spouse and myself home fitness equipment, specifically a treadmill.

Looking at the huge steel nagging machine, my husband sighed, “As if working every day didn’t sometimes already feel like a steady sweaty march to nowhere.” Even the red ribbon I had artfully placed on the monitor didn’t help.

Still, I tried to explain how this would give us more energy, fight the middle-aged pounds and in the long run, cost less than a gym membership. “So we can stare at a gym at home we don’t use instead of staring at a bank statement each month for a gym we don’t use.” My husband grumbled. He was less than excited by my Christmas gift to “us.” That evening however, he dutifully got on the machine and started walking.

We had small children so in the interest of safety; I placed the machine near the computer in the corner of our basement. The person on the machine could watch a DVD, help critique an article or talk to another person on the computer while working out, but they couldn’t watch TV, it was on the other side of the stairs. This was perhaps an error on my part. College football was on and so as soon as Notre Dame started playing, the treadmill was abandoned. Notre Dame didn’t play very well that bowl game, so his heart got a good work out anyway.

The next evening, I tried the “machine.” My husband was playing Civilizations II. I normally served as domestic advisor in these games, reminding him to adjust the tax rate and move the citizens around to ensure the greatest levels of production, encouraging him not to go the “Let’s annihilate everyone route!” every time and build magnificent cities instead. After five minutes of trying to explain while walking that I wanted him to make a road from Paris to Rome and initiate a peace treaty over the noise of the machine, I watched as he declared war on Caesar and most of the known world. Having no need for a non war-time counselor, I tried reading a book.

Reading while on a treadmill can be done, but it cannot be done well and it cannot be done with books that require any degree of thought. I have an obsession with “quality” literature and keep trying to finish all the English assignments I had in high school. The Sound and the Fury is hard enough standing still. On the machine, I experienced free-form stream of consciousness reading, as I constantly lost my place when the lights would flash or the display would dutifully beep as I had failed to keep pace or my heart rate had dropped below the prescribed level for my age and weight. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have picked Faulkner for a maiden voyage but I gave up after rereading the same sentence the eighth time and not for the life of me knowing what it meant.

Undaunted, the next night I returned with an Ipod, armed and ready. I prepared to zone out into music land when my then four-year-old son came down. He was delighted to see how this machine worked and instantly set about finding hot wheels to send shooting off the back of the machine at three point five miles per hour, his mom’s top treadmill speed at the moment. It was a fine game except I was terrified he’d get his fingers caught. Instead, the back wall had hot wheel sized dents. Exercise would be regulated to hours when children were in bed.

Alas, this perfect storm of children and treadmills resulted in a few days passing where it sat unloved as mom and dad were too tired to work out that late in the evening. We’d try morning instead.

That proposition never even bothered to materialize once. The alarm would go off and I’d slap the snooze vowing to get to the damn machine later in the day when the kids napped. This also never occurred, but that may have been due to the fact that the kids never napped. Weeks went by as the treadmill became part of the house like a load bearing wall, never noticed or loved. I’d vacuum it from time to time after a smart alec ten-year-old daughter wrote “You never use this thing.” in the accumulating dust with her finger.

Then one day it happened. That same four year old boy that liked shooting hot wheels off the back, got on the machine. He pushed the buttons and was sent back at the same rate as his cars. The machine had caused my baby to get a sprained wrist –he fell on his hand. I unplugged it and cursed it and it sat for months without so much as a guilty feeling. It became a place for laundry. It was great for hangers. Sometimes I’d clear it off and walk a mile or so, but most of the time, it was where I sorted socks.

The treadmill would still be my laundry station if not for the revenge of the no longer four-year-old. At five see, they get experimental and scientific. They prove that cups of soda and treadmills do not intermix happily, as the soda short circuits the motor when it spills into the component parts, and that such actions cause a machine to smoke impressively.

When we moved, I had the movers escort the remains of the machine to the curbside, and I began wondering if I should get an elliptical for our new basement.

ran in Beaumont Enterprise for free