That Awkward Age

The REAL apocolypse is coming. New planet anyone?

OK, so we all survived today's predicted Doomsday prediction. But beware. The end WILL come. Even scientists agree.

If the Rapture or global warming don't bring an end to Mother Earth, then expansion of our sun into a Red Giant will boil away the oceans and fry us like chicken strips in a billion years or so. So, rather than making jokes on Facebook about it, we need to take this seriously if we're going to survive this as a species. We don't want to wind up like the dinosaurs as movie extras one day in a Spielburg-like movie such as Jurassic Park.

So, I propose that we get crackin.'  Since this planet has obviously had it, with all the oil, landfill space and polar ice caps nearly gone, we should just pick up and imigrate.

And scientists have actually found a possible replacement for us! There's a lovely little planet, Gliese 581d, a planet orbiting the red-dwarf star Gliese, they've found that could be the first real candidate for human expansion. Just like in Goldielocks and the Three Bears, it's not too hot and it's not too cold. It's juuuusst right!

There are a few inconvenient differences between Gliese 581d and home sweet home. One side is always day and one side is always night. But no worries that the dark side will be too cold -- the local red sun penetrates the atmosphere well, keeping the atmosphere nice and comfy. And another downer -- even the day side is always a kind of red-hewed light. Kind of like living in the dorm in college in the 70s when the roomie thought it was cool to switch the light bulbs while listening to Jethro Tull.

Being able to separate those that want to live in the dark from those who want to live in the day 24/7 rather appeals to me. Being a fair-skinned night owl, I pick the dark side. I vote for all of the early bird chirpy, perky Reese Witherspoon-type people to go to the light side.

Another negative about the new planet is that gravity is twice as strong, making walking around rather unpleasant. I'm guessing that puts the kibosh on marathon running. Or at least it gives new meaning to the term "Iron Man Triathalon."

I suppose with the gravity difference you'll weigh twice as much there, too. Woopee. That's a real bonus. Do you think that means I'll wear a size 4 at Chico's rather than a 2? That's a non-starter. After finding the store with perfect sizing, no way am I giving THAT up, extinction or no extinction.

Of course, it won't matter one way or the other to me, since it takes 20 light years -- or 300,000 people years -- to get to Gliese 581d. On the other hand, maybe I'll volunteer for the first resettlement and get on that spaceship now. At least maybe my adult kids won't be able to move back in.

Photo: by richardmasoner

I Can't Get No TSA Action

I don't have to fly over Thanksgiving. So I think I'll just go hang out at the airport tomorrow and try to get lucky. Getting an enhanced pat down would be the most action I've had in years.

My two local airports, the Newport News Williamsburg International Airport (known locally as the New Willie) and the Norfolk International Airport, have defensively announced that they don't have the full body scanners that are causing all the ruckus. What a relief! That will save the same people that parade around the beach half-naked for no good reason other than to show off their boobs and butt cheeks from having to endure a body scan for the purpose of keeping them safe from underwear bombers.

Completely overshadowed is the TSA announcement that travelers will not be allowed to carry cranberry sauce, creamy dips and spreads, gravy, jams and jellies, maple syrup, salsa and other gooey substances through security -- they'll have to be checked in baggage or else left at home.

They can, however carry pies and cakes onboard, subject to additional screening to make sure they haven't baked any files or bombs into the pastries. (I don't have to put explosives in my pies for them to bomb.)

But where's the turkey? Is the TSA assuming, just like my adult sons do, that Mom will take care of that? I can hear the phone conversations taking place all over America between adult children and their mothers: "But Mom, the TSA won't let me bring the turkey. Besides -- you do it every year. I wouldn't want to deprive you of that tradition."

So these wayward kids who couldn't want to move away from home to pursue their fortunes as telemarketers pick up a measley pie at Food Lion on the way to the airport and feel like they've done their mothers a favor. Meanwhile, Mom has been up all night brining the turkey and chopping celery and onions for the stuffing.

Then these same adults will all line up with their pies in aluminum pie tins, and when they get selected for additional security, they'll protest that their Fourth Amendment rights are being violated, and that the TSA officer had better not touch "their junk."

That's the same thing my adult sons said about the stuff they left in their rooms when they moved out at varying times over the past 14 years. The TSA should treat those threats the same way that I did -- put their junk in plastic bags and move it out of their way so they can get the job done.

That's what those ungrateful kids get for carrying cheap store-bought pies home to their mothers.

Photo: silas216

Pick up a fork and save the planet – make your own biodiesel fuel!

 Between performing CPR on my kids who are laughing so hard they can’t breathe without snorting and intercepting my husband’s attempts to have me committed, I’ve begun reading up on what you have to do to train for running a marathon. 

Being the kind of person who learns stuff from books (at least this is the lie I tell myself to justify all the money I spend and extra stress I put on the weight-bearing walls on the house), I did a search in Amazon and discovered that there are 727 books about running a marathon. Apparently everyone who has ever run one has felt compelled to write a book about it. 

Who knew there was so much to know about running? After all, humans have been running since, well, before we were human. Then I realized that it wasn’t really the “running” part I needed help with. It was the “not dying while trying to do it for 26.2 miles” part. 

So I stumbled upon the title of what seemed to be the perfect book: “The Non-Runner’s Marathon Trainer,” by David Whitsett, that takes old, out-of-shape non-running sofa surfers and trains them to run a marathon in 17 weeks. Since I’m giving myself a full two years to get this thing done, I figured that even though I’ll be 60 and probably more of a non-runner than even Whitsett could imagine, this was the book for me.

Dr. Whitsett is a professor at the University of Northern Iowa, where he began teaching the “marathon class” in 1985 as either a three-credit psychology or PE class. It’s obvious why running a marathon would qualify as PE class, but what may not be as obvious is the mental/psychological component necessary in getting yourself across the finish line. 

Even if you have no desire to run further than to the corner store (in the car) to pick up Lotto tickets, I highly recommend the book for the psychological techniques Whitsett teaches. These include creating “mental video tapes” of yourself running a successful marathon (I’ve already got the “Rocky” theme song uploaded in my iPod), and exercises to increase mental focus, such as studying your running shoes for micro-differences such as scuffs and wear points. (I think the last time I was able to concentrate on something that insignificant for long periods of time I was in college and experimenting on herbal home remedies . . . but I digress). 

But then I read a section in the book about having “hidden agendas.” Some of the hundreds of people that Whitsett has successfully trained add comments to the book, including anecdotes about their running experiences. A woman named Tange, who was completing the running schedule very successfully, confessed to Whitsett that she was discouraged that, after running for about a month as much as 17 or 18 miles per week, she wasn’t losing any weight. 

And here I am, reading this, thinking, “Yes, yes, Dave! I’m discouraged, too! I’ve been running since January, and I’m not losing any weight, either! I’m running my buns off and yet; I’m NOT running my buns off! I haven’t lost anything! What’s up with that?”

So then Dave tells Tange (and me) that she shouldn’t have these “hidden agendas” – she should just be out there training for the joy of running a marathon. And, he tells her, there are a lot of reasons why she might not be losing weight, such as her body composition shifting from fat to muscle and muscle weighing more than fat – as we all know – and  -- now here’s the really depressing part – because YOU HAVE TO RUN AN ENTIRE MARATHON TO BURN ABOUT A POUND OF FAT. 

Can you flipping believe that? You have to train for weeks and weeks (and this is a SHORT training cycle, mind you – I’m stretching it out for months) to work up to running a distance that burns ONE FLIPPING POUND?!? 

Stated another, even more depressing way:

“The average 150-pound male runner who may be 12-15% body fat would have 13-18 pounds of fat available for energy which translates into 53,000-73,000 kilocalories, enough to cover 530-730 miles of running. A typical female runner weighing 120 pounds with 20-25% body fat would have 10-16 pounds of accessible fat accounting for 41,000-65,000 kilocalories, or enough to cover 546-866 miles of running.”

Word!

Seeing as how I’ve got a good 30 pounds I’d like to part with, I figure I’m storing enough fat to run from New York to L.A. without taking a tuck in my pants.  Now, if someone can just figure out how to create electric current from my thighs rubbing together, I’ve got the answer to the country’s energy problems right under my own Spanx. And no pesky oil spills to worry about! 

(FYI, the bowl of ice cream that I’m about to eat will later be used to light up Manhattan. Or to run to the moon and back.)

Photo: sashafatcat

Exclusive! Read it Here First! Another Woman Confesses in Tiger Woods Scandal!

In view of the other women who have come forward and claimed having rolled in the hay with a certain famous golfer, I feel that I must also come forward and make my own confession.

I have not had sexual relations with that man, Mr. Woods.

I’m sure that comes as a great shock to you, but I ask that you respect my privacy so that my husband and I can concentrate on our laundry. 

That and the latest crises in the lives of our three adult sons. And the twice-a-day pilling routine with Scottie, in which I cram the capsules down his throat, and he spits them back out until they are so sticky with dog slobber that I have to throw them away and start over. Oh, and then there’s my business, where I spend 80 hours, give or take 20 or so, every week.

So, unfortunately, I haven’t had the time to have a fling with Tiger Woods. Or with anyone else, as far as that goes.

How does anyone have the time to have even ONE affair, much less NINE? Do these people ever take out the garbage or pick up the dry cleaning? Maybe in Tiger’s case, he can pay somebody to do those mundane chores, but even so, how would he keep all of their names straight? Keep one from finding out about the other? The logistics are mind blowing.

And what kind of excuse for being late or unavailable could he use –- “Sorry, Honey, I’m working late at the sand trap?” Fat chance.

Tiger may be the number one golfer in the world, but that’s a distant second on the list of his talents.

First is juggling.

If Tiger Woods ever decides to branch out and do a time management program, I’m there. Meanwhile, he needs to get a dog. With allergies.

Photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/keithallison/ / CC BY-SA 2.0