| January 2002 My son was in a mood. (Chemo patients can have moods.) He was creating new names for ships as a result of the recent Pretzel incident. (The president of the United States choking on a pretzel.) "USS Bush" "Fire the pretzels" "USS Clinton" censored Gives sea spray a whole new meaning. I went near him, where he was lolling about in bed. He slapped me on the rump as I delivered yet another soda. I said, "Don't slap your mother!" He said, twinkling up at me with a smirk, "If I don't, who will?" Nice! Then he sat and bawled at me as I walked down the hall. He wanted to go out - to eat. Bellowing might be a better description. He had, miraculously, found underwear and shorts. He was wearing the PJ top I just made for him. I must make another since he actually wears it and I made it long enough for modesty. But for now, he was helpless. He shrieked until I came back up the hallway - he wanted clothes. OK - I handed him sweat pants - told him where his shirts were (hanging in the closet - what a concept! - on hangers no less). I went back to my computer. He shrieked again. I needed to hand him his shirt because - there was a blanket on the floor. He couldn't possibly get off the bed if there was a soft blanket on the floor. Oh - sorry - now there is a "rug" on the floor - as in wall to wall carpet. So I hand him a shirt. I went back out to the computer. He squealed again - for socks. And again - his shoes were in reach (heavy hiking boots) - but not close enough to suit him. Finally dressed, he ambled outside in the rain while I hunted for his pet hat. He is a ragamuffin - hair all askew - he will not comb it - says it hurts. I get the hat and we go to Red Lobster. He's been watching too many ads on TV. I have to settle for iced tea since my other son is not here to drive mother home. I make it through the appetizer (Calamari and clam strips) and order the Admiral's Feast. Too much for me. (Lunch the next day) My son dives headfirst in the All-You-Can-Eat - butter dripping - shrimp, scampi and fried shrimp. He ignores the pasta, skips the biscuits, and eats. We discuss my weight lifting. My arms (photographed recently) are like small hams. My son said that I need to reduce the weight I am lifting and do more reps. Else I "will crush the boy" when I have my date with Fabio. He compared my arms to Kemo's - a security guard he knew at the high school. Egad! How flattering! Of course, NOTHING WOBBLES on my 60-year old arm. Which I thought was good! If I lose weight finally, it will hang and I swear that I will have the excess skin removed! Right up there with a face-lift at 65! I want no wobbles! My son plows through six dishes of shrimp. Seven. Nine. Ten. They were bringing them two at a time. He tells me again to kill the amount of weight (I had been increasing it for months) and do higher reps. OK already. I suppose that 8-16 300lb leg lifts( after 16-20 135 lbs lifts and 12-16 185 pounders and then 10-16 225 lbs and maybe 10-16 275 pounders) and then multiple 100-lb+ chest lifts, and 16 - repeated in 3 position Dorsi Flezors, and 60-lb glutes and 30 lb bicep curls etc are a bit high on the weight side. I still do 45 minutes on the treadmill. My doctor said I needed a patch "because I am a high Estrogen woman". And if it doesn't work, he will start me on shots. I am trying to work that change on my cycle around my date with Fabio. Honest to God. The doctor just stared at me when I said that - but they are cooperating. My son hit 100 shrimp. I called a halt. HIS doctor will kill me! He informs me as we leave that we will do a steak house next. This boy's been cooped up in the house too long! |
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