Archive for the “Random Musings” Category

Our cat’s official name is Rascal, but we usually refer to him as Little Man. I gave him that name at some point after his successful campaign to convert me into a person who likes cats – at least one cat, anyway.

I’m pretty sure after he joined the family two years ago, he evaluated us all and figured out I was the only one who wasn’t delighted by his presence. Okay, he said to himself, I’ll work on him. He took to jumping on my lap when I was watching TV late at night – which scared me out of my skin the first few times – and settling down for a long purr.

Later, he decided to make me his sparring partner. Whenever he gets the chance, he jumps onto my office chair and adopts a fighting pose he probably imagines is intimidating. If I walk near the chair, he swipes at me, and the sparring is on. I try to poke him in various places, while he swipes at my hand and tries to catch a finger in his teeth. If he does catch a finger, he gives it an oh-so-gentle nip to let me know he won the round. I call this game of his En Garde, Mister!


(Little Man playing En Garde, Mister! with my hand.)

A couple of months before the cruise, Little Man and I were engaged in a spirited round of En Garde, Mister! when he rolled onto his back as part of some fancy martial-arts move. I poked him in the belly and was surprised at how big and soft it had become.

What the …?

Little Man had become Tubby Man.

Up until a month or two earlier, he’d been living on canned cat food that’s primarily meat and organ meat. There’s rice in some of the flavors, but not much. For variety, Chareva also fed him sardines, mackerel and tuna.

Then she found a brand of dry cat food that brags No Corn, Wheat or Soy, No Artificial Colors, Flavors or Ingredients on the label. Little Man liked the stuff, so she put it out along with the canned food. Over time, he ate less of the canned food and more of the dry food.

So when I found myself poking a newly-rotund cat belly, I checked the ingredients on the bag of dry food. The first ingredient listed is chicken. That’s good. The next three ingredients are pea powder, barley and brown rice. Well, I wouldn’t call those bad, but it’s clear the dry cat food is considerably more carb-laden than the canned stuff.

I wondered to myself, Did Little Man become Tubby Man because we inadvertently jacked up the carbohydrate content of his diet?

Naaaawww, that can’t be. Legions of internet cowboys have informed me (and everyone on the Fat Head Facebook group) that macronutrients are irrelevant. If you get fat, it’s because you eat too @#$%ing much, too @#$%ing often, period. It’s a simple matter of ingesting too many calories.

Therefore, it was obvious that our Little Man – who for nearly two years had exercised the willpower to limit his calories and maintained a sleek, feline body as a result – was developing a serious flaw in his character. He’d become a glutton without any of us noticing until it was too late. I don’t track his daily activity, but I’ll bet he was also getting lazy and moving less … fewer unexplained mad-dashes around the house and across the top of all the furniture, perhaps.

Anyway, despite being assured by legions of internet cowboys that macronutrients have nothing to do with weight gain, we put the dry food back in the pantry and started feeding him the canned meat again. A month later, he was looking sleek. Had to be a coincidence, of course.  I can only guess that somewhere around the time we put the pea-barley-rice dry food away, he happened to recognize himself in a mirror, was disgusted by his tubby appearance, and put himself on a diet.

When we went on the low-carb cruise, we boarded the dogs at a kennel but let Little Man stay at home. Chareva filled a big dispenser with the dry cat food and put out several dishes of water. A friend of Chareva’s also dropped by a couple of times to check on him after feeding our chickens.

Well, wouldn’t you know it … when we returned home eight days later, Little Man was turning into Tubby Man again. I’m not going to chalk it up to a character flaw, since he’d been disciplined enough to eat less and lose weight before we left for the cruise. The obvious explanation this time was emotional eating. The poor cat probably felt abandoned and unloved when we left him home alone, so he comforted himself by eating too much. As Dr. Oz once said about Oprah, “She isn’t really craving food; she’s craving love.” If Little Man had opposable thumbs, he probably would have picked up the TV remote and spent hours watching chick flicks while stuffing himself with the pea-barley-rice food.

But we’ve been back for more than a week, and he’s not engaging in emotional over-eating anymore. He’s even trimmed down noticeably. It has to be because he feels loved and supported again now that we’re home. It can’t have anything to do with the fact that he’s back to a meat-and-fish diet … because as legions of internet cowboys have assured me, macronutrient ratios don’t have anything to do with gaining or losing weight.

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We interrupt our normally scheduled blogging to bring you this commercial announcement.

Mother’s Day is May 10th.  We have about 20 of these left:

No, not 20 Charevas … she’s one of a kind.  We have about 20 of the Cool Moms Cook With Butter aprons left.  They’re available in the Fat Head store.

Or you could just send your mom a nice card.

 

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In a psychology class I took in college (during my brief stint as a psych major), there was a lecture on what determines our personalities.  One of the factors was what the professor called energy endowment.  Some people are born to be energetic and some aren’t.  Your energy level would certainly affect your personality.

I recall thinking at the time, Well, that explains a lot.  I’m not blessed with much of an energy endowment.  I wasn’t especially lazy or anything, you understand.  I went to my classes, I was diligent about my homework, and I worked as a waiter on weekends to make a few bucks.  But I didn’t crave physical activity.  I liked reading, playing in a band, and talking about every subject under the sun with my friends.  I was never the guy who said, “Hey, let’s go play football in park!”  Sometimes I did go play football in the park if other guys invited me, but I was kind of relieved when it was over and we all went to sit down in a pub.

Fast-forward 35 years …

The forecast for Saturday was rain all day.  Just as well … I knew Chareva and I wouldn’t be doing farm work together because she took Sara to a seminar for girls on math and science careers.  So I figured I’d spend the day indoors, working on my speech for the upcoming cruise.

As I was sitting at my desk and going over the speech, I noticed a ray of sunshine peeking through the window blinds.  Then I felt mild tension in my right calf.  I looked down to see my right foot inching towards the door.

“Excuse me, foot.  What do you think you’re doing?”

“It hasn’t rained all day.  I want to go out.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Well, I’m a foot, so it would probably be something that involves walking, genius.”

Not wanting an angry foot on my hands, I gave in and played 18 holes of disc golf in the front pastures.  Then Alana and I took food and water to the chickens in the front pasture and collected the eggs.  Then we took food and water to both flocks of chickens in the back pasture.  Then we took food and water to the hogs.

Feeling I’d done right by the foot, I sat at my desk to go over the speech.

“You know, it’s still not raining.”

“Yes, I know.  The forecast was wrong.  Big surprise.”

“Well, I want to go back out.”

“But I have to—”

“You can always write later if it rains.”

Can’t argue with that logic.  So I went out and played another 18 holes of disc golf.  When I tried to take my shoes off to go inside, the right foot refused to let go of the leather.

“What now?  That’s 36 holes already!”

“I’m just negotiating on behalf of your arms.  They don’t talk much.”

“Well, what do they want?”

“Work.  I mean, real work.  Tossing those little discs around isn’t work.”

“Tell them Chareva is gone, and the next farm chore is stringing more fencing.  That’s a two-person job.”

“Hang on … They say the driveway could use more patching.”

“Well, yeah, now that you mention it …”

“You need to fill in the holes with rocks.  They like that idea.  Rocks are heavy.”

Chareva’s garden cart was full of tools, tarps, gloves, zip-ties and other items dumped in there in no apparent order, which means she planned it that way.   I decided not to mess with her system, even though the garden cart is good for hauling rocks.

So I took a big bucket down to the creek, which serves as my quarry when I need rocks.  For the next couple of hours, I scooped rocks and gravel from the creek into the bucket.  Then I hand-carried the loaded bucket from the creek, across the front pasture, and to the top of our driveway, making sure to switch arms so neither would feel left out.  Then I filled canyons and craters in the driveway with rocks and gravel.  When we get a few days with no rain in the forecast, I’ll mix up some Quikrete and pour it between and on top of the rocks.

The rain that had been forecast all day finally came.  My muscles were tired by then, so the foot and his silent companions didn’t complain when I went inside.

In Good Calories, Bad Calories, Gary Taubes wrote about what he calls the compulsion to move.  We see lean people who move around a lot and fat people who don’t, so we assume the lean people are lean because they’re active.

Taubes says that’s getting the causality backwards.  Lean people are lean because their bodies aren’t hormonally geared to store a disproportionate share of calories as fat.  When they eat, their bodies would rather burn the calories than store them – so they feel a compulsion to move.  Longitudinal studies have shown that despite what most people think, kids don’t sit around and then get fat.  They start getting fat first, then sit around more – because they’ve lost the compulsion to move.

I believe there is such a thing as an energy endowment and that it’s partly genetic.  Some people are born bouncy and stay bouncy.  Others, not so much.  But diet has to figure into it as well.  When I was college, hardly a day went by when I didn’t eat wheat.  Toast or cereal in the morning, a sandwich for lunch, noodles or a roll with dinner – heck, that’s just normal food, right?

Now I rarely touch wheat.  But when I do – like, say, for my very rare pizza indulgence – I can feel the difference the next day.  I lose my enthusiasm for physical activity.  I feel like I did back in the days when I believed I was born with a low energy endowment.

I don’t have that low energy endowment anymore.  I’m not the bouncy type and never will be.  But when the weekend rolls around, I feel a compulsion to move.

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The programming project that’s been dominating my time and my life should wrap up this weekend.  In fact, this is the do-or-die weekend.  I’m supposed to run my big-fix program before Monday.  Everyone from the president of IT on down is waiting for results, so if I fail, I’m failing on a big stage.

It’s a bit stressful, but I also tend to thrive under this kind of pressure.  Years ago, an agent who signed me in Los Angeles told me he liked to work with standup comedians and retired athletes, and that the two share some personality traits.  As someone nearly devoid of natural athletic ability, my reaction was something like, “Uh … huh?  What are you talking about?”

“Think about it,” he said.  “You both have to perform in a high-pressure situation in front of a live audience.  Doesn’t matter if you’re tired, doesn’t matter what kind of mood you’re in, doesn’t matter how good you were last time out.  When it’s game time, you have to get out there and do the job.  There’s no re-shoot and no second take.  It’s the personality type who wants the ball when it matters.”

So yeah, I kind of wanted the ball when this one came around.  Hope I don’t fumble.

Anyway, I expect life to return to normal on Monday, which means I won’t be an absent blogger anymore.

In the meantime, I thought I’d share the view from our kitchen window this morning:

Deer come down from the hills now and then and and nose around the tree line, but usually the dogs bark and scare them away.  The dogs happened to be snoozing in the sun room when I took these pictures.  We counted eight deer in all.  It was a pleasing, relaxing sight to take in before heading upstairs to put my program through some final tests before running it.

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Man, it’s cold out there.  Tonight is supposed to be the deepest of the deep freeze, so we’ll see if the power stays on.  The wood-burning stove is already cranked up just in case.  I also decided to post tonight in case the -5 temperature snaps a power line and takes us off the grid for a few days.

Some weeks ago, Chareva ordered a new flock of 25 chicks.  I believe the purpose (since we’re certainly not running short on eggs) was to have more variety in the color of the eggs.  Also, she wanted to make more work for herself, since caring for two flocks of chickens, two hogs, two dogs, two children, one cat and one husband isn’t enough.

These were mail-order chicks that have to be shipped soon after they’re born.  Apparently they’re fine in a shipping box for two or three days, but only within a specific timeframe.  Chareva received an email notifying her that the chicks were shipped on Monday, which means they were making the trip from Iowa to Minnesota to here during one of the coldest spells of the year.  She and the girls prepared themselves emotionally to receive a box of dead, frozen chicks.

The chicks arrived today and, amazingly, only one of them had died during shipment.  Tough little critters, I guess.  The hatchery usually sends extra chicks anyway, so we ended up with 29 live ones … a mix of Araucana/Ameraucanas and Cuckoo Marans, plus one of some other breed we can’t identify yet. They’re happily congregating in their temporary home under a heat lamp. So we’ll be constructing another hoop house or two in a few weeks.

The first two winters after we moved to Tennessee, there were substantial snowfalls.  After spending their toddler years in Southern California, the girls were thrilled to finally go sledding.  The “hill” was a wimpy little thing in a neighbor’s yard, maybe a five-foot drop and 15 feet of total sledding.  So when we bought the farm with the big ol’ side hill, I thought to myself, “You think sledding down that little mound was fun?  Wait until you go down this bad boy.”

Three winters came and went with barely a dusting of snow each year.  Best the girls could do was sled down our driveway a few times in the morning before the afternoon soon melted the snow.  I actually slept through one snowfall last year.  By the time I was awake, it was already gone.  I only knew we’d had snow because Chareva told me.

Not this time. The mix of ice, sleet and snow that hit our area this week won’t be melting until at least Saturday, if then.  So the girls finally put the big hill to use – along with the driveway for old times’ sake.  They insist that what they’re doing out there is called “snow surfing.”  I created a video for them to remember the occasion.

The bailouts near the tree line are intentional.  (The others aren’t — they’re falls.) You can’t see it in the video, but the big hill ends at a sudden drop-off into the creek – not something you want to hit going full-speed on a sled.

Chicks and surfing … just what every guy dreams of during a deep freeze.

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I didn’t post yesterday because I had my every-five-year colonoscopy, which means undergoing general anesthesia, which means feeling a bit dopey and tired for the rest of the day.  I elected to spend the evening relaxing and watching some Netflix series I’ve been meaning to check out.

I don’t consider myself a cancer candidate, but since my dad had colon cancer, I get the peek-inside procedure done every five years.  No use being stupid about it.

The peek inside showed no cancer or warning signs of cancer, by the way.  That might be a disappointment to the vegan evangelists who occasionally show up in comments to warn me that red meat causes cancer.  They’ve seen some studies, by gosh, and they just know my meaty diet is going to kill me at a young age.

I once pointed out to a vegan troll who was making that argument that Linda McCartney died of cancer after more than 20 years of being a vegetarian.  He replied that she didn’t become a vegetarian until she was in her 30s, so the damage had already been done.  So I replied that I’m in my 50s, which means according to his theory, the damage has already been done.  So there’s really no point in me giving up meat at this point.  May as well enjoy my diet and my life until the cancer set in motion decades ago by eating meat finally flares up and kills me.

That actually shut up him, which was a bit of surprise.

Now I’m off to enjoy a skirt steak for dinner.

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