Simply Flabulous!

The one major advantage to lung disease was that I was able to keep my girlish figure. For most of my life, I have eaten whatever I want and whenever I want. I could out eat teenage boys. I paid no attention to exercise. My metabolism was always in high gear and I breathed off most of what I ate. My sisters hated me for it, though I would try to point out that there WERE downsides to chronic respiratory distress. I retained some weight after bearing the boy, but nothing too crazy. At the point of what I call the downturn in 2005 when my poor overwrought lungs decided to seriously malfunction and began to give out, I was about 118 pounds and probably at my perfect middle-age weight. The aftermath got ugly and I was too thin--scary looking, but before that, girth-wise at least, all was well.

When I walked out of Presbyterian Hospital after my lung transplant in 2007, I weighed 98 pounds. It was a beautiful start to a new life. An ability to breathe and a NEED to gain weight--does it get any better than that? But every party has a pooper and that's why we invited prednisone.

The doctors do warn you that prednisone makes you hungry. And I had some experience of prednisone tapers through the years, so I foolishly thought I knew what to expect. I had no idea. Hungry isn't the word for it. I was consumed by the need to throw food down my throat. A half-hour after a big meal, I'd be peckish again. You can stave off peckish and sometimes (rarely) I would, but it bloomed into starving lightning fast and my life lessons all told me to go ahead and feed it. Had I possessed ANY foresight whatsoever, I might have recognized a bad pattern and looked for better foods, but that wasn't my mindset. Entenmanns, Dunkin' Donuts, Dairy Queen, in short, sugar--became my addiction. An addiction, admittedly I probably always had, but one that had never been pharmaceutically encouraged before.

Of course, I realized the error of my ways far too late. Now I weigh more than I did when I was carrying the boy and look and feel pretty bad. I actually wondered and embarrassingly asked to doctors to check if I had a large tumor or something that could account for my belly. My whole identity as a thin (albeit never particularly fit) person is trashed. I am physically uncomfortable. I buy the wrong clothes and look bad in them. Things I used to love--clothes shopping, eating out, chocolate, even taking a nice bath--are now disturbing events that I avoid. I have to accept the fact that the only way I am ever going to turn heads again is if I wear horizontal stripes or forget my spanx.

Before you get down on me, like everybody does when I express any of this, let me state that I DO have a perspective. I am immeasurably thankful to be alive. The prednisone dose is low now, so I have achieved a stable if yet unacceptable level of heft. I am attempting exercise, though it forces me to enter the arena of labored breathing which, as you might imagine, is somewhat fraught for me. And as they cheerfully inform me at the lung transplant center, my BMI indicates that I am not yet considered obese. How fab.

Now I've entered the world many people have always inhabited. I bargain with myself over everything I eat. I've joined a gym and actually go sometimes. I've declared war on my old friend sugar and am making peace with my new chins. I'm attempting to embrace vegetables. I think I'm on the right track now, but there isn't a lot of hope for results. That is not being negative, but realistic. The doctor at Presbyterian who administers the yearly pulmonary stress test told me last year that if you wanted to sabotage another country's Olympic team, the best way is to give them the drugs I take every day. In other words, I'd have to become obsessed with exercise to overcome the chemicals I put into my body just to stay alive. The mayor thought it was wrong of him to tell me that, but I was grateful. It made the fact that I don't get very far with body modification less of a personal failure and more of an inevitability. And I think I have a good read on where inevitability becomes an excuse and personal failure takes over. That's where the hope comes in!

The Prize of Shame

I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of things I've actually won over the years. I've never had a winning lottery ticket. I've spent a fair share of Lincolns on triple arms lengths of 50/50 tickets that never yield a profit, football and basketball pools that pay off nicely--for someone else and various tricky tray (nee Chinese) auctions that, I hope, benefit a good cause because they surely did not benefit me. Publishers' Clearinghouse has steadfastly ignored my existence--even when I used to slavishly send in my entries. And my forays into casinos invariably end with the phrase, "well, at least we had a good time." Sure, I've made off with a few centerpieces and the occasional door prize over the years, but never the "grand" prize, so to speak. So imagine my surprise when I hear my name announced as the lucky winner of a family portrait at a fundraising event for a local non-profit organization. Not exactly a new car, but definitely a cut above the centerpiece!

Excited, I promptly register with the photography company for my portrait--faxing them my contact information. Almost immediately, Lindy from Bourgeois Photography (an assumed name) calls me and ask me what kind of fundraiser I entered to win their donated prize. She seems put out that I won in a tricky tray rather than a silent auction. Is it me, or am I sensing disapproval? I can't decide, so I forge on. Lindy says, with an air of indulging me despite the fact that their donation was clearly undersold,  that she is sending me my gift certificate and we arrange a date for our sitting.

Included with the certificate are glossy brochures of their portraits. These portraits, the literature points out, are not your run of the mill portraits. They are printed on canvas and  "artist enhanced." Depicting mostly formally dressed families in staid settings with dark backgrounds and gilt frames, I am a little disappointed in the overall mood of the finished products, but what the heck--it's free, right? I open the fancy little box containing my gift and note with foreboding that it is in the amount of $2000.00. In my world, this would purchase family portraits enough to cover every wall of my house. I feel I'm being led a merry dance, but I decide to see it through.

Sitting day comes. The Mayor is off mayoring, so the boy and I go to have our mother/son portrait. I get my hair done, we dress in the recommended dark colors and we pose for a variety of shots. The photographer is charming and the boy and I have a good time with it. There's no sign of Lindy, but Emily--the lady at the front desk arranges a time for me to come back, review and select our portrait. Meanwhile, I get a closer look at their work. Portraits are arranged throughout the studio. They strive for an heirloom quality portrait that is more painting than photo. But to me they look kind of ghostly and surreal. Whatever, I think, see how it goes.

Finally the day of reckoning. I get the sense that I'm being set up for the hard sell. A few days before my appointment, Jessica calls to "strongly encourage" me to bring the Mayor along because "all decisionmakers" should be present. I assure them, in politer terms of course, that the Mayor couldn't care less what image I choose and that I am decisionmaker enough for this event. I know and of course they know we are not talking about the image anymore, we are talking about the price, but in the wonderfully euphemistic world of things that cost a ridiculous amount of money, we're all happy to pretend.

When I arrive, Jessica escorts me to a viewing room where I sit on a lovely sofa. She offers me tea. I decline because I know my goal is not to "spend" more than my $2000.00 gift certificate and I don't want to take advantage. The photos of me and the boy are fantastic. One better than the other, so of course, I want them all. We pick the best images in each position. Then Jessica puts it on the table. Portraits range from $8000.00 on down to $2000.00. Net net, the $2000.00 I have gets me an unframed 11 X 14, which she explains, will not have much "artist" work on it because it is "so small." I'm secretly good with that since I feel it is the artist additions that have rendered the portraits all around me somewhat scary, but I look downcast as a poor person out of her league should look. I decide to recognize the possibility that perhaps they should make money on the "gift" they "donated" to charity and ask, what it would cost to have my measly portrait framed. There is no framing possibility less than $300. Not doing it. She offers mounted versions of the other shots that can be set on little mini-easels, not "enhanced" of course and I'd have to find my own mini-easels. I think ok, maybe I'll get one or two of these. Wrong. An 8 X 10 is $300. It's $250 for a 5 X7. Now I know I can't do business here.

With the mysterious unknown cost of the "artist's touch" removed, I can estimate how much these mounted photos would cost them. Hell, I can probably go on Snapfish and get one for next to nothing. I would have paid a reasonable sum, in order to keep it polite. I recognize the value of professional photography and that people need to earn a living. I was prepared to spend up to about $100 for my "prize." But they offered me no options. The disapproval and anger I felt off off Jessica when she realized I was not taking the bait was palpable. She couldn't get rid of me fast enough and, in fact, couldn't even look at me again. I guess I was supposed to feel shame. That was my big prize. Too late, I realized that I'd have been happier if she'd just handed me an 8X10 print of each of the poses and charged me for them. That would have been a real win. My portrait has not arrived yet. I have no idea how it will look. But every time I look at it, I'll remember how lucky I am to be unlucky most of the time.

Overheard at the Supermarket

Last week, as I stood in the dairy aisle pondering the merits of soy yogurt verses ordinary yogurt, a woman in a parka (hood up) violated unspoken supermarket etiquette by pushing her cart that slight bit too close to mine, then walking away from it to look at the bread. I didn't think much of it, but my weirdness sensors were up.

Seconds later, she passed by her cart with something in her hands and asked an older man further down the dairy aisle in a loud, fever-pitched way, "CAN I GET IT? CAN I GET IT? Okay, there was something going on there. But I was more surprised still by his response. In a gruff, gravelly voice, he replied, unnecessarily meanly, "NO! She tried to make her case. But he still thundered, NO, in response.

I found this jarring.  Why can't a grown woman in her late 20s or early 30s, whatever her circumstances, choose her own food. Destitute didn't seem to be an issue here--they were well dressed and had lots of other things in their cart. It bothered me to hear her beseech him like a plaintive child and it irked me to hear him shut her down like a nasty tyrant. But you know how it is, you pick up your yogurt (soy and not soy) and carry on.

A few aisles later, we meet again. This time she's carrying soda. She starts out normally, "Mom likes this." But suddenly, she raises her voice like before and in the exact same insistent, almost frantic way, implores him, "CAN I GET IT? CAN I GET IT? Predictably now, he responds, "NO!" Throughout the entire exchange, neither of them has actually looked at the other. And, although they are practically yelling, their faces register no emotion. Of the three of us, I am the only one who is upset!

This, I concluded, must be normal communication for them. I realize that they probably perform this act at least once in every aisle, every time they shop. He is inured to her pleas and she to his refusals. Tones that I would find alarming and hurtful do not seem to have the same effect on either of them. From the number of items in the cart, I surmise that he must sometimes say yes. I wish I had heard that at least once to know for sure.

Sit! -- If You Feel Like It, That Is . . .

My dogs are crazy about me. They hang on my every word. At least that's the impression they put out. All ears up and tails wagging every time I open my mouth. And it doesn't matter if I'm talking to them, the boy, the Mayor or myself. They are always listening and watching my every move. Problem is, despite all that rapt attention, they seldom respond to anything I say in a way that you might interpret as obedience.

Sure, they've got the basic commands down. SIT generally gets the desired response--and quickly, when I'm offering bribes. But it isn't a sure thing and even when they sit, it isn't for long. OUT is often successful, but 7-year-old Major, a Miniature Pinscher who dislikes most weather, frequently drags his feet. Dog favorites like BISCUIT and DINNER are foolproof, I'll give them that.

But my potential favorites--COME, STAY, DOWN and NO--fail unless the  dogs are of a mind to take or cease said action of their own free will. They want to please you. Isn't that what everyone says about dogs? Well mine seem to want, first and foremost, to please themselves. If they happen to please me in the process of pleasing themselves, all the better in their minds--after all, dogs are affable animals.

The long and short of the matter is that I am a terrible dog trainer. I want well-trained dogs, but I'm not consistent. They sense this off of me right away and that's why they have a maybe/maybe not attitude when it comes to doing what I say. It was sort of OK with Major because he weighs about 9 pounds and bad behavior in a dog that barely reaches your knee is annoying, but manageable. Karma, the rescue puppy we recently adopted, presents more of a challenge. At six-months, she is already bigger than Major. She is healthy, funny and full of energy. And she is desperately in need of training.

It's not easy for dogs. As a species forced to live by the rules of a different species, they are predestined to have to fight their every instinct their entire lives. Why they remain as good natured as they do in the face of this, is a mystery to me. At this stage of life, nearly anything that strikes Karma as a great idea--chewing socks, biting Major, gnawing on chair legs, dissecting toys, eating poop--strikes me as a bad one. And redirecting her energies is time consuming and tedious. Snow makes the dog park impossible and has for the past month.

We tried clicker training and still have two lessons that are paid for, but I don't think I'll go back. Training without verbal commands might work for others, but I am not getting it and neither is Karma. In this class, they frown on physically manipulating your dog to let her know what behavior you want, ie . . . pushing her bottom down when you are teaching sit, etc. This is considered rude to the dog. I love my dog, but I really don't think she gets a nuanced concept like rudeness. And if I'm not hurting her, I don't really understand how it is rude myself. You might say it's not clicking with me.

Yet, I need to find a method and find it fast. The traditional training classes I took Major to seven years ago have doubled in price and with the vet visits and spaying to pay for, combined with the training classes that didn't work, my dog budget is pretty well blown. My cousin sent her dogs to a training camp, but I'm sure I won't be able to swing that. Books on training are my next option and I have a few. But where do I get a book on training myself to be a trainer of dogs. I'm the real problem here, not them. They know it and I know it!