Big changes and, yes, I’m stalling

I like cilantro. Believe me, I’m just as disappointed as you are. After years of equating the flavor of cilantro to dish detergent mixed with dirt, I suddenly find myself tasting fresh, green yumminess instead. I have no idea how this change came about and, frankly, I’m really unhappy about it. What other things are going to change? What dyed-in-the-wool personality traits are going to shift? Wait. Do you think I might be able to do math in my head now?

Quick: 17+24 =

Nope.

the devil’s weed turns out to be delicious

Ah well. Onward. I no longer turn my nose at fresh salsa with bits of that satanic green leaf and I thought the cilantro mayo on my fish sandwich yesterday was a refreshing addition. But, the clincher is: Groom came home with a cilantro chutney from New York-based Hampton Chutney Company and it was so good, I could have eaten it with a spoon.

I knew I’d see physical changes (like the fact that my waist seems to be coming back), but I never thought daily activity would change my very genetic makeup, my DNA. I’m a cilantro lover now. Consider this your warning. Maybe if you take a walk a day, you won’t be allergic to shellfish anymore.

Please don’t eat shellfish and sue me.

While I’m handing out warnings, I may as well mention something else. Every spring, after I put on my first pair of short pants for the season, I end up with dings and cuts on my legs. I think everyone does, to a certain extent. But this year? My legs, arms, hands, and feet are covered in bruises, scrapes, callouses, and cuts. I’m cut up like a little kid playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery. I know it’s probably a result of getting out and doing things, so I sort of like it. However, I had to wear a skirt the other day and my leg has a purple/black bruise the size of a silver dollar with gross peeling skin. I’m proud of that bruise when I’m in my short pants walking the farmers market. Not so proud of that bruise when I’m sipping a cocktail in my Jimmy Choos. (I don’t own a pair of Jimmy Choos. I just think the line is funnier and carries more weight if I say that. The truth is, I was standing in my Calvin Kleins, but that connotes jeans, not high peeky-toed heels that make me feel like I am somethin’.)

Be warned: When you get up off the couch, you are far more likely to crack your knee on the coffee table, trip over electrical wiring, stub your toe on the threshold, and bonk your head on the doorjamb.

Let’s get back to the food. Last night’s dinner was all local. Chicken from Maine-Ly Poultry in Warren, arugula from Goranson Farm in Dresden, a pile of vegetables from Blackie’s, and basil from our herb garden. We had local covered in spades.

someone has the right idea

I haven’t put in my daily exercise yet; I’m trying to figure out what to do. I see the dog outside rolling around on his back again and I want to do that. My ankle is still giving me a little lip, so I want to stay off of it. I considered getting on the elliptical and standing on one leg while I work my arms, but the temptation to put my foot down will probably overwhelm me.

Come to think of it, I rarely can resist when faced with the temptation to put my foot down.

For dinner tonight, I suppose we’ll cook up a bunch of lobsters. I mean, someone has to do their part to drive prices back up. It’s so weird the chicken we ate for supper last night was almost four times the current price of lobster.

I’ll let you–all four of you reading this–know tomorrow how I get my exercise in. When you remove walking and running from the equation, it’s a bit of a challenge, isn’t it? I can’t drive to Damariscotta every day to use my sister’s kayak. I’ll tell you what, the seas were angry yesterday, my friend, and I did get quite a handy arm workout fighting the current and white caps, but it’s nearly an hour’s drive one way. That’s a big chunk of time change right there. I suppose I could rent a kayak here. I rented a standup paddleboard (SUP!) from SeaSpray a couple summers ago. Super nice people.

I’m totally stalling right now. I gotta get out and do something.

Okay. Here we go. I’m just going to dive right in and do something. This is crazy.

UPDATE: Doh! I stepped outside to scratch D-O-G’s belly and remembered something very important. We had piles of old shingles that needed to be loaded, hauled, and dumped. So, that was my activity for the evening. I know it’s really obnoxious to consider someone else’s paid work to be my exercise. It smacks of patronizing and condescension…with a smack of ham…. But, I can honestly report my respect for people who work with their hands every single day is insurmountable. I have the option to step inside, have some water, complain, have more water, type on my computer, wander back out, complain, make zombie noises, and come back inside when I’m too hot. I’m not on a job deadline; I don’t have some crazy homeowner watching my every move and looking at the clock; I’m not reporting to some asshole who criticizes what I’m doin
g; and I’m not getting paid minimum wage. Moving those shingles is like a hobby, really. (Oh my god that’s condescending and obnoxious. I’ll put a dollar in the douchebag jar. But, to be fair, I didn’t even know how to mow a lawn until I was 35. And I still can’t do math in my head.)

I took photos to prove I was out there. I can’t walk the wheelbarrow with my flat tire leg, so Groom and I loaded the truck and discarded the shingles that way. While we were at it, I got my heart rate up by working really really fast.

That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. Does this really even count?

These shingles: