A Weighty Issue

Today is January 5. I'm about to embark on a journey to unexplored territory.


I'm assuming here, but I think I made the same New Year's Resolutions as 50%, no 80%, of America. Well...sort of.

Yup, I've got to do something with that ten pounds, and I've certainly got to visit the gym more often.

I've thought about it for a long time, but thinking and doing are in two different galaxies, one the Milky Way, the other somewhere past Orion's M42 nebulae. How many milk shakes away is M42, by the way? Light years of them, I'm assuming.

Each year brings the opportunity to reinvent little parts of one's life; we call them resolutions, the word having a talisman-like quality. I'm going to reinvent a small part of my life, my own talisman. That ten pounds...I'm going to finally do something with it. Welcome to a New Year. Houston, we have liftoff.

My resolutions: to gain ten pounds and to exercise less. I'll visit, and only visit, the gym more.

Yeah, I know: easy enough - just eat more. Sure...

That's as easy for me as it is for Rosie O'Donnell to drop down to five chins without the help of some well aimed staples. That's as easy as the fat twins, of Guinness Book of World Records' fame (You remember the guys on the poor, overtaxed motorcycle? Bingo.) having a tea and a crumpet for breakfast each morning.

I don't know if it's a real phrase or just something that I added to my lexicon on the morning after New Year's when I looked through some pictures of the night before, pictures that were positively mortifying. What stared back at me was a face that had more angles and lines than a trigonometry text. It was a face that I barely recognized as my own, although I had been busy "perfecting" it for the past twenty-five years. It was a face, aged and haggard. I looked in the mirror for the first time today.

Do you know what "bodybuilder's face" is? If you don't, think about Albanian refugees who work the streets for small change to earn their daily bread (literally). For them, it sadly comes natural. For us fat, happy cats in the good ole' US of A, the land of milk and honey, we have to work for it. Many literally starve themselves (I don't) while spending more time in the weight room (guilty) than any logical person would consider. Then, and only then, can one earn a bodybuilder's face.

It comes from hours, turned to days, on an exercise bike. It comes from forgoing the pumpkin pie and ambrosia at Thanksgiving for another helping of broccoli. It comes at the movies too: "I'll take a large buttered popcorn, hold the butter." It comes from dedication turned obsession.

But those days are over. I'll take pumpkin pie; the whole thing. And the buttered popcorn? Please soak to the legal limit! Damn, that's yummy stuff.

On January 5th, 2008, I took a picture of myself, using the autotime function. It appears at the top.


Today is February 20, 2008.

Six weeks ago, I weighed in at 135, a super lightweight or junior welterweight, depending on which boxing abc acronym affiliation you follow. Today, I'm a hefty 143 lbs. (a welterweight, the different boxing commissions all agree, this being a rare occurrence) The almost-skeletal face is receding (that's probably the wrong word) behind a layer of fat, so too are the once-mighty abs. I knew there would be compromises; no problems there. But, geez, I'm really tired of eating.

Short of spooning white, gooey dollops of lard straight out of the bucket, into my mouth and arteries, I'm the second coming of Rush Limbaugh when he was tipping the scales at 300 bills+ (minus the bad politics, of course). I'm consuming like Imelda Marcos at a shoe store.
6:30 am: A fruit, protein, nut, peanut butter smoothie weighing in at a heady 1500 calories
8:00-4:00: Everything I can get my hands on goes in my mouth - another 500 calories
6:00 pm: Dinner for two: two huge chicken breasts, a sweet potato and broccoli - 1000 calories
9:00 pm: A "midnight snack:" 1 lb. ground turkey with chips to dip - 1,000 calories

4,000 calories/day, for six weeks! What do I win? Just a perpetual stomach ache? What? Well, there is the fact that I'm not being compared to the Green Goblin every time my head pops out of the door. Willem Defoe may be one hell of an actor, but he's not a Hollywood pinup. And while I'm certainly not aiming for pinup status, I've had enough of the, "man, you know who you look like?" comments to last a lifetime, maybe three.

About that stomach ache: How do people become obese? It feels like a whole lot of work when the dividends are achy joints, diabetes, heart disease and a host of other ailments. I'll be happy to reach the day at which I can eat only what my body wants - no more forced marches to the fridge.

I've turned a new leaf, a new me is appearing, popping out a little more every day, especially in the gut. I'm happy with the changes though. Still, I wonder: How do people gain so much weight? Bravo to the fat people of the world - the very people who make clothes shopping a near impossibility (size "small" is disappearing faster than the polar ice caps) - I never realized how dedicated they were. They all deserve medals - extra large, of course - for gluttony and sloth.



I've joined the ranks of the un-thin. I'm not in a select group, though; memberships are growing as fast as waistlines. Fare thee well carrots and celery; I miss both of you. Perhaps we can become reacquainted soon.

Can someone please pass the chips and dip?

Randee Dermer

Bonkers (October 6, 1999)

I lost my best friend today. She meant more to me than I can ever hope to explain. She was truly my everything - the love of my life. She was my kitten, Bonkers.

I know my mind well. Already it is hard at work erasing the vast slate of memories of my old friend as fast as it can. It is deleting them so that they will not be relived with the vividness that now I feel. Usually, we work as a team - I wish the thought to be discarded, and it is. Today, and for perhaps the rest of my life, we will be in a struggle for control of these memories.

My kitten, Bonkers, was the one constant in my life over the past 13 years. She saw me through a marriage, and a divorce. She was there for me during the horrible years of my illness, seemingly understanding my every pain. She was there for me in my loneliness, and in my periods of great joy. She was everything that a best friend is supposed to be.

Today I woke up knowing that this was our last day on earth together. I looked at her this morning and I saw in her eyes nothing that said she knew her time was ending. I retreated to the confines of my thoughts as I readied for school. Somehow I felt as though I were betraying her.

God it was painful shutting the door behind me as I left home. The drive to school seemed in no way long, but in every way painful.

The hours ticked by slowly, inexorably, as I waited for classes to end. The hands on the clock moved with excruciating slowness.

I wore sunglasses to school today; it seemed a good idea. 12:30 arrived, and it was time for my last goodbye. I stopped in the library and took a quick peak at the USA Today. I think now, as I write, that it was a way to take my mind off of the impending storm, but it felt horrible to be reading box scores when Bonkers was soon to be a part of my past.

The drive home was a horror chamber of thoughts. I thought of all the good times that I had spent with my friend. This sad little nostalgia brought me back, often, to a time when I was married to a beautiful young lady named Dawn. Each remembrance opened up a Pandora's box of bittersweet melancholy. I thought of Bonkers first day in the trailer - how she seemed to know that that was her destiny. I thought about that cement pad, and how she loved to fall and roll on it. Also, I thought of the deck, and how she fancied that she was queen of the underside of it. I pictured the drive to Arizona, and the pitiful, panicked cry she emitted during those interminable miles. Mostly, though I reflected on the last 18 months.

I say 18 months because this is how long I've been single. But really, I've never been single - Bonkers has always been there.

An amazing and wonderful transformation took place in that time. Where once I felt that Bonkers was there for me, I began to realize that, with her deteriorating health, I was here for her. Often at night she would cozy up into the curl of my body as I slept on my side. I never protested despite the sacrifices to my personal comfort. It was my turn to return her unconditional love. I could tell you a thousand stories of how I took care of my baby. I could tell you of how she frequently got sick in the middle of the night, and how I would get up, pet her gentle head, clean up the mess, and carry her back to bed with me - soothing her constantly. I could tell you how I searched far and wide for a diet that her sensitive intestines would accept; and of the money - money that I don't have - spent on trying to make her healthy once more.

I could tell you all these things, but I haven't the time or the energy. This is why I will pray tonight. I will pray that my mind doesn't betray me and erase the slate that is Bonkers' memories. I loved her with every ounce of my being.

The vet came over at 4:00 today. There was a bit of business to be finished. I had been with Bonkers for three hours by then and I could tell she was annoyed. Sure she loved me, but she was still a cat; and she had no idea... I wished so very hard that I could explain to her that this was it - no more frolics on the patio.

I held Bonkers tight as the needle was pushed into a minute vein near her paw. She gave out a horrible scream, which made my body slump. I was crying uncontrollably now -- thirteen years of love were coming to a close.

I watched through a flurry of tears as Dr. Luse pushed forward the stopper. I begged aloud to Bonkers for forgiveness for taking her life. I cried loudly over and over; “I'm sorry Bonky; I'm sorry Bonky.”

Then she fell limp in my hands. I looked into her wonderful bright eyes and saw only darkness, blankness. It reminded me of the movie, “The Terminator”. A living creature's eyes carry a light of their own - the light of being - that can only be extinguished by death. This last memory is perhaps one I hope to forget.

There I sat, slumped over a limp, warm body, still unable to control my outflow of emotion. Dr. Luse had given my body a hug and walked silently to her car. I sat with Bonkers' dead body in my arms. But, you know what? I couldn't let go! I carried the light warm body around the house for easily forty minutes; I just couldn't let go. How does one explain an abstraction such as pure, unconditional love? I held my cat until her little body began to cool.

It was so very hard to place my friend in the hole that I had dug. She looked so horrible lying limp in the dirt. I couldn't stand it, so I arranged her body as though she were taking one of her frequent naps. I picked flowers and gently arranged them around her body. Then I buried her.

Bonkers is no longer with me in body. In spirit she will be with me until my own unnatural light fades. I hope that I may reunite with her then and continue our friendship. It was far too perfect to end so quickly.

Dear Bonkers, constantly I expect you to come up to me and nudge me with your wet nose. My thoughts quickly diminish into reality. You are gone. I am alone. This is pain beyond pain.

Robin Hood Is In the Building

The story of Robin Hood, perhaps more metaphorical than real, has been told from generation to generation since the 14th century. Whether one is apt to believe in the man is moot, the point is what one might call paleo-populism, or in some corners, paleo-socialism: steal from the rich and give to the poor. It clearly applies to the current economic environment in AZ. But with a twist.

In the midst of the greatest budget crisis in Arizona's history, a "reverse Robin Hood" syndrome has afflicted the state's legislature. From Lake Havasu City to Phoenix, on through Mesa and all the way to White Mountains, a group of well-healed Republican legislators has decided that the top priority of the state is to take care of its most wealthy on the backs of Arizona's middle class and low-income citizens. This is trickle down economics, a Ronald Reagan standard, on steroids.

Those corporations which are apt to be bailed out (ostensibly because they are too big to fail) when they make egregious mistakes (call them accounting errors, if you will), the same corporations whose income tax rate was at a lower percentage than the number of fingers one can count on his or her left hand after an accident with a large knife, are the beneficiaries of the AZ state legislature's largesse. It seems like slight-of-hand that a state which is not only broke but in a deep shade of red (rather like blood) can be shelling out over $100 million per year to the group who needs it least. It feels like prestidigitation...because it is.

In a magic trick that would make Harry Houdini green with envy, Republicans have said that the meek shall inherit the debt and the rich will inherit a zero tax rate. How was this amazing trick pulled off? One can call it sorcery, but others might say that the Republican-led legislature knows how to run a propaganda machine, the type that Joseph Goebbels and the Nazis would blush at. Count most Arizona citizens baffled; they know not what hit them or that anything did hit them. In fact, some are calling it a victory for democracy that the wealth wasn't "redistributed to the poor." Others would say that Robin Hood's alter ego, his Mr. Hyde, has made an appearance across the Atlantic from Sherwood Forest.

For whom did the AZ legislator see fit to serve a nice helping of Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle?" None other than those effete, liberal, union-loving, America-hating educators, the very bane of modern society. One need only read the opinion column of the Arizona Republic to know that teachers are in the same company as thieves and...anyone else who makes less than $50,000 per year.

Witness the damage: AHCCCS took a $500 million hit (sick people are apparently non-essentials, too); education funding was reduced by $420 million. These are the victims, the very entities that are bleeding red not only from lack of funds, but also from the legislature-inflicted wounds borne upon them.

However, we have a balanced budget in Arizona (shhhhhhhhhh, don't say a thing about how the state is asking local municipalities to help foot the bill in order that the rich get even richer. It's our secret, OK?), and that's what matters. Robin Hood's alter ego would unequivocally agree.

To My Parents On Their 50th Anniversary: (March 2001)

Hi mom and dad:

Since it is Spring Break, I have a bit of extra time to write about some of my most fond and talked about memories of my formative years. These are for your collection should you choose to use them.


Night Drives, and Paranoia:

Often, during the nights when mom was working at the Elks or the Gaslight or wherever it may have been, the assembled children would display their boredom by being rather ornery. When we reached this stage, there was little dad could hope to do to appease our boredom. But he did have one real nice idea - the late night drive.

But we did more than just take a little ride around the block. We followed people. I hope that dad still remembers the days when we would give the directive to “follow that car.”

So there we went, following our chosen victim wherever he or she went. If the car in front of us went left, so too, did we. This little game of following soon became a Dermer favorite. But, I believe, that it left some weary souls more than a little paranoid. Think about it though - to have a veritable boatload of kids and some grown-up following you may imbue a certain fear of God into any of us.

It was funny because, invariably, the car in front would soon begin to make a lot of turns hoping to shed the “tail” that it had gained. We kids thought it was the greatest trick ever created, but I'm quite sure that the poor people in the other car would have begged to disagree. I feel pretty confident that some of those people went home to their wives or husbands or children with a heroic tale of how they avoided the car with so many thugs in it. OK, so the median age of us thugs was probably less than ten years. Heck, they didn't know that.

That's probably a trick that I won't be doing anytime soon.

Sometimes in life there are moments irretrievable. This would fall under that category. It went the way of the drive-in theater: a moment in time in one's life. Still, when I think of those silly little chases, even today, I can't help but crack a big smile.

Randee


Dad's Hash:

A lot of people don't know it, but dad used to be a gourmet chef. Mom used to work at nights, so the task of cooking for all of us fell upon the able hands of one Charles Dermer. Mr. Dermer was not merely another cook in the kitchen, rather he was a gourmand. Whereas many poor children on Avenue I were being raised on grub such as fried chicken, pork chops, and steaks; in our house only the best was served -- corned beef hash, of course. And it came in three flavors -- cold, warm and hot. Nothing like sitting down to a nice portion of hash each night. But hash was not all. Dad was also astute at cooking eggs and bacon; no easy feat I might add.

I really can't remember if he had any other specialties; I'm sure that he did. But I well remember the nights of corned beef hash and eggs. If I sound at all as though I am making fun of dad's cooking acumen, it's because I am. But what ole' dad lacked in the cooking department he made up for in more important ways. Love was served at the Dermer household each and every night. Many of the children on Ave. I who were eating their steaks would have gladly traded for a meal that included love. OK, so dad was a horrible cook, barely able to pull off the boiling of an egg without incident. But the point here is that food is only a small component of what is served at the dinner table. A larger, more important part is the feeling of being loved by your parents.

Both mom and dad always nourished us with this essential nutrient of life.

Randee


The Year I Was a Beetle:

It was one of those hot summer days when mom told me that I was beginning to look like a beetle.

I remember that we were outside; she was hanging laundry, and I was playing with that shaggy old dog Curly. Curly, with her black, ragged coat, was never destined to win any beauty contests, but that's another story altogether. Anyway, I came over to give a “hand.” Right about that time she made a declaration that rather astounded me. In fact, she stated that, “my hair was growing so long that I was beginning to look like a beetle.”

I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by that. After all, beetles were small insects that scurried along the ground in random patterns. Did a beetle have hair? I put great thought into this subject, never asking for clarification. Finally it came to me. If you take a real close look at a beetle, you will notice that it has fine lines that run along its body. With my powerful kid logic, I decided that those lines must have been strands of hair slicked back in imitation of the King, Elvis Presley. Yes, that was it, of course; how foolish of me not to realize this earlier. I just wondered exactly where did the typical beetle hide his comb and styling gel. I suppose it was enough just to realize that beetles even had a head of hair.

Still, I never fancied that my hair resembled that of a beetle. Mine was brown and kind of wavy. The beetles all seemed to wear their jet black hair in the same slicked back position; never a strand out of place (what a boorish and conforming crowd they were). Oh well, if mom said I looked like a bug, then maybe she was right. To me, the resemblance was sketchy at best.

I believe that I went near to a full year thinking that mom had compared me to a tiny insect. Then, one day, it occurred to me like an epiphany. The beetle that she had spoke of was really a Beatle.

Randee


Dressing For the Occasion:

I was a small child at the time, perhaps pushing four. Mom and I got into the car in order to pick up Mark at the High School. I remember it as a bright, sunny sky on that day that would soon redefine clothing styles. We pulled in front of the school watching the “almost-grownups” filing out on well-worn paths. School was out for the day and most of the students wore a smile that betrayed their happiness to be free on such a fine spring day. But mom, well...she looked more than a little consternated.

I followed her eyes, eager to glean the source of her stern look. Of course, I assumed that it had to be something to do with my older brother. It was not. Mom, yes the same mom as today, though a bit younger, was watching a young lady who had just exited the school. Even in my youth, I knew that there was something different, something odd, about this girl. I needn't have spent any more time considering what it was because my mother was already stating what was on her mind. So many years later, I doubt that I can repeat, word for word, what was said, but it went something like this: “A girl in jeans! What is this world coming to?”

It was indeed true. Some young lady had found the nerve to wear jeans to school - no small feat in 1964. Probably had something to do with those damn Beatles from across the sea.

Time passed on and so did the day of the dress. In fact, one might go to visit 109 Louise Avenue in the little town of Glenwwod, Iowa. Should one choose to do so and, moreover, knock on the old wooden door that graces the entrance of said home, they may well be greeted by that same lady. In jeans of course.

Randee