Tape a Cheetah to My Back

My Inner Athlete used to be very active: skiing, kickboxing, biking, weights, you name it she was doing it until sometime in the early 2000s.  Then, she saw the light and instead of attempting to shame me into joining her (it didn't work. . .I know my place-- it's
 on the beach. . .in a chair), she joined me.  Together we'd hit the sand, lie back and relax, sip wine.  It was a happy union.
I'm not sure what Inner Athlete has been spiking my wine with, but our relationship has changed without my even realizing it.  I have been duped.  Last August I started "running" using the Couch to 5K program; a program that turns you into a runner in spite of yourself and I have surpassed the 5K mark - heading toward 10K.  All of this has happened while IA stood on the sidelines with her back to me, glass in hand, pretending she didn't even notice.  She didn't say a word about it, just continued to sip wine with me, lamenting the winter months and yearning for sun.  DIDN'T SAY A WORD. . .until I needed new running shoes and then she started peppering my speech with words like "pressure sensors" and "mid-strike", whispering in my ear to buy the "good" running shoes because my feet would thank me (and they have).

Inner Athlete re-emerged in full force last weekend while in California. She grabbed my hand and dragged me full speed down the road to watch a triathalon.  The participants swim through the local lake, bike through a 14 mile course and run 3 miles to finish.  I stood on the corner as these athletes came riding by in all ages, shapes and sizes and the thought that I can do this quietly presented itself.  IA whispered in my ear, "Yessss, you caaannn."  I pondered the idea, concerned about my speed. . .or lack thereof.  I wouldn't do it to win, that's never gonna happen, but I would do it just to do it.  I am a strong swimmer, I love to bike and I can run 3 miles now.  I could do this.

And so I am.  Next year's Desert Triathalon has another participant.  I turned to IA and sneered, "This is all your fault."  She laughed.  I said, "What if I am so slow that they pack up before I am finished?"

She laughed again,"We could always tape a cheetah to your back."

IA is such a smart ass.

Call It What you Will. . .

Menopause.  The Change of Life.  The Critical Period (or really lack thereof).  Whatever you want to call it, I've been ready for it since the day I gave birth to my last child.  No more children; no need for the uterus, the fallopians or ovaries.  I was ready to yank them out and donate them to an organ bank a long time ago.  My gynocologist, however, wasn't in agreement.  So, I toiled on until now.

I've had some symptoms for awhile.  Hot?  All the time (southerners call it "my own personal summer").  Itchy? Check.  But really, the bitchy and forgetful part haven't been so bad. I've been fairly open and ready to poke fun at myself when the sniping bitch rears her head and am quick to spin it back into position. In fact, I pride myself on quick thinking and innovative action.

Last week, a friend dropped by with little notice. I had enough time to pick up the dog toys, put the extra dirty dished in the oven and make a fresh pot of coffee.  And, we had a delightful visit, talking about, of all things, our experiences with The Change.  Her biggest complaint is her swiss cheese memory, which her children are quick to point out when it involves something they claim they have already told her.  You know, things like I'm having fifteen people over tonight, will you cook something?

That evening when Moondoggy came home, I told him of the visit, laughing at the funny stories my friend shared.  I preheated the oven for dinner, then continued the conversation, asking in a somber tone if I had been successful at not being overly moody or bitchy.  Moondoggy assured me, my bitch has been painless and sometimes downright funny.  I felt pretty darn proud of myself.

Proud, until I smelled melting plastic.  The dishes!  I had left them in the oven and forgotten.  My white plastic colander was dripping through the oven grates and pooling on the oven floor at a temperature of 375˚.  The stench overpowering.

I was stunned.  How could I forget?

Moondoggy grabbed his coat and brought me mine.  As he helped me put it on he said, "You know, you only asked about being bitchy, you didn't ask me about how your memory has been."

And The Beat Goes On. . .

Often, during the oppressive days of the summers of my youth, the neighbors with pools would run up a flag signaling that the pool was open.  Like vultures, we would ride around the neighborhood, circling, waiting for the flags so we could pedal home and drag our parents to the neighbor's pool.  We would play games: Marco Polo, Shark, Underwater Tea Party.  And when there was nothing left to do, we’d ask our mom  (who had grown up as the oldest child in her family) to “Judge” our underwater handstands.  Enjoying the poolside herself, she would assign arbitrary numbers to our attempts as a form of judgement without using any uniform criteria.  In other words, she was making it up as we went along.  And it worked.  We would repeatedly attempt to better our score.  As the older child, I caught on to what she was doing so that when I got tired, I joined her at the side of the pool and “helped” her continue to judge my little sister until she was thoroughly spent. I knew the game was over.

When my kids were small and bored and looking to expend extra energy, I would tell them to run around the house and I would time them.  I’d sit on the front stoop and when they returned, assign an arbitrary number for which they would then attempt to beat.  Around the period where my oldest could tell time, he caught on to what I was doing so that when he was tired, he would sit with me and check his watch while his younger brother continued to run around the house in attempt to better his time. (In all fairness, youngest did take the State Championship in the 4x400 at the State Track Meet in his junior year of HS.) My oldest son knew the game was over.

Yesterday, a cold, windy, blecky day, I was home.  No longer a child, my own children grown and out of the house, I pulled the same trick on my dogs.  I stood at the top of the steps and tossed a ball down.  The dogs chased the ball, ran it up the steps and I’d toss it again.  Finally, they figured out they could do it all themselves.  Drop the ball, chase it down and return to the top only to drop it again.  My older dog (12 pounds, age 11) kept pace fairly well, but the “baby” (5 months, 28 pounds) has boundless energy.  On the final toss down the steps, the oldest was in the lead, got the ball, returned to the top of the stairs, ran into the living room (with the baby right behind him) and pushed the ball under the couch where neither of them can reach.  Then, he ran back to the stairs and pretended to drop the ball, sending the baby back down the stairs and on a frantic search.  Older dog curled up on the couch. Game over.

To Flu Shot ot Not to Flu Shot?

The flu is running rampant across the country.  Hospitals on the east coast have been flooded and even our own local hospitals here in the midwest have found themselves unable to accept new patients because they are at capacity.  There has been a nationwide clarion call to the GET THE FLU SHOT.  They say, it’s not too late.  This has spawned the anti-flu shot people to rise up in defense.  The arguments are compelling on both sides and I fall squarely on the fence about the whole thing.

I worked in a germ factory (aka elementary school) for 10 years.  In all of those years, I was offered the shot, but only took up the chance once. . .by accident.  How does one allow a needle to plunge into ones arm accidentally? It was offered to kids who were on public aid. The Health Department nurses came to the school and administered them.  One of the kids I escorted to the staging area was scared, tears raining from his eyes.  He pleaded with me to save him.  SAVE HIM!  I told him that I wasn’t a fan of shots either and I admired his bravery in going through with it.  He swelled with the first waves of pride at the thought that a grown-up might be equally scared and he took up the sword for me, “If I do this, you can too!”  He took the shot like a trooper, then got out of the chair and offered it to me, “Ok.  Your turn.”  Well, what could I do?  I coughed up the $9 and filled out the paperwork and, gulp, got a flu shot.  And what happened?  Nothing.  I didn’t get the flu.  I didn’t get the after shot sickness.  I didn’t even catch a cold that year.

In the ensuing years, I chose not to get the shot.  And what happened?  Nothing.  Even the year we were down to 4 or 5 students in a classroom, I did not get the flu.  So, I climbed up on the fence and allowed my friends on either side to extol the virtues of their opinions on intentionally injecting an illness into one’s body.  

This year, the flu has been a pisser.  I did not get the shot. The news has broadcasted of raging fevers, screaming aches and pains, and 3 week recoveries.  I did not get the shot.  Moondoggy gets the shot free at work. And what happened?  Nothing, except we have a vacation planned soon.  People around him at work are dropping like the proverbial flies, he could be bringing those nasty hangers on germs home.  I could catch this thing third party or worse on the plane as all those germs mingle in recycled air.  So, the thought of the flu on a vacation finally pushed me off the fence.

I bashfully walked into CVS and asked for the shot.  I filled out the paperwork and took a seat where?  Where other sick people sit to wait for their meds, of course.  Is there any hand sanitizer around?  No.  Any wipes like at the grocery store?  No.  But, I got the shot.  And now I have to worry for 2-3 weeks that I have been exposed to this heinous strain before the shot is full strength. And what’s happened?  So far, nothing except that I am now a raging germaphobe. All for a vacation?  I’m not sure the stress is worth it. 

I will be hiding out for the next 2 weeks, but then, I’m climbing back on the fence.

Waiting for the First Responders

 Every night before we go to bed, Moondoggy asks if I locked the front door.  I am only mildly offended when he hears me say, "yes" and then checks anyway.  Here is why. . .

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad.  I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex.  Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe.  Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in.  The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape.  I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town.  Within screaming distance I always say.

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it - which no longer is possible, me using my mad kick boxing skills. me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell..  I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'.  So, last night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone.  I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I do have Moose the Wonder dog.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door has been opened.  The dog goes nuts barking and leaping off the bed, scrambling headlong into the living room.  I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do, self preservation is my middle name.  And what do I do?

I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor.  You would think at some point I would have stopped right?  NO!  I keep going, where I come face to face with a man in a dark clothings who, I realized later, was more shocked than I.  

"Oh NO!  Wrong house," he calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen!  Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen.  Wrong house.  We're leaving."  Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and just before he closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?"  He gives it to me (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is).  Then, there was that ghastly smell.  I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas.

I flip on the light and there, in the mirror, get a gander at what the intruder was looking at.  I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring.  I am also wearing an old gray tank top.  Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have.  My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top.  And amazingly, I'm still not scared.

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police.  I waffled.  I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting.  She did not think it was funny. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight.  I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap!  I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests.   I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty.  I wished I had brushed my hair!  He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm.  She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight service calls to her house.  There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again.  All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado!  They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said.  I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?""   

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair,"  I commented to my reflection.  Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall.  I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again.  It wasn't the dog, it was my breath.  Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan?  It went out the window without me.

Never Say Never

Five years ago, I sat in the office of one of my bosses and told a story about a serial killer that stalked children in the city where I grew up in Michigan. I started with the abduction of Mark Stebbins in February 1976 and ended with Tim King’s death in March 22, 1977.  Tim was the youngest brother of a friend of mine and he was one of my own brother-in-law’s best friends.  

The monster that became known as the Oakland County Child Killer scarred the lives of all the people who lived in Oakland County, Michigan from those at “ground zero” to those who watched these horrors unfold on tv.  The killer was never found.

As I told this story out loud from the abductions to the theories, possible suspects and my own personal involvement, my boss leaned back in his chair and said, “I see a great piece of fiction to be written.”  I scoffed.  I was MAD.  No way, I said, could I ever turn this disturbing time of so many lives into fiction.  

Well, a few days ago, I published my next book, “No Such Thing”, a fictional story about child abduction and murder.  While not about the real killer or murders, it employs many of the same events and theories, weaving a story of what could have happened.  The real story takes remarkable twists and turns.  The book streamlines many of those twists into one story.

I would never attempt to diminish the lives of Mark Stebbins, Jill Robinson, Kristine Mihelich or Tim King; their lives were far more important.  Their deaths forever changed my life.  

With the blessing of Tim’s sister and brother, I wrote and published this novel and hope that when it finds its audience, it keeps these kids in the public eye until the real killer has been caught.

Currently available on Kindle and Nook and in paperback through my site www.judicoltman.com.  

More information available on the Resources page of my website.

Run Along!

About a week ago, my Boston BFF called me.  Thanks to caller ID, I answered the phone, dismissing the traditional ‘Hello” and simply asking, “What’s up?”  Without feeling the need to identify herself, she replied, “So, I hear you are running these days.”  I pondered the statement.  Running.  I guess that’s the term although, I really think “shuffling” or even “tripping” is a much better descriptor.  

The truth is, I have spent the last 9 weeks following the Couch to 5K program.  It is a completely do-able program in that it only asks for 3 days a week and ups the running time in teeny tiny increments.  

I began the program on a lonely, quiet road where very few people could see me, figuring if I failed only a few people would take notice.  Much to my own shock, I didn’t fail.  In fact, I haven’t missed a day.  So, in this second day of my 9th week, I just “ran” for 30 straight minutes.  Ideally this is supposed to be approximately 5K.  Yeaaahhhh.  For me it is almost exactly 2 miles.  That’s right, I shuffle a 15 minute mile.  Just call me Flash.  

Moreover, my running form, or lack thereof, is comical.  I know it and I expect people to laugh.  I laugh.  My shadow, which often passes me out of shear frustration, is fairly honest with the round belly in front and the butt waddling dutifully behind.  I am sure that young people who see me run are dumbfounded at the sight and purists have burned their retinas watching me run by.  

I’m ok with that.  After 3 surgeries on my right foot and knee, I never thought running would be an option.  But it is, and I am doing it.  I feel pretty good about that.  If you see a blue or gray mass stumbling by. . . it’s me.  I still can’t call myself a runner and keep a straight face, but that is my goal!