Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

My my my my Coronavirus!

“Please place your item in the bag.”

“I did put it in the bag you crazy witch!”

“Did you bring your own bag?”

“Yes dammit!”

“Please place your item in the bag.”

“Argh! It’s yeast, it doesn’t weigh anything, I’ve already put it in the bag!”

“Help is on the way.”

This is the conversation I just had, along with two other ladies at the grocery store, with the self-checkout attendant. We were all aware she wasn’t going to talk back, but all up and down the check-outs I heard these frustrating conversations going on. I don’t usually use self-check out because of these frustrations, but the lines at the real check-outs were literally out the door, as people are stocking up for the coronavirus apocalypse.

The two ladies next to me were in a frenzy because they just closed most of the schools in the area for about a month, and now they were left with their children at home, and suddenly have to feed them three meals a day, when many kids eat at least lunch at school, while many others eat breakfast and lunch. Their kitchen duty just tripled, and they simply weren’t prepared.

Those who know me know that I’ve always planned for an apocalypse on some scale. Due to my upbringing by government fearing parents, along with my short stint as a hard-core Mormon, I’ve always tried to have some kind of food storage on hand. Granted, it consists mostly of tuna, egg noodles and cream-of-mushroom soup, because I am prepared to live on tuna casserole indefinitely. Toilet paper, not so much. I’ve used many a paper towels or napkins to take care of business over my lifetime. My parents have been full-time snow-birders for years now, and live in a small trailer with a small tank for toilet water. They have a four-square rule for toilet paper, which I might have to adopt depending on the length of the toilet paper shortage.

While I don’t believe the coronavirus is going to be the apocalypse that ends life as we know it, I have had my share of fear and emotion as I watch it play out in the news. I’m not a senior citizen, but both Robert and I have diabetes, which is getting a fair amount of fear-fueled hype from the media regarding higher death rates if we do catch it.

That being said, I’m not really worried. I work from home and have unknowingly participated in social isolation for years, since I just don’t spend a lot of time in big crowds. Staying home, eating tuna casserole and watching bad T.V. is not really an inconvenience to me.

Since I’ve settled in Colorado and married Robert, I’ve enjoyed the luxury of having a better stocked pantry, including toilet paper, on a regular basis. (Who knew you could actually buy it in packages of more than four rolls?) But I remember many times when Jessica was young that I didn’t have the financial ability to keep more than two weeks of food in the house. I lived paycheck to paycheck, and any unexpected expenses, or loss of income, was devastating. I reported to work sick many times, and shame on me for doing that.

So with all the hype about the coronapocalypse, I would ask that everyone I know please be tolerant with each other, and let’s find a way to help each other through this, without judgment. Like almost everything in America this has created a divide–those who believe they should prepare vs. those who think it’s not that big of deal. Regardless of which side you’re on, the fact is that senior citizens are the ones dying here, and almost all of us have a senior person we care about.

Imagine if a care-giver, such as a CNA or home health support person, who don’t make a lot of money, continue caring for an elderly person even though they are sick, because if they don’t they won’t be able to feed their family. But if they admit to being sick, they run the risk of being sent home, without pay, for however long it takes them to recover and no longer be contagious. I personally would share my tuna casserole provisions with them so their children could eat and the old people might stay alive.

Here’s how we can all help. Of course if you’re sick, stay home. If you may have been around someone who is infected, stay away from old people. If you have a little extra income or provisions, donate to your local food bank. And for God’s sake, if you have a square to spare, share it with your neighbor!

 

 

 

 

 

March 13, 2020 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

I TRIED A FAD DIET…AND I LIKED IT

I remember a time, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when I would scoff at emails promoting fad diets. Younger and smug about my weight, I confidently deleted every one that came through my inbox promising fast weight loss, belly fat secrets and the latest fat burning gimmick.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Now I find myself searching the internet looking for anything that will help me lose weight. Twenty years ago I was pretty fat, nearly 200 pounds. Then, by the ironic grace of diabetes, lost weight and enjoyed a pretty easy maintenance weight of about 120. Let’s just say I’m not as big as I once was, but the memory of being fat is still clear in my mind, and fuels my fear of getting there again.

Now there are several factors at play. Age, a slower metabolism, a medication change and, by my own doing, several months of overindulgence and under-exercising. Having cleared all medical reasons for an unbudging weight, and sticking to an exercise routine for nearly 30 days, I was absolutely desperate to see a change in the scale. I could feel the effects of weight-lifting sessions, and I was almost certainly getting toner, but as women, and I guess as humans, we rely heavily on the opinion of inanimate objects—aka the almighty scale. How a small, metal object came to have such control over our lives I will never know, and I had even tried to banish it into a secret place where I would never look at it again. But alas, I found myself drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, yearning for its daily praise, only to be shattered when I stood upon it and faced its judgment of my failure to succeed.

Eager to please the judgmental little demon, I searched the internet for diets that promised quick results, and after reading dozens of reviews decided to try the Military Diet. Like all fad diets, the concept of burning more calories than you take in made sense, as well as the thought that certain foods, when eaten together can speed up your metabolism and hasten fat burning. There were the usual extreme reviews ranging from it’s not about calories its about carbs, or vegan only, or juices only, or organic only. Each I believe held a little truth, and certainly some were perfect for some people, but I wanted to see result fast.

The only way to know was to try it, so I printed out the routine and brought it home to Robert. He indulges me often, and since we’ve been on a weight loss journey together, he agreed to try it with me. Details aren’t necessary, but the next three days involved grapefruit, lots of tuna, eggs and a bit of ice cream. Amazingly I wasn’t often hungry, had plenty of energy and kept exercising, and actually lost five pounds. I found myself motivated once again, and no longer obssessed about the most satisfying way to destroy the demonic scale. Why, or how the diet worked I’m sure could be ripped apart and ridiculed by some experts, but I don’t really care. I feel better, and I learned a couple of things that will help me in my journey.

First, I learned what it felt like to feel hungry again. Not starving hungry, but to not have a full belly. I don’t remember the last time my stomach wasn’t full, believing that a snack was necessary, or eating because I was bored. I had had a full belly for years, and it turns out maybe the occasional hunger pain is good for me. It made me feel a little more alive, and a little more aware of what I was actually putting in my body.

Secondly, I learned that 300 calories of food, in the form of apples, tuna, salmon or vegetables is actually a crap-load of food. Several times we struggled to complete the entire meal, and were uncomfortably full after finishing.

And lastly, it was good to love food again. I don’t usually care for salmon, but by the end of the second day, as I walked on the treadmill and thought of my upcoming dinner, I found myself actually craving the salmon. Granted, had I not been on the diet I probably would have felt the same way about a big plate of fettuccine alfredo, but at that moment, and later as I sat down at the dinner table, I loved that 4 ounces of salmon as much as my favorite pasta.

 

January 21, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Death By Packaging

I had always believed my death would be noble, exciting, tragically romantic. But, no. I’m pretty sure the culprit of my death will be simple packaging. Either I will get a flesh eating infection from cutting myself trying to liberate my daily vitamins, or I will simply starve to death because I can’t get any of the packages that contain life-saving nutrients open.

In an effort to prevent my death as long as possible, I, like many middle-aged women, decided it was time to start taking a vitamin supplement. It’s literally a hard pill to swallow, because it means the time has come that your body is holding out on all the wonderful things it used to give you in your youth. Such as, oh, hormones, vitamins and the stuff that keeps your bones strong. (At least that’s what the bottle claims.) So, anyhoo, I woke up convinced that I was doing the right thing, and this was one step into prolonging my life.

Until I tried to open the bottle. There was a clear wrap sealed around the cap—no tab to pull, no perforated lines I could see, (even with my reader glasses). Just a slippery, tight seal. No worries, I grabbed my trusty kitchen knife, pried up the seal, which, by the way stretched and refused to break until I was literally holding it down on the counter and using all my might. Finally I poked enough of a hole in it to slice it off. I pulled the cap off and damn! There was another tight paper seal covering the top of the bottle. This one did have the tiniest tab that was meant to be used to pull the top off, but it was too tiny to grip with any strength, and as I tugged at it I wondered what people who have arthritis do. What would I do ten years from now? But again, my trusty knife saved me, as I speared the paper and pulled it off. Then, there was a huge piece of cotton stuffed into the top. At this point I just went directly at it with the knife. My fingers wouldn’t fit far enough in to grasp it, so I just tipped the bottle, speared the offending cotton with my knife and drug it out. Excellent! I quickly doled out the vitamin and took it, hoping it would begin working immediately and offset the five minute of my life I just lost trying to get the bottle open.

In keeping with good health, and being diabetic, I vowed to check my blood sugar even more often than usual. Adding an exercise routine to a diabetic lifestyle is always a little tricky, as healthier bodies usually require a little less insulin, and thus results in more blood sugar lows than normal, requiring insulin adjustments as you go. Not a problem when you plan for it, like I always do, but again, I lost precious minutes from my life trying to get the new box of test strips open. I wonder this—if you put something in a thick box that can be closed with a tab, what is the reason for taping the tab closed with industrial tape? The result is, with the help of the kitchen knife of course, the tab stays completely closed and I end up tearing the box apart around it. It’s like tearing an envelope apart without ever opening the seal. It makes no sense!

At this point I must say that there is a slim chance getting older just makes navigating packages harder. I really don’t think that is the case here. Especially if you’ve ever had to use a pair of scissors, to, you know, cut a pair of scissors out of the package.

So, after a day of taking my vitamin, drinking my tea (which required the kitchen knife to open,) testing my blood sugar and eating right, I felt pretty great when I went to bed. I had stocked the fridge with high protein/high sugar drinks in case of low blood sugar, it had to be better than Oreos or Nutter Butter bars. I was pretty pleased with myself as I drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later I awoke to the familiar feeling of low blood sugar. It’s a very distinct feeling that I can only describe as my bones turning to liquid. It feels like my body is shriveling into itself, and is accompanied by a surge of adrenaline that causes tunnel vision, trembling and confusion. Being an old pro, however, I jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of the delicious chocolate protein drink and sat down at the table. The great thing about liquid sugar is that you can pound it like a frat boy pounds a beer and just sit back and wait for it to kick in. Taffy, peanut butter and anything else that is sticky in nature is a nightmare to eat when you’re on the verge of passing out, and to be avoided except in case of extreme emergencies.

I tried to twist the cap of my chocolate drink, and, again, due to confusion, didn’t immediately understand why it wasn’t coming off. I tried, I tried again, then I got up and retrieved the flat rubber gripper thing that helps with tight lids. Nothing happened. Panic-stricken I realized the reason. The damn lid was covered with a clear plastic seal, just like the vitamins! Dammit! After all the dieting and exercising the last thing I wanted to do was eat 1,000 calories in cookies. I tried desperately to find a tab to grab or pull, and seriously considered grabbing the kitchen knife. But, no. It is never a good idea to do battle with a bottle using a sharp knife when your hands are shaking, you can’t see straight and your knees feel like they’re going to abandon you at any time. I calmly set the bottle down and went for the Nutter Butters.

Diabetes is a disease of irony. Sugar, the very thing that can bring us to an early death and is strictly forbidden, is also the one thing that can save our lives at a time like this. To be eaten with reckless abandon until the episode passes, and this particular night it had been weeks since I’d had any kind of sugary treat. So honestly, aside from the scary feeling, shaking, sweating and all that, secretly I sometimes embrace the low blood sugar episodes.

Desperate and pissed about the turn of events, I grabbed a yogurt and a Nutter Butter Bar. The Nutter Butter opened easily, with a small tear of my teeth. The yogurt was slightly harder, but determined, I grabbed the foil seal with my canine teeth and pulled a small bit off. I remembered when you could just pull the plastic lid off yogurt, but now it comes with its super-protective, super tight seal. It was as I battled the yogurt that I saw my death. I would be found in the morning, unopened food packages strewn about the kitchen, some thrown against the wall like an animal in a primitive attempt to release the contents, my final words smeared in the splattered chocolate milk or yogurt…

Alas, I finally freed the yogurt, and in the grand manner that only a panicked diabetic can pull off, I used the Nutter Butter as a spoon to shovel the yogurt into my mouth as fast as I could, eating the delicious peanut buttery spoon with each bite. I obviously lived to see another day, but am considering taking up activism to fight for the equal rights of all people to have access to good food. And I mean access quite literally.

January 15, 2016 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

These boots were made for walkin’

THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR WALKIN’
Okay, they’re not actually boots, they’re walking shoes, but that doesn’t lend itself to a catchy title. The point is, the weather is FINALLY nice here in Denver, and I’ve been dying to take my new running shoes out for a stroll. Karma gave them to me, after I realized I might be falling prey to the middle-aged syndrome of fallen arches. There’s a fancier name for it, and several women I know have it, but I have thus far been spared the pain in my feet. Until recently. I have always had one small spot on the heel of my left foot that gets sore after a lot of walking, but not enough that I’ve had to pay attention to the kind of shoes I wear. Not so much anymore. My new shoes are pink and purple, and have very good arch support.

I have been hoarding sample sized toiletries from everyone I know to take down to the homeless shelter. A couple of estate sale guys who donate to the center regularly caught wind of my connection with the homeless, and brought me three large bags of such toiletries, including razors, shampoo, conditioner, toothbrushes and toothpaste. St. Francis Shelter downtown runs a day center, including a shower room, and is always in desperate need of such items. I’ve been storing them in my nifty little faux-burberry rolling bag, and today I actually drug it downstairs, out the door, and the 1.5 miles to the shelter.
I stopped at the VOICE office to drop off a bag of goodies I had gathered for them as well, including neck lanyards and some toiletries. Dragging my fancy little bag through the heart of the homeless was a bit comical, especially as I passed one couple who were balancing two large plastic bags full of belongings on their shoulders. I wanted to shout at them not to judge me, I was taking my pretty little bag full of goodies to St. Francis. But I did not, they didn’t seem to really be judging me anyway.
After depositing my goods at the shelter, I headed to the mall and caught the shuttle bus to Market Street Station, near the bottom of the mall. I walked back up to the top, stopping at all the food kiosks scattered along the mall. I’m writing a blog post for denver.com about street vendors, and was in search of the booth that served breakfast sandwiches on donuts. As in, sausage and eggs on a glazed donut. Disappointed I couldn’t find it, (apparently it’s too early in the season) I settled for a breakfast burrito from the gentleman dragging a red cooler down 15th street. It was spicy, delicious, and only $1.50, and it fueled the rest of my journey up the mall.
St. Paul’s cathedral is directly in the path I take to get home, and around 10 o’clock each morning people begin lining up at the front doors for the free lunch that is offered daily. Men line the sidewalk, some sitting on the stone wall, others lounging on the grass between the sidewalk and the street, and still others lean against their modified bicycles. Almost anything can be used to modify the bicycles, including wagons, wheels of any sort, and boards. Boards are nailed together and wheels attached to them, then boxes and bungie cords strapped to the boards to make room for storage of their items. Today there was a bike that had so much attached to it, the stuff was actually twice as long as the bike, and finding the original frame of the bike was difficult. The men all seemed in a good mood like the good weather, and as I walked through the gauntlet of homeless gentlemen, I got plenty of “how you doin’?”, “Hello pretty lady,” and “good morning baby girl’s.” They may be homeless, but they know how to compliment a lady.

May 6, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment