Nina Lewis

Archive for December, 2009

Santa brought us a Wii Fit Plus.  How nice, I thought.  It will add variety to my workout routine. Little did I realize just how addictive it could be.  (NOT quite like the Beatles Rock Band — but almost!)

I do have one thing to say about the trainer.  BLECH!! After I finish a round of boxing, he smurks, “You can do better than that.  We’ll see you in the gym tomorrow.”

Better?  BETTER??  I’m in a heap on the floor, my jellied arms and legs refusing to move.  I’ve given it my all.  How could he say that I could do better?  So what if I start off on the wrong foot?  So what if my punches don’t register on the Wii?  So what if my score is a minus two hundred and fifty?  I still moved my body.  I still exerted effort.  Don’t they give points for effort?

I absolutely LOVE the ten seconds at the end where I can throw punches however I want.  That’s where I get back at my trainer rack up the most of my points.   But that’s just as my arms and legs turn into Jell-O and I slurp to the floor in a quivering mass.

I know I’ll do better tomorrow.  I just know it.

BTW, may I say that after two days of constant snow, it’s nice to see the sun!  And our pine trees are absolutely gorgeous.  The snow was up to my knees when I went out and took these pictures.  Should have laced up my boots . . . (These pics are for you, Julianne!)

When our youngest son was a teenager, I worried because he played video games that I thought were too violent.  Too shoot-em-up-dead-and-splat-goes-their-blood violent.  How would those games affect him?  Make him belligerent? Insolent?  Would his light and happy, sweet and loving nature morph into a dark, brooding, rebellious one?  I am glad to report that he is now a sweet twenty-something, married to a wonderful woman and the father of a darling little boy.  He has turned out just fine.  (My heart is relieved.)

Reflecting on my worries about the effect of the video games on my son makes me reminiscent of the time I was a freshman in high school.   Outside the door of the school’s library was a book machine.  Instead of selling candy, it sold paperback books.  I saved my lunch money (thirty-five cents for a meal and $1.75 for a week) to buy books from the book machine.

By happenstance, I bought The ABC Murders by Agatha Christi.  I loved it.  Every week, I eagerly checked the book machine.  Were there new Agatha Christi books for me to buy?  I realized I was hooked.  Hooked on Agatha.  All in all, I bought twenty-eight of her novels.

This started a love affair with murder mysteries that has lasted my entire life.  Not with the blood, gore, and violent mysteries — the whodunit ones of suspense and intrigue instead.  Throughout high school, I branched out to other murder mystery writers making murder mysteries my constant reading diet.

At that time, my mother fretted and worried about the content of my reading choices.  Would Nina become a murderer?  As a teenager, I thought her fears were silly.  I knew that I wasn’t heading down the road to becoming an incarcerated taker-of-innocent-lives.  I stayed my normal, perky self.

(Who’s that sniggering in the background?  Is that you, husband dear?  You’d better stop . . . if you know what’s good for you . . .)

But when I became a mother, and had a child who was absorbed in violent video games (too absorbed for my peace of mind), I fretted.  I worried.  I finally understood my mother.

Here’s a bit of wisdom I learned through all of this:  Not to worry.

Since I didn’t commence to have any criminal or delinquent behavior, my mother needn’t have worried.  Since my son didn’t commence to exhibit criminal or delinquent behavior, I needn’t have worried.

So, when the son of my sweet twenty-something son is a teenager, and he (my grandson) does something similar that worries his parents, I’ll tell them,  Don’t worry.

That is, as long as my grandson doesn’t develop criminal or delinquent behavior!

It’s that time of year again, folks.  Haul out your paper and sharpen your pencil.  You’ve gotta start writing down those New Year’s Resolutions.

Many people decide they want to exercise regularly, lose weight, eat healthier, get organized, get out of debt, quit smoking or drinking, spend more time with family, or do volunteer work.  (Those are the top goals that people annually set.)  I’ve set goals in some of those areas, too.  I’m a great sheep in following the crowd.

I’m going to pat myself on the back for exercising regularly.  (Pat. pat.)  For the last 16 years, I have gotten up at 5:15 a.m. to run, cross country ski, power walk, or use the elliptical exercise machine.  (I will add the Wii Fitness Plus to my routine since Santa brought that for Christmas.)  I must admit that I have taken breaks on important holidays like Nutella Day (Feb. 5), Wicket World of Croquet Day (June 12), and Elephant Appreciation Day (Sept.  22).

I think exercising regularly is a habit now.  I’m glad.  I think I’m healthier because of it.  Well, at least that is what I am deluding myself into thinking as I munch on Rollos and caramels.

But my other New Year’s resolutions?  They are like the ocean’s tide — they come crashing and pounding in with a vengeance on January 1st then slowly fade away into the sunset.  Some years, I’m so disgusted with myself that I never set any.  Then half way through the year, I’m disgusted with myself because I didn’t set any so I set some in July.  Then I get disgusted with myself in August (instead of February) when I fall off the goal wagon.

Am I going to set some this year?  Yeah.  I hate that mid-year self-loathing.  I am hereby publicly declaring my New Year’s Resolutions in absolutely no particular order of importance.

1. Have more parties.  (This goal arrives on my list on a regular basis.  But this year, I really AM going to have more parties!  Really.  I am.  I’ve already put them on my calendar.)
2. Stop clenching my teeth when I accompany the choir or play the organ for a church meeting.  (Laugh not, oh skeptical reader.  This will be very difficult for me to do.  Very.  Clenching my teeth is what I do when I’m nervous in those situations.)

Pretty lofty goals, eh?

“You’ve just got to see the movie Julie and Julia,” a neighbor told me. “I think you’d really like it.”

Would I now?

My husband got a code for a free movie from Red Box.  It was a quiet night.  Nobody to play Rock Band with me.  I acquiesced.  Secretly, I was hoping that I could learn a writing tip or trick from the movie that would put me on the road to getting published.

I was intrigued that a blogger now has a book published about her blogging experience.  I was all set to be regaled with humor, teased with beautifully yummy food, and motivated by a blogger’s success.  I was not all set for the draggy plot.  Yawn.

Where were the high speed car chases that I need to hold my attention and keep me awake?  The undercover agents fleeing murderous thugs?  The adrenalin, nail biting suspense scenes?  Where were the toothpicks to keep my eyes open?

I applaud Julie Powell’s success with her published book.  But, if it takes being a good writer AND being a good cook, that let’s me out.  I’m not sure people would be too excited about my cullinary specialty — tepid water and a dried crust of bread

By the end of the movie, I needed some Maalox.  Was that because I overate at supper?  Or because I couldn’t quite stomach the movie?

I have this teeny tiny, minuscule, microscopic, Lilliputian attachment to the Beatles Rock Band — barely discernible, like a hint of soft cologne lingering in the air.  So it takes MUCH begging, pleading, bribery, and out-and-out coercion to get me to play it.

Hah! my husband says in the background.  It takes much coercion to get you to STOP playing!!

Oh, be quiet.  Mind your own business, I bark at him.

Ahem.  Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?  Oh yes.  The Beatles Rock Band.

On Christmas Eve, most of our company left by 9:00 p.m.  Just my sister and my mother were left.  We looked at each other wondering what to do next.  Mom hinted that maybe they ought to go home.

Teresa, wanna play Rock Band? I asked.

She gave me a big Garfield grin. Of course!

I played the drums (of course).  Craig and Teresa played the guitars.  Mom sat by me watching intently.  After several songs, I asked her if she wanted to play the drums.

No.  She wrinkled her nose.  But I WILL play the guitar!

Now I must tell you that my mother is eighty-three years old.  She used to be five feet three inches tall but with age I think she probably isn’t much over five feet tall.  She has beautiful pure white hair.  The quintessential grandma.

Ten o’clock rolled around.  Guess we’d better go, she said.  But let’s play just one more song.

After that song, she wanted to play just one more song.  And then just one more.  And one more.

We played until eleven thirty!!  (Now I know where I get my attachment to Rock Band.)

Last night (Christmas night), we played for two hours.  By the time she went home, Mom had high scores on medium difficult songs.

Amazing!  Simply amazing.