And I would walk 10,000 steps

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So ... I bought a pedometer. I've had one before but I don't think it told me the truth. All I had to do was jiggle my hips a bit and it would try to flatter me with sky-high numbers.

My new pedometer doesn't lie to me, doesn't try to butter me up with untruths. And it has nifty options that tell me not only how many steps I've taken, but how those steps convert to miles, how many calories I've burned, and how many of the steps were in the "moderate walking" range. Oh, and it keeps each days' numbers in memory for seven days.

"Seven days ..." (Couldn't resist.)

Anyway ... I need a pedometer because I want to know how close I get to the "10,000 steps a day" health advice.

I've never been much on exercising. I don't lead an active lifestyle. I do walk Mickey and Lyla daily. But since starting Grandma's Briefs, I've definitely noticed I'm getting blogger's butt ... and a blogger's belly to match ... big time.

Bottom line: I need to get moving. And I want to make sure I'm moving as much as necessary to have the desired effect. Hence the pedometer.

Surprisingly, the first day I wore the pedometer, I came pretty darn close to 10,000 steps. My daily walk clocks in at nearly 3,000 steps. And it scores in the "moderate walking" range because I don't just walk it, I march it. To a military-style marching song. With words.

At risk of making you all think I'm a wacko -- if you don't already -- here's my daily march:

"I don't know but I've been told. (I don't know but I've been told.)

Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old. (Mickey and Lyla are gonna get old.)

I don't think that it will be. (I don't think that it will be.)

Cuz they go on daily walks with me. (They go on daily walks with me.)

Stay young. (Stay young.)

Not old. (Not old.)

All the way home. (All the way home.)

Five, four, three, two, one ... We're done!

All at a fast, four-count beat. Shouted. In my head. (I'm not THAT wacko, to be marching and shouting out loud all around the neighborhood. Although Jim's convinced if I did it aloud, the dogs may fall in and we'd be quite the spectacle. Maybe even end up on YouTube. To which I say: Uh, no. I'll keep my marching song to myself, thank you very much.)

So my marching walk gets me about 3,000 steps. I fit in the other 7,000 the first day by doing my daily doings -- adding a few quick jogs in place along the way to amp up the count, much to Jim's amusement. (I told him "Thank God we've been married nearly 30 years! I could NOT do such things with a new mate!" One of the perks of longtime marriage, I readily admit.)

The first day, I hit 10,307. By 9 p.m. Which was good because I'd told Jim I would not be going to bed until I hit 10,000.

Converted by my nifty new pedometer, 10,000 steps is four miles, at my average stride. If 10,000 steps (four miles for me) supposedly maintains one's weight, my goal now is to walk FIVE miles a day in order to lose the blogger's butt and belly. Which means I gotta add about 2,500 more steps to my day.

The second day I had my pedometer, I didn't wear it. I knew in advance that most of my day would be spent sitting in the car driving to my mom's then sitting at the table eating the Coldstone Creamery cupcakes I bought her and my sister in honor of their birthdays. (Happy birthday, Mom and Debbie!) No use wearing the pedometer for such limited activity.

The third day (the day I'm writing this) I marched a little farther with Mickey and Lyla, traipsed up and down the billions of stairs in the house and yard a little more than usual. I figure one or two whirls around the yard each day (it's a big yard,) and I'll be at my goal.

Now I just need to get some of those groovy New Balance shoes that work the butt and thighs while you walk. (Not the funky "rolling, rolling, rolling" Skecher ones.) My blogger butt and belly will be gone in no time!

Question is: How well can I march while donning butt-working -- and balance-threatening -- workout shoes?

I'm crossing my fingers that the answer isn't that I can't, that I actually end up falling and busting not only my butt, but a leg or two in the process.

For if that happens, I certainly won't have much use for my nifty new pedometer.

Today's question:

How many steps or miles do you think you walk each day?

Baby knows best

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Not much time to write a lengthy post today as I'm following Bubby's lead and stopping to smell the roses, er, hollyhocks.

In other words, I'm making the most of the last precious moments with my grandson before heading home to the mountains tomorrow.

Happy Friday the 13th!

Today's question:

What's the worst thing -- or the best thing -- that has ever happened to you on a Friday the 13th?

My answer: Brianna was walking home from school on a Friday the 13th her freshman year of high school and was struck by a senior driving back to the school for football practice. Miraculously, she fared surprisingly well. (Mom's frazzled nerves didn't survive the episode nearly as well.)

Photo replay

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Lyla and Mickey after a day of partying on the patio with dog-loving friends.

July 17, 2010

I do believe that's a heart they've formed between them, in more ways than one.

(Oh, and do note that even in sleep, Lyla's ear

does

not

go down!)

Today's question:

If you could pick one famous person to be your neighbor, who would you want living next door to you?

Just walkin' the dog(s)

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Most of my friends are pretty active gals. They regularly work out at the gym, fitness boot camp or other similarly strenuous locations.

Not me. I walk. With my dogs. Same time, same route, same five out of seven days each week.

Here are some highlights of our daily fitness routine:

Out the gate and ready to roll, with Mickey in the lead and Lyla working on the "focus" command.

Now she's got it, periscope ear up and all -- proof that she's focused! (Keep an eye on that ear throughout; it does not go down!)

On the road ...

... past the open area where the deer and the fox like to roam.

Up the hill to the house where the maniac dog of questionable breed rushes the chain link fence, providing the best arm workout of the trek as I try to force the dogs to maintain at least minimal composure. (It doesn't usually work.)

 

Back down the hill again.

Trit, trot, trit, trot (with a tangled leash, evidence that composure was lost on the way down the hill).

This is the house of the man who hates Mickey ... and Lyla ... and me ... and every other living being (except his grass, which I think he manicures with scissors).

Up the next big hill ...

... where wondrous views await ...

... of ... Walmart and its busy parking lot ... at 9:30 on a weekday morning! While K-Mart, across the street, sports a nearly empty lot. (Poor K-Mart.) Okay, not the greatest of views, but if you turn the other direction, you get ...

... ta-da! Pikes Peak! This is the view we appreciate most.

Even Mickey can't get enough of the natural wonder. (Lyla can't get over the empty parking lot at K-Mart.)

While standing in the same spot, we need only glance slightly to the left for a full view of Cheyenne Mountain, with NORAD deep within. Well, it used to be the home of NORAD but now they've gone and moved it to a totally unsafe -- in my opinion -- location, with just bits and pieces left deep inside the mountain. But that's another story, for another time and featuring fewer photos.

Continuing on our way, with me searching the field where the fox den is located, ready to provide a detour if a fox comes our way.

Past the house where the nice man likes to smile and yell across the street, "Who's walking who? Ha, ha!" (Like I've never heard that six hundred and fifty-two trillion times before. But that's okay cuz he's nice ... and he thinks it's funny.)

One more view of Pikes Peak ...

... then we're homeward bound.

Ah, home sweet home!

The dogs make sure the coast is clear: No squirrels. No birds. It's a go.

And we're back where we began.

Fitness mission accomplished!

Sure, there are no pushups, no pullups, no plank positions involved. But the yanking of the leashes this way and that way while avoiding fox, squirrel, deer and passing vehicles (which are like crack to Lyla, who's having a difficult time giving up the habit) is more than enough workout for this grandma.

Mickey and Lyla, on the other hand, are ready for more. They dash off into the backyard the second the gate is opened, scaring the cuss out of each and every robin, wren, mourning dove and squirrel who had the gall to relax in the shade, eat from the bird feeders or splash in the water while the dog patrol was out making its neighborhood rounds.

Today's question:

What's your exercise routine?

Our new baby

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We've got a new baby in the family. Though there's no little grandson to compete with Bubby at the moment, there is a new canine grandson.

He's Andrea's new puppy and his name is Luke, as in Luke Skywalker because he resembles an ewok but all the ewok names were far too goofy. So Luke it is.

Luke is a Bichon Frise/Shih Tzu hybrid, otherwise known as a Zuchon. He's 10 weeks old and just an adorable puff of fluff, weighing in at less than five pounds.

Here's a video of the little guy during his first visit to Grandma and Grandpa's house on Father's Day. (Do note that his final act won't occur anymore once he gets fixed; he's still just a tad too young for surgery.)

(SORRY! VIDEO DISAPPEARED IN BLOG REDESIGN)

Today's question:

What's your favorite dog breed?

My answer: While the hybrids and purebreds are cute and all, I'm more of a mutt/rescue-dog person. I love my mutts Lyla and Mickey. And the more unwanted the breed (ahem, pit bulls ... like my Mickey) the more I think they deserve lots of love, affection and rescuing.

A sequel better than the original

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Back in April, I posted about the mourning doves outside my study window last spring and the unhatched eggs left behind by Mama and Daddy Dove.

Well, the sequel ended on a much happier note.

Mommy and Daddy Mourning Dove arrived to nest once again outside my window about May 18. Here are a few photos of what took place from that date through the time the little ones learned to fly just last week:

Mama starts the process.Ta-dah!

Mama loves her babies!The little ones grow to be big ones ... FAST!The last feeding before Mama tells them they're on their own.The youngsters go it alone -- and do just fine! I know that mourning doves are really just glorified pigeons, but I think they're so darn cool -- especially since they like to nest just a few feet from my desk and were happy to pose for me each time I pointed the camera at them.

Happy Monday!

Today's question:

What are you most looking forward to this week?

Wonder dog

/

Related Posts with ThumbnailsI'm an overprotective mother with an overactive imagination to match. As time marches on, I've also become an overprotective grandma with little to no change in the activity level of my imagination.

 

I've always worried about the typical hazards of childhood: SIDS, falling down stairs, falling off bikes, choking on hot dogs or grapes that haven't been cut into appropriately sized pieces. In fact, one of my first posts here on Grandma's Briefs was about recent stats on televisions falling on kids.

But I worry even more about the uncommon, bizarre things that could befall little ones. Things like being trampled by elephants at the circus. Or scarves getting caught in bicycle, motorcycle or automobile wheels a la Isadora Duncan. Or meteors or airplanes falling out of the sky directly onto one's house. Or diseases that are the stuff of Stephen King novels and afflict only 1 in 3 trillion people. Yeah, chances are your child won't be afflicted. But what if your baby is that unlucky one?

A friend of mine used to think I was nuts. I'd ask if she'd heard about this scary statistic or that bizarre news story and she'd "tsk, tsk" and shake her head at her crazy older friend obsessed with danger. Then she had kids. And now she understands my obsession with all the possibilities lurking out there, possibilities just waiting to maim or do worse to loved ones.

I truly thought I knew of all those possibilities ... or at least knew to worry about the possibilities I didn't know of. But Megan recently shared a new one that never even crossed my mind. One that has me on edge and freaking out a little concerned about the safety of my Bubby. It's one of those that falls under the heading of Scary Stuff That Happens To Only One in Three Trillion People -- and it happened to Megan and Bubby.

The other night, Megan was innocently enough grilling chicken on the patio. Bubby and Roxy were playing in the yard, doing typical boy-and-his-best-friend stuff. Until Roxy heard something that piqued her interest and she dashed off to bark at whomever or whatever it was on the trail. She dashed off so fast and furious that she shot rocks across the rock-landscaped backyard. Shot them so hard that one whizzed into the sliding glass door and busted it. The outer pane of the double-paned door totally, completely and instantly became the most beautifully rendered crackle-glass door ever. A now crazy-paned door right in the area my grandson -- and my daughter -- had stood just moments before.

Scary and dangerous and bizarre and all those other things, wouldn't you say?

What's even scarier is that the glass repair guy is booked for several days and unable to repair the door anytime soon. Which leaves just off Bubby's kitchen a broken glass door with the potential to, at any moment, shatter and send life-endangering pieces of glass everywhere.

And leaving -- despite Megan's adamant proclamations that Bubby can't get to it -- Bubby in danger.

Which leaves me in a tizzy.

It also leaves me wondering if Bubby needs to say goodbye to his little friend. A dog able to spin out so quickly that its paws shoot out deadly bullet-like rocks creates a whole 'nother set of dangerous possibilities.

Possibilities I'd really rather not have to worry about.

Today's question:

What's one of your more irrational fears/worries/concerns?

My answer: I worry that I'll finally win Publishers Clearing House and the Prize Patrol will show up at my door at a time I've not yet taken a shower, forcing me to decide if I want the money badly enough to be seen on national television in my jammies, with wild hair and no makeup. What? It could happen!

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.