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A Plank, a Passport, and a Potentially Possessed Headset

Written August 14, 2025

Reviewed 8/25

Hello Dear Readers,

So far, today’s been a surprisingly smooth ride—like buttered toast landing butter-side up. I managed to complete my full planking session on the first try, which means, yes, my abs are mildly protesting, but nothing that resembles a full-scale rebellion. If all continues according to plan, I’ll bump up the duration on Saturday as usual. Progress: it’s slow, sweaty, and strangely satisfying.

Now, tomorrow is shaping up to be less about running shoes and more about running errands. My wife and I are off to get her passport photo taken and submit the application. Technically, I’m not required for this mission, but she insists I’m a good luck charm—which, frankly, I accept with all the smug grace of a man who once found a parking spot in downtown Nashville on a Friday.

Navigating the passport application process has been like decoding a Da Vinci manuscript while blindfolded. She’s had her citizenship for a while, but securing an appointment? That’s been the real odyssey. Nashville’s downtown office might have openings if you time it just right, but Brentwood—the promised land—only opens slots four weeks in advance, and they vanish faster than cupcakes in a breakroom.

So it was nothing short of divine fortune that she snagged an appointment in Brentwood. She’s been prepping for this like it’s the SATs—forms reviewed and re-reviewed, photo IDs printed in triplicate, and backup payment options ready in case the debit card decides to faint from stress. We even hit the bank last week for good ol’ cash. Who knew bureaucracy could be so… cardio-intensive?

On Saturday, we’re off on another noble quest: retiring my poor, overworked running shoes. My wife scheduled this grand event, naturally, and depending on tomorrow’s weather, I might reschedule my 10k to Sunday. Flexibility is the name of the game—especially when life (or clouds) throws curveballs.

As for Monday’s unexpected plot twist: my faithful headset decided it had given enough to this world. I plugged it in post-run, went to shower, and came back to… silence. No lights, no power, no signs of life. I tried CPR (aka frantically mashing buttons), then pulled out the warranty card like a determined archaeologist—only to discover the warranty had expired. Of course.

I’m now surviving on my ancient backup headset, which works about as well as a spoon for slicing steak. I ordered a replacement on Amazon, but it ghosted me yesterday. Hopefully, it arrives today, just in time for tomorrow’s thrilling adventure in passport purgatory.

Between the planned, the unplanned, and the possibly cursed electronics, our calendar is filling up faster than you can say “unexpected life admin.” But thankfully, my wife is a master planner—our weekends are usually charted out weeks ahead. It may seem rigid to some, but for me? It’s perfect. Predictable, adaptable, and only slightly sprinkled with chaos.

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When Your Muscles Stage a Mutiny

Written August 11, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Progress isn’t always a straight line—it sometimes looks more like a heart monitor. This week, my progress flatlined a little. For the first time in weeks, I missed my target running pace. Am I shocked? Not really. I raised the bar by nineteen seconds last week—that’s practically asking my legs to file a complaint with HR.

Planking told a similar story. I’ve been adding a second each Saturday, but last weekend I couldn’t hold out. Apparently, my body staged a silent protest: “One second too far, my friend.” It’s funny how the body has its own stubborn personality—it doesn’t always care about our grand ambitions.

But here’s the thing: setbacks don’t mean surrender. When my body waves the white flag, I listen. Summer already piles on the extra workouts (mowing our hilly backyard is basically CrossFit with grass). My wife used to treat mowing as cardio—me? I wisely enlisted an electric mower. With my kidney condition, I burn out faster than the average adult, so being strategic matters more than being stubborn.

So this week, instead of pushing harder, I pressed pause on progress. I kept my plank time steady, planning to master consistency before chasing another second. Worst-case scenario, I even scale it back a notch. That’s not failure—that’s maintenance mode. Sometimes, healing is the most underrated workout.

Frustrated? Absolutely. Defeated? Not a chance. This isn’t a sprint to the finish line—it’s a lifetime commitment. And if my body insists on a detour, I’ll take it. Because every pause, every adjustment, is still part of the journey forward.

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When Your Muscles Stage a Mutiny

Written August 11, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Progress isn’t always a straight line—it sometimes looks more like a heart monitor. This week, mine flatlined a little. For the first time in weeks, I missed my target running pace. Am I shocked? Not really. I raised the bar by nineteen seconds last week—that’s practically asking my legs to file a complaint with HR.

Planking told a similar story. I’ve been adding a second each Saturday, but last weekend I couldn’t hold out. Apparently, my body staged a silent protest: “One second too far, my friend.” It’s funny how the body has its own stubborn personality—it doesn’t always care about our grand ambitions.

But here’s the thing: setbacks don’t mean surrender. When my body waves the white flag, I listen. Summer already piles on the extra workouts (mowing our hilly backyard is basically CrossFit with grass). My wife used to treat mowing as cardio—me? I wisely enlisted an electric mower. With my kidney condition, I burn out faster than the average adult, so being strategic matters more than being stubborn.

So this week, instead of pushing harder, I pressed pause on progress. I kept my plank time steady, planning to master consistency before chasing another second. Worst-case scenario, I even scale it back a notch. That’s not failure—that’s maintenance mode. Sometimes, healing is the most underrated workout.

Frustrated? Absolutely. Defeated? Not a chance. This isn’t a sprint to the finish line—it’s a lifetime commitment. And if my body insists on a detour, I’ll take it. Because every pause, every adjustment, is still part of the journey forward.

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Sunday 10K in Nashville: Beating the Heat, Healing the Brain

Written August 10, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Most Sundays start slow. This one started with a Saturday do-over: a make-up 10K because errands muscled my regular schedule out of the way. Weekend life happens—birthday cakes, family gatherings, and those “we’ll do it Saturday” tasks that somehow multiply like fruit flies on ripe bananas.

In most seasons, I don’t mind the shuffle. But in summer? Nashville turns the heat up like it’s auditioning for a sauna convention. If I don’t start early, I’m basically running on a griddle. My wife solves this by finishing her workout by 6:00 a.m. I, on the other hand, am a medically certified extra-sleep person. After my brain injury, my doctor explained that more sleep is normal—healing brains are busy. Add kidneys that get tired faster than a phone on 1% battery, and yeah, I guard my sleep like it’s a rare collector’s item.

Running, though, is part of my mission to get better. Moving my legs helps my brain rewire. I’ve regained abilities since the stroke, and my doctors cheer on the consistency. I watch what I put in my mouth (not my mouse—been there), and most importantly, I refuse to give up on getting better.

Here’s the twist: I never expected to take running this seriously. At first, it was medicine—do the miles, take the dose. Then it turned into satisfaction—set a goal, hit the goal. Somewhere along the way, I started running better than pre-stroke me. I plan to keep going.

Progress hasn’t been a straight line. My pace improves overall, even if it stalls or dips here and there. Zoom out, and the trend is up—and faster.

Today’s run? Full 10K: target pace in the first half, not quite in the second. Still, I snagged my second-fastest 10K ever and nudged closer to my year-end target. I’ve got a little over three months to shave off another 4 seconds per kilometer. After this week’s wins, that feels more “probable” than “maybe.”

The biggest summer obstacle remains the Nashville furnace. Even if 7:00 a.m. starts friendly, by 10:00 a.m. it’s flirting with the high 80s. I try to outrun the sun; sometimes the sun wins. We’ve had a few mercifully comfortable days, but the heat is sneaking back next week. That’s okay. I’ll control what I can, run smart, and let the dice fall where they may.

TL;DR: Errands happen, heat happens, life happens. I’m still out there—healing, hustling, and inching faster. See you on the road (preferably before the pavement starts sizzling).

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Cooler Weather Lawn Care: Fewer Mows, Surprise Leaves, and a Poison Ivy Plot Twist

Written August 7, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After July’s grand finale heatwave, the weather finally took a breath. We even had a day so nippy I reached for long sleeves, and my wife reported her morning runs felt… heavy. Same here—only now, thanks to the cool snap, my own runs have been downright pleasant. Bonus: the lawn hit the pause button. When I mowed this morning, I had to squint to see where I’d been. A beautiful problem.

Do I dare skip next week’s mow? Reader, I might. For a minute, I even dreamed mowing season had packed its bags. I’m not delusional; August loves a comeback tour. One warm front and the grasses will go feral again. For now, I’m enjoying the rare, guilt-free chance to close the garage and pretend the mower and I are “on a break.”

Nature, meanwhile, is experimenting with costume changes. After the heat broke, our trees panicked and tossed down a few branches and leaves—an early autumn cosplay. My wife’s planning a leaf-vacuum session this weekend. She spotted the mess first; she also spotted, alas, the poison ivy last week… a little late. She mistook it for Virginia creeper, then discovered the classic truth: “leaves of three, let it be.” She washed up, but the rash still arrived like an uninvited guest. To add insult to injury, the heat in our garage partially melted her old gardening gloves (yes, actually melted). She upgraded to a pair that shields the whole forearm. When poison ivy is in the neighborhood, fashion becomes armor.

We’ve had fewer bugs this summer—small mercy—so she’d been working in short sleeves during those early, not-too-sunny hours. The rash has her rethinking that. She also ordered a tougher trimmer line; the last one snapped like spaghetti. It cost a few dollars more, but if it saves her time (and muttered monologues at inanimate objects), it’s a bargain.

As for me, my feet have been touchy—kidney issues flaring a bit—so I’m pacing myself. Still, between the two of us, the yard looks tidy. Cooler days, slower growth, smarter gear: we’ll take every advantage we can get. If the heat returns, we’ll be ready—with sleeves, stronger string, and a healthy respect for anything with three leaves.

For now, I’m calling it a win: a calm run, a nearly invisible mowing path, and the faint hope of a skipped Saturday with coffee instead of carburetors. August, behave yourself.

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From Ice Cream Regrets to Yogurt Wins: My Summer Health Hack

Written August 5, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This summer, the scale and I have been in a tug-of-war. Mowing the lawn knocks two or three pounds off me overnight, so keeping my weight steady is like trying to hold sand in a colander. For a while, I tried to outsmart nature with ice cream—but my doctor quickly pointed out I was basically spoon-feeding myself sugar bombs.

Between high activity levels and dietary restrictions, holding on to calories is like trying to keep water in a sieve. So when I saw the scale tip just slightly above my target range, I actually felt a tiny flicker of triumph. Of course, I know the number will likely melt away tomorrow—mowing tends to rob me of 2–3 pounds overnight.

In my quest to keep the needle from sinking too low, I once leaned on ice cream. It seemed like the perfect solution: tasty, calorie-dense, morale-boosting. My doctor, however, disagreed. Apparently, three scoops of Rocky Road a day is less “nutritional genius” and more “sugar landmine.”

That’s when my wife’s yogurt came to the rescue. Every few weeks, she whips up a fresh batch—unsweetened, creamy, and miraculously not sour. Honestly, it tastes better than most store-bought kinds. She even turns it into smoothies with frozen fruit, sometimes drizzling in honey, but usually letting the fruit do the heavy lifting. It’s healthy, satisfying, and—bonus—doctor-approved.

I’ve now paired this yogurt with cantaloupe whenever my weight starts slipping. The change has worked wonders. Back in early July, I was dealing with puffy feet and a mild gout flare-up. Since switching to this new regimen, the swelling has eased, and the gout has vanished. My wife keeps asking to inspect my feet now, worried about my kidneys (which once landed me in dialysis). I hadn’t realized how much I’d kept those little flare-ups to myself until she started hovering with genuine concern.

Looking back, I’m reminded that even small changes can cause ripples—sometimes helpful, sometimes disastrous. Ice cream seemed clever until it wasn’t. Yogurt and cantaloupe, though, are proving to be a simple, sustainable win. And with my doctor allowing me an extra 20 grams of protein per day—bringing me up to a grand total of 36 grams—I feel like I’ve unlocked a dietary superpower. (If you’ve never measured out 36 grams of protein, let’s just say it makes even a small chicken breast look like a feast fit for a giant.)

The solution turned out to be much simpler (and doctor-approved): my wife’s homemade yogurt paired with juicy cantaloupe. No sugar, just fruit, protein, and pure refreshment. The results? Puffy feet and gout flare-ups—gone. Kidneys—behaving. Weight—finally staying in the healthy range.

I’ve learned that small choices matter. Ice cream caused more trouble than it solved, while yogurt and cantaloupe quietly did the heavy lifting. And with my wife still cranking out yogurt every weekend, I’ve found a strategy that’s not only sustainable but—dare I say it—delicious.

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From Yardwork to Yogurt: A Sunday Sprint Through Schedules and Seasons

Written August 3, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This Sunday had only one out-of-the-ordinary mission: a run to the local Asian grocery store to restock the essentials. I woke at my usual time to find my wife had already slipped outside, stealthily waging war on the yard.

Now, she wasn’t always this way. In her youth, she was a night owl through and through—someone who thought “morning” began somewhere around brunch. Then, somewhere in her twenties, she flipped her internal clock. The transition was not without bumps; force your body into a new sleep schedule, and it might just retaliate with a cold, a migraine, or a general sense of betrayal. But she discovered that her energy wasn’t lacking—it just needed a kickstart. A brisk morning workout turned her brain into a hyper-focused, productivity machine. From then on, she’s been an unapologetic early bird.

Her day-off schedule is a masterclass in efficiency. Yardwork, shoe shopping, and Asian grocery runs are all plotted in her Google Calendar weeks in advance, color-coded like a military campaign. Workdays get the same treatment—her Outlook calendar is so tightly packed that she can shift tasks within a five-minute window like a chess grandmaster rearranging pieces before the clock runs out.

This actually works in my favor. After my brain stroke—yes, the kind that leaves you relearning basic skills—I needed structure like plants need sunlight. Two holes were drilled in my head to drain fluid, damaging the part of my brain responsible for executive function. Sequencing tasks, building routines, forming new habits—these weren’t just “life tips” anymore; they were survival strategies. Walking could leave me as drained as if I’d played an entire chess tournament in one day.

Living with someone whose days run like clockwork helps me anticipate what’s next. She gives me plenty of notice when her plans might bump mine, especially with my Saturday long runs. In Nashville’s summer heat, you learn quickly that running 10K in the late afternoon is an act of madness. If an Asian grocery trip falls on a Saturday, I shuffle my entire week accordingly.

This morning, I took my time getting ready, fully aware the store wouldn’t open for another hour. My wife wrapped up her outdoor project, came in, and prepped for departure. We shopped, came home, and she went straight into her next marathon: making yogurt, cooling an eggplant dish for herself, and tidying the kitchen. She’s been moving since dawn, and I can already tell tomorrow’s going to be a sore one for her. Hopefully, she lets herself slow down—though knowing her, recovery time will probably end up on the calendar too.

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Goodbye Heat Wave: A Cool Morning in Nashville and the Surprising Perks of Weather Whiplash

Written August 1, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning brought an unexpected guest: the end of our latest heat wave. Not the “it’s a bit warm” kind, but the sort of swelter that makes you feel like a rotisserie chicken—no matter how much water you drink. Even ceiling fans just serve hot air on a platter. Eventually, we caved and turned on the air conditioning, though we kept ours set to a toasty 86°F. It still felt like sweet relief.

Then, almost overnight, the temperature took a nosedive—nearly 20 degrees cooler than it’s been in weeks. By April standards, today’s mid-to-high 70s would have felt warm and cheery. But after roasting for days, we both found ourselves… cold. This morning, I actually burrowed under my beloved weighted blanket for the first time in weeks. I even woke up chilly—something I’d forgotten was possible in August.

By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, my wife had already finished her morning run and moved on to the rest of her routine. She greeted me with a warning: “It’s chilly out there.” She knows my body takes longer to adjust to sudden shifts in weather—whereas hers seems to have a built-in thermostat that switches seamlessly between sauna and sweater mode.

Oddly enough, our bodies handle the Nashville heat better than artificially chilled air. We only switch on the AC when temperatures become truly unbearable, so our summer adaptation is strong. If you’re used to living in an artificially cooled 72°F bubble, 80°F still feels stifling. But for us, today’s drop in temperature was downright comfortable.

The forecast promises friendlier weather for at least the next two weeks. Between bouts of heat and heavy rain, our yard has turned into a stubbornly green (and occasionally weedy) project zone. My wife, ever the vigilant groundskeeper, is determined to put in some weekend yard work. The weeds may be relentless, but thanks to her efforts, our yard never tips into chaos.

The strange part? The intense heat has confused our trees. Some of them, clearly convinced autumn has arrived, have started dropping leaves. Now the front yard looks like a confused mix of July and October. My wife says she’ll be vacuuming them up this weekend—because in our household, even the seasons are not excused from tidiness.

And so, another month of summer is behind us. Just one or two more to go. I thought today’s cooler air might give me an edge in my morning run, but while I did beat last week’s average pace, my target speed remained elusive. Apparently, it takes time to turn heat-seasoned endurance into cool-weather speed. Patience, I suppose—after all, I’ve had enough heat training to prepare me for the surface of the sun.

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Cool Comfort: How a Few New Fans Changed Our Summer Game

Written July 27, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, the cavalry arrived—in the form of shiny new window fans. We installed them in their rightful spots, flipped the switch, and within minutes, the difference was so dramatic that stepping out of our bedroom this morning felt like walking into a gentle breeze instead of a stifling hallway.

We’re not anti–air conditioner, but we save it for when the thermometer creeps toward 92°F (33°C). Most of the time, ceiling fans plus these new window units keep the heat from staging a coup in our home. My own temperature regulation hasn’t been the same since my stroke, so a huge indoor–outdoor temperature gap hits me hard. Yard work doesn’t stop for summer, so we try to keep the house temperature within shouting distance of the outdoors—at least until the weather gets truly unbearable.

My wife, for her part, is a champion of “natural” temperatures. Winter? A brisk 65°F. Summer? A balmy 88°F. She’s from Japan, lived in Canada and Germany, and is perfectly fine without the constant hum of an air conditioner. Unfortunately, Nashville summers come with a side of humidity that could make a cactus sweat, so yes, we do give in to the A/C when it turns truly tropical.

Our old fans, relics from our Oregon days, had long since lost their sparkle—and by sparkle, I mean airflow. They moved the air about as effectively as a polite sigh. These new fans, however, blew me away—literally and figuratively. Affordable, powerful, and perfect for our home’s 12-foot ceilings, they move the air in ways that make lightbulb changes perilous but living conditions delightful.

The upstairs is mostly open, save for bedrooms and the washroom. That means one strong window fan, paired with a ceiling fan, creates a swirling breeze that cools the entire floor in under an hour—something that used to take all evening. Last night, our upstairs was cooler than it had been in weeks, without a single blast of A/C.

If we get another scorcher like last summer—two relentless weeks over 95°F, with a few days in the triple digits—we’ll still use the air conditioning as needed. But for the rest of this heat wave, and the next one lurking around the corner, these fans should make summer far more bearable.

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A Tangy Affair: My First Real Date with Sumac

Written July 26, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

In our kitchen, spices often live in two categories: the everyday workhorses, and the “mystery jars” that sit in the back, aging like fine wine but without the payoff. My wife, however, refuses to let a spice sulk in a corner. If we don’t have it, she simply plays culinary matchmaker with something else.

Take sumac, for example. Traditionally used in Middle Eastern dishes, it had long been absent from our shelves. My wife’s stand-in? Lemon zest with a dash of pepper — a clever impersonation that worked surprisingly well. For months, she worked this little trick into our cooking.

But then the recipes started stacking up. We were making dishes that actually called for sumac — and not just once in a blue moon. “It’s not like saffron,” she said one day, “you can get it without taking out a small loan.” Still, she wouldn’t commit unless the spice could earn its keep. After a respectable number of appearances on our dinner table, she finally brought home the real thing.

Sumac, as it turns out, is a striking spice — a deep, muted red, like paprika’s sophisticated cousin. My wife admired it instantly. “It’s beautiful,” she said, “and sour.” I had to taste it right then. Tart, citrusy, slightly spicy — like lemon zest that had been training for the Olympics.

Today, I finally put it to work. Lamb meatloaf with sautéed vegetables in cream sauce — not exactly a traditional sumac showcase, but I was curious. I dusted the crimson powder over the dish and took a bite. Perfection. The tangy sharpness sliced right through the richness of the cream like a sword through butter, bringing everything into balance.

It was the lemon zest experience I’d always wanted — all the brightness, none of the bitterness you get when you accidentally shave too close to the pith. From now on, any dish that gets a kiss of lemon zest might just meet its bolder, redder cousin too.

For the curious: sumac comes from dried, ground berries of the Rhus genus, relatives of the cashew and mango tree. It has nothing to do with poison sumac — that’s a completely different plant family, and one you do not want in your spice rack. The edible variety thrives in subtropical and temperate climates and can grow almost anywhere outside of Antarctica and South America.

It’s a darling of Middle Eastern cuisine, but as my wife and I discovered, its talents go far beyond that. Bright, tangy, and just a little spicy — I suspect this is the beginning of a long, flavorful friendship.