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How a Rainy Run and No AC Made My Monday Better

Written July 7, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Another night of glorious sleep had me waking up like a Disney character—refreshed, energized, and only slightly disappointed that I couldn’t quite hit my target running pace. Close, but not close enough to brag about. Still, a win’s a win when your legs cooperate and your lungs don’t stage a mutiny.

This morning started off with a drama courtesy of a tropical storm in Texas, which has been tap dancing its way from Texas toward Tennessee. By the time I laced up my running shoes, the skies were already getting weepy. And as soon as I hit the road—boom! Rain. Like nature’s own personal sprinkler system just for me.

Oddly enough, the downpour was kind of a gift. The temperature dropped like it had read my mind (or my sweat levels), and suddenly, everything felt a bit more breathable. I had taken Sunday off to recharge my energy reserves, and it worked—I felt stronger than I did on Saturday. Still not quite fast enough for a personal best, but hey, progress isn’t always linear. Some days you fly, some days you just coast gracefully.

While I was out dodging puddles, my wife was already deep in productivity mode. She left for work before I even opened my eyes—off to the office by 6:45 a.m. like a mission-critical ninja. Since most of her work can be done remotely, she reserves in-office time for the essentials: high-stakes meetings, actual paper (remember that stuff?), and anything requiring physical presence. Today, her calendar was packed, so she left even earlier than usual. No morning coffee chat for us. Tragic.

Back at home, the rain was doing more than watering plants—it was cooling our house like nature’s own HVAC system. Nashville summers are no joke. Our roof and bricks tend to absorb heat like they’re preparing for a sauna competition, but once the rain starts, the house’s internal temperature drops surprisingly fast. I seized the moment: windows open, fans on, and a delightful breeze circulating like I’m living in a country cottage ad.

Now, here’s the twist—I’ve actually adapted to the heat. Our house can hover around 85°F (just under 30°C), and as long as ceiling fans are spinning, I don’t feel like I’m melting into the floor. The humidity here makes it feel warmer than it is, but dropping the house temp to around 80°F feels like an arctic treat. Bonus: I no longer feel like I’ve been smacked by a heatwave when I step outside for a run or to tackle the yard. The gentle indoor-outdoor transition keeps my body from going into temperature shock.

Meanwhile, my wife’s office is basically a walk-in freezer. She told me the overachieving AC is giving her headaches—probably from the temperature whiplash. So, keeping things mellow at home helps her recover from the Great Arctic Office Experience.

As for me, I’m looking forward to a pleasantly mild afternoon and evening. Rain-cooled walls, open windows, and a happily running ceiling fan—no complaints here.

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Running on Fumes (and Firecrackers)

Written July 5, 2025

Reviewed 7/20

Hello Dear Readers,

We had a great time at the party last night, but let’s just say we rolled in about 30 minutes later than ideal. Not a huge deal, unless you’re someone (like me) who runs on a strict internal clock and a slightly wobbly energy meter.

My wife, the human embodiment of discipline, woke up this morning like it was any other day—well, almost. She admitted to hitting snooze a little more than usual, getting up 30 minutes late. No surprise there; we did go to bed 30 minutes late. The math checks out.

But here’s where things get interesting: while she nodded off the moment her head hit the pillow, I spent a solid chunk of the night listening to our neighbors’ amateur fireworks show. Think of it as the sleep-deprivation remix of the Fourth of July.

Still, I tried to stick to my routine. I laced up and headed out for my usual 10k… and promptly called it quits at the halfway mark. My body wasn’t just politely whispering, “Maybe not today”—it was staging a full-blown protest. No energy. No spark. Just a very firm nope from my muscles.

Meanwhile, my wife? She powered through her usual workout and tackled 90 minutes of yard work like a caffeinated superhero. By the time she was done, she looked more refreshed than when she started. And then she casually transitioned into business mode or housework—honestly, I lost track. She’s kind of unstoppable.

As for me, my energy levels tend to drain faster than a phone with too many background apps. My doctor reminds me regularly that my body doesn’t bounce back the same way a healthy adult’s does. A little push can feel like a marathon. And today, that 5k was all I had in me.

Tomorrow’s our designated rest day—at least for me. My wife, of course, plans to get back out there in the yard. I’ll offer to help, but let’s be real: a slow walk sounds more my speed. We’ll see what happens.

If the weather behaves, I’m eyeing a proper 10k comeback on Monday. But first, sleep. Beautiful, uninterrupted sleep. Time to recharge the system and stop running on leftover firecracker fumes.

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Stars, Stripes, and a Side of Ice Cream: A July 4th to Remember

Written July 4, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning started with good news—my right foot, which had been acting like a grumpy toddler for days, finally decided to behave. I laced up my shoes with hope and hit my target pace like a runner reborn. Cue the internal fireworks.

And speaking of fireworks—today was a big deal for us. It was my wife’s very first Independence Day as an American citizen! Cue more fireworks (the metaphorical kind this time, not the ones your uncle sets off too close to the grill). As a celebratory gift, my mother gave us a proper American flag. We even have a flagpole out front, which had been standing rather naked until now. My wife believes the flag should only be flown on meaningful days, and this one checked all the patriotic boxes.

But wait, there’s more. Today wasn’t just about Uncle Sam’s birthday—it was a triple birthday bash at my mother’s place: my wife, my mom, and my sister all share birthdays around this time. Add some cake, a backyard full of kids, and the perfect amount of chaos, and you’ve got the recipe for a summer holiday classic.

Now, the ice cream I heroically fetched earlier this week? That was for this party. My wife, who moonlights as a corporate accountant (and full-time scheduling wizard), has been under serious pressure. July quarter-close is no joke, especially when your head office is in Japan and couldn’t care less that you’re off watching sparklers with a hot dog in hand. Reports were due, spreadsheets were screaming, and stress levels were…let’s say “robust.”

But despite all that, she was genuinely excited. She even carved out the entire afternoon and evening on her jam-packed Google Calendar (yes, color-coded and all). She’s usually booked solid, so this was a certified miracle. We couldn’t stay too late though—bedtime in our house is sacred and strictly pre-10pm. My mother lives 45-50 minutes away. You do the math. Spoiler: it doesn’t leave much room for post-firecracker mingling.

My mom called Friday in a mild ice crisis—turns out, even on July 4th, gas stations have your back. We swooped in, grabbed the goods, and avoided a party meltdown. Crisis averted.

The best part of the day? Seeing my nieces and nephews. They’re all taller, louder, and possibly faster than last time. Kids grow up too fast—it’s like someone hit the fast-forward button when we weren’t looking.

It’s been a wild, jam-packed week full of heat, errands, spreadsheets, and celebration. But in the end? Totally worth it. Happy birthday, America—and happy everything else, too.

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Mission: Mow & Munch – A Midweek Adventure

Written July 3, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

I checked off my mowing duty for the week today—grass trimmed, box checked, sweat earned. But let’s be honest, the real pressure wasn’t the lawn; it was the last-minute ice cream run we had to squeeze in before this weekend’s Independence Day and birthday bash. You see, dessert got demoted during our weekend grocery trip, and suddenly I was the self-appointed Ice Cream Procurement Officer by Tuesday.

Why ice cream? Well, some guests can’t do gluten, and let’s face it—ice cream is the great equalizer. Plus, it’s about 9,000 degrees outside. Nothing says “family fun” like small children hopped up on sugar and brain freezes.

Now, my wife is neck-deep in quarter-month-end chaos (corporate accounting is no joke), and also juggling a SOX audit and budget prep. Basically, she’s one spreadsheet short of an office meltdown. That meant we had a tight window—lunch break on Wednesday—when she’d be working from home and could spare 30 golden minutes for an ice cream heist.

Usually, we do our grocery pilgrimage once a week on Saturday. My wife plans our meals, inventories the fridge like a food-loving Sherlock Holmes, and ensures we use up every last vegetable before it turns into a science experiment. By Friday, our fridge is emptier than my willpower near a donut display—but just enough food remains to survive. Saturday’s meal is a fridge cleanout special. Sunday? That’s sacred. That’s pizza day.

This week, though, I forgot dessert. The shame.

So, I set an alarm to give myself time to finish mowing, shower, and become presentable before the big dairy dash. Miraculously, I wrapped up the lawn 15 minutes before the alarm went off—leaving me enough time to transform from Yard Sasquatch to Grocery Gentleman.

We made our move: three pints of ice cream secured, plus a few extra goodies. Since my doctor recently suggested “fruit and yogurt instead of ice cream” (buzzkill alert), I added a cantaloupe to the cart for midweek snacking. My wife grabbed chips and salsa—her version of self-care between back-to-back meetings.

We were in and out of the store in under 30 minutes, just like pros. My wife even managed to nibble something, though she insists on light lunches to keep her brain operating at ninja levels. Then she vanished back into her audit-and-budget battlefield, while I stood victorious—with one cantaloupe and three flavors of celebration.

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Level 4 Kidney Function: A Gout-Friendly Diet Update

Written July 2, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

I had my regular rendezvous with the nephrologist this week. And guess what? My eGFR has officially slid into Level 4 territory. Ah, kidneys—always keeping life suspenseful. Suddenly, the mystery of my marshmallow feet makes perfect sense.

Armed with a list of burning questions (like a medical Sherlock Holmes), I peppered my doctor with inquiries. One lab glance later, he asked me a lot of questions. I showed my bios, I told him what dietary changes I made.  “You’re probably riding the sugar train a little too hard.” Now, aside from a slight uptick in ice cream over the past month—okay, maybe more than slight—I haven’t exactly been swimming in syrup. 

Weight management came up (as it always does), and my doctor gave me a surprising green light: I can have a bit more protein! The catch? Sugar’s gotta go. So, farewell to frosty treats, and hello again to yogurt and fruit. It’s not a tragic breakup—I happen to love our homemade yogurt, courtesy of my wife. It’s just the right kind of bland. Not too sour, not too sweet. Honestly, I think store-bought yogurt has trust issues—it’s either overly tangy or suspiciously processed. Ours? Pure probiotic poetry.

Medication for gout got a little upgrade too—because, let’s be real, that red, angry foot of mine isn’t fixing itself overnight. But I’m hopeful. The pain’s still there, but I’m optimistic it’ll chill out soon, especially now that I’m being kinder to my kidneys. They’re finicky little organs—throw in too much sugar or a rogue meatball, and they stage a protest.

All in all, the doctor and I agreed on a simple plan: keep the hydration goal steady, scale back the sugar, gently boost the protein, and stay vigilant. It’s a delicate dance, but I’m not doing it alone. My wife and I made a pact a decade ago to face kidney issues as a team—and we’re still two-stepping our way through it together.

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When Your Feet Start Swelling and Ice Cream Is the Prime Suspect: A Kidney Health Check-In

Written Jun 30, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

It all started last Thursday. My right foot decided to file a complaint—painful, persistent, and just loud enough to make me pay attention. By evening, both feet looked like they’d been moonlighting as water balloons. Thankfully, the swelling usually deflates by morning, but it’s still concerning enough that I’ll be bringing it up with my nephrologist this Wednesday.

Now, if you’ve ever had kidney issues, you know the drill: when your kidneys slack off on their job, your body turns into a sponge. The fluid that should’ve been politely escorted out hangs around instead—preferably in your lower extremities. In my case, it’s like my feet got dunked in a vat of water and just… stayed there.

To make matters more interesting, there’s a suspiciously red, swollen spot on one foot. It’s not screaming “gout flare!” like it has in the past, but it’s definitely whispering it. Not fun. Not agony. Just enough to make me grumble every few steps.

When my wife caught sight of my puffy feet, her worry radar went off. We both agreed: it’s not as dramatic as the foot fiasco from a decade ago, but still a downgrade from how things looked back in March. Naturally, we retraced our dietary steps. And—cue dramatic music—I had to confess. Summer weight maintenance is a battlefield when you’ve got food restrictions, and sometimes that battlefield is paved with ice cream and pastry bites. Don’t judge—desperate times call for frozen desserts.

My wife, being the practical one, asked the big question: “What’s your eGFR lately?” That’s the estimated glomerular filtration rate, for those blissfully unfamiliar—it’s basically the Yelp review for your kidneys. She wants to know how well they’re filtering out waste these days. Spoiler alert: I’m not sure yet, but I will be soon.

So now, I’m building my checklist for the doctor: foot swelling, possible gout, and yes, an honest conversation about my summer romance with ice cream. I’ve got my stats ready too—blood pressure, heart rate, weight—the whole health dashboard. Ironically, I’ve actually had trouble keeping my weight up lately, partly because I’ve been gaining muscle (thank you, outdoor chores), and partly because summer keeps me more active.

I’m still staying hydrated (a solid 64 oz per day), but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little anxious. Still, I’ll get some answers soon. And who knows—maybe even a better snack plan.

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Surviving Summer Without AC: How We Outsmarted the Heat (and Trained Our Nervous Systems Like Ninjas)

Written 06/28/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Well folks, we did it. We made it through the year’s first major heatwave without melting into couch puddles—or cranking the AC like panicked lizards in a sauna.

We made a small but mighty change in how we deal with heat: instead of blasting cold air like it’s 1999, we’ve gone old-school. Ceiling fans in every room? Check. Airflow strategies that would make NASA proud? You bet. Our secret weapon? High ceilings and a fan system that practically whispers, “Let there be breeze.”

As soon as the sun starts to dip, it’s go-time. Windows open. Window fans on. It’s like a tactical air exchange operation, minus the camouflage. Even if the heat during the day feels like we accidentally moved to Mercury, things shift once the sun clocks out. Sure, some humidity sticks around like an awkward guest at a dinner party—but most nights, our system works like a charm.

My wife’s always been a warm-weather purist. AC? Not her thing. She spent years in Japan and Germany, where people don’t treat their homes like meat lockers. I used to find this a little intense—especially pre-stroke. But now? I’m a convert.

After my brain stroke, I lost the ability to handle sudden temperature changes. Stepping inside an overcooled house after a run felt like entering a glacier with my nerve endings screaming in confusion. My autonomic nervous system—bless its confused little circuits—just couldn’t keep up. But this natural approach? It’s literally therapeutic.

We’re replacing our central AC next year—it still runs, but it’s like a gas-guzzling dinosaur trying to keep up with a Prius. And we’re not planning to keep the house at “penguin habitat” levels. Our summer indoor temps hover around 82°F to 84°F (that’s 28–29°C for our metric friends), and honestly, we’re handling it surprisingly well.

Bonus points: our house is basically a mullet—business in the front (above ground), cool party in the back (underground). The downstairs stays naturally cooler in summer and warmer in winter, which makes temperature control a bit more forgiving, even in Nashville’s moody climate.

Do we expect more heatwaves? Oh yes. At least two more, if we’re betting. But something wild is happening—we’ve adapted. A few weeks ago, today’s temperatures would’ve sent us scrambling for the AC remote. Now? We’re both commenting on how “pleasant” it feels.

I think this heat-dodging lifestyle is helping reboot my sympathetic and parasympathetic systems—the dynamic duo of the autonomic nervous system. I’m noticing better seasonal adaptation, more stability, and fewer temperature-triggered meltdowns (literal and figurative).

So bring it on, summer. We’re not scared of you anymore. Well, maybe just a little. But we’ll face you fan-first, cool-headed, and slightly smug.

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Sew It Goes: How Sewing a Button Became My Unexpected Rehab Win

Written June 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, a small but mighty victory took place in my household: I finally sewed a button back onto my shorts. Yes, the shorts that have been silently judging me from the mending pile for weeks. My original goal was to wear them to my blood draw appointment, but threading that needle turned into an Olympic-level event—and, spoiler alert, I did not win gold.

Part of the challenge? My left hand. It’s been on a bit of a go-slow strike since my stroke. While most of my mobility has returned (with a slow but steady comeback tour), my left hand still dances to its own rhythm—one that is less ballet and more interpretive chaos. I practice piano daily to retrain it, and while progress is real, threading a needle still feels like trying to put a shoelace through a keyhole. While blindfolded. On a moving train.

Oh, and let’s not forget my eyesight. Between the rebellious hand and less-than-stellar vision, sewing that button felt like performing surgery with oven mitts.

Despite it all, I managed to get the thread through, stab the shorts a few dozen times (mostly intentionally), and reattach the button. My backup pair of shorts had just emerged from the dryer at that moment, so I wore those instead. Still, I went back to my sewing mission post-appointment, and this time, I finished the job.

And let me just say: shout-out to my middle school home economics teacher. Without those long-forgotten lessons, I’d have had to look up a YouTube tutorial or ask my wife for help. Both totally valid options, but nothing beats a minor domestic triumph all on your own.

In the end, this wasn’t just about the button. It was about dexterity. Determination. Brain-hand coordination. This tiny, stubborn project turned out to be its own form of rehab—and it counts.

I’d been putting it off because, well, life. Doctor visits, lab work, and the glorious chaos of summer have been eating up my time. But yesterday, I did the thing. I fixed the shorts. I now officially have two wearable pairs for the season. The repaired button has held firm—so far, so good. Fingers crossed. Or in my case, sort-of-crossed.

Tomorrow brings my annual eye appointment, and I’ll be mowing the lawn beforehand (because nothing says “adulting” like trimming grass before checking your retinas). So yes, having an extra pair of shorts is not just fashion—it’s function.

Until next time, keep your threads tight and your victories celebrated—no matter how small they seem. Sometimes, sewing on a button is the big win of the week.

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Mow, Sweat, and Labs: A Kidney-Friendly Workout With a Side of Weather Nerdiness

Written Jun 24, 2025

Reviewed 7/7

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s agenda was brought to you by the letters M (for mowing), B (for bloodwork), and S (for sweat. So. Much. Sweat).

It was a race against the sun this morning—me versus the jungle formerly known as our lawn. I usually take my time trimming the terrain, but today, I had a hard deadline: a date with a phlebotomist. Nothing says “productive morning” quite like pushing an electric mower up a steep hill, then heading off to donate a vial or five of blood.

Let’s rewind a bit. My kidneys and I have a bit of a complicated history. Back in 2015, my function had dipped so low that I made the transplant list. Dramatic, I know. But through some dietary ninja moves, medication management, and sheer stubbornness, I climbed back up to stage 3. Some days I flirt with stage 4 (I like to keep my nephrologist on their toes). Hence the quarterly blood draws—my body’s version of a quarterly report card, minus the spreadsheets.

Exercise has become non-negotiable for me. Not just to stay fit, but to keep my kidneys pumping (or filtering?) as best they can. Ever since my stroke, I’ve realized that motion isn’t just medicine—it’s mission-critical.

Until 2022, my wife was the queen of the lawn. She’d spend hours on weekends battling the grass while working full-time during the week. Eventually, I took over. Now I handle both cooking and mowing—basically, I’m evolving into a domestic ninja with a touch of yard warrior.

Our lawn, by the way, is no gentle meadow. It’s steep enough to make you question your life choices mid-mow. Even with our electric mower, I need two battery swaps—and usually still don’t finish it all in one go. Today, I gave myself three hours and managed to tame the front yard and half of one side before calling it quits. Thursday, the saga continues.

I was drenched in sweat by the end, having chugged a full liter of water like it was my sidekick. Honestly, I might need a medal. Or at least a Popsicle.

On a brighter (and cooler) note, we’ve gone full nerd and ordered a fancy weather station! It has a remote sensor that sits in our bedroom, while the main display lives in my office. Now I can spy on the upstairs temperature without even standing up. Efficiency, thy name is gadget.

The new system should help us decide when to fling open the windows or turn on the fan, because let’s be real—when your body doesn’t regulate heat so well post-stroke, indoor climate control is a tactical operation.

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Peaches, Pastries, and Pace Goals: A Juicy Detour in Brentwood

Written Jun 21, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning took a delicious little detour—we headed to the Brentwood farmers market on a noble mission: peaches. Not just any peaches, mind you—these are the golden globes of summer that end up as jam, chutney, or occasionally, eaten straight over the sink like a juicy criminal.

You see, I’m a peach addict. Last year’s supply of peach jam mysteriously vanished (into my mouth), so naturally, I needed a refill. Sadly, we missed strawberry season this year due to the Great Renovation Saga of 2025, but peaches? Peaches, we were not going to miss.

Nashville has its fair share of farmers markets, including one practically in our backyard. But we went with the Brentwood market—not quite the Broadway of produce, but charming, local, and most importantly, peach-rich.

Once our peach haul was secure, I made a strategic pit stop at a nearby bakery. I may have walked in for a quick peek… and walked out with a donut named “King Kong.” Why King Kong? Because it had bacon. On a donut. I also snagged a lemon custard one for good measure—because balance, right?

My wife, however, watched this sugary acquisition with the same expression people reserve for horror movie trailers. She’s not a fan of pastries. Or bacon. Apparently, once she hit her twenties, her stomach filed a restraining order against greasy foods. More donuts for me, then!

My plan? Save these beauties as a post-run prize. I’ve been struggling to keep my weight up lately, and let’s be honest—bacon donuts are basically a fitness supplement… if you squint and ignore all common sense.

Speaking of peach jam, last year’s batch was a science experiment. Unlike strawberries, peaches don’t come naturally pectin-packed. So, my wife got crafty—lemon juice, lemon peel, apple slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar (less than the usual saccharine suspects call for). She’s the MacGyver of canning. Canning safety, she says, is not a game. (Her exact words: “This is not a Pinterest project, it’s microbiology.”)

This year, though, life got busy. So instead of an instant jam session, she boiled and peeled the peaches, then froze them for a future day of sticky, sweet alchemy.

The only downside to this fruity side quest? It delayed my run by two hours. And in Nashville, a two-hour delay in summer basically means running on the sun. I started with my usual 5k, then decided to keep going until I either hit my target pace time or keeled over. Luckily, the pace gods smiled on me, and I nailed my goal at 7k. Victory—and donuts—awaited.

Moral of the story: Never underestimate the motivational power of fruit, sugar, and just a dash of bacon.