MSI Press Blog

Most days, Grandma Ninja can take on the world. Steep hills? No problem. Ninety‑pound garbage cans? Bring them on. Workouts with planks, glute bridges, and Russian twists? Just another morning in the dojo. But then came a pinched nerve, followed by prednisone. Not the whole‑body‑weakening, can’t‑lift‑a‑thing kind. Oh no. Prednisone chose a far more mischievous strategy. It went after my balance . Not my strength. Not my endurance. Not my ability to haul a garbage can down a 30‑degree incline while a well‑meaning neighbor tried (and failed) to “save” me from it. No — prednisone went after the tiny stabilizer muscles. The micro‑adjusters. The little ninjas inside the big ninja. And suddenly, the BOSU ball — my old friend — became a treacherous, wobbling island. One moment I was centered. The next, I was sliding off like a cartoon character stepping on a banana peel. Strength? Perfect. Coordination? Fine. Balance? On vacation. Prednisone had declared itself the new s...

  The following is a precerpt (book excerpt prior to publication) from  Grandma's Ninja Training Diary  (Leaver & Renz). Of Spiders, Stairs, and Ninja Instincts Last week, I learned an important lesson about physics... and pride. I'd just lugged 40+ pounds of groceries up 17 stairs, both hands full, feeling like the domestic Hercules. As I approached the door, I spotted an intruder: a spider crawling just above waist height. My options? Put down the bags and squish it like a sensible person… or attempt a ninja-style door kick with one leg while gripping two unevenly weighted grocery sacks. I chose violence. I got the bug. But physics got me. When my foot hit the door, the force reverberated like a bad plot twist. I staggered backward, bags swinging, and slammed my wrist into the railing. I didn’t fall. I recalibrated mid-collapse, channeling every ounce of aging grace and stubborn dignity. The wrist puffed up. I thought: “It’s broken. I’m doomed.” My doctor, on th...

  Grandma Ninja: 1 Flying Monkey Stunt: 0 Walking up the stairs, reading texts on my phone with my left hand, and pulling a heavy box with medical supplies with my right hand, I lost my balance when the big box ripped open, throwing me over the railing into the elephant ear plant below. Beside the plant was a metal garbage can. As luck would have it, I landed right on top of it. Crack...! Two ribs fractured. So, the ER doctor told me it would take six weeks for my ribs to heal. Six. Weeks. Grandma Ninja apparently heard “six days” and went with that instead. My PCP confirmed it this week. Lungs clear. Movement normal. No restrictions. (Except “no more flying monkey stunts,” which seems fair.) He asked how the plant I dove into was doing. I told him he should be asking how I am doing. He said I’m tough and would outlast it. I didn’t argue. Was it the calcium? The Fosamax? The prayers? Maybe all of the above. I suspect the real culprit is Grandma Ninja — the balance work, the breat...

Today would have been our 56th anniversary. We never got to celebrate our 50th — COVID locked the world down, and then 2021 took Carl with it. The grand plans we had for that golden milestone evaporated into hospital protocols and masked goodbyes. Life doesn’t always give you the ceremony you earned. But ninjas adapt. Ninjas restructure, reorganize, recalibrate. Ninjas keep moving. And this anniversary belongs in the Grandma Ninja series because Carl was part of the training long before I ever called myself a ninja. He went to every single one of my sessions with trainer Brittany. Every one. He’d sit there like my personal cheering section, amused, supportive, and absolutely determined not to be recruited into anything that looked like effort. If Brittany tried to rope him in, he’d grin and say, “You must stay up late at night thinking up the next marvelous torture.” Meanwhile, I was sweating through hours of drills — because it does take hours to go from flabby government wor...