Slouching through life

     In the seminal sports comedy "Caddyshack," Chevy Chase's Ty Webb says to Ted Knight's Judge Smails:

"Don't sell yourself short, Judge. ... You're a tremendous slouch."

     So am I. Just in an entirely different manner.
     My posture stinks on an epic scale. I've been made most painfully aware of this lately, because for the past few weeks, I've been locked in a varying-shades-of-painful duel with my aching back. Fun, it is not.
     I have been a serious sufferer for about eight years, thanks to degenerative disc disease at L5/S1 in my lower back. That much-compressed site has been the source of the lion's share of my woes. After a 2004 bout that left me flat on my back and drugged out of my mind for a full week, I've gone through the intervening years armed with heating pad and dandy muscle relaxant Flexeril at the ready. On a semi-regular basis, my wonky disc bulges, the muscles around it go into spasm to try and support it and I can't bend at the waist and have teeth-grinding, blood-sweating pain for a couple days at a crack.
     I reiterate ... fun, it is not.
     This episode was a bit different, however. Different location. Different initial muscle seizure. Different pain track. I agreed to visit my health care provider, Rachel (she who must be obeyed!) rather quickly, and was alarmed when she voiced concern that I may have popped a second disc, this time in the lumbar (mid-back) region.
     I was immediately dispatched for an X-ray.
     Luckily, it came back negative. It doesn't explain why a different muscle decided to act up, but I'm satisfied to know I still only have one "official" problem child in my nearly 42-year-old spine. Oh, and about that one ... not to be outdone, once the lumbar strain began to subside, L5/S1 decided to voice its displeasure at being temporarily overshadowed.
     You guessed it; it started acting up. Cheeky little bugger.
     But this time, I've been actively combating it with something other than heating pad and drugs. On Rachel's orders, a mighty pair of physical therapists have been given orders to whip me into shape, kicking and screaming if necessary.
     In eight years as a back patient, I don't think I've ever given PT a go.
     I like it. And it's helping.
     Besides the physical stretching that PT mavens Michelle and Becky have me doing, they've given me a good bit of mental insight as well.
     This posture business is a killer. Decades of god-awful office chairs have left me slouching toward oblivion. In trying to find a comfortable position -- where there is none -- I invariably end up listing toward one side or another, curled up in a ball, sliding halfway under my desk or some such nonsense. What's worse, I'm no longer aware I'm doing it.
     In the last week and a half or so, I've been catching myself sliding into a state of unmindfulness about my posture and/or abdominal muscles with alarming regularity. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to correcting a bad behavior, but I have a mountain of habit to break.
     Besides the PT, I have one other thing helping me. Although I was told in no uncertain terms that cardio and the weight room at the gym were off limits until further notice, my lovely PT people cleared me to hit the pool. More specifically, I was given the green light to join in the new season of Hempfield Rec Water Pilates, which began last Monday.
     For a variety of reasons, I hadn't participated in that activity in about two years.
     I had forgotten how much I loved it. (I had also forgotten how freaky it is to be "weightless" in the pool for an hour, then exit and feel like you're zipping on a fat suit.)
     Very likely, I will not get buff in these classes. I will not lose weight with them alone. However, they provide several benefits critical to my war on weight. This form of exercise will, without a doubt, improve my balance, flexibility and core strength.
     Key, key and key. I also remain highly amused by the fact that in the water, my range of motion is that of a fit person.
     In the last couple days, the back has been getting more and more stable. I have a follow-up appointment with Rachel this Thursday, at which point I hope to be cleared for cardio and weight machines. Honestly, I've missed them.
     Until then, though, you can find me in the pool.
     I'll be the one not slouching.  

Short, but not so sweet

     Good heavens. My activity on the blogging front lately has oddly paralleled my general activity over the past few days.
     It's been out-and-out flat.
     A little difficulty I've lived with for years recently decided to rear its ugly head. No, I'm not talking about Supportive Partner Man (willing headbanger!), his de facto bro Mike and their odd Night Ranger fixation, either.
     My back, replete with chronic bulging discs and muscle spasms, has decided to renew its status as a pain in the butt.
     It had been a bit sore, then, when I was reaching for the shampoo in the shower late last week ... sproing! I felt a muscle in the left mid-back twist and utterly seize.
     Now it's Monday night and when I've not been at work — we journalists don't do "holiday weekends" — I've been in bed snuggled up to my other best friend, Mr. Heating Pad. Naturally, because most other people celebrate "holidays," my fabulous nurse practitioner, Rachel, won't be in the office until Tuesday morning. And I'm fresh out of Flexeril, damn it.
     At least I have the name of a local back group to check out. The doc I've seen for my back for the last eight years is based in Wyomissing, which is a tad inconvenient given that we're now living in Lancaster. I've changed all the other medics in my stable, I may as well change this one, too, right?
     Looks like I'll be working the phones in the morning.
     Keep those pain-free vibes coming.

Who?

     Making the rounds on the InterTubez is a little video PSA that I find quite relevant. It has nothing to do with either idiot politicians spouting nonsense about science, or cute kittehs/puppehs/bunnehs (though I'm never opposed to the latter).

     No, this has to do with one of the great science fiction dynasties of our time.

     Doctor Who.

     For the uninitiated, that is not a question, it's a title. The good Doctor is a creation of the BBC, and next year he'll be celebrating his 50th anniversary, having first been portrayed by William Hartnell in an episode called "The Unearthly Child" in 1963. 

     A native of the planet Gallifrey, the Doctor roams all of time and space in a craft called the TARDIS (Time and Relative Dimensions in Space). He often travels with a companion or companions, depending on his mood. And, oh yeah ... he regenerates. At a point of death, his body can generate a into a totally new form. That explains how 11 different actors have played the role over the last 49-plus years, a stretch that includes a 1989-2005 programming hiatus (with only a one-off 1996 TV movie starring Paul McGann in between).

     So why, you ask, am I Who-ing it up today? 

     Well, a new season — the seventh since the 2005 series reboot welcomed the Doctor into the 21st century — will begin airing on BBC America on Sept. 1.

     I'm excited. So are many of my friends and fellow Whovians. We just want to share the Who love.

     Plus, there's that PSA I mentioned earlier:

     In this clip, celebrity nerd Chris Hardwick, founder of Nerdist, supports the current BBC America campaign on Twitter, #newtoWHO. Think of it as a pledge drive for Whovians. 

     The idea is to have existing Who geeks — such as myself — tweet (or perhaps blog) about when they first felt the call of the TARDIS. Hopefully, the theory goes, we can entice some fresh blood into the proceedings. Or at least aid some of our own family members who may have difficulty following our conversations/vocabulary.

     In his lifespan — OK, his TV lifespan; the character himself is more than 900 years old, though at the moment he doesn't look a day over 29 — the Doctor has been fun, fresh, cheesy, wise and dangerous. He's been through different faces, different wardrobes (fezzes ARE cool) and different tastebuds (fish fingers and custard, not so much). He's brought death to some and salvation to many.

     But there is one constant for those of us who remain devoted to the show: You never forget your first Doctor.

Good Old Four

     Mine's Tom Baker.

     Good old Four. He of the iconic 67-foot-long multi-hued scarf and tricked out hair. Oh, and the constantly proffered bag o' jelly babies.
     I fully admit the plots in his tenure (1974-1981) were utterly cheesetastic and the f/x were worse. It was a guilty pleasure. And I loved every second.

     Back in the Long Ago, when I first watched Four and his various traveling companions hurtling across space in that blue box, there was no cable. No On Demand. No DVDs/DVRs. Not even a VCR. All I had was a console TV the size of a damned Buick. There were maybe 10 channels feeding into it via signal from a roof antenna. I HAD TO GET UP TO CHANGE THE CHANNELS MANUALLY.

     There also appeared to be no set schedule for this cheesy show I stumbled across as a kid and really, really liked. Our available PBS station seemed to only get episodes in when it could afford them. So I never had a sense of episodic order to my Who experience. But it sure was fun. I still rack up old episodes these days, too, despite my love of the rebooted series. I was just watching 1975's "The Ark in Space" a few nights ago on Netflix.
     If you have that service, that's actually the best way to get into the Doctor. All six of the reboot series are available there, in order, in their entirety. If you're like me, you'll start watching and emerge a few days later sleep-deprived but utterly enthralled.
     As I said, season seven begins Sept. 1 on BBA America. So you've got two weeks to catch up.
     Geronimo.

Yoga of the Tuesday

     I have stood up to my fear and spit in its eye. My fear, meanwhile, seems to be taking out its frustrations on my knees.
     It's sort of like a sweaty circle of life.
     A few posts ago, I wrote about stepping up my efforts at the gym. I'm happy to report I continue to progress. Elliptical, treadmill and weight machines all are integrated into my routine now.
     What's more, I've taken the utterly terrifying plunge into uncamouflaged group exercise with Bodyflow. As I've previously related, this Les Mills creation is described by my gym as:

 "A yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates workout that builds flexibility and strength, leaving you feeling centered and calm. Controlled breathing, concentration and a carefully structured series of stretches, moves and poses create a holistic workout that brings the body into a state of harmony and balance."

     After surviving two whole classes, I can't really comment on the harmony part. I can say with great certainty, however, that my balance utterly stinks.
     I can also say with great certainty, "Ow. ... Ow, ow, ow. Ow." I'm merely quoting my knees.
     Additionally, I have commented on Facebook that I am quite stunned I haven't spot welded to the floor.
     My mantra — aside from "Ow, ow, ow" and under-my-breath random cursing —is "It'll get better."
     And it will. Honestly, I was very pleasantly surprised to find I had begun to noticeably adapt in just two classes. I'm not kidding myself, I've got a long, long way to go, but I feel I can do it.
     The unfailingly pleasant instructor, Kay, who strongly reminds me of one of my favorite high school teachers, has been wonderful. She gave me a quick rundown of the process my first class and simply said, "Do what you can. Don't beat yourself up. You'll learn."
     The other folks in the class — it's a mix of ages — have been welcoming and encouraging as well. That's something I worried about, given some previous encounters with ultra-fit gym rats who look at fat old me as though I am something they just scraped off the bottom of their shoe. Thankfully, though, they are turning out to be the ones in the minority, and as I go forward, I'm learning to be less intimidated by them.
     I can't say I'm going to be totally free of my Simmophobia, though. I think I'll always be embarrassed/scared by the thought of falling on my face/butt/other extremities in public exercise situations. That, and, well, Richard Simmons is a little frightening.
     In the meantime, I'll just keep at the Bodyflow thing in addition to my other gym work. I'm getting to the point that I really like it, and I'd like to be more proficient at it.
     But I do have a suggestion. I stumbled across a meme recently that appealed to me very much as both a budding yoga fan and as a geek, and I think the gym might benefit if it adapts this into a real program. Surely I'm not the only sci-fi nerd out here who wants/needs to improve fitness-wise.
     Behold, Star Wars Yoga:

   

     The whole set of poses can be found here.
     Apparently there are SW yoga mats and bags available on Etsy, but I've not heard of this as a real class. ... Hmm, maybe that's my new million-dollar idea. Remember, you heard it here first.
     May the force be with us all.

Bon anniversaire, Julia

     Hold the phone. I am prepared to make a shocking announcement.

     I do not own a single, solitary cookbook by Julia Child.

      Honestly, I am unsure how this has come about. I just checked my beautiful Big Kid Bookshelf, the one where all most of the cookbooks live, and ... nope. We've got Paula Deen, Giada DeLaurentiis, Ted Allen, the Frugal Gourmet, various Disney collections and lots, lots more.
     But I am sans Madame Child.
     Why all the fuss? If you're on Twitter, you may be seeing the proliferation of the hashtag #CookForJulia. Because today, Aug. 15, would have been the grand dame of French cooking's 100th birthday. PBS, on whose Boston affiliate Julia's legendary show began in the early 1960s, has a large tribute set up online. People everywhere are being encouraged to #CookForJulia — to attempt any of her dishes then blog, tweet, FB or Pin the results.
     She's even today's most excellent Google doodle, and the subject of YouTube hit "Julia Child Remixed," as seen below:

   
     Meanwhile, I remain dreadfully embarrassed that I own not a page out of Julia's vast body of work. I've never even attempted one of her recipes. *shakes fist at self* What kind of cook am I?
     Honestly, French cuisine has never been a big blip on my food radar. I'm more into Italian or Mexican these days, with a smattering of Asian here and there, dotted in between big, juicy steaks. Of course, I remember seeing Julia's shows and her big, bold personality in passing throughout my childhood. In the pre-cable days of the long ago, PBS was one of only a handful of channels we could pick up via the old antenna. But Saint Joan, who admittedly never has been a particularly adventurous cook — though her pot roast is still enough to render her born-again foodie daughter incoherent, it's so good — never was a regular viewer.
     Still, it's impossible to deny Julia's impact on the culinary landscape.
     I may not have gravitated toward her cookbooks, but I fully understand that without her, there would be no Food Network. She created the industry of the celebrity chef. She singlehandedly ushered in an era of good, fun food to home kitchens that were dominated by dry chickens, canned vegetables, TV dinners and Tang.
     As someone who has evolved from the stolidly Pennsylvania Dutch cooking of her childhood to a woman left squee-ing after eyes-roll-back-in-your-head-good meals in the restaurants of Emeril Lagasse and Mario Batali, I have the utmost respect for Julia, whether her food was on the table or not. (As an aside, come hell or high water, one of these days I'm going to dine at Alex Guarnaschelli's Butter and Michael Symon's Lola, too.)
     I think, though, that in honor of this great food heroine's day, I really need to attempt one of her recipes. I do love French onion soup — Supportive Partner Man (big damn cook in his own right!), not so much ... meh, more for me — and naturally there's a Julia recipe for it. I have all the fixings, so I'll give it a go later. I also have a brisket in the freezer, which may also turn into a Julia attempt. We'll see how the soup goes.
     Naturally, I'll report back later.
     In the meantime, if you love food, go raise a glass of wine in Julia's honor. Watch "Julie & Julia" or maybe find an episode of one of Julia's shows on PBS or YouTube. Cook something.
     Oh, and definitely watch the hysterical 1978 Saturday Night Live sketch with Dan Aykroyd as Julia: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x7tnc9_the-french-chef_fun. It's a classic, one that Julia herself reportedly loved.
     And ... bon appétit!

BlogHer: Postmortem '12

     A week and a day have gone by since the whirl of gaiety that was my inaugural BlogHer outing.
     I confess to being slightly disappointed. Not by any of the myriad reasons other folks have been posting on Teh Intertubez the past several days (too crowded, too whiny, too dissed ...), either. No, I was saddened because I thought this was supposed to be a party happening ... and no one thought to break a champagne bottle over my noggin and call it a christening. Oh well, I guess no one wanted to risk arrest.
     There's always next year.
     So, yes ... more than a week has evaporated, and I haven't published a single, sodding word to this space. I have no excuse other than being sucked headlong back into the vortex of my regular night gig. Instead of writing, I've edited a host of copy about rail-trails and sewer bills ... oh, and some super genius who hijacked a pickup, crashed it, then swiped a tractor-trailer, crashed it and got shot at all while leading a bunch of PA staties on a 100-mph chase down the turnpike. You know, normal, every-day stuff.
     Honestly, I began writing this post a couple of times only to find myself blocked. Still processing, I guess. All the while, I've been reading a host of other wrapups and recaps, some positive, some negative.
     Perhaps I'm just not trying hard enough, but I can't summon up any rage to speak of.
     In fact, I had a pretty damned good time. I got to kick around New York for a bit, visit a great Lego store and attend a Disney movie screening and reception. What's not to like?

The Manhattan skyline at dusk, during
a rooftop reception after a Disney event.

Rockefeller Center ... in Lego.

 
     To be certain, there were hiccups. It was a conference with several thousand women milling about. Of course there were megalines for the ladies room and fighting over "swag." Have these people never shopped in an outlet store on Black Friday? You've not lived until you've witnessed a couple of grannies come to blows over an ugly purse at 3 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving. OK, some of the swag was a little overrated, and if you haul around too much of it, you'll still have a crick in your neck several days later. But I can't complain. I got some useful stuff. Who am I to argue with free vitamins or vibrators? (Yes, you just read that correctly ... but, like many things, it's a whole other story.)
     And lines? Please. I'm a Disney-holic. Don't talk to me about waiting in lines. Pikers.
     Would I have liked to have made a few more personal connections? Sure. But, like every Disney addict will tell you, there's always the next trip. And I very much liked the new people I was fortunate enough to be introduced to. Many were Whovians, because, after all, we geeks do tend to naturally gravitate toward each other.
     Ultimately, despite some newbie fits and spurts, I was able to accomplish what I set out to do ... learn useful stuff and leave feeling inspired to do more.

The More You Nerd...

     As an added bonus, I got to team up for the weekend with my very dear friend April. Best move I could have possibly made. We got to split the cost of a room and hang out, which we seldom get to do, me being in Pennsylvania and she being in Connecticut. We also were able to cover a broader selection of conference sessions. In the long run I think that will be a real boon for the Disney-themed website she owns, I edit and for which both of us and several others write: Enjoying the Magic.
     Oh, and to top everything, I got to see an "Ace of Cakes" culinary sculpture live and in person at an annual shindig called "Sparklecorn." It was, appropriately, a giant silver unicorn with a Zachary Levi/Nathan Fillion-approved "The More You Nerd"-style logo on a fin erupting from its back. It was a thing of beauty.
     What more could anyone want?

No pain, no ... well, you know

     I am sore.
     And it's likely to get worse, entirely of my own volition. That's not a bad thing.
     Come hell or high water ... and given the storms in Lancaster County tonight, the latter is entirely possible ... I will be hauling my tubby self back to the gym in the morning to lift more weights.
     I started back at the gym right about a month ago, spurred by the enthusiasm of Supportive Partner Man (toning up and slimming down!) and his truly epic War on Fat. I'm happy to report that I am still on the road to wellness. Up until now, however, it's been an exclusively cardio road.
     To try and get my cholesterol-saturated ticker and its accessories used to the idea of pumping blood again instead of melted butter, and so my joints wouldn't die of the shock, I stuck to the elliptical the first two weeks. Then I added the shiny new treadmills to my rotation. Just my second time on that, I forced myself into my own little HARC Death March ... a 5K at a 5.0 percent incline. It took me an inglorious hour. But I did it. The next morning, my Achilles' tendons felt like they were on fire. I could barely walk down the stairs.
     You could say I overdid it a bit. Earned me a minor scolding from Rachel, our awesome nurse practitioner. But I got back on the horse, er, machine, and started conditioning myself. Two more weeks down the road, my Achilles' don't feel like they're going to rip away, and I miss the cardio if I don't do it. I'm feeling much better, physically.
     So I've upped the ante again.
     On Monday, I had a 10 a.m. meeting with Dave, one of HARC's resident fitness instructors. At 67, he's more than enviably fit, leg-pressing 415 and hitting 125 on the abdominal crunch machine of doom. His challenge was to take me through all the Cybex weight machines and help me find proper form and correct settings.
     I only did one full set on each machine, but that apparently was enough to make a dent. I woke up Tuesday morning feeling quite achy. Given my intent to hit it harder today ... and throw in some cardio ... Thursday could be a big-time ibuprofin day. But again, that's not a bad thing.
     Maybe by the end of August, I'll be up for the next change in routine. Dave heartily suggested I try a group class in Bodypump or Bodyflow. That'll be a caution. I have long lived in fear of group exercise classes, as I am alarmingly uncoordinated. I've always been afraid of falling smack on my face in such a scenario and making a complete fool of myself. I know several people who do group classes and love them. My friend Cindy, for example, is the Zumba queen. Lori is a spin class fan who also has described herself as a "Pilates evangelist." And John is actually in training to become a yoga instructor. These friends often speak glowingly of their disciplines' benefits. I believe all of them. Meanwhile, part of me wants to try Bodyflow, described in the playbook as:

 "A yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates workout that builds flexibility and strength, leaving you feeling centered and calm. Controlled breathing, concentration and a carefully structured series of stretches, moves and poses create a holistic workout that brings the body into a state of harmony and balance."

     But I'm still petrified of publicly choreographed exercise.
     I wonder if there's an official name for that. Jazzerciseaphobia, maybe? Or, the unnatural fear of Richard Simmons ... Simmophobia?
     In the meantime, I'll just be over here in the weight room, picking things up and putting them down.

Calling all geeks

 "You will look gorgeous whatever you choose to wear, dear. I only ask that if there's tech swag to be had, score as much as possible."

     So wrote Supportive Partner Man (denizen of the Nerd Lair!) in a comment at the end of my previous post about BlogHer '12.
     I've been told that the companies represented at this weekend's event hand out metric tons of stuff to the many conventioneers. And some people, apparently, get into, um, collecting. Some veterans will warn you to be wary and watch you don't get into a fistfight over the heaping helpings of swag. Others say it's not a big deal.
   I don't know. I'd be happy just to pick up some nice pens. I'm always losing them.
   But I've been charged by my dear one to snag some flash drives if they're handy. Oh, and, for the love of all that's holy, be sure to submit my name if anyone's doing a drawing for iPads or cool software/games.
     Because we geek in so many ways at Chez T.
     Tech. Books. Video games. Legos. Sci-fi. Disney. And, of course, anywhere that these areas may cross over. For example, the 30th anniversary of Epcot — where tech and Disney get together and party — is coming up in October. SPM (Imagineer groupie!) is beyond stoked that we'll be in WDW for that event.
     We're always looking for ways to further fortify our geek-fu dojo. Our basement family room is, in fact, the Nerd Lair. I can't take any credit for the moniker. Another blogger I've read for a long while, Lori Summers, coined the term for a room in her house, and it just stuck with us because it's so bloody appropriate. It's packed to the rafters with Penn State memorabilia, movies, CDs, giant Lego Star Wars models, scads of wired, blinking electronic devices and a fully-stocked bar.
     But whether I come home with anything more than what I left with or not, I was made to stop fretting about shoes and feel much better about my potential BH social experience last night. I found out that my buddy April and I will not be the only Whovians in the house.
     We've stumbled upon a fellow conventioneer who is the co-author of "Goodnight, Pond." This upcoming book, based on the classic "Goodnight, Moon," is being done as a parody of the British sci-fi classic "Doctor Who." I can't wait to meet her ... and read it. I also am seriously looking forward to meeting some new people with similar frames of reference.
     Besides the aforementioned co-author, a few more geek-adjacent personnel have popped out of the BlogHer woodwork as well. We even briefly discussed making an attempt to hit the Who-themed bar in Brooklyn, The Way Station, to watch the first in a four-pack of BBC America Doctor Who specials. However, that was just a bit too much to try and squeeze into what's shaping up to be a jam-packed couple of days. (So the DVR is set to snag, bag and tag the Who-y goodness so I may watch when I get home. Which reminds me, I also must catch up on Warehouse 13 and Breaking Bad. But that's a whole other post.)
      Instead, I think we'll likely settle for catching up at a breakfast and speculating on the upcoming season, the impending new companion and the utter badassery of the weeping angels.
     Works for me. Speak geek, will travel.
     Now, if I can just find a sponsor who's handing out sonic screwdrivers...
   

Playing dress-up

     The impending trip to BlogHer '12 has me facing a challenge I seldom like to stare down: my closet.
     However, the pre-BH Facebook group of which I am a member features seemingly countless threads pertaining to what I will be wearing, on both my tubby person and my wide, but otherwise undistinguished feet. The photos of the 12 pairs of shoes, 16 sparkly tops and 10 stylish dresses some conventioneers are toting along have me hyperventilating. That's primarily because, in terms of what I wear, I long ago decided to agree with a concept brought forth by the late, great Gilda Radner:

"I base my fashion sense on what doesn't itch."

     I am the anti-fashionista.
     I dress well only when I absolutely must. Weddings, funerals, job interviews, weeknights in the office. Otherwise it's jeans/shorts, flip-flops/sneakers and T-shirts. The only thing remotely girly about me is my enjoyment of a well-timed spa service. (Someone remind me to write about the joys of Hershey's Chocolate Spaaaaaaah sometime, OK?)
     However, at BH, there is are dressy-dressy parties out the wazoo, including a party called "Sparklecorn." Folks are going all out about being as spangly-dangly as possible for it. I do not sparkle. Not on a plane or a train, neither with a fox nor in a box, to go all Dr. Seuss on you. Nope, I do not sparkle here or there; I do not sparkle anywhere.
     I can see why some might want to at least do the business casual thing at the conference itself. There will be an expo floor to mix, mingle and do the sponsorship mating dance with representatives of more than 115 brands from Canon to Land O' Lakes to Logitech.    
     But I want to travel light: a tote bag with a toothbrush, a change of clothes and my iPad. It's New York City in August, and I am going primarily to attend sessions that I hope will give my aging brain a booster shot of enthusiasm and a some much-needed instruction in new media. I just want to get a podcasting tutorial and a better grasp of SEO. Can't I just wear shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt and lurk in comfort?
     I have the better part of four days to decide.

Adaptation

     Apparently, when I take on a new challenge, I don't start small.
     I classify myself as a vintage — OK, old — journalist. No, I'm not old enough to have worked with typewriters or hot type. When I began, though, we were still working with AP Leafdesks, photo wheels, paste-up boards, waxers and Exacto knives. We had no Internet. Gasp! No Google! Cellphones were huge, antennaed luxury items. Filing stories remotely involved phone couplers and "Trash-80s" or, more often than not for this reporter, writing a story longhand, then standing outside at a pay phone and dictating it in the dark, rain, snow or iron-forge heat.
    But, unlike some colleagues I have had over the years, I do not harbor a fear dread loathing ... an outright terror of advancing technology. If my abrupt, shocking entry into the world of pagination taught me nothing else, it was that things in my industry can change at the drop of a hat, and it's best to just keep learning.
     To elaborate, in 1995, I was working at The Trentonian (yes, the one with the ridiculous tabloid-y news heds and Page Six girls ... don't judge, I was in sports, the legitimate portion of the operation). One day, a bunch of humorless men from JRC corporate swooped into the newsroom for a few minutes and said, "You're live on a new system tonight. It's called 'Quark XPress.' Paginate, or you're fired."
     Then they swooped right back out the door. That was the extent of our official training.
     Luckily, we had one guy, a recent college grad, who had used Quark in a journ lab. He knew enough to get us through that night. After we miraculously produced a section, we went to the bar and had a couple of bracers. Then we went back to the office, where Joe's Quark Night School came to order. For several weeks, we repeated the process every night until another guy and I had learned enough to do it ourselves.
     Of course, that's about normal for me. I've never taken a journalism course of any kind. I was an English major. But, 23 years after writing my first bylined article, nine stops (one of them twice) on the newspaper food chain, two layoffs and a handful of freelance gigs, I'm still standing. I'm not at ESPN or the New York Times or other major metropolitan news outlets like some of my college friends, but I'm still slugging it out in my chosen field 20 years after graduation.
     Why? Because it's adapt or watch the career you can't be you without wither and die.
     Which brings us to the next twist in the road.
     Everyone says newspapers are dying. While I'm hoping that ultimately won't be the case — I mean, come on, where else are you getting information on the day-to-day machinations of your small community? — I realize that there are avenues I should take for self-enrichment and future considerations.
     That's why I started writing this blog. It's not journalism. It's my opinion on a variety of topics. I began not necessarily to gain a following, but to try to get myself in the habit of writing regularly again, and to get a handle on the technology of a blogging platform, because the information industry is growing in this direction.
     But the more I've worked with this blog, the more I've realized it's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. There's a teeming Internet society based on commercial blogging efforts. What's more, there are all sorts of conferences for bloggers held on a regular basis all over the country, offering a wide variety of classes/seminars and extensive opportunities for networking.
     In fact, I'm going to one very soon.
     It's not just any conference, either. It's "BlogHer" — the biggest one run. You've seen one of their icons over to the left here for a few weeks now.
     As I said, I apparently don't start small. I'm throwing myself into the deep end here. From what I've been told, there will be between 4,000 and 4,500 bloggers at this gathering, to be held in New York City the first weekend in August. Katie Couric will be a speaker, as will Martha Stewart.
     I was introduced to the conference by my good friend April, with whom I'll be rooming. I've been following along on Twitter, and have been inducted into a couple of Facebook groups of attendees. The planning and hyping online is reaching a fever pitch, and quite frankly I'm feeling a tad overwhelmed. I get the distinct feeling most of the women who are coming (I'm told there will be a few guys there, too) are seasoned pros at this whole blogging-attracting-sponsors-networking thing, and that I'll be at a disadvantage.
     The writing and editing part I'd like to think I'm solid on. It's the business angle on which I'm flying blind, and that's my goal for this whole conference. I have a distinct business idea for future exploration percolating in my mind and on my computer, but I know I need to acquire some additional technical skills and a foundation in marketing for my plan to take root and flourish. That's something the newsroom has never taught me.
     So, here I am again.
     Time to start learning something new.
     Time to take a deep breath and leap.

Moving ahead from a blue-and-white scandal

     This may disappoint some people, and possibly outrage others, but I won’t be traveling to the Old Main Lawn to torch my diploma from Penn State.

     I worked too bloody hard for it.

     For months now, I’ve held my tongue as the hits kept on coming: The initial Jerry Sandusky bombshell. Joe Paterno’s ouster and subsequent death from lung cancer. Sandusky’s trial and conviction. And now the Freeh Report.

     All the while, there's seemed to be a rousing game of dogpile on the rabbit going on, complete with snide comments and dirty looks any time I've worn an article of State-themed clothing.

     But I’m not about to change who I am.

     Because I am Penn State.

     We’re not all child molesters.

     We’re not all cover-up artists.

     And we’re certainly not all apologists.

     Yep, some downright disgusting things happened to kids, things that shouldn’t happen anywhere. Yet they do happen. All too often and in far too many places.

     There were shenanigans at the top of an institutional food chain in a misguided attempt to sweep wrongdoing under the rug. That, too, shouldn’t happen anywhere. Yet it does, again all too often.

     Then again, in a nation where the national pasttime is trending toward butt-covering and buck-passing instead of baseball, this shouldn’t surprise anyone.

     When crimes this heinous occur within a high-profile institution, though, all the wolves come out, baying for extra rations of blood.

     We hear people with no connections to the case opine about how they would have handled the situation. They would have swooped in to save the day. They would have shot Jerry Sandusky right between the eyes. They wouldn’t have let anyone get away with anything.

     I won’t disagree that sort of — stoppage — would have been welcome.

     It is, however, unrealistic ... illegal, even.

     I feel horrible that any of this happened at my school, under the watch of people I respected. You just don’t do that sort of thing to defenseless younglings. It’s beyond the pale.

     But justice, despite its unconcionably long delay, has been served. Jerry Sandusky is behind bars, and is no longer a threat to children. 

     How about JoePa? He was no saint. He did many wonderful things for the university community. But he ruled the Nittany Kingdom with a hand that was beyond firm. He committed the sin of pride on an epic scale. Ultimately, it was his undoing. And now? The man's dead. He can't do anything more to help or hinder anyone.

     The others at the helm of this shameful episode have been kicked off the ship. Let the courts take care of them.

     It's a brand new day at Penn State. New university president. Some new trustees. New football staff. New sense of transparency. And, every semester, without fail, throngs of new students with no connection whatsoever to events past.

     So leave off shaking your fists in impotent rage and let the rest of us get to work for tomorrow. We quite fully comprehend the wrongs that have been done here, thanks. They make us just as sick as they make you. But you know what? Just because we're not willing to sever our ties to a place that was instrumental in forming who we are today doesn't make us criminals by association.

     Kindly quit confusing this horrible episode with the thousands upon thousands of good, hardworking, intelligent people upon whom Penn State has been bestowing degrees since 1855. 

     Turning your anger on us doesn't stop child abuse from happening. Not at Penn State, not in the Catholic church (or any church, for that matter), not in the Boy Scouts of America and not at your local elementary/middle/high school. Not even in the house across the street, where the cops just led your kindly, bespectacled, sweater-vested neighbor out in handcuffs after learning he possessed the biggest stash of kiddie porn in county history.

     Full disclosure: I interviewed Jerry Sandusky one-on-one once, way back in the early 1990s. I was covering a golf tournament benefitting his Second Mile charity. We chatted for a long while. He was kind, polite, funny. He spoke earnestly about providing help for kids who needed it. 

     He was not wearing a badge that said, "I do unspeakable things to kids."

     I doubt any molester does.

     I'd wager that we all come in contact with these people, and are just as in the dark as I was that bright, sunny day in at the golf course.

     It seems to me that all we can do as human beings is try and be aware of our surroundings. If we see something that's suspect, we should do our best to try and bring the truth of the matter to light. Continuing to harp on a case that's resolved doesn't help those who were victimized. All we can do is learn from wrongs and missteps, extend our hands to the victims in support, and then try and work together to head other potential tragedies off at the pass.

     So, no more outrage, please. No more recriminations. No more finger-pointing. It's counterproductive, and the time for it has passed. It's a brand new day.

     I'm extending my hand. Let's move forward together, shall we?

Steam heat and American Stick Insects

     So much for that twofer post ... is that really a week ago? Gee, time flies.

     No, I didn't get trapped under a pile of falling stuff last Friday. Literally, anyway. Figuratively? I always get trapped under a pile of falling stuff. I'm not quite sure how my attention always seems to get diverted by something else (my Disney fan friends are now shouting "squirrel!" in unison, I think), but I am prone to being easily sidetracked.

     So, let's see. What's been going on at Chez T since last I checked in?

     Our traditional family yard sale has been postponed — it was scheduled for tomorrow morning — because it's going to be ridiculously, disgustingly hot and humid. As The Lovely Cousin Jody explained it, it was for the best to postpone because: A, we didn't think it wise to make some of our older family members have to come out in the heat; and, B, the thought of haggling with the masses while overheated and drenched with sweat might lead to some, shall we say, unwelcome fits of temper ... or perhaps spontaneous combustion.

     The part of me that enjoys hanging out with some of my favorite family members is disappointed, but the part of me that enjoys air conditioning is quite pleased.

     And anyway, we'll still be having it, just on a (hopefully cooler) Saturday to be named later.

     Hmm, what else?

     In the ongoing gym-based serial "Tales of Brave Supportive Partner Man (he picks things up and puts them down!)," SPM has been chugging right along. He made his first visit to a support group last night, and his friendly neighborhood exercise physiologists, Ryan and Cory, apparently are happy with his progress in the gym. They have increased his weights and time on the cardio equipment. He's been coming home drenched and achy, but rightfully feeling quite good about himself. 

     As an extra bonus, he even went to the regular gym today for the first time in about two years. Although I am but the B-plot in this story — I'm shooting to earn an Emmy award for comic relief — I am happy to say that I got out of bed and accompanied him. I tried a different program on the elliptical today, which was going quite well until the machine told me to pedal backwards. I managed to do it without falling on my head, so, score. Lasted nearly five minutes going that way, too. But my quads are killing me.   

     The interesting part of going to the gym is the other people. There are a few who are built like we are, but most of them fall into three categories: fit, fitter and American Stick Insect. The last of which I remain intimidated by. There was one woman on the step machine today with eye-popping washboard abs and what looked to be 0.17 percent body fat. I know this because she was ruthlessly owning the machine while wearing only her spandex shorts and her sports bra. Seriously, you could liposuction me to within an inch of my life, then lock me in the gym for a month with only granola, water and the arc trainer to sustain me and I doubt I could be that thin. I know there are many of these people who are very nice. However, I've had issues with a few who have given me the stinkeye as I've loaded my tubby butt onto the elliptical, hinting that I had no right to be breathing their air.

     Makes me want to force-feed them a donut or six.

     SPM says he refuses to be intimidated by these people any longer, and he's going to go to the gym whether he feels wanted or not. He's just reported he's lost another belt notch, so I guess he's the one with the most correct outlook. 

Lifestyles of the flossing- and cleaning-challenged

     I'm still intact.
     I survived 30 minutes on the elliptical, at a fairly good clip. And I actually feel pretty good today. Guess that means I'll keep going back. Just not today. Today's challenges are a bit different in nature, though I'll likely get my heart rate up with the latter.
     The first is already in the books: Supportive Partner Man (out bringing home the bacon! ... mmm, bacon...) and I visited the dentist this morning. He has a cavity. I have two ... plus two childhood fillings that have given up the ghost and need to be drilled out and replaced. So we'll both be back in the chair of Dr. Kingston (who looks like he's all of 12) next month for fun with drills, novocaine and amalgam. Yippee, I say unto you. Yip-frakking-pee.
      Honestly, it's not as bad as all that. My lifetime dental experiences haven't been terrible. I'm not petrified to go get it taken care of, as many people are. I was, as usual, chastised for my aversion to flossing, but beyond that it was all cool. And I even was handed — tweeted, really — a laugh as I was waiting this morning. I tweeted that I was cooling my heels, waiting for my appointment. My friend Glenn decided to send some encouragement via YouTube: Mr. Steve Martin. Yes, I speak of  his turn in "Little Shop of Horrors."
     Snicker.
     Post-dentist, I've progressed to laundry and plant-watering. Then there's that which I'm putting off as I type this entry: Cleaning the kitchen and the living room.
     Domestic goddess, I ain't. It looks like a bomb went off down here, killing dust bunnies willy-nilly and scattering pots, pans, dishes, foodstuffs and plastic bags to the four winds. I'm not sure where I'm going with all of it, but I need to at least make an effort to put things to rights.
     It's reached I-can't-take-it-anymore critical mass.
     And I suppose it's not going to get done as I sit here typing.
     To the vacuum and Mr. Clean it is. If I don't check back in soon, please send someone to see if I'm trapped under a pile of debris.

A long, hard look

     Playing the role of Supportive Partner Woman (lover of cinnamon-y donuts!) is something at which I very much want to be successful. I've written about it here before. But, as I am discovering, it's not the easiest project I've ever attacked.
     My dear SPM (walker of increasing increments!) is seriously into his weight loss process, as he needs to be. But I'm really beginning to grasp why spouses are so readily welcomed at all the appointments and the support group sessions. We need all the help we can get, too.
     Monday morning SPM had appointments with Ryan, the exercise physiologist, and Shauna, the dietician. Naturally, I went along. Everyone's thrilled with SPM's progress so far. He's down 12 pounds (they told him he needed to lose 10 before the surgery ... the surgery's still at least four months off) and has majorly improved his eating habits all on his own. They expect him to really take off now that he's going to start adding supervised, instructed exercise to his repertoire.
     But as they were asking him questions about diet and exercise and lifestyle, it really and truly hit home how much my own lifestyle must change as well.
     Like, completely.
     It dawned upon me that, gee, I really have to do this. The time for fooling around with the weight and the health has struck the witching hour.
     As SPM's shadow begins shrinking, there is nowhere else for me to hide. And, I can't lie ... that scares me.
     See, I've always been able to talk a great game. I'm fantastic about being an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, the friend who focuses on the other person to help solve their problems. But that's my game. I live to find projects, distractions. If I help you, I don't have to look at my own mess, which can be downright depressing. So, out of sight, out of mind.
     But now I can't do it anymore. Because realistically, not only is SPM's health at stake here, so's my own. Through SPM, I've been able to get a long, up-close look at some of what may await me if I keep going down the path I've been on. Sleep apnea or diabetes, perhaps. Throw in my own family history of high cholesterol and cardiac/vascular events, and I'm totally screwed.
    Talk about a deadline hanging over your head. A real, literal deadline.
    So, yeah. It's time to woman up.
    And guess what? SPM is hitting the bariatrics office's in-house gym at 10 a.m. At the same time, I'm planning to step foot into our local rec center for the first time in almost two years.
     I've already started to sweat.
   

Detour or scenic route?

"The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley."
~ Robert Burns, "To a Mouse," 1785

      Behold, a succinct description of one of my life's big traps. If you're not completely into the flow of late-18th century Scottish poetry, consider its mid-20th century interpretation by the wondrous John Steinbeck: "The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry." There's also an old Yiddish proverb that's always struck me as quite similar: "Man plans, God laughs."
     Though I'm not sold on deities of any stripe, I appreciate the sentiment.
     Because no matter how many to-do lists you scribble, how many reminders you type into Google Calendar, no matter how many promises you make to yourself that this time, come hell or high water, Project X is going to get done in a timely fashion ... well, you know.
     Life tends to happen. And I, like most others, freak out about it unnecessarily.
     Take this whole blogging thing. I've begun writing and rewriting this post about four times this week. Life and work keep interrupting my flow, and I'm many days behind where I want to be.
     Then there's the little experiment sitting in my kitchen right now. We're having a family party Saturday afternoon — this afternoon, now — and I was asked to contribute a sugar-free cake alternative as an option for a few diabetics who will be in attendance. I've done a sugar-free Boston Creme cake before to good reviews. I figured I'd try to do them in a cupcake form for ease of packaging/transport this time. Well, the cake turned out fine, but I had the brainwave to freeze the pudding, thinking it might be easier to initially cut and deposit into the little cakey cubbyholes. Except, I froze it quite too solid. Smooth move, Laura. *facepalm* ... Really, it seemed logical at the time.
     So here I sit, having a little extra time to get back to this post while the pudding thaws to a cuttable consistency. And we have to be where we're going in ... oh ... four and a half hours.
     *facepalm, facepalm, facepalm*
     You're laughing at me again, aren't you?

   

DIY pudding pops?

Voila! Boston Creme...

     Oddly, though, it appears to have turned out OK. The thawing didn't actually take forever. The parts all seem edible. The whole looks good, and the assembled cakes are now chilling in the refrigerator until we leave. Hopefully they'll taste good. And if they don't, c'est la vie. There will be enough other food to feed a platoon of hungry Marines.
     There's a lesson here. One that doesn't have to do with handy-dandy sugar-free cupcakes.
     It's that letting go of your stressors and letting chance take the reins is not a bad thing. Because, in the end, if you relax and let a situation unspool, a solution usually will present itself.
     Notice I did not say "the correct solution." Because "correct" is in the eye of the beholder.
     Let's face it, life is totally random. Problem is, we silly humans like to think we absolutely NEED to have crib notes for all occasions. We tend to fear that which we do not understand. A kink in a recipe? Gasp! A new direction to drive? Augh! A new person to meet? The horror! So many of us fall victim to the same trap of fear over and over again. We wring our hands and look for a way back to our comfort zones. Maybe, we think, if we study hard enough, or wish hard enough, or plot and plan and snap ourselves to death, we'll see a solution.
     What we forget is that it's all right not to know everything, and that sometimes no solution is the solution. We forget that life just IS. We don't have to explain it, we don't have to worry about what happens next. All we need to do is make a concerted effort to take a look around and appreciate the beauty of the now of our lives and just go with it.
     We need to learn how to let go of that breath we've been holding while waiting for the other shoe to drop; especially when it may never have been on someone's foot in the first place. Chance and change are there to enjoy, not fear.
     Perhaps, instead of Robert Burns or John Steinbeck, we — I —should consider another fount of wisdom: Dr. Sidney Freedman.
     OK, I know he's fictional. (For those who don't know Sidney, he was a recurring character — a psychiatrist — on M*A*S*H, one of my favorite TV shows.) But his final piece of dialogue in the series' last episode is an appropriate thought to leave you with this morning:

    "You know, I told you people something a long time ago, and it's just as pertinent today as it was then. Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice — pull down your pants and slide on the ice."

Renewing the Battle of the Bulge

     As an Oversized American, I've never been too fond of going for regular doctor visits.
     Dentist, eye doc, those I can handle ... they don't force me onto a scale. "Woman's doctor" and GP? I'd almost rather be made to sit and listen, for hours on end, to rich politicians or fire-and-brimstoney preachers endlessly yammering about how they know what's best for me and the rest of the unwashed masses. Almost.
     Today, however, I had a most unusual experience: a GP visit I actually found somewhat pleasant and definitely worth the price of admission.
     Given the ongoing medical treatment of Supportive Partner Man (pursuer of a healthier lifestyle!), I, in an effort to be more supportive of him for a change, have made the choice to improve my own overall health and welfare. Keep in mind that I have been running about three years past the expiration date in the checkup department. My primary doc of record was still based in our old home of Reading. SPM, meanwhile, recently has fallen in with a new caregiver at his "primary physician's" sprawling Lancaster practice. Upon meeting her — Rachel Ho, nurse practitioner — for the first time last month, I made an appointment of my own.
     With that appointment behind me, I can say with certainty that she's pretty damned cool, very knowledgeable and, most importantly, will not hesitate to boot me up the arse as I need it.
     "They call me 'The Dictator,' " she said with a quirked eyebrow and a lazy grin.
     No, this one's not going to take me being lazy about my health. I get the distinct feeling that she's going to challenge me, go drill sergeant on me, explain things in depth and actually get involved with my care past a cursory glance at my record and check of my blood pressure.
     As an aside, I'm happy to report that my BP was 104/64. I was floored. Both The Old Man and Saint Joan sailed off into Hypertensionland in their mid-40s, so I am a bit nervous about potentially going the same route, especially given my love of super-salty foodstuffs. So far, so good, though.
     But my challenge is my weight. I know ... shocking, right?
     Still, it can be very sobering to hear a medical professional, no matter how awesomely snarky, tell you that you could stand to lose somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 pounds. In all honesty, I could be a candidate for the bariatric surgery SPM is considering. Sobering, indeed. She wants me to fall in line with the diet and lifestyle changes made by SPM in the last month, with which she was most pleased. His blood sugar numbers are trending down, as is his weight. I'm very, very proud  of him; but like the blogging, where he's also ahead of me, I need to catch up.
     My next official appointment is in mid-Septemeber, though I'll get to see Rachel for a monthly side dish of motivation at Brian's regular appointments with her. My "official" bloodwork — the tale of the tape on my other official problem, high cholesterol — is due at that time. That gives me three months to show I'm making some progress. And in the meantime, I've booked my yearly trip to the woman's doctor, scheduled a mammogram and made a dentist appointment. The eye doctor will probably show up in the rotation later this summer, too.
      I really should seek out a local specialist for my arthritic lower back, while I'm at it. I do have a recommendation for one. Perhaps in the fall, depending on how I'm doing in the Rachel Challenge.
     I must leave you today with something I found in my Twitter feed this morning that I thought was both amusing and appropriate. From the fine folks at Retronaut, it definitely made me laugh:

   
     Wonder if I can find a set of these on eBay?

A Father's Day toast to The Old Man

     I remember lots of little, ordinary things from a little, ordinary childhood.
     I can recall being small enough to ride on The Old Man's shoulders; an amazing thing, given my current size. I'd put my chin on the top of his head and giggle with the vibration of each step he took. Or maybe it was just that his crewcut tickled.
     Speaking of which, I remember how I would take two combs, hold them scissor-like and pretend to give him a trim. Particularly those oh-so-hip 1970s sideburns. He'd just sit there and be patient, perhaps thankful that unlike stereotypical little girls, I didn't make him sit down to tea parties with my dolls.
     No, I was the kid who preferred her Lone Ranger and Tonto or Six Million Dollar Man and Bionic Woman or Charlie's Angels action figures to Barbie dolls. I was the kid who ripped her knee open barreling full-tilt into a cinderblock retaining wall on her Big Wheel. I was the kid who played in the bar at the Club while The Old Man, Saint Joan and their friends had cocktails every Wednesday night in the summertime after shuffleboard.

No "Daddy's Little Girl" or "Butterfly Kisses" here, thanks.
The Old Man and Daughter No. 2 take a spin to the
Ella Fitzgerald version of "Laura."
It was at this point he looked at me, grinned, and said,
"I never thought we'd get rid of you." Gee, thanks, Dad.

     I have one sibling, my sister Linda. The Old Man took her to see James Bond movies when she was a kid, and continued the father-daughter movie date tradition with me. We had 007, too, but we started out with Star Wars and Indiana Jones. Yes, I'm a geek. He's responsible.
     Then, of, course, there's the basketball thing.
     Linda went to Villanova. Villanova = Big East-y goodness. As far back as I can remember, The Old Man — a hoops guy since high school under the supervision of legendary Berks County coach John Silan (mention his name in our house, and a choir of angels shows up, melodically intoning "C-ohohohohohohoh-ch" as The Old Man gets a reverent glow in his eyes) — would look at me and say, "We're going to root for the Wildcats, right?" I'd agree as enthusiastically as any little girl who thinks her daddy hung the moon could.
     I learned to love the sport. Through the years, The Old Man and I took in a seemingly infinite number of games together, on TV and in person. We've cheered at the Palestra, the Pavilion, the old Spectrum; blowout wins, blowout losses and triple-OT screamers against Syracuse and Georgetown. I'm not sure who thought it was cooler the first time I got to cover a Division I men's game at Madison Square Garden, him or me.
     The Old Man is the one who taught me how to drive, how to mix a good drink, how to prepare for a job interview. And who, together with Saint Joan, taught me how to be a strong human being with a mind of her own who's nobody's sheep.
     Once, while I was having a fight with Mr. Wrong (everybody has one; I'm not immune), he, assailing my perceived femininity and blasting me for being "contrary," spat at me, "God, your father must have really wanted a son." (Because only those possessed of dangly bits may have their own opinions, I guess.)
     You know, I don't think he could have been more wrong.
     The Old Man, I figure, was just ahead of his time. He never insisted that I hate Barbies, eschew tea parties or prefer jeans to taffeta and lace. Basketball? Well, maybe he nudged that one. But, plain and simple, The Old Man is supportive. Hugely supportive, in fact. (Something Mr. Wrong hadn't the first frakking clue about.) He just loves all his girls. Without question. Wherever my interests, my sister's interests, my niece's interests have taken us, The Old Man and Saint Joan — it may be Father's Day, but I can hardly forget my mother's sizable contributions to the strength of our family, now can I? — are often the head cheerleaders, even if they don't always understand where we're going with something. If it's important to us, it's important to them. That's just how it is.
     Respectively, we are a journalist, a nurse and a fledgling architect. The parentals certainly have done something right.
     So on this day that is carved out on the calendar to honor fathers, I'm more than happy to raise a glass to mine (and Mom, too!). Even if it brings to mind the picnic when I, then about 10, confused in which hand I held whose cup and accidentally took a healthy swig of my father's OFC and club soda as opposed to my ginger ale. Took me a long, long time to appreciate whiskey after that.
      Yep, be mindful of your beverage. Just another valuable life lesson gleaned from The Old Man.

Picking a direction

     Supportive Partner Man (observer of real life challenges!) is kicking my arse. Up and down the block.
     "It's not a contest," he says.
     I suppose. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm getting lapped, literally and figuratively.
     He's exercising. He's eating better. AND he's churning out blog posts left, right and center. I'm enormously proud of him. But, as the professional journalist in the family, I really need to get in the game on that last one.
     Problem is, I've been so swamped by my night job lately that this whole blogging venture has been seriously lagging. You see, I decided to go forth with the Geek Vest because it represents something that's been missing from my life: Writing about things I enjoy.
     Day in and day out, I rework other people's copy. Much of it is about school boards and sewer authorities and crime. Tonight, I had to reduce the length of a feature story by about a quarter. Had to do a lot of close work, editing with a scalpel as opposed to a meat cleaver. Contrary to popular belief, we don't just hack copy from the bottom. It still has to make sense, you know?
     In between stories, I get to design pages, some of them kind of nifty, if I do say so myself. This weekend, I'm even getting the unusual treat of sticking a couple of toes back onto my real turf, sports. I'm pinch-hitting to design the cover and centerfold of the spring All-Area special section. Sure, it's extra work, but it's comfortable extra work.
     However, I haven't put on my writer's hat in a long while, and I find I've missed speaking my mind in long form. Twitter and Facebook are all well and good, but as a dear friend of mine says, "I'm just clearing my throat at 140 characters." Of course, now that (I hope) my recent OT bender is showing signs of slowing for the summer, I think I'll be facing some decisions here at Geek Vest Central.
     Such as what this blog wants to be when it grows up.
     Much like our current battle of the bulge here at Chez T, I think that'll be a work in progress. One step I'm definitely taking, though, is to attend a conference in New York later this summer. My blogging buddy April and I are saddling up for BlogHer '12 in early August. We'll be attending all sorts of hopefully illuminating sessions on the ins and outs of running a blog as a business. Given the state of my darling newspaper industry, I think it's a smart move toward broadening my professional horizons.
    In a business caught in a tidal wave of technical changes, education is never a waste ... and neither is networking. If I can advance my private agenda of writing for enjoyment, double bonus points. Throw in a nice cocktail party? ... Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead.
     Though cocktails and the Lancaster bar culture ARE on my list of things to write about.

... And thank you for your support

     Although my mind just unsurprisingly catapulted me back to the '80s and into a Bartles & Jaymes commercial (remember them?), I do have a serious topic on the docket.
     There are big, big changes afoot at Chez T.
     Many of you are familiar with my dear one, Supportive Partner Man (wrangler of giant yard sale boxes!). There's a link to his blog off to the left, and, what the heck, I'll just give you one here, too. SPM and I both have, for the length of our adulthoods, struggled mightily with weight, he even moreso than I. Right now, though, he's doing something about it.
     I mean, really doing something about it.
     Ground down from battling several associated medical conditions, he's bravely taken his first several steps on the road to bariatric surgery. Thus, our topic ... and title ... for the day. Support.
     I haven't mentioned anything here until now because, really, this is SPM's tale to tell. But as he has become more and more committed to this course of action, and therefore more and more open about what's happening, I have found myself considering the role I will play.
     Certainly, I will be the point person of the family support group. But this will mean big ol' lifestyle changes for me, too, and that's not a bad thing. After all, I'm a card-carrying charter member of the Jolly Fat Chick Club.
     I love food. Been self-medicating with it for decades. Other branches on my family tree have had issues with the drugs and the booze, but I dance the fine line of the addiction waltz with butter, sugar and flour. The balm and comfort for my exquisite inner pain comes from anything cake-y. Wave a fresh Wegmans cinnamon friedcake or two in front of my nose and I am your minion.
     This sizable character flaw has helped construct an interesting little co-dependency between SPM and me over the years. We've become comfortable in our indulgences, so comfortable that we can quietly injure each other and not even realize we're doing it. But we really have done each other more harm than good. It's past time for it to stop, even if we're struggling with how to go about doing it.
     Consider this my public apology to him. He deserves better than that, and better than I've given him thus far.
     Now that he's breaking the die, so too must I cease to be a food zombie.
     This won't be easy. For either of us. But we're doing each other too great a disservice by keeping things the way they are. We really must learn to support each other on this new-old battlefield, because if we don't, we're doomed before we even begin. SPM has brought so much joy into my life over the last nine years ... could I do anything less than throw my unconditional love and support behind him in this endeavor? I think not.
     Thus far, I've been going to many of SPM's appointments and classes with him, and with continue to do so. So far I've learned quite a bit. It's also been sobering to see people who are smaller than me in the actual surgical program. I've resolved that I'll try and match SPM's diet and exercise steps over the next six months of prep time, and hopefully make myself a little healthier in the process.
     He's touched on the fact that there are those who give the bariatric surgical procedure a cursory glance and dismiss it as being "the easy way out." Also there are those negative souls who say, "Even if you do have it done, you might not succeed, so why would you even consider trying?"
    To quote Big Daddy Pollitt of "Cat on a Hot Tim Roof": Bull.
     There's nothing easy about this process. Not a single goddamned thing. SPM has to relearn how to cook, how to eat, how to exercise, how to live. He has to learn how to think differently about himself. He has to learn how to not fall back into the traps of his own negativity and despair ... or get sucked into the traps, however unconsciously laid, of others who can't break out of their own prisons of fear.
     Even if that person is me.
     Wish us both luck.

It's easy being green ... and pink ... and variegated ...

     Took a little road trip on Friday morning.

     I saddled up Mario the SuperHonda, picked up The Lovely Cousin Jody and set sail for the wilds of Oley, wherein lies a gardener's paradise: Glick's Greenhouse.

A sea of pansies

     A former co-worker clued me in to this leafy jewel in 2001, and I've been hooked ever since. Sure, it's out of the way, tucked quietly into the Berks County countryside, surrounded by fields and creeks and farm animals, but the scenery alone is worth the trip.
     I moved to Lancaster County — itself a heavyweight provider of  picturesque, bucolic landscapes and an abundance of farm stands — five years ago, but my love of Glick's endures. And because circumstances prevented me from visiting last season, I was even more excited to go Friday. 

     My flower beds have been fairly naked since the demise of my spring perennials, waiting for me to indulge in some dirt therapy and just plant something already. But Friday was the day I'd been waiting for — the first day of the annual half-price sale. The prices at Glick's already are very reasonable compared to many of the other flower powers in the Berks and Lancaster area, but the annual "customer appreciation" sale makes my inner tightwad want to break out and dance.
     I left the premises with what amounted to three flats of flowers and veggie plants for less than $30.

Impatient for impantiens

     I got impatiens and geraniums, lobelia and zinnia, tomatoes and cukes ... the list goes on. We wandered in and out of the various greenhouses for about an hour and a half, sizing up all the possibilities.
     I usually look for my old favorites ("They still have 'Mr. Stripey' tomatoes? Score!"), and pore over new items, all the while trying to imagine how I'll configure everything while planting. I generally have a blueprint of what goes where in my little yard — impatiens around the mini pine tree next to the front door, geraniums in my hanging baskets (which invariably turn into the birdie maternity ward) — but colors vary, as do my filler plants.
     It's all a very intricate operation.
     Meanwhile, my trusty sidekick was bowled over. She's recently moved back home after many, many moons on Long Island, and somehow had never been to the Big G before.

     As she shook her head, bemoaning having gone to Lowe's first this season, I got the feeling that this would take a regular spot in her vegetation rotation. And as we left, she was already plotting next year's plan of attack, which shall be two-pronged.

     I agreed wholeheartedly, because, although I left loaded down with green goodness and very pleased, I struck out on my two favorite plants (mini snapdragons and Barock/Contessa Deep Red ivy geraniums), which were sold out.
     Oh well. Live and learn. And plan to make a first trip earlier in May next year.

Our final haul for the day

Gallons of geraniums

Buried alive

I'm going through one of my semi-regular phases right now: My house scares me.
Not the studs, wires or concrete. It's taken five years, but Supportive Partner Man (wielder of many tools!) - with the occasional able assistance of our versatile local handyman, Rob - has gotten a decent handle on the physical plant of Chez T, which was in wide disrepair the day we moved in.
No, it's the stuff in my house that has me shaking in my slippers.
A former coworker of mine always says, "You can never have too much stuff." I beg to differ. I like my stuff, but there is way too much of it.
I always start with the best of intentions, aiming to keep things tidy, but there's a good reason SPM's mother describes me to her friends as "housekeeping challenged." Right now, I am bogged down with multiple issues. Work, extracurricular activities, family. All take their toll, time-wise. (As an aside, I'm proud to say that I'm multitasking as I type this - I'm pulling in CDs to make a playlist for The Old Man and Saint Joan's class reunion picnic on Saturday.)
Now I have another deadline looming, though, and it's kicked my yearning for a Dumpster and a blowtorch into high gear.
The Dreaded Yard Sale is nigh.
On June 9, our development is staging its annual fevered festival of garage-based commerce. We'll get lots of Amish and Mennonite customers mixed in with the "English." Traffic will be nuts. Hopefully we'll be able to pare down our stuff. First, though, I need to force myself into going through the closets and bookshelves and cabinets. And that is a scary, scary thought.
Take the clothes closet in the master bedroom. (No, seriously, take it. Please.) To say it looks as though a bomb went off in there is too simple.
The carnage is devastating.
I've got T-shirts melting into each other and bubbling, dripping off their shelves. I've got a ravening horde of dress pants from three sizes and two decades ago whimpering to be unstuffed from their dusty hangers and set free to someone who might love them. Sweaters are threatening to break out of their overstuffed cubbyhole. Shoes on the side rack are choking to death on the killer dust bunnies, and holding SPM's ties hostage in the corner.
There are ball caps and afghans and sheets and a sleeping bag all clamoring for attention.
The din is overwhelming, and I'm wishing that the "organization" code in my family DNA hadn't skipped me.
I go through this every year. I'll pull together several items, sell a bunch, donate what's left to Goodwill or some other charity. And then, the next year, there's more. The stuff ... leave it alone in the dark and it multiplies.
At least the June 9 sale isn't the only crack I'll have at getting it right this year. We also have an annual gathering at my cousin's Route 222-adjacent abode the Saturday after the Fourth of July, at which several branches of the family convene to hang out for a day and sell, sell, sell.
In the meantime, though, I must make myself clean and organize. I have a week. I can do this, can't I?
You're laughing at me, aren't you?

A reader's gold mine

I'm coming off one of my favorite occasional indulgences.
At this point, if you know me, you're probably wondering where the "food porn" is. ... Yes, I do love a good meal, and frequently tweet or FB photos of my gustatorial conquests. I am not yet as over the top about it as one of our beloved Geek princes, Neil Patrick Harris, who has created a whole separate Twitter feed for his food ravings, but I do tend to crow about really fab eats.
Just not today.
Today is for books. (Well, in reality, Monday and Tuesday of this week were for books ... I simply haven't had a chance to write about it until now.)
Our local Lancaster Public Library system has just concluded its yearly gargantuan used book sale, and I -- and Supportive Partner Man (hefter of filled book bags!), and The Lovely Cousin Jody, for that matter -- am replete with new-to-me tomes.
We came, we saw, we shopped. And did the Granny Alesi Bargain Dance in celebration.
So, how big is this sale? Well, for three days each May, it takes over the Franklin & Marshall Alumni Center gym, which is not tiny. The morning of Day One, SPM and I went over after a doctor's appointment and were turned away from the overflowing parking lot. We ran a few other errands, then  went back and won the parking lottery. Once inside, it was like Woodstock for book fiends, wall-to-wall people jostling for position to pick through long tables jammed full of books, records (remember those?) or videos. The checkout line ran the width of the gym floor, took a left and ran about a third of the length. There were people buying four or five books, and many others loaded down with handtrucks or pushcarts.

And this is only part of the field of battle.

 As I was hovering over a sci-fi table, I texted Jody a photo of the mayhem. The next thing I knew, my cell was ringing, and she was giving me a list of five Patricia Cornwell books to look for in hardcover. We found four of them in the space of about 10 minutes, then realized we should brave the checkout line if we wanted to make it to our respective jobs on time.
I would have much rather stayed at the sale, but practicality won the day ... and I knew I was coming back the next morning.
Day Two was a lot more relaxed. The huge crowds were gone, and there weren't as many handtrucks. Joined by Jody and her husband John, SPM and I settled in for a more considered look at the tables, not to mention the patrons.
People go about their browsing in different ways that I find highly entertaining. I myself have a certain pattern. As with reading a book, I find I can only peruse the tables from left to right. If I go in the opposite direction, I actually get dizzy. I also like to touch the books as I wander -- usually I skim lightly over the spines with two or three fingertips. The books talk to me better that way, I think.

Careful which way you're perusing.

Some drag the whole hand, and one older gentleman thumped the books with his palm every other step.
Some pull out a book and skim the back cover before deciding to take a chance on it, others hunker down and read for several minutes before choosing.
As all this is going on, volunteers are milling about, straightening piles and digging new books out of the reserve boxes under the tables to refresh the inventory. You never know what title will emerge next.
All told, the second day of the sale, SPM and I departed with two giant bags of books, and parted with $35 to do so. To put that in perspective, we found two very nice oversized Disney art books in the piles, and left with both. One of them bore a retail price of $35.
I'd say we got our money's worth.
The next challenge is on the home front. I need to cull the herd, and weed out the books I'm through with. Those likely will be donated back to the library, so the cycle can start all over again.
And as an extra added bonus this summer, I'm planning on visiting, for the first time in many years, the book event that started it all for me. I've not been to the Berks County library system's "Book Bonanza" in many years, primarily because I really did not care for the site it had been held at. When I was a kid, it used to be held in the Berkshire Mall, but after it moved to the Leesport Farmers' Market, the lack of air conditioning in July became an issue for me. This year, it's going to be held at Wyomissing's Vanity Fair outlet store on July 13-15, and I'm all for giving it another whirl.
I think between now and then I have enough time to pull together a comprehensive list of my own...

A well-worn mystery from the late 1940s
 that looks like it belongs on my
buddy Chris Otto's "Papergreat" blog. 

A bit of Disney goodness from 1975.