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