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.
   

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?

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.

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.

One day at a time

For the past week-plus I've been embroiled in a family medical issue. I'll not go into that here. Suffice to say we've had a few tense moments. But life goes on, and we must all learn to roll with what comes our way, working with it and/or through it.
If nothing else, the whole thing has left me feeling reflective. In that vein, my dear Supportive Partner Man (anchor of the sturdiest mettle!) and I have had quite a few give and takes this week about the role family plays in our lives.

Getting a laugh out of the parental units.

I must say that I know how exceptionally lucky I have been in terms of my family. Sure, we have bumps in the road -- whose family doesn't? -- but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, we've got each other's backs. And that kind of love and unconditional support is everything. When there's an issue, we come together to handle it.
Even so, the players' roles shift as years pass.
In my mind's eye, my parents remain the very picture of indestructibility. Not perfection, mind you. The Old Man and St. Joan, by their own admission, have their flaws. They are, without question, the Battling Bickersons.
"I'm 80 years old," St. Joan opined one day last week. "I've got no regrets."
A perfect beat passed.
"Well," she continued, chucking a thumb at The Old Man, "maybe one."
Then she smiled at him. He just shook his head.

St. Joan being supportive
in my formative years.

After 61 years of marriage, this is their dynamic. St. Joan can be volatile, The Old Man longwinded. Both can be stupendously thickheaded. ... Stupendously. Thickheaded. (I'll admit that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, either.)
But their love and support of one other and their family remains unquestioned. No matter what happens down the road, I've know I've gotten to go through life with some really fantastic people around me.
And that, friends, is everything.
I have no answers for the meaning of life. At this moment in time, trying to figure out the "why" of it all has me completely at sea. Heck, I don't even have a clear, concise direction of where I want to take this particular blog post. I just had an itch to write it, because I'm one of those odd people who can best work out their feelings and thoughts by seeing them take shape as words crawling out across a computer screen.
I guess for the time being the best thing for me to do is keep channeling St. Joan's favorite observations: "One day at a time," and "If it's meant to be, it'll happen."
Wise woman, that one.