Dolores Wall Maroney

Menagerie Authors: Monday Author Interview ~ Roz Lee!!!

2011-09-12T07:32:00.000-07:00

Menagerie Authors: Monday Author Interview ~ Roz Lee!!!: This week on the couch is our dear friend, ROZ LEE!!!! We couldn’t wait to have her come by, so we hope you enjoy the interview as much as...

Six Sentence Sunday 6/12/11

2011-06-12T05:42:00.000-07:00

Thanks for stopping by today! My six are from the second book in the Lothario series - SHOW ME THE ROPES. Richard has gifted Fallon with a rope ensemble.

Enjoy!

His hands skimmed her midriff, across the swell of her hips, pausing to test the rope at her waist. His fingers swept across her abdomen and brushed across the top of her mound. Glory to God she was beautiful. He couldn’t wait to see her body criss-crossed with more ropes. One hand cupped her. She trembled again, and he fought the need to take her right then.

Give Me a Break

2011-06-09T08:54:00.000-07:00

I drive a certain stretch of Interstate Highway on a regular basis. It's two lanes each way that wind through some of the most beautiful scenery you've ever seen. I try not to take this beauty for granted by speeding past it. Today was no different. On the way home from the pit (gym) I was behind a tractor-trailer rig for a good portion of the way. We were in the right lane, going along at the speed limit, maybe even a little below it which was okay with me. The turns on that stretch can be treacherous. We came around the last big curve where the road widened out to allow a decent right shoulder. Suddenly, the truck in front of me signaled and moved into the left lane. I immediately saw the reason - a NJ State Trooper was parked on the shoulder- lights flashing.

As is the law in many states, drivers are required to move over when they see flashing lights on the shoulder. I signaled to do so - checked my mirrors and over my shoulder and saw that it wouldn't be possible to move over until a few cars passed. I decelerated which ticked off the people behind me, who quickly moved to the left lane, blocking me from doing so. Time and distance to safely move over had run out - I had no choice but to pass the Trooper without changing lanes. I did so, and went on about my business.

The next exit was mine. I took it. A glance in my rear-view mirror showed the Trooper on my bumper. No lights, just riding my bumper. I made the necessary turns toward home, and still he remained close behind. (This is not a busy area, so it was not coincidence). He followed me for nearly a mile and I'm sure he was running my license plate while doing so. I continued on my way. I even came to a complete stop at the stop sign near my house that no one can figure out why it's there. He remained on my bumper until I turned onto my little street. By then I guess he knew my grocery-grabber was registered to someone on that street, and I was going home.

So...I have to wonder. Was I suspicious because I tried to obey the law? Should I have buzzed by him without making an attempt to move over? Honestly, I wouldn't have given it a second thought had the news media not recently reported about State Troopers cracking down on motorists who fail to move over. Seems, they've decided to enforce that particular law in these parts, even baiting motorists in order to do so.

I applaud their efforts to nab unsafe drivers, especially the ones who drive like maniacs along that particular stretch of road. There is no margin for error there. No shoulders to rely on if you take the curves too fast, only unforgiving concrete rail on one side, and a river on the other, but honestly? Me? In my six year old, almost too small to be an SUV, SUV? Really. Give me a break.

I hope he found his way back to the freeway. I'll likely see him tomorrow on my daily trek. Will he remember me?

Six Sentence Sunday 5/1/11

2011-04-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

Today I offer a snip-it from my femme dom novella, STILL TAKING CHANCES, which releases October 1, 2011. I know it's a long way off so I shouldn't be teasing you like this, but I can't help myself. I absolutely love the characters in this one!

In this scene, Elgin thinks he's in charge of what's going to happen. Yeah...right...

No, he had nothing to fear from Ms. Frost Your Balls Winters. He’d go in there, tell her what was what, and have her naked under him in minutes. Maybe he’d let her spank him a little first so she’d feel like a real femme dom. He smiled. Yeah, she’d like that, and he would too. He knocked on the door. When she called out as if she’d been expecting him, he opened the door and stepped inside.

You can see what else I'm up to at my website - www.rozlee.net

Thanks for stopping by!

Six Sentence Sunday

2011-03-12T10:53:00.000-08:00

I’ve been a follower of Six Sentence Sunday for a while now, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve to participate – until now. So…

Welcome to my blog. Hope you enjoy this little excerpt from my debut novel, THE LUST BOAT. Ryan has arranged an erotic massage class for Candace. Thor is the instructor.

Thor’s hand left her, taking his heat with him, only to be replaced by Ryan’s hand that burned even hotter. She’d never been more embarrassed in her life, but oh God it felt good. Ryan’s touch overwhelmed her, reduced her to a mass of raw nerve endings. Thor continued to issue instructions to Ryan. His voice faded away in the sensual haze Candace drifted in. Lost in the incredible warmth and the need building inside her, she moved her hips, lifting against the delicious pressure Ryan created.

If you want to know more about me, or my books, stop by my website www.rozlee.net

Have a wonderful day!

Roz Lee

I Bought It – Why Can’t I Share It?

2011-02-16T07:37:00.000-08:00

By Roz Lee

The world is changing, and along with it, my bookshelf. One upon a time, I bought real books. You know the ones—they’re made of paper and you hold them in your hand and actually have to turn the pages. When you’ve read them, they gather dust on your shelves; take up space in drawers and in boxes in the garage and attic because you can’t bring yourself to part with them.

Now I have one of those fancy electronic books. I click a few keys, and before I can find my reading glasses, a dozen new books appear on my virtual bookshelf. I can carry my entire library on vacation with me. I can add to my collection from anywhere, whether I’m at the beach or riding in the car. It’s a miracle. It’s technology.

It’s also the bane of every author’s existence.

EBook Piracy undermines the existence of the publishing industry. Readers download their favorite titles, and then share them with the world, and see nothing wrong with doing so. I’ve had a hard time understanding why it’s wrong too, but bear with me for a few minutes and I think I can explain.

There are two parts to a book. The first part is the physical book. Its sheets of paper bound together. The other part is the CONTENT. That’s the ideas, the story printed on the pages. The Book is what you purchased, the paper and the binding. The CONTENT belongs to the person who owns the copyright. Nine times out of ten, this is the author.

Back when, you went to the bookstore and came home with a book you could hold in your hand. You read the book, and you liked it so much you wanted to share it. You handed the book to a friend or relative to read. You no longer have possession of that book. There is still only the one copy you purchased, whether you gave it away or loaned it. You have not separated the CONTENT from the BOOK. You have done nothing wrong.

Now, let’s consider another scenario. You bought the book and brought it home. You read it. You loved it. You wanted to share it with everyone you know. You take it to work and use the copy machine to run off one, or two dozen, copies and give them away. You have violated the author’s copyright. You have copied the CONTENT of the BOOK. You may give away or loan the paper and binding, but the CONTENT is a separate entity and belongs to the author.

So now, you’ve moved into the modern world and purchased an eReader. You went online and purchased an electronic book (eBook). What you downloaded to your eReader is the CONTENT of the book. If you give or loan your eReader to someone else, and allow them to read the book you purchased, you have done nothing wrong, the same as loaning the paper and binding type book. The CONTENT you purchased the right to read is still in the electronic device you used to read it.

Scenario #2. You download an electronic book to your eReader or computer. You want to share it with one, or a million people you know, because it’s the best book you’ve ever read. You copy the file (CONTENT), attach it to an email and send it to everyone on your contact list, or to just your best friend. It doesn’t matter if it’s one copy, or ten million. It’s still copyright infringement. You have separated the CONTENT from the delivery method – in this case, and electronic device of some sort.

Why is it copyright infringement? Because you have copied the CONTENT of a book and given it away without the consent of the person who owns the copyright (the author), nor has the copyright owner received payment for the use of the material they spent countless hours creating. It’s the same as if you’d taken a physical book and made copies on the office copy machine. It’s just infinitely easier, and faster. And if you can do it, what’s to stop the people you sent it to from doing it too? Nothing.

This is what authors are up against today. Too many people believe that the intellectual work of another should be given away for free. Let me give you a simple example. Let’s say you invent a really great gadget. It’s something everyone needs, or at least, everyone wants. You’ve put in countless hours thinking about it, drawing sketches, making prototypes, testing, perfecting, until it’s the best-darned gadget it can be. You spend your life savings having some professionally made, and you invest in a marketing plan to sell them. People buy them. You are ecstatic! You’ve made a difference in the world. People will know your name!

A few weeks after your initial success, you see that everyone in the world now has one of your gadgets, only you have not sold that many gadgets. Someone else has made these and given them away to everyone on the planet. Now, no one is going to buy yours. You will never be able to reap the profits you deserve for all the time and intellectual talent you put into the concept and creation of your gadget.

Sucks, doesn’t it?

What if you went to work every day for a week, a month, a year, several years? You put in long hours on the job thinking you would be paid when the task was satisfactorily completed. Only when you complete the task, someone takes the fruit of your labor, gives it away, and tells you thanks for all the hard work, it’s really top notch work, but I don’t want pay you. Oh, and by the way, could you do that again please? I really loved the first one!

Yeah, that sucks too.

Let me assure you, very few authors are getting rich from their book sales, whether they are physical books or eBooks. Even in an eBook, there are a lot of middle-men who get their share of the proceeds first. Still, money earned is how society measures success, and authors are no different than anyone else in that respect. A lot goes into writing a book. They don’t just spring out of our heads and then miraculously get published. Like every other worker out there, we want to be paid for our labors, and the way we do that is by selling books.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Moved to Tears

2011-01-21T15:51:00.001-08:00

I was moved to tears today on the elliptical. No, it had nothing to do with that cursed machine, though I’ve been close to tears on it many times. Today, instead of daydreaming about my next novel, I tuned in to the newscast on the nearest television. This is the day Representative Gabrielle Giffords left the University Medical Center in Tucson. Thirteen days after a failed assassination attempt, she left the hospital. She’s far from recovered, but, and this is where the romance author in me comes out—she was moved to a hospital closer to her husband’s home.

I can relate to her long distance marriage. I have one of those too, but hers reads like the cheesiest (my favorite kind) of romance novel. The Congresswoman and the Astronaut. Even network news couldn’t resist that title. Congresswoman Giffords lives in Arizona and Washington D.C. Her astronaut husband and her step-daughters live in Houston. There isn’t a romance writer on the planet who isn’t kicking themselves for not coming up with that scenario sooner! No doubt, several manuscripts are in the works right now with a similar hero and heroine.

But this is more than a romance novel. It’s a real life drama that involves the entire nation. Thirteen days ago we were shocked when a man turned a gun on a gathering of citizens exercising their right to speak to their Congressional Representative. That representative was doing what was she was elected to do—listen to her constituents. By all accounts, Congresswoman Giffords did this on a regular basis, and with an open mind to hear what they had to say. No matter what side of the political fence you sit on, you have to admire that kind of dedication to the job.

It’s been almost two weeks since the tragedy, and the memorials continue to grow for the other victims, many of whom died on that fateful day. I’ve been touched by the memorials, but they grew out of the community’s grief. I understand that. It’s natural to mourn the loss of life, especially when it ends so abruptly and in a manner we can’t fathom.

What moved me to tears today was a different kind of emotional outpouring. Today, a cavalcade of vehicles escorted Congresswoman Giffords from the hospital to the plane waiting to take her to Houston. A group of motorcyclists from the local VFW led the way, along with a police and fire escort. The ambulance proceeded slowly, respectfully, taking tender care of the precious cargo. From a helicopter vantage point, I witnessed something that made me proud to be an American. People lined the route, some held signs or waved American flags. Others cheered, waved or applauded. Some stood in solemn respect as Congresswoman Giffords took a figurative giant step in her recovery. They were there because they wanted Congresswoman Giffords to know they respect her dedication to public service. They were there because they believe in miracles, and because they needed to celebrate triumph over tragedy. They were there to celebrate the invincible American Spirit.

I couldn’t see what was going on inside the ambulance, but I can imagine her husband by her side, holding her hand as he has for countless hours, witness to this demonstration of American Spirit. Perhaps he was describing it to her, or tucking it away to tell her about when she’s ready to hear it. It’s a love story between two extraordinary Americans, and a love story between Americans and America.

Today I’m grateful for American heroes. They come in all shapes, sizes, genders and ethnic backgrounds. They serve our country in many ways. Some serve in uniform, others in local, state or national office. Some pursue scientific knowledge. Some wear a badge or a stethoscope; wield a gavel, a scalpel or a textbook. What they all have in common is a love of the American people and the American ideal. Congresswoman Giffords is an American hero.

All romance novels end with a HEA—Happily Ever After. For many involved in this tragedy, there will be no HEA, but for this extraordinary couple, I hope today was one more step toward the larger than life happy ending they deserve.

The Pros and Cons of eReaders - An electronic Media Tutorial

2010-12-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

The Pros and Cons of eReaders

An Electronic Media Tutorial

By Roz Lee

You’ve decided you want an eReader, but you don’t have a clue what one is, or which one to buy. News of the explosion of electronic media, ebooks, is everywhere and you’re afraid you’re being left behind. Not to worry. Do you have a computer? How about a smart phone (iPhone, Droid, Blackberry, etc.)? Do you have an iPod Touch or iPad?

If you do, you already have an eReader. All the major dedicated (that’s all they do) eReaders have free apps for most, if not all, of the hardware I just listed. So, unless you want a device specifically for reading electronic media, and by that, I mean books, magazines and newspapers, then you already have the means to download and read via the newest publishing technology.

Let’s for a moment consider that you are in the market for an eReader. Perhaps you spend enough time on your cell phone already, and the idea of reading your favorite Romance author’s latest via that device ruins the whole experience for you, or your computer is also your work computer and you don’t want the boss to find out you read erotic romance on your lunch hour, or all your electronic devices are shared by you and the kids, then a dedicated eReader might be for you.

Which one do you choose?

The answer lies in what you want to do with your new eReader. Do you want to read books, and only books? How about newspapers and magazines? Do you want to read children’s books with your kids or grandkids? Are you going to buy books, or check them out from your public library? Didn’t know you could do that? Well, you can. More and more titles are becoming available every day.

First, let’s examine what an eReader can do for you that a traditional book can’t.

· eReaders store thousands of books for you. Most have substantial built-in storage, up to around 1500 titles, as well as off-site archives with limitless capacity. If you want to go back and revisit a favorite, it will always be there at your fingertips, dust free.

· eReaders provide instant gratification. No waiting for the library to fetch the title you want from another branch, no trip to the bookstore in the snow or rain, no waiting until the bookstore or library opens to pick up another book. Online bookstores are open 24/7, everyday of the year. And, there are no books to return to the library, ever.

· You can take your entire library on vacation with you. Yep, no more suitcase full of paperbacks. No more purchases in the airport bookstore when your flight is delayed and you’ve finished the one book you packed into your carryon.

· You need to review a contract, or a set of plans for work, but you don’t want to lug them, or your computer, with you on the train, plane, or cruise ship. Most eReaders allow you to download .pdf files from your computer. You can bookmark and make notations as you read.

· You forgot your dictionary, and you don’t understand all the big words the author used. No problem. Use the built-in dictionary without leaving the page.

· You broke your reading glasses, or you’re too vain to wear them, and the print is too small to read. No problem. Enlarge the font, and keep reading. If the font still isn’t big enough, if you bought one of the many books with audio content, your eReader will read the book to you. Use your headphones, or you and your significant other can listen to the good bits together! Which brings me to another benefit…

· No bookcover, means no one will know what you’re reading! Just think, you can read that steamy romance in the break room and no one will be the wiser, except for the flush on your face and the fact that you’ve been fanning yourself and everyone else is huddling for warmth!

Next, let’s be fair and mention a few drawbacks.

· There’s nothing like the crack of a crisp, new book spine. You won’t get that with an eReader. Unless you have one of the color eReaders, you won’t get all the joy out of the beautiful cover art. You will have to charge it on occasion, but the battery life is much longer than you would expect.

· This is the one that gets many people. You can’t share the book you just bought. We all do it. We buy a book and we like it so much we want all our friends to read it too, so we pass it along, and along, and along. That’s not always a bad thing. Many times it generates new fans who actually buy other titles by that author. However, this is slowly changing, and I think eventually you will be able to share ebooks in a limited manner. It sounds like a nasty trick to play on the consumer, but unlike traditional print books, ebooks can be pirated on the internet, and made available for free to millions of people in the blink of an eye. Not too many people want to scan and reprint physical books just so they can give them away. Internet piracy steals untold millions from authors who are entitled to revenue from the sale of their books.

Enough for today. In the next installment, we’ll talk about what’s on the market. Color vs. black and white, wi-fi vs. 3-G, and iPad vs. dedicated eReader.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - You Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Other Myths

2010-11-19T12:41:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since I began this journey. Twelve months ago, I started out as a reluctant and skeptical participant in what I fully expected to be a short-lived experiment in exercise. If I’ve learned nothing else from my experience, I’ve learned that you can teach and old dog (metaphor) new tricks.

Twelve months ago I’d never set foot inside a fitness center (AKA the Pit). I had no desire to. I’d done the required classes in school, even did the ones in college. When given a choice, I chose the easiest ones I could find. I took square dancing and badminton, for example. Once, in a moment of insanity, I signed up for a class they labeled Conditioning. What it turned out to be was running. Three days a week. In the Texas heat. Since Texas only has two days of Spring, and two point three days of Fall, and the other three hundred sixty-three point seven days are hot, you get the idea. I was not a happy camper. To make it worse, they threw in a bunch of sit-ups and other undignified, unnecessary, impossible tasks. All of which we were graded upon. I managed to squeak out a passing grade and vowed never to run again.

I’ve kept that vow. Unless something with plans to make me its next meal is chasing me, I don’t run. Thus, the whole idea of going to the Pit was a bit of a turnoff from the get-go. Daughter #1 convinced me to go. She offered to help me get started. I now know she didn’t really have my best interest in mind, she just didn’t want to go alone. I guess I should be flattered that she didn’t mind being seen with me in such a place, but, now that I think back on it, she did walk several steps ahead of me and there was that time I tried to talk to her when she was on the treadmill and she acted like she couldn’t hear me.

Oh well. The joke’s on her. Not only did I stick with it, I’ve logged more time in the confounded place than she has in all her years. I have to admit, I spent the first few months wondering what the heck I was doing there. I hated it. Not that I’m all that fond of it now, but hate might be too strong a word. Let’s just say I find the place to be interesting. You see, I’m a people watcher. It’s a hobby that you can do just about anywhere, but some places are better than others. Malls and airports are good places. Grocery stores – not so good. Pits – excellent places. Especially in SoCal.

We’re no more than a long lens shot from the hub of the entertainment industry. Several major studios have lots in our little valley and scenes from our town routinely show up in television programs and on the big screen. That means lots of industry types live here. They’re a colorful bunch. And one of the places they like to see and be seen at, is the Pit. This alone, I believe, is the real reason I have stuck with it.

You never know what you might see. Any change in the weather, and yes, there are precious few of those here, brings in something, or someone, new. Even the bi-annual time change brings in a new element to observe. Don’t get me started on full moons. I credit the full moon for some of my best oddity sightings, many of which I’ve documented here for your enjoyment as well.

I suppose I was one of those oddities a year ago. Probably still am to the trained people watcher out there. When I began, I could barely pedal a lounge chair bike around the block. Climbing stairs had me gasping for air on the second step. I hung onto the handrails of the half and ¾ racks for safety reasons, not to get a quick heart rate fix. The full rack was a contraption I was sure could double as a sobriety test – one I couldn’t pass. The only weight lifting I’d ever done was squat lifting a ten-pound bag of sugar off the lowest grocery store shelf.

I’m happy to report that none of those things are true any longer. It took a while, and a lot of people watching, to get to where I am now. I’m not going to win any muscle woman competitions, but I’ve come a long way since crossing the starting line a year ago. I’ve lost some weight, but gained muscle. Yeah, I thought that was BS too, but it’s true. The scale hasn’t budged much, but things aren’t the same shape they were before. I’m not going to get into just what has changed, but I will say that hubby isn’t complaining about any of it. That’s good enough for me. I’ve replaced my jeans a couple of times with smaller sizes, and that’s a good feeling too.

I’ve stopped worrying about the number on the scale and have focused more on the long-range goal. I vowed long ago that I would be a fantastic grandmother, but I also told my two daughters that I would be pleased to be a very old grandmother. It seems they took that to heart, and so it’s more important than ever that I keep the machinery in good working order.

Then there’s this new career I’ve been trying to get off the ground. Things are looking promising in that arena, but writing is a sedentary occupation. People watching at the Pit gives me an excuse to get off my a**, and move. It doesn’t have to be all that much, just an hour a day, but it gets my blood pumping and I think that helps the brain, as well as the spreading a** syndrome writers are prone to. I’ve found that plugging into my playlist and heading off on a magic carpet ride is a great way to work through plot problems and germinate new ideas. If I’m fortunate enough observe a few rare or endangered human species along the way, so much the better.

I’ve learned a few new tricks over the last year, and that surprised me more than anything. I won’t lie and tell you I wake up every morning and say, “I can’t wait to go to the Pit.” That just isn’t going to happen folks. Is loathe too strong a word? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps I can tap into my inner thesaurus tomorrow while I’m climbing a virtual skyscraper and come up with a better word. I’ve always been fond of abhor…

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Ode to Eau d'Pit

2010-10-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while the weather changes in SoCal. It doesn’t usually change for long, a day or two, then it’s back to hot, dry and windy. Today I woke to a thick gray blanket of fog. Not terribly unusual if you live in a coastal community, but in our little inland valley it ranks up there with alien invasions. I think a lot of people feared the apocalypse and called in sick at their place of employment. Either that, or a good many places shut down because they thought the electricity had been cut off. I hate to tell them that skylights are not a primary source of interior lighting, but someone needs to clue them in and show them where the light switch is.

Oh well, I digress. Due to the inclement weather this morning, the pit was packed. Friday mornings at the CCPit are usually my favorite time slot all week long. It’s almost like having my Pocono Pit back. Almost, but not quite. So, this morning I was surprised to see the influx of peeps. They were everywhere. They’d come in out of the fog like ants seeking water in a drought. I managed to get in a few of my resistance weight’s and headed upstairs to the racks and treadmills. There were a few dog walkers open, but I don’t do those, despite the name of this article. To my dismay there was only one half rack open, smack in the middle of the line. I took it.

It soon became obvious why it wasn’t in use. It wasn’t level. It’s all I can do to stay on one of these things anyway. The last thing I need is the darned thing trying to buck me off. Nevertheless, I wasn’t ready to call it quits. I’d made the effort to get there, I wanted to get my death defying workout in.

I established a herky-jerky rhythm that allowed me to hang on with some semblance of decorum. Southern by birth, decorum is as much a part of me as my lazy drawl. As much as I wish I could shed it on occasion, it isn’t going anywhere.

One of the things I like about the CCPit is the lack of televisions on the machines. However, they do have some pretty ginormous ones hanging from the ceiling and it’s almost impossible to ignore them all the time. I don’t tune into the audio feed, but all of them are set up with closed-captioning, so if something catches my eye I can read along, or read lips. One commercial caught my attention. It was for Vagisil Feminine Wash. It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s a body wash. The commercial claimed it would eliminate embarrassing odor.

Many of you know of my alter ego, the one that writes erotic romance, so you won’t be surprised that my mind took off in a different direction. I looked at the bright pink squeeze bottle with the giant Vagisil label on it, and wondered what kind of woman would have this in her shower. This is the scenario. Woman (any age) brings her date back to her place. They hook up (modern code for do you-know-what), hey, I’m Southern, decorum, remember? Anyway, they hook up. He asks to use her shower. He steps in, sees giant pink Vagisil bottle and steps out. Within minutes, he has used his smart phone to locate the address of the closest clinic and sprints out the door faster than the Roadrunner with Coyote on his tail, never to be seen again. Heck, even my husband would probably ask some questions if I put that in our shower.

Shortly after this commercial aired, pardon the pun, the half rack next to me became available. That lasted all of ten seconds before another woman claimed it. No chance of me switching for a machine without a flat tire. I said a few choice words to myself, decorum remember, and went on with my business. Then I noticed it. A stench I could not ignore. Having raised two children, stenches are something you develop immunity to. You have to, or you’d never make it until the kids were grown.

Whoever told you that you can’t smell anything if you breathe through your mouth was mistaken. I’m trying to be nice here and not call them a liar. This decorum thing is really a drag sometimes. Anyway, I tried to ignore it, I really did. Then the commercial came on again. Suddenly I knew who it was directed at. I sooo wanted to tap her on the shoulder and make sure she saw the big pink bottle on the screen, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Instead, I decided my workout was as complete as it was going to get. The way I figure it, with all the extra muscle’s I had to use to stay on the thing, I’d done the equivalent of two workouts. This is my story and I’m sticking to it. I am however contemplating buying a bright pink bottle and putting it in our shower to see what reaction it gets. Could be amusing.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Megapit

2010-10-06T11:16:00.000-07:00

It’s been a month since I returned to SoCal, and what a month it has been. Many of you know, shortly after my last blog post, hubby had an event and spent several days in the hospital. After every test known to science, the pronounced him fit and sent him home. Needless to say, neither one of us went to the pit for a few days.

Once hubby was home and rested up, he decided it was time to get back to his daily workout routine. I decided it was in my best interest to go with him, just in case he decided to have another event. We headed over to the Megapit, formerly the VPit, and since it was a weekday afternoon, we procured a parking spot within walking distance of the front door. This was my first peek inside the place since the remodel and I have to say, it’s something to see. I stood there like a tourist, admiring the biggest, highest, longest, deepest, landmark- only this is a gym. Not usually something to gawk at, but in this case, it is.

I’ve never seen so many torture devices in one place, or so many scantily clad people. I figured if all the silicone and Botox in the place didn’t do hubby in, then he was good to go. For the first time ever, I didn’t lock my cell phone in a locker. I kept it with me, just in case. Even though everyone else in the place had a phone, I didn’t trust them. I’m certain they had their plastic surgeons and agents on speed-dial, but doubted they could string three numbers together in an emergency.

I could see the entire thing. Hubby collapses. A crowd gathers. Fingers fly over touch screens. I rush to hubby’s side, grateful someone has the presence of mind to call the first responders. As I try to revive hubby I hear the conversations around me. “Quick, call the news, call someone. I can get some face-time out of this if you get right on it!”

Fortunately, hubby did just fine and no one needed to call for emergency help, of any variety.

Since then, we’ve returned to our normal routine. I go to the pit in the morning, hubby goes in the afternoon, and my cell phone is once again in the locker.

I’ve not been back to the Megapit since that day. Let me tell you why. For one, all the new cardio torture devices have TV screens on them. I don’t watch TV while I’m torturing myself. I watch people, or work through plot problems. I don’t need video in my face to do this.

Second reason – In order to cram as many treadmills and racks in as possible, they reduced the number of resistance weight machines. These are now tucked into a small alcove that once housed the free weights. The walls are mirrored, and some of the machines I use daily are on the back row –facing the mirror. Not that I care about the mirror placement, but it’s a strong pull for the vain, and there are plenty who fall into that category at the Megapit. I sauntered by and both (yes, only two now) of the machines were occupied by male C-30’s who seemed to be using them as strategically positioned park benches. I chose another machine and waited for them to leave. They didn’t. They also didn’t use the machines. Nope, they were too busy admiring themselves in the mirror (really, it wasn’t that good of a show), and I suspect, checking out the female backsides reflected there.

I moved on to the rack where I could keep an eye on hubby, just in case you know. He finished his run. I cut short my torture session and followed him to the alcove. My chosen machines were still occupied by the same vain voyeurs. Peeved, I went in search of a leg press machine. I found a leg press machine – yes one. They’d stashed it in the new addition, along with the gazillion new free weights. (Park benches would have been cheaper and just as useful) I was the only woman in the new area, except maybe in the spinning room where they have more bikes than the Tour de France. Anyway, undaunted by the bro’s text messaging from the weight benches, I did my leg torture and left. Hubby was still in the alcove, and my favorite machines were still doing duty as Peeping Tom perches.

I gave up. I now spend my pit time across town where the vain population is much smaller and I can do my usual routine without having to have a fly swatter to remove the pests. It isn’t without its share of interesting characters, and I do have some observations from there, but I’ll save those for another time.

Thanks to all who shared their concerns over hubby’s health. Until next time…

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - This Isn't the Pocono's Toto

2010-09-13T20:48:00.000-07:00

Today was the day I pledged to get back into my routine. That means a bit of breakfast, and then off to the pit. The drive alone was reason enough to stay at home, but I put on my brave face and took the urban assault vehicle (UAV) on the road. In this town, if you drive anything smaller than a tank you’re a Lilliputian in the land of Gulliver’s. I prefer being a Gulliver.

It turns out that my recent trips to The Big Apple also served to keep my driving skills honed. I arrived at the pit without incident, only to find the parking lot completely full – of Trophy Wife vehicles. You know the ones. They’re new, mostly foreign, except for the Escalades, and there isn’t a subtle thing about them. Chrome wheels, sun-roofs, leather seats, onboard computers that do everything but order for you at the drive-thru. I spotted a few with those cute little leaping kitty hood ornaments too. They have regular appointments at the auto-spa so the sweet young thing driving them won’t be embarrassed by a speck of dust on her transportation when she pulls up in front of the brow bar or tanning salon. They wouldn’t be caught dead with a petrified French fry under the passenger seat.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to open the largest pit in the state of California (not kidding, it’s a fact) in a small strip mall with a limited number of parking spots, but I can’t imagine they thought it through. I circled the lot once, just to make sure I hadn’t missed something. I hadn’t.

Hubby and daughter #1 have been to this pit since it became a monster and swallowed up a couple of adjoining businesses, but clearly, they haven’t been in the morning. I don’t care how nice the new machines are, or how many of them they’ve crammed into the space. I’m not going to hang around in the parking lot until someone gets tired of posing and decides to go home, or realizes she’s going to be late for her bikini waxing. I’m pretty certain I was over dressed for the place anyway. I’d actually covered my cleavage. I’m not sure they would have let me past the front desk.

I steered my UAV out to the eight-lane divided, wanna-be-freeway and headed across the valley to the other pit, the step-child pit, the one they didn’t remodel while I was away. Traffic was lighter on the other side of the valley and it wasn’t necessary to use my aggressive driving skills. A few minutes later I turned into the parking lot of the regular-people pit, and had my choice of several spots. I spotted a few Bro-trucks, but they were outnumbered by the mini-vans and aging sedans. The UAV fit right in with its layer of dust and crumpled straw wrappers in the center console. A couple of C+20 women wearing flood pants and Velcro shoes winched themselves out of a Chevy a few rows over. I’d found my people.

This was confirmed when I sailed past check-in without raising suspicion. I’d been there many times before, but it was still a bit overwhelming. The entire Pocono Pit would have fit inside the Spinning classroom with room to spare. There were more machines to choose from than I’d seen in months. Just deciding where to start was a challenge. Since it had been a long while since I’d done my usual routine, and clearly that needed to change given my expanded options, I decided to keep my first day back simple.

Memory kicked in and I found the locker room, right where it had been the last time I was there. Since the Pocono Pit had cubbies, not locker room, even this was going to take some getting used to. I won’t go into details, but I will mention one word, one very important word. Towels.

I hurried out to the floor, found a half-rack on the second floor and programmed it to the –kill me now- setting. While the machine proceeded to do as asked, I checked out the place. The ratio of men to women was somewhere around 2:1. I was okay with that. Especially since the majority of the men weren’t half bad to look at. I looked my fill, at least until my eyesight began to blur. The place began to empty out. I wondered if I was emitting an offensive odor or perhaps they knew something I didn’t, like the place was about to be invaded by Trophy Wives. I decided there wasn’t anything I could do about either one, so I finished the programmed workout.

I thought about spending a few minutes with the resistance equipment. None of it was seeing a lot of use, but it had already been a long day. I made a mental note of where my favorites were and headed for the locker room. On the way, I went past the Spin class. That answered the question as to where everyone had gone. I made note of the time so I could show up tomorrow after the class began. It would be almost like being back at the Pocono Pit where I had the place more or less to myself.

In the locker room, I extracted the scrap of paper with my combination on it from my clever hiding place behind the music storage device strapped to my arm. Unfortunately, the two C+20’s were still there. They’d traded their flood pants for towels, on their way to swimsuits, I think. I don’t really want to know. I checked the time. Maybe I should push my arrival back a few more minutes tomorrow, just to be safe.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - End of Summer

2010-09-05T15:54:00.000-07:00

It’s time to head west before the leaves and snow start falling around here. It’s been an interesting few months of solitude interspersed with periods of chaos. There have been times of great joy and pride as well as times of great sadness. I’ve been to a class reunion and a graduation. I’ve moved both daughters to their respective grad schools, attended RWA ’10 in Orlando, hosted friends and relatives, buried a family member, finished a manuscript, and sold my first book. And that’s just the big stuff.

Since March I’ve been in thirteen states, most of them more than once. I’ve driven up Mt. Washington, toured two Civil War battlegrounds, Jefferson’s Poplar Forest, the NASCAR Hall of Fame, the Statue of Liberty, and a major Florida amusement park. I even managed to squeeze in a Broadway show. The one thing I haven’t done is let moss grow under my feet!

Fall is approaching. I see it in the playful deer in my yard, the crisp morning air, and the softening mid-day light. Then of course there are the leaves beginning to blanket the driveway and floating like an interactive art exhibit on the surface of the pool.

Later this week I’ll rejoin hubby in SoCal, where the temperature still hovers over the century mark, and the seasons consist of Hot and Hotter.

I’m going to miss a lot of things about the East Coast. One of those will be my Pocono Pit. I’ll miss being greeted by name even before I swipe my membership card. I’ll miss Friday mornings when I have the place all to myself. I’m going to miss the ever changing view from the window- the steady stream of vehicles on the busy street as well as pulling through burger joint across the way. I’ll miss seeing the guy in the school bus yellow Mustang convertible who buzzes through the drive-thru every morning. I’m going to miss watching the fat families sitting in their mini-vans stuffing their faces with paper wrapped hunks of fat and cholesterol.

I’m going to miss the Pocono Pony, the local bus service, with their trolley style busses filled with curious, gawking passengers. I’ll miss the tourists with their kayaks and SUV’s piled high with outdoor gear. Life won’t be the same without the guys working out in their jeans and work boots or the bevy of regulars I’ve come to recognize as kindred spirits. I’ll miss the juvenile joke of the day posted at the check-in counter. I’ll even miss the smell of chicken and potatoes frying at the Cluck U next door.

I hope to return in a few months to the Pocono Pit. It’s been good to me. I haven’t lost any pounds, but I have rearranged a few things. Thanks to the resistance routine I adopted there I can buy my jeans a size smaller than I did last spring.

I’ve worked through dozens of plot problems while climbing virtual hills on the rack and people watching out the small bank of windows. The way the white clapboard houses on the hill behind the burger joint pop against the steel-gray of a brewing summer storm will be with me for a long time.

What I’m going to miss most is the daily drive to the pit. My trek takes me through the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area, twice. It’s a lovely, winding road that follows the route the river has carved out of the tree covered granite mountains. It’s so lovely it’s easy to forget you’re on an Interstate Highway. If I’m in the mood to see more, there’s always my Plan B route that follows the river for several miles through the dense hardwood forest. It’s a nice way to start each day and reason in itself to go to the pit.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The View Through Frosted Window Panes

2010-07-31T22:36:00.000-07:00

I’m on the road again, back in Orlando for a Writer’s Conference. Being a masochist at heart, I am compelled to find a pit if possible and indulge in a bit of self-inflicted torture. Since the hotel is charging me what they call a resort fee which is an additional charge tacked onto the daily rate for things that used to be included, I thought it would be good to get some use out of those amenities. I dragged lazy ass out of bed this morning and headed to the pit. Just getting there would be considered a workout for most people, but I’m not most people and I made it without breaking a sweat or running out of oxygen.

It’s bigger than some hotel pits, and truthfully, not much smaller than the Pocono Pit I go to when I’m at home in New Jersey. The place is a little heavy on the moving sidewalks and has a few weight machines, lounge chair bikes, and of course, a few racks. I checked in at the desk where they wanted to see my room key and made me sign my name. I think they must get a lot of imposter hotel guests who drive out to the middle of nowhere, pay to park, and try to sneak into their ‘fitness center’. It’s the best explanation I can come up with for the high security measures.

Once vetted by the security detail, I helped myself to a dew rag and stepped inside. Holy Smoley. Who knew Romance writers were such masochists? The moving sidewalks were all occupied, as were the racks. My choices came down to a lounge chair bike or the weight machines which, no surprise, stood in a row like relics from a medieval dungeon. No stranger to these sinister leather and metal monsters, I went to work on my batwings and thunder thighs. I looked around the place, hoping Nora Roberts would be there. I knew she was in the hotel and would be giving a speech later. I thought perhaps she would need to work off some public speaking anxiety. I was fully prepared to offer myself as a guinea pig if she needed to rehearse. Who was I kidding? I’m sure her suite has its own torture devices that she pays someone to use for her.

Did I mention this is Florida? And it’s summer? The sign on the wall indicated there was a sauna. No shit. Really? Then I realized they were talking about a whole other room off in the corner. It may be redundant, but at least this time of year it must be cheap to maintain. I wiped the dew out of my eyes and pushed and pulled thinking eventually someone would pass out and topple off one of the racks and I could get in my aerobic workout too. The same people were still on the racks and didn’t show any signs of relinquishing them. I’m not entirely sure they were still alive. It could have been that they died and rigor mortis had frozen their hands around the handlebars. Don’t laugh, it’s possible.

Anyway, I snagged a lounge chair bike and programmed in a nice ride. I figured about three miles would do it. I peddled away, going nowhere at a rapid clip. Condensation frosted the window across from me, making the summer scene beyond appear to be something all together different. I love winter days when the windows are rimmed with a band of frost and the rest of the glass is obscured by opaque ice crystals. Everything beyond is magically transformed. This was much the same. Inside, the room was as steamy as if we’d been baking holiday goodies only it didn’t smell nearly so nice. Outside, viewed through this magical window, a fantasy world awaited.

The ducks waddling on the lawn became fat Canadian geese. The white sand beach around the hotel’s gator pond became a blanket of snow creeping to the water’s edge. The azure sky dulled to gray through the frosted filter. The palm trees… well, there’s no explaining their presence so I just pretended they weren’t there. Hey, what did you expect? This is as good as it gets folks. If you want high-minded literature, you’re reading the wrong blog.

I left the pit, energized (yeah, right), ready to embrace the world of writing, but first there was the Nora speech. We gathered in a ballroom roughly the size of a football field to consume chicken parts that didn’t resemble any chickens I’ve ever seen, and to hear Her Royal Highness of Romance shower magical words of wisdom on us. I snagged a table somewhere around the fifty yard line with a decent view of the end zone. The remaining chairs filled quickly with first timers, all fresh faced and excited. As this was my second conference I was positively smug, after all, I had twice as much experience as anyone at the table.

Nora took the end zone stage. If you score 6 figures every time you cross the line into the end zone, then she’s crossed it more times than anyone, and owns the zone. We can’t help but be a bit green eyed, but we hang on every word. Not just me and the newbies, but everyone in the cavernous room. By the time she wraps up her speech we all feel as if we too can win the publishing lottery. Nora has told us it is so. We have been enlightened. We have seen that even the great one has struggled, not recently, but once upon a time, long, long ago, and so there is hope for us. As if through a magic glass I can see the future. I too stand in the end zone spouting words of wisdom for eager and envious dreamers.

Okay, so the crystal ball is a bit fogged up. What can I say? Soon I’ll be back at home and trekking to the Pocono Pit where the windows aren’t frosted and there is nothing remotely fantastical about the burger joint across the street. This magical interlude will be nothing but a memory then. Let me have my dreams, they keep me going.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Big Questions

2010-07-11T18:05:00.001-07:00

On a recent trip to the home improvement store to pick up some pool supplies, I couldn’t help but notice my Cashier had removed her natural eyebrows and replaced them with two amazingly symmetrical thin black lines. Placed well above where they should have been; they were remarkably well done, if not comical. I had to wonder if there is a template one uses to do this sort of thing as I couldn’t draw one line that well on a piece of paper, let alone two mirror image ones on my face, and do it on a daily basis. I suppose they could have been tattoos, but they really did appear to be surface lines. Before you condemn me for being an insensitive lout, no, she didn’t suffer from some hair loss malady, and even if she did, there are other ways, more natural ways, to replace missing eyebrows.

As she scanned my purchases and completed the sale, I wondered what made her think wax pencil eyebrows were a good idea. Did someone, presumably a friend, tell her it looked good? Did she see this in a fashion magazine?

I’ve asked myself the- what was I thinking- question a time or two. There were guitar lessons when I was a tweeny. They lasted about a month before, with shredded fingers; I had to admit I have no rhythm and apparently can’t count to eight. There was the time I rode on the handlebars of my brother’s bicycle, telling him when and where to turn while he powered us through the streets- with his eyes closed. We ended up in a ditch along with a few broken soda bottles, lucky to be alive. Apparently, in addition to my lack of counting skills, I can’t distinguish between left and right. I bought a Chevette once. I don’t think I need to elaborate on that one.

Ever since I signed up for the pit I’ve asked myself the big question on a daily basis. Sometimes I ask it several times a day along with the toddler’s favorite question – why? Why do I put myself through the torture – and yes, after almost 9 months it is still torture. I know there are people out there who report a feeling akin to a drug induced high when they push their bodies via exercise. I am not one of those people. My rhythm lacking, directionally challenged body apparently has never seen an endorphin. The only things I feel while exercising are pain, exhaustion, and shortness of breath. The overwhelming feeling I get when I cease to punish myself is relief. No buzz, no high, unless you count the dizziness associated with the sudden increase of oxygen flow to my brain. I have to admit that’s a pretty good feeling.

Every morning I have to invent a new reason to get out of bed and drive to the pit. I’ve bribed myself with rewards both monetary and edible. I’ve promised myself lazy days in the future, shopping trips, and dinners out. The one thing that most compels me to get out of the house is the promise of a day or two when I don’t have to go. It works something like this. If I go Monday thru Friday I can have Saturday and Sunday off. If I skip a day during the week, I have to make it up on the weekend. This isn’t unlike going to school, or a day job, only there isn’t a pay check and my report card is that I my jeans still fit.

The pit is on the honor system. No one is going to call my house looking for me if I don’t show up. This is ostensibly because I am an adult, and of course the pit gets their money whether I show up or not, so what do they care if my jeans don’t fit. It’s up to me to motivate myself and to come up with the answers to the questions. I’ve got several answers for the why. Most of them have to do with extending my years on this celestial orb, though when I’m sucking in oxygen and trying to make my noodle legs hold me up I have to wonder if the extra years are worth the effort. As for the -what was I thinking- question. I’m still thinking about that one.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Friends and Asses

2010-06-19T08:43:00.001-07:00

It’s been nearly two weeks since the treadmill threw me into a ditch, figuratively speaking. Most of you know by now that I don’t actually use a treadmill except on those rare occasions when I seek out the one downstairs. For those occasions I plead temporary insanity.

When I found myself at the bottom of the ditch I was momentarily stunned, but jumped into action making plans and going forth to do what had to be done. At one point I looked up and there spread along the rim of the ditch stood an army of friends and family with outstretched hands. Thanks to them I clawed my way out and once again stand on high ground. What those special people did for me cannot be quantified. The pulled me up, dusted me off, and stood by me until I could stand again on my own. In essence, they put me back on the figurative treadmill.

Now it’s up to me to get back to my regular routines, including the pit which is of course a kind of ditch all its own. After a week of Stress (yes, with a capital s), travel, erratic eating, and no pit, I feel like I’m back at the beginning. Intellectually I know it’s not true. I’ve come a long way from where I began, but a few minutes into my usual routine (The Whoop Ass one) I realized it just wasn’t going to happen. I backed off. My Lazy Ass, that’s the one I’ve been trying to get rid of, urged me to stop all together and go home. My Stubborn Ass argued that the only way to get back to where I’d been was to put the classic Caddie in reverse and backtrack a ways.

Stubborn Ass went on to say that perhaps I could get out the map and try a different road to get back to where I had been. Lazy Ass screamed in my ear that I really didn’t want to do this anyway (she had a point) so why not park the Caddie under a shade tree for a while. I stood there a few minutes trying to decide which ass to listen to (an all too frequent dilemma). That’s when Smart Ass spoke up. She set me straight. First she told Lazy Ass to take a hike (she needed one anyway), then she told Stubborn Ass that going backwards never got anyone anywhere they wanted to be and there wasn’t anything wrong with the road I was on.

Smart Ass went on to tell me that a few days of reduced activity at the pit was better than no activity at all and in a few days the Caddie would be running smooth again on all cylinders. She was right of course. It’s been a few days since the Asses argued. I’ve gone back to my routine, backing off a little here and there but sticking to the same basic regime. It worked before so I have no reason to think it won’t work again. Each day has been a little easier than the one before and I’m confident I’ll be opening another can of Whoop Ass soon.

Thanks to all the friends and family whose hands I greedily clutched over the last few weeks. I bent a few ears and wet a few shoulders too and never heard a complaint. Thanks for pulling me out of the ditch and getting me back on the treadmill. My heart is full and with the help of Smart Ass I hope it will continue to beat strong and true for many years to come.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Some Cans Should Remain Unopened

2010-06-01T15:25:00.000-07:00

Have you ever opened a can of Whoop Ass? On yourself?

I have to confess. For the last few weeks I’ve been coasting. Yeah, I’ve been going to the pit everyday minus the road trip days, and those have been way too many of late. By coasting, I mean I haven’t pushed myself to do more. I’ve been content with the status quo. Same number of reps here, same program there. Maybe a little dew falling, but not too much. Shave a few reps off to save time (as if I have something better to do), skip that machine because I don’t want to wait for the guy in jeans to finish doing his thing. Coasting. I’d put the Classic Caddie in neutral and hadn’t even noticed.

After another extended road trip complete with a no holds barred food fest I knew I had to change things. I’d become too complacent and laziness beckoned. I could see it, hovering there, calling my name. I’d become bored with my workout. I had mastered the art of just getting by. Sure, my state of laziness now is light years away from my pre-pit days. I patted myself on the back. Yep, at least I put my transmission in gear, all be it a low gear. Today I decided it was time to shift gears.

Instead of the fat burner program on the ¾ rack, and in honor of last weekend’s road trip to the summit of Mt. Washington, I selected the hills program and in so doing opened a big ‘ole can of Whoop Ass. I made it up the first hill, congratulated myself on the accomplishment and started up the second one with more confidence than was warranted. My lungs struggled to suck oxygen out of the thinned air atop the imaginary mountain. My legs protested the climb. I hung onto the walking sticks with white knuckles. Why…? My brain screamed at me. Because you have too much junk in the trunk, I answered myself.

I longed to pull over and empty the trunk, but I knew the only way to lighten the load was to keep pushing it up the hills. One by one I climbed them; each one a bigger challenge than the one before. Jerry Lee Lewis sang about great thighs of fire. I knew exactly what he was talking about. At the bottom of each hill I coasted, sucking in as much oxygen rich air as I could, preparing for the next mini-mountain. They came. They went. I trudged onward, determined to reach the summit and plant my victory flag.

Minutes crept by. As I approached each hill I argued with my body.

You can do it.

No I can’t.

Yes you can.

Half an hour later I reached the summit and planted my dew soaked flag. I’d opened the can of Whoop Ass and survived.

A year ago I purchased a can of seasoned turnip greens. They’ve been on the pantry shelf ever since. I’ve picked up that can countless times, given it a once over and set it aside. As a Southern woman I’ve eaten my share of fresh turnip greens and never found them particularly appetizing. What made me think a tin can would improve them I can’t say, but there it sits, waiting to be opened.

I took a chance today opening the can of Whoop Ass. I’m glad I did. I’m glad I pushed myself toward a higher goal. It feels good to once again be working for something and I’m looking forward to heading back to the pit tomorrow and giving those hills another try. Maybe I’ll even add a few reps to the resistance weights. The can of turnip greens will remain on the shelf, a reminder that some cans should remain unopened. I think I’ll pick up a fresh can of Whoop Ass though, just in case boredom rears its ugly head again. Next time I won’t be afraid to open it.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Fashionista

2010-05-17T16:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve never claimed to be a fashionista. Consider that a disclaimer for the rest of this piece. The pit is no place for fashion, no matter what the L.A. crowd thinks, but still there are a few fashion no-no’s even someone as clueless as me can recognize. For example, suspenders. Not just any suspenders but –if I drop a lead brick in my britches they will not fall down-suspenders. I do love suspenders on a hot guy wearing a crisp dress shirt and trousers, or with a tuxedo. I can’t help but think about what a creative woman could do with those thin strips of elastic and a willing, or not so willing, man. Of course even those suspenders shouldn’t be worn to the pit. (I personally wouldn’t mind however.) From a safety standpoint I’m not sure any kind of suspender is a good idea, especially the heavy duty, I could slingshot to the moon with these suckers, kind. Thus I confess I was a tad bit worried about the C+20 wearing his white t-shirt, sans-a-belt slacks w/NASA approved rocket propulsion suspenders, and Velcro sneakers. He started out on the lounge chair bike which gave me no cause to worry except I did look around for the defibrillator just in case. (Once a girl scout, always a girl scout.) I didn’t truly worry until he took to the weight resistance machines. What if one of those things got caught? Mr. C+20 could be orbiting before anyone could stop him. Maybe I’m a worry wart, but it made me nervous and truly ruined my pit experience that day. I hope he doesn’t come back anytime soon, at least while I’m there. I might take a crash course in defibrillator use, but I am not yanking some old dude out of the ceiling tiles.

Fashion no-no number 2 – Denim. First there was the C+5 guy with the denim shorts and denim biker jacket with torn out sleeves. We aren’t talking denim cut-off shorts or even trendy hang off your skinny ass, my crotch is halfway to my knees, shorts. We’re talking twenty years out of fashion denim shorts… with a leather belt. It would have been a good Halloween get up, but seeing as how it was a cold day in April I don’t think he was in costume. I admired his black socks and sneakers too. They added a lot to the look, but didn’t make it any more appropriate for the pit. Next came the C wearing jeans, long sleeved shirt and work boots. Oh yeah, I can’t forget the leather belt thick enough to double as a tow rope for an eighteen wheeler stuck in a Mississippi swamp. It’s true you don’t have to invest in expensive workout clothes to walk on a treadmill every now and then, but my fat thighs hurt just watching this guy. He didn’t come back the next day so I figured he learned first-hand what happens when you rub two sticks together.

Fashion no-no number 3 – Knits. I’m not sure why anyone would want to exercise with a knit cap on their head, but several times a week this C-20 woman comes in wearing one and never takes it off. I don’t guess there is anything wrong with it, but I have to wonder what the thought process behind this is. In L.A. do-rags are popular for the bro’s but the women tend more toward fashion headbands than knit caps. This however is nothing compared to the woman wearing the cable knit sweater and stretch pants. It was a perfectly lovely sweater. As a matter of fact I have one almost exactly like it. It is not, repeat, NOT, workout wear. Granted, it was cold outside, but the heat was on inside and once I got the classic Caddie warmed up I was wishing they would turn the heat down some. How this woman ran on the treadmill and made a circuit of the resistance machines dressed like Nanook of the North I have no idea.

Fashion no-no number 4 – Improper footwear. If your shoes have leather laces, steel toes, or are sold at places like Tractor Supply and Army Surplus then they are not designed for the pit. If your shoes lace up past your ankles, they are not designed for the pit. If you could patch your all-terrain tire with the sole of your shoes, they are not designed for the pit. Not that I really care. How these people choose to abuse their feet doesn’t affect me unless they have a blow out on the rack or treadmill and a flying piece of rubber hits me upside the head. I’m just sayin’ maybe these people should rethink their footwear choices before someone gets hurt.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Classic Caddie

2010-04-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

My 1956 Caddie is a classic, but after several days of travel and way too much fun, the ole girl was feeling her age. I have to admit I’d neglected her care. Regional culinary specialties seduced me and being the weakling I am, I let them. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret a single bite. How can you regret indulging when faced with some of the best Tex-mex and barbeque on the planet? Passing it up wasn’t an option. As it turns out, pushing the ole girl to the limit day after day and night after night proved to be my downfall. Surrounded by faces from the past my brain made the connection and spent the weekend telling the Caddie she was still a teenager. The Caddie did her best to keep up.

I returned to the pit ready to put the Caddie through her paces. I hoisted her onto the ¾ rack and programmed the torture device for a half hour drive. The Caddie’s wheels spun. Her shock absorbers protested every bump and pothole. Instead of a well oiled machine I found myself at the wheel of a rusted out wreck. Five minutes into the drive the Caddie groaned and made for the shoulder. I knew she had more in her so I sucked more air through the intake manifold. The ole girl revved up a notch.

We came up on the second hill and the junk in the trunk threatened to drag the Caddie back down. The timer said twenty minutes to go. I shifted into low gear and shoved the junk up and over the hill. We coasted down the other side. I turned on the air conditioner (the onboard fan) and reveled at the sensation of riding with the top down. I knew the worst was yet to come. I’ve traveled this road several times. There are more hills to traverse, higher and longer than the first ones.

Fifteen minutes in – the halfway point- and the Caddie began to overheat. We came to a flat spot in the road and I poured some cold water into the radiator. She responded immediately and I thought we just might make it to our destination. Another hill, the mother of all hills loomed on the horizon. I poured more water in and tucked the junk in the trunk in tighter. My hands gripped the steering wheel like a vise. I coaxed the ole girl up the grade. Halfway up the Caddie began to lurch. I needed to do something drastic or we were going to end up grill first in the ditch.

I punched the accelerator. The fuel injectors opened wide. The intake manifold sucked oxygen out of the air. The Caddie fired on all cylinders at once catapulting us to the top of the hill. She shuddered and backfired. I eased up on the pedal, shifted into neutral, and let her coast downhill. I wiped dew off the windshield and poured more water into the radiator.

The ole girl purred. For a while there I feared my vintage Caddie had turned into a Ford (Fix or Repair Daily – or Found on the Road Dead) while I was out of town. The ride home was smooth. The ole girl preened the whole way. She had every right to be proud. She’d been in the garage way too long but true to her classic status she’d performed admirably. I patted her on her well padded seat and promised not to neglect her again.

Going Home

2010-04-27T19:46:00.000-07:00

I’m usually a pretty mellow traveler. Post 9-11 I have developed a degree of patience in regard to airports and air travel. I’m a firm believer in security so I don’t much care what they want me to do to prove I’m harmless, short of complete public nudity. I will say this; if it comes to that I will rethink my current approach to the security line dilemma. If I’m given a choice I opt for the line with the most business travelers. You know the ones – briefcase and small roll on bag. They travel often and know the ropes. They are quick and efficient going through the line. I avoid families with young children, people unlikely to speak English (if this is politically incorrect then sue me), old people in wheelchairs or who have to sit down to remove their Velcro shoes. Other than these criteria I usually don’t pay my fellow travelers much notice. I will change my thinking on this if strip searching becomes a routine thing. I’ll still avoid the list as much as possible, but I will be scanning the various lines and maneuvering to the one with the best possible scenery, if you get my meaning. If the TSA is going to provide a show I want the best one for my time.

Like I said, there isn’t much that really ruffles me as a traveler. Delays happen. Planes break down. Weather refuses to cooperate. There are as many excuses as there are delays, none of which I can do a darn thing about, so for the most part I find a comfy spot, read, write, eat, people watch, whatever to pass the time. I’ll eventually get where I’m going, no need stressing about things I can’t change. Mostly my fellow travelers amuse me. Going to the airport to people watch is about the most fun you can have and every airport has its own unique brand of traveler. Some are full of business travelers. Some are mostly families wearing mouse ears. Some are international hubs with an energy all their own. I can spend a lot of time observing.

Yesterday I had no reason to be overly anxious. My flights were reasonably on time. (By this I mean I wasn’t going to have to sleep in an airport). I was flying two short routes in smaller planes. The weather wasn’t a deal breaking issue. (reference the sleeping in airports again). All things considered I was a pretty happy traveler when I boarded the plane in Memphis for the final leg of my trip home. The small, two rubber band, plane filled quickly. The seat next to me was still open when the traveler from hell came on board. She dropped her computer bag in the aisle seat next to me and proceeded to push, shove, flatten, remove, rearrange, crunch and mangle the belongings of her fellow passengers. I watched with trepidation as she wreaked havoc on three overhead compartments in order to make room for her roll aboard case.

A bad feeling took hold. My be-atch radar began to twitch. She flopped her designer jeaned ass in the seat next to me, stuffed her Trump embossed computer case under the seat and began poking her finger at her iPhone. By now I’d been in my seat for a good fifteen minutes. My seat belt was fastened. I had my iPod and Kindle within easy reach. I switched on the Kindle as it looked like we still had a while before they closed the doors and I would have to turn it off. (This is the one thing I dislike about ebooks. Can’t read them during takeoff and landing.)

Click…click….click….click….click….click….click. Remember the sound of ivory dominoes? My seat mate is playing some tile game on her phone. Click…click….click….click…click.

By the time the flight attendant barked out orders to turn off ALL electronic equipment my skin was itching. My foot was twitching. My jaw was locked. Click…click…click….click…click…. The flight attendant walked by and her screen went black. He stopped long enough to remind her to fasten her seatbelt. She did. I silently wished it would wrap around her neck and strangle her. The flight attendant moved on, the tile game resumed. Click…click…click…click…

Captain Crunch came on the speaker to inform us of the low ceiling in Newark which would delay our departure some 45 minutes. We taxied out to the tarmac to wait it out. Click…click…click…click…click… A few months ago I spent three hours on the tarmac waiting to be deiced. I was calm through the whole thing. Click…click…click…click…click…. Captain Crunch came on again to bless the use of cell phones while we waited on the tarmac. I developed a twitch in my right cheek. Click…click…click…click…click…

I took the Captain’s blessing to include iPods. I tuned in, turned the volume to maximum auditory damage and still, click…click…click….click…click… I turned on the Kindle, including this in the blessed items as well. Click…click…click…click….click….

I envisioned snatching the offending electronic device and crushing in my bare hands until its silicon parts were no more than sand again. Click…click…click…click…click…

At last the flight attendant issued the order to turn off ALL electronic equipment. The plane taxied toward the runway. Click….click…click…click…click…

Using the most polite voice I could muster under the circumstances I asked, “Could you turn that off? I don’t want to take any chances during takeoff.” Be-atch shot laser beams at me. I prepared to take her down for the sake of the other passengers.

“Just so you know, it’s on airplane mode, but I’m turning it off anyway.” No love lost between us. The plane turned onto the runway, the rubber bands wound tight and off we went. I breathed a sigh of relief, only two short hours to home. Click…click…click…click…click… Well shit.

I read. I twitched. I squirmed. I’m pretty sure the people ten rows back could hear the music from my earphones. Click…click…click…click….click…

From my little oval window I cursed the full moon. I should have known better than fly on a full moon. Three rows ahead of me was first class. Two short curtains hung in front of the coach seats doing nothing to prevent the insane cattle from seeing the dozen or so favored cattle on the other side. Click…click….click….click…click…

The flight attendant offered me a soft drink. My hand shook as I took it from his hands hovering somewhere above the be-atches lap. One slip and the evil little device would be soaked in diet cola. Too late to order the sticky, sugary stuff. Click…click…click…click…click…

There’s a curtain for the aisle between royalty and the commoners. It’s twisted and wrapped into a sort of obscene textile sculpture. Click…click…click…click…click…

I’m entertaining ways to disable my seatmate using only the contents of my purse and computer bag when much to my relief she turns the damned game off and snuggles under the two blankets she removed from the overhead in order to make room for her bag. I could be nice and turn off my overhead light or turn down the volume on my headphones, but every shred of generosity and kindness toward my fellow travelers has been wrung completely out of me.

Eventually we descend into the cloud cover. Goodbye moon. The bad news is- we can’t see Newark. Not a good thing when both rubber bands are nearly spun out. The good news is- we can’t see Newark. The plane drops lower. Newark lies below us like a rusted hulk. The be-atch wakes. We’re on final approach. I’m prepared to spring into action if she fires up that game again. If I’m going to crash it isn’t going to be in Newark because of the be-atch and her clicking.

The wheels screech against wet concrete. I breathe a sigh of relief. Click…click…click…click…click… I resist the urge to pummel her and the mini monster in her hands. We’re on the ground. Surely I can stand a few more minutes.

Captain Crunch reports in. We’ll be parking here for a few minutes while we wait for the ground crew to get to the gate. From my portal I can see our gate. The jet way waits off to one side for us to park. No ground crew. No one. Nada. Zip. Click…click…click…click…click…click…

If I’d been seated in an exit row I would have popped the door and slid down the inflatable slide right then. I did consider climbing over be-atch and storming the door. How far could it be to the ground from a two rubber band plane anyway?

Click…click…click…click…click…

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Six Days on the Road

2010-04-16T09:42:00.001-07:00

I started out on this road trip intending to be home on the fourth day, a whirlwind trip down south to see Daughter #2, then home and back to my usual routine. As with all good intentions, they are subject to change. A phone call from Daughter #1 a few hours after I’d hit the road extended my trip by two days and over six hundred miles. Not that I’m complaining, but I’d packed enough clothes for three days with a few incidentals and accidentals. Those are the clothes you take in case the weather dude was wrong, you end up eating someplace where the food doesn’t come in a paper wrapper, and of course some clothes to wear to the hotel pit.

I’ve been trying really hard to eat well and make it to the pit six out of seven days each week so I knew the trip wasn’t going to be easy. Sitting on your ass for hours a day behind your only heavy lifting consisting of a sweaty fast food paper cup does not make for healthy living. I have a new respect for long haul truck drivers. I honestly don’t know how they do it. It’s a wonder more people aren’t killed on the nation’s freeways each year by truck drivers whose hearts give out from the kind of food they eat every day.

Truly, I have no excuse for eating like a truck driver. My vehicle is of a standard size and I can pull into any parking lot, anywhere so my eating choices are greatly expanded. It was my decision to either take advantage of this freedom and eat as well as one can reasonably expect to do on the road, or chuck it all and enjoy myself. I decided on a modified approach to the problem, after all I was well south of the Mason-Dixon Line where food is serious business.

Day one wasn’t so bad. I managed to eat reasonably well. I declined the French fries with my chicken wrap and opted for the unsweetened iced tea. Of course the waitress looked at me like I was an alien from another planet. I was a conundrum and clearly she was confused. I spoke with a Texas accent, acceptable in this part of the country, but I ordered like a Yankee. That’s when I got the phone call. Perhaps I should have gotten the sweet tea after all, because I clearly wasn’t thinking straight when I agreed to extend my trip and drive even deeper into the South on a recon mission.

The further South I went the worse my decisions became. Let me just say that I don’t think anyone can travel through the Southern United States and not succumb to the food there. I found myself eating in places called Biscuitville and Kountry Kookin. I couldn’t pass a Cracker Barrel without drooling. I decided early on that I would limit my intake of artery paste (they call this gravy in the South) to once a day. This is not easy to do. Everything on the menu comes with artery paste on it, or at the very least offered on the side. You get used to words like smothered, drizzled, and topped. These are code words meaning there is a sauce involved. Everything has one of these words in the description. Asking to have something plain is a tip off that you aren’t from around there and suddenly you notice everyone is giving your table a wide berth. Everyone in the restaurant eyes you as if they’re afraid you may infect them with your Yankee-ism.

Frying is an art form in the South. Everything on the menu can be ordered fried. This includes vegetables and dessert. Some things proudly declare this in the name as in Chicken Fried Steak and Fried Tomatoes. Other things are more subtle, okra for example. I don’t think this green vegetable can be found north of Mason-Dixon, but is a staple in any good southern kitchen. Being a southerner myself I know there are only three ways to serve okra, pickled, stewed in gumbo, or fried, but southern menus only list okra. It’s not until you see it piled on your plate that you understand they were referring to fried okra on the menu.

On the fourth day I made the error of asking simply for tea. Here you don’t have to specify iced, it’s assumed and unless you specify otherwise you will receive sweet tea. I realized my mistake as soon as the waiter delivered the half gallon glass and there was no little box of sweetener packets on the table. I took a sip which confirmed my suspicions. I had long since decided that I didn’t want misery for company on the remainder of my trip, so I drank the syrupy brew. There’s nothing quite like the combination of caffeine and corn syrup (yep, this is what makes sweet tea sweet) to get your motor running.

It was downhill (pardon the pun) from then on. I gave in to temptation. I ordered fried stuff, smothered stuff and gave up my quest to eat healthy. I reasoned that when I returned home I would resume my low fat, low sugar, no artery paste lifestyle so what would be the harm in indulging my taste buds for a few days. By day six there wasn’t a trucker on the road with more cholesterol in his blood than me. With just one more road meal ahead of me I swung my four wheeler into the parking lot of a burger joint. Up until then I’d avoided the national chains. I had eaten one burger, but it was grilled at the ball field and I’d turned down the potato chips and washed it down with a diet cola. I was due a fast food orgy.

The smell of grease and charred meat filled the air. It was intoxicating. I lost my head. My numb backside pushed for the salad menu, but I remembered a news segment about the hidden calories in fast food salads, so I gave in and ordered the cheeseburger and fries. Yep, fries. The counter lady asked me what kind of drink (they filled them for you). I eyed the tank of sweet tea. In a rare moment of sanity I ordered a diet cola, not that it was going to make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, but it eased my conscience.

Salt is cheap. It must be because it is used liberally at that place. I was revved on fat and salt and caffeine so I ordered a cup of frozen chocolate dairy product to go and headed for the freeway. I was less than two short hours from home and fueled up. With sweaty paper fast food cup in hand I put the pedal to the metal, so to speak and headed north.

As I wove in and out of the line of eighteen wheelers I shoveled spoonfuls of cold chocolate soft serve into my mouth. I cranked up the radio to hear what was now my theme song. I breezed like silver lightning around another truck grinding his way up the next hill while I sang…. Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight.

Diamond Dust

2010-04-13T16:51:00.000-07:00

Next weekend when our youngest steps into the Batter’s Box for the last time it will mark the end of our families eighteen year association with Fastpitch Softball. Our oldest began playing when she was nine and her younger sister followed in her footsteps at the tender age of four and a half. She wore pink knee socks for her first game and fittingly, at age twenty-one will wear pink knee socks in her last game. Over the years the girls have played on many teams, some good ones and some not so good. We traveled the country to see them play on Competitive Travel teams, High School and College teams. As this chapter of our family life draws to a close I can’t help but think about what, if anything, the girls learned from so many hours spent on the softball diamond. In the following team and teammates may be read as co-workers, friends, or family, whatever suits you.

Hopefully they learned a few life lessons (in no particular order) such as:

v You don’t have to like everyone on your team, but you do have to learn to get along with them. Not everyone in life is going to be your friend, however, you can’t always quit, expect them to change, or fire them, and therefore you need to learn to work with them for the good of the team.

v Sometimes you have to take extraordinary measures to reach your goal. It may be necessary for you to dive for a catch or slide into a base. This is your decision, based on how badly you want to achieve your goal for yourself or your team.

v Sometimes you may be the sacrifice so someone else can get a step closer to their goal. This is where you must learn to put your personal goals aside in order to let someone else have their moment in the sun. Yeah, swinging for the center field fence is more fun and more glamorous, but a bunt that dies a foot in front of the plate may be what is best for everyone concerned. Putting your own glory aside may be the right thing to do.

v Every pitch is another opportunity. Not everything that comes your way is going to be worth the effort of swinging the bat. You will have to make the decision. Is it too far out for you? Is it beneath you? Is it too high for you to reach or close enough you have to cut your losses and run or get hit? Maybe it’s just right for you, waist high and over the middle of the plate. Do you swing at it with everything you’ve got or stand there and watch it pass you by?

v Sometimes your best isn’t good enough. If you gave it your all and still the score wasn’t in your favor, then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you didn’t give it your all, then you have no one to blame for the outcome but yourself.

v A graceful loser is a winner. Hold your head up and congratulate the winner. They played a better game than you did, that’s all.

v Sometimes the winner isn’t the team with the highest score. How you react to winning is more important than actually winning. If your opponents played to the best of their ability then respecting their efforts will cost you nothing and in no way diminishes your accomplishment.

v One word of praise will do more for your team mate than a ball bucket full of criticism. I need not elaborate on this.

v You can’t do everything yourself. This is why there are nine players on the field at one time. You need to learn to rely on them and work with them to achieve your common goal.

v Sometimes you may not be the best person for the job. You may have to sit on the bench while someone else takes center stage. Being a big enough person to accept that and cheer on the other person is a difficult thing to do.

v There’s no place like home (plate). It’s good to know that when your foot touches home there will be people there to welcome you. Your teammates want you to come home as often as you can.

v The decision won’t always be the one you wanted. As in life, often someone else is deciding things for you. You may not like the call, and you may need to go through the proper channels to appeal the decision, but in the end, whatever the outcome, sometimes you just have to accept the call and move on.

v The final outcome never comes down to just one play. Over the course of seven innings lots of things happen to affect the final outcome of the game. Everyone remembers the last thing that happened, but the end result is an accumulation of all the previous plays, good and bad.

v When you catch the ball, squeeze your glove shut and hold on tight. When an opportunity comes your way and you are lucky enough to catch it, hang on tight so it doesn’t slip away.

v No matter where you are on the field, when the batter hits the ball you have a job to do. Don’t let your team down. Know where the play is, and anticipate the future so you will be ready to react when the time comes. You can’t always predict what will happen, but if you are paying attention to the signs and signals you can anticipate and react faster and more efficiently.

v Keep your eye on the ball. If you don’t know where the ball is, you aren’t playing the game and you’re likely to be hit upside the head. Being blindsided is never a good thing.

v Bruises are battle scars. If you’re playing to win you might get hurt. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again.

v Know your opponent. Do your research, especially if you’re the pitcher. Know the batters strengths and weaknesses.

v Learn as many pitches as you can. The more things you can do, the better your chances of winning. Be versatile, adapt to the situation. If one pitch isn’t working, try a different one until you find the one that will achieve the desired outcome and never, ever, throw one over the center of the plate.

v When you hit the ball, turn your eyes toward your goal and run like there’s a bear chasing you. Good advice in any endeavor. Don’t look back, just run until you are forced to stop.

v Once you make the decision to throw the ball or swing the bat, put your whole body behind the effort. If it’s worth doing, then don’t do it halfway.

v Sometimes you have to stand and watch the ball go over the fence. Every so often something happens and there is nothing you can do to change the outcome. It’s cliché, but change the things you can and accept the things you can’t change.

v Sometimes you hit a foul ball. Not everything we try turns out the way we want it to. Forget it and try again.

v Sometimes you strike out. There will be another ‘at bat’, if not today, then soon. Do what you can to be ready for it.

v A walk is as good as a hit. If you can make it to your goal by your powers of astute observation rather than by taking aggressive action, then good for you! The run across home plate that started with a walk counts the same as the one that started with a hit.

v Sometimes you drop the ball. Hopefully your teammates will be there to back you up. That’s what they’re for.

v Listen to your coach. Coaches come in all kinds of packages and in every stage of our lives. They are there to guide and support us along the way. If we have chosen them well then their advice and counsel will be invaluable to our success.

In the end, when your foot lands on home plate that final time and the diamond dust has settled, if you can say, “I played the game to the best of my ability and I have no regrets,” then your teammates will be at the dugout door to welcome you home with open arms.

Thanks girls for eighteen years of fun.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Primate Exhibit

2010-04-05T07:47:00.001-07:00

The other day at the pit I was trying to push my vintage Cadillac just a little further on the ¾ rack, rocking out to Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild, and trying to ignore the family across the street in the minivan stuffing their faces with greasy burgers and fries. The street between the pit and the fast food place isn’t all that busy usually, but on occasion traffic will backup from the traffic signal as far as the pit. This was one of those times.

I was seriously thinking of chucking the whole workout in favor of a jog ( a big move for me because as noted previously – I don’t run, that includes jogging) across the street to pick up another spare tire and some junk for my trunk when I noticed the couple in the Bubba truck stopped between me and the object of my obsession. Movement in the cab drew my attention away from the promise of marginally cooked mystery meat to the occupants of said Bubba truck.

RayBob pointed a gnarled finger in my general direction. His mouth moved. “Lookie thar BobbieRae. That’s one of them orange e tangs.”

BobbieRae leaned forward and craned her steel wool topped head to see what RayBob was talking about. “Well I’ll be. I didn’t know we had a zoo.”

At that point I had no doubt I resembled an orangutan at the San Diego Zoo. The dew was falling pretty good and heaven only knew what my hair was doing. I looked around for something to throw at the glass like any self respecting primate. The only thing handy was my water bottle and I needed that, so I considered a few bird like hand gestures instead. I quickly dismissed that option as conduct unbefitting a southern bred woman and instead wiggled my fingers in a friendly manner.

“Well don’t that beat all BobbieRae; they done went and trained that one.”

“How did they learn that poor dumb animal to do that?”

“I seen it on the tell-e-vision. They give ‘em a treat ever time they do something right.”

Pavlov had nothing on me. Dangle a doughnut in front of me and I’d do just about anything. In fact, after failing to locate the secret donut stash at a former pit I didn’t want to make the same mistake at this one, so when I signed up I asked the kid at the front desk where they hid the doughnuts. He looked me over and said, “We don’t have a secret doughnut stash, Ma’am.” His vocabulary choices told me I was old, his perusal told me I didn’t have any business eating more doughnuts. Certain there weren’t any pastries to be had I’d turned my attentions and conditioned responses to the burger joint across the street. I wiped a spot of drool off my chin as the woman in the minivan took another giant bite of greasy burger and popped a starch stick in her mouth.

“We should bring the chillum back. They’d like the zoo.”

“Maybe next week BobbieRae. We got to get over to the dump before all the good stuff is gone.”

I waved goodbye and good riddance to my new friends when the light changed. Maybe they’ll bring the chillum back next week. I’ll have to learn some new tricks before they do.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Battle of the Dollar Menus

2010-03-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

It’s the war of the dollar menus. I just noticed today – okay, so I’m a little slow- that the burger joint across the street has large window cling signs advertising their dollar menu and the pit has their version of the dollar menu up in their window, the grand opening, join for a dollar sign. From the looks of things, the burger joint is winning. There’s a steady flow of vehicles through their parking lot and drive through, while this Monday morning it’s me and one other slightly insane person at the pit. As Elvis sang Jailhouse Rock I heard the bars clank shut behind me and I began to wonder if I’d made the right choice with my dollar.

Of course, there’s nothing quite like spending a half hour or more on the half rack while contemplating a giant photo of a hamburger, to motivate you. The view from the cardio machines includes a busy street, a large discount store, and the aforementioned burger joint. Not much to look at, giant burger photo aside.

I love a good burger, which is part of the reason I now have to spend so much time at the pit, and that picture is tempting. Fantasizing about the burger isn’t going to help me any, but I can’t help myself. I can almost taste its flame broiled goodness as I shuffle my feet to the beat pounding through my headset. Yeah, I can have one. I’d only have to ride this devil’s machine for another hour or two to work it off. Of course I’d want the fries too, so make that three or four hours. That pretty much killed my desire for the burger in the pretty picture.

Twice, a few decades ago, I birthed a couple of beautiful daughters. My body hasn’t been the same since. Not that I’m complaining, I’m just saying things are different. Things spread out. Things shift. Things that were once nice and tight are no longer. (Get your mind out of the gutter; I’m talking about abdominal muscles here) Then along came the long awaited, much anticipated, liberating menopause, and along with it, more changes. Fat from those burgers and fries used to go one place and now it goes someplace different and is refusing to budge.

In an effort to evict this unwanted fat I’ve taken to using the weight resistance machines at the pit. I’m thinking if the fat won’t go away maybe I can at least tone the muscles underneath and do a better job of sucking it in. I know, that’s a lousy cop out, but it’s a motivating one.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that the only living thing that should have bat wings is a bat. I really don’t want to worry about slapping myself silly if I raise my arms above my head. I want to wear a sleeveless blouse and not worry about the wind catching my sails and dragging me off course. I want to hail a cab in NYC and not slap some tourist in the face. This is another of those motivating images.

I’ve become rather fond of the gut crunching machines. They’re much more fun than doing sit ups on the hard floor and it’s become sort of a game to switch the pin and twist the knob and see how far I can push those weights, and myself. I’m taking it slow- a few repetitions then a break, then a few more. I concentrate on the machines that promise to work the core muscles, abdominals and back, and the arms of course. I don’t want to look like a lumberjack, but that possibility is so far in the future I can’t even see it.

As I attempted to shove my 1956 Cadillac uphill one more time, the burger across the street looked better and better. I dug my heels in and shoved as hard as I could as the Cadillac threatened to flatten me on the downhill side. I sucked it up and gave the land yacht a heave ho and back up the hill it went. I had visions of a spectacular crash at the bottom of the hill. I decided then that burger wasn’t worth the buck, the pain, or the humiliation of having to call a tow truck to haul my classic chassis to the repair shop when the carburetor fails or the fuel line becomes too clogged to function. I eased the Cadillac down the hill and parked it safely at the curb. In the battle of the dollar menus I think I made the right choice. I shoved it into gear again and tootled on home to a nice chicken salad.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Rakes and Tasty Cakes

2010-03-22T17:05:00.000-07:00

Today was day one at the new pit. Yep, another new one. This one is in Pennsylvania. No kidding. It’s actually just over the river and through the woods from my Western New Jersey home. There isn’t a lot of commerce in my neck of the woods, just a truck stop and the highway robbery version of the golden arches so I usually cross the river (the same one Washington crossed) to do my shopping and such.

Much to my delight a new pit began operation a few weeks ago across the parking lot from my favorite discount department store. This is more than convenient since even in dew soaked workout clothes I’m probably better dressed than most of the other shoppers there. You know the web site devoted to covert photos of shoppers seen at the big box store? I think most of those were taken at this location. No kidding. So, back to my story… This new pit calls itself an express pit. It’s small with only a dozen or so cardio machines, about the same number of resistance machines and a small free weight area. No body builders need apply.

The place was crowded today. My arrival brought the total of peeps working out to five. My fellow torture enthusiasts were all C’s give or take a year or two. A couple were on the lounge chair bikes and the others were contemplating the breakfast croissants at the BK across the street while sauntering along on the treadmills. I glanced at the place wistfully too before I came to my senses. All the cardio machines have their own mini televisions, but I much prefer my own audio mix so I plugged in and tuned out on a ¾ rack.

Thought #1 – Kriminy this is work!

Thought #2 – Don’t I need to be someplace else about right now?

Thought #3 - I think our ancestors had the right idea. They didn’t worry so much about gaining weight. The life they lived was much different than ours. Sugar and meat were luxuries, not necessities. I’m not saying I think we should go back to chopping wood, washing clothes in a pot or a river, growing and raising our own food. I’m just saying, they might have been on to something. Machines do much of our work for us now freeing us to sit long hours interacting with yet more machines to the point we have invented machines to help us exercise off the weight we’ve gained as a result of all this ‘progress’.

The last few days I’ve come to appreciate good old fashioned hand tools as a fitness regime. After a day and a half of raking leaves with a human powered – that would be me- lawn rake, I can tell you there isn’t a machine in the pit that can do what that one simple tool can do for you. Every muscle in my body has been put to the test and I can say – failed. One by one my muscles revolted. Not being one to give up easily I worked through the pain and managed to relocate most of the leaves, but not before I gained a healthy respect for that four letter word – work.

Thought #4 – So what the heck am I doing here? Since it’s raining outside the answer is rather obvious, but I did try to rationalize my way out the door before I finished the half hour pre-programmed whoop a** I’d chosen. I’m sure I won’t get here every day, but I’m going to give it a good try. As much as I dislike moving my body around this much I have to admit I never would have been able to relocate all those leaves in such a short period of time if I hadn’t been torturing myself so often over the last few months. I had hoped the climb up our driveway would be easier too, but I tried it and it’s still a killer of a hill. Nothing short of moving the house to the bottom will change that, so I guess I better stick with the pit a while longer.

I finished the whooping, thanks to a little old fashioned rock and roll, and staggered to my cubby. No lockers here, just cubbies. Just like being in Kindergarten again. I gave a thought to trying out one of the fancy resistance machines then I remembered the one in the garage, and the side yard still covered in leaves, and decided I’d let the old fashioned lawn rake give me another workout when the rain stops. I’ll save the fancy machines for days when I’ve nothing better to do than sit on the deck and watch the raptors searching for a meal. Maybe I should try plugging into my music while I rake leaves. On second thought – no. I’m afraid a bear might think I resemble a Tasty Cake, so I’ll just listen to the sounds of the forest. Better a chicken than a Tasty Cake.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Spring Break

2010-03-17T12:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken to the road for a week and as usual I’ve been looking for excuses to skip my workouts. My hotel boasted a fitness center on its website, and true enough it has one. What they didn’t say was it’s the size of my closet back home and has exactly three cardio machines- a treadmill, an ½ rack, and a lounge chair bike. I can make do, but it’s tempting to use the modest size as an excuse. Believe me; I’ve thought of more excuses than there are gators in Florida. Some were legitimate, some not so much. I did deserve a break after a cross country trip that along with the beginning of daylight savings time took four of my twenty-four hours away, but that was the only one that had a chance of keeping me from the pit.

I started out my first day with a biscuit smothered in artery paste and a glass of orange juice that everyone knows is the antidote for cholesterol, so I really didn’t need to go to the pit. Lunch was a modest salad I followed up with a bag of peanut M&M’s. Everyone knows peanuts are a good source of protein, so I had nothing to feel bad about there.

Rationalization is something I do very well, but alas, I sucked it up and went to the mini pit. Luckily my fellow transients aren’t much into physical fitness and I had the closet to myself. This had a few unexpected advantages. I cranked the air conditioning down to arctic blast and selected what I wanted to watch on the television. No arguing, no wishing I could change the channel. I was in complete control. I considered locking the door from the inside just in case someone else was into self inflicted torture, but I stuffed the remote control out of sight instead.

In a sorry attempt to make the room look twice its size some moron covered one whole wall with floor to ceiling mirrors. Only a decorator who’s never seen the inside of a pit would do an asinine thing like that. No one wants to see what they look like while they’re working out, especially me. I understand certain dance type classes benefit from mirrors so participants can see and emulate the instructor, but this is a closet. There’s hardly enough room to walk around the machines much less do any sort of dance or yoga moves. So there I was, dewing all over the place, trying to concentrate on a good soap opera but the scary reflection in the mirror kept drawing me back. Egads! There was the breakfast biscuit, the bag of peanuts and a whole host of other dietary indiscretions staring me in the face. It was a kind of scared straight moment. I vowed then and there to give up my wicked ways and eat nothing but lettuce and broccoli from then on.

A half hour later I crawled back to my room, changed into a clean tent and picked up Daughter #2. Of course she was hungry. This little town doesn’t have much to choose from in the way of lettuce and broccoli laden menus so we chose a Mexican restaurant. My cheese enchiladas came with a pile of shredded lettuce with a dollop of salsa on top which I shoved to the side of the plate. It was still there when the nice busboy took it away. My resolve lasted a whole four hours, maybe less. I guess I need to go back to the mini-pit and take another look. Maybe I should put a big mirror in front of me at the table so I could watch myself eat. Perhaps then I’d have more willpower. I’ll be home in a few days and looking for a new pit. Maybe I should look for one with mirrored walls. Or not.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day One hundred seven

2010-03-10T13:25:00.000-08:00

We went to the CCPit yesterday. There’s nothing unusual about that and mostly nothing exciting about it either so I selected a rack, cranked the music up to blast away the pain level, programmed the onboard computer to the cross country setting and glided off. This program mimics flat roads, hills and dales that you are supposed to imagine in all their spring glory as you trudge along. My imagination isn’t that good. I did pretty well for the first few minutes, imagining…, well…., nothing. I was too busy checking out all the different televisions suspended from the ceiling in front of me. What can I say? I’m easily distracted and it’s a good thing too. Without the distraction I would have to notice the nasty pain in my thighs and the fact that my toes were going numb.

A talking head on one screen was telling me about the latest congressional scandal. I didn’t catch all of it as it’s hard to read the scrolling captions and not fall off the rack, but I did catch something about the lack of shower curtains and towels in the congressional gym. I’m an advocate of proper towel use in public places so I was taken aback when the female talking head said women don’t have to worry about that sort of thing. Au contraire mes amis. Have I not harped on this enough? Apparently not since there is an epidemic of inadequate towel usage, even at the highest, or lowest, levels of the pit world. If that female news reader doesn’t think women have a similar problem she should come by the CCPit on Tuesday morning just as the water aerobics class is letting out. I’m sure she would be lobbying congress for stimulus money to buy extra large towels for every pit locker room, male and female- as soon as she stumbled blindly out of the place. A towel in every Pit!! Or something like that.

While I pondered the towel problem I noticed a C and her personal trainer down in the strength training area. He put her on the thigh master machine and walked away leaving her to tone those thighs for a while. The talking heads went from the missing congressional towels to alligator wrestling, and I tuned back in. Seems the sport is gaining in popularity in Florida where I can only suppose there is an surplus of big, really stupid people, and someone thought this would be a good way to thin them out. They even have rules and everything. I’m not sure the alligators play by the rules, but the people are supposed to whether their leathery opponents do or not. I didn’t catch all the rules, but I’m pretty sure rule #1 is – Don’t go in the water with the alligator. This one is usually posted on the fence surrounding the amphibian enclosure and the best wrestlers are the ones who can’t read and thus miss this most important rule. Since alligator wrestlers can’t be expected to read words more than five letters in length, the word alligator is accompanied by a picture too, but still this sport exists.

The C on the thigh master was still there, gradually working those thigh muscles, waiting for her trainer to remember where she was and tell her to stop, either that or she’s hoping to become an alligator wrestler. On screen the Bubba demonstrated his technique- lull the gator into a sense of security, straddle it, hold on like a bronc rider and hope the damned slimy creature doesn’t grab some dangling part of your body, roll you under the water, hold you there until you drown, and then have you for lunch. I can see how strong thighs would be an asset in gator wrestling. A brain would be a better one.

All this time I was slogging through virtual swamps, dragging my reluctant body up those damned hills and dales with great balls of mud on my shoes. At one point I even thought I could hear the mud sucking at my feet, but then I realized it was just me – breathing. If a gator had been after me at that point I couldn’t have outrun it. My thighs were quivering masses and in no shape to wrestle anything or anyone. I fought my way out of a bog and up another slippery hill. Just as I thought I might make it out of the swamp alive a hippopotamus sat on my machine and my feet ground to a halt. Darned swamp animals.

Today we ventured over to the VPit which will be closing later this week for a two week overhaul and expansion. The place is all ready enormous, but in a few weeks will be (so they tell me) the largest Pit in California. Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? In addition to the growth spurt they will be getting all new equipment, and lots of it. This is good news for the people who go there to actually torture themselves as it’s difficult to find a weight machine that doesn’t have a Bro or two hanging off of it comparing Bro truck notes, tattoo’s, or calling their agent to see why they haven’t been offered any auditions lately.

I set myself up on the stair stepper thing-a-ma-bob, you know the one, there aren’t any actual moving steps, just foot paddles so it’s like climbing in place with concrete blocks around your ankles. The spokes-model on the one next to me thinks she’s so cool stepping that fast. I set mine to the ‘kill the old woman’ setting and step it up. Willow the spokes-model is taking shallow little steps at breakneck speed. I’m bottoming out on nearly every step, which is similar to climbing stairs three at a time, and clawing my way back to the top with each step only to be plunged back down the stairwell again. Once I made it back to the top and it let me stay there for a while to catch my breath (like that was going to happen, my breath had run off long ago and I wasn’t going to catch it) I thought about reaching over and pushing a few buttons on Willow’s machine just to see if she could keep up on my setting.

I was really considering doing it until I noticed plumber guy on one of the lounge chair bikes. My mood improved accordingly and I forgot about shallow Willow and our race to the top of the skyscraper. I was winning anyway and she knew it. There’s nothing like the view from the top to inspire, so once I made it the fifty floors I’d set as my goal I headed over to a half rack for some more torture. I chose wisely so I would still have a good view of plumber guy. I took a few deep breaths, selected a good song to get me moving and climbed aboard. Another few seconds and the computer was programmed to ‘kill her in small increments’ and that’s when I looked up and HE WAS GONE. I knew I should have gone over there and tossed one of those people over the rail so I could have a bike next to him, but my Southern upbringing told me that wasn’t nice. So there I was, intermittently killing myself and my inspiration was gone.

To say I was devastated may go too far, but I was certainly irritated. I’m taking this show on the road next week and this was my last chance to get a good look at plumber guy for a while. I spent the next twenty minutes letting the machine kick my booty and doing a pretty good job of it figuratively too. Oh well. Next week I’m going to be in Astronaut –ville and you can bet I’ll be on the lookout for something, or someone, out of this world. Maybe I’ll even find a real life alligator wrestler. Stay tuned.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ninety-nine

2010-03-02T13:46:00.000-08:00

I’ve got a few disjointed thoughts today in regard to the pit. I could probably write an entire blog on just one of these, but I’m lazy so you’re going to get the condensed version today. So here they are in no particular order.

Thought #1 – Today must have been ‘show your ink day’ at the pit. I’ve never seen so much body art in one room as I did today. At first I thought the C-25 on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy had on a long sleeved shirt, but on closer inspection I saw that it was a ‘sleeve’ tattoo and a brightly inked one at that. I didn’t get close enough to see what else she had inked. Let’s just say I wondered why a pretty young thing would want to cover up perfectly good skin with ink that won’t wash off. The weight room was full of guys showing off their tats, most of which I wished they would cover up. There is always the exception to the rule and I found it on one of the machines. I don’t think he heard me chanting ‘take it off’ from where I was up in the aerobics crow’s nest because he kept the wife beater on. The shirt allowed just enough to peek out that I wanted to see more – whether more was inked or not. So my mind is bouncing around faster than my feet and inspired by some of the ink around me I start thinking. I know this is a dangerous thing to do when your brain is oxygen deprived, but I did it anyway. Call me curious, but what happens if say you get a size C body part inked and then somewhere down the line the body part becomes a size A? The body part has shrunk or shriveled, so how does that dragon look then? Can you still tell it’s a dragon?

Thought #2 - I recently read an article that said C’s who workout regularly have better long and short term memory than those who don’t. The article attributed larger hippocampi for this increased memory power. I don’t know so much about this. If it’s true, why can I still see my hippobutti but I can’t find my car in the parking lot? Just saying.

Thought #3 – As Daughter #1 and I arrived at the pit we stepped aside to let a young mother exit. She had an 18month old balanced on her hip and a three year old future beauty queen by the hand. Both children had red swollen eyes and tears streaming down their cheeks. As they passed us by we heard the mother say to the whining child beside her, “I know what the other kids said, but you are a princess.” We both smiled and laughed through our workouts. This I have declared is my new motto, the one I will pull out when the rejection letters and emails come in and the bullies of the world are at my door. Now if I could just find my tiara.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ninety-three

2010-02-24T14:22:00.000-08:00

I thought that photo would drag you in to read this! I’ll explain later…

I’ve been at this workout thing now for three whole months! Who’d a thought it? In celebration we have moved to a new pit. I can’t say I regret leaving the other pit, but I am sorry I never found the doughnut stash at the old one. I’m sure they had one. All those women coming in the front door and never being seen again had to be going somewhere. I think the secret was in the yoga mats. I should have gotten one for myself. I bet they would have ushered me straight to the doughnuts if I’d been carrying one.

For the last few days Daughter #1 and I have been going to the CCPit. There’s not a lot happening there, in fact it’s a pretty boring place. Of course there was the C+20 women doing the fun noodle crawl in the pool and their husbands hanging out (figuratively – I hope) in the hot tub. I had to do a mental check on that one to make sure I was in California and not Florida. If ever I had contemplated taking the water aerobics class that sight changed my thinking. Won’t be doing that. I staked out my little bit of territory on a rack on the second floor overlooking the weight machines. I programmed the computer to the ‘kill me in small increments’ setting and got busy.

It was heartening to see the firefighters nearby. Our old pit had some that were regulars, but they were off duty. These guys were on duty. How do I know that? Well, the big red truck in the parking lot was telling, and the walkie-talkies stashed in the cup holders clenched the deal. Between them and the portable defibrillator on the wall downstairs I thought it would be safe to proceed. At least I did until I spied the red velvet cupcake riding the lounge chair bike. Well, it wasn’t really a cupcake, but there was a woman wearing a red velour sweat suit with an icing pink t-shirt. Perhaps she reminded me of a cupcake because my favorite place to buy a red velvet cupcake has closed- a victim of these economic times. Maybe I should have bought a few more cupcakes when it was open.

Oh yeah, I bought more than I should have or I wouldn’t have been at the pit to begin with.

As promised in a previous blog, Daughter #1 and I decided to visit the VPit for a little entertainment. There is nothing dull about the VPit. So this morning we hauled ourselves over there and were rewarded for our efforts. Mid-morning the place was hopping. Nearly every aerobic machine was occupied, many by people actually using them! We were able to secure a couple in the front row so we had a good view of the weight room and where the weight room occupants didn’t have so good a view of our backsides.

A good number of Bro’s were there today. I should have paid more attention to the parking lot and its contingent of lifted trucks, but I didn’t and here we were, surrounded by guys with shaved heads, more art etched into their skin than is on the walls of the Louvre, and of course, wearing the requisite wife beater. They’re posing at the various machines for the benefit of the women on the mezzanine – me included- and doing….(drum roll)…..absolutely nothing.

The Bro’s weren’t the only show in town today. I was particularly intrigued by the mom and daughter pair on the exercise balls. Daughter lounged on the big red one, mom on the half sphere. I pedaled my lounge chair bike halfway to Hollywood while they carried on a conversation and did…. absolutely nothing. Daughter eventually changed her pose to a sitting position which must have gotten mom’s approval because she remained there for a good twenty minutes doing….absolutely nothing. Is there a market out there for young women who can perch on rubber balls for long periods of time? Forget I asked that question.

You would think that rubber ball girl would catch the attention of at least one Bro, but alas, they were all trolling for the same thing – to be discovered. Back in the day wanna-be’s hung out at the soda fountain hoping to be discovered. Today it’s the VPit. Good luck with that. Hope it works out for you.

Then there were Barbie and Ken carrying on a conversation on the bench next to the above mentioned posers. Barbie was in the same general area the last time we visited the VPit only that time she actually had to get near a piece of weight equipment before she garnered any male attention. She invested a good twenty minutes in today’s conversation with Ken. I hope she at least got a date out of it, if not an audition. Maybe the next time I see her it will be on the big screen. Call me a cynic, but I suspect the next time I see her she’ll be on that bench again.

I have to admit most of my attention was on the guy at the ab cruncher. He bore a striking resemblance to a certain actor who plays a plumber on a well known Sunday evening show. Yep, that’s the one. I knew you could figure it out. I’d hoped for some inspiring eye candy at the pit and I wasn’t disappointed. It could have been him. I’ve heard he lives in the area and has been seen doing real people stuff like coaching his son’s baseball team. The truth is, I don’t care if it’s him or not. This guy’s the best thing I’ve seen in the pit in three months and famous or not, I was enjoying the view.

Once the eye candy departed the ab cruncher I pretty much lost interest in the rest of the crowd. He was a hard act to follow and the rest of them just weren’t in his league. I did take note of the time. Guess where I’ll be in exactly one week? Who needs a secret doughnut stash when there’s eye candy in the pit?

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Eighty-seven

2010-02-18T19:15:00.001-08:00

Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been at this workout thing for almost three months and today I found out you are only supposed to pose on the equipment, not actually use it! Now that I’ve figured this out I may have to rethink my whole approach to this fitness thing. This epiphany came today shortly after Daughter #1 and I arrived at the new pit. Our new pit has two locations in our little valley. Yesterday we went to one, and today thought we would give the other a try.

In order to lessen confusion I guess I’ll have to designate these locations CCPit and VPit. Anyone familiar with our little valley will figure this coding out easily, but I’m not inclined to change it. I’m not really into protecting their privacy so if you’ve figured out the code, keep it to yourself.

So yesterday we went to CCPit where the clientele, minus the homeless guy (I think I mentioned him once upon a time), resembles the peeps at our previous – to remain anonymous, open twenty four hours a day- pit. There is a pretty good cross section of society here. Neither one of us felt out of place among the fellow self torturers. Everyone was doing their own thing. Most were diligently applying themselves to the use of the equipment, paying little attention to the rest of us.

We trudged upstairs to the cardio, as in cardiac arrest, floor where they keep the assorted racks, treadmills and lounge chair bikes. The assumption is – if you can make it up the stairs you are fit enough to use the machines. I made it all the way to the top and selected a half rack on the back row and programmed the onboard computer to ‘kill me now’. Midway through the workout it occurs to me that there isn’t a wall behind me. The open railing behind me affords anyone down below a more than adequate view of my backside. I’m not sure why this bothers me today, as at our previous pit the machines were so close together that my a** was no more than fifteen feet from the person behind me. At least here I’m a whole floor above these people who should be lifting those weights anyway. I can’t help but wonder what the guy at the bench pressing station can see.

I resolved to choose the front row tomorrow. It won’t insure no one will be peering at my backside, but at least it will be a finite number. I can live with that.

So this morning we decided to try out VPit. Now that we have a choice we thought it would be a good idea to know what our options were. We’d heard the VPit tended to be crowded and lines to use the equipment were not unusual. Since we go about the same time everyday it was worth giving it a look. The parking lot was full, but once inside we saw that the MOP’s crowd was busy in the classes, leaving the rest of the place open for the DYI torture enthusiasts.

We made our way to the locker room, blessedly empty, then out to select our method of torture for the day. From my front row seat in the crow’s nest I have a pretty good view of the weight machines below, and the wanna be starlets populating the area. There’s more artificial intelligence down there than I’ve ever seen in one place before and all of it is prominently displayed. Some have dropped a few coins on their flashy workout gear, but others must have tapped out the bank account purchasing their grade DD intelligence and are reduced to wearing only their undergarments.

A few clueless types (like me) are actually using the equipment, getting all dewey and winded, but most are practicing their spokes-model moves using the equipment for props. There are the solo posers, leaning this way and that. I can only suppose they are hoping to be discovered – by whom I don’t have a clue. None of the other C-25’s scattered around the place in little coed groups look the type to be offering employment. Apparently none of them have jobs of their own or they wouldn’t be hanging around the VPit in the middle of the morning.

Maybe they’re hoping one of these self absorbed people will offer to buy them some liquefied lawn from the juice bar in the corner. Yak and gag. I don’t care how hot that guy in the sleeveless t-shirt is sitting on the ab cruncher texting the collagen and Botox babe leaning on the thigh master – I’m not drinking something that my dog knows as the toilet.

Every few feet is another knot of steroid enhanced, M.D. sculpted, scantily clad, highlighted, radiation tanned, waxed, buffed and polished C-25’s. The body language is clear. I see you. Do you see my new artificial intelligence? I don’t have to hear them to know what they are saying. The conversation goes something like this:

George of the Jungle – Hey. I haven’t seen you here in a while. You’re lookin’ good.

Jessica Rabbit – I’ve been looking for work. (Translation – I went to two casting calls for extras.)

George – How’s that going?

Jessica – You know (hair flip), I haven’t found anything yet. A friend of a friend of my ex boyfriend got a call back for a part in a sit-com pilot and if she gets it I’m sure she’ll put in a good word for me.

George – Wow! Sounds like you’re doing good. You still live around here?

Jessica – Yeah (gum snap). I’m still at home. I’ve been saving up for my own place, but it’s hard. I’m still paying off my student loans for that semester I went to community college. Between that and my medical bills (draws shoulders back to draw attention to new artificial intelligence) I haven’t been able to save up enough for a deposit on an apartment. You know how expensive everything is here.

George – Yeah, tell me about it. I was going to move out last month. I had the place picked out and everything, but then I had to get my bro-truck lifted (see photo). Now it’s going to be a while before I save up enough. Nice tat, by the way.

Jessica – (Pulls spaghetti strap down, tilts head so hair shifts to opposite shoulder) Thanks, it’s new.

George – (Nods head in agreement) Cooool. (Turns slightly) I just got a new one too, see?

Jessica – Ni- ice. What about you? You working now?

George – Naw. I was a gopher for a reality show, but it was cancelled. I’ve just been laying back, you know, resting since then. I’m sure something will come up soon. (Adjust flat brim of his bro-cap).

Jessica – (Clearly ready to move on as this loser is not the sugar daddy she’s trolling for) Well, nice seeing you again.

George – Yeah. Ni-ice.

Daughter #1 and I head for the locker room. The classes have disgorged a horde of trophy wives who are busy remaking themselves before they go out in public. When your sole purpose in life is to look good it is unacceptable to walk out of the pit in dewey workout clothes, even ones with stylish names emblazoned across the butt. Most of these women are headed to the spa or the salon, or the nail place from here, then it’s on to the mall to shop the junior department at Macy’s. Hair dryers are buzzing, there’s enough makeup strewn across the counters to stock a good sized Sephora. Not a sports bra in sight. I knew I should have bought stock in Victoria’s Secret. What was I thinking?

Yep. I wish someone had told me this is how the beautiful people work out. I’ve been wasting my time getting all dewey and tired. There’s a whole other world out there. I’m coming here more often.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Olympic Style

2010-02-16T13:04:00.000-08:00

The thermostat at the pit is set on bake today despite the summer like temperature outside. One minute on the ¾ rack and the dew is falling harder than is really necessary but I’m determined to stick it out to the end of my programmed fat burner workout. I’ve cranked up the music and scanned the crowd for an interesting diversion to no avail. One of the national morning shows is on so I focus in on the flat screen television hanging in front of me. The world is abuzz with the Winter Olympics and it’s only a few minutes before the program switches to coverage of a downhill skiing event. I’m transported to another time and place….

High above the venue I’m poised on the brink. The tips of my skis point the way to greatness, but the path is not without danger. I am the best my country has to offer. I am good at what I do. I am the best. I am a champion. My heart tells me there is a disc of gold waiting for me at the end of this run. Everything within me knows this is true.

I close my eyes and listen to the roar of the crowd as one of my competitors completes the run setting the mark I must surpass. I need not strive for an Olympic or World Record, but only to complete the run a mere fraction of a second faster than the one before me. I can do it. I know I can. Eyes still closed I feel the cool, not cold air on my face. I see the run in my mind. I’ve been over it many times in training runs and qualifying heats and thousands of times over in my mind. I know every inch. I know about the block of ice along the first curve, the slush like quicksand that can suck you in and destroy your dreams along the inside of the third curve. In my mind’s eye I visualize every move I will make, every twist, every turn. My body responds and I can almost feel the ground under my skis and the wind on my face.

For days I’ve prayed for snow but Mother Nature has forsaken us. There is no fresh powder to cushion the run. I long for the feel of laying first tracks on a pristine run, but will settle for the hard packed base and alternating patches of ice and slush.

Electronic beeps signal the countdown. I draw in a deep, cleansing breath and savor the hint of pine and fir carried on the spring like air. A drop of sweat trickles down my spine, not from fear but a product of the warm weather. No matter. I have trained for this. My coach adds his voice to the electronic beeps. I open my eyes and focus on a point some distance away. That is where I must shift my weight into the first turn.

The final beep, good luck shouted to my back as I shove with all my might and propel myself over the edge and hopefully into history. Adrenaline flows through my veins, a drug like no other. I welcome the rush; savor the edge it will give me.

I see nothing but white ice and the blue lines painted underneath to mark my way. I do not need them; my body knows the way down the hill. I could do this run with my eyes closed. My skis cut into the ice on the first turn, my legs burn with the effort to control my descent. Man against nature. Physics, action and reaction, friction and heat. All my senses are tuned to the run. My skin registers the unwelcome warm temperature, a warning in itself. I hear the rasp of wood on ice, then the shush of softly frozen mush, like skiing through a pina colada. My eyes scout ahead to the next curve, the next soft spot, and the next patch of ice. I try to anticipate where a thin crust of ice could be hiding a patch of ice cold quicksand.

Seconds. Milliseconds. My inner clock ticks away, calculating by instinct. I’m doing well, possibly better than I’ve ever done in my life. At this rate the gold disc is mine, if I can keep it up.

In the blink of an eye my world shifts on its axis. A new sound, one every skier dreads, meets my ears. A heartbeat, a lifetime of training, a dream dies with the sound of cracking ice followed by the tell tale sound of slush sucking my ski into its bottomless pit. Another heartbeat and a spray of icy pellets sear my cheeks, or perhaps those are my frozen tears. After the unseasonable warm temperature above it’s like being dropped into an ice bath. My fevered skin protests, muscles scream against the change in program. No, not that way! My body fights the inevitable. There is a disconnect between brain and muscle.

My body slams into the solid block of ice clinging to the next curve and careens off into yet another wet trap. Everything in me, muscle, bone, thought, dream, desire, hope, screams in protest of this undignified end. At last I come to a complete stop. Seconds. The metal discs, all of them are beyond my reach. All I can do now is right myself and see it through to the end.

Flags wave and the crowd cheers as I limp across the finish line. Seconds. Minutes. Crushed dreams, but still I have lived the moment. I am an Olympian. I have given it my all and even though it wasn’t enough, I gave it with all my heart.

Tears stream down my cheeks. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of defeat. Tears of pride.

Not tears, dew. Sweat to everyone else. I glance down at the computer on the ¾ rack. Thirty seconds have passed, twenty-five and one half minutes to go on my fat burner workout. I can do this. I know I can. Everything in me knows I am a champion. For a moment I lived the dream.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Boca Raton Too

2010-02-10T14:50:00.000-08:00

Pretending to be idly rich and bored is boring. A cold has kept me from the hotel pit for a few days, but I’m feeling better and willing to give the place another try. Wearing my favorite workout gear I trek past the croquet lawn to the pit. I knew there were adults who play croquet, but I’d never really seen any until this week. Since I wasn’t up to the pit I spent some time sitting in a wicker chair watching grownups play croquet. I played croquet when I was a kid and I remember it being much livelier than what I have been watching. Back then the rules were – hit your ball, hit your opponents’ ball, hit your opponent if necessary. It was similar to miniature golf and moved along quickly.

I have no idea what the rules are to the adult version. All the players wear white. They carry their mallets in custom made canvas bags like a pool shark does his cue. They stand around the lawn leaning on their mallets, taking turns hitting their ball from wicket to wicket – I think. There are little flags on the wickets that they flip up and down, why I have no idea. Maybe if I didn’t drift off to sleep between moves, or shots, or whatever they call it I would know more, but the game resembles a constipated version of billiards played on a golf green and I’m hard pressed to stay awake. Maybe it’s the nighttime cold medicine I took by mistake, but still it would take a lot of caffeine to keep me awake for this.

My last trip to the hotel pit was rather uneventful but that didn’t keep me from passing on my observations to you. You can thank me later. Today the place is hopping, or rather moseying, as the average age here is C+25. Hubby and I are among the youngsters today, something that we haven’t been in a while. The same half rack I used the other day is available so I climb aboard and program the computer to burn some fat off. The lounge chair bikes are popular with the older crowd. There’s one guy with earphones on, the wires going to a device in his breast pocket (emphasis on the breast – I’ll get to that later). I’m wondering if he’s listening to music or his pacemaker. Could be either one. The woman on the end is wearing a diamond bracelet worth more than our entire net worth. Add in the ring on her finger and I’ll throw in our life insurance policies too. Her resort logo sweatshirt cost more than my entire workout wardrobe combined. I’ve been to the gift shop, I know.

Then there’s the guy at the stair step machine. You’ve seen these machines. They’re like climbing stairs, only you just have pedals to push. I’m pretty sure you have to actually put your feet on the pedals to derive any benefit from the machine. This dude has the television on, his water bottle in the rack and he’s standing in front of the machine reading his newspaper. After a while he folds the paper, gathers his stuff, and leaves. That was a good workout if I ever saw one.

This place only has one ‘real’ bike and Mr. Adidas (I’ve named him this because he’s dressed head to toe in the latest Adidas ‘look at me, I go to the gym’ attire) has claimed it today. This is his routine. No kidding. He hops on the bike, opens the Wall Street Journal (The default, left on your door newspaper here), pedals furiously for exactly one minute (yes, I timed it), folds his newspaper, wipes his brow with the towel draped over the handlebars, drinks a swig from his Fuji water bottle, gets off the bike, disappears into the weight room for four minutes, returns to bike to repeat the process. I spent half an hour on the half rack and his routine never varied. He was still at it when I left.

On the half rack next to me is a guy, a C, with a cell phone stuck to his ear, talking away. There is a sign on the mirrored wall about eight feet directly in front of us that says – Please be courteous to other guests - Do not talk on cell phones while on machines. I suppose he can’t read and I really don’t want to hear his conversation with his wife, or whatever she is. However, his voice overrides the music from my iPod and I am now privy to his travel plans, among other things.

I’ve had time to watch a little television since I’ve been here and one thing that stands out is the abundance of commercials for male breast reduction surgery. In SoCal we get plenty of plastic surgery ads. Most of them are female breast enlargement, teeth whitening and anything else that will help a woman land a gig as a trophy wife. I couldn’t account for the plethora of male breast reduction ads - until today. As I scanned the geriatric crowd around me I understood. ‘Nuf said.

This is a first class place and to prove it they have a complimentary beverage bar near the door. There’s coffee, tea, water, and I suspect, Geritol, for parched participants. What else would explain the crowd gathered around the counter? I’d be there too if Steve or Andre was over there, but I haven’t seen anyone I think could possibly be them. Hubby and I finish up around the same time and drop our plush, for our convenience towels, in the hamper and head out.

I need a nap. Time to go watch some croquet.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Boca Raton

2010-02-10T07:09:00.000-08:00

Trying to keep to a workout schedule while on the road is not easy. Adjusting to the coast to coast time change, travel fatigue, and a cold have slowed me down. Our first full day here in Florida we took a little road trip to Key Largo where we found a cute little seafood restaurant on the water for lunch and a well needed break from the rental car. Watching pelicans and listening to what was quaintly referred to as jazz was relaxing. We both ordered the coconut encrusted Mahi sandwich which was delicious, but not especially calorie friendly. Nothing we’ve had to eat since we arrived has been calorie friendly, but hey, it’s a vacation – sort of.

We got off to a late start on our road trip due to a bout of time change induced over sleeping. Translated that means if we’d been in California, we would have been up rather early for a Sunday, but on Florida time, we slept in. So, cutting short our original plan to drive all the way to Key West we returned to the hotel in the late afternoon and went to the hotel pit. They like to call it a Fitness Center, one of three scattered around the vast grounds. Lord knows, we needed to burn off a few calories.

You never know what to expect of a hotel pit, but somehow I knew this one would be up to my expectations and I wasn’t disappointed. Housed in a Spanish style building just past the manicured croquet lawn from our room, it is an imposing sight. There are two paths that will take us to this cleverly disguised den of torture. One is a Spanish tiled covered walkway lined with wicker chairs with bright cushions where sports enthusiasts can watch the action on the croquet lawn. The other is a raised wooden walkway skirting a giant Kapok tree with roots like giant spiked dragon tails reaching out in all directions. I’m not sure if the walkway is designed to protect the tree from humans, or the other way around. We actually had one of these in our yard in San Diego years ago and cut it down for fear of our children coming to harm from it.

Having navigated the grounds and made it to the pit I began to question my sanity. Why, I ask myself, am I doing this? I do not want to do this. I want to lie in my nice soft bed and just be still for a few hours. We’ve been on planes, trains and automobiles for the last two days, and the thought of movement, of any kind, is less than appealing. Hubby, oblivious to my inner debate, opened the door and ushered me in. Well damn. I was there and by lack of protest had consented to participate.

The place was surprisingly nice, if not a bit cramped. They have as many racks and treadmills as the pit back home, but alas, no high-rise stair thing-a-ma-jiggies. Being a Sunday afternoon the hotel was in transition. Many people were leaving, and a whole new crop were coming in, thus the low turnout at the pit. We had plenty of torture devices to choose from. Hubby opted for a run on a treadmill – need I remind you that I do not run – and I chose a half rack, identical to the one I habitually choose in my home pit.

There was little to see, less to comment on. There were a few people running and a few on the racks. None were doing anything unusual or appeared the least bit eccentric. What a bummer. Where were all the interesting people? Did we leave them all behind in L.A.? Perhaps they were at one of the other pits available to the hotel guests. Were we wrong to choose the one closest to our room? I must admit I was more than a little disappointed by this turn of events. The hotel is the kind of place where people sail up in their multimillion dollar yachts in November, dock them outside and check in for the winter. Breakfast for two is close to a hundred dollars. Was I expecting eccentric people? You bet.

Thanks to acres of mirrored walls I could see everyone in the place, including the ones in the adjacent weight room. Other than one C+5 woman in her designer label workout gear rolling around on the floor with a ball, there was little to comment on. I know, how can that be, you ask? I too was amazed. I was at least hoping for a hunk of a tennis instructor to come through the place, maybe even Steve or Andre, the guys listed as class instructors for the idly rich and bored. Perhaps I should sign up for one of their classes later in the week. I checked the list of available classes and decided against that scenario. Even though Steve and Andre may be wonders to behold, I can’t work up any enthusiasm for classes called Aerobic Burn, or Cardio Crunch and that begin around 7a.m., which my body still believes is 4a.m.. Apparently the idly rich and bored get up early. Who knew?

I did my time on the half rack, content that I’d done something besides sit on my back side and shovel food down my throat, which is what I plan to do for the next few days. Don’t judge me. I think there may be something to this idly rich thing and I’m willing to give it a try. If I get bored Steve and Andre will be there to help me through.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Sixty-six

2010-02-01T19:37:00.001-08:00

I’m flying solo at the pit today. Daughter #2 is still fighting off a cold, so I’m on my own. Lucky me, there’s a full rack open today. I haven’t tried a full rack since day #1 when Daughter #2 put me on one. I lasted about two minutes and never did get the thing going the way it is supposed to. Maybe it’s about time to give it another try.

I manage to climb aboard without ending up on my butt and after a false start or two I actually get the thing going. Feeling smug, I sign on for the fat burner workout. Okay. I’m nuts. I know it, but I figure I can quit at anytime provided I can figure out how to make this thing stop now that I’ve got it going. I’m near the front of the pit so I think I can flag down someone to help me if I need to.

There are a number of personal trainers and the resolutionists assigned to them just a few feet away. One woman is on her hands and knees doing the ‘pee on the fire hydrant’ maneuver while her personal trainer sits on a bouncy ball consulting her clipboard. Along comes a guy in a pair of red and black plaid flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. His baseball cap is on backwards and he’s doing some hand and foot moves reminiscent of Tai Chi without any of the concentration or muscle control associated with the exercise. I watch for a few minutes wondering who let him in. Eventually he moves on and I concentrate on not falling off as all four limbs move rhythmically (sort of) in different directions.

The onboard computer tells me I’m half way through my chosen torture routine when pajama guy comes back. There’s a lady on the floor doing some of those show your crotch exercises and pajama guy proceeds to mimic her actions. As he goes into some sort of break dance type routine without benefit of athleticism or rhythm I begin to wonder where his keeper is. The thought crosses my mind that perhaps there is a camera somewhere as this is Los Angeles and that kind of stuff happens here, but looking around as best I can without falling off I conclude he is alone.

Once again he wanders off and I’m left to complete the insane routine I’ve chosen. I make it over to the lounge chair bikes, thinking I’ve earned a sedate ride around the block. One of the treadmills in the front row becomes available and two women come to an agreement over who gets it next. The winner indicated she had been waiting for some time so I have to wonder why she’s just now getting around to stretching. It’s a good five minutes before she turns the thing on. In the meantime woman #2 has found another treadmill and has run a half mile.

Pajama guy is back. He’s now standing in front of the giant mirror doing all manner of moves that in no way resemble exercise (not that I know what exercise looks like). It appears he’s playing a game – How many stupid things can I do while looking in the mirror. Soon he moves on to the weight gizmo bolted to the floor in front of the mirrors.

I have no idea what this thing is called, but picture a crane with two booms. The booms are adjustable, but at present are raised high in the air. Pajama guy grabs the hand grips which are weighted and kind of dangles from them for a while. Eventually he pulls down on them and wraps them below his elbows and begins to twist and turn. Picture a child on a swing, twisting the chains in order to spin out, only these are weighted cables.

Now I’m wondering if anyone is paying any attention to what goes on in this place. If his hand slips this guy is going to hang himself. Even though I’ve finished my workout I continue to pedal and watch. Call me gruesome, but if he’s going to hang himself, I’m going to watch. Eventually this really big, very fit guy goes over and begins a conversation with pajama guy. It looks like a friendly enough conversation, for a while. After a minute or so it is clear that pajama guy is not happy. I have my headphones on but it's obvious pajama guy is yelling. His hands are flaying and he’s pointing a finger at the big guy and pacing around.

Eventually they move toward the front door and I pedal a little longer thinking the show is over. I pull off the headphones and head toward the locker room only to find the show is far from over. Pajama guy is facing off with the big guy at the front desk. I can’t make out anything the big guy is saying, his voice is still pitched to normal levels. However, pajama guy is showing no restraint. The gist is, he’ll leave the gym if he gets his money back. Throw in a liberal dose of four letter words and you get the idea. I head to the locker room to get my stuff. When I come out they’re still going at it, the big guy quietly trying to coax pajama guy to leave.

That’s my cue. I hustle out the door before the situation gets more interesting than it all ready is. No hidden cameras, or otherwise, have shown and I’m not hanging around to find out if there are any. On the drive home I remember Saturday night was the full moon. Not just any full moon, but the brightest and largest that will occur in 2010. I could explain about the elliptical orbit (fitting) of the moon and use terms such as apogee and perigee to explain how one full moon can be brighter and larger than another, but take my word for it, it’s possible. Maybe the full moon explains today’s observations. Maybe it’s time for me to look seriously at another pit.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Sixty-four

2010-01-30T12:07:00.000-08:00

You gotta love Saturday at the pit. The weekend brings out some interesting characters, me being one of them of course. I scored a half rack right off and thought it would be fun to try something different, so I scanned the list of preprogrammed workouts and decided on Crosstraining 1. I had no idea what this would entail, but I figured I could do it, at least for a while. I know where the stop button is and more importantly, I know how to use it. The problem with these computerized programs is that they ask all kinds of intrusive questions before deciding on how strenuous your torture session will be. I’m tempted to lie, but I’m not sure which way I should go with the lie. Should I tell the machine I’m younger and weigh less, or should I go the other way and tell it I’m older and fatter? Which would make for an easier workout? I have no idea and I’m not feeling that adventurous, so I punch in the truth, hoping no one can see over my shoulder.

The program starts out well enough. I’m doing a pretty good job of keeping up so I check out my fellow torture enthusiasts. Hubby is on a treadmill and next to him is this little dude who I can’t figure out. He has the machine on some variable speed program and he’s doing well enough on the slower times, but as soon as the belt speeds up he hops off and stands at the end watching it spin away without him on it. Once he even walked away, to where I have no idea, and left the thing running. I thought perhaps he’d given up, but he left his cell phone and water bottle so I figured he’d be back. Sure enough, back he comes and hops on when the belt slows down. Odd behavior, to be sure.

I’ve got the hang of this new program, or so I think. I glance down at the computer and it flashes me a message – Pedal Backwards, it says. Are you freakin’ kidding me? Yep, that’s what my brain flashes back at it, but I come to a stop and reverse my foot shuffle. This takes some getting used to. My suck, tuck, relax philosophy doesn’t work going this direction. I’ve got to shift my center of gravity, or I’m going to be on my keister on the concrete floor post haste. It takes me a few minutes to figure out I should suck, push out and lean in, but give me credit, I figured it out and remained upright. Another few minutes and I’m an old pro at pedaling backwards. Back to looking around.

I can’t help but notice the C +5 on a treadmill in the front row. He’s wearing his sunglasses, a less than effective disguise, a brand new charcoal gray WalMart sweatsuit and new silver and blue sneakers. He’s still got on his gold ID bracelet, not a medical variety, and he’s listening to something on an iPod. I’m pretty sure he’s listening to the audio version of the NYT Bestseller, How to Get in Shape in Thirty Days without Breaking a Sweat. A desert tortoise could out run this guy. In contrast, the guy next to him is walking circles around him and carrying on a conference call at the same time. Now I’m all for the resolutionists getting in shape, but I have to wonder what this guy is doing. It’s a beautiful morning out there. If you’re going to stroll along at that pace why not do it outside and enjoy the fresh air and mother nature? Why come to the pit where the air is NOT fresh and your scenery (from the front row) is a parking lot. I don’t get it.

My computer tells me to shift back to forward motion and I take a few seconds to figure out how to do that. Not bad, I tell myself. I can do this. This isn’t near as bad as the fat burner program. I’m back to looking around for inspiration and my eyes land on a guy over in the free weights who appears to be contemplating the sanity of bench pressing the 180 pounds of donuts he’s loaded onto the bar. I’m skeptical. This dude doesn’t look like he can do it and he doesn’t have anyone there to catch this thing if he can’t. I’m grateful there are a number of firefighters in the place. I’m sure they will know what to do if he drops that bar on his chest, or his neck. The guy wheezes through two reps and manages to get the bar back on the rack. He’s laying there probably having a coronary when he jumps up and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. He presses the phone to his ear and walks off. He’s a lucky guy, saved from having to try again by a phone call.

The computer says I’m done. I agree. I head for the lounge chair bikes and spend another twenty minutes climbing random hills at a leisurely pace. I’ve survived another interesting day at the pit and burned off a few M&M’s. I’ve resisted the urge to eat donuts all week. Maybe I’ll have one tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Sixty

2010-01-26T11:50:00.001-08:00

I want a doughnut. I would settle for a donut. What’s the difference? Very little I suspect. The latter is the phonetic spelling of doughnut, a compound word that is descriptive of the delectable little darlings. The phonetic spelling is helpful for those who flunked phonics in first grade and find it hard to distinguish which sound to choose the complicated vowel combination ‘ou’ should make. Since dough is made with flour, it is an understandable problem. However, my first grade teacher, Mrs. Adams, was a skilled teacher and I have no trouble choosing which sound to assign the pesky vowel combination.

What has this to do with the pit? Nothing. I’m about midway through my fat burner program on the half rack and the dew is falling pretty good. I think the perky girls at the front desk are cold and have turned the heat up even though the place is packed to the rafters this morning. The body heat alone would be enough. Someone is going to have to mop up later today and I assure you, it won’t be me. Anyway, I can’t help but notice that even the free weights are over run with people today. Every piece of equipment is occupied. Not that these people are doing anything. Every once in a while someone will do a push-push, a pull-pull, a lift-lift, and then they sit around looking at all the other guys who are sitting around trying to look macho. Occasionally one of them will roll their shoulders or rub a muscle. “Yeah, I’m tough. Look at me. I lifted that fifty pound doughnut…”

Perhaps this is the source of my sudden doughnut craving. The free weights do resemble doughnuts, in a Picasso sort of way. I still haven’t located the secret doughnut stash, but a few of these peeps look as if they know where to find a mouthful of cholesterol, so all hope is not lost.

Did I not just spend a week on a floating monument to gastronomical excess, you ask? Of course I did, but now that I think of it, the food service on the ship was lacking in one respect. Not once did I see a doughnut. Not that I was deprived, or exhibited any sort of restraint when it came to the food, but you would think they could have come up with a few doughnuts.

I will admit to a eating a few croissants and maybe a muffin or two, but those can be justified. Most breakfast type foods can be. Think about it. If you have a muffin you can always say it was high in fiber, or had some fruit or nuts in it. It was a healthy choice. Croissants, by virtue of their fancy name must be healthy. How can anything so light and lacking in substance be fattening? Stuff it with some fruit and you’ve just upped the nutritional value. Slap some bananas on top of your waffle and, voila, it’s now a healthy meal. Wash it down with a half gallon of orange juice, which we all know breaks down cholesterol and flushes it from your system, and you can tell your cardiologist you were a good girl on vacation.

You cannot justify a doughnut. There is nothing redeeming about the tasty treats. Doughnuts symbolize the spirit of vacationing. Vacation is all about pleasure. We derive pleasure from lots of things, eating being one of them. Sure, we could all exist on tasteless food pellets, but eating is one of the true pleasures in life and if you can’t indulge your taste buds when on vacation…, then when? So where were the doughnuts? I’m seriously thinking I need to send an addendum to our post-cruise satisfaction survey in order to point out this grievous oversight.

I can’t tell you the last time I had a doughnut. That is a sad state of affairs if I ever heard one.

Have you noticed that doughnut places don’t advertise? There is no need. Humans are born with the knowledge that doughnuts are good. Why do you think teething rings are shaped like that? Sure there are a few, well one, doughnut place that advertises, but they don’t advertise their doughnuts, or to be more accurate, donuts. They talk about their coffee and all the other stuff on the menu, but not the donuts. That’s because we all know donuts are good. We don’t have to be convinced, it’s something we are born knowing.

I think perhaps I’ve had enough for one day. I resolve to stop at the front desk on my way out and ask if tomorrow they could maybe turn the heat down and direct the ones who complain about it to the sauna, instead of all of us getting a steam bath. Maybe I’ll ask about the secret stash of doughnuts while I’m at it.

Thanks to all of you who have stuck it out with me thus far. This post marks two months of insanity and somewhere out there a doughnut is calling my name. Yes, I hear you. I’ll be right there!

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Fifty-eight

2010-01-23T11:12:00.000-08:00

When Daughter #2 was five she had a ballet teacher who constantly harped, “Suck in your tummy, tuck in your tush, and relax.” Daughter #2 hated her. Nearly two decades later I think perhaps the witch in the leotard may have been on to something.

The pit is crowded today with a mix of resolutionists and seasoned veterans of the workout world run indoors by the snowcapped mountains around our little valley. I’m one of the lucky ones and score a ¾ rack without waiting. My latest insanity is to program the fat burner routine into the computer and go for the ride. The machine lures you into a false sense of accomplishment with a few minutes of easy going strides and then jacks up the resistance from none to ball and chain and keeps you there until you are about to collapse before it really throws you. I mean this literally and figuratively.

I’m doing my best to keep up and wondering if the JPL in Pasadena has looked into this thing as a possible new source of rocket propulsion when the resistance level plummets. Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One….. Houston, we have lift-off.

I’m catapulted into space. The computer shows my gravity impeded RPM (reps per minute) at 125, 140, 155, 160 and finally levels off at an atmosphere free orbit of 170. I remember the ballet teacher’s mantra. I suck in my tummy, tuck in my tush and relax all my hinges, hoping to God I can hang on to the rocket.

I can see for miles and miles and miles, or maybe it’s a hallucination. I HOPE it’s a hallucination. There’s a marshmallow on a treadmill. He’s wearing a camouflage cap (which is not working because I can still see him) and sneakers he paid $100 for fifteen years ago when he told the hot chick in the office he ran five miles a day. Two months later she left and sued the company for sexual harassment and the he’s worn the shoes to walk the dog every day since. Five years later he joined the ill fated inaugural (and final) season of the company softball team which explains the faded yellow t-shirt and too short shorts that are bunching up between his spongy thighs. His hand moves toward his crotch. His legs bow, he reaches…..NO! DO NOT DO THAT!

Houston, we have a problem. Send the aircraft carrier for me. I’m done.

Whatever wild ride life takes you on today just remember – Suck in your tummy, tuck in your tush, relax, and hang on for the ride.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Fifty-six

2010-01-21T11:35:00.001-08:00

I’m back from Margaritaville folks. I was a good girl, limiting myself to only one of said frozen concoctions (see photo evidence). So what if it was a large one, it was only one, I swear. That’s me on the left accompanied by Daughter #1 and Daughter #2, both of legal age in all fifty states. I wanted to save my extraneous calories for more pleasurable things, like the chocolate buffet. I showed considerable restraint that night (see photo evidence). That tiny plate of food, coupled with three multi-course meals a day, plus snacks in between was all the entertainment a foody like me needed to be a happy sailor.

I know I should regret my excesses, but to be honest with you, I don’t. Not in the least. I had fun. I indulged. I over indulged. I gave myself permission to relax and enjoy, and because of that I had a wonderful week of real vacation time. There is nothing like guilt to put the kibosh on a good vacation.

Today is my first day back at the land lubber pit. A little stomach virus set me back a few days, but this morning I donned the stretch pants and rubber soled shoes and off I went. Not even the torrential rains could deter me this morning. I forded flooded roads and took my chances along saturated hillsides poised to slough off and block my passage. I was determined. I was intrepid. This is a gross exaggeration on my part, as it wasn’t really raining when I left the house, but in SoCal you just never know. It could happen.

A few thousand others were as determined as I and I searched the rows of equipment for one of my chosen methods of torture. Lucky me, there was one ¾ rack available. I turned on the iPod and took off on my Magic Carpet Ride scanning the pit for familiar faces. Being a rainy day there were plenty of the ‘keep the membership for days like this’ crowd, a bevy of MOP’s (Mom’s of PreSchoolers), Trance Lady, and a whole new crop of resolutionists. Not a firefighter or hunk in sight. Either I was too early for my usual crowd, or they knew better than to come on a day like this. As I shuffled my feet, more and more people arrived. The personal trainers were doing a booming business signing up new members. Oh goody. Not that I don’t want these peeps to get in shape, I do. I just want them to do it somewhere else.

I’ve got my machine and no one is taking it away from me. I ignore the line of impatient faces along the wall, watching the rows of machines, waiting for someone to either: A) Finish their workout, B) Feel guilty about hogging the machine and quit, or C) Collapse and thereby free up the machine for them. I had the feeling they didn’t really care which of these options netted them the desired result - an unoccupied machine.

I did as the music suggested and closed my eyes and let the sound take me away. Some minutes later the dew was falling harder than the rain outside, which had I admit, started to fall pretty good. I switched my grip from the swinging handle bars to the heart rate monitor. These are handy gadgets if you know how to use them. I understand it is beneficial to get your heart rate up and keep it there for a period of time. I equate this with revving your car engine every once in a while to clean out the gunk building up. Your heart and your engine will run better for the periodic maintenance.

I wrapped my fingers around the sensors and watched the screen for my results. Usually heart rate is measured in beats per minute, and expressed as a numerical value. Zero is bad. I know that much. I wait patiently for my score to appear. Instead of numbers I get fireworks. Little red dot matrix lights flash in starburst sequence. What does this mean, I ask myself? Did my heart explode? Have I won the jackpot? Have blood vessels in my retinas burst? I dart a glance over to the still long line of covetous would-be exercisers. Maybe one of them is going to get a machine sooner rather than later.

Alas, the little red dots settle into a pattern resembling a number. Granted, it is a number I’m pretty sure my heart shouldn’t be beating at, but it’s more reassuring than the starbursts. At least my heart is still beating. I flash a sinister grin at the waiting line. Not yet folks I silently tell them. I’m not done for yet.

By some miracle I’m able to complete my half hour fat burner workout. Thinking it might not be good to just stop cold turkey I head for the lounge chair bikes. I figure allowing my heart rate to come down to normal slowly is better than slamming on the brakes two feet in front of the intersection. I am a cautious driver after all.

Twenty minutes of a slow ride has my heart firing on all cylinders again and I head out. The promised rain is coming down now. Fear not, I made it home where I plan to stay for the remainder of the day. I worked off a bite or two of chocolate mousse today. I’m thinking it’s time for a nice cup of hot chocolate. Care to join me?

Many thanks to John Kay and Rushton Moreve for their lyrics.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill- at Sea

2010-01-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

Middle age white women should not wear corn rows. Especially if they have a mullet. This is day five of my seven day cruise and my second trip to the pit. My first trip was on day two when we were on our way to Honduras and Neptune was none too happy about us invading his playground. Seas were rough, seven to twelve foot swells, and walking was a challenge all its own. I promised my faithful readers I would make an appearance at the floating pit, so off I went with my good intentions and an open mind.

Since it was still early in our sea adventure lots of other folks had the same idea, so the pit was well populated. Most of these folks were the dedicated pit types with their well worn workout clothes and agenda. I was lucky to find a ¾ rack unoccupied. Hubby found the one treadmill open and we were set. When the balance and coordination genes were handed out I was at the end of the line and like the kid in the back row of the Kindergarten class who only drew pictures with the black crayon because it was all that was left in the box when it finally made its way to him, I, shall we say, got the vanilla crayon. I can barely walk and sip my margarita at the same time, much less do anything that requires more than simple brain to limb commands.

Let me describe for you this wonder of modern torture, the floating pit. There is a room full of yoga stuff and spin cycles (not to be confused with laundry equipment), and a corner full of free weights. The back row is occupied by those mysterious people powered, padded benches with weights attached, a water fountain and a mini bar full of energy drinks and such as (like any of us need more calories or caffeine). The middle row has treadmills, ¾ racks, bikes and lounge chair bikes. The front row, the one with the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Caribbean Sea has a few ¾ racks and a bunch of treadmills. The only machines with televisions are the ones in front of the windows. My rack is one of these. I’m confused, a frequent occurrence, as to why a person would want to watch television when they could be watching the world go by, but there they are, these personal size screens, strategically placed to block the view.

I climb aboard, program in the easy rider workout, and start peddling. Did I mention the seven to twelve foot seas? This ship is rocking and rolling, and so am I. I hang on for dear life and pedal, darting my head from side to side to see around the television which I have no idea how to turn off, or change the channel. I have my stone dead Ipod and headphones (yep, I forgot to turn it off when I put it away on the plane and we still landed without incident,) but elect not to listen to the audio of the unidentified program playing eighteen inches in front of me. The rack is situated on thick foam pads which add to the rocking motion and will do nothing for my ass when I go flying off this thing, as they are only under the feet, not where I expect to land. An oversight, I’m sure.

If everyone would spend a half hour in the pit every day, the cruise line would go out of business. I’m sure most of their profits come from the sale of alcoholic beverages. I’m not much of a drinker, but I’m swaying like a drunken sailor and trying to get a glimpse of the horizon to orient my inner ear, clutching the handle bars with white knuckles. WEEEEEEEE! Who needs alcohol? Who needs Disneyland?

After a while I get the hang of the thing and my mind begins to wander. That’s when I notice the thump, wreep, wreep, thump coming from the middle row, I think. One of those treadmills sounds like someone clubbing baby seals. To make up for my lack of coordination genes I have a gene that makes me sensitive to screeching sounds. You know the ones, fingernails on blackboards, nail files and emery boards, and baby seals being whacked. Suddenly the pitiful excuse for programming is looking better. I manage to tough it out for twenty five minutes without falling off, or having my skin crawl completely off. I have survived my first floating pit experience.

That brings me to today and trip number two to the pit. The do gooders have either given up, or got up a lot earlier than I did. The pit is only half occupied so I choose a ¾ rack in the middle row where there are no televisions. From my vantage point I have a good view of the water which is somewhat calmer than the last time we came this way. A few of the treadmills in the front row have big' out of order' signs, probably the clubbing baby seals ones, as today’s sound effects are the usual pit variety. Most of my fellow volunteers for torture are C’s and a few C+’s and C-‘s. There is the C in front of me wearing her gold jewelry, capri’s, sailor striped shirt, and flip flops. Yep, flip flops. She’s on the treadmill, walking at a pretty good clip, but not quite fast enough. Every five steps or so she has to take a few little running steps to catch up. There is the woman in her plaid pajama pants and the one that isn’t clear on the concept of leggings being something you wear underneath you outer garments.

There are a few C-25 men running, and then there is the female C with the mullet in corn rows. She and her male companion are moving from one piece of equipment to the other every three minutes or so, clearly not the seasoned pit goers. Luckily she isn’t moving fast enough for all those beads in her hair to clink together or it would sound like a castanet band in here. I suspect this is their first cruise and they have a list of the ships amenities and have decided they will take advantage of all of them while on board. When they leave the pit they will pull out the list, put a big check mark next to the pit, and move on to the next thing on the list. I have reason to suspect it will be the buffet , which I’m sure they have visited more than once.

I have no room to talk. I began my day with waffles with banana syrup, whipped cream, hash browns, bacon, a croissant, and my homage to eating healthy, orange juice. Thirty minutes on the ¾ rack did nothing to negate the effects of that meal, or any of the other similar ones I’ve had this week, but at least I went to the pit and made the effort. All this thinking and writing is making me hungry. I think I’ll see what’s on the buffet and maybe I’ll take a walk around the deck. Or not.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Forty

2010-01-06T12:01:00.000-08:00

I’m thinking I need a hat. I have several as most people do. I have sun visors and sun hats and gimme baseball caps. I have knit ones and straw ones and once I even had a paper one. What has this to do with the pit? Today there were several women there wearing hats. Not just any hat, but baseball style with stuff on them. Sparkly stuff to be exact. These women had something I do not, and I’m not talking about the hat here, if you get my drift. One of them was on the step machine, not to be confused with the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy, and she was backwards. I assumed she did this on purpose and not because she didn’t know any better as she was, shall we say, physically fit, leading me to believe she knew her way around the place.

Then there's Workout Barbie on the treadmill. She's tuned into something on her iPod and going through some kind of choreographed routine that looked vaguely like cheerleading. Kick, kick, shimmy butt left, shimmy right, shake your pom poms, repeat. This wouldn’t have attracted much attention if she hadn’t been wearing shorts the size of a band aid, a camisole top and those perky little anklet socks with her color coordinated sneakers. Her sun streaked pony tail cascaded from the hat and swayed in tandem with the shaking going on below. I need one of those hats. I’m thinking the crystals on them channel energy waves that I need.

I’ve been brave this week, taking on some new workouts on the same ole machines. Today I started on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy and tried out the fat burner setting. This is something like jumping from the frying pan into the fire, but I managed twenty minutes on it, a testament to my increased endurance if nothing else. From my vantage point I can see the whole place. There are still plenty of resolutionists, easily detected by their lack of enthusiasm and confusion over how to turn the machines on – most require only that you start moving – and a large group of women who’s offspring are in the baby sitting area, and a whole slew of softball players. One of them is on the ¾ rack just in front of the stair thing-a-ma-jiggies and she and her friend are shaking their pony tails pretty good and talking the whole time. She’s wearing cute little Capri pants and a tank top over a sports bra. Nothing unusual- until she rolls the tank top up and tucks it into her bra, exposing her pre having children, not an ounce of fat, abdomen. The guy on the stairs behind her looks like he’s going to have and apoplexy, however, he recovers before we have to call the paramedics. I’m impressed.

The place is crowded, but I’m able to find a ¾ rack that is unoccupied and off I go. Feeling brave, or just oxygen deprived, I set it on fat burner and get going. I haven’t done this particular one on this setting before, but I kind of like it. It keeps flashing a big red heart at me. As a romance writer I find this rather endearing until I realize it wants me to grip the hand sensors so it can calculate my heart rate. I don’t need it to tell me it’s somewhere near ‘explode’, but I do it anyway. I was right and the machine flashes a slow down message which I know in my nearly ready to explode heart won’t do any good unless I stop completely. This is not an option as I know if I stop, I’m done. I keep going and smile at the pretty red heart.

I’m hoping that the influx of resolutionists will die out(figuratively of course) some in the next few weeks and the place won’t be so crowded, but in case it doesn’t I think I know what I can do. The girl on the ¾ rack gave me the idea. If I roll up my shirt and tuck it in I bet the place will clear out in no time. Or maybe they’ll just ask me to leave. Maybe I should think this through a little before I try it.

Daughter #1 is waiting for me to finish up, so I bid goodbye to the pretty red heart and we head out. As we push through the tinted glass doors a car drives up and discharges a passenger. The woman, a C-30 something is carrying her purse and a rolled up yoga mat. Before the car is past her toes she has her cigarette lit up and is blowing smoke that finds its way into my overtaxed lungs. I’m speechless, partly from lack of oxygen, partly from shock. This is SoCal. Smoking is prohibited just about everywhere except inside your own home, so this display has me shaking my head in wonder. Takes all kinds. Maybe she needs one of those special hats too.

This is probably the last blog for a while. I’m off on a cruise in a few days and as the ship has a pit too I plan to visit it a time or two. I’ll take notes and catch up with you when I get back. I should have a thing or two to say by then. Until we meet again….

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Thirty-three

2009-12-31T11:42:00.000-08:00

New Year’s Eve, 2009 and I’m at the pit once again, along with half the population of our little valley. Today, like yesterday, saw the influx of persons getting a head start on their New Year’s resolutions. I’ve never seen so many personal trainers running around with their clipboards and out of shape C and C+ clients. Every treadmill is in use, over half running at what I like to call, Mall speed. I’m not sure why these folks bother coming here where the humidity hovers around 100% and the fragrance of choice is eau de body odor, when they could be at the mall window shopping and doing as much good. I’m sure being able to say they went here, before they went there, is the prime motivation.

This day marks more than one milestone for me as I end 2009 at one age and begin 2010 a year older, and I hope, a year wiser. I commend the folks who are here because they’ve resolved to begin a healthier lifestyle, but I have to wonder how many of them will stick it out. I’ve been at this now for over a month and I can’t promise I’ll stick it out, but I’m going to give it a good try.

I can’t help but wonder what history will make of places like this a few centuries from now. Everywhere I look people of all shapes, sizes, and ages are flinging their limbs hither and yon in an effort to negate the effects of their sedentary lifestyles. Never before has there been anything like this place. We have evidence of medieval dungeons and torture chambers, we know of the macabre means to determine if a person was a witch, we know all about the methods employed during the Spanish Inquisition. Militaries around the world have devised means of torture designed to gain valuable information from prisoners, but in the history of mankind there has never been a documented case of self inflicted torture by large masses of people. Sure, there are recorded cases of self flagellation for religious reasons, and of course there are the insane folks who mutilate themselves, but again we’re talking solitary pursuits. The pit is more akin to a cult following, without a leader. As I shuffle my feet and flay my arms in a syncopated rhythm people continue to arrive in droves, presumably of their own free will.

Who will discover the ruins of our quest for physical fitness? For a moment, suppose life as we know it has ceased to exist. There is that asteroid that could hit the planet in 2029, then again the Mayan calendar ends on the winter solstice in 2012, a date claimed by many to be our last. (If I really believed this one I’d quit this insanity right now and eat like I only had two years to live!) I have a friend who argues Global Warming will do us in. Since I’m not a follower of his theories I suggest we think Planet of the Apes, or any number of other post apocalyptic stories. Someone, be it archeologist, or beings from another planet, comes upon the remains of the pit. What are they to make of the place? All these torturous devices lined up in rows suggesting the users did not interact with each other, evidence of willful participation in the torture via plastic membership cards that will survive as surely as plastic bags in a landfill, large video screens they might correctly assume were to placate the users of the equipment and perhaps brain wash them into compliance, all will combine to present a snapshot of our doomed society, much like Pompeii.

Exercise in itself isn’t a new thing. Previous generations accomplished it via what we now refer to as manual labor. Heaven forbid we should have to chop wood, or beat wet clothes against a rock, or walk more than a few steps. Modern conveniences have made us a sedentary society. Back in the day we had to do Jumping Jacks on the playground, much like the ones the C+10 is doing over there under the watchful eye of his personal trainer. Then there was the early television workout show where Jack LaLanne showed us how to stay fit using nothing more than a chair – a piece of equipment we are all too familiar with. The wealthier sector could avail themselves of weight lifting equipment or my favorite, the vibrating belt. You may remember commercials for these miracle machines. You simply wrapped the rubber belt around your gluteus maximus and the machine would shimmy and shake the pounds away.

Then came the 80’s and the advent of ‘ercizes’. This was a suffix attached to any number of nouns and was meant to convince us that exercise was fun. It took a decade or so, helped along by the plethora of Richard Simmons videos, for society to realize that all we really wanted was a body that would look good in the shiny leotard and leg warmers that disguised our fat ankles. Once we figured out that we would never look like Farrah Fawcett in a leotard, and that yoga on a cliff overlooking the beach in Hawaii wasn’t anything like yoga in your living room, and dancing should be dancing and nothing more, those fads, thankfully, went away too.

Perhaps inquisitive futuristic folks will unearth these predecessors which now reside in a few museums. Will our society survive long enough for today’s torture devices to be displayed in a museum, or will they be left for someone in the future, someone we can only imagine, to discover?

Such are my rambling thoughts for this last day of 2009. Tomorrow will begin a new year, a new decade, and I will begin it a year older. I’m going to go turn the calendar page now to a fresh, new one. It’s kind of nice starting each new year of my life in tandem with the new calendar year. I only have to say goodbye to a spent year once where others have to do it twice a year. I’m also saved from making two sets of resolutions as well. I know you all do it, one set on New Year’s Day, another on your birthday. Maybe the birthday ones aren’t as monumental as the New Year’s ones, but still you feel compelled to make the effort. One less problem for me!

Whatever you resolve today I wish you success. May your blessing in 2010 be beyond measure.

Happy New Year.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Thirty-one

2009-12-29T12:49:00.000-08:00

I know I harp on this way too much, but I for some reason the message just isn’t getting out. Towels. We rounded the corner into the women’s locker room today to be greeted by a sight straight from a horror movie. Let me make this clear – EVERYONE should use a LARGE towel when disrobing in public, especially if you resemble dried fruit. I’m accompanied today by Daughters #1 & #2, my full complement of offspring and we hastily stash our jackets and purses, diverting our eyes from the tableau of terror. I think we set a land speed record exiting the locker room.

There’s a bumble bee on the Treadmill. This one is about five-five and in my lingo, a C-30. She’s wearing a black tank top and yellow cargo style pants made from a material resembling a parachute. The pockets have black satin ribbons hanging from the closures. I’m fascinated as she angles the machine up to ‘climb a mountain’ mode and moving at the speed of a aged snail she begins a series of sideways lunges. Left lunges, right lunges.

I admit that oxygen is hard to come by as I’ve all ready been to the top of a seventy story skyscraper and shuffled my feet on the half rack for twenty minutes, but I’m sure I’m not imagining this. Just to make sure I catch the eye of Daughter #1 who is pedaling on the lounge chair bike next to me. She confirms by a quirky smile that she too has noticed the bumble bee.

This is a holiday week and I’ve seen very few of the persons mentioned in previous posts so I’m down to scouting for new things to keep me going. The place is hopping with a real cross section of America. When I signed up I expected a room full of young, physically fit, don’t really need to be here people. As I take stock of today’s crowd I see a much broader spectrum of society. There are the young athletes to be sure, but there are also plenty of senior citizens and everything in between. Some are fit and firm, others, not so much. I like to think I fall somewhere in the middle of the pack, not too old, not too fat, not totally hopeless. Did I mention the lack of oxygen? The last observation falls under the asphyxiating excuse.

One regular is here, Trance Lady. This is the first time Daughter #2 has seen her and lucky girl, she has a good view from the half rack a row behind the show.

The bumble bee has finished her lunges and turned to take long backward strides uphill. This isn’t terribly unusual, I’ve seen it before. She places her hands on the handrails and lifts her feet from the belt and scissors her legs in the air twelve times – yes, I counted – and resumes her walk. I blink, thinking I’m hallucinating, but no, she does it again. She’s got this routine down and continues for another five minutes or so before altering it. Just what she’s accomplishing with this I have no idea. She seems lost in her own world, oblivious to the packed pit around her. I notice then she’s plugged into an iPod, listening to something that inspires this behavior. I turn up the volume on my own device and thank the pit gods that nothing on mine inspires me to such acrobatic feats. I have enough trouble staying on the machines as it is.

We make it back to the mercifully empty locker room where Daughter #2 proclaims herself traumatized for life. Between the earlier locker room incident and the Trance Lady she’s seen too much for her tender years. “I can’t stand weirdos,” she declares. I sympathize, but since these folks are the inspiration for this rambling blog I admit they make each visit more interesting than the last.

I’ve taken to an every other day approach to the stair thing-a-ma-jig and it seems to be paying off. I can now climb my seventy floors in less than twenty minutes and still do another twenty minutes on the half rack without having to call the paramedics. For an old broad I think that’s pretty good.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Twenty-seven

2009-12-24T14:28:00.000-08:00

It turns out lots of people spend time at the pit on Christmas Eve. For the last week most of the regulars I’ve mentioned have been absent, but it is the holiday season and folks are traveling, shopping and eating stuff they only dream of the rest of the year. This past week has seen a noticeable increase in college and high school softball players, Daughter #2 included, who can see the season fast approaching and are making the push to get in shape for it. Daughter #2 is looking forward to her final season and has something to prove. As the only senior on the team she doesn’t want to be looked at as the old woman by the first year players coveting her position, plus there is the desire to end her softball career with a bang, or at least without injury.

I try not to be intimidated by the influx of young women in their school t-shirts, shorts and knee socks. Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a land far, far away, I looked like that, sort of. It’s a vague memory, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make it up so I would have something to remember fondly in my old age. Anyway, I started out my Christmas Eve by climbing a skyscraper, all seventy stories of it. I was motivated and managed to shave a whole minute off my usual time to accomplish this insane feat. I distracted my brain from the pain shooting through my thighs by watching the C +10 with the red hair from a cheap bottle do ‘wax on, wax off’ chai tea or tie chee, or tie me up I’m insane moves. I’m not sure why she comes to the pit to do these motions, alone. I’ve seen groups of people in the park doing this stuff and thought it would be fun to push one of them over and watch the whole group topple over like dominoes. If you’re going to do this alone, why not do it at home? Why put on form fitting clothing and whacky socks and go stand in the front of dozens of people who have nothing better to do than watch you and go through these motions? I’m comforted by the thought that at least I’m doing the same thing as most of the peeps here, so they have no real reason to be watching me. This is my rationale; do not try to tell me otherwise.

I switch to the half rack and crazy woman is still doing the shifting statue thing only now she is wearing a blindfold. I tell you, you just can’t make up this kind of stuff. I shift into high gear with a little Born to Be Wild encouraging me to explode into space. I think this woman may be in space all ready, so I don’t know if I really want to go there, but I close my eyes and shuffle my feet faster anyway. When next I look up she’s on the floor, slipping jingle bells, yes, jingle bells, around her ankles and wrists and donning a Santa hat. I’m wondering where the back door to this place is so I can make a quick getaway if she starts pulling things from her backpack, but she hoists the pack over her shoulder and heads to the front door. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I know it sounded more like a dying person gasping for breath, but I swear it was a sigh, and keep on shuffling.

Daughter #1 and Daughter #2 are wimping out and have been on the lounge chair bikes for a few minutes, so I wrap it up with a little Carole King. I’m feeling like a natural woman and wondering if that foul smell is coming from me. I’m pretty sure it’s not; after all I’ve been coming here for nearly four weeks and haven’t had a deodorant malfunction yet. I suspect the guy next to me and decide it’s time to call it a day. My children are pedaling, but I’m pretty sure they are just waiting for me to call it quits and are sitting there so it looks like they’re still going strong. I know them too well. I birthed them after all. I know what they are up to. I grin and ask if they’re ready to go. It’s all I can do to keep up with them as they sprint to the locker room.

In the car they roll the windows down. I think this is a response to the fact that it’s nearly seventy degrees outside rather than the way I smell. Just to be on the safe side I roll my window down too. The pit is closed tomorrow so I’ll have a forced day off. After twenty-seven days in a row, which is twenty-seven more days than I’ve ever worked out in my life, I guess I deserve a day off. I’m thinking it’s time for some In and Out Burger to celebrate, so off we go.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight. (Thank you Clement Moore.)

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Twenty-three

2009-12-20T13:17:00.000-08:00

Things didn’t start out so well at the pit today. My plastic water bottle slid/fell/was pushed off the bench in the locker room and hit the tile floor where it promptly deposited all its contents on the floor via the new spout in the bottom of the bottle. Not to worry, there was a floor drain nearby and a water fountain in the pit. I’m in need of some retail therapy anyway to alleviate my homesickness for New Jersey and the major snowstorm I’m missing. I know, you think I’m in need of a different kind of therapy based on that statement, and you may be correct. I’m one of the few people on the planet who loves a good snowstorm.

So I’m feeling a bit down and now I’m without my water bottle crutch, you know, the excuse I have to stop every five minutes. I try to look way cool, slow down, wipe the dew off my face and neck, swig some water, rev up the machine again and get the heart rate back up there. This doesn’t always work so well. I’ve been threatening to replace the water bottle anyway as it has a wide spout and sometimes more water goes down the front of my shirt than down my throat, so the new hole in the bottom of it isn’t all that disturbing, other than the I have no excuse to stop other than I’m gasping for air excuse and that one doesn’t look near so cool as the water one.

I’ve got some good music pounding in my head, checking out the other pit occupants, finding little in the way of eye candy or curiosities or even anyone of entertainment value today, so I turn my attention to the banks of televisions overhead. It’s a Sunday so the choices are, football, the weather channel which I’ve all ready explained is depressing for me today, Fox News and an infomercial. Lucky for me the infomercial is closed captioned so I can listen to my music and read along with the sales pitch at the same time.

I’m not much on infomercials. Can’t say I’ve ever really watched one. There’s this guy standing in front of a building with gardens that looks suspiciously like the south lawn of the White House and he’s telling me the wonders of this light therapy gizmo. From what I can tell it’s a hand sized, mitt like device that emits flashing red and blue light. This amazing device is the answer to every pain I’ve ever had, or will ever have. No longer do I have to suffer after a day at the pit. A few minutes on the sofa with the magic light gizmo and I’ll be good as new. I’m skeptical, but after hearing/reading the testimony of several house wives, a racehorse jockey, a business man with tennis elbow, and an orthopedic surgeon who treated a real Olympic athlete, I’m thinking this may be just the retail therapy I need.

I wait with bated breath, okay, gasping breath for the guy in the White House garden to tell me how much this is going to set me back. My eyes have been opened to a great medical truth and intelligent being that I am, I realize this must be the reason police cars are equipped with flashing red and blue lights. Not having ever had my face smashed into the hood of a police cruiser I can only speculate that the flashing lights make the pain of metal meeting flesh and having your arms yanked behind your back and handcuffs being slapped on so much less painful. How did this truth escape me all these years, I wonder? Nevermore will I cringe when I see the news video of an arrest or while watching Cops. Now I know the truth.

Please tell me how much this miracle device is! At last the friendly salesman comes back and tells me these retail other places for $2300. I’m devastated. The miracle machine is out of my financial reach. I knew I shouldn’t have sprung for the cruise for the family Christmas present. What was I thinking? I could have had the miracle light machine instead.

But wait! No, I can have it for three easy payments of $40 each and they’ll throw in the patented body belt for free. This is much better, however I must act in the next twenty minutes to get this unbelievable price. Since my phone is in the locker room and I’m not planning on being out of here in the next twenty minutes I hang my head in disappointment. Well, maybe it was because my head suddenly felt too heavy for my neck, but anyway. Just as I’ve given up all hope of owning the miracle machine the kindly salesman comes back to inform me that today, and today only I can have this marvel of medicine for only two, yes two low payments of $40 each!!!

It’s my lucky day! I’ve reached the 70^th floor, the observation deck at Rockefeller Center only there’s no snow on my observation deck, so I climb down and head to the half rack. I stop by the water fountain for a not so cool drink on my way. By the time I get set up on the new machine I check back in with my kindly salesman only to find out that I’ve missed the all important phone number I need in order to take advantage of this amazing offer.

A few choice words pass my lips, hopefully masked by the wheezing and panting go on all around me. Oh well. I guess I’ll have to settle for a new water bottle. Next Sunday I’m going to pay closer attention and bring along a pad and pen.

Today’s tally – 70 floors, twenty minutes on the half rack and ten on the lounge chair bike, one broken water bottle and I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. I think that’s worth an extra M & M or two.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Nineteen

2009-12-16T15:56:00.000-08:00

So I was wondering if a person could live in a twenty-four hour gym. Today is day nineteen for me and there are a few folks I see everyday no matter what time I arrive at the pit. Not that I’m there all that long. I tend to limit my workout to around 40-50 minutes since I’m going every day, but these people are there when I arrive and still going when I leave. Like any random survey, these numbers are subject to interpretation. It did get me thinking though. If you had nowhere else to go could you live in the place?

Clearly I’ve become oxygen deprived at the lofty heights of the skyscraper I’m climbing. Today the guy who climbs backwards is here, still going strong. So is the guy who sweats enough to short out the whole system as he climbs at a sprint for longer than I am at the pit. Maybe these guys live here, but I don’t think so. Call it a hunch, but I think they have homes to go to.

I suspect Trance Lady lives here.

It wouldn’t be all that difficult. As long as you had the monthly fee and some extra cash for food, it seems entirely doable. As I watch a woman with hair fried from too many chemical applications read a magazine and operate an elliptical at the same time I envision how this would work.

You would always have something to do. There is no shortage of activities, from classes to lap swimming to weight lifting. Televisions are everywhere, including the locker room. Keeping up on current events would be easy enough. You could even read as many people do while you walk, pedal or climb. Someone is always leaving a newspaper lying around for the taking.

There are showers and a sauna and lockers for your belongings. There’s even a sofa inside the front door, perfect for a nap. I suspect there are more sofas in the super secret back room where they keep the donuts. I’m still looking for it, but I know it’s there somewhere.

Our gym shares a parking lot with a Jacque LeBox and it’s an easy walk to at least a dozen other eating establishments as well as a grocery store or two. The gym itself sells all manner of power bars and ‘healthy’ beverages so snackage would be easy to come by if you couldn’t find the secret donut stash.

I’m sucking in air somewhere around the fiftieth floor when a woman begins to climb the staircase next to mine. Usually this isn’t too remarkable, except this person is climbing two steps at a time and doing it a whole lot faster than I’m climbing. Where do these people come from? My brain skips a few important synaptic connections to my next random thought.

Just think of all the opportunities to meet people if you actually lived here. Unlike the bus station, people keep coming back to this place, inexplicable as that is. Granted, some of the folks who make their way through the tinted glass doors of the pit are a little on the strange side, but for the most part they appear to be your average garden variety suburbanites.

I’m thinking this whole idea is looking better and better. This is also about the time I reach the sixty-fifth floor and decide it’s time to move to something else. Off I go to the ¾ rack. I tried this yesterday and managed to make it for about ten minutes without falling off. I’m willing to give it another try.

There must be some drawbacks to this living at the pit idea. I haven’t been there in the middle of the night, so I don’t really know what goes on in the wee hours. I suspect this is the time when the cleaning crew comes in. This could be problematic in terms of sleep. Surely the munchkin lockup isn’t used in the middle of the night. That could be an option.

Do vampires work out? I think perhaps they do. This would account for places like this being open around the clock. Another mystery solved.

Clearly I’ve been here too long today. Daughter #1 is ready to go too, so we take ourselves to the locker room. Timing is everything and once again we have failed to take note of the whereabouts of certain regulars. We empty our locker as quickly as possible and make a hasty exit.

I made it up 65 floors, faster than ever before, spent 10 minutes on the ¾ rack at level 2 and rode my favorite virtual bike about half way home. I think I can do this again tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Sixteen

2009-12-13T18:25:00.001-08:00

I went back to the half rack today after many days of avoidance. The half rack is the elliptical thingy with handlebars and you only move your feet. I can stay on this thing if I close my eyes and concentrate on the music playing in my ears. If I open my eyes I lose the rhythm of the thing and am in serious danger of falling off. This is really pathetic, as in reality all I am doing is shuffling my feet in place. I think I’ll give this a try for a few days. Maybe I’ll develop some sense of rhythm and be able to move on to the ¾ rack. Unfortunately I don’t see any future for me and the full rack- the elliptical where all four limbs go in different directions at the same time. After all these years I don’t see me acquiring the coordination necessary to operate the rack. I’m a firm believer they should come with a warning label – DO NOT ATTEMPT IF YOU CAN NOT DANCE! At least you would know in advance what you were getting into.

Yesterday Daughter #1 and I took Husband/Father with us to the pit. It was bring a friend for free day, and it was raining, so H/F couldn’t do his usual four mile run in the park, so he decided to give the pit a try. We created a monster.

I’m sorry to say it, but we have. He’s not quite Mary Shelley’s monster, but close enough. Daughter #1 and I usually restrict our workout to around forty minutes a day. As we have been going every day, this seems adequate, especially for me who has avoided exercise as ruthlessly as I’ve avoided poison ivy for my entire life. For example: I never played any kind of organized sport as a child. Some of this can be attributed to Rule #5 of the Code of Southern Women – Women do not participate in sporting activities other than tennis, and then only if they can do it without getting dewey. As I have about as much hand to eye coordination as I have rhythm, tennis was out, and thereby all possible organized sporting activities.

The key word there is ‘organized’. If I was careful not to get caught I could play football with my older brother and his friends, but only if our mother wasn’t any where around to see. Said brother taught me all I needed to know about football, baseball and golf. He tried to teach me about basketball, but the whole foul situation was too confusing and I gave up on it. I can dribble a basketball, but running down court with it at the same time is out of the question. I was once pretty good at free throws too and I’m excellent at miniature golf thanks to above mentioned brother’s high school job at a local course. Now that several decades have passed and the place is long gone I think it is all right to tell you he let me play for free on weeknights when the place was empty.

Back to H/F at the pit. Daughter #1 and I did our forty minutes and were sufficiently dewey as the relative humidity in the pit was somewhere near 100%, so we found H/F who had kicked my assets on the stairs, outran Daughter #1 on the treadmill and was pedaling his way up Pike’s Peak on a lounge chair bike. Since the thing was people powered we couldn’t pull the plug, but instead wondered how we were going to get him off the thing and out the door. We stood on either side of him trying our best to remain upright. Having dehydrated long ago despite downing enough water to float a small armada, standing around waiting for him to poop out wasn’t appealing.

Finally, declaring us wimps and himself the winner, though we weren’t informed of the competition, he grudgingly coasted down the mountain and allowed us to leave. I was all the way to the locker room before I remembered I had the car key and we could have left him there to find his own way home. Oh well, live and learn.

Yesterday I climbed ninety floors and pedaled almost far enough to get me home, had I had wheels. Today I hung onto the half rack for twenty minutes, climbed sixty floors and biked half way home. Not a bad day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Twelve

2009-12-09T16:20:00.001-08:00

Today I saw the man I want coming to my rescue if I’m at the top of a flaming skyscraper. I never really saw his face, so that isn’t it at all. He was on the elliptical, the one where you adjust the incline and have hand rails instead of moving hand grips. I was behind him on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy, huffing and puffing my way to the top of the Empire State Building. Mr. Come to my Rescue was with the group of fire fighters I saw the other day, so I can safely assume he is one of them.

So you ask why? What was it about this guy that got my attention? Let me explain. He was going strong on the machine when I arrived. He quit when I had been climbing stairs for twenty-five minutes. This in itself is nothing spectacular. What got to me was that in twenty-five minutes he never held the hand rails, he wasn’t breathing hard, in fact he was carrying on a conversation with his buddy next door as if they were strolling through the mall, and he wasn’t sweating. The entire time he was on the machine his arms were loose at his sides, his shoulders relaxed.

I tell ‘ya. If I’m in a burning building I want this guy coming up the stairs! Gotta love a fire fighter!

Another interesting person caught my attention today. This guy had one of those big rubber balls; you know ,the put it between your legs and show off your hoo-haw type. He was standing on it doing deep knee bends. Now I don’t know about you, but I can barely do a deep knee bend standing flat footed on the floor. I watched in open mouthed awe, well the open mouth was due to me sucking in air somewhere around the sixtieth floor, but I was in awe. I don’t think I’ll be trying that trick anytime soon.

Trance Lady was back and I guess her hypnotist was too. She was on the rack doing her thing, frontwards, backwards, frontwards again until she jumped off. I mean, jumped off the machine while it was still going. Most folks slow to a stop before they get off, not Trance Lady. She leapt off in mid stride and the thing was still going. She pointy toed lunged off out of sight as if everything was cool. I don’t know where she went. I don’t care. She’s weird.

Then there was the guy on the stair thing-a-ma-jig next to me. He was climbing at a pretty good clip when he turns around and starts climbing backwards. What is with these people? It’s all I can do to face forward and stay on my feet. I can’t imagine what kind of damage I could do to myself if I tried to turn around on a moving staircase. Several images flashed in my brain. None of them were good.

I made it to the lower observation deck – 86 floors then added 4 more for cool down before switching to the lounge chair bike for a brisk 5 mile virtual bike ride.

Everything was good until I rounded the corner into the locker room. TOWELS. Why don’t these people use TOWELS?

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Ten

2009-12-07T11:51:00.001-08:00

Mondays are such interesting days at the pit. Everybody shows up. It was especially crowded this morning as the weather was as close to winter as L.A. gets, rain and 45 degrees, driving more people indoors for their daily torture routine.

I would have preferred to pull the covers over my head and sleep the day away, but alas, I have a long ‘to do’ list. Daughter #1 and I survey the pit. She heads for the one treadmill that is open and I head for the lounge chair bikes, virtually the only equipment underutilized today. My observations are limited by location, however people watching is something I’m good at, so I manage. There is the usual assortment of folks on the treadmills in front of me, including a C who tips the scales at no less than 350. He’s walking at a reasonable pace and not all that interesting until he pauses the machine and sinks to his knees on the tread. I’m close enough to see he is breathing and is able to wipe his brow so I’m not too concerned. After a few minutes he’s up and walking again. I’m impressed he hasn’t given up. I silently cheer him on.

Trance Lady is on the rack. Her hypnotist mustn’t have been available today because she has trouble maintaining the trance and eventually gives up the rack and morphs into a giant praying mantis, lunging around the pit in dramatic, pointy toed strides. I bet she could do a really spectacular curtsy. She stalks her way through the free weights and around to the stair thing-a-ma-jiggies.

M.M. is in the pit. I’ve decided he has A.D.D. He flits from one thing to the next, never spending more than a few minutes on any one task. Sprints on the treadmill, chin ups, push ups, stretches, … I’ve lost track of him. Damn.

I take up my usual spot on the stair climbing thingy, determined to do better today. I’m inspired by the firefighters on the racks in front of me. How do I know they are firefighters? Besides the t-shirts (not the generic tourist variety) there is the way they look. How many C’s have that look? Fit. Lean. Not an ounce of fat on them. Serious hair cut. Determined face. They work out as if their life and yours depends on it, and it does. What’s not to like about that?

I’m worried about the guy next to me – not a fire fighter. If he keeps sweating at that rate he’s going to short out that thing. Despite having a hand towel, sweat is pooling on the stairs and dripping down the side of the machine. I hope the wiring is properly insulated or we may have a serious problem here. Are these things plugged into GFI’s? Luckily there are fire fighters nearby.

Daughter #1 has had enough, and so have I. Trance Lady is still climbing stairs so it’s safe to go to the locker room. In a few minutes we’re out into the cold rain, heading home. I’ve climbed to the Top of the Rock (70 floors to the top of Rockefeller Center). That’s for all the 30 Rock fans. I’ve biked 5 miles at level 9. It’s a good day.

Goal this week – Climb to the lower observation deck on the Empire State Building – 86 floors- in one day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Nine

2009-12-06T15:02:00.000-08:00

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down. Well, not so much down, as pooped. I slept like a log and woke up feeling like said log. Needless to say, I didn’t much want to go to the pit, but I’m resolved to come out the winner in this power struggle, so Daughter #1 and I head out.

And I do appreciate you being round. No, not the shape, though I do appreciate that there are folks at the pit who are that shape, and thus make me feel somewhat smug about my own shape which borders more on barrel than round. I do appreciate Daughter #1 being my companion even though she isn’t any happier about going there today than I am. We’ve already covered the misery loves company angle.

Help me, get my feet back on the ground. Never is this more meaningful than when I’ve been on the stair thing-a-ma-jiggy for twenty minutes or so. My legs feel more like hot pokers than muscle and bone and I’m not sure I can get down on my own, short of falling off and this doesn’t seem like a pleasant option.

Won't you please, please help me. By the sixtieth floor this is no longer an idle plea. I figure I’ve climbed the equivalent of the Empire State Building four times this week. When I look at it this way I’m inclined to believe I need help of an entirely different nature, if you get my drift.

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I never needed anybody's help in any way. Ahh, the arrogance of youth! The pit is full of C-25-30’s today. None of them appear to be in need of any help. At that age I didn’t either, or so I believed. Aging brings wisdom in so many ways, one of which is to ask for help when you need it, and lend a helping hand when asked. Now if that C-20 bench pressing 180 lbs. would just ask for my help. I’m thinking I could count reps (which I’m already doing), or maybe CPR.

But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured, Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors. I’m not sure at what point it happened, but it did. The blind optimism of youth gave way to the cautious optimism of adulthood. I’m not sure I can do this whole exercise/fitness routine, but I’m willing to give it a try. At any rate, I’m trying to keep an open mind about it.

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways. If there is one thing I am certain about in life, it’s that you never know what’s coming next. Pardon if I don’t elaborate. Lack of oxygen can do that to you.

My independence seems to vanish in the haze. I think some people confuse individualism with independence. I would never give up my individuality, but I’ve long since given up my personal independence. I see this as a good thing. I depend on a lot of folks. It’s nice to have family and friends to lean. They can be counted on to bolster my sagging self esteem and see me through the occasional crisis. I’m having one of those occasional crises right now. I really need to figure out where they keep the oxygen tank in this place.

But every now and then I feel so insecure. Make that unstable, in more ways than one. I present this blog as exhibit A. I must be getting to the top of the building where the air is thin. Why else would all this crap be filling my head?

I know that I just need you like I've never done before. Where is B.P.G. (Bench Press Guy)? I need help here. I bet he could give me a hand getting off this thing. I’d settle for Daughter #1 telling me she’s had enough and is ready to go. I refuse to give in first. This is my individuality showing. I am bested daily in this place, but I refuse give in before the kid does.

Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.

No sign of M.M. or the Bronze God today. Luckily there was B.P.G. and Beatles to get me through. Many thanks to John Lennon for letting me borrow his lyrics. I made it up sixty stories and five miles on the lounge chair bike. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Eight

2009-12-05T15:48:00.001-08:00

I’m waiting for something catastrophic to happen. Something must be in the works, as I have managed to make it to the pit for the eighth day in a row. Each day I have done a little more than the day before and I’m still functioning. Surely this cannot keep up.

Today I ‘m not at my best, having been out late the previous evening I would rather just pull the covers over my head and nap the day away. However, I’m made of sterner stuff than that. Daughter #1 is in much the same boat, but we still drag our unwilling back sides into the car and head to the pit.

I take up my usual spot in the crow’s nest, a.k.a., the stair thing-a-ma-jig where I can see what is going on in the pit. Today there isn’t much to comment on. The place is hopping, but the mix of people are as a whole, uninteresting. I’ve got my iPod back in working order so I tune in and tune out the world as I try to climb the Empire State Building. The dew is falling pretty good and something is taking my breath away, but once again it isn’t anything like what the song is talking about. What a shame.

I slow enough to pour some water down my gaping mouth and check out the place, just in case someone more interesting has come in. Some lady has brought a bunch of tweenie girls with her and they, for some reason I cannot fathom, are running amuck in the place. They are jumping on various pieces of equipment, punching buttons, and in general making a nuisance of themselves. I wonder who could be the owner of these brats and watch with interest until one of them makes contact with their parental unit. Guilty party is revealed.

I’m all for children being physically fit, but these girls are too small for this equipment and even if they were physically capable of using it, they would need supervision. Oh well, as long as they stay away from me I can’t worry about them. I have enough of my own problems, mainly breathing and maintaining my grip on the handrails so I don’t commit suicide on this thing. Maybe if I land on one of them it will break my fall. It’s something to ponder.

The C-27 on the skyscraper next door is about forty floors above me and climbing at a rate King Kong would envy. I’m reminded of the tortoise and the hare story. In my case, it’s more the elephant and the gazelle, but still I figure I’ve already beat this kid at one thing. I’ve made it at least 27 years further than he has and that’s one race he won’t overtake me in. Someone finally corrals the tweenies and sends clueless parent and her charges on their way. I’m sucking wind and ready to take the elevator down.

Usually I’d plop my considerable back side into a lounge chair bike about now, but Daughter #1 is on a treadmill and lucky her, there is an empty one next door, so off I go. I don’t run. It’s a personal rule of mine. Someone told me once that if I really tried it I would learn to like it. That person was wrong. I did try it. I signed up for a college class misnamed, Conditioning. It consisted of three days a week of cross country running, followed by as many sit ups as you could do in ten minutes.

Since my grade depended on how fast I ran the route and how many times I could fold myself in the middle, I gave it my all. I managed a B+ in the class and haven’t run since. I didn’t even run when I was thirty feet from the biggest bear in New Jersey. Now, if said bear had made a move toward me I’m pretty sure I would have waved the moratorium on running, but since it didn’t, I still have a perfect record going and see no reason to ruin it.

After twenty minutes walking as if a Krispy Kreme were dangling on a string in front of me I’ve put in a mile at a slight incline. I’m done, so is Daughter #1. We head to the locker room for our purses. I’ve climbed sixty-three floors and walked a mile. Not bad for an old lady.
We round the corner, headed to the tinted glass doors that promise freedom when they part and in walks M.M. Daughter #1 and I look at each other. Damn. Our timing is really off. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Seven

2009-12-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

Friday is senior citizen day at the pit. I kid you not. I started out on the stair-thing-a-ma-jiggy again, right next to the wheezing C+25. Again I wonder why the concrete floor isn’t padded and scan the perimeter for the defibrillator and oxygen. Surely they are somewhere nearby, not that I’m going to use them, but I might NEED them sometime soon. Note to self – ask someone where they are, just in case. I should ask about the room where they keep the donuts while I’m at it.

I turn on my iPod and instead of music I get a nasty little note telling me to plug it in to a power source. The battery is dead. Dead. Dead. No music today. What am I to do? There is always TV, so I look for the cute little box that is supposed to be there so I can connect to the audio. There is no box. NO BOX. This is the only available stair thing-a-ma-jiggy and now I have no audio of any kind. Oh well. I can make do. I focus on the pit, trying to ignore the wheezing next door.

Daughter #1 is on the rack in the row in front of me, wearing her new shoes and doing fine. I’m glad the new shoes are working out, then it hits me - I hope she remembers the combination to our lock. How is this related? Let me explain. We share a locker and a lock as we don’t come with a lot of baggage each day. The combination to our lock was written in permanent marker on the inside tongue of her shoe. She is wearing her new shoes. No combination. I climb a few floors hoping she has memorized the combination in the six days we’ve been coming. I know I haven’t, but she’s an economist and numbers are easy for her.

Just in case she hasn’t, I contemplate how we are getting home. Our car key is in that locker, along with our cell phones. If we can use a phone we can call hubby and he can come get us, but I don’t know his cell phone # or office phone number. That’s what speed dial is for, isn’t it? We could call information, or we can call Daughter #2 at school 3000 miles away and have her call him. I know her phone number, and she has his on speed dial.

Half the people here today are C+25, or more. Some are leaving me in the dust, some are not. After climbing half way up the Empire State Building I head for the lounge chair bikes. You would think these would be full, given the average age today, but no. I’m the only one using them. I plug in to Regis and Kelly, only it’s Christian Slater and Kelly today and kick the bike up to level 10. I’ll show the Geritol crowd how it’s done! I think about telling you the story about the Christian Slater Memorial Closet at our house, but decide I’ll save that for another time.

There are two C+25 women on the treadmills and they capture my attention. They are walking at a snail’s pace and I wonder why they are here and not at the mall. Surely the mall would be more interesting. They have on their Velcro walking shoes and the one on the right is wearing a mint green sweat suit from Nordstrom and a cable knit sweater. These were meant to give the appearance of fitness wear, not actually be fitness wear. Her companion is dressed more appropriately in a serviceable sweat suit. I notice how small this woman is, frail actually. Her clothes hang off of her, as if once she filled them out, but due to declining health that is no longer the case. I suspect she is here as part of her prescribed physical therapy.

They chat as they stroll together. It becomes clear Nordstrom lady is there because of her friend, to keep her company. They complete their walk and leave, and I am reminded how special friends can be.

Daughter #1 joins me. She’s ready to go and so am I. Luckily she remembers the combination and we are soon on our way. I’ve climbed 62 floors and pedaled 5 miles. No one needed oxygen, including me. It’s a good day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Six

2009-12-03T11:42:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a Southerner by birth. My mother’s family has roots deep in the rich red soil of East Texas and can follow those roots all the way back to when Texas was a Republic. Thanks to my fabulous sister-in-law who did all the research, I can apply for membership into the Daughters of the Republic, and as soon as I fill out all the forms she sent, and copy all the documents, it will be official.

True Southern women are raised with certain values and live within a set of rules, the likes of which do not exist north of the Mason-Dixon Line or West of the invisible line that runs roughly half way between Dallas and Ft. Worth. You see, Dallas is in the South, Ft. Worth is in the West, or Southwest if you insist.

Some of these rules Southern women live by are well known outside the above listed parameters, such as Rule #1 – Do not wear white after Labor Day or prior to Memorial Day. No self respecting Southern woman would dare to break this rule. This has evolved over the years to a less strict rule involving white shoes and white purses, as too many women were dying of heat stroke in September and October.

Rule #2 – Do not air your dirty laundry in public. This is a metaphor. Think Scarlet O’Hara. Scarlet would rather dig root vegetables out of the soil with her bare hands, or use the parlor drapes to make herself a new dress than let her friends and neighbors think all was not well at Tara.

You ask, what does this have to do with the pit,er,gym? I present the not widely recognized, Rule #3 – Cross your legs at the ankle. This is followed closely, and related to, Rule #4 – Do not display certain body parts to anyone prior to said person signing their name on the line labeled ‘groom’ on your marriage license. Still confused? Let me explain.

There are lots of activities to choose from at the pit. One of those is some sort of exercise involving rubber balls of various sizes. Strangely enough, the area set aside for this activity is just inside the front door and visible from most of the electric equipment as well as any passersby via the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the parking lot. I have yet to see a male participating in this activity, which brings me back to Rules #3 and #4. I think from this we can extrapolate – Do not place 36” rubber ball between your legs and present your hoo-haw to anyone within fifty yards.

I am no prude. I write Romance novels when I’m not people watching at the pit. However, why a woman would choose to drive to a public place, don form fitting apparel, lie on the floor with or without a gaily colored rubber ball and spread their legs for all to see without being PAID to do it, is beyond me and well outside even the broadest interpretation of Rule #3, and a clear violation of Rule #4.

Now you say, “Nearly every high school girl is in violation of Rule #4.” This may be true, and I may have been guilty of it myself, once or twice, but in the off chance Daughter #1 or Daughter #2 is reading this, let me state that I have never contemplated violating Rule #4, nor do I suggest they contemplate it either.

Let me point out- Rule #4 also applies to locker rooms, especially to locker rooms.

I started my torture session on the stair thing-a-ma-jig. I like the view from up there. This is the same reason I like to snow ski – the view is best from the top of the mountain. Anyway, I opt for the default workout, twenty minutes. I’ve had success at level 4, and after surveying the pit I decide their isn’t much of interest so I kick it up to level 5. After ten minutes I’m ready to rethink the whole religion thing and wondering if I’m about to find out if there really is a spirit in the sky. I back it down to level 3 for a few minutes and contemplate just how hard the concrete floor behind me is. Would it be too much to ask for mats, or better yet those big inflated mattresses stunt people use? I’d be willing to chip in another dollar a month to see some changes in the place.

I finish off the last five minutes at level 4 and seek out my favorite lounge chair with pedals attached. Daughter #1 is there after some time on the rack. She’s having some trouble with shin splints, something that plagued her all through high school and college softball and still is worrisome, so she’s mellowing out on a bike for a while. I take a spin around the block, several blocks actually before we call it quits for the day.

M.M. from yesterday arrived while we were on the bikes and I’m tempted to hang around and watch for a while, but alas, we might be risking bodily injury to stay longer. I’m beginning to dread the locker room, but we left the car key locked up in there, so we must retrieve it. M.M walks by and I’m tempted to follow, but Daughter #1 is eager to leave.

Back to Rule #4. Trance Lady is in the locker room and lucky us, has a locker adjacent to ours. While we are fishing out our purses she proceeds to peel off layers until there are no more layers to peel. I did not need to see this. Trance Lady bounces off, buck naked to the showers (I assume). In the hallway Daughter #1 says, “I don’t know how people can do that.” She doesn’t have to elaborate, I understand perfectly. “Me either,” I say, my heart swelling with pride. Even raised in California, Daughter #1 knows Rule #4, at least when it comes to locker rooms. I don’t want to know anymore.

We step into the bright sunshine. I‘ve climbed a sixty story building and rode five miles, and my parenting skills have been validated. It’s a good day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Five

2009-12-02T12:09:00.001-08:00

I can’t think of a good enough excuse today, so Daughter #1 and I once again pass through the tinted glass doors into the pit. Lots of people must be reading my blog because all the stair climbing machines are taken and I’m forced to choose another method of torture today. Daughter #1 heads for the rack, aka, the dreaded elliptical where all four limbs must go in different directions at the same time. I’m still rhythmically challenged, so I choose a two limb elliptical in the row behind her. It takes me a minute or so to set the incline to flatlander so I won’t become a flat-liner anytime soon.

I start my musical accompaniment with the last track of the Pride and Prejudice sound track while I scout for something to take my mind off what I’m doing. My vantage point isn’t great from here, but the place is packed and I have no shortage of entertainment. Sadly, M.M. from yesterday isn’t there, nor is the bronzed god from day one. However there is Trance Lady. Let me explain. She’s on the rack (see previous definition) and the only explanation I can come up with is hypnosis. Arms and legs are going, feet are lifting off the pedals causing her to rock side to side, and her head is bobbing in rhythm, eyes closed, mouth open, left and down, right and up.

I move on to I had the time of my life, a flat out lie, and I’ve never felt this way before, a true statement but not for the reasons the song implies. I have to concentrate to keep from falling off this thing so I close my eyes, opening them between songs to check out my surroundings. If someone beefs it, I want to know. Not that it would be humorous in any way to see someone take a spill, but they would laugh if I beefed it, so I don’t want to miss any opportunities. Everyone is still upright, including Trance Lady who is still going strong.

After fifteen minutes I’m beginning to wonder if someone shouldn’t check on her, you know, tap her on the shoulder, or snap their fingers to bring her out of her trance. Did her hypnotist get her started then wander off to Jack in the Box and forget to come back and snap her out of it? Did said hypnotist implant a suggestion that she wake upon hearing a certain cue, say, laughter when she finally beefs it? Oh well. I’ve progressed to walking on broken glass and drowning in black water and now I’m thinking when every little bit of hope is gone, sad songs say so much. I’m suffering enough to write it down, that’s for sure. I think I might cry. No one would notice, the dew is falling pretty good by now anyway.

I’m twenty minutes into this and Trance Lady stops. She opens her eyes, looks around, and….. starts going in reverse! Same rhythm, same speed, same head and foot motion. Thirty minutes in and I’m in a purple haze and call it quits. Trance Lady is still in reverse mode, still no hypnotist in sight. I decide I’ve earned a sit down, so off to the easy chair bikes for me. Daughter #1 has moved to a treadmill and when my vision clears I check out the weight lifting section. There isn’t much there today, just a C wearing a NASA t-shirt. He’s not bad, but I have doubts about his astronaut status. More likely he works at JPL and designs robots to explore the solar system. Hmph.

It’s time for something soothing, so I find the classics I’ve downloaded and set the bike on level 9 and take a spin around the block, figuratively speaking of course. No need to be in a hurry, so I pedal at a nice slow pace. It’s not like I’m in a race with the C+25 next to me who could power Las Vegas if she hooked her bike to the power grid.

Another ten minutes and Daughter #1 wimps out. We head to the locker room where for once I don’t have to lament the absence of TOWELS. I’ve survived another day. No one beefed it, including me. Life is good.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Four

2009-12-01T13:51:00.001-08:00

One word- towel. I can’t emphasize this enough. If one is going to shower at the gym, one should bring a TOWEL. I’m not talking about an ordinary length of terry cloth, but one long enough to encompass all of you. Trust me when I tell you, no one wants to see what your towel doesn’t cover, unless you are the bronzed god. It’s highly unlikely I will encounter him in the women’s locker room however much I would appreciate that very thing. I hereby make a pact. I will not subject my fellow locker room users to my unclothed self if they will do the same for me.

Enough said. I think you get the picture.

I parted company with Daughter #1 right off. She headed for the rack, I mean elliptical, and I headed for the stair climbing thing-a-ma-jig. I set it on level four and scanned the room for something interesting to look at. As these machines are taller than the others their row acts as a room divider between the moving machinery and the stationary or human powered equipment. This, along with my elevated height allows me an unobstructed view of the entire place. Sorry to report there is very little to see. The pit is inhabited primarily by the stay at home mom crowd and what appears to be a high school softball team. I’m not sure why they are here in the middle of a school day, but what do I know? My girls always had those pesky academic classes to attend in the morning. Softball was the last class of the day, or after school.

I’ve made it up a few flights of stairs when I begin to wonder if I’ve lost my mind. I’m a big fan of elevators; I think I mentioned that previously. I’m also a big fan of escalators and moving sidewalks. Why take the stairs when a perfectly good people mover is available? Why walk when the sidewalk will do the work for you? Every muscle from my waist down is on slow burn now and I begin to dream about moving sidewalks. The best are to be found in large airports like Minneapolis-St. Paul where to get from gate F-16 to A-14 is about a five mile hike. Try doing this in half an hour. If you know how to use the moving sidewalks it’s almost possible to make your connecting flight, thereby saving you a ten hour layover.

If you aren’t in a rush, standing in one spot and allowing the sidewalk to carry you along is a great way to go. You can text, dig for your boarding pass, or read a book because you don’t have to watch where you’re going. These are one way, so no oncoming traffic to worry about. However, if you are about to miss your connection there is the express lane. To make the best use of this lane, first secure all loose articles of clothing as you would for any high speed amusement park ride. Secure all luggage to your front or back as the walkway isn’t wide enough to pass the standing in one place folks with a bag hanging from your shoulder.

When you are prepared, take off at a sprint in the express lane. This is what it feels like to be the six million dollar man, to fly on your own feet. As these wonders of man must come to an end somewhere you need to prepare yourself to be launched off the end of the sidewalk onto terra firma. If you are truly skilled only one foot will hit the ground and your momentum will carry you onto the next sidewalk. This is an acquired skill and not to be attempted by the novice traveler.

I’m up to the fifth or sixth floor when inspiration walks in. I notice him as he claims a treadmill a few rows ahead of me. I’m thinking Matthew McConaughey look alike-ish. Close enough. My vision is going along with my ability to control my muscles, so he’s probably a toad in actuality. Anyway, this guy looks like he should be running on the beach with his sun bleached hair and long, lanky physique. He’s carrying a gallon water jug and wearing a sweatshirt. I focus on him as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and begins his stretching exercises.
No one else I’ve seen stretches before they get on any of the machinery. I’m sure this is a no-no, but who cares? This guy is stretching and I’ve forgotten about my legs and moving sidewalks. I can work through the pain if I have the right focus and this is the right focus.

M.M. gets down to business, running sprints on the treadmill. Yep, sprints. Run flat out for two minutes, rest, run again. Each time he hops off he plants his feet on the side rails and runs a hand through his unruly hair. Uh huh! With such scenery I could climb a skyscraper. Sometime later I am dismayed to find I have climbed a sky scraper, a moderate one at least, 44 floors. My twenty minute workout on the stairs is over. I bid M.M. goodbye, silently thanking him for the diversion and go in search of another method of slow torture.

After riding the lounge chair bike around the block a few times I seek out Daughter #1. There is an open treadmill next door, so I join her for a walk. I’ve just spied M.M. again at the weights. He’s lifting some giant hunks of metal and thanks to more of those wonderful mirrors I can watch from several different angles. Daughter #1 taps me on the shoulder. Am I ready to go? Hell no. However, she clearly has pushed her C-27 body harder than I have pushed mine, so I call it a day.

This brings me full circle to paragraph one. Towels. Believe me, after watching M.M. for a while the scene in the locker room was not something I wanted to see. Talk about Debbie Downer, well, you get the picture.

Tally for the day: 44 floors, 5miles on the bike, one more walking. I’m done for. Hopefully M.M. will be back tomorrow.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Three

2009-11-30T21:14:00.001-08:00

Misery loves company. It must be true because I had lots of company today. The pit was positively alive with bodies in various stages of self abuse. I was hoping for at least one prime male specimen to focus my attentions on in order to offset the pain factor. Alas, the place was full of women of all shapes, sizes and years. The few men in attendance were mostly C +20’s, with a few C’s thrown in here and there. Now you ask, “What are you talking about?” Let me explain. In the interest of clarity I have decided on a sort of abbreviation system in regards to age. By definition a contemporary is someone at or near my age, a C if you will. A C+20 would be my age, plus about 20 years. A C-20 would be approximately twenty years younger.

So, you ask, “How old is a C+20?” Daughter #1 would be a C-27. This is one of those word problems we all hated in school and wondered why we had to do. Now you know it was in preparation for this very day, when you would have to decipher my cryptic system designed to mask my age. Now, anyone out there who is a C+20 or more should get out the abacus, C’s should use their slide rule, and C-15’s or more will probably use something like a TI 89 Titanium to figure this out. Are we clear on this? Good, let’s continue then.

Where was I? Oh yes, my fellow travelers on the road to hell. It’s Monday morning. The breadwinners of the valley are tucked away in their offices making a living. That leaves the C+20’s, the C-20 trophy wives and the C-25 stay at home moms. Daughter # 1 and I survey the pit. She spies one unoccupied treadmill and heads in that direction. Notice, after two days she deems me either competent to be on my own, or she is eager to dissociate herself. Every other machine in the pit is in use or plastered with a bright yellow, out of order sign, except for the lounge chair cycles. I have several of these to choose from, so off I go. I select the one where I will have the best view in the giant rearview mirror.

The mirror provides my best source of entertainment. I am most intrigued by the C-25 on the elliptical next to Daughter #1’s treadmill. Let me clarify. This is the machine where all four limbs are moving in different directions at the same time, something like riding an irate bull. C-25 is talking on her cell phone! Somehow she manages to stay on the contraption and carry on a conversation at the same time. How does she do that? I concentrate on my own problems, namely kicking the resistance level up to 8 and trying to make it out of the driveway before I collapse. I’m cruising along trying to look as if my legs are still attached to my body when a C+30 takes over the bike next to me. I must have looked like I knew what I was doing as she catches my attention and asks me how to adjust the seat and turn the darn thing on. This is something I can do. My confidence bolstered, I check the rearview mirror and C-25 has switched her phone to the other ear and is still talking!

I contemplate the dexterity and lung capacity necessary to pull this off and try to avoid looking at the various C+’s occupying the treadmills in front of me. Lucky for me I am saved from tedium by a C-15 of the male variety. I’m sure you are familiar with the basketball game at the pizza place run by the giant rat. You know the one. You toss the ball into a basket and the ball returns to you and you do it all again, sort of like a combination of bowling and basketball. Well, it turns out they have these for grownups. C-15 grabs a ball, reclines on the bucket style seat, ball above his head. He does an impressive sit-up and tosses the ball into the basket, and so it goes. I forget all about my thighs burning. I forget I have thighs. This is a much better diversion than C-25 on her cell phone.

Ball-toss guy moves on to other things, so after twenty minutes on the bike I move on to a bigger challenge. Daughter #1 suggests still another variety of elliptical torture machine I have yet to try. On this one only your legs move and after about thirty seconds I have to stop. My thighs feel as if someone is ripping the muscles out with a hot knife. When my vision clears I survey the control panel. Inclination. Hmm. Up arrow. Down arrow. This thing is set on Rocky Mountain High and I’m more of a High Plains Drifter. Down, down, down, down, down. Once I’m out on the prairie life gets better. I can do this, especially with a tune with a good backbeat pounding in my ears. If I’m going to do much of this I’m going to have to revamp my playlist. The soundtrack to Pride and Prejudice just won’t cut it for this.

Amazingly enough I’m still feeling charitable toward Daughter #1 after twenty minutes of gliding along the Llano Estacado. Daughter #1 however has had her a** kicked by the foothills of the Sierra Madre and is on the verge of collapse. Youth. Always in a hurry.

Off to the locker room. Don’t get me started on this. I’ve opened a file named Etiquette. I’ll share it with you one of these days.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day Two

2009-11-29T13:13:00.000-08:00

Daughter #1 said we should go back to the dungeon once more. I’ve had twenty-four hours to recuperate which leads me to believe there is more to the name of the place than I first thought, so I agree to accompany her.

Yesterday I began on the cycle where I had an excellent view of the parking lot. I witnessed several women, contemporaries we shall say, coming in and disappearing. I concluded there were several possible reasons for this phenomenon. One, they could be walking in the front door so as to be seen entering they premises and exiting moments later through the back door and skirting the parking lot to the Jack in the Box next door where they would order a large fry and chocolate shake before making their way back to their car. Two, they could be convening in a super secret back room where they munch on donuts and hot chocolate before exiting previously mentioned back door. Whatever the scenario, they were not ending up on the devices of torture where I was. Clearly they knew something I did not. I will have to investigate this further.

I was heartened today to see more contemporaries; however they were mostly men, and mostly in desperate need of torturing, if you get my meaning. I did note one woman on the treadmill walking at a pace that would have been slow for a snail. Then there was the non-contemporary on the treadmill directly in front of the mirrored wall. He wasn’t hard on the eyes I must say and apparently he thought the same thing because his eyes were locked on his own visage, never straying. I wonder what he saw in his own gaze. I personally find it hard to look myself in the eye for more than a few minutes, not because I don’t like what I see there, but because I can’t see anything but my eyes. I think eyes can be windows into the soul, but that only seems to work for me if I’m looking at someone else’s eyes.

We started our torture regime on the stair climbing thing-a-ma-jigs today. I climb stairs every day so I knew going in this wasn’t going to be good. I get winded going up one flight and am a firm believer that elevators are gifts from above. However, there were several open machines, which of course we all know is a warning all its own, so we picked out two and tried them out. I set mine on torture level 1 and gradually worked up to level 4. After about two minutes I was getting dewey (this is called sweat north of the Mason-Dixon Line and west of the Rio Grande). Smart aleck daughter #1 set her machine on level 8. After two minutes she was complaining about the state of her thighs. At the three minute mark I looked over and she was hanging by her elbows from the handrail and practically crawling up the stairs. At five minutes she shut off her machine and suggested we try something else. I agreed even though this is something I can actually do as it requires very little coordination and at level 4 I was dewey, but still able to talk. Besides, I didn’t want to be anywhere around when the guy to our left had a heart attack from running up the stairs as if they led to hell and he didn’t want to go. I made it up the equivalent of seven flights of stairs and burned off at least one M & M. I was ready to move on.

Next were the ellipticals. Yeah, I know. They kicked my a** yesterday, but I was willing to give it another try. We found two of the ‘slide’ variety which require less physical coordination as one leg and one arm go the same way at the same time, much like walking or cross country skiing. I managed this well enough except for the one time I tried to get a drink of water and nearly fell off. I grabbed for the hand rail and righted myself wondering if someone yells, “Woman overboard,” if you end up on your padded backside. I doubt it. I’m sure if anyone noticed they’d just have a good laugh and keep on running, climbing, ellipting, or whatever. I didn’t dare look around to see if the stair climber was still at it. I was not going to do CPR on him, not that I had any air in my lungs to give him anyway.

Twelve minutes of swinging my legs and arms and I was even more dewey, and my thighs were no longer responding to the signals sent from my brain. At least I think my brain was still sending signals. Hard to tell. Swinging daughter was still going strong so I tapped her on the shoulder and told her I was going to the bikes. I took up my place on the easy chair bike and kicked it up to level 5 and away I went. I think I made it around the block a time or two in the twenty odd minutes I was there before exhausted daughter sat down beside me and said she was done for. At some point she’d switched to a treadmill and ran until she couldn’t stand. We were both in need of a donut, but pleased with our accomplishments for the day, so we headed for the locker room.

I think I might have burned off three M & M’s today and have yet to find the secret backroom where they keep the donuts. Tomorrow is another day.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - Day One

2009-11-28T12:36:00.000-08:00

I did it. I went to the gym and I survived! Don’t cheer just yet; I was only there for half an hour. A minor success, but I’m proud of it. I knew hoping the place would be empty was too much to hope for, and I was correct. I had no idea so many people who outwardly appeared sane would willingly subject themselves to public to torture. It’s all part of the learning curve I suppose.

Daughter #1 and I began on the cycles as all the treadmills were occupied. Kindly, knowledgeable daughter suggested we try the recumbent cycles which to my delight appeared to be an easy chair with pedals attached. I pedaled to the playlist I usually listen to while writing and observed my surroundings. I felt smug. I can do this. Sitting on my, er, rear, my favorite tunes in my ear, making up stories about the people around me. This isn’t much different than what I do every day, except I’m moving my legs.

At resistance level one I’m able to check out the place at my leisure. With only a row of treadmills between me and a bank of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the parking lot I have plenty to look at. The wall directly in front is mirrored, a kind of giant rear view mirror. I pedal away. I can do this. I glance at Daughter #1. She is up to level 4 and is half way to Riverside while I’m still in the driveway. I kick it my bike up to level 2.

The woman on the treadmill at the far end is starting to get on my nerves. Does she think there is a bear chasing her? She was running at warp speed when I sat down and is still going strong. There must be some kind of law. I vow to look it up when I get home. I feel much more charitable toward the nerd in his pajama bottoms who is strolling while reading a colorful brochure. He could be planning an exotic vacation but I suspect its gym propaganda. Seriously, this guy will never look like the models in that brochure.

I’m feeling pretty good so I kick it up another notch. I can do this. The treadmill directly in front of me is vacated by the old guy (anyone over 30 in this place) and is quickly claimed by a god. Yep. Are my legs burning? Who knows? Who cares? Thanks to the mirrored wall I have both a front and rear view of this rather nice male specimen. Hubba Hubba. This guy is six feet of lean, muscled, toned and bronzed male. No pajama bottoms for the hunk.

I thank my lucky stars and kick the bike up another notch. I can do this. Mr. Hard Body is running as fast as the lady with the bear chasing her, but somehow I don’t find this anywhere near as annoying. I swig water from the bottle I brought along (see I know what I’m doing) and admire the scenery. My bike has several ‘tours’ available, country road, mountain pass, but why I want one of those when the landscape ahead is full of such delightful hills and valleys?

Daughter #1 taps me on the shoulder. There are two ellipticals open, do I want to try that? “Why not?” I say. The timer on my bike says 25 minutes. I can still breathe. I can do this. My legs tingle when my feet make contact with the floor, but I manage the ten feet to the new machine. This looks fun. Daughter #1 assures me it is. “You get to bounce,” she says with a smile. Bouncing is something I do all too well these days, thus the reason I have signed myself into the chamber of horrors in the first place. I smile back and say, “Okay.”

The machine flashes me. No, not that kind of flashing, a message in bright red letters. “Pedal harder,” it says. I try. Legs go in two different directions, arms in two more. “I think I’m going backwards,” I say. Smart ass daughter says, “That’s because you are.” She places my hands on the vertical bars and tells me to push. I push, I pedal. Mr. Hard Body is forgotten. I need all my faculties to stay on this thing.

Two minutes in on resistance level 1 and my thighs are burning, and my lungs are seizing up. I let go to take a swig of water (yes, I still have over half a bottle). My legs are still going, propelled by the machine, not by my muscles as I have no muscles left, or at least no control over them. Water sloshes from bottle to dribble from both corners of my mouth. Great. Now I’m drooling on myself. I wipe my face with my shirt and demon daughter says, “You can quit whenever you want.”

Not me. I can do this. I wrestle the hand grips under control and push on. The machine flashes me again. Bastard. What does it look like I’m doing? My vision blurs. I think I may be going backwards again but I’m helpless to reverse the motion. Another two and a half minutes go by. Five minutes total, including water break. I give up.

As we make our way to the locker room my legs scream obscenities at me. My arms are noodles at my side. Daughter from hell says, “You did good. Half and hour. Not bad for your first time.”

“Huh” I respond. According to the computers on the machines I have endured thirty minutes of self inflicted torture and burned off the grand total of two M & M’s.

Luckily I have the car key so my demon spawn can’t leave me behind. As soon as I can stand I’m going to use it.

Fat Lady on a Treadmill - The Beginning

2009-11-27T14:46:00.000-08:00

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve actually signed myself in at the torture chamber, aka the gym. My oldest daughter assisted me by signing us both up online so they couldn’t talk us into more than we were willing to commit to. For this I am grateful. It goes against all that I am to pay for access to a chamber of horrors, but thanks to her savvy shopping skills we are only locked in to a two month deal.

Today, less than 24 hours after stuffing ourselves with massive amounts of Thanksgiving dinner we ventured over to the 24 hour humiliation mill to check it out. We wore our street clothes so no one would mistake us for participants and force us onto some masochistic machine. Neither one of us was ready for that today.

Inside the door a twenty-something hard bodied young man (yahoo!) took the receipts we’d printed out and sent us on our way. The place was hopping I must say. I tried to block out the fact that only one person besides myself appeared to be over the age of consent, directing my attention to the amenities instead.

No medieval dungeon has anything on this place. The Prince of Darkness must smile every time another innocent strolls through the tinted glass doors into his parlor. People who have no need of physical torture strained and sweated on the machinery, watching football and soundless news on oversized television screens. I instantly wondered what I had gotten myself into. These people were sweating!

I don’t sweat. I don’t run. I don’t stretch, unless it’s to reach the hidden stash of chocolate on the top shelf. I plead temporary insanity and beg my daughter to let me out of my commitment. “What did I ever do to you?” I ask. Nothing I say sways her to my way of thinking, not even the generous bribe I slip into her purse as we tour the locker room.

On the way home I remind daughter number one that I am more than twice her age, but she keeps up an endless stream of encouragement that I should find endearing. I tune her out, knowing full well that before we leave the place following our first workout, she will be telling anyone within hearing distance that she’s never seen me before.

I just hope she drives around back where I will be waiting for her to pick me up. It’s a long walk home.

Ants are Vengeful Creatures

2009-09-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

Southern California is home to an army the size of which makes the national debt look like pocket change. Deep below the sandy surface, in a warren of tunnels modern human engineering could never accomplish, this army plots against us. Like a mighty terrorist faction they rise from their subterranean compound in the dark of night to wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting masses.
Their hierarchy is simple, the queen rules. Everyone else lives so that she may live. Male generals command the army of female soldiers whose blind allegiance knows no bounds. No weapon of mass destruction has yet to be manufactured that will conquer this invading hoard.
Who are these sinister, havoc wreaking hoards? Ants. Gazillions of ants. You chuckle, unsuspecting human. The ants are coming to get you. How do I know this? I have seen their army. They are on the march in my neighborhood, more specifically, my house.
We’ve known they were plotting beneath our home for years. We’ve had many skirmishes with them. Just yesterday they launched a sneak attack on our living room while we slept. In retaliation my husband took up arms against them. Wielding a spray bottle filled with toxins he slaughtered hundreds of thousands of tiny six legged soldiers around the perimeter of our yard. With a self satisfied smirk he declared himself the winner of the battle. I was hopeful that we had seen the last of them for a while, but alas it was not to be.
Ants are vengeful creatures. They plotted. They called up the reserves. Under cover of darkness they mounted a counter offensive straight into our kitchen. With unerring accuracy they marched from the depths of hell, across our lawn to the foundation of our home. In a brazen attack, assured that their victims slept, they marched along the foundation to the back door and stormed the house.
Like a living river the army filed through the door and straight to the bowl of dog food on the kitchen floor. There they set up a sophisticated supply line designed to carry off as much plunder as their little bodies could carry.
In the light of day their perfidy was discovered. I once again resorted to chemical warfare in my rage against the invading army. I killed unmercifully, pulling the trigger on my container of lethal chemicals over and over. No six legged creature was exempt from my wrath. I killed the little buggers inside my castle and followed their supply line, slaughtering as I went. I sprayed. I stomped. I killed.
Am I ashamed? Do I feel remorse? No, and no. The skirmish lasted nearly an hour before I valiantly declared myself the winner. Millions died. My rage gave me super human strength against such formidable odds. I am human. I am an American. It is my right to keep and bear arms.
I chugged orange juice in celebration of my victory. I placed my weapons back on the shelf in the garage where I can reach them at a moment’s notice. I have dealt the invaders a mighty blow, but they will be back. Right now they are procreating at a dizzying rate, fueled by the food they looted from my larder while I slept the sleep of the innocent.
I must rest. I must check my weapons and replenish as necessary. I can feel the rumble of their mighty fighting machine as it rumbles beneath my feet. I will not sleep until they are defeated.

Friends

2009-09-09T13:15:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of spending the previous weekend with about one hundred people who I share a minimum of one thing in common with. It seems we all graduated from the same high school on the same day almost 35 years ago. This get together was dubbed the AOWWBOSY, or The Anniversary of the Week We Began Our Senior Year. I have had a lot of fun times since I last saw or spoke with most of these folks, but I can't remember anything that has been more satisfying.

No, I don't mean that my ego or self esteem was boosted by the current status of anyone there. I mean that after all these years, none of that matters any longer. I vaguely remember attending our tenth reunion and my overwhelming memory of that event is getting home and wondering why I went in the first place. Just a decade out of high school and we were all still posturing. I have more of this than you. I went to this school. I have this kind of car. I live in this neighborhood, city, state...

After 34+ years we've finally grown out of that kind of thinking. The result was a wonderful weekend getting to know each other again, laughing over stories told and retold, dredging up memories long since buried and finding that others share those same memories. We laughed until tears flowed and smiled until our cheeks hurt. We took enough photos to keep Kodak in business for another decade had film still been in use. We talked until our vocal chords shut down in protest. Plates of food grew cold as we jumped up to greet another familiar face and forgot about our need for food.

Days after returning home I still find a silly grin on my face from time to time as I recall moments spent with people who played dolls and shared a skate key with me back when. Some were friends acquired in high school and our memories were more grown up. Football games, Prom, cruising, risks taken, classes skipped. Some were friends recently made. Thanks to Facebook I have met many of my fellow graduates who I never had the pleasure of knowing in school. Of the over 500 graduates that year it was impossible to know them all, so many of us never met. My life is enriched for knowing these wonderful people now and it was a blessing to meet many of them in person.

We have lost some of our classmates to tragedy and illness and we shared fond memories of them, proving that their memory will live on within us. I hope they heard our words and read the sorrow in our hearts at their passing.

Many thanks to the fabulous friends who coordinated the weekend events. Without them it would not have been possible. The weekend exceeded all my expectations and I look forward to seeing all of my friends again next spring when we will celebrate the actual 35th anniversary of our high school graduation.

To Plano High School, Class of 1975- You are the best! We are the best! I am so proud of all of us. We have overcome, persevered and succeeded! The Wildcat spirit is alive and well.

Summer Days

2009-07-25T06:37:00.000-07:00

It's been way too long since I've posted anything new. So sorry about that. Life has been happening at a dizzying pace and there always seems to be something urgent that needs to be done.

June ended with a wake-up call. My oldest was laid-off from her first real job and announced she was moving back home while she decides whether to go back to school and pursue her PhD. or find another job. I hustled to put some fresh feathers in the nest and welcomed her back under my wing.

I spent a week at her apartment, boxing and cleaning so the move would be easier. While I did this, she was in CA with the rest of the family (remember my bi-coastal status) on a previously arranged vacation. The rest of the family arrived back and we all loaded up a moving truck and brought her home.

Then we all loaded up and headed to DC where I attended the Romance Writer's of America National Conference. Hubby and the girls played tourist while I attended as many workshops as I could, hoping to learn as much as possible in a few days time about this business of writing. I had a wonderful and exhausting time meeting fellow writers and learning, learning, learning.

If not for the fire alarm on Saturday, I probably wouldn't have left the hotel for the entire day! Thankfully all was well and after a short break we were allowed to return to the building.

Lest you think all I did was work, let me assure you I had a blast. Since I knew absolutely no one when I arrived I had no trouble finding a table full of new faces at every meal. It was so nice to meet all of my table mates and if you were one of them let me say now how much I enjoyed meeting you and sharing our stories over a noisy table!

I was honored to meet several well known authors and had my photo made with a few of them too! All the speakers were fabulous, and I mean the ones at the workshops too. I don't even know how to describe the conference unless it would be - controlled chaos.

The hotel staff kept everyone going in the right direction and on time with their chimes and helpful directions. The food was better than average for this type of event and my room was vintage, but charming and comfortable. Kudos to the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel for a job well done.

The case of ADD I developed while there has subsided now that I'm not bombarded on all sides with multiple stimuli. There were no less than five choices to be made every hour of every day, an exhausting undertaking for someone who spends many hours a day alone with her computer.

I did get out for a few hours on Friday evening to see the sights and spend time with the family. I do love DC and all the pompous buildings and monuments.

The awards ceremony on Saturday evening was a star studded affair (in romance writers terms). I was so happy for all those who were nominated and especially thrilled for those who won. Like the other 2000+ in attendance I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be one of the honored few. Maybe one of these days, but for now I will just shout out my congratulations to those wonderful writers and be grateful that I was able to share the special moment with them.

I'm looking forward to next years conference in Nashville, TN. It's already on my calendar. See you there!

Father's Day Tribute to my Dad, Melvin E. Wall, Sr.

2009-06-20T19:37:00.000-07:00

My dad was a simple man. He was born Feb.2, 1916 in Anna, Texas. He was the second son, and sixth born of eleven. He had an eighth grade education and an analytical mind. Like many of his generation, he enlisted in the Army, spending much of his time in North Africa and Italy as a Motor Pool Staff Sergeant with the 88th Division, Blue Devils. When he returned to the States he married his wartime pen-pal on his 30th birthday.

As a newlywed he moved his new bride from Dallas to “the edge of nowhere”, Plano, where he had a job as a farm equipment mechanic at the Allis Chalmers dealership. They occupied the old train depot station in downtown Plano at the time. He bought a slice of property on the new freeway and built a small home and his own shop on the land. In ten years time his family had outgrown the small house he’d built by hand, so he purchased a brand new house on the edge of town, one with three bedrooms and a big yard for his children to play in. He continued to make his living as a farm equipment mechanic, and occasionally he would repair a car or pickup, or bulldozer, or whatever was brought his way.

I learned a lot of things from my dad.

He taught me that intelligence isn’t measured by framed scraps of paper on the wall, or how many consonants you can string together behind your name.

He taught me that I could be anything I wanted to be, and for a southern girl, that was news to me.

He taught me how to use my hands, and the difference between a wrench, and a pair of pliers. He let me get my hands (and clothes) greasy, and slide underneath a car on a creeper. He let me look over his shoulder while he rebuilt engines and transmissions, while he ground valves, and set the timing on a internal combustion engine. The tools of his trade were recently stolen from the home he bought for his family 52 years ago. I wonder if the person who took them knew they were taking memories too.

He taught me physics by way of pulleys, levers, and inclined planes.

He taught me to drive a tractor, a combine, and a standard transmission auto (pickup truck actually).

He taught me how to swim, not the swim team style; river and military style. Head up, eyes open, so you can see where you’re going. I still swim that way.

He taught me about the bounty of the earth, letting me tag along on service calls to the middle of wheat and cotton fields. He let me dive into trailers filled with wheat, and he took me to the cotton gin in Plano and walked me through the catwalks, explaining how the machinery worked as we went along.

By example, he taught me the color of your skin doesn’t have anything to do with your worth as a human being, nor does the thickness of your wallet.

He taught me that your bank balance is not a way to keep score.

By example he showed me how to hold my head high, how to honor humble beginnings, and humble living.

He taught me Algebra where my teachers couldn’t, even though he’d never had a class in his life. My teacher’s never understood how I came up with the correct answers, since I wasn’t doing it “by the textbook.”

He taught me that History class was important because we have to understand where we’ve been, in order to see where we’re going.

He let me fix his hair in crazy hair styles while he watched television. From this I learned I have no talent to be a hair stylist.

He taught me that high expectations for children are better discipline than spanking.

He taught me that hard work is its own reward. That providing for your family to the best of your ability is a goal in life.

He taught me to love and respect the out of doors and to be kind to animals.

He taught me how to shoot a rifle (what self respecting Texas girl doesn’t need to know that) and how to build a campfire.

He taught me how to roller skate, and how to skate ‘couples’. He was always my favorite skate partner.

He taught me how to crack pecans and nap under a plum tree.

He taught me that smoking will kill you.

The only time I ever saw my father in a church was for a funeral or a wedding, but he was good man, a Godly man if there is such a thing. Did he believe in Heaven and Hell? I don’t know, but he lived a life worthy of Heaven if there is one.

He passed from this life on April 23, 1991.

Flying Machines Should Have Engines

2009-05-31T16:39:00.000-07:00

There is a Glider Port in Blairstown, about 5 miles from our house. I just watched a small, single engine plane fly over towing a glider. A few minutes later I saw the same plane return, without the glider. I did catch a glimpse of the glider a moment later, on it's own.

To anyone who wants to go up in a glider I must ask, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR EVER LOVING MIND?"

Any flying machine that I go up in must have at the barest minimum one engine. I would prefer two or more but no less than one. It's not too much to ask.

How does one go about learning to fly a glider? Trial and error? Practice with balsa wood ones off the roof of your house first?

Do you have any control over where you are going? I somewhat understand Hot Air Balloons and following the air currents and frankly would go up in a balloon before I would a glider. At least as long as you have fuel, you have some control over the balloon, vertically speaking of course. Seems like you would have a little more say in where you would land as well. Not so with a glider. THERE IS NO FUEL. No fuel = no control.

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T17:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve had the pleasure of spending this Mother’s Day weekend with my two grown daughters on a sort of road trip adventure which consisted of loading up a dorm room full of stuff into two SUV’s and heading home. My oldest lives in Boston and lent her new Jeep to the cause and we headed south to Virginia to bring my youngest home from college for the summer.

The weekend was special on several levels. Youngest was happy to show off her campus to her older sister, and show her sister off to her friends at school. She is quite proud of her school and her sister so for her it was special after three years to have them together, if even for a few hours. Elder sister is quite proud of her own accomplishments as well as how far her younger sister has come and was happy to lend a helping hand. It was good to see them working together and to see the love and respect that they have for each other. That alone was enough of a Mother’s Day present.

The South is a whole world apart from what my girls are used to, even though I was born and raised in Texas and my eldest was born there too. Let me say how much I love Virginia. It is a beautiful state. The Shenandoah Valley is breathtakingly beautiful in the spring and I was pleased to share this with my eldest for the first time. I’m not sure she was as impressed as I had hoped, as the great outdoors for her is best viewed from a downtown skyscraper. I for one love the rolling hills, the green pastures dotted with cattle, hip roofed barns, and rail fences. It isn’t a stretch of the imagination to see why early settlers went that far, parked the horse and wagon and decided to stay a while. I could be perfectly happy there too.

Saturday morning we sauntered into a local fast food establishment in Amherst, Virginia, two beautiful young butterflies and a moth. I noticed for the first time that my eldest was dressed from head to toe in clothing purchased entirely on her own, meaning with her own money. Not a stitch was purchased with dollars from mom and dad. I was proud. We were not over dressed for the task of packing, loading and driving that lay ahead of us, but by local standards we were as out of place as any Yankees could be. As we fluttered in, the moth and her two young butterflies, everyone in the place turned to stare. We went about ordering, etc, etc. as one does in such an establishment all the while aware that we were the most interesting thing to happen in a while. I’m not sure how we were more interesting than the man wearing overalls and waders or any of the many others in decidedly odd local attire but clearly we were. We weren’t wearing plaid. We weren’t wearing gimme caps or t-shirts. Our SUV’s in the parking lot had license plates from far off and exotic Yankee strongholds, New Jersey and Massachusetts. I guess I should be grateful all they did was stare. We may have been saved by my Texas accent that just won’t go away despite the fact I have been out of the state for the last 23 years.

We loaded up both vehicles and headed north, making it past the Mason-Dixon Line in early afternoon. The girls took turns driving one of the vehicles and I drove the other one, sometimes leading, sometimes following. It struck me as I drove on Interstate 81 that it was somewhat poetic. I took the lead as we left the school, leading my youngsters homeward. Somewhere along the way they took over and I followed, happy to let them lead me for a change. This was much like life; this lead and follow routine. As a parent I’ve done more leading, but it felt good to follow for a time, watching my grown daughters set the pace, decide when to make a move, when to hang back and let others go ahead. I found no fault with their decisions and was content to watch them fly ahead of me all the while knowing that they felt confident knowing that I was behind them all the way, ready to step up and take over the lead if they should falter.

It was a great Mother’s Day weekend. I think I learned something from spending this time with my girls. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant and flowers, but I couldn’t have asked for a better time.

P.S. – Thanks girls for the new camera! You know me too well.

Love to you all,
D.

Heading East

2009-05-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

The time has come for me to pack up the wagon and head East for the summer. Thankfully my wagon will be a jet leaving out of LAX but the packing is just as much of a pain.

I'm sorry to be leaving Hubby, Betty(the dog) and my roses behind but my girls, swimming pool and almost six acres of lovely hardwood forest await me. You can ask me later how I'm getting along with the forest and the ongoing eradication of undergrowth. Give me a few weeks and I'm sure I'll be singing another tune!

Leaving the land of taco shops for the land of hot dog and ice cream stands. Fair trade? Maybe, maybe not.

I know I've missed seeing all of my hundreds of daffodils blooming but perhaps the dogwoods and the eastern redbud will still be in bloom, maybe some forsythia too. With some luck the azaleas survived the winter along with the butterfly bushes and rhododendrons.

I'm looking forward to lounging on the deck, watching the birds, deer, bears, turkeys, chipmunks and other assorted critters as I work on my rewrite of Over Exposed. Maybe I'll even get back on track with Ryder and Raine's story.

Happy Cinco de Mayo to all. I have to wonder about this dubious holiday which seems to have been created by Americans in order to have an excuse to eat copious amounts of Mexican food and drink Margaritas. To this I say - who needs an excuse?

Have a good one.
D.

A Visit to the Getty Center

2009-05-02T16:45:00.000-07:00

I can't think of a better thing to do on a lovely Saturday afternoon in L.A. than to take in some art at the Getty. If you haven't been there you owe it to yourself to take the time and go. Admission is free but they get $10 from you for parking. For that lofty sum you also get a ride from the parking garage to the museum at the top of the hill (3/4 mile) in a tram. It's not Disneyland, but it's a nice ride.

When you get to the top the buildings themselves are a work of art and well worth the trip. The fountains and gardens, as well as the sculpture gardens are as good as they come. The view from various balconies can be spectacular, the best in LA, if the weather is clear. Today wasn't one of those days,but the fog across the valley created a feeling of being isolated on top of the hill and that was fun too. It's nice sometimes to imagine L.A. just disappearing!

I won't subject you to my photos as they can not possibly do justice to the place. It's a must see in L.A.

Favorite's today: Photography by Paul Outerbridge. I won't try to describe it, but I will say the man knows his desserts. Check it out on your own.

The Impressionist Gallery - Always my favorite place. I love Renoir's La Promenade, Monet's Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge, Van Gogh's Irises and Pissaro's Landscape.

I could go on and on, but alas I'm afraid this is becoming boring. Check my list of links for the Getty Center website.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend!