Requiem for a Saturday morning

Aunt Betty and her youngest niece, May 1992.

 Feb. 23, 2013

Dearest Aunt Betty,

     You've missed so very much.

     And you yourself are missed even more. Every day, in every way. By so many of us.

     As I sit here in the home office writing this note to you — how many little notes did you send me over the years? I still have many of them, including the final one, written two decades ago yesterday — I can't begin to fathom how it's 20 years today that you were taken from us.

     I guess you shouldn't be too surprised that you're hearing from me today. You know you still hear from me on a regular basis. Even though you've been gone all this time, I never got out of the habit of talking to you. I just wish our talks didn't involve me doing all the talking. What I wouldn't give for you to materialize in the chair next to me and give me some advice just one more time. Not to mention a hug, a kiss and a couple of your chocolate chip cookies. ("Here, have a cookie. ... No, take two; one for each hand!")

     Of course, were you to show up right this second, you'd probably whack me across the back of the head for shedding a few more tears over you. Yes, I remember your instructions: "Remember me with laughter or don't remember me at all!" I'd like to think that usually I do a pretty good job with that, and I hope that today, of all days, you'll forgive me for being such a sentimental slob. You know I'm my father's daughter, after all; and you were always pretty fond of him. If he's allowed to cry (manly tears!), so am I.

     I just really, really, REALLY miss you.

     I miss your big, bold personality. Your laugh. The way you could make any person you talked to feel like they were the most important person on the planet.

     I miss your take-charge, can-do attitude. Over the years people have told me they admire how I can go into a situation I know next to nothing about, smile and say, "OK. I don't know how I'll do it, but it'll get done." I'd like to think I picked that up from you.

     I miss your overwhelming pride in our family.

     I miss your sense of fun. Your mischievousness.

     I miss the joy you brought along wherever you went.

     I miss Christmas Eves and birthdays and Easter morning egg hunts. I miss the stunned look on your face the year I asked why I wasn't allowed to eat the blessed food.


     I miss how it made me feel when I'd walk through your kitchen door and you'd greet me with a big smile, a hearty "Hi Laura Ann!" and an even bigger hug. Even if you'd just seen me the day before.

With her one and only grandson, Feb. 1991.

     I've got to tell you, though, that sifting through a box of photos to find a few to tuck in with this, it really struck me just how much time has passed.

     I mean, you've missed weddings, births. You have one more granddaughter now, by the way, and some very entertaining great-grands. I always tell that guy I married (Supportive Partner Man!) that you would have loved him. Deviled him endlessly about something or another, but loved him. I still think that you, from your perch on the next plane of existence, probably had something to do with sending him my way, so thank you.

     When you left, your favorite little buddy, your one and only grandson Tyler, had just turned 2 — no, 3 (I can't count this late at night). He's now a college graduate and a working man. My favorite little buddy, my one and only niece Kelly, was not quite 3. She just finished her first semester of graduate school. I looked through a whole host of pictures of their growing-up years, and couldn't help but wonder what you'd think.

     Somehow, though, I know.

     You'd be button-bustingly proud. Just like always.

     Anyway, I just thought I'd drop you a little note to check in. I hope you don't mind me sharing it with the general public, but I was feeling the need for a bit of late-night catharsis. (So what else is new, right?) And don't worry about me too much. I know you're never too far away, after all. You are, and probably always will be, the voice I hear in my head, the voice of my conscience.

    Thanks for helping to keep me sane and coming between me and disaster on more occasions than I'm probably even aware of. Please keep a special eye on my Mom; your sister really could use you right now. Oh, and be sure to give my love to all the Personal Saints, especially my redheaded friend.

     I'll talk to you again soon.
   

Signing off one last time, Feb. 22, 1993.

Sincerely with Love,

Laura Ann

Slouching through life

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

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

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

Short, but not so sweet

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

Who?

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

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

     Doctor Who.

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

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

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

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

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

     Plus, there's that PSA I mentioned earlier:

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

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

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

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

Good Old Four

     Mine's Tom Baker.

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

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

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

Yoga of the Tuesday

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

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

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

   

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

Bon anniversaire, Julia

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

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

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

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

BlogHer: Postmortem '12

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

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

Rockefeller Center ... in Lego.

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

The More You Nerd...

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