The inner American Idol

Who among us hasn’t longed for a chance to be on the stage, singing in front of sixty-thousand people or accepting an award for a playing a superb villain in a movie?  What about the deeply secreted desire to live out the P-diddy fantasy, sipping champagne, riding in tricked-out black Escalade with beautiful women all wanting….whatever they can get.

I call this the inner American Idol. It’s the fantastical dream of every driver singing at the top of their lungs behind the wheel. Or the forty-year old male who still plays air guitar, imagining himself Bruce Springsteen asking a sixteen year-old Courtney Cox on stage to Dance in the Dark.

Once upon a time, I believed the dream of singing to thousands would some day be reality, and joined a jazz choir in junior high. This gave way to singing and acting in high school, which ended the moment I left for college. Reality faded to a dream, dream turned in to a vague hope, and a few years ago, hope disappeared.

In my thirties, a health issue caused me to assess my life and the real reason I let my dreams fade to black. It was because of one word: Fear.

I've come to believe that fear is the greatest weapon against progress.Fear of failure. Fear of ridicule. Fear of judgment.  Fear restrained me from pursuing things I loved and dreamt of as a youth.

Thinking about dying hit the reset button. Cher related a similar turning point in her life, when she said didn’t want to die without at least trying to fulfill her dreams. Her fear was that she'd lose what she did have, respect in the pop-tv world, when she tried to branch out. Her dreams were far beyond the smalls screen and duets with Sonny. It included acting on stage, in movies and being a serious actress. She faced her critics head on, acted in Silkwood and Moonstruck and won an Oscar. This, from a woman who wore little more than a nipple-covering thong on the ship of an aircraft carrier at 40! If she could do that, I could at least try to unleash my inner American Idol.

Thus, I found my way to the doorstep of one Ross Hauck, a successful singer who teaches professionals the craft. Apparently, the day I showed up, he was in the giving mood, for he took pity on me.

Chicken warble

The first three lessons, I was paranoid he was going to fire me. My voice warbled like a duck being plucked. Staying on key was akin to a wolf howling at the moon while running after an elk. Up and down, side ways, jerky and ragged. It was horrible. I knew it was bad when his red, curly hair raised on the back of his neck. He doesn’t know I saw it, but he was playing the piano, oblivious to the tell-tale signs.

That wasn’t the worst part. I record the hour-long sessions on my iphone. I’d practice the scales in my car or at home. My singing was so bad, my daughter, not yet seven months, would burst in to tears. It got to the point I actually had to sing outside my own home, until goats started bleating back to me across the gulley.

Still, I perservered. Once again, I thank the good Lord his one gift to me was dog-with-a-bone determination. I figured if Angelina Jolie can learn how to fly a plane in barefeet, and Heidi Montag can rise from obscurity to pay cash for a Rolls Royce, I can train my voice to do what I want it to do. It was convenient that Ross’s  wife was pregnant at the time, or he might not have been as incentivized to endure the two months that followed.

The breakthrough came on the ninth lesson, when we’d been working on breathing technique. Four lessons were insufficient to teach me how to expand my ribs while using my diagram to support my voice and produce anything other than a note that sounded like I'd sucked down a balloon full of helium. Finally, he could take it no more. He got up, went in the other room, and came back with a large, black belt with Velcro.

“It’s a maternity belt,” I exclaimed. His wife gave birth last week, and it was now free to be of use to someone else.

“Put this on here,” he said, strapping it around his chest to show me where it belonged.

I took the object, placed it around my ribs, just under by bra-line until it was taught, but not tight.

“There, now expand your breath to the point where it pushes to capacity.”

I did so. When I started to see spots, I croaked out if "it was enough?"

“Yes. Now breath and sing.” After a few passes of single notes, then phrases, we pulled out a song we’ve been working on for Christmas. I can’t quite hit the high E without making the neighborhood dogs bark, but none committed suicide in the street today either.

That was progress, and for a moment, I was quite pleased until he stopped me.

“Pretend that you’re a famous jazz singer in a club with an orchestra behind you.”

I stared at him, trying to interpret what he was saying.

“Let it go,” he clarified, his oh-so-polite way of telling me to get over the controlling-type A personality that I am.  Afraid of being fired, just when I was making progress, I conjured up an image of Aretha in her fighting days, and letter-rip.

Missy RESPECT

It didn’t matter that my neck craned, blood vessels popped and I sqawked like a chicken getting poked from behind. For two minutes, I channeled Miss R.E.S.P.E.C.T, belting out I’ll be home for Christmas as my full-blown orchestra played behind me.  

“Feel the difference?” he asked politely. Sort of, yeah, I said, though what I really felt was my ribs expanding against the maternity belt, which threatened to push my breasts into my chin. If that was the side benefit of wearing the thick, black boob holder-upper, I was in.

Unaware of my inner amusings, he tells me it was because I wasn’t over-thinking the process. Whatever I thought of, he said, worked. I’d freed my mind, and my voice was clearer and better supported as a result.

Kuato freeing my mind

The last part of his sentence was lost on me, because as Ross said I'd freed my mind, the visual of a three fingered, mutant Kuato (Total Recall), expanding out of his human host hissing the words “Free your Minddddd.” I nearly choke on my tongue as I inhaled, pushed against my boob enhancer while inhabiting the body of a three-hundred pound jazz singer. 

For all that, the lesson produced a better sound and I came away sweaty, fulfilled and excited about my progress and the next lesson. Ross is an amazing teacher, who may still fire me during my next lesson. (That kind of fear is good, I think. Keeps me on the straight and narrow). I figure at this rate, I might be ready for the American Idol auditions, right about the time my five year old graduates from high school. 

Men & the happy factor 'one-space'

Men are stressed out these days. Employed or unemployed, fit or fat, nearly every man I know is carrying another level of stress that was absent a year ago.

No wonder. Bad times, hard work environment, demanding kids, needy wife. When it gets to be too much, I tell Rog he needs to be with his 'oneself' and if that means he needs to be alone, I add on he do so in his  'one-space.' Recently, he's been uber-stressed, so I suggested he check his one-self into a hotel in which he can find his one-space with Halo, thereby joining hundreds of other men in a virtual community of one-nessess.

Now, Rog is creative. A hotel was boring. If I was willing to give up time with him, relinquishing him of household duties such as going to the dump with a truck-full trash, he's going to ensure his one-time is spent in the best way possible.

To whit, he recently found his one-self at a charity golf event with Gene Simmons and his wife Shannon Tweed. Beyond sitting by an aging, former adult film star and her plastic surgery partner, the back of his head is said to be featured in the upcoming episode of their hit reality show. His one-self was pretty excited about sharing his one-space for the camera.

A few days ago, he returned from a fishing trip. He walked in the back door with a large, clear sack of bloody, gutless salmon carcasses banging against his leg. He then proceeded to slice and dice the salmon with my five-year old girl looking on, who wanted to know why he killed something he doesn't eat.

"Mom likes it," he said. I stared at the thirty pounds before me. Clearly, his one-self didn't understand the fact I'll puke if I have to eat thirty percent of my body weight in raw fish.

"What do you need done now?" he asked me. His bucket was full. The toxic paint of stress was stripped off his body by the thinner called relaxation. He was ready to devote his one-self to household tasks and allow his one-space to be shared with the family. He was in his happy place. Mr. One-ness spent the next half a day cleaning algae from the pond pump, painting walls, loading the truck up with trash. It was awesome. And all it took was for me to support his needs to be at one with himself. Not all the time. Just here and there.

As for me, I'm going to stir fry some salmon, sit down with my bad old one-self and watch Gene Simmons' reality show looking for the back of Rog's head.

Lumps on the body

Remember my sad, sorry country song of a life, the one wherein I thought I had a lump of fat under my skin (thanks sister). Well, I by-passed the naturopath route and went straight for western medicine.

"You're no Steve Jobs," announced my husband, though I wasn't sure if he was referring to the obvious lack of economic similarity or the my aversion to western medicine. "You're going to the doctor. Today."

Off I went, (after first getting a referral to a physician, since my OB doesn't count." He looks. He touches. He pushes. Sure enough, it's a lump under the skin.

"It's fat, to be sure," telling me what I thought I knew, "but it has tentacles. It's likely resting on a nerve, and that's why it hurts. If it were on your belly or back, I could make an incision and remove it, but a general surgeon needs to do this."

A great anti-inflammatory - blueberries

The only way to be sure of its makeup is to have an ultrasound, he tells me. The next morning (today) I'm sitting, or rather, lying on the table, pants on the floor, having an ultrasound on my leg. (which is weird. I've only had ultrasounds on my belly, when in a pregnant state).

"It's not fat,"says the technician, as I practically jump for joy. "But it is within the fat layer," which dilutes my happy factor. "And look," he continues. "You have three. Not one." Happy factor be gone.

The results....and detecting a lipoma (fat chunk) from a cyst (fluid)

• Lipomas are "typically" on the back, the mid-section, the arms or legs, where fat collects. 
• According to the Dr. and friends/family, the fat chunks will increase and decrease based on the level of activity (e.g exercise) and diet. That's the good news. 
• Lipomas need to be excised. As in, local anesthetic, an incision, removal and stitching. Those that have tentacles require a general surgeon (ideally, plastic). Why? You ask? When a general practitioner opens you up, then finds tentacles, it is a more delicate, complicated, procedure. My father had a number cut out, and on 2 of them, the doctor was in over his head. He wasn't versed in the muscle/tentacle issue, and as a result, my father was in a lot of pain and the scars left behind were ugly. Advice? Don't be stingy or short-sighted. Go to a qualified surgeon, particularly if your insurance is paying for it.
• Only an ultrasound can determine a lipoma from a cyst. As you see, my GP (who is well known and apparently well-respected) couldn't.

For the cysts...

• Cysts of the type I have are "typically caused from a traumatic injury." Hmm. The last bit of trauma I had was giving birth, about 2 and a half years ago. Wrong place. Wrong time. The doc had no idea what caused the cyst to grow, let along multiple.
• Cysts can be clear, (like mine) which means it is full of liquid. On the ultra-sound, it is black. The attending physician said if it had been 'riddled or fibrous,' grey-like bands or blotches would have been present. That would have been cause for concern. However, a black mass means fluids only, and that can be removed (asperated) with a needle.
• Removal with a needle can be done with or without an ultrasound. In my situation, the physician recommending going to a surgeon that will use an ultrasound during the procedure, particularly since the two smaller cysts were undetectable by touch, but were/are growing nonetheless.

Anti-inflammatory recommendations

• Both doctors recommended Celebrex, the leading anti-inflammatory creme on the market. I declined. I hate adding stuff to my body that's full of chemicals. "What about a comfrey pack?" I asked, and the doctor immediately brightened up. "Sure! That will work. You can also use..."
• Blueberries. "Blueberries have 10 times the anti-inflammatory effect of Celebrex." But wait. There's more.
• "You know what's 10 times as effective as blueberries?" he asks. No. I don't. 
• Pomegranate juice. Last night, I had a shot of it (rather sweet) and today, another shot.

I'll be getting my cysts done in the near future, and figure it will be a non-issue. My point of pride is that I have dodged the bullet of having a fat lump in my body. For now.

As guilty as they come

Tonight I became a free woman. For at least two hours, was my conservative estimate. Turkey dinner made and eaten by 6:55 pm, at 7 I hit the freeway, flying down the onramp like a pinball going around the final curve before I'm going to hit the paddle. My radar detector is quiet, the music is loud, but my singing is louder. Being the polite citizen, I flip on the signal and slide around cars like an eel moving around rock as my speed accelerates from 65 to 80.

Life was good. Until the blue and red lights appeared behind me. What? No radar detector? I'd been in my bubble of temporary happiness so long I'd not noticed the SUV tailing me.

I do what any good citizen would do. I flipped on my signal, slowed down and pulled over. I ripped the windshield-mounted detector off and threw it on the ground, retrieving my registration from the glovebox. When I pull out my driver's license and car insurance, I notice the insurance is three months out of date. Not good. That'll cost me extra.

I roll down my window and wait, still humming. The crack on the passenger seat window startles me. Ooops. Wrong one. I roll mine up and the other down, facing a very unhappy 50-ish year old man. He doesn't frown or scowl. He's fierce.

"Do you know you know why I pulled you over?" he barks.

"Oh yeah," I say, stretching my hand over with my information. "I was blazing." I tried not to smile, but it was all over. There was no point in even trying an excuse. It was what it was.

"Yeah you were," he snipes, still angry. "Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Nearly 80 I think. It was at 79 when I saw the lights, so yeah, might as well call it 80." At this he blinked, trying to maintain his angry-cop composure. Yet I could see a hint of confusion. I didn't look like a criminal, and my bluntness was throwing him.

"Well at least you're being honest," he grumped. "What are you doing that's making you go in and out of traffic in such a hurry?"

I pointed to my sweats, aware that in my glasses and sneakers, I looked like the harried, out-of-jail-mom that I was.

"I've got two kids at home with my husband, and I'm going to the Rack to see if I can find some bras. I'm so excited I was singing pretty loud and just blazing." He blinked again, and the crack of laughter threatened the corners of his mouth. I extended my hand again. Time was wastin' and I had things to do. "I'm as guilty as they come officer."

The sheriff (for by now I'd seen his badge) waived it off. "You get points for being honest," he started, and I was figuring how many points left I had on my license. "

"I tell you what. I'm going to dinner and you were honest. I'm going to let you off with a warning."

My jaw fell open and my eyes popped wide. I couldn't have acted better, so shocked was I.

"Really??"

He nodded.

"Wow. That's awesome. Thanks!" (I'll admit I was almost teary-eyed. I think I was 16 the last time an officer gave me a break).

"Just slow down will you?"

With that, he left. I merged out in traffic and successfully accomplished my mission of buying braziers. Word of advice for all drivers. Admit you are 'as guilty as they come.' Honest might just pay.

Tilting the room

Seattle is looking for a quarterback. No surprise. Bad seasons equals a revolving door. To be clear, I care more about the annual moss growth on the trees than I do quarterback changes, but a one-liner from the general manager caught my attention (that's what happens to writers. All it takes is a sentence of brilliance from a stranger.)

"We need someone that 'tilts the room' when they walk in," said John Shneider, the frustrated man that he is.

Don't tilt the room. Tilt the house.
(this is in line with the go-big-or-go-home- motto

It got me thinking, 'what kind of force of nature tilts the room?" A leader, to be sure. A charismatic individual that one gravitates towards without really knowing why, or being conscious of it even happening. I can think of a CEO or two, my own father, a salewoman (and man), a few serving in the military. 

A few times, I've been in a meeting or at an airport and drawn to someone, having been reading or otherwise engaged and felt the need to look up. When I've done so, I've seen a person walking, endowed with a particular look, or better said, energy, that made me continue to watch. It's probably not surprising that a person with traits associated with energy and charisma gravitate to running companies, selling a product or being in politics. What I'd find more interesting is regular, average people who endure commonplace careers and live regular lives. Can't think of any. I guess that's why these unique individuals aren't 'average.' They are the ones standing straight and the rest of us are leaning.

Batwings and Chin Hair

When I was eight, I had to spend the night in the same room as my great-grandmother. The attic bedroom was so small, the two twin beds nearly touched. As we prepared for bed, I turned in time to catch my g-grandmother in her slip, her arms above her head, and what looked like flaps of clothe hanging down past her chest. Years later, after she’d passed away, my mom disputed my recollection of g-grammy, until I told her what I’d seen.

“Those were batwings,” mom said, noting she wasn’t talking about the kind purchased at a wings joint. Thus begat a phrase that heretofore, had been blessedly absent from my life. It was then and there I determined never, ever, in this world or the next, to have the thin, translucent, sagging skin hanging down from the twelve inches from elbow to shoulder. All those ab movements I wrote about in my earlier blog? Note that most require some type of arm movement. Since I use weights throughout, the side benefit is nice, lean arms w/no sag.

Mom thinks the whole saggy-skin thing has more to do with our Swedish skin than a lack of collagen. So it is with another favorite subject: chin hair.

G-Grandma, bless her heart, could have been a Viking she had so much hair. In fact, I probably could have French-braided the grey strands.  That preceded yet another promise—I would never, ever let myself get so lax that I had chin hair.

So it was that Rog came up to me, his thumb and forefinger going for my chin, I lift up my chin, ready for a great, romantic plant on the lips. Instead, he closes his fingers around something I can’t, gives a pull, I scream, and out comes a hair nearly an inch long. (I hope you’re laughing. You should be laughing. I was mortified).

“Wait! There’s more!”

Before he can make a second pluck, I run to the bathroom, get the tweezers and go to town. I’d heard women grow hair underneath the chin with the onset of menopause, but I actually started getting it in my mid-thirties. Oh, so sexy.

“Stop eating the pasta!” he yells from downstairs. The old wives tale about pasta and hair growth. Ever wonder why Italians are so hairy? Pasta. Something about the process stimulates hair growth-or so it goes. Me? I’ve gave the stuff up.

Guess what else I learned? Some medications cause facial hair growth--things like estrogen and pain relief medication that have steroids do it as well. Then their is hirsuitism, that happens when a woman has high levels of testosterone, which also results in facial hair. Then hypertrichosis is when a woman doesn't have anything to do with hormones but is caused by other conditions, like anorexia. Last but not least, birth control bills, Dilantin and Minoxidil, the latter used by women to prevent thinning of the hair, get the side benefit gaining hair in unwanted places. 

The good news is that both batwings and chin hair can be managed; one through exercise, the other through plucking. Lots of options exist for chin-hair, from laser to ointments. I found this creepy before and after photo of laser hair removal. I'm cheap, and tweezing is easy. It's just a little hard to see, when it's under my chin, and I have to use my fingers. Honestly, Rog is a lot better at seeing that stuff, although it's beyond mortifying to have him look. In fact, it's as bad as having to look on his back for, you now, "owies." Go with my motto: my arms must be smaller than my husband’s, and my chin needs to have less hair.

You Blaze, We Blaze

Do you ever find yourself talking in shorthand with your closest friends, spouse or partner? I’ve got this thing with my peeps and it involves talking in movie clips.

When Rog can’t get my attention, he says quite loudly, “AZiZ! Light!” from the first part of the 5^th Element. When I don’t see him around the corner, I’ll ask Rog, is that you? He’ll reply-- “Not anymore” like a viper ready to strike, as whispered by Deacon Frost, the protagonist in Wesley Snipe’s futuristic vampire-slayer movie, Blade.  The joke here being, he’s turned into a demon from hell. Thus, the phrase is best said with a slight whisper.

This little quirk has all types of other benefits. It saves entire conversations and breaks up verbal fisty-cuffs, for who can be mad when someone says, “you’re acting like Long-Duck-Dong?” (16 Candles)

In times of frustration, when Rog and I wonder whether we should have gotten married, we race to say “Well, I already took the blue pill,” (The Matrix). In other words, it's too late. The deed is done and now we're stuck with it.

During hissyfits, when one of us is frustrated with the lack of change from the other, it’s only a matter of time when he or I will say “What do you want me to be??” This invariably inspires the other to say in a come-hither voice: “I’ll be anything you want me to be,” with the inflection of Puss-in-Boots in Shrek 2 as he licks his, uh, stuff.

And who can live in a movie reference world w/out using Master Yoda’s phraseology, particularly in times of sappy seriousness. Examples include when I’m overly sentimental and Rog will throw down “Love you, I do." In those rare (rare) occasions where he’s being small, I’ll suggest that Rog “be big, you will.”

When we took to teaching Porsche about brushing her teeth, and she asked why, I referenced Duke Leto from the original Dune movie. “The tooothee” I intoned. She knew the reference, knew that Duke died because of ‘the tooth,’ and has lived in fear of not brushing her teeth ever since. Grey wisps of smoke emanating from the tooth of a dead man is an awesome motivator.

When we entered children-raising-mode, all the references became animation-oriented. We address the necessity of wearing underware by breaking into a round of the “Bare Necessities,” (Jungle Book), why we need to “Climb Every Mountain,” to keep fit, or sing “Cruela Devile,” when a little one is being a little, er, evil.

Keep in mind the whole phrase, song or paragraph need not be recited. We are talking only the relevant snippet. The title of this blog, basically means ‘you fire on me and I’ll fire on you.' (Gone in 60 seconds) It’s a perfect replacement for "I'm outta here', and a whole lot more fun.

With that, 'You Blaze, We Blaze.' (Romeo Must Die, said by Isaiah Washington holding a large gun)

Washboard abs-10 min/day

The end of winter means the beginning of the end of the flab. Now is the time to be more motivated than ever. We have spring coming up, (my cousin's in Virginia were playing in the sprinkler in the 77 degree weather yesterday as I contended with another 2 inches of snow). Fitting in jeans sans muffin-top is a a good thing.

One more thing. Despite popular opinion, great abs does not, and I’ll type again, does NOT, require more than 10 minutes a day. I know people who take longer than that to go to the bathroom.

Now, I’m not going to actually take a pic of my abs, though my husband thought it would be a good idea. Suffice it to say that when I was 14 and 5’11, I was asked to go to a Nordstrom modeling shoot. I’m flattered. I go. They take pictures. I come back, a headless, legless body. What was captured was my midsection, from my sternum to my hips. I cried.

“It’s a sign” my mother said, relieved my dream of being Cindy Crawford was dashed. Fast forward another 15 yrs, same story, different city. Once again, I’m the headless stomach for a gym ad. OK, I get it.

Over the last 30 yrs, I’ve whittled down the abs routine to the shortest effort for highest output, and tacked on a few tenants that guide many aspects in my life.

1-Free or close to it.

2-Convenient

3-Results

Oh, one other thing. I’m into LEAN not bulk. This means high reps and low weight. The only time I vary from this is for certain movements that lean down by length vs weight at all. You’ll see what I mean shortly.

Let’s begin with the standing crunches.

1-Side crunch-right side

2-Side crunch-left side

How-to: Stand, place your left hand on your left hip, raise your right arm above you head, drawing elbow to your right raised knee. This cranks your entire side, from armpit to hip. Try 10 at first, then work up to 25. When this becomes easy, add 3 lb weights. Do 25 on the right, 25 on the left then #3 below.

3-Front crunch-both sides alternating.

How to-with the fingertips of both hands touching the back of your head, raise (and cross) the elbow to the opposite knee. Right elbow left knee, left elbow to right knee. Do 10, or 25 if you can manage.

** Just these three along will rip you a NEW set of abs in a couple of days! I will fit in some crunches in the kitchen, while I’m waiting for the oven to heat, or when I’m standing in the bedroom, watching TV. Seriously.

The entire ab crunch series is less about 2-2.5 minutes, depending on how many you do.

4-Standing side bends

How-to. With or without weights. Spreak legs wide, like a plea-eh(sp?), where the ankle is under the hip, or maybe a bit wider. Toes at an angle, not facing forward (2 and 10 o’clock). Bend down at the waist to the point where your thighs parallel the floor. If this is difficult, raise up just a bit. Bring elbows to the side and bend, attempting to touch your mid-thigh with the elbow. As you touch the elbow to thigh, raise your opposite arms up. Try 10 each side then switch, 3x each. I try and do 75 a day, 3 sets of 25.

Tip: If you punch the arm up, it is good, but not optimal. Swinging the opposite arm to the sky pulls the skin tight, from the hip to the arm pit. Here again, you are extending and strengthening the entire line, making it nice and lean.

5-Standing cross-arms

How-to. With or without weights. Using the same posture as above, you are now punching your arms diagonal one after another. This leans out and strengthens the obliques while loosening up the spine. Same reps as above.

Sitting/Lying exercises

A core philosophy is if I’m going to watch TV, I’m going to be ‘doing something’. Call me Type A. Call me kooky. I can’t help myself. This summer, while I was watching TV in my mother’s living room, I had a pair of weights in my hands , doing the above. Mom just laughed.

“You’ve been doing this since high school!” Yes. And it as her fault I reminded her. She was a devotee of Jane Fonda wearing a headband and a thong, so of course I was influenced. (Jane wearing thong and headband, not mom FYI).

6-Knee up traditional together

How-to. This is the standard, lie-on-the-back, resting knees together. The difference is that I mix it up, and do 25 straight up, then 25 crossing, as in, right elbow to left knee. When done, I move right into #7

7-Knee up traditional wide. Open the legs, or in other words, keep the heels touching, or a few inches apart, whatever is comfortable, drop the knees wide, like a foot, and repeat 25 straight up and 25 crossing. This starts to kick your a--. For some reason, the wide legs really accelerate the ripped look between the rib cage and the tummy proper. My husband loves this and is in misery when he does it. Rog taps out around 10, so don’t feel back. He may run like a gazelle, but has the belly of a pancake--flat but not ripped.

8-One-knee close then straight.

How to-Keep one foot on the ground, straight, then lift the opposite knee up and crunch. To add flavor (and best results) I switch elbows to knee, first right elbow to the knee and then the left elbow to the knee. The key is that your leg is going in and out at the same time. For instance, the right leg extends out, then draws in, and my right elbow touches it. Extend the leg out again, then when I draw it in, my left elbow touches it. After 10-15 reps, switch legs. Drop the right, then do the same movement with the left leg.

9-Straight up.

How-to. This is akin to pilates, where the legs are together, and straight up in the air. I mix it up on this one. Sometimes I have my hands behind my head, but more often than not, I do the pilates version, with my arms straight out (tips past my tights) nearly parallel to the ground. I pump my palms 100 times in a row (palms are out and flat). This is awesome.

10-Bananas!!!

How to: I lifted this one from my martial arts class, then saw that it’s in P90X  (Tony Horton’s CDs). Bananas mean you bend the front, side, back, then side, of the body. Lie flat on the ground, arms overhead. Lift legs and arms up (like a banana) for 4 seconds. Then quarter turn to the left side. Lift legs and arms up like a banana (it’s awkward at first, but awesome for the side lengthening and stretching. Then quarter turn and you’re on your stomach. Lift arms out in front and legs up in the back. This is my favorite. It rips the back as well as the back of the thighs, trouble spots for most of us chicks. The quarter turn to the again, and you’ve completed the set on your right.

If you don’t have a lot of room, just go back and forth 4-10 times. You will definitely feel wiped but in a good way.

Exercise	Pointer	Reps
Standing	W/or w/out weights
Side crunch right	Rt elbow to lft knee	15-25 each /3x
Side crunch left	Lf elbow to rt knee	15-25 each/3x
Front crunch	Elbow to opp knee	15-25/each 3x
Side bend	Elbow to knee	25 each/3 x
Cross punches	Cross punch over knee	25 each/3 x
Lying	No weights
Sit-ups traditional	Knees together, up and cross	25 each/3x
Sit-up trad +	Heels together, drop knees	25 each/3x
Leg in crunches	Knee in, then extends	25 each side/3x
Leg up crunches	Straight legs vertical	25 each/3 x
Bananas	Elongate and stretch each side	4 each/ 4-5x

Use the above sheet, paste it into excel and keep track. OHOHOH—I don’t buy into this notion that working out abs every other day is required. I’ve been doing it most every day my whole life. If I’m going to brush my teeth every day, I might as well do abs.

PS-for those of you with the fortitude to read this long, I’m on day 2 of the detox. Today it’s been the left eye, the left side of the head. I’m tired. I’m grumpy. But..I’m alive.

A country song of a life

My life has become a sad, country song.

A week ago, my cat died. Well, I think he died. We had to give him to a farmer, where he was going to be pitted against the coyotes and the cow hoofs, the other felines and the farmer's dog. While I prefer the vision of an old man, cuddling up to my cat, feeding him warm milk, I'm a pragmatist by nature, and figure the reality is not so rose-colored. The day before, we had a family altercation deserving of a Dr. Phil show and the day after, I found a fat lump on my leg. This was evil at its finest. I thought I'd made the right choice by exercising out my ills instead of drowning my sorrows in Krinkle treats or pudding, lunging, jumping and squatting my way to tear-inducing pain. (I rationalized the tears were going to come anyway, so they might as well be of blended reasons). It was only when rubbing my outer thigh when I come across a previously undiscovered bump that I figured must be from a fly. Then reason sets in. It's winter. It doesn't it. It's not a fly.

So gross. Fat. A lump of it.
Aren't you happy you aren't me?
(ps. this isn't me btw. believe it or not,
I can't bring myself to take a pic of the
lump on my thigh....just when you
thought I had no shame, I surprise you.

Frantically, I go to the internet about the same time I call my sister. She assures me it's not cancerous or dangerous.

"It's just fat," she says matter of factly, telling me to look up lipoma. That's deserving of another blog, for it runs in my family, and can only be removed by an incision that makes me think of Brendan Frasier whipping out his knife to cut out the scarab from Jonathan's shoulder. Fortunately for me, it's not the size of a beetle, more like a quarter. Either way, it's gross.


With all I'd been holding in, this is the emotional equivalent of removing the piece of gum from the crack in the damn. I get off the phone and go back to my misery. I tell myself the lump won't grow incrementally with each cookie I feel like eating, which I would, but I'm too depressed.

The following days included receiving my latest book back from the editor, who is a tough sell. She loved everything about the book, "it made me laugh and cry," she said, and I thought "for once, she's going to tell me it's perfect."

"I loved it all except the last chapter," she said. "It was rushed and unsatisfying," she said. "Draw it out. Write a few more chapters. Maybe 50 pages is all." I didn't tell her writing while depressed makes for depressing writing. I just told her I'd do it.

As if the lump in my body wasn't enough, by Wednesday, our lawn had been invaded by the underground terrorists, familiar to everyone who has ever watched Caddyshack and Bill Murry's one-man-rampage to kill the buggers. One hill then five then eight; my entire front lawn destroyed, the perfectly-manicured grass as riddled with underground tunnels mirroring my internal emotional self (if that isn't country-song-melodramatic, I don't know what is).

On second thought, to compare my life to a country song insults country songs.

The invisible mom

It was a Wednesday night and my date for the evening, a married girlfriend, had bailed earlier (she had a sons soccer game). Not wanting to kill the hard-to-get reservation at a trendy Italian joint, where the owner greets us all with kisses and his parents, Giovanni and Frida, arrive every night promptly at 8:45 pm to sing and mingle, I called an unattached girlfriend who had the night off. She was early, socializing at the connecting wine bar, while I was right on time. When I came to collect her (doesn't that sound like a true date), she was surrounded by single men of varying ages and heights, hair amounts and chins. Extracting her to make our reservation was as smooth as possible, given the men were trying to stroke and love her arms (as Italian men are want to do) when a single woman of divine loveliness is about to depart their company.

Fernando greeted me with ease (double-peck air kiss, and you know how I love those), but I respond in kind. I like Fernando. I like his mother's cooking. I like that I get a table when I call. I even land half a lip on his cheek. "I forget how tall you are," he says, a minor attempt at flattery, even though he knows precisely how I measure up, with or without my heels on.

My dark-haired friend glides to the table, not entirely ignorant of the looks cast her way. Glaring, evil things from the women and a flit and downward glance from the males. Me? I'm invisible. For good reason, I might add. While my friend is wearing form-fitting slacks, her camisole can barely contain her "blessings" that threaten to pop out of her shirt, even with her second layer, a black, short-sleeve shirt that hugs her child-bearing hips. Me, on the other hand, am wearing a knee-length skirt, a short-sleeve turtleneck and a Gergen wool short. Tights and booties aside, I'm conservative, she's sexy (in my defense, I had a meeting afterward and wasn't going to take on the night, so to speak).

This wasn't all however. Her sway, her glances around, taking in the scene with the acumen of a racehorse jockey studying the field, were all done with purpose. She was on the scout, and she was being scouted. I, of course, was in it for the company and the food.

The waiter came and called me by name, but he sort of saw right through me as he looked to her. He, a gorgeous man, by the way, a foot too short and probably weighing half as much as me, was fixated on my friends eyes. He had to be. Her bust rested at the height of table, and it was distracting, particularly when she took a swirl of her water and asked him about the wine. As he flustered, I watched it all with a fond sense of awe, wondering if I was ever a part of her rare breed of flirtatious elite even when I was single. When he could breathe, he took our order (in truth, he took hers and gave me enough time to get mine out before he glanced back at her) and then left. As he walked away, I started laughing.

"Not him," I cautioned. "You even think about wrapping your legs around him and you will break him in two." She laughed, her chest still jiggling long after her mouth stopped, like the after shocks of a 8.0 earthquake.

Then Tony came by. Tony, you see, is another Italian, who had a guitar in hand and a fedora on his head, tilted just enough to help me visualize a gun in his pocket, roughing up a patron in the alley for not tipping enough. What, I'm thinking, did Fernando and Giovanni do? Take all the true Italians in the greater Seattle area and hire them for this little, 25-seat restaurant in Issaquah, WA?

Tony starts to sing, much to our dismay. However, my friend smiles away, and starts to narrate the story. Tony is singing in Italian, and my friend doesn't speak Italian. Instead, she crafts the story based on Tony's looks, intonations and facial features. It went like this....

"They are at the well...." (she purses her lips and furrows her brows)..."they fight, her parents don't like him," (she puts her hand to breast)...."she throws her arms around him, vowing to stay," (she nods her head).... at this point, I start laughing. I can't help it. Tony is being so sincere, but he's loving her story, and together, the two of them are playing up the crowd like they are at the Met. At this end of this sad, saga, the lovers are torn apart, and as she notes, "the well has gone dry from tears." (My personal well was overflowing with hysterics).

As we leave, I step aside to speak with Giovanni and his wife, slip Tony a five as I shake his hand and give Fernando the now patented double-air kiss.

I'm sure the millions of woman around the world who go from single to married, from sexy to conservative, on the market to off, and empathize with this situation. It's funny. It's life. and you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. I went home for the real kiss on the lips with my husband, double, wrap-around hugs to my two girls and told them just how much I missed them. I must say I absolutely adore and love my single, gorgeous, chased-by-all-men-with a pulse girlfriend. At the same time, I'm pretty thrilled to take the title of the invisible mom.

Interview tips: leading by example

Every so often, I'm reminded my life held importance to hundreds of individuals. Strangers in fact. These men and women were potential employees who I was responsible for interviewing and hiring. I'd avoid the standard answers; HR managers have heard then all. Body language basics are important, but don't over do it.The only time I think about all the lessons learned and tricks of the trade are when I get called upon to dispel some hard-earned wisdom.

This last week the opportunity to pass along what I consider the golden rules of nailing an interview.

Rule number one. Answer the question.

Sound strange doesn't it, but interviewees are so nervous, the answer begins with a good intent but more often than not, quickly digresses into an explanation, story or off-topic diatribe. For example, "what is your base salary requirements?" Applicants are fearful of the double edge sword of low-balling themselves or losing the job. Instead of answering the question, the applicant will hem and haw and talk around the issue.

Here's what you do:
1. Provide validation. "Great question and I've given that a lot of thought and I have an answer for you."
2. Provide thought process. "From what I know of the job, and what you have told me, there are a few areas of ambiguity that would factor in to a final number. For example, we haven't discussed (x, y, and x). 
3. Identify a range. "Depending on the details of the above (which may come from subsequent interviews), jobs of this description in the area are listed between (X and Y, e.g. $80-130K)."
4. Give the interviewer 'an out.' On the off-chance your numbers are high (or other candidates are much lower), you need to identify
5. Clarify flexibility and willingness. "I'm sure we can come to a mutually agreeable number."

Rule number two. Always provide an example.

Outside the obvious salary question, view every question as an opportunity to provide thought process, result and benefit. Do this frequently, perhaps on every other answer, so as not to become tiresome.

Here's what you do:
1. Start with the transition. The interviewer will ask a describe a situation and ask you you about it (e.g. we have a difficult product manager who will be one of your internal clients. Are you comfortable dealing with challenging personalities?). You nod your head (hopefully) and transition....yes, I am. (you've answered the question).
2. Describe the situation (briefly). 'At my last company, I was (name role) where I was responsible for (describe skills in <1 sentence), and this meant working a/ X who was late, challenge authority etc).'
3. Describe how you handled it. 'I managed the challenges by (describe your technique).
4. Describe the result. 'It took a lot of extra hours, but we were able to get the project done on time and on budget.
5. End with the benefit of hiring you. 'I've worked w/many personalities that could derail a project; it's part of working in a multi-cultural environment, which I enjoy.

When you end on a positive note, you are telling the prospective employer you are positive and have a can-do attitude, no matter what.

Tip
At the end of the interview, both sides want to know how it went, but the advantage sits with the interviewer. He or she has already determined the next step. Nevertheless, it is common courtesy to ask the interviewee "how do you feel it went,' or "do you have any questions?" Be honest. If it went great, say you are encouraged and would like to know the process/timeframe for making a hiring decision. However, if it didn't, or you were turned off by the process, be diplomatic and open the door to another possibility. The HR world is a small one, and many managers, executives and human resources professionals know one another (to say nothing of the spouses, friends or partners that may be looking for someone).

Here's what you do:
Diplomatically provide feedback. "This seems like a great opportunity, but isn't a perfect fit me for (you can choose to say why or why not)...for family reasons, commute, whatever. That said, I've appreciated my time and interaction with you, and wondering if you are aware other any other openings that might fit a person of my skillset."

This way, you have subtely asked for a referral. I've often been pleasantly surprised how many folks will take a shining to a new acquaintance and keep an eye out just to be nice.

My final word on the topic is to remember the universal rule of good karma. If you help someone when you don't have to (referring a person for a job when you don't have to), it will come back around to you at some point.

Midnight affairs

A few years back, I had a moment of enlightenment. When confronted with an irritable, red-eyed, worn-out spouse who looked like he'd been bear hunting instead of working, I dug deep.

"Honey, why don't you take some alone time."

"Really?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"Sure. I'll watch the kids, do the dishes, clean the house. You deserve a break."

Thus it began, the simple, kind and innocent offer that has put my husband on the fast track to marital purgatory. After lo, these long years of being an innocent bystander in the affliction that's more addictive than crack, and just as expensive, I, too, have become corrupted.

What for am I talking? On-line gaming.

Halo. Gears of War. Second Life. It's a vast and far-reaching playground of lives, identities and choices, nearly all of which will get the player killed. Clothing, morals, ethics? Not necessarily required or desired. Snowboarding? Forget it. Rog got Porsche playing Gears of War as a three-year old, WITH the headset mind you, so she had the choice experience of interacting with thirteen year olds from around the world. By four, she'd seamlessly graduated to Halo, sitting side-by-side with her dad, who acts as a fourteen year old when he enters into the anonymous otherside of the screen.

Searching for a solution to the midnight affairs that had become my source of loneliness, I sought for solutions. Nylons. Red lipstick. High heels. All good. For oh, say, seven minutes give or take. On a good day, if I'd stuffed Rog with pizza, maybe a half hour to allow of digestion. Then "ooh, look at the time."

"What?" I'd practically yell.

"Nick is waiting."

"Nick, as in, Nick the neighbor?"

He'd nod, practically bounding down the stairs.

You see the dilemna.

So now, when my husband is out, dallying around (ode to Don King), I'm playing Second Life. LOVE THIS. Lots of options. Lots of plot lines. Less drool and ghoul than the hard core fighting that occurs in Rog's selection of on-line games.

Turns out, I'm not the only girl on-line. In fact, I had to conduct some research for a client, and learned that over forty % of gamers are women, who make plenty of money, are married with children. What does that tell me? Oh, right. I'm one of them.

Curse you Halo. But tell me where I can find the next version for cheap, would'yaz??