Showing posts from May, 2015

FRAMES. It's almost here.

Years. Some eight years have gone into this, and passed by. We're so close now. Here I hold, for the first time, a proof of my book. Soon, I'll be able to tell you how to get your hands on this gem. I'm very proud of how it turned out, and I think you'll like it, too. Read more about FRAMES at my blog's  book project label.  An early description is here . More info by next month. Stay tuned! Yes, I moved a Dean Koontz novel and put my book there.


I'd put it at the shape of a cinder block. The weight is heavy enough to sit me down through most of the day, and start my sleeping at seven at night. It's pulling down these arms, which would lift heavy weights and now have trouble pausing midair. I am slow and far away, and this started some time around that moment when the floor buckled and the furniture swayed in the pediatric intensive care unit where my son was staying. We encourage you to be your son's advocate, Mrs. Scheer, but we also want you to be able to rest while your child is ill, and be a mom. Giving him a shot right now could cause cerebral hemorrhaging, so we'll need to do a drip. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! Thank you Mom for holding back my hair while I vomit. There is guilt when talking about one's self when it's the child who was sick. But he's fine, Theo is doing great, and I'm not. It could be anything, I know; but I want to say, and I want you to understand, that grief can sit

Top Ten Grey Shades of Exercise

I have one thing to tell you, and it's this: Life is not black and white. This week saw declaration upon declaration from good-intentioned individuals, and I am bloody from raising my sword to each. I'm not supposed to lift heavy. I shouldn't do exercises that use my neck. Tart cherry juice makes you sleep better. This machine isn't good for you. This equipment will make me a better runner. I'm supposed to work my core. This is the best exercise for your core. Yes. Maybe. But. Can I say something? Grey is worth looking for. Not just with this exercise stuff, by the way. But we'll start there. Your doctor is watching out for your neck, and you should listen; she's a doctor. I'm a personal trainer; I, too, have neck problems. My neck appears older than the rest of me, and no one can explain why. My doctor asked, "Did you, like, fall out of a window?" Not that I can recall. I'm a personal trainer, and your doctor is a doctor,

This Body, Broken For You

originally posted April 2, 2012 -- Where you been? --Injured. And I lost my confidence. --Come back. The gym is my church. I sweat alongside folks I wouldn't know otherwise, two or three times every week. At the Y, I egg another rep out of Lee on the bench press, and Sonya brings me an Indian spice I've been hunting. At the boxing gym, Shaun tells me his dream of opening a business. Our shared goals foster community. But if the gym is church, my sanctuary is found at the fights, in the folding chair of a darkened auditorium. Injuries had kept me out of the boxing gym for months, but when I opened the paper a few weeks back and saw the ad for Golden Gloves, I headed out. Last club show I had entered through the door for fighters and coaches, but this time, I bought a ticket and sat alone. As I watched, occasionally talking with the older man next to me (a former boxer, it's always a former boxer), I recognized familiar voices shouting in the crowd. Shari