Did you miss me?

So, I’m sitting here with approximately 100 surgical steel stitches in a line from above my navel well down into what Victorian pornography euphemistically calls the “Mound of Venus.”

I can’t have sex, drive my sports car (or any car for that matter), swim, or luxuriate in a hot bath, all things that I consider essential to life. No matter how long I stand in the shower, I can’t approximate the feeling of well being that I get while submerged in water.

There are other things I can’t do which I don’t miss. Grocery shopping at the “you-bag it” store and lifting heavy sacks, for instance. And as a water aerobics classmate cheerfully crowed, “You won’t be able to vacuum for months.”

I had a “complete hysterectomy.” Did you know that there is a difference between a “total” and a “complete.”? Yeah, me neither, but just like booking a “direct flight,” when you really mean “non-stop,” there is a difference. If you’ve ever sat in an airport for four hours waiting for your “direct “ flight to resume, you’ll know what I mean.

You might be sitting there wondering why the hell I haven’t written for months. I don’t really have any good excuse other than I didn’t feel like it. I always said that I never wrote for free — there was always money or a grade attached. Until one day there wasn’t.

When I parted company with the local newspaper, I had been writing my column for almost ten years. People liked it, and my editors continued to pay me for writing it. The pittance they paid was just enough to complicate collecting unemployment and my tax filing, but it was something.

I got lots of positive feedback from people in the community. But in August of 2010, caught in the bind that all newspapers find themselves in, they decided my $200 a month could be better spent elsewhere, and discontinued my column.

I felt a certain obligation to my readers, and quickly took the column online. I tried to make it appear the same time that the column ran —Sunday morning— but I didn’t always make it. Often, I spent all morning Sunday writing about what my husband and I did on Saturday night.

It was terrific not having to answer to anyone — at the end, my editors were wanting to know in advance what I was writing about, to avoid trouble with management. About the time they told me I was writing about my granddaughter Charlotte too often, I was more than ready to cut the cord.

I could include photos, link to Wikipedia entries for those who didn't get some of my obscure references (I once had to defend using the expression “being between Syclla and Charybdis” at the paper because “people won’t understand it”), and embed videos. It was fun.

Until one day, it wasn’t fun any more. It felt like work. Unpaid work. My husband, who writes for the sheer love of it, doesn’t really understand. He asked for whom I wrote, expecting to hear me say, “me,” but that wasn’t my answer. Like the class clown, if I'm not getting money, I need affirmation, an audience, and I wasn’t getting it.

And then I realized I could quit. One Sunday, I just didn’t write. No explanations, I just didn’t. And if it takes 21 days to form a habit, I can tell you it takes fewer days to quit a habit you’re weary of.

Some people make a living out of their websites, some make enough to cover their expenses, but trying to make the site pay looked like another job to me, and I already had a very taxing one: teaching composition to college freshman. Which was another reason I had trouble writing: when push came to shove, my papers needed to be graded before I could write about our latest Los Angeles adventure.

But now I feel like writing again, perhaps because I realize that I want to write — even if it is just for me. After spending the last month waiting for this surgery to determine whether the softball-size mass on my left ovary was cancer or a fibroid tumor, I have had plenty of time for reflection. Thankfully, it was the latter, which really gives me no excuse for not fulfilling my potential.

If you are a writer, you write. It’s really simple. And I am a writer, have been since roughly fourth grade. My forced reflection period has convinced me that I need to get some of the book plans I have out of my head and onto paper, but for now, just writing this blog is a baby step.

So I’ll make a deal with you, what’s left of my readership. I’ll continue to write, and I’ll strive for posting weekly. But if I can’t, don’t be surprised. It probably means I’m torturing freshman somewhere by trying to coax a decent thesis statement out of them.

For your part, throw me a bone in the form of a comment or an email once in a while, just to let me know you’re still out there. At the right of the page is a “Subscribe by email” link. Just put your email address in there, and when I post, it will come to your mailbox . Or you can follow me with a Google or Yahoo reader by clicking the “subscribe” button.

Give the class clown some love.

Ps. While I've been on hiatus (no, that's not where the Kennedys go in the summer, as Neil Young once asked an interviewer) Charlotte has gained a little brother, Desmond. Tune in next week for the adventures of Super Chub!

Pulling strings to help Bob Baker

One of the characters in Bob Baker Marionettes
Christmas show welcomes guests.

Editor's note: This column originally ran in the Antelope Valley Press on Sunday, June 7, 2009. Three years later, Bob Baker is still hanging on, although his grip is now precarious. Humorist Charles Phoenix is doing a one-off fundraiser to try to save the theater. My husband and I took Phoenix's Downtown Disneyland Tour in December of 2011, and saw a part of the Christmas show, which was wonderful. Many of the puppeteers are Latino kids from the theater's downtown neighborhood. If you can't go to the fundraiser, try to catch the show, before the whole thing slips away.

Pulling strings at city hall took on a new meaning Wednesday, as the Bob Baker Marionettes lobbied the Los Angeles City Council to grant historical cultural landmark status to their home on First St.

The council granted the wish of Pinocchio, Fluffy the dog, and Calvin Collidisworth the song-and-dance man, and now the former movie scenery shop is on the city's landmark list. I'm not sure what that means in terms of protection for the theater, but I hope it helps.

Fans of the 85-year-old Bob Baker, marionette operator extraordinaire, were concerned back in December when they heard that the operation needed $30,000 to bring its mortgage current, or it would be forced to sell the building.

Baker has said that although he was behind in payments, he is refinancing his mortgage to a better rate, and that if people want to help, they should come down and see the show.

The poor marionettes are caught in the same bind as everyone: with less disposable income, people are having kid's birthdays at home to save money, school districts are cutting field trips, and the mortgage/credit crunch is driving up the cost of business.

Bob Baker with his Marionettes. Charles Phoenix's fundraiser  is on July 29 at 4pm.
Tickets are $75, and the details are here.

I had heard of Bob Baker for years, but I'd never seen his show until my friend Lynn and I went on Charles Phoenix's "Disneyland" Tour of Downtown Los Angeles. Phoenix, a huge fan and supporter of Baker, believes that every land at the Happiest Place on Earth can be found downtown.

For Fantasyland, he took us on a yellow school bus to the Marionette Theater and we got the birthday experience: 

a puppet show, a cake, and ice cream in those cool little Dixie cups I hadn't seen since I was a kid.

Baker isn't always there; often he is on the road doing shows, like he was on Wednesday when his puppets invaded the council chambers. But he performed the day we visited, and came into the birthday room to chat.

Watching Baker agilely working the strings, it's difficult to believe he's 85, and I could have listened to his old Hollywood stories for hours. He manufactures collectible marionettes for the Disney Corporation, and said he had a "handshake deal" with Walt himself.

Charles Phoenix (in mouse ears) gives a tour of the
Bob Baker Marionette Theater as part of a tour. Phoenix is doing a
 fundraiser for the Los Angeles institution.

His long career, begun by working with director Mervyn LeRoy, has spanned decades. He operated the aliens in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," made shoes, stockings and nightgowns dance in "Bedknobs and Brooksticks," worked the marionette that sang with Judy Garland in "A Star is Born" and one of his puppets was serenaded by Elvis Presley in "G.I. Blues."

You might think that children raised on video games and movies with sophisticated special effects would scoff at the time-honored marionette show, but the kids at our show were enthralled.

The folks working the puppets wear black and are in plain sight, but after a few minutes you forget that they are even there. The puppeteers breathe such life into the creatures that the children sitting on the floor are transfixed.

Baker has vowed never to give up the fight to keep the theater open, and I hope he succeeds. My granddaughter Charlotte is only two months old, and I want to give her a birthday party there when she's old enough.

A very Gorey evening....

Our official portrait from the Edwardian Ball at the Belasco Theater in Los Angeles.
I  regret that you can't see Jim's cool gunfighter's coat in this picture. But you can see my ray gun.

I'm not sure why I love to dress up so much. Psychiatrists might have a theory about self-loathing, and they might be right. I haven't been comfortable in my skin since sixth grade. When you're not happy with the way you look, pretending to be someone else makes a lot of sense.

My favorite gown from Age of Innocence.
Now this is better than Renaissance clothes. 

A close-up of my ray gun.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I can remember dragging my mother's best white peignoir set out of her drawer, wrapping a ribbon crossways over my chest and declaring myself Helen of Troy. At which point she forbade me to drag her good nightgown all over the neighborhood, especially in late October.

When I had kids, I spent so much time making them costumes, I never quite got around to making one for me. A notable exception was in the late 1990s, when I made a red satin Edwardian ball gown, which would have been suitable for the Titanic. In fact, I did wear it for formal night on a week-long cruise to Mexico. It hangs in my closet, a mute reminder that I'm not as thin as I once was.

Here is the gunfighter coat with all the
 accouterments that April provided.
You can see a Gorey character behind him,

The Society for Creative Anachronism and the Renaissance Faire gave me lots of opportunity to dress up and pretend to be someone else, but 16th and 17th century costumes were not as detailed and delicate as liked. I gave a Russian party once, and April Ray of Daisy's Costumes on Lancaster Boulevard turned me into Anna Karenina and my family into that of Czar Nicholas.

So when my husband and I decided to go to the Edwardian Ball, I knew just where to go. I went into Daisy's with a sheaf of photographs and drawings culled from the Internet. You can't go into Daisy's and browse, because only she knows where everything is. You have to go in and say, "I want to be steampunk," and show her examples.

April got excited over one drawing that had leather straps and buckles holding up an overskirt and a corset top, and when your costumer is having fun, you get a great outfit. She took one look at my husband and exclaimed, "Oh, I've got a wonderful gunfighter's coat that will just fit you!"

We still haven't mastered the art of taking our own
 photo yet. How do those kids do this?

We ended up making about seven trips to Daisy's Costumes. I bought a striped steampunk corset and a ray gun, as well as goggles for Jim off the internet, and April made me a holster for my gun. I already had tea-length crocheted gloves and Victorian boots.

When we got inside the Belasco Theater, it was like stepping into a film. The venue actually is from the Edwardian era, generally described as beginning with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and ending with the start of the first World War.

This is the main theater at the Belasco. We paid a fortune
for one of these tables, but it was great to have a place to roost.

There was a guy playing a guitar made out of a shovel, called appropriately enough, Shovelman.

The place was awash in crinolines, corsets, high-topped ladies' boots, spats and top hats on men in a variety of time periods. Lots of the women had those tiny top-hats perched at a jaunty angle.

The Edwardian era was well-represented, as was steampunk and Victorian. I only saw a few truly authentic Edwardian costumes, but this wasn't about authenticity, it was a giant party. Everyone made at least some sort of effort.

One of our friendly neighbors, a steampunk naturalist.
She had butterflies all over her clothes, an Edwardian
walking skirt, a leather corset and goggles.
Jim thinks she was a little lit. I think he's right.

Waiting in line for a martini, I looked around and saw men in full safari gear and pith helmets, gentlemen in evening clothes who looked like they just came from seeing Jenny Lind perform, ladies in low-cut dresses with dazzling necklaces, and even a few men in Oriental robes and turbans, looking like Ram Dass from A Little Princess.

I was sad that I forgot my camera, but we both had our iPhones, so we got a few photos. People were coming up to us and exclaiming how great we looked, and asking to take our picture. We were doing the same, and everyone we met was remarkably friendly. Couple would just come up and introduce themselves, and chat.

One of our balcony neighbors insisted that the only way we could take her picture was if I was in it with her. She was a steampunk naturalist, and truly looked like an Edward Gorey drawing.

I believe that is actor Christopher Shyer (J. Edgar)
with the accordion, but I'm not 100% sure. His female
companion was a big hit with photographers all night.

Oh, did I mention Gorey? The Edwardian Ball, which began in San Francisco, is dedicated to the author and illustrator, whose black and white drawings of the bizarre lives (and deaths) of Edwardian families have been a favorite of mine since high school. The Vau de Vire Society reenacts Gorey stories with the blessing of the author's trust. This year's offering was The Iron Tonic, a tale about what happens when denizens of a home for the aged discover a magic elixir.

Couples were waltzing on the main floor to prerecorded music before the entertainment began. From our perch in the balcony, we had a great view. The master of ceremonies was fantastic, and changed costumes three or four times. You can see a video I shot of the opening number here.  Footage of the San Francisco ball is playing on the screen behind him.

The evening's entertainment also included Rosen Coven, the "World's Premier Pagan Lounge Ensemble," a string based musical group who are among the originators of the Edwardian Ball, and various vaudeville-type acts.

Feeling like the Edward Gorey character
from the PBS Mystery! titles.

The latter included aerialists, a whip act (get your mind out of the gutter), and a vastly entertaining Western shooting act which turned the gender tables. The shooter was a tall buff woman in a barely there buckskin top and pants shooting balloons off an "Indian maiden," who was the most flamboyant  queen I've ever seen. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth, moccasins, and a feather, but he might as well have been in rhinestones. Politically correct? No, but hysterical.

The only real anachronism was Creature Feature, who describe themselves as a "shitty rock band who writes songs about shitty horror movies." Here is a video of them which I shot mainly to show you the background video. It reminds me of Terry Gilliam's animation for Monty Python. Imagine what Gilliam could have done with computers!

Here's a link to a Huffington Post article with photos. You will see a photo of the tarot card reader to whom I paid $20. She read a three-card spread, then we chatted and she rubbed scented oil in my palm. It felt very decadent.

We want to go to San Francisco next year. That ball is an entire weekend, in a much larger venue. They actually had a bicycle-powered merry-go-round at that one, and many more vendors. But I think we'd like to come bank to this one again next year ask, and bring friends.

But a year is a long time to wait to dress up again. Maybe I should look into the Pickwick or Jane Austen societies. You know they've got to have parties, right?

Coming soon....the Edwardian Ball

Our official photo from The Edwardian Ball.

Sorry, it's been a couple of weeks since I have posted. We have had a busy social calendar, and it's hiring season for colleges, so I've been applying for jobs. This weekend I will post our adventures at The Edwardian Ball, so stay tuned.

Be my Valentine!

Today is Valentine's Day.

Any woman who says she doesn't care about that is a liar. Or Amy Farrah Fowler. But judging how Amy melted over that tiara, even she might be susceptible.

Oh, we say we don't care. We rationalize that our husband/boyfriend/shack job is plenty romantic throughout the year, and romance shouldn't be confined to just one day. If we are survivors of the 1960s, we might say that romance shouldn't be institutionalized, but spontaneous and free, like running through a meadow. (Yeah, just like we used to do under the influence.)

If we are very cynical, we consider the multi-billion dollar business this day set aside for showing love has become, and we say it is just another "Hallmark holiday" like Grandparent's Day, and dismiss it. (Speaking of that, I didn't get a Grandparent's Day card last year, what gives?)

But the truth is we'd sell our mothers for a dozen roses (I prefer peach, but the traditional red would suffice) delivered to the office. Because it's not really about whether we get roses, but rather that we are seen getting roses by the rest of our office mates,  "esse est percipi" (to be is to be perceived) as philosopher George Berkeley famously put it.

Like so much that happens today, if we can't put the picture on Facebook, it didn't really happen. We need to be the object of envy in the office.

When I was first divorced, I was invited to a girls-only Valentine's Day party, where unattached women drink and scoff at Cupid and his obviously bad aim, since they are still single. I was uncomfortable, because I hadn't given up hope. Sure, my husband dumped me after 18 years of marriage for someone younger he met on the Internet, but that didn't mean I was unloveable. My Prince Charming was right around the corner, I believed.

Thirteen years later, I was still waiting, still single with no significant relationship to speak of in all those years, and none on the horizon. I left the office that Valentine's day bitter and discouraged, after seeing bouquet after bouquet arrive for happily pair-bonded (as Amy would say) co-workers. Now, I was finally at that cynical place where I hated the whole holiday. I finally got it.

I left work heading straight to BevMo to buy a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to drown my sorrows, but not before I spied an errant rose in the foyer floor of the office. One tightly closed little rosebud that hadn't found its way to the beloved. I ground it to pieces under my heel, and just kept walking.

It was agit-prop theater, to be sure, but oddly, it made me feel a tiny bit better. Little did I know that my "I hate Valentine's Day"message was received by the co-worker holding the door for me, and he was almost  moved to invite me out for a drink. As he puts it now, if he had, it would have speeded up our courtship by a good six-months.

The next Valentine's Day, I still didn't get roses in the office, because I didn't work there anymore. I had to quit to avoid getting fired or getting him fired for intraoffice dating. It was a small price to pay. I haven't had a full-time job since, but I did get a full-time romance.

And I married the King of Romance. We don't exchange gifts on Valentines, but we go to a special dinner and dancing every year. Today, he is taking me to the Queen of Hearts Ball at the Edison in Los Angeles. It is a 1920s setting with a very strict dress code. Since it is a ball, he's wearing a tux tonight.

So now I have become one of the envied. And yes, I am back to loving Valentine's Day, just the way I did when my girls gave little neighborhood parties with heart-themed paper plates and heart-shaped sugar cookies we baked.

So, for all my single friends — don't give up hope. It took me 13 years to get swept off my feet, but when I did, it was marvelous. I'm sending good thoughts out into the universe for you.

Why I love the Big Bang

Much of "The Big Bang Theory" takes place around Sheldon and Leonard's  coffee table
eating a variety of Asian take-out. From left, computer whiz Howard, physicist Leonard,
community college dropout Penny, super-genius physicist Sheldon, and astrophysicist Raj.

I am hopelessly addicted to "The Big Bang Theory."

Uncharacteristically, I came very late to this nerd fest. The show debuted in 2007, when I was deep in grad school hell, going to classes at night and working all day. I didn't start watching until last year, and I've been catching up with the reruns on TBS ever since.

On the surface, it doesn't really sound like much of a premise: a bunch of egghead scientists living in Pasadena, working at a university, which although I don't think I've ever heard the name used, is obviously California Institute of Technology, and their bright, yet uneducated, neighbor, wannabe-actress Penny.

Penny is the perfect foil for these academically brilliant, yet socially inept quartet. There is a continuum of social awareness among them: Leonard could be cool, if he could tamp down his inner geek god; Howard is constantly on the make, convinced that women are attracted by his smarmy self-confidence; Raj is handsome and sweet and could easily get a girl if only he could talk to them without being drunk; and Leonard is so freakishly asexual that his girlfriend has to negotiate for hugs and kisses.

Mayim Bialik, as Dr. Amy Farrah-Fowler and Jim Parsons as
 Dr. Sheldon Cooper. Despite the body language,
they are an item.

The setup is somewhat reminiscent of the 1941 screwball comedy, Ball of Fire, with Barbara Stanwyck and Gary Cooper. Stanwyck is Sugarpuss O'Shea, a gangster's showgirl girlfriend who needs a place to hide and end up in a houseful of nerdy lexicographers, who are learning how "everyday people" talk for a new dictionary project. Cooper, a soft-spoken professor, falls head over heels for Sugarpuss. The professors learn how to relax and do the cha-cha along with modern slang, and she learns that being square isn't the worse thing in the world.

Sheldon doesn't understand sarcasm, that sometimes its better to not tell all the truth (or as Emily Dickinson would say, "tell it slant"), or any number of "social protocols." It's like he needs his own droid like C3PO to help him navigate the minefield of daily life. When Leonard has a girl in his room and puts a tie on his door handle, Leonard is smart enough to know its a sign, but has to ask Penny what it means. "You know, you went to college," Penny tells him. "Yes, but I was 11," is his retort. Penny then admits that she was usually on the other side of the tie.

Jim Parsons as Sheldon is the undisputed star of the show, which his two Emmys and multiple other awards attest to. He and former Blossom star Mayim Bialik, who plays his girlfriend Amy, are perfectly cast. Bialik plays a neurobiologist, which she is in real life, with a PhD from UCLA. Apparently she's also as badly dressed as Amy Farrah-Fowler in real life, since "What Not to Where" did a makeover on her. This moment, when Penny convinces Sheldon to buy Amy a gift to make up for his boorish behavior will go down in history as one of TV's greatest moments. The sparkle-deprived Amy dissolves into a girlish, yet totally Amy response.

This is how Big Bang nerds celebrate New Year's,
with a costume party at the comic book store.
You gotta love guys who like to dress up.

I'm not sure why I love the show so much. Part of it might be that I have known a considerable number of nerds. They may not be geniuses, but they do love comic books, superheroes, Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate, and any other science fiction. One of the great things about nerds is that they actually like to dress up. There are lots of nerds in the Society For Creative Anachronism, and many of the local ones work at Edwards. Computer screens by day; swords and capes by night.

I used to go to an English country dance SCA gathering on Friday nights, but I never went without a conversation partner of my own. The dancing was loads of fun, but when we went out for pie afterward, the talk turned to Star Trek, and I wanted to flee.

The show was always good, but the addition of Amy and Howard's fiancee, Bernadette has made it even better. Penny has to deal with the social ineptness of females, this time, who are equally stunted but in a different way. Amy's desperation and crush on Penny, and Bernadette's slow transformation into Howard's stereotypical Jewish mother make for lots of comedic opportunity.

My favorite relationship is that of Sheldon and Penny. He is at times openly hostile and insulting to her, especially about her lack of education, but often needs her help and nurturing. Penny actually has love for him in a way you might for a hurt puppy, or an obstreperous two-year-old. When he asks her to sing the "Soft Kitty" song his mother sang to him, you melt, but the next minute he berates her for not getting the words right.

I hope that Big Bang does real-life nerds some good, showing them as fun, bright, funny, open-minded and  loyal, as well as smart. Penny is slowly learning that her handsome, hunky ex-boyfriends don't treat her as well as bookish, eager to please (in bed and out)  Leonard does. As someone said, one day all of us will be working for the guys with pocket protectors.

*******

Speaking of dressing up, my husband and I went to Daisy's Costumes on Lancaster Blvd. to get fitted for costumes for the Edwardian Ball on Feb. 19. The ball is put on by lovers of author and artist Edward Gorey. According to their website,  "the Edwardian Ball is an elegant and whimsical celebration of art, music, theatre, fashion, technology, circus, and the beloved creations of the late, great author Edward Gorey. Set in our own version of “Edwardian” times, this multi-media extravaganza has grown over the past decade from a small underground club night into an internationally recognized event, now operating with the blessing of The Edward Gorey Charitable Trust."


Jim is getting a long gunfighter's coat, an ascot and vest, and some kind of top hat. April Ray, Daisy's proprietor, is making me a dress with a corset on the outside. I already ordered a ray gun and goggles for us. The theme is The Iron Tonic, and I know there will scads of steampunks there. I can't wait, and will takes lots of pictures. Here is a video from last year's San Francisco ball.

Weight Watchers: the never-ending story

My family at Disneyland in December 2012 from left: son-in-law Patrick, daughter  Allison,
 daughter Megan, son-in-law Christopher, husband Jim, and my chubby self.
 Charlotte is in front doing some weird shoulder thing. I'm going to use this as my "before" picture.

I'm back at Weight Watchers. Again.

Actually, this is the 41st year of my association with that organization. I started back when I didn't actually have enough weight to lose to qualify for the program. Used to be, if you didn't have 20 or 25 pounds to lose (I can't remember), you had to have a note from your doctor.

So I got my family physician to write me a letter saying my health would improve if I lost 18 pounds. Now, all these years later, I would kill to only have 20 pounds to lose. I'm far, far away from that and have been since I had children.

I like to tease my daughters that they ruined my figure. I had just dieted my way into a size 11 when I got pregnant. I still have that dress that I wore to a friend's wedding, just to prove to myself that it actually happened. I quit smoking as soon as I found out I was pregnant, so I attribute about 30 pounds of the weight gain to that. I eventually was 70 pounds overweight when I delivered.

The truth is, I was never thin. I was a chubby child, which never bothered me until I hit sixth-grade and became aware that other people were judging me. I was wearing go-go boots and hip-hugger skirts, and though I looked fantastic. Developing self-consciousness is a bitch. From that early 1960s realization on, never a day went by that I didn't worry about how I looked or mourn how fat I was.

In junior high and high school, it was only 20 pounds too many, but it seemed like 100. Now, I mourn all the hours I spent worrying about those measly 20 pounds, especially when I know exactly how bad it can get.

I know I'm insane for going public with this, because announcing you're on a diet usually dooms you to failure. Consider Kirstie Alley, Wynonna Judd, Carnie Wilson. They make public pronouncements, then fall off the wagon and end up packing the pounds back on. I've sat next to enough gastric-bypass patients in WW meetings to know that's not a silver bullet, either.

In Weight Watcher meetings, I'm a pain in the ass. I crack jokes and quote so many Alcoholic Anonymous slogans that members must think I'm in recovery. Think about it, those slogans are applicable to many endeavors in life: One Day at a Time, Easy Does It, Keep it Simple Stupid, and my favorite, It Works if you Work It.

Pretty much any plan works if you work it, but WW works better than others. I've lost 23 pounds since I started about eight weeks ago. I'm doing water aerobics three times a week at the gym. I feel better and have a lot more energy.

The plan is much better than it was in the late 60s and early 70s when I started. A woman found some Weight Watcher recipe cards from 1974 in her mother's basement, including many for mackerel, and put them on the internet with some very funny comments. Back then, the plan was based on the diabetic exchange program. We used to talk about eating "boxes" because each food group had little squares after it that stood for one unit of that food.

The program back then called for you to eat a certain amount of tuna and liver every week. I was okay with the tuna, but I'd rather be fat the rest of my life than eat liver. Just the smell of it makes me want to retch. Seriously, when we have iron supplements, why would anyone eat that disgusting stuff? My dad liked it, but he had to order liver and onions in restaurants, so we didn't have to cook it at home.

This time, I really believe I'm going all the way, because I'm scared. Fear is a fantastic motivator. Every single health problem I have would be eliminated or made better by losing weight and a better diet: bad knees, acid reflux, sleep apnea, and high blood pressure. I'm not getting any younger, and I want to be able to run after Charlotte and her soon-to-be born baby brother.

I always had people who loved me and found me attractive at any size, and the weight never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do, but I had to overcome a degree of humiliation. Like having to wear a man's wetsuit and fold up the legs and sleeves because I was too fat to fit into a woman's version. The same thing happened in fencing: my fencing jacket sleeves practically hung to my calves because I had to wear a man's size.

Many of the health habits I acquired from Weight Watchers stuck with me in-between the times I actually was working the program. I almost always substituted something for fries when eating out, and I never eat hamburgers. But birthday cake is my bete noire; I will scrape off the buttercream icing and eat it with a spoon.

If I don't arrive early enough to my Tuesday night meeting I won't get a seat because of all the New Year's resolution newcomers. I wish them the best, but I know from my years of experience, that the herd will be considerably thinner by Easter. With any luck, I'll still be there, learning how to avoid my Easter temptations: chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, and yellow Peeps.

Then the pre-bathing-suit crowd will show up at meetings, and for once, looking for a suit might not be the tremendous ordeal it has been in the past. By then, I should be considerably smaller. I am resigned to the fact that like alcoholics, I'm never going to be done with meetings. Maybe I'll apply to be a leader when I get to goal, since I have to be there anyway. Might as well get paid for it.