A Good Day

I know that many of you are sleeping restlessly at night pondering the question, “What does a domestic engineer guy do during the day?”

There are some days when at day’s end I have wondered the same. But yesterday was a good day.

6:30 Coffee.

6:45 Carried on semi-awake conversation with chirpy PJ and shipped her off to work with hug.

7:00 LA Times Crossword.

7:30 Browsed favorite Internet web sites and responded to emails. (I don't want to hear from anyone who did the crossword in fifteen minutes.)

8:30 Breakfast.

9:00 Loaded dishwasher (breakfast plus last night’s dinner dishes).

9:30 Booked a Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering advertising campaign, and on-air interview with Indiana hometown radio station.

10:00 Went to post office to mail book to on-air talent who will conduct the interview.

10:30 LA Fitness workout—500 calories burnt.

12:30 Shower.

1:00 Light lunch—leftover Pur-ty Coleslaw with Walnuts (recipe from book).

1:15 Loaded in first laundry load.

1:30 Began paying bills

2:00 Second laundry load, hung up first load.

2:30 Finished bill paying.

3:00 Last laundry load, hung up second load.

3:15 Napped.

3:45 Hung up last load.

4:00 Began drafting this blog.

5:00 Caught up on national news and had a cocktail.

6:00 Fixed dinner.

7:00 Loaded dinner dishes and ran dishwasher.

7:30 Final email check.

8:00 Shut down brain. Don’t need it anyway for network TV programming.

Pretty exciting, huh?

Tomorrow I am thinking of counting the new sprouts on the rose bushes.

First Day of Class Part II

If you read the last post, you should have noted the Thursday entry – yoga.

When it comes to yoga, I’m back in first grade, and it’s a language foreign. At least the body part terms are familiar.

There are several branches of yoga: Raja, Karma, Jnana, Bhakti, Hatha, and Yoda. Okay I made up that last one. But the Yoda’s moves in Star Wars’ movies must have been some very advanced yoga. Then there are beginning, intermediate and advanced stages. I have no idea what branch my LA Fitness branch subscribes to or what stage. Regardless, beginners walk in and crawl out.

I have now discovered another form of exercise besides marathons that our bodies are not made for – yoga.

You don’t need much to take a yoga class, other than loose-fitting clothes and a personal mat. You wouldn’t want to take a culture of fitness gym mats. It helps if you have been doing some kind of exercise other than lifting a fork to feed your face.

Yoga is becoming pretty popular in the United States, but the Vatican does not approve, declaring in 1989 that Eastern practices such as Zen and yoga can “degenerate into a cult of the body.” Clearly my body can degenerate, but become cultist? Given the looks of us lately, we could use some more time cultivating our bodies.

Some of the yoga positions are pretty simple, thankfully. My favorite is the Corpse Pose. You assume the position of a corpse, though still breathing through your nose - thankfully. The Plank Pose looks like a push-up but you have to remain pushed up 10 minutes. Maybe it just seems that way. Breathe through your nose. The Child’s Pose looks like a Muslim’s afternoon prayers, except that you have to remain prayerful for some time with your butt touching your heels. The Standing Forward Bend is bending over and placing your palms on the floor, without bending the knees. Breathe through your nose. And hell no, I couldn’t do that (the palming the floor part), though I came a lot closer by the end of class. The Cobbler’s Pose is sitting with your knees flung wide apart and the bottoms of your feet becoming very friendly. The Mountain Pose is simple, standing erect, arms to the sides.

If these were the only poses, yoga would be my new best friend.

Not so fast. There’s Plow Pose, Bridge Pose, Tree Pose, King Dancer Pose, Lotus Pose, Supine Spinal Twist, and something that looks like an upside down victory sign. For the Tree Pose you stand on one leg with hands pressed together and bring your other foot up until the sole is flat against the inner standing thigh. At least it wasn’t the outer thigh. Breathe through your nose.

For the King Dancer Pose stand again on one leg (right), bend forward at the waist and thrust your right arm straight out. With your left arm grab your left foot and pull it up past your ear. Not really, but you get the idea. Change legs, rinse, repeat. Breathe through your nose.

For the Bridge Pose, start on your Corpse Pose (good so far) and bring the knees and lower legs vertical to the floor, feet flat. Then raise your torso until your back is inverted, shoulders and head flat on the floor. I think this is called getting your back up. Breathe through your nose.

One pose reminded me of the splits cheerleaders did in high school to gain our vote for head cheerleader. I didn’t try it then, either.

There is another pose where you are prone and then you make your body simulate the legs of a rocking chair. Guys need more than a jockstrap for this position.

Fortunately we weren’t asked to do the Lotus Pose. It begins as a Cobbler’s Pose but then you entangle your legs, positioning each foot on top of the opposite thigh. You will first need surgery.

All in all, I did pretty well. I only had to ask the instructor four times to pop back in a dislocated shoulder or hip.

This is a popular class, thirty in all. I was the only male. I am so there. No, I didn’t strain my eyes staring. My eye ogling was watching the instructor out of the corners of my eyes so as not to embarrass myself and end up with my right foot behind my left ear. I think that move is in the advanced class.

Namaste.

Breathe through your nose.

First Day of Class

In addition to browsing the Internet, I have been browsing a book entitled, Younger Next Year – Live Strong, Fit, and Sexy Until You’re 80 and Beyond. Though the book has been out for several years, another aging-defiant friend only recently recommended it. With my next birthday at hand, I’m thinking, “great, no more birthdays.”

Could this be Benjamin Button’s bible?

One of authors’ tenets is to exercise strenuously six days a week. This gave me pause. My 2-3 workouts per week did not stop the aging process?

I perused the class offerings at my local LA Fitness and noted a daily cycling offering. Since I was already doing the recumbent bike for 40-45 minutes 2-3 days a week with above-moderate resistance, I thought cycling a step up, but doable.

I just finished my first class. I did not die, though my heart did text me several times, suggesting I sit down or slow down.

Those people are animals, and 75% are women. For the record I never stopped, and I never slipped below moderate resistance. I even stood up a few times, though not for long. There was that heart-texting thing.

I glanced at the wall clock once thinking we must be about three-quarters through. Nope – fifteen minutes. Expletive deleted.

Our butts are not compatible with bicycle seats. That’s probably why they goad you into standing up, frequently.

The petite, perky, zero-body-fat female instructor used a series of hand signs (her headset mic wasn’t working) to signal speed, resistance, sitting or climbing. I grew to dislike her intensely.

This is the first week of my new regimen. It may also be the last.
· Monday – 40-minute recumbent bike, and stretching.
· Tuesday – cycling and stretching.
· Wednesday – 40-minute recumbent bike, stretching, 1-2 miles on the treadmill, mostly uphill, and several weight machines. One-hour nap.
· Thursday - yoga. Two-hour nap.
· Friday – cycling, and stretching. Three-hour nap.
· Saturday – 45-minute recumbent bike, stretching, and 3 miles on the treadmill, mostly uphill. Four-hour nap.
· Sunday – Stay in bed.

I’m thinking that by Saturday noon my body will not be speaking to me. Well, it will, but not nicely.

Le Tour de France need not worry. I’m targeting Le Tour de Cul de Sac.

Cooking class, anyone?

Returning to Normal*

I suspect I’m one of the luckier ones – only a four-pound gain over the holidaze. Consider it like a glaze - as temporary and absorbing as what you use to marinate meats.

If I were to lay out all of my recipes prepared over two weeks I suspect I’d be astounded by the quantities of flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, broth/stock, cream, and store-bought breads. These bad boys metastasize and attach to your arteries and intestines like Spackle.

I’m not in denial about the adult beverage intake I just refuse to think about it.

My cooking clothing gained some weight, too. But it was a tasty gain. (Guy’s still struggle with that splatter-guard (apron) thing.)

We throw caution and calories to the wind during holidays, going from once-a-week desserts to every night – from once-a-week appetizers to every night – from two portions per plate to three - from once-a-month baked (or bought) snacks to 2-3 temptations per day.

If you’re like my household, Santa isn’t the only annual visitor. Say hello to the Cold Family. Guests usually come bearing gifts, including germs. There should be a new rule – guests can only cross your threshold after they’ve been cleared by the CDC (Center for Disease Control). The cold endemic precludes any visits to LA Fitness to fend off encroaching pounds.

Last Monday was cold Turkey time, and not just the leftovers. The offending recipes were drowned in a vat of holiday grease. If any of the calorie-laden leftovers had not been consumed, they were tossed. (I found some week-old mashed potatoes this morning.) I whipped up some fresh Basil Oil Dressing (see previous blog about Basil) for the regular rigueur of salads. Seasonings replace sauces, though vodka remained the preferred sauce of the day. The bread bin was emptied. Desserts will return to their regularly scheduled birthdays. The third plated item returns to Friday and Saturday nights. Snacks are banned, other than the ones PJ sneaks at work, or when I’m not looking.

Just to make the ladies fume, after three days (and two gym visits) my four-pound holiday bonus was eradicated. Women hate guys for that, even while preferring us studly. But it also might have something to do with that snack sneaking – a habit stuffed into their genes, and jeans.

Drum roll please – introducing an occasional feature of the Domestic Engineer Guy Blog – the Male Moron Award. In reviewing all of the recent candidates, it was pretty easy to settle on the first occasional honoree – Heath Campbell. Heath (no doubt not named after the Heath Bar) said that he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because (based on a Yahoo News story) “no one else in the world would have that name.” Heath boy – there is a reason that quote is true.

The Saudi judge who told an eight-year-old girl that she could not divorce her 58-year-old husband came in a close second. The girl’s 58-year-old husband takes the bronze.

Check out future blogs for some recession-survival tips, even if they verge on depressing. It will be a while before we create our new normal.

If you have a Male Moron nominee, or a survival tip, weigh in - after you’ve lost that holidaze glaze.


* Not Normal, IL

Shakin' in My Booties

We SoCal-types are so laissez-faire when dealing with our faults (some might say too lazy or too fair). We have so many that we can’t escape barbs and jars that come our way. Almost any fault map of Southern California looks like a vein road map of our bodies – lines everywhere.

I was forty minutes into my LA Fitness routine when the most recent quake hit this morning. I felt a bit of a movement and sensed an incoming. Seconds later, the gym jolted and shook. I, and about 50 other sweaters looked up, and around, and then continued our routines. Yawn. Only one, a forty-something woman, begin walking rapidly for the exit, phone glued to her ear. The local TV stations immediately switched into 24/7 Breaking News mode, while searching for any thing breaking.

The epicenter was about 20 miles east-north-east of Anaheim Hills, and initially registered a 5.8 on the scare scale (later downsized to 5.4). Cruise ships and Amtrak rock more than that. Regardless, I cut my workout a little short (it’s nice to have excuse now and then) because it suddenly dawned on me that a year ago we had tiled half the downstairs. Arriving home, all was well – no cracks to the naked eye. A couple of artifacts had fallen over as well as one DVD floor rack.

Later, before cameras, a Los Angeles city councilman calmly blathered that experts project within the next decade a San Andreas Fault fracture measuring from 7.9 to 8.1. That was unsettling. For the uninformed, anything over a 7.0 is a MASSIVE earthquake.

I recall that during my first year in Los Angeles, after an extended stay with a certain Uncle, I was rudely welcomed to SoCal with a 6.5 quake at 6 AM on my birthday. The epicenter was 30 miles north of my studio apartment in West Los Angeles. It bounced me out of my twin bed. I crawled back in and went back to sleep, only to later be awakened by a panicked call from my betrothed, PJ, from her dorm at UCLA. She was shook up a bit more.

In another 4-5 years PJ and I will be off to our sunset years’ nest, though it won’t be the faults’ fault. Where to, we do not yet know. But our research will include fault maps.

Meanwhile, I’m ignoring The Big One’s inevitability, while hoping it holds off until we get the hell outta here.

Gym-Ratting

I’m not sure what defines a gym rat. I am not one but I know my way around them, gyms and rats. My rat education came from years of barn duty on that farm in Indiana.

Domestic Engineer Guys need to be taut and toned, never knowing the physical challenges in store in the storage room, yard, garage, bathrooms, kitchens, multi-tasking, marathon grocery-gathering, or the discerning eye of the breadwinner.

Secretly, I’m striving to jam long enough to join Smuckers’ Centurion Hall of Fame, and get my chrome-domed-mug on the Today Show.

When I pull into the LA Fitness, Anaheim Hills parking lot in my 1997 Saturn stud-mobile, my parking choices are between Mercedes, Lexus, BMWs, and SUVs on steroids. There is barely enough parking room for my compact. I always gingerly open my door to ease out, fearing I will set off an alarm or end up being sued for a door ding. When backing out, I’m in the middle of traffic before I can see both ways. With gas now approaching $5.00 I foresee seeing again in the parking lot, and further than one car in front of me on the streets and freeways.

My routine usually includes 40-45 minutes on a recumbent bike (more conducive to reading), 15 minutes of stretching, 15-30 minutes on the treadmill, and 10-15 minutes on upper-body weight machines. I burn 600 calories twice during the week, and 800-900 on grind-day, Saturday.

Speaking of Saturdays, the Saturday morning kick-boxing class is the club’s largest class. I have never counted more than one guy gyrating in it. Guys, be very afraid.

On weekends there are three stations on the long row of TV monitors. Even though the average member age is probably early-40s, the genius programmers at LA Fitness always have one of the channels tuned to the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. It’s a nice compliment to the infomercials.

One day I found myself on the treadmill between a middle-aged man and woman. Both were scanning the Wall Street Journal, while I was digesting a cookbook. My faith in stereotyping stratified some when I noted an easy-on-eyes, 40-something woman on a recumbent bike raptly reading a Glamour Magazine article entitled “What a Great Butt,” while the 30-something muscle-bound, testosterone-hoarding guy next to her not-so-discreetly checked hers out.

Sometimes I pass the time reading t-shirt graffiti. There is always at least one guy donning a taunting t-shirt, ballooned by bulges, no doubt compensating for bulge-brevity elsewhere. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say - - drug-inducements. Once a guy strutted around with a shirt spewing, “I am not scared. I am not afraid. I am tough. I am an animal. I will eat you if I have to.” Now there's a conversation starter. These guys usually arrive and depart in super-sized SUVs.

For the record, aging boomers should not be wearing spandex or leotards to the gym. I-Pod users should not sing. Guys should stick with their favorite sports team attire. Friends or acquaintances should not broadcast the days of their lives, their children, or their scumbag ex-husbands. And what’s with the women wearing makeup?

My favorite time at the gym is leaving. Meanwhile, I am slim and compact enough to avoid door dings and lawsuits.