I've been holding off talking about this past week, hoping that I'd have some changes to report. Something worth celebrating - heck, at this point, I'd settle for 'worth writing about.' It's not been a good week. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I think I can safely say that it was worse than the first week I worked out, and that's saying something.Becky's weights regimen is not working well for me. I've suspected this for most of the past week, but wanted to give myself at least through Monday to make sure that it wasn't just me bellyaching over new work. Sure, I am, to some degree, but that's not all it is.

Becky asked me to start all the exercises at three sets (see link in previous paragraph), with no instructions for increasing weight, reps, or sets over the next couple of weeks. It was just, 'do this, and if you can'd do it at this weight, drop down until you're able to finish the reps.'

Far be it from me to jump on the bandwagon of the insanity of dress sizes for American women. What is an 8? A 12? A 16? Is a 16 the same as a 16W? Why do women have to just instinctively know that an 8 in one manufacturer is a 12 in another, while men have to remember nothing more than (very concrete) waist and inseam measurements to find a pair of jeans that fit?

That's another rant for another day. Surprisingly enough, I'm not in a ranting mood. Quite the opposite, actually.

On Friday, Misty sent a pair of jeans home with me, bidding me to try them on, just to see if they fit. On one hand, they were from a different manufacturer than the jeans I normally wear; on the other, they were two sizes smaller than what I wore when I started working out.

Hark! The mothership comes.

After laughing for ages at how Shauny refers to her mother as The Mothership, I feel the need to steal her reference for the next few days. For lo, the Mothership is preparing to wing her way from the Tulliverse to Huntsvegas, and the Huntsvegas natives may never be the same.

Translation: yep, we're so busted. Mom's coming to visit. Time to clean the cupboards and hide the naughties.

There are very specific, yet unwritten, Rules Of Conduct that must be followed in order to guarantee a successful parental visit. For those of you who missed the peer-to-peer lecture, here's a quick checklist to ensure that your visit will conclude with a minimum of cranial explosions or disownments:

In the world of the gym, there are rules. Rules, I say!

I love to cook, but I love my laziness more. Most of the time, this intersection of personal interests yields little of interest, but every now and then, I have a eureka! moment that's worth sharing.

In the past couple of years I've come to appreciate the goodness of an off-the-cuff pan sauce. A bit of stock, a bit of wine, some aromatics, and then a bit of thickening agent (either some kind of fat, or arrowroot starch dissolved in water) for a good mouthfeel. Reduce, plate, eat.

All well and good, except for that first ingredient - the stock. The standard way of making it drove me absolutely batty: freezing/saving trimmings (bones, etc.) until you've got enough for a big batch, then plunking them into a lot of water in the large honkin' stockpot, along with whatever various aromatics (peppercorns, bay leaves, carrots, onions, etc.) I had on hand, and simmering for ages upon end until the bones give up their lovely useful flavors to the water.