Column: Warnng: Breakfast may be risky business

Oct 13, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Breakfast: It's the most important meal of the day according to some experts. So if you are reading this column while enjoying your morning meal, let me apologize in advance for any sudden urges to heave your breakfast burrito.

That's because an alarming food announcement was issued recently by a group in charge of scaring the bejabbers out of anyone who believes food consumption is pretty important in the Staying Alive Department. And you know who I mean; those food authority types who point out to us on a regular basis that the food we are about to consume is a festering, moldering mass of deadly microbes.

That's right, just when you thought it was safe to consume a leafy green, we're told - again - that serving up a big old dinner salad is about as dicey as taking a spin on the Indy 500.

"The Center for Science in the Public Interest" compiled the study, and if that doesn't sound like a suspicious outfit, I don't know what does. Heed the warnings and you will find yourself tiptoeing around the Public Interest folks' list of top 10 risky foods (in descending order): leafy greens, eggs, tuna, oysters, potatoes, cheese, ice cream (ICE CREAM??? Risky to WHAT? Our thighs?), tomatoes, sprouts and berries.

So what are we home cooks to do? Stop serving up staples like eggs, cheese or tomatoes since they are apparently teeming with bacteria? Well, it seems that we should, so my crack research department went to work finding a solution to this crisis. And in case you're wondering, my crack research department consists of me lying on our sofa the other night.

You'll be delighted to know that in doing this selfless research, I've uncovered some exciting new foods to tempt your palate. Furthermore, I'd speculate that the folks over at The Center for Science have never attempted to dissect these foods in the Public Interest. Nope. They wouldn't touch these babies with a 10 foot pole. Therefore, I suggest you do what I did and take a gander at an episode of the Food Network's "Next Iron Chef" because featured there was a whole plethora of victuals you've probably never thought of. If, for example, you thought lamb kidneys were exotic, you don't know what you've been missing. Take, for example, duck's tongue.



Now I don't know what circles you run in, but chances are you haven't encountered this delicacy as you've browsed your local meat counter. But bowls brimming with ducks' tongues, chicken feet and eel were only a few of the featured treats the prospective Iron Chefs were slicing and dicing over at the Food Network. Yes, I know these, um ... foods ... sound mildly yucky, but don't forget in our neck of the woods we eat garlic ice cream.

While I consider myself a fairly fearless cook at home, I admit to shuddering at the idea of whipping up dishes with such exotic ingredients. I mean, there on national television were professional chefs each about to dissolve into tears of frustration in their missions to create dishes using their assigned ingredients. What, for example, can one do with grasshoppers? Or "stinky tofu?" Or chicken feet? Or - egads! Cock's comb?

Now I'm not up on my reading of animal rights literature as it pertains to poultry, but there were an awful lot of rooster parts being bandied about in those Food Network kitchens. It made me wonder where on earth those various poultry appendages came from. I mean, somewhere there may be serious cases of chicken-rustling going on. And are there areas where large lakes are missing their ducks? Perhaps clandestine cults are springing up showing signs of chicken genocidal inclinations. It could happen, people!

So pity the poor aspiring (and perspiring) Iron Chef who draws - and I'm not making this up - un-laid bird eggs as his secret ingredient. I don't know about you, but a plate of fallopian tube pasta just doesn't, um ... tempt me somehow.

Imagine being a judge sitting on a panel tasting and weighing in on dishes containing grasshoppers, eel, or chicken feet. "I'm finding the cock's comb in your dish a little chewy," reprimands one judge looking down her nose at the platter of jaunty little topknots that previously adorned the barnyard's alarm clock. Well, HELLO?!!! It's a COCK'S COMB for Pete's sake. If you want tender, you might try a fillet.

Even if experts agree that ducks' tongues are "the other white meat" and have never seen the likes of a risky microbe, I can hear the naysayers now. But before you vow to never eat anything that came out of a duck's mouth, you might wish to reconsider. Where do you think those scrambled eggs you're having for breakfast came from? I rest my case.

Column: Clever Canine No Match for this Dog Whisperer

Oct 2, 2009 By Gale Hammond

The other day I let our small dog, Puddin', outside to do his 'business' when he came upon an interesting aroma out on the driveway. This could have been his own calling card or perhaps another wilder critter had passed this way. In either case, my stubborn Lhasa Apso was examining this find with great gusto and taking his sweet time about it.

"Puddin'," I called - and yes, I know it's a wacky name for a dog. I tried again because he hadn't budged. "Come here, Puddin'. Puuuuudddin' - Come on now, Puddin'...." Mind you, I was using my softest, most enticing voice because - let's face it - a woman standing on the front porch in her bathrobe yelling "Puddin'" at the top of her lungs is either crazy or having one ferocious snack attack. It's just not the best way to call attention to oneself.

I pulled out the big guns. "GOOD BOY, Puddin'! Come inside and get your COOKIE now! Puddin'? Come ON, Puddin'!!!"

"You should get a job with 'The Dog Whisperer,'" my spouse noted, watching our four-legged child mosey about on the driveway. "You have such command over the dog."

Ok, so Cesar Millan is not going to lose any sleep over this. But I am not bragging when I say that Cesar would be impressed with my dog grooming skills.

For the record, grooming my longhaired dog never made it to my bucket list because it is way harder than it looks. And it isn't masochistic tendencies making me subject myself to this torment. Nope. Puddin' has issues. Lots of issues but mainly with his eyes. Therefore, the loop that goes about the neck of a dog at a grooming salon is out. Puddin' can't even tolerate a leash - too risky for the glaucoma that plagues him following a rash of eye surgeries. So I inherited the task of tidying up the dog.

Now any fool knows that simply bathing a dog is easy. I mean, once you capture the dog that races to the far corners of the earth whenever he hears water running, the rest is a snap. Right? So what if the little scrapper pancakes on the floor and digs the nails of all four paws into the carpeting when you try to pick him up? I mean, who has the bigger brain here?

But I was uneasy at the thought of trimming those flowing locks that make Lhasas resemble living dust mops. Those buzzy little clipper things are unnerving. Besides, I haven't had the best luck with dogs and automated devices. Take for example the time I attempted to clean the teeth of our former Lhasa, Freddie.

The vet suggested I purchase one of those "water pick" type gizmos to reduce the plaque build-up on Freddie's teeth. Well. This sounds good in theory. In reality, all I can say is YOU try holding a small thrashing dog exerting roughly 97,000 pounds of force with one hand and with the other a fully loaded water pick as it gushes forth with the equivalent psi of a fire hose able to extinguish blazing infernos on the top floor of the Empire State Building. Yeah. Let's see how YOU do!

Freddie was beyond furious. No way was I getting anywhere near his pearly whites with that spewing volcano of water, which was by now shooting its contents wildly over the entire bathroom. Yes, after the Yellowstone-Geyser-Monsoon-in-the-Bathroom incident, I was reluctant to get into another battle of wills with a dog. That's when our friends, Bud and Susan, offered to give me a grooming lesson.

Bud grooms all their Lhasa Apsos, and he's darned good at it. So one sunny afternoon we headed over to Bud and Susan's home down in Newport Beach for a hands-on demo.

And it would've been helpful, too, except that Susan and I rapidly retired to the patio with glasses of wine to discuss important world issues such as our granddaughters. As a result, I didn't glean too much understanding of dog grooming, although I now know that Susan's granddaughter's next birthday party theme will definitely be 'Pink Princesses.'

"That's not how Bud does it," my spouse advised approximately 673 times when I'd finally launched out on my maiden dog-grooming voyage. "Listen, buster," I warned, brandishing my clippers at the man. "If you say that one more time I'm going to take these things to YOUR hair and believe me - it won't be pretty!"

And the results of my first do-it-yourself grooming adventure? Well, a racing stripe now runs along Puddin's right flank, a gift resulting from running the close-cutting clipper head a little too high on that side. But let's just remember hair DOES grow back - and besides. It gives Puddin' that rakish, STREAMLINED look that I find quite eye-catching.

Yep. Works for me!

Column: Driven to Distraction on "the" L.A. freeways

September 18, 2009, by Gale HammondPeople in Southern California love their freeways. Ask them how they get to work and they'll say, "Well, I hop onto the 405 but it'll likely be bogged down so I'll take the 5 'til I can grab the 101, then jump down, turn around and …" If you're confused, join the club. I mean, what's up with with our neighbors down south and all the "thes" in L.A.?

Speaking of "the" freeways, have you experienced rush hour in L.A.? And by rush hour I mean anywhere between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. - and that's just on weekends. Yep, rush hour in SoCal is approximately 27 hours long. Per day. And the abnormal occurrence when you actually find a freeway not strangled with vehicles? That's right. Traffic immediately clogs up because just ahead three lanes are now closed due to Caltrans sand-blasting graffiti from a freeway overpass at a cost of approximately $90 jillion, which has nothing to do with traffic, but still. I'm just saying.

And the term "rush hour?" What sicko thought that one up? When is the last time you "rushed" anywhere in L.A.'s rush hour traffic unless it's to a hospital to treat the lethal blood pressure you acquire as you sit trapped in a steel hotbox while a huge diesel big rig blows smoke up your tailpipe.

Something you should know about driving in L.A. is that you never arrive anywhere on the same day you left. I don't care if your destination is two exits down the road. You will encounter traffic jams the likes of which have never before occurred on Planet Earth. And carpool lanes? Forget about it. L.A. carpool lanes are scientifically designed to keep you from entering them. Ever. Unless possibly you are the driver of a hearse transporting a dead person because carpool lane signs don't technically state that all of a vehicle's occupants have to be alive.

But suppose you stumble upon one of those rare times when the planets all align in perfect order and you're maintaining the L.A. freeway required minimum speed limit of 97 miles per hour. Suddenly the road is teeming with drivers careening violently past you. This is the beloved L.A. phenomenon known as the "I'll-Drive-Like-A-Bat-Out-Of-Hell-Regardless-of-Where-I'm-Going-Just-Because-I-Can" state-of-mind. And that's just the CHP officers. Hahahaha - no, I just made that up. L.A. freeways are the last place you'll find a CHP officer. I mean, they'd be crazy to drive on those roads.

What you WILL find sharing the road with you in L.A. are fast, expensive cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. And at the other end of the spectrum? Ancient, custom-by-crash "muscle cars" that blow past you like you're standing still. But for heavens sake, DO NOT HONK at the other drivers. In L.A. honking or other signs of annoyance will get you shot. Seriously.

Occasionally you'll encounter drivers courteously using their turn signal indicating their intent to move to another lane. This is a major alert that you are following a car from another part of the country driven by an old person. That's right. It is against the law to use turn signals or to be old in L.A. Besides, L.A. drivers like to surprise you with their quick impulsive moves on the highway. Angelenos are just fun like that. So if you're following a vehicle with its turn signal engaged, it's safe to assume that said turn signal was activated by a geriatric driver somewhere around Bakersfield.



And I hate to complain but could those freeways get any more confusing with their myriad of names? Interstate 5 is called the Golden State Freeway or simply "the 5." If you're south of downtown, I-5 is the Santa Ana Freeway. Even further south, I-5 is the San Diego Freeway. As is the Big Daddy of all SoCal freeways, "the 405" - legendary as one of the country's most congested highways. But hey! It's the only place in L.A. where you can park for free!

You could call Interstate 10 plain old "Interstate 10," but where's the fun in that? It's referred to as the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Bernardino Freeway - depending on which direction you're traveling. Unfortunately I'm not making this up.

And the highway we know here simply as "101" or the Bayshore Freeway? Yep, those full-of-fun folks in L.A. have a whole bevy of names for that one. In some areas it's the Hollywood Freeway. Driving toward the southern coast? It's the Ventura Freeway. Or the Ventura Freeway could be SR-134 if you're in Burbank. Got all that? Nope, me neither.

So what do you do if you're going to L.A. and find yourself stuck on one of "the" freeways? You pray. You pray REALLY HARD that gas climbs to $20 a gallon. Now THAT would clear away some serious traffic!

Column: Don't mess with me: I can't find my can opener!

September 4, 2009, by Gale HammondToday, an important announcement: I have undertaken a risky project at Casa Hammond. Things could get ugly here, friends. I am re-organizing my kitchen cupboards. And as my friend Linda recently reminded me, "re-organizing" falsely implies that once they were organized.

This nonsense all started a few days ago when I couldn't find the orange that I swear I bought. I checked the fruit bin in the fridge. The kitchen countertops. Behind the coffee-maker. I even looked in the bowl containing the artificial fruit in case it had slipped in there unnoticed, attempting to make its getaway.

When my diligent search failed to produce the darned thing, I proceeded with Plan B. Since the orange was to be part of the evening's dinner salad, I'd go with the next best thing: canned mandarin orange sections. Yes, Julia Child would have been wringing her hands at my use of a "canned good," but hey! Somebody has to keep those packing plants in business!

Oh-oh, this wasn't good. My canned oranges were also MIA. Searching the pantry fruitlessly - and yes, that was a pretty awful pun but just roll with me here - I suddenly remembered that the canned oranges were wedged in next to the popcorn - and no, don't ask.

Canned oranges in hand, I paused to think: Where was the can opener? Now I know there are at LEAST three can openers in the utensil drawer (or rather "drawers" since every drawer in the place seems to contain multitudes of utensils of one kind or another. Where was the old, hard to hold and harder to crank "Early Marital" can opener? Or the more hand-friendly can-opening device I purchased when it appeared the marriage was going to last? I'd even settle for the ultra-technical can opener contraption that senior NASA scientists would have difficulty operating.


The last apparatus is an offering Mr. H. tried to anonymously dump under the Christmas tree a couple of years ago. I say "anonymously" because we'd had that "No Home Appliances for Christmas" talk before. You know; that's the talk on Christmas morning that follows your opening of a beautifully wrapped … toaster (or drill press or what have you). Mind you, I haven't eaten toast since approximately Woodstock. My spouse on the other hand? That's right; it's on his menu every morning, and that fancy new appliance certainly delivers a kick-start to his day. But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not me.

So the handwriting was on the kitchen wall. It was time to gut the cupboards and drawers because heaven only knows the last time this took place but I'd hazard a guess that my youngest was still in diapers.

And isn't going through the kitchen cupboards similar to an archeological dig? For example: There's the powdered milk I purchased during my Earth-Mother-Yogurt-Making era. Hopefully all the live cultures and freeze-dried bacteria made a respectable exit and aren't feeding a family of mice somewhere under the floor. And here are the Wonder Breakfast Cookies that were supposed to save me so much time when I was rushing off to work. The only "Wonder" was in how awful they tasted. Those hockey pucks were so nasty I wanted to stay in bed until lunch just to forego breakfast.

And wait! Hold on a second! What's this? Waaaaaay back in a hard-to-reach cupboard lay my old plastic-ware Jell-O mold. Back in the day we used to burp those plastic-ware bowls more than the baby. All that harmful air trapped inside until - whoosh! Your food could stay fresh for thousands of years! It was practically a religious experience, I'm telling you. And my right-of-passage into adulthood would have been complete with my plastic-ware Jell-o mold except for one tiny hitch. I never made Jell-o. Making Jell-o reminded me of … well, chemistry. Not that I'd ever taken chemistry, mind you, but if I had, it would have been hard.

Although organizing my kitchen was the order of the day, the real predicament came in figuring out what to do when I realized I had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight spatulas and half a dozen sets of measuring spoons. And what of those more obscure kitchen gadgets? I couldn't just go disposing of them all willy-nilly, could I? Good heavens! There may be Martha-Stewart-worthy dinner parties on the horizon that could never come off without my Indian wok or my clever little Spudnik potato masher.

Meanwhile, I must stay focused on getting organized so I can find my kitchen tools in a timely manner. Maybe I'll just take a couple of these spatulas and drop them off at the donation location downtown. But which ones? Wow. This is irritating. In the meantime, can I interest you in a nearly new, 30-year-old Jell-o mold?

Column: A Fathers Day Tribute

My dad, Galen Hoover. Photo was taken by my mother, Claice Austin Hoover and won a prize in a local photo contest hosted by the Pueblo Chieftain - our daily newspaper.

Fathers Lead the Way and Teach Us to Walk on Our Own
June 13, 2006
By Gale Hammond

Although it's a bit faded now, there's an old picture that I like to look at on Father's Day. In it, a blond 5-year-old girl stands in a pale red coat, too short in the sleeves, her brown, scuffed cowboy boots planted wide apart on the sunny surface of a bridge. She's holding a fish. Still on the line, the fish is small, but the little girl's grin is so wide that a wad of bubblegum escapes from one side. The image calls to mind memories much more vivid than the photograph …

They pulled in at the old fishing bridge around daybreak. Light frost iced the wild grasses and the wide timbers of the bridge. Gaps between its wooden planks showed slices of the river rushing below. The little girl stepped carefully onto the slippery surface of the bridge, cringing at the violence of the tumbling waters far beneath them. She wanted to take her father's hand, but didn't. Five years old meant she could walk beside him without holding his hand.

Stopping near the center of the bridge, the man placed their gear and a bucket of bait on the rough timbers nearest the rail. Frigid water pounded thunderously over speckled rocks far below. The sun peeked over the crest of the mountain, its sweet light poised to flood the valley, but right then it was cold. She wished for mittens to warm her freezing fingers, but she knew she couldn't bait her hook wearing mittens. And that was the deal; she'd promised her dad she would bait the hook herself.

Leaning their poles against the railing, he stooped to uncover the bucket containing the earthworms, his pant leg stained at the knee from the wet grass where he'd knelt in their yard to dig up the worms while it was still night. Reaching into the bucket, he pulled out a fat worm that wiggled in circles at both ends. Deftly he hooked it and cast off, then glanced in his daughter's direction. Unafraid to touch worms, she nevertheless was squeamish about sticking the hook into one. A deal was a deal, though, so she grasped a large one and threaded it on, trying not to think about the worm.

The damp, earthy reek of the old canvas bag filled with salmon eggs and fishing gear grew stronger in the warmth of the rising sun. Morning birds chattered to each other from massive cottonwood trees growing in a thick row along the banks of the Colorado. Holding her pole over the edge of the bridge, the line pulled along with the current below, its red and white bobber playing in the rapids. The man had already reeled in several fish, but still she waited. One worm was lost, and she affixed another while the shadows behind them grew shorter.

Growing tired, the little girl thought she'd rather join her mother on the bank of the river when she felt an abrupt tug at her line. Astonished, she looked to her dad who nodded at her reel, and she wound it in. A sudden flash of silver appeared at the river's plane. Thrashing, the small trout rode up and over the bridge's rail. Grasping the line, the girl whirled around to find her mother already up from the old quilt on the river bank where she'd been reading, her dark hair flying as she ran to the bridge to take a picture of their little girl with her first fish.

Seeing his tired young daughter, the girl's father offered her a ride on his shoulders back to the car. "No, thank you, Daddy," she explained. "I can walk by myself over this bridge."

That's what dads do, you see, and it's on Father's Day we remember. They lead the way as we learn to stand and walk on our own.

Her dad's been gone three years now, but there's a special place in a daughter's heart for her father. On Father's Day the old, faded photograph warms that place with memories because that was the day I learned to fish like my dad.

Aug. 21, 2009: Up a Stream-of-Consciousness without a paddle

Years ago when I was in college, the professor assigned a writing exercise using the literary technique known as "stream-of-consciousness." Seemingly perfect for my loose-knit brain, this is a free-flowing stream of thoughts written down as they occur. You know - letting loose, going with the flow. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, complete sentences or even making sense. Just tap into that "stream." It is liberating. It is thought provoking. It is crazier than bat poop.

Yes, I know, great writers like Faulkner practically created entire novels in this manner, crafting stunningly brilliant prose. Personally, my stream-of-consciousness writings would make psychologists sit up and take note. They would draw little arrows to one side of my rambling hen-scratches stating, "Watch this person: may have Manson-family-type tendencies."

Although my stream-of-consciousness musings weren't a raging success, something must have taken hold because here I am, years later, accepting the startling realization that I have taken stream-of-consciousness to a whole new level. I've turned it into a way of life. Yes, friends, I am living an unstructured, hanging loose, go-with-the-flow, crazy as bat poop lifestyle.

This is not how I intended it to be, mind you. I am in total awe of folks who begin their days with a neatly compiled list of activities and end those same days with a bunch of neat little check marks noting the successful completion of said activities.

Granted, I can compose a killer to-do list. I can make it purposeful and complete. I can even fool myself into thinking I will actually follow said to-do list. But then … you know. Even the most well thought out plans are victims of happenstance. Because stuff happens, people! For example:

Wednesday: To-do list

1. Water and prune container plants.
2. Take chicken out of freezer for dinner.
3. Go to gym; come home; shower; get dressed.
4. Meet Sally for lunch.
5. Go to bank, grocery store, cleaners.
6. Make appointment for vehicle servicing.
7. Bake brownies for book club meeting.
8. Make dinner; clean kitchen.
9. Bed.

Wednesday: Stream-of-consciousness edition

1. Begin watering plants; notice that deer are eating flowers on new plant. Go find big fat plant book to check if plant is deer resistant. OK; where is that book? Thought I put it here on the laundry room shelf next to the … oh-oh. Still haven't removed the wine stain on the ottoman because here's the stuff I bought to clean it with and … oh, never mind; I should definitely just recover the thing; never did care for that fabric anyway ...Let's see, where is the measuring tape, I'll get the ottoman's dimensions … since I'll be downtown I'll purchase new fabric and recover it tomorrow. Now. If the upholstery fabric is 54 inches wide I could … oops, forgot to take out the chicken. Walking to the fridge and - what on earth is that dog doing? Great, he's rolling in turkey do-do again. Grab the dog, fill the laundry sink, wash this mess out of his coat - what is the matter with him for the love of - yikes! Look at the time! Now there's no time for the gym; oh, well. I'll go tomorrow FOR SURE.

Showered and running out the door. Dang! Broke my sunglasses. Well, I can't be running around in this bright summer sun without them. Make a quick stop to buy sunglasses before meeting Sally, the store is practically next door to the restaurant, and I would've been right on time for lunch except the machine to charge the sunglasses to my credit card wasn't working so here I am almost 10 minutes late, and I'll just give Sally a quick call to let her know I'm almost there and - WHAT?? My cell phone isn't working? OH!!!!!

Have a fun (albeit late) lunch with Sally, we laugh and laugh and then I'd better see what's wrong with this dang phone and the salesman says it's going to take awhile to program my new phone, not to mention download all those precious pictures, because wouldn't you know the old phone is toast so I have time to run an errand, which is fortunate because we need dog food and the dog food purchase takes longer than I thought so finally back to the phone store and now what?! They lost all the pictures stored on my old cell phone! Well, great. Salesman is calling the technician for advice. Might as well get an ice cream cone while I'm waiting. There goes the diet.Two hours later and I have to leave behind a part on my old phone that may or may not retrieve my lost pictures so back home I go and oh, swell, it's time to make dinner. Chicken is still in the freezer. Better order a pizza, already blew the diet anyway, but first I'll just finish watering the plants …

It's a One-Way Ticket to Mimi's House of Pain

Aug 7, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I do. I'll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape. He listens politely to my painfully sad tales of woe about my bum knee, my achy back and makes me work out anyway. The benefits of having a personal trainer are limitless. In fact, I've made it my life's purpose to stay as far away as humanly possible from my personal trainer.

Now I should explain (and I know you will find this shocking) I am no spring chicken. Nope, I am a certified, and possibly certifiable, grandmother (a.k.a. "Mimi") with two little granddaughters and a grandson on the way. So in my opinion, personal trainers should handle me gently. With respect. Reverence, perhaps. Ok, perhaps not.

Let me tell you how it is when I meet with David. He feigns happiness to see me. He professes he's glad I'm back at the gym. And then he proceeds to kill me.

Look, I'll be the first to admit I am no accomplished athlete. Sure, back in school I could kick butt in track and field. But I had my weaknesses. Remember the climbing rope torture device that was part of P.E. class? Oh, mama!! How embarrassing was that? I'd approach the thick, braided cable with my heart stuck in my throat. Because this was going to be beyond bad. Way beyond. I'd drag myself onto the rope where I'd hang swinging in sad, slow circles, my feet planted on the knot, wondering how the heck I was going to get out of this one. Maybe somebody would pull the fire alarm. Hopefully the Russians would attack. ANYTHING to get me off this thing.

As I hung there willing my feet to do something besides twist themselves ever more tightly into the knot, my toes cramping inside my sneakers, I cursed my eternal weak spot. My arms. There was no way those weaklings would pull me to the top. Sure, many of my classmates - even GIRLS, for the love of God - could shimmy up the rope, tap the ceiling smartly and shimmy back down. Not me. Nope - those sad, slow circles. That's where I stayed.And I swear those dang ropes were a source of humiliation forever. From kindergarten until I was the approximate age of dirt, it seemed there was one of those blasted ropes waiting to be climbed. Seriously. Ok, maybe it just felt that way.

So I know my limitations. But David doesn't. No-siree-bob! After my "cardio," which consists of lacing up my tennis shoes, David sends me to the stationary bike. "Go ahead and do 15 minutes of warm-up," he instructs. What? What do you mean "15 minutes?" If I could do 15 minutes, would I need to be here? This is what I say in my head. To David I smile and say, "Sure! No problem!" I just hope he can't hear me grinding my teeth.

After I'm "warmed up," i.e. exhausted to the point that a week in a lounge chair on a beach in Barbados wouldn't revive me, he escorts me to the machines. Have I mentioned torture? Yes, friends, this is legalized cruelty to old people.

David sits me on a seat the approximate width of a 3-month old baby's hand. Next he hauls down a couple of bars that he has me grip. With David helping me hold the bars, I've assumed a dangerously false sense of security. Then he lets go. And instructs me to lower and raise those bars above my head. Holy cow."Why don't we just go to the parking lot and I'll bench press my car," I say. "That can be arranged," he replies

But let's be honest here; after several months' absence, it's time for me to go back to the gym. Let David drag out the old whips and chains. … Ahem. Whips and chains?

Ok, I suppose I COULD use a little toning (black leather boots) in a few spots (blindfold). My personal trainer IS, after all, a trained professional (handcuffs) and although I don't need the bulging bicep guns (chain mail) that some of those hulky bodybuilders have (Ravish-Me-Red lipstick), a firm physique WOULD allow me to get on the floor (spiked arm bands) and play with my grandchildren because life is just WAY too short (wrist restraints), isn't it? Nope! Never let it be said I was afraid to just jump right in there and give it a whirl (leather ceiling harness).

Well! I may be a grandmother, but who knows? This Mimi's House of Pain thing might be…fun? I'm just saying.