Though the first change that I made, I made just for myself. I re-joined a gym. You see, we'd let our gym membership go as it was costing us nearly $100 a month for the both of us, and we weren't using it. (We're in a side battle against debt, but that's an entry for another day!) But L.A. Fitness opened a new gym RIGHT on my way to work and only about 5-7 minutes from the house. Our friends joined and were telling me that it was a nice gym and a LOT cheaper than the one we'd all belonged to before. So I joined! It really IS reasonable. I had to pay a $50 membership fee, and it's month-to-month for $29.99 a month, locked-in and guaranteed to never increase. I figure that if Shado wants to join, he can. I'm paying for this out of my "allowance", rather than our monthly joint budget money.

So I took that step. And I've found out how out of shape I've gotten in the interim. When I left the other gym I could do an hour on the treadmill at 3 mph, and I only managed a half an hour at 2.5 mph last night. Bleh. Ah well, it's better than when I started at the first gym and could only do ten minutes at 0.5 mph!

The next step is food. No more chips and cookies "just for lunches" in the house. Now it's fruit, baby carrots, celery, and cheese sticks. Dinner last night was whole wheat pasta with low sodium pasta sauce that I added sauteed onions, bell peppers, and mushrooms to. I also made enough that we both got lunch today out of it as well. I've also started cooking a pot of beans once a week or so, and incorporating them into various dishes to add fiber and protein to our meals.

There will still be splurges now and then. Thursday evening we're going to Buffalo Wild Wings for cheap boneless wings and Trivia Games with friends. But overall, I'm easing us back to healthy rather than take out and fast food type meals.

I figure, if we're going to be parents within the next year, we'd better get a move on with the whole health thing.

More updates later! I know I've let this journal slack, and I'm sorry! Remember, you can always check my livejournal account for updates too! (I think there's a link somewhere on this website to my journal.)

I inherited my Dad's sense of humour. It's a very British sense of humour, with lots of dryness to it. We lean toward the sarcastic in my family, but it's always meant as humour, not to hurt. I told my husband before he met my family for the first time, "If they tease you, you're fine. If they're excruciatingly polite, they don't like you." My brother, my Dad and I drive my Mom crazy because she doesn't have the same sense of the wry that we do, but I don't think that's stopped us yet.

I love my Dad. He's strong, smart, loves his family, caring, friendly... We always joke that Dad can't go anywhere without running into someone he knows. We could drive across the country and walk into a restaurant and there they'd be, someone waving and calling his name. It's gotten to be a family joke, along with the fact that he never gets a bad parking space. Every time he pulls into a parking lot, someone is pulling out of one of the closest spots and he says, "Thanks for saving my spot for me!" as he pulls in to the vacated space. *chuckle*

If I wore stripey toe socks, my Dad would rock them so hard that they would fall off. On the Cool People Meter, he ranks right at the top.

Happy Birthday, Dad!!!!

Sonnet 102, William Shakespeare

6 years seem but scant days, and though I may not proclaim it as often or as loudly as I once did: I love you, and cannot wait to see what the next 60 years hold in store.

Goodnight, Grandpa.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil;
my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
-Psalm 23, KJV, American Bible Society

It's located at My Blogspot.

But...here's the latest, as it applies to this particular journal as well:

As I was driving to work this morning, I was thinking about the current round of reality shows. Now, I don't normally watch a lot of them, but the one about Superheroes is rather amusing. Last night one of the participants was eliminated, as happens on these things, and in his post-elimination rant he made a comment about one of the other participants that went something along the lines of "Like a fat woman is any kind of superhero? Puhleez!"

That gave me pause.

Why can't a fat woman be a superhero? Fat people in America deal with adversity and discrimination on a daily basis. Obesity is the last acceptable prejudice in our culture, and those who are afflicted with it face humiliation constantly. Seats in movie theatres and sporting arenas are too small to fit into, aisles on buses and planes are narrow, and we won't even go into the narrowness of airplane seats. I can tell you, however, that while you are sitting in your seat on the plane, dreading the flight because the person sitting next to you is large, they are not exactly having a picnic either. That person knows exactly what you're thinking. They knew it before they even got on the plane, and the look of fear on the faces of everyone with an empty seat next to them as they came down the aisle was repetitive torture. They're contorting themselves as best they can to keep from squashing you, knowing the whole time that it's a futile gesture, and that you probably don't know or care that their hips are bruising and numb from the seat arms and their legs have fallen asleep because they don't dare even shift for fear of infringing on your space even more.

Going to the grocery store or a restaurant brings even more judgement from others. There are people who will openly criticize the food choices of complete strangers. It can range from disapproving looks as the waiter brings food to the fat person's table, to loud "meant to be overheard" comments about how someone like that should be having a salad, not a steak. In grocery stores, a fat person's cart is routinely inspected by others as they pass by. There have even been instances of so-called helpful people actually taking items out of carts with words to the effect of "You don't need that, you should be eating healthier food."

Our culture implants shame and self-hatred at every turn when it comes to being overweight. Fat jokes are the last acceptable bastion of the comedians and the last socially acceptable sight gag in the movies. The derogatory images of blacks, women, and other minorities are slowly being removed from the realm of allowed but the images of the slovenly fat man in the stained t-shirt who sits in front of the television and chugs beer is still around and showing no signs of leaving. The fat chick is always the butt of the jokes, shown wearing muumuus and thick glasses, with bad hair and a pint of ice cream in her hand.

Is it any wonder that we have people spending millions of dollars on wonder pills as they try desperately to find a quick fix to their problem? Is it any wonder that we have children starving themselves and complaining about how fat they are at ages as young as six and seven?

The next time that you look at an overweight person and automatically assume that they're a slob who has no willpower, take a moment to realize what you are doing. If you just change a couple of words in that thought, you might find yourself shocked at your own thinking. (Examples of prejudices that are horrifying to most people: fat=black / slob=stupid / willpower=brains, fat=woman / slob=lack of intelligence / willpower=sense).

Then there's the fact that, like the other prejudices mentioned, it's probably not true. It's much more likely that the person you are judging so harshly is just a person, like you or anyone else, who reacts to food differently than you do. There's a good chance that they're much more aware of their weight than you could ever be, and odds are that they're catching sight of themselves in that store window even as you look at them, and they're thinking thoughts about themselves that you would be appalled to hear.

Life as a fat person isn't all bon bons and luxuriating in your couch potato-ness. The real picture is that it's a study in self-hatred, self-abuse, and constantly being told by society at large that you're sub-human. Think about it the next time that you watch a movie and see the fat sight gag, because maybe it won't be quite so funny.

Huntsville is one of the most laid-back events I've ever been to. It's a great bunch of guys to throw with, and an incredibly fun event to participate in. And here, the goodness ends.

Huntsville is not kind to Jessie and I. Neither of us perform at our peak here. And true to form, it was not so nice this year. Nor was it incredibly nice to Sarah.

Though calling it 'not nice' is almost an oxymoron. I brought home 6 medals out of seven events and won 2nd place overall. Jessie won a single medal and was not in the top three in his class. Sarah swept 3rd place, and came in 3rd place overall.

But our numbers were horrible.

Weight over Bar: 11 feet (1st place)
Sheaf: 20 feet (three way tie for 2nd place)
Open Stone: 27 feet and change

These were my best three events.

56# Distance: 17 feet and change
28# Distance: 41 feet and change

These are both absolutely crap throws for me. My best throw in 56D is 23 and a half feet. I took first place at Arlington two weeks ago with a 20 foot throw. My best 28D throw is 45 feet, and I took 1st place at Arlington with 43 feet.

22# Hammer: 52 feet. Personal best is over 55#.
Caber: 11:00. I actually had a 12:00, but it was on the qualifying caber. My actual performance throw was the 11:00.

I don't know Jessie's numbers, but he was not happy with them. He didn't mind so much only getting the one top-three finish, but absolutely hated how he performed.

Sarah swept third place by virtue of the fact there were only three ladies throwing. Her numbers, in her words, were worse than the very first time she ever threw.

The current theory is that the long car ride sapped all our strength, so next year, we may drive out on Thursday, then rest up on Friday and throw on Saturday. That'll give us a chance to unkink from the drive before we have to go throw.

So while I can't be unhappy with my placement, I am exceedingly disappointed in my actual performance.

Ahh well. That's the theory of Any Given Sunday.

And then, just to add insult to injury, I have lost my wallet. I don't mind, so much, losing the $40 bucks worth of Cash that's in it, but it's really annoying to lose my credit cards, driver's licence and all those other bits of stuff that one keeps in a wallet.

The "C" class competitors (Bottom of the barrel. Not quite beginners in most cases, but not really seasoned athletes, either), which is my group, gets to start on the Hammer throws, which are, historically, my worst two events. Well, get them out of the way early and move on to the stuff I'm really good at. Well, holy hell was I surprised at my performance. I knew some things I'd been doing wrong and could readily correct - it was just a matter of if I remembered to do them. Apparently I did. My throws were good. Very good, for me.

Then it the Braemar. This would be my worst event on the day. I was not the bottom of the barrel, but I was not at the top, either. Need more work here.

After the stone was a brief interruption for the sheep dogs to do their thing. They did, and we were back to throwing. Light and Heavy weight for Distance, two of my best events. And despite a rough start in warm-up (My first throw sent me ass-over-tea-kettle in the grass. Fortunately, it was a warm up and did not count), these two events continued their trend. Ladies, you will be sorry you missed this one. My first 'for real' throw sent my Kilt flying to the ground. But it was a good throw. I fouled my second throw, then ripped my third throw, adding a few inches to my distance. I lost my kilt here, too. I felt like a Windows™ commercial: Me, to the power of Naked. The Heavy Weight (56 Pounds of Steel) - she was very, very, good to me. The light weight (28 pounds), also very good. No loss of Kilt here, but I more than doubled my heavy weight distance.

Then to Caber. By all rights, I should own this event. I have not finished in less than first place in caber at Arlington ever. Until today. The first caber was such a bitch that no one rotated on the first turn through the rotation order. I was in the lead with a whopping 60-degree throw. So they changed cabers on us - to the one I've been throwing three times a week for the last 16 weekends at Scarborough Faire. Second turn through the rotation, and I and one other guy both get perfect throws. Third time through, he gets another perfect and I got cocky. Which is a polite way of saying I f$cked up, and basically handed Efraim the gold medal in the event.

The day ended as all Highland events end - with the Height events. The Sheaf was not my friend today, and I came in four feet under my personal best. Weight over bar, however, paid off in spaces, and the applause I received from the audience and my fellow competitors as I finally hit the height I've been trying to hit for three years was nothing short of amazing.

And so the results of the day are:

So the net result:
3 1st place finishes
2 2nd place finishes
2 3rd place finishes
Overall: 2nd place

It was close enough that if I had placed in the Braemar Stone, I would have taken 1st place. There is a mixed blessing here, though. I didn't win the day, but that also means I do not have to move to the "B" class, and experience a whole new level of ass-whuppin'. It will probably happen this year, though. Not looking forward to that, so much. Though it'll still be a great feeling when it happens.

And I celebrated by finally purchasing a real-live honest-to-God kilt of my very own, in the new County Sligo Tartan. I can finally dump the Sport Kilt - which has been very nice, but has it's issues. Like falling off of me when I throw.

Pictures are available in the Gallery

Unfortunately, we've not shown a lot of progress in that time. Both of us have been bad about going to the Gym. Both of us have been bad about reinforcing the other. Still plateau'd at just under 100 total pounds lost.

We've been better the last three weeks about making the gym. Not great by any stretch, but better. Which is to say we've made it to the gym at least one day each week. Six days total in that time.

But people want updates, so here they are:

Category               Measurement        Change from Pre-Op
Weight:                323.1#             -97.2#
Chest:                 50 5/8 in.         -5 1/8 in.
Waist:                 52 in.             -9 3/4 in.
Hips:                  67 5/8 in.         -9 5/8 in.
Bicep:                 14 3/4 in.         -3 3/8 in.
Thigh:                 33 1/8 in.         -5 3/8 in.
Calf:                  29 5/8 in.         -3 5/8 in.

Weight Loss has been hovering between 95 & 98 pounds for 10 months.

What they don't tell you is that apparently you begin to glow too.

I had about a dozen people this weekend at faire tell me that I have been glowing. I hasten to reassure that no, I am not currently pregnant. I guess that the glow comes from health, and happiness.

I'm moving around more this year than I have in forever. I can walk all of the way across the faire site without stopping three or four times to rest. I can do multiple Court dances in a row without feeling as though I'm going to die when I'm only halfway through the first one. I not only keep up with most of my friends on most days, but am even occasionally ahead of them!

Now, I will not lie. I still have a large amount of weight to lose, and I still have my days when my feet are killing me and my ankles hurt and swell, and I just want to find a bench somewhere and sit. I still collapse into bed and sleep the sleep of exhaustion at the end of every faire day. The difference is that the times when I want to just sit at faire are fewer and fewer, and are more often than not simply small parts of the faire day rather than entire weekends long, and the exhaustion is honestly achieved as I usually cover the entire length of the faire grounds at least four times during my day. (The grounds of the faire total 35 acres. I'm not sure what the length portion of that is, but I AM going the longer of the two dimensions.)

So, if you are reading this and considering having the surgery, I guess that I have to say that despite all of the frustration, and the wishes that I were more consistent or losing faster, this HAS been worth it, and will continue to be worth it. Yes, it's hard. It's probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, but as one of my favorite movie quotes says:

It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

So when you do this, because if you're thinking about it and REALLY considering, but you're nervous about it, then you probably do need to do it, then remember that after all of the pain, and the soul-searching, and the frustrations (physical and mental), things will get better. When that happens, suddenly one day you too will start to glow. And when you begin to glow, someone will notice and say something, and THAT, my friends, will be a moment that will tell you that it was all worthwhile.

I'm sitting at home tooling around the IntArWeB, when she calls me. Honey, she says, I've been rear-ended.

The details are thus: she's driving home on the LBJ, like she does every day. Traffic comes to a complete stop, like it does every day. The person behind her does not come to a complete stop. Apparently, not even close. He's completely knocked the rear bumper off the car, and bent the body panels and trunk, and done some other damage.

And then the kicker:

• The driver of the vehicle does not speak a heck of a lot of English.
  
• The driver of the offending vehicle does not have insurance.
  
• The driver of the offending vehicle does not appear to have a driver's license.
  

He calls his brother-in-law to come play translator. My wife calls me to come deal with it. I call the police and report the accident and that the driver has no insurance. Give the location of the accident, get in my car and go.

So I get there. The Dispatch operator for the police has advised me to keep the other parties at the scene. They do not want to involve my insurance company, let alone the police. They're offering to pay for the repairs, etc. I'm doing everything I can to stall them. Taking copious notes, getting licence plate and VIN number from offending vehicle, playing up the language barrier, etc. I tell them I'll get a couple of estimates and call them. I know we have a working phone number for them, because the driver called his brother-in-law from our cell phone. I've kept them there for over an hour. No police officer. I finally can't stall them any more, and the show up. Then the police show up about 5 minutes later, after the officer calls to say he's been given apparently incorrect information by dispatch, and could we kindly tell him where we are.

He gets there, and so much not-help. He's in a hurry to get off the shoulder of a busy highway as it's getting colder and darker. Without the other parties still on-scene, there's nothing he can do about it. Doesn't even write a police report.

When I get home and look more closely at the damage, I realize the car is totalled. It's a 1997 Dodge Neon with over 100,000 miles on it. Unibody Construction (which means the Sheet Metal body-panels are, in effect, the frame), and both the body panels are damaged. I call my insurance company. They send out an appraiser and yup - car is totalled. My only consolation is that the other guy's car is also most likely totalled.

So we buy a new car with the 'proceeds' of the old car (such as they are). A shiny Sunburst Metallic Orange 2006 Chevy HHR LT.. We custom build and order the exact vehicle we want. It takes 7 Weeks from the date of order to receive it, but on 02/17/2006, we drive our car off the lot. The Odometer reads 8 miles.

It's very nice. Steers like a dream. Wonderful radio. Comfy. Plenty Roomy. More room than I expected. A six-foot tall person might find headroom a bit cramped in the driver's seat, but at 5' 10", It's just about right for me.

And we drive for a few weeks. Fast forward to March 23rd - Thirty-Nine days later. On the way to work, traffic is a bit congested. We're zipping along in the H-O-V lane when traffic slows considerably, and a bunch of people in the neighboring lane are diving into the H-O-V. And then I see the flashing-lights. Apparently there's been an accident in the left-lane and people are going around it. All four lanes of traffic are coming to a halt. So I stop. The guy behind me doesn't.

One-Thousand Seven-Hundred Seventy-Three miles, and we're in our first accident. I haven't even received my new insurance card in the mail from my carrier. I've just barely put the licence plate on the car. So I get out and ask the driver for his insurance information, and the first word he says to me are 'Why did you Stop?!' (in very poor English, I might add). My response was a very civilized 'Because the person in front of me stopped, trying to avoid the accident.' I wanted to scream 'It doesn't matter you stupid-f$ck. You just hit my brand-f$cking-new Car!' I walk away from him for a second, and call my insurance company to find out my policy information so I can share with this guy. The Polie officer already on scene for the existing accident comes over and asks if we exchanged information. I said 'not yet. I'm working on it, but he seems a bit unwilling.' So the officer tells this guy how it's going to be. 'You hit him in the back. It doesn't matter why. Give him your insurance information.' So the driver does. We go on our merry way. Oh, no police report, either.

Now, I notice as I'm copying down the guy's insurance info that his policy expired at 12:01 am that very morning. I'm not worried, though. He probably just hasn't put his new card in the vehicle. I mean, I know I'm bad about that.

So I go home and call his company to start the claim process, and it turns out, his policy is, in fact, expired, and has not been renewed. A few choice expletives come out of my mouth as I explain to the nice insurance lady that I'm not mad at her, I'm just pissed, and explain about exactly how we came to be in possession of a brand new Chevy HHR. She understands. She calls his agent to see if maybe he has renewed, but the paperwork just hasn't been sent in. No such luck. So I call my insurance company and file another uninsured motorist claim. My second in 4 months.

The damage isn't extensive, but it is fairly expensive. Expensive enough that it's worth filing as an insurance claim.

And now we come to today, April 13th, 2006. I still haven't had the HHR repaired - waiting on the insurance check to arrive. It's been 'in the mail' since March 28th. If it's not here on Monday, April 17th, they are going to issue a stop-payment and overnight a new check.

But that's not the real kicker. This morning, as I drove in to work, the very Earth itself attacked my new car. A piece of concrete roughly the size of Rhode Island is in the middle of the road. I see it just as soon as the car in front of me clears it. I try to avoid it, but can't. Ker-Thud!, K-thmp, K-thmp, K-thmp. A flat tire. I pull over to change the tire and check out the damage.

After changing the tire I call the City and tell them about the presence of this small state in the middle of their road. They indicate they're sending out a road-crew, and will mail me a damage claim form. This, at least, sound good, though I'm sure that they'll ultimately find some way to screw me with it.

Take the car to the dealer to get new tires and get an estimate on the body damage. Added to the existing estimate from the previous collision, and all told, I have to do over $3000 dollars worth of body work on my brand new car within the first 2 months/3000 miles of ownership.

Thus, we apparently cannot have nice things.

Why is it that people in general are so afraid of change? Even when it's change for the good, we're scared and uncertain. Half of the time, we resist it even though we know it's something that has to come. Stagnancy isn't a good thing. There's a reason that stagnant water stinks, right? Something dark and moldy grows inside of us when we don't change, when we don't refresh ourselves in some way. You can see it and sense it in people who refuse to allow any movement into their mind or soul. I don't want to be one of those people, but in order to avoid it I need to figure out what my fears are so that I can face them and, hopefully, move past them.

I have some physical things that I need to do as well. I need to go back to measuring my food, at least for a little while. My portions have slowly grown, and I know that this isn't a good thing. There will be a slight amount of stretching, of course, because your stomach can't really stay 3 ounces for the rest of your life, but if I don't reign myself in, it will get much larger than it needs to be. That will just lead to me getting fatter again, and probably becoming bigger than I was before I had the surgery.

I need to exercise. Yeah, I know, I'm getting a ton of exercise on the weekends right now, but it's not enough. I've said it before, dozens of times: I need to get to the gym. I've said I'm GOING to go to the gym, with or without Shado. I suck at the follow through. I've had people offer to be workout buddies, and I've failed them and myself repeatedly. I need to figure out why. Fear? Sheer laziness? I actually enjoy working out when I'm there, doing it. So why do I hate to get myself there? Why is it so much of an effort that I can't be bothered even though I know that it's the only way I've got any hope of getting to my goal weight?

We have plans for when I'm at my goal. I wonder if part of my fear is those plans. I know, I know, life is what happens while you're making plans...but these plans are life-altering in the most major way. Children change everything completely forever. I still have doubts about whether I'll even be a good mother. I know what others have said, and the reassurances are sweet to hear, but in my head I'm scared. I'm scared that I'll be too controlling, that I'll want to live vicariously through my child, that I'll want to turn them into a model of everything I never was while growing up. I despise parents who do that. Will I become what I despise?

*sigh*

My LiveJournal is entitled "My Zig-Zag Journey", and boy is my journey a zig-zag right now. Left, right, up, down. Half of the time I don't know what direction I'm going in, and the other half of the time I don't even have the faintest idea as to which direction I WANT to be going in anyway!!!

Maybe I'll figure it out at some point. Right now I'd be happy just to have a direction for a short time.

We'll see.

Up until this weekend I felt like I'd made so much progress, but then I failed over and over again and it has made me feel as though the progress I've made is a joke and that there's really no progress at all.

I spent most of yesterday afternoon wanting to cry (and actually did cry at one point when a friend asked if I was all right). I still feel as though I just want to burst into tears.

When am I going to be able to do the things that I want to do?

Never?

I don't know.

I'm so frustrated and disappointed and full of hate for myself right now that I don't know what to do.

I wish there really WERE an easy button.

I've lost around 120 pounds. That's a wild concept when you stop and think about it. I've lost a person. I can move better, I can breathe better, my diabetes is for all intents and purposes gone. I'll still always need to pay attention to what I eat, but my blood sugars have been disgustingly normal for over six months. My arthritis tends to only flare up when I REALLY push myself or when I'm stressed to the max.

I can dance. I can walk. I can fit in the seats at the movie theatre without getting bruises on my hips or making an embarassing spectacle of myself as I try to wedge into them. I can wear heels again. The laces have miraculously gotten longer on my shoes and boots as my feet have gotten smaller and stopped swelling as much.

Life has gotten much, much better.

But I've still got a long way to go. I have around 180 more pounds to lose before I reach my ideal goal. I have a first line goal, a couple of middle goals, and an ideal goal. I believe that I CAN make my ideal. I have some things that I have to do in order to make that a reality.

I need to make time and put the effort into consistently exercising. I do well for a week or two, then stop again. This has to end and I have to go even when I don't feel like going. Odds are, I'll feel better about it when I'm done than I would if I had skipped. I can't depend on Shado to get me there. It has to be all me.

I need to be careful of my foods. I seem to have a high tolerance for sugars and fats compared to a lot of people who have this surgery. This is good in some ways as I'm not completely denied things, but it's bad in others as it takes a lot more self-monitoring without that "If I eat this I'll get physically sick." limitation.

I need to drink more water. I've slacked on that, and it's not good. Time to start keeping a large water bottle at my desk again.

I need to face some of my remaining inner fears. I'm scared of being slender. It's a common thing, according to my doctor and his staff. I'm afraid that I'll change too much and that how people treat me will change too much, and it will be overwhelming. I'm afraid that I'll be angry at the world for treating me differently just because I look different, that I'll hate the world for not seeing the me that was inside me all along. I'm afraid that Shado won't love the new me. I know...they're not rational fears, no one said fears need to be rational. I'm afraid I'll get too MUCH attention from men if I'm slender, and I won't know what to do.

I'm afraid that I won't be me. I have to figure out just who "me" is, and to consciously decide which parts of "me" I want to keep, and which parts need to go away.

I'm setting a goal. I want to lose 50 more pounds by the time we go to Florida in February. Yeah, it's a very ambitious goal, but if I don't make it an ambitious one, I'll let myself slack. I believe that it is a do-able goal if I exercise at least 5 times per week and correct the bad habits that have snuck back into my life regarding what I eat. This is not a New Year's resolution, this is a challenge to myself. I'm going to be 1 year old on January 10th. I want to be moving forward again by that time, rather than stuck in place like I have been for the last four or five months.

This is my goal. I am going to do my best to achieve it. I am lucky as I know that my friends and family will do everything that they can to help me with it. Now I just have to get the last piece into place and go back to helping myself.

I can do it. I know I can.

So imagine my delight, when, perusing the Fantasy section of my local Mega Book Store I find an entire book of his work. As I take it off the shelf and begin to leaf excitedly through the pages, I learn this is no simple art book. It is an illustrated novel. Art and Story intermingled.

The Plucker is not a 'graphic novel' - at least not in the modern 'comic book style' sense. It is a full portfolio of art unto itself - but the images are part of a well told story.

The story is a modern fairy tale - just as grim and dark as the original. Young Thomas is growing up, and moving on to older-boy toys. The favorites of his youth are relegated to the shameful status of 'under the bed.' But when his father brings back a new doll from a far away land, it spells doom for Thomas and all his toys. Only brave Jack, and his box, can save them all. It is a story about love - but it is not a 'happy bubbly' story. It is ugly and visceral, and it calls out to be read again and again. Though it is about a child and his toys, it is not a children's story. The language and descriptions of violence could just as easily have come from a snuff film as from Brom's twisted imagination.

The book is big. Not your typical Mass-Market hardcover. At more than twelve inches on a side, this tome will look quite lovely if left to mingle with all those other coffee table books you've got lying about. It's 160 pages are printed on a semi-gloss paper so heavy they could justifiably be called 'lightweight cardstock' (They feel like about 40# paper). I was constantly checking to make sure I was only turning one page at a time. Some pages are dense with text, others less so. A number of full page illustrations are found through the book - but regardless of size, all the illustrations are beautifully rendered and really bring the story off the page. It is absolutely worth the price of admission.

If you like dark fantasy, or fairy tales, or exceptional art, then this book is definitely for you.

I give it Five Stars.

The Plucker
$24.95 US / $34.95 Can
Abrahms Publishing
ISBN: 0-8109-5792-2
Imaginosis Books