I’m one day off from returning to Ottawa, a place where I lived for many years.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous about a trip home in my life. Why, you may ask? Well, after a year of being lame and functionally immobile, I’ve gotten just a wee bit heavy. I’m worried about the narrowing of people’s eyes, the heart to heart “talks” about how concerned they all are about my not being active enough, and worse, Mama’s “loving punishment”.

We all have Mamas, so I don’t think I need to explain how that’s going to go.

How heavy is heavy, one may ask? Well, let’s see. I now have a really beautiful set of man boobs, and my own continental shelf to rest them on. I have an ass so voluminous, it knows not what comfortable pants feel like. And I have a chin. Several, actually. Let’s not even mention the piggy eyes bored into my head, where once deep pools of blue resided.

In short, I’m fit for a spit!

Now, it is true that I can once again walk, and I’m eternally grateful to finally be rid of the crutches. But I’m going to have to start thinking about how far I can walk to whittle off all this Buddha. In my estimation, nothing short of a jog up the mountains of Tibet will suffice. Trust in the burn, keep running past that wall of pain, and do not pass “Go” until you zip past that Great Wall.

And don’t forget the sports bra, lest you sport two blackened eyes.

But, I’m determined to reclaim my body. I know it lives some place, deep, deep inside. I am aware that past the sad truth that is my rotund stummy tum-tum, I have a pair of feet. I know that within lies a man who doesn’t sweat walking to the mailbox, a mere three inches from my front door. There is salvation at hand once I learn to open the right door. Front, not fridge, pig-o-my-heart. It’s all a matter of getting my inner self to start making peace with the protein pile driver running the show.

How many last suppers have I attended. How many chicken legs have marked those innumerable “day before” ceremonies, only to become an eventuality in the kingdoms of landfill and sewage, where that salad and stir fry should have been.

I truly must confess, my trouble isn’t a sweet tooth, It’s a bicuspid with a hankerin’ for starch. If I can stuff it between two slices of bread, it’s lunch. Nothing is sacred when it comes to baked goods and fillings. Spaghetti, mashed potatoes, you name it, if it’s capable of resting comfortably inside a slice, it ends up inside me. And the results speak for themselves.

I suppose I finally saw the light when I watched one too many birthdays roll by, and noted that my waist always seemed to collect as many numbers as my age did. As well, it was also clear that a man approaching fifty should have at least some wrinkles to speak of. I am without one laugh line, one crows foot, one crease. My suspicion is that every time one starts to form, I just stuff in another hoagie, and out it pops, quick and painless.

A poor man’s Botox? I could market this. Would certainly help pay for that trainer and gym I so desperately need. I wonder, honestly, how long he or she would want to continue trying to work my body into shape. Is there enough money in the world to try to haul a potato with limbs off its root-bound asses and up top of an exerbike or elliptical? How many days of trying to motivate a man hell-bent on figuring out new ways to create sammiches made of Alpha Getti and beans could they endure before they cracked.

A lard ass is never an easy thing to part with. My bicycling to nowhere in pursuit of that goal is proof positive of that fact. 

So, I have two options in front of me. I can make peace with a pant size that sadly boasts a matching number for my next birthday, or I can take my well insulated self out that front door, and energetically march to the strains of Kylie and P!nk on my iPhone. “Put down that fork” I’ll exclaim as I merrily lunch on a carrot. I can sit up instead of sitting down. I can…I just need to start believing in those two words.

“I can’t”. You’ve controlled too many aspects of my life, held me back, and have poisoned my spirit.

I will not resolve to lose the weight. I won’t commit to being a better person. I refuse to promise to write that proverbial opus during the next year. What I will do is banish “I can’t” to the bottom of the Atlantic.

It’s amazing how much power those two little words have. Like cigarettes, I too can control and excise that hateful little addiction by stuffing them in between two rocks, and sending them to their death, never to be heard from again.

Maybe then my long lost inner-self shall once again find his way out of the land of stretch fit and polyester.

The world is my oyster. It doesn’t mean I need to spend my life dining on it!

Dreams do come true, for those that persevere. I choose to dream about a life where self-imposed restriction and recrimination lose their power. Then, and only then will my dream become, well, beautiful.

Pass the low-fat, and I’ll pass on the spuds.

When it comes to writing, it seems to me that there are times I can absolutely make a word dance and sing for me. Then again, there are also times where I find myself on that proverbial rack, being stretched in four different directions. On the main crank, you will find punctuation turning and tightening while grammar proceeds to verbally have its way with me. For all to witness, there lies one frustrated man, with the Wizard of Words pointing and laughing as I cry out for phonetic mercy. Remind me to drown that bastard in a pitcher of milk, will ya?

I must admit my output for my poor blog space has been pathetic over the last year. It truly has. And that sucks, because real, decent people tend to like reading my tattered hyperbole and clever catch phrases. They must, because they’re always saying so. It’s not as if I haven’t had the time. In fact, time has been my constant companion. And it’s zipped by. Warp 2, lieutenant.

So what’s been my excuse. Well, for one thing, lack of confidence. A complete, total, and utter void in the “I can” department. Oh, I’ve watched myself sit down at this well-worn keyboard, hour after hour, trying to paint a masterpiece out of syllables and syntax, only to find I’ve pounded out a pile of literary oatmeal; cold, congealed and wholly unfit for print. It’s not that I’ve lacked inspiration. I’ve had a lot happening in my world, much of it very difficult, so I do lay some of the blame on that

I suppose. At this moment, my family is facing a triple-header in the cancer games. Admittedly, I’ve had a lot of my creativity evaporate due to this particular situation. However, that in itself is no excuse, either. I mean, c’mon buddy, you’ve faced down some pretty big dragons before, and managed to continue to create.

Could also be that I’m missing some absent friends very deeply. I’ve incurred some heavy losses over the last couple of years, and it’s being felt. I find it very hard to not having these people in my corner. But, life only loans you friendship sometime, and I’ve had to accept that painful fact, and try to live with the knowledge that they’re happier without my drama.

My lack of output does have some root in my learning about the power of my words. I’ve had the misfortune of seeing my efforts used as weapons against others.I will tell you, the reader, that in all honesty, I nearly turned heel on writing, permanently. I never wanted to hurt a single human being, but with the stroke of a pen, I hurt many.

Life lesson learned, pray for forgiveness, and turn the page.

I have, however, been working behind the scenes. This year saw the finish of my first draft on “ChickenFeetz”. I’m proud of the fact that I saw this through, and got a beautiful bonus when I learned from a trusted friend and very much published writer that I had what seems to be a diamond in the rough. That made my year. Now, the hard work begins….shaping it into the kind of book it deserves to be. I am very much up for the challenge.

I have also been writing a bi-monthly column for an electronic “Bear” magazine. And, to my surprise, I’ve got some great reviews on the work. Colour me shocked! I take a lot of comfort in the fact that I have great writers who seem to admire my work. It tells me that I’m on the right path, writing “The Write Stuff”.

What I now need to focus on is output, and stepping further and further outside my comfort zone, so that I can stretch my creative muscles, and put to paper some good quality work. I want to make my readers laugh. I also want to make them think. Yet, I realize now that first, I must give them something to do both by.

I’d like to take an opportunity to thank Jeff Herman for his constant support, and his belief in my ability. I don’t know that he’ll ever understand just how important his opinion is to me. It’s kept me going when the dry times come, and has spurred  this writer towards that next plateau.

I’d also like to give a BIG shout-out to Kerry Hiatt. This quirky and wonderfully brash woman has been instrumental in helping me to see what I am capable of doing, and always has a constructive word on hand when I hit that wall made of concrete letters. I look forward to really getting myself up over this next ledge, and cannot thank you enough for all that you are. Never stop being you, and always make time for moustaches!

My partner is crime, Claudene. The two of us have seen heaven and hell together, and I can always count on her to see “me” in the murk, and to just reach out and share a plot or two. She’s my editor extraordinaire, and without her, I’d be spewing out run-ons that would never find their way to that period they so need and want.

Jessica Gauthier.

She’s a fellow blogger here on WordPress: http://writtenmusing.wordpress.com/, and one of my staunchest supporters. I wonder if she knows just how much I have always admired her. I love her humour, her candour, and her ability to take her plans, and make them work for her, all while juggling a very active life. She’s about as fine a writer as there is, and I’m thrilled she takes the time and effort to read my efforts, even when they’re not worthy of anyone’s time or attention.

Rob McCarrol

Another WordPress alumni: http://iamscoundrel.com/, and a man who possesses some of the most creative work you could ever hope to read. We’ve always held a bit of a mutual admiration society when it came to the other’s work. I know I always feel a need to step up my game when he posts to print, and I must say, I am consistently inspired by the body of work he generates. It’s always class A stuff, and a joy to read.

Noah Goad-Moore

The only writer that sends me scurrying for my dictionary. There is not a word this man has printed that I haven’t anxiously read. He’s a mix between Mark Twain and Norma Rae. Sometimes, funny, often creative, but wholly talented. I am consistently in awe of just what kind of smarts this man has up in his head, and enjoy that it’s put to good, artistic use. Someday, it’s my hope he writes a few books, because I think he needs to be anything but this “best kept secret’. This man does not post nearly often enough for my liking, but if you’d like a small sample of what he’s capable of writing, please indulge yourselves at: http://nomogoarc.blogspot.ca/

I must make mention here, when paying tribute, to one very funny man. So funny, in fact, that a lot of the laughter that makes its way into my work is in direct response to him and that succinctly unique laugh track he has built into his robust and unapologetic personality. Mark Cantlon has always been one hell of a big cheerleader when I was all out of cheer. He’s made of whoopi cushions and politically incorrect punch lines, and every single time we start on one another, there is always a screen in need of a wipe, a shirt in need of a change, a keyboard in need of a blotting. I’m so glad I have this great gift of friendship and mirth to draw on. I’m always the better for the sharing.

I’d like to thank you, my readers, for standing by me, patiently, while I repeatedly got my act together. It cannot be easy supporting a writer that so rarely writes. And I will try to rectify that when life starts to get back to normal again (if that ever does happen).

In the meantime, know that I am working my fingers into the keys, and pumping out product, even if that product doesn’t always end up front and centre here, at http://www.tazzybehr.com

I want to wish you all the MERRIEST of Christmases, and the best and brightest start to your New Year. And, again, thank you, everyone, for continuing to support and stand by me through these difficult times my family and I have struggled with. It means the world to me.