But I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man...and don't call me Lola!

My masculinity has been called into question of late, and I'm mad as heck about it too!



There. That sounded pretty forceful. I've been called a lot of different things in my life, but accused of being dainty or effeminate (read sissy) are tags I've never had to wear...for good reason.

While there have been a few descriptive adjectives thrown my direction in the past that, admittedly, made me a bit uncomfortable, I won't rehash said accusatory attributes to avoid giving credence. However, I also won't deny many...okay, maybe most...were easily justifiable.

But I'm drawing a line in the sand on being branded unmanly!

Metrosexual I'll accept...renaissance man I prefer. I honestly have Mrs. Tony C to thank for it coming to this showdown too. She's always going on about what a great cook I am, and how I do all the clothes ironing and how easily I get flowers to grow, and yada...yada...yada. What's she doing to me! She's destroying my very manhood!

I've been a football player, a jock, a competitive power lifter, a hunter and outdoorsman... a United States Marine for the love of God! I can fix the brakes on my car, repair major appliances around the house, fix holes in sheet rock and even fix a busted toilet. That's plumbing! You hear that? Plumbing! Nothing is more masculine than plumbing! That's right...I said that!

Okay. Maybe I am one of very few men to be found using Pinterest. What's the big deal? I've gotten some great ideas for the garage, projects lined up for the yard come Spring and... okay, a few pretty awesome recipes. Doesn't mean I wear lacy panties! I'm just a refined consumer of available internet information using the most efficient means available to me. I've got an ESPN app on my phone too!

Big deal I do ZUMBA.  I told you last year I made a commitment to Mrs. Tony C to improve my overall health. After eliminating sodas and a few other small dietary changes, I shed 30 lbs by Christmas. Granted, the y-axis on my line chart (where y represents weight and x represents time) probably made an upward tick in December. Actually...it assuredly spiked upward which resulted in a need to kick it up a notch  put things into a higher gear! Since Mrs. Tony C was instructing her own ZUMBA class three times a week, I just wanted to be a supportive husband. It was the best of both worlds! I get in shape and brownie points for being supportive. Win-win!

What's ZUMBA you ask? Well, it's part aerobics, part dance and a lot of moving. ZUMBA is really hard to describe, so here's a video that shows you...





Okay. Maybe that was a mistake. But I don't do all the moves! Well...I can't do all the moves. Mrs. Tony C can bend like a willow branch and comes in at a 100+ pounds lighter. I'm no pansy...or fool.

Look. There's no way I can be accused of being effeminate and here's proof why. I made an unfortunate bet with a fellow sports radio broadcaster years back when our respective teams played each other and lost. The pay up? Going to the rival school's pep rally dressed in formal prom attire...for a girl!

There won't be any pictures posted, but believe me, it was scary ugly, and I nearly killed myself trying to walk in a 2 inch heel...case closed.

Help! I've fallen and can't reach my iPod!

Middle-aged stinks!

When I see this commercial for Urloic, a medication for people who suffer from gout, I have to admit I see an old guy. My apologies to the actor who brilliantly nails the part...of an old guy who suffers from gout.

So if gout is an affliction on the elderly, then why in the blue blazes did it attack me this past week?!

Okay. Just stop! I know you've already read this year about bad backs, sebaceous cyst and the battle of the middle-aged spread. Maybe you should add denial to the list as well. While I don't necessarily think of myself as old, apparently medical demographics has a different point-of-view. I guess that it's time for me to face the facts of the mileage starting to pile up on the old odometer...and hard miles at that.

There are few things more humbling in life than trying to out crawl your 8-month old to get to the bathroom door (I know I would have won too if I'd been even with her at the start. Little cheater!). But that's the lowly place I found myself this weekend when the uric acid mechanism in my left ankle went haywire. So just what is this gout thing? How did I get it? I mean after all, I don't eat real sausage anymore. Just the fake turkey stuff. Sausage is what always triggered an attack in Uncle Bob.

The scientific answer is this:

All I know is this:

Now before you go making fun of my white ankle socks and Crocs, please take note to the swelling in my left ankle first. And that's much improved! Mrs. Tony C tells me the white socks with open shoes is an old man thing. Apparently either she isn't getting the memos or completely in denial about my decrepit state too.

But I'm all about the fix. So from the comfort of my own bed with leg properly elevated on pillows, a quick internet search produced a plethora of information...and information is power...even for old people. While the forces of DNA can't be disallowed for my latest affliction, diet seems to play a large part too. No problem there. Been working rather diligently on that one already. The key to preventing a flare up seems to be avoiding foods rich in the compound purine. Okay. So what are those foods?

From the Web-MD website:

Examples of high-purine choices to avoid:

•Beef

•Pork

•Lamb

•Certain seafood (canned tuna, dark meat fish)

•Certain shellfish (shrimp, lobster, scallops)

•Non-diet soft drinks

•Beer

•Liquor

What?! I'm just thankful Honey Bunches of Oats and turkey sausage isn't on the list or I wouldn't have anything left to eat!

Wow middle-aged stinks.

I'm no Charlie Brown...well, at least in one way.

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I've never once claimed to be the best looking guy in the world...


But, I've never felt a pressing need to 'bag it' either. My philosophy has always been life should be lived to the fullest while playing with the cards the Man upstairs deals you. It's somewhat of a mixed metaphor...but I've both heard and used much worse analogies I'm sure.


Being average is okay with me...when it comes to looks that is. Yes, that's a huge assumption on my part, but I'm pretty confident in my statement of tolerable guise based solely on the fact I have a smoking hot wife. Now, don't go trying to bust my bubble  by throwing up some freak situations like Seal and Heidi Klum as a 'stranger things have happened' scenario. Despite not being able to publicly declare the fact (at least in her presence), there have been other attractive women that crossed the path of yours truly before Mrs. Tony C. (gasp)...please forget I said that...I beg of you!

You're probably thinking about right now that I'm having some type of self-esteem issue rear its ugly head creating an anxiety that I feel compelled to release by sharing with you. Sorry Dr. Phil...just ain't happenin'! People who truly know me are laughing about now because if there's any psychological disorder at work in my over-sized melon, the diagnoses would come closer to falling on the narcissistic side of the scale as opposed to any avoidance personality issues.

Confidence has never been an issue for me...a fact that has on occasions caused major problems in my life. But while I may not make the cover of People Magazine based solely on my swagger and my mug (and pray I never make it for any other reason), I'm not a complete moron either and capable of learning from all previously ego-driven problems that have occurred....including those that may have been driving related and cost me a lot of money in the end to fix (just knew my superior driving skills could overcome a little ice and an 18 percent grade...just knew it).

Let me just tell you how much my humility has grown...

A few weeks back my doctor decided, with (ahem) a little prodding from my spouse, that a sebaceous cyst needed to come off the back of my noggin.  Apparently, all parties involved (excluding me) felt my rather bulbous head had reached maximum capacity for all but industrial-sized pillows and relief was the only plausible option.

Hey, I'm a tough guy. A little cutting and stitching never bothered me, so I show up one early morning to have the little marble-sized bugger removed. Let me state for the record, even the most egotistical jerks would be taken a bit aback by the gasp and whisper of 'oh my...'  while having the back of your head examined.  Of course, the nurse piping in with 'we have plenty more pillows if you need them' didn't help either.

But all's well that ends well as they say. With the exception of the most heinous of haircuts and sitting on the back pew at church a few weeks, I'm proud to once again be sporting a symmetrical hat rack.

Keep in mind, a block can be symmetric,  and the fact now the bag can fit better too...just in case...

Whoa...that's one really bad haircut.


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But Buddha just seems so happy being fat...

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There's been a lot of changes around the homestead...


Although I publicly vowed to put forth my best effort to lose weight after the birth of Baby C, my plan was a little side tracked by the holiday season...you know, Christmas, New Years, Valentines Day, Day Light Saving Time, St. Patrick's Day, and of course, Easter. It's truly a killer stretch for all of us weight conscience people.

Then the moment of reckoning finally came (yep, I ran out of excuses), and I knew it was time to get serious about that promise. What also didn't help my case was an interwoven visit to the doctor during this time frame that came with a couple of eye-opening revelations. Once Mrs. Tony C got the news...Bob Dylan was added to my iTunes because The Times They Are a-Changin'.

Being forty-something and trying to lose weight is...I'm convinced...of the devil. As I stated in my early referenced blog post, I wasn't a big eater from the start. After a little self-analysis, Mrs. Tony C told me the sodas had to go (isn't that the way self-analysis works in your home?). Truth be told, I probably drank close to half of my caloric intake daily. Making matters worse was my poison of choice, the coup de grace of my dietary need for change, the comfort food of all comfort consumables for yours truly...Mt. Dew.

Say it isn't so!

But alas it be true. I was addicted to the stuff like a junky to the heroin spoon convinced I couldn't get through a day without at least few dozen ounces of that sweet nectar. Throw on top of that my daily intake of the Southern classic take on sweet, iced tea, and I was practically a walking sugar cane...or corn stalk...or wherever all that bad stuff comes from in sweet drinks.

So out of our frig went all the sweet stuff (and ice cream from the freezer...tear) and in marched fruits and vegetables I'd never heard tell of before...much less eaten. Mrs. Tony C has been full-speed ahead and, I must admit, looking incredibly good...curse her and her twenty-something year old metabolism. She goes on and on about a Zumba class she recently joined so much I feel like I'm getting residual cardio effects from all the banter. She's been encouraging me to go with her, but I'm not sure our home-owners or umbrella insurance policy covers any damages or injuries I might cause jumping around in a crowded room full of delicate, and much smaller, females...

I decided (see conditions of self-analysis above) to actually implement life-style changes and let the results come as they may over time. As tempting as the immediate results I've seen on others are, I'm steering clear of the diet fads...especially the latest craze over taking HCG, the female pregnancy hormone.

Looking pregnant is bad enough. I'm just saying stranger things have happened.

To be continued as the year progresses...

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I might not be too smart, but I could once move heavy objects...

There was a time I thought lifting, pushing or squatting a lot of weight was just plain fun...

In college, I started competitive powerlifting my sophomore year. My last sanctioned meet, however, was a distant 1985 ago. After attending Officer Candidate School for the Marines between my junior and senior year, I went into that last match very light at 161 pounds...or 20 pounds below my normal competition weight. During the meet, I remembered exactly why I had previously packed on pounds to compete in a heavier class in prior years because I finished an embarrassing 8th to the more technically proficient lighter lifters.


I really didn't lift heavy much during my days in the Corps because an emphasis was placed on endurance and stamina. Carrying the extra muscle weight wasn't worth the trade off during long formation runs or keeping my 3-mile run time under 18 minutes on the Physical Fitness Test.

Right around age 30, I picked weight lifting back up again. It was here where I started getting into physical trouble because my ego just wouldn't let go of the used to factor. One routine day in the gym, a young whipper-snapper a decade younger scoffed and remarked I'd never be as strong as I once was because physically I was passed my prime. What?! That sounded like challenge time. Even though I had only been back to the grind at most 2 months, I told him that in another 30 days I could put up more weight than him in any lift he picked.

Bench press. Of course. The gold standard for dumbbell heads. Overall strength is much more accurately depicted in either squats or the dead lift, but the bench press was the How much do you...question of chose around the gym, and what he didn't know, my strongest event from previous competition days. So for the next 30 days, I trained. The event got blown way out of proportion leading up to lift day, and I very much resented the old versus young spin the contest came to represent. Who's old?!

Wasn't even close. Like any competitive event, the psychological factor can never be underestimated. We flipped a coin, and he lifted first starting a little above warm-up weight. Easy lift. I knew about where his max lift should be, and compensating some for adrenaline, I went straight to that weight. The shocked look on his face screamed to me check and mate as I made the lift look easy. Truth be known, I only had another 20 pounds at the most in me. He had to match my lift but was already physologically beaten thinking that was just my starting point and his target weight. He couldn't do it. You can insert the cliche about age and treachery here...

I couldn't sleep on either of my shoulders for quite some time after that.

Fast forward another few years when, for some dumb reason still unbenownst to any of us, four of my friends decided to have a dead lift contest one evening after the gym had closed. Three of us were over 33 and one was pushing 40...lifting...as much as we could. With due respect to Freud's psychic apparatus involving the id, ego and super-ego, some stunts are just plain stupid...and this one perfectly fits that category. Stupid. We should have all ended up in the hospital but were each too proud to be the one to breakdown and go lest the others find out. I watched an entire weekend of sports flat on my back stretched out on the floor in front of the television and barely made it to work the following Monday. I just hope none of them are reading this...

That was over 13 years ago. A period of time during which my motivation to lift heavy objects has greatly diminished. I tell you all of that just to make myself feel better before sharing this- I spent the entire day yesterday incapacitated after just a single day of landscaping in my yard. Nothing major either. Dug up a dead tree and planted a new one. Boxed in my tomato/pepper/herb garden. Spread a little dirt and manure.

Done in by a small Bradford Pear tree...



I couldn't go to church yesterday morning much less sit on a drummer's throne and play drums. What an embarrassing text message to have to send. I couldn't teach my Sunday School class of college-aged kids whose backs are nearly invincible to overexertion . Yet another embarrassment. 46 is NOT the new 30...let me tell you!  Apparently my alter ego just doesn't understand the decrepit state of the reality involved in a winter of continuous inactivity for the aging. Not that I'm looking for anyone to compete with in a dead lift competition... I just need to still mulch my flower beds!

 Maybe I'll just take a walk during lunch...tomorrow...when my back feels hopefully much better.

I'm a big baby when I'm sick because I don't like it...

13 days. It has been 13 days since my last post on Tony C Today...wow!

So what has Tony C been so preoccupied with for 13 days that he neglected his blog and blogosphere friends. Well, it's a nasty little four letter...word-like...okay, medical term...H1N1.

(Cue dramatic, revelation music)



It started on December 1, the birthday of my saintly mother. I went to work, came home, ate, and went to bed until the next day. I made like shampoo bottle instructions and repeated the whole process the next day. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I took Friday off work to get 3 full days of rest and recovery time. Chicken soup, hot tea, blue blanket and the History Channel when combined with just the right amount of NyQuil have never failed to knock most any bug out of me to date. Add in some TLC from Mrs. Tony C and it's darn near Carnival Cruiselines...

Unfortunately, come Monday my fever was still hanging around, and my cough sounded like something you would hear in Sea World hanging around the sea lions. Thinking I might have pneumonia, I caved into the pleadings of Mrs. Tony C and headed to Urgent Care. After a chest x-ray that revealed no pneumonia and the verdict that I had one severe ear infection with the other one not far behind, I was administered the 'flu test.' Those of you not familiar (like me to this point), the flu test involves running a foot-long, pipe cleaner looking device into each nostril, one at a time, to a depth that feels like somewhere behind each eyeball.


Nurse: (During procedure) I'll warn you, this is pretty unpleasant.

Tony C: Come on! I've had cancer...how bad...GEEEZZZ!

Nurse: Relax. The other nostril...

Tony C (tears streaming from both eyes): Unpleasant! I'm pretty sure that procedure is against the Geneva Convention!

Nurse: You can go back to the Waiting Room. (Noticing the tears) Do you need a few minutes?

Tony C: No! I'm fine. Stupid test. I would have been okay with your best educated guess you know...

An hour and a blood test later, the doctor comes in practically wearing a HAZMAT suit to tell me for sure I have the flu. Prescription: Rest and fluids. It wasn't until the next day they called to confirm it was H1N1. Prescription: Rest and fluids.






Mr. Tony C, your pipe cleaner says you do have the flu, but don't worry...so do a lot of other people. You'll probably be fine in a week, a month or so...I'm pretty sure. Don't worry and get some rest.





I did get an antibiotic for the ear infections, but today both ears are still stopped up and everyone sounds like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. After being quarantined inside the Tony C household for the past 10 days, I got to sleep in my own bed last night...which was very nice. Well, until about 3 am when the 2 year old decided to join us.

I'm glad things are finally getting back to normal...

Praise You in This Storm- Casting Crowns 2005

How can something so small cause so much trouble?

My blog is most personal today. It's a praise blog. A shout of appreciate to our loving God above. I have so much to be thankful for overall, and my daily prayers most always start with that acknowledgment. I'm blessed with a wonderful family, loving friends, an awesome church, a great job and most importantly the peace that only a life in Christ can bring. A close personal relationship that gives me the opportunity to talk to the God above all. But today...well this date is very special to me, and today I'm especially thankful to my Lord.

It was 5 years ago today I heard the words that I wish no one ever had to hear, despite the awesome feeling of joy and relief they bring when you do hear them. Words that bring feelings so turbulent, it often takes days, even weeks, to sink into your consciousness. It was February 7, 2004 when I heard the words coming from my doctor...you're cancer free.

My battle with hairy-cell leukemia was intense and short lived. I was lucky, and I'm grateful to God that my family didn't have to endure a long, drawn out battle watching me slowly go to my Creator. I was prepared if it did happen and knew spiritually and emotionally I could weather well, but how would everyone around me do? I had made my peace with all the thinks going on in my life at that time. I didn't know what the future held for me here in this life, but I had the security of knowing no matter what, even in the worst case scenario, God would be with me every step of the way.

People treat you different when they know you are sick. That's why I chose not to tell anyone about my cancer until I knew what I was up against, and by that time, the battle was (for the most part) over. I had other lingering problems, but none that were fatal in consequence like my battle against cancer. There's a psychological struggle that goes on well after the cancer is gone, but nothing like the isolation and helplessness that happens while you wage the fight to get better. No, I didn't suddenly feel like running a marathon on that February day five years ago, but the relief of knowing that I didn't have to tell my future wife, my daughter and the rest of my family that I might be dying soon...all I can say is praise God. Thank you Lord.

I went through some pretty tough times of a different nature in the following two years, but I know in my heart that God let me live for a reason. His reason. My prayer is that He will someday show me know why. I also know that He was with me through it all. He loves me, He cares for me, He watches over me...just like you.

I will never truly be cancer free, but that's okay. I hope God let's me grow old with my beautiful, loving wife. I hope He let's me watch my girls graduate college and someday marry (in that order). I hope God let's me hold my grandchildren. But today, I just praise God and thank Him for the past five years.

May He bless you as He has me...in only ways that He can.

What a Fool Believes- Doobie Brothers 1979

Yours truly has a big anniversary coming up Saturday. It's an anniversary I hope none of you have to celebrate, but one that I'm most thankful to God for. February 7th is my 5 year anniversary of being cancer free. Praise God!

I'm planning a celebratory blog on Saturday, so today I'm going in a different direction. You see, because of my anniversary date, I got the pleasure this week of going for a visit with my physician. Not my oncologist, mind you, just my good old run-of-the-mill doctor who usually tells me I'm too fat and need to give up sodas. My last visit, however, was not so routine.

After the obligatory weighing and charting to provide later ammunition for the face-to-face, the nurse cuffs me up for a blood pressure reading and starts with the series of probing questions vital for any accurate medical examination.

Nurse: 'Have you had any unexplained or unexpected falls since your last visit?'

Tony C: 'Hmmm, none that I didn't plan ahead of time or clearly seen coming...what with toys always on the floor at my house with a 1 year old running around.'

Nurse (unamused): 'So that's a no?'

Tony C: 'Safe to say.'

He jabs the thermometer in my mouth rather roughly, and the blood pressure cuff begins to inflate around my left arm. I've yet to make eye contact with the nurse because for some reason he refuses to look me in the face. Hey...I didn't weigh that much!

Pssssst. The cuff deflates. 'Oh my. Let me do that again,' he says and reinflates the cuff. I couldn't see the monitor, but I watched him write down the time and 192/125. What! No way!

'Try to relax, go to your happy place, and I'll take this again.'

Relax! Happy place! I'm on the doorstep of a stroke and Gaylord Focker here is wanting me to relax. The cuff reinflates. Happy place...happy place...breathe deep...happy place...just where in the heck IS my happy place!

Psssssst. The cuff deflates again....194/126. Oh God...this is it Elizabeth...I'm coming to join you and Fred!

'We have a problem. Wait right here.' My first instinct was to go ahead and start undressing for some reason. But I resisted and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Hey, I beat cancer...I'm not letting a regular diet that includes Twinkies take me out. In comes my doctor...

'Mr. C, have you taken your blood pressure medicine today?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'Are you unusually stressed about anything today?'

Now my mind was racing through a number of irritations that chap me raw from my recent rants about the New Age nonsense, to another trillion dollar plan...trillion dollars! That's like 32,000 years in seconds, and Oprah, that idiot Blagojevich and Hamas! Oh don't even get me started on that bunch of...

'No ma'am.'

'Well, I have no choice but send you to the Emergency Room. We've got to get your blood pressure down immediately.'

Well that's just great. The ER...the most inept place on the planet for a quasi-medical emergency. I immediately assessed my appendix had a 50/50 chance of staying with me. For some odd reason, that seems to be the end result of most all ER visits...something's got to be taken out to make you better.

For your sake, I'll fast forward over an hour that includes an argument about me riding in a wheelchair, not having my cellphone and all the administrative pish posh... and get to me, in a dark room trying to relax and thinking about a recent blog I read that referenced a favorite Seinfeld episode featuring Frank Costanza and 'Serenity Now!' So...I'm laughing to myself.

Another hour, several calls with a very irritated Mrs. Tony C Today (who was none too happy I didn't have my cellphone) and a bag of medicated intravenous fluids, I'm on my way out the door with literally a poke full of medications and instructions. 142/96. Still not good...but apparently releasable by current medical liability standards.

When I finally get home and empty the contents of the brown paper bag onto our kitchen counter, there are no fewer than 6 bottles. My wife, who was absolutely beside herself and torn between worry and aggravation, lines each bottle up and we proceed to read the labels.

Take twice a day for BP...Take once in morning for BP...Do not crush, something, something Potassium...Take twice a day for fluid...Take twice a day for nerves...

Dear Lord...I'm officially old. I know I've heard my 94 year old grandmother refer to her 'tassium, fluid and nerve pills a hundred times if I've heard it once. Now, I was looking at all three...for me...and I'm 50 years younger to almost the day.

'I'm not taking a nerve pill! Just what the heck is that?'

'You'll take what they gave you to take! Who are you to go and decide what you will and what you won't...'

'THAT right THERE is why I have high blood pressure! Telling me what I...I'm a grown man...'

'Now you wait right there Krispy Kreme boy. You're not blaming this on me. That's not fair. I try to take care of you, but you...you do what you want...forgetting the consequences, me, your daughters!'

Man, I really hate it when she's right...but I love her like no other.

So here I am. Cancer survivor of 5 years. Survived car wrecks, parachute jumps, deep water SCUBA, being stabbed, shot at and a number of other tomfooleries that should have laid me waste many times over. Humbled by my obsession for golden sponge cake, creme-filled pastries.

As of today, my blood pressure is much better, and I've decided to eat much healthier...but... between you and me...I'm still not taking that stinking nerve pill...whatever that is.