Search This Blog


My Milkshake Brings...

Sometimes we just have to stop and thank God for all the wonderful things He has put in our lives. I mean even when things don't go the way you'd planned, just thank your lucky stars, because when one door closes, another is sure to open, right?

This is exactly what I was thinking this morning. I was watching the Later Today Morning Show and I said to myself, "Self, how lucky you are."
I was certain at that moment that all the trials I have gone through led me to exactly that very second in time, watching Hoda and Kathie Lee marvel about the wonders of the "Milk Shake" bra. Would I kid you?

Now when you exclaim that your milk shake brings all the boys, you won't be just talking smack! 'Darn right, it is better than yours!'

Seriously, do I need my breastestes (Pronounced, breast-test-es) bathed in milk? I mean, if they are in need of vitamin D, why not just go French and expose those girls to some sunshine?

But what really got my attention was the cup-less cleavage wrinkle reducer. That is what I need in my life, another wrinkle reducer. It is not bad enough that I am spending money I don't have on facials and injections, but now I gotta go get something to erase the ever growing road map on my decolletage? Basically, it is a big-girl bra, without the cups. It has a very large padded area between the breasts, so it is my guess that the "experts" have decided that leaving the breasts swinging, but not touching, is the cure for these pesky (note-I did not say perky) little chest wrinkles.

Honestly, it looks like some type of 70's invention you'd find advertised in the back of Cosmo. OK people, it is time to get real here. Once you have made all your brassiere purchases, be sure you take a look at the butt booster. Yep. Gives all new meaning to finding your ass in a sling. This little contraption is guaranteed to give you the lift you've been looking for.

But here's the thing...does a big bottom look better in a sling, or out of a sling? You be the judge. Personally, I think I'd rather see the retreating backside of a plain old big ass, rather than a big, uppity in your face rear, which is what I am picturing my big ass to look like in the butt booster. I think I will just stick to my Spanx, where my "gussie" doesn't care if it is up or down. Thank God!


Ancient Chinese Secret, Ah?

You know what I hate? I hate getting someone else’s pants back from the dry cleaners. You know the drill, right? They look just like the pair you own; only these don’t fit. Yep, the old ancient Chinese secret-switcheroo. Nothing says go on a diet quicker then someone elses pants. But therein lies the problem- you own them. They are the pants you left behind for Chick Fil-A, sounds bad, right? But really, what’s not to love? Little tender nuggets of chicken, battered and fried to perfection, even Paula Deen couldn't do it better. But herein lies the problem, one nugget leads to a platter and by the time you come to, the wheels are off your wagon and you are sitting by the side of the road with Polynesian sauce all over your face. Not a pretty picture.
This brings me to my current dilemma. I’d just finished giving myself a good talking to. I was all done with the person I’d morphed into. Yes, it was obvious; it was time to start to get some, gulp, exercise. I'd woken up this morning all ready to go to the gym, but then one thing after another got in my way. First off, I looked everywhere for that little laminated card they issued to me a decade or two ago, without it, I was certain they’d never let me in. Plus, did I even know where the gym was, they may have moved. And then the big debate, what to wear? Problem there was that most of my “sleep to street wear” had lost its stretchiness-it’s hard to feel like an athlete when your thighs are rubbing together and the waist band keeps slipping down around your knees. Plus, my favorite zippy had mysteriously gotten bleach on it, and to top it off, I had this blister on my heal that hurt when I put on my sneakers. See, there were many things standing in my way-not the least of which was the lazy little attitude that was slowly starting to creep its way back into my thoughts. It was whispering, “Well self, it just doesn't look good for today, why don’t you try again tomorrow or maybe next Monday"?
Who was this person that I’d become? I was a virtual stranger to myself. I looked in the mirror and it was shocking. I looked like one of the old library ladies that always walk around with their big recycle bag, letting everybody know they were doing their part. I want to run over to them and let them know that washing that bag occasionally will not substantially increase their carbon foot print and who do they think they are fooling anyhow? I’ll just bet they are sticking the occasional Life magazine into that bag, bunch of hoarders!
While I was embroiled in this debate with myself, I stumbled across a picture of a chocolate chip cookie and then I knew all bets were off. The picture was a close up and I could tell they were homemade, not that crappy, “cut and cook” rolled stuff. Although, I will say that crap will do in a hurry. But no, what I saw was the real thing- I was going into a Toll House coma and I knew at once the only cure was a great big bowl of cookie dough. I happen to know for a fact, you cannot get salmonella poisoning from raw cookie dough. I think I read that somewhere, or someone told me, anyhow, I want to believe it and I am sure it is true. Something in the chocolate cancels out the raw egg issue. I could almost smell the butter on the printed page. And at that moment, I started to picture myself at Publix picking up the necessary ingredients. But then I realized, crap, I’d have to brush my teeth and I haven’t even had breakfast yet. But I will say I was dressed for the trip. This new line of “From the Sheets to The Streets” of casual wear may not work so well at the gym, but makes marvelous grocery attire. Now when I get out of the house (occasionally) I am beginning to recognize its popularity. I see women of all walks sporting this line. My daughter simply shakes her head and tells me, “The original line was called Juicy and what you are wearing is NOT Juicy, it called the Plus size from Target”. Then she adds, “Go get if off and put on some real clothes." Ouch- that hurts!


Press-N-Seal, Garbage Disposers and other crap!

I have something I really want to get off my over-developed chest...I am still a little afraid of my garbage disposer. Now, I have to admit, I have tried to explore these feeling, trying to get to know the damn thing a little better, in the hopes of easing some of my fears, but I just can't get past the feeling that if I put my fingers anywhere near it- they will be devoured. And then how am I going to explain that to the little pretty Asian ladies that already have one nickname for me. I swear, whenever I arrive, I can hear them say to each other, "Here come fattoe. After my disposal accident, "Here come fingerless-fattoe! Seriously, I have actually put my hand inside the disposer to check it out. It was a lot like putting your hand inside the raw turkey at Thanksgiving, you just don't wanna be there. It feels very invasive, somewhat like I am sure it must feel to your GYN doc when they take a peek and then stifle their gasp and tentatively reach inside- yeah, just shouldn't be there. But here is the deal, you have to face these fears head-on. If you don't and that disposer senses any fear at all... Yeah, next thing you know, you will be up to your elbows, trying to remove a little twisty that somehow got lodged in the darn thing- creating chaos! Once I have managed to concur the disposer, I move on to my next task at hand. Gotta wrap the left overs up. Well, well, well. Enter the Press-N-Seal. OK. How many of you use this stuff? It is almost gross- I mean just when you think you have figured out which side is the sticky side, you start to second guess yourself. Why can't they just print, "This side up" on the right side? I start wrapping my food up and then I realize, "wait, that is not the sticky side, this is." But by now my fabulous left over BBQ chicken has been smothered by the sticky side. Then I go in the family room, pour myself a modest (yeah, right) glass of fabulous Syrah (I am hooked) and then it starts. I start to think about the possible sticky plastic poison that I will be enjoying tomorrow for lunch. I start to picture the news flashes that are sure to come, "Warning to all Saran Press-N-Seal users"... Then I will wonder if I have to start to boil my water, or some other ridiculous solution, but it will be too late. They will find me, replete with the bare chicken bones and at first people will think to themselves, "Ah, it makes sense, she choked on a chicken bone- sort of Mama Cass style"-(don't ask me why I would bring the image of Mama Cass to your minds, I am just saying). But then my family will demand an autopsy and there it will be...the sticky poison. Then everyone will know- I wasn't crazy, just well before my time.


When bad things happen to old people....

Trying to relive your childhood is never a good idea. Just ask all the aging rockers I ran into at a recent Clapton concert. If it all hadn't hit so darn close to home, I would have laughed. But the truth is... it was sort of like that old game you played as a kid, where you'd warn the other participant when they were getting closer that they were getting "warmer", yeah. It was getting a little warm in there for me! The concert hall was packed to near capacity, so there were over 15 thousand aging rockers and let me tell you, not all of them were aging gracefully.

The concert producers did do some things right, I am sure in preparation for this particular set of guests. First off, at the multiple bars set up, you could get a double shot drink and 24 oz beers. Not a bad idea for those of us never satisfied with just enough. I mean, why stop at one, when they are offering two? Just because two double cocktails set you back the better part of $40- big deal! These aging rockers have money, right? Another thing they did well was have ushers placed strategically around the seats with little pen lights, guiding you to your seats. I mean, here's the deal. Half of us couldn't see crap before we entered the concert hall and then we downed a double Crown and Coke and while I thought I saw a slight improvement in my vision, others were clutching the little railing like it was a life preserver. Good thing ADA requires those little railings too, as there was a lot (and I do mean a lot) of getting up and down from these people. You'd just get settled into your seat and some shmo would be trying to shuffle in front of your seat to get through the isle. Now back when we were younger, we'd just sort of glare and shift our knees a little to the right. But now, the old knees don't shift like they used to and if they do shift, it may mean arthroscopic surgery down the road. So now, you have to stand up and leave the isle, all the while acting very adult like- like, "Oh, sure that's fine, I mean I don't mind getting up 25 times for you". Although in reality, I was thinking... when you get a group of aging rockers together in these numbers and you sell 24 oz beers, AND Flomax is the number one drug of choice, shouldn't someone make provisions? I can remember quite distinctly when the drug of choice was something entirely different and the end result found you chewing on cardboard pizza, exclaiming you'd never tasted anything quite as good!.

But the best part of the concert noted, besides the absolute prolific number of men with "moobs", were the girls, actually the moms and quite possibly the grandma's that decided well into the concert that they didn't need to stay in their seats. No, instead they stood on their seats and danced for the entire audience, that is all that cared to watch. Well, I for one, was memorized. Not only did I feel a good bloggie coming on, I was watching them like a case study. What in the hell were they thinking? A couple of them stood in different sections dancing, flipping their hair side to side and doing what would have essentially been a slow motion strip tease, should the setting been a little different. Jealous? Maybe a little. To have that sort of freedom with your body- that is a bit alien to me, but when you dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, believe me, you are better off not standing on your seat, showing off your ample curves. The seat will most likely break anyhow and getting the gurney in will only result in embarrassment. That sort of stuff is best left the female prison inmates. But what I did want to do is be the voice of reason, the one, singular adult at this ridiculous show of spontaneity and stand up and demand these woman put their underwear back on and take their seats. After all, I was there to see a concert!


The case of the traveling "fat" pants!

Well, it's official now.  I have eaten myself right out of my, "I've been on a diet and lost five pounds" pants and into my, "I've gone over the edge and lost all control-fat pants."  And, I kid you not. Pants that I could easily slip into two weeks ago (now I am not saying I didn't have to lie on the bed to zip, but still) are now facing serious fabric jeopardy.

It happened quickly too.  I was so busy walking around all dumb and happy, I had no idea what was coming. Oh, there were little signs. I guess if you wanna call them signs. Like walking around New Orleans at 10:00 in the morning drinking frozen daiquiri's topped with 151 rum. And then there were those fried oyster po-boy's... I made it my personal mission to order one at every restaurant, just in case one was better than the other.  And, Oh, did I mention the craw fish pies, please, they were to die for.  So, yeah, I guess if you wanna get technical, a smarter,  and perhaps more sober person would have seen what was coming.  But I never did. Fat and happy,  yep, that was me.

That was until two days into this plethora of debauchery I went to pull on my black pin striped pants. They look really cute with this cardigan I have, but let me tell you, not so great with my traveling "fat" pants.  Which, if the truth were known and wait... I'm going to reveal to you the truth... My traveling "fat" pants are actually part of my "sleep-to street" attire I am so fond of.  My, "hello lover" black yoga stretch pants that I match with my beloved hooded zippies.  Yeah, those. And if that visual is too much for you. Stop. Reading. Right. Now.  After all, this is my story.
Thank God, I thought to pack several pairs of these babies, because when the shit started hitting the fan, well not exactly hitting the fan, but shortly after a visit to the local drugstore and a purchase of 5000 extra strength fiber pills it was a different story, but anyhow I was well prepared.

Back to the pants.  There I was, all happy, (evidently,  fat, dumb and happy was getting to be my thing) getting ready to go for a yummy dinner, enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail while I was busy beautifying and BAMM (yes, we visited Emeril's the night before). I was faced with a big problem.  I could wear the pin-striped pants, but be relegated to stand all night, because if I sat down it was quite likely the zipper would explode. Oh My!

I knew immediately that this was not a simple case of hoisting myself into a sixty buck pair of Spanx. The distance between my left and right hand while tugging upward may as well of been the "great divide".  Nope, this was calling for the heavy artillery, roll out the boom-DE-boom. It was another perfect opportunity for the good old "fat" pants (once again) to come to the rescue. I glided into those babies and they greeted me like an old friend. I cried out, "Well, hello lover" and never looked back. Man, it felt fabulous! No longer confined to a predetermined waist circumference I was ready to go back out there and greet New Orleans with a renewed gusto, after all I only had one more night left in the Crescent City, how much more damage could I do?