In her Cups

Had a series of tests recently and, guess what? I didn't prepare for a single one and, BIG surprise, I failed miserably - all but one. The good news is, the one I did pass was the E.K.G.

With my shirt pulled up and my heaving chest exposed for all to take a gander, I sat in my doctor's office with what must have been a few hundred electrodes, along with the nurse lady that was busy attaching those sticky things to my exposed skin.

I looked down with wonder and thought, "Self, you ain't got a chance."

And, of course, after the first attempt or two at getting the first test going, nurse-lady demanded a closer examination of the "full-metal jacket" bra I was wearing. She quickly declared that the offending armor was interfering with the test and needed to go.

Just like that. Remove. My. Bra.

Now, you have to understand something about me. I'm very attached to my bra. Yeah, like in a fire - I'd be looking for my bra, not my family pictures. My girls may not be perfect, but they've been with me since the beginning, and I've always found that things run a bit more smoothly when at least one of us is in our cups.

And since I was sitting, soberly absorbing direction from nurse lady, I knew trouble was coming.

"Strip to your panties and step on the scale," nurse-lady bellowed. I cringed, closing my eyes. Ah, crap, not the dreaded scale!

Gingerly, I hoisted myself onto the platform and before nurse lady could reveal the truth out loud, I turned to her and said,
"Don't speak. Don't even think about saying what you were gonna say. The truth hurts. I can't handle the truth."

Nurse lady just looked at me as if I were off my rocker.

I continued, pleading now, "I was thinking that we could, uh, maybe grab some lunch. You know... my treat, before you break with the bad news."

Nurse-lady just smiled and, with her left hand, pulled a blood pressure cuff out from behind her skinny, emaciated self, while the right hand was (I swear to you) busy loading a syringe of orange liquid.

"Now, there," she cooed. "This won't hurt a bit." She smiled as she tugged the waistband of my big girl panties down around my hips.

Serious humiliation was what I was experiencing at this point,
S-E-R-I-O-U-S.

Once she finished, I quickly reached over to pull my big girl panties up, which I, at that point, was certain resembled John Candy's underwear in the movie, "Planes, Trains and Automobiles." Oh, yeah, to call them droopy would be an understatement.

I was feeling a bit over-exposed, to say the least, with half my rear-end swinging in the wind here, people!

Before I could begin the job of getting everything tucked back to normal, nurse-lady warned, "Don't touch that, it will only make it worse."
Don't touch what? I wondered. The site of the injection or my underwear?

"Hello, skinny nurse-lady, perhaps it's not awkward for you, but you have me standing here with my big girl panties half pulled down, and my ginormous, untethered breasts ready to project themselves right out the exam room door at the very first opportunity. I am dying here."

Like I said, there was only one test I passed that morning.
 
















 

Brown, it 's what I'm waiting for...

It's as if I'm living in a dream world. Day after day, the door bell rings and as I slide my athletic sock clad feet up to the glass pane to peer out, I am instantly buoyed by the sight of the large UPS truck.

Brown never looked so good.

I can smell the big truck's diesel fuel through the worn out weather striping that hasn't held up nearly as long as the Home Depot rep promised.

But what does it matter? That truck, that man is carrying up to my front door, yet another box of coveted wine!

Be still my heart.

My first thought is, "How did I get so lucky" and my second more sobering thought, "Who let me loose in Napa and was that such a good idea?"

Never mind. It is high time to put my priorities in order- gotta find a knife and a cork screw- in that order.

Ah. I slowly, lovingly lift each bottle from its womb-like wrapping. I examine each bottle, savoring the labels, caressing its shape, anticipating the bouquet-I swear I can smell the grapes.

I can hear each bottle softly calling out my name, "Hello Lover." Or perhaps, that was my own voice I was hearing, never mind, it really doesn't matter.

All that matters now is, "What time is too early to start drinking while you are at work?"

Looking around, I realize to myself- almost giddily, "Self, you're gonna need a bigger wine refridge." That is, unless we are able to keep up with the UPS trucks.

Ah, that sounds like a tough job, but I think I am up for it! I certainly got enough practice in on our recent Napa trip.

In Napa I learned to start early.

Early like when most of you are still blow drying your hair, we were pulling up to some quaint wine tasting bar. Funny thing about Napa, you can start drinking at 10:00am and call it a tasting.

Once you put that label on the occasion, everyone nods knowingly, "Oh, they are doing a tasting." Nothing wrong with that.

But don't ask to add a chaser of Jack, because that is totally inappropriate in Napa- and actually in most places.

Yeah, Jack before noon is a signal, a red flag, a cry for help. But tasting wine before noon is well, more of a life style.

A life style I could easily get used to!

Hungry Girl

So I am sitting there just minding my own business, having just licked the last of the whipped cream off my finger tips- And I know what you are all probably thinking right now, "Oh, I thought she was on a diet, how is whipped cream on her diet". So before you get started let me tell you in the kindest, most gentle manner possible, 'Shut-up would cha"? The fact remains, I am on a d.i.e.t. but whipped cream is part of my program. Yes, that is correct I have a program! OK, now that your worst fears for me have not been confirmed, may I please continue? Flashing on the television screen before me is an ad for a new show called, "Hungry Girl". Seriously, people, do you think there is any girl out there hungrier than I am?
I don't think so. And Hungry Girl is about all of 120 lbs- and for all my stick figure girl friends out there, 120 lbs is not obese in any understanding of the word, except for maybe if you are an eight year old girl. And of that fact, I am not even sure, but I'm sure a quick review of my grade school records will confirm this. And as long as I am on the subject of grade school- how obnoxious was it that they used to "measure" you in that manner? First off, it was never a real school nurse bound by the Hippo Oath, but instead some well intended busybody PTA president, room-mom. Now, all you PTA room moms, I'm not talking about you. But seriously, it would always be some "Heather's" mom who would smile sweetly and say, "OK, honey now let’s get your weight" and then that would be followed with an, "Ooooh. All righty then" and then she'd quickly offer the other "Heather's" mom who was assisting her in this little project a quick surreptitious glance at the staggering number. Later over a two martini lunch, they'd discuss that, "poor little, ah, well fat girl” in their fabulous Heather's class! But I have digressed from my original rant about Hungry Girl. Hungry Girl is produced by the Cooking channel and as it turns out Hungry Girl herself used to have a bit of a weight problem and a few years ago she lost 30 (cough, choke) pounds and now she is so fabulous they have given her a television show. Seriously, people- her own show just because she managed to lose 30 pounds? Those of us with real weight problems, those of us that have suffered the ravages of a Spanx generated “thigh fire” know that thirty pounds while admirable ain't nothing more than a few less bags of crunchy Cheetos over the course of a couple months. So now, I'm thinking of pitching my own show concept to the network. Yeah, and I have a few names I'm considering for my show, How about, "The Big Girl Show" or maybe “That’s not a Cameo cookie in my mouth" or my absolute favorite, "That's not a stalker, that's my ass show". Stay tuned!

Reeses, Butterfingers and Oh My!

It's that time of year again.  You know the weather starts to get a bit cooler, which by Florida standards simply means we will see days in the 80's instead of those hated "can't get my shirt from sticking and showing all my bra fat" 90's.  Oh, and speaking of bra fat or fat back, well I'm sporting less of this these days.  The big D.I.E.T. is starting to work.  I am saying this with a great deal of caution because typically, self gets all happy with one's self about now and decides that just one bag of frozen Cameo's in the freezer is not such a bad thing.  And I know you know the problem with "just one little bag," it will absolutely lead to some of the mega sized bags of Halloween candy that are all over the shelves of your local grocer.  Seriously people, I have not had a single Trick or Treater knock on my door in five years.  And yet every Halloween I buy bags of candy, just in case.  My biggest fear is some cute little fairy will knock on my door and I will have to reach into my bowl of pennies to offer some sort of treat.  So instead, I prepare.  I get out my biggest mixing bowl and fill it full of mini Butterfingers, Reese's and oh, those wonderful little chewy peanuty nougat thingies.  And then I casually start grabbing just a few, you know just for a small snack or short car ride.  And before I know it, I am back at the grocery store attempting to re-fill that quickly declining bowl of candy before two things happen; someone notices or God forbid, the damn fairy shows up.
This year things are gonna be different.  I have already turned my small, now much more pert nose up at the legions of sweet treats lining the isles.  Apologies to all you pixies and fairies, this year my windows will be dark.  "Nothing to see here folks, just keep on going".

Warning: The following content contains material of a sexual nature and may not be suitable for all ages.

All the good things in life are free.  Really, well like what?  And don't start with all that sappy crap.  I know, I know the freaking air I breath is free and the memories I cherish, they are free and I am free to love whom ever I chose.  But the really "gooood" things, there is a price.  Right now in my life I am addicted to 32oz Gladiator smoothies, are they free? No, but they are really, really good.  And don't even get me thinking about my wine, cuz, trust me, my wine is not even available in the grocery store.  No sir, you gotta get in your car and travel to a specialty store to get my kinda wine.  And if you tell me, "Oh, you should go to World Market, they have great wines" I will turn around and spit on the ground when you are not looking.  Wine may not be free, but bad wine is dead to me.  Now, how about sex, is that free?  Technically, the act is free, but it is not really free, is it?  And without going into too many details, what about the resulting fallout ?  Priceless, yes, but free- no way.  Think about the first male and female that discovered sex (and I am not referring to Adam or Eve, because that is way different then real sex).  But those first few humans must have thought to themselves, "This is remarkable, if I do this and she does that, OMG".  Seriously, they probably did have a somewhat direct connect to God and I am certain the discussions went something like this, "God, this is amazing, I mean, who knew?  We'd all been just sitting here on this cold, hard cave floor and had no idea of the possibilities. And OMG, God, thank you so much for showing us the ropes, they really change it up".  And with so much sex, people got hungry and I think the first male/female roles were established by the male rolling over and say, "Hey, I'm hungry, why don't I go out and slay a dragon or two and you clean this dump up while I am gone".  But then the morality police got involved, when and where I am uncertain, but get involved they did.  And then all that free sex just went away until the seventies and well, you all know the rest of the story.  So, why am I, the button up, conservative being that I am writing about sex?  Well, the answer is easy, I quit drinking.

Put down those eggs and drop that bacon!

Since I'd only just gotten settled into my "suite," you can imagine my surprise when just a mere three hours later, I hear a cheery, "Good Morning". The "morning" part was drawn out, like the person who said it knew damn well that not only was it NOT morning, but it was not going to be a good one either!

As I slowly came too, I became aware of a lot of "white" noise in the background, some hissing and the realization that my right arm felt like someone had stuck a needle in it and had forgotten to take it out. My first thought was, "What kind joint are they running here." That was quickly followed by a deep sigh of regret; "I shoulda stayed at a Holiday Inn!"


"We gotta get your weight," Nurse Cheerful smirked, rolling in what seriously looked to be a live-stock scale. Squinting up at the clock, I groaned, "Are you serious? You don't need my weight, I will just tell you a number and you can divide that number by four and then multiply the results by two and you will come close enough. Who the hell wants to know how much I weigh at 4:00am anyhow?"

Evidently, there were plenty of people that wanted to know and they all had the initials DR. before their names. Pretentious lot. Just because they have like 20 years of schooling under their belts, they think they can ask ME personal questions. Here's what I'd like to know Mister - Lady - Doctor - Sir, "Just how much do you weigh?"

Geez, these people don't take any time to get to know you, they just come barging into your room demanding answers to questions best left unanswered.


For instance, "Do you drink alcohol?" Now, I was not just born yesterday, (another problem) so I was completely prepared for that one. I knew; answer the question, and only the question. Do not give away any other valuable pieces of information that could later be held against you.

So, in keeping with the spirit of my Irish-Catholic roots, I solemnly answered, "A bit". Nurse Cheerful looked at me and smiled encouragingly, as if to say she completely understood the, "A bit" part and wanted me to tell her more.

So I went on to better explain, lest she get the wrong idea, (And God forbid, think I'm a lush). "Well, you know, drinking just a bit...perhaps if there is a funeral or wake, a party or it's Wednesday. But truly, just a bit and I do try to limit it to just wine and I am working on only drinking on days of the week that end in Y".

Humph, Nurse Cheerful was now wildly scribbling notes on a piece of paper and I could tell right away that they were ALL about me. If you wanna know the truth, I think she was just a tad jealous of me, lying there all splayed out in that well worn, "easy in, easy out," it's got nothing on Fredrick's of Hollywood dressing gown. Ha, I had on a gown! Imagine that!

Right then, I knew that as soon as Nurse Cheerful left my room I was gonna find my yoga pants and my true first love, Zippy and hi-tail it outta there. But as Nurse Cheerful turned to leave she mentioned something about my breakfast being on its way, so I figured, I paid for it, may as well enjoy a meal before I go.

Sure enough, I'd only closed my eyes for a second and before I knew it, enter Breakfast - Man. My Knight in Shining Armor, or actually, white lab coat, but same thing. He rolled the cart over, raised the head of my bed, propped my pillows. I couldn't help but think to myself, "Self, I think he likes you, he thinks your gown is sexy".

I smiled and batted my Lattise sodden eyelashes at him as he pulled the lovely silver dome off my meal and rolled the tray in front of me. Glancing down at the food, so as not to appear too eager, I feigned interest like when on an airplane and the stewardess delivers a tasty treat, I always try to appear uninterested, waiting until the last moment to lower my tray table. You know, in a very non-fat lady style.

Remember; never let them know you are too happy or too hungry, that's my motto.

My eyes swept over the waiting meal and suddenly I squeaked, Ah, excuse me, Breakfast - Man, I think there has been some mistake. I smiled sweetly and said, "It's no biggie and I am certain that you will be able to work this out with the Consigliore, but umm... Hun, this can't be my breakfast, this must be leftover from what the guy next door didn't eat"!

One egg scrambled (Who eats one egg?);

One turkey sausage link measuring a total of 2" (Yes, I checked);

One small, bite size little muffin that appeared to have already had a bite taken out;

One cup of decaf coffee-water:

4oz of orange juice.

So, one scrambled egg people? I get more eggs eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough standing at the kitchen counter than what was on that plate. And certain that the other two turkey sausage links had rolled under my bed; I buzzed Nurse Cheerful in to take a gander.

Turns out, it really was my breakfast, not the leftovers from the guy next door. And Nurse Cheerful, yeah she really was a bit more like Nurse Jackie.

Moral of the story: Check your blood pressure regularly, lose the excess baggage, exercise more, skip the bacon and limit your wine to a "bit" less!

Thigh Fire

So, recently I participated in my first 5k walk - pant - run, note the emphasis on the walk - pant part.

It was quite the eye opener for this previously sedentary gal, who has made a bit of a career (who am I kidding, I have no career) out of mocking those that participated in this malarkey.

Yep, I thought of myself as a wee bit superior lying splayed out on my gorgeous cream colored sectional eating bonbons and gulping fabulous wine. But all that crap came to a screeching halt a few weeks back when the guys in white coats came in, shaking their heads in unison, all thinking the same thing, "This one's gotta go".

They hauled me off my sofa, removed the bag of frozen Cameo's from my clasped fists, ignored my whimpering and whispered soft little meaningless taunts in my ear, "Stop it, stop it right now," they demanded. "Whoa, hey, wait just a fancy minute, I thought to myself, can't we all just spend some time getting to know each other? Why do we have to rush into all this diet and exercise?" And here I thought we were going to build a meaningful relationship.

But no, that was not meant to be, as evidenced by the nurse lady that actually had the nerve to give me a little tip, "Hun, why don't you look at it this way, if you put the bag of Cheetos down, while we get your weight, you may be pleasantly surprised." Surprised, how could she even think for a single minute that I'd want to friends with her, let alone that she could surprise me?

Friends, and I'm talking my good friends, they know how to treat me. My good friends ask me, "Puffed or crunchy, luv?" This new group, all they are interested in was, "Getting the blood pumping".

Well trust me, my blood was pumping that recent Saturday morning as I raced, begged and pleaded with myself to get to the finish line. The race had just started and already my faithless husband and daughter had gotten far ahead of me. I thought about just dashing into the nearest Panera and grabbing a quick cinnamon bun for moral support, or maybe if luck was on my side, I'd pass a gun store first. Maybe I'd pick up one of those ladylike guns and shoot them both for dumping me, right across their big white numbered T-shirt! That is, if I ever saw them again. I knew the odds were I might not survive all this ridiculous sweating.

Did the guys in the white coats really think I was healthy enough for all this activity? I should have demanded that they have put it in writing, "Loud, obnoxious, healthy female, most recently seen eating frozen Cameo cookies, has our permission to kill herself publicly in said 5K race." At least than my duplicitous family could sue their collective asses!

But truly, I am not a quitter. No sir, not a quitter this one. But a cheater? Why you betcha!

That is why I had the fight of my life on my hands when I was trotting down one stretch of the race and glanced to my far right and saw that the rest of the participants had made a right turn way up ahead and were coming back down towards me about two blocks over.

How simple it would have been to just take a cut through? I could get a lead on my traitorous husband and daughter and cross the finish line like a real athlete, you know, Rockyesque, style! I could almost hear the crowds cheering me on in my head. But then I told myself, "Self, how are you gonna feel if you cut corners and cheat in your very first 5K?" Self quickly assured me, that she'd feel just fine, remarkable actually!

But alas, it was not to be. First, I had that stupid white shirt on with the four big numbers plastered across the front and secondly, I had those four big numbers plastered across the front- yea, you get it. I'd cheat, but I didn't want to get caught cheating! I had standards.

Fortunately, cooler, less felonious heads prevailed and I trotted on. I'd spied one particularly big ass ahead of me and I thought, if she can do it, so can I. I began setting my sights on all the large backsides in front of me and decided my personal goal would be to pick out the biggest ass within eyesight and stride to reach and pass it. My new job was to beat all the other fatties to the finish line.

This worked fine, up until the point I had to use the balance of my water to put out the fire that had started between one guy's enormous thighs.

But in the end, I finished the race. I didn't come in first, not by a long shot. But I did get there just as the race coordinators where dismantling the finish line. I guess they hadn't heard about the fire...