Fat Ass

I wrote about Samantha's scare Monday; for something similar, you can read ~Deb's scare here. Today's post will be less scary, but still about bodies. In re-reading ~Deb's story (I won't comment on the particulars because you ought to read it), I just remembered that I hate when doctors call patients "clients"; I just hate it.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday, and then excused myself to go to the gym. You see, I need to loose 10 pounds, preferably having five of them come off my ass. I weigh 135 pounds, and I would like to get to what I consider my ideal weight: 125 pounds. I am a mere 5'2", but 125 pounds seems to be a good weight for me. ¹

When I was in college, I was 118 pounds, and I shifted from 115 (scary skinny; ribs poking out) to 125 (after nights of beer and pizza and less dancing than I should have done). By the time I was a senior, it seemed that I was destined to be 122 pounds forever. My weight was fairly steady by then, and I was too stupid to know that my metabolism might one day slow down. Yeah, I was a college kid.

I remained about the same weight for more than ten years. Fifteen years? Okay, ten years. And then I started gaining a bit of weight. Not much. A pound or two a year. Maybe three pounds occasionally. But they are cumulative pounds, and I find myself sitting at 135 pounds now. The other day, I heard someone say her favorite number was 8. It is a curse for me. I was always a dress size 6, and now, I am an 8. I hate that number. At first, I occasionally bought a dress with the number 8 sewn into the back. I would blame it on the manufacturer sizing a bit different than standard sizing. I can't use that rationalization anymore. I am the poster girl for size 8.

I joined a gym about a year ago, and I have been going, on and off, not really committing myself. Feeling good enough to stabilize my weight. Now, I do elliptical. Something I used to call Stair Stepper ®. At first, I thought the word "elliptical" was a bad description. I don't want my butt in the shape of an ellipsis. Then it occurred to me that the work referred to the motion the feet may be making. That makes more sense.

I have heard and read that America is getting, how does the media put it, "too damn fat." My personal struggle over ten pounds would qualify me to fix the problem, were I to work for the government in the fat regulation office. Well, it is probably called something like Council on Calorie Control in the U.S. Government Accountability Office.

My first thought would be to announce that by January 1, 2009, the only clothes that would be legal to wear in public would be bikini bottoms for women and Speedos® for men.² I know, I know. As Fat Burner Czar, it would seem strict. I would be crucified in the media. They would call me a kook.

But let's think about it. Without clothes, you can't hide any fat. And you would be encouraged to loose a bit of weight. That would be my strategy.

I know, I know, with all that skin out there, there would be lots of gawking. And I would not want to wander the produce isle, constantly hearing, "Nice melons."

But I would do change in direction. After everybody would complain about going nudie (children excluded, of course), putting them in some Star Trek like snug suit would be a breeze. All of the naughty parts would be covered, but you can't hide the fat.

Me, I am going to go back to the gym today. And tomorrow. Looking to loose the ten pounds. I just hope that the pounds don't come from my breasts. Now, that would suck.

---

¹ A little curvy without having a pouch in the front or a big ass.
And, no, Grant, I don't look like those skinny ass Japanese women (girls).
²I would need the generic word for Speedos®, but that is a small hurdle.

Life to Its Fullest

I want to tell you a little story about a friend of mine. The date is February 2, 2002, and as my friend tells it, she was re-born on that day. Let's see if I can tell it through her eyes.

Her name is Samantha, but people call her Sam and she likes it that way. She is young, sexy, of course, so the masculine name is okay by her. People know she is all woman.

She is in her doctor's office. This is the second visit in a week, a bit surprising because she has only had yearly visits for the last few years. You know the type, the visits that is dreaded – half the time, they scrape the walls of the cervix for fun (okay, for preventive medicine, I suppose).

First visit – they did an x-ray of her chest because they thought she might have pneumonia. Actually, the visit is more of a blur than anything. Not sure why they called her back – it was not explained well. She finds out later it was because someone besides the doctor in the office needed to take a look at her x-rays. Guess they did not want to worry her.

The nurse has already taken her vital signs. Blood pressure is a little elevated. No mystery why that is to Sam. She has on white cotton ankle-high socks, lavender panties, and a white paper examination gown. The panties don't quite match the gown, and she wonders why she is thinking about matching at a time like this.

As she is waiting, she notices that the computer is still on, showing her vital signs, her name, age, and some history. There are some lines that look like previous visits, and tests that were performed on her body. One line says something, and "x ray" is in the line. There are two lines with x-ray, actually, and she clicks on the more recent line.

It pulls up a report by a radiologist. It looks almost like an email, but many of the words are foreign. She cannot make everything out, but she does see something at the bottom. It is written in something like English, with a heading of interpretation or findings, she cannot now remember which.

She does not know precisely what it means, but the radiologist note says that her x-ray suggests several small tumors in her lungs, but that they should have an MRI to resolve what these growths are.

Her pink face turns white.

She does not remember the doctor visit at all. She is pretty sure he had her breathe, and she is sure that a pelvic exam was not part of the tests done. All she really knows is that she got a piece of paper, telling her that she has an MRI appointment in two days.

The doctor may have explained that the MRI was routine, to further resolve what is going on in the chest area. Her impression, fuzzy as it is, is that this was explained as a routine test. Funny thing is that the MRI was scheduled the same week; peculiar because she thought that these machines had months long waiting lists.

The MRI exam was also disturbing. It took about an hour, and they decided to take more pictures, just because. The MRI technicians, there were two of them, looked like they had discovered surgical tools left inside of her, but she had never had an operation. Going home that day, Sam thought she was dying.

For the next five days, Sam continued to play facts in her mind. Radiologist is thinking she had cancer. Two MRI techs, acting cool, definitely did not like the images they were taking with their big magnet. All she really knew was that whatever was making her feel so bad was not pneumonia. And by all guesses, it was much worse.

One would think Sam would have become depressed. She had one sleepless night; she thought all evening about her life, what she was doing with it, that it may soon end. She also thought of things she had planned to do but did not do.

The next night, she was going to tell her husband about her bad prognosis. This was Friday night, and she made a nice dinner for him. She greeted him at the door with a smile and a kiss, an aroma in the kitchen warned him that he was to come to the dinner table instead of plopping himself on the couch.

They had Cornish hens, asparagus, rice, and a good $10 bottle of wine. Clothes were off after dinner, but I don't know exactly how the rest of the night went. Sam did mention that there was no television that night, but she also did not tell him about the bad news. They woke in each others' arms the next morning, and though I do not know this, I would suggest that they ached from the previous night. A good aching; the kind you have when you have pain and smile at the same time.

Sam continued to wonder about her mortality; actually thinking about it for the first time. She looked at her life, her unfinished plans, and identified where she had gone off track. Then something happened. She became at peace with her own demise.

A few days later, she had the dreaded doctor visit. The spots were explained away, actually, as being some kind of fungus. She asked about cancer, and the physician looked at her closely.

"Samantha, I never said anything about cancer."

She knew that the doctor knew that she knew more about her condition than she was willing to offer up.

"Oh, I just thought with the MRI and all, it might be cancer."

I would have thought that February 2, 2002 would be a day to forget. The day you thought you had cancer. But for Sam, tough as nails as she is, she says it was more like a wake-up call. It was like someone (God, perhaps, or Atomic Chickens ® who rule the world) had told her that her life is precious, and that she needed to start doing the things she finds important.

She celebrates every February second. She makes a nice dinner for her husband, and more often than not, she serves the same meal, down to the asparagus. Her husband has no idea to this day, though he has noticed a change in her, a change that he likes. She celebrates life; she has been given a second chance. It was not cancer but the realization that her life is precious. That has made the difference for Sam.

For me, I see Sam's story as a call to look at my life, to see where I may have drifted off the path set by an idealistic young woman.

Random Friday #20

Putt Putt Golf
I wrote a piece on the Masters earlier this week. Not a serious piece, but some words. Anyway, I really liked putt putt golf when I was a girl. When I got older and started dating, I had several dates while doing putt putt. Then I did not like the golf as much. Part of me wanted to give a good impression – look cute and bring sparkling conversation to the date. That is hard to do when you are using a putter (that many snot-nosed people used) to hit a golf ball through a clown's mouth. Plus, you have to let the guy win.

Wonderful Songs
The other day, I was watching Samantha Who online while working (ooops, did I type that?), and the show ended with Night Ranger's Sister Christian. The song is a beautiful rock ballad. Little known fact: Kim Cattrall has a small part in the music video. I googled something about rock ballads, and I got a site that listed the top 200 or so. Yeah, this song made the list (#148). Bridge over Troubled Waters is #2, but every time I hear that song, I think of teenaged suicide. Go to a funeral of a teenager who has ended his or her life, and they play this song. When I was a little girl, I would stop what I was doing when I heard "Blowin' in the Wind" on the radio. They did not play it often, but I always stopped for that song.

Searching for Gold
I was googling stuff about gold. I mean, if there is so much on the Internet, maybe there is enough evidence to find evidence of gold.

Earth Day
People celebrate Earth Day – and I am always unclear on the date. I thought Earth Day started around 1970 – April 22, 1970, I believe. As I recall, April 22 was chosen because it is Eddie Albert’s birthday. Funny thing is that April 22, 1970 is also the 100th anniversary of Vladimir Lenin’s birth.

I find it interesting that we consume more to celebrate consuming less because we love the Earth.

Away from the Web
I have not been completely here over the past few weeks, and thus, I have not been thinking that much – well, not random thinking, that is. So I have less random thoughts going through my brain. I wonder if the Internet, television and the like contributes to random thinking.

Not sure, but I wonder.

Digital Age Problems
First, Vanessa Anne Hudgens had some bra and panty pictures (and even a few racier quasi-lesbian pictures) surface in the Internet, and now, Miley Cyrus has a few pictures where you can (gasp) see her bra. I think this is just an artifact of the digital age. When I was growing up, there was no instant access to digital images (pictures were developed by people at Drug Stores, an incentive to not take risqué pics). Both young women associated with Disney, and so far, I think the folks at Disney understand.

Practicing to Communicate

On Monday, I wrote a little piece that looked like erotica. Well, it was an introduction to what would have been an erotic short story or script for porno (do they even have scripts?).

One line that caught the attention of a few readers follows: "Then Leesa seductively ran her right index finder down the front of her summer dress."

When I was answering comments, it got me to thinking: over the years, I have come to practice certain non-verbal communication skills aimed at sending messages that I would rather send with my body, not my words.

Drawing attention with the Finger
Maybe I first saw it in a movie, I don't know. It is a fairly common move, I would imagine. For me, it is my way of saying, "Pay attention to me." Or maybe, "Look what may be in store for you." I don't know. The fun thing about non-verbal communication is that the meaning varies slightly from sender-to-receiver. And it could also be something that is frustrating as well.

I have used a finger to trace my thighs, as well. Again, same meaning. Oh, gawd, this is a bit embarrassing to write. I don't often point to areas near my ass . . . .

Tucking hair behind my ear
Again, in the story, something I occasionally do. And I don't like when my hair is short, partly because I can't tuck my hair. I don't do it to be sexy at all. It is meant to say, "Look at me, I am cute." Or insecure. Or something else. Crap, as I am writing this, I am realizing most of these non-verbal cues are about noticing me.

The Head Tilt
I actually used to practice my head tilt. I would tilt my head down, then raise my eyes. Were I a money or gorilla, perhaps this would be a submissive sign. That I was acting submissive to whomever I was with. For my husband – and when I was dating, for my dates – I think acting submissive is a turn-on for the men. I am not 100% why this is; why men would want a submissive woman. But men do. Some of the time. Oh, and playing submissive, some times, can be fun. Playing submissive all of the time is a bit boring.

The Wink
I suck at winking. I cannot wink seductively. I have tried. I have practiced winking, and I just don't do it well. When I was a girl, my winking could be characterized as blinking. I could not control one eye without the other one imitating it. Same with the lids. And I love, how non-verbally, the wink means, "I know that, too." Or "we have a shared secret."

When I was in high school, and, embarrassingly, in college as well, I would practice some of my non-verbal cues. I wanted all of my communications to be magical, to catch someone's eye. To make me seem more complicated than I am.

Oh, and I don't really know if I want to open up this entry to comments. It seems a little too close to home.

The Pizza Man

After Amy arrived, the evening could begin. Amy was always late.

Deb had brought over the movies, something men would call "chick flicks" but in actuality are movies with plots and without explosions. We called up the local pizza parlor, then started watching "The Notebook."

Gretchen started making her margaritas, and we completely engrossed in the movie when the doorbell rang.

Leesa, the flirt of the group, bounces towards the door. One minute later, she comes back to the group, and asks if the group is up for a bit of fun. All agree, not knowing exactly what they are agreeing to.

Leesa returns to the door and the pizza and asks the middle-aged man if he would need a break from delivering pizzas that night.

"A break?" asks the pizza man.

"Well," Leesa continues, tucking her hair behind her right ear nervously, "you are really cute, and I wondered if you would spend a few hours with me and my three tipsy friends."

"Miss," the pizza man continued, "although I am done with this pizza run, I have to return and pick up more pies. I have another hour until I clock out. And I have to go back to the pizza parlor."

"Well," Leesa continued, smiling, "I think your car just got a flat. I think you need to call your employer and tell him about your flat. I have a can of "Fix A Flat" in my car, if you need it. It will take about an hour to find, however."

Then Leesa seductively ran her right index finder down the front of her summer dress.

"I think this is a wonderful way to spend an hour or two."

The pizza man's draw dropped, his mind wondering if the risk was worth taking.

The problem with porn, most of it, is that it is fairly unrealistic. There is no back story that makes things seem plausible. Now, I don't know if I would ever write things that would be considered erotic, but I did want to start a pizza man story, not to have another erotic story, but to show how most erotic stories have little plot.

I love a good story – perhaps it does not need good plot. I mean, there is something to be said for character development as well. There are different types of stories, ones where action is the key, or dialog, or whatever, but a good story needs to have something.

Still looking for something.

No Naked Pictures Here

Sorry guys, ~Deb is still on my mind.

Okay, I know, for many of you. A smart, hot, lesbian is something that you think about often. Granted. ~Deb’s absence has sort of made me think more and more about my flirting with giving up this blogging thing.

I know I am thinking out loud, but sometimes I wonder if decisions we make, I make, keep us from doing the things we were meant to do. I am not suggesting that I will stop blogging – or that ~Deb is taking a break because she needs to work on something else. Why ~Deb is taking a break is ~Deb's business. If she were to post naked pics on a sight, that would be my business.

Sometimes we don't take risks. To continue to write on this blog is not risky. To scale back time on this blog to pursue a new interest, a bit riskier. Especially if the other interests are new, that makes things risky.

I want to write, but I don't want to write the same sort of thing that I do on this blog. I want to write a novel. A novel has a beginning, middle and end that grips the reader. My trite little bursts (in this blog) are written to capture one's interest, stimulate a bit of discussion, and then I am out the door.

To write a novel, I always thought you had to have the entire novel all mapped out. But the more I read about writing, the more I think that novelists are just making things up as they go. One novelist suggested that writing a book is like driving at night, the headlights illuminating the next thirty feet of road. The author, nor the reader, really knows where the story is going.

I like writing three times per week. I have spent my extra time this week catching up one work. Yeah, my employer has benefited to date. Next week I hope to start writing something.

All I need is a subject.

Better than Sex

On Monday, someone made the comment that golf is almost better than sex. At first, I was wondering what kind of putter he is working with – okay, a joke. Then I remember what a golfer once told me. He said that there is no feeling like hitting a perfect strike, and watching the ball climb into the sky, then fall to the Earth, inches from where you intended on smacking the ball. Okay, he used different words, and golfers probably know by my description that I don't golf.

I have not ever hit such a shot. I have not gotten that feeling. But it does explain why the game is so well-loved. The rest of us just have not hit such a shot.

When I was in high school, I remember listening to a cool kid say once, "Pizza is like sex. Even bad pizza is good." The guy was a football player, ultra hunk, and I thought he was also a philosopher. My guess is that he read that either on a bumper sticker or as a joke inside of Playboy. God, he was a hunk. He is probably towing cars in Buford, SC now. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Until recently, I did not get the phrase, "Better than sex." I thought there was nothing better than (good) sex. Well, I have found something.

I was listening to some live music a few weeks ago, and I swear it was better than sex. The bar was dingy – or should I say atmospheric. There was a blues band, and I am not a blues aficionado. I just don't understand all of the nuances in blues.

We start listening to the band, and my first impression was that this band was good, really good. By the third song in the set, the music was touching my soul. I was happy and sad at the same time, moving to the music.

Then the fourth song surprised me. It touched me in a more earthly place, and I swear I almost had an orgasm. Listening to music. There were tiny beads of sweat on my brow, and after the song, I was flushed. I was not bumping and grinding. I was listening to music.

Maybe the first three songs were foreplay. The fourth song was when the guitarist plowed his notes deep inside of me, playing with all that is sexual and good. The rest of the set did not give me quite the satisfaction, but I did have a grin on my face.

Needless to say, we stayed for a second set. I am not saying that the music is better than all sex. But it would make my top 20 sexual experiences, if I could ever rank such a thing.

Just some young blues player giving me the thrill of the night.

Sad News from ~Deb

I just read on her blog that ~Deb is quitting blogging. I have been toying with the idea, but I am not as brave as ~Deb.

~Deb is such a creative writer. I love reading her – it is akin to eating her up with every blog entry.

I was just finishing an entry that will be posted tomorrow (and I am proud of the entry, actually), and then I thought I had a few minutes to catch up. I am pairing back my time to devote more of it to writing, and then I see this.

Wow.

Prizes

I don't really like golf at all, but I know one thing (reinforced by a picture of Trevor Immelman "flying." I embedded the picture, and all I could think is that song, "I Think I Can Fly". I hate that song, and it is stuck in my head because of a picture of a game that I don't really like. Monday is starting off a bit bad for me.

Oh, and you cannot not like golf in Savannah. We are a stone's throw from Hilton Head, SC, and there are probably 5 really good golf courses within an hour from here. Really good is a bit humble – there are world-class golf courses around here. People here love golf. You can't say anything bad about golf in this state. Unless you are an anonymous blogger.

If you know little about golf, I wonder what your impression would be. I mean, you have these (mostly) men, spending tons of money on equipment, greens fees and really bizarre clothes. Then they spend the better part of a Saturday chasing a small white ball around with a stick. If we have visitors from another planet, I hope they don't think golfers are like the rest of us.

Back to the golf picture. The Masters is perhaps the biggest golf tournament in the world, and the winner gets a green jacket. Okay, they get cash and prestige as well, but they present a green jacket to the winner.

I don't know about you, but I think if I won the Masters, I would ask if I could get the jacket in a different color. Or at the award presentation, I can see myself saying, "I don't look good in that shade of green. Can I see something in basic black?" And I think, perhaps, in the media, I would be characterized as less than gracious.

The Masters started in 1934. I imagine in 1934, getting a jacket for winning a golf game must have felt like proper compensation. Many WPA projects were still going on, and the United States was recovering from the biggest depression we ever had.

I am not sure I could play four rounds of golf for a green jacket.

Calling In Sick

Just wanted you to know that I have not been able to post. I post when in the office, and I have been under the weather of late.

Amateur vs. Professional

A few years ago, I gave someone some grief about not being professional in their work.

Looking back, I need to give me the same talk.

Amateur comes from the Latin meaning "to love." I guess, for the Romans, amateurs love what they do, and professionals get paid for it. I hesitate to mention "professional" and "woman" in the same sentence, because some people's thoughts automatically jump to the oldest profession.

I was not talking about prostitution to my co-worker. I was talking about being professional. By professional, I did not mean being a lawyer or a doctor. I meant being a professional about your work. But unlike the Romans, I think professionals need a certain amount of love for their jobs. They need to be passionate about what they do.

Right now, I am an amateur writer, and I am not talking about not being paid for writing. But I am not committed to writing. Not yet. I write a few times per week, and although it may be a bit more than most people, I am not committed to writing.

And I want to be committed.

Random Friday #19

I keep vacillating from planning on posting five days per week (Monday through Friday) to three days (Monday-Wednesday-Friday). It all boils down to my simple rules concerning blogging. You need to post on a routine basis in order to hold people's attention. The thing is that posting every work day is easy for people to remember. Posting on one day per week also is easy to remember. Posting on Monday-Wednesday-Friday confuses the hell out of me. I wonder if it confuses other people.

Part of my change is that one third of my entries would be random posts. I started posting randomly to get rid of ideas that did not have enough substance to make a regular post.

Target
I have always liked Target. I pronounce it "Tar-shea" and have ever since I was a teenager. I am not sure it is any different than Wal-Mart (they can't squeeze their wholesalers like Wal-Mart), but I have always liked them. What I never understood is why they would want to use a hunting target as their image. Yes, we want our customers to think about shooting arrows into bails of hay decorated with our company logo. Just does not make sense to me. But I like their stores.

Authors
Wanting to publish a book seems to be a common fantasy, but I have thought about authors, and the one's you know about seem to have pretty messed up lives. I mean, if they are not snorting cocaine or being alcoholics, they get hit by cars or shoot themselves with shotguns. Who knows. Several of them have done three or four of those activities.

YouTube Partners
To drive content creation, YouTube has established partnerships with people to encourage them. You notice that Google (same parent company) has not done the same with Blogger? I mean, I don't want any of their money. But I find it interesting – and I guess they don't have to pay writers because so many people want to write. With YouTube, there are tons of other places to post videos and I guess they want to keep them on YouTube.

Captain and Tennille
I was thinking of a song the other day. I don't know the name of the song, but, embarrassingly, the version I have in my head is by Captain and Tennille. One of the lines goes, "once is never enough with a man like you." When I was younger, I really did not know what the song was about. Now that I am older, okay, I still don't know what the song is about. Partly, because I can't remember all of the words.

But the line got me to thinking: is she saying that for some men, once is plenty. I mean, she does not say that, but it is inferred. And I think that thought is hilarious. Captain and Tennille also sang Muscrat Love. I am not sure they could have gotten away with that song now-a-days. Animal love is verboten.

You know, I thought Toni Tennille died, but after Googling her, she has a fan website, a blog (she is also thinking of taking time off), et cetera. I really thought Toni Tennille died of an eating disorder. How could I have gotten her confused with Karen Carpenter? Both are/were a husband and wife team, where they featured the wife.

JargonFish
I got a message from Blog Catalog, touting a new widget called Jargon Fish. My first reaction is that it looks really crappy. I don't like junk on my site. But I like the idea of a tool that would link similar ideas from my site to other sites. For instance, if I was writing a story of cum stains that resembled certain personalities, you would probably want to read other similar articles? True?

New Source of Stem Cells
When I was in college, people made extra money by going to the blood bank. Now, I can imagine a menstrual fluid bank. I can see it now, "Wanted: Kind, courteous support staff to help with harvesting of menstrual stem cells. Must be willing to take abuse from some who have PMS into days one and two." Actually, I did not know any women who sold their blood (or more accurately, platelets). Now college co-eds will have something to sell for beer/pizza money.

Have a wonderful weekend!

April Fools, One Day Late

I was trying yesterday to think of a good April Fools joke. I thought of a few, but all of the jokes seemed a bit cruel. April Fools Day seems to be a cruel day, and I don't want to be cruel.

A while back, I announced I would start posting three days per week, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And I kept my promise for a week or so. Then I went back to posting five days per week. I had the energy; I had the words; I had the drive.

I was ahead of the game, writing the blog entries days before posting them. And I got busy again. And I went on vacation, doing my best to catch the alpha and beta rays, as well as punish my liver. Isn't that what vacation is all about?

You know, I have sort of enjoyed watching the Writer's Strike. As a non-TV-watcher, it did not really affect me. Plus I think it gave other people a taste of not having to change their lives around their favorite shows. But it got me to thinking: what are the best television shows that got cancelled?

One of my favorite shows that got cancelled was "My So-Called Life". It starred Claire Danes, and I assumed at the time it was because Ms. Danes asked for too much money. Well, the show was on after I was in high school, so I was not watching a lot of television (and could not care about Entertainment Tonight-type stories). Well, the show got cancelled, and I think it was due to low ratings. Anyway, the show was good – the writing was really good. It took ordinary situations, and made them into poignant vignettes.

I have heard that "Freaks and Geeks" was a good show, but I never saw it. I don't know anything about the show. And now I am wondering about starting to write about televisions shows like I am some sort of expert. Because I really don't know much about television.

I mean, if we want to cancel something, how about cancelling some sports teams? Perhaps we could cancel the Pittsburgh Pirates. I would love to cancel the Atlanta Braves, mostly because I don't like their fans. What kind of fans don't attend the first round of the playoffs because the team makes the playoffs nearly every year?

I guess I should post once per week, because I am practically on empty. Have a good day. And luckily, I can't cancel my blog due to not having anything to say.