Sunday, November 23, 2008

Hold your water, Sybil

Does the phrase “pee like a racehorse” refer to volume or frequency? If the latter, I’m a thoroughbred.

An afternoon trip to the mall begins with a quick (much needed) stop in the Macy’s ladies lounge. A pass through dresses, quick Sephora shelf-browse, zip to L’Occitane and stop at Papyrus later, and I have to pee. Again. Not entirely certain if it's a required void or precautionary, pre-drive home event.

I piddle like a champ, my motto is “piss clear.” Cloudy lemonade isn’t sweet, one should strive for water with a squirt of lemon. According to Dr. Oz, Oprah’s medical sycophant but downright sexy in those powder blue scrubs (I think he goes commando), you should be able to read through it. I know the frequent tinkle isn’t a worry medically; during my annual well-woman, lube and tube exam a week ago, the physician’s assistant was giddy over the quality of my juice. If she could, I’m guessing she’d have bottled some for display in the waiting room.

No, I’ve become a girl who pees. Middle of the night, one more for the road. Just thinking long and hard enough about it and I'm a go. Luckily the kegel’s are holding so a sneeze doesn’t bring a trickle.

Vodka is clear. Perhaps I’m diluting a wee bit.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Fat like me

I got the call yesterday fat ladies await with salami-bated breath.

“We got the results of your blood work. You have hypothyroidism.”

Son of a bitch.

Since that word began to buzz, plumpies have played the thyroid card, the slow metabolism. Even Oprah claimed it. I am curious if kick starting the juices stalled in a gland in my neck will show on the scale and naked in the mirror. Bonus if treatment helps fight new fatigue and joint pain - thought I’d simply inherited crunchy knees from my Dad’s side. I’m miffed the condition has little to do with behavior I could change; it’s the first of the internal organs to wear out (my doc, however, theorizes a lingering and nasty viral infection last year may have played a part). It also means taking a tiny and sugary pill every day for the rest of my life.


I’m not a fan of medicating (with the exception of Pinot Noir and Grey Goose). A couple of Bayer is all I need on the roughest of days. A year ago I bid goodbye to the pill after 20 years of start-on-Thursday-over-by-Sunday regularity. I just don’t believe in pharmaceutically changing body chemistry long-term anymore.


On the plus side, I passed the “just checking” Chlamydia test with flying colors.

The diagnosis came the same week I took in a Sunday matinee of “Fat Pig”. This off-Broadway-to-Boulder stage play chronicles a short-lived and unlikely romance between an attractive guy with an upscale career and an amply endowed, Rubenesque…screw it, fat chick.

The female lead Helen, the fat pig in “Fat Pig”, is barely zaftig. She wears heels for Christ sake and would shop the low-end sizes at Lane Bryant. The more compelling visual would have been a can’t-hide-it-I-can’t-deny-it obese actress in the role. Conversation surrounding Helen always focused on size first, the apology for it, the acceptance of it. She had a jolly laugh and stuffed down hot dogs during an emotional encounter.

The male lead Tom, not that hot or hard. Smoldering in head shots, he acted it goofy and immature; in a shirtless beach scene, there’s definite moob. Supporting players were caricatures of the meanest kids on the playground. Would you seriously, even in the most private or judging moment, tell your best buddy he’s dating a “sow”? Brave Helen is finally torn down by Tom’s insecurities, exposing surprise vulnerability and admitting her shame, telling him she’ll change, really change, for him. If the cost of his love is surgery or stapling, she’s all in.


Having spent my formative dating years somewhere on the fat scale, I wasn’t worthy of the boys I wanted. They never looked. I never dated. When hormones bud and you’re not the girl the boys want to spend seven minutes in heaven with, sexuality ceases to exist. As an adult finally comfortable in my skin and vagina, in some sort of odd reverse discrimination, I like fit guys, men aware of appearance. It’s not looks, but caring enough about one's self to take care of oneself. To not be fat, one must eat less and exercise more. To be healthy, one must eat properly and exercise. Under the covers on a snowy morning is a better spot than out running a still slippery sidewalk, frosty breath escaping. A cocktail and “Friends” rerun often more appealing than burning quads on a spinning bike. I’d prefer salt and vinegar kettle chips over a handful of raw almonds every time. It’s choices, being better. Being all.

And now I have an honest to goodness doctor’s note.


Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Shake your money maker

Ladies, get it through your overly teased heads, sex for cash is not a career. Porn star, stripper or call girl, it’s not feminist leaning or screenplay worthy. There's no romance, no handsome, salt-and-pepper gray millionaire coming to climb the fire escape. Your contribution is the erection and a happy ending.

As a woman abetting equality, you piss me off. And this from a woman who loves naked time.

Ex-call girl Ashley Dupré, the one who ball busted Eliot Spitzer, has a spread (pun intended) in People Magazine. Like many in the industry (others always say they just love sex; if hedonism begat profession, there'd be a lot more watching TV in underpants positions available), she claims and blames a troubled past for her now-must-atone-for-it-folly. Yet she reasons, “This wasn't any different than going on a date with someone you barely knew and hooking up with them. The only difference is I can pay my rent."

I date. I hook up. I can pay my mortgage. I also have a career built on ambition and self-reliance and “The Ramen Noodle Years” when money earned from pithy and pissy jobs went to school and learning more and taking risks and making mistakes and trying again and embracing being a woman in a mans world.

And I kept my tits in my blouse the entire time.

It’s maddening how sexualized girls are today. We thought the classmate who wore a top hinting at belly button risqué, never contemplated kissing a girl for the attention. “Porky’s” was downright pornographic. My nieces came of age in a generation that considered oral and anal the safe kind of sex.

The sex worker has become mainstream, just another booth at career day. Women, especially young women, must make wise choices. We can't have it all, not all at the same time, but can take smart steps to ensure long tastes from the full buffet throughout a lifetime. In my 20’s, I had neither the ass nor the time to display it on stage. The clock was ticking and I had to run to keep pace with the boys. In heels yet. I know a handful of women who used to strip, now stuck in per hour jobs in menial professions. None used that money to get through college. They got boobs.

Dupré calls herself a “survivor”; no, survivors are those with healthy and empowering lives, regardless of and because of the journey. Fucking is easy.

She concludes her People interview saying she will, “No! Never again!!” sell her body. Counting the months until the Playboy spread and bologna-throwing Howard Stern appearance.

Monday, November 17, 2008

The ties that bind

The best way to cut my cats nails is to cover her head with a dishtowel. Hiding from the reality of it, taking cover let’s her block out the fear and tension. The anticipated pain.

“I will begin by saying I'm truly sorry for your loss”I may have dreamt the last 11 months and seven days.

“This letter is definitely not designed to bash anyone”
It’s not talked about anymore, just is. But like lilies in church at Easter, it reappears at holidays.

“He is still grieving. I'm not sure about the rest of you”I handled solitary well, learned from it. Sobs can come from deep in the belly and half a bottle of Stoli neat removes all guard. A stranger can find his way to your door in the middle of the night after I-can't-be-alone-anymore-make-me-feel-better internet chat. I never did figure out where the shallow red threads etched in a forearm came from. Cat scratches. Yeah.

“You have tried to punish us for having a family and each other”Yes, he does look good, he’s doing really well since the separation. Do you see I’m 30 pounds smaller? Trying a stuffing recipe found on Food Network. Did she not hear me say, “I need you to be my Mom too?” Did none of it happen? The baby is coming any day now. Do you see I can’t smile? I’m scared if I expose teeth a fist will swiftly push them down my throat. Again.

“I'd appreciate if I weren't brought in this family feud”
No guns or line in sand drawn. Not sure what happened, really. Woke up one morning without anymore. Simple as that, my Dad was gone and soon so was most everyone else. One-little-two-little-three-little-Indians.

“It's amazing how you have not even acknowledged our suffering”
Is there a statue of limitations on isolating, devaluing and shattering family? A reinstatement ceremony? I'm never going to be invited back, am I.

“Continue the disappointment”
Okay. I probably will. But less with myself.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Boy, crazy

Crazy what happens when you put something out in the universe.

The morning was filthy with firemen.

“Yeah, truck!” I exclaim, happily clapping like a little girl at the site of Fire Engine 6 in the gym parking lot. Thing about real-deal gym goers, most aren’t there for anything more than the workout. Staring too much or too long is frowned upon. Forget John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis circa Perfect, the feeling at my gym is mutual sweaty respect. I scan my card at the front desk and complete a quick, covert once over, casual and without a break in step to the cardio room in the back - perfectly incognito.

Just as colorful plumage and bubble gum pink baboon bottoms draw a mate in the wild, the firemen are easy to spot in navy tees, “Westminster Fire” emblazed on the back in big white letters. Long shorts, big radios. “Hmmm…I could always just do the elliptical out here,” I offer myself, “Be bold and ballsy and rotate in at the weight stations,” No, not what I came for. I’m here to work too. Head back to the step class, chock full of women. Sigh.

Then, magic happens. The heat to the group fitness room had been turned off in the night, resulting in arctic breezes and cold hard woods. To warm and circulate air, the instructor leaves the usually full coverage doors open wide. I'm in full door frame when, about 10 minutes in, one wanders from the pack. The navy tee I’d spotted earlier on a treadmill. I glance out for a moment, glowy and still sexy-sweaty (before the blotchy pink flushing and extreme pit sweat). He looks straight at me, so I smile. And he smiles back.

“Yeah, me!” I exclaim.

About 50 minutes of hard cardio and sopping up in the locker room later, I did a quick once-around-the-gym, but he was gone.

Morning errands after had me driving by the grocery, perfect since I was in need of spinach, distilled water, Cherry Chapstick. Maneuvering past the bakery, bringing up the rear, a familiar navy tee paired with yellow puffy, flame-retardant pants passes. He’s older, the iconic image you’d see in an Easter Seals ad or on a cable-network drama. Old school, he sports a gray handlebar mustache and olive skin that looks like it smells of ash. Since they rarely travel solo, a loop back to produce for butter lettuce reveals the younger, dark haired and freshly scrubbed of the pair. Ran into him buggy first, close enough to hear, “Yes, cantaloupe. We need a lot of cantaloupe.” He returned the smile I gave him too. They’re friendly like that, the firemen.

Cantaloupe, FYI, is the sexiest of the melon family, its sweet, mellow taste similar to another found when exploring a woman. You know.

Why didn’t I say something pithy yet safe? “Hey, I just saw a bunch of you at my gym!” Cute, quick and explains the lack of makeup and heels. Plus calling out my fitness quest alongside a cart of crunchy beta carotene says healthy as well as luscious and juicy. But no. I merely admire.

I’m not a fire stalker. Really. My affinity and affection for all men (well, those men who turn on my mind as much as anything else) is well documented, regardless the profession or situation. Yet just as some gentlemen prefer blondes, short stature, fake tits or old-man scrotum shade of tan, I go for dark, tall, broad shoulders, fair skin and more often than not holding an axe of some sort. Guitar players and firemen (as well as Mr. Cusack, any era) are my "thing"; they need do little more than show up and I’m half way to theirs. There are risks; the guitar player prefers the company of pros and porn stars. In fairness he told me and I didn’t listen, and I dodged a probable Chlamydia bullet. But I found who he was overrode what he was. Pity he wants nothing of me.

There was a time early in my corporate career where men in suits did it, something in those molded shoulder pads no doubt.

Hockey players, rugged, unshaved and often missing teeth. I can bandage that up, rub that out, make it all better. Bookworms and poets, sensitive listeners who rub your feet. Men who can cook.

Perhaps the better blog is what doesn’t do it.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

All tied up in a pretty package

Waking early for the gym on a weekend spells commitment. Or lack of anything better to do. Or penance due a previous night of too much salt, vodka and feet in the air. I made the 9:00 a.m. step class. As “arrest” is to “conviction”, “made” is to "attempted." A sub was subbing, lovely girl but whose last-second queuing has me ass backward more moves than not. No worries, had my Nano, my Bono and a room full of cardio equipment. And the firemen.

Westminster Fire and Rescue. Fire Station 6. They travel in packs, firemen (plural). Often find them as a bunch in the grocery and, surprisingly and happily, my gym on a Saturday morning.

One caught my eye and kept it. Tall, broad shouldered and with a bit of a duck ass, walking on the balls of his feet, projecting posterior upward as if toward God; you see this roll often in women wearing too high of heels. Dark hair and amiable, he helps at the smoothie bar with delivery and mounting (dirty) of a foamy whipping contraption. I stare wherever he roams, keeping pace on the elliptical, hard interval runs slowing to smooth, hard heel digs (best for fat burning). I stalk him from treadmill to weights and stretching. Oh stretching. God, he’s nearly as bendy as me. As quickly as I’d found him, he was gone.

Funny, the firemen drive the big rig to the gym, the squirt and hose, full-on urban assault vehicle of a truck. They can’t carpool? I watched them drive away. Slowly.

The ladies like fireman, more so than policemen (especially motorcycle traffic cops who think a speed gun an extension of a too-small appendage.) Firemen are regular Joe’s who drink beer, collect cans and presents for kids at Christmas. Take in abandoned babies. The fantasy isn’t a rescue by Prince Charming but Prince change-a-flat-shovel-snow-protect-and-smother-in-tight-abs.

My fondness for fireman, although somewhat fueled by the savior aspect, may have more to do with the perfect penis. Or rather the most perfect seen so far in real life (and my hand) which came attached to a fireman. Balanced in scope and size, pink and all over smooth like a bald shiatsu, plump, cylindrical and resting happily eager against defined thighs and belly. A palm full of happy stones, dual sacks of Silly Putty ready to be spread on the Sunday comics and pull up “Peanuts.” I’ve not come across such a thing of beauty since. Truth told, men, your junk is funny. It looks damn funny. Some shriveled and wrinkly as if soaked too long in dirty hot dog water, some bumpy and left leaning. Swear I've had one with a square knot in the end. Don’t get me started on foreskin.

The perfect penis is like the best peach you find all summer, allusive, sweet and often a thing of memories. Nothing compares before or after. And yes, use plays a part; it's not the pen, it's the penmanship and one must cross all the t's and dot all the i's.

A former aerobics instructor, stay-at-home-Mom and friend bakes snowy-sugared cookies and chewy squares to deliver to the firemen at a local station during Christmas. She takes her son, who gazes in awe. Wonder if I could borrow him? I gaze in awe too, for an altogether different chewy reason.

Could always start a small grease fire. Too forward to do so wearing a marabou trimmed short nightie and kitten heel slippers?

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Just Squeeze Me

Writing eludes me of late. I’ve bemoaned how the monetary career grows while the fantasy of binding thoughts in published form, imagining the screenplay and who’d play me suffers. Already picked the local musicians I’ll help launch to national prominence by including in a bar scene and on the soundtrack. And yes, serving cocktails, scones and coffee at the signing.

To freshly-squeeze creative juices and pull myself out of pajamas and away from the home office, I've been seeking out local writing groups and workshops (bonus should either include a poetic, tortured soul with dark hair and eyes who’ll read to me in bed). Found two classes offered by the continuing education arm of my alma mater, dear old CU, which sparked a creative plug:

“Life Writing” works with the concept that truth is stranger (and often more interesting) than fiction.

Truth is also raw, naked and a little scary. In “Creative Nonfiction”:

Do you have an idea for a nonfiction story? Perhaps you are looking for other writers to work with who can provide useful criticism.

“Useful criticism." There’s an oxymoron, like “jumbo shrimp” or “boy friend."

Yesterday two oversized course catalogs, one Winter, one Spring arrived. Should I find it karmic or ironic the only other mail delivered that day was a glossy catalog of bargain books? The abandoned remains of life’s work that don’t sell a full first print, hopes and dreams marked down to $3.95 hardcover?

Wednesday, November 5, 2008


You know how during a televised awards ceremony like the Oscars or the MTV Video Music Awards, camera men often cut to an obvious emotional target? The ex-significant other or losing nominee or starlet caught with privates out, the butt of the joke. Never saw so many brown faces on CNN as I did last night.

In Barack Obama, my power of cognizant recognition doesn’t immediately go to black (is that properly PC? I mean, I’m not white but more a peachy-pink, but “African American” or “person of color” really sounds like we’re trying to hard. Like calling a fat girl "rubenesque" or a garbageman a "refuse engineer" – simple words are good words, people). Instead, I see someone like me, more similiar if not the same. About my age, just a few years older, non-traditional family of mixed faces, shades ranging from porcelain to mocha, who experimented with drugs as a youth and admitted it, college educated, self-made and interested in everything. Feel that I know him, part of my circle. That we present a leader to the world who looks and speaks differently than any in our history is exciting. Maybe the French will like us.

I look forward to the day breasts and a uterus lead the country.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Land of the free

Forget historical significance, change and the political process, Election Day is all about the freebies. And a good day for the hungry, homeless and horny.

Crack open crusty eyes with a cuppa Starbucks Joe and a Krispy Kreme. Settle a Mad Dog hanger or sooth a bleeding ulcer with a creamy, milky scoop from Ben&Jerry’s. Tummy still rumblin, get a Chick-fil-A sandwich or free apple pie with that Big Mac purchased with coins. Downtown, curl up in cardboard at some street meters; parking is free today.

Long lines and curtained booths get you hot? Get yer grip around an adult toy courtesy of Babeland retail stores:
"The rewards are no-so-subtle reminders of this year’s campaign rhetoric. For men, it’s the 'Maverick,' a 'sleeve' for self-pleasuring. According to a press release, 'He’s always there to lend a hand, he works for every man and he bucks the status quo.' Women can choose the 'Silver Bullet' mini-vibrator, 'a magical solution to difficult problems' and 'a great stress-reliever during these troubled economic times!'"
After all, voting feels so good.

Last, if you’re rethinking that “VPILF” inked ode to Sarah Palin, New Look Laser Tattoo Removal in Dallas will burn it off proper.

I'm proud, and full, to be an American.

Go vote, bitches!

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