In All The Wrong Places

It's great to lose weight in all the right places. So wrong to lose weight in all the wrong places. Of course it happens. I don't seem to be able to fill my bras out anymore. I wore my favorite red dress and it was so baggy up top that I had to pin up the top to make it fit. I simply didn't have the, uh, range to fill it out. You'd think the trade-off for weight loss would result in renewed buoyancy. Yeah, it doesn't. The boobs are smaller but they ain't exactly upright. That's one hell of a trade off. There is some renewed firmness, for sure, but I somehow imagined a pert renewal reminiscent of a Page Two girl from the London Sun.

I have also noticed a lack of curvaceousness. I thought the benefit of weight loss was a renewed sense of confidence and a confidence in curve definition. Instead, there is more definition but much less...how do I put this?..oomph. Great, I wanted to feel even more innocuous than I already am.

I've lost 30 pounds. I'd like to lose 20 more. That would put me (for my body type) at reasonably slim. I know I will have a sense of renewed good health and some sense of fitness and that's good. However, I also sense I will have a level of sex appeal comparable with Al Franken.

Funny conflict to deal with. Being a woman is a bitch.

New Skills

It's crazy, but even at this advanced age in life, I seem to lack some rather rudimentary skills. To whit, Fang and I have a very large flat screen television that is in our living room. This is clearly a man-television. It requires four remote controls just to turn the damned thing on---the sound system, the uber-surround sound and the HD-enhanced viewing...to say nothing of actually turning the television on. For Christ sake, I just want a picture and some sound. The bells and whistles are lost on me.

The remotes have been so well used in their brief tenure (and let's be clear, by the ten fingers that belong to the male living in this apartment), that I can not even program a channel in the non-HD category in order to just find out..you know, today's weather. I usually resort to a head thrown back gesture and a frustrated mew when, suddenly, the remote is snapped from my hand (this would be from the male in the house) who effortlessly dials in a series of numbers to provoke a picture on the screen in seconds. I suspect this is his supreme domestic talent. It should be--he spends enough time laboring on it.

This kind of dominance bothers me. I am perturbed that I too cannot whip out double fisted remote controls and access any channel in my 200+ channel domain in a mil-second. That I can't easily invoke the picture-in-picture function on the TV. That I don't even know how to work the remote for the stereo sound to the TV. That I don't have any channel numbers memorized outside of NBC, PBS and Bravo. I fairly suck.

Honestly, I'm just trying to figure out how to turned the damned thing on.

Gangsta Pole

Polish Hip Hop, courtesy of my friend Brooklyn Sue. Spanialy!!

 

Taking Back My Domain

I post alot of trivial shit daily on Facebook and Twitter and on other domains that flare for a second but that no one gives more than a thought about. The glamor has diminished from these short termed mediums. I used to blog because it forced me to write, to create, to focus energies, to express my heart when I had no outlet to do so. I need to do that again. If you're still coming here once in awhile to see if I'm posting slapdash poetry, I thank you for your confidence and encourage you to come back. I plan to attempt writing again. Starting tomorrow.

Betrayed

Mount the Duke

My brother Marv and his lovely wife Mei Mei are vacationing this week in Hawaii. My brother called me today to tell me he was standing on Waikiki Beach in front of a statue of Hawaiian surf legend Duke Kahanamoku. There is a live webcam focused on the statue. We coordinated times and with the webcam running, I waited for his call. When he did call, we spoke while I watched him respond to me live via the webcam(isn't technology grand?). Seeing the statue of the Duke behind him along with meandering tourists looking inquisitively at the camera, I knew I had to challenge my brother. "Dude," I said, "I'll give you twenty dollars if you mount the Duke." He paused but as expected, rose to the bait. Despite a slight time delay, I watched in incredulous fascination as my brother hiked a leg over the bronze thigh of the Duke and yelled out (with a slight time delay), "Do me, Hawaiian Man!" There were other inappropriate but hilarious actions that made me roar with laughter. My brother and I are 12 years old at heart and lack a rather critical self editing chip.

Thank God. I am sending him $50.

Bootsy

Recently, I purchased a very expensive yet gorgeous pair of leopard boots. They had four inch platform heels and they folded deliciously over the knee. They were incredibly sexy. I loved them but oddly I couldn't bear to wear them. I was indecisive every time that I tried them on, considering how to pair them with tasteful business wear. I left them folded gently in their gleaming purple box. Truth be told, they were a smidge over the top to wear to work (in translation: too hoochie to wear to work--over the knee boots worn to work either means hooker or pirate) and I couldn't imagine putting them on to wear on a weekend on the street. It struck me that I had spent nearly $600 on a pair of boots that would simply reside in my close till the end of time.

Fortunately, I bought them from a Stuart Weitzman boutique so I knew I could return them. I gently packed them up today in their gleaming purple box and with reciept in hand, I returned to the small Upper West Side shop. The sales staff was gracious with the return. Then the saleswoman, a pert brunette named Tanya, undermined me yet again...with the best possible customer service. She asked why the boots didn't work. She asked what colors I wore. She really bore down, getting to my clothing pain point. I admired the salesmanship and gave in to the pain.

She brought out several samples of what I might like. She nailed it. I found a black suede boot that hugged my calves like cashmere. And then she brought out a red pair of boots with the knee length I wanted and with the gorgeous soft calf embrace I desired. They were sexy but still work practical. I was in love. I surrendered my American Express card.

$1,200 later, I felt half horrified. Did I pay this much for shoes? Why yes. I did. And now I had to tell Fang.

I wandered into our apartment laden down with purple shopping bags. I had no clue what to say to my spouse of 17 years. I'm a fan of honesty so I put it out there--and to my surprise he said, "If you're happy, I'm happy." I surely don't deserve this. But I am loving my red boots. Very, very much.

Counting Down The Days

In nine days, I will be here. Secluded in a private cottage on a private beach on a stretch of pristine beach on the Eastern Coast of Rhode Island. I half expect it will be my Valhalla.

My Next Pet

I grew up in a house awash with critters. We were a pet friendly family. We had cats, dogs, hamsters, mice, tropical fish, gerbils, snakes, lizards, exotic birds and insects. I like having animals around me. It's comforting.

I am now petless and heard on some satellite radio station this morning that teacup pigs are now the rage. I am rather fond of the swine as a creature; the notion of having a minature version prancing through Central Park en leash is rather appealing to me.

I'm may just change my mind tomorrow. We'll see.

With A Little Help From My Friends

As you may have gleaned from my disjointed posts this week, I am at a rather conflicted point in my life. We all have these moments, of course, but I have rarely been at such a crossroads at any point in my 47 years. It's made me feel as if I am cushioned in a thick layer of cotton--moving around the world as if all is normal, but not feeling anything---not the chill of the wind, nor the solidness of the pavement beneath my feet, nor the touch of a hand on my arm. It's oddly soothing to feel so inoculated and oddly alarming to feel so detached.

My friend Christo had sent me a message on Friday evening requesting some weekend time for "girl talk." It was a golden invitation at a perfect moment.

We met today on a glorious Fall afternoon on the Upper West Side and we stole into one of those anonymous eateries tucked into the many storefronts that line the endless streets of this city. Over lunch and coffee, we reconnected. I found myself spilling the events of the past few weeks to my friend. He did the same. And in his inimitable sage fashion, he put a great many things into perspective for me.

The two hours we passed talking was the best therapy I could ask for. And if you're reading this, Christo, thank you.

Extreme Office Sports