An Ode to a Sweet Friend



I’m back on the “My ass is mASSive” roll.

I haven’t experienced this level of tuckus-disgustous since my wardrobe malfunction at the Great America theme park. Batman, the Ride will never be the same…

That’s a story for another day, however…


I mentioned that the kids, the SQO & I found a new apartment in the very-early spring.  An apartment that has some perks, some downfalls, and a lot more room.

It also has stairs.  Lots of stairs.

Our apartment is comprised of the 2nd & 3rd floors of an old downtown building.  You know, one where there’s a commercial space (or 2 or 3 or 6) on the first floor, and living quarters (or 2 or 3 or 6) above?  My apartment has the character, high ceilings, wood floors, and funny angles that come with a structure which has rolled its odometer into triple digits.  The only thing that would make it quirkier is if the apartment were lofted.  Personally, I love the new digs…I’ve a southern exposure, HUGE windows, and enough foot traffic to make it a perfect people-watching perch.


Enter:  The Stairs…

They aggravate my knees.  Because the ceilings are high, the stairs are long and steep.  I’ve got one flight of stairs to get from the street to the apartment, and a second set of risers to traverse to reach the bathroom.  The bedrooms are also upstairs, so getting up in the middle of the night to pee is convenient – but the rest of the day?  Stairs.  Stairs.  Stairs.  Stairs.

We also have no parking attached to the property.  Granted, there’s a public parking lot a block & a half away, so it’s not a LONG walk.  But to my sedentary ‘subwoofer,’ it feels like a country mile.

I’m feeling each and every one of the +++’s attached to that 29 year old mythology I keep running regarding my age.

So, it’s once again time to take a long, hard look at the portion of my anatomy that fills out the backside of my pants.

What was that saying…10 pounds of s**t in a 5 pound bag?

Yup.  There it is.  It’s large, and it USED to be in charge.  I’ve enough junk in the trunk for a dozen yard sales – but no longer have a yard…and (I feel like I’m bragging, here) I put the B.A. in Ba-donk-a-donk.

Super-sized me?

My new living quarters have the patootie quite upset…and it has complicated things by bringing the knees and feet over to its side in sympathy.



These protesting body parts have no real idea of what a lease is, and how difficult it would be to break said lease in favor of a first-floor unit with associated parking within the city limits, or one of those ‘trendy’ luxury units in the downtown area which have an elevator to traverse floors, and assigned parking.






Additionally, they have nary a concern for the amount of energy and/or sweat which would be expended in packing up and moving all our things AGAIN to this rose-colored-glass mythological beast of a new, bright & shiny apartment with amenities designed to keep the ‘horn section’ at its current volume.



Lastly, they have no clue on the financial logistics of such a move.  I’ve tried to explain to all my protesting  parts that if they want the ideal, they’re gonna have to go without food…but my body’s never been real good with figures…

As it’s the keister that started all this nonsense, I feel the need to deflate the booty-ego…for its own good, of course…

So – first and foremost on my list of caboose-busting changes?

Coke copy

Coke, to me, is as difficult an addiction to break as, say, cigarettes.  I LOVE regular Coke.  There’s a tingly feeling as it floods the mouth with carbonated sugar and spices.  There’s a slight burn as it slides down the esophagus, and a rush of fullness as it hits the stomach.

This would be the ‘ode’ part, for those of you still reading…

Coke brings belching ease.  Without my fizzy little friend, I find it difficult to expel the gasses produced from breaking down foodstuffs in my stomach. I guess my body prefers to hold on – giving me heartburn and gas pressure, instead… so Coke is, to me, a pressure-release valve…until I drink too much.  Then it becomes an addition to the pressure-cooker I call my stomach.

I’m sure there’s a ‘safe level’ of Coke, but I’ll be damned if I can find (and stick to) that safe level.

I’ve quit the sweet stuff before, for years at a time.  But then I’ll buy a bottle of Coke from the work vending machine.  Make it last a few days.  Then another, certain -this time- that I can limit myself to ‘just a little bit’ of sweetness.

Next thing you know, I’m back up to buying (3) 2 liter bottles at the grocery store each week and supplementing that stock with visits to that before-mentioned vending machine, or others like it around the city.

It.  Has.  To.  Go.

Farewell, my fizzy friend.  I’ll miss you every time I drink a glass of water with a shot of lemon juice.  I’ll remember you fondly when I reach for a Tums.  I’ll have dreams about your cold, caramel-y colored spiciness in the dead of night.


I just have to remember:  if you lie on your back, and cry in your pillow…tears get in your ears.








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