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.








Thinking of Lard


Me…ice water challenge…last summer

For clarity – I.  Am.  Fat.

I am not overweight.  I am not undertall.  I am not large, rotund, or whatever other polite phrasing can be employed to describe the mass of my body.

I.  Am.  Fat.

But I’m not unhealthy.  The ticker still works.  The mind is sharp as a tack (granted, a little rusty, but I digress…).  The plumbing takes what I eat and converts it to energy and waste products without bias or complaint.  I take zero prescription meds or supplements.  I will occasionally cop to taking an analgesic for various aches and pains that come from 29+ years walking this Earth, and fully admit that I’ve slowed to a leisurely pace in my daily activities.

Now, If you believe the health fascists out there – I should be either dying, or dead. I should be regularly pestering my doctor about this ache or that pain.  I should never leave his office without making a new appointment.  I should be on several prescription medications to moderate my heart, my blood pressure, my cholesterol, my glucose levels, my emotional stability, and my bowels.

And I should be TERRIFIED by the horrible spectre of aging, determined to beat it off with a large, heavy object.

Wait – I AM a large, heavy object! 😀


Taco quiche…noms

It doesn’t end there, unfortunately.  According to those ‘in the know’ in Public Health, I should also be regularly beating myself up over what I choose to put in my mouth, and self-flagellating over my lack of determination in the gym.  And for the icing on this cake (mmmmmm – cake….) my doctor, my publicly-elected officials, and the public at large should all be more than happy to assist in my flogging.

for my own good, of course…

Why is everyone in the field of Public Health worried over what I do with my body?  It’s not their body – it’s mine.  They don’t feel the ache in the back that comes from sleeping flat.  They don’t feel the stubbed toe.  They don’t have to clean the glasses that perch on my nose.  They don’t know that Orange Milano cookies are a confection that makes my tongue sing in joy, and Sauerkraut and Dumplings is the traditional Christmas dinner of my family.

They refuse to acknowledge that I am a thinking adult, capable of making my own decisions, and living with the consequences of them.

Everywhere I turn – there they are.  Bemoaning the health of our nation.  Wringing their hands in agony over the obesity epidemic, the smoking epidemic, the sugar epidemic, the lack of proper funding to assist them in the wars they are waging on health and decency and common sense epidemic…

Oh…wait…no…that’s accurate.  Nevahmind…

Waving around another half-baked study which tells the masses that they are doing it all wrong! even though it was their advice in the first place.

Fat is bad for you!                                                          Not ALL fat is bad for you!

Eggs are bad for you!                                                    Eggs are good for you!

Alcohol is evil!                                                            A glass of wine may have benefits.

Smoking,       salt,           sugar,          trans fats,             cholesterol,             tri-glicerides


Sorry – I’m too busy being irritated…

There is a rather old bit floating out there on the ‘net about ordering pizza after the scourge of “Public Good” has convinced the masses that what they do is for ‘your own good.’   I’ll leave it to you to decide if this is just ♦bullshit, or just ♦around the corner.