The only weight gained during the holidays is probably the growth in our livers.

So Big Red and I were discussing how today commences the 12 days of drying out. But my thought is why go crazy? How about ten days? Or I don't know maybe six. Okay FIVE and that is final. FIVE days of drying out. Afterall, New Year's is around the corner. So we'll just ring ourselves out a little. Then after New Year's we can definitely find some time for the full furnace blast heat dry.

There is always something to screw this up though. Things happen that absolutely must be celebrated - like your third cousin's acquisition of a new patch for Boy Scouts. Or when Doris finally lost her last tooth; and I mean the adult teeth, because Doris is 89. And especially the time Big Red found out the nasty rash she was sporting was simply from a razor burn.

This small time-out is a must for so many reasons. One of which is the fact that Big Red was lamenting she's obviously been drinking way too much coffee, because her teeth seem to be stained a bit more during the holiday festivities. Yeah BR. That's it - way too much coffee. It has nothing to do with the former contents of the bottles inhabiting the Green recycle bin - which is in an overflow capacity at the moment. Therefore we must halt this madness, because clearly BR needs to regain the reasoning portion of her brain.

(Photo)Moi, Jenny McCarthy, Big Red and BFF - okay not Jenny McCarthy, we'll just call her the Engaged One.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Making Big Red invisible isn't Impossible

A devoted reader brought an interesting fact to my attention today. According to the Daily Beast - a news organization I follow daily (hence the name) reported a 15% increase in Champagne sales as the holidays approach. So Big Red, Blondie, Diva, NM and I say, "You're welcome America."

Frankly, I was shocked the number wasn't higher until I realized there was a slight increase in sales outside the U.S., which may have been where we were recently. Yes, we don't just designate the U.S. for Champagne consumption.

Children learn language through necessity to communicate their needs. Well as adults we become artfully multilingual for anything we desire. Actually, for Champagne it really only requires changing your accent and saying it with a question mark inflection. Champagne? Champon? Champagnya? The pop of the cork sounds the same in every language.

So in said "foreign" country the laws are very lax as to liquid carry-ons for domestic flights. How lax? Well I wasn't sure, but we were willing to find out. As it turns out Big Red and I had to race from our hotel early one morning to catch a domestic flight, but may have accidentally frozen a fresh bottle of Champagne in our room. It's the first time I've actually seen a freezer function in a hotel.

So, in all our logic with two hours of shut-eye behind us - we grabbed the bottle and threw it in our carry-on. After all, it is technically not a liquid at this point. We're hoarding a solid. We may have been asked by a few people in line what we planned on doing with it. Um "Drink it when it thaws, duh!"

One would think I might be more concerned upon approaching security in a foreign country where they so kindly offered Visas to us. I'm here to tell you, when you really want something - serendipity comes a knocking.

Then, it happened. Opportunity slapped me in the face so hard, my cheek is still red. A group of diplomats was being detoured around security screening and we figured; what's a couple more people? It just so happened Big Red and I were all dolled up in our professional attire, so can you say BLEND IN? Yes, I kid you not. My cloaking powers worked. No one ever thought I could make Big Red invisible. To this day we still don't know if the chemists in security would have spent time arguing solid versus liquid, but we weren't willing to miss our flight to find out.

And in case you're wondering, by the time we checked into our next destination - the Champagne was at the perfect temperature.


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

I gave up a bout of Depression to only contract Tourette's Syndrome

Hello people. Remember me? I used to actually print words on a blog and send it out. If you are wondering where I've been, I can't really tell you. But, as it turns out, I've apparently been depressed. However, I've been laughing so much I failed to notice.

So now I must diagnose the cause of this state-of-mind. Is it due to the failed marriage of Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries; or the fact that I miss Charlie Sheen on Two and a Half Men? It may have a lot to do with Southwest Airlines not serving Diet Dr. Pepper anymore. I've been upset about that for a long time; and every time I board a flight with them, I'm flooded with the memories of what used to be.

I'm sure it isn't because of my recent reunion with a gal at MY gym who has shed layers of pounds; and is sporting a body load of muscle after a year of training. I could never be resentful of such a thing for a fellow human, because I know the hours of hard work it takes to get there. Jello shots were probably not part of her training.

Except, you should know this is how the short conversation transpired when I bestowed her with accolades for her accomplishment.

Me: OMG Girl, you've been working hard. You look great.

That woman: Well YOU were my INSPIRATION!!!!!

So, there is more to the conversation, but I must stop now and say to those of you who are reading this: NEW RULE! If I inspire you to work out - DO NOT - I repeat - DO NOT outdo me. Really? You want to come in here with your size two, ready for beach volleyball body - transformed from your robust size 12, and tell me - I was your INSPIRATION?

She said some other words after that, but I couldn't hear them, as I was in a cold, dark vacuum - muttering nonsensical, Tourette's Syndrome-esqe obscenities under my breath.

In my fog, I may have said, Oh that's great. You look amazing. You've really outdone yourself. Hey, when does your membership expire here?


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

What's worth trading for a $10 Hooker?

So I've always said I wouldn't blog while drinking. I mean, it's a no-no in every other facet in life. No drinking, driving & texting; no drinking and riding a bike; no drinking and stealing tigers; and the no brainer - no drinking and tipping cows. But I'm on a gazillion hour flight with Big Red, who thank God made it to first class this trip. I can see the relief on the flight attendants faces, NOT!

Anywhooo, we only made it as far as Salt Lake City without incident. Yeah well, trouble tends to follow Super Heroes and their.... well, whatever Big Red is. Some guy had the audacity to walk too close past me - when BR and I spotted in his hot little hands a Fedora that would fit perfectly on my tiny little pea-brain.

It's true, I have a pinhead. My mother who is all of 100 lbs, maybe - must have made some pact with God when I arrived into this world, because finding hats for me is as easy as finding a virgin anywhere near a Volcano. That may go over some heads, but people my age and Tom Hanks will get it.

So Big Red says hey that's a cute Fedora. To which Stingy-guy says, "It is my wife's." Well my natural reaction was, "Can I have it?" He replied, "How much?" As you can imagine, my response was that of, "Oh I usually just make-out for things as trivial as a hat." His response, "where are you sitting?" It was funny until I realized he didn't want to make out, he wanted to trade for my first class seat. At that point I knew the hat must have been cheaper than a $10 Hooker. His poor wife. He's not even sitting in first class.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Have you ever spanked your Chauffeur?

Just when you think you've been a pretty good parent - aside from a few setbacks - someone has to show you up by bragging at the liquor store about their 9-year-old kid who can drive.

Where have I gone wrong? I was so caught up in her grades and social life, I completely forgot one of the basic needs on this planet. DRIVING Her momma home from a night out. I've been putting her on the bus at 7 a.m. everyday, while I dart off to Super Hero training. As it turns out - all this time she could have been hitting the snooze button and chauffeured her own pigtails and nursery rhymes a couple of miles down the road for her scholarly upbringing.

Well I haven't failed completely as a mother. For example, one evening Big Red, BFF and I had a hankering for some wine and cheese. However instead of patronizing the wine dump that actually has both of the above mentioned items, we chose to go to a locale offering the grander selection of grape swill - even though they clearly have an adversity to supporting the dairy industry.

Therefore this requires packing up a few things to satisfy Big Red and BFF's lactic cravings. As my loving little heiress observed from across the breakfast bar, I began to pack a dazzling Arthur Court cheese tray, several cheese cutters, napkins and other snooty accoutrement before heading out to the market for the assortment of snacks.

Upon my arrival to our favorite bottle shop, we began to set the table with the carefully selected items from my bag of tricks, only to find at the bottom of the bag a little something my daughter contributed to the picnic - A BIBLE. Maybe she can't drive, but she packs a powerful sense of humor.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Is it Wrong to Pay for the Services of Hot Men?

What's a dinner without a few laughs and insults? I'll tell you what it is - a Church pot luck. I don't know about you, but "said" event for me is like holy water to a vampire. I disappear into a pile of ashes. Now I feel compelled to enlighten you on our recent dinner at "Not a size 4 Anymore," BFF's McMansion. And by the way she was greeted in her home by one of the male guests with a "You look great!!! You're hardly showing." To which she replied, "Oh thank God, because I had the baby THREE months ago."

Our bevy of hosts for the evening included a doctor, a dentist and a casino mogul - all of whom... wait for it.... own Wineries. You say, how do you land such wonderful and talented people to entertain you? I say, the old fashioned way. We buy them. You've read my blog - we don't have any friends. I couldn't believe how fortunate we were to have a doctor in the house for our emergency. Oh nobody choked. But Big Red and I need Malaria drugs for our upcoming Brazilian experience.

Not the strip me bald Brazilian - all you need is a little sedative for that. No, we applied for Visas and for reasons unbeknownst to us, the Brazilian Government actually approved them. So after indulging in, and fawning over the doctor's fancy grape juice, I asked the man I met only an hour before - if he wouldn't love to write up a couple of Malaria prescriptions. Oh, you have your pad in the car? Oh I couldn't impose. Oh, it's not a bother to call the CDC at 9 p.m. and find out what type of Malaria drugs we actually need? Oh great. Thanks Doc.

Then after a steady diet of wines from Ferrari-Carano; Arger-Martucci; and Carrefour - Mr. Casino Mogul decided we weren't drinking enough. This Super Hero was going slow due to the imposition of having to drive an actual vehicle off the premises at the end of the evening.

So Casino mogul relieved yours truly of driving duty and called his limo driver - to lift the burden of my anesthetized future. Yeah the food was good too, whatever. You don't buy Winemakers for their culinary prowess. You buy them because they are HOT and can pour liquid.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Belching is the new Runner's High

I loathe invites to six-course dinners. It's not the invite so much as the prep work in anticipation of such an event with which I have the problem. The day begins with waking up, which is very taxing in and of itself - then I must search for clean gym clothes, or the cleanest dirty gear in the pile.

Then there are the goals I must set before arriving at the gym. Such as, don't puke, don't trip, and scan the cardio room for signs of life before employing my diaphragm with the grandest burp of all. Hey, excreting air from my gut is my euphoria while running. I don't know anything about that runner's high folks talk about. The moment grape juice hit my palate - runner's high took a backseat and those doors are locked.

As you have detected, if I am to indulge in a multi-course gourmet meal - I must burn a gazillion calories which takes a lifetime on the treadmill. And then post workout, I can only consume water, an apple and any particles of food that drop from my teeth while flossing. If you just lost your appetite, then all I can say to you is, "You're welcome." You do realize anorexia is for weight loss, and Bulimia is solely for maintenance, right? Once again, Big Red's prep is a little different. You'll find her in the horizontal position with a gaggle of women in some sweat shop next to a burger joint.

(To the left is BFF's sister, Big Red, BFF and Moi.)

So this fabulous dinner will be hosted at our BFF's McMansion. She has the legs of a gazelle, and on any given day is typically a size 4. However she's recently extracted a bun from her oven. Yeah, whatever, congrats she now has baby boy. BTW I've decided there are enough of this particular gender in the world. I move we place a moratorium on birthing boys until they figure how to treat the females who are currently inhabiting the earth.

Anyway, Big Red and I have never been more excited to be in "Not a Size 4 Anymore's" presence. What? Yeah I said it. But remember I write this blog to make ME feel better. And yes I do still have friends. I can count them all on four fingers. And to be fair, we only have a small window of opportunity to wallow in her misery, because BFF has some sort of magical baby fat melting powers I've never understood. Dinner blog coming next. And with it - you will see I'm not the only person lacking in the TACT department.


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Big Red is nothing, if not consistent.

As you all know I took a little time off from the drama of dating to focus on... something. I don't know what. As you can see I'm sharply in-tune now. However, it has been a point of contempt for Big Red, because she just couldn't believe I could just throw in the towel. She thought I had lost my mind. She'd say, "Well I still believe in love." And I don't doubt that, because she married and divorced the same man twice. Hey, when you poke yourself in the eye, don't you repeat the process just to make sure it was THAT needle that provoked the injury?

Anyway, 365 days has come and gone, and I put on my big girl britches and accepted a "date." When I broke the news to Big Red, you should have seen her face. Well it actually looked exactly the same as it did moments before, but I blame that on her recent trip to the facial filler specialist.

However, if she could have moved her face it might have resembled that of a baby who just lost her pacifier, or in her case lost her new Victoria Secret boob job. She couldn't whip her phone out fast enough to check the calendar. Her words, "Wooah, wait, when? Because I know you're really busy. I'm not sure you have time." What I do love about BR is at least she's consistently unsupportive, whether I'm dating or I'm not. As you can see from the photo, she's handling it very well.

Oh and the date went off without a hitch in my giddy-up last night, and I attribute that to Big Red's global position of approximately 450 miles away from any restaurant in Northern Nevada.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Big Red's middle name is "dedication."

During this venture to Super Herodom, Big Red and I stop at nothing to find the meal ticket to allow ourselves high consumption rates of food and beverage and still mold these ancient vessels into some semblance of a fleet on which the King, (any King, oh who am I kidding a court Jester at this point) would set sail. I've found there is something to the old adage "you have to put more out than you take in," has its merits. So I've started putting out more. Running!!! I've been running on a hamster wheel, and guess what? I loathe it. Surprise surprise. Big Red just puts out more. It's working for her too, and her skin has cleared up.

No not really. No one has actually given her the opportunity to - or I'm sure she'd be committed to the task. For instance, I was astounded the day, (Sept. 5 - remember this date) she announced she will practice as a Presbyterian. I had to ask after all her years of Catholicism, why the sudden change. She looked at me perplexed and went on about how she will only eat veggies and fish til the end of the month. This immediately explained the newfound religion of Pescatarian. While very similar to Presbyterian, fearing God isn't actually mandatory to practice as a Pescatarian.

And her dedication to this amazing turnabout is undeniable. I mean starting on Sept. 5 and committing to such a healthy lifestyle for 25 whole days. Who is she? Mother Teresa? I'm not worthy. As you can see, Champagne will not be left behind on this new endeavor.


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

I apologize profusely to Katy Perry

Big Red and I headed to our nation's capital, where we could witness some of the best and brightest lobbyists practice their Illusionary spells. This is because the only art of witchery we witnessed this past Legislative session was voodoo; and I'm afraid the dolls were exact replicas of us, and they were sporting more needles than Pinhead from Hellraiser.


Soooooo. In the midst of all this learning, we needed nourishment, and where better to go than the Back Bar at Old Ebbitts where many a deal have been struck, and the only artwork displayed is of Rubenesque women - who make us look like Twiggy - well at least to a guy whose thrown back several pints, or maybe a Keg. And this leads to..... well I'm just going to say it. I kissed a Brit and I liked it.

In addition to violating some International statutes, due to the French-style I used on the English lad, I must confess, he's about 100 years younger than I. You know how it is with Super Heroes, we are centuries old - oh wait maybe that's vampires. Well I'm sure some of my ex-boyfriends believe I sucked the life out of them. (Pic. of Brit below)




And in my defense, I don't wander around strange cities looking for jail bait to osculate, but he was begging for it. No, literally, I swear - he begged. But I have issues with PDA (Public Displays of Asininess). So he had to muster up some sorcery of his own to make me believe we were the only people standing in the middle of the hotel lobby. And perhaps the Veuve assisted in the illusion. Who am I to say? I couldn't even remember my room number at that point.



Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

It's rubber but not the USC namesake kind.

Sometimes I have no words. You tell me, when I post a picture like this - will you actually retain anything in written communication?

Just when you were wondering if the Universe still has a sense of humor, a big large, shiny, wrapped rubber package lands right at your watering hole to remind you - Yes a sense of humor is abundant in our cosmos. And he could have possibly been a figment of my Cosmotini-induced fog, however, he was smiling right back at Big Red and me.

So when I decided a couple of weeks ago that I may be ready for the dating game again, this is what the Universe sets right smack dab in front of me. As a Super Hero in training, Ive learned many things - and as it turns out, Rubber Man is my Kryptonite.

Who knows, maybe he has an affinity for scuba diving. Looking for the positive people.

Give Big Red a new Toy and she won't stop playing with it.

After merely 2 hours in Hawaii I gave Big Red a boob job to rival any L.A. or Las Vegas plastic surgeon; and with no scars (well not the physical kind). That's right, Super Heros in training can perform miraculous changes in people. How, you say? Well I recently purchased some apparel from a little known shop called....... Victoria's Secret. Well the secret is out - even Big Red can swell in the right spots with special operative gear from the right equipment outfitters.

So she's now enjoying the art of talking with her sisters which transformed from peaches to trophy buck Watermelons, because those bazoombas turned into eyeball magnets. Now I wouldn't be so concerned for her except she may actually injure herself based on the fact she hasn't taken her enhancement gear off in 46 hours.

Big Red stumbled out of bed from an 8 hour slumber with a glass coffee pot in her possession and serendipitously made her way to the sink. Blondie and I know this because we were ripped from our serene slumber by the crashing sound of glass shards penetrating every corner of the bathroom after Big Red's eye opening glimpse into the mirror which prominently displayed her shiny new toys.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Big Red will call anyone a "Dumbass"

Listen, I've been harping on the virtues of muscle building and fat burning for 19 months now; and sure I've made fun of how IQs can degenerate as muscle mass increases. But it just takes one encounter with Mr. Muscle Mass to bring that theory home. Let's just get to the point. Big Red and I met former Raiders Linebacker Rod Martin five times in the span of an hour one night. I realize how absurd that sounds, like perhaps, we were stalking him? Well no more than any of the other NFL greats who were there.

When Martin introduced himself the first time, I regaled him with the story of my High School boyfriend challenging me to memorize the starting lineup of the Oakland Raiders. I was so proud to have accomplished this feat until I learned my prize was a trip to Oakland to see the lineup in person. I recall asking if I could just have hundred bucks instead.

Anyway, apparently there are some short-term memory issues with Mr. Martin. We can only deduce this from the fact he approached us four more times inside a 40 minute time period with his hand held out - "Hi, I'm Rod Martin." At which point Big Red made him feel very at home with a "Hey Dumbass, we know." I politely responded with yes, we've gone over this a few times now. His response, "You know, I have suffered a few concussions." Nooooooooo. So I figured maybe this time when I asked to try on his Super Bowl ring, he'd forget that too. Nope. It is clear his ring is more memorable than I am. Whatever.

Now for those Rod Martin fans out there, I want you to know, his short-term memory loss seems to only be a nuisance at cocktail hour. I know this because the following morning at the first sighting of us, he maneuvered through the tables in record speed (envision this in slow motion-and if he still had hair it would be flowing backward) with open arms; at which point I extended my right hand out and said, "Hi, I'm Rod Martin."

I think the moral of this story is to keep working out, but not for any activity that could hinder your ability to socialize at a cocktail party. No, just do it so you can fit into your pants. When NIKE starts using that mantra - we want royalties.

Big Red's favorite exercise involves lying on her back

Prior to my departure last week for a 6-day girls' outing in L.A. and Las Vegas, I paid it forward with a daily routine on the treadmill for at least 60 - 75 minutes. Being a Super Hero in Training and all, I had this vision that although my workout clothes would be following me to both destinations, they may squeal at the sight of bright light upon their return from the bowels of my luggage. I surprise myself with my foresight.

During this trip I had a couple of dizzy spells when standing up as my brain was exercising its incredible sense of humor by withholding the information from my legs. Due to the fact that I make fun that I'm getting dumber as I gain muscle mass, the boss upstairs enjoys the serendipitous prank on my appendages. This explains the multiple stains on my clothes which are residuals of matter that should have made it to my mouth. Therefore I have to occasionally use vocabulary words above my grade level to let my medulla oblongata know it is the bomb.

Okay, I actually have low blood pressure, which is a condition completely lost on Big Red, who is a huge advocate of any exercise she can accomplish while lying flat on her back. Okay now wait a minute people. It's Pilates. She's a big Pilates fan - and not so excited about any two-legged form of movement. Anyway she was scratching her head wondering how I could possibly be inflicted with such a debilitating disease. At which point I had to explain to her this is a sign of incredible athletic conditioning garnered from.... I don't know.... cardio exercise. I know you can't see it from here, but my heart has abs.

We're not holding our breath for a repeat invite to L.A.

Now that the session is over, Big Red and I have been back into training. Me as a Super Hero and she as, well, as somebody who hangs around a Super Hero in Training.

However, we took a break after a rigorous 16 days and made our flagship journey to Los Angeles. As I was writing this, I was thinking I'm so glad we had the foresight to pack workout clothes, which served as very useful swaddling material for the wine glasses we accumulated on the trip.

Anyway, back to L.A. baby, where we discovered we actually like people again, well right after we turned our backs to the airport terminal and waved goodbye to the annoying, uninformed traveling public.

Our first evening in Los Angeles took us to a fabulous awards show. Well actually we were guests of those being honored. Okay more like we sat on the couches outside of the awards show while our new friends attended the event. Okay fine. We had actually moments earlier met the people who were invited to the shindig and they grinned and nodded towards us as we were being escorted out.

Next stop is Phillipe Chow with our new Diva-licious comrade for a birthday party. But not before Diva reveals we must make a pit stop in the Valley for her wardrobe change. Now, most people have no clue what this drive means, but by the time we arrived at our destination most passengers would have received in-flight drink service twice; been reprimanded for having any electronics turned on during takeoff and landing; and been given a pillow and blanket.

So finally we arrive at..... Cedric the Entertainer's house. I know, Shut Up! No. You Shut Up! Lucky for us, our hostess hadn't figured out we are like a couple of toddlers who shouldn't be left alone unless secured in a playpen while she spent an evening shopping in Mr. Entertainer's wife's closet for party-wear.

Hey look here, what's this? A wine pantry - you don't say. Well we were told to help ourselves to a glass of any sweet nectar we could fine. I'm proud to say Mr. Entertainer (not Cedric, I'm trying to be respectful, after all, our fingerprints are all over the place because there were some beautiful wines that were begging to be fondled) has a very nice selection of wine including some from Nevada's own Carano family.

At this point we have emptied one bottle of wine into two wine glasses. Gotta love the big gulp size wine glasses. So, now what? Oh look a larger than life painting of The Entertainer himself. We couldn't help but think, since Mr. Entertainer isn't here to show us around himself, he would certainly want us to photograph ourselves with his (what appeared to be just delivered) painting of The Man himself. As you can decipher from the attached photos, even in absentia, Mr. Entertainer is picky about the photos in which he allows his image. Big Red has a lovely picture of herself with a bright flash of light.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

If Lou Ferrigno can't do it - then nor can I

So I heard from a very reliable source you can't actually reach Super Hero status until you've spent an entire day at The Ivy for lunch. Well maybe I had a dream about it, or fantasized about it, since nearly a year of celibacy has forced my fantasies in a whole different direction. Although I do receive signs in odd forms. For instance, instead of tea leaves, Big Red and I have taken on the art of reading wine sediment. Hey, you take the resources that are available to you. This task has its hazards. Such as last Wednesday it took 5 bottles before we realized there is no sediment in Sauvignon Blanc. Garçon bring out the Cabernet please.

Anyway, as it turns out, The Ivy in Los Angeles is a place where guests are in need of the services of a Super Hero, because they are "Hollywood" and don't have the energy to defend themselves based on their daily diet of 3 grapes a day with Veuve chasers. Now Big Red would like to claim I forced her into "said" diet, however, while she still had all her faculties about her at 1 p.m., she chose to order the Papaya and Avocado salad which was her last meal of the day due to the 5-hour "lunch" which included the above mentioned salad, 18 Gimlets, and Duckhorn Sauvignon Blanc. So by 6:30 p.m. the only source of nutrition she could feasibly consume would have been through intravenous injection, based on the fact her mouth couldn't form any replica of the English language, let alone have the strength to actually gnaw on any type of solid.

I'm no doctor and haven't even played one on T.V. - So she missed a meal. Heaven forbid. She certainly made up for it the next day with a heart-stopping - and I have to emphasize this part,, "AIRPORT" - chili-dog. I know, I'm training to be a super hero and all, so I should have saved her from herself. However, you have to understand, Lou Ferrigno couldn't have pried her hands off that dripping hot sausage sandwich at that moment.

Friendliest girl at the beach

Proceed with caution, because I'm just now hopping back on the "writing" bike with my training wheels on today, after a long composition hiatus. It was a break that was necessary in order to keep a paycheck coming so I could actually keep this laptop, my house, car, food, custody of my child, etc.

After a long arduous, hard working winter that lasted longer than your worst nightmare of a date - you know - the date that forced you to fantasize of a demonized winged creature swooping in to yank him from this universe. Another analogy my sluttier friends (Big Red) will understand better - you know, the date that had you making out patterns on the ceiling as if they were constellations? Okay, so it was a long winter.

With that established, and the fact I spent 120 days with virtually no ability to turn my nose up to an invitation to fatty food and copious amounts of grape juice - you need to know this Super Hero in training's swagger turned more into a lumbering waddle as I returned to a life of normalcy by the Legislative session's end.

So on June 6th, I took a long hard look in the mirror and decided the party responsible for this mess is - NOT ME. No, I would never do this to myself. I place the blame on every Legislator that serves in Nevada. Yep. 63 people should feel very bad for what they've created. Maybe there are only 62 Legislators now, because from the looks of me - I'm can't be sure I didn't actually consume one of them.

Anyway, I have been on a very strict, self-imposed diet and exercise regiment for 12 days and am proud to say, by the time I'm in Hawaii next month, I may be able to reveal my ankles. Actually I can see some remnants of my abs by now and I look great in a bikini in low lighting; and if I stretch my hands way, way, way above my head. I'll be the friendly girl on the beach with a gregarious double handed wave for every passerby.

The good news is I have something like 42 days left to continue the transformation. Or 50 days. I don't really know because that would involve pulling out the abacus.

Fabio is not in my fridge.

The past year has been one of discovery for me. I've discovered that no amount of training will bring my headlights back to high beams; no amount of alcohol can make Donald Trump look sexy (whether I consume it or he does - it won't matter).

It's easier to lose your mind than to lose blib; and it's easier to relax and enjoy life without the responsibility of an adult relationship. There are skeptics out there that believe I'm sneaking into the proverbial fridge getting some "I can't believe it's not butter" action in the middle of the night.

Well let me help you out here. I guarantee the butter lid is on, however, if you are one to play in the stock market - you may have noticed the spike in Duracell over the past 9 months. Look at that, a new discovery - I have no boundaries. I am sooooo going to have the walking into school naked dream tonight after unleashing that bit of information.

Anywhooooo, after 18 months of training I was not getting any new results. So I had to ask myself why I endure the rigorous workouts and the tedious daily calorie counting. Okay, so I only count until the first glass of wine jumps in my hand. What? Math is hard enough already. Like I'm going to cramp a muscle in my brain to satisfy my calorie curiosity?

So what I'm getting at is the following. I quit. Yeah I said it. I quit working out for three weeks. It was liberating. I was free, yes free. This was a wonderful feeling until yesterday when I was blow drying my hair. I suddenly had to disrobe due to the humidity and heat in the room. Then moments later the mirrors cleared - which was the exact moment I decided the gym really missed me. Moral of the story: buy a funhouse mirror.

If only Bin Laden had vacationed in Vegas

I'm just going to start this out with - I spent the weekend in Vegas. Yes, because when you're on a high note in life you should always visit the world where dreams die and the downtrodden whimper.

In this world of Sin City, who is going to worry about little jiggly on your body - especially when you're looking into the blood-shot eyes of a buck-naked guy who just chased a wily hooker down the hall of his hotel because she absconded with his wallet after coaxing him out of his favorite Holiday shorts. I'm just saying my little problems are forgotten when staring into the eyes of Felony-stupid.

I don't know why the Vegas hotels didn't think to send a 3-day vacation package to Osama Bin Laden before now. That 30-dollar hooker could have blown his head years ago - OFF, I mean blown his head OFF.

I'm kidding. This doesn't really happen, because prostitution is illegal in any county in Nevada with a population of people who have most of their teeth. I feel a check coming from the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority about now.

Okay back to felony stupid - And I'm going to cut a little slack on the stupid part when explaining to you the fact that Big Red is not a quitter. And when I say not a quitter, I mean she will vow to break every bone in her body to prove to me she can fly.

It brings tears to my eyes to see her incredible ambition, but I'm always taken aback when she feels the need to try such risky moves with an audience of - well - a full restaurant and bar.

It was difficult to determine her intended destination when she took flight from a perfectly sturdy bar stool, because she only got as far as my feet. But like I said, she can't even spell quit. No, really, on some days she literally can't. She did however receive a standing ovation when everyone jumped out of their seats to see if there was any blood on the floor. I think the staff of STK actually offered her a weekly gig.

The Jolly Green Giant likes Bacon

Now I realize at my age I will never qualify as a trophy wife. As a matter of fact the only trophy I'll be is the kind you find hanging on the wall at a sports lodge. I have been enduring grueling workouts for more than a year now and still -- a description of me would not entail the word "thin."

I climb those stairs nearly daily as if to find nirvana at the top, yet all I do is fantasize of quicker ways to reach the fountain of youth, such as strategically placed surgical adhesive under my chin to pull back the extra layer of skin I've accumulated; and stretching it back to my spine at the nape of my neck.

I admittedly do have more muscle mass, but I'm guessing if the Jolly Green Giant threw me in a frying pan, the aroma of sizzling bacon would emit the air. That is not to say that in a strength competition with a 20-year-old girl I wouldn't prevail. I told my trainer to find any sedentary, chicken wing eating 20-year-old girl who just underwent knee surgery, and I'll show you how this 49-year-old mountain of steel can kick some butt. My glutes are as rock-hard as a partially inflated soccer ball.

You see, I'm back to self-loathing due to the fact that through no fault of my own, I've been accumulating new girlfriends who are at least a decade or more younger than I. However, as soon as I start dating again, the only sight of these new girls will be in my rear view mirror.

I knew this good mood couldn't last forever. Thank God. I also realize I haven't had to self-deprecate for the past week, because I've wallowed in my BFF's own version of such for the past week. I'm pretty sure Be-Be's mood is to blame for the trembling earth. I know it isn't easy being Be-Be, but you should try on the "her best friend" shoe one time. I'm just saying.

I don't even know me anymore.

As I climbed the stairs to nowhere this morning, I questioned myself on why I haven't indulged in my therapeutic blogging ritual for several weeks. After retreating to the recesses of my mind and digging very deep into my id,(this took about 5 seconds) I learned - I'm too damn happy.

Something is seriously wrong. I think I have been lobotomized. That may not be a word, but as we all know, it's my blog and if I want to butcher the English language into a bloody nubbin - I can.

So I figure all this happiness has to come from somewhere. I guess the whole not dating thing has kept me from any kind of tortuous heart breaking. Oh wait, I can't get a broken heart, because I actually don't have possession of such an organ any longer. Yeah, funny story. I told the last guy who stole it, he could just keep it. I wasn't going to be needing it anymore. And that worked out okay, because I kept all the jewelry. In retrospect I think I should have held out for a car too.

So the next time you see me, perhaps you should try to make me miserable so I can actually get back to my self-deprecating state of mind (which, by the way, is a very comfortable place for me to be.) I don't know how to act with all this happiness bottled up inside me.

Be-Be's Scale Gave Up

Thank heavens the holidays are finally over. I can get back to some essence of normalcy. Today is virtually the first day in weeks that I have awakened with no residuals from the art of miscalculating portion sizes due to my poor math skills, celebratory flu, sinus/cold or belly flu.

But I do take comfort in the fact that at least my scale didn't commit suicide during the holidays. How many of you had to go buy a new scale after the holidays? I only ask this because apparently some scales (okay the one owned by Be-Be) just give up from the duress in trying to please. Oh, I don't think it's due to excess weight on the scale - it was just pure fear of Be-Be's approach.

If you don't know Be-Be, she doesn't take bad news really well and I can only imagine the anxiety of those tiny little gears in the bowels of the scale when Be-Be's time of reckoning hit. I can hear the bugles belting out the Battle Hymn of the Republic trying to awake all the other scale parts from their peaceful slumber.

Scales aren't prone to sweating, but this poor fella had some pressure trying to soften those springs and crank those tiny little wheels and stop them before some unsuitable number popped up, just so no abuse could ensue post weight check.

She never told me what actually broke the scale - whether it was the time she kicked it into the wall after a night of riotous living, or when she threw it across the room after a week of consuming only sprouts and coffee - but I'm guessing if you opened it up and took a close look, you'd see hundreds of tiny little nooses dangling from every little gear, spring and pin.

Be-Be can be unpredictable, but I can now guarantee you, I will never hear the words "My scale broke," from her lips again.

I see Kim Kardashian in the mirror.

It's a new year and I've made no new resolutions. I'm dealing with enough from last year's commitment to Super Heroism. I've been feeling guilty the past couple of weeks, because my gym attendance has been at best, paltry. But I regained some sense of self-worth when it was brought to my attention that Kim Kardashian is apparently my twin.

I know, I couldn't believe it either, but after careful thought I see the resemblance. She is 20-something; and I'm 20-something plus 20-something. She is well-endowed in the hindquarter and, well, I just have a big ass.

She dates rich and famous guys; and I've been known to flirt with disaster by spending my time with the Infamous ones. She has paparazzi constantly stalking her for pictures; and I have friends constantly asking me to take their pictures with other famous people.

And that's not all, she has given up dating in 2011 - and low-and-behold, dating has given up on me. She doesn't drink much; and I don't drink much bad wine. And the Pièce de résistance is - she is drop-dead, stunningly beautiful; and let's just say, (and I'm going out on a limb here) - that I've got to be at least a Yerington, NV 10, a town where meth is what's for breakfast.

So with that said, I'm going to have to muster up the energy to get to the gym so I can hold my own when the not-so-tolerant 8 and 9s of Yerington start looking to bust my face. I still have my teeth and I want to keep them.