I'm a pork belly thinner after literally eating pork

A wise man recently told me I should write when I'm angry, because everyone writes better when they are angry.  So I thought to myself. I do this often, because I can't read anyone else's thoughts, therefore I'm stuck with mine.  It was now imperative to bring out the inner anger in me; and I knew I had it. I can tell from reading some of my past Facebook posts.

Well what has really chapped my hide in recent weeks is the plateau I've been sitting on, while Big Red slides into home base with her goal weight completely intact. And I quote, "I'm at my goal. Oh, wait  today I'm a pound under my goal," in her best Gidget voice.  Well gosh. I couldn't be happier for you.  Well you did have a lot more weight to lose than I.  Oh snap!! And I'd go on, but as we all know this blog is about me.

Thankful for 128 lb.

I am delighted to report I busted through that final plateau on Thanksgiving morning. That's right, no matter how many times I stepped off and on that scale during the five-minute victory dance, it read 128 lbs.  Now you wonder what did I do differently the day before to finally shake off another layer of pork belly.

Here's the trick: First of all, go to lunch with a lush (in my case it's "I've reached my goal" Big Red) and order the fish they have on special, because this means they're trying to get rid of it before it stinks up the joint. Choose a lovely wine approved by your lunch lush, because this will be all you'll consume due to the one week-old grouper staring at you from your plate's vantage point. Then later in the day, say around 5 p.m. meet the same lush and second lush (Gucci) for an informal meeting with a Museum executive, where you should eat the guts of one BBQ Pork slider; and you must drink all your vodka.

From left: BFF, moi, Raiderette, "I'm under my goal" Big Red,  and Tahoe girl.

And the Pièce de résistance is to skedadle on down to your favorite Italian feeding trough at the very moment they are slicing the premium portion of the Prosciutto, and nibble on that with the crust of a tiny slice of bread - and drink all your wine, and maybe a little of someone else's. This my friends was the magic formula for careening my body through the tortuous daily reading on the scale of (you're still a loser who is such a loser, you can't even lose another pound.)

You all do know that I'm no fool, which is why I hid the scale last night so not to be tempted to climb on for the day-after-Thanksgiving reading. I like the ignorant bliss of knowing just yesterday I was at my goal; and as far as I'm concerned - I'm still there. No scale has any proof otherwise.

Carnivorous Acts of Experimentation

I was recently volunteered by someone to go to the Best of the West Rib Cook-off to indulge in the guiltless act of slathering my face with a couple of dozen carnivore delights, each accompanied by their own palate pleasing liquid elixir.  So, because I'm a giver, and because I refuse to compromise my road to Thinville without jeopardizing everyone else's trip to same destination - I brought in recruits.

Big Red knows no boundaries.

As a non-expert in... well.... everything really, I was surprised to have been put in a position to actually give open judgment on such an important event. So, I did the best scientific experimentation of tasting that I could muster up. Big Red and I filled the table with the most judgmental people we know including BFF, BFF's Banker (aka her husband), Gucci, and two 20-something girls who I shall call "Too Young & Hot to be our friends (TY&H).

So the results are: the TY&H twins hated everything. I think if you are a size 2 and want to remain so, it is actually a requirement to be repulsed by any smell, let alone flavor. They're fired.


The only testosterone at the table, BFF's Banker, gave his thumbs up to The Texas Outlaw ribs.  I never really retrieved an opinion from BFF, because she was elbow deep into a mound of ice cream on a stick. God help us if anyone creates rib flavored frozen creamsicles.

Big Red and Gucci were of no use to me, because neither of their palates have ever discriminated against any type of vittles on a bone.  The Bone Daddy ribs put a sparkle in Big Red's eye, but I can't cleanly ponder the purpose of that.

My favorite sauces were Desperado and Back Forty

Now back to me.  I took my role in the Rib Lab very seriously.  I tasted every morsel up until it all started tasting the same. So after careful review of my notes, I noticed the Carl's Jr. like monster sauce drip next to the Back Forty entry, which can only conclude I was overcome with emotion at this very moment.  And, you may ask, who the actual winner was of this grand festival.  I shall tell you the prize was claimed by Chicago BBQ, which may be the only ribs that never crossed any of my crack pot group of taster's buds.

Jurassic Park is a Paleo Buffet.

As a new member of many who are experimenting with the Paleo diet, I have some advice for you.  Do not leave the Doctor's office without an actual Caveman who will shadow you during your first week.  Each time the feeling of gut-wrenching hunger overtakes you, you'll need him to actually hunt and gather the next morsel that passes your lips.  Why? Because you will be too weak and distraught from lack of starchy carbs to use the side of your brain that actually communicates with your ambulatory body parts.

2 weeks of fat loss between us.

As a victim of a Big Red abduction after a lovely lunch on the patio of a favorite summer dining establishment, I found myself in a waiting room (My energy level is at the point I may be hallucinating - I first wrote "weighting" room - this is no joke).  Okay, moving on. After filling out a five page dossier in a near honest manor on my levels of eating, drinking, health, and exercising habits, I was rewarded with a B-12 cocktail shot in the derrière.

So now you're wondering why I went along with this, since I clearly had not calendared in to restructure the chemistry of my body for a fad diet on this particular day.  Well I asked Big Red the same. Her answer, "You know I can't do anything without you." That does it. The next stop is a Shrink, because from what I understand Codependency, although cute, could be borderline psychotic.

6 weeks of Paleo and now at Blondie's wedding.
Wearing the same dress, but that is not the
codependency I swear. 

Self Deprecation sometimes has an Accomplice in the form of a Devil Teen

At my ripe old age I learn daily that training to be a super hero isn't just physical. The mental beating we take while learning about our ego is resounding.  All you need is a teenager in your home to make sure you never feel secure or safe in your own skin.

Why? You say. Well here's why - I say.  For instance, my teen has an iPhone of her very own, yet she is inordinately fascinated with mine. If I leave it for a second or more  - it is immediately in her clutches. I never know what has changed on it while out of my possession, but I rest assured something has, once it is back with its rightful owner.

Devil Teen

With that said, as I was enjoying lunch yesterday with Big Red and discussing our plans for an upcoming event with a group of folks while reading responses on my email from them - Big Red asks, "what were those little emoticons behind 'Casper's" name on his email address from the blast email you sent out?"  Okay, so first I must explain Casper is new to the Super Hero scene and can't be categorized in the BF department at this point. I think an appropriate way to put it is -  we are both still interning for the BF and GF positions. Or at this point I might say "were" interning.

Princess Teen

So as someone who rarely is paying much attention to Big Red and usually tuning her out while I'm entranced in whatever is striking my fancy at the moment - I suddenly lift my head and slowly turn towards her with my full, undivided attention - and say what anyone with a semi-extensive vocabulary would say: "Hu?"

She said, "You know those little hearts behind Casper's email address?" Now,  Big Red describes the major organ in my body as a cold, black heart.  I must tell you, the sound of said organ falling to the floor creating a near earthquake by the impact, was enough to drain all the blood out of my face.

I immediately grab my iPhone and start looking through my contact list.  The cute little teenager of mine, who I used to refer to as Princess,  has carefully placed emoticons next to a variety of contacts which apparently show up in their email addresses.  So, remember when I said Casper and I were interning for a future position?  Well  now I'm pretty sure the Intern gig is up and my label is the psycho-middle-aged freak who uses emoticons to amuse herself.

Even better is, since my little Princess and Big Red have a continuing battle as to which of them should receive the majority of my attention, the Princess gave Big Red's contact page a face lift with bright red devil-faced emoticons.  I've got to say this kid has a sense of humor.  It's a shame she will be sharing it with only her four walls of her room the rest of the summer.

Big trip to the east for the Derby Gala

I was on my way to the Kentucky Derby one Saturday when I was kidnapped and held hostage at a private country club in east Reno. You see, BFF, an east coast Debutante and west coast Junior Leaguer, had a fantasy of creating an event to remind her of the days when she actually lived with her fabulously wealthy family and socialized with only the elite southern class of the U.S. (Pic below with Big Red and BFF)

Well who were we to squash her dreams of yore? So we put on our BIG girl britches, our Derby worthy frocks, and the most unbridled headdress we could pluck from Minnie Pearl's price-tag-laden hat collection. Having the sense of humor she does, BFF christened Big Red and me as the Bonnet adjudicators of the Derby and we adopted a third party, who I deem Mr. Martini due to his choice of liquid Valium to work his way through the day. So we swept through the room with all our vigor and glory to crown the most stylish headcloth. After which, Big Red proudly stepped up to the microphone to parade her Mint Julep induced southern drawl for the announcement of the winners.

The mic couldn't have been yanked from her at a more opportune time, because at that point she had decided to let anyone know who was listening (a couple of people) that this duo is for hire to host parties. And I say, "Um, no we aren't." I'm sure at that very moment the Kardashians and Paris Hilton were shaking in their stilettos for fear of losing their next Vegas gig to a couple of middle - no strike that - 3/4 aged loud mouths.( To the right is some MMA fighter, Attorney Girl, moi and Big Red)

And just my luck, as we wandered to the outdoors for a photo op with a Rose wreath-adorned horse who has never seen a race track, I run into an ex-BF while I'm gussied up in all my Southern regalia. As my friend Ginger so eloquently put it, "God hates you and you are going to H. E. double L." To which I reply, "Duuuh!" Has anyone ever had a BF take on the sudden urge to attend mass after being in your presence for a couple of hours? Yeah, me neither. But if that had ever happened to me, I'd say that BF may have had some good instincts. (Ginger, my prophecy, dolled up in all pink is to the left)

We went to St. Louis to get fat and it worked.

Big Red and I recently embarked upon a trip to St. Louis, a city that has never had the opportunity to entertain us, until now. Our first outing started with a stroll down "The Loop," which has no resemblance to a loop at all, unless walking straight down a sidewalk then crossing the street and walking back in the opposite direction constitutes a loop for you. I've renamed it "The Rectangle."

We quite possibly burned about 35 calories before deciding we need to imbibe in an Anheuser-Busch territory beer tasting. We had a line up of blonde, pale, dark, light, etc.

This was an exciting moment for us. We're in the land of foamy golden hops and barley. It took a total of two sips to remind us - WE HATE BEER. So off we went our arms swinging with the determination to get back to the room to gussy up for the evening ahead.

(Ciroc was the alcohol of choice with no Champagne in sight)



Our divalicious gal-pal from the home of the Gateway Arch whisked us away to Playboy Cappuccino to have our first culinary experience. Upon our arrival I must note there was no Hugh Hefner sighting, and there were NO Cappuccinos, lattes or espressos within miles of this gin joint.

After months and/or years of training our muscles and body to understand we are on the journey to thinner, healthier vessels - a large shiny paper plate of deep fried chicken, deep-fried shrimp and double-fried steak potatoes landed on our fold-out table next to the wooden bowl (not bucket) of ice. You say, why is there a bowl of ice on the table? Well naturally if we wanted our drinks cold, we were going to need this accoutrement. The only other food option was deep-fried Tripe delicately placed between two starch WHITE pieces of Wonder bread. I haven't had white bread, let alone the polka dot wrapped gooey brand since Black Oak Arkansas had a hit song, well, a song anyway.


(Woman in the far left corner of this pic said, "white girls dancing, scare me." I told her I scare myself.)

I apologize ahead of time for what I'm about to describe. But if you, like I, have taken the oath of whole grain style carbs, then you need to know - once you bite into the above mentioned sandwich - the remainder of your evening is spent thrusting your tongue to-and-fro at the rooftop of your pie-hole in an attempt to scrape off the residuals of this White Wonder. I'm beginning to think this might be the end to my weight problem. If I make this selection for every meal, I'd never get through it - and I must have burned 150 calories peeling off the fresh plaster of dough.

Oh, and after a night of debauchery in the greasy, nasty, yummy, luscious deep-fried department - don't bother seeking refuge in a Jamba Juice the following day, unless you want to buy the space and open one up yourself.

I share the same awful affliction of that humble British girl.

Always the sympathizer, I totally understand this poor British woman's plight and struggle with beauty. Not everyone has a full understanding for someone with such assets.

Big Red and I, long ago, came to terms with what this victim is enduring. Oh its not the bounty of beauty we are burdened with, but the haunting gift of intelligence. Yes, people have an affinity for disdain towards us due to our wicked smart nature. Much in the way Ms. Brick's beauty is hidden, well..... I think you understand my point.

It is probably difficult for most of you to see with the naked eye, and those of you with a good set of ears are probably tilting your head in wonderment as well. Try not to tweak your brain to see it - just go with it.

We can't blame you for not noticing it sooner. You see, Big Red and I have learned the art of cloaking our cerebral prowess due to our ostracism from "normal" society.

This is where Veuve plays a huge role in softening our sharp intellect and giving us the freedom to feel just like the masses, who, and I quote, "don't know how lucky they are," according to Samantha Brick.

I blame my mother. You see I was merely 21 months old when President Kennedy was assassinated and I was placed in a playpen a few feet from the Black & White with 24/7 coverage of the events on that day. So not only did I grow up thinking we were related to the Kennedys, but I already had a history lesson under my belt before exiting the diaper stage. Word is children thrive on repetition, as it assists in the learning process. Well yours truly here is living proof that a child's brain emblazoned with continual newscasts for 120 hours, not only can't forget, but feels as if she were in Dallas that very day.

Imagine how severe my curse of intelligence could have been had mother run Einstein's theory of Relativity all those days. I'd have no friends but lab rats. Wait, oh never mind. That's another blog.

Now Big Red's erudite nature came to her through basic solidarity. She was entertained mostly from her imaginary friends leaping off the pages of her fantasy novels. Being the daughter of the Vice Principal did not gain her many allies in her journey to, well, who she is today.

So please try not to judge this pitiful British gal who is fraught with the stunning looks of the likes of Kim Kardashian, Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston. She's not cocky, she just loves herself. Sorry Kelly Rowland, I couldn't help myself. I'm too smart to know better.

Making CABO a Better Place for Everyone to Visit. We are Givers.

Cabo at 50 is a lot like it was at 40, except for the part where everything in my bathing suit has dropped an inch or two; and my ability to remain in the vertical position much past 9:30 p.m. is pretty much up to anyone who wants to prop me up and staple my hair to the wall.

(This is Patron Love between New Mexico and Big Red)



I must say my staying power outlasted that of Big Red on a particular evening when she made it all the way to the ripe hour of 4:30 p.m. before a 15-hour retirement from consciousness. We were iffy on letting her nap, because when she exited the SUV - much to all of our surprise - she had once again attempted the art of flight which landed her pretty much splayed out on the garage floor. This happened so swiftly we weren't sure whether or not she landed on her head, which would be a NO NO for a nap. However after careful inspection it was clear her entire right side of her body reached out to save her noggin from any further damage she could have possibly done that day.

(BFF Patron love in her own way)


This is possibly due to the long, arduous hours we put in at The Office. Upon our arrival Diva, New Mexico, Ginger, BFF, and Big Red decided that while in Mexico they should partake in the Margarita ritual. Well your Super Hero here who is fully aware of the number of calories bobbing around in the pool of said sweet bliss, decided the smarter order would be a shot of Patron Silver and a beer back. I could get the same rotted-gut buzz without sacrificing on actual edible-type calories for the day.


Now, even though it was not lost on the remainder of the aforementioned crew that they were swilling a beverage with three shots of Tequila already packed into their afternoon Mexican Punch - they thought it unfair that I partake in a shot all by myself. So shots for everyone!!!!

(Ginger is very Happy with her choice.)



At this point the waiter decided he should make it clear that each shot had an extremely high price tag. But like most of the world, after swimming in the hooch for a couple of hours, there is no one smarter, funnier, and apparently no one with bigger check books than our bevy of borrachas.

I think it important that I mention how our visit to Cabo also created a better vacation spot for every other future visitor. We are directly responsible for the dramatic reduction in the mosquito population in the region. Between the six of us we were hit pretty hard with an army of these little blood suckers. And we may have left with a few red bumps, but those pestering buggers all died of liver failure. Yep. We just want to know when we should fly back for our Humanitarian Award. Lay it on US.

Big Red's last date is full of holes.

We recently had the opportunity to spend a day with 18 men from the Metro SWAT unit - and it totally did NOT suck. Upon our arrival we were introduced to the top weapons used by Metro for special ops jobs. We were allowed to touch and explore at our leisure. And then they actually let us handle their arsenal of munitions too, but only after careful placement of the necessary protective gear.

We had the pleasure of feeling the full power of open-fire with, pardon the highly technical terms, M-something's, MP-somethings, automatics, semi-automatics and my particular favorite - the Sniper rifle. Oh yeah baby. Normally it is Big Red who excels at any activity in the horizontal position, but this is where I'm afraid I realized I have a future if this lobbying thing doesn't work out.

As I took my stance to annihilate my ink-drawn silhouette PERP (Yeah I've got the lingo down) with one of the aforementioned weapons - some crazy woman to my left was screaming maniacally as her shells were flying past me. You guessed it - Big Red was in her element, and the only thing missing after her satisfactory aerobic exercise in domination, was the post euphoric drag of a cigarette - but she doesn't smoke. It's funny this is the first guy she's been somewhat close to in a while (albeit cardboard) and he's riddled with bullet holes after their first date.

Our limo for the day was an enormous armored truck affectionately name Bear, which has no resemblance to the paddywagons you may fondly remember from the nostalgic days of being escorted to Juvi from that raging Kegger-party. Nope this Boulder on wheels means business. It was a liberating experience to finally ride in a law enforcement vehicle sans handcuffs. Just kidding, Big Red and I have actually once before been in a police car without handcuffs - thank you Miami. What? He wanted to buy us a Cuban sandwich.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

When President Clinton speaks - I simply wonder what I'll be having for breakfast.

I'm here to tell you, when President Clinton talks, people listen. And I know this shouldn't be of any shock to anyone, except - I watched an over-packed room of intelligent societal figures breathlessly attentive to him, although they hadn't the faintest idea what he was saying.

At one point I glanced over at Big Red. And I had really tried to avoid eye contact with her during this painstaking journey through G-Nomes; sub atomic particles; and measuring light like a GPS, because I was convinced her head had surely exploded already, and I was not in the mood to clean up a mess.

So what I witnessed was the following, not only from Big Red, but from 99 percent of the people in the audience. Think of the times when your dog is looking up at you as you speak to him. And he stares at you in wonderment, ears perked up - turning his head to and fro - hanging on every word, while waiting for you to say anything he understands. "Wait, did she say ball, I think she said ball." "OMG I think she said Go for a walk, Walk?" "Snack? she said snack." And tail wagging commences once rewarded with a familiar phrase.

So needless to say, the only actual wagging at this event were the tongues of every woman who had that doe-eyed puppy dog look as they gazed into the President's eyes, knowing he would single them out to reward them with a word they might understand, "Treat?"

Don't get me wrong. I totally get the presence he commands when he enters a room; and his energy is all encompassing. But the moment he started talking of a parallel universe - my mind wandered to what I'd be eating for breakfast in the morning.

I would be remiss if I didn't tell you, the President sat a mere 16 inches from me (we were back to back) while other people were on stage talking about subject matter I actually understood.

However, in between Big Red and me was the President's carefully placed Secret Service Agent. Yes, we were in a 10,000 square foot ballroom, yet the staff thought it prudent to place the President's security detail practically in our laps. They will rethink such positioning next time, because as it turns out - we might be a little distracting.



(Big Red and Secret Service dude)

We were made aware of this when one of the President's Aides stopped by our table to ask the Agent if he was going to flirt all night or protect the President. Who knew he had a choice? I thought that was very liberal of them. Apparently in our effort to make the Agent feel at home - he was remiss in blocking a throng of people accosting the President during his Vegetarian delight.


Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved

Chaz Palmenteri is not invited to Cabo with us.

Well it is a new year and once again I have to start it with the threat of a Cabo trip encompassing a gaggle of girls. You see, I will hit a milestone in February of the ever-so-grand age of FIFTY. Yes you read that right. I'm on the other side of the mountain now.

I will be accompanied by a Diva wrapping her head around the thought of SIXTY. And then there is Big Red, who'll (Yaaawwwn) be kicking her tires to Forty-nine. Whatever. Did you read the part where I'll be FIFTY? And we'll have some tots in tow which include BFF, Blondie and New Mexico.

(To the left is 5 of the 6 heading south with the exception of Chaz Palmenteri)

So for this trip BR and I haven't agreed upon anything except a flight schedule, but I was considering tiptoeing around the thought of curtailing our lunching, dining, and liquid consumption to a manageable three days a week.

(Couldn't leave BFF out of the photos to the right)


What? That's 3/7ths of what we do now. That could be an enormous impact. All you math wizzes can reduce that 3/7ths to some sort of recognizable fraction I'm sure. I would..... but I can't.

So more importantly, BR and I have a mission in mid-January for SWAT training, which we have to prepare our vessels for - even if for nothing more than honing our flirting skills for our lengthy time with our HOT instructors. We're not very smart - so this could take hours.

Afterall, BR and I both have untarnished records for saving lives in Mexico. That's right we're each one-for-one, which equals two lives saved. I was always pretty good at the problem solving math. Anyway, it could happen again.

Copyright © 2012 SUPER HERO, LLC. All rights reserved