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.