I resolve to not resolve

You don't want to see this face.

As the new year has begun, all the talk around the table, any table, and every table I've been around (which are many) is about resolutions and positive changes some of us should make in our lives.  I just learned yesterday for the first time in my 50 years and 11 months of life, my mother doesn't think I'm perfect. Oh, I know you are as astonished as I - well not surprised I'm not perfect, but earth-shatteringly devastated my mother doesn't think I am.

In her defense, and Lord knows why I'd be defending her right now.  She didn't just come right out and say you're not perfect. No. That would just be cruel.  Her words, "well no one is perfect." My response, "I beg your pardon." So, she's enjoying living in the hind quarters of the house. And not because I have her locked up back there. She's just wishing she hadn't produced a child with such prominent canines that sparkle when they are exposed. She's keeping her distance.

Not the group listed over there->, but we're at a table.

Anyway, back to others, who by the way, aren't perfect either. Yeah, she lumped all of you in there - so take it and like it. So as I sat at lunch with Rower Girl, Big Red, Diva and Mr. Capitol Hill last week, there was discussion of giving up drinking from midnight to 7 a.m. Yeah, that's kind of absurd if you ask me, because everyone at that table had a mimosa when they woke up that morning.

We are not giving up Mark Estee. CAMPO, I mean CAMPO.

There was the typical workout promise of not missing more than two consecutive days of exercise.  I won't say who, but that has already been broken - which, by the way, is what resolutions are for - to challenge you and make you feel like a total failure when you prove to no one but yourself - you can't do it.

My personal favorite is that of Big Red's. She has decided it would be a good idea to eliminate a word from her vocabulary, which I find completely admirable. That is a tough thing to do once you are committed to such.  Now mind you, I'm sure you believe there are several words you could give up from your colloquialisms, but the one word, yes only one - not two or three words Big Red is most offended by is "Amazing." Yes, of all the words she knows - okay sorry - that made it sound like she has an extensive lexicon.  Of the words she knows, this is the one she's challenged herself to never utter again.  I kid you not.

Making the Little General blush

Coach and Brandon Wimberly at Hawaii

For whatever reason, Big Red and I have been summoned to Cashell Field House at Nevada's Mackay Stadium upon occasion to displace the Little General's attention from the spherical object he's so obsessed with; and give him a reason he's grateful for his lot in the world of football.

We'd remind him of the really important things other than winning. Like the boosters who travel with the team would appreciate a section on the plane, similar to a smoking section, where cigarettes would not be allowed, however libations mandatory.   We've taken a poll, and the weary travelers all agree such an amenity might help with some of the long trips home after a game that ended like, I don't know -  Notre Dame.

Inspirational speech to Cody Fajardo at Hawaii

With every visit we would regale the coach with stories of the community antics of inappropriate behavior, and report with whom anyone might be cavorting.  As the stories began, he'd shake his head, place it between his hands like a vice, and look down at his desk. Intermittently he'd raise his head with the look of bewilderment on his face - and at that point we'd say, "You didn't hear that from us."  Now coach isn't someone who cares much for gossip, but our job was to try to save the staff from the black cloud that may have been hovering over the field house at the time.

Sometimes we'd whisk him away to lunch where he'd announce his insistence on paying the bill, which is a bigger than life offer.  We know this because when he actually pulled his wallet out, the leather crackled like that of an aged person's arthritic knee when trying to straighten it.  The real shock was the spider crawling from the cobweb like material that had accumulated in the billfold.  I'm sure if he were ever on the pay scale behooving his talent, that wallet would have been so greased it would have landed on the table on its own.

Thanks for keeping the cannon Coach

I must confess I don't really think Coach actually looked forward to our visits, but it took time away from his boisterously vocal and colorful speeches he may have been offering to every staff person within earshot.  As a matter of fact at times he'd walk us down the hall to show us something, and it was oddly always near the exit door.  He would even try to duck into the restroom thinking he could shake us. One time he actually jumped out of his window. No, not really. A long time ago the staff moved the window locks up high so he couldn't actually attempt such a feat.

Everyone has their own opinion of our pistol creating Coach who has, by the way, changed the game forever. But you need to know, beneath his hardcore, crusty exterior - his blush meter is in full working order.  At the end of our last visit, we departed with "Hey Coach, as always, we've got your back............. Oh, and your front."  As he turned on his heel to get the paperwork filled out for the restraining order, his face was so full of blood, that I'm not sure how the remainder of his body functioned.

So I think it's safe to say,  the happiest moments in Coach's life have been his view of our backsides exiting the glass doors of Cashell Field house.  We will forever love Nevada's icon for his incredible sense of humor and his wonderful dedication.

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)