Old Chix

Champagne brunch with the old chix was truly fab. Guess what? All four of us got the "Senior Discount"! First time in my life I've ever gotten a senior discount. Holy shit! When did I get that old??? My friends and I are all "Seniors" now. Who'd a thunk it? But...the senior discount got us free champagne! Two, count 'em, two glasses each! So I'm thinkin' this might not be such a bad gig after all. Pay to eat...drink for free. I like it.

The buffet tables at the brunch had tons of food, and not only breakfast fare. There was Chinese food, Mexican food, salads (which of course I shied away from), desserts, and assorted breads and rolls.

What I ate:

Bacon
Eggs with cheese
Bacon
Home Fries (not good)
Bacon
Ham
Chicken Enchilada Casserole
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes & Gravy
Chocolate Pie

What I drank:

Diet Pepsi
Champagne (two free glasses)

And I wonder why I'm fat.

Don't ya love how I wash all that fattening food down with "diet" soda??? Why do fat people always do that? Okay, not always, lots of times they'll wash it down with a giant Big Gulp. Personally, I've never been into the Big Gulp. I have to have a can of Diet Pepsi in a cold cup (old term for coozie). I can nurse one all day long. Grosses most people out. Since I don't drink coffee (I've never actually had coffee) I start each morning with a can of Diet Pepsi. Lasts me most of the day.

Brunch was great though, we spent over three hours laughing and making fun of each other and everyone else we know.

We talked about bras, "Old Wimmen" bras...nothing sexy about our bras let me tell you. My current fave is the Sassybax with underwire. One of the other OC's just got the AAHH Bra (I don't if that's the right name but I'm too lazy to Google it to check). She loves it and it's way cheaper than the Sassybax.

One OC has started going to the gym. I'm personally horrified by this. Just the thought of going out to any type of public exercise venue and letting the world see how truly out of shape I am makes me break out in a cold sweat. I guess I could try taking a Xanex and going but then I'd probably fall off the treadmill thus drawing even more attention to my lack of physical fitness. But now I feel pressured (okay only slightly) to address my complete lack of fitness. My back hurts, my shoulders hurt, my knees and hips hurt. Do I really want to add arms and legs to that list? Because that's what will happen. In addition to all the other aches and pains, I'll just have new ones in my arms and legs.

I should probably think about this seriously though.

And I will.

Right after I finish off the Pioneer Woman Oatmeal Crispies I made last night...it's the stoopidist thing.

Old Chix

I have three friends that I get together with sort of regularly for dinner, lunch, lounging around by the pool, whatever. We all used to work in the same office twenty years ago but still try to see each other as often as we can. All get togethers always involve eating mass quantities of food that's bad for you and consuming adult beverages (none of us actually drinks very much...really)...and laughing. We laugh about everything, and make terrible fun of each other and everyone else we know. (We also have the "Don't Tell Rule" which if invoked, means you can never utter a word to anyone else about what you just heard...I think we actually honor this)


All of us are around the same age and we've all gotten old, fat, wrinkled and gray together. Two of us have kids and two don't. We all have step kids...I personally have three, one girl from the first marriage who I lovingly refer to as the "good" stepdaughter, and another girl, who I jokingly (no really, I'm joking) refer to as the "Bad Seed", and boy from the second marriage.

This morning we're getting together for "brunch" at a local casino where I'm hoping Mimosa's will be the offered alcoholic beverage. I'm hoping there will be bacon too.

I love bacon

and fried potatoes,

hash browns, home fries, any kind of fried will do.

I hope they'll have those too.

I figure I'll go, have a couple of drinks, eat way, way, way too much, (so that I have to unbutton the top of my pants) play a few slots, then rush home to put on my sweat pants, flop on the couch and take a much deserved nap.

I love naps too.

I think last time the Old Chix were in a casino was at Lake Tahoe. One OC brought Champagne and as soon as we checked into our room (3:00 pm), we drank that. We only had one night and thought we should start early celebrating our twenty-four hours of freedom from the daily routine. We were also celebrating that nobody had to be a designated driver. It was almost like "hurry up and drink as much as we can because we may not get the chance again". Hooray, we don't have to worry about driving! After polishing off the booze in the room in short order, we made our way downstairs to...drum roll... a sports bar. We had a couple more drinks there and before too long it was time for dinner in the fancy restaurant. (My fourth grade teacher taught me to sound the word out rest-a-u-rant which I do to this day.)

By this time we're a bunch of pretty well liquored up old matronly women (is there anything worse???) and we easily, (really, it was soooo easy) made fools of ourselves in a fancy restaurant by having even more adult beverages and laughing way, way too loud. We were the hated group of obnoxious diners that night. You know, the ones that other diners look at, then look back at their fellow diners and either roll their eyes or shake their heads in mild disgust. I'm sure the other diners were just jealous we were having such an outrageously good time while they were being all prim and proper and mannerly. We thought we were hilarious no matter what all those stuffy other diners, who paid hard earned cash to have a nice relaxing dinner, thought. Sometimes it's a good thing (thank you Martha) that consuming too much alcohol impairs the memory. Thank the Lord I didn't know anyone else in the restaurant that night. The four of us were our only witnesses to our drunken ramblings. (I actually laughed so much that night that the next day the muscles in my cheeks and stomach were sore.)

After annoying fellow diners for about two hours, we finally left the restaurant and headed down to the casino. It gets a little hazy here, I'm thinkin' from the many adult beverages so far consumed, but I think we wandered around for a little while and played a few slots so we could get a free drink. Why? Because it was free...and because we needed to be a little more liquored up... and because our buzz was starting to fade.

Finally sad to say, we had to call it a night. Our brief return to the wild partying of our youth and freedom from the mundane had reached the end of the line. The Old Chix were done.

When we got to our rooms it was 10:00 pm.

Ten O'fucking clock. We didn't even last until midnight. What was wrong with us????? Seven friggin' hours???? That's all we're good for???

How pathetic....it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S. The next day we remembered why we gave up the drinking of our youth. We all felt like hammered shit. (I don't know where that expression came from...obviously no one would actually hammer shit, would they?)

Sunday

I saw Dennis Miller on TV the other day and he had a little white droplet of spit on his lip. I've decided to call them spitletts. Spitletts come in all shapes and sizes from the miniscule droplet to the long dangling shiny string of drool. I'm sure Dennis didn't know about the spitlett on his lip or he surely would have wiped his mouth. He was on TV after all.

Spitletts are yet one more thing I constantly worry about (along with eye boogers, nose boogers, and food being stuck between my teeth). I am slightly paranoid, I admit, and constantly wipe the corners of my mouth with my fingertips for fear of looking in the mirror and seeing spitlett crusties stuck there and wondering how many people I've talked to who saw them and were too polite to tell me.

One of the girls in my office (anyone under 40 is a "girl") I call the Princess is even more paranoid than I am. I can look at her and wipe the corners of my mouth and she automatically wipes the corners of her mouth. It's become kind of a game. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know but even if she did, I don't think she could help it...because you never know when there really might be something there.

I think I would want someone to tell me if I had spitlett crusties in the corner of my mouth, but for the life of me, I cannot think of a polite way to tell someone they have crud stuck in the corner of their mouth. How do you tell someone that??? I mean it's not like you can reach up and wipe it yourself....yuck. I remember my mother licking tissue and then wiping my mouth with it...or my whole face...it was long, long ago and I really don't see this as a viable option when confronting another person about spitlett crusties. Although I would pay someone to do it just to see the reaction of the spitlett crusties person to a stranger who tried to wipe their mouth with a saliva dampened tissue. (Yes, this is the kind of weird shit I think of.)

It's kind of like gleeking. For those not in the know, this is when you accidentally shoot a droplet of spit from your mouth while talking. I didn't know there was actually a name for this until the Princess told me...even though I manage to do it on a regular basis. I never know if I should acknowledge it when someone gleeks. Usually, I can't help it...I start laughing. And if someone else sees it with me and the offending gleeker doesn't acknowledge, then I end up with the Church Giggles and can't look at the other gleek seer without going into hysterics. I'm so mature. When I gleek, I invariably show my smoothness by screeching "OMG, I just spit on you...did you see that???". I think I am quite possibly the most un-smooth person on the planet...the stoopidist thing.

P.S. If you ever see me with spitlett crusties in the corner of my mouth, please tell me.

December 31

I've become a sort of habitual TV shopping channel viewer. It's a habit, I'm shamed to admit, that I used to give my mother three flavors of shit for (God rest her soul). I actually made fun of her because she knew all the names of the hosts/hostesses on the channel. Now I know them so it's official...I have become my mother.

So there I am, fat, dumb, and happy, sitting on the couch eating a box of Ding Dongs and drinking Diet Pepsi (less calories you know) and there before my eyes in stunning HD is a supremely fit man, surrounded by other supremely fit men and women, selling a set of exercise DVD's called P90X. I need to loose a few pounds so I think, okay, how hard could it be, right? I fell flat on my face for the sales pitch and bought it.

The day it came, I read the booklet that came with it & watched the first instructional DVD. There was a cautionary note that if you weren't in relatively good shape you probably shouldn't be using this particular program. I think there was a beginner program that was recommended but I really don't remember (because I'm over 50 & menopausal).

I should've heeded the warning. Suffice to say I thought I was going to die. The workout wasn't the piddly little 20 minutes that I expected. It was closer to an hour. I'm huffin' and puffin' in front of the TV with droplets of sweat burning my eyes looking at people who don't have an ounce of body fat cheering each other on. Not once did I hear any of 'em sayin' good job Stoopid, you can do it, keep going, hurray for you.

While I realize it's probably much better for sales to produce DVD's showing supremely fit bodies, it isn't very realistic. They could've had at lease one or two tubbies. (In retrospect they were probably worried about the legalities of having tubbies trying to do this workout and dying of a heart attack while being filmed.)

I know it sounds crazy, but as a tubbie, I couldn't keep up with the perfectly sculpted creatures staring at me from the TV. I tried. I huffed and puffed, moaned and groaned, and kept trying until finally, Praise the Lord, we were at the end of the workout. Holy shit, my arms were so weak they were shaking. Thank God I had a glass of water sitting on the counter because I don't think I could've lifted a glass out of the cupboard. You know the old saying "things could be worse"...well they were! Two days later was the worst day, every time I moved my arms I wanted to cry. Instead I swore profusely. It got a little easier each day and after about a week, I could raise my arms without shedding tears.

I'm sure I'm not the only chub who fell for the sales pitch. There's probably quite a few equally pea brained fellow tubbers who saw and bought. Doesn't make me feel any less of a schmuck though...it's the stoopidist thing.

Dec 26th

The day after Christmas is always such a let down. No presents under the tree. How come when you first put the tree up and decorate it you don't think it looks bare without presents but once there are presents under it and then they're gone it looks bare?

Now it's just a pretty tree with decorations, lights, no presents, and three dog beds around it with three, count 'em, three sleeping dogs (whose beds are covered with festive Xmas blankets) one of whom is farting and smelling up the whole living room. I've sprayed room freshener three times so far this morning and have done several searches for doggie presents. I think the pup is the culprit but she's too cute to banish outdoors for excess gas expulsion.

I'm deliberating when to un-decorate. Should I do it before the New Year festivities or after? Said festivities for me and my elderly husband consist of eating ice cream on the couch while watching an East Coast feed of the Times Square big ball drop. I LOVE the East Coast satellite feed. Once that's over it's hit the rack by 9:15 pm. Yeah, we're pretty wild.

It's not like I even have to do un-decorating duties myself. I have a fabulously wonderful woman who comes in once a week and cleans for me (best $10 an hour I've ever spent in my entire life...why I didn't do it sooner, I'll never know). She loves to do stuff like that. Really. I'll let her decide whether to do it this week or next. No reason for me to be unnecessarily decisive.

I really love Christmas. I wish it was two weeks before Christmas all year (okay, except for the rain, and snow, and generally crappy weather). People seem kinder and more willing to help others during the Christmas Season (please note I said Christmas Season and not Holiday Season...no political correctness here!). I went to my physical therapist (because I'm old and falling apart) and there was a tree there with names on it for senior citizens who needed stuff. One wanted a new bathrobe, another wanted a sweater. I'd never seen a gift tree for oldsters before. What a wonderful idea. Why didn't I think of that? Oh I know, 'cause then I'd have to think about someone besides myself...it's the stoopidist thing.

Picking

I am a confirmed picker.

I found a little bump under the skin on my face that nobody but me would notice and within seconds turned it into a giant walnut sized lump that automatically draws the attention of anyone who speaks to me.

Even though I know it's the wrong thing to do, I can't help myself. I pick and pick until I draw blood and cause massive swelling. WTF is wrong with me???

Now I have to try to cover it up and there is no concealer made that can make a lump disappear. You can cover up the redness (that now covers three square inches thanks to all the squeezing I've done) but then it'll just looks like a semi flesh tone lump with a drop of blood in the center (because I can't quit until I've drawn blood). Fortunately, most people are too polite to ask "hey, where'd you get that giant walnut hanging off your face?".

Every time I do this I swear I'm never going to do it again but I do it over and over and over..it's the stoopidist thing.

Fatty Fatty Two By Four...

I have a weight problem. I'm not really sure if it's because for a year after I had back surgery I turned into a lazy slug afraid to do anything or because I turned 50...or a combination of both.

Now I have fat hanging around my stomach where I never had fat before...well, I mean there may have been a little layer, but nothing like there is now.  All my life I've had chubby thighs and a fat butt, but now it's creeping up into my stomach. Migrating fat, like the eyebrow hairs that migrated to my chin. Only this fat is defying gravity because it's migrating up. It's like I have miraculous fat.

So now I'm faced with the fact that I either have to 1) eat less or 2) exercise or, God forbid, both. None of this appeals to me. I'm totally annoyed at the thought I can't eat what I want. In my world there is no such thing as a day without ice cream.

I'm sort of in a quandary because I can't decide whether to bite the bullet and really try to do something about the girthage, instead of just talking/complaining about it, or just buy bigger pants.

All blame for the excess tonnage belongs to The Pioneer Woman. I've become hooked on her website and have been cooking/baking recipes from that site. I'd like to kill my friend Dawn for introducing me to that spawn of Satan site. I suppose killing seems a little harsh, but I'd definitely like to sock her in the arm...really hard. Every recipe has butter, sugar, or cream in some form. It's fabulous. I'm addicted. I've made the pound cake three times, the oatmeal crispies three times, malted milk chocolate chip cookies twice, chocolate sheet cake once, strawberry shortcake cake once, carrot cake once...and so on. I try to take the stuff to work so I don't eat it ALL myself but a lot of it gets shoved down the ol' pie hole.

So here I sit with the top button of my jeans undone so I don't cut off circulation to my lower extremities debating whether to have a slice of pound cake for breakfast...it's the stoopidist thing.