How Did This Happen?

I have a major birthday coming up this month. One of those ones with a 0 in it. While I’m actually quite happy with my life, this represents a really huge number that carries with it all kinds of mental images that are disturbing.

My own mother, who was thrown by nothing, felt intimidated by this number. She told everyone she was XXXty-one instead, feeling that it was less a big deal than the actual number with the 0.

I used to work with people younger than I was and that was okay. Now I find that I’m often older than my co-workers’ PARENTS! That’s OLD!!!

What is really disturbing is the tendency to say things I never thought I’d hear myself say. Like, “How can they call that music?” Or, “I can’t believe anyone would go out in public dressed like that.” Or even worse, “I remember when we used to………”

My body makes sound effects that are not good. My shape is the result of bad habits and gravity and it’s beginning to appear to be a permanent condition. My family says I’m going deaf but I insist the problem is that they mumble. I know the difference in generic and name brand stool softeners!

Those “early bird specials” for dinner make a lot more sense than I expected them to, and if it weren’t for having a DVR I’d miss most everything that is on TV in prime time.

Getting a tan has been replaced by planting a garden. Shopping for the latest fashion has been replaced by regular trips to Home Depot for bedding plants. The vanity that used to compel me to go to the grocery store in full makeup has gone away (somewhat) and I have been known go out some days with my bare face.

Thanks to the magic of Facebook I can stay in touch with friends from high school without having to go back for the humiliating reunions. They only know what I look like through the photos of me I CHOOSE to post or allow to be tagged. (Okay, so not all the vanity is gone.)

One of the advantages of being XXXty is that no one expects you to change any more. They figure this is as good as you are going to get so there is much less nagging (except by grown children who think it’s their turn).

I’m grateful for the life I have and the one I’ve had and the one I’m going to have in the future. I’ve lost friends younger than I am so I don’t take life for granted. I’m a lot more accepting of myself and others than I once was.

But XXXty? Seriously? Me? I still don’t believe it!

I Have Worn My Last Swimsuit

The time has come to put the dream to bed – I’ll never go out in public again in a bathing suit. I refuse to subject the general public to the sight of my lumpy body in Lycra.

Oh, yeah, I know you are saying they make suits in all sizes and even blousy ones with skirts. Nope. Can’t do it. I’ve walked too many times on the beach looking at my feet so that I didn’t have to see the old ladies with their elephant skin walking past me. (Shudder.) I will not be one of them.

Lest you think I’m giving up too much, let me point out that I don’t swim. So “swimsuit” is really a euphemism for an outfit that is beach or poolside appropriate.

As long as I stay out of the water I do have some options. Capri pants have given me an option to shorts, and self tanning lotions have allowed me to reach a level of modest beige that offsets the white cellulite in my legs and arms.

The other advantage of Capri pants (which are probably no longer called that, but whatever), is that they cover the road atlas of veins my legs now have. (There is no self tanner that totally covers purple and blue streaks.)

And if I keep my arms close to my body then the bat-wings under them are not as obvious, so I can get away with short sleeves – maybe.

Mostly I’m just waiting on fall and praying for another cold winter – turtlenecks, sweat pants, and heavy coats!

You Know You’re Old and Boring When Even Thieves Don’t Want Your Stuff

Okay, first of all, I’m an idiot. I forgot to lock my car and we park on the street, so that was dumb. But it’s embarrassing to realize your car was ransacked and the would-be thief didn’t want your stuff.

Maybe the thief shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up to begin with when he approached a 7 year old Honda Accord. Right off the bat he should have realized it was not owned by someone too hip or affluent.

I’m sure he was really disappointed to see that the collection of CDs in the console included things like the soundtrack from “Singing In the Rain”, big band music, TV theme songs from the ‘50’s and ‘60’s, and listing presentation training. He left them all.

He took my umbrella out of the sleeve and must have decided it was too ugly to be seen with because he left that too. Or else he just doesn’t like the Eiffel Tower motif.

The “jackpot” was in the trunk. He left the trash picker upper but took what looked to be a large duffel bag. I’m sure he thought it had good fitness stuff like expensive sneakers or an iPod. Instead it was my Emergency Rescue bag, with things like a hard hat, rubber gloves, yellow tape, and first aid supplies. He stole it, then left it a block down the street in what I can only assume was disgust and disappointment.

He didn’t even take my bag of jar openers. That seems extremely short sighted on his part because a jar opener would be a good thing to use so as not to leave fingerprints.

I know I should be relieved that there was no loss, but I can’t help but feel that’s the final nail in the coffin of confirming just how dull I’ve become

Have You Signed Up to Be an Ass Donor?

When I was young, the “uni-butt” look was the order of the day. You remember that? Girdles? They flattened and merged everything into a uniform backside. No definition.

Over the years as manufacturers became more and more clever in the use of Spandex, we evolved back into a two-cheek scenario, though still tightly bound up.

Well, now I’ve seen it all. You can buy a fake butt. Think of a padded bra, but for the derriere. Actually, it’s more like falsies that you insert into your jeans for a perky, more alluring shape.
With the obesity problem in this country I’m not sure who the candidates for this product are, but there must be a market for it. But at best that’s only a temporary solution.

I propose a more permanent answer – have an ass transplant. There must be millions of people who could be donors (go shopping at your local super store and you will see dozens of potential candidates). At the same time it’s making some behinds more shapely, it’s also taking pounds off the bodies that have more than they need.

We could also make it even easier. When you renew your driver’s license there could be an extra box to check. In addition to being an organ donor you could check the box to be an ass donor. Then even slim, shapely people could be donors when they don’t need their own any more.

It could even be considered “green”. The ultimate way to recycle.

New Year’s Justifications

Well, it’s the new year and everything on TV and in the paper is about what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I SHOULD exercise. I SHOULDN’T eat carbs. I SHOULD have a check up on every major organ every six months. I SHOULDN’T sit in front of the computer so much.

Most of these messages are accompanied by some product or service that will help me in my quest for this new lifestyle. Some will even give me twice as much if I order it NOW!
The problem is, I’m 59 years old and set in my ways. I LIKE carbs and sitting at the computer. I DON’T like exercise. And as long as my organs are functioning, I don’t think I need a tune up that often.

But it’s the new year and we’re all supposed to make resolutions and then stick to them – for awhile, any way. And we get to feel so virtuous while we do it. A collective rebirth in which we all will be better people – for now. Then I’ll pass the bakery section at the supermarket and I’ll justify a purchase to reward my virtuousness.

The problem lies with the word “justify”. It allows me to do whatever I want as long as I can come up with a plausible excuse for doing it (and it’s legal). For example, back to the bakery. We’re having a cold snap and everyone knows you burn more calories in cold weather than in warm. Hence, I need a pie. (Don’t even try to quibble that it only applies if you are actually outside IN the cold for an extended period. Those are details best left unmentioned.)

Now I need to go. There is an exercise program on TV I need to watch and three donuts to eat while I watch it – hey, it’s freezing outside!

Gravity is NOT My Friend

Everything is lower these days. When the braless look came out decades ago the determining way to see if you could go braless was the pencil test. If you put the pencil under your boob and it stayed in place, you were too big to go braless.

In those days I always passed the test. Nowadays I could lose a #2 pencil there for weeks and not find it. In fact if I had a concealed weapon permit I could easily carry a small revolver without the need of a holster.

But that’s not what really bothers me. It’s that now my ass would also fail the pencil test. What happened to that perky butt I used to have that you could serve tea on? Now it just hangs there like a flag with no breeze.

And losing weight doesn’t help. In fact, it seems to make it worse. It could be the eighth drawf – Droopy. It doesn’t quite hit the back of my knees yet but it’s edging closer.

I can’t afford surgery but I’ve come up with a plan. Next time I get my driver’s license renewed I’m going to check the box to be an “ass donor”. It’s right next to the box for “organ donor”. There ARE people who have very tiny butts and are in need of a transplant and it seems selfish not to share what I have in abundance.

I feel better already.

Why Do I Have To Appreciate Fine Wine?

Why can’t I just enjoy the cheap stuff without feeling guilty? I’ve had really good wine. I’ve had really cheap wine. And I’ve enjoyed some of the cheap stuff far more than the good stuff. But nowadays just enjoying wine isn’t enough for most people.

Nowadays you have to have glasses that go with the type of wine. You have to have a stem so that you don’t affect the temperature of the wine. You have to have a proper shape to trap the appropriate whatevers. Me? I like a beer mug. Hard to tip over a beer mug full of wine.

Speaking of tipping over, I drink white wine. I don’t narrow it down much more than that. White wine stains less than red. It’s that simple. I know there are incredible red wines that will make a grown man cry, but I also cry over spilled red wine on blouses and rugs.

Some people drink wine, and talk about the drinking of the wine, and discuss the “nose” and all those other terms they use. I drink wine WHILE I do something else. Like eat. Or watch TV. Or talk to someone whose company I enjoy. I could be drinking Kool-aid and not notice the difference. The joys of fine wine are lost on me in the middle of a close football game or a tense scene in a show.

And don’t even get me started on boxed wine. The greatest invention since pantyhose. But wine buffs look at you with the contempt reserved for a person who has just farted in church. Boxed wine is so convenient. No corks that break and won’t fit back in the bottle. No bottle at all to break, or not fit in the refrigerator door.

You can’t even buy boxed wine in a grocery store without looks of distain from total strangers. I find myself driving across town to some hole in the wall package store where no one makes eye contact to get my boxed fix.

I will admit that I’ve moved on beyond my early years of Ripple and Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and I no longer buy wine because of the cute label (though the name “Fat Bastard” still appeals to my sense of humor). But let me continue to shop by price point and screw top and stop making me feel guilty as I sit here typing with my coffee cup full of something with a hint of a grape.

Aging Tatas Represent Challenges

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month and women everywhere are getting mammograms and doing self-exams. A self-exam is supposed to be looking for lumps or changes. Well, my tatas have changed, but not in the way they mean.

For one thing they are now riding lower on my chest. Gravity in action yet again. I remember back in the old days when the “bra-less look” came out. The determining test to see if you could go bra less was the pencil test. You put a pencil under your breast and if it fell down, you passed and could go bra less.

These days you could put an eighteen wheeler under there and it would stay put on my chest. (Sigh.)

But I actually understand that. Gravity, weight gain, and old age. What I don’t understand is the apparent magnetic repulsion my tatas have for each other. By that I mean they are drifting further apart, which puts them nearly under my arms.

My bras these days are as much about uniting the girls as it is uplifting them. Both of which now require an industrial strength underwire to accomplish that. The story in South Florida, where women of a certain age are known to reside, is that the most common bra size is “38 long”.

My guess is that as the baby boomer, women’s libbers age, Maidenform and Bali will have to create a whole new line of bras with really long straps!

Hormones and Duct Tape

Several years ago the American Medical Association drew the conclusion from a giant study that hormone replacement therapy was a bad thing and millions of women all over American abandoned their estrogen and progesterone.

The result was an increase in crime throughout the United States and an unprecedented rise in gun sales. Since some of those members of the AMA were married to women who were now packing, it seemed a new conclusion should be drawn. Now the verdict is “not so much”.

Other than the gunmakers, everyone else gave a sigh of relief, especially the drug companies. And to make women feel safer, the drug manufacturers decided that a patch would be a better idea than a pill. So now you could get estrogen from a little stick on thingie.

The first patch was big and looked like an off-pink bull’s eye stuck on the belly. Some women objected to the esthetics of that and one was developed that looked like a piece of clear tape.

Unfortunately, the technology that went into the delivery of the hormones through the skin far outreached the technology that went into the sticky stuff that made the patch stay on. Since you can only change the patch weekly or bi-weekly, it has to remain in place through all sorts of activities, including showering and sweating.

And in the case of the little patch, that doesn’t appear to be doable. Take one shower and the patch begins to peel back. Two showers or some sweating and it’s hanging by one little spot. Now since this is a prescription you can’t just replace them willy nilly or you’ll run out. The only solution is duct tape.

So the esthetics of the little clear patch are completely cancelled out by having a square of silver duct tape stuck to your person. My suggestion is that the two companies merge and put the hormones on a roll like regular tape. Roll off what you need and apply. If you’ve had a really bad hormonal day, just roll off a yard or so and wrap it around your body. End of hormone issues.

Why Are There No Women in the NFL?

If you look back at the traditions of professional football, the players you remember are always the aggressive, take-no-prisoners types. The kind that got up after a play with blood on their jerseys and grass coming out of their helmets.

With men, the starch goes out of them in their 30’s and you rarely see an NFL player above 40. With women it’s just the opposite. When my hormones left a few years back, so did my self control and the ability to hold my temper. So the ideal fit for the NFL would be a women in the throes of menopause.

We’re already used to sweating buckets so that’s not a problem. We’ve dealt with our kids’ and even grandkids’ bloody noses and cuts so the sight of blood won’t disturb us. And you want aggressive? Nobody knows aggressive any better than a woman missing her estrogen.

It’s a wonder more of us aren’t arrested for manslaughter. It doesn’t take a whole lot to get under our skin. Hog the TV remote and see how fast we can make a tackle. Take our parking place and we’ll ram your butt into the middle of next week.

I’ll admit penalties might be an issue. Some women have a history of hair pulling and we’re trained to go after vulnerable areas. But if you had women on both teams the personal fouls would probably offset each side.

So until the American Medical Association takes a stand and says once and for all that hormone replacement therapy is safe, “Put me in, Coach! I’m ready to play!”

Do You Ever Want to Punch Out a Positive Person?

Appearances to the contrary, I am, by nature, a positive person. But lately I’m bombarded with Positive People and I’m about to puke. You can’t have a crappy day any more without some Positive Person ruining it by smiling and reciting some platitude designed to brighten your day.

Screw that. Some days it feels good to bitch and moan. To get it out of your system. To verbally kick a dog. Bad things do happen to good people and it sucks. And I really don’t need to hear that it will make me a better person. I’m pretty good now, thanks.

Social media is making it worse. Those Perky Positive People now can choose applications that enable them to spread their good cheer automatically – and with little cheerful pictures too. Yuck!

I’m also invited to webinars filled with Passionate Perky Positive People. Their voices sound like red Jell-O, all jiggly with the passion of their mission to brighten my day. The worse the recession gets, the more their passion. They have yet another story of someone down on their luck who didn’t give up and how life turned around for them just at their lowest point.

Maybe this whole thing is a bi-product of a down economy. There’s a thought. If the economy perks back up will all the motivational speakers go away? Yet another reason to hope for economic recovery! One can only hope!

Could Napping Become an Olympic Sport?

If so, I may win the gold. They say that the way to stay young is to rediscover your youth. Well, I’ve done that. I’ve begun napping again, just like a three year old. However, unlike a three year old, I look forward to the naps. I’ve even begun to plan my weekends around them.

Let’s see, if I get up early and read the paper and eat breakfast I can be back in bed by 8:30 for a good two hour nap. Then I can get up, putter around, eat lunch, and go back to bed for another two hours. Maybe three. Then it’s time to run errands, eat dinner, watch TV, and be asleep by 9:00 so I’ll have a fresh start to do it all over again on Sunday.

You might think this doesn’t work with my plan of exercise and eating right but it has its advantages. Granted, when I’m asleep I’m not burning many calories. But on the other hand, neither am I consuming them. I keep going back to sleep before I have the chance to get hungry again.

Exercise, done improperly can lead to injury and wear and tear on joints. I’ve never heard of anyone tearing a muscle or spraining a joint while asleep. So this plan is also safer. And it doesn’t require a specific wardrobe like most sports and exercise activities do. So this is also cheaper. And in a recession that’s an important factor.

I don’t plan to regress into childhood any further than this. That could only lead to drooling and bedwetting.

PWD (Pasty White Disorder) – the Scourge of the Menopausal and Overweight

There is this weird cosmic chicken and egg thing going on. Did I stop wearing shorts because I got fat or did I get fat because I stopped wearing shorts? I don’t guess it matters except that the end result is that I am now the color of typing paper.

And, as it turns out, that’s a health hazard. Apparently you should at least strive for beige or off-white. Pasty white means you are short on Vitamin D, the “sunshine” vitamin, of all things. And being short on Vitamin D can lead to bone loss, certain forms of cancer, and heart disease.

So instead of sitting in my car at lunch wolfing down a Bojangles meal, I should have been outside in the sunshine while eating something more nutritious. Now, following a blood test which confirmed the deficiency, I’m taking about a zillion units of Vitamin D for twelve weeks.

I’m still pasty white, but I just can’t be seen in shorts till I do something about the weight thing. Call me vain, but I refuse to go around looking like trailer trash, with pudgy white legs hanging out of shorts that also accentuate the dimensions of my derriere.

The good news is that apparently I’ve sunk as low as I can possibly get. Now I’m going in the other direction. I’m eating better, thinking about exercise (hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day), and taking a multi vitamin along with the zillion D’s.

In the meantime, I’m thinking of going for a grant to study PWD in America. Since I have PWD and live in Florida, I’m guessing it’s an epidemic in the northern states. But in my grant proposal I’m going to suggest the study be done in Hawaii.

Losing Weight Now Requires Advanced Math Degrees

I’m trying to lose weight and I’m doing it the old fashioned way – counting calories. But when did counting calories become so difficult? You now have to have an advanced degree in mathematics to be able to figure it out. For example, here is the following information on a box of Orville Redenbacher’s Smart Pop Kettle Korn:

Calories – 3 Tablespoons, unpopped – 140 calories
Calories – 1 cup popped, 15 calories
Serving size – 3 Tablespoons unpopped, makes about 7.5 cups popped
Servings per bag – about 2

First of all, who eats unpopped popcorn? So why do I care? But then let’s figure out those calories. On one line it says “amount per serving, 1 cup popped 15 calories”. But it says on another line “servings per bag – about 2”. But that was right after it said “serving size 3 Tablespoons, makes about 7.5 cups popped”.

So is it 15 calories per serving or 140? Are there 2 servings per bag or 15? If I eat the whole bag is that 280 calories or 30?

Compared to what you get at the movies, one bag is a very small serving so a half bag is nothing. But then my cereal considers a serving 2/3 of a cup of cereal with a ½ cup of milk. I can’t even put that into a cereal bowl without it looking empty. I have to eat it out of a condiment dish. Of course, then I’m hungry an hour later.

You have to be careful and not assume. That frozen dinner that looks like a serving for one is actually 2.5 servings. So is that small can of soup. You have to budget your day very carefully or you end up with a dinner I had last week – a protein bar and a glass of wine.

Can you say you’ve lost three pounds if you keep losing the same one over and over again?

I love helpful friends who know I’m trying to lose weight. They always say things like, “You can see it in your face.” First of all, it’s not true. What you see on my face is misery. From withdrawal. It’s been a month and no desserts, no candy, no biscuits and gravy. ARGH! I may have to kill someone!

Another reason that’s a bad thing to say: if I’ve lost 3 pounds and it all came from my face, what did I look like before? The Pillsbury Doughboy? Think of a five pound bag of sugar. If 60% of that was on my face I would have looked round.

Okay, my net loss really is three pounds. But one of them kept popping back on and I had to lose it again. And again. And again. The really sucky thing about that is that it kept coming back on days that I thought I had really eaten right all day. Like salads.

Salads are the work of the devil. You can eat a giant salad made up of tasty greens and doused in non-fat dressing and I guarantee you’ll be hungry five minutes later. Add a few traditionally acceptable ingredients, like a chopped egg, some grated cheese, a few bacon bits, some croutons, a few vegetables that actually have a taste, like avocado and you’ll feel satisfied. You also just gained two pounds.

I’m getting most of my protein from protein bars that have the texture and taste of an old tire. I’d love to eat meat but the calories in a teeny, tiny piece of steak, or rotisserie chicken, or even grilled salmon are huge. Then I end up having only 35 calories left for the last nine hours I’m awake that day.

And alcohol? You know when you’re miserable and crabby, sometimes a nice relaxing drink helps. But then there go your calories again. One night I had a protein bar and cheap white wine for dinner.

I wish I liked raw carrots. They take effort to chew and make a satisfying crunch. They are portable and cheap. But they taste nasty. Of course, you can cook them with butter and brown sugar and they taste great, but – duh! Okay, I have to stop writing and so chew an old tire.

French Women Are NOT Going Topless!

That’s the latest trend reported in Time Magazine this week. The trend of sunbathing topless on French beaches and around pool sides is now going the other way. Young French women are becoming more modest.

Unfortunately, that leaves older French women who still think going topless is a good idea. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. It’s not a pretty sight. Gravity has the same effect in France that it does in the US.

There is a joke, based on truth, that the most common bra size in South Florida is 38 Long. Apparently, it’s also common in the South of France. I’m not sure what kind of tan they aspire to, but what they often end up with is tanned titties and white oblong shapes on their stomachs. (You can visualize this without any other descriptive help.)

Back when the braless look came about decades ago, the rule was that you could go braless if you passed the pencil test. (You placed a pencil under your boob and if it stayed put you failed.) If this worked for braless you’d think the same standard should apply for topless. Of course with the amount of silicone out there these days they all stand at full attention like Mt Rushmore.

Nevertheless, if you’re old enough for a mammogram and it involves lifting and positioning, you probably should keep your top on.

So let’s hope this trend continues in the interest on creating more overseas tourism and not less. Maybe we can get older French women interested in that other South Florida obsession – mahjong! That’s generally played fully clothed.

Does Your Fitness Equipment Include a Kegel Barbell?

Yes, you read that correctly. I received a catalogue the other day from a normal company that offers a lot of good household products. They carry an array of items, from microfiber dish towels to cat litter box covers that look like furniture.

So I’m used to seeing innovative ideas that have turned into products, especially for the hard to please or the person who has everything. I’d say this fits that bill.

In case it’s been a long time since you gave birth, you may have forgotten what a Kegel exercise is. Named after someone named “Kegel” (boy, wouldn’t you like to have your name associated with this for all eternity), the Kegel exercise is designed to strengthen the muscles of the pelvic floor.

Basically, exercises for your crotch. There are many good reasons to strive for fitness in that region. One good reason is to prevent your organs from falling out. Strong muscles are important for that.

Being fit “down there” is also good strategy for birthing so that you can push and do all that good stuff. Then there’s the logic that flabby muscles in that region are less capable of, shall we say, “having as much fun” as fit muscles.

But what I remember about Kegel exercises is that they are sort of like isometric exercises. You don’t look like you are doing anything, except that you have a pre-occupied look on your face as you are concentrating on the specific set of muscles.

That’s why I was surprised to see that someone has come up with a Kegel barbell. It actually looks more like a dog’s bone, and you can figure out for yourself how you use it.

Even if I believed in the concept I just don’t think I could get past the idea of actually ordering one, much less using it. Do you leave it lying about with your other fitness equipment? How do you explain it to anyone who asks?

There are just some products that don’t deserve to be sold.

Could You Be a Victim of CNBS?

You may not be aware of CNBS, but it apparently is not as uncommon as I would have thought. I received a diagnosis of it yesterday. Actually, the doctor called it something I can’t pronounce so I gave it the name of CNBS, or Chronic Numb Butt Syndrome.

Yes, there is such a thing. Apparently, following any kind of general anesthesia, you can end up with it, or something similar. What happens is like when your foot goes to sleep. You foot begins to hurt and since you’re awake you move around to relieve the pressure or whatever is pressing on a nerve.

With CNBS, you’re under the anesthesia, so when your butt goes to sleep you don’t know it and don’t move. So the numb butt feeling stays. And stays.

I didn’t realize it the first couple of days because I was on the pain meds and didn’t feel a whole lot anywhere. Then the problem with Elvis not leaving the building distracted me. In fact, I believed a Dick Cheney sized “Roid” was just pressing on a nerve and when that problem got resolved, I’d be fine.

Nope. This may be it. The pins and needles feeling may be with me for weeks, or months, or forever. In the scope of things, it’s not life threatening, so I really can’t complain. And even without checking, I suspect a numb butt does not qualify me for disability.

Mostly it’s annoying and I want to massage it to get the feeling back but you really can’t walk around an office massaging your own butt without raising eyebrows.

Like most syndromes, CNBS should have its own foundation. I’m thinking of founding one. The logo should be easy!

Top 10 Male Backside Movies of All Time

Nowadays it’s not that uncommon to see all manner of body parts in the movies, but it wasn’t always that way. A good shot of a male backside was a treasured moment, provided the backside was worth the look.

Here’s my look back at the classic top 10:

10 – Jack Nicholson, in “Something’s Got to Give”. Not for the quality of the view in any way, but for audacity. That view was enough to put you off your feed for a week, but it WAS funny.

9 – George Clooney, in “Solaris”. This is more of an honorable mention because the reality did not live up to the hype. The plot of the movie was so lame that the ONLY reason to go was the promise of George’s cheeks. Rumor has it that he used a butt-double, and if so, he was over-charged. Nothing memorable at all there.

8 – Kevin Kline, in “I Love You to Death”. Hard to tell if it was all Kevin, because he was made up otherwise to be a macho Italian. And since that seems to be his only backside scene there is nothing to compare it to. A bit hairy, but well-tuned.

7 – “Bull Durham”, shower scene. They were young, they were athletic, and there was a nice variety. Normally, shower scenes don’t make the list (see “Shawshank Redemption”) because they tend to take place in prison and most of them are not happy times.

6 – Another honorable mention, Tim Robbins, in “Bull Durham”. Not naked, but a jock strap and a black lacy garter belt don’t conceal much. And since Susan Sarandon went for it both on screen and off, we’ll give him points.

5 – Kevin Costner, “Dances With Wolves”. Brief but memorable scene when he tries to prevent his horse from being stolen and forgets he’s au naturel. The sight frightened the natives but our view was just right.

1 – (Yes, I know I skipped a few.) The gold standard, Mel Gibson, “Lethal Weapon (1)”. The walk to the refrigerator. This movie came out at a time when video tape players were not too advanced. I’m convinced this movie did more for women rushing out for newer players that had a “pause” button, than anything else did. (I confess, I was one of them.)

If there is a theme here, it seems to be (with Mel as a glaring exception) that most male backsides are at their best in comedies or at least humorous situations. Perhaps relaxed and happy cheeks just look better and more appealing that tense, stressed ones.

Either way, now it’s time to replace my old videos with DVDs because not only does my DVD player have a pause button, it can also zoom in for closeups. AAhhh!

Food Porn

We live in the age of food porn. But unlike regular porn, this porn is not considered taboo or forbidden in any way. It’s beamed right into our living rooms 24/7 for even children to see.

In our warped socially responsible mindset, we banned cigarette advertising years ago from young impressionable eyes because we knew the dangers of continued exposure. But we allow them to watch ad after ad of food porn and then wonder why they are growing up obese at levels that are frightening.

Burgers used to be a simple piece of fatty meat on a bun. Now they come in layers and are combined with as many other reprehensible “foods” as possible. The two most ubiquitous of these are bacon and cheese.

When did it become important to put cheese on everything? KFC puts cheese in its bowls that include gravy! Gravy and cheese? What kind of taste sensation are they going for? What ethnic culture are they representing? TGI Friday’s puts cheese on steak.

Bacon has long graced our baked potatoes, but now it’s showing up chocolate covered as candy. Isn’t this like assisted suicide? Why are we not prosecuting these people?

Some pizza place whose name escapes me, is now putting pasta on pizza crust. Can you say “empty calories”? Is there any pretense of nutrition there?

The sad thing is that this type of food is cheaper than nutritional food. You can get more than your daily requirement of sodium, fat, and calories in one $4.99 meal at most fast food places. But if you are looking for lean meat, fresh green vegetables (iceberg lettuce doesn’t count), and fiber, you’re out of luck. That’s a health food store and a minimum of eight bucks.

Am I guilty of eating this stuff? You bet. I watch TV. I see those happy people with their friends chowing down on this stuff and I salivate. I run out for lunch and survey my choices and give in to a quickie at Bojangles, where the biscuits are soaked in butter and the rice comes with sausage chunks.

I don’t smoke, however. Even though I grew up with the ads as a child, it was beaten in to me by the time I hit my teens that smoking was bad for you. Maybe we need the same kind of message on our airways about fast food. Or a good lawsuit or two to get their attention.

Gotta run. My stomach is growling and I can see Hardee’s from my window.

Oh, crap! Elvis Won’t Leave the Building!

Most people know that Elvis had his heart attack while sitting, straining, on the toilet. Not a pleasant way to go. The story was that all that prescription medication and fast food caught up with him and “bound him up”.

Well, today I find myself relating to Elvis. Turns out the pain meds I was on for my “procedure” have a “binding” side effect. I would have known that if I had read the small encyclopedia that was attached to the bottle. But I didn’t and now I am.

Unlike Elvis, I have a myriad of choices on how to resolve this – none of them appealing. All of them involve a conversation with either a pharmacist or a doctor to describe my dilemma, not something I look forward to.

When I was about 11 years old my cat had kittens and she was too young a mom to care for them. Two died within hours but the other one we fed a combination of baby formula and liquid vitamins and it appeared to thrive. There was just one little detail we overlooked that a mom cat would know how to deal with – elimination. After 3 days, poor little Higginbotham exploded.

I woke up about 3 this morning in a flop sweat with a vision of me as Higginbotham – a giant ball with a head and hands and feet, about to pop.

So today will be spent listening to Elvis music, drinking plenty of fluids and doing whatever I’m told to do to resolve this “crisis”. Hark! I think I hear some lyrics now - “A little less conversation, a little more ACTION please…”

Can a Polyp Weigh 20 Pounds?

While a part of me hopes they are not going to extract a 20 pound polyp via my vagina, another part of me hopes that it weighs 20 pounds. Then that would mean that I’m not really overweight – it’s the polyp.

But I have a sinking feeling that’s not the case. Too many gravy biscuits from Bojangles in my recent past. They were easy to add on, but won’t be so easy to take off – unlike the polyp. The gynecological equivalent of a weed whacker and it’s out.

My surgeon seems delighted to get to do this procedure. It’s apparently one of his favorites. While I don’t share his enthusiasm, I’ll be knocked out so that part is delightful.

Apparently the only real risk is that he might puncture my uterus if my cervix isn’t dilated enough. To insure that my cervix cooperates, I have to take (not orally) a pill the night before that is sort of a cervical tranquilizer. This whole thing just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?

Having just gotten the call an hour ago about what it will cost me out of pocket, I could use a tranquilizer about now. Maybe we could trim the cost by hitting me over the head with a rock instead of using an anesthesiologist. We could have the procedure done in my real estate office and save the cost of the surgical center.

The Senate is looking for ways to cut health care costs. Maybe I should offer my suggestions.

What is Clark Gable’s Thumb Doing in My Uterus?

Well, I don’t KNOW that it’s his thumb. But what other famous thumb would you think of? Remember “It Happened One Night” with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert? The hitch hiking scene? When I saw the image in the ultrasound of my uterus that thumb is what I saw.

Let me back up. I was in the gynecologist’s office in an exam room, undergoing the gynecological equivalent of waterboarding. The doctor basically hooked up a fire hose and filled my insides with saline solution in order to get a better view of things.

I have some serious doubts as to whether or not the Geneva Convention would allow this procedure on prisoners, but never the less, my insurance company covers it.

So there I am, laid back, feet in stirrups, with the fire hose and camera-on-a-stick jockeying for position, while Dr. Gyno from Gitmo makes the inevitable clichéd statement, “You may feel a little discomfort now”. Ya’ think?!

Once my eyes stopped watering and I could focus again, I looked at the poor resolution picture on the screen they said was my uterus. The camera-on-a-stick moves rapidly, changing the image at a sea-sickening rate while the tech lady clicks dots on the screen that mean something to her.

That’s when I realized she had framed out a perfect thumb. Of course they say the thumb is a polyp and is probably not anything to worry about except that they want it taken out. For some reason I find that makes me a little sad. Not about having surgery – I’ll think about that later. But that little hitch hiker looks kind of pleasant and makes me nostalgic for old Clark Gable movies.

I wonder if get to keep it…….

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