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A lot of talk about asses

I was having lunch with Pretty Penny last week and mentioned something about trying to lose my bulbous ass, and she mentioned that she was surprised because I seemed to have such a healthy attitude about my body and seemed to be accepting of it the way it is.

Yes and no.

I accept that I am a fat girl. I relish my curves. Calista Flockhart disturbs me. Her body makes me sad. She looks like a baby bird, born without feathers, desperately angular and cold. And luckily, I am in no danger of becoming a Kate Moss, not even a Kate Winslet. Don’t get my wrong; Audrey Hepburn was lovely and petite. There’s nothing wrong with being thin. But to be thin because it is the end all be all of a woman’s existence–That’s just wrong. It’s just that my particular body image is that I’m a curvy round kind of girl. And that bothers my mother, being that she looks a lot like Cher, in both bone structure and body type (not to mention the strange romantic history). And I have to deal with people telling me that I look nothing like my sister Mo, who is cute and pixie-like, so I tell them, no, she looks nothing like me. And honestly, both my mother and Mo were cursed with this whole flat butt syndrome thing that I escaped.

I recently purchased some women’s magazines, which I tend to do only in the January-March season, as that is when I care about how my dining room looks or want ideas for meals heavy with beef and root vegetables. And not one of them has a cover free of “diet secrets”. Not a one. When I was looking at going into the publishing industry, I once read that a magazine can increase their sales by 25% if they put the words “lose weight” on the cover somewhere, pointing to an obligatory weight loss article somewhere. This bothers me. It bothers me that so many women are trying desperately to diminish themselves, to take up less space, to disappear.

So I tried to explain my contradictory attempt at losing part of my bulbous ass to Penny. The problem is not that I am a curvy round sex goddess; the problem is that I am not the curvy round sex goddess I want to be. That is probably really hard for thin people to understand… or maybe anyone at all, for that matter. It certainly must seem like “why go through the trouble of losing weight if you’re not going to lose all of it?” Well, mostly because I don’t give a shit what society thinks I should weigh. I have an internal mind picture of myself and it is what it is. Right now, when I look in the mirror, my face doesn’t look right. It doesn’t feel like me right now. My ass has a bulbous quality that, when I catch its reflection, I think that it belongs to someone else. It doesn’t feel like my ass.

So I have a number in mind, based upon what I was when I was 19. That’s where I would like to be. It’s the number you usually see BEFORE people start the diet, but I’d be happy with it. I’m 5’9″… it’s not realistic for me to be 130 pounds, not with my gargantuan farm girl bone structure. My hips are child birthing hips, preferably in a ploughed field, using a scythe to cut the afterbirth. What is more, I don’t think I would be comfortable being anything less than a size 16. So I’m aiming for size 16/18 territory. There you have it in a nutshell. I’d still be a curvy round sex goddess, because that’s what I am. It’s what I was born to be. And I’m ok with that

So, I’m sorry if I give mixed signals, but hey, I have this condition, I’m a girl. I think it’s hard coded in my DNA.

I had flutter tummy this morning and I couldn’t really bear the thought of getting my standard Venti Caffe Mocha, so I ordered a Venti Chai instead. Surly Girl came to the window with my Chai in hand and said, ‘What’s up with this?’ I shrugged and said ‘Thought I’d mix things up a bit.’ She laughed and then said, ‘Have a great day’, starting to walk away from the window while I sat there, my $5 in hand. I waved the bill at her. ‘What about&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- I said. ‘Nah&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- She said and smiled.

I don’t know what to make of that. Surly Girl gave me comp Chai. I’m floored. Now I totally have to come up with a new name for her. Got a suggestion? Tell the message board.

Speaking of message boards, (Ok, it was in the guestbook, but same thing) apparently there has been a spark of interest concerning my blue toilet seat. How did it get blue? Why do I think it was Esteban’s ass and not my own ass? Is Esteban a smurf?

Well’ let me tell you!

Esteban has some strange chemical properties about him. I think he might be part Duracell battery. His chemical composition will oxidize a pure silver ring or necklace in a week. It’s fascinating to see, actually. Sort of like those Oxy-clean commercials, only in reverse. He also disintegrates mattress pads and turns sheets yellow. There is something in his man grease that scares me. And he also sucks dye off of clothing and bedding. I’ve seen him take off a shirt to reveal a chest of a drowning victim on the Titanic, all blue and surreal. It’s like he sweats Windex. And when I strip the sheets, the mattress pad on my side of the bed is pristine and white, save for a few drool marks from the occasional happy golden sleep kind of nights. His side of the bed is torn, mangled and tinged blue, because the majority of the sheets we use are navy blue or white and quite a few of his clothes are blue or green.

As are his jeans. And boxer shorts.

Thus, shave it with Occam’s Razor and I think we know who the blue-assed culprit is.

Thus, this is the basis for my assumption that Esteban turned the toilet seat blue. And yes, he’s done it in the past. But I’m not going to get a blue one, because it wouldn’t look right in the newly painted taupe/worn glove colored bathroom. Thus, I’m thinking a solid oak or something. Something that won’t look like our toilet was spraying Ty-D-Bowl with every flush.

I went home sick today after a little chunder incident in the bathroom. Flutter tummy has gotten the best of me. Almost unbelievably, I will be going back at 5:30 to work until 7:00 because no one on my team was able to cover that shift.

I love my job sometimes.

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