I should be going to sleep right now, but instead I’m sitting here sweating at my keyboard. I subbed for Pennilicious’s volleyball team tonight. I haven’t played in two years. I would have thought it more than that, but wouldn’t you know it, I wrote about my old team back in the summer of 2001 on this here archive, so I couldn’t even pretend that I had forgotten how to play.
It went very well, although Penny had assured me that they all sucked when in fact, they did not. They were all Bumpy Setty Spikey whereas I’m just all Hitting The Ball, Yay, I Hit The Ball Go Me. They had a tactical strategy. My strategy was to not let the ball hit the sand. They can all overhand serve. I got called for carrying during a set. My moment of terror passed when it was my turn to serve and I didn’t hit the net. Although the stance started coming back to me in the beginning of the third game, I think it was too late to prove to the boy jocks that the fat girl could actually have some manner of athleticism. You need three things in volleyball: strength, speed, and flexibility. I have two of the three, plus I’m tall. Once the muscles remembered how it felt to balance on the toes in the sand, I hit my groove and scored some points, including serving the winning point of the final game. Although I feel guilty, because we only won the third game and that’s the game when I felt like I was contributing rather than contributing to the errors. Ah well. It was fun. It reminds me how much I used to love playing. I may have to look into doing a girl’s team this fall. Oh wait, that’s right, I’ve already got a fiction workshop going on. Ah well.
The weekend was lovely. Esteban still isn’t feeling very well and Saturday morning saw incredible thunderstorms, which nixed a day spent in the pool, so we trekked up the Door in search of sweet cherries and fresh cheese curds. Ah the cheese curds. They were incredible, still warm and dripping with whey, squealing against our teeth with freshness. (For those unfortunate of you who have never tasted a cheese curd, the fresh ones squeak when you bite them. I don’t know why. They just do. And it’s a little piece of saturated fat heaven. Trust me.) We also scored some bing cherries and then had lunch at the Swedish restaurant with the goats on the roof, where I had Swedish pancakes and lingonberries, which just makes me more happy than lingonberries have any right to be. We also made a stop at the jam place, so that I would be well stocked with chopped cherry jam to uphold my jam promises at Journalcon. And then we drove home, munching happily on cheese and cherries and peaches and cherry ale and monster cookies.
Oh. If you couldn’t tell, I’ve pitched my no Sugar/Flour thing. Why? Because in the month I’ve had my foray into the carb-free way of life, I’ve gained a pound.
Gained. A. Pound. Not only did I not lose anything in five weeks, but I actually backslid somehow. It’s very disheartening.
So, I’m back on Operation Hottie basic training, which includes various forms of Special K, yogurt, whole wheat bread, and pasta. The tenants of why I had been successful, I think, with the original plan was that I didn’t outlaw anything. I just ate good 80% of the time and ate not as good 20% of the time. It allowed me to not fixate on eating a Fillet O’Fish, because I’d just eat the damn Fillet O’Fish and be done with it. I’m still trying to not drink as much Diet Coke, though, and on a whole, I’ve been pretty successful. Also, I’m trying to stay away from empty sugar calories, which just seems like a good idea all around.
Oh my hell, I bought these white nectarines. They are like buttah. I don’t even LIKE nectarines, but these? Damn. Damn damn damn. I feel a bit guilty eating them, actually, because they are SO sweet and delicious and drip down your hand and you want to lick the juice from your wrist kind of good. Man. I love the two weeks of the year when Wisconsin gets good produce. I’ll miss them when they’re gone. But tomorrow’s breakfast? A bowl of a cut up peach, plum, white nectarine, blueberries, bing cherries and ranier cherries. I just made you hungry, didn’t I? I’m sorry. But back to the weekend recap.
We drove home from Door County and then popped in Gangs Of New York, which I’ve had from Netflix for something like two months, but we’ve resisted playing. And it’s two DVDs, you know, so you kill your rotation sitting on that bad boy. At 10:30, I put up the white flag and said that I was falling asleep, even though we hadn’t made it through the first disk. The next morning, we picked up where we left off and learned that had we watched another two minutes, we would have hit the end of the disk. Gah. What we did not realize was that Gangs Of New York is the Longest Movie That Ever Was. By the time it ended, we felt as though we had sat through a ten hour miniseries. A ten hour miniseries starring Daniel Day-Lewis’s greasy hair. Also, Cameron Diaz can only play Cameron Diaz. And you know that she was hoping for an Oscar nod for that, don’t you. I swear at one part, she got confused and thought she was in some kind of scene for Charlie’s Angels. Which would explain it when she slo-mo ran up some woman’s bustle and did this weird Matrix triple kick into the face of William The Butcher.
Afterward, Esteban went to play his Dorkathalon and June called me to see if I wanted to come over and play in the pool. She’s got this insane rule that we must use the buddy system while swimming and cannot be alone in the pool. Ward was working, so she was going to be out of luck if I didn’t want to, but who am I to pass up sun and splashy fun? I called Penny, who had also expressed interest and the three of us splashed around in the pool. Later we were joined by KimVee and her adorable little child. He loves me best because of my magical bosom. He finds it very comforting, but then all men do. I entertained him by going under the water and blowing bubbles at his feet, which was very thrilling. Later I did bouncy bouncy wavy wavy with him while KimVee learned the delicacies of noodle surfing. I am still the undefeated champion noodle surfer, although I think Ward, who got home from work after dinner, is following close second. So essentially, the afternoon was spent pretending that we were eleven and twelve and didn’t have jobs and beepers and cell phones and eight hundred emails waiting for us in our inboxes. And then we had brownies. So it was a very good day.
And I got a sunburn on my back from not wearing sunblock. But you know what? Beats hives any day.
And now for some talk of boobs. My male readers might want to just skip this part because it’s not like good boob stories about touching boobs or showing boobs or anything. So you might want’. Oh, who are we fooling. Of course you’re going to read it.
My chest is doing something strange. First of all, I have definitely downgraded from the DD to the D cup. I noticed that the additional space in my bra had become more or less permanent and the underwires were now poking in my armpits, so I downgraded both cup and band size. It was good timing. I do not have that little overflow problem that was the reason for my hesitation, so I am certifiably now a D cup.
But now? There’s room in the D cup.
I keep shaking my head. That can’t be right? Five years spent as a double letter and then only three weeks at the next step? At this rate, my chest will disappear before I’m even within spitting range of size 12. And what then? Concave? Will men with mantits seek me out for slow dances? I am at a complete and utter loss.
Also, the other thing I have noticed is that my new bras creak. They creak. They’re not rubbing up against my shirt, they’re not slipping, they just creak. Like a suspension bridge. Like a crane holding up a piano that you know is about to drop on a cartoon character. It’s like my bra is saying ‘Aye captain! We can’t take much more’a this!’ So now I’m perplexed. There’s room in my cups, but apparently I’ve exceeded the weight limit for this grade of elastic. Are they particularly dense? Do I have breasts as seen on the planet Jupiter?
I have no fucking clue anymore. It’s so hard to be a girl sometimes. Seriously. You men have no idea. See. I told you it wasn’t any good boob stuff.
