Twenty Four At Heart

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I Think I’ll Call Him Roid

Posted on May 28, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

I began my new gym/arm recovery program this week.

I had an appointment yesterday with my supposed expert in all things related to physical therapy and personal training. This trainer, is a friend of The Torturer's so they feel quite comfortable discussing me as if I'm not within earshot.

I've named the new guy Roid because he's built and it's hard to believe all that muscle is possible without the help of steroids.

While I was at the gym, there were two different things going on. There were the real things actually happening at the time, and there were the all the things I was thinking in my head.

For example, I was quite polite and appropriate as I met Roid. In my head, however, I was thinking, "Holy SHIT! Is his body for real?"

I was also thinking things like, "He's really hot I need to make sure I don't drool or sweat in front of him."

Then I started thinking about all the married women in the OC who have affairs with their personal trainers … and, perhaps, you know … they have damn good reason after all.

Just kidding Briefcase.

* Ahem *

So anyway ….

Roid is not married. Roid is quite hot. Roid is a little bit of a flirt, but overly serious when it is "time to get some work done." Roid was pretty nice for our first session together, but I get the feeling there's a hard ass in him that will surface very soon.

"I don't want her coddled," said The Torturer.

Pfft!

When has anyone ever coddled me?

My eyes met Roid's (sea green and slightly mesmerizing) and I gave him a look that communicated, in no uncertain terms, what I thought of The Torturer's no coddling statement. In turn, Roid gave me a slight smile as if he thinks the interaction (antagonism?) between The Torturer and I is amusing.

Amusing?!

There were all sorts of Money Town people in the gym. The men were dressed like slobs for the most part. And really, why shouldn't they be? They are there to sweat. The women were a mix. The hard-body women wore skin tight, sexy, revealing workout clothes. They almost appear to be in costume with their perky fake boobs and perfectly flat stomachs. Some of the older women, or less in shape women, were dressed for comfort rather than display.

I, of course, fall into the slob category. I'm not trying to impress anyone while I'm there and even if was trying, I wouldn't impress anyone anyway. Although, did I mention Roid has the most interesting green eyes? And darkish skin, and dark wavy hair … and ….

What was I saying?

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Yes, I’m Staring at Your Boobs

Posted on May 27, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

I mentioned last week my shoulder surgeon has repeatedly told me I should get breast reduction surgery. He feels certain my large chest is negatively impacting my car accident recovery. He has mentioned this to me time and again over the last year and I've chosen to ignore him.

I've ignored him mainly because the idea of any further surgery, no matter what it might be for, is not something I want to be subjected to. I've been through enough with the five post-car accident surgeries I had to go through, thank you very much. (By the way, he also feels I could benefit from a sixth arm/shoulder surgery and I've rebuffed his efforts on that idea also.)

In addition, if I were to ever consider plastic surgery I'd rather have wrinkles removed or fat melted away rather than have my boobs made smaller.

Last week, after I published the possibility of smaller tits in my future, I had another meeting with my shoulder surgeon. He had not yet read my post. The first words out of his mouth when he saw me was, "You've got to do something about your chest." He then proceeded to give me a good thirty minute lecture on my anatomy and what it's doing to my shoulder. I hate to admit it, but he made a lot of sense.

Hmmm.

I haven't stopped staring at everyone's boobs since I left his office. I mean, I'm really, really, staring at everyone's boobs and I can't seem to stop myself.

There are really a lot of breasts in Orange County! I feel like I'm becoming a breast connoisseur. I guess this must be what it's like to be a heterosexual man? Or a lesbian woman?

Most women's breasts aren't really so great. That's really what I've discovered by staring at so many of them. They're droopy-ish or too long and skinny … kind of hot dog-ish. Of course, here in the OC there are a ton of fake ones everywhere you look too. Most of those don't look so great either. Many of them are like giant rocks perched up high on women's chests.

I guess saline breasts actually swish when you walk?

By the way, I'm not anti-fake breast. Nor am I anti-plastic surgery. I think if someone is really bothered by a part of their body they may as well get it fixed if they're able to. I am anti-overdoing it though. I don't think an all plastic person is attractive in the least.

I also realize the male perspective on all of these Orange County boobs is probably a lot different from mine.

I've not only been staring at every boob I see, I've been point blank asking everyone about boobs too.

"What size boobs would look good on me?" I asked my friend Nike yesterday at lunch.

"C," she answered. "B would be too drastic of a change on you."

"Do you know a Boob Man?" I asked a male lawyer friend of mine.

"Yes," he answered, "But I don't know the quality of work he does."

"What size boobs do you have?" I asked a random woman at the Gap yesterday.

"D's," she answered without flinching. "But I wish I'd bought C's."

"Who did your breast reduction?" I asked a friend. "Dr. X," she replied, "But he later dropped dead from an aneurysm so he's no help."

I guess not.

In case all of my staring at boobs, and talking about boobs is not bad enough, I'm also looking boobs up on the Internet every chance I get. I keep googling various Newport Beach plastic surgeons and perusing before and after pictures of boobs they've performed reduction surgery on.

There are some gawd-awful ugly boobs out there. <shudder>

I stopped my car in the middle of the street yesterday to talk boobs with a male neighbor. He does a lot of work with local plastic surgeons and I wanted to get his opinion. Halfway through our conversation it occurred to me that I was A) In my car having a lengthy boob discussion with someone who was trying to mow their lawn B) Discussing details about my boobs with another woman's husband and C) Taking notes on surgeon recommendations on the outside of a shopping bag I had
in the car with me.

I've become boob obsessed.

All this boob-mania hasn't fazed me in the least although it's probably very disconcerting to everyone who encounters me.

I've thought about this a lot. I don't know yet if I'm going to go through with breast reduction surgery or not. My understanding is, since my shoulder doc has deemed it a "medical necessity," my medical insurance should cover the cost if I decide to do it.

I'm going to get a few consultations. I've also decided to write about my adventures along the way. Maybe it will help other women the way my posts about bad mammogram results did? Maybe there will be some good stories as I visit the finest of Orange County's plastic surgeons on my quest for more information.

What won't I be doing?

I won't be sharing photos of my boobs here on the Internet. Not before, not after, not ever. Don't even ask.

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Aaaand It’s a Repeat

Posted on May 26, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Last Friday afternoon PR began playing in a Memorial Day baseball tournament. The way the tournaments work, the more games a team wins the longer they play. I'm writing this at 10 p.m. on Monday night. I just got home from the championship game. I feel like I've been at the baseball fields for ten days straight. In reality, I was only there since Friday and I did take a break to see Fleetwood Mac perform Saturday night.

My brain is so fried on baseball I can barely think straight.

Oh, and PR's team won the championship game. (In fact, as I write this he's with Briefcase at a post-game celebration party. I couldn't handle one more minute of baseball anything.)

I should be happier about the tournament win than I am. It isn't that I'm not happy for the boys because, of course, I am. It's just that I've raised two baseball obsessed boys and between the two of them I've sat through way more tournaments than I can even remember. Honestly? There isn't room for one more trophy in PR's room and now we have one more trophy.

Sigh ….

In any case, I'm suffering such a bad case of baseball-burnout that I'm reprinting a post today for the first time ever. I just don't have it in me to write anything original right now. Some of you may have read this before, but since it's my most viewed post ever I suppose it merits repeating. When I first wrote it, I had no idea it would amuse so many people worldwide. This post initially published in July of last year.

Mooning the Train

A lot of people think California is "the land of fruits and nuts". Sure, we have our share of unique individuals just like any place else. Being a 5th generation native to California, I have noticed that the majority of "extreme" individuals here are not from California at all, but have moved here from … I don't know, someplace nice and calm like Idaho or Wisconsin. They just go crazy once they get here. They're not used to all that sunshine or something.

That being said, we do know how to have our own brand of fun here. Recently one of my girlfriends decided to celebrate her birthday by joining in on the 29th annual "Amtrak Mooning" day. Eight thousand (yes, you read that right … 8,000) people showed up to moon the passing Amtrak trains. Some of them might have been drinking?

This event started 29 years ago when a patron of the Mugs Away Saloon in Laguna Niguel challenged a few buddies to go moon a passing train. In exchange he promised to buy them a drink. It is an unsponsored event, no one is making money off Moon Day except perhaps local businesses from the thirsty/hungry crowds.

Forget trying to find parking anywhere within miles of this "event"! This year mooning began at 7:30 in the morning. Mooners came expecting to moon approximately 40 train passings by the end of that same evening. Unfortunately, this year the police made everyone disperse around 3:30 in the afternoon.

This is the first time in the history of the event that the police have had to break up the event early. It was a disappointment for those who planned to stay for "night mooning" which begins at dark. For night mooning, please bring your own flashlight or lantern to light up your ass.

The police broke the event up early because apparently some women started flashing their boobs to the train this year. Mooning is okay, but tit-flashing isn't. In addition, a couple guys decided they might as well go completely naked instead of just pulling their pants up and down over and over again everytime a train went by. Full nudity and tit exposure is not acceptable at a mooning event.

The police also said there were a lot of drunk people there. Really?

Mooning, in itself, is not enough for everyone. Some people decorate their butts. Oh yes they
do! On the mooning website the question is asked, "I am overweight, in fact very obese, is it O.K. for me to moon?" The answer is, "Yes, yes, please 'moon' with us. We need people like you for the extra high intensity mooning you can provide." I'm going to repeat that for you, "extra high intensity mooning". Someone put a lot of thought into that sentence.

The event also carries a disclaimer which says, in part, "Attending this event may be hazardous due to the high concentration of silly people." It also states that if you fall and get hurt, "There is no one to sue," and that "the city and railroad would rather you did not bother to come to this event." The disclaimer also states that there is no insurance covering the event because who would insure an event called "Mooning Amtrak"?

Not only were there 8,000 folks mooning this year, the normally half-empty trains were packed full for this event. What's more fun, drinking nonstop on a train while watching people moon you? Or being a mooner?

The police said the very happy crowd dispersed peacefully when asked to this year. Next year Mooning Amtrak will be held on July 11th. Mark your calendars!

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Fleetwood Mac – Live!

Posted on May 25, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Awhile back Briefcase surprised me by announcing he'd bought tickets to see Fleetwood Mac in concert over Memorial Day weekend.

Do all of you remember Fleetwood Mac? They used to look like this:

And then they looked like this:

On Saturday evening Briefcase and I made our way to the Honda Center (formerly the Arrowhead Pond) in Anaheim to see Fleetwood Mac.

We were really close to the stage. Our seats were in row 19 on the floor, center stage. The crowd was an interesting mix of young and old. I admit I laughed out loud when I saw a man, probably about 65 years old, walk in with an earring hanging from his ear. He only had a patch of hair left on his balding head, but he wore that patch in a long ponytail. I don't think anyone has told him the 60's are over.

Seated next to us were two couples in their early twenties. The crowd was an ecletic mix.

A row or two in front of us was a woman who came dressed as Stevie Nicks.

It apparently was a huge turn-on for her partner. I don't think I want to know what THAT was all about.

The real Stevie Nicks now looks like this:

Sorry for the grainy photos but it was very dark and all I had with me was a point and shoot. Nonetheless, she's in her early sixties and looks fantastic. Her voice still has the same haunting quality of earlier years.

Mick Fleetwood on drums was amazing too. The highlight, though, was watching Lindsey Buckingham. The man is unbelievable.

I could not believe the dexterity he showed on guitar. His vocals were great and his energy level would make any 18 year old jealous. Stevie Nicks has always been my favorite in the group, but Lindsey Buckingham is the one who shined the most Saturday night. He made a good concert into a great one.

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My Dog is Leaking, And My Boobs Saved Me

Posted on May 22, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Thank God we have a brick floor in our house.

Our Chocolate Lab has sprung a leak. Her name is Mocha, because she's a chocolate lab and we're real original with the dog names … or maybe not so much.

Did you notice how she crosses her legs when she's just relaxing and hanging out? She's so ladylike. Mocha is the sweetest, most gentle dog you can imagine. She and PR are best friends. I've never seen a boy love a dog so much, and I've never seen a dog love a boy so much.

I kept seeing little drops of water on the brick floor yesterday. I would normally blame my kids for … I don't know, walking around dripping something, but they weren't home. Awhile later I found a puddle. Finding a puddle in your house is never a good sign, not even when it's on an easy to clean up brick floor.

Mocha is six years old and completely house trained. She never, ever, has accidents and hasn't since the week we brought her home. Literally, she's leaking. Liquid is just trailing out of her and besides the ewwww factor, there is also the WTF? factor.

Really, WTF?

It isn't pee (not even slightly yellow), it isn't crap … it looks just like water and there's no odor. I can't locate where the leak is coming from other than the back half of her body. I can't figure out what the leak is either.

Have any of you ever heard of a leaking dog?

Clearly I need to A) Keep her off the carpeted areas of the house and B) Get her to a vet as soon as possible. Don't ask me how I'm going to pull off a vet visit on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend when every minute of my day is booked, but it's got to happen.

Because? The dog is leaking!

I don't know what a trip to the vet costs where you live, but here in south OC we're lucky if we get out of the place for $400. So then, there's that too.

But? Leaking Dog!

On a positive note, and in totally unrelated news – thank God I have boobs!

I was running late the other day. I might have been driving just a tad bit fast down a major thoroughfare. I rounded a bend and said, "Oh shit!" as I slammed on my brakes. Mr. Officer was right there in the shadows with his handy radar gun.

I think he was waiting for me, ya know what I mean?

Well, it just so happened I was wearing a relatively new shirt that day. It's kind of a tealish blue and it's really pretty although, in hindsight, I don't think Mr. Officer cared at all what color it was. And, um, it's very low cut. I have big boobs. In fact, I'm thinking about getting them made smaller but I'm a chicken shit so I probably won't.

Tangent: Why would I get my tits made smaller? Because they are not helping my arm and shoulder situation in the least … as my doctor has told me in no uncertain terms repeatedly. Also? My entire life people have seen nothing but my boobs. People talk to my boobs all the time. They forget there's a me attached to them. It gets old.

In any case, Mr. Officer came over to my car (now pulled to the side of the road) to say hello. Very friendly of him, wouldn't you say?

The thing is Mr. Officer had polarized sunglasses on and when he stood next to my window looking in at me I could see perfectly well he was getting an eyeful of cleavage. I don't think Mr. Officer ever looked anywhere except at my cleavage as a matter of fact.

I told Mr. Officer I was so sorry, and I was just running a little late, and I may have – just possibly – crossed my arms under my breasts as I was talking. The (purely unintentional!) act of arm crossing just may have possibly created even more cleavage.

The next thing I knew I was being reminded to drive safely and sent on my way without a ticket.

Ladies? Never, ever, underestimate the power of cleavage!

P.S. How many people would put a leaking dog and the power of cleavage into the very same post?

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A Little of This, A Little of That

Posted on May 21, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Whew!

I've been running my ass off this week. I don't know why, but my calendar and to-do list are both bursting at the seams.

Also?

I had to take a pain pill before sitting down to write. The Torturer gets in these moods sometimes. He calls it ornery … I call it mean. The man damn near ripped my arm out of the socket before he taped me up and sent me on my way. I knew before I ever left PT I'd need at least one pain pill in the hours to follow.

Pain pills make me ramble. Pain pills make my brain scattered. Lucky you, you get to read the resulting randomness.

First of all, I apologize to those of you who were not able to access Twenty Four At Heart yesterday. There were a host of technical problems all of which have (hopefully) now been resolved. I think I was funny yesterday so if you missed out you may want to scroll down and read about James drilling my holes.

How pathetic is it that I think I'm funny? Sad ….

Second, yesterday I told you about my new TV stand. Apparently, the store that sold me the stand logged on to 24 yesterday during working hours. Someone read my post about James … aloud to all the employees including James. I'm told they found it "hysterical," although James did pout sadly and mutter, "James was a disappointment?"

I apologize James. I'm sure your drill is very … adequate.

Ahem.

Third, I'm going to be doing an extension of my PT at a local gym beginning next week. I will be working with someone who has both a physical therapy and personal training background. (I will still be working with The Torturer at PT also.) The goal is to rehab some of the muscles surrounding my arm that are no longer functioning well due to the prolonged loss of use of my arm. I'm sure being in a Money Town gym on a regular basis will be a great source for blog fodder.

Fourth, I had lunch with The Butterfly Lady yesterday. Do you wonder what women do for careers in Orange County? Well, at least one of them raises butterflies.

Do you remember when Briefcase invited about twenty people over recently without forewarning me? The following week one of the women who had been over that night brought me a thank you gift. It was a Painted Lady. Isn't it pretty?

That's right, she gave me my very own butterfly which she had raised since it was a mere egg.

The butterfly and a pretty purple flower came in a cute little decorated container. On the container there was a label that said, "I am a Painted Lady Butterfly and this flower is a Butterfly Bush. It is one of my favorite nectar flowers. To release me, take me outside at least one hour before dusk, make a wish, open the lid, and watch me fly away!"

I think it is one of the most wonderful gifts I've ever received. I was delighted!

I released my Painted Lady into the canyon behind our house.

Yesterday I met The Butterfly Lady for lunch. She explained to me how she raises butterflies year round. She plants things in her yard to attract them, collects their eggs and raises more butterflies than a person can imagine. Butterflies are sold to people for release at weddings, funerals and special occasions.

It was captivating listening to her. It would never, ever, occur to me to raise butterflies. She began raising butterflies initially as a hobby.

Talking with The Butterfly Lady made me think. I bet a lot of you have a wide variety of interesting hobbies too. What do you like to do in your spare time? Do you have a hobby or interest, or perhaps even an side business to occupy your time?

I can't wait to hear what you spend your time doing when you're not at work or visiting here!

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An Inappropriate Post About a Man and His Drill

Posted on May 20, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

As some of you may remember, I've been working on my house off and on for quite awhile. After wasting a few years on post-car accident surgeries and misery, I've been trying to get my life back in order.

Quite awhile ago I ordered a plasma stand to hold our TV. We already had a funky piece of crap stand, but it really needed to be relocated to the local dump. I was warned when I ordered the new one that it would take a few months to arrive.

It did.

Two weeks ago it was finally delivered. The night it arrived I asked Briefcase to please put the TV onto the new table/stand. (Since I'm sort of one-armed and TVs are heavy.) He looked at the new stand and said, "There are no holes for the wires to go through," and then he sat on the couch to ~~watch ESPN~~ do some very hard work.

The new TV stand has been sitting around with nothing on it for two weeks. Briefcase is, um, not handy … to put it as politely as I can.

I was going to call a handyman to come help me, but the store where I bought the stand said they could send someone out at no charge.

This week I got this message on my home answering machine:

Twenty Four, this is XXXX from XXXX. James can come out to your house tomorrow afternoon to drill your holes. <pause> <giggle> Oops, I don't think that sounded quite right.

My son, PR, and I? We laughed till we cried when we heard the message.

At 2:00 the next day James showed up. While waiting for him to arrive I procrastinated doing chores by Tweeting:

I've got a man coming to drill my holes any minute now.

Those ladies on Twitter? They are horny bitches. If you're a man and in need of some action, I can't recommend Twitter highly enough. You should especially follow the ~~hos~~ chicks who follow me.

I started getting all sorts of offers from women on Twitter for James before he'd even arrived. I thwarted their efforts to steal James away to have their holes drilled. Jeez, they were even offering to pay money for him!

Then the doorbell rang. By that time, my mind was completely in the gutter. I couldn't help myself, I immediately checked out his drill. James had a big drill.

I showed James to my living room so he could drill my holes.

James looked confused. James looked deep in thought. There are times when a woman wants a thinker, but it's never when she's waiting to have her holes drilled.

I sent out a quick tweet:

OK, this is no good. He's confused over what should go in which hole. FAIL.

Shortly after, James started making a lot of noise and I updated Twitter with this information:

Jeez … he's got a huuuuuuuuuge drill!

James worked fast once he got the hang of it. Too fast, really. It's always nice to have a man who takes his time. It wasn't long at all until James was thanking me (for the opportunity to drill my holes?) and on his way.

I updated all the ladies who were anxiously waiting for news on James with this:

The man with the big drill just left. He was a disappointment.

The whores on Twitter were not surprised. I got all sorts of comments back saying, "it figures," and "typical."

Apparently, the bigger the drill . . . oftentimes, the bigger the disappointment.

At that point I went back and reread my Twitter stream. I decided I needed to start being more productive for the day so I sent out my final tweet on the subject:

I'm all sorts of inappropriate today. How unusual.

Who me?

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My Tinderbox, My Home

Posted on May 19, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Before I get too deep into today's post I want to share some exciting news with you. Last week I was contacted by Amazon. By Saturday of last week, they began publishing Twenty Four At Heart to their Kindle readers. If you have a Kindle, or if you have a friend or family member who might be interested in subscribing to Twenty Four At Heart by Kindle you (or they) can go here to do so. This also seems to be a very appropriate time to thank each and every one of you who take the time to come here and visit. There are no words to express how much I appreciate you. Smooches!

Yesterday The Torturer let me out of PT a little early. I came home and before I'd even left my garage I knew there was a problem. I could hear a helicopter and it was close. It was very loud … and a loud helicopter near my house means only one thing.

Fire.

My backyard ends with a slope down to this lake. The lake is surrounded by dry brush this time of the year. I live in a canyon and the canyon is a tinderbox ready to ignite.

Yesterday it ignited, but fortunately the fire was deemed as a "spot fire" and within a couple hours the fire was "under control" although not extinguished. At no time was the fire close enough to threaten my home.

The Orange County Fire Authority helicopters fill their water tanks directly from the lake when there are fires nearby. Unfortunately, living where I do means I see these helicopters at least once a year, and during many years even more frequently.

The helicopters always approach from the north.

The helicopters used to have huge buckets hanging from them that they would fill. Now they have water tanks on board and fill them instead.

It only takes a couple minutes to fill the water tanks.

Then they are back in the air and headed towards their destination to drop the water.

Yesterday was unusual. The fire department was using multiple helicopters. At some points one would be hovering as another filled its tank. As soon as the first would leave, the next would take its spot. My normally quiet canyon was very loud until it became too dark for the firefighters to fly.

I started tweeting fire events as soon as I got home. The Orange County Register follows me and contacted me for a phone interview. They also asked if I could email them some pictures which I did. If you're interested you can read the newspaper article here. I am quoted and they also gave me a photo credit. It made me feel *special*. (Except for the part where they outed my identity to all of Orange County and the entire rest of the world when this was supposed to be an anonymous blog!)

That part of it? Not so special ….

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I’m Such an Ass

Posted on May 18, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Well, as promised, I'm going to explain my latest flashing incident. Honestly, I have the worst luck. Things just happen to me for no good reason at all. Needless to say, the latest incident was entirely unintentional …

My regular readers probably have a good sense of my relationship with my physical therapist, The Torturer, but my newer readers may not. I've known The Torturer for fourteen years. I've practically lived with him daily for the last three years since my car accident.

Suffice it to say, The Torturer and I are very comfortable around each other. It isn't necessarily always a positive thing, but it just is.

Last Thursday I wore a pair of very casual and comfortable capris into PT. They looked sort of like this (except they were dark brown):

They look much nicer on this model than they look on me, by the way.

When I'm at PT, I'm tortured in many different manners. Sometimes I'm lying down on a table. Sometimes I'm standing. Sometimes I'm working on gym-type equipment. Sometimes I'm on a mat on the floor. The Torturer orders me around from one activity to the next, and for some odd reason (completely foreign to my personality type), I listen to him and do what he says.

Shocking, I know.

I tell you all this so you'll better understand what otherwise might sound odd.

I was standing in front of a floor length wall mirror. The Torturer stood directly behind me. He likes mirrors.

<snort>

The Torturer commanded me to raise my bum arm. I did to the best of my ability which is entirely pathetic by a normal person's standard. Then he lifted my right arm the rest of the way for me since I can't do it on my own. He barked an order at me to keep my arm raised and then slowly lower it on my own. He let go of my arm.

My arm dropped like a ton of bricks.

He scowled angrily at me and we began the process again.

This is a routine I'm accustom to now.

The Torturer and I toil at this same activity pretty frequently. Even though he scowls at me like he's really annoyed, I realize he knows perfectly well what's going to happen each and every time we do this exercise. For some reason, we keep doing it anyway.

I'm sure there's a reason for that?

On Thursday as we went through the standard grind, The Torturer all of a sudden said, "Bend over."

Without hesitating I started to do so and then a light bulb went on as his words really sunk in and I thought, "Bend over? He wants me to bend over for him?"

Honestly, I was halfway bent over towards the table in front of me before my brain fully processed his request. Bend over? Hands on table? Full length mirror in front of us? The Torturer behind me?

Gawd, I'm easy ….

I immediately stood straight up and looked at him with both a startled and questioning look in my eyes.

"Why?" I demanded. "Why do you want me to bend over for you?"

"I think you have a hole in your pants," he answered matter of factly.

My hands immediately flew to my ass. I turned and looked at my butt in the mirror. I didn't see a hole. The pants are fairly new. They fit, it's not like I'm bursting out of them or something.

"There's no hole," I admonished confidently.

"I saw white," mocked The Torturer.

My eyes widened at the implication.

"My ass is not white," I replied flushing. "I have a tan ass."

(Because, remember my pre-vacation tanning exploits? Here and here.)

Now, if I were wearing full coverage Granny Panties the color of my ass would not be up for discussion. As it so happened, I knew I definitely did not have Granny Panties on under my capris.

The Torturer grinned at my embarrassment and ordered me to start in again with the arm exercises.

"Raise your arm," he commanded.

I turned and faced the mirror and did as he asked.

He, once again, started lifting my arm for me.

As he did so, he smirked, "Yep, you've got a hole in your pants. I can see your ass and it's very white."

Clearly his eyes were not on my arm!

I jumped three feet away from him, covered my ass with my hands and glared at the unconcealed mirth in his eyes.

Apparently he thinks he's hilarious.

Clearly, I don't.

Seeing my glare brought a chortle of glee from The Torturer.

"Just a couple loose threads by your back pocket, it's small," he informed me.

My hands ran over my butt. I couldn't feel a hole. I figured the only visible ass was the one standing before me, and I was certain he was playing a practical joke on me.

I shrugged dismissively.

"I don't believe a thing he says," I thought to myself. "He's just messing with me."

I tugged my shirt down in back just in case.

A few minutes later I was on all fours on an exercise mat on the floor with The Torturer beside me barking commands.

This post sounds like some type of weird porn, doesn't it?

Twenty Four Does PT coming to a theater near you!

Nonetheless, I was on all fours doing all sorts of things for The Torturer.

*Ahem*

An hour or two later I was back at home.

Curious, I went and stood in front of the large mirror in our bathroom. I turned my back to the mirror, bent forward slightly and glanced over my shoulder to see my reflection in the mirror.

White ass! Lots and lots of white ass.

It was way worse than "a small hole."

The fabric, literally, had dissolved. I don't know the proper fabric terms to describe what had happened to my pants, but it was as if the fabric had unwoven and
disintegrated. Instead of having fabric covering my butt, it was as if I had a few threads here and there holding the pants together. Threadbare …

And Ass. White ass to spare. My prized Ass Tan had faded and become a thing of the past.

I flashed back to being on all fours on the floor mat. I grimaced at the thought of what that must have looked like to The Torturer.

Blushing profusely, I sent off an immediate text message to The Torturer. It said something profound like, "OMG!! You DID see my ass!!"

And then …

I thought back to the very beginning of this incident. When he first thought I had a hole in my pants he asked me to bend over for him.

Does anyone have an explanation for that?

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I’m On My Way To The Beach

Posted on May 15, 2009 at 12:05 am.

Written by Suzanne

Last night over 1,000 homes in South Orange County lost power in an "emergency power outage." My home was included in the 1,000. Power outages are something that happen to people who live in areas with weather, not something that happens here. I found two scented candles and lit them. I realized I need to buy flashlights and have working batteries in them. I puzzled over what to do with myself alone and in the dark for hours. (No wisecracks about that, m'kay?)

I read my Kindle which was fully charged. I wondered about whether or not hours upon hours of no electricity meant I should throw everything in the fridge and freezer out or if things would stay "cold enough" …???? (Can one of you enlighten me on that because I might have killed off my family by feeding them breakfast today?)

I didn't write a blog post because, um, it was very dark. And my laptop wouldn't work because our router was dead.

Maybe I could have written something really witty when the power finally came back on late at night. But I was in a sleepy stupor, so I didn't. (I was going to tell you about how The Torturer saw my ass yesterday. Yes, he did! I flashed my ass this time, can you believe it?)

I'll tell you about that next week, I suppose. <blush>

Instead you get this random sleep-induced drivel.

Fascinating, aren't I?

I will also (hopefully) have some other exciting news next week too. Keep your fingers crossed, okay?

Today I'm playing hooky. TR is arriving for the weekend by train this morning. I'm going to pick her up at the train station and we're going to head to the beach. The weather here is fantastic. I can't wait to make the most of it. Here are a few photos of where I'll be today …

Enjoy your weekend! I'll be back on Monday!

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