Twenty Four At Heart

Famous Plastic Surgeons Can Be So Sensitive

I was counting down the days and finally, yesterday, I had my three week check up with the plastic surgeon who did my breast reduction.  The "recovery" is supposed to be six weeks but a whole lot of things get better at the three week point.  I was anxious for my appointment all day, and typically, it fell at the very end of the day.

I might have been annoying at my appointment.

I didn't mean to be but I couldn't seem to help myself.  

I realized later, I have trouble trusting doctors.  I don't know why.  It might have something to do with the fact that it took FIVE surgeries on my arm to get me out of debilitating, breathtaking, pain and into normal chronic pain.  Not to mention, I'll never have full use of that very same arm which they performed FIVE surgeries on.  The purpose of the breast reduction is also to help my arm/shoulder so really that makes SIX surgeries in three years all because of ONE car accident.

So maybe I have good reason to be a doctor skeptic.

(Also, have I ever told you the guy who ran the stop sign and hit me was an asshole?  Oh yeah, I guess I did.)

I need to tell you up-front that I love my plastic surgeon.  He's wonderful and kind and for Godsakes, he's been Chief of Plastic Surgery at a very well known Newport Beach hospital.  I would recommend him to anyone.  

Nonetheless, I felt I ought to tell him how to do his job yesterday.  Because, of course, I have a medical degree in plastic surgery from Harvard due in the mail to me any day now.  Don't I?

I might have pushed my doc just a *wee bit* towards the end of his patience level yesterday.  Also, now that I think about it?  I might have done similar things with my shoulder surgeon and The Torturer.  But never mind ... they aren't the point of this story, are they?

While I waited for the doc I talked with one of the nurses.  She was very friendly.  I was astonished to hear she has a 23 year old son.  I thought she was 23!  Will the wonders of plastic surgery never cease to amaze me!  My jaw fell to the floor when she told me her age.  My doctor must actually be even better than I thought because the women who work for him, and partake of his expertise, all look fabulous.  Astonishingly enough, they look youthful and good.  (Unlike all the usual Plastic Barbies who walk around Orange County just looking plastic-ish.)  

I can't get over it.

But again, that didn't stop me from telling the doc all I know about plastic surgery.  He entered the room and closed the door.  I chatted pleasantries with him for a few moments and then, as asked, I stood and removed my gown.  Doc just sat on his little stool staring at my boobs, appraising them.  I felt a little uncomfortable.  It's unsettling to have a man sitting within inches of your breasts just staring at them.

I almost expected him to roll his doctor stool closer and take a taste or something.  (I'm sorry, but I'm just being honest about the thoughts that were going through my mind.)  I mean, there he was with his face right in front of my boobs.  Don't you wonder if it crossed his mind?

I also wanted to ask him if I could plan on instant nipple-induced orgasms for the rest of my life or if it's just a temporary side effect.  I decided I'd wait until my six week check up to ask the nipple-orgasm question.  Maybe my nipples will be back to normal by then and I won't even have to ask.

Finally, he began removing the surgical tape.  It was fine.  It wasn't painful.  I looked down at one breast and noticed redness near the incision site.

"It's infected," I advised the doctor.

"No, it's not," the doctor informed the annoying patient me.  He then went on to note I'd had a small allergic reaction to the stitches themselves.  Lucky me.  Apparently it happens "once in awhile" and isn't a big deal.  It caused a little redness, but the redness should disappear quickly.

There wasn't a mirror in the room, but I looked down at my breasts as he removed a few stitches.  Most of the stitches were the dissolving kind, but he needed to cut a few out.  He asked me to lift and hold my breasts as he worked.  

All of a sudden I said, "Oh look!  You made the left one bigger than the right one!"

Startled, he quickly answered, "I did not!"

He looked hurt at the very thought.

"Yes, you did!" I retorted.

This was the exact point where I could tell the doc found me a tad annoying.  He pushed his chair back, he looked at my breasts, he took a deep breath and sighed.

Then ... then he used his doctor voice to discuss my "concern" with me.  He was very nice, and he was very polite, and he was clearly delving into his well of patience to speak to me.  He began clarifying for me that my left breast is more swollen than my right and that he did not make two different sized boobs for me. 

"Look," he said, pointing to my ribs on the left side.

My ribs are visibly swollen on the left side of my body.  

"Your left side is just taking longer to heal," he explained again.  Then he added, "Your breasts came out great.  Once they've finished healing you are going to be very, very, happy."

He seemed confident.  He seemed assuring.  To be honest, even right now - with my left boob swollen slightly bigger than my right they look terrific.  

"I think I can wear a bra now," I blurted.

(At the same time I was wondering if they make lopsided bras.  You know, in case I need a D cup for my left tit and a C cup for my right one.)

My doc tilted his head a little as he weighed my latest outburst and how best to deal with me.

"I know you're anxious to wear a real bra again," he stated.

"I don't think it would hurt, I'm sure my breasts are ready!" I enthusiastically informed him.

"Ready?" he asked.  (As if I had just mentioned I had baked them at 350 degrees for an hour and they were now done cooking.)

"At six weeks the breast tissue will be 90% healed.  They won't be ready for a real bra until then," he stated quite firmly.

Crestfallen, I nodded.

As he gave me a few more instructions he handed me a tube of Kelo-cote.

Kelo-cote is a gel which supposedly prevents scar formation and reduces the appearance of scars.  I tucked it in my purse.  My doc leaned forward and offered me his hand to shake.  I almost gave him a hug, but I was afraid what reaction a hug might set off in my new bionic nipples.  I figured at that point, he didn't need me adding any additional interesting moments to my visit.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Curing My Withdrawals

Today makes three weeks since my surgery.  Three weeks without much activity.  Three weeks of being pretty bored if I'm honest.

Last weekend was hot.  Very hot.  On Saturday I was booked solid with activities I probably shouldn't have been participating in.  On Sunday I was overwhelmed with chores.  I'm supposed to be resting, but I'm so over resting.  It was 95F/35C in our backyard Sunday afternoon.  I'm not allowed to swim yet.  I'm not even allowed to go for walks yet.  

I couldn't stand it.

At 4:00 in the afternoon I drove down to the beach.  I thought it couldn't hurt just to look at the ocean, right?  I was having withdrawals.  I never go three weeks without the ocean.

I needed this:

 

I ended up taking a long, but very leisurely, walk down the beach.  If my doc asks, let's just pretend I did nothing except sit on the beach.  He would not approve.  It made me deliriously happy to get a little beach time.

The beach was crowded because it was so hot.  I walked in the opposite direction from the crowds.  I also walked a very long way.

I'm still alive, and I feel much better for it, so I really think it was okay.  Doctors are always overly cautious.  My walk on the beach renewed my soul.  It's like a physical need for me.  I'm really not happy (or sane) without the surf and the sand.

I guess that's what happens if you grow up here.

It felt great to have my toes in the sand.  I like to walk right along the edge of the water so my feet get wet.

The lifeguards were busy keeping everybody safe.  I walked so far, I eventually got to an area where there weren't any lifeguards on duty.

The waves were pretty big and there was a strong undertow to the current.  I'm not allowed to swim yet so I just enjoyed my walk, the smell of the salt air, and the crashing of the waves.

Eventually I got back to the more populated areas.  The tourists have arrived for summer and they're full of questions for the lifeguards.  Some of the lifeguards drive up and down the beach helping tourists people out.

It's always easy to spot the tourists.  They're obscenely sunburned by the end of the day.  We're glad to help out visitors, but I admit we chuckle a little too.

Signs like this one aren't up for the locals.  Signs like this are up to help out the people visiting on vacations.

We already know where we're supposed to swim.

You'd think it's pretty obvious, but apparently not.  

© Twenty Four At Heart

Money Town Bitch

We have some good friends who moved to Money Town recently.  They're very nice people and we've known them for over fifteen years.  Their youngest son is also a good friend of PR's.  Yesterday PR was invited to come over after football and spend the day.  I agreed to drop him off.

I drove through the gates of Money Town and noticed nothing has changed there in the last few weeks.  Nothing ever really does change in Money Town.  I drove to our friend's house and walked up with PR to say hello.  PR ran off the minute he was reunited with his buddy.  I chatted with my girlfriend for maybe 15 minutes and then said good-bye and left.

I walked out to my car but it was blocked by a double parked black Mercedes convertible SL500.  I didn't take a picture of it because cars like it are a dime a dozen around here.  Here's a google pic of a silver one just to give you an idea of what they look like:

I tossed my purse in my car from the passenger side and glanced around.  The way the car was parked, I assumed the driver wasn't intending to stay long.  I figured someone had come by to drop something at one of the neighboring houses and even though there was plenty of other places to park, she for some reason felt the need to park there.  You know, at an angle, blocking my exit and within a few inches of my car on one side.

I waited.  Then I waited a little while longer.  I debated going back to my friend's and knocking on her door for a longer chat, but I had things I needed to get done.  Just as my patience was giving way, I saw a woman exit a neighboring house and head towards the Mercedes.

She had long bleached white-blonde hair.  At a distance she looked to be about 30, but as she got closer the plastic surgery became more and more apparent.  My guess is she was at least 45.  She was wearing short, short, black leather shorts.  Who knew they made shorts in leather?  She also wore ugg boots with fuzz on them.

She had on a silver-ish shiny top with a plunging neckline.  Her very fake and quite generous tits threatened to burst right out of her top.  She had a very glittery big wide belt on with her leather shorts.

She wore long dangling earrings and her acrylic nails were painted bright red.  She had a monster diamond on her left hand and a glittering diamond band on her right hand too.  She also wore lots and lots of bangle bracelets.

Have I ever mentioned money doesn't buy class?

Now, wouldn't you assume if you returned to your illegally parked car and realized someone was waiting on you to leave because you blocked their car in, you would apologize?

Instead, Money Town Bitch tossed her hair and gave me a dirty look as if I were in her way.  She walked towards her passenger door, opened it, and didn't even blink when her car door hit against the side of my car.  

I'm sure my car was just an inconvenience in her way.

She took her time shoving something in her glove compartment, closed it, slammed the car door shut, tossed her hair again and walked to the driver's side of her car.

"Thanks for being so considerate," I said rather snidely.

Because, really?

I'm not driving a Mercedes, but my car is only two years old.  Not only did this bitch feel entitled to disregard where she parked, but clearly she also felt denting my car with her car door was of no concern at all.  For that matter, denting my car right in front of me was of no concern.

She rolled her eyes at me and said, "I saw the guest pass in your window, it's obvious you don't live here."

I wonder what clued her in.  I mean, other than the Money Town guest pass in my car window?  My car is not a Mercedes, Porsche or Maserati.  I was standing there in workout capris, flip flops and a white t-shirt over my white sports bra.  In all likelihood my nipples were putting on a display.  I wore no make-up, and come to think of it, I might not have even brushed my hair yet.  I'm sure I ran my fingers through it prior to leaving the house, and that is almost the same thing as brushing it.

I'm quite certain my teeth were brushed because my teeth are always brushed.

I was momentarily stunned into silence by her rudeness.  Then I snapped out of it and replied, "Because living in Money Town gives you the right to be a bitch?"

Well, this infuriated her.  At the same time I saw a quick flash of fear in her eyes.  I guess she figured an outsider might be dangerous or something.  Who knows what I might do next.  I mean, since I don't have a Mercedes I might be a gang member who has infiltrated Money Town.

All of you readers?  Be careful.  I'm one dangerous chick.  I wear flip flops!  You never know what I might do.

She rolled her eyes, tossed her hair again for good measure and got in the driver's seat of her car.  Then she looked back at me and flipped me off prior to driving away.

Ahhh ... welcome to my world.  There's nothing quite like visiting Money Town.

© Twenty Four At Heart

The OC - It's a Very Plastic World

Yesterday I spent the day immersed in the very plastic world of Orange County.  For some of you, this is no big deal.  Maybe you're a part of that world, maybe you've had a little "work" done yourself, maybe you hate all things plastic, or maybe you just wish you could have a few elective surgeries done. 

I have always seen plastic people walking around everywhere, but I've never been a part of their world.  Everything I encounter in Plastic World keeps surprising me, but then I wonder why?  I suppose I've just never spent time thinking about being surrounded by plastic surgery run rampant.

I was at the plastic surgeon's office first thing in the morning for my "pre-op" appointment.  I mentally evaluated every person I encountered.

As I waited, a young woman (about 20) sat near me.  We both filled out form after form and I couldn't help but wonder, "Why is she here?"

She was thin, she was beautiful ... and yet, she clearly was there to change something about her appearance she isn't happy with.

Are women ever happy with their appearance?

At what point do we accept ourselves for what and who we are?

Another woman wandered in discussing the facelift she will be having next week.  I looked at her and again, wondered why.  She didn't look much over 40 and she was attractive.  No, she didn't look twenty anymore, but she looked good.  She was animated and excited about her prospective surgery.

A man walked through the waiting area with heavy dark glasses on.  Clearly, he'd recently had his eyes done.

An older woman arrived next.  She must have been in her seventies and she was (in my opinion) a mess.  She was clearly a case of someone trying way too hard.  Huge fake eyelashes, a recent facelift, recent laser surgery on her skin, too much makeup and her body was old, soft, overweight and looked its age.  The face and body didn't look right together.  Having a ton of work on your face doesn't cancel out the fact that you are now an old lady.

Later in the day I saw an even older woman as I left.  Again, I stopped and wondered ... if we can't accept ourselves when we are sixty, seventy or eighty ... will we ever?  We all want to look our best, but isn't a part of that simply being at peace with where we are in life?

I ended up spending hours upon hours at the office.  I had "before" pictures taken of my naked boobs.  That was a little awkward.  They like to get shots of them at every angle so I kept turning this way and that.  At one point I thought they just might swing around and hit someone in the face, knocking them out.  Never underestimate the power of DD breasts!

I got all the nitty gritty details about the surgery and recovery.  I'm going to be very honest here, all those details scared the crap out of me.  Talking in the abstract about having smaller boobs and the relief that will bring to my shoulder and neck is one thing.  Hearing about the post-surgery drains I will have in my breasts for several days and the process itself is quite another.  

I even asked the doctor if he could just wave a magic wand over me and be done with it.  

He finds me amusing ....

Doctors always do, why is that?

My biggest fear is that I'll start mumbling on drugs and ask the dog about Slippery and Buttery Nipples.  (Both are cocktails, by the way.)  I have this fear I'll start rambling and offer him a drink of a Nipple just prior to going under for the surgery.

I had to sign a bazillion forms.  Basically, if I wake up with a breast sewn onto my foot I have no legal recourse.  (Although, think how enjoyable foot massages will become!)  I signed so many forms it was ridiculous.  I was given a list of post surgery supplies to buy.  I was given some vitamins and herbs too.  They're supposed to expedite healing.

In the Plastic World, appearance is, of course, of the utmost importance.  I came out of my car accident surgeries beat to hell and bruised all over from the surgeons.  Plastic surgeons don't want their patients to look bad.  In addition to a regimen of vitamins and specific herbs, they have me wearing a blood pressure patch for the next two weeks.  I don't have high blood pressure, but by lowering it I will supposedly heal faster with less bleeding and bruising.

We want the new smaller boobs to look pretty right away I suppose.

I thought I'd never get done with my appointment.  The doc even wanted to discuss what can and can't happen with my shoulder and PT in the weeks after my breast surgery.  How much do you want to bet he and The Torturer will be chatting before this is all over?  Medical people love to have me as their special project.

Then I was off for blood work, followed by a visit to The Plastic Surgery Center.

Several doctors work out of the same center.  I was required to register for my surgery.  A young woman came in after me.  As she opened the door a gust of wind accompanied her.  I looked up, and, I swear, her over-collagened lips started flapping in the wind.  I've never seen such a disturbing sight.

On my way home I stopped to purchase Hanes front zipping sports bras.  Apparently this is what I have to wear for the next several weeks.  There was a problem though.  They were out of every color except neon purple.  THAT should look nice under my clothes ....

I ended my day of surgery related crap by stopping into the pharmacy to pick up all the drugs they want me to take post-surgery.  I overheard the assistant pharmacist say, "This prescription is from a plastic surgeon.  If she can afford plastic surgery she can afford to pay full price for her prescriptions."

What did you say bitch?

Apparently the 20-something year old bitch didn't want to inconvenience herself by billing my insurance.  Her comment really irked me.  I'm sure she's tired of Money Town women, but she is an employee at a Money Town pharmacy.  My insurance is paying for this because it has been deemed a "medical necessity."  

As I went to pick up the prescriptions my inner bitch came out.  I intentionally made her feel like shit by saying, "These will be covered by my insurance.  I was terribly disfigured in a horrible car accident and I'm having the damage repaired next week."

You should have seen the look on her face.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Meeting the Plastic Surgeon

Last Saturday I had an appointment for a consultation with a well thought of plastic surgeon here in Orange County.  I made the appointment with him because a) My orthopedic surgeon feels a breast reduction is mandatory for me b) A girlfriend used this particular doctor for a breast reduction and is extremely happy with the results and c) He uses a method common in France and Brazil which involves much less cutting/scarring than the method used by most American doctors.

I did a lot of research before my visit and read everything I possibly could ahead of time.  I'm neurotic like that.

My appointment was scheduled for 1:00 p.m. and I arrived a few minutes early, as requested, to fill out paperwork.  I walked into the office and was immediately hit by the Wow! factor.

In spite of the economic recession, plastic surgery is clearly alive and well in Orange County.  The office took up the majority of one full floor in a large office building.  The waiting areas were opulent.  It must be a result of the high school OC girls who get breast implants as graduation gifts?  (Yes, I am serious - that's very common here.)  

The friendliness and warmth of the staff was impossible not to respond to.

Everyone was HAPPY and BEAUTIFUL and SO GLAD TO SEE ME.

I felt like I was at a fancy spa.

I expected posters of air-brushed super models on the walls to make me feel (more) inadequate, but there were no super models to be found.

Word of my car accident and my "situation" had traveled through the staff before my arrival.  I imagine I'm unusual for them.  Most women (and men) visiting their office are there to hang onto their youth or grasp at beauty in any fashion they can.

I'm all for youth and beauty, don't get me wrong.  It just isn't what prompted my visit.

First I met with a consultant.  I asked her how old she is and she informed me she is 57.  She looks way younger than I do and I'm in my forties.  Over the course of my visit, it became apparent she's had a lot of "work" done.  She looked good; she did not look like warped plastic like a lot of the OC women do.  

Her face was not pulled overly tight, her breasts were obviously fake (done years ago and not by this plastic surgeon), she admitted openly to a face-lift, liposuction, breast augmentation and a host of other surgeries.  If I met her on the street I would assume fake boobs and maybe some botox.  She's had a lot done, but she doesn't look like she's had a lot done.

Why do some women have plastic surgery and look terrible, while others look okay?  Is it a result of the surgeon?  Or is it how much surgery the woman/patient chooses to have done?

Personally, I have enough wrinkles, fat, and cellulite for the 57 year old "consultant" and myself.  I'm happy to share since I'm sure she misses having any of her own.

After meeting with the consultant, she ushered me back to an examination room.  She chatted with me for awhile longer and then went to retrieve the doctor.  While she was gone I removed my shirt and bra and put on a hospital gown.

My nipples might have blushed a little at the thought of being seen by a stranger.

The doc entered and I have to admit, I liked him a lot.  He spent a lot of time just talking to me about the car accident, the disability it has caused, and what it has meant for my life.  He asked me to stand and show him how far I'm able to lift my arm and what my limitations are so he could understand.  We discussed what DD breasts do to a shoulder, and in my case, a shoulder missing ligaments, bone, tendons and a host of other shoulder necessities.

All of that, while my boobs were completely covered.

The doctor was intrigued by Twenty Four At Heart, and didn't mind in the least when I told him I'd be writing about my experience with him.  He had a lot of questions about blogging and Internet writing.  We talked for a long, long, time.

He also measured my breasts.  And touched them.  And handled them.  But it was okay and strangely not as embarrassing or awkward as I'd worried it might be.  The actual physical exam was very short.

I had a curious urge to blurt out inappropriate things as he examined my breasts.

Like, "So are they the biggest ones you've ever seen?"

Or, "Aren't they soft and pretty?"

Or, "What would you think of The Girls if you'd met them under different circumstances?"

Or, "Hey doc, have you ever had a Buttery Nipple?"

I managed to control myself and say nothing.

I wonder what thoughts were going through his head as he examined me?  Purely doctor thoughts?  Do Doctor Thoughts preclude Man Thoughts?

His hands were a little cold. 

I realize a lot of you are anti-plastic surgery no matter what the situation.  I, however, have decided to have a breast reduction done.  After researching this extensively, I agree with my orthopedic surgeon and believe having a few less pounds pulling my damaged shoulder forward will lessen my pain.

I told the doc I want to get it done and over with as soon as possible.  I've got a busy summer planned and I don't want to spend it recuperating.  What does the surgery mean?

I will go from size DD breasts to C.

I will have really perky breasts.  (yay!)

I will lose a few pounds of breast tissue from my chest.

I will be able to wear button up shirts for the first time since I was 11 years old.

I will NOT have to hide my breasts with the clothes I select anymore.

I will have to take a break from PT and my recovery will regress somewhat as a result.

I will have one vertical linear scar on the underside of each breast. 

The scar should fade to a very faint white line in 6 months to a year.

I won't have the other scars which are traditional with an American breast reduction because this doctor doesn't use the traditional method of surgery.

The good news is the worst of the recovery is completed after a week, although technically it is a 4 - 6 week recovery period.  The discomfort should be mild compared to what I've been through with the car accident surgeries.

The bad news is it's a long surgery time-wise and I hate to be under anesthesia.  The doc did inform me, however, that the anesthesia used is much lighter than what was used for my intense car accident surgeries.

I'm waiting to hear on an exact date and will let you know as this whole thing progresses.  The goal when I left was to try and get it scheduled in the next ten days so I can enjoy my summer.

Oh, and one other thing ...

I bought a box of Latisse on my way out. 

They sold all sorts of skin care and cosmetic products there.

Latisse is a product (prescribed by a doctor) that you put on your eyelashes each night before bed.  It is applied just like eyeliner.  It makes eyelashes grow longer and lusher.  I figure bigger eyelashes will make up for smaller boobs.

Don't you think?

© Twenty Four At Heart

When A Real Housewife Spends Time With a Real Housewife

The winner of last week's contest is Deb from Deb on the Rocks.  I loved all the responses, but Deb clearly put a lot of time and effort into hers.  Deb, please send me an email with your mailing address and I will get your Orange County coffee mug and the gift card sent out to you.  Congratulations!  

My hair has been looking like a way-too-shaggy mop lately.  I almost took the scissors to it myself about a week ago.  Last Friday I finally got in to have it trimmed.

I love my hair stylist, but she's moved a few times.  I follow her wherever she goes.  I'm sure my female readers understand.  We women tend to be loyal to our hair stylists.  Last Friday when I went for an appointment, it meant a drive to Laguna Niguel.  I really didn't mind because I almost always find great writing material when I visit a salon.

As my hair was being blown dry, I noticed one of The Real Housewives of Orange County had entered the salon.  For those of you who watch the show, it was Lynne Curtin.  She's the one who makes and sells jewelry to Fred Segal and other exclusive boutiques.

I took this picture of Lynne off of Google Images:

According to AwfulPlasticSurgery.com Lynne is 52 years old.  And no, I didn't even know a website called Awful Plastic Surgery existed, but it does and it makes me laugh.

Personally, I thought Lynne looked pretty good.  She's really, really, tiny (except for the boobs).  There are an awful lot of women in their thirties who don't look as good as she does.  I know we all love to bash the Real Housewives but plastic surgery or not, she looks way better than most 52 year old women.

Lynne had stopped into the salon to see if they were interested in selling any of her boutique items.  One of the hair stylists immediately offered to "fix" her hair for her.  It was a beach fog type of day and I guess Lynne was looking a little droopy.  

My hair stylist and I were the only other two people in the room for a good part of the time.  We immediately stopped our conversation in silent agreement to eavesdrop as Lynne got her hair styled.  

I'm classy like that.

The woman working on Lynne's hair immediately started hitting her up for an opportunity to do her hair and makeup for the show.

Obnoxious much?

Lynne informed her they have professional hair and makeup people to take care of that for them.  Duh ....

A short while later Lynne and I were both done being made beautiful.  Except, um, she looked beautiful, and I looked like me.

She said I looked really familiar and struck up a conversation.

I said she looked familiar also.

To her credit, she didn't answer, "It's because you've seen me on TV you Asshat."

Instead she inquired about whether or not I have kids and went on to ponder whether or not we might know each other from our kids worlds.  I behaved myself while talking with her.  I didn't make one smart ass comment, and I didn't mention The Real Housewives.  Also, I bit my tongue when, perhaps, I could have found a moment or two to let my true personality appear and actually make fun of her a few things.

Just kidding, she was very nice.

I'm being very restrained today.  Can you tell?  Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me?

A few minutes later (at my request) I was looking at all the stuff she designs.  She really does make some pretty pieces.  I ended up coming home with this black cuff bracelet for myself:

My camera flash is reflecting off the shiny, sparkly stuff, so you'll have to trust me - it's pretty.  Some of them are really big and/or gawdy.  This one is on the small side and really looks nice on.  The cuff bracelets normally start at $275 retail.  I paid nothing close to that.

I'm sure that means Lynne and I are BFF's?

TR's birthday was last weekend so I picked up one of Lynne's crackled leather belts as a gift also.  The design seemed perfect for a college student.

I don't know what the belts retail for, but I got this one for a bargain.  I was able to pick out the type/color of leather I liked, the size and then the belt buckle and she assembled it for me on the spot.

Prior to leaving, Lynne invited me to come to a boutique event coming up soon.  Her work will be on display, the cameras will be filming, and I'm sure a lot of Orange County's finest will be in attendance.  She told me I was welcome to bring along a few girlfriends.

I am soooooo not at home with the beautiful people of Orange County.  I don't belong in The Real Housewives World.

I think I'll attend.  It should be great for a few laughs. 

What do you think?

© Twenty Four Heart

Save Me From What? It's a Contest!

I wonder how many people I will offend today.  I'm guessing at least a few hundred.

--------------------

Before I start offending people, I'd like to go public with a couple things.  First of all, I'm hopelessly behind on email right now and if you are waiting to hear from me, I apologize.  Second, thank all of you so much for your responses and concern about Mocha.  I couldn't believe the outpouring of love for our lab.  I have the kindest readers in the world.  Third, I will be available for meet and greets on a few occasions this summer.  Right now I know the following dates:

July 23 - 27  Chicago (BlogHer convention)

August 21 - 22 Charlotte, NC

**  More dates and cities to follow  **

If you live near where I will be, when I will be there, I'd love to meet you in person.  Just send me an email letting me know you're interested and I'll get details out to you.  I'll republish the dates periodically as they grow closer.

--------------------

Okay, now I'll carry on offending people.

For quite some time I've been getting emails from a very Right Wing Organization (RWO) based out of Texas.  I don't know how they found me, but my guess is they were wandering the Internet searching for sinners.  They found me, and I openly admit to being a sinner so, fair enough.  

At first, I'd get about one email a month telling me in quite forceful terms they could save me.  Lately, they've upped the email frequency to daily.

Initially, the emails amused me.  Lately, they've become downright annoying.

I realize by writing on the Internet I put myself out there for criticism and judgment.  

Fine.  

But!  

And it's a big but.

(Not as big as my butt maybe, but a big but nonetheless!)

I write Twenty Four At Heart because it entertains me to do so.  Hopefully most of you come here to read because it entertains you also.

Some of you may even feel you've come to "know" me by reading 24.  And it's true, you do get a glimpse of me here in my writing.  You see the parts of me, or my life, I choose to reveal in the fashion I choose to reveal them.

Yesterday I had lunch with one of my readers.  She lives in Money Town, heard about 24 and began reading on a daily basis.  After awhile she began exchanging emails with me.  We realized we have some mutual friends.  We now get together on a fairly regular basis for coffee or lunch.  

At lunch, she commented on how quiet I am and how "normal" and calm I am.  I suppose my writing gives the impression I might show up topless if you invite me to meet you for lunch.  I want to go on record as saying, I have never once shown up topless in public.

Not intentionally, anyway.

(Well, not counting the tanning salon, but that wasn't my fault.)

I'm such a disappointment.

The point I'm making is there is an awful lot about me that isn't anywhere to be found in cyberspace.

So when I get an email from RWO adamant about "saving" me day after day it begins to really annoy me.

How do they know I'm not saved?

Do they know anything whatsoever about my religious beliefs?

What are they trying to save me from?

Are they trying to save me from the chronic pain I live with?

Are they trying to save me from Roid or The Torturer?

Are they trying to save my boobs from getting cut off by a plastic surgeon?

Are they trying to save me from mooning the train?

Are they trying to save me from my leaking dog?  (By the way, the vet believes she has a kidney stone but she has stopped leaking!)

Maybe they're trying to save me from checking out the repairman's drill?

Maybe they're trying to save my clit, which I lost temporarily last March?

Maybe they think it's wrong for me to have a cuter cooter?

Do they really know anything about me?  Did I ask for their help? 

The answer is no, no, no!  And oh, how I hate judgmental people.

That being said, I'm asking for your help.  I know a lot of you are real smart asses, right?  Give me ideas for some funny or rude replies I can send to RWO next time I hear from them.  One idea per comment.  I will pick the funniest or rudest reply (yes, it's subjective) and the one winner will get:

This cool Starbucks Orange County coffee mug AND a $20 gift card to Starbucks.  I have one of these coffee mugs and I use it every morning.  It's big, it feels great in my hand and it has become my very favorite!  The mug has a cool surfing dude on the front.  The back of the mug looks like this:

The contest ends this Sunday evening, May 31st, at 8 p.m., Pacific Time.  One entry per comment.  The winner will be announced on Monday.  

Have fun!

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Think I'll Call Him Roid

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?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Yes, I'm Staring at Your Boobs

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.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Aaaand It's a Repeat

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!

© Twenty Four At Heart

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!

© Twenty Four At Heart

My Tinderbox, My Home

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 ....

I'm On My Way To The Beach

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!

© Twenty Four At Heart

When Outsiders Visit Money Town

I live adjacent to Money Town.  Money Town is a gate guarded community.  The guards at the gates are idiots, but they wear a name tag saying GUARD which makes them official.

I share the same Starbucks, grocery, and community stores with the Money Town folks.  For over 15 years my kids played sports in various Money Town sports leagues.  I like to make fun of the more absurd personalities Money Town offers, but the truth of the matter is I take for granted the general essence of Money Town itself.

Last Friday PR had a baseball game at the Money Town Sports Park.  His team was playing against a Money Town Team.  Over the years both of my boys have played many games there.  My car accident, in fact, occurred as I left one day after dropping PR at practice at this very same park.  To this day my stomach clenches in knots from the memory every time I'm there.  I have to take a deep breath each time I leave the park and re-enter the intersection where my life was left shattered right alongside my shoulder.

When PR was 12 we made a parental decision to remove him from Money Town baseball leagues for reasons I won't bore you with today.  Since that time we frequently comment about the fact PR now plays in "normal" leagues with "normal" people instead of surrounded by Money Town's finest.  (I'm pissing Money Town people off as I write this ... I can FEEL it.  To be honest?  It's not the first time!)  

The truth is, most Money Town people are a different breed of people.  They're sort of like their very own civilization.   Heh ...

I'm going to take a short detour here so you'll understand my state of mind at PR's game last Friday.  Earlier in the day I had visited with my surgeon for my MRI results.  I won't go into all the blah, blah, blah about that right now.  However, before I left he did a procedure on me which included inserting a thirty foot (maybe forty foot?) needle through my shoulder joint and injecting me with Shit That Hurts Like Hell.  Then he told me to go home, "take lots of pain meds, ice [my] arm and do nothing but rest and enjoy the drugs for the remainder of the weekend."

I went home and reported my status to Briefcase.  Then I took lots of drugs, had no time for ice or rest, and went to PR's game at the Money Town park high as a kite.  By that, I mean I was really out of my mind and extremely happy (if somewhat confused) on all those drugs.  I'm not used to them anymore because I rarely take them now.  

Really, you know what everyone around here wants?  They all want to watch me high and with no mouth control whatsoever in Money Town.  It's kind of like a train wreck.  You want to look away, but you just ... can't.

Briefcase later told me he looked into the bleachers where I was seated and saw me "holding court" for the other families on PR's team.  He said everyone was in stitches laughing at with me.  I don't really remember much at all.  I only remember snippets over the few hours I was there.  

I might have talked nonstop a lot and laughed even more.

I might have told a few zillion Money Town anecdotes.

I might have thought we were halfway through the game and tied 2-2 when the game was actually over and PR's team had won 5-0.

Someone might have laughed and asked exactly what game I had been at while everyone else was at the game right there in Money Town.  And then just maybe everyone laughed and asked if I'd had a good time at whatever game I'd been to.

When I think back on it I realize how odd Money Town must have seemed to many of those nice, normal families who had never been there before.  One man commented incredulously regarding the enormous homes he'd seen as he drove to the Sports Park.  One man asked if the front yard he'd seen "really belonged to a person" or whether it was a golf course.  (At first I thought he did mean the Money Town golf course, but then I realized he was indeed talking about someone's front yard.)  Several of the women commented on "the fancy cars" and "oh my, the WOMEN here!"

It made me realize how much of my surroundings I don't even see anymore. 

During the game I got up to stretch my legs.  I saw a woman walking in the park and I sent the following out on Twitter:

There's a woman here with fake boobs that are big enough to reach to Chicago.

What I didn't say was that she had on a skin tight tank top that said "Money Town" across her enormous fake boobs.

I found it so tacky ... it would be like having, "I'm Filthy Rich" printed across your chest in any other town.  Classless.

The woman smiled at me.  I stared at her in my drugged stupor.  I was thinking how ridiculous she looked with her enormous chest, her plastic face, her liposuctioned body and her tight Money Town shirt on.  She said hello, and I replied, "hi." She seemed too friendly.  I wondered if she was hitting on me.  She winked.

OMG!  Big Tits was hitting on me!

I went back to the bleachers and reported to one of my friends that Big Tits wanted me.

She winked at me!

Yes, I was THAT drugged.

Because REALLY?  What a rich, plastic Money Town woman wants is not a drugged up poor woman from outside the gates.  (That's how Money People talk ... you're a loser if you're from outside the gates.)

Right after Big Tits hit on me things got busy.  

Briefcase invited 20+ people over to our house after the game without warning me ahead of time.  (I had no food, etc. in the house and ended up ordering pizzas.)  Briefcase did this because in his mind when my doctor says I should do nothing but rest it somehow translates into my wife would love to entertain 20+ unexpected guests tonight when she's in a lot of pain.

It's just another example of the fine communication skills that develop between a couple when they've been married for many years.

It wasn't until around midnight when Briefcase turned to me and said, "Oh, I saw you saying hello to Ms. Bitch today at the park."

"Ms. Bitch?" I asked.

And that's when it hit me.  Big Tits?  Big Tits was actually a bitch woman I've known for six or seven years named Ms. Bitch.  She's had so much plastic surgery done recently I didn't even recognize her.  Would I have recognized her if I hadn't been so drugged up?  I doubt it.  She is only a ghost of her former self.  When she winked and said hello she wasn't hitting on me.  She just wanted me to see the "new" her.

I'm still floored.  How could I not have known?  I mean, just because she had a new face, boobs, stomach, ass and thighs ....

A change of identity like this is commonplace in Money Town.  And yet, I still can't believe Big Tits and Ms. Bitch are the same person.  

© Twenty Four At Heart

She Thinks She's an IT Girl

Every time I think I've seen the worst Orange County has to offer I meet a new obnoxious person to tell you about.  Honestly, there are nice people here too ... really, there are.

About a week ago I attended a lunch "event" put on by one of my girlfriends.  My friend is nice, warm and down to earth.  She's gotten involved in an organization and blah, blah, blah.  Before she knew it, a luncheon was planned with her as the hostess.  She invited me to join in and in a moment of sheer insanity I agreed.

I am NOT a luncheon type woman.  Being at a luncheon requires girly clothes and good behavior.  Both are an uncomfortable stretch for me.

There were fifteen women present and we were seated at three circular tables of five.  I knew no one at the event except for my friend who was busy with her hostess duties.  I was seated at a table with four total strangers.

Socializing with strangers is not my forte.  

Immediately Ms. Warm began chatting with me and she seemed very nice.  I instantly could tell she is a good person.  It turns out she's actually read Twenty Four At Heart before and left an occasional comment under a pseudonym.  It's a small world sometimes.

The last person to be seated at our table immediately repelled me.  She was loud, abrasive, and from the moment she entered the room all I heard coming out of her mouth was me, me, me.  I noticed Ms. Warm cringe slightly when she realized Ms. Me would be sitting with us.  Apparently, Ms. Me and Ms. Warm had met before.

I never knew a lunch could be so long.  Ms. Me apparently is a celebrity.  Personally, I think she should move to L.A. with all the other wannabes.  Her notoriety is derived from a few parts as an "extra" over the years and being in the background of a TV commercial.  Not exactly a celebrity in my book, but in her own mind she is a STAR.

I know this, because she told me so.  Over, and over, and over again.

Name dropping is a profession in L.A., and a time consuming hobby for many in Orange County.  Ms. Me took her name dropping very seriously.  She "knows" everyone, but more importantly they know her.  She name dropped incessantly, but it was always about how [insert name of Famous Person] just adores her.  Five minutes into our (very one-sided) conversation I felt like putting a gun to my head in an attempt to never have to hear another word out of her mouth.

The other women at the table all attempted to steer the conversation to other subjects, but Ms. Me made it virtually impossible.  I asked one woman if she had any kids and what their ages were and Ms. Me cut her off mid-sentence to tell me about her family.  No matter how we tried, Ms. Me managed to monopolize the conversation for two full hours.  By the end of the afternoon everyone at the table looked glassy-eyed and worn down from being subjected to her relentless chatter.

I did have my own personal Bitch Moment.  I couldn't resist.  Towards the end of the afternoon she made the mistake of name dropping the wrong person ... my cousin, in fact.  (My cousin is a Hollywood Type.)  According to Ms. Me, my cousin is star struck by Ms. Me.  I didn't believe any most of what Ms. Me said anyway, but I knew damn well she's never met my cousin.  

So . . . I called her on it.  I had long before given up any attempt to inject anything into the conversation, but at that point I couldn't resist a little name dropping of my own.

"Oh, you know XXXXX?

Ms. Me answered, "Oh of course, she's very interested in working with me but it just hasn't happened yet."

"Well, isn't that funny?  She's my cousin.  I'll have to bring up your name next time I see her."

Ms. Me went as white as a ghost, pursed her lips and broke eye contact.  She sputtered something about not having seen XXXXX (my cousin) "in quite some time." 

Watching her hem and haw and react like that?  Well, that was the highlight of the entire afternoon for me.  I'm a bitch, I know.

Why?  Why do some people feel such a strong need to impress others?  She did not impress any of us in the least.  In fact, I was so appalled by her I will do my best to never encounter Ms. Me again.  

This is my Life

I got an email from a relatively new reader last week.  He lives in Asia and he's trying to understand my life.

Ha!

Good luck with that one!

If you figure out how to come to grips with my life, be sure and let me in on the secret so I can benefit too.

Nonetheless, I know my life in Orange County is probably vastly different than his life on the other side of the world.  He sent me a list of questions.  I hope you don't mind but I decided I'd answer his questions publicly today.  Maybe some of you are wondering some of the same things?  My regular readers may already know the answers to many of his questions.  In any case, it's kind of interesting to see what type of questions are being pondered so far away from where I live.

1.  Is everyone rich in Orange County?

No, they aren't.  In particular - I'm not.

2.  Why do you live in Money Town instead of somewhere else?

I actually live adjacent to Money Town, not in it.  It's a beautiful area, superficial assholes not withstanding.

3.  Are people where you live like they are in the TV shows The OC and The Real Housewives of Orange County?

Some of the people here are like the ones you see on the TV shows.  The producers of those shows publicize one element of Orange County society.  There are a lot of people here who aren't at all like the ones you see on TV.  

4.  Do you live on the beach?

No, I live in a canyon about 20 minutes from the closest beach.  I am at the beach frequently though.  Houses on the beach cost many millions of dollars.  (See question #1)

5. Have you ever met any of the Real Housewives of Orange County?

Yes, the show is based on Money Town.  We live in the same general community.  (And by the way, I'm a real housewife of Orange County, I'm just not on TV.)

6.  Do the people in Money Town know you write about them and make fun of them?

Many of them do.  In fact, I have a lot of Money Town friends as well as many Money Town readers.  What they think of my writing is directly linked to whether or not they have a sense of humor about their privileged lifestyle. 

7.  What's been the hardest part of recovering from your car accident?

Ahh ... now, that's a good question.  Let's just say none of it has been much fun.  

8.  Will you write a book if you have a permanent disability from the accident and can't go back to work?

Well, it looks like I do have a permanent disability.  I don't know yet what the future holds for me.  I'm taking each day as it comes for the time being.

9.  Why do all the women love The Torturer? (my physical therapist)

Good question.

10.  Does The Torturer ever get mad at you for the things you write?

The Torturer's professional image is important to him.  Most of the time he has a sense of humor, but I have been known to send him over the edge on occasion.  There was one time in particular ....!  Can you imagine?

11.  What happens if he gets mad at you?

He hurts me.  Just kidding.  Um, he sends me text messages with lots of exclamation points telling me I'm not funny ... and THEN he hurts me.

12.  Why does The Moaner moan?  Do all women in Orange County moan?

Ha ha!  I think she moans loudly, publicly, at physical therapy as an attempt to attract The Torturer.  She is the ultimate Money Town woman.  Most women in Orange County do not walk around moaning publicly.  However, who knows what anyone does in the privacy of their own home.  Do OC women moan more than women from Boise?

13.  You're very funny.  How have you kept your sense of humor when you've had to deal with such terrible pain?

Thank you.  Inserting humor into my writing lifts my spirits.  In other words, I crack myself up on a pretty regular basis.  I think my writing has helped me cope with my recovery.

14.  You're pretty open about the topics you write about, do you ever get embarrassed?

I'll take on just about any topic in my writing ... but most often with a heavy dose of humor thrown in.  The humor deflects any embarrassment.  If you met me in person, you'd most likely be surprised at how introverted I am.  I'm actually very shy in group settings unless I'm surrounded by people I've known for a long time. 

Also - a huge thank you to my friend Bossy for mentioning Twenty Four At Heart here.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Hit on in Money Town

I want to qualify this post right upfront by informing you I'm old, wrinkled, fat, and way past my prime.  

Yesterday I left PT and decided to run through the Money Town grocery store real quickly on my way home.  I had a zillion things to do and I was very preoccupied.  Physically I was at the grocery store, but mentally I was far, far away.

Apparently he saw me as I began shopping, but I was deep in thought and never noticed him at all.

About fifteen minutes into my shopping excursion, as I seriously contemplated the different available sizes of sandwich bags, I heard a man stammer, "Excuse me?"

Startled, I glanced up at a very tall, well built man.  He was not bad looking, but he wasn't a walking GQ guy either.  He was definitely not a Money Town man.  I knew that instantly.  I can spot a Money Town man with my eyes closed.  I can sense a Money Town man in the room before my eyes ever see him.  I expected him to ask me where the Fruit Loops were or something similar as men who are not used to being in grocery stores sometimes do.

He looked at me and didn't speak.  He blushed.  His cheeks flushed, he looked at the ground and then he began stammering nervously.  He was stammering so much it took me a minute to comprehend what he was actually saying.

"I know you're probably married or something like that but I just had to ... I just feel like I have to tell you I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.  You are ... just beautiful."

Stunned, I searched his eyes.  I was looking to see if he was mentally balanced, sincere, insincere, on drugs, or just mentally confused.

Beautiful?

I don't think anyone's told me I'm beautiful in a few bazillion years, and really?  The most beautiful woman he's ever seen?  C'mon, let's get real here!

I was so taken aback I didn't immediately say anything.

I might even have looked behind me to see if quite possibly he was talking to someone else.

All of a sudden he startled me by sticking his hand out at me and announcing, "Hi!  I'm Sam."

Mentally, I immediately dubbed him Stammering Sam.

His nervousness was so apparent I felt very sorry for him.  I shook his hand, did not offer my name, but answered, "Hi Sam, thank you so much.  You made my day."

"I really mean it," he said earnestly.  "I noticed you as soon as you walked in the store.  You're just beautiful."

"Well, that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.  Thank you Sam." 

Stammering Sam was very nervous, and very flustered and at that point he nearly ran away in the opposite direction down the grocery aisle.  I heard him let out a huge sigh as if talking to me had used every ounce of willpower.  I thought to myself it must be hard to be a man and feel pressure to initiate contact with women.

Wait a minute.  It's 2009, isn't it?  What pressure?

That's when I heard Sam say to a male customer further down the aisle, "I just talked to that woman, she's so beautiful," as he pointed at me.

Embarrassed, I pushed my cart around the corner away from Stammering Sam. 

"There must be something mentally wrong with Stammering Sam," I thought.

I continued shopping without incident.  As I was finishing up, I looked up to see Sam coming around the corner of the aisle.  He looked up, saw me, blushed, turned and practically ran away.

I laughed out loud.  His shyness was, admittedly, endearing.

Money Town men aren't shy.  Most Money Town men are cocky, arrogant, and over confident.  I can't imagine a Money Town man blushing, stammering, or even hesitating to talk to a woman.  Money Town men believe women should be honored to talk to them.

I paid for my groceries and pushed my cart through the parking lot towards my car.  All of a sudden a big white pick-up truck pulled up next to me.  (Money Town men most definitely do not drive pick-up trucks!)  I knew before I even glanced over who I would see.

"I'm sorry," Sam stammered shyly.  "I just need to ask you one thing."  

There was a pause.

"If I don't ask, I'll always wonder."

I nodded my head in understanding, but said nothing.

"Are you married?" he asked blushing profusely.

"Yes I am," I answered.  "But again, thank you for the compliments today."

"I had to ask," he explained.  

There was another pause.

"You won't ever see me again.  I promise I won't bother you ... it's just ... you take my breath away."

And then Stammering Sam drove away without another word.

Seriously?  I take his breath away?

I took his breath away and I wasn't even sitting on his stomach?

I'm old, wrinkled, fat, and way past my prime.  

What the hell?  

What's the funniest pick-up line anyone's ever used on you?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Hypothetically Speaking

I was going to wrap up St. Lucia today, but I feel a strong need to interrupt previously scheduled programming.  I'll have the St. Lucia finale for you tomorrow unless something earth shattering happens to interfere.

I have a new theory about Money Town women and I just couldn't wait to share.

Let me back up just a little bit.  I took three weeks off of PT.  Gasp!  That's never happened before but The Torturer was off for a week, and then my kids were on spring break for a week, and then I was off to St. Lucia.  I've not been in my normal routine of living at PT and being surrounded by all the bored Money Town women.

I haven't missed them one bit.

At the end of last week, once I returned from my trip, I went in for a much overdue session with The Torturer.  I hate to admit it, but I needed him to work on me because I was in a hell of a lot of pain from skipping so much.

I walked in the door and The Torturer greeted me with a huge hug.  Not more than four seconds later we were fighting.  The Torturer's secretary looked at me with one raised eyebrow and said, "Some things never change - welcome back!"

About fifteen minutes later I was asking one of the techs how The Moaner is.  You remember her, right?  She's the cougar patient who drives to PT in her Porsche then moans as if she's orgasming every time The Torturer touches her.  She can't get enough of him and she definitely got his (and everyone else's) attention with her loud sexual cries.

By the way, The Torturer informed me quite some time ago that The Moaner is "very nice."  

I'm sure he thinks so.  

And maybe she is.  I'm nice when I'm having an orgasm too.

Did I really just type that?

Anyway ...

The tech giggled and confided, "I think The Torturer has started dating The Moaner!"

Disclaimer:  A tech saying The Torturer is dating The Moaner does not necessarily make it fact.  It doesn't necessarily make it false either.  Who knows, but it definitely made me laugh out loud.

Honestly, anyone who can make me laugh out loud while at PT is worth keeping around.

I've also realized if I ever find myself needing a date I'll just start moaning in public.  It's guaranteed to make men come running.  

Flash forward to yesterday when I resumed my normal PT routine.  I walked in and who greeted me with a cheery hello, if not The Moaner herself.  

Maybe she missed me?  Although we've never had a single conversation, I have been in the room as she's moaned loudly and that means we're now practically related.

The Moaner was not there for PT.  No, I think she's done with PT.  She's signed herself up for some exercise classes they offer at PT.  

It's what The Torturer's harem women do.  They don't want to leave when they've recovered from whatever injury first brought them to PT.  They want to be in the vicinity of The Torturer as much as possible.  They sign up for the exercise classes, they wear skimpy workout clothes and they hang around before and after classes trying to get his attention.

It's pathetic.  It's amusing.  It's entertaining to watch.

I don't think he minds at all.  I mean, he's making money off of them, his ego (and whatever else) gets stroked, and he isn't married so ....

But why?

What's with all these Money Town women wanting The Torturer?

I watched The Moaner yesterday as if she were a science experiment I need to study and understand.  

Are you surprised to hear she moans and cries out when she exercises too?  She moans the loudest if The Torturer is in the room, and even louder when he's the one touching her.

At one point I looked at one of the PTs who works there and I said, "Did you hear that?  That was a good one!" and we both burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

My maturity is astounding.  

On the other hand, I doubt if any of you could be in the same room as all that moaning and not laugh too.

Every few minutes (if not seconds) The Moaner was glancing around the room trying to spot The Torturer.  She wasn't very discreet.  Her head was swiveling like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist as she tried to get a glimpse of him.  Really?  He looked the exact same as he did five minutes previous, and he wasn't watching her in return.

I did notice The Torturer could not stop yawning.  I commented on how tired he seemed.  He also mentioned his lower back was sore and I think he even made a comment about a groin pull too.  I'm sure it's just a coincidence and means nothing at all.

In any case, as all this was going on around me I came up with a theory.  I realize the Money Town women are bored to no end with their privileged lives.  I've decided there's definitely more behind their ongoing quest for The Torturer than just boredom though.  

I believe it's called transference.

I think The Torturer, being the boss and in charge at PT is a substitute father figure for these women.  I think they are projecting some weird daddy (Oedipus) complex onto him and therein lies the attraction.  It just seems strange to me that so many of these Money Town women chase after him.  What are they missing in their lives?  Why do they think he's the answer to what they're looking for?  Do rich women have more daddy complexes than the rest of the female population?  Or are rich women just so miserably unhappy they chase after the first man who pays attention to them in any form whatsoever?

What do you think?  Do you have a theory?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Single Sentence Soup

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was brand new to the blogging world.  I was uncertain and shy and in awe of all the famous writers surrounding me.  Most of these famous writers had no idea I existed.  A few of them blatantly ignored me as an unproven newbie when they encountered me.  One or two of them lashed out at me in superiority as I stumbled and fumbled my way ignorantly around the blogosphere.

One man was so nice, and so kind, and treated me as an equal from our very first encounter.  I sucked up the courage to email him with a few newbie questions.  He took me under his wing and gave me the confidence to be myself in my writing.  I am forever indebted to him.  I love Jason both as my mentor and my friend.  One of my favorite things he does on his blog is "Single Sentence Soup."  Jason roams the blogosphere and picks out interesting sentences he finds and then links them back to the posts they came from.  Today he's put together a Single Sentence Soup just from Twenty Four At Heart.  Many thanks, to Jason from The Jason Show for today's post!

Twenty Four at Heart:  The Formative Posts

 

I began reading Twenty Four at Heart back when Twenty Four didn't have multitudes of readers and commenters like there are now.  I remember that Twenty Four emailed me, voicing that she didn't feel very confident in her blog, asking for any general blogging advice I might have.  Yes, you heard me.  SHE asked ME for advice.  And now?  If you scroll through the past few months you will see that she has become tremendously popular--and for very good reason.  Not only is Twenty Four an excellent writer, she is witty, naughty, playful, thoughtful, and has an eye for the beauty (or the absurdity) of her surroundings.  Not only that, but she has been through some pretty grueling times, and in spite of it all, she manages to make us laugh post after post.  Many of you are familiar with her hilarious posts about adult toys, accidental nudity, and tanning booth mishaps.  But, perhaps you weren't around when Twenty Four first began posting.  Her take on Money Town is what pulled me in.  Her charm, sense of humor, and friendship keep me coming back.

 

Where I live parents give their girls fake boobs in high school.  Yes, and not just boobs - they give their daughters fake boobs and RIB REMOVALS for high school graduation gifts.

 

No one prepared me for this.  No one told me to expect it, or how to handle it ... or what to do if the inevitable happened.  Yes, I found my first gray hair today.  And no, it's not on my head.

 

Yes, I cried for hours as we drove, snot dripping from my nose, salty tear streaks, and red, unattractive, hive-like splotches all over my face. 

 

Secrets about lovers, imminent pregnancies or divorce, latent lesbianism amongst the grandmas, or possibly news that my youngest child has fathered a new species?

 

Or maybe one day a woman named Ms. Masochist thought to herself, "Hey, I'll light a candle and just sit here and let the hot wax drip all over the most private and sensitive parts of my body"? 

 

Mabel is the paternal grandmother and Abigail is the maternal grandmother of the same grandchildren.  If you are married, imagine your mom running off with your spouse's mom.

 

"Androgynous Logan is a tit toucher!"

To be honest, sometimes I make myself laugh just with the thoughts I have.  In another era, I probably would have been locked up in a mental facility for finding myself so amusing. 

All I Wanted Was A Cuter Cooter

The strangest sequence of events occurred yesterday.  I have to wonder if things like this happen to other people too, or am I just a magnet for weird stuff?  

Misadventures ... I seem to have a lot of misadventures.

I went to a new salon for a bikini wax.  This particular salon only does waxing.  They wax every body part imaginable and widely advertise they are specialists.

The aestetician was very nice and instantly put me at ease.  Putting clients at ease is key when you are about to pour hot wax on a woman's muff.  She asked me exactly what I wanted because there's a wide variety of designs you can now make with your pubic hair. Who knew?

It's charming, really.  

I debated having Rodrigo Santoro etched between my legs, but I thought it might offend Briefcase.

(Thank you Google Images!  Thank you very much!)

So there I was in a darkened room, stark naked from the waist down chatting with the waxing technician about pubic hair designs.  She asked me to please assume the "frog position."  I pretended I do The Naked Frog for women I've never met before every day.

Men?  Really, you have no idea what we go through.

And then ... dear fuck, I nearly screamed!  I've had many bikini waxes in my life, but I've never had anyone use wax so damn hot.  I mean, are you supposed to blister from the burn?  OK, so maybe it wasn't quite that hot, but damn, shit, hell - it was hot!

Of course, the burn from the melted wax is only the beginning of the fun with a bikini wax.  Next, you get to have hairs ripped right out of your twat.  Good times!  When she was done, the enthusiastic and smiling aestetician asked me, "Do you have any butt hair?  I do butt hair too!" 

I disappointed her with my lack of butt hair.

But really?  Women have butt hair?  There are hairy butted women?  Women get their butts waxed?  Sometimes I'm so naive.

That was only the beginning of my adventure though.

I got dressed and paid an exorbinant amount of money for my pain.  

I got in my car.  I realized then I was sort of *ahem* sticking to my pants and not in a good way.  Apparently, the technician had not removed quite all of the wax.

"Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder if I'll be able to remove my pants later?"

Next, I drove to the tanning salon.  (I'm getting ready for vacation, remember?)  

I checked in and was assigned a room.  As I was grabbing hand towels to take in with me I heard a male/female couple inquiring as to whether or not they could tan together in one tanning bed simultaneously.  Yeah, right!  Like tanning would be going on?  Why not just ask, "May we have sex in a tanning bed because we've always wanted to?"

Sex in tanning beds may very well be an Orange County phenomenon.  I guess it makes for hot sex.

Anyway ....

I went into one of the tanning rooms and undressed.  My very cute, sexy, thong and pants came off despite the sticky wax remnants.  I noticed, however, my panties had wax on them.  I scrunched them up and stuck them in my purse.  I turned on the tanning bed and hopped in.

I'm not stupid.  (Really!!)

I had grabbed extra hand towels to cover my newly waxed delicates so I wouldn't burn.  What I didn't count on, though, were the wax remnants on my skin heating up to searing temperatures.  I was fine for the first five minutes or so.  At about six minutes I started squirming.  By minute ten I was bouncing all over the tanning bed while swatting at my twat. 

It was not a good day for my lady parts.

After fifteen minutes, the tanning bed shut off and I got dressed (minus my sticky panties) and left.

I decided to run through the grocery store on my way home.

I was lucky, I only needed a few things.  I was able to use the express lane for check out.  There was a man (Man #1) in front of me buying beer and a few other things.  There was another gentleman (Man #2) behind me with way more than his fifteen allotted items.

In an attempt to be expedient, I pulled my wallet out of my purse as I waited in line behind Man #1.  I was glancing around the store looking for friends.  Money Town is a relatively small community and it's rare to go to the grocery store and not see at least one friend or acquaintance.

The man behind me cleared his throat.  Then he cleared it again.  He was starting to irritate me with all his ahem-ing and ahaw-ing behind me.  I glanced back at him.  

"I believe you dropped something," he said.

I glanced down.

My thong looked quite delicate and sexy on the floor at my feet.

Shit!

I had completely forgotten I had tossed it into my purse.  When I reached in my purse and pulled out my wallet, I obviously had pulled it out too.

I blushed.  I stammered.

I finally managed to say, "I, um, really, um, don't think that belongs to me."

Man #1 had now turned to watch the scene unfolding behind him in line.  He glanced at the floor, gave me the male Once Over and then stared at my crotch for a totally inappropriate moment.

Man #2 said, "I saw them fall out of your purse, I believe they are yours."

I had choices before me, didn't I?  I could put my groceries down and run out of the store.  I could argue with Man #2 that the panties he saw fall out of my purse did not belong to me.  I could stammer some more while fifty bazillion people looked on.  

Instead I stood there in total embarrassment, too paralyzed to do anything.

"They're very ... nice," said Man #2.  "You don't want to leave them."

Could I die on the spot, pleeeeeeeeeeeease???

A total stranger was staring at my thong on the grocery store floor and he liked it!

(I should add here, it was a very sexy red thong with really nice lace!)

And then ... omigod, I'm still blushing, he bent over and picked up my sticky panties.

He held them up in front of me.

My thong was dangling in the air right in front of my face!

I think the fifty bazillion people in the store were all staring at me, but I can't be positive.

Man #1 snickered.

I reached out, snatched the thong out of Man #2's hand and shoved it back in my purse. 

I wanted to ... die!

Man #1 was finishing up with his purchase and I promptly faced forward, moved ahead in line and pretended Man #2 didn't exist right behind me.  I looked really hard at each grocery item as it was scanned and I did my best to avoid eye contact with anyone.

After I paid, the cashier handed me my receipt, met my eyes with hers and said, "I hope you found everything you needed today."

Damn if she wasn't grinning ear to ear when she said it!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Calafia Beach

Last Sunday was such a remarkable, beautiful, warm (80F/27C) day.  I physically ached for some beach time but my list of responsible adult-like things I should be doing was a mile long. Finally, around 2:00 I took off for the beach.  I only had two hours to spare until PR needed to be picked up at a friend's house.  I drove to Calafia Beach in San Clemente.

The waves were fairly big, and the ocean was sparkling.

Those are the Dana Point Headlands you see in the background.

I walked from Calafia down past San Clemente State Beach.  There are some multi-million dollar homes on the cliffs above the beach. 

It was much less crowded once I walked for awhile.  I like it when I can find long stretches of empty sand.

The beaches in South Orange County don't attract as many interesting characters as you see up at the L.A. beaches (particularly Venice).  However, like any beach, there's always some great people watching.  I sat on the sand for awhile so I could stare at the waves.

Staring at waves for a couple hours probably sounds like a strange thing to do.  Wave watching relaxes me in a way that nothing else does.  The motion of the sea, the smell of the salt air, the crashing of the waves and the changes in the tide connect with my innermost soul.

I was deep in a wave-induced trance when I thought I heard music.  I glanced up to see a man walking towards me playing his guitar.  Playing guitar and walking at the same time takes talent and coordination.  He was playing well too.  He and I were the only two people as far as the eye could see.  Eventually he reached me, nodded his head, and kept on playing as he strolled past me down the beach.

I went back to staring at the ocean.  I was keeping my eyes peeled for dolphins or whales, but I didn't catch a glimpse of either.

Did I mention it was a spectacularly beautiful afternoon?

The waves came in ...

And crashed ...

And the foam sprayed up in the air as if in celebration.

It felt like the ocean was putting on a show just for me.

© Twenty Four At Heart

By Request

This is not one of my normal posts, and I apologize in advance to any of you who will be disappointed today.  I'll be back tomorrow with one of my more standard posts.  (Is there such a thing from me?  I don't think so ....)

I'm going to talk about trying to parent teens, and for those of you who are not parents I apologize in advance for boring you.  Although, if you were ever a teenager, maybe you won't be bored.  And no, I did not pick this topic due to the much publicized Oprah episode on being a mom and/or a mom blogger yesterday.  (I'm not normally an Oprah watcher and I found the episode to be highly disappointing.) 

For the record, I don't consider myself a "mommy-blogger" because I rarely write about my kids.

However, last week I got an email from a reader and it gave me reason to pause.  I haven't asked permission so I'm not going to reprint the email in its entirety here, but it included comments on the following.

1.  The reader's concern over keeping her college-aged daughter out of trouble, particularly over spring break.

2.  Inquiring how I handle beach vacations.

3.  A reference to my "accidental nudity"  (this phrasing - so polite - made me laugh out loud.)

4.  Requesting a post on how I keep my college-aged kids in line.

5.  Flattering me about being cool and hot which is something I loved and can never hear enough of.  What?  Do you think anyone in my family ever says those things to me?

6.  Offering to buy my book.  (Which, by the way, I haven't written.)

But ... YAY ... one person wants to buy my book if I ever write one!

I write about my life, what it's like living in Orange County, my struggle recovering from my disabling car accident, sex, male/female communication, along with other subjects and situations that interest me.  I try to inject humor into most (but not all) of the things I write about because it helps me focus on something outside of the physical pain I live with. 

Also, I think I'm funny and I like to crack myself up.

Sometimes I just whine.  I apologize for subjecting you to my pity parties, but I'm sure I'll do it repeatedly given enough time.

My kids are all teens and want privacy. They've very specifically told me they don't want their lives on the Internet for worldwide viewing. That being said, they're on Facebook with their entire lives available for worldwide viewing.

I suppose that's lesson number one about teens - they make no sense.

To be honest, most of the time I don't know what I'm doing with any of my 3 teens, but I really appreciate the vote of confidence expressed in the email I received.  

My daughter, TR, is in college.  My son, RC, is a senior in high school and my youngest, PR, just turned 14 and has not yet begun high school.  Having one kid in college certainly doesn't make me an expert on college-aged kids.  Also, my daughter lives at her college so I'm not with her except when she makes trips home to visit.

I had very serious discussions with TR before she left for college about drinking, drugs, date-rape, non-date rape, never leaving a drink unattended, birth control, and every other topic imaginable.  I also discussed all those things with her when she was in high school just as I've discussed them already with both of my boys.  I'm very mom-ish like that. My kids and I are very close.  I actually think they listen most of the time.

Why we are so close and why they listen, I can't explain.  

Since the email I received focused primarily on my college-aged daughter I'll respond in kind regarding her.  In observing moms with daughters the same age, I think I mainly just got lucky.  TR and I are very similar and as a result we really understand each other.  (She tells people, "My mom and I are basically the same person.")  Sometimes our stubborness clashes, but it usually results in both of us bursting into laughter at how headstrong we can be.

I suppose neither of us are easy personalities (!), but we realize it and we're both willing to own it. We can laugh at ourselves when we need to.  Laughter goes a long, long, way with teens.

I've also made more than my share of parenting mistakes. 

I've had some very big challenges with parenting.  Briefcase has traveled extensively our entire marriage.  I've played the role of single mom more often than not.  Having a spouse gone so much presents a myriad of parenting and marital challenges.  (That's a subject I could write a book on!)

In addition, I was knocked on my ass by the car accident nearly three years ago.  I could barely function for over two years afterward.  I was undergoing numerous surgeries and very drugged up a good deal of the time while Briefcase was traveling.  I couldn't even cook a decent meal for over two years.  I'm far, far, far from being a perfect parent.  My kids have not been in a house with perfect, ideal conditions.

Have I qualified this post enough yet?

OK, then.

I not only love my kids, I really, really like them.  They know it and they not only love me in return, but they like me also.  We have a lot of mutual respect.  I'm their parent though - not their best friend and my kids have never questioned that.  I think a lot of parents try too hard to be a friend first and a parent second.  

In addition, most of the time, I have very good communication with my kids and that, probably more than anything, seems to head off a lot of problems from the start.  I really listen to them and I think, in turn, that makes them more willing to listen to me.

Did I mention my kids aren't perfect?  At all ....

Problems and disagreements come up and we deal with them as they do. Boyfriends, girlfriends, issues of responsibility, and issues of wanting more independence than they've demonstrated they can handle arise all the time with teens.  

One of the questions in the email was regarding beach vacations and I don't know how to respond to that.  Our life here is a life that has always included the beach. We are beach people. Our life, compared to most people's, is pretty much a year round beach vacation. My kids hopefully know how to handle themselves, safely, at beach parties. 

My daughter did take a "senior trip" to Hawaii with a group of friends (all female) to celebrate her graduation from high school two years ago.  We made her pay for it herself and she had just turned 18 years old at the time.  My feelings are once they're 18 we, as parents, can continue to guide them but they are adults and deserve to be respected and treated as adults.

Being treated as an adult also means taking full responsibility for the consequences of their actions.

By the way, when she took that trip to Hawaii she had a boyfriend.  Boyfriend did not go on the trip and actually hung out at our house a lot while she was gone.  I may not have felt as comfortable with the whole idea if circumstances were different.

TR's college is in California.  The kids at her college don't do the big spring break weeks many kids do because the beaches are right here all the time.  Do they party?  Yes, absolutely.  

Would I approve of everything they do at their parties?  I'm sure I wouldn't. However, I was a college student once too and I did my share of partying.  I survived it and ended up being a fairly responsible adult.

I do try to make my kids be accountable for their actions.  Do they screw up?  Do they make mistakes?  Yes.  (So do I - still!)  We've tried to teach them not to make excuses, but to own up to their actions, be accountable, and try to rectify things if need be.

That's another thing missing in Orange County.  Accountability.  Parents make excuses for their kids right and left here.  (Not ALL parents ... but a lot of parents.)  Isn't it our job as parents to teach our kids that actions have consequences?  And what happens to them as adults if they've never learned that? 

We've always insisted our teens (from age 15 on) hold paying jobs.  To some of you this is a no brainer but I live in a very affluent area.  Teens here are handed BMW's on their 16th birthday.  (Not my kids, but a lot of kids.)  Many kids in Orange County get everything they want, in addition to many things they haven't even thought to want yet. Briefcase and I feel it's important for our teens to learn all the lessons that come from having to work.

I can't tell you how few parents allow or encourage their kids to hold jobs in South Orange County.

Have these lessons been full-proof?  No. Just the other day my daughter sent me an email from college asking if she could have a vacation in New York for her birthday.  She and her best friend were going to each pay for their own flights.  She wanted to know if we would pay for their hotel in Times Square "for several days" as her birthday present.

I emailed her back and said no.  I asked her if she had any idea at all what a hotel in Times Square costs per night, and what exactly, did she think her birthday budget was?  She then went and googled hotels and pricing, reality set in, and she emailed me back to say, "Oops I guess that won't work."

Parenting is an ongoing process.

What did your parents do RIGHT while getting you through your teen years?  And what has worked or not worked for you if you are, or have been, a parent to teens?

** Now watch, I will have jinxed myself by writing this post.  One of my teens will inform me they're pregnant, about to be a daddy, addicted to heroin, or have just been arrested the minute this publishes! **

© Twenty Four At Heart

Tanning Mishap!

Before I get started on today's post, can I just say you always amaze me?  The responses I got on yesterday's post were not at all what I expected to get.  There's a crisis of missing clitori (plural?) among women and I wasn't even aware of it until I read your comments. Honestly, I think it's a worldwide crisis in need of immediate attention.  

Obviously, it's a subject I'll have to come back to sometime soon.

In the meantime, if I ever lose my clitoris again I wouldn't mind having Brody Jenner help me find it.  I found this picture of him on line via People Magazine.

Don't you just love a man with a big bird?  

** Drool **

Anyway ....

I continue to work on my pre-vacation tan.  The purpose of my pre-vacation tan is not for vanity's sake.  I'm not subjecting myself to certain death (by tanning booth UV rays) for the sake of beauty.  I'm just trying to get a base tan because I'm so fair I don't want to be crispy fried in my first thirty seconds by the equator.  

My regular readers know my first encounter with the tanning booth resulted in me burning the hell out of my ass.

Since then, things have gone much smoother at the tanning booth.

(That is, after my butt was done peeling.  And my nipples too, for that matter.)

On recent visits, I've stayed in the booth for less time, and I've added minutes gradually. I bring spray-on sunscreen with me and make sure my very fair skin has been sprayed prior to tanning.  I ask for towels and I use them to cover my privates, my nipples and my face while I'm there.  (Because really, who needs wrinkles on any of those places?)

Sounds perfect, doesn't it?

And yet, this is me we're talking about.

Yesterday I was all set to hop in the coffin-like tanning bed.  I was stark naked, wet and slippery with sunscreen, and ready to tan.  That's when I noticed the error light flashing on the tanning bed.  

I hesitated.  I pushed the "on" button.  Nothing happened.  I pushed it again just in case. Nothing.  The error light continued to flash.

I paused.  I contemplated my nakedness in the mirror.  Certainly not great nakedness, but it could be worse.  (Maybe?)  I glanced at the pile of my clothes.  I could put them on, walk out to the reception area and tell Tan Barbie the bed was not working.  If I did that, my clothes would instantly be coated with the sunscreen I had just applied.

I looked at the three little hand towels I'd been given.  I remembered when I entered the building a moment before no one, and I mean no one, was in the building except for Tan Barbie and I.

It crossed my mind I could cover myself with the three hand towels, stick my head out the door and yell to Tan Barbie in the reception area.  Surely she'd hear me and flip a switch or something to make the tanning bed work.

Wouldn't you think?

If she told me she needed to actually come into the room, I'd ask her to hand me a bigger towel before letting her in.  It seemed full proof.

Did I mention this is me we're talking about?

I grabbed one of the towels and realized how very tiny it was.  It was only slightly bigger than a washcloth.  I held it up to my breasts.  I have big boobs and one of those tiny towels would not do the trick.  I grabbed a second one and tried to use my one good arm to pin the two towels over the my two tits.

I was left bottomless.

I put down the two towels and grabbed the third.  I realized there was no way I could hold two towels over my boobs, and one over my hoo haa and still have a free hand available to open the door.  I needed to improvise.

I'm kind of blushing now, just thinking about what I did.

**  Ahem  **

At the time it seemed to make perfect sense.  

I took one towel and sort of made it into a cooter cover and I gripped it with my thighs to keep it in place.  Think diaper-ish ... sort of.  Then with my left hand I tried to hold the two other towels up over my breasts while I opened the door with my right hand.

I kept my body behind the door, but I stuck my head out and glanced down the deserted hallway.

I was surprised to realize there was fairly loud music in the hallway.  I yelled down the hall towards the reception area for Tan Barbie.  The reception area was not in my field of vision, but around the corner at the end of the hall.  Tan Barbie did not hear me.  I tried again, but louder.

No response.

I glanced up and down the hallway.  There was no one there.

I swear it.

I thought if I just took one or two steps down the hall surely Tan Barbie would hear me calling out.

One step.  Then two.  And then one more for good measure.

I called out again.

No response.

I had just taken another step forward when I heard a male voice behind me say, "Can I help you?"

I whirled around and found myself face to face with a blonde man in his early twenties. He had perfectly styled hair, startling blue eyes, and he was very, very tan.

I yelped in surprise.

His eyes made a quick sweep of me from head to toe and then a huge smirk appeared on his face.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

Is it possible for a person's entire body to blush?  Because I'm quite sure every single bit of mine had turned bright red as I tried to cower behind my three, teeny, tiny, towels.

"Do you work here?" I stammered.

"I do," he said and I could tell he was using every ounce of willpower not to burst out laughing.

"My tanning bed won't start and there's an error message on the controls," I rushed to explain.

He turned and walked into the room I'd just come out of.  He leaned over the bed, pushed a button and the error message went away.

I had followed him into the room, still trying to hold all three towels strategically in place. All the while, I was quite aware my ass was completely uncovered.

Right then Blonde Man turned and faced me.  His eyes, smiling with mischief, suddenly softened and looked kind.

"Relax," he said, "I'm gay."

There was a pause.  I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say.  

"Don't burn your nipples," he told me.  "I did once and you wouldn't believe how much it hurts."

Before I could tell him I'd already had the pleasure of burnt nipples, he turned and walked out of the room.

I reached towards the door to close it when suddenly he turned back.

"By the way," he added, "If you ever get an error message again there's an intercom on the other side of the bed.  You can just push the button and talk to the front desk."

And with that he left.

What do ya know?  There's an intercom right next to the tanning bed.

© Twenty Four At Heart

If I Go Missing

Apparently I've become a problem at PT.  Yep, that's me the problem patient.  Some of you might think I've intentionally become a problem with the hope I get kicked out of the place, but I swear it hasn't been intentional.

However, potentially, that's a great strategy.

Honestly, if I go missing anytime soon, look at The Torturer as the prime suspect.  I think the man's had enough of my shit to last him a lifetime.  (Can you imagine anyone ever having enough of me?) 

It all started with my cougar post when I wrote about the patient (Ms. Moaner) who sounds like she's orgasming every time she's touched.  Or maybe it was before that when I first wrote about the patient I dubbed Short Shorts who walks around with her ass cheeks hanging out every day.  Or maybe it was when I wrote about The Torturer's Money Town groupies whom I dubbed The Harem.  

Or maybe it was when ....  

Well, you get the idea.

The Torturer has been having "talks" with me lately.  Like I'm an effing FIVE year old or something!

He tells me he can't have someone writing about his patients because they won't want to come to PT if "some woman" writes about them.  How ridiculous of a concern is that? First of all, I'm not some woman.  I'm a patient too and I'm extremely empathetic towards real people suffering from real pain.

And I don't mean the pain of wanting The Torturer to massage their ass.

Second, I don't tell any of the Money Town sluts I'm writing about them.  What? Does he think I'm stupid?  Would I walk up to one of them and say, "You're the epitome of a bored Money Town ho so I made fun of you on my blog today?!"

That would not be polite and I am always polite.

I don't even take notes while I'm there.  Who needs to?  I mean, I wish I could forget some of the people I've seen there but they are vividly etched in my memory.

Last week I walked into PT one day and a group of therapists and techs were huddled together laughing.  They waved me over the moment they saw me.

"I can't even look over at The Torturer right now," one of them said.

I instantly glanced over at The Torturer.

He was working with Ms. Moaner.  She sounded as if she was approaching orgasm any second now.  The staff was in a fit of giggles waiting for the next moan to escape her.

"She let out two more just a minute ago," one tech said.

(As if it were a fart ... she let out two ...)

Apparently the staff just loves it if Ms. Moaner and I are there at the same time.  They're waiting to see what I'll do when she moans.  They want me to moan back, but louder.  No one can make eye contact when she's in the building because eye contact would result in everyone bursting into a fit of giggles.

No, when Ms. Moaner is in the building we all look at each other's ears, or just above or below one another's eyes.  Eye contact must be avoided at all costs or laughter will result and possibly never stop.

Now, I suppose I can see The Torturer's point of view a little bit.  He doesn't like his staff huddled in a corner talking to me when they should maybe be *ahem* working.  He certainly would not be happy to see them reading my blog on their iPhones when he's out of the room.  He won't put up with one minute of unprofessionalism in his staff and he might be just slightly inclined to think they are less professional when I'm around.  

And?

They are!  (But shhhhh don't tell him!)  

It's because I've been there for so long and we're like one big happy family now.  They aren't really being unprofessional ... I've just become one of them.

Can he expect any less?  I mean, omigod, I've been there for nearly three hellish years now.

Yesterday when I arrived I asked one of the techs where The Torturer was.  He told me he was in a back room with Ms. Moaner.

"He has to put her in a private room now because he knows if he doesn't we'll all start laughing," the tech said.

Then he went on and added, "Yeah, I just had to go back and ask him a question and she let out another one while I was standing right there."

The sad thing is I think Ms. Moaner is quite enamored with The Torturer.  She's the typical Money Town woman.  She's been nipped and tucked and drives up to PT in her Porsche.  She flirts openly with The Torturer and talks about him nonstop when he's out of the room.  Her suggestive moaning is probably her attempt to attract him.  

It's the new Money Town Mating Call.  Just watch, by next year at this time, all the Money Town women will be walking around moaning orgasmically in public.

©  Twenty Four At Heart

Beauty and Some Randomness

Yesterday I walked outside to the most beautiful sunrise.

It took my breath away.  I don't think I'm usually awake enough to notice anything other than how hot my coffee is.  (I like it very, very hot!)

I don't know what all those streaky lines in the sky were, but I like them.  The silhouette of the mountains was stunning.  

I love the reflection of the sunrise in the lake.  It was such a beautiful sight first thing in the morning.

Fantastic, isn't it?

I should just end this post with that, but no ... I'm going to muck it up with a couple random paragraphs now.

I have house guests arriving today from Missouri.  They've never been to California before.  I hope they have the opportunity to see some beautiful sunrises and sunsets while they're here.  I'm feeling a little out of control.  I'm not completely caught up from my trip up the coast and now I have guests arriving.  It's been a chaotic week.  My apologies to the Internet friends I've neglected this week.  I hope to get caught up next week once my guests have departed.

I can't seem to keep my hands off my own boobs and ... other parts.  I'm crazy-itchy, from my terrible sunburn.  I bought a lotion yesterday which consists of aloe and lidocaine and it seems to help.  I just need to fill a bathtub with it and sit in it all day long.  (Except, I haven't stopped running for a minute all week so that isn't likely to happen anytime soon.)  I was squirming around from the itchiness at PT and The Torturer said, "And the amazing thing 24, is you did this to yourself."

Doesn't he sound like a nice guy?

When I walked into PT yesterday, one of the techs, Dan, started laughing and told me he knew exactly who I was talking about in my Cougar post the other day.  Dan pulled the post up on his iPhone and passed it to one of the other techs, Derek, who had not yet read it.  The two of them snorted and giggled at my descriptions of their patients. Derek's feelings were a little hurt though.  He thought Ms. Cougar only moaned for him.  He was disappointed to hear she makes sex cries for The Torturer and Dan too.

I don't know why, but I found that very funny.  Maybe you do too?  Poor Derek!  He isn't quite the man he thought he was.  ** snicker **

©  Twenty Four At Heart

Can You Spell C-O-U-G-A-R??

There are a few new Money Town patients at PT.  I guess it's a good thing.  If I'm going to be stuck there indefinitely, it's nice to be entertained.  Which doesn't mean I want to spend the rest of my life there, because that's exactly what it feels like I'm doing.

In any case, the first person I'm going to tell you about is Mr. Whiner.  (Also, I'm telling you about him first because I'm saving the best for last.)  I ran into Mr. Whiner about a week ago, and dear Gawd, what a baby!  The man's got sore feet.  Yes, that's right he has sore feet.  He hasn't had surgery, he doesn't need surgery but he's probably in his late fifties/early sixties and his feet are getting a little achy.

Poor guy.

A couple Wednesdays ago it was particularly busy at PT.  The Torturer runs a pretty big business and there are zillions of tables, and rooms, but every single working area was filled with patients when I arrived.  I looked at The Torturer as if to say, "I'll just go home, m'kay?"  In turn, The Torturer glared at me as if to say, "Don't even think about it!" Fairly quickly, however, a patient left and I was hooked up to an electrical stim unit and wrapped in a heating pad on a table next to Mr. Whiner.

Mr. Whiner complained about everything.  I've never met the man before and I heard about his achy feet, about how his ice pack wasn't just right ... could someone please adjust it by half an inch?  And on and on he went.  I would have gotten up and moved tables, but there were no free tables and besides, I was all plugged into equipment at that point.  It turns out Mr. Whiner's biggest complaint was the fact it was so busy at PT, he hadn't received "quite as much TLC" as he likes on that particular visit.  (TLC ... his words, not mine!)

Did he have any idea, at all, who he was complaining to?

TLC at physical therapy?  

It took every ounce of willpower to keep my mouth shut and just nod my head at his complaints.  He announced quite loudly that on future visits he would make sure to schedule appointments only when it's not busy so he can get a longer foot massage.

The very rich?  They expect to be catered to constantly.  Yes, even when they have achy feet and they are sitting right next to a diabetic amputee and a woman who has had five surgeries in a two year span.

I refuse to be anywhere in the vicinity of Mr. Whiner again.  Ever.  He was insufferable.

Next on the list is Ms. Skanky.  I don't know what her problem is.  No, I'm serious, I really don't know what her problem is.  Back?  Neck?  Whatever it is, I'm sure it will migrate to her pelvis any day now.

Ms. Skanky is maybe in her late thirties or early forties.  It's hard to guess ages around here because everyone has so much cosmetic surgery.  She's very thin and she's got huge enormous fake breasts which stick straight out at attention.  She comes in with workout clothes on.  She's thin, but she's not a total hard body.  She, like many Money Town women, lives to be noticed.

Ms. Skanky wears tight, black, workout leggings to PT.  She wears a skintight, black, push-up bra on her upper half.  Then she adds to her look by wearing a see through, extremely low cut, pink top over the black ensemble.  When you see her walk into the room, you pretty much just see overflowing cleavage bubbling out all over the place.  She definitely gets noticed.

I was (more) appalled, however, when she sat up and straddled the PT table the other day for no reason whatsoever.  Who does that?  What woman would sit in a crowded room of men with her legs spread apart as far as possible as she straddles a four foot wide table?  (Facing outward, pointy tits on full display for the very crowded room?)  Can I just say ... ewww!?  So yeah, I've dubbed her Ms. Skanky.

Last on the list (for today) is Ms. Cougar.  There are a lot of cougars who hang out at PT, but this one epitomizes all aspects of cougar-hood.  Again, it's hard to pin an age on her because she's definitely had a lot of cosmetic surgery.  The other day I met a woman I would have guessed to be 48 and she was 62.  In this case, I'd say Ms. Cougar is in her late fifties, possibly even sixty, but if you saw her you'd probably guess she's 45.

Ms. Cougar is attractive and small.  She has a nice figure which has definitely been nipped and tucked.  She has some sort of problem with her hip and/or pelvis.  (Of course she does!)  Ms. Cougar likes The Torturer, a lot.  Her interest is quite noticeable.

There's one thing about Ms. Cougar that takes the cake though.  It's the noises she makes.  I'm blushing just thinking about how best to describe it.  

I'll just be blunt. (How unlike me!) 

Ms. Cougar cries out as if she's sexually aroused when The Torturer is working on her. It's embarrassing to be anywhere in the vicinity.  Honestly, someone could tape record her during a PT session and dub it over a porn flick and no one would know the difference.

"Oh, oh, ooooooooooooh!"

The other day Ms. Cougar and I were the last two remaining patients in the room.  The Torturer was shuffling back and forth between the two of us.  I was maybe five feet away from Ms. Cougar.  I started doing some exercises independently while The Torturer finished off Ms. Cougar.  

(Oops ... did I just write that?)  

<smirk>

All of a sudden Ms. Cougar started in with the sex cries.  I couldn't help it, my head immediately spun around to see exactly what The Torturer was doing to her.  As it turns out, not much.  I swear, I think she was doing it to get his attention.  Or something? 

Help me out here, can you think of a reason?  

I know what it's like to feel pain. Ms. Cougar doesn't make I'm in pain sounds, she makes I'm cumming any second now sounds. 

** Ahem **  

I immediately turned my face away and refused to look over again.

I was afraid if I made eye contact with The Torturer I would burst out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.  I was also afraid he might be ... *ahem* reacting to the noises and that was not anything I wanted to see either.  Don't get me wrong, he was being very professional but he is, after all, a man, right?  And if I thought Ms. Cougar sounded like an X-rated movie, then what would a man be thinking?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Star Quality

I wrote this earlier in the week.  I never got around to publishing it.  Since I'm still kind of bummed out and not quite up to writing today I'm posting it now.  Yes, I'm still in "quiet mode."  I've temporarily disappeared inside myself.  

I barely had my foot in the door of PT yesterday when The Torturer asked, "Is it physical pain or what Dr. X said to you?" Whether I like to admit it or not, The Torturer knows me well.  It takes him maybe three seconds to accurately appraise my mood.  

I've decided I'm going to hop in my car and mosey up the coast this weekend all by lonesome.  I think it's exactly what I need.  I'm not sure where I'll wind up, but I've got a pretty good idea.  My regular readers probably have a good idea too.  I really appreciate all the support you've given me!  

I'll be back on Monday.  Maybe I'll even post a picture or two this weekend depending on where I find myself.  I'm sure my spirits will be much better by the end of the weekend. There's nothing a little ocean time can't cure.

And now ... back to my original post.

Southern California, and Orange County in particular, takes youth sports very seriously. In fact, let's just be honest, the area takes youth sports way too seriously. Maybe it's just another example of OC excess.  Often sports here become more about the adults living vicariously through their kids than anything else.  Every year we read more and more local articles about the increase in sport-related injuries for kids.  

Also, there are a ton of over-zealous sports dads (and moms) around here.

A big factor in all of this is the nice weather we enjoy.  If a child has the interest and ability to excel at a sport he/she will soon find sports aren't seasonal in Orange County. A kid can play almost any sport year round and if he/she is any good at it, he/she will be expected to play that sport year round.  

When my kids were younger they tried a variety of activities.  Both of my boys settled into baseball as their favorite.  As a result, I've been to more games and tournaments and baseball events than even I can remember.  The boys have loved playing and we've enjoyed the families we've met and been involved with over the years.

Except for the assholes, but I won't focus on them today.

Somehow, all of our baseball involvement led us to Angel's Stadium last Friday evening.  

PR (13) played for a travel/club team last Fall and they were having a banquet for all their teams (ages 10-15) at the exclusive and upscale Angel's Diamond Club.  There were several hundred people attending in total.

The Diamond Club is a restaurant located at Angel's Stadium.  There are also Diamond Club stadium seats which are right behind home plate.  Diamond Club seats, and the access they bring you to the Diamond Club restaurant, are primarily accessible to celebrities and the rich.

We've been fortunate enough to visit the Diamond Club on occasion through the generosity of friends.  Last Friday night, however, there was no Angel's baseball game going on.  The field and stadium were empty except for the organization we were with.

I've been involved with youth baseball for a lot of years, and even I was astounded at the idea of a youth baseball team getting an opportunity to have exclusive use of the Diamond Club for a team party.  

Isn't that taking the whole youth sports thing a little far?

I guess that's where our exorbitant team fees went?

That being said, the boys (and parents) loved it.  The boys were instructed to dress nicely.  Ties were optional, button down shirts and nice pants (no jeans) were mandatory. To clarify, most of the boys wear shorts, t-shirts and flip flops to school every day. This event meant getting dressed up by California teen-boy standards.

Pro baseball players came and talked to the boys.  A buffet dinner was served.  The boys ran amok amongst the empty stadium seats.  The parents drank too much while we sat around chatting.  

Eventually all the boys with high academic achievements were acknowledged in front of the group.  I thought it was a nice touch.  Every player with a 3.5 grade point average, or higher, got a little plaque.  (And yep, PR got one -- yay!!)  It was a nice way to remind the boys how important school is.  Every one of the boys dreams of being a pro player someday and very few, if any, of them will accomplish that goal.  As a parent, I appreciated the organization giving kudos to the kids who focus on academics too and not just baseball.

I thought the coaches would read off the name of every single kid on every single team. Surprisingly, they chose not to do this.  Can I just say I was prepared to sleep right through that?  I think there were a total of 11 teams there which meant approximately 165 kids.  I imagine we would have been there all night if they had.  Instead, each coach picked 3 boys from his team to receive an award for their baseball accomplishments.  

PR was thrilled to be one of the three picked for his team.  Can you imagine being 13 years old, standing behind home plate at Angel Stadium and receiving an award in front of several hundred people seated in the Diamond Club?  PR received his award for being the top pitcher and top hitter on his team.  I think it's something he will remember for the rest of his life. 

Before you get too impressed, and not to belittle PR's accomplishment, can I just say the team was fairly crappy?  I don't mean to make light of the award, but being the best on a team isn't as difficult if the team sucks.

I'm very proud of PR.  Please don't send me an email and tell me I'm an awful mom.  I am proud of my kid.  I just want you to have a complete picture of what transpired.  He got an award for being the best on a team that was average.  

PR's coach gave a very nice little speech about PR and then he added, "And he accomplished all of this without being able to see the ball because he didn't get his glasses until after our last game."  His statement brought a roar of laughter from everyone and PR blushed forty shades of red as he peered out (from behind his glasses) in awe at the crowd of people applauding for him.

He could actually see them!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Excuse Me While I Vomit

The comments you've left the last few days have been fantastic.  I'm sorry I haven't been able to get back individually to each one of you, but I've loved them!  What a great conversation we've got going on a very important topic.

I don't mean to overwhelm you with posts about the superficiality of Orange County, but it's difficult not to write about it this week.  I promise I'll mix in some other topics before the end of the week.

  

By the way, my sister called yesterday.  She lives in Colorado where natural beauty is prized more highly than it is here in Orange County.  She's about 5 years older than me. She hasn't had any cosmetic surgery.  In my opinion, she looks great.

We talked about my experience with the Cosmetic Dermatologist.  My sister told me about a cream she started using on her neck awhile back called Elastiderm.  Have you heard of it? She buys it through a dermatologist, but it's now available online.  It's not cheap, but it's a lot cheaper than plastic surgery.  She swears it's made a remarkable difference in her neck. I can't swear by it personally, but I thought I'd pass on the recommendation for those of you who are interested.  I might try it myself.  (If I do, I'll let you know what I think.)

Maybe it's a magical cream?

Moving on ....

I was reading the Orange County Register yesterday and I was completely, utterly, appalled by one of the local stories.  I found myself questioning why I live here.  Then I shut my eyes for a moment, thought about the beach, the ocean, and the mountains in my backyard.

The story was titled, Shoes Fit for a Queen, and it was written by a reporter named Candice Shih.  Do you know who Christian Louboutin is?  He's a famous shoe designer.  His shoes have a signature red leather sole and are worn by celebrities worldwide.  

Christian Louboutin visited Orange County recently to promote his exclusive line of shoes. To say Louboutin's shoes are expensive is an understatement.  He was specifically here to introduce his new limited edition shoe, the Marie Antoinette, which is priced at $6,295.

Here's a look at this $6,000+ ultra-extravagant shoe:

I don't know if it's possible to love shoes more than I do.  I have the potential to develop a serious shoe-aholic addiction.  I don't, however, find the Marie Antoinette even remotely attractive.

Not to mention, spending $6,782.86 with tax on one pair of shoes is one of the most wasteful things I can imagine.

Wake up Orange County, the world is in a serious recession!  Excessive consumption is grossly out of style.  Even if you aren't hurting financially, most people are.  Why not use your money to help someone in need instead of buying a pair of shoes you will only wear once in a great while, if at all?  (Louboutin shoes are not made for comfort!)  If you are too self-centered to think about other people, than at least realize you're making yourself look like an ass with your exorbitance. 

Christian Louboutin came and autographed the red soles of his shoes for women who clamored to buy them.  Only three pairs of the Marie Antoinette were available that day (all three sold), but Louboutin has plenty of other, pricey, styles to choose from.  Women were lining up to spend thousands of dollars on a single pair of shoes.

The most nauseating part of the article was reading about a woman who successfully begged her father to buy her a pair of the $6,295 Marie Antoinette's for her 25th birthday. Why did she think she needs them?  Who is she trying to impress?  And does she think having her daddy buy her $6,000+ shoes impresses anyone?  Why did her father buy them for her?  What in the hell was he thinking?

What's wrong with these people?

All I Wanted Was Some Soap, Part II

If you haven't had a chance to read Part I of this post, you can click here to do so. When we left off yesterday I was sitting in the examination room of a cosmetic dermatologist named Dr. Beautiful.  Dr. Beautiful had asked me what I disliked most about my own face. When I hesitated prior to giving an answer, Dr. Beautiful informed me she had some ideas as to what I need.  And so begins Part II of this story ....

"You have some little lines near your lips," Dr. Beautiful said.

I looked in the mirror.  "Those are scars from the biopsies I needed after my melanoma," I explained.

"Well, they're very small but, luckily, there's something we can do about them," she smiled.

Hmmm ... they're very, very, small.  Why do anything about them?  Are they even noticeable?  If I didn't have a magnifying mirror in front of me, would I see them?  (I do have a larger melanoma scar, but there's no hiding that one!)

Dr. Beautiful reached over and startled me by squeezing my upper eyelid.  I nearly jumped out of my chair.  "There's starting to be a little sag to your upper eyelid," she declared. She stretched my eyelid again and then let go.  I think she stretched it into sagging.  Is that possible?  I looked at my eyelids.  My eyelids which I had not been the least bit concerned about two minutes prior didn't look too bad, or did they?

"My eyelids are saggy?" I asked.

"Well, they're going to be.  I can see where they aren't as firm as a twenty year olds."

Dear Gawd, am I supposed to be comparing my eyelids to a twenty year old woman's?  I have never noticed my eyelids.  I didn't notice them when I was 20 and I haven't noticed them in my forties.  In fact, I've never noticed anyone's eyelids before.

I scrutinized my eyelids in the magnifying mirror.

"I can fix your eyelids," Dr. Beautiful announced with a smile.

"What would you do to my eyelids?" I asked concerned.

"Oh, it's no big deal.  I'm used to cutting skin.  I'd just snip them and tighten them right up.  I did it to my own mother," she stated.

"You cut your own mother's eyelids off?" I asked incredulously.

"I've done just about everything to my mother," Dr. Beautiful said.  "She loves it!"

Silence.

I was trying to comprehend the idea of Dr. Beautiful's mother having her own daughter cut her eyelids off.

Before I had a chance to mentally digest this news, Dr. Beautiful began pointing to all the areas on my face where she could inject either botox or a "filler."

My mind raced to keep up with her.  Lip lines, sagging eyelids, filler injected into wrinkles, botox to "lift" certain areas of my face - I was having trouble remembering it all.

"You're not a plastic surgeon?" I asked.

"No, I'm a dermatologist but I took one additional year of courses in cosmetic surgery," she informed me proudly.

In my mind I was trying to decide how qualified this made her to cut her own mother's eyelids off.

"We also have to fix your neck," she suddenly confided.

"My neck?" I queried.

My hands, involuntarily, went to my neck.

"I'll lipo it, it will only cost $3,000," she said.  "Everyone has their neck lipo-sculpted these days," she informed me.

"They do?" I questioned.

Thoughts rushed thorough my head as my hands hovered protectively on my neck. I have noticed a lot of women with very tight, firm, necks in the OC.  I figured they were all getting neck lifts or something.  I'd never heard of "lipo-sculpting" a neck. 

"It's no big deal," Dr. Beautiful assured me.  "Everyone does it!  I make five little tiny incisions and then you have a new neck."

Five little tiny incisions (and three thousand dollars) and I can have a new neck.

"Why not just have a face lift instead of all these other procedures?" I asked.

"You don't need a facelift," stated Dr. Beautiful.  "You're not even close yet.  And besides, these smaller procedures can help you postpone a facelift another ten years beyond someone who doesn't do them."

My mind considered the fact that Dr. Beautiful does not perform face lifts and therefore makes no money off of them.  She is, however, making a fortune doing all these "smaller procedures" on all the OC women.

"We can make an appointment for you and do everything at once," she enthusiastically offerred.  "I can even take care of your hands at the same time."

"My hands?"

I was afraid to even ask.

"Yes!  I can take some fat from somewhere else on your body.  Maybe your bottom?  And I'll just inject it right into your hands.  You wouldn't believe what it does!  Your hands will look ten years younger.  It's fantastic!"

I was a hand model in my early twenties.  It helped pay the bills.  I have pretty hands. They are no longer twenty year old hands, but they're still fairly decent hands.

Did she say she could take some fat from my butt?  Now there's an idea worth thinking about!  Can't she just take it from my butt and throw it away?  Maybe flush it?  Or put it down the garbage disposal?  Why give it to my hands?  

"I really appreciate your time," I said apologetically.  "But you know I just came in to buy some soap."

Dr. Beautiful looked deflated.  "Well, think about what I said," she urged as I grabbed my purse and prepared to leave.

I walked out to the waiting area.

"Isn't she fantastic?" asked the receptionist.

"She's remarkable," I answered truthfully.

And that's when the receptionist started prattling on about all the procedures Dr. Beautiful has had done to herself.  

In yesterday's post, All I Wanted Was Some Soap, Part I, I described Dr. Beautiful as follows:

She has long, flowing, blonde hair.  Her eyelashes are out to here.  Of course, she has perfect skin. Her teeth were startling white.  She has high, enviable, cheekbones.  Her lips are full and pouty.  She's tall, lean, and has big perky boobs.  Honestly, Dr. Beautiful must turn heads everywhere she goes. 

Here's the list of cosmetic procedures Dr. Beautiful admits to having:  

Hair extensions to create the blonde flowing hair, eyelash extensions to create the long noticeable eyelashes, botox in several areas of her face, restylane (a filler for wrinkles), collagen in her lips to make them plump, fake cheek bones (I don't know what the correct terminology is for those), facial "sculpting" to contour her face into a more striking appearance, fake boobs, porcelain veneers on her teeth, and a fake tan.

Most likely there's been a tummy tuck and liposuction too, but she's not going public on those.

I got in my car and went on about my day.  I admit, however, later that night as I prepared for bed I found myself staring at my eyelids in the mirror.  I wonder if they really are beginning to sag?

© Twenty Four At Heart

All I Wanted Was Some Soap, Part I

I've mentioned before I'm not a "girly girl."  I don't know much at all about makeup or beauty products.  I wear mascara to darken my blonde eyelashes most days and that's usually it.  Most of the women in Orange County spend a lot of time and money at the dermatologist's office getting facials and botox and "fillers" and other things I know nothing about.  I've never spent my money or time on cosmetic things.  

I think it probably means I look like crap when I'm in a room with other OC women.

Don't get me wrong, I don't thing there's anything wrong with trying to look your best.  I'm not opposed to plastic surgery when it's done in moderation and/or if someone has a body part that really makes them unhappy.  

On the other hand, many OC women think about nothing other than themselves and how they look.  They become obsessed with superficiality and go overboard with surgeries and treatments.  Their appearance becomes a full time job.  Honestly, I think it's sad.

I do go to a dermatologist twice a year.  I was diagnosed at a very young age with a hereditary and very deadly form of melanoma.  I'm fine, but I need very close skin checks twice a year as a result.  A few years ago, my dermatologist told me about a skin cleanser he highly recommends and I've used it ever since.  I have to buy it through his office because it's not available in retail stores.  That's the extent of my "cosmetic" experience with a dermatologist.

Last Friday I made a quick trip into the derm office just to purchase a bottle of facial cleanser. The office was deserted except for the two women working at the front desk (it was over the lunch hour).  As I purchased my "soap" they prattled on about the new "cosmetic doctor" at the office and how fantastic and wonderful she is.  One of the women told me she had her laugh lines "filled-in" the day before.  The other described her botox and other treatments.

I confessed I really know nothing about any of that stuff.

Right then Dr. Beautiful walked out to the front desk.  The ladies told her they had just been bragging about her.  She took one look at me and invited me to "come have a chat" with her in a back room.  "No charge," she said.

I must be really ugly.

Well, I admit I couldn't resist.  I'd like to say the first thought through my head was, "She can make me look pretty," but it wasn't.  No, this writing thing has become ingrained in me and all I could think was, "Wow, this will make a great post!"

Dr. Beautiful told me to have a seat in the examination room and handed me a magnifying mirror. 

Dr. Beautiful, at first glance, was so remarkably beautiful I was embarrassed to be in the same room as her.  I don't think a heterosexual man would be able to take his eyes off her.  Hell, her beauty was so startling I couldn't take my eyes off her.  

I would guess Dr. Beautiful is 30 years old, but it was hard to pin an age on her.  She has long, flowing, blonde hair.  Her eyelashes are out to here.  Of course, she has perfect skin. Her teeth were startling white.  She has high, enviable, cheekbones.  Her lips are full and pouty.  She's tall, lean, and has big perky boobs.  Honestly, Dr. Beautiful must turn heads everywhere she goes. 

Yes, I felt very ugly and inadequate being in the same room as her.

"Look in the mirror and tell me what you dislike about yourself the most," she urged.

I didn't realize I dislike anything about myself.

Not that I think I'm perfect by any means.  Far, far, from it.  I've just accepted the good the bad and the ugly.  I honestly don't think about myself in terms of what I dislike about my appearance.  I just am who I am and I came to terms with the good and bad of that sometime after my teen years.

"I just came here to buy some soap," I said.

Dr. Beautiful was so taken aback by my statement her eyes nearly popped out of her head.  I think her eyebrows would have raised, but they couldn't.  (Too much botox I suppose.)  I imagine my comment is not one she hears very often ever in the OC.

"You came here to buy soap?" she asked incredulously.

Then she composed herself and added, "Well, look in the mirror because there must be things about yourself you dislike."

I looked at Dr. Beautiful's perfect face and then looked at my own reflection in the mirror. I guess there is a lot to be unhappy with after all.  I hesitated, glanced at her perfect face again, and then back at my own reflection.

I was trying to come up with the one thing on my face I dislike the most.  

Before I could formulate a thought to put into words, Dr. Beautiful said, "Let me help you, I have some ideas on what you need."

And oh my!  Dr. Beautiful certainly did have some ideas as to what I need. Tomorrow I'll publish Part II of this post.  I think you'll be surprised by what Dr. Beautiful suggested for me.  You'll also be amazed to hear what Dr. Beautiful has done to herself to become so beautiful.  In the meantime, leave me your thoughts as to what ONE THING you'd most like changed about your face!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Heisler Park

Last Saturday I awoke to a glorious, spectacular, sunny day.  I sipped my morning coffee in our backyard.  PR joined me and he kept exclaiming how beautiful the mountains are.  He told me he's never really seen them before.  He can't get over the wonders of the world now that he has his glasses.  He also said, in total awe, "I can actually see the clouds now!"

** Ahem **  

Yes son, there are clouds in the sky.  Let me just pop a bottle of Xanax to ease my guilt over being a bad mom and we can talk about the existence of mountains and clouds.

By the way, the "green belt" you see in the above picture is maintained for fire protection.  Although it isn't visible in the photo, there's a reservoir just on the other side of it.  When we have wildfires (and we do), helicopters come with big buckets attached and swoop water out of the reservoir.  We watch all the excitement from our backyard as we hope and pray the fires don't get close to us.

And yes, they have before.  But that's a story for a different day.

PR announced he "needed" to climb some rocks at the beach.  He got no argument from me.  In no time, we were at Heisler Park in Laguna where there are a lot of rocks to climb.

Heisler Park is great for rock climbing and for perusing tide pools.

PR took this photo of one of the fattest starfishes I've ever seen.  As he took the photo, I stood nearby.  A huge wave suddenly crashed on the rocks soaking me thoroughly. Luckily, it was a warm day (in the 80's/27C) and I dried off quickly.

Can I stop right here and admit something?  Laguna Beach is one of the greatest places to laugh at tourists.  I can't help it and yes, I'm a bitch.  Honestly?  Do not come to California for a visit in the winter and send your kids out swimming in the Pacific Ocean in their underwear.  It's wrong on so many levels.  

The Pacific Ocean is cold in the winter (Low 50'sF/11-12C).  If you stay in the water for more than a few minutes without a wet suit on we are laughing at you.  Also?  You can splurge on a kids bathing suit for next to nothing at Target.  We don't want to see you or your kids running around in panties on the beach.

Thank you.

Here's one of many sea anemones we encountered.  PR likes to feed them by touching their "middles" and watching them devour their food.  Is devour the correct term for what sea anemones do?  They suck stuff in and you never see it again.

I got an 'A' in biology.  (No, really I did.)

The sky was a spectacular array of wispy cirrus clouds, and the ocean was green and clear.

Have I mentioned that we have plants other than palm trees by the ocean?

It's beginning to look quite spring-ish.

PR got a lot of climbing and exploring done. 

Yes, he did drag me up and down cliffs.  And no, he did not wear his glasses as he did so. Don't ask, it's a long story.  Anyway, it takes a lot to wear PR out.  He's a high energy kid.  One good thing about all that climbing, it gave me some great views for photos.

In the far distance you can see downtown Laguna.  

We climbed nearly as high as some very tall palm trees.

On the way home we stopped by the grocery store.  When we got back to the house we grilled steaks outdoors.  I made a caesar salad (I make the best homemade caesar dressing) and we baked some potatoes.  A bottle of red wine completed the meal.  It was a wonderful day!

As an aside, thank you to so many of you who have encouraged me on the photography front.  You've gotten me quite motivated to figure out a way to use a heavier camera with my bum arm.  It may take a few months, but "real" photography is something I really aspire to do again.  It will be an exciting day for me when I can share with you the news that I've accomplished that goal.

© Twenty Four At Heart

A Beautiful Saturday in the OC

Moon Rises

I don't have much writing time today, so I'm sharing some pictures instead.  Before I do, I want to thank all of you for your comments and emails regarding my Infidelity post yesterday. Many people felt more comfortable sharing their stories with me in direct emails rather than in the comment section.  Regardless, I think all of you who chose to share in any form are very brave and compassionate to do so. Thank you for taking the time to write to me. 

Secondly, for those of you who have inquired.  Yes, I have now registered for BlogHer and I will be in Chicago for a little time prior to, and after, the convention also.  If I'm going all the way to Chicago I want to fit in some play time!  I think I'll be in town July 23rd through the 27th or 28th (Thr - Mon/Tue).  I look forward to meeting several of you in July. 

And now ... on to today ....

One of the things I love about our house is our nighttime view.  Every evening we see the moon rise over the mountains.  It's always beautiful, but some nights are more exceptional than others.

With my bum arm I'm only able to use a lightweight point and shoot camera, but these pictures will give you a general idea of how beautiful an Orange County moon rise can be. I wish I could still lift a bigger camera so I could take better quality photos to share with you.

First, the moon pops over the mountain at dusk.  (I did not photoshop the colors in these photos.)  I wasn't quick enough this time to capture a photo the minute the moon first became visible. It rises quickly and by the time I grabbed my camera it already looked like this.

The moon rises higher in the sky as darkness descends.

In only a few minutes, it gets quite dark and the moon appears bigger and brighter.

When it's dark enough the stars begin appearing also.  It can be breathtaking. Sometimes I sit out on our patio or deck with a glass of wine and just enjoy the night sky.  

I wish all of you a wonderful weekend!

Laguna Beach Sunset

Money Town Imbecile

Last weekend I found myself in the Money Town Verizon store attempting to acquire two new phones.  There's nothing I dread more than having to stop into our local Verizon store. There's almost always a long wait just to be seen and a zillion headaches in dealing with whatever cell phone issue needs dealing with.  This time, however, I walked in and was immediately waited on by Mr. Imbecile.  Of course, initially, I didn't know Mr. Imbecile was an imbecile and I was overjoyed not to have a wait.

Let me back up just a little bit.  

TR had arrived home from college on a train just shortly before.  She was coming home for about 30 hours and one of the primary reasons she came home was because she desperately needed a new phone.  Her phone was held together with a combination of scotch and duct tape and the charger was no longer working.  Our cell contract allowed her to get a new phone this month.  At the same time, I wanted to upgrade to a "smart" phone for myself.  Quite honestly, I haven't been able to keep up with my emails since I began Twenty Four At Heart.  I figured if I could answer emails from my phone I'd have a better chance of making a dent in them.  (??)

Within minutes of our arrival the store was overflowing with customers.  We (foolishly) congratulated ourselves on having arrived before the crowd.  As it turned out all those customers came and went and we were still there with Mr. Imbecile.  Yes, it took us over three and a half hours (with no initial wait) to be taken care of.

We explained to Mr. Imbecile what phones we wanted and blah, blah, blah.  He started the process of making the changes.  A few minutes later he informed us TR could not get a new phone for four more days based on our contract.  FOUR DAYS.  I explained to Mr. Imbecile that she was only home from college for one day, and asked if he could possibly get the manager to approve a FOUR DAY exception.  

He said that would be impossible.

I asked if she could purchase a new phone in FOUR DAYS in her college town.  He explained that would also be impossible.  According to Mr. Imbecile she needed me with her, because the account is in my name.

He then went on a tirade about the importance of this rule in the event of a "bad divorce." (Because there are so many GOOD divorces?)  And what the hell does any of that have to do with my daughter?  She and I have no intention of divorcing anytime soon.

Frustrated, I told Mr. Imbecile to just upgrade my phone.  As he started this process we took note of the Money Town crowd surrounding us.  There was a woman with large fake breasts and a tight cleavage-exposing top, dressed head to toe in hot pink.  She even wore hot pink converse sneakers and a "reverse french manicure" with matching bright pink nail polish.  Next to her was a Money Town man demanding a free upgrade of the expensive phone he'd used for five months because he recently decided he doesn't like "the sound of it."  I looked on as his eight year old daughter chatted on her own phone while she waited.

All these people, and many more like them, came and went as Mr. Imbecile slowly punched numbers into his computer, frowned, deleted them, and began the process again. Over, and over, and over again.

I don't have a lot of patience for stupid people, and Mr. Imbecile was an idiot.

As he attempted (unsuccessfully) to input my blog email address he smirked and said, "So you think of yourself as 24, do ya?"

Before I could respond he said,  "That must make me 16."

He was in his mid-sixties, staring me down through his overgrown, pure gray, comb-over and I was not the least bit charmed by the comparison.  I used every ounce of willpower to stifle a smart ass response.

If you know me in person, you understand what an extreme effort it was on my part.  I'm not a stifler of smart ass comments by nature.

A few minutes later he attempted (again unsuccessfully) to enter my personal email address which, coincidentally, also has the number 24 in it.

"You're really hung up on trying to be a 24 year old, aren't you?" he remarked.

This time I clenched my teeth together to will myself into silence.

Somewhere along the way, a few snarky comments started escaping.

"Hmmm," I said, "I understand now why so many people have left Verizon and gone to AT&T."

(AT&T doesn't work in my canyon so it's not an option for me, but that's beside the point.)

"Would you like to go next door and have lunch TR?  I'll still be here in a few hours when you're done."

When Briefcase called to ask when we'd be home I commented, "Well, at this rate I'd say we'll be at least another five hours."

Mr. Imbecile punched in more keys, frowned again, deleted everything and began again.

I'd think he did this just to spite me for my snarky comments, but he wasn't intelligent enough for that.

One of the store managers came over about five times to help Mr. Imbecile, but unfortunately he never stayed very long.  At one point I explained to him TR's situation and she showed him her duct taped phone.  He approved her for the "impossible" upgrade on the spot.

Mr. Imbecile frowned at this news, deleted everything he'd done over the last hour and a half, and began again.

I contemplated beating my head against the wall repeatedly, but the store was too crowded to find wall space.

At the three hour point (not exaggerating) a new store manager came on duty.  He came over to answer one of Mr. Imbecile's questions.  I looked him in the eye and said, "I'm a little frustrated, we've been here five hours and I'm ready to lose it."

Of course, it had only been three hours, but three hours in a Verizon store is totally, really, five hours.  At least.  Probably ten.

He took over for Mr. Imbecile.

Right then Briefcase called again to see why we still weren't home.

Mr. Manager laughed and said, "Tell him you'll be another five hours."

I decided I liked him.  Of course, I would have liked anyone after spending three hours with Mr. Imbecile.

We were out of there thirty minutes later.  Amazingly enough, he was able to load both of my email addresses and never once questioned the fact that of course I'm 24 (asshole).

On our way out I overheard a Money Town woman explaining to her husband why their kindergartner needs a cell phone.

"It's going to be really comforting for me to know I can reach her anytime," she remarked.

I choked back the vomit which threatened to come up in my throat.

Now I just need to learn how to use my smart phone.  It's smarter than I am and I know it.

Strands Beach

Last weekend I woke up and looked out my window at this.

"My" mountain was looking very pretty.  I immediately told Briefcase we needed to abscond to the beach to enjoy the beautiful day. 

We decided to journey to Strands Beach in Dana Point.  We hadn't been to Strands in awhile and we wanted to check out some of the renovations they're doing there. Specifically, they are building multi-million dollar homes overlooking the ocean.  I always say I don't care about wealth, but I really wouldn't mind living in a home overlooking the ocean. (Just in case I have any billionaire readers out there who might feel like donating a home to me.)

    

In the forefront of this picture you can see the lots where homes will be built.  They've already started working on some of them.  I saw one home listed at 30 million dollars. The house below is not yet completed.

It was a breathtaking day.  Honestly, the ocean seemed almost artificial with the sun reflecting off of it.

There were a lot of surfers out and the waves were pretty decent.  Of course, the surfers avoided the rocky areas.

There's one area which is great for climbing.

It's a good spot if you're son is half billy goat.

That's PR out on the rocky bottom of the cliff.  At one point the tide came in.  I didn't think he'd make it back to us without jumping in and swimming, but somehow he managed.  It was sorta too bad, because I would have laughed really hard if he had to swim into shore with his clothes on.  

Once he got back on land, we went for a long walk in the opposite direction.

The best exercise came when it was time to go home.  There are a lot of steps, followed by a very steep ramp, to get back up the cliff to where we parked.

Strands Beach is not the best choice if you're out of shape.

Views From The Deck

We have a huge deck off the back of our house.  It faces out towards the canyon.  The deck is accessible from the upstairs master bedroom and/or a spiral staircase off of our patio.  It runs close to the whole length of our home.  (It's great for parties!)  We built the deck many years ago to take advantage of the beautiful mountain views we have.  In fact, we can also actually see a small glimpse of the ocean from one corner of the deck.

Briefcase is off vacationing working on a tropical island this week.  He was there all of last weekend too.  Doesn't his life suck?  While he's been gone we've had two back to back storms.  I've been snapping pictures off of our deck almost daily to share with him when he returns.  Last Saturday I posted a beautiful picture of a rainbow.  We get a lot of rainbows off the lake behind our house.

Here are a few more photos.  They were all taken over the last few days from our backyard deck.  I never tire of the mountains.  The colors and look of them change constantly based on the weather and the time of day.  This first shot is of sunset on the mountain behind our house.  You can see the slight dusting of snow on the mountain. It always looks ominous during storms.

The next photo is another rainbow.

If you look south, the view changes to smaller mountains and hills.  If I'd taken this next photo a little further towards the right, you'd see a sparkly section in the distance.  The sparkle is caused by the light reflecting off the ocean.

Yesterday the sun was back out again, but temperatures remained chilly.  The mountain looks much friendlier in the sunlight.  The dirt path towards the bottom of this photo is a trail where Briefcase runs with our retrievers on a regular basis.  It leads down to the lake behind our house.

The dogs love to run back in the canyon.  When they get hot they swim in the lake to cool off.  Now if I could just convince them to take a shower when they get back home.

Palm trees and snow.  It's beautiful here - I love it!

First There Was Rain

It's been pouring here for the last two days.  A few minutes ago I walked into our backyard and snapped this photo.

 

When The Rich Do Good

When I peruse the local newspaper I often cringe at the "high society" do-gooders.  Many of the Orange County rich attend charity balls and events.  To an outsider, such as myself, it often seems the primary purpose of these events is not to help others, but for the rich to pat themselves on the back.  The goal is often just to "be seen" at big charity events. 

Having their picture displayed in the newspaper as a do-gooder becomes a competitive thing among the rich.  It makes me a little nauseous to see the women in their $3,000 gowns attending a "ball" for the poor.  I realize a portion of the money raised does eventually find its way to charitable causes.  

A portion.  Eventually.

I was brought up by "salt of the earth" parents.  To me, helping others is something you do without fanfare or public recognition.  In fact, I pretty much have the attitude if anyone knows you are doing it, it doesn't count.  There's a line in the sand about caring about others for their sake, or doing it to pat yourself on the back.  It's my own personal hang-up, I guess.  It's an area of my life I'm very private about.

The Orange County Register had an article last Monday, however, about a Money Town family helping others.  I was very touched by what these people are doing with their wealth and I want to share their story with you.  Although the newspaper did write an article about it, I honestly believe these people are being wonderful human beings without concern about "getting credit" for it.

Gary and Julie Crisp (Money Town residents) hosted about 175 Marines from nearby Camp Pendleton for a Super Bowl party last weekend.  Some of these Marines are about to be deployed to Afghanistan.  According to the Register, the party included live music, specialty cigars with a Marine logo, and massages for the Marines.  

First of all, can you imagine having a home big enough to comfortably host 175 Marines? The Register quoted Lance Cpl. Mike Kirkland saying he was overwhelmed.  "I'm from a little town in Utah, and you don't see a house this big there," he said.  

This is the third year that The Crisps have hosted this bash.  They said they've been very blessed and wanted to give the Marines a party they would remember while at war.  I think they were successful. 

The Super Bowl was broadcast for the Marines on eight (8!) flat screen televisions.  The Marines went through 1,800 beers, 150 massages, 14,000 cokes, 1,000 pounds of ice, 200 hot dogs, hamburgers and steaks, and 500 specialty cigars.

In addition, NFL and USC football players were present to sign autographs.  The Crisps also gave away five electric guitars and five basses.  Each Marine will also receive a photo album and DVD with pictures from the ten hour party.

Ten hours with 175 Marines in their house.  Think about that folks.  The party began at 10:30 a.m.

One Marine was quoted (while in the Crisp's jacuzzi) saying, "If we weren't here we would just be sitting in some guy's room with the biggest television."

Cpl. Anna Owens said, "It is really special.  We volunteer our time and our family for the war, and we feel like we are appreciated."

Mr. and Mrs. Crisp ... you did good!

All information regarding the Crisp party was taken from the Annie Burris article in the February 2nd edition of the Orange County Register.

Dining With Money Towners

A group of managers who work for Briefcase give him a bribe gift every year for Christmas.  For the record, it's never expected, or necessary, and they are extremely thoughtful and very generous people.  For the second year in a row, we were told the gift was to be used at one of the finer Orange County restaurants.  

Two years ago, they gave him a gift card specifically for Mastro's Ocean Club. I love Mastro's, but it's too pricey for us to frequent except on special occasions.  Of course, we thoroughly enjoyed a "free" evening there courtesy of their gift.  It was fantabulous. Honestly, I love that restaurant.    

Last Christmas, the same wonderful group of people gave him American Express cards to use at the restaurant of our choosing.  We ended up last Saturday at  Charlie Palmer for dinner.  (And yes, for you Real Housewives fans, this IS the restaurant they filmed last week's episode at.  For some reason those ladies go to a lot of the same places I do.  Maybe they are stalking me?  I'm sure they are.)  

Charlie Palmer is located at (inside/as part of?) Bloomingdales in Costa Mesa.  It's pricey, but not as outrageous as Mastro's so we walked away at the end of the night with some leftover Amex cards.

Visions of curtains danced through my head.

What was I saying?

We had a nice evening out and everything was great.  In spite of the terrible economy, the restaurant was still pretty busy although not every table was filled.  The service was good; the food was good; everything was wonderful.

This is what I enjoyed the most though.

I loved reading the cocktail menu.  I know this picture is probably hard to read, so I'll help you out.  I found the menu very amusing because Money Towners are the most self absorbed people on earth.  Clearly, the restaurant wanted to tip it's hat to it's best customers. 

By the way, I didn't steal this menu.  Our waitress was quite happy to give me one upon my request.  I think she gave it to me so I would, kindly, leave my camera in my purse.  I don't think she wanted me to start snapping photos of the menu, the Money Towners, or the ho woman seated behind me.

What a spoiler.  You would have loved a picture of the woman seated behind me.

One drink is named Nouveau Rich.  Really, that name sums up a huge portion of Orange County's population.  Another drink is simply called The OC.  Fittingly, The OC has orange in it although the menu doesn't clearly state orange juice, so it does make a person wonder what type of orange flavoring is in the drink.  A third drink is named OMG.  Does that stand for OMG I have a hangover?  OMG it's so good?  OMG I can't believe the things I did after drinking it?  Or simply, I live in The OC so I say "OMG" at every opportunity I can because that's how people talk here?

The restaurant also offers the Rich and Skinny on it's cocktail menu.  I've mentioned this drink before.  It's quite popular here because Money Town women do not eat, ever.  It's against their religion and I'm convinced it's why they are all such bitches.  Money Town men, I know you are concerned about keeping a trophy on your arm, but when you can't take the bitchiness anymore you should insist she eat.  

Your welcome.

I snorted out loud when I noticed the Cougar Cosmo on the menu.  Honestly, there are times when I feel like PT is filled with at least 80% cougars.  They seem to flock there.  I suppose they have nothing better to do during their daylight hours than try to hit up The Torturer for a butt massage.  Or something.

Anyway .... 

For the record, I ordered the duck for dinner and Briefcase had a steak (and some of my duck).  Everything is served a la carte.  I think we over-ordered in an attempt to spend our gift cards.  We tried two appetizers and also ordered two sides to share with our meal.  The food was excellent, but I was way too full by the end of the meal.  (Briefcase, however, thought the quantity of food "was just right.")  Of course, I didn't have to eat the food just because it was there, did I?

Disturbing Observations and Tidbits

This is such a great group of readers and such an eclectic mix of women and men.  Over the last few days I've gotten several emails with requests on several topic discussions.  It has made me realize what a varied group of readers visit here.  There are high school students, grandparents, and everything in between.  I'm really awed by the spectrum of interests and experience everyone brings.

By the way, if I ever Super Glue a part of my body again I will now know to use nail polish remover to release myself.  I wish I'd thought to ask all of you for help first.

Here's your warning.  This is going to be one of those posts where I hit on more than one topic.  

Tidbit.  Add this to the reasons I write.

Recently I was contacted independently by two readers.  One hadn't gone in for a mammogram in five years because, let's face it, they can hurt.  She decided to book an appointment for a mammogram after reading about the experience I had and my resulting biopsy.  (Yay!)  

A second woman was referred to my boob posts by a friend when she got "the call" we all dread informing her abnormalities had been found in her mammogram.  She contacted me after reading my posts saying she felt greatly relieved. 

Honestly, we're all in this crazy experience of life together.  I was really touched to find out sharing my experiences helped both of these women.  In addition, just think ... now all of my readers know to use nail polish remover to unstick themselves if they ever Super Glue themselves to anything.

I'm such a help to society.

Disturbing Observations from PT Yesterday

To the man who was sitting out in the public/gym area of PT picking his nose, you were making me gag.  You were really digging and rooting around in there for quite some time and I'm wondering why you felt you needed to share your explorations with the rest of us?

A bit of advice to the woman with a wig on.  I realize that many women have thinning hair as they age.  However, I would suggest when you stand up to leave PT that you NOT take your hair completely off, smooth it down, and then place it back on your head.  It was surprisingly disturbing to see someone remove their entire head of hair when I was not expecting it.

To the good looking man who thinks he's God's gift to women, I'm not interested. Telling me how attractive you are to women did nothing to change my opinion. 

Tidbit.  Meet and Greet.

I've been asked if I would consider doing a "meet and greet."  A Meet and Greet is an informal get together at a casual restaurant, a park, a Starbucks or some other public venue.  It's an opportunity for local readers and/or other bloggers in the area to stop by and meet in person.  It's nice to meet the faces behind the writing and emails if there's an opportunity.  I wanted to put the idea out there and see how much interest there is.  If you live in Southern California, please leave me a comment or send me an email if this is something you'd be interested in.  

Perverts and trolls need not attend.     

Tidbit(s).  The Real Housewives

If you've never watched The Real Housewives of Orange County, and you're one of my regular readers, I suggest you watch at least a portion of one episode.  It will give you a glimpse of what I'm surrounded by.  Also, hopefully, it will make you realize I really don't make up the shit I write about.

I've gotten a couple questions on the Housewives lately.  First of all, I need to say I do not know the women on the show at all.  One of the families was involved in youth baseball at the same time we were a few years ago.  I believe it was Season 1 of the TV show.  Camera crews showed up at a game to film it.  That's the extent of my involvement with any of them.  Have I ever seen any of them around town?  Yes.

Do I care?  No.

One reader asked me recently if these women are "for real."  This is what I can tell you. Most women in Orange County are not like the Real Housewives, but many women are like them.  Superficiality, obsessions with money, material things, and maintaining youth, preoccupation with plastic surgery, narcissistic personality types ... all are in abundance here. 

I can also pass on a few things I've heard around town which may or may not be true because, after all, it is pure gossip.  Recently I was in a busy local business.  When you enter you have to give them your name and wait in line until someone is available to assist you.  Eventually it was my turn to be helped.  The sales person thanked me for my patience and then went on a diatribe about one of the Real Housewives who had recently been in.  

The sales person said she was a "diva."  According to him, she immediately said, "You do know who I am, don't you?"  She apparently felt she should not have to wait in line to be taken care of and that her status as a Real Housewife entitled her to special treatment. The sales person went on to say how the entire store dreads it every time she comes in because she is such a bitch and so demanding.

Will I tell you which Housewife it was?  No, I won't.  The reason I won't is because it isn't something I witnessed firsthand.  What if it's not a completely truthful representation of what took place?

During the same week, I frequented another local business and heard a very similar account regarding the same Housewife.  (I will say, all this nasty behavior is being attributed to one of the blondes.)  This accounting was remarkably similar to the first. This time, however, I was also told she kept inquiring if the employee had seen her on TV "last night." Supposedly, she was obsessed with what he had thought of "her" most recent episode.

    

Housewife seems to be quite taken with her "celebrity" status.  Apparently these women don't realize the point of the show is to have the rest of the world look at them in appalled horror.  Or perhaps, that's just my interpretation.  

Coffee in Money Town

Last week we had a few days of cold (for us) weather.  The beach fog rolled in thick and heavy causing a light drizzle at times.  It was perfect weather to hang out at Starbucks sipping coffee and getting caught up with friends.  I admit, I made more than one Starbucks trip, with more than one friend, over the course of a few days.  

The local Money Town Starbucks is a microcosm of Money Town itself.  Due to the dreary weather it was packed with people every time I visited.  I ran into several people I know while there.  In addition, I did a lot of observing.  There's no real way to describe Money Town.  By sharing little glimpses, I hope you'll eventually have a good feel for what I'm surrounded by.

Adding to my list of I thought I'd seen everything in Money Town incidents, was a 9 year old girl at Starbucks with her own new Blackberry Storm.  (She might, possibly, have been 10, but certainly not any older.)  And no, it did not belong to a parent because both of her parents were there with her.  They had their own phones/gadgets visible and in use.  I hate to be judgmental, but I'm going to be anyway.

Actually, in this case, if I'm honest, I delight in being judgmental.

What's the point of having your own website if you can't be a bitch on it, right? 

I will call these people the Gadget Family and I will call the girl Berry.  Berry was a spoiled, obnoxious, brat.  She was loud and she was demanding.  Her little brother tried to look at her (apparently brand new) Blackberry and she threw a fit.  She wouldn't let him touch it, and kept shouting the word "mine" loudly and repeatedly.  Berry wouldn't even allow her brother to look at her Blackberry while she held it. 

Mrs. Gadget was tall, thin, and dressed very expensively.  She rocked a huge diamond on her left hand.  Mrs. Gadget was (I guess?) attractive in that Orange County "I'm plastic and nothing about me is real" sort of way.  She was dressed too young for her years and had very long hair which she repeatedly tossed all over the place.  

Men notice women like Mrs. Gadget.  I've never really understood why, but they do.

Mr. Gadget wore the attitude of a Toxic Man.  He walked into Starbucks as if he owned the place.  He took at least four separate calls while he was there.  He seemed to ignore Mrs. Gadget, but indulged Berry and her younger brother to no end.  Neither parent did anything to stem the obnoxiousness which was Berry's mouth.

By the way, younger brother was pretty obnoxious himself.  He was also loud, whiney, demanding, and used to getting his way.

It was impossible not to be riveted by the Gadget family.  Their very presence made a statement.  Not a positive statement, but a noticeable one.

So what do you think?  Does a pre-teen need a Blackberry?  Not to mention the newest, most expensive yet, Blackberry?  I believe the Gadget family is creating mini-monsters in the making.  Am I wrong?

Merry Christmas!

Wishing you, and your loved ones, a wonderful holiday whether it be Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwaanza or any other celebration!

Damn It's Cold!

I wasn't going to post anything today, but then I drove by this.

It's freeeeeeeeeezing cold in Orange County this week!  Look how beautiful it is though! The lake, the palm trees, the snow on the mountains in the background ... it almost makes the cold worthwhile.  It was in the high 50's (F) yesterday, but had dropped into the 30's the night previous.

It's rare to see snow on these mountains.  They don't have the elevation of the much taller L.A. mountain ranges.  It won't last long, but it sure is pretty to look at! 

Cyclops

I've been trying not to write about PT.  I figured you were tired of hearing about my ongoing fights with The Torturer.  And really, how boring is it to hear my struggles as I attempt to get my arm working again post car accident?

The problem is, PT is just a hotbed of writing material.  It's like an ongoing soap opera with a host of ever changing characters.  In my wildest imagination, I could not make up the characters and scenarios I witness there.  Yesterday I was chatting with a friend and telling him about a new patient at PT.  I thought I'd share the story with you too.

There's the cutest looking little old man who comes in as a patient now.  He is adorable to look at. He's wrinkly and round and he has a twinkle in his eye.  He always wears a baseball style hat proudly proclaiming he's a World War II Veteran. The hat has a couple medals pinned to it.  I guess being a World War II veteran would put him in his eighties.

I've nicknamed him Cyclops.

Cyclops tells stories nonstop the entire time he is at PT.  Story after story after story; smiling all the while.  The Torturer jokes that, "Cyclops is full of a lot of stories and maybe one or two of them might be true."  I'm not as much of a doubter.  The man has over eighty years behind him, I'd say it's likely he's experienced some very good true stories in his lifetime.

However, someone ought to tell Cyclops World War II is over.  He still rants about hating "those damn Japs."  It makes you cringe, doesn't it?  Helloooooooo Cyclops ... the war is over! The year is 2008, welcome to the New World!  Bigotry is no longer in fashion.  He recounts stories of being shot at during the war and doing some shooting too.  He'll tell you the closest I ever came to dying war stories for hours if you'll listen.

Cyclops was married to the same woman for decades and decades.  She died a few years back from Alzheimer's.  You can still see the sadness and grief he carries with him over his loss.  His wife's family was EYE-talian.  Yes, EYE-talian.  And they were connected to "the mob" too.  He laughs about his Mafia connections and how he "stayed alive" even though he was around "the mob" a lot.

He can't read or write.  Cyclops couldn't fill out the new patient forms at PT and the receptionist had to help him.  He brags about how he "fooled everyone in the Navy" so they never knew he was illiterate.  He also brags that he worked for Ford "for forty years" in spite of his lack of literacy.  (No cracks about American made cars or the car industry, okay?)

Also, "illiterate" and "literacy" are my words not his.  I'm not sure he would know what they mean.  He simply says, "I can't read and I can't write and I never have."  He says this pretty frequently.

I've nicknamed him Cyclops because he only has one real eye.  His other eye is a glass eye.  Oddly enough, the one story I haven't heard is how he came to have a glass eye.  

The strangest thing is, he constantly threatens to take his eye out.  If I'm joking or teasing him about something he'll say, "Gonna take my eye out if you keep that up!"  Or, "Do that again and I'll pop my eye out!"  He is not joking at all when he says it.

Can I just say, if he DOES pop his eye out in front of me, I will be traumatized for life?  

I told The Torturer he needs to have a serious talk with Cyclops.  He needs to tell him that popping his eye in and out in front of other patients is NOT acceptable.  (It's BLUE, just in case you were wondering!)  

The Torturer laughed at my request.  He thought it was hilarious. I am not joking though. If that blue eye comes out of Cyclops head I'm likely to start screaming at the top of my lungs.  I might not ever stop.  Seeing an eye come out of someone's face just might be the thing to push me over the edge.

As I was leaving PT yesterday Cyclops said, "You're a real cute girlie, but feisty!  I might need to pop my eye out at you yet."

Omigod ...!  

Under the Influence!

Hellooooooo rambling post!  Which I haven't written yet, but which will most assuredly ramble.  Because why?  Because The Torturer ripped my arm out of the socket yesterday at PT and left it there on the floor for the cleaning crew to find at a later date.  No, yes he did! (Can a person say, "no, yes he did"????)

I'm under the influence, can you tell?

I had stopped taking pain meds because um, yeah - they're BAD for you.  I only take them once in a great while at night after PT when I'm really hurting because - they're BAD for you.  And I haven't taken any at all for many weeks till now, right now, as I write this post.

I should have written the post first, but damn and ouch - !  Having my arm ripped out of the socket sort of hurt like hell.

No one's allowed to criticize my writing, spelling, or grammar today.  Okey dokey then!

I swear on my grandpa's grave (sorry gramps!) that a year ago it was not uncommon for me to take a zillion million of these same pain pills a day ... and still sob my eyes out in horrible pain.  Now taking one knocks me right on my ass.  It's truly amazing that I never became addicted to them.

  

I'm hungry.

ANYWAY ... so, blah, blah, blah the next six months are really, really, critical in my rehab. And that means I "have to suck it up" and deal with more pain (according to The Torturer anyway).  He's doing new stuff to me.  And it's important.  And how I progress with it is "going to make all the difference" as to how much function I end up getting back in my arm. 

I yelled, "Ouuuuuuuuuuch!" so loud at PT yesterday that a woman across the room freaked out.  Then another patient turned to Freaking Out Lady and said, "Don't worry those two (meaning me and The Torturer) squabble like brother and sister all the time."

I wanted to flip her off.  It took an amazing amount of restraint not to.  The Torturer just looked at me with a raised eyebrow as if to ask, "Aren't you going to tell her to fuck off?"

I forget what I was going to write about today.

There's a chick hitting on The Torturer at PT but he's forbidden me from writing about it. So I won't.  But it's very entertaining to watch and she wears almost no clothes when she comes in.  But I'm not allowed to write about it so I won't.  I have a nickname for her but I'm also prohibited from disclosing it.  

Short Shorts.  Yes, I call her Short Shorts because her ass hangs out of her too short shorts.  But I can't tell you about it because he's forbidden me.  And I always respect his wishes. 

Oh, I just remembered!  I was going to tell you about the lady in the Maserati at Taco Bell the other day.  She was a bitch.  There seem to be a lot of Maserati's around here lately.  If any of you ever, ever, doubt any of the stories I tell you ... just watch an episode or two of The Real Housewives of Orange County.  No, really.  It will give you a glimpse of what I deal with every day.  You will realize that Joe the Bigamist is really not that abnormal for this area.

I'm glad I never married a bigamist.

I got an email from American Express yesterday.  You know how I've given out AMEX gift cards before?  Well, they just wanted to remind me how much they'd appreciate it if I linked to them every time I mention them.  They said it would be great if my readers could click on a link and see all the other wonderful things they have to offer.  So ... okay ... maybe they'll want to donate a gift card for me to give away?  Then I'd be so happy to link to them.

Don't ya think?

As long as we are rambling about companies that are out there checking up on me .... 

Do all of you know Starbucks is selling most of their stuff (not coffee drinks) at 20% off right now?  AND for those of us with Gold Cards ... there is an additional 10% taken off. If you need a teacher's gift, or have a coffee lover to buy for, you can't go wrong.  Also, Costco is selling a package of five $20 cards ($100 value) for eighty bucks.  I'm a Starbucks addict so I know these things.  And yes, I'm taking advantage of their "deals" to knock out a few gifts on my list.

No, Starbucks did not ask me to mention them - I just thought I'd pass the info along since I think it makes for an awesome, relatively inexpensive, gift.  

If you can afford to drive a Maserati, wouldn't you think you could at least make an effort to be nice to the minimum wage worker at Taco Bell?  Instead of, you know, screaming about the fact your crunchy taco wasn't crunchy enough?

I went shopping yesterday.  I finally got all my out of state gifts purchased.  Now I just need to wrap them and get them mailed off.  Maybe I'll get that done today after PT.  If I don't get myself in trouble flipping off patients while I'm there.

No actual arms were ripped out of the socket for the writing of this post.

No Leisurely Sex Allowed

The neighborhood I live in is ridiculous.  We have rules about rules.  Everyone has to pay an "association fee" each month which is supposed to go towards maintaining the common areas of the neighborhood.  Instead, the association ends up with surplus money and they spend (waste) it on stupid things.  The idiocy of the people "managing" the neighborhood never ceases to amaze me.

Throughout our neighborhood we have speed bumps.  They've been here for years and definitely serve a purpose.  Annoying as speed bumps are to drive over, they do force everyone to maintain a relatively safe speed throughout the community.  There are a lot of kids outside playing in our neighborhood and I'm all for preserving their safety.

Nevertheless, after years of driving over speed bumps, our community recently decided to spend some money on a sign to warn people that the speed bumps exist.  Except, the people ordering the sign made a mistake and misspelled the word b-u-m-p.  Now, instead of a warning about driving conditions, it appears we have a sign warning everyone about what type of sex they can expect to have in our community.

 

One has to assume that a speed hump is the opposite of a nice, leisurely hump?

Night Palms

I promise I won't post about the holidays every single day between now and the end of the year.  Really I won't.  

Yesterday I mentioned on Twitter that it was only 60 degrees at my house and I was "freezing."  Man, I got verbally abused on Twitter!  I was called a "sissy" a "thin-blooded California girl" reminded of 19 (and zero) degree weather in other parts of the country etc., etc. Sixty is cold for us though.  It was much warmer last weekend, and my understanding is the weather should be pretty warm again in a day or two.  In the meantime, brrrrrrrrrr! 

One of my favorite things about the holiday season is seeing all the pretty lights. Everything seems so cheerful and festive when lights twinkle everywhere you go.  

For the record, I have a nice camera.  I haven't been able to use it since the car accident because of my bum arm. Instead I've had to resort to a much lighter-weight point and shoot.  The photo quality isn't as high but it's convenient.  At least I always have it with me in my purse. I'm sharing my poor quality photos with you today, aren't you thrilled?

There's a park near our house.  The other night Briefcase and I were driving past it and I asked him to stop.  He loves it when I do that.  

 

I thought you might like to see the palm trees lit up.  (My Florida, Hawaii, and other tropical-area readers can start yawning right now!)

There are a few lanterns in the park, but other than that there is no lighting.  It makes the tops of the palms difficult to see.  Those are flowers on the ground not snowballs.  We have no snowballs ....

Also, that isn't fog you're looking at.  No, it was a beautiful clear night.  I hate to tell my cold-weather readers this, but I was wearing shorts, a t-shirt and sandals.  At night. Wandering the park.  No, what looks like fog is merely ala-crappy-photo-quality.  Sorry about that!

I love this little path with the palm trees holding guard on both sides.  I started wandering down it when all of a sudden I was startled by a man inquiring, "Are you alright?"  I nearly jumped out of my skin.  It was a policeman making his rounds through the park. I was the lady weaving as I walked down the path.  I was trying to get the palm fronds to be visible despite the darkness.  I started babbling to him ... I write a blog, did you know people in the snow don't get to see palm trees all lit up?  I'm only weaving because I lost my balance trying to get the right angle, and officer .....

He said, "You have a good night and stay safe," and left.  I could have been a lunatic for all he knew.  He simply said good night and went on his way.  It's so nice to know he's out there keeping my community safe.

We sure have a lot of palm trees around here!

Random Tidbits

A lot of small, inconsequential things happened this week.  They aren't worthy of a stand alone post on their own.  I'll just list them for you in no particular order.

1.  I ventured off the couch for the first time all week yesterday.  (That's not the interesting part, I promise.)  I'm still coughing a lot and I have almost no voice to speak of.  My retrievers needed food so I stopped into our local pet store.  When I went to pay, a very good looking, probably 18 year old, male was working the register.  He tried to strike up a conversation and I apologized for my laryngitis.  (Meaning ... please, let's not make idle chit chat, ok?)  

After hearing my apology he became extremely attentive and much to my frustration, he continued to ask me nonstop questions.  I tried to rasp out polite answers.  As I was leaving he said, "I hope you feel better and I just have to tell you, your voice is the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

Yes, he did.  My voice sounds like a chain smoking bulldog.  It just goes to show, anything is sexy to an 18 year old male. 

2.  Three separate men approached me while I read my Kindle at the Money Town car wash to ask me questions about it.  I think they were all considering it as a possible gift for their significant other.  I've heard Kindles are already sold out for Christmas, although there's a waiting list you can get on.  Yes, I still love mine.  I was surprised at all the commotion a Kindle created during such a brief stop.  

3.  I just found out some interesting people are reading Twenty Four At Heart.  One is an actor.  I guess that's not a big deal.  Half the population of Southern California claims to be an actor.  He sort of actually works though.  Also, I've had some political types reading and admitting it. They should leave now.  It could probably end their career if anyone finds out they've read a website that talks about sex toys, fake orgasms and/or some of the other topics we've covered here.  I'm not the one to look to "to get a good feel for the pulse of Orange County."  Really, save your career ... run!

4.  One of my friends brought up the TV show, The Real Housewives of Orange County to me this week.  As in, "Well, of course you watch Housewives ...blah, blah, blah."  I confessed I do NOT watch the show.  I instantly felt guilty.  How can I write a website poking fun at The OC if I refuse to watch Housewives?  I decided to remedy the situation and went online to watch the season premiere.

I made it halfway through before my connection got dropped.  I didn't bother trying to reconnect.  I was right at the part where one of the women claimed to have real boobs. No one believed her "because no one in Orange County has real anything, let alone boobs." (That quote is from memory ... so don't quote me on my quote!)  The women began feeling each other's breasts to see which fake boobs felt the most real.  Apparently if you pay more, you can get boobs that feel more real-ish.

I wouldn't know.  I have real boobs and I live in Orange County.  There - I've said it out loud.  In fact, I only live a couple blocks from some of these women.  I think we should be introduced and if they feel the need to check out my (big) real boobs, so be it.  

Can I just say for the record, most people in Orange County are nothing like these women. Can I also say, there are a good number of women in Orange County exactly like them.  

5.  I overheard an interesting conversation while at the Money Town car wash. I walked through the indoor waiting area to pay.  As I walked by, a man in his mid-twenties said into his cell phone (quite loudly and in an exasperated tone), "All you really care about is how big my dick is."  

Well, okay then ....

Black Friday

Orange County is divided. There is North Orange County and South Orange County. No one in North Orange County ever admits to living there. They will say, "I live near Disneyland," or "I live in Orange County," but they will never, ever, say, "I live in North Orange County."  It's just not verbalized, ever. There are some nice areas in North Orange County, but the North does not have the status or the sparkling image of the South.

Let's pause for a minute so that my North County readers can send me a few quick angry emails.  Okay, then ...

People who live in South Orange County are very outspoken about it.  The two areas are as different as night and day and no one living in South Orange County wants to be mistakenly connected to North Orange County.  South Orange County is more affluent and even those struggling financially here feel like they are a part of a richer lifestyle just by saying, "I might not be able to pay my bills but I live in South County."  South County is cleaner, less congested, the land of ritzy outdoor malls, and home to the uber rich and famous.

It's like a civil war, but slightly different.

The TV shows about Orange County are all based on South County.

South County is the land of materialism and superficiality.  Image matters.  The type of car you drive, the size of your home, all the materialistic stuff is taken into account when you meet a Money Town resident and get sized up.  I can't emphasize enough how important money and things are to the Money Town people who live here.  The South is the land of plastic. People live on their platinum plastic cards and people look plastic from all of their cosmetic surgery.

I am neither rich nor a celebrity.  I'm not the least bit plastic yet either.  (However, if my nipples ever touch my knees I WILL reconsider my decision to forego plastic surgery.)

I never tire of the humor I'm surrounded with.  Money Town people are flat-out funny. Their lifestyle is so insanely important to them, how can they not make you smile? 

TR and I went shopping on "Black Friday."  It's usually frenzied madness. Merchants offer sales and "deals" and normally rational people go berserk trying to save a buck.  I'm sure many of you heard that a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death this year in New York when he unlocked the doors to open the store?

What could possibly be so important inside a Wal-Mart?  Discounted wrapping paper?

My entire life I've made a point to avoid shopping on Black Friday.  I'm an introvert at heart, I don't really enjoy shopping; crowds and long lines irritate me. God played a joke on me and gave me a daughter like TR.  She loves to shop and thrills at the excitement of Black Friday.  Last year she talked me into a 4 a.m. Black Friday shopping expedition. This year, we arrived a little later but we were still there participating with all the crazies. 

It was a cool 72 degrees this year.  (I turn my heater on when it hits 70, because brrrrr!) I've never seen so many girls wearing short shorts and/or very short skirts with Ugg boots.  Some of them also threw a scarf around their neck as if the weather was cold. They looked ... ridiculous.  Really?  What can they be thinking? Is this supposed to be sexy?  In contrast, I wore jeans, a t-shirt, and flip flops.  You know it's winter here when I'm wearing jeans instead of shorts.  

I'm always a fashion statement.  

At our first stop, a local mall, there were a lot of shoppers.  There were not a lot of people buying though.  It seemed like many people were purchasing only sale items, fewer items than years past, and "window shopping" which is not typical on Black Friday. Granted, I was not at an electronics store.  Maybe the huge plasma TVs were hopping off the shelves like they were last year, but I didn't see many people purchasing much.

The biggest shock came when we visited the Irvine Spectrum.  The Spectrum is a huge outdoor mall and on any given day it's packed.  Except it wasn't.  I've never seen the place so empty.  There wasn't even anyone on the ferris wheel.

I know it might seem strange to some of you that we have outdoor malls.  Stranger still that we have ferris wheels in the middle of them, but the weather here allows it.  There are also a lot of fountains at our outdoor malls and oftentimes there's a band playing too.

No, this is not Disneyland.  This is a mall on Black Friday.  Where are the crowds? 

We ended up stopping into several local malls over the weekend.  It did seem like the high end stores were still selling to the exceptionally rich.  A Louis Vuitton salesman told me he had sold a $110,000 purse.  A personal shopper made the purchase for her client. He joked about wishing he had that amount of money "to buy a few cars."  Overall, however, he reported business was slow.

Personally, I didn't buy much either.  I purchased each of my kids one pair of jeans and that was pretty much it.  I haven't been out at all this week due to being sick.  Maybe things have picked up?  I can't help wondering though, if it's this slow in affluent South County, what's it like in the rest of the country?  Or for that matter, in the rest of the world?  Is everyone waiting until the last minute to purchase gifts?  What's it like where you live?

Joe the Bigamist, Part III

I finally made it to the doc yesterday.  I'm now fully supplied with germ killing drugs and I'm sure I'll be just fine in a couple days.  I kid you not, he said I have pneumonia.  I don't have pneumonia, but he tells people that every time they get a bad cough.  Didn't I just say that in my post yesterday?  Geez ......  He's a hypochondriac doctor.  Really.

An overwhelming number of you said you wanted to hear continual updates on Joe the Bigamist.  I'm starting to think there will be no end of material from this guy unless he eventually lands in jail.  (Or if someone kills him for screwing around with their wife.)  If you are a new reader you can go back and read here (Part I) and here (Part II) to get caught up.

A reader asked me who is giving me my Joe information.  One of my friends has a close working/friendship relationship with Joe.  I've promised to keep certain details vague or undisclosed when I write in exchange for Joe stories.  Joe apparently doesn't mind as long as I keep him unidentifiable. 

Joe must think there are a lot of other bigamist's out there?  

I had no sooner finished writing Joe the Bigamist, Part II when I received more information about Joe.  I confronted my friend and said, "Are you sure Joe isn't just a pathological liar and making all of these stories up?"  I mean, it's entertaining either way, but I don't want to pass Joe's escapades on as truth if they're not.  My friend told me he used to think Joe was full of "tall tales" but over the time he's known Joe he's seen "a lot of facts to back up Joe's stories."

Some of you have commented that Joe's life is like a soap opera.  I'm not a soap watcher, but I'm sure you're right.  In fact, as I've mentioned before the producer of The Real Housewives of Orange County lives in Money Town.  I've suggested the idea of Mr. Producer televising Joe's escapades.  Mr. Producer and I have some mutual friends and I believe my suggestion will be passed on.  I don't know if it will result in anything, however.

I've lived in California my entire life. I can honestly say the extremely wealthy just are not like the rest of us.  Rules?  Rules are for other people. Boundaries?  Well, they don't apply either.  Societal norms that most of us take for granted, are often not a part of the thought process of the exceptionally wealthy.  Oh, I know there are some very nice billionaires out there.  I've just never met a single one of them.

It's also my personal opinion that Joe has a sexual addiction.  They very term implies an inability to discontinue behavior despite the negative consequences.  I think the definition pretty much sums up Joe, but I'm not a psychiatrist.

Joe likes to talk a lot.  Joe particularly likes to talk about himself and his "situation."  Joe sometimes calls my friend two or three times a day just to talk about himself.

Here's the latest.  Joe will not be prosecuted for bigamy because his second marriage was found not to be legal.  (There's a plethora of lawyers involved in Joes' life right now.)  He had a prenuptial agreement drawn up and went through with a marriage ceremony that Wife #2 thought was legal, but it wasn't.   

Wife #2 is coming after Joe for palimony (which is like alimony but awarded in long term relationships which are not marriages).  Wife #1 is divorcing Joe.  Joe is adamant about acquiring custody of the dogs he shared with Wife #1. It's nice to know Joe is capable of forming a real attachment to something, isn't it?    

Mistress is pregnant and she doesn't know if the child is Joe's or her husband's.  (Her husband is Angry Celebrity, remember?)  I imagine she'll have to get a DNA test to establish who the father of her unborn child is.  If Joe is the father, I would think she'll be set for life financially with the money Joe will have to pay to support her child in a lifestyle similar to his own.  Isn't that how it works?  I'm guessing here, but it seems like that would be the case. 

I may end up hearing a lot of Jim the Player stories too.   He sounds just as bad as Joe. In Joe the Bigamist, Part II I told you I knew of a woman swapping story between the two brothers.  I didn't share the story because quite honestly, I didn't think you'd even believe it.  I have a hard time believing a lot of this and I'm getting the information from a long time, trusted, friend.  

Nonetheless, the majority of you said you wanted to hear the story so here it is.  Jim the Player apparently had an affair with his pastor's wife.  Yes, he's Mr. Class himself.  It's nice to know Joe and Jim are so involved in their local church community.  Do you remember how Joe's Wife #1 and Wife #2 found out about each other at church?  I'm not sure if Joe and Jim go to the same church, but based on what I've heard of the story, I don't believe so.  In any case, Jim found Pastor's Wife to be very sexually adventurous and nicknamed her "The Kink-Monster." (Such a warm term of endearment!)

Jim the Player decided his brother "had to" experience The Kink-Monster for himself. She was at a church retreat in the woods.  Jim set up a meeting with her.  She snuck out to meet him one night but Joe the Bigamist met her instead of Jim the Player. She, apparently, never knew the difference. 

I've asked my friend to find out more about Joe and Jim's family.  Did they grow up wealthy?  I'm thinking they must have.  Do they have other siblings?  Are the siblings as narcissistic as the twins?  What was their family life like when they were young?  Are either of the brothers in therapy for sexual addiction?  Or for that matter, just therapy? I'll let you know when I hear more.