Up at 4AM, just arrived home, nearly 3:30PM.  I'm bushed.  I need a serious nap.  Tomorrow it all starts again.  I'll be at the hospital ALL day with Meecie while she's having her gastric bypass and may spend the night. 

Sorry, no time or energy to visit anyone.  I'm one tired little monkey.

Miss y'all!!!!

Eleven years ago today, St. Patrick's Day, I was 4'11" and 225+ lbs. I have no idea what size I was wearing.  I wore lots of t-shirts and they were all XLs.  Eleven years ago today I had a gastric bypass.  Today, I'm still 4'11" tall *heh* -- now I'm 109 lbs.  I'm wearing a size 1, comfortably.  My measurements are 34" - 26" - 36". 

When I was in my teens, my aunt used to make some of my summer dresses so I know, back then, my measurements were 34" - 24" -34".  My uncle used to call me Peanut because even when I was a little girl, he said I was shaped like a peanut.  *sigh*  I loved being his Lil Peanut.  So ... I suspect the extra two inches in my waist and hips now is due to menopause or some such woman thang like that.

Even though I lost several friends and a husband within a year of the surgery, I wouldn't change things for the world.  The only thing that bothers me about being small is, it's difficult to take a Chihuahua with A Great Dane attitude too seriously.  But then, I've always been small, so that's always been the case.  On the other hand, it makes some people feel very protective of me and I like that.  An extra is that one of my dearest friends, a 6' plus, husky man, can pick me up and throw me over his shoulder of lift me over his head.  Even though I'm not attracted to him in that way, being man handled like that is pretty heady stuff.  But I digress ...

Being svelte has advantages but the biggest advantage is my health.  When I had the gastric bypass, my liver was in the beginning stages of sclerosis.  I was told if I didn't take off the weight, I would be dead within two years.  I tried, I really tried.  Food isn't like heroine or cocaine or marijuana.  You HAVE to eat, whereas you don't have to use illegal drugs to survive.  My only recourse was gastric bypass.  Because the liver is the only organ to regenerate itself, my liver is completely healthy now.  Of course I now have a scar from stem to stern and it is NOT attractive.  But oh well, love me, love my scars.  I'm not sorry -- I'll never be sorry.

I know y'all are dying to see the progression.  Cast your gaze upon the wonder that is Friday's Child!  *rolling eyes*  Honestly, I can hardly believe that that butterball is me.  =^p

[edit] Someone said that link didn't work so if it doesn't work for you, try this one.  It's only a cheesy Photobucket slideshow.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, y'all!

*note*  My best buddy, Meecie, is having her gastric bypass 3/19, this Wednesday.  Y'all can watch her progress here.

Fun with "I say .... , you think ..... ?"

1. Paranormal :: pair of normal *huh?*
2. Alarm :: "It's alarming how charming I feeeeel.  And so pretty that I hardly can believe I'm real!"  I Feel Pretty - Westside Story
3. Operative :: Bond - James Bond
4. Changing :: Evil ways - Santana
5. Framed :: "I swear, Occifer, I didn't do it!"
6. Beer :: *burp*
7. Referral :: Where stressed out referees go when they finally crack (don't look at me ... my brain is totally to blame for this mess)
8. Unmasked :: Lone Ranger at bedtime
9. Movie star :: Ut-oh ... here goes "The ship set ground on the shore of this uncharted desert isle with Gilligan, The Skipper too, a millionaire and his wife, a movie star ..."  and "Let me tell y'all a story 'bout a man named Jed .... so he loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly.  Hills that is, swimming pools, movie stars ...(cue banjo)."
10. Handbook :: What men wish was included with women ... I don't know why, they don't read instructions anyway.

Wanna mutter?  "Rules are, there are no rules." There are no right or wrong answers. Don't limit yourself to one word responses; just say everything that pops into your head.  You can mutter there or mutter along with me in my comments.  ENJOY! 

Unconscious Mutterings courtesy of LunaNina

Long story short ...

• It's the Ides of March
• Meecie and me
• at Starbucks, sitting on patio chatting
• big burst of wind picks up a huge patio umbrella and hurls it at me
• I put up my hand to protect my face
• umbrella hits my hand
• three fingers on left hand badly bruised, two fingernails dented
• no manager on the premises at time of incident
• returned home
• couple hours later, fingers are the size of Oscar Mayer weiners
• called Starbucks Customer Relations
• nice lady at Starbucks will contact manager
• manager will call me (I won't hold my breath)
• nice lady at Starbucks sending me a package of Starbucks items in the mail.

*dancing around and singing* 

I'm absolutely crazy about Tudor history.  I'm especially enamored of Anne Boleyn.  Movies, historical fiction, history books -- I devour it all.  Recently I found the love letters of Henry VIII to Lady Anne.  What an incredible love story!  I often think how difficult it must have been for the king.  He was prone to debauchery but in the end, even when love was involved, the most important thing was getting an heir to the throne.  And who was his heir?  Ultimately, it was Princess Elizabeth, his daughter with Anne Boleyn.  Anne was smart -- making sure to keep the king dangling for seven years, insisting he marry her so her children would not be bastards.  Even though Anne literally loses her head, I love the story.  Her last words were a glowing appraisal of the king.  Lady Anne -- despite the fact that she was dubbed a whore for Henry's own agenda -- was a lady indeed.

Last year, I watched The Tudors on Showtime.  Ohmigod!  What splendor, what romance!  I find the series gripping, even though some of it has been historically incorrect.  Season II of the Tudors begins March 30.  I subscribe to Showtime and I'm registered on their website.  This week I was thrilled to find, in my inbox, an invitation to watch the first episode of Season II online, before it airs on Showtime. *squeal*  I can't even explain how that period of history enthralls me. 

Season II is going to be magnificent.  If the series takes us through all six wives, I wonder if they will devote as much time to the other wives as Lady Anne.  As far as I know, she was by far the most dynamic of his wives.

By the way, if you're interested in seeing the first episode, the password is "ROYAL".  Enjoy!

The last Forever Love entry ended with me sending a very brief email in response to Paul's letter.  Even after I sent the email I kept reading his email -- that lovely letter laced with phrases like ...

" That's the legacy you left me with, an intense awareness and appreciation of sensuality ... a lifetime of searching for more of what you gave me."

"You, who I've sequestered in a special place in my heart for decades, are a lifelong obsession, the everlasting object of my desire ... "

*sigh*

I read my email to him again. The closing line "I adore you.  I hope you will always remember that." seemed slightly goodbye-ish to me.  Was that what I was doing?  Trying to say goodbye?  I couldn't think straight.  My head said one thing, my heart another.  My head was screaming ... "Ruuuuunnnnn!".  But my heart knew what I wanted.  I wanted more.  What a battle.  As always, the heart wants what the heart wants.  I did want more ... much more!  More is what he gave me. 

Later, the same evening I sent him such a paltry token of affection, there was yet another letter in my inbox from him.

Dear, Dear Susan

I immediately smiled ... not just "Dear" but doubly "Dear".  When was the last time I had butterflies in my stomach.  At that very moment I wished I had enrolled in Evelyn Wood's Speed Reading courses all those years ago when I thought, "Why would anyone want to speed read?"

I admit I wait anxiously for your words (my heart definitely sped up when I saw your message in my Inbox) ... yeah, reality does intrude, doesn't it.  But no matter sweet, you whose memory is like a perfect wave that travels miles and years and finally crests and, spindrift flying in the wind, crashes onto the shores of my life, inundating me with joy.  Although time will always march on, what we have is eternal. 

*gasp*  Be still my heart.  But I'm also thinking, "What did I do to deserve such words?  I've done little to inspire such intoxicating words."  The skeptic in me thought, "Ut oh, look out.  He's gooooood ... maybe too good."

It is funny / interesting / sad: you and I are in some sense soul mates, our connection so intimate and profound.  That such a powerful and lasting attraction formed during so brief a time is really a testament to the wonder that life inspires in us.  And you were, and are, and always will be an inspirer of wonder in me.

Right.  If he could have seen me with my hair tossed up on my head, wearing boxer shorts, a t-shirt and little reading glasses I'm sure I would have inspired wonder .. like wondering, "WHAT happened to her?"  Thirty-nine years happened to me. :^p

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me that gift, the gift that we are all here for, to share the wonder that is our privilege as denizens of this speck of a planet circling one of the countless stars in this universe.  Thank you for helping me feel, to appreciate, to honor, respect and revere this life.  How does it feel to know how you still inspire me after all these years?

How does it feel?  *blink, blink*  Ask me when I come out of this trance.

He continues on more intimately ... more sensually than I ever ... than I ever ... that's about it -- than I ever.  I have to admit, I was a little surprised that he would write anything suggestive to me.  In my writing to him I barely hinted at emotional intimacy.  Physical intimacy was the farthest thing from my mind.  But I knew, from the following passage that what he was describing was intimacy -- not sex.  And, afterall, wasn't my time with him in the backseat of that car thirty-nine years ago what has been in my mind since?  Didn't we feel the first blush ... no, first rush of passion together?  He reminded me of how innocent we were  ...

I imagine it must feel like . . . like the soft swell of your breast under my young hand, your lips on my neck . . .

No touch was ever like his ... no neck ever smelled or tasted so sweet.

And, he reminded me of how innocent we no longer are and what, as adults, we're capable of ...

. . . or my middle-aged hands caressing with utter delight every contour of your face, every curve of your body, wanting only to please you, because that is what you deserve, to be pleased and pleasured, rising and falling in waves that bear us finally to the beach of that promised land of complete ecstasy, our hearts and souls completely entwined, and we are completely fulfilled, completely at peace, completely in love, complete ...

Oh no he did not!  Did he just describe making love?  Is that what's it's like?  Is that what it's supposed to be like?  Could it be like that?  Ohmigod!  What's he doing to me?  Did I invite this? And if I did invite this ... I wish I could remember how.

Ah, I get carried away so easily thinking of you.  And I will always think of you, fondly, rapturously, because of the special person you were, and are, to me.

Carried away?  Yes ... carried away.  It's what I've missed my entire life.

With love, too, for the beautiful woman you were and are, from the boy and man who will never forget

Paul

Give me just a second here to recover.  Even now it takes my breath away ... I can't catch a good breath and my heart is full of a longing I've never know.  This is what he has awakened in me.  It's thrilling but frightening.  What am I supposed to reply to that?  I've lost my ability to string two words together.  I mean, how do you tell someone that you're a puddle of swoon -- a lake, no ... an ocean of swoon.  I suppose I could have told him that ... but I didn't.

Thinking back now, I could just slap myself upside my own damned head.  My reply ...

My dearest Paul,

I've read your last two emails over and over again.  I can't find the words to tell you how dumbfounded I am.  Such words from you ... how would any woman feel reading such words?

I must admit that I'm too cautious in what I write to you. For now, until I can sit without reality crashing in on my time "with" you, I can only say this . . .

I've thought of you all day.  I feel like I did in high school, longing for the opportunity to steal away with you.

It's time for sleep.  Time to trade the daydreams for sweet dreams . . . of us.

Ever yours,
Friday

Pffft!  Cautious?  Coward!  How many love letters have I written him over the years.  Love letters, poems, pleas -- they would become the Paul Chronicles.

The next morning I went to retrieve the Paul Chronicles from storage.  I hadn't looked at them in a very long time ... not since he blew me off the last time.  (Sorry, Paul -- but that's what you did.  I call 'em like I see 'em!)  I remembered that I had written him a letter that I never sent him.  I didn't see the point.  I didn't find the letter.  But when I opened the box, right on top was this . . .

An Unsung Song

I'm a coward.  I was too frightened to take a chance.  I left my love for you unspoken.  Now, you are lost to me as are the unfinished masterpieces of my soul ...

... an unsung song heard only in my heart.

... an unfinished portrait seen only in my mind's eye.

... an unwritten love story that ended before it had begun.

What have I done?  What have I let slip away?  Why did I wait?

Paul, please come back to me.

Come give voice to my song so that our hearts can sing in concert the sweet sounds of our love.

Come color my world so that together we can paint the face of our love on life's canvas.

Come be my muse so I can write the greatest love story never told ... our story that has no end.

Come hear the unspoken plea I should have uttered long before this ..

"A chance is all I ask, Paul.  Only a chance to share with you the art of me loving you.  And maybe ... maybe, you'll find that you'll fall in love with me, too."

Please, Paul ...

come back to me.

 - - - - - - - - - - -

Even now I can remember the hurt from years ago when I kept looking for word from him but none came.  Anyone who knows me knows that I'm stubborn ... an understatement.  There's one thing I won't do in my life ... beg someone to love me.  It's why I never sent this "poem" -- if you can call it that.  I am who I am -- my life was what it was and is what it is.  If you don't love me, then go away ... which is what he did.

I was confused and scared.  I sat in the middle of the storage unit and cried.  I'm not even sure why I was crying.  Impossible ... it was an impossible situation.  I'll never see him.  Rather, I'll never let him see me. 

It was all so bizarre.  I'm not a fragile woman.  I'm pretty cocky, a smartass and a joker with most people.  But Paul wasn't most people.  He was the boy who had become this man who captivated me and made me wish I was young, beautiful, energetic and free of Multiple Sclerosis.  Oh, yeah .. .and wish that I wasn't in a relationship -- there was always that ... for both of us. 

My mind was reeling.  I needed love and support ... May was just what I needed.  Mama May would help me to clear away the fear and insecurity.

Insecure?  Me?  Not as a person .. but as a woman? ... as a woman it's a totally different story.  I'm not the woman my own fantasies require ... how could I possibly be the woman of anyone's fantasies.

I packed up the Paul Chronicles in the 4Runner and drove to see May and Meecie.  I hadn't made the decision whether or not to tell them about the most recent letter from him.  As I drove, I could hear the blood rushing through me in my ears ... the sound it made was like my body whispering his name.

to be continued - y'all ...

What does a serial killer look like?  I had only to roll over and open my eyes every morning to know.  Ten years I slept with a serial killer -- a serial killer of dreams ... my dreams.  Who knows how many went before mine.

He lured my dreams, each one, out of the recesses of my heart with just one decoy -- a promise to make them all come true.  And I believed him.  I believed him because I wanted to believe him ... desperately so.

When first we met, I possessed no illusions about being the one, his soulmate, that special one to capture his heart ... soothe his soul, put an end to his dream killing spree.  All I wanted was to taste joy.

Even after a string of woefully unfulfilling relationships, I was still hopeful.  I was hoping for companionship.  I hoped for someone to be playful with ... someone to laugh with me until our stomachs hurt and we can't catch our breath ... someone to talk with me in hushed tones as night wrapped it's dark mantle around our world ... someone who would realize that I sometimes I cry, and when I do , I need the comfort of arms around me, not rescuing ... someone who would see me as I am -- still respect and care for me after learning that at one time I was a whore for heroine and all that implies.  Was it all too much to ask?  Apparently so.

The killings didn't happen quickly.  It was ten years of slow deaths before I realized that he never intended making any of my dreams come true.  I looked down and there they were ... all my dreams, shattered and scattered over the corpse of my dignity.

I had slain many dragons in my lifetime only to have a tiny snake slither in and suck the life out of every dream that was waiting to hatch.  My undoing had come from someone who again and again promised me everything and less and less offered anything that resembled dreams come true or even love.

Did he think that if he killed all my dreams that I would be a broken woman?  If so. he was wrong.

Dreams are easily born ... in an instant.  Dreams are born with one glimpse of the purple-orange painted sky at sunset ... the sweet but mournful horn blast of a train in the distance ... the lilting laughter of a child running toward you ... the single tear on the cheek of a dearly loved friend.  Even the sheets gathered around my feet stir visions of snow covered hills, the sun sparkling off each mound and slope, the cold nipping at my cheeks, the air fresh and crisp, snow crunching in my hands as I pack a snowball to throw at someone -- dreams can be born anywhere, at any time.

I'll have dreams again ... new dreams, old dreams resurrected and made more dreamy ... even dreams I was once too frightened to dream.  This time ...

... this time, the only person responsible for making or breaking my dreams, will be me.

It's Wednesday -- HUMP DAY!!  You thought I forgot?  No way!  But, since I was busy this morning, y'all have missed half this beautiful Hump Day without any humptiliciousness ... not unless y'all started without me.  I shall try not to let it happen again.

Maestro, a little chair dancin' hump music, please.

Cue the hump hog, please.

I have to admit, I was really frightened this weekend.  I thought ... well never mind what I thought.  Just suffice it to say that I have a "I have a headache, it must be a brain tumor" mentality sometimes.  As it turns out, I think it was all due to a medication mix-up ... mine.  :^p  "What a maroon!"

So I'm feeling better, finally.  I still have this lingering "cold".  I have no idea what's up with that or how long it's going to take to get over it.

Just thought I'd let y'all know, what happened this weekend wasn't anything serious .... well, maybe seriously stupid.

Thanks so much for all the caring, concern, energy, thoughts and prayers.  Y'all are amazing and it helps more than you know.  Love y'all!