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The Recipe For Bronwen

3 parts Allure 2 parts Cleverness 1 part Class Splash of Fascination Finish off with an olive

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

Thanks to Sharon for this one!

Life Cycles

Disclaimer: once again, you find me indulging in a spate of creative writing. Take it for what it's worth - my overactive, glandular imagination expressing itself in luridly purple prose.

The guilt is there, waiting in the background, ready to pounce once we’re no longer in each other’s presence. It picks at us, and nags us, berates us mercilessly about our faithlessness. We cycle through our relationship, moving elliptically closer then far apart as the remorse tears at our consciences. Always friends, sometimes lovers, we are drawn together yet flow inevitably apart.

Softer with our spouses, assuaging our culpability, we are kinder than they deserve. Small gestures and tokens of affection are proffered where there used to be none. A dinner cooked with extra care or a distasteful chore done without asking serve as atonement for our unsuspected sins. We compromise more readily, argue less, and seek to please those who push us away. When they push us, though, we enter each other’s orbit, where forces stronger than we are take hold.

It is during those times, when we turn to one another to fill a space that others have left empty, that we rationalize our behavior. If we no longer have this need that the other cannot, or will not, fulfill, then are we not better partners? If my bien aimé holds me close and touches me gently, will it still bother me if my husband does not? If I steal his breath with my kisses and make his head spin with my caresses, will he be kinder to his wife? When we come together, sometimes in desperation to be close to someone, will it prevent conflict at home?

As we move through these cycles of carnality and contrition, I wonder at our relative inertia. Stuck in the same winding gyre, will either of us ever fly freely again?

Bitchtastic!

Ok, so here’s the thing: I have issues with someone I work with. Underlying trust issues, because this person is somewhat threatened by me, in a professional capacity. Interested? Good, ‘cause I’m gonna elaborate.

So, I’ve been teaching in the public school system for 11 years now. Before that, I taught at a vo-tech school, a state University, and did private tutoring. During these 16 accumulated years of teaching, I have learned a lot of stuff. I have stayed current on my methods and know the trends and buzzwords currently zipping around my discipline. Sometimes, I use ‘em. Mostly, I try to keep it simple and keep it real. If I can effectively use a new theory or strategy, I use it. I’m all about innovation, when it works. I’m not about change simply for the sake of change, though. Tried and true is fine by me. I also don't flaunt my knowledge. I don't feel like I have to, because for the most part, I work with professionals of similar intelligence. For the most part.

Well, I have this colleague, who is close to my age, but who has been teaching for only about 5 years. This colleague has some Masters in Teaching, which as far as I know, is one of those bullshit Ed-school degrees. I have very little respect for Ed schools, as the crap General Education courses I had to take to get my Undergraduate degree (a combo in my subject area and education) were a joke! The only ones that were remotely useful were the subject-specific education courses, like methodology of teaching my subject area. These are courses that my colleague has never taken. My Masters degree is in my subject area, and not from the School of Bullshit Education. But, I digress...

This particular colleague has sometimes referred to herself as the more intellectual teacher of the two of us. I, in her view, am merely a former Middle School teacher who can only play simple games with my students. She, apparently, views her teaching style as more sophisticated because she doesn’t play any games. I, however, view her teaching style as boring. Can you, perhaps, see that her comment rankles? Intensely? Immensely? In view of my superior education and experience? Yeah. I’m sure you can.

Today, now, was a Professional Development day, where all of us teachers get together and discuss our subject areas. We’re usually “lectured” by some “experts.” Today was no exception, as we had our representative from the Department of Education come in and talk about the Standards of our Subject Area.

Well, it seems that today was my day to answer questions, because I was on point. I had answers. I was feisty with them. I practically quoted from our standards at one point in the proceedings. During all of this, I noticed that my colleague’s brow was furrowed. She seemed perplexed, quizzical even, that I knew these things. It didn’t seem to fit with her image of me as a game-playing, non-intellectual babysitter.

Our afternoon session was even more fun, as we had a software company come in and try to sell us their software. Frankly, the pitch the guy gave would’ve gone over great with parents or anyone who doesn’t have a detailed knowledge of our discipline. However, the sales guy had very little actual practical knowledge of how to teach our subject, was trying to use our lexicon in his presentation, and was just not comprehending that he was using it all wrong. He was full of crap and wouldn’t acknowledge it. C’mon – you’re in a room of highly-trained professionals who are all telling you you’re full of shit. Give it up already! I have to say, since I was having such a great morning, I took point on calling the guy out on his shit, and was ably backed up by some of the even more veteran teachers. I was Bitchtastic! Colleague was, once again, perplexed, because I used a whole bunch of big edumacational terms that she just wasn’t familiar with. Things that hearken back to the early days of teaching research in my subject matter. You know, things you’d know if you’d ever taken a methods course. Which she hasn’t.

It felt good to throw her off her game. Maybe she’ll reevaluate her position now. Because you know? It’s become my mission to shove my intelligence in her face at every possible opportunity. I've got it, and she's brought out my need to flaunt it. And flaunt it, I will, at her expense.

I’m such a spiteful bitch, sometimes.

Talk me off the ledge, people...

Ok, so I tend to acquire new wardrobe items in spurts. This month, it's been jeans. I just got this pair of jeans last week that were a size 4. Nice, when you used to wear a size 24, right?

So I was at Target yesterday, just checking out what was new for "Spring" (because we all buy Spring clothes in fucking January, right?). There was a cute short-sleeved pink gingham shirt - very girly! Also very Daisy Mae Clampett, but that's beside the point - and some jeans.

I will admit that I am a bit of a jeans whore. I would live in them, given the opportunity. I like them to fit snugly. Not tight, per se - I don't like camel toe. But snug is good, with a bit of give in the thigh. I was dismayed when the size 4s were loose the second day I put them on. Oh yeah, I will wear my jeans a couple of times between washings - unless there's been a spill or something, you know, if I dump a container of minestrone over my head, as some have been wont to do... but I digress. The size 4s were loose on Day 2. Loose.

On a whim, I tossed a pair of size 4 jeans into my cart, then thought "what the hell!" and threw a pair of size 2s into there, too.

The size 2s fit. Not tight. Snug. With give. No camel toe. Arse looks incredible, if I do say so myself.

Of course I bought them. I'm wearing them right now. Having a hard time wrapping my head around this. Tiny. So tiny are my pants.

You know, I used to be a large woman with a large personality - expansive, robust, full-bodied, exuberant. Apparently, I'd have been an excellent wine. Now, I feel somehow diminished. Like I'm less of a person. Smaller body, smaller personality? I don't know.

Damn. Size 2. Who'd'a thunk?

Found wanting

I want to feel small and safe – a precious treasure - nestled against someone’s heart, held close by strong arms. I want to feel cherished and cosseted and intensely loved for a few short moments. I want the gentle strokes and quiet caresses that speak of love, and hint at ardor. I want someone to shield me and care for me, for just a little while, while I breathe in slow, sweet serenity.

I want to feel womanly and powerful, siren-like and sexy. I want to beguile and captivate, to seduce with my regard, my voice, and my body. I want to take and be taken, to devour and be devoured, to destroy and in turn be annihilated by the force of shared passion. I want to be the temptress, the wanton, the woman that wields wiles like weapons and has her prey begging to be slain.

I want to feel soft and giving, to love and nurture, to cuddle and protect. I want to provide sustenance and give life. I want to be the ease and comfort, the safe haven for another seeker, the keeper of secrets. I want to hold the answers to the mysteries, dispense wisdom and advice, and all in sage measure.

I want to guard my love, keep it fiercely private. I want to whisper it into a matchbox and tuck it quietly into a corner of my heart, to be opened by only me when I need it. I want to hold it warm in my hand and feel it radiate toward my heart, healing the daily bruises and scarifications.

I want it all. And I have none.

Digestive Vagaries

Yesterday was what I refer to as a "tiny tummy" day. I had about 4 bites of whatever I chose to eat and was instantly full. Ok, except for the Chocolate Cobbler at the Cracker Barrel. I ate all of that mess! But everything else? Four bites. Today, I've been making up for it, and my stomach has been letting everyone in a 15-foot radius know that she's back and raring for action. My students were laughing at the gurgles and grumbles emanating from my midsection. "Dang, woman! You need to eat some breakfast!" was the most common response. Thing is? I ate breakfast. A lot of breakfast. So, I had nuts during the midterms. Usually, I keep a stash of trail mix in my desk for emergencies. Still, all morning, my stomach let us all know how neglected she'd been.

Lunchtime saw me and the Work Husband at a local bakery and sandwich shop. During the wait, my stomach decided to introduce herself to all and sundry in the shop. The Work Husband compares her language to that of the Hamburgler - robble robble! He got a ginormous egg-salad sandwich, chips, and a coke. I got a scoop of chicken salad (no bread), chips, and a bottled water. I also bought three Madeleines to bring home for later. The Work Husband couldn't finish his sandwich. I finished my chicken salad and most of my chips. The sandwich shop makes the chips themselves - they're finely seasoned and freshly made. Deeeeelish.

Now, early afternoon, sees me comfortably ensconced on my sofa with my stocking feet up on the coffee table, typing with one hand as the other is curled around a steaming mug of "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot." The Madeleines have long since shared their Proustian moment with me, and were followed promptly by 4 rather plebian Oreos. So they were the Double Stuffed Peanut Butter Oreos. I'm still hungry...

Tonight, I'm making Creamed Turkey on Homemade Waffles. This is the alternative to my husband's cleverly named "Monster Soup." Most grownups call this kind of soup Split Pea with Ham, but Miss Peanut was so grossed-out by the smell and bright green color of the soup that the WCM professed it to be made of Ground Up Monster, and NO, she wasn't allowed to have any.

Unfortunately for him, Miss Peanut takes after him in personality. There's no swaying her opinion by the clever use of reverse psychology. She's quite relieved not to have to partake of the Monster Soup. In addition, she'd just prefer butter and syrup on her waffles tonight, thanks ever so much.

My stomach doesn't care right now. She's putting in her order for all three things. LOUDLY.

Time for another snack...

Doing Dinner, DS-style

Me and my girls, Dawn & Crystal, are going out on the town to do dinner, DS style. DS stands for Duodenal Switch, which is the kind of weight loss surgery we've all had. Dawn & Crystal had the regular gastric bypass first (the RNY - like Al Roker, Carnie Wilson, and Starr Jones), had bad experiences, and got revised to the DS. Me, I believe in doing things right the first time, so I'm a virgin DSer.

Ha ha, I said virgin.

What does this mean for our dinner? Are we going to be picking at miniscule portions of salad? Excusing ourselves to be sick? Taking one or two bites and pushing away our plates because we're full?

Hellz naw! We had the DS!

We're heading to a sports bar, so's we can watch the playoff games (and see if my buddy Hube knows his shit - which he undoubtedly does) and eat some red meat. I'm probably going to have potato skins, followed by ribs (so yeah, ok, it's pork, which is technically the "other" white meat, but the BBQ sauce is red, dammit), and have some Fried Cheesecake for dessert. There will be no miniscule portions, and the only one at the table eating salad will likely be the WCM. He's a sucker for an all-you-can-eat salad bar (because he eats a lot and always "gets his money's worth.").

I can't wait to see my girls! Crystal's from Staten Island and has the thickest Nooo Yawk accent I've ever heard. She's also the only one other than the WCM that can use the word "fuck" in every single part of speech. She's creative, that one, and gorgeous to boot.

Dawn's originally from South Jersey, but lives in Texas now. She's got an opinion on everything, but is so sweet about delivering it that you can't hardly take offense. She keeps it real, but still keeps it compassionate. And she's smokin' hot for all of her 50+ years. I have a friend that has a real thing for older women - he'd be gaga for Dawn.

I've said it other places, but I'll say it here - if you're here from the DS support board or from Oh Aych and you're ever in my small town and want to have lunch, you just let me know. Sharon, this goes double for you!! (and girlfriend? Hube has your boys down to lose tomorrow...)

Replete

Disclaimer: if you are new to my blog, occasionally I post bits of rather, er, erotic creative writing. This may be one of those bits. They are, sadly, not really my life. It is just not that exciting. I have a very dirty mind, though... and I love it!

Denim-clad limbs entwine as our lips fuse and fingers search. Desperation claws at us, and we, in turn, tear at each other’s clothing. Jackets go, sweaters fly, my world tilts crazily on its axis as I tumble down on the bed. His eager hands make quick work of my jeans and panties. The touch of his lips to my most intimate flesh makes me moan and arch. Spurred by my wordless mewls of pleasure, he slides my legs over his shoulders and drives me higher and higher, holding me still with his palm on my stomach as the spasms that rack my body threaten to rock me off the bed.

Sliding his arm behind my back, he rolls my now quiescent body over his, twining his fingers in my hair to pull me down for a kiss. Still trembling with aftershocks, I glide my center over his straining phallus before swiveling my hips to welcome him into the warmth of my body. His eyelids flutter closed as I adjust to his length, moving experimentally before settling into a rhythmic gyration that pleases us both. The only sounds in the room are his whispered exhortations and the sound of my name pronounced with adoration. My heart pounds, my chest heaves, and my breath comes short from excitement and exertion.

His fingers clamp onto my hips, moving me now with purpose as his own hips rise with my movements, providing a percussive counterpoint. Fire streaks from my breasts to my core as my body clenches around his in complete release. Collapsing over him, I feel his own flexion deep within me, and smile in satisfaction. Teasing his lips with nipping kisses, I move off of him and settle by his side, replete.

Wow!

So I'm 18.5 months out of surgery, right? I don't expect many Wow Moments now, because I've been holding pretty steady at just where I want to be.

(Ok, I wouldn't complain if I lost another 6-8 pounds and got to exactly half of my starting weight, but I'm not killing myself to get there if you know what I mean).

Anyway, the WCM and I were at Costco tonight after dinner (woo woo, a big Saturday night - not!), and they had some Levi's jeans on sale - stretch midrise bootcut - for $17.49. I normally buy my jeans at the GAP (stretch midrise "Authentic" straight leg) for $50, so I figured "Hey! A deal!" and started pawing through the pile of jeans, looking for a 4 S (S for Short, 'cause I'm shrimpy).

The WCM wanders over and begins to help me. Found a 4M (medium, so a little long for me, but I figure I'll wear 'em with heels). He says "there aren't many 4s are there?" I glance at the sign for the jeans and note that they carry sizes 4-14. So my first WOW of the evening is that I was wearing the smallest size available for those jeans.

Second WOW? I tried them on, they fit beautifully, but I was a bit unsure about the bootcut. So I put on my high heeled boots under them and walked downstairs to get DH's opinion. He said "They look great. Make your legs look really slender. Hot stuff."

MY husband said this. My non-demonstrative, strong-silent-type, gruff husband said this. That's like sonnets and chocolates and flowers and diamonds tied up with platinum bows and sung by a choir of angels from anyone else.

So, for today - and today only - I think I'll keep him. I'm sure he'll be back to his regular old pain-in-the-ass self tomorrow. But tonight? He gave me one memorable, fantastic WOW.

I'm mad as hell!

I guess it’s because of all the New Year’s Resolutions being thrown about that my mind has been occupied by weight. Most of my colleagues are doing South Beach – they’re miserably existing on salads right now, and it’s turned the knob on the staff Crank-o-Meter all the way up to 11. That’s fine by me, because, to be frank, I’ve been a mite cranky about weight, too. Not mine – for once, I’m perfectly content with the numbers – but with the weight of the guilt that society places on eating.

At lunch the other day, one of the South Beach women (barely filling out her size 4 pants, mind you) said that she had been “so bad” over the holidays. She’d had *gasp* cheesecake three nights in a row! She’d had – oh so bad – hors d’œuvres! You know, hors d’œuvres? The cause of the decline of Western Civilization? What really tweaks me is that people say they are bad when they eat something indulgent. I can’t say this enough: what you eat does not make you bad. It might make you chubby, unhappy, or sick to your stomach, but it most certainly does not make you bad.

I have had enough – enough! – of people turning meals into moral issues. I’m fed up with people existing on leafy greens and low-fat yogurt and saying that they’re “being good.” Abstemious eating makes you no more “good” than wallowing in a vat of melted chocolate. It may make you thinner, light-headed, and hungry again in an hour, but it won’t make you “good.” Hitler was a vegetarian. Was he “good?”

I’m sick of the phrase “guilt-free” when applied to food. Why should I feel guilty about anything I eat? Who is judging me? And who gives anyone the right to judge me based solely on what I eat, goddammit! NO ONE has that right, and I refuse to kowtow to the fat-free, sugar-free, flavor-fucking-free nazis promoting this lifestyle any longer.

I’ve had enough of women forcing themselves to attend weigh-ins and meetings where they are praised for resisting the evil lure of a cookie. Enough of the diet industry selling salvation by preying on womens’ insecurities and low self-esteem. Enough of size 4 women constantly dieting and calling themselves “bad” for enjoying their food! Enough, enough, ENOUGH!!!

Eat it or don’t eat it. It’s your hips and your choice. But for fuck’s sake, if you eat it, own it and enjoy it. You will still be a good person, if you ever were to begin with, if you eat the cheesecake or not. So live, dammit!

Eat your veggies!

So I was at lunch today with my Work Husband, who knows all about my New Year's Resolutions. After I'd finished my Stuffed Pork Chop and Vegetable Medley in Butter Sauce (leftovers from dinner 2 nights ago), I pulled out a bag of 4 celery sticks and a small tub of peanut butter.

As I was scooping the peanut butter out of the tub with a celery stick, the Work Husband leans over and whispers in my ear "Chouchou* they don't count as vegetables if you slather them with peanut butter." As soon as I unglued my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I leaned over to him and whispered back "They do if you're me."

'Cause I only resolved to eat more vegetables. I put absolutely no restrictions on what I could eat on 'em!

*Chouchou is French for "Sweetie Pie." Literally translated: cabbagecabbage. The French are weird when it comes to terms of endearment. We call each other chouchou. Isn't that so cute?! *bleargh - vomit*

Resolutions

Well, there's been a lot of blather around Blogistan over New Year's Resolutions. Everyone's making them, and so, not to be left out of the cool crowd, I made a few as well:

1. Eat more vegetables. I really hate most vegetables, but they've got the advantage of having lots of vitamins in them (even if they taste nasty). So, I'm channeling my hatred into chewing, and mowing those suckers down. Look out, celery! Your ass is mine!

2. Excercise more. Ok, so as far as goals go, this one is neither clearly defined nor measurable. I did that on purpose. Anything is "more," by comparison to the exercise I engaged in this year. Exercise in futility?

3. Be a better friend. I suck at sending cards. I'm pretty good at returning email, but initiating it? Not so hot. Telephone call? Surely, you jest - I hate the telephone. If I read your blog, sometimes I comment. I'm a shade lacking in this area - one of those people that says "Oh, we'll have to get together sometime!" and never arranges a "sometime."

I figure that's enough to get me through 2008. That and some chocolate.

Happy New Year

Well, Happy New Year to all and sundry as shall read these words. I confess, it was not as such a Happy New Year at Peevish Place today. It was a Laundry New Year, and a Cooking New Year, and a DeCluttering New Year.

It was a Cut-the-WCM's-Hair New Year, and a Run-to-the-Supermarket New Year. It was a Sort-Fold-and-Put-Away New Year. Watch-Babylon-5-Until-Your-Eyes-Bleed New Year almost happened, but then my parents brought Miss Peanut back from her overnight there. Then it was a Feed-Everyone New Year, Do-the-Washing-Up New Year, and Plan-Tomorrow's-Meal New Year.

Then it was "GET-IN-YOUR-PAJAMAS!" New Year, Read-Junie.B.Jones and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake New Year, and Snuggles-Goodnight New Year.

Now it's a Prepare-for-Work-Again-Tomorrow New Year. Ugh.