Oral

I’ve always been acutely aware of what goes into my mouth. Meaning, of course, that more than just shoveling sustenance was going on while I was eating. I was, and am, constantly analyzing the distinct flavors and textures of what I eat. Most of the time, my mind is on reproducing the flavor on my own – I’m a decent cook, and a huge foodie, so I enjoy puzzling out the herbs in any given recipe, deciding on the proportions given, and ascertaining the cooking methods used to produce a given flavor. It’s like a game to me, one I never tire of playing.

One would think that having had surgery to reduce the size of my stomach and radically reroute my intestines, I would have had to give up my favorite game. No. It’s really quite simple. I still play it, but with smaller portions. Sometimes, it makes those portions seem all the more special – I have to plan my dinner around my main course. I usually don’t have an appetizer, and will only have a few bites of salad. Most side dishes are wasted on me – vegetable of the day? Pass. Soupe du jour? Pass. Salad bar? Double pass. Unless it’s something super-tasty, I don’t waste the stomach space on it.

These days, since I can have so little of what I order, I make doubly sure that what I order has intense flavor. Thai food, with its intentional juxtaposition of sweet and salty, soft and crunchy, and all with tongue-tingling heat is one of my favorites. Tangy Italian food, richly herbed and sauced, redolent with garlic is nostalgia from my childhood. Yet another is the spicy freshness of Mexican food – tomatoes, onions, and peppers blended together with cumin and cayenne produce some of the most delectable dishes of my ken. They all pale, though, in comparison with the French – who else would serve seven different courses, each containing several mouth-watering flavors each? These are my people. Small portions of exquisite tastes, served over a period of hours. Ah, ze French. Zey know ‘ow to eat.

Still more seductive than flavor, though, was the texture of different foods in my mouth. The creamy unctuousness of peanut butter or Nutella, for example, would set my mouth undulating in languor. A bite of a well-made shortbread cookie, leaving sandy grains clinging to my lips, would excite me, as I slowly cleaned them from my mouth and felt them crunch beneath my tongue. The feeling of a Pringle, taken whole in my mouth, then shattering crisply against my palate, was an exultation to the senses. If I ate enough of them, the salty sting on the delicate tissues of my mouth produced a sensation not unlike rugburns after really vigorous sex. The crunch of a crisp apple between my teeth, taken together with its loud cracking sound was a joy. Rolling a chocolate truffle around my mouth was a tease – it would hit my tastebuds, my hard palate, my teeth, and my cheeks, eventually melting and trickling past my soft palate, too. Not until I bore down and released the creamy filling did it yield its full flavor.

Alas, lentils did not produce the same sensation. The mushy texture punctuated oddly by hardened lumps was uninspiring. Oatmeal was a prime offender in the texture game – gluey, lumpy, with strangely sharp edges, it does nothing for me except raise my gag reflex. Broccoli florets send cold shivers down my spine, although I will cheerfully eat the stems. The mealy texture of watermelon, along with its completely insipid flavor, finds me with a snarl on my face. Scrambled eggs are hit-or-miss with me – too cooked and I will shove the plate away. Similarly, if you prepare them the French way – baveuse, or drooly – I am equally revolted. Okra, the foul green pod of death, is possibly the most disgusting food on the planet, especially when stewed – it produces a mass of green slime unrivalled by even Nickelodeon. And, one is expected to eat it! Never by me, I say. It could be chocolate-flavored and yet one could not induce me to put it past my lips. Texture makes all the difference for me.

I realize that not many people share my predilection for texture. Most people are satisfied if something tastes good. For me, though, my mouth is like another erogenous zone – what goes in it has to feel good as well as taste good. Explains a few things, huh?

Snow Day!!

I believe I may have mentioned in the past just how much I love snow days? Well, I do. And the bonus is that TODAY I HAVE ONE!!! Let me, at this juncture, just say THANK YOU to my friend Shari for "calling" this snow day. Girl, I bow to your clairvoyant powers.

Now, granted, it's going to get really really nasty out later with freezing rain coming down to coat the 3 inches of snow that are lying on the ground with about an inch of ice. Mmmm, fantastic. [/sarcasm]

Snow days always make me want to cook. Today, I've taken the easy route and tossed a pork roast and some carrots in my crock pot. I think I'll roast some potatoes later, saute some fresh carrots in butter & thyme, and fry up some apple slices in butter with brown sugar and cinnamon. Becky Home-ec-y has come out in force and is also demanding that I bake some bread or cookies, too. I'm thinking shortbread cookies and parmesan pinwheel rolls, how 'bout you?

The Elephant in the Room

Sometimes, I feel so small, so infinitesimally tiny, where once I was usually the largest person in the room. It makes me vulnerable, since I am so much more approachable now. I no longer have a physical barrier around me, keeping strangers at bay. Other times, I am insecure, because my body has outpaced my mind and emotions in its rapid and myriad changes. I sometimes don’t recognize myself in my reflections, and often act and react inappropriately to comments or compliments.

One of the things I had to do in therapy was write a letter to and from my fat self. The letter to myself was awkward, stilted, and tentative. I didn’t know how to relate, I fumbled for things to say that wouldn’t give offense. Trying to convey how different, and sometimes how much better, my life is now without denigrating or abnegating the life I led before was so difficult. Full of wide-eyed, head-nodding hesitancy, I was dancing around the prickly person that I used to be, hoping not to get slammed by a vituperative diatribe. And I didn’t have to wait long for it, either.

Disgusted with that letter and my own inability to communicate in this new language – the lexicon of thin – I relied on my native tongue – sassy fat broad – to solve my dilemma. I blasted, nay, excoriated that dizzy Stepford bitch that dared tell me that my life was going to be better. Better how? Was it going to be so much more relevant? How could my life be any more relevant than it already was? Was I going to be more acceptable, somehow? And if, by some chance I was more acceptable or relevant, was that state really going to be achieved through my body? Did the size of my frickin’ hips make the difference? And if it did, is that something that I really wanted to validate? If the world couldn’t accept me on the basis of my intelligence and accomplishments, then fuck them! I wasn’t playing for pulchritude – my life was on the line.

That crappy first letter, full of clichés and joy-joy hope, encapsulated my experience a year ago – feeling my life out, figuring out what I can say, and how to act without denying the person I was. The schism that still exists in my personality is so uncomfortable. When I’m authentic, or I speak in the language that I spoke for so long, I run into trouble, because people aren’t used to fat words and attitude coming from a thin body. They are taken aback, stutter, and wonder who does this woman think she is? Their discomfort, which once fueled my righteous indignation, rebounds as the burden of explanation now falls on me. Worse, when I get figuratively smacked down by a currently fat chick who figures she’s gonna call this skinny bitch on her bullshit – how dare she speak for us? It’s only happened twice, but twice is more than enough.

A new friend of mine paid me the sweetest compliment the other day. She said that she doesn’t think of me as a thin woman, but as a fat woman who happened to fall on a scalpel. I can’t describe how secure that compliment made me feel. It made me feel like I hadn’t lost myself totally – that the sassy fat chick I once was still remains part of me and hasn’t split for parts unknown.

Still, 20 months after I walked down that cold sterile hallway to lay myself down on the surgeon’s table, I am figuring myself out, finding my authentic voice, and hoping to preserve a balance between who I was naturally and who I made myself. Sometimes I tiptoe around the balance like it’s the elephant in the room, and sometimes, like the sassy fat chick I once was, I trumpet my truth to all within earshot.

I think I’ll get there. Wherever the fuck there is!

Update

All hail the glorious Presidents' day weekend that gave me an extra day off! Hooray for extra days off!

So what did I do with all my time? I know you're dying to know...

On Friday night, Miss Peanut, the WCM, and I all enjoyed Family Movie Night - something we're hoping to institute. I picked us up a pizza, and we all ate on the sofa and watched "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe." I loved it! See, I remember reading this book when I was about 10 years old, and just not getting into it. My friend Monica just raved about it, and I was going huh? I think I need to reread it now. Miss Peanut also loved it. We're getting "Happy Feet" for this Friday. Any child-friendly movie suggestions you may have would be appreciated.

Saturday was errand day for us. One of the more exciting things to happen this week was that the trap in our bathroom sink rotted out, flooding the bathroom. It would happen when I was washing my hands... So, Saturday morning, we all went out to Home Depot to look for a new vanity. No joy. Then we dropped by my friend Dave's house to loan him our GPS, or as I not-so-lovingly refer to it: the Bitch in the Box. Dave has a parakeet that Miss Peanut just fell in love with. It was all I could do to stop her saying "Polly want a cracker?" for the rest of the day, when the bird's name wasn't Polly an nobody was interested in a cracker.

By then, my stomach was making her presence known, so I made the WCM take us to lunch. He countered by making me buy it. Whatever - I still got a Turkey and Artichoke sandwich out of the deal. We stopped by Lowe's and finished our vanity shopping. Once again, no joy.

I was a bit bummed, but I sucked it up long enough to drive Miss Peanut down to my mother's house. Now, the Bionic Woman just had her left hip replaced 2 weeks ago, and she insisted that I bring my child down to her house to entertain her. Well, damn, if I must. By the way, for those of you who are keeping track, my mom is doing exceedingly well with her second hip replacement. She's motoring around without her cane now, going up and down stairs, and going out to dinner. She amazes me.

Saturday night was our Valentine's Day. Since the WCM didn't get me anything - not that I expected anything - he took us out to dinner. We shared the best crab appetizer - three cheese crab dip - OH MY GOD, it was an instant mouthgasm. I had Parmesan-crusted chicken and sweet potato fries for my entree. I took half of it home (thank you, banana-sized stomach) and had it for lunch the next day, minus the fries, because they're never good reheated. Which brings us to the next day...

Sunday was pretty good overall. The WCM took me out for breakfast (score!) at a little diner around the corner from us. I went to the supermarket for groceries, Starbucks, and "me" time, and the WCM went back to Lowe's and found an incredibly gorgeous vanity. Carved cherry with a granite top, upon which a ceramic basin sits. This presented me with a dilemma - my bathroom is ugly 1940s green tile with black tile trim. Ick. This vanity was waaaaay too pretty to go into my ugly bathroom. When I proffered this opinion, the WCM nearly busted a gut laughing at me. He sobered up right quick when he realized I was serious. I picked out a really plain boxy black thing that matched the bathroom and stuck to my guns. We got it. I really don't think the WCM minds too much, since he now has a "Crazy Wife" story with which to regale his cronies. He'll lunch out on that story for weeks...

Monday was simply glorious. I woke up alone, full of the blissful peace that comes with sleeping in long and undisturbed. It was about 75 degrees outside - unheard of for this latitude in February! I had a hair appointment early and some shopping to do - a friend of mine is having a big birthday (Happy 40th Birthday Shari!) and I'm looking for something exotic and difficult to find. I couldn't find it. I'm peevish. hmph. Home for lunch. Dave stopped by to drop the GPS back off and have a chat, then I was back in the car to buzz back down to my mom's and pick up Miss Peanut.

It was an awesome weekend. Boring blog post, but awesome weekend.

Because I'm no good at knitting...

Disclaimer: apparently, I'm horrendously aroused this week, as I've managed to conjure up enough smut to appall even myself. I've always dropped stitches when I've tried to knit... perhaps counted cross stitch...

My bien aimé is next to me, in my car, trying not to fidget. Wordlessly, I hand him a bandana. His head tilts, quizzically at first, then jerks with the sudden realization of the bandana’s purpose. I can almost see the anticipation crackle around him like electricity as he places it over his closed eyes, meticulously knotting it behind his head.

I drive a short distance away to a borrowed house. Taking my lover’s hand, I lead him carefully up the steps, placing his hand on the railing while I unlock the door. Once inside the house, my bien aimé jumps as the click of the lock in the door sounds as loud as a gunshot. Quickly divesting us both of our coats, I tow him gently toward the bedroom. He stumbles as I turn him to face me, quickly righting himself, visibly calming upon regaining his equilibrium. I can feel my own gaze go gimlet, eyes narrowing, as the thought of truly unbalancing him runs through my mind. With an invisible smirk, I gently push my fingers against his taut abdomen until he takes a tentative step back and falls backwards, arms windmilling, onto the bed.

My laughter echoes around the room at his muttered epithet. Clambering astride his body, I whisper instructions, lips grazing the shell of his ear, until he moves up to the headboard. Still atop my love, I lean in for the tenderest of kisses, running my hands down his arms to encircle his wrists. Pulling them above his head, I wrap them both in the scarf anchored to the headboard. As I twine the scarf around his wrists, his hips twitch. Sliding my hand down to his neck, I can feel his pulse hammering there. Seeking to reassure him, I murmur encouragement, letting him know the word that will make it all stop. He nods, grinding almost imperceptibly against my core, eager to test his bonds and my power.

Determined to shake him up, I yank up his shirt and spear my fingers through the crisp hair growing on his chest, raking my nails lightly over his nipples. Delighting in the breath that whistles through his lips, I lower my head and take one gently between my teeth. His indulgent chuckle spurs my indignation. Sliding lower, I nip at his stomach while I undo his pants. I trail my tongue above the waistband of his boxers, and, dipping my head, I blow my hot breath along his length. My reward is his tormented moan and the first creak of the headboard as he pulls against his restraint.

My smile is wide and predatory as a shark’s as I slip my hands under his buttocks to curl my fingers in his clothing. Peeling his pants down his legs, I find myself at eye level to the object of my most abject desire. Leaning up, I push my beloved’s blindfold up so he can watch my every move. His indulgent smile becomes strained as I close my eyes and rub my cheek against the silken skin of his erection, humming in appreciation. His groan grows ragged as I drag my mouth from the base of his shaft to the crest, quickly encircling the engorged corona with my lips. Teasing him with my tongue, keeping him barely in my mouth, I push down hard on hips that strain to rise, asserting my dominance. Again, I am rewarded with the creak of the headboard.

Flattening my tongue, I slide my mouth down as far as I can go, taking as much as I can into the moist heat of my mouth. I revel in the satiny texture of his most sensitive skin as I draw moan after moan from his mouth. Grasping the base of his erection, I let my hand follow my mouth as I ascend and redescend, rejoicing when his head thrashes on the pillow and his biceps work desperately at the bonds holding him fast. Turning my head to the side, I look up at him, mouth still busily employed, and meet his wildly aroused gaze. His chest heaving, his arms straining, he mouths the word I dread.

Panic.

Um, y'all are good protein!

43%

And I'll bet that some of y'all are tastier than others.

Thanks to Hube for this one. Ewwwwwwwwww.

Taction

Disclaimer: Creative writing, blah blah blah, not for real, yadda yadda yadda, just my rampant horny imagination running wild etc...

My fingertips glide softly over my lover’s cheek, tingling from the scratch of his stubble. The backs of my fingers caress the smooth skin of his neck as I glide my fingers up into his hair. Twining in the thick silkiness, my hand luxuriates in its texture. I hold my bien aimé to me with a gentle pressure against his nape, as my lips explore the richness of his mouth.

He tastes of mint and coffee, his tongue wet velvet as it brushes against mine. Enveloped, by his kiss I feel the edge of his teeth on my upper lip, massaging as I strain in his embrace. Pushing my breasts against his chest, questing to come closer, I climb into his lap and feel his hands support my bottom. The wool of his sweater prickles under my fingertips as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tip my head up to him. Palms smoothing along his arms and back, I whimper as he slowly grazes his lips along my jawline, cruising down to my neck. My whimper becomes a moan as he playfully nips my throat, then scrapes his teeth along my jugular.

Unfolding my leg, he encircles my ankle with his hand, skimming it up my calf and sliding it underneath my skirt. Tremors ripple along my spine, and I press my forehead to his neck as his thumb traces a circle along my thigh. Pulling his mouth to mine, I lose myself in its tangy softness while he continues to gently quest beneath my clothes. I feel the length of his fingers slide beneath my panties and I arch to him in anticipation. He speaks to me, always speaking, murmuring encouragement as I begin to writhe in his arms. Circles, endless circles, lazily tighten my abdomen, spiraling me into mewling mindless pleasure.

As I come back to myself, I see his smirk. Shooting him a playful glare through my lashes, I gleefully promise full retribution. Later, though

And, she's back!

Whew! I'm back.

Sorry 'bout yesterday, y'all. Aunt Flo is a bitch, and she likes to spread the misery around to all and sundry. So, I'm here.

I'm ot writing much - I seem to be creatively constipated at the moment. I'm not thinking much - my mind's in fog. I'm not exercising much - I'm much too lazy & crampy. I'm eating, though, like a horse. Ok. Not so much a horse. But a lot for someone with a banana-sized stomach.

I'm grumpy, still. (Need love. Love me.) And, apparently, I'm pathetic, too.

Tired now.

Night.

Listen, bitches...

Welcome, welcome, welcome all you lovely people to Rag Week here at Peevish Place! Not only do you get your normal dose of peevishness, you get a double dose of irritability combined with stunningly attractive bloating. Included in this deal are tension headaches, fluid retention, and abdominal cramps - all at no extra charge!

During this week's special offer, we've thrown in Constipation as an added bonus. Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, we're offering you a gift with purchase - uterine shedding that only Moses could part! The purchase? Extra-absorbent tampons and overnight pads!

You can't afford it you say? Tosh! It comes free with every set of female reproductive organs!

No female reproductive organs you say?

Lucky fucking cunt, say I. Fuck back off to wherever you came from, because Rag Week here at Peevish Place is living goddamn hell.

Don't like it?

Fucking bite me.