objectionable

You know how the moment someone tells you that you're not supposed to do something, it's almost as if you are then compelled to do just that thing that they've told you you shouldn't do? It's as if you've been taken over by an alien force that sucks your will and moves you with some all-powerful extra-terrestrial astral device toward that which you know you MUST. NOT. DO. But you can't help yourself and you're screaming in your head, "NO! I MUST NOT DO THIS HORRIBLE THING!" But now the idea is out there. IT'S OUT THERE. And now you MUST do it even though it's something which you probably would never have even contemplated doing before someone told you that you couldn't? You know that feeling?

Well, that's happening to me right now. You see, my mother's twin sister, my Aunt Ann emailed me yesterday after being told by her daughter Corinne to check out this site -- this site that you are at this very moment reading. So I sent her the link. We talked later that night and she was very complimentary which made me really happy even though she's family and so she has to say nice things. But then she went a step farther and asked if she could send it to some of her friends -- some of her church friends -- adding as we got off the phone, "Oh, now there's not anything objectionable in it, is there?"

So, I'm sorry, Aunt Ann, but you put it out there. I've spent all day fighting it, but I can fight no longer. There WAS nothing objectionable. (Though come to think of it, someone did get to my site by Googling the words "sugar daddy" and "buy gifts." It made me feel so cutting edge, so risqué, so objectionable. But it was a false sense of objectionability -- the entry wasn't really all that off-color.) I don't know for a fact that you'll find this entry objectionable, Aunt Ann, but I have to tell you that it won't be exactly G-rated either. I plan on using the words, "Ass," and "Sex" for sure. There may be others equally profane, but those are the only two I'm certain about. (Really, Auntie, it's all your fault. I can't be blamed for aliens with tractor-beams, now can I?) Having said that. . .

WARNING! IF YOU ARE A FRIEND OF MY AUNT ANN FROM IOWA, STOP READING RIGHT NOW. I REPEAT, STOP READING RIGHT NOW. THE FOLLOWING ENTRY MIGHT BE CONSIDERED "OBJECTIONABLE."

Now that that's out of the way. The conversation with my aunt made me start thinking about how very unobjectionable my life really is. How ridiculously low my life rates on the objectionability scale, whatever she might imagine it to be. It's pathetic. Less Sex and the City, more the cartoon strip "Cathy" minus the compulsive shopping, the nutsy mother, the series of loser dates (what's a date, again?) and the deep-rooted neurosis. See, my life isn't even as objectionable as a stupid cartoon strip. Seriously. This is my day: I wake up. I go to the park with Fred. I go to work. I drink coffee. I write this blog. I go to bed. That's my life. I do have friends with considerably more going on. Friends who occasionally must make VOWS OF CELIBACY. I am so jealous of their vows of celibacy, because it means that they have to stop doing that which they were getting to do on a regular basis before. Which makes absolutely no sense to me. But then who am I to judge -- me, in my organically celibate state?

As an aside: The gas man came to my house last week to check a leak and asked me if I had an old man.

I pointed at Fred.

He said, "No, like a boyfriend."

I said, stupidly, "No."

He said, "Oh, are you a gay?" (What up big whopping LEAP of logic?! I have no boyfriend, ergo I must be gay? The male ego baffles. And who says "a gay?" Still, it didn't take away the sting.)

"No," I sighed, "not even that."

(See Aunt Ann, I'm not having sex AND I'm not gay -- what more could you want?! But that's not what I wanted to write about. That's not what I've been feeling compelled by alien forces to write about. What I feel compelled to write about is. . . )

MY ASS.

I have to capitalize MY ASS, because it's grown to such enormous proportions that small letters would no longer do it justice. Moreover, it's grown to such enormous magnitude all sneaky-like, when I wasn't looking, which isn't, I suppose, all that hard to do, because it's behind me and consequently I don't look at it too often. But I should have, because if I had seen what it was up to, then I could have done something about it when it was still recognizable as a part of my anatomy.

And it wasn't even accidentally catching its huge, giganticness out of the corner of my eye in the full-length mirror that clued me in that MY ASS had grown to out-of-control proportions. No, it's worse. I FELT it. And not with my hands, either, happenstance, as one might expect when brushing off some speck of dust or blade of grass such as one accumulates when all one does is go to the park with one's dog. No, no, no -- I felt it. Or perhaps I should say, I sensed it. I put on a pair of dungarees that I don't wear all that often, a pair that are sort of stretchy and form-fitting in what used to be an attractive way. And when I put these jeans on yesterday, they cradled MY ASS in such a way that I actually SENSED its largeness. It was as if something was attached to it that wasn't IT. So surreal, the sense of one's own horrifically huge ASS. I immediately took the pants off and looked to see if anyone had sewed into them a faux rubber ass like the one I once saw a character wear in Queer as Folk. His was used to trick men into thinking he was all hottie-bubble-butt guy. Mine, alas, was . . . no, is. . . real. No bubble-butt-sewing fairies sneaking into my pants, more's the pity.

I comfort myself with the hope that this may be the beginning of an epidemic. It seems the winter weight has set in early in my circle of friends and acquaintances. I know this not because I've noticed people are heavier, but because several friends have commented on my skinniness. For the record, I'm not. Read the paragraph above about MY COLOSSAL ASS. But I am, empirically, small. (I'm 5'2", weigh a pretty consistent 115 lbs and wear tall shoes, so I seem taller and slimmer.) People only comment on my smallness when they themselves feel fat. I noticed the phenomenon with pregnant friends and had recently expanded my theory to cover friends in the throws of a fat upswing. And now, I must add myself to their ranks, but without the comfort of self-deception. I can't tell you how many cute, perky, diminutive and yet well-shaped derrieres I've seen as of late. I'd love to believe that they were just making them smaller these days. . . . But I know. That MY ASS. Is huge.

What's even more amazing than the largeness of MY ASS, however, is how those ever-so-clever aliens managed to create a device powerful enough to move MY ASS in all its huge giganticness and all its enormous grandiosity, with such incredible ease, to write something that my aunt is sure to find objectionable. Sorry, Aunt Ann, it really couldn't be helped. Please see the aliens with all complaints.