Come rain or shine . . . I’m there for you-u-u-u-u! . . . I have no idea why my skin looks blotchy in the photo below. I almost scrapped the photo but decided overall it was worth posting, if nothing else just to give my critics something to feel smug about.

I really hate having to explain my wit-tastic titles, but sometimes it is just plain necessary. For those of you who are not familiar with the colloquialism, “brolly” is a British nickname for an umbrella. Also known as a “parasol” in some parts.

I would like you to know that I skipped lunch every day for two entire weeks in order to look good for this photo shoot.

Would anybody like to guess how much weight I lost? . . . You do not have to guess to the nearest ounce.

You sir, you over there in the trench-coat? What’s that? Oh, well, yes, it’s very nice . . . but is it available in adult size?

You were all wrong! . . . Not a single correct guess between you!

The amount of weight I lost in the past two weeks, by skipping a meal every day . . .

. . . was precisely ZERO.

“I always save one boyfriend for a rainy day . . . and another in case it doesn’t rain.” ~ Mae West

Why do they call this style of panties “boy shorts”? . . . Do I look like a boy?

[Granted, an attorney I worked with last year told me I behave like
“an 11-year old boy in a centrefold’s body!” By way of response, I just stuck-out my tongue and flounced away.]

“I was never one who was squeamish about nudity.” ~ Betty Page

It helps to wear one’s reading glasses when programming the camera. One might otherwise select the tiny “timer” icon instead of the one for “remote control”. At least I did not fall off the stool and hurt myself in my usual inimitable fashion.

No matter what anybody tells you, modelling IS hard work! Try also being the make-up artist AND hair-stylist AND wardrobe-wrangler AND photographer AND art director AND photo-editor!!

I bet none of you even noticed that I delicately threaded matching ribbons through my hair and sandals! THAT was a pain in the neck I can tell you!

I took these photos last weekend on two separate days. While I would not call this my “retirement shoot”, it may well be the last time I photograph myself fully nude [patience, dahlings, this is a nice slow striptease, the nudies will be along shortly]. Now, if I can just keep my personal stalker from “borrowing” photos of me to pretend they are of her . . . {Note to stalker: I work very hard at creating my artwork, kindly keep your psycho mitts off of it!!!!}

I was so relieved and hungry after the last photograph had been safely downloaded and stored that I bolted to the kitchen and cooked a bacon sandwhich on sourdough bread. With four full-sized rashers of bacon. And butter. And cheese. And ketchup.

Yes, sandwhich-making does count as “cooking” when it involves the use of a microwave and/or toaster oven.

Four hours later I bitch-slapped the MistressCard and bought a take-away dinner from a nearby restaurant. I gorged lasciviously on grilled salmon and shrimp, corn-on-the-cob, and fries. LOTS of fries. Dipped in mayonnaise. I also had a homemade top-shelf margarita with orange liqueur. A double-sized margarita. On the rocks.

After dinner I went to myPub™. I had four glasses of Chardonnay over the course of the evening. Except the fourth one did not count because I did not order it, did not want it, and only took two sips of it to be polite.

As I was driving home I found myself to have a vicious case of buzz-munchies. So I said the-hell-with-it . . . only what I really said was “fuck it”, but I will not write that here as only unimaginative writers resort to profanity. And Betty Page hated swear words of any kind.

After wrestling with my conscience — why, yes, I do have something that passes for an almost-conscience — I stopped at Jack Box’s most excellent drive-through. I spent my last $6.79 on a burger, fries, AND fried cheese sticks. I washed it all down with another glass of wine.

Guess how much weight I gained after that orgiastic food binge? Go ahead, I’ll wait right here while you get the calculator.

That’s right, I gained precisely not one pound. In fact, I lost half a pound.

Fucking middle age and its fickle weight fluctuations.

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 4th, 2007 at 8:29 am and is filed under Humour, Naughty. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.