A bunch of little things are floating around my head today, so excuse me if I sound a bit scattered. And there's some profanity ahead. Tread lightly.

I'm not sure if I like the supermarket trend of reading my name from the register tape when I use my check card. If my name is actually pronounced correctly, I'm pleased as punch. It's just such a rare happening. But last night the checker of my neighborhood Vons (way too expensive, in my opinion, but they have a better selection of kitty litter than Lucky's) said, as he handed me the tape, "Have a good night, Mrs. Sire." Um, the mangling of my last name is bad enough, but please don't presume to give me a title I don't have. If I were actually married, I wouldn't mind so much. But all he had to do is glance at my left ring finger as quickly as he glanced at my name to refrain from offending me.

I suppose the main reason I'm put out by it is that, long ago, I imagined I'd be married with kids by 33. One of the reasons my last relationship ended was that I gave the ol' ultimatum, after being together for 3 1/2 years. Though he understood my position, he just didn't want it as much as I did. So he lit out of there three months later. And now I live with a couple of cats in a very unmarried state. So, yeah, someone calling me "Mrs." when I'm not bugs me.

I think I have an unrealistic self-image, but I'm not sure. I'm a big girl, I know that. I can tell when I look in the mirror, I can see by my clothing size, and on the few times I weigh myself or measure my waist and hips, the numbers proclaim loudly that I'm a big girl. That's ok, I don't have a problem with that.

But I may be bigger than I think I am. When I look in the mirror, I see a nicely proportioned large woman. Sure, my tummy and thighs are a bit larger than I might like, but, for the most part, I really like the person I see in the mirror and I thank G-d that, if I had to gain weight, at least it was pretty evenly spread out.

Then I see candid shots of me, and the first thing I think is, damn, am I really that big? My friend Mary sent me some pics from her April wedding. I'm greeting her and talking to her and stuff, so the pics are profile shots. And all I can think is that my hair should be longer and fuller, to balance my big body, even though I know I look cute with the shorter hair. Maybe I just shouldn't have any full body shots of me, and just stick with face pics, since those usually turn out looking nice (even my new driver's license pic looks good).

So, is it just that the camera really is adding ten pounds (or more), or do I just have a warped sense of my true size? Well, at least I don't see myself as fatter than I am. Then I might fuck up my body with WLS or fen-phen or shit like that, when I know that all I need is to get off my fat ass and exercise. My eating habits are usually pretty good, so I'd probably lose some weight with exercise, but I ain't gonna be no size 8. Which is ok, too.

Which sort of leads to my next thought. I'm actually kind of glad that I'm not a stunning sex goddess. Well, I think I am, but I know a large segment of society doesn't share that view. I have a few friends that are quite beautiful. We're talking, they-breathe-and-men-fall-at-their-feet-beautiful. Like me, my beautiful friends wear some make-up and clothes that look good on them, but the mere fact that the genetic roulette table favored them seems to make men think that the gals are fair game for macho idiocy.

Am I the least bit envious of the fervor my friends cause? Well, sure. I've felt a pang of self-pity when men surround them and the only guy in the joint looking at me is the drummer of the band who obviously hasn't bathed in a month and gives white trash a bad name.

Then I look at the expressions of so many of the guys surrounding my friends, see the glazed looks in their eyes and watch as they barely keep from drooling, and I thank my lucky stars I'm not being subjected to that. I suppose it's something you get used to, especially if it happens all the time, but when I do see that expression in men's faces as they look at me, their eyes running up and down the length of me, I feel vaguely dirty, and not in a good way.

I mean, I don't mind an appreciative glance. I've even shot a few at men I find attractive. But that sleazy look, the one that makes me feel like a pig on a spit at a red-neck BBQ... I can't imagine dealing with that every day of my life.

This is going to be it until the August 3rd or so. I'm taking tomorrow off to prepare for my vacation, then I'll be leaving early Saturday and I won't be back in town until late the following Sunday. The Monday after that (8/2) will be spent resting up at home (no computer at home now), and I'll be back at work on Tuesday. Neighbor Billy will be checking on the cats. For anyone interested in stealing my stuff while I'm gone, I live in the middle of gang territory in the Valley and don't mind the pit bull, mastiff and Doberman in Neighbor G.'s yard that like to jump over the fence and munch on intruders as a light snack. See ya in a couple of weeks!

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