Twenty Four At Heart

Wishing You A Wonderful 4th of July

I'm spending the weekend in Santa Barbara.  Many of you know Santa Barbara is one of my favorite places to escape to whenever I get the chance.  The 4th is a great day for my American readers.  It's also a special day for Briefcase and I.

Yes, we got married on the 4th of July.  

Wishing all of you a wonderful and safe weekend!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Random Shit

I guess everyone is on vacation.  My readership numbers are really high this week (thank you for visiting!) but comments are low.  Of course, I haven't been writing real exciting comment worthy stuff.  Nonetheless, I'm expecting low readership for the next few days due to the 4th of July holiday.  In honor of no one reading, I'm just going to throw some randomness out into the blogosphere today.  

First up ...  Twitter.  If you've followed me on twitter, please don't be shy.  Make conversation, send me an @ message so I know you're there.  It's hard for me to remember you're out there if I don't hear from you.  If I haven't followed you back, again, please @ or DM me.  I've got around 1,200 followers right now and it isn't that I don't WANT to talk to you - it's just hard to get to everybody if you aren't in my face.  I love getting to know you so please don't be shy!

A woman who had a breast reduction told me she was glad her doc made her nipples smaller because they had previously been so big they were "like slices of bologna."  Yes, I laughed my ass off.

I've heard from a lot of women who have gone through breast reduction surgery and I appreciate all of you for sharing your experiences with me.  For some of you, your hyper-sensitive nipples eventually calmed down but others of you report still having them many years later.

Thank you to everyone who sent me bra recommendations.  I plan to check into every single bra you told me about as soon as I can wear them again.  

I've been into PT twice in the last week for visits.  My first trip was last Saturday when I stopped in for about a half hour.  The Torturer checked out how much I've regressed (a lot) and that was about it.  During the week, he and I tried to negotiate my return.  As in, he wanted me coming back RIGHT NOW BEFORE THERE'S ANY FURTHER REGRESSION and I was thinking I might come back ... NEVER.  He set up appointments for me starting NOW.  

My second trip into PT was to cancel the appointments he made me when he wasn't looking.  He caught me in the act.  I think he was actually expecting me.  I said, "Oh shit!" and he rolled his eyes.  The secretary pleaded not to get involved in our spat and a PT who works there begged me to disrobe and show her my boobs.  All of that in just a short visit.  

We ended up with a compromise, I suppose.  I'll take another week-plus off PT and then return at my 5 week post-surgery date.  In the meantime, I'm doing a few things at home to try and stop any further regression.

The nice ladies who work at PT?  They told me I look like I've lost fifteen pounds.  It made my day week month year.  I probably did lose a few pounds because I barfed my brains out for a week, but I think it's mainly just the fact I'm no longer so top heavy.  A big chest gives the appearance of a bigger body too.  Whatever the reason, it made me feel great!

I went to a bridal shower that lasted over four hours and they served no alcohol.  I also had to wear a dress.  That's really all there is to say about that.

The people at my plastic surgeon's office want to read my blog and I won't tell them the name of it.  They might find it anyway because everyone in the world seems to be finding me lately.  I wish for the days when I was anonymous.  When the office staff at the plastic surgeon's office does find me?  I will regret writing about the thoughts which popped into my head as I was being examined.  Very much so.  

Especially the thought about the doc possibly tasting a nipple.

I went looking for an old wedding photo yesterday and I found a ton of photos from college.  I mentioned this on Twitter and I was asked to post a photo of Big Weenie, my old college boyfriend.  There were a lot of photos of him but to be honest, after nicknaming him Big Weenie, I don't feel I can share them.  You'd all be checking out his package for one thing.  (Not that I care because you're welcome to.)  But also, he now reads 24 and it might inhibit him from ever commenting.  

Not to mention, Briefcase probably wouldn't appreciate it either.

Here's a photo of me though.  It was at my college graduation.  I've cropped Big Weenie out of the photo.  He had traveled from law school to attend my graduation.  He had his arm around me and I was looking up at him.  I was 20 years old.

Sorry it isn't a better quality photo.

If the wind blows my nipples get hard.  Actually, they're always hard now.  I'm thinking of inventing Nipple Tranquilizers.  I could make a fortune and I certainly need them.  One reader suggested I try the breast feeding nipple creams and I just might.  The problem is I'd have to rub the cream in and ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

Famous Plastic Surgeons Can Be So Sensitive

I was counting down the days and finally, yesterday, I had my three week check up with the plastic surgeon who did my breast reduction.  The "recovery" is supposed to be six weeks but a whole lot of things get better at the three week point.  I was anxious for my appointment all day, and typically, it fell at the very end of the day.

I might have been annoying at my appointment.

I didn't mean to be but I couldn't seem to help myself.  

I realized later, I have trouble trusting doctors.  I don't know why.  It might have something to do with the fact that it took FIVE surgeries on my arm to get me out of debilitating, breathtaking, pain and into normal chronic pain.  Not to mention, I'll never have full use of that very same arm which they performed FIVE surgeries on.  The purpose of the breast reduction is also to help my arm/shoulder so really that makes SIX surgeries in three years all because of ONE car accident.

So maybe I have good reason to be a doctor skeptic.

(Also, have I ever told you the guy who ran the stop sign and hit me was an asshole?  Oh yeah, I guess I did.)

I need to tell you up-front that I love my plastic surgeon.  He's wonderful and kind and for Godsakes, he's been Chief of Plastic Surgery at a very well known Newport Beach hospital.  I would recommend him to anyone.  

Nonetheless, I felt I ought to tell him how to do his job yesterday.  Because, of course, I have a medical degree in plastic surgery from Harvard due in the mail to me any day now.  Don't I?

I might have pushed my doc just a *wee bit* towards the end of his patience level yesterday.  Also, now that I think about it?  I might have done similar things with my shoulder surgeon and The Torturer.  But never mind ... they aren't the point of this story, are they?

While I waited for the doc I talked with one of the nurses.  She was very friendly.  I was astonished to hear she has a 23 year old son.  I thought she was 23!  Will the wonders of plastic surgery never cease to amaze me!  My jaw fell to the floor when she told me her age.  My doctor must actually be even better than I thought because the women who work for him, and partake of his expertise, all look fabulous.  Astonishingly enough, they look youthful and good.  (Unlike all the usual Plastic Barbies who walk around Orange County just looking plastic-ish.)  

I can't get over it.

But again, that didn't stop me from telling the doc all I know about plastic surgery.  He entered the room and closed the door.  I chatted pleasantries with him for a few moments and then, as asked, I stood and removed my gown.  Doc just sat on his little stool staring at my boobs, appraising them.  I felt a little uncomfortable.  It's unsettling to have a man sitting within inches of your breasts just staring at them.

I almost expected him to roll his doctor stool closer and take a taste or something.  (I'm sorry, but I'm just being honest about the thoughts that were going through my mind.)  I mean, there he was with his face right in front of my boobs.  Don't you wonder if it crossed his mind?

I also wanted to ask him if I could plan on instant nipple-induced orgasms for the rest of my life or if it's just a temporary side effect.  I decided I'd wait until my six week check up to ask the nipple-orgasm question.  Maybe my nipples will be back to normal by then and I won't even have to ask.

Finally, he began removing the surgical tape.  It was fine.  It wasn't painful.  I looked down at one breast and noticed redness near the incision site.

"It's infected," I advised the doctor.

"No, it's not," the doctor informed the annoying patient me.  He then went on to note I'd had a small allergic reaction to the stitches themselves.  Lucky me.  Apparently it happens "once in awhile" and isn't a big deal.  It caused a little redness, but the redness should disappear quickly.

There wasn't a mirror in the room, but I looked down at my breasts as he removed a few stitches.  Most of the stitches were the dissolving kind, but he needed to cut a few out.  He asked me to lift and hold my breasts as he worked.  

All of a sudden I said, "Oh look!  You made the left one bigger than the right one!"

Startled, he quickly answered, "I did not!"

He looked hurt at the very thought.

"Yes, you did!" I retorted.

This was the exact point where I could tell the doc found me a tad annoying.  He pushed his chair back, he looked at my breasts, he took a deep breath and sighed.

Then ... then he used his doctor voice to discuss my "concern" with me.  He was very nice, and he was very polite, and he was clearly delving into his well of patience to speak to me.  He began clarifying for me that my left breast is more swollen than my right and that he did not make two different sized boobs for me. 

"Look," he said, pointing to my ribs on the left side.

My ribs are visibly swollen on the left side of my body.  

"Your left side is just taking longer to heal," he explained again.  Then he added, "Your breasts came out great.  Once they've finished healing you are going to be very, very, happy."

He seemed confident.  He seemed assuring.  To be honest, even right now - with my left boob swollen slightly bigger than my right they look terrific.  

"I think I can wear a bra now," I blurted.

(At the same time I was wondering if they make lopsided bras.  You know, in case I need a D cup for my left tit and a C cup for my right one.)

My doc tilted his head a little as he weighed my latest outburst and how best to deal with me.

"I know you're anxious to wear a real bra again," he stated.

"I don't think it would hurt, I'm sure my breasts are ready!" I enthusiastically informed him.

"Ready?" he asked.  (As if I had just mentioned I had baked them at 350 degrees for an hour and they were now done cooking.)

"At six weeks the breast tissue will be 90% healed.  They won't be ready for a real bra until then," he stated quite firmly.

Crestfallen, I nodded.

As he gave me a few more instructions he handed me a tube of Kelo-cote.

Kelo-cote is a gel which supposedly prevents scar formation and reduces the appearance of scars.  I tucked it in my purse.  My doc leaned forward and offered me his hand to shake.  I almost gave him a hug, but I was afraid what reaction a hug might set off in my new bionic nipples.  I figured at that point, he didn't need me adding any additional interesting moments to my visit.

© Twenty Four At Heart

This One's For The Chicks

I apologize in advance to my male readers.  If you read this today, I'm sure it will bore you to tears.  I've got some girly things on my mind.  I'm not very girly, so I need to get the girliness out of my system while it's there.

I went shopping yesterday.  

[Pausing while my male readers make a quick exit.]

While I was laid up, I had become bored and ordered a couple things online from Nordstrom.  I ordered some Haviana flip flops for $12 and I ordered a couple new bras to try with my now smaller boobs.  Well, of course, nothing fit when it arrived.  I knew that might happen which is why I ordered from Nordstrom.  They will take anything back, no questions asked, and there's a store fairly close to Money Town.

TR and I agreed to run down to the mall "just to return" what I had purchased.

Well ... yeah, that was the plan.

And I did return all the items in question.

While I was returning my $12 flip flops and reminding myself I should have just stuck with my favorite Rainbows instead, I fell in love with these:

This is not the greatest photo because the straps look reddish, and they are actually the same color as the rest of the shoe.  Steve Madden makes these and the color is Pewter (kind of a coppery silverish in this case).  I love them.  Did you hear me?  I said love, love, love them.

I might have a bit of a shoe fetish.

Oh, and if you give me a foot massage?  I will do anything for you in return.  Anything!  

Just kidding. 

*Ahem*

I bought the beautiful pewter pumps.  How could I not?  My excuse for buying them is my upcoming trip to Chicago.  I can wear them with jeans at home, and I can wear them with the dresses I will need to be wearing in Chicago.  Mind you, I haven't bought any dresses yet.  I hate dresses.  However, when I buy the dresses I hate, I will be sure to buy ones that I can wear with those shoes.

Yes, I know I live in flip flops, but look how pretty they are!

TR was looking for some black pumps.  She ended up with these:

Again, this photo doesn't really do them justice.  These were the cutest black pumps ON that I've ever seen.  They are also made by Steve Madden.  The rounded toe looks adorable on her.

Isn't it fortunate TR and I wear the same size shoe?  It was great when she lived here year round, but now she only comes home for a few weeks at a time.  We can share shoes once in awhile but not nearly as often as we used to.

TR picked up a few other things but the only other things I bought were two bras.  I still have to wear a sports bra for three more weeks per doctor's orders.  I've bought a zillion cheap ones at this point and I don't like any of them.  

My boobs hurt.

You're shocked I said that, aren't you?

No.  I can't shock you anymore, can I?

I know I just had major boob surgery three weeks ago, but the cheap sports bras were rubbing my overly sensitive nipples and my boobs have been hurting more than they should, and, and, and!

The sales lady at Nordstrom was awesome.  She has a friend who had a reduction last year and she understood exactly what I needed.  She brought me a Donna Karan sports bra to try on.  Ladies?  Without question, it is the most comfortable sports bra I have ever worn.  It actually provides a lot of support and some shaping.  It's so much more comfortable than having your boobs smashed flatter than pancakes.  If you ever wear sports bras, I highly recommend it.

[No, nobody's sponsoring this post.] 

In addition, I bought one bra to wear once I'm done with the 24/7 sports bra restriction.  I can't wear any bras with wire in them for six months.  It's very, very hard to find bras with a C cup that don't have wire.  I bought one and it's okay and it shapes my breasts nicely, but I can't say it's a bra I'll love for life.  

I still have a lot of swelling around my rib cage so I imagine my size will be changing over the course of the next couple months anyway.  I should be shrinking at least one size around my rib cage as the swelling gradually decreases.  At some point down the road, I'll be able to buy sexy, lacy bras.  

Victoria Secret - I'll be visiting soon.  I can't wait!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Curing My Withdrawals

Today makes three weeks since my surgery.  Three weeks without much activity.  Three weeks of being pretty bored if I'm honest.

Last weekend was hot.  Very hot.  On Saturday I was booked solid with activities I probably shouldn't have been participating in.  On Sunday I was overwhelmed with chores.  I'm supposed to be resting, but I'm so over resting.  It was 95F/35C in our backyard Sunday afternoon.  I'm not allowed to swim yet.  I'm not even allowed to go for walks yet.  

I couldn't stand it.

At 4:00 in the afternoon I drove down to the beach.  I thought it couldn't hurt just to look at the ocean, right?  I was having withdrawals.  I never go three weeks without the ocean.

I needed this:

 

I ended up taking a long, but very leisurely, walk down the beach.  If my doc asks, let's just pretend I did nothing except sit on the beach.  He would not approve.  It made me deliriously happy to get a little beach time.

The beach was crowded because it was so hot.  I walked in the opposite direction from the crowds.  I also walked a very long way.

I'm still alive, and I feel much better for it, so I really think it was okay.  Doctors are always overly cautious.  My walk on the beach renewed my soul.  It's like a physical need for me.  I'm really not happy (or sane) without the surf and the sand.

I guess that's what happens if you grow up here.

It felt great to have my toes in the sand.  I like to walk right along the edge of the water so my feet get wet.

The lifeguards were busy keeping everybody safe.  I walked so far, I eventually got to an area where there weren't any lifeguards on duty.

The waves were pretty big and there was a strong undertow to the current.  I'm not allowed to swim yet so I just enjoyed my walk, the smell of the salt air, and the crashing of the waves.

Eventually I got back to the more populated areas.  The tourists have arrived for summer and they're full of questions for the lifeguards.  Some of the lifeguards drive up and down the beach helping tourists people out.

It's always easy to spot the tourists.  They're obscenely sunburned by the end of the day.  We're glad to help out visitors, but I admit we chuckle a little too.

Signs like this one aren't up for the locals.  Signs like this are up to help out the people visiting on vacations.

We already know where we're supposed to swim.

You'd think it's pretty obvious, but apparently not.  

© Twenty Four At Heart

Money Town Bitch

We have some good friends who moved to Money Town recently.  They're very nice people and we've known them for over fifteen years.  Their youngest son is also a good friend of PR's.  Yesterday PR was invited to come over after football and spend the day.  I agreed to drop him off.

I drove through the gates of Money Town and noticed nothing has changed there in the last few weeks.  Nothing ever really does change in Money Town.  I drove to our friend's house and walked up with PR to say hello.  PR ran off the minute he was reunited with his buddy.  I chatted with my girlfriend for maybe 15 minutes and then said good-bye and left.

I walked out to my car but it was blocked by a double parked black Mercedes convertible SL500.  I didn't take a picture of it because cars like it are a dime a dozen around here.  Here's a google pic of a silver one just to give you an idea of what they look like:

I tossed my purse in my car from the passenger side and glanced around.  The way the car was parked, I assumed the driver wasn't intending to stay long.  I figured someone had come by to drop something at one of the neighboring houses and even though there was plenty of other places to park, she for some reason felt the need to park there.  You know, at an angle, blocking my exit and within a few inches of my car on one side.

I waited.  Then I waited a little while longer.  I debated going back to my friend's and knocking on her door for a longer chat, but I had things I needed to get done.  Just as my patience was giving way, I saw a woman exit a neighboring house and head towards the Mercedes.

She had long bleached white-blonde hair.  At a distance she looked to be about 30, but as she got closer the plastic surgery became more and more apparent.  My guess is she was at least 45.  She was wearing short, short, black leather shorts.  Who knew they made shorts in leather?  She also wore ugg boots with fuzz on them.

She had on a silver-ish shiny top with a plunging neckline.  Her very fake and quite generous tits threatened to burst right out of her top.  She had a very glittery big wide belt on with her leather shorts.

She wore long dangling earrings and her acrylic nails were painted bright red.  She had a monster diamond on her left hand and a glittering diamond band on her right hand too.  She also wore lots and lots of bangle bracelets.

Have I ever mentioned money doesn't buy class?

Now, wouldn't you assume if you returned to your illegally parked car and realized someone was waiting on you to leave because you blocked their car in, you would apologize?

Instead, Money Town Bitch tossed her hair and gave me a dirty look as if I were in her way.  She walked towards her passenger door, opened it, and didn't even blink when her car door hit against the side of my car.  

I'm sure my car was just an inconvenience in her way.

She took her time shoving something in her glove compartment, closed it, slammed the car door shut, tossed her hair again and walked to the driver's side of her car.

"Thanks for being so considerate," I said rather snidely.

Because, really?

I'm not driving a Mercedes, but my car is only two years old.  Not only did this bitch feel entitled to disregard where she parked, but clearly she also felt denting my car with her car door was of no concern at all.  For that matter, denting my car right in front of me was of no concern.

She rolled her eyes at me and said, "I saw the guest pass in your window, it's obvious you don't live here."

I wonder what clued her in.  I mean, other than the Money Town guest pass in my car window?  My car is not a Mercedes, Porsche or Maserati.  I was standing there in workout capris, flip flops and a white t-shirt over my white sports bra.  In all likelihood my nipples were putting on a display.  I wore no make-up, and come to think of it, I might not have even brushed my hair yet.  I'm sure I ran my fingers through it prior to leaving the house, and that is almost the same thing as brushing it.

I'm quite certain my teeth were brushed because my teeth are always brushed.

I was momentarily stunned into silence by her rudeness.  Then I snapped out of it and replied, "Because living in Money Town gives you the right to be a bitch?"

Well, this infuriated her.  At the same time I saw a quick flash of fear in her eyes.  I guess she figured an outsider might be dangerous or something.  Who knows what I might do next.  I mean, since I don't have a Mercedes I might be a gang member who has infiltrated Money Town.

All of you readers?  Be careful.  I'm one dangerous chick.  I wear flip flops!  You never know what I might do.

She rolled her eyes, tossed her hair again for good measure and got in the driver's seat of her car.  Then she looked back at me and flipped me off prior to driving away.

Ahhh ... welcome to my world.  There's nothing quite like visiting Money Town.

© Twenty Four At Heart

My Nipples Are Causing Problems

I've got bionic nipples.

It's the weirdest thing.  I went in for breast reduction surgery and I came out with bionic nipples.

My nipples are uber-sensitive.  My nipples have a direct, and very electric, connection to my lady parts.  (Remember when I lost my clit?  Well, no need for alarm, because it's definitely back where it belongs.)

Some of you may think this is a wonderful, positive, development in my life.  Having bionic nipples is tougher than you might think though.  It's not good when you don't have control over your own body.

Especially since, did I mention ... um, I'm not allowed to have sex for several weeks.  Doctors orders.  No sex under any circumstances.   

Let me repeat that, I have bionic nipples and I can't have sex.  Not even with my friend Rabbit.  There are medical reasons for this, but I'm not going to bore you with them.

Now that I'm getting out and about a little, my nipples are causing all sorts of problems.

The other night Briefcase and I went out to dinner at Charlie Palmer with Briefcase's boss, Mr. CEO.  It's very hard to find something to wear to a nice restaurant that looks good with a sports bra and protruding nipples.  Mr. CEO doesn't know about my surgery and, of course, he wanted to hug me.  I've never realized how often people hug in our society until it become painful to do so.

In any case, Mr. CEO leaned in and gave me a hug.  I tried to concave my entire chest so he wouldn't hurt me.  It worked pretty well, except his arm accidentally brushed across my breasts as we moved apart.  Well, I nearly had an orgasm right there, fully dressed, with Mr. CEO and Briefcase dressed in suit and ties.  I bit my lip, fanned myself off a little bit, and tried to distract myself with visions of Mr. CEO firing Briefcase on the spot for having an out of control wife.

Briefcase's eyes met mine and lingered for a few seconds too long.  I'm not sure if he was simply intrigued with what he saw when he looked in my eyes, or if he was scared shitless his boss just gave me an orgasm out in public.

Bionic nipples, combined with no sex for weeks, are really a bad thing.

My biggest fear is that I'll turn into The Moaner.  And dear Gawd, if that happens I'll have to go into hiding.

Last night I attended an Orange County bloggers event.  It was held at the Irvine Spectrum.  This is the second time I've attended a meet-up with these very nice folks.  Several of them read Twenty Four At Heart and they were quite thoughtful in asking how I'm feeling and inquiring about my recovery.  I'm still not feeling 100% so I didn't stay too long, but it was nice to stop by for awhile.

The problem occurred when I went to leave.  I had parked in the Nordstrom lot and walked to the restaurant where we were meeting.  As I returned to my car, I entered Nordstrom with the idea of cutting through the store to the parking lot.  Right as I entered the store, there was a big group of hot, twenty-something men walking out.  I somehow got caught in the middle of their group.

Damn!

And I say that in both a very, very good way ... and also, in a very, very bad way!

As I tried to extract myself from the middle of their group, I got jostled against a couple very (sigh) firm chests.  Did I mention these guys were hot?  As in, I all of a sudden had trouble catching my breath, hawt?  And when one of them admonished his buddy, "Be careful of her!" and tried to help me by reaching across to grab my arm, but in the process brushing against my nipple ... 

Because my nipples are very out there lately, and everyone seems to be brushing against them, did I mention that?

And then ... and then, I positively came undone right there in Nordstroms with all those hot guys surrounding me.  It was nearly too much to handle.

So you can see, this is a problem!

I did talk to someone at the meeting last night who used to work in a plastic surgeon's office.  We discussed this little ... side effect ... some women experience from reduction surgery.  She said things should calm down a little in time.

In the meantime, what do I do?  I can't go into hiding.  Every day that goes by I'm regaining more and more of my strength.  I'm getting back to my real life and real activities.  I'm having nightmares of orgasms at the grocery store.  I'm afraid I'm going to publicly embarrass myself.  

Oh wait, I do that all the time anyway, don't I?  (Publicly embarrass myself, not have orgasms at the grocery store!)

Honestly?  I'd tape my nipples down if I could.  My nipples, however, are still all taped up with surgical tape and I don't dare change anything until I see the doctor again.

What's a girl to do?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Men Vs. Women - Again

Last year I did a series of posts on men, women, and the gender gap between the sexes.  That conversation opened up some very frank sexual discussions on Twenty Four At Heart.  

Those posts were read by Neil Kramer over at Citizen of the Month and through them he and I began to become acquainted in the way blogging people sometimes do.  Now, several months later, I consider Neil a friend although we've yet to meet in person.  Two nights ago Neil began a Twitter conversation and it got me thinking about a lot of those same male/female issues again.

Neil began the whole discussion by saying women understand men better than men understand women.  I commented back that women, in general, are more intuitive with their people skills than most men are.  I added also, men are too caught up with their penises to be developing intuition towards women or some of those same people skills.

Disclaimer:  This whole conversation was based on generalities.  You don't need to tell me about your Uncle Larry who is in touch with his feminine side and has amazing, intuitive, people skills.  Nor do I want to hear about Aunt Imelda who spends all day touching herself in a corner and has no people skills whatsoever.  I realize full well these stereotypes don't always apply.

Generalities, okay?

Let's back up.  Do you agree with the statement women understand men better than men understand women?  Personally, I agree with Neil on this one.  I think women understand men better than men understand women.

Are women more complicated than men?  Maybe.  I don't think I'm complicated in the least.  When asked, Briefcase however, says I am.  He tells me I'm less complicated than many women he's met, but I'm "certainly not simple."

Really?  I had no idea he thought I'm anything but extremely easy to figure out.  In fact, if asked, I'd say I'm transparent.  Hmmm.

Are men too dense or unwilling to figure women out?  Too dense?  I don't think so.  Women spend time trying to understand and anticipate the needs of the people who are important to them.  The men I know (*ahem*) don't give it a thought.  Men, the majority of time, tend to show up and then deal with whatever's on the table.

Do you feel men are the more complicated sex?  Let's be honest here.  Men are pretty easy to please.  Good sex, good food, and lots of ego stroking.  Does it really take much more than that?

Neil went on to contradict himself a few times throughout the evening.  Initially he stated men don't think about naked women all the time.

Stop laughing!  

Of course men don't think about naked women all the time.  There are moments when men think about food or their work.  Wasn't there a study done with results indicating a sexual thought goes through a man's mind approximately every 7 seconds?  Clearly, that leaves 6 seconds for other non-naked thoughts to fill a man's mind.

Neil asked if we (Twitter) thought he'd jump into bed with a woman if he came home and found one in his bed. 

Unless she was absolutely and extremely repugnant (meaning: dead), yes Neil, I do. 

He seemed to imply most men are too romantic to do so.  

Isn't he funny?  I think that's one of the reasons I like Neil so much.  He makes me laugh all the time.  I especially laugh when he makes statements like that.  

Romantic?  

Men?

Theoretically it's possible for a man to be romantic.  In most relationships, once the initial courtship is over, romance is scarce if existent at all.

Then Neil asked me point blank if I, personally, assumed he would be checking me out when we meet in Chicago at BlogHer (writer's convention) in July just because he's a man and I'm not.

I replied no and I meant it.  I certainly don't expect Neil to be checking me out at BlogHer.  

Do I think Neil will be checking out many of the young, hot, mommy bloggers he openly covets while he's there?  Absolutely.  I think it would be physically impossible for him not to.

Next Neil contradicted his earlier statement by asking if it bothers women that men sexualize everything we do.  He asked if women "just accept it."  

Which is it?  Are men not thinking about us naked all the time or are they sexualizing everything we do?

When I enter a room and my now bionic, hyper-sensitive, nipples pucker prominently do the men in the room assume I'm hot for them?  Because, honestly, I'm probably not thinking about those men at all.  In addition, it isn't even crossing my mind they are noticing my boobilicious nipples.  I'm busy thinking about other things.

If I bend over to pick something up, what happens?  Are the men in the room noticing my not-as-firm-as-it-should-be (meaning: jello) ass and thinking about doggy style sex?  Or do they just think, "Oh look, 24 dropped something."

There's a lot of points up for discussion today.  What do you think?

© Twenty Four At Heart