Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: Health (page 1 of 2)

The Five Day Man Cold: The Final Chapter

Let’s recap. This month has centered around my health. On May 1st, I switched health insurances from one in California to one in New York, a process way more complicated that I ever expected. I found a new primary doctor, and I went to him for a physical. His nurse took my blood for a lab test, and I almost fainted when I noticed the needle entering my arm. A week later, when the results came back from the lab, the doctor told me that I had high cholesterol and high sugar. He made me promise that I would stop eating too many “everything” bagels shmeared with cream cheese.

I listened to the doctor, trusting in his authority. But on the sixth day of my bagel fast, I found my body grow weak and my mind cloudy. Like an addict without a fix, my system went haywire. I collapsed onto my bed. Diagnosis: a man cold.

But this wasn’t a typical man cold. This was one that kept me in bed throughout the entire Memorial Day Weekend. Friday I was “under the weather.” Saturday, I had a sore throat and a runny nose. Sunday, I was coughing and crying for help. Monday, I could hardly move. Tuesday, I was crawling on the floor, like an wounded animal.

“Wait a minute,” you might wonder. “Can you really get a man cold from not eating a bagel for six days?”

I asked my new family doctor the same question, and he said, “no, that’s utter nonsense.” But let’s face it — even the most famous of medical scholars cannot honestly that science knows all the answers. Sometimes we need to go on simple faith. So I will continue to believe that the lack of bagels caused the man cold.

During my five day cold, I spend much of my time pondering the everyday importance of good health. One of my mother’s favorite aphorisms is, “If you have your health, you have everything,” and is there any wiser statement? Why doesn’t anyone ever post that in some fancy typography on Pinterest rather than another boring take on “Stay Calm and Carry On.”

health

Whether you are white or black, man or woman, gay or straight, there is one privilege that trumps them all — having good health.

I left the house today for the first time in five days. The outside world beckoned to me, filed with life and vibrancy. No one should stay inside for too long and miss all that it offered.

window

Even though I was still sneezing, I knew it was time to rejoin civilization. The sun warmed my body, and my soul. I felt the urge to celebrate. Why not treat myself with a bit of the forbidden fruit? — yes, an everything bagel shmeared with cream cheese.

I walked over to my local bagel shop and ordered an everything bagel with cream cheese and a small coffee.

bagel

“Regular coffee?” asked the guy behind the counter, the New York shorthand meaning sweet and with cream.”

“No. No sugar at all,” I replied. I wasn’t going to go hedonistically crazy and return to the unhealthy habits of the past. Even I had boundaries.

I crossed the street to the courtyard by the decrepit playground in the center of the hunched-over brown apartment buildings of the 1960s-era housing project, and sat down on one of the faded green wood benches, placing my cup of coffee and the paper bag containing my aromatic bagel on the bench, to my side.

I took a sip of my coffee. It needed sugar. But I would get used to it. I turned to my brown paper bag. The bagel inside was calling my name. But just then, there was a surprising distraction. A tiny squirrel jumped onto the adjacent bench a few feet away, and he stared at me with a bemused smile. I love New York. Even the squirrels are fearless in this town.

squirrel

I reached into my pocket for my iPhone, hoping to get a photo for my new Tumblr blog, “Squirrels of New York,” a sure-shot concept for an inevitable book deal. The iPhone’s zooming capacity is weak, so I waited for the squirrel to take a step closer. And that’s when it happened. The squirrel pierced the quiet, jumped over my lap, grabbed my brown paper bag containing the everything bagel and started to run.

But my furry-tailed adversary was no match for a human being, even one handicapped with a five day man cold. I sped into action, and as I pursued him, the squirrel slid under the bench and ran towards a nearby tree, dragging the paper bag on the ground. But the excessive weight of the bagel, heavy with the fat-laden cream cheese, turned out to be a burden for the hapless creature. As I closed in, he had no choice but to climb up the tree to safety, leaving the booty behind to the rightful owner. This was one time in human history when right and might were on the same side.

I returned to the bench with my bagel bag and sat next to my unsugared cup of coffee. And my thoughts turned to God.

Was this squirrel attack a random act of nature, or was it a higher power sending me a message? Isn’t it possible that the squirrel stole my brown paper bag as a spiritual warning to me that I keep my promise to eat better and to care for my health?

As a man of faith, I don’t discount that a message can come from above.

But today was a special day, and I had no time for lofty idealism. I pushed past my man-cold and even defeated a wily enemy who stole my property. I was a hero.

Yes, I ate that everything bagel spread with cream cheese. Yes, I finished my cup of coffee. And I went home, with my head held high. But next time, I will order a whole wheat bagel with low-fat cream cheese.

Flying Non-Stop

Vartan, my father-in-law, was taken to the hospital last week. The Cedars-Sinai Hospital emergency room was too busy at the time, so he was taken to a nearby hospital which is nowhere near the caliber of Cedars Sinai. Sophia was nursing a cold, so I drove down by myself to the hospital to see what was going on. It was 1AM.

By 3Am, Vartan had a room, but the nurses wanted to move him to ICU. The hospital was understaffed and lethargic. I excused it to the early hours. The patients seemed to come from lower income backgrounds. Was this my first taste of socialized medicine? I made a sarcastic joke on Twitter, saying that I was learning the health care hierarchy of LA: Cedars-Sinai for the movie stars, UCLA for the movie producers, and THIS hospital for the grips. (I was later told that the grips are unionized and have excellent health care) Maybe I should have said this hospital is for entertainment bloggers.

Two slight nurses came into the room to wheel Vartan to ICU. It took them ten minutes to unhook all the tubes and prepare his bed to be wheeled out. One of the nurses was having trouble managing the bed and the attached IV, so she asked me to help wheel the IV to the other wing. I was beginning to wonder if this woman was a nurse, or a receptionist doing double duty. It was an obstacle course to ICU, with wheelchairs in the hallway and humps that we had to maneuver over.

We finally reached the locked door of the ICU and pressed the intercom. A male nurse, the head of the ICU came to the door.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re bringing that patient.”

“We don’t have a room ready. Or an available nurse.”

“Oops. So, what are we going to do?” asked the nurse standing to my side.

The ICU nurse started to laugh, spurring the others to crack up as well. I’m sure they were all tired, and the situation was absurd. Vartan was lying there, equipment sitting on top of him.

There was only one big problem with this funny scenario. I was there, helping with the move. And I wasn’t laughing, despite my reputation as a “humor writer.” I was wearing a blue sweatshirt, so perhaps the ICU nurse figured I was some orderly helping, and not the son-in-law of the patient.

“What the fuck is going on?” I said.

If you know me, that is not something I usually say.

“I don’t see this as particularly funny,” I continued.

“Who is he?” the ICU nurse asked the others, pointing at me.

“I’m HIS fucking SON!” I said. I know I lied a bit, but sue me.

The nurses suddenly became very serious.

“And is this the usual procedure –” I said, my voice getting louder, “– to have family members helping move the patient to the new room? Does anyone know what they are doing here?”

“Perhaps you would like to wait in the visitor waiting room.” said the male nurse, pointing at a room down the hall.

“I’ll wait in the visitor waiting room, after my father gets a fucking room and I see that you know what the hell you are doing.”

Within two minutes, they found a room, a nurse, and Vartan was hooked up.

Of course, the next day at the hospital, Sophia and I noticed that Vartan’s feeding tube wasn’t turned on. We went to look for the nurse, who was apparently busy absorbed in watching the finals of the World Cup… in the visitor waiting room.

I don’t enjoy being pushy. In fact I hate when circumstances force me to do that. It makes me reflect on other parts of my life, as if you are alone in this world, and no one really gives a shit, so you have to force your way into getting what you want. I don’t want to live my life that way.

On the way home, Sophia and I stopped at Ralph’s Supermarket to pick up some groceries. One of the items we bought was a package of cabbage. Sophia likes to make stuffed cabbage. After we paid, and before we wheeled the groceries out of the store, Sophia checked over the receipt. She always does this, and I never do. She is not as trusting as I am. I even get a little irritated at times in supermarkets, waiting for her to go down the list, making sure all the prices match.

“Aha,” she said. “She charged us twice for the same package of cabbage.”

Sophia showed the recipt to the checkout woman.

“I’ll fix it in a second,” she replied.

There were three more customers on the line for this checkout woman, waiting to be helped. The checkout woman helped the first customer and then started taking care of the next customer, a burly Samoan guy.

“Hey, what about our refund?” asked Sophia.

“After I finish with everyone on line. They were here first.”

“What do you mean? We were here first. You charged us for an extra cabbage!”

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Who’s the manager?” asked Sophia, getting angry.

“Calm down, lady!” said the Samoan guy. “And don’t be so impatient.”

Now, normally, I’m not the type of protective husband who defends his wife no matter what, especially when the opposition has broad shoulders. Usually, I am the one calling Sophia impatient. But this time, she was right. I’m sure the Samoan thought he was right, too, and I realize that people can see the same situation in different, Rashomon-like ways. But, the hospital experience hardened my heart. I didn’t care about the other guy’s rightness. We were right. We were tired. We bought a package of cabbage. The checkout woman made a mistake. She should fix it FIRST.

I told this to the Samoan guy.

“Ralph’s Supermarket made a mistake,” I said. “They should fix it.”

“Big deal,” said the deep-voiced Samoan. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

“I’ve made many mistakes. And when I make a mistake, I take care of it. Immediately. Especially if it is a business situation.”

“And why should I get punished. I’m the next on line.”

“This is not about you. This is between us and Ralph’s. Ralph’s is not my friend. They fucked up. They need to fix it. You should be siding with us, so when this happens to you, you will get prompt service.”

“You’re just being selfish.”

“No, sir, YOU’RE the selfish one.”

Whatever. Not exactly fighting words. I said a lot more nonsense, even quoting the Constitution. At the end, they returned our money, and the Samoan called us assholes under his breathe.

When we stepped outside, Sophia was so in shock at my bravado that she was speechless. If she wasn’t so tired from the hospital, and we didn’t have ice cream that could melt, I bet I could have gotten laid in the backseat of the car.

Later, that night, I decided to book my ticket to New York for BlogHer. I had been going back and forth, thinking about taking two different flights. One was on Virgin America, and was a non-stop. The other was on American Airlines, with an hour stop-over in Salt Lake City. The second flight would save me $70. Normally, I would go for the savings. But I hate stopping over on a flight. Was it really worth the savings of $70.

If you don’t speak up, you get lousy service in the hospital. If you don’t speak your mind, you wait in line in the supermarket, charged for an extra package of cabbage.

I’m flying non-stop.

Good Year

The year, 2010, started out promising, like the Goodyear blimp rising over the city, a whirring airship ascending slowly and elegantly, graceful in appearance, like a modern dancer.

“Happy New Year,” I screamed at midnight on December 31, drunk on champagne at the party at Joyce’s apartment on the Upper East Side.  It would be a good year!

It is now May.  Hmm… what happened?

I’ve always loved the Goodyear blimp.  “The Spirit of America” is stationed near my home in Redondo Beach, and on weekends, it flies over our home as it heads for the beach or some sports event in Pasadena.   If you are in the bedroom at the right moment, and glance out the bedroom window, you can see the shadow of the blimp covering the outside patio, like a huge umbrella giving shade.

What a joy it must be to pilot such a majestic blimp!   What an aerial view it must be from inside — not cold and distant like the view from a run-of-the-mill commercial airliner, miles above the ground — but close and intimate, only a few helium bursts away,  looking down at the houses below, like toys for the playing.

I started 2010 like a pilot in command of a Goodyear Blimp.   It was going to be a very good year.

But even a good year can be darkened by murky clouds, few pinpoints of light cutting through the gray mist.

It’s been five months since I returned to Los Angeles.  A broken hip of my father-in-law, Vartan, has morphed into one problem after another.  Despite the advice his doctors, his wife, Fanya, refused to put Vartan into an assisted living home.   And who can blame her?  She loves her husband.  But it hasn’t been easy.  Caring is a full time job.

Vartan is in the hospital again, with pneumonia and an infection.   Sophia and her mother are fighting with each other after Fanya fired the full-time aide.   Caring for my FIL has opened old wounds that can’t be fixed at a hospital.

And I’m… well, I’m still around.

Everyone is exhausted.

Today I took Sophia into bed.  Actually, I grabbed her and told her to GET INTO BED.   I told her we both needed to shut up — not talk about anything — and hug.  We hugged and slept for seven hours.

It was nice.  But I could hear the Goodyear blimp flying overhead, still hidden in the clouds.

Cheeseburgers in Hospitals

Thanks to everyone who inquired or sent messages and prayers about my in-laws being in the hospital at the same time. It was a very odd and tiring experience. They are both home now. That doesn’t mean that health rules the day for them, just that they aren’t at the hospital.

My FIL is still being attended by a live-in aide.

If you’ve been on Twitter during the last few weeks, you might have heard me praising the cheeseburgers at the Cedars-Sinai cafeteria, recommending that locals even go there for the culinary experience.

I just received my lab results for my yearly check-up. My cholesterol is high DESPITE already taking cholesterol medication. Hmmm… how did that happen?

I better get start controlling my stress better. Now that I know what hospitals are like, I never want to spend time there as a patient.

My Yearly “Fat” Post

I’m taking a quick break from my one week journal, after one entry! (hey, it is my blog and I can do what I want) because I’m reading all these posts lately on “fat acceptance – yes or no,” written by some female bloggers, and the tone of some of these posts — and the comments — is unsettling.

I find it odd that in the middle of difficult economic times and horrible disasters around the world, so many people are fighting online about weight issues.  Why aren’t women more supportive of each other on this topic?  I though blogging was supposed to be a meeting of the minds, not bodies.

What’s going on?!

Fat Acceptance is Bullshit
Jessica Gottleib

Coming Out
Swistle

I Call Bull
Aquafit

Fat Acceptance
Immortal Matriarch

What if Fat Doesn’t Mean Miserable
She Just Walks Around With It

I’ve written about women and size on my blog in the past.  In fact, someone asked me recently how I ended up with a majority of female readers.  It was not my intention when I started to blog.  If you go into my archives, you will see that my first three posts were dumb little items about pop culture.

My fourth post, on March 14, 2005, was a post titled OhmyGod!  A Size 14 in the Beverly Center!

This post was my first “true-life” entry (90% truth quotient) about shopping with “F,” my “cousin from Israel” for size 14 clothes at a popular mall in Los Angeles.  This “F” was not my cousin, but Sophia.  I was still unclear at the time whether to use her real name, or even to talk about my wife at all.  I was a blogging newbie.  When I wrote this post, I was not setting myself up to be someone specifically interested in women’s issues.  I’m not a woman, but I was MARRIED to one.  I was writing it as a guy who accompanied his wife when she went shopping for clothes, and it was a pain in the ass finding clothes for her.  Very few husbands enjoy shopping with their wives, including me, and I just wanted the experience  to be painless as possible, but after shopping a few times with Sophia, I understood why men wanted to date women who are size 2.  It wasn’t because they are “sexier.”  It is because they can get in and out of Macy’s in a shorter amount of time.  The size 2 clothes are on the main floor.  The size 14 clothes are on the seventh floor, by the kitchen appliances, and the styles tend to look like potato sacks.

This post attracted six commenters, all of them women, which was six more commenters than my first three posts combined.   The rest is history.  I started viewing my readership as being largely women, and once I tasted the forbidden fruit, I just couldn’t stop.

Throughout the years, Sophia’s size fluctuated between 12-16, depending on several factors, some health related and others just because we ate too many pastries.

Every year or so, I seem to bring up this weight issue, mostly because I saw how concerned she was over this subject.  In May, 2006, I wrote a post titled “Fat People.

In this post, I compared “fat” discrimination to anti-Semitism.   The comparison was probably unfair, but the post provoked a lot of discussion.

One of my favorite posts is titled “Neilochka Sex:  Boycott the  Fashion Industry!

In the post, I make fun of the lack of support between women over this weight discrimination issue.  If you think about it, mothers will boycott Motrin for a silly commercial, but say very little about 3/4 of their peers unable to go into certain stores which only cater to certain sizes (and surprise, surprise, many of those NOT size 2 are African-American and Latina women!)  I still get angry comments on this post, usually in support of the fashion industry.  I get a sense that some fashionable women don’t think other women “deserve” to wear nice clothes.

Three days ago, I wrote a darkly “funny” post about replacing our health care system with Jillian Roberts 30-Day Shred DVDs.  Some commenters got mad at me for writing statements such as:

“The fashion industry does a better job than the medical establishment in promoting HEALTH with their healthy thin, role-models. Those who insist that “real” (read fat) women should be portrayed in ads, are not your friends. These women, so-called “feminists,” are mostly lobbyists for the pharmaceutical companies wanting to promote bad health to increase profits for diet pills.”

I apologize if I hurt anyone’s feelings, even though I thought I was making fun of exercise fanatics.   In some circles, this is called “satire.”  You should see what some female bloggers actually SAY without being tongue in cheek.

I’m not fat.  I don’t think Sophia is fat.  Neither of us have abs that are very impressive.  I do think obesity is an issue in America.  I do think exercise is wonderful and important, and I should try to get more healthy, no matter what my weight.

I also think education is important, and if guy drops out of high school, I don’t say he is a lazy loser, because I don’t know the circumstances of his life.   I also don’t look down him because when he becomes a plumber and makes ten times as much money as me, I don’t want him laughing at me for wasting my life with this ridiculous “writing” nonsense!

Be nice.  And remember, when you get to be 75, the bigger woman will always look younger.  My size 18 mother looks 60.  Her size 2 friend with 20 plastic surgeries looks 90.

We should all exercise.  We should all eat right.  Better education, housing, and pay for all Americans will do a lot more for obesity than calling names, or dismissing people wanting to accept themselves in a society that makes them feel second class.   Rather than judging each other on weight, we should judge each other on how many orgasms we have each month.  That is a better barometer of a person’s happiness.

Finally, as I said on Twitter earlier today, “God help us if they ever perfect penis enlargement and men are made to feel as insecure as women with their weight.”

Call to Mom

Sophia has been away all week on a job, so I have been here in LA, holding down the fort, like they used to say in the days when we lived in forts.  I’ve been spending a lot of time with Sophia’s step-father and mother at the hospital, which is stressful because they can only speak Russian, and my knowledge of the language is limited to food related statements like “Please pass me the blini” and exotic curses such as “Fuck you, your mother, every relative in their grave, and your two favorite horses.”

I’ve been spending a lot of time playing on my iphone, ignoring reality.  I do know what is going on in Haiti, and I am purposely keeping my head in the sand.  I just can’t deal with the news of the scope of the disaster.  Even the Leno-Conan O’Brien drama was too intense for me right now.

Speaking of iphones — did you know that the latest Facebook update transfers profile photos of your friends into your contacts, so if one of your virtual friends actually called you up, a large photo of your friend would appear on the bright screen as the Justin Timberlake ringtone played on your phone?

Why can’t real life run as smoothly as modern technology?

Playing with my iphone has helped release some tension (video apps!  Scrabble!),  but I have been quite cranky lately.  I would love to take it out on my readers, because I enjoy that, but since I am in the middle of a PR rehabilitaion, I have decided to take it out on my mother instead.  And I have good reason to.  Sophia’s parents are a little older than my mother, and I am seeing first hand how age can slow you down to the point where the child is caring for the parent.  This is when you wake up and realize that you are OLD.  My mother is in her seventies, but — knock on wood — KNOCK KNOCK — in great health.  She traveled through a million European cities last summer.   She is more energetic than I am.   But… old age comes fast.  I see it.

Usually, my mother calls me, bugging me like a stereotypical Jewish mother, reminding me to take my cholesterol medicine, or wondering why I still haven’t made a dentist appointment.   Today, I called her up to nag her.  It was MY TURN!

“How are you feeling today?” I asked, ready to pounce.

“Fine.”

“Didn’t you say your foot was bothering you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I noticed in Queens that you sometimes had trouble standing up from the couch.”

“That’s because the stupid couch is too low.”

“It might be arthritis.”

“I have a little arthritis.”

“So, why don’t you see a doctor?”

“What is a doctor going to do?”

Normally, I would have given up with the questioning, but I felt as distrustful as an El Al security guard.

“Aren’t you taking yoga there?”

“Yes, every day.”

“But I know you.  You just do whatever the instructor tells everyone to do.  Speak to her.   Personally.  Tell her you want a special exercise suited for YOU.”

“Leave me alone.  I’m fine.  Did you make an appointment to your doctor yet while you are in LA?  And what’s going on with you and Sophia anyway?  Have you talked about it yet?  You can’t live like this forever…?”

“We’re not talking about me.  We are talking about you.”

“Me?  I’m enjoying life!  You’re the one who’s screwed up.  And besides, my cholesterol is lower than yours.”

“Do you know where I am going every day to visit Vartan?  This rehab clinic?  Do you know what it is LIKE in here?  It is awful.  You don’t FUCKING want to be in here.  I don’t want to FUCKING visit you in one of these places!”

“I know.  I’ve been there with my parents.  My mother was in a nursing home.  Half of Century Village ends up in assisted living.   Never put me in a nursing home.  I’d rather be dead.”

“Stop talking nonsense.  Go exercise your legs.”

“Right now?  I’m eating lunch.”

“You don’t want to EVER fall and break a hip.  Because that is BAD NEWS at your age.”

“I’m fine.  YOU need to exercise.”

“Stop being an idiot, Mom!  You’re getting old.”

“I am old.”

“You’re not old.”

“I am old.  So, if I fall, you’re not coming to visit me?”

“You’re acting a real jerk today.  Just don’t fall, OK?  And don’t eat too much deli food.  It’s not healthy.”

“I’m eating a chicken salad sandwich.  You’re the one who goes to McDonald’s.”

“We’re talking about YOU.  Sheesh!  You’re impossible!!”

Later that day, my mother called up, probably wanting to remind me AGAIN to make my doctor’s appointment.  At first, I didn’t know it was my mother because this Facebook photo appeared full screen in my iphone behind my mother’s name  —

Either this Facebook “contact” information app has a serious bug in it, or my mother really HAS been taking good care of herself in Florida!

I have no idea who this girl is in the photo.   Obviously technology is as fucked up as real life.

Thoughts and Prayers For Anissa

anissa

Anissa is a fellow blogger, and a friend to a great many.   She is a woman who walks into a room and, without much effort, is the center of attention.  She is very smart… and very bawdy.   She does not play games.  She tells you when something is on her mind.  She unfollowed me twice on Twitter already and then followed me again!  She is all about saying hell with the rules!  I danced with her at BlogHer, and she turned me into a disco-dancing John Travolta.

anissa2

35-year-old wife and mother of three, Anissa Mayhew, suffered a stroke yesterday and remains in ICU.    My thoughts and prayers are with Anissa and her entire family.

To help Anissa and her family, especially if you are in the Atlanta area, please go here.

Sending Love to Shannon of Charming Bitch!

Shannon, a funny and charming blogger, who writes for Charming Bitch and has commented and guest-posted on this blog, is in the hospital.  Her immune system has not been doing so well since she started doing radiation and chemo for cancer.  If you know her, or even if you don’t, you can say hello over on her blog.

Shannon, please feel better and be strong!

Prayer

In the last post, I had a little fun with a BlogHer session titled “Is Mommyblogging Still a Radical Act?”  I found this amusing to watch the word “radical” exploited and mangled so all the air seeps out of it like a cheap balloon from the 99 cent only store.

I tend to avoid using the word “radical” unless something is RADICAL.

“Doctor, the patient is losing blood.  We’re going to have to do something RADICAL like taking off his leg so he can survive!

Radical rarely happens.  Or else it wouldn’t be RADICAL.  The French Revolution.  Radical.  Mommyblogging.  Eh.

Here’s something mildly radical.  I’m going to mention God on my blog.

If you read through my archives, you will notice that I have made fun of Jews, Christians, and Muslims.  I find religion funny.  It is funny.  It deals with impossible issues.  But I’m not so cocky as to dismiss the power of God. I may make jokes about God, but I wouldn’t tell them to Him right to His face.  While I have no knowledge of His true existence, I like to believe that there is some unifying force.  It’s good to be in awe of something more than Dooce.

Nothing annoys me more than when actors thank Jesus for winning an Oscar or when a team prays to God, asking to win the pennant.  This nonsense gives religion a bad name.  If your team wins, does that mean God hates the OTHER team?

I think it is entirely appropriate to ask for God’s help in times of bad health. God created man and life, and nothing hampers our enjoyment of life more then bad health.  Who wants to smell a flower, eat an apple, or have mind-blowing sex on the carpet while listening to Barry White on the CD player when you feel like crap?

Several of my blogging friends are having health issues.  This makes me feel bad.  I know how much stress this puts on you and your family.  I remember how supportive you were when Sophia was having surgery.

May God be merciful and heal those in need.  Please bring good health to your Children, so we may fully enjoy your World.  God, your true name is RADICAL.  I cover my eyes to say your name.   Send your strength to those in need.

The Wider That Her Hips Are

queen1.jpg

Have you seen this interesting health news? — Research shows that women with bigger hips have higher IQs than their more slender counterparts. Finally! A way to figure out which readers to dump from my blogroll — the dumb skinny ones. (sorry, size 0 Communicatrix — you just can’t argue with science)

The Wider That Her Hips Are

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo

Mira Sorvino, she’s hourglass
She went to Harvard, did well in class
Keira Knightley, she has no tit
So naturally, she’s as dumb as shit

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo

Her curvy waist, her ample hips
She rides me for an hour
I love the way she conjugates
With all her brainy-power

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo.

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