Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Workin’ Up A Black Sweat

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Okay, Demon Diane like to kilt me on Monday. And you can tell how much she enjoys inflicting pain. She actually smiled when, after 25 aerobic songs she said, “Y’all didn’t cool down any on that last one? Me neither.” I think she’s trying to see if she can make me pass out. I’ll just go ahead and save her the trouble of that little experiment…she can. I hallucinated there for a while on Monday, during Workin’ Up a Black Sweat (for those of you unfamiliar with his music, this is a recent song by Prince…er…the artist formerly known as Prince, or whatever he’s calling himself these days).

Anyway, so I recuperated yesterday by lolling in bed for an extra hour or so and accidentally missing class. This morning I accidentally slept late and went to Myra’s class–the caring, nurturing and always entertaining one. She did not disappoint. We wiggled (one of her signature moves), we wobbled, and we kept our headlights on bright. But about midway through the third or fourth aerobic song, I noticed a trail of what looked like mascara dripping down the side of her neck and down on to her, umm…headlights. I kid you not. Myra actually worked up a black sweat. Not just a little one, either.

I was standing on the front row, and noticed it right off. Naturally, I was concerned by this strange phenomenon, not being sure that it wasn’t the symptom of some exotic and highly contagious disease (she did just get back from vacation). I said to her, “Myra…you’re sweating black.” An instructor can easily hear you from the front row. Her eyes got great big. I was thinking maybe this was something else to do with her being an alien and all, but then, Casey and Diane don’t sweat black…but then again, they don’t sweat all that much, either, so it could be black sweat, and I never noticed.

Myra covered the whole thing up by saying that she had a new headpiece and it must be bleeding. Riiiight. I have seen instructors use new headpieces before, but never have any of them sweated black. If y’all don’t hear from me, you’ll know it was contagious…

Oh, I almost forgot…progress!!! I lost 2.4 pounds last week. Yippee!!

Peace, out…

Paying For My Sins

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My mother is the world’s best cook. Really. I know what you’re thinking…everybody thinks their mamma is the best cook in the world. But seriously, mine is. And she will stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey if you pass within a five mile radius of her house. It is one of her many talents.

Sunday, we celebrated my brother’s birthday. She made fried chicken–Mamma’s fried chicken is so good the chickens get on a waiting list for her cast iron pan–mashed potatoes and gravy, squash casserole, fresh green beans, tomato pie, corn on the cobb, deviled eggs, cantaloupe and my brother’s favorite, German chocolate pie. And even though it was his birthday, she made my favorite, too. Blackberry pie. Oh…my…gosh. And instead of plates, we piled PLATTERS high with that feast. Is there any wonder I am VOLUPTUOUS? I grew up in that house, for the love of Pete. I never stood a chance. I lived with that during my formative years. I am food-challenged.

In my mother’s house, if you don’t eat enough, she thinks you don’t like it, and she gets this hurt look on her face. Who can resist? I wouldn’t know where to begin counting the calories in that meal. And that was just lunch.

It’s a two-and-a-half hour drive to Mom and Dad’s. On the way home, our neighbors called. We have really great neighbors. They were making dinner for us. Just something simple. Hamburgers (about a half a pound each), corn on the cobb, chips and cobbler with ice cream. And of course we had wine with dinner.

I figure if I fast for a week, I will have averaged out my calories to somewhere around five thousand per day. Don’t you know Monday morning weigh in was a treat? But…I was very good in the dietary department yesterday and today. I didn’t fast, but I am bringing my average for the week down some.

As I told Myra this morning, I need help. We are going on vacation in a few weeks, and I can’t get into most of my summer clothes. The shorts and capris are the biggest issue. I can stuff myself in, and if I use a pair of pliers, I can get the zippers up (as long as I am lying flat). But when I stand up, if the zippers stay closed I can’t walk or breathe. This is a problem. As a pre-published and as yet unpaid author, I cannot afford a whole new set of fat summer clothes. I know I whined about this back in May, but vacation is eminent. This is a state of emergency.

So for the next few weeks, I have to be tortured or sculpted and Jazzercise every day…well, Monday – Friday. And I can only have about 1200 calories a day. If I am vigilant, I can get back into my clothes. The sad part is that, after all that pain and deprivation, I will go on vacation for two weeks. Now, no one diets or exercises on vacation…at least no normal person…possibly the aliens do. Anyway, flying back on that plane from the Virgin Islands, you know that I will be once again busting out of my capris. I will come home and start all over again.

Sigh. I wonder if there is a name for this disorder?

Another Top Ten List

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Hey y’all. My name is Susan, and I’m a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte-aholic. It’s been 98 days since my last Mega Moo. Also, I have not visited the Cold Stone Creamery all summer. And yet, my weight still hovers right at that #@! mark. What is the deal here? I’ve been good, really I have. I have Jazzercised, Body Sculpted and been personally tortured, all to no avail. My body positively clings to fat, as if storing it up for a long hibernation. I’m beginning to believe that it is part of my divine design to be VOLUPTUOUS.

Sigh…oh, well. Que sera, and all that. Anyway, my top ten list from last week brought to mind another:

Here are the top ten things you do NOT want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say:

10. This next routine is Pilates based. Joseph Pilates is a sadist, I tell you. This routine will hurt you today and tomorrow. It is the gift that keeps on giving. This is a good time to go powder your nose.

9. We’re going to work our abdominals, with some arm work for free. Songs that work multiple muscle groups will not only hurt you, they will make you look like a spastic seal in the process, because they require entirely too much coordination and you have to think about what you’re doing. Hey, I just want to dance. Put on some Nelly, would you?

8. On your knees. Nothing good ever happens on your knees except prayer, and we don’t do a lot of that at Jazzercise…not out loud anyway.

7. Myra, this is your part. Now, this is something that an instructor (other than Myra) with the microphone says when Myra is taking her class and she wants Myra to sing. This is done for comic relief. Bless her heart, she tries. The last time this happened, eleven dogs were howling in the parking lot after class. Myra is the caring and nurturing one. And she is beautiful and thin…but the girl can’t sing a lick.

6. Leg weights on around the ankles. This is never, ever good. You will be lucky to be able to walk to your car.

5. Don’t forget to breathe. This means that someone looks like they’re about to pass out. It could be you.

4. Keep dancing…Beverly will call 911. This means someone actually has passed out, but if you heard the announcement, it isn’t you.

3. I’m going to the Caribbean (or Europe, or San Francisco, or wherever). Major vacations call for major toning. You will pay for her beautiful vacation pictures.

2. I’ve joined Jenny Craig. Okay, this chic is the looniest tune on the block. A size 4 woman who thinks she’s fat (or that her derriere is fat or whatever, Diane) is TROUBLE. She will hurt you.

And the #1 thing you never want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say…

I’m getting married! Next May! (If this is July, she has 10 months to get as thin and toned as possible for her BIG DAY because the pictures will last a lifetime.) This is a dangerous woman. Avoid her classes if at all possible, because her workouts are your workouts, and she is on a mission. She will hurt you bad.

Peace, out…

The Top Ten Reasons Why I Jazzercise

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Jim and I just got back from two weeks in the North Georgia Mountains. We have an Airstream trailer. Now, just let me tell you that I am not one of those low maintenance, out-doorsy type females. Camping has never been my thing. The whole bathhouse ordeal…eeeyew! Not for me. Also not for me is sleeping in a tent. I mean, hello, snakes and all other manner of varmit could crawl right in there with you while you were sleeping. And don’t get me started on the whole sleeping on the ground thing. But when my brother-in-law bought an Airstream, (you know, the big silver tube looking things) Jim had to have one. This is camping I can sign up for. It’s like having your own little condo that you drag around with you. I shower in my shower and sleep in a bed more comfortable than the one in my house. TV/DVD player, satellite radio, CD player, air conditioning…you get the picture.

But in the far reaches of the North Georgia Mountains, there was no Jazzercise. Our exercise involved a lot of hiking. While traipsing through the woods, I had plenty of time to reflect on all the reasons why I normally Jazzercise instead of hike (or any of that other outdoorsy stuff).

Here are the top ten:

10. It is not necessary to watch your feet while Jazzercising to avoid tripping over tree roots and rocks. Some folks do look at their feet, it’s true. But these are mostly the new students, and they catch on pretty quick.

9. If you need more water while dancing, there is a fountain right there in the room where you can refill your water bottle.

8. You will never sweat while standing still in a Jazzercise studio. We dance in air-conditioned comfort.

7. Outside the Jazzercise studio, there is no sign warning you that you are entering a bear habitat. No Ranger will tell you, “If you come across a bear, throw him any food you might have. If you have no food, don’t make any sudden moves.” Now, some mornings, Casey may snarl like a bear, but she’d never actually maul anyone. I don’t think.

6. In Jazzercise, you will never hear someone say something like, “If that boulder were to come loose, we’d all be crushed.”

5. If you trip in Jazzercise, people will laugh at you, but you are in no danger whatsoever of falling off a cliff into a rocky river gorge and splattering yourself all over the place.

4. In Jazzercise, you are in a class full of your friends, not on a virtually deserted trail five miles from the nearest road where cell phones get no signal when you pass an enormous French-looking guy wearing only a tiny Speedo, a pony-tail and three tatoos and you’re scared he’s some sort of weirdo-psychopath with an aversion to clothes who might just be odd enough to have a hankering for VOLUPTUOUS women (or their husbands).

3. There are no poisonous spiders at Jazzercise. Occasionally, there are the small harmless looking ones that Casey squashes and Diane whines about her killing one of God’s creatures. Puh-leeze, even God referred to bugs as pestilence…HELLO, they were a plague…not a good thing. Well, okay, those were locusts, but close enough.

2. There are no snakes of any kind in a Jazzercise class. Aliens, yes, but no snakes.

And the #1 reason I Jazzercise…

If you have to go potty, there’s a ladies room just off the lobby. If you Jazzercise, you will never have to look for a stand of trees thick enough to hide behind while you freshen up.

A Wardrobe Malfunction

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Yesterday I went to Personal Torture and to Demon Diane’s Salsa class. PT was painful, but, except for Shona making us laugh telling stuff I can’t post here, uneventful. Not so the Salsa class. Diane was ravishing in a halter style, asymmetrical hemline flouncy dress. She was perfectly accessorized, right down to the aerobic shoes. Now, one might imagine that someone Jazzercising in a halter-top flouncy dress might be susceptible to the dreaded wardrobe malfunction, but Demon Diane pulled off the set without incident. It was my wardrobe that malfunctioned.

A while back (just before the commercial was taped) Casey, the Queen of Pain, shamed me into purchasing several new Jazzer-outfits. It was high time, since I’d been wearing the same oversized, faded T-shirts and capris for four or five years now. We were both sick of looking at them, so I trotted on over to Target and stocked up on capri-length exercise pants and matching tops. These tops are more fitted than my usual long, floppy T-shirts, and the capris have a stylish foldover band around the hips in a contrasting color. The stylish pink band on my black capris was the source of the problem.

Salsa dancing is hip-intensive. The stylish pink band around my VOLUPTUOUS hips wiggled itself into an un-folded-over position, making my capris full-length pants in mid-chanse. I adjusted them as good as I could while tangoing, only to find that they slipped even further down during the samba. I wrestled with those pants the entire class. It was very distracting–I’m sure I didn’t get my heart rate up into the green zone (the place on the chart in the front of the room where I don’t have enough breath to whine and my life is passing before my eyes). My pants never actually slid all the way off, but had I not fortuitously worn a Jazzercise T-shirt which is longer than my new matching top, the twenty people standing behind me would have had a gander at my pink flowered Victoria’s Secrets.

I missed class today all together, but I have a good reason, several actually. I had to go to the mall, there were things I needed and Belks sent me several really good coupons in the mail. Also, everything is on sale right now. Then, I had a dermatologist appointment, followed by a hair appointment. I didn’t even get to eat lunch until Christie had my foils in. I munched on a Chick-fil-a sandwich while my highlights processed. Then I had to go pick up prescriptions, and by that time it was after five. True, I could have made Julie’s class, but then I would have been too sore to make it in the morning.

Obviously, I didn’t get a thing written today. I’ll do better tomorrow. Y’all hold me to it!!

Peace, out…

The Caring and Nurturing Alien

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Okay, I missed Personal Torture this morning, but I had a good reason: Jim’s flight got delayed, and he called to tell me he was coming back home and picking up breakfast on the way and what did I want. Now, it would have been rude of me to tell the man who pays for the Torture that I was so sorry but I could not take the time to sit across the breakfast table from him because I had to go squat against a wall and whine.

I did, however, make it to the 9:20 class. Myra, aka the caring and nurturing alien was on stage to sweat all those weekend calories out of us. She did a good job. We learned to tone a previously unknown body part: the back ta-tas. Back cleavage. She claims this is caused by a bra that is too tight, but if this is the case, why do we have to tone that particular area? It makes no sense. Also, she had us doing what looked like some sort of weird mass birthing exercise. We were sitting on our mats (all facing horizontally on account of her OCD), with our knees bent and spread wide pressing our inner thighs toward each other (in my case, not too far), and she was chanting “push, pull…push, pull.” It scared me. I was having flashbacks from ** years ago when I gave birth to my only son. Childbirth is a beautiful experience. So beautiful, in fact, that I only needed to endure it once to fully appreciate it. They say you forget the pain, and I can only tell you that although I did not participate in natural childbirth, and encouraged them to pump me full of every available drug to make the process more pleasant, I REMEMBER AND IT WAS PAINFUL. So Myra, kindly take the birthing song out!!

She must be on some weird tear, because she also had something in her set that sounded like Russian folk dancing, but she swears is a German chick singing French. Oh, and Honky Tonk Badonkadonk, the country equivalent of Bootylicious. It was an eclectic set.

Gotta go write something… Peace, out…

I Didn’t Sleep a Wink Last night

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Sometimes I say things (or blog them) before I think. As a point of pure fact, this happens more often than not. This leads to the occasional regret. Like last night. I tossed and turned, worrying myself into a frenzy thinking I might have hurt some poor woman’s feelings with my use of the insensitive adjective “flat-chested.” I would like to take this opportunity to offer my heartfelt apologies to all grown women everywhere who still wear training bras. I promise from now on to use the more sensitive term: mammary challenged. All y’all beautiful, healthy, skinny, alien women please forgive me and remember that at the root of my teasing is rabid envy.

On to more interesting things. This morning in Wendy’s (who is apparently not an alien because I’d guess her to be a C-cup) class, someone on the front row–it might have been me, I can’t remember–suggested to Wendy that Shona should come up on stage with her for the funky song. Wendy, who of course had the microphone, thought that was a great idea. Shona was not so enthusiastic, but once we all started chanting “Sho-Na! Sho-Na! Sho-Na!, ” and clapping and whooping like a pack of wild hyenas, she indulged us. She has such a stage presence, our Shona. She showed us the bootylicious, low-impact version.

I forgot to tell y’all yesterday my good friend and neighbor of many years, Deanna, got her 100 club T-shirt. For the uninitiated, this is the shirt you earn by going to 100 Jazzercise classes within a year. Yeah Deanna!! But she shamed me. I have been after that girl for years to join Jazzercise, and she finally did six or eight months ago. Now, on June 7th, she is getting her T-shirt, and I haven’t even hit 50. (Yes, sarcastic little alien voice in my head, I know I should listen to you and behave better.) I’m trying! Actually, this week I have been to 5 classes, and it’s only Thursday afternoon. Myra (the nurturing alien) was just patting me on the back this morning.
If only we weren’t leaving town in the morning…y’all pray for me that I’ll have the strength to control myself and not eat so badly that I pile every calorie I burned this week back on with a whole passel of their friends…
Peace, out…

Aliens Among Us

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Proving once again that I am not the only person in Greer/Taylors, SC who has taken leave of their senses, 7 victims showed up VOLUNTARILY to personal Torture at 7:30 this morning: Little Bride, Sister-in-Law, Jersey Girl, Demon Diane (aka Hurricane), Shy-Town and Blog Girl (Moi). And, of course, Shona (I used to be a white girl). These are our Shona names.
Shona claims to have been born white and baked black by the sun. This may be true, cause she was singing country songs during class, and not too many bona fide Sisters like country music. She warned Demon Diane and Jersey Girl that they, too, would soon become irreversibly black if they didn’t watch out. They sport nice tans. I don’t know if they’re gonna turn black or not, but they’re both skinny, so I couldn’t help but wish a few wrinkles on ’em. That wasn’t very Christian of me, I know. But it’s hard to think pretty thoughts about skinny women when you’re Voluptuous.
Shona is Voluptuous like me. She claims that her man runnoft with a Big Girl, because Shona wasn’t big enough for him. Brothers like big women, she says. So here is my question: Why is she submitting to Personal Torture, and why does she want a picture of Demon Diane to put on her refrigerator for motivation? There is nothing remotely Voluptuous about Demon Diane. I asked Shona to clarify this, and she said it has something to do with Diane’s shape…her protuberant derriere. I have never personally noticed that Demon Diane had a protuberant derriere, but who am I to question a Sister’s judgment in such matters?
Speaking of Demon Diane…in yet another act of self-punishment, I stayed for her class. When will I learn? There is just something bad wrong with a woman who can dance till the sweat is positively running off of her–and I stand on the front row, so I can see it puddling up–and still have enough breath to cue every move with nary a gasp for air. Casey’s like that, too. I have a theory on this: I think they’re both aliens. This would also explain why they can eat and still be disgustingly thin. I mean, it could be all that exercise, I guess. But I personally would find it much more satisfying if they turned out to be aliens from some planet where all the women are disgustingly thin, beautiful and flat-chested.
Casey was lamenting her almost A’s just this morning. I feel so bad for her, BLESS HER HEART. As I have informed her on several occasions, I would trade my ample bosom any day for her almost A’s if I could have the rest of the package to go along with it.
Just now, as I typed that, this sarcastic little alien voice started whispering in my ear, “If you’d exercise like you’re supposed to and stop eating all those Mega Moo Mocha Moolattes, you’d be fit, too.”
Maybe, oh Queen of Pain…and maybe you’re an alien.
By the way, for those of you with OCD, you’ll be relieved to know that Myra straightened the mats during Demon Diane’s class. Poor Myra…she could be an alien, too, I guess….she is thin, beautiful and flat- chested….and I have seen her eat…they’re taking over!!!

Bless Myra’s Heart, She Just Can’t Help Herself

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I have OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I do things that ordinary people don’t do. For example, when at home, although we have four bathrooms in our house, when I need to go potty, I always use mine. The one next to my bedroom. Not the closest one, mine. Towels are only used once (this drives my sister crazy–I think she’s reported me to the environmental police). Also, things in our house have to be kept in their place, or I become very upset. I never claimed to be normal.
One OCD can pick another one out of the crowd at fifty paces. I love Myra, but I have always known that she shares my disease. If ever there was any doubt, it would have been removed this morning when she stopped dancing in the middle of Wendy’s class to match up the hand weights.
At Jazzercise of Taylors, there are two racks of handweights, one on each side of the stage. There are only a few sets of 3 lb weights, because most people use at least 4’s. This morning, there were 3 3-lb weights on one side of the stage and 1 3-lb weight on the other side. Myra stopped in mid-shimmy to repair this rift in the fabric of the universe. I so understand…
Wendy’s just back from vacation where she claims to have over-indulged, a sin for which we are all paying. She hurt me this morning. Lord, save me from Jazzercise instructors trying to burn off vacation eating. Or those getting ready to go on vacation or get married…you get the picture. I guess it worked out though, since I have way more to work off than she does. There are desserts from 1987 riding around on my hips.
My dream is to someday be to the point where I can only worry about working off what I ate last week. Peace, out…

Catching My Breath

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Okay, I know it’s been a while. But I have a trunk of reasons. And they’re all boring, so we’ll skip those. I’ll do better, I promise. The Blue Ridge Christian Writer’s conference was awesome! I got back home on the 25th and have been recuperating ever since. There was so much going on it was hard to absorb it all. But I had a great time, made several new friends, met some wonderfully talented folks, listened to some fantastic motivational speakers…and spoke to a terrific agent who agreed to read my first three chapters.
Now, for those of you who are not struggling to get your first novel published, you might not realize what a big deal this is. This is tremendously superb news. I am happy. Please be happy with me. All together now….who-hooo!!
Now the bad news…the food was good but fattening. I did walk a lot, and it was uphill both ways, but I didn’t come close to burning off the calories I took in. When three full meals plus three snacks are placed in front of you every day, well pounds tend to accumulate. All of my hard work being tortured by Casey has been undone.
But today, I hauled myself back to the dance floor and also signed up for another session of Personal Torture…I mean Touch.
I signed up for the same class that Shona is in…oh boy, I haven’t told y’all about Shona. Shona is the funniest person I know who does not have a microphone. She needs one. The first time I met Shona was in a Personal Torture class the day after Mother’s Day. She was allowing as to how she made her children call their daddy’s girlfriend and wish her a happy Mother’s Day because she likes her and wants her to stick around (so the kids can spend quality time with their daddy, giving Shona a much needed break). I laughed till I cried when she was telling this story, but I can’t post all the details until I check with her…she might not want it on the internet. But everything that comes out of her mouth is hysterically funny, so you want her in your Personal Torture class to help keep your mind off the pain and agony.
I’ve been giving some consideration to the possibility that I’m spreading myself too thin (which is why I seldom have time to BLOG anymore). I’m in three local critique groups, and just palled up with an online critique buddy who I met at the conference. I may be spending more time critiquing and reading other people’s critiques of my work than I am actually writing. I am considering cutting back. Also, the thing I’m finding is that often the people doing the critiques have conflicting advice, which requires me to spend an inordinate amount of time deciding who’s right.
SO…I’m getting myself back on track, and hopefully will be posting more regularly. In the meantime, on a serious note, y’all pray for Myra and her family. Her mother’s real sick and is being transported to a cardiac care facility in Florida.

Peace, out….

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