Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

I Feel Skinny Already

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Thanks to Casey’s little green book–in which every morsel that passed my lips in the last week has been recorded–and, of course her Personal Touch torture sessions which should seriously be considered for interrogating terrorists, I have lost 1.8 pounds in one week. Yippee!!
This in spite of the fact that I ate like a pig at the trough at a dinner party Saturday night. The day I turn down homemade cheesecake and strawberries dipped in chocolate is the day you will know I have been kidnapped and replaced by a clone. It just isn’t going to happen. But apparently, I was careful enough the rest of the week that I still lost a little, even if I didn’t reach my goal of losing ten pounds the first week.
The last week hasn’t been a good one for writing. Too much static in my life. Also, I am trying–with limited success–to get my body to accept 5:45 Jazzercise. This means getting up at 5am, which would be okay if I could get to sleep by 9pm, but that’s not likely. So, I’ve been operating on 5 – 6 hours of sleep which makes me fuzzy headed and not very creative. If my brain function doesn’t stabilize this week, I’m going back to 9:20 classes.
Someone suggested that I should take one of Julie’s classes, so I could blog her. Let me tell you, back in the days when I first started going to Jazzercise–over at the Faux Greer center–I took hundreds of Julie’s classes. And actually, I have taken a few more recently in Taylors. Julie is a breed apart. Julie is hazardously perky. If the energy behind her Jazzercise routines could be harnessed and used to power cars, we would be forever free from middle eastern oil.
The danger, to the average Jazzercizer, is that that perkiness is infectious. It causes one to exert more energy than one actually has in the tank, which can lead to passing out. This has only happened to me personally twice. Just kidding. But all that effervescence does induce me to over-exert myself. I’m better off with the mean instructors.
Having given you the scoop on Julie, that only leaves me with two un-blogged instructors at the Taylors Jazzercise Center: Donna and Jenny.
Donna is Wendy’s sister, and I’ve only taken a couple of her classes. She usually teaches at 4:30. She gets teachers after school’s out. Most of these ladies, as you might imagine, have frustrations to work off. But Donna is the most serene of all the instructors. This defies logic since she is a school teacher herself.
Jenny is the newest of the instructors. She is one of those young women about whom people say things like, “She’s just so sweet,” and “Isn’t she just the cutest thing!” Both of these things are true, but more relevant is this: she’s Casey’s sister-in-law, and is being trained by the Queen of Pain herself. Just wait. Remember what happened to sweet little Michelle when they gave her a microphone. It’s only a matter of time before Jenny-the-cutest-little-thing morphs into Jenny-the-Jazzer-Nazi.
On a more sober note, it’s been 27 days since my last Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte. Having discovered that there are 884 calories in one of these divine dairy and caffeine concoctions I have sworn them off. I resigned myself to ordering Starbucks venti non-fat mochas instead. Then I found out there are 375 calories in one of those. How do they do that? How can coffee and non-fat milk have 375 calories? I think there is a conspiracy afoot to make Americans fat. Extra calories (probably in the form of lard) are being stirred into everything we eat. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Talk to y’all tomorrow. Meanwhile, beware the lard conspiracy. You never know when your physique is under attack.

Peace, out…

Michelle The Maniac

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Shame on all of y’all who did not believe that I would actually drag my VOLUPTUOUS patottie out of my soft warm bed at 5:00 am to make the 5:45 Jazzercise class on a Monday morning. I was there…me and the roosters and those folks just dragging in from an all-nighter were awake, along with a few other bleary-eyed dawn dancers. I might not actually have made it, even though I woke up at 4:19 this morning. I made a deal with myself that if I fell back asleep before 5:00, I wouldn’t have to get up. I did not figure in the Michelle factor.
When I first met Michelle, she was working in the Jazzercise nursery. You know how some people are just as sweet inside as they are beautiful on the outside? (A Melanie Wilkes–only not as mousey–not a Scarlett O’Hara). This was Michelle. Butter would not melt in her soft-spoken mouth.
Then, they gave her a microphone. That does things to people. I did not recognize this at first. When she called me at 5:00 (something Casey put her up to on account of I made the mistake of telling Casey that I really felt like God wanted me to go to the 5:45 class because I keep waking up at 5am for no apparent reason), it sounded like sweet old Michelle on the phone. She was all “Casey told me to call..I’m so sorry…you don’t have to come.”
Well, of course I felt like I had to, even though I had just nodded back off. I mean, she was so nice and all. I would have felt like I kicked a kitten or something if I didn’t go. She might have felt bad about calling, and she’s sooo sweet…
Well, Sweet Michelle did not show up for class. On stage this morning was her alter-ego, Maniac Michelle. With a microphone.
Maniac Michelle is a mean woman. She had us doing all those hyper-speed songs that look like someone has a Jazzercise tape on fast-forward. It’s hard to be quick when you’re not fully awake. Well, hard for everyone but the Maniac. She had no trouble at all operating in overdrive. And she was perky, of course, and well, still beautiful, which is especially infuriating when it’s still dark outside and you yourself have porcupine head and pillow case creases on your cheek.
After the fast songs, she did a series of demented pilates pretzel routines and then, the worst, push-ups. To an Elton John song. Y’all know I can’t do push-ups–I’ve explained the whole gravity thing before. The only thing worse than push-ups, is push-ups to an Elton John song. I really don’t particularly care for Elton John. Actually, I used to, way back in the Crocodile Rock era. But his newer stuff is just way too gushy for me.
The Maniac nearly killed me this morning, but she gets and ‘A’ for entertainment, which is, after all the most important factor in a Jazzercise instructor. Does she keep your mind off the fact she’s killing you with her witty repartee, sarcasm, and general stand-up comedy routine? The Maniac was quite adept at all that, and she sang karaoke as well. She’s actually got a great voice, for a maniac. And she had the courtesy to sweat with the rest of us. I just think it’s so rude when an instructor doesn’t break a sweat.
Anyway, I got my workout out of the way for the day, so I have a lot more time to write. Well, until nap time anyway…

Peace, out…

I Hate It When Casey’s Right

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Y’all might have noticed, but the whole ‘being accountable to myself via blog’ isn’t working so good. This became crystal clear when, on the first warm day of spring I tried on last year’s capris. Having been hanging in the closet for several months, they had, of course, shrunk a little. You know how fabric tends to do that, right?
So I laid down on the floor and wiggled (Official Jazzercise move) into the capris. Although it made a blister on my right index finger, I was able to get the zipper up. It was a short lived victory, however, because when I stood up, the part of my stomach that flattens out when I lay down came crashing through that zipper. This was not a pretty sight.
Time for plan B.
Okay, so next week I start Personal Touch. This is where I pay money for Casey to cause me great pain and agony and also monitor everything that goes into my mouth because quite a lot of stuff is apparently sneaking in there when I’m preoccupied with other things. It’s a month into spring. My summer clothes don’t fit. I am a desperate woman. Next week, I will be a cranky woman.
I will try to focus on how good being not-so-fat feels. I would tell you that I will focus on how good being thin feels, except I haven’t been thin since I was five, and I really don’t remember. Wait, there were a couple of years in high school when I was in size sevens (and some fives). But I still didn’t feel thin. I have been obsessed with my weight my entire life and I am frankly bored with it, which is why I have started ignoring it and put some of the weight I’d lost back on. I guess I’ll have to go back to being obsessed.
This morning I went to 9:20 Jazzercise and Myra committed an attempted homicide by Jazzercise. I think she’s sneaking in a couple of extra fast songs, because there was one point right before we started cooling down when my arms were tingling and I was hallucinating. I could have sworn there were two Myras on stage. It was probably just all the sweat dripping into my eyes. I think Myra got tired , too, because she stopped dancing and said, “I like to watch.” Right. That’s what instructors do when they’ve worn themselves out. They stop to watch and make sure we’re doing it right. We’re on to that trick.
Anyway, I have an addition to the list of Jazzer-body parts: taillights. I bet you can guess what that is. Today, we kept our headlights up and worked our taillights off. Peace, out…

What Did She Say?

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Okay, I know that song lyrics are poetry, and much of poetry is very deep. So deep, in fact, that many folks (like, well, me, for instance), can’t fathom what exactly the poet is attempting to communicate. I have a lot to say about writing that no one can understand, but that’s a subject for another day.
Sometimes, understanding song lyrics is made much more difficult by the music itself. This annoys me, because I really like to sing along. I primarily do this when I’m alone in the car, so not to worry.
But this morning at Jazzercise–yes, I did go today–the lyrics in Wendy’s set were particularly baffling. I would tell you what they were, but I’m sure I’d be infringing on somebody’s copyright, and we can’t have that. Suffice it to say that one of two things was going on: either you have to be on whatever the lyricist was on when they wrote that stuff to understand it, or, the songs were the kind you have to play backward to understand. This is my theory.
I think that all Jazzercise songs have subliminal messages. Yep, that’s how they keep you coming. Some of them say things like, “Come to Jazzercise everyday or all your hair will fall out.” Others–and these are the most dangerous–say things like, “Have a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte.”
The latter type are the ones I have been most exposed to. Now, you might be thinking, why would Jazzercise songs have messages encouraging you to eat badly. It’s not reverse psychology, although that could make sense. No, I think it’s because if people like me keep sucking down those Mega Moo Mocha Moolattes, we’ll always be, well, Voluptuous, and always need Jazzercise. For the rest of our lives. That’s how they keep you coming back. It’s just a theory. I guess we’ll never know for sure, because I don’t think there’s anyway to play a CD backwards.
Anyway, a few followups: Yes, I know it’s been over three weeks since my last post. You cannot believe how long the list of truly bizarre (but true) reasons/excuses I have. It’s almost as long as the list of reasons/excuses why I have only been to Jazzercise an average of 2.18 times per week in the last three weeks. Excuses I have in abundance. But Today is a New Day!! I have Jazzercised and Posted. I will now write for a minimum of four hours, after which I will not reward myself with a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte. (Sigh).
Two New Jazzercise body parts I left out of the list I posted a few weeks ago: Left Head (Myra’s), and Hiney (Wendy’s–I almost named today’s post after Wendy, because that one rhymes with her last name, but I thought better of it).
I have a clean bill of health–all the breathing tests, xrays (once they contacted the girl at WalMart and found where they had been misplaced–another story) were normal. The mysterious spot on my lung was apparently invisible to the radiologist who said a cryptic “Impression is negative chest xray” in his notes. Now, I’m not sure if I should get that second opinion my sister insists I need or not, because I’m not sure this guy knows what he’s doing: As I have explained before, I definitely have a chest. How can I test negative?
I have a new refrigerator–the Kitchenaide For the Way Its Made folks and the Jeff Lynch folks brought me a brand new one when the six month old one could not be cured of Spontaneous Defrost Syndrome. They also gave me a check to cover some of the spoiled food in the freezer. I highly recommend Kitchenaide. On the rare occasion they make a lemon, they definitely provide you with free lemonade.
On another positive note, I have been writing a lot lately–one of the reasons I haven’t gotten anything else done. I’m trying to get the changes and final polishing done on LCB in case I can interest anyone at the conference I’m going to in May in taking a look.
That’s about it for today…talk to you tomorrow. I promise. Peace, out…

Beautiful Inside and Out

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Friday Morning I over slept–due to studying great literature late into the night–but managed to drag my sorry tush to Myra’s class (9:20). Myra, who discovered quite accidentally that she has been blogged, professed feeling pressure to perform, but delivered her usual entertaining fare. I should also mention, for the record, that, like all of the other instructors at the Taylors Jazzercise Center, Myra is–in addition to her talents with colorful language–also obnoxiously gorgeous. Inside and out. She’s not like one of those blind dates that you go on where the person fixing you up tells you what a great personality the other party has (code for homely at best).

And I have to tell y’all, Myra, in addition to all her other many talents, is quite intellectual. I have learned a lot from Myra. Especially in he area of human biology (I’m sure there’s a fancier name for that, but I don’t have time to find it). Before taking Myra’s class, for example, I was completely ignorant of the following body parts: side-butt, over-hang, and glootey-patootey. We work those parts on a regular (and painful) basis.

Something else I’ve learned is a completely new language. Myra is fond of Latin music. She loves to dance with a rose in her teeth. And if she doesn’t understand the lyrics, she sings them in Myra-ese. I’m still working on the finer points of this modern linguistic marvel, but it seems to be a cross between Spanish and Southernese.

I’m telling y’all: there is simply no place you get more for your exercise dollar than at Taylors Jazzercise Center. Give it a try. Maybe I’ll see you there. If I haven’t over slept.

One Step Up and Two Steps Back

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I’m off to a good start–it’s Monday, and I made it to 8:15 Jazzercise!! Whoo-Hoo!! Of course, Demon Diane had the microphone this morning, and inflicted great pain and suffering on us all. I swear, she enjoys hearing us whine! I’m not joking. At one point, she even said we had to keep doing this Chinese torture move until we all whined!! The girl is sadistic. Then, while the music was changing, she says, “Okay, let’s get that next hurting song on.”
I’m just wondering if maybe the woman that gets up on stage is her alternate personality–you know, like Sybil. Cause before she gets that microphone, she’s all,”How y’all doing, how was vacation,” and all that. But put her on the stage and give her a microphone and let the agony begin.
But, as Myra would say, I’m sure it’s good for me…
Eating was a mixed bag today. I started off all right, with a low-fat blueberry muffin and a Starbucks non-fat mocha (no Mega Moo Mocha Moo Latte–sob!). But the for lunch I had leftovers–it’s sinful to waste food. Sweet Onion Risotto with Chicken Cacciatore. Yum. I love Risotto. It’s the ultimate starch. So creamy and rich…I ate it for dinner, too. And then I had a cupcake. It was here, okay? As I have often maintained, I have a complete lack of self-discipline.
Writing went well today. I got a lot of polishing done on the first three chapters of LCB, and worked on chapter four. It’s coming. I feel good about it…or is that the sugar high?

It Hurts So Good

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I made it to 8:15 Jazzercise today. Whoo-hoo!! I’m back on the morning schedule. For now. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 8:15 is Diane. Diane is a great instructor, even if she is one of the infuriatingly thin ones. She really makes me mad because she’s thin and tanned, and she’s got this flat little stomach that looks like a board. You know the type: she looks cute, not at all trashy, in those little exercise tops that show just a touch of stomach. I just makes you want to smack her. But we love her, so we don’t.
Also, I’m afraid that might be dangerous. Not only is Diane very fit, but she wins the award for most songs with punching and kicking in them. And the face she makes when she punches and kicks? That girl looks mean, I’m telling you what. And this morning? She was torturing us with some sadistic leg routine, and some poor soul said, “this hurts!” Did she have any sympathy at all? No indeedy. Do you know what she said? She said, “It’s supposed to hurt.” (!!) And then, because it’s St. Patrick’s day, and several people weren’t wearing green, she asked if they had been pinched. Somebody said yes, and she said, “Good!” I’m telling you, she’s got a mean streak–don’t make her mad.
Okay, it’s back to working on the novel…blog you later!

The Victim of a Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy

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This morning, when the alarm went of at 5am, I convinced myself that I would go to the 8:15 class and hit the snooze button. As 8:00 drew near, I decided that, since I just finished yesterday’s class a mere 13 hours before, I should wait and go to the 6pm class, and finish out the week with evening classes. I could start next week, I reasoned, with morning classes.
That would have worked out just fine, if it were not for the intervention of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy (VFWC). The VFWC sent gremlins to cause the latch on my fuel tank to freeze up. When I got to the gas pump, I could not put gas in my car. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m bad about running my car way past empty to the fumes, which is exactly what I had done right before the problem with the fuel latch. So, I prayed all the way home and commenced to looking for the keys to Jim’s Durango. Jim is in Dallas on business, and of course I could not find my keys to the Durango, so I had to call him (at his client’s office) and ask him where his keys were. Now, it is not my fault that I had to do this. If he had left his keys anyplace sensible, I would have found them right off. But they were in an otherwise completely empty chest of drawers in the office. (???) So, with keys in hand, I went to get gas for the Durango, which, according to the electronic display that tells you how many more miles you can drive until you are sitting by the side of the road, had 49 miles to empty. I could get gas later, I thought. I had an appointment at the psychologist office (yes, I know I’m leaving myself wide open here, but trust me, it is not me that’s crazy–it’s my imaginary friend), which was only 3 miles away. Now, math is not my strong point, but I figured that 3 + 3 had to be less than 49. Wrong. Well 3+3 must now equal 47, because when I got home, I had only 2 miles to go until empty. I decided to let Jim worry about that one when he gets home and fiddled with the latch on my car until I finally got it open.
By this time, I was running late for the 6pm class, but maybe had enough time to get a little gas and get there half-way through the opener. I go back to Ingles, and am pumping gas into my car when this nice man says, “Excuse me, ma’am? I was just heading into the grocery store, and I noticed that your right front tire is completely flat.” I looked where he was pointing, and bless Pat if the thing wasn’t flat as a pancake. Obviously, the VFWC had sent another gremlin to let the air out if my tire. The nice man said, “I think there’s an air compressor behind the booth.” He pointed at this contraption with hoses hanging out of it like tentacles. Then he smiled and went into the grocery store. Now, I am convinced that if I were 23 and skinny, he would have put the air in for me. However, since I am 24 (the official Jazzercise age) and VOLUPTUOUS, I had to fend for myself. I finished pumping gas–something which, by the way, I truly believe that married women ought not ever have to do, but if you run out while your husband’s in Dallas you do what you have to do. Then I drove over to the giant metal octopus. It wanted quarters. Of course, I had no quarters. I went to get change and fed it. It started making this heinous racket and I jumped back about three feet. I was afraid to get close to it. I worked up my nerve, and approached it politely. It didn’t bite when I picked up the end of the hose–which actually turned out to be only one very long hose. After closely examining the flat tire, I figured out I had to twist off the little cap thingy on the little thing that sticks up. I did that. Then, I put the end of the hose on the little thing that sticks up. I waited, and waited, and the machine was making all that racket, but my tire didn’t seem to be taking on air. I stared at it more closely, thinking maybe it just took a while to get enough air in there. After a minute or two, I happened to glance down at the handle, and I saw what I had missed before. A gun-like thingy that you had to press to get the air to come out. Once I pressed it, the tire pumped right up. But then I wondered, how much air do I need? I put air in till it looked right, then let go of the handle. A little stick popped out that had a measuring stick on it, in increments of 10. It was at 20. I had no idea if this was enough, but thought, what the heck, there’s time left on my quarter, I’ll put in some more. So I did. When the little measuring stick got to 30 I quit. Astoundingly, (according to Jim) this is close enough to right that I didn’t hurt anything.
Next there was the issue of the black grease and muck that the VFWC had smeared all over me when I wasn’t looking. By this time, it was 6:15, and I decided that the best course of action was to head on over to Panera Bread to wash up and get some dinner.
On a more successful note, I did get a lot of writing done yesterday. I’ve sent out the first 3 chapters of LCB to several friends from my writer’s group and my sister, who were generous with their time and agreed to to critique and copyedit. When I get them back, I’ll polish and send them out. Meanwhile, I’m working my way through the rest of the book, converting it to first person. I like it much better this way.
So tomorrow, I’m going to make it to Jazzercise at 8:15, and next week, I’m going to try really, really hard to get there at 5:45. Y’all hold me to that, okay?

These Things Ain’t All They’re Cracked Up To Be

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Okay, not all Jazzercise instructors are infuriatingly thin, but most are. Casey is, bless her heart. She is obnoxiously gorgeous, but we all love her anyway. But, like most women so thin they have to buy their clothes in the children’s department, she has plenty of growing room in her A cups. She just got a new haircut and some highlights, (which made her even more nauseatingly beautiful) and maybe because of the new look–or maybe because the poor woman is having a reaction to some medication that effects her eyesight–someone in class tonight told her she looked voluptuous. Because Casey has the microphone, and was proud of her compliment, she made the mistake of sharing it with thirty women. Tsk, Tsk. When you’re that pretty, other women will take a shot when they have it. My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline in mid-chanse, because she promptly told me I could lower them. She has the microphone. In my house–in my whole extended family, actually–voluptuous is a code word for pleasantly plump. When you are chubby and the man in your life wants to compliment you on how you look, he tells you you look voluptuous. It’s a good thing there’s no margin for confusion in Casey’s case.
Anyway, last song she had us doing push-ups. Ahem. When you carry as much weight on your chest as I do, push-ups are simply not logistically possible. Really, they’re not. So I do the modified version. But my point is this: these things are not all they’re cracked up to be. No matter what your husband says, if you are mammary-challenged, thank your lucky stars. Trust me. As a matter of fact, I suspect that all that weight on my chest is the source of my breathing problems. Think about it. My lungs have to lift forty pounds just to get a get a little oxygen. And they get in the way. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dropped food on them. And you can’t buy an exercise bra to lock these things down, I don’t care what the ads say. Large ta-tas are just not practical, so be thankful if you are not voluptuous.
One of Casey’s favorite wisecracks is, “be careful what you say to the woman with the microphone.” I have another bit of wisdom for her: Be careful what you say to the woman with a blog.

The Pitfalls of Dancing Before the Chickens Are Up

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Woo-Hoo! I made it to 5:45 Jazzercise. Casey (Jazzercise instructor extraordinairre) graciously offered to call and roust me from my slumber due to my unfortunate tendency to hit the snooze button. What I found out, is that the anticipation of a phone call will keep me awake just as good as the actual call. As I move slowly before daylight–a natural biological reaction to being up at unnatural hours–I have to get up at 5 in order to be out the door at 5:30. I assumed that Casey would have to get up even earlier because she has to get their early and she lives farther away. I was wrong. As she informed me when she called at 5:20, she gets up at 10 after and is in the car by 20 after. Add this to the long list of her amazing feats.
You might be surprised to hear me say this, but there are a whole lot of positive things about 5:45 Jazzercise. The biggest thing is Casey. There is a very short list of people I will get up at 5am for. She is on it. Casey makes me forget I’m exercising. She’s part stand-up comedienne, part aerobics instructor. Also, I like her music choices: she almost always punts in some funk. Casey has a special place in my heart because she was my first Jazzercise instructor, and saw me through a 40 lb. weight loss. (I haven’t gained all of it back. I wouldn’t have gained any of it back if she hadn’t gone missing on me, but that’s another story.) Anyway, she encouraged, cajoled and browbeat me out of 40 lbs, and became my friend in the process. Also in the positive column, there are some great people who show up at 5:45. Connie, who I met in faux-Greer Jazzercise several years ago. Connie always adds a lot to a Jazzercise class. Why, just this morning, she had the brilliant idea that we should shoot all the skinny people. Unfortunately, as satisfying as that might initially be, it would leave us woefully short of Jazzercise instructors. I met my new best friend for life, Deanna, this morning. Deanna is skinny, and she is a fellow Mocha Moolatte fan (although she gets the regular, not the Mega Moo). Deanna gives me hope. One day, when I am skinny, I can drink Mocha Moo Lattes with impunity. Also, fellow blogger Vondra is in the 5:45 class. Her blog (30minutesofwonderful) is inspirational. Check it out!
However, although there are all the wonderful things I’ve been going on about, there are pitfalls to Jazzercise at 5:45. For one thing, I’ve been starving (and eating like a horse) all day. Also, I was yawning at 7pm, and ready for bed by 8, which is just not practical.
Maybe next week I can get my body clock reset. But, tomorrow is Friday, and we’re going to Charleston! See y’all on Monday!!

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