Goodbye for Now

On Tuesday, I turned 27 and with that I am officially in my late twenties, fast approaching my thirties. There was a local story about a woman biking, running, and exercising her way into her forties. She'd started running a day before she was to turn 40 and by midnight, she'd enter her 40s with an exhaustive bang. I think I will fuck my way into my thirties, with a hopeful orgasm exactly at midnight. But that's three years away, so I can plan accordingly.

Anyway, I know it's been a long time since I've updated the blog and there is a reason -- no time. Life's been busy. Work is more hectic than ever and I am often working late into the evening and bringing the rest home and then working on that. Dinner tonight was fruit cocktail in a can of gross heavy syrup and a can of Diet 7-up. I was happy to have time to eat that. So at 3 am, I got up and decided to say goodbye to the readers of The Zaftig Chronicles. I'm not deleting the blog because I may return to it, when things are less chaotic and busy for me. I may not. But I have poured my soul out, bared my vulnerabilities, and given you a glimpse into my twisted mind. Thank you for caring. As a woman now in her late twenties, it's only fair that I provide closure for things I have embarked upon and have not dedicated my all to. I don't want to leave the blog hanging like a chad, so let's just say, this is the last post.

Again, thanks to everyone who came to read everyday, even when no updates appeared. Thanks for the emails and support too. It's been a great experience.

Love has not found me yet but he knows where I live. Ring me up.

-Zaftig

Broiling Alive

Some of you might be unaware of this but Chicago has morphed into the fiery pits of hell, with atrociously sunburned feet to boot. See, this is why I hate summer, for this exact reason. Why, do people insist on wearing flip flops in this sun? I can't tell you how many burned feet I have witnessed last week alone. Hundreds. Jan managed to drag Diana and I to the beach Sunday, where we both proceeded to bake and die immediately. Jan didn't care -- he was busy working on his "sex tan," you know, the kind where there's a dramatic tan line around the hip. He sure got one. The Swedes sure know how to tan, don't they?

Well, this weekend, Diana's apartment was a cooling center. We conked out with old Glamours and iced raspberry lemon tea. I don't know why Diana is afraid to throw away magazines. I swear there is a 1997 issue of Glamour with some model on the cover, and a warning about what's in and out for the 90s sitting in her magazine rack. She's a hroder. Did I mention it's hot? IT'S HOT!

10 Things about Gay Porn

Last night, Jan brought over gay porn for me to watch. I asked and he brought. Several things about gay porn I've noticed:

1) The men are incredibbly, sinfully hot.
2) The men have impeccably styled hair. Full-bodied, lustrous hair.
3) A blowjob is all about suction.
4)Trimmed pubbes on a man looks hot.
5)Tan lines can be drastic and still hot.
6)Men like their nipples tweaked.
7)Anal sex looks fuckin' sexy.
8)Two men in a shower? Yum.
9)Having sex in your socks only? Not an issue.
10)Music is so danceable, you don't if you should watch or dance.

Back later.

Now There's a Medication for Being a Woman

Let it be known -- I hate medicines. They reek of population control. You know, swapping one illness for another, all the while thinking that multicolored Tylenol is saving every organ in your body. But your liver is like, um, yuck. I don't think it's a surprise that there literally exist a medicine and diagnosis for everything. But this recent ad I came across takes the cake.

So it's a muggy and hot Monday afternoon (remember, I hate summer so I'm certainly not in my bestest of moods) and I'm driving to the North Shore to drop Diana off at the Dentist. You'd think a woman with a mouth dirtier than a New York subway and balls big enough to tell a man she'd piss on his face as a thank you for buying her a drink wouldn't need a "support buddy" to go have a tooth LOOKED at, would you? Well, she did.

I was miserable. I was hot, my hair was a frizzy mess. I could feel the curls on the back of my head drawing up into a shrub. And Diana's going on about getting off at the gynecologist and why more women don't do it. A conversation that on any other day I would relish for its scandalous comic relief, but at that time all I wanted was to go home, shower, slather on some mint cooling gel, order in Indian, and pop in a DVD, and conk out to Memoirs of a Geisha and fried gobi. Respectively. We finally make it to the dentist office and Diana is seen right away, ever punctual she is. So what do I do while I wait? Read the dusty, old magazines laid out for the Extremely Bored Friend Waiting for Friend. Ugh.

Why, why, why, why, do doctors' and dentists' offices have the same array of Happy Housewife magazines for its EBFWFF people to read? Seriously, your choices are between: Learn how to bake a cake, take up the entire neighborhood's hem, iron a months worth of your husband's work shirts AND manage to do it with three children attached at each hip all at once. Or, perhaps, the EBFWFF's would be interested in knowing how to properly collect coupons and save $.05 on a can of peas or make a water garden or grow tomatoes in an urban landscape with a foolproof -- non-Peta sanctioned -- method of keeping the rats out. I chose the former.

Not three pages in and already I've diagnosed myself with five illneses. These Happy Housewives magazines are nothing but billboards for the latest pill and potion and scare tactics of the pharmaceutical companies. Of course it is. Can't you hear the honchos now? "Women are frantic, neurotic; with the correct wording we can make 'em believe they have everything." Anyway, the one that really got me is from Astra-Zeneca and their 2-page advertisement with a deranged looking woman having a session of mania. With cute polaroid pictures they illustrated some of the most pathetic reasons why you should request more information about bipolar disorder.

A. Sleeping Less
B. Talking Too Fast
C. Buying Things You Don't Need
D. Spending Out of Control
F. Racing Thoughts
G. Flying off the Handle
H. Irritable

Going by this list, every woman on earth has bipolar disorder! Hell, I had every single symptom just yesterday alone. Who get's enough sleep? What woman doesn't talk too fast or too much? C. and D. are deafults of my sex. F. G. and H.? Ha, see me on a lonely, horny Friday night. Basically, this 2 page ad was saying: If you're a woman you probably have bipolar disorder.

Fair.

But nothing a little shopping and gabbing won't fix.

Duran Duran Ain't Gonna Get It

I should be sleep - I have to get up at 5 am for an important meeting. Instead, I'm awake, listening to Duran Duran, wanting to masturbate, wanting to scream, wanting to do something! Anything but sleep. I know, all the experts say don't weigh the day in your head while trying to fall asleep, but how can one not? Especially when you've had a day like mine. I was out of control with Steven today. After I refused New York and dinner on his return, he has given me the icy shoulder. Oh, on the day my hormones are beating the shit out of me. Oy, I felt the cold, steely, stinging hand of rejection today and I'm not sure if I didn't deserve. I'm sure I did. I tell you, things have been rocky since the day he sent me on the road with my croissants. We haven't had sex since then and I am about to explode! EXPLODE.

I'm sure he is punishing me and letting me know that he's not a penis on call (thank Diana for that one). But I want a penis on call. Every girl deserves an on-call penis - at least for a few months. Why is it men can have on-call pussy and women can't? Argh!

Anyway, enough was enough. I took off my panties, hiked my skirt up a little and waltzed innocently into his office, closed the door...and was told literally to turn back around. He was busy and didn't have time to fuck me on company time today. Is that so?! It was.

NEVER let a man know you're horny. They relish the thought. They tease you, brush up against you, let you smell their cologne, uhh.. all the good stuff. I had a million fantasies at my desk after that; came close to popping one off. I was sure I could get off fantasizing sucking his fingers while he stared at my crotch. But no....

Instead, I've got Duran Duran.

All Apologies

I write a post about the sins I've commited and I turn around and indulge in them again - the sin of deception. I know I promised to update the blog regularly again, and I've been meaning to, but I just haven't found the time. Don't get me wrong, things are worth blogging about but I'm swamped with work and relationship issues from family to love. So bear with me, people and I will get this ball rolling again very soon.

Thanks for the lovely e-mails.

Z.

I Heart New York

So Steven and his team are heading to New York next week and he's asked me to join his team and come along. The mischief in his eye when he asked this was enough to convince me. But as much as I heart New York, I think to go on that trip would be a disaster. Everything would be exposed for sure. Plus, I'd have to bring Jan along with me, because he knows half of New York and where to get the best falafels and find knock-off handbags. Of course Steven would want me to be on my back all through the trip and Jan would want me to be on my feet. I'd be torn between hot sex and a $25 Vuitton handbag knock-off.

Oy. Weighing the pros and cons.