The Zaftig Chronicles

I want ice cream. I'm putting on my sneakers and cap and going for a cone of rocky road ice cream at Baskin & Robbins. Sundays are my off days; and if I want to go eat ice cream, then I will. I should be looking over some notes I brought home from work, because tomorrow I will need to know some things from them, but today I napped, showered, and then zonked out and watched CNN.  So much for that. Rocky Road, here I come!

is name is *Jim. He lives in Naperville. He has two dogs. He's divorced. This info courtesy of a clueless Viv. I casually brought up the man in the blue shirt and black slacks to her and she spilled all. "Do you think he's cute?" Viv asked. (Bless her naive heart.) "Oh, I think he has a nice mouth," I said. Wink. Wink. Inside jokes to myself? I need to get a life. Night.

Last night I went to a wonderful party thrown by my friend Viviane. I love going to Viv's parties, because there are two things I know for certain will be in abundance: Men and good wine. Last night was no exception. I had sex ... technically (I think I better confirm with Clinton ). Anyway, the point is I did orgasm last night at approximately 11:34 p.m, sitting on the edge of Viv's pool, my crotch thrust in the face of a man whose name I didn't bother to learn. And thanks to his game of Let's-See-How-Fast-I-Can-Make-You-Come, I knew that it took him less than five minutes to complete the job. That was that. No numbers exchanged; no small talk; no promise of getting together next week for lunch. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Just a girl and her orgasm. This encounter is so strange, and now that I reflect on it without the delicious pinot noir imbuing my brain, I realize that we didn't kiss or even rub parts. I don't even remember how I ended up being orally pleasured by th

14 . Get a Pedicure : I don't feel good about life if my feet aren't properly taken care of. No matter how much I try to give myself a pedicure at home (because I'm saving up for shoes), my feet never feel the same. 13 . Get a Manicure : Always a French manicure, nothing else. It's classy, sophisticated, and feminine. Although, once, I did let my manicurist talk me into some airbrushed crap with my initial stenciled across each nail. Hated it. 12 . Exfoliate, Exfoliate, Exfoliate : It keeps me touchable. And I think this is why I tan so nicely. In my bathroom, I have a linen closet and it's filled with scrubs. Origin's scrubs are my personal favorite. 11 . * SHAVE : Now this is a very intimate revelation, but I promised to be candid, so here goes. I have a personal vagina groomer. It's... Jan! I know, I know, it sounds weird. But believe me, this guy can groom a woman's privates. Is it a gay thing? He gives me the hookup once a week. 10 . Wax My Eyebro

"You're passing up opportunities to have really wild office sex," said my wild and nymphomaniacal friend, Diana. My attempts to explain that I am assessing the situation and that wild office sex may or may not be in the near future proved futile. Other noteworthy quotes from the Divine D (my "Therapist with Issues") today: "I think you're a masochist!" "He has a foot fetish? Oh, that's so hot." "You need to blow Him in the men's bathroom, and tell Him you have a cock fetish." "You're boring me, Zaftig." "You're a major tease. You're teasing Him and you're teasing yourself." "Bye. I'm going to eat carbs." Session over.

I love this shampoo . It's only $19, and it keeps my color looking fabulous between appointments.Plus, it smells so good. Aromatherapy for sure. It's summer. Clinique's Happy is the quintessential summer scent. Must refill quickly. Who doesn't want to smell like ruby red grapefruit this time of year? I think being out of my Stila's lip gloss is the most devastating thing. The poor tube is all rolled up, with sharp edges. I'm seriously thinking of taking a pair of scissors to it, and using my fingers to scrape the sides. Desperate. But for work, this cheap pot of sweet goop will have to do. I once owned twenty-three (I counted) of these lip glosses at one time. It's a cheap fix at only $1.99 Work.

My sister is suicidal. At twenty-eight years old, Sister slit her wrists on Valentine's Day, 2002. She recently confessed: "I did it for the glamour of it." Sister is divorced, no kids, and claims to be the happiest woman in the world now. "Zaftig, believe me those days are behind me. I'm living, girl," she says with earnest. I can't help but worry. Sister has bad days and good days; we all do. But we all haven't slid razors into our flesh or starved ourselves for weeks. We don't all have such scary secrets that not even God can wretch free. Sister carries this. I call her every day and she puts on good for me, but I hear it in her questions: "Do you think "Kelly" (our cousin) likes my clothes?" Why? Is Sister going somewhere? Yet, I live. I love life. How can two girls who've been reared similarly yet life means two different things to both. A burden. A gift. Sister says, "I'm living, girl." So I live. Hope

Sometimes looking at beautiful pictures online makes me feel the world is okay. Usually, the pictures in the Entertaining section of Martha Stewart's website usually does the trick. Look at beautiful pictures and be okay.

Confidence is a rare. I know this. Loving a zaftig body is even rarer, given the whole thin-is-Holy mantra embedded in women's minds.  It takes a confident woman to accept hips that aren't in the 30s, a bust that spilleth over, and a waist that fills hands. This is my body. And I love it. Firm thighs. Long legs. Defined ankles that wear anklets quite well. Toned back. I love it all. I love my feminine stomach; my full breasts; my comforting hips. I love my body. I love the way I look in a pair of jeans and stilettos. I love how my hips catch my waist and squeezes it inward. I love the smooth, silken flesh of my mons pubis (no tan lines). I love the two dimples on either side of the small of my back. I love my body. I love the way He can hold me and feel woman. I love that He knows that my hips would comfort his progeny, if need be. I love my body. This perfume of confidence did not come easily. In high school, I wore frumpy sweat shirts, grandma jeans (the kind that starts righ

All I want to do is sit in a scented bath and smoke a cigarette. I don't smoke -- never had so much as a puff of a cigarette -- but that's how I feel. A glass of red wine would also be good right now. I have wine, but it's not the taste or feeling it gives me that I'm after, it's the ambience; it's the effect a glass of red wine, lit candles, a slim cigarette and sudsy bath water that I'm after. It screams single girl having Really Deep Thoughts about life, men, sex, and...yes, love. Do I want to be single? Maybe I enjoy my Wednesday nights alone in my apartment, watching DVDs and thinking of Him. The Stella Artois Man. The Office Man. The Man. So what if I think it's too complicated a thing to enter, He's there waiting to come to me; ready to take my feet in his hands; ready to excuse me to his skill. None of this even makes sense. I blame the imaginary red wine. Do I need to be single? If love comes in a tall package of black waves, olive skin, l

I'm afraid of The Zaftig Chronicles, for it has made me a new woman. I have tapped into a part of me that wants to expose the fondest of memories and the most tragic ones as well. This blog entices me to be free. This morning's post is something I thought I'd never share, but I felt compelled to get it out of my head. It wasn't a post to offer insight into my life, but a release for me. And I want to do more. Being candid can be addictive . Stephanie Klein has discovered this first-hand. And now I understand the power and healing behind being dangerously candid.

10 Things I Loved about Dating a Rich Man 10. The ten pairs of Jimmy Choos I own 9. Dates that start off at Vermillion on Hubbard and end at the Drury Lane Theater 8. Extremely good oral sex -- performed in the ladies bathroom at a private party. 7. Ordering $200 bottles of wine at dinner 6. Having my first squirting experience -- expertly done during fore-play using the come hither method 5. Having his driver pick me up in a tinted window, shiny black Cadillac Deville at work. (Extra points if I remembered to bring my Jackie-O sunglasses that day.) 4. Having his Personal Assistant pick up my lunch, groceries, and shop for a new DVD player 3. Going to Nepal for a week. 2. Saving money -- because He paid for everything, I saved a lot of money. 1. Dinners at Tru -- where the wine's good and the food is porn. 10 Things I Hated about Dating a Rich Man 10. His mood swings 9. His massive porn collection -- hey, I like porn in muted amounts, but he had an actual porn study in his house. 8

I thought about Him all day.  That day in his office replayed in my head as I ate lunch, talked to clients, checked on my sister. Each time, I thought about his large, strong hands massaging my shoulders, kneading the tension away and replacing it with a more carnal tension; I thought of the how even his office chair felt erotic, as I became aware of the lower part of my body. I thought of how his breath was labored as he described his last sexual encounter. I pretended not to notice his erection. He asked, brazenly so, "Have you ever had multiple orgasms?" My face felt hot as I mustered up a nervous chuckle. I didn't answer. I avoided the question by sliding my freshly-pedicured feet from my pointy Anne Klein mules and pretended to massage them. At the time, I thought this action was simply defensive -- a way to counter his boldness, a way for me to gain control of the situation. "My feet are killing me," I lied. His erection remained. Days after the incident,

He stands over my desk, smiling, as he shows me early runs for a campaign he's passionate about. His hair is a bit floppy today, but the thick mass of healthy black follicles still frames his face in the most flattering of ways. I try my hardest not to think of the close encounter in his office months ago. We don't speak of it. He takes his leave when my Greek salad arrives. He offers to buy me a Snapple before he departs. I decline. I'm having an Evian. As I unpack my salad of feta, olives, red onions and romaine lettuce, I smell his cologne. He's long gone, but his scent -- unmistakably male and crisp -- still lingers at my desk, making my nose climax repeatedly. He did this on purpose.

It's summer. I hate summer. The only thing I like about summer is that I get to wear capri pants, sexy sandals, and show off my skin's amazing ability to tan beautifully (no spray tan here).  Spring is much better: the weather is considerably more pleasant, no mosquitoes, and no sticky humidity. That said, I do like that summer encourages cleanliness -- you have to shower more often, change your sheets more frequently, and exfoliate more. And one thing I love to do is to shower. Give me some Origin's Pomegranate Wash and True Grit exfoliating scrub and I'm in heaven. My last boyfriend, the one whose quirkiness and eccentricity will make its way on the blog shortly, once asked me when I'd showered two times in one day: "What are you trying to clean?" He asked it in such a clinical, let-me-analyze-you way, that I felt weird showering too often around him. Clearly, any man coming between my beloved suds and me has to go. It took me a year to dump him, b

Within a day of creating The Zaftig Chronicles, I've already rode the coattail of celeblogger Stephanie Klein to a mention in the Columbia Journalism Review. Of course, I'm not in New York, but I think the mention is just. Chicago has all the glitz and glamor, but without the $15 dollar beers and exorbitant rents. A single woman in the city is a single woman in the city, whether that city is on the East coast, West coast, or in the middle.

(Random, meaningless post I am posting because I feel like blogging.) First, go to the new and seriously fab Vodka Lounge on Sheffield and have a couple appletinis; then flirt with a tall brown-haired guy who keeps reminding you how much he likes "Cuuuuurrvy women." Pretend that it doesn't bother you that your friend is tempted to show her clit ring to the guy who sent both of you the double entendre drink Happy Ending. Drink merrily. For hours. Stumble out the Vodka Lounge and attempt to hail a cab, but realize your attention is needed back inside, where you will enlist several tipsy chicks and dudes to find your tragically expensive $400 handbag. Handbag will turn up in the ladies' bathroom without even a stick of gum missing. Grab your friend, who is hammered to the point that she challenges you to "take a piss in the men's urinal" standing up. Ignore her challenge. And you don't really care to smoke a joint with some "friends" sh

"Let's get falafel and some Stella," He says. I take a quick look in the mirror: frizzy hair, unruly eyebrows, a pinkish growth decorates my chin. All convenient excuses. "Um, I've too much to catch up on tonight, " I say, knowing full well I'm going to plop my ass in front of my computer, "researching" shoes and Googling my former college brethren (Oh, Samantha So-and-So's in PR now!). These are my obsessions these days. He lets out an exaggerated, disappointed-sounding sigh, as if I was his only hope for Friday night beers and Middle Eastern food. I can't help but feel unnecessarily important and wanted and attractive. Again, I repeat, unnecessarily. If only he could see this "together" woman, sitting at her computer with a bag of stale, chewy popcorn, a surprisingly sweet peach, and a can of gross Diet Coke, hunched over a pad and doodling a stick figure wearing shoes I can only hope are Prada. Doodling! I'm sure ca

So...in honor of the wondrous Stephanie Klein and her lovely Greek Tragedy blog , I have decided to embark on my own blog journey -- replete with blurred exhibitionism, laughter, cravings, and general angst. So what's it like to be a single zaftig woman in a big city? Well, stay tuned to find out. Some days are prettier than others.