The Zaftig Chronicles

One of my favorite things in the world. I like my falafels piping hot on a bed of cous cous, hot sauce, with lettuce, and avocado on the side. I don't really like my falafels in a pita, because I think it dulls the falafels' flavor. The restaurant where I get my falafels from (sorry, there aren't many falafel stands in Chicago) also makes a falafel burger. I get them sometimes with their delicious yogurt sauce. But the mouth fuck I get from the veg-balls can't be compared.

Because blogging lets me be free. I get to explore the exhibitionist in me without the consequences. I get to tell my side of things, whether someone is listening or not.  Someone once said that blogging is akin to leaving your open diary on the kitchen table. I partially agree. But I think blogging uses a different language, a language that is more freeing, while writing in a diary is more formulaic -- we jot down what we did today or what occurred; it's more like a personal log book. But blogging is more introspective -- at least personal blogs are. It's not good enough to just say what we did, because the format of a blog draws out the impetus behind our actions, almost like how a therapist can extract the hidden depths we never knew we had. And that's why I think blogging is more like a therapy session amongst our peers. People reach out to us; they empathize, sympathize, and criticize our situations, and we take from it what we will. So I think blogging is more akin to

I know people read this blog, but for what reason? I've disabled comments because I don't like what it invites, so there is no open dialogue to engage in. Are you all reading to get a good laugh? I like to think not. But there is so much negativity spewing from keyboards across the world, that it's almost enough to make a girl hate all of this shit. So why do I bother? Brooding. Just brooding.

Sister is here. It's her eyes -- they look normal. Healthy. Thoughtful. Full of life, dare I say? I like her like this.  She came this morning, bearing lattes and donuts from a bakery near my house. I happily accepted, but Diana -- still here from last night's man-dishing fest -- declined and got the hell out of Dodge. Diana doesn't like my sister; she thinks she's as toxic as a moldy basement in July. And she can be. But I think this weekend is going to be fine. I'm going to be here for her. I'm going to be a doting little sister. I'm going to be happy. And so will she.   In other news: I checked my email, and He has sent me a "Date Proposal" for next Friday. "How about we go to __________, have the duck and end up looking out at the city below from you know where. I'd like to do it again. Use that same shower gel, please. And he couldn't tell me this at work, face to face?  What the fuck are we doing here ?  I've yet to repl

This morning I woke up with major puffiness. So I pulled out some cucumber pads that have been in my fridge for about two months, on reserve for a day like this. I cracked myself up by wondering if they had pickled. Yeah, my mind was a little warped this morning. After about twenty minutes of trying to de-puff my eyes, I decided I needed to go back to bed and rest more. Thanks to my getting to bed at 3 A.M., I had to use one of my telecommute days, which is a step above a personal day. I called the office and told them I'd be working from home today. It went over well. This afternoon, I called the office to find out about a deadline, when this happened: "He wants to talk to you," said *Grace.* "He says he needs to ask you something." "Okay," I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. I had *Grace* transfer me to his office. "Zaftig?" "Yes." He laughed. "Just wanted to hear your voice." Mind games. Mind games, I tell yo

It's Zaftig time when the cheap bottle of white wine emerges, lavender candles are lit, and the Portishead CD makes it into the stereo. The phone is unhooked; the cellular tucked away; the lights are off; and it's just me, wine, music, my laptop, and my thoughts. Tonight is one of those nights -- where the weight of my life presses heavily onto my mind. Sister just called and cried for an hour. She wants to stay with me for a few days. I don't want her to. I DON'T want her to come here. It's a cutting honesty, but it's honesty. She wants to saturate me with blackness, and I like pink and blue. My life is shades of baby pink and blue, with flecks of gold thrown in for glamour. I won't have these colors in my life with her enveloping and suffocating black strangling everything. It will crawl my walls and settle above my head, eating at me, sucking me in. Inward I will go to become a shell, a zombie. She wants me to become her. I can't. I WON'T. Life i

And I'm wholly pissed about it. There's not much going on with Him. It appears we're both in the middle of some kind of crisis caused by things starting to get real. Feelings are blossoming. Our thoughts are invaded while standing at the Chinese restaurant waiting on comforting wonton soup. We're beginning to smell each other when neither of us is around. It's getting real. It's getting complex. It's getting human. So, being the fucked humans we are (and we humans sure love complication), the best thing is to pretend we're just casual. Nothing's happening here, right? Just fun...right?  Relationships like ours won't work. We'd be great sexners (new word alert!). Our sex would be intense and tantric, and we'd wake up in the morning and do the whole Ann Sather thing, but with better, more tart apple juice with our breakfast. I'd order bagels and onion & chive cream cheese, read the paper and talk about my formative years. We'd

I want a dog. I want a chihuahua. Aren't they so cute? I've been on the hunt (admittedly half-heartedly) for a toy dog, and after looking at pictures online, I've decided the adorable chihuahua is the dog for me. All the others were mostly hairy terriers, ugly pinschers, and funny-looking malteses. I was looking at some adoption pages, and I ran across a few ads about  dogs on prozac ! Depressed dogs? Now I've heard it all. Also, there were dogs with diabetes, high blood pressure, etc. I'm truly shocked. But I guess to someone who has grown up with dogs and animals, this wouldn't be such a surprise. But I come from a family that has intense fear of anything not human, so having a pet was out of the question.  I think being friends with Jan and Viv, who both have five dogs between them, has helped me with my animal fear. Viv's beagle is just so adorable, but a little too big for me (and beagles aren't considered big dogs). I don't like big dogs -- whi

We're all just tiny specks in the scheme of life. We're not that important.

I have a distaste for drama queens. And "Heather" is one. The ASAP message was for one print that had the wrong background. ONE PRINT! Something so simple to correct. I was embarrassed for her. She answered her door with her hair a mess, and looking like she really loss sleep over this simple error. "Glad you came. I'm a wreck about this," she said. "I brought them home Friday, but I just looked at them this morning. Come in. Come in." When she showed me the glossy prints, I was expecting to see something terribly wrong, but they looked the same. "I don't see the problem," I said. Fidgeting, she ruffled through the correct ones to the one with the problem. "Here." "Oh, it's just the background. Is this the only one?" "Well, yeah." She genuinely looked shocked that I didn't go into a major breakdown over ONE PRINT. "It's not like we have to do a whole run again. This one can be fixed quite qui

This morning, on my way to pick up the Sunday Tribune, orange juice and croissants, I realized just how free I am in the world. I literally had to stop and get ahold of myself on the street. I was near tears. An unbelievable feeling of euphoria swept over me as I was walking. I'm free. Free! If I wanted to spit on the ground, I could. If I wanted tea and apples, I could get them. If I wanted to go back to my apartment and have a vibrator-induced orgasm, I could. If I wanted to just be, I could. Free. I tell you, free. How could I ever be envious or jealous of another human being when I'm free. Free to do whatever I want to do with my life. As I get closer to my 30s, I think these epiphanies will occur more often. And I like that. So I bought my paper, juice and croissants and went back to my apartment, where I noticed a message waiting for me on my voice mail: Zaftig, call me ASAP! I got those runs back. There's trouble." It was "Heather" from work. I called

Men. Eyeliner. Muscles. Bad bleach jobs. Swollen lips. Beautiful blue eyes (Leto). Terrible acting (Everyone!). Unnecessary trembling to convey emotion. Trite. Clichéd. Rhys-Meyer and Leto should be lovers. Farrell sucked. Stone's an idiot. Night wasted. Diana unhappy. Jan very unhappy. The horror.

I'm not on the pill, and it just kills my mother. "Well, what do you do?" she asked. I told her I don't have sex. Which is partially true. The last time I was penetrated by an actual penis was in early March. I have had sex-like activities; oh, many of those. But that doesn't count. I'm a condom girl. As much as I like the feel of flesh entering me, I make my partner wrap it up. I know we're told to make the putting on of the condom sexy, but nothing is sexier than guiding a raging hard cock where it desperately wants to go. The pill. Ugh. I don't trust anything that small and convenient.  Plus, I've heard it tanks your sex drive.  The patch? I might investigate.  But for now, it's Lifestyles. Night.

Jan came to my job this afternoon with juicy, ripe mangoes in tow. But he came to check out my fling. In came this tanned, 6'6'' blond Swede carrying a plastic bag full of mangoes. He came upstairs and met me at my desk. I was wearing one of the new outfits he sent over two days ago; He fawned over how good it looks on me. He knows my style so well. He then set the mangoes on my desk. "They were on sale at Jewel's!" Is being overly generous a Swedish thing? First three great outfits from his boyfriend Henry's boutique, our expensive sushi dinner, and now delicious mangoes. Who knows what else will come this week. I wonder if all Swedes are this generous to their friends. Jan's not exactly the best influence on me at work: Last time he visited, he sauntered innocently to my desk and opened a bag to reveal a bottle of Sauza, sliced limes, and a mini salt shaker. His dog had just died,  and we were both incredibly depressed over it. We did shots out of co

Delicious. Exotic. Expensive. Spicy tuna roll, smoked salmon with avocados (god in seaweed); the daring BBQ chicken roll with shredded carrots and fine slivers of pea pod; all my favorites. Hot. Green. AUTHENTIC wasabi, salty sweet shoyu for dipping. Eaten on shiny, elegant platters with black lacquered chopsticks. A mouth fuck: Sushi. Cold raspberry sake in cedar boxes. Yum. I hate hot sake, but the chilled fruity versions are my absolute favorite. However, I prefer cold beers and peach soda with my sushi. Sushi and sake for dinner? I think so. I'm going to call Jan and Viv and head out.

My mind is consumed with thoughts of having sex with Him. Why do I want sex so much? Is it beyond reaching orgasm? Is it beyond wanting to be penetrated fully and brought to a vaginal orgasm? Is it beyond the scope of what I'm capable of comprehending? Today, at work, he pulled me into his office and asked me to kiss him. I did. With PASSION. Oohh, I had to beg myself to step away from his body. Every erogenous zone in on my body was on fire. Then he said, "Come here." He even extended his index finger and motioned for me to do so. Obedient, I did. And he sat me on his desk and wrapped my legs around him. He took a call in this position; using the opportunity to feel places he isn't allowed yet -- knowing I wasn't going to verbally protest while he was on the phone. I pushed against him, but his strength overpowered me. I liked that. He went for my feet again, and removed them from my new Weitzmans, they fell to the floor. My reflex was to save the shoes that have

My friend Trisha started shooting up at 15 years old. She's 25 today and still shooting up, yet her looks never failed, and she's never looked strung-out. I met Trisha in high school, and watching her get high in the girls' bathroom, after gym, was a common occurrence. We'd go into the wide stall and she'd pull out her little red bag, tie off her arm (or she'd shoot in her feet) and pump the amber-colored liquid into a vein in her arm, all while discussing her history report. She never nodded off or fell to the ground in euphoric bliss; she just shot up and didn't change. When she was finished, she'd light a cigarette and rinse her face with cold water.  She was 16. Trisha still gets high. We've gone our separate ways, but she and Viv still talk. Viv tells me Trisha is married with a daughter now. She still shoots up. "It's like her medicine. She's sick," Viv says. I no longer accept this anymore. I'm not judging, but it saddens

14. A Hot Shower: After lugging home groceries, new shoes (Weitzmans) and dry cleaning, a hot shower will be paradise. The more suds, the better it will be. 13. A Foot Massage: From His hands. 12. World Peace: Or for my yogurt to never go bad. 11. My Old Cassettes: I've outgrown Crowded House, but hearing "Don't Dream It's Over" would thrust me back in my teen bedroom, dreaming it's not over. It felt good to dream back then. 10. A Walk on the Beach: Where mosquitoes will run from my repellent, and the humidity will make my hair its bitch. 9. Dark, Ripe Cherries: I'd like to pop a huge bowl in the freezer for ten minutes and then go nuts. 8. Conversations with Jan: Because he never lets me talk. 7. Fall: The smoky air, fallen leaves, and apples. 6. Michael's Scent: A combination of male, Head & Shoulders, and applesauce. 5. Meatloaf Sandwiches: With gravy and buttery mashed potatoes smeared on the bun. 4. His View of the City: Lights, cri

I was asleep ten minutes ago. Jan called: "Zaftig, Peter Jennings has passed," he said in a scratchy voice.  I got misty-eyed for a second. It's sad, sad news. Peter was my favorite of the Top Three Evening News Anchors. He reported with his emotions intact, unlike Dan Rather; and he was more natural than that robot Tom Brokaw.  And Peter remained HOT. He didn't even look 67!  Smoking is evil. Smoking is death.  Rest in peace, Peter.  You too, MS.

I wear Clinique's Happy most of the time (even though I own more than forty perfumes), but when I'm going on a date, I prefer the number one man-eating perfume out there: Azzura . This stuff is powerful. No man can resist it. And when it's strategically sprayed in certain spots -- spots you know he will nuzzle and caress -- it's even more powerful. Such was my evening last night. Azzura not only roused him, it drove Him MAD. Azzura was delicately sprayed on the inside of my thighs, the back of my neck, both wrists; I placed a gentle dab on my cupid's bow. I took a Kleenex and sprayed it with this magical scent and wiped it across my breast. I even used a spritz it in my freshly-blowdried hair.  I then stood in front of a fan and let the air diffuse the intensity of the scent, so that I didn't go out smelling like a perfumery. (I don't recommend this amount unless you do the fan trick). What was left was a delicately scented woman, squeezing her thighs togeth

I swear I'm going to be a good girl. I swear!   He's picking me up in twenty minutes and taking me out to dinner. I left work early so I could get home and prepare properly. So now I'm moisturized, smelling good, and feeling quite naughty. But I'm not going to be naughty. I'm not.  I'm going to be a good girl, dammit. I will....

I was 20 years old when I decided bush was out. So, I took a trip to a salon that did bikini waxes and paid to go Brazilian. Immediately I regretted it. It was painful; I was red; I was sore. However, my boyfriend at the time -- a tall Italian guy who liked his women bald -- loved it. Diana has since informed me that lady who waxed me was Satan incarnate and purposely hurt me. "Waxing shouldn't be that painful."  Still . I can't. I like being hair-free down there, but I swore I'd never get my special place waxed ever again. Shaving, on the other hand, was a viable option. When bush began to make its itchy return, I gathered shaving foam and a razor and I proceeded to hack myself to pieces. I just didn't have the touch. Nicking my precious clitoris was the final straw. I'd have to live with bush. Or so I thought. Jan came to my rescue. On a cool October night, I told Jan of my latest problem trying to stay hair -free. That night, awkwardness aside, Jan hook

Within minutes of coming to work, I was in His office giving him another eyeful. "I thought about you all night long," He said, while wanting to touch me. I didn't let him. "I'm in your office way too much. People are going to know something," I said. He didn't care. We hugged for a long time; me getting a deep whiff of his sexy cologne. Then we reluctantly separated.  "See me before you leave?" I nodded. What's the deal? Is this strictly an office thing? Is this where the excitement lives? Sure it all feels good, but what's really going on here?

It's official: I'm a slut.  Things I learned about Him today: He likes licking a woman's anus He has a fetish for feet and fishnets He likes my breasts He likes hand jobs -- the sloppier, the better Did I learn anything about his brain? Of course not . The sluttiness that exudes from my pores prevents every man I meet to forego the usual niceties and get straight down to the action. Did I learn anything from last Friday's encounter? No . I let Him pin me against his desk and suck on my nipples. Oh, Man. I almost came. He held my wrists. I like my wrists held. I straddled his lap and rubbed against him. He lifted my skirt and pulled my underwear to the side and got a good look at Jan's work. He liked it. I'm happy that I wore my new set of VS. He was fascinated by what he saw and when he grazed my clitoris with his thumb, I immediately came to my senses and stopped him. He showed me his arousal. I almost gave in, but I gained control of the situation. "You k

We're standing in the conference room where He brushes past me, smiles, and casually asks: "Were you sick yesterday?" I smile. "No," I reply, "I just needed a day off. Stress." He taps my shoulder lightly and says, "Maybe you need another one of my massages." Before I could respond, He dashes out to get a fax. I'm left standing there with red cheeks, a stirring nether region, and a glint in my eye. Massage? He invited me to his office before we leave. I have to be careful: I'm freshly groomed, and I've been known to show off. Oy . Here I go again.

Jan just left. He still doesn't know about the blog. I just don't feel comfortable enough to tell him. I've been very candid on here, but I'm not this candid in my personal life. He knows about most of things I write here, but some he doesn't. I think this is for the best; because once I know my friends and family are reading this, I won't be as open. And I like being open here, without the consequences. This is my open journal, where I get to say all the things that are on my chest, inside my mind, without worrying about hurting someone's feelings. Blogging is therapeutic. It's my way of expressing my inner most desires, pains, and frustrations in a public forum, but with privacy. So can you blame me for wanting to hold on to that? Work beckons.

It's one of those days where work is less important than my mental well-being. So, instead of heading to a tense office, I will be eating take-out and having a day of deep reflection. I'm sitting in an ocean of take-out menus trying to decide what to have for a BIG lunch. Chinese? Nah, had that most of last week. Pizza? Nope. Italian? Not quite. Indian? Uh...close. Falafels? Hot! I'm so predictable. So I'm calling Jan over and we're going to do the whole girlfriends thing, and he's going to groom me, and I just might tell him about the blog. Maybe.

He has my number. He hasn't called since two Fridays ago. He smiles at me at work, offers to buy me lunch, or a cold Snapple, etc,. But He doesn't look at me with That Look as much. Fuck! Of course this is all my doing -- it seems entering a relationship has become the most difficult thing in the world for me to do since Michael. Then again, I'm not sure if He wants a relationship. Maybe He smells my screw-happy pheromones and just wants to hop along for the... cough ...ride. Our sexual-tension-filled Encounter wasn't the most chaste of events. Maybe He knew then: I can have this chick, she seems very willing . Maybe on the night He asked me out for falafels and beers, He was preparing to hear me scream yes, and run into his arms, panting for His sexual prowess. Sexual prowess? Man, I need help. In every other aspect of my life, I feel so put together: I have a wonderful job, wonderful friends and family, and great shoes. I'd just like the other part -- the relati

So I'm kind of angry with myself about Friday's irresponsible behavior. Actually, all of Sunday I was depressed about it. I thought drunken sexual encounters were reserved for perky 18-year-olds during Spring Break. Apparently not true. I hate that I wrote about it in such a glamorous way -- like it's something to flaunt. Look, I got head from a stranger! Ugh. I don't live like this. Then again, I guess I do. The second part of my self-anger is focused on how readily I'll let a total stranger give me head, but I won't meet a decent, well-intentioned man for falafels and beers. How complicated am I? I love falafels; plus I think He's gorgeous, and He's so my type. So the question this morning is WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? Putting things down on the blog allows me to see myself in a whole different light. It shows me how I think. My thoughts are clearer when I write them down. I see the picture of me in bright lights.  How shall I learn from it? Off