The Zaftig Chronicles

In keeping with my Joan Crawford theme for the last three Halloweens, this year I've decided to attend the office party as Mommie Dearest. Yes, I have my 1940s wig, my open-toe cone-shaped heels, and a jazzy, snazzy floral print dress with shoulder pads out of this world. And of course, I've decided to walk around with plastic hangers, and inform anyone within one inch of me: "NO WIRE HANGERS!!" 10 points extra for my cold-cream covered face. Last year, I was Joan Crawford from the movie Mildred Pierce . No one understood why I was wearing thick red lipstick, boxy-as-hell shoulder pads, and why I was acting fidgety. "Does anyone fucking watch classic films?" I remember shouting over the phone to Diana. "You're 24, Zaftig; classic for you is Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman," replied Diana. "Yeah, but not everyone is my age, Diana! I think people were being ignorant on purpose." Everyone has seen Mommie Dearest , and so this costume shoul

My head hurts; my throat hurts; there's confetti in my hair; and I'm wearing a too tight White Sox t-shirt that I purchased for $45 outside of my office today (all he had were smalls). I think a few people enjoyed the view of my breasts cupped in a shirt that rides high and tightens across the chest. Anyway, this city is going nuts. But everyone's not going too nuts, because, well, it ain't the Cubbies winning. This city is a Cubs city and no World Series win by the White Sox is going to change that. Traffic is a nightmare, and I don't know how I'm going to get home.  No point for this post, but just to say hi.

For lunch, I treated myself to a delicious T-bone steak, medium rare, and buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. There's nothing better in this world than buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. Comfort food, if you will. I needed that steak today like I need oxygen. It was pertinent to my survival; pertinent to my keeping my job.  Eating the steak today reminded me of how I've used comfort foods to get me through tough periods.  Breaking up with Michael: Macaroni and cheese. From scratch. I made  béchamel sauce and used several cheeses. I'd make a big pot and use chicken and broccoli to make it even more comforting. It was a glass of Riesling, mac and cheese, and a journal that got me through those tough weeks.  Losing a BIG Account: Meatloaf and mashed potato sandwiches. It was my first year at the firm and this was THE account to get, and I blew it. I ordered this sandwich two weeks in a row for dinner.  When Sister Attempted Suicide: Avocados. Th

If there is anything that can assuage a bad day at work, then it's watching the White Sox win the World Series. It's really a special moment for baseball in Chicago. And I wouldn't be a true Chicagoan if I didn't dedicate a post to my favorite team. I should be in bed, but right now work has pissed me off, and the White Sox have countered that.  I choose the White Sox.  Work can have my groggy, cranky ass tomorrow morning. And late at that. Right now, I'm just giving the love.

I get on my nerves. I always have something to do, but nothing to do. I know it doesn't make sense, but that's the mood I'm in today. I don't want to make sense. I've got deadlines, but I don't have deadlines. I have sex, but I don't have sex. I have money, but I don't have money. I have friends, but I don't have friends.  Wait. I can't do that to Jan. I can't do that to him. He's not a friend, he is the FRIEND. I have to start thinking is a less linear fashion. But then I really don't do that, do I? Are you still with me?  So I had a BAD day at work. A fucked day. A proposal was brutally rejected. Brutally.  Where has my head been?  Hmm.... I can't be objective right now. Fuck objectivity. I've been swamped for nothing. Nothing!  Fuck your shitty cell phones. Your urban marketing scheme can kiss my ass. " She's young ," you're probably saying, as you step back into your $150,000 car and speed down Lake Shor

I finally seem to be getting off Cloud 9 and back to my life. Getting up at 6:30 in the morning and hitting the gym hasn't been done since I started swamping myself with work. This morning, I realized what I was missing. Leaving the gym and rushing back home to get ready for work made me nostalgic for the early days when I was absorbing my independence. Every choice in my life was of my making, every decision. If I decided to go to the gym, who would stop me? I only had to answer to myself. When I moved into my apartment, it took me weeks before I would stay up past 11 P.M. I felt like I was still in my dorm or at home, where I had to be considerate of others. I made sure to pour my orange juice into a glass and not drink from the carton. If I cooked, I made huge portions because it was selfish not to cook for others. I didn't hang my hand-washed stockings and underwear in the bathroom; I hung them on the posts of my bed. I was still living at home in my mind.  Then one day I w

It was cold and rainy.  I sat in my office, sipping hot cocoa, wanting badly not to be at work. He brought me a piping hot bowl of navy bean and sausage soup from the cafeteria, which I devoured. "On days like this," I said, "all I want to do is stay in bed, under the covers, and listen to soft music. " "Well, then let's do it," he replied. Of course, we were dreaming -- because we both have deadlines out of this world. "You need to learn how to utilize your office." At lunch time, he came into my office and closed my window blinds, put on a Sade CD and turned it low so we didn't disturb the office. He found Fleecey and spread her over me. He then massaged my temples. "Now, relax," he said. He then massaged my shoulders, back and legs. That led to a long sensual kiss.  He gave me head for a while, but I was too nervous to let him do it for more than five minutes.  He made me feel so good.  He felt so good. Slowly the puzzle is

Last night, after I left his condo, I came home and popped in my trusty Portishead CD. I needed to hear hypnotic bass notes and dreamy guitars in order for me to go to sleep. Then " Over " came on, and the lyrics in the song captured how I feel about what's going on between him and me. "To tread this fantasy, openly; w hat have I done? Oh, this uncertainty is taking me over" I'm uncertain on how to proceed. And I'm really uncertain if I want things to go further with him. I think he does. But think isn't good enough. Sometimes I feel being single for a while makes some people content, and entering a relationship becomes one of the hardest things to do. It means so much. It means change. The maxim goes: "Change Is a Good Thing," but it should be "Change Is a Hard Thing." Wanted or not wanted. And we work together! That can't be a good thing. It's so messy. But last night, as we watched the World Series and snacked on

This afternoon I woke up feeling the same. No guilt. I'd fallen asleep naked. I didn't even take off my makeup. I fixed myself a can of Italian Wedding Soup for breakfast and questioned if I wanted to leave the house for a movie.  I didn't.  I smelled him and that made me feel even better. I looked at my Caller ID and saw that he'd called at 3 A.M. I must have been in a deep sleep (intense orgasms do that to me). I waited until after my shower to call him back. "I have something of yours," he said. "Guess." "Uh...I don't know." "You're not trying." I looked around my apartment to see if anything was missing. "Did you steal something valuable?" "Yes. Something I needed to help myself go where you went." I went into my living room and immediately realized what he'd taken. "You stole my underwear?" I smiled. "Pervert." He asked me out for tonight. "I think I'm going to stay

I like spontaneous things. Believe me, I do. But when I have an evening planned that features me going through all my philosophy goodies, ordering-in, and possibly watching a DVD, asking me "Can I come over?" is a spontaneous I don't like.  I'd planned for another me night . Until he showed up. He was coming at seven, just enough time for me to smell good and get touchable and soft, which consisted of me exfoliating with a margarita sugar scrub, and then frantically searching through my underwear drawer for the sexiest underwear I could find.  A woman knows when she's going to be bad. Oh, was I bad . But I wasn't that bad. Here's the thing: Things got really hot while I was showing him my underwear. The way he kissed me made me forget all the rules. He came here to do damage. "Let me..." he said, breathlessly. His warm fingers navigated my dripping sex and massaged my clitoris. I yelped, but I didn't stop him. I couldn't. His head descen

Is it okay to forego lunch for a stretch in Nordstroms? I don't know why I do it. I tell myself I'm going in just to look , and I end up spending $150 on philosophy's brilliantly titled products .  I was going to pick up some lunch, and...well, before I knew it, I was back at work, packing bags into the trunk of my car. And I'm starving. Food will have to wait -- I have a meeting at 1:30. As you can see, it's one in the afternoon and the firm is going nuts.  I'd kill to light an aromatherapy candle right now and forget about the world for an hour. I'd kill for some dim sum right now. 

Because I needed to hear a dirty mind and mouth, I called Diana at work during my lunch hour. "What are you doing?" "French women don't get fat," she replied. (She never answers hello.) "Oh...they don't?" "No! They get drunk instead." "Okay, where are we going with this?" "It's a stupid  book . My fucking mind is churning over this shit." Diana picked up this book that explains why French women don't get fat; it's because they lead outdoorsy lives, drink copious amounts of wine, and pay attention to their zippers. This pisses Diana off. "Fuck French women." "That's not nice. What are you doing reading that book anyway?" (Diana's barely a size 4.) "You know I'm fucking Robert." (Robert is Diana's Parisian go-to-fuck. He's in Chicago until late November.) "Okay?" "And I wanted to read something about France, so I borrowed Gina's book."

"Since when is it glamorous to be single?" Viv asked, over fried gobi and delicious, fragrant basmati rice. Since 1998. Ever heard of a show called Sex and the City ? Being single-ish is glamorous in the Big City, don't you know? You get to plunk down $500 for a pair of shoes that kill your feet, drink endless cosmos, and complain about how men are too complicated. You get to eat at exotic restaurants -- because being single means eating out more -- and throw wine-tasting parties and spend lots of time investing in yourself. You get to do the whole therapy thing, too. Fashionably so! A relationship would only ruin things. Because then you'd have to put up with his less-than-perfect hygiene, his dirty clothes scattered all over, the way he handles money. Yuck ! He won't understand why you must have that handbag or those shoes or an expensive pair of sexy jeans; He'll want you to make home-cooked meals, do his laundry, cut his hair.  Where's the glamor in th

Go White Sox! And even though I'm a North Sider , the White Sox has always been my team. And now they may win the World Series. In this world of chaos and turmoil, it's nice to root for something.  Jan's beside himself. We seriously need to get tickets.

What do you get when you sic a tall gay Swede and a curvy single chick on the city? If you answered chaos, then you're correct.  Man, the shit Jan and I will do to keep ourselves entertained. Jan's happy because Henry's out of the hospital on Monday and he finally gets to play Florence Nightingale. So we headed out for a yummy Chinese dinner, then to Rush street, where it was a blur of clubs, sluts, fancy cars, and headache-inducing music, beers and cheering for the White Sox. Then we went to a swingers party! What the fuck? Swingers are FREAKS! There were people dressed in leather, suspended in mid air, and all the usual debauchery that takes place at these parties. Jan and I followed this couple we met outside of some club to this party in the western suburbs, where we were told that anything goes. Everything did. Jan and I pretended we were a couple, and thanks to his goatee -- which makes him look very masculine -- it went over. We were voyeurs. Nothing hot happened, re

My Saturdays usually begin at noon. I use the weekend to indulge in sleeping and showering, I make myself a big breakfast and then shower. Then my leisurely day can commence. This afternoon, I made myself French toast, strawberry salad, and orange juice. I ate while reading the news online.  Alone, fed, and informed is how I've spent my Saturdays for the last two years. I'm making peace. Another ritual is my shower. I spend at least 45 minutes showering like a sud-obsessed maniac. I swear, I finished off a whole bottle of apple winter candy body wash last weekend. And last night, after work, I stopped by my temple -- Bath and Body Works -- to stock up again. As I was browsing the wondrous collection of washes, lotions, potions, and fragrances, I knew being a woman is truly a blessing. I get to smell fabulous, have long hair, wear eyeliner, and pretty bra and underwear sets. Plus, I get multiple orgasms with the right partner. I just got back from the grocery store; another wee

This afternoon, I spent my lunch hour visiting Viv's therapist . For half an hour I sat in a cozy muted-toned office, watching a bobbed blonde write furiously into her notepad.  God, I must be really abnormal , I'm thinking as she shakes her head when I describe that I'm not the therapy type. The she asked The Question: "What do you fear the most in your life?" I thought for a second. "Um... I don't know." She shook her head in an understanding way. "You have to think about the question for more than a second. Really think." "I think I fear...loneliness. No, wait! I fear dependence." But I already knew this. After our time, I hailed a cab back to work, where I proceeded to make a list of my fears. Then I became afraid that I was afraid of everything. I think this is what therapy does to you -- it makes you afraid; afraid that you are abnormal, and that you can't function without therapy. If you're afraid, then you need the

Saturday will be the first Sweetest Day in two years where I'm not expecting a pound of candy and a dozen roses. My ex treated this day in October like Valentine's Day. So that leaves me not excited about this day of diabetes-inducing sweetness that we're supposed to show to our significant others and loved ones.  Last year, Michael took me out for sushi. We ended up having sex in the ladies' bathroom (I tell you, those wide stalls are begging for sex to happen in them). I'm convinced this was the first sign of the end approaching. The year before, we'd done the whole cliché couple thing and had a candlelit, romantic dinner at an upscale restaurant in the North Shore. The evening continued to a fancy hotel that had a massage chair, a swimming pool and hot tub right in the room. We made love until the sun rose and exposed us like a secret. Apparently, the next year, he felt a drafty sushi restaurant would recreate the ambiance of the previous year.  Oh, and my q

"So when is He going to have a name?" a reader writes via email. Aren't you bored of it all? We're at a standstill. There's just too much going on at work for us to fuck around. I know, He's taking naps before noon and I'm popping O's with a whisper-quiet vibrator during work, but really, we're swamped (even more than Viv!) But because I feel we're making progress as far as our comfort with each other goes, it's only fair He becomes more than a capitalized pronoun.  So He is now going to be referred to as...Steven. That's better. Meanwhile, Viv told her therapist that I'm doing vicarious therapy ; to which her therapist replied: "Your friend needs to schedule an appointment. If she needs therapy, then she should go about it correctly." And I'm all like, "Screw that!"  I don't need therapy.  Right?

Viv's back in therapy. With the help of her therapist, she's "attacking why she feels swamped all the time." So her therapist has asked her to write down how her typical day unfolds. Viv was also asked to write how a particular activity she does makes her feel. We did it together. I replicate mine here.  How I feel is in parenthesis. 7:00 A.M.: Alarm goes off. I wake up to Lenny Kravitz's "American Woman." (This song makes me feel so energized.) 7:15: I load my disc player with Black Eyed Peas, Nina Simone, Billie Holliday, etc. (I need music in the morning. It helps me feel alive. I dance in my underwear a lot.) 7:30: Head to the bathroom. I time-budget a shower. This is where I don the World's Ugliest Shower Cap. It's so ugly that I hide it when company comes over. Exfoliate. 7:50: Dry off. I slather on some delicious-smelling body butter; this month it's been black currant body butter from Bath & Body Works. (I stock up on moisturi

This morning, while looking for my favorite sweater to bring in the fall weather, I grabbed my pink fleece blanket--the blanket that has kept me warm in many movie theaters, during long drives, and baseball games (Go, SOX!). I folded Fleecey neatly and sat her gingerly in the passenger seat of my car. Why I was taking her, I didn't know, but I felt like I needed her today. The heat at work blew. My office feels like Siberia in the winter. I am currently wrapped in Fleecey's warmth. She's draped across me like a big, fuzzy pashmina shawl. Instincts. What is meant to happen, will happen naturally. "Trust your instincts," it's been said. I did, and now I'm warm. So what are my instincts telling me about Him? Not much so far. Apparently, they are still working that one out.

He took a nap in my temporary office yesterday. I had to play Duty Girl, and keep people from discovering his unprofessionalism. When *Yolanda from HR came by to ask me about a form I'd returned to her, I had to speak to her through a tiny crack in the door while pretending I was on a call. Please, don't let him start snoring, I silently prayed to the work gods. She didn't seem to notice my acting strangely and promptly got on her way. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and proceeded to sprinkle water on his face to wake him. "Hey, don't you know it's against the law to sleep when you're in advertising?" I said, "Fuck the law," he replied. He stretched out, then breathed into his hand to check for nap breath. He caught me eyeing him. "I don't get nap breath." "Get out of here. Go sleep in your permanent office. " He got up and hugged me, sliding his hand under my skirt. I stopped him. "Is sleeping in the only in for