The Zaftig Chronicles

In five minutes, Steven is picking me up so we can head to Viv's Debauchery party. I'M GOING TO BE NAUGHTY! YES I WILL! Steven has already told me to leave my underwear in my underwear drawer. God, I'm leaking. Anyway, Happy New Year, everyone! Have fun bringing in 2006, because I sure as hell will.

My ears have popped for the last time this year; I've endured airplane food for the last time this year; I've cozied up to family for the last time this year; I've most likely eaten roasted pears and pumpkin cake for the last time this year. And I'm pretty happy about it. Now I can go back to showering for more than fifteen minutes on a weekend (damn water heaters). I can wake up at 2:38 am and get myself off and SCREAM as I come. Because I don't have four generations of people sleeping or cavorting around. It's just me and a box of takeout beef noodle soup right now. Oh and delicious home-baked cookies I stocked up before departing. Yes, life is well. Home is good. In NH, my mother noted how glowy I looked. "Something's going on with you," she said. "Is there a man in your life?" Um...well...technically yes. There is a man, but I don't want her to know that. I'd much rather keep Steven a secret for now. And yes he called, and we

To be fucking jolly. If by jolly the saying means destroying a much-loved pair of shoes while Christmas shopping. That serves me right for shopping for cashmere sweaters, pearl earrings, and DVDs in four-inch heels, in this seriously fucked weather. Okay, so I wear Uggs out the house, but then I slip my feet into a sinful pair of stilettos when I reach my destination. Sure, frumpy Walmart queens and flat-footed soccer moms are staring at my shoes and wondering how do I do it. Do I tread the slushy city streets in foot porn all year round? Hell no. I know the power of creating porn with your feet, and so I try my hardest to present the most hardcore of porn. However, a day shopping with Jan will render every pair of shoes with impractical heels major softcore. Jan must go to every store in Chicago and the suburbs to find an effing antique lamp "that will fit perfectly in Henry's store." Jan explains that lighting is important when people are spending their money. "

This afternoon I decided to cash in a gift certificate to a "spa" in an unsavory part of town. A co-worker gave me a $50 certificate -- not including tip -- for a pedicure and massage for my birthday. I know, that's cheap, but it was worth a try. It's my birthday week, so a free massage and pedicure is deserved. I left work early for this "pampering" session. YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR! The spa was some store-front dump that had NAILS, FEET, BODY SPA emblazoned across it. Right there, I should have known what I was in for. No one was in the "spa" except for an old Asian lady, who greeted me by saying, "What you want!?" I presented the certificate to her, which she snatched, studied, then sighed. "Sit down," she instructed me. I sat down in a leather swivel chair where the leather was peeling, and digging into my tender flesh. My pedicure was first. The pedicure consisted of dipping my feet into soapy water, prepared -- I swear --

On December 12, 1979, at 6:03 am, I made my way through the birth canal and into the light. It's my belief that when people say "Go into the light" when a person is dying, that the person is simply being born into another life. You leave the dark confines of the womb and glide into the light of a brightly lit hospital room and new life. But I digress. Bald, weighing eight pounds, and screaming at the top of my lungs, I realized that even as a newborn I needed to be heard.  My first gift to myself was to sleep until noon. I even let my alarm clock go off at its scheduled time of 7:30 just to rub it in that I'm sleeping in late.  As soon as I got up, my phone rang -- it was Paula. "Zaftig, I know you're off, but [big client] is here and he wants to meet everyone on the project team. Can you be here by 1:30?" "Sure," I said, sounding overly chirpy. A long time ago, I learned that only you can ruin your special occasions. If you allow things to ups

Steven comes in this morning, hands me his credit card, and says, "Go shopping online. Anything you want." He promptly leaves back out of my office. I didn'y even get a chance to speak.  I was left sitting there with his card in my hand and a wicked smirk slowly appeared on my face.  SEPHORA ! SEPHORA ! I screamed in my head. As if I needed more girl shit , but again: SEPHORA ! SEPHORA ! So I ate Sephora . I won't tell you all how much I spent, because I don't want to hear the number again. He loved it. Is that some type of fetish for some men? Next week the goodies arrive. So he handed me plastic instead of cash; what's the difference, you're probably asking? Plastic is more personal: I saw his credit card number, his personal information. It's a deeper gesture.  Or at least I'll be telling myself that when I'm spritzing on the very sexual Gucci Rush .

I'm a firm believer in the gifts your friends and family give you for your birthday or any other gift-giving occasion reflect how they think of you. A gift-card? That means you're hard to buy for; A gift certificate? That means they know where you like to shop, but they don't know what you like to buy; A novelty items like a plastic tit that squirts "milk"? That means they don't like you. What exactly does it mean when a co-worker gives you your birthday gift early, and it's $500 dollars, in crisp $100 dollar bills, and wrapped in an expensive Pucci scarf? What does it mean when you've fucked that co-worker? "What the hell is this?" I asked, shocked. "I'll be in New York on your birthday, so I wanted to give you this today," said Steven. "The sales lady said all women love these scarves." I swallowed thickly, "I-I can't take this!" It wasn't that he was giving me too expensive a gift, I've had ple

It's unbelievably cold in Chicago, so of course I decided have my hair cold-weather-proofed.  Last Friday, by the time I got home from work, my hair felt so stiff and not well-conditioned, that I had to give myself a hot oil treatment (the kind you do in the shower). So I called my stylist and told her that I was ditching the highlights and going for caramel hair this winter. That way I don't have to deal with the extra chemicals stripping the precious moisture from my hair. Winter is hell on unnaturally-colored hair. And being a former ravenette, it's extra hell when you're lifting several shades up from your natural color.  So this afternoon I left work early to get my hair tended to. I got an ultra deep conditioning, a rich caramel coloring, and less stress worrying about my highlights dulling on me. No added highlights, but there are natural highlights. I really like it. Steven's back from his vacation, and he wanted to know why I didn't answer his calls whi

There's nothing more capable of producing introspection than possibly becoming a parent. Boy, things start to show themselves to you in a different light. What if I were pregnant? (And yes, Aunt Flo is still MIA!) I'd have to find a bigger apartment, a nanny I trust, breast pumps. I'd have to save money for his/her Ivy League education.  Basically, I'd have to stop being selfish.  Being an adult means selfishness 99% of the time. The world literally revolves around you; no matter how self-important that may sound, it's an unembellished truth. We have to look out for ourselves -- that means feeding, bathing, caring, and various other activities that revolve around us and our well-being. Having a child depend on you for survival changes things up, and somehow the world starts revolving around your child. When a woman chooses to reproduce, she is relinquishing her self-importance for a very just cause. That's how I know having a child right now is not for me.  Aban

So there I was, standing in line at Walgreens, a bottle of orange juice and a box with the acronym e.p.t. stenciled across it in my hands. The orange juice is there to make me feel better. This is no big deal; just a city girl buying orange juice and a pregnancy test. There's an old white-haired lady behind me with a tube of KY Jelly and tampons. Okay.... In front of me is a middle-aged man, looking jolly with chubby red cheeks. "Hurry up," he barks to cashier, "I left my car running." Well, so much for jolly. It was my turn. I manage to stop my hand from shaking long enough to put my things on the counter and pry my wallet from my handbag. I paid and fled. Jan's waiting in the lobby of my apartment building, chatting up my doorman. When he spots me he frowns. "Oh, look at you, honey," he says while hugging me. "C'mon, baby, let's get this over with." I smile, comforted by his genuine concern. When Jan's being comfort, his acc