The Zaftig Chronicles

Goodbye for Now

2006-12-14T01:40:00.000-08:00

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

2006-08-01T12:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T07:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-26T20:46:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Morning Confession: One Sinning Tart, Me

2006-04-04T05:57:00.000-07:00

I confess: I am a sinner. And according to the gospel I am going to hell in six-inch stilettos (Prada, of course) in a handbasket. For I have engaged in all the deadly sins and some not so deadly. What's even more sad is that I can recall specifics of when I engaged in a deadly sin.

Lust: Oh, this one has been sinned out. In fact, I think my early twenties alone is enough to assure me a place in hell. I've lusted after everything there is to lust after -- men, married men, men with money, men with no money, men who want other men, men who want women who want other men. I've lusted for kinky sex that involves expulsion of bodily fluids from both partners. I've lusted after cops because of their uniforms; have had some wicked thoughts about being brutally frigged on the hood of a police car while at least fifteen cops wait there turn. Yeah, girl has Lusted plenty. Check.

Gluttony: Well, this sin is committed at least once a week. I've overindulged on expensive food more than I've needed to. I've spent $150 on dinner for myself on more than one occasion and ended up throwing away most of it. However, I think my best example of gluttony is Fall '04. Jan and I had been water fasting for two days trying to detoxify our bodies of impurities, when on the third day we decided if we're going to break a fast, we'd best do it glamorous. So off we went to Tank, a sushi joint we frequented, and ordered about $300 dollars worth of crap. We ate until we felt one with the sea; ate so much we both puked at the same time. Afterwards, we found ourselves in the drive-thru of McDonald's ordering large fries and non-diet 7UPs. Check.

Avarice: I think a look through my storage room will pretty much book me a ticket to Hades. Shoe greed counts, I think. Product greed? I think so. And of course stealing stationary off the desks of others because I just have to have more stationary is avarice as well. Oh, and playing the lottery when the jackpot reaches the hundred-millions may qualify also. That means half the country is going to hell and all of Texas. Check.

Sloth: Love this sin, especially on the weekends. I've been known to lay in bed all day on a workday or not shower until midnight after laying in bed all day and evening. But the best moment of sloth was when I laid in bed all day watching Fawlty Towers on DVD and gorging on rocky road ice-cream sandwiches (rocky road ice-cream and Basil Fawlty do make for sinful times) instead of popping over and helping Viv sort through her attic. And hey, isn't this sloth AND glutton? Oh, dear. Check. Double check.

Wrath: Not much of this sin in my life. But I did flip off the idiot in the white Volvo who cut me off on my way to work. I entertained thoughts of pulling him out of the car and whizzing all over his face. Yeah. Check.

Envy: Not much of this sin in my life either. I think because of my own self-importance (which is another sin, I think). However, I did once envy Bethany Wellesley in college because she'd discovered a way to NEVER have roots in bleach blond hair. How is this possible? She was a natural dark brunette. I had roots a day after getting my hair done. But not BW. Nope. Never. And she claimed she did her own dye job and that she was broke. So how? Bitch. Yeah, check.

Pride: CHECK. Going to hell on that one alone.

Off to work.

Spring

2006-04-03T11:33:00.000-07:00

It's here and I'm officially happy. Sure, I love cold weather -- fall is my fav -- but spring is my absolute favorite time of the year. I believe I have been through the reasons why, so I will spare you. However, I want to inform you all that the blog will now be updated regularly again, in honor of spring. Had some rough patches and didn't feel like writing too much, but the patches have been sanded down and moisturized and I can move forward. So stay tuned.

Meanwhile, head outside and let the wind fuck you. It's spring.

Streets of (Sauza) Gold

2006-03-26T02:07:00.000-08:00

So Jan and I decided we needed the cool air of the night to satiate our need to feel drunk with nature. A bottle of Sauza Gold, two perfectly green limes, a salt shaker, and mp3 players, and we were ready to go outside and get drunk. Before we left, we loaded our Ipods with plenty of Nina Simone and made a pact that at midnight, we'd both play "Feeling Good." And we were feeling oh so good. I was cold but the heat in my chest felt so erotic and Nina's sultry raw voice in my ear and the host of fine looking males passing us by was driving me over the edge. "I need to masturbate," I screamed. Jan hushed me and snatched the chewed lime peel from my mouth. I love hanging out with a controlled drinker. No matter how much Jan drinks, he never gets fully drunk. Me? Well...I think kicking off a pair of $250 shoes and telling a cab to run them over is pretty out of control.

"Get her therapy," said the cabbie, before swerving around the shoes.

I think I yelled back, "Eat my therapy."

How irresponsible of me to be drunk in public, right? Not really. It's fun when you don't want to do the club scene or deal with snobby parties on the North Shore. Just go outside walking, jamming on your Ipod, with a close friend. It's pretty orgasmic.

Anyway, just got in and I am sobering up -- thanks to the cheap cup of coffee from an all night diner. That's all it takes for me. Jan's in the shower, singing in Swedish and I'm sprawled out naked on the floor, on my laptop, waiting for my turn. Then we're going to bed together. I think I'll masturbate before five a.m. Not something I usually need to do when laying in bed with a man. But....

Snacks of a Different Kind

2006-03-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

So this afternoon, Diana came to see me at work. It was lunch time, so she met me downstairs in the lobby and we proceeded to head to the dreaded cafeteria, where Diana produced a bag of snacks for us to munch on while she bitched about doing her taxes ("I'm writing off lattes from Starbucks"). Snacks to Diana was a tub of hummus, baked pita chips, and diet tea. When we spoke on the phone this morning and set up the get-together, all I said was for her to bring snacks. I dipped a few chips and drank a swallow of tea (ack!) before giving up.

If I had been entrusted to bring the snacks, I'm pretty much sure we would have had a largely different, artery-clogging selection before us. Let's see, I was thinking more along the lines of double battered fried mushrooms, vegetable sandwiches from the Indian stand (with real butter), and mango milk shakes. To which Diana would have probably eaten none of; not because she is watching her weight...no, but because Diana only eats what she loves. However, Viv and Jan would have fought to the death over the last mushrooms.

By the end of our snack date, Diana had eaten all the hummus, chips, and drank both of our teas. On my way back to the office, I picked me up a veggie sandwich, skipped the mushrooms, and drank orange juice instead of a milk shake.

When I left work, my office still smelled like spices. It's a perfume, you know?

Sometimes we're all snacks of a different kind.

Well, My Day Is Made

2006-03-09T13:00:00.000-08:00

If there is anything to assuage for my favorite picture this year losing out on Best Picture as the (F)OSCARS, then it's a re-creation of pivotal scenes in Legos. A reader of the blog sent me this link, and I felt all warm and fuzzy inside after viewing it.

Creativity like this refreshes my faith in humanity.

Gracias, Purple.

Future Promise

2006-03-07T06:03:00.000-08:00

One day I will sit down and spend five hours editing this blog, tying up bad grammar, lassoing dangling modifiers, deleting double words, fucked up punctuation. It's something I've been wanting to do since the blog started, but getting the entry out was more important.

So, expect a HUGE re-edit sometime soon. Not that anything will change in the post, but they will be cleaner, so that when I get old, at least I can come back and read The Zaftig Chronicles and not say, "Damn, I missed all that!"

Off to work (and love in some weird way).

Screw the Academy

2006-03-06T14:28:00.000-08:00

Not much to say about that disaster last night known as The Oscars, but Jon Stewart summed it up best: "Crunchy Black and Three-Six Mafia, one Oscar; Martin Scorsese, none." Goes to show you how much the Academy is full of shit. Crash, Best Picture? Hardly. Brokeback Mountain was robbed big time in so many categories that I'm afraid I'll cry if I have to repeat it here; so I shan't.

I'm really through with awards in general. It's all politics and ass-kissing and campaigning and shitty outcomes. Besides, there are more important things in this world to care about, right? Like Nick & Jessica's divorce: Will he or wont' he get that damn jewelry. God, I'm sooo dying to know this critical information.

Ack. To hell with it all.

Stoking

2006-03-04T13:36:00.000-08:00

So we'd been seated at a cozy Thai restaurant, and by the time my Nam Tok arrived, I realized sometimes I liked to be slapped. The after burn of flesh against flesh, delivered with such controlled viciousness turned me on. We'd just argued a mere ten minutes before he grabbed by my wrists and told me, "You're going to fuckin' have dinner". After all, it was what we'd gone out to do. We were doing the whole dinner and a movie cliche,a nd I was flipping out over a phone call from his ex-girlfriend. I'd hit him on the back really hard and he'd let me, but when I screamed and hit him on the back of the head, he grabbed my hands and held them, then slapped the shit out of me. I nearly came from the blow. I wanted more. Something in me must have conveyed to him that he could control me for the evening. And so he did.

Later, after dinner and expensive drinks, he pulled me into an alleyway and had his way with me. I wanted him to slap me, but I couldn't bring myself to say it to him. The sex was brief and orgasmic, and I got off by feeling that sting on my face. He never slapped me again. And I never asked for him to do it. I self-gratified off that slap many of nights.

He's a powerful memory and I don't like to share much about him. But I'm stoking today, adding pieces of him to every erotic feeling surging through my body. Michael.

The Soothing of Memories

2006-03-03T12:21:00.000-08:00

In these times of rough, I turn to memories of home life. Today, I present you with the memory of my mother and her lack of child care whenever she hears a loud crash or thump in her house.

Scene: A 12-year-old Zaftig has knocked down several large Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedias reaching for the Es so she could look up England (a place she swears is her former-life home country).

Zaftig: (Scream)

Mother: What the hell was that?

Zaftig: (Silence)

Mother: Zaftig, what did you knock down?

Zaftig: (Silence as she put the books back.)

Mother: Ten minutes later: Are you okay in there?

Zaftig: Yes, I'm alive.

Scene II: A 25-year-old Zaftig accidentally knocks over a CD tower, causing it to break and several Karen Carpenter CDs to crash to the floor.

Zaftig: SHIT!

Mother: What the hell was that?

Zaftig: Just me dying.

Mother: Well, did you break anything?

Ah, memories.

Reversing

2006-02-26T10:37:00.000-08:00

We argued. It ended with me storming out of his apartment, carrying the latest issue of Marie Claire, a greasy bag of croissants and orange juice. We'd spent the night together, engaging in satisfying sex, discussing my latest obsession -- Brokeback Mountain -- and figuring out if we should stay in bed all day today. Well, this morning he happily went out to pick up my Sunday essentials, but when he came back he looked upset.

"Here," he said, thrusting the bag of croissants into my hand. He then walked to his kitchen, angrily grabbed a glass from the cabinet and slammed it on the table. "What kind of person are you?" he asked.

Umm.,.what the hell? I sat up (I was lounged out on his couch, bare legs outstretched, admiring my pedicure when he'd returned). "Okay, what did I miss?"

"A lot. I'm tired of this."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was feeling very frightened to the point I pulled my legs up to my chest and morphed into a protective ball. "Steven, what is going on?"

He paced the room. "Zaftig, you've got running around, changing my schedule for you, and you're just not letting me in."(He actually said this; I'm not paraphrasing.)

Okay, we've just had sex last night, we gave each other massages, and then fell asleep to the soothing sounds of Cole Porter. Trust me, I let you in, literally. "Okay, I thought we decided that we liked things this way," I said.

"I need some time to myself, could you leave?" He didn't want to talk, he just wanted me, my magazine, juice and croissant out of his abode.

Oh, it was hasty blur of gathered belongings, angry Weitzmans stomping on the floor, and a very acrid "Don't fucking call me," and a slam of his door.

So he fucked up my morning. No one fucks up my Sunday morning. With my greasy bag of goodies and a smiling, air-brushed MAriah Carey on my front seat, I headed north on Lake Shore Drive at 10 am. I cursed him as I manuevered past shitty drivers, newspaper salesmen, and various people in their Sunday's best. How dare he ask me to leave?!

As soon as I opened the door to my apartment, I undersood. He'd probably thought long and hard while getting my breakfast. She only wants sex, he probably thinks. Isn't this spectrum reversed? Shouldn't I be the one feeling like this? Shouldn't I be the one wanting a deeper relationship? Shouldn't I be the one left out?

I think it's time, guys.

What the F*#@

2006-02-18T11:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, I just read an e-mail from a reader, and it reminded me of the baked broccoli recipe I posted. I went to check it out to verify I got the recipe correct, and realized the post is gone! I don't remember deleting it. However, I can't remember what else I wrote in the post. Does anyone remember this post? I KNOW I wrote it.

Comments are on for the day, for your convenience in respodning to this post.

Fuck Wisdom

2006-02-15T14:13:00.000-08:00

I could barely enjoy my VD dinner and subsequent post-dinner sex because I was getting old. I was aging before Steven'seyes. My youth tossed out with the refuse or un-eaten salmon roe. A few days ago, my last wisdom tooth (upper right side) began its process of aging me and burrowed its way through my tender gum. My lymps node swelled and a light fever came on. It went away, but yesterday as the tooth burrowed out further, those symptoms returned. So there I was, munching on Philadelphia Maki and fucking teething.

"Your teeth came in late," Steven said. "It means you're officially wiser."

My mother asked me at 13-years-old if I wanted to have the teeth removed, and I said NO! People, listen to your mothers. Not only are the teeth painful when they burrow out, but during this process it reminds you of how wise (old) you are getting.

Fuck wisdom.

Happy Valentines Day!

2006-02-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

If you're into one of the most commercialized days ever, of course. Me, on the other hand, I have nothing against chocolates, champagne, and flowers. And dinner. Steven has finally convinced me to leave my house for more than work and buying orange juice. So we're going out for sushi (he hates falafels. Fucked, I know.) I left work early just to come home and get ready.

I'm currently in shockwave mode. I'm sure every woman has been in this mode before a date -- it when you know you're going to have good sex, and every five seeconds a sexual shockwave surges through you. Well, I've got it bad! That's the good part about being a woman, we can be turned on and no one be wise to it. We don't have a tent in our skirts. Although many men claim to be able to smell a woman's arousal. I don't doubt it.

So I'm off to my shower. And yes, the Azzura is coming out.

The Lowdown

2006-02-10T12:17:00.000-08:00

So now that many of you know I am alive, I think it's time I explain to you that I almost wasn't. In mid January, I went through an extremely tough period. I lost my job, my sister showed up to my door at 2 am, screaming hysterically that she cant do it anymore, I was avoiding Steven on a daily basis, because I was scared of the way I was craving him. it was bad. But just as things spiral downward, they climb upwards. And the only thing I regret about the tough spot is that I didn't turn to the blog to vent (because I really needed it). But now things are peachy-keen, and I have learned a very important lesson about life. -- things won't always be bad (or good), and there will be light again. I sat in the dark for a day, just being numb, wondering why. Then the numbness turned into a tickle, and then I remembered I was alive, I have friends, money in the bank, experience. It's hard to be numb when reality makes you know it.

My job fired me after I confronted a misogynistic client. Actually, I stood up for women worldwide, when I blurted out in the middle of a presentation: "Mr. ___________, I think your view about women wouldn't make your mother very proud."

Well, Mr. _________, just stood right up, walked over to me, got in my face, breath smelling like pastrami and rye, and said, "I'm not rich because of what others think of me, including my mother."

I wanted to go insane on him, but my boss was eyeing me like a hawk, with his eyes telling me to be strong. In all my life, I've never felt so powerless. Here's this wealthy, successful man in my face, letting me know that I'm just as disposable as the women he so hates. There was a terrible heat in my chest, and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. "Okay, well, I'm sure your mother regrets bringing a man like you in this world!" I said. I gathered my paperwork and left the office. I needed to cool down. I didn't return to the office, and instead went and ate falafels. When I got home, my boss left an infuriated message, telling me that I couldn't return to work until further notice. So I was...fired.

Three days later, I was sitting in the dark, crying, when my sister showed up. She'd drove all the way from Rockford to collapse at my door. "Honey, I have my own problems!" I shouted at her. I made her some teas and let her sleep in my bed. In the morning, I found out she'd just been rejected by some man who lived in her apartment complex. I comforted her and then told her she could stay with me for a few days. Darkness.

The next day, light. My boss called and apologized for getting upset that I walked out on a client. He pleaded for me to return back to work. I happily accepted. And the next day I strutted into the office, feeling my most powerful. And while Mr. _______'s mother wasn't proud of him, I was rather proud of Zaftig.

Swamped

2006-01-19T15:10:00.000-08:00

Yeah, things are pretty hectic right now. Just taking a spare moment to write this has fucked up my schedule. Work has made me a zombie; I'm living off air, Kung Pao chicken, fresca, and phone calls to half my workforce to subtlely attack their incompetance.I'm so swamped, I don't even think I will finished everything by next week. Seriosuly, life gets like this at this time of the year.

Trust me, interesting things are happening, but I just don't have the time right now to chronicle them. Bare with me.

And thanks for the caring e-mails. Things will resume briefly.

Stepping In

2006-01-10T15:33:00.000-08:00

What's the maxim? Never begin a relationship with someone you work with? But sometimes you just have to Step In and see where things lead. Maybe it'll lead to a sushi dinner at Sushi Wabi or burger and fries at some greasy spoon or a meaningful evening in each other's arms. You just have to Step In and find out. It's risk. Yeah and so is leaving your house. Shit happens, but good shit happens once in a while, and that's the shit you want. The key here is you have to want it.

"What do you need?" he asked me, today at work. "Because I'm willing to give it to you. I don't know how much more I can show this to you."

I want a lot of things: I want better manners; smarter decisions; tastier grocery store fruit; 36 hour days; more competent co-workers; better investments; more time with my family (sans cousins); my sister to be okay; less cramping; more women to utilize the sanitary bags in the bathroom to dispose of their feminine products; less crap television; better books; bad chick-lit to die; good chick-lit to thrive; less blogs; more journals; more hot soup.

However, the things I need are simple: I need to be free; to be human; to be in love, even if it's with something like good deeds. I need someone with bigger hands than mine to hold me, caress me, be a fucking cliche with me. I need...love of a different kind. Not the kind that Jan gives me or Viv or even Diana's sparse love. The love I'm missing is the kind that makes me go to sleep in bliss; plan my weekends around it. I want a lot of thinhs, but I only need a few things.

I'm a little scared to start a relationship with someone who already knows whether I shave or not. I've already opened a very intimate part to him, but he doesn't know the part that I give to the man I love. Sure, he can have all my sex, but my love, my real time, that takes more than making me squirt a hundred times in one night.

Sometimes you do have to Step In, but sometimes you have to makle sure you're not stepping into something unsavory. So I guess I'm checking my shoes.

He'll have to wait.

Too Much

2006-01-08T13:36:00.000-08:00

I'm having way too much sex! I'm doing way too many positions. I destroying way too many sheets. I having way too many orgasms. I knew things had got out of hand when, on a Saturday evening, I was in a piledriver position, getting it every way to Sunday, literally. We stopped at five am, Sunday morning. My back is killing me! I'm on Tylenol and Elexa this weekend. I'm really losing my mind about everything. This morning, Diane stopped by and I opened the door with my boobs hanging out of his shirt. "You look absolutely fucking out of your mind," Diane remarked.

"Go home," I said. "I'm busy."

Diane pushed me aside, barged in, and demanded to see the man who has me in this ravaged state. "He's in the shower," I said. "Now go home."

"Okay, but I'm coming back with Jan. Tell him to go home." She finally left without seeing Steven.

I joined Steven in the shower and we went at it once again. I screamed, "THIS IS TOO MUCH!"

To which he smiled and said, "No such thing."

Oy. Things are getting dangerous.

Happy New Year II

2006-01-02T15:26:00.000-08:00

Well, my New Year was quite happy. I spent all Sunday lounging in bed with Steven. Sure, we smelled like sex, alcohol, and freshening cloths, but it was such a beautiful moment. The only times he left the bed was to bring us toothpaste and toothbrushes, me orange juice, and to pay for our ordered-in Chinese. And the only time I left was to use the bathroom. We even had a chopstick duel that lasted a good ten minutes, with me winning by snapping his chopsticks into fours, to which he exclaimed, "Damn bamboo!" After we were fully fed, sexed, and freshned, we watched On Demand programming, which was both fun (the Cathouse series on HBO) and gross (The Discovery Channel's Medical Incredibles series, where a woman's skin fell off.) Then we talked about our New Year's resolutions. He wants to buy a new car. I, on the otherhand, want to stop buying stuff. "I'd like to be sensible."

He finally went home around eleven, it was then I changed my sheets and took an hour-long shower, where I washed 2005 down the drain. And when I went to bed, everything felt so good. And I caught a whiff of his cologne on my pillow and it made me re-think my relationship hating stance for a while, until I dozed off. And I dreamed of happiness.

Happy New Year!

2005-12-31T20:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Home (Again)

2005-12-28T15:04:00.000-08:00

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 had REALLY GOOD phone sex, and I had to be quiet, so he did all the talking. He was very efficient, and I think he may moonlight as a phone sex operator. What pushed me over was when he said, "I know you want me to be rough with you." God, YES. Be rough, I thought, as pleasure flooded my body. In an antiseptic environment such as a New England house, I longed for filth. I longed to hear the nastiness flowing from his incredibly sexy throat. Under my cover -- in darkeners -- I got myself off three times. I've never wanted him to touch me more than I did in NH, listening to his voice, his breathing, his arousal. So, yes, there is a man, but he's my little secret.

But let's talk about home. I'm here and loving it. Already, I've shampooed, ate stale granola bars, and organized my laptop files. I'm doing laundry, sorting through various Christmas presents, deciding on which to donate and which ones to keep. I'm really feeling good.

Plus, I just learned that Viv is throwing a New Year's Eve party with the theme of Debauchery. I'm thinking of inviting Steven. Heaven knows that's right up his alley.

Did I mention I'm home? Oh, I did? Well let's fucking celebrate!

"...'Tis the Season.."

2005-12-21T16:06:00.000-08:00

To be fucking jolly. If by jolly the saying means destroying a much-loved pair of shoes doing 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 Wal-mart 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 iniquitous 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. "If they can't feel cozy in what they are wearing, then how are they going to fork over money for a $300 cardigan."

Yesterday, we started shopping at 10 am; I swear I didn't return home until almost midnight. My pair of FABULOUS Stuart Weitzmans got caught in a crack in the sidewalk and off went the heel. So Jan had to drive me to DSW, where I found a pair of $40 no-name heels to finish my shopping in. There wasn't much foot porn after that.

However, there was plenty of Christmas music blasting in every store. How many times can a woman stand to here "Have Yourself a Merry Christmas?" Christmas isn't so merry when you're waiting for your best friend to decide between lavender or basil dishes, and doing so in a weird, must-be-a-European-thing way: placing the two dishes side by side and exclaiming, "Basil won't take beef well." And I'm dying in a pair of new shoes (new shoes never fit right the first day) and I still have to buy my mother something made of crystal. Fucking ad nauseam Christmas music doesn't help.

And what the hell is up with people who decide they can toss, throw, cast aside, or simply discard merchandise to the floor? Um...have some manners and put the things you no longer want back to its rightful place. No one should be trekking through a sea of discarded damask pillows because you decided the fringed ones were better. Yes, someone is going to clean it all up, but still have a little fucking Christmas heart and take the extra load off the workers; just for the holidays.

Now my biggest peeve (and it's really something I should be ashamed of ): why do people defecate in public toilets? I'm in Marshall Field's restrooms, doing girly stuff, when a lady comes in and proceeds to release the noisiest dump. Ever. I won't go into detail, but let's just say I could hear the stool's destination. Yuck. Fucking yuck. I know, sometimes a person can't hold it; but at least bring a can of emergency air freshener and start spraying before you do your thing -- that way odor is minimized. It's mean, it's cruel, it's the way I feel, so I shared.

Now that I've said my piece, I have to sign off. I'll be in NH from Friday until next Wednesday, so blogging will be light to non-existent. Tonight and tomorrow will be spent packing and self-fucking.

Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Blessed Kwaanza.

Money's Worth

2005-12-15T16:53:00.000-08:00

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 Korean 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 -- with Joy dish detergent and a drop of some amber-colored oil in a crusty glass bottle. "What's that?" I asked the petite Korean lady.

"OIL!" she shouted back. I wanted to ask her what kind of oil, but the way she shouted made me just accept that oil was being poured into the water. So my feet soaked for about five minute -- five measly minutes, I repeat -- before they were taken out and rubbed briskly with a towel, that, thank God, looked fresh. She then applied some cream from an equally crusty container. "Done," she said. Huh? Done? Wh--? Um, like, what about my toes? Don't I get my cuticles treated with an orange stick, or my toenails polished? This was the pedicure?

"You go for massage now!" the woman shouted. I was escorted to a room in the back, where I was told to remove only my pants, which I did. At this point I didn't ask, I just did. Apparently, my shirt need not come off. I waited for the masseuse. My masseuse was the same woman who'd done my pedicure, and she brought the same bottle of crusty OIL!into the room and proceeded to massage my legs with it. It was a pressureless massage; she basically rubbed my legs with OIL! After five minutes, she said, "Done! You tip!" She actually held out her hand.

I gave her a $10 tip, something that I had to force myself to do. Driving home, I wondered to myself: What the hell did I do to piss of ________? Then I started craving a session at Spa Space, where I know the masseuses are professionally trained, the massages last an hour, and a pedicure involves the cuticles, toenails, and buffing of my heels.

There are life lessons to be learned here. I now know for $50 I can get someone to soak my feet in dish water and rub my legs down with OIL! I got my money's worth.

Looking at the bright side, this is The Zaftig Chronicles's 100th post I never knew I had that much to say.

Birthday

2005-12-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

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 a being born into another life. You leave the dark confines of the womb and glide into the light of 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 be heard. At the time I didn't know that technology would create something that would allow anyone with marginal writing skills to be heard; or at least be read.

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 a client is here and he WANTS to meet everyone on the project's team. Can you be here by 1:30?"

"Sure," I say, in a chirpy manner. A long time ago, I learned that only you can ruin your special occasions. If you allow things to upset you then it's your fault the day is ruined. So I was going to work on my birthday. I could be gong to a worst off place. It's just work, a place I enjoy 90% of the time.

A quick shower, spritz of perfume, and a pair of knee high boots, and I was ready to hit the road. I had a feeling while I was driving to work that I was being set up. What am I walking into? I thought. What I walked into was a surprise gathering in the south conference room. There was a small cake with strawberry filling, several gifts, and...Steven. After everyone sang Happy Birthday and I blew out the one candle, I pulled Steven aside and said, "You were behind this, weren't you?" He admitted it by smiling widely. "I thought you were going to New York?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "I wouldn't miss this sappy shit for the world."

I appreciated the gesture, really I did, but I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there and back to my apartment. Before I left, Steven asked, "Let me give you a real present." I agreed and told him to call me around 10 pm.

When I returned home, Jan, Diana, and Viv left messages ranging from "Where the hell are you?"(Jan), "Tell me you're not working today?" (Viv), and "You know you've lived more than a quarter of a century, don't you?" (Diana). I called them all back and they decided we will go out for a Chinese dinner and then head back to Viv's for music, wine, and celebration. What great friends I have. I love my life.

But the biggest gift I received was when I got back home from the office party and found Aunt Flo waiting for me. Someone's not going to be happy you're here. But I'm EXTREMELY happy she's here. She's the world's greatest aunt.

Eating Sephora

2005-12-08T14:16:00.000-08:00

Steven comes in this morning, hands me his credit card, and says, "Go shopping online. Anything you want." And he promptly leaves back out of my office. I'm left sitting there with his card in my hand and a wicked smirk on my face. SEPHORA! SEPHORA!

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. And the way I thanked him was by letting him give me head. Next week the goodies arrive.

So he handed me plastic instead of cash; what's the difference, you're probably saying? Well, 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 sexual Guuci Rush.

The Revelations of Gifts

2005-12-07T14:55:00.001-08:00

I'm a firm believer that the gifts your friends and family give you for your birthday or any other gift-giving occasion reflects how they think of you. Sometimes you get a gift-card (that means you're hard to buy for); sometimes you get gift certificates (that means they know where you like to shop, but they don't know what you like to buy); sometimes you get novelty items like a mini plastic breast that squirts "milk" (that means they don't like you).

What exactly does it mean when a co-worker gives you your 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.

I swallowed thickly and stammered, "I-I can't take this!"

It wasn't that he was giving me too expensive a gift, I've had plenty experience in that, it's that he gave me cash. NEVER give a large sum of cash to a woman you've only known for a little time. I felt as if he was paying me for my services. I handed the "gift" back to him. "I'm sorry, but I don't think this is right for me."

"Why?" He took the gift back. "I thought you would like this. Maybe you can buy some shoes or something."

"You take the money and buy me a gift; I don't want cash," I said.

"What would you like?"

I'm a firm believer that the gifts a man buys for a woman says a lot about what he thinks of her, so I said, "You buy what you think is right for me."

And so we wait.

Weather-Proofing

2005-12-06T15:35:00.000-08:00

It's unbelievably cold in Chicago, so of course I decided have my hair cold-weather-proofed. Last week, 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 going several shades up from your natural color. When the hell will jet-black hair be the new trend?

So this afternoon, during an extended lunch break, 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.

Steven's back from his vacation, and he wanted to know why I didn't answer his calls while he was away. "I've been busy," I said. Busy fucking taking pregnancy tests and checking for Aunt Flo (she's still MIA, people!).

"Oh. Did you miss me? Did you need me?" he answered back.

I smiled and patted him on the back. "I need a lot of things, but right now what I need most is some time to myself." He looked so deflated. I mean, saying that is like one step above the whole 'It's me, not you' thing.'

Doesn't he know that winter is hell on single hearts? The cold cracks the glue where the hearts have mended, and gaps form and packed inside those gaps are baggage and issues and a bunch of stupid expectations. And so a girl has to weather-proof accordingly. You weather-proof your home, your hair, your clothes and now your heart. And come spring, it sets all right again.

Introspection of the Necessary Kind

2005-12-03T13:38:00.000-08:00

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 was 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 independent adult means selfishness 95% 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 just cause.

That's how I know having a child right now is not for me. Abandoning selfishness takes true grit, and I just don't feel I am able or ready to take on the responsibility and altruism having a child requires. But I know one day I will be ready. Just not now. And I'm okay with that.

Look at me: writing as if I AM having a baby. It's just that I wondered what if I really was pregnant? Honestly, it would have been a deep blow. But with all that said, I think my current life will pretty much remain the same. I enjoy sex and so I'll do what I enjoy. But maybe I'll look into a more secure form of birth control.

It would be selfish of me not to

Tick-Tock

2005-12-02T12:58:00.000-08:00

So there I am, standing in line at Walgreens, a bottle of orange juice and a pricey box with the acronym e.p.t. stenciled across it. 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 a tampons. Okay, I'm thinking, what's wrong with this picture? 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's 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 pay and flee.

Jan is waiting in the lobby of my apartment building, chatting up my doorman, when he spots me. "Oh, look at you, honey," he says while hugging me. "C'mon, baby, let's get this over with." I smile, comforted by Jan's concern. When Jan's being comfort, his accent thickens considerably. His accent is thick as he calms me on the elevator ride up. "There's nothing to it -- just whiz and wait. We will not go dark."

"Go dark" is Jan's way of saying not to stress out over something. At that point, I hadn't gone dark yet, but I was sure going dusk.

Once inside my apartment, we read the instructions: For a more accurate reading, test your urine when you first wake up in the morning. "Damn," I shouted.

"There're two test here," said Jan. "We can use one right now, and in the morning, you can try again."

Instantly I feel better. See, that's why I need Jan around me at least four hours a day. Honestly, Jan is so important to me. He makes the world a better place.

The test says to hold the test strip in a stream of my urine for at least five seconds. Old feeling surface as I position myself for the test. Remember when Michael held the test strip for you, because you were too nervous to hold it? I smiled. We both were nervous. We swore we wanted no lines, no positives, no colors. We wanted to leave that bathroom single, child-less people. And we did. Back then, I was a bit disappointed that the test was negative, but not because I wanted a child (deep down, I didn't), but because I wanted Michael. Getting pregnant by him would have given me him forever. It was a silly notion, and a half-hearted one. This time, if the test had screamed YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT, AND YOU NEVER WILL BE! I would kiss it and make it breakfast.

I waited five minutes, before I removed the cap. Jan was given read duty. I handed him the test, and squished my eyes shut. "Yes or no," I said, weakly.

I felt Jan's breath on my cheek as he kissed me. "NO!"

I opened my eyes and snatched the test from him. No lines. I was not pregnant. Relief. But only for a minute; when I realized I still have to test in the morning. Jan made me get dressed and took me out for falafels. We didn't discuss pregnancy or the test, instead we discussed work. I avoided mentioning Steven's name. Just thinking about him brought on anxiety.

The next morning, I did the second test. No lines. Negative. Relief.

I don't think I'm pregnant, but aunt Flo better show her ass soon or I may have to investigate her disappearance. So no lines, and girl is feeling swell.

Late

2005-11-30T12:26:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things I enjoy late: Sleeping in late, being fashionably late, late for work (well sometimes). However, there is one thing I hate to be late for -- at least at this time in my life -- and that's my proverbial aunt Flo. As dreadful as a visit from her may be, she is a welcoming reminder that my choice for birth control is fucing working. Sure she brings cramps and the occasional bitchiness, but she only stays a few days, unleashes her wrath for my not giving her any nieces and nephews to babysit, and departs, threatening to stay on my ass for at least another thirty years. Flo was expected to be here around Monday, but it's now Wednesday and she has yet to show her pretty little red-head. She's usually never late. I can't help but wonder -- IF SHE WILL EVER SHOW!

Okay, the above paragraph was cute and metaphorical, but trust me, I am not taking this thing too lightly. I have to be cute right now in order to take the seriousness out of the situation; for my sanity. I have to be lighthearted; otherwise, I will have a breakdown right here at work. I've been heading to the bathroom on the hour, checking to see if Flo is ringing the bell, but she's not. People are probably beginning to think I have bulimia or something. I don't care, I'm a wreck.

And Steven is still on vacation, not that I would share this surely terrifying news with him, but I just want to take out my frustrations on the possible source of my aunt's disappearance. Remember when he was holding your hands behind your back and doing you? Yes. Well, remember you wondered why his penis felt different, better? Yes. Maybe he took the condom off. Oh God. You can get pregnant from pre-cum, you know? Shut the fuck up! I've been experiencing these thoughts for the last two days. They don't help.

So after work today, a journey to Walgreens will be embarked upon. And for the second time in my life, I will wait for a minus or a plus. I know it's early, but better to be early than too late.

Home

2005-11-27T13:46:00.000-08:00

Home at last! I love being with family this time of year, but coming to the home I've made for myself is the best thing in the world. I don't care that I have to unpack or that I have to pay bills or make an appointment with the dentist or even that I have to clean my apartment. I look forward to doing these things, because it's me; it's what I do. So while I enjoy spending time with aunts, uncles, and yes...even cousins and eating the food of my childhood, it's still doesn't compare to the feeling of turning the key in your own door and flicking on the lights you pay for very month. Nothing beats independence. I promise you.

Jan was miserable. He missed Henry terribly, and since Henry is not out to his family, Jan didn't get to invite Henry's family to their home, where he swears he can set a table that would make Martha Stewart cry. I know this is true because I've seen Jan at his best when it comes to making things all pretty. So in the hotel room, Jan unloaded his transferred-from-VHS-to-DVD I Love Lucy discs and consoled himself by watching the frantic red-head. At around 9pm, he'd pop in a DVD and settle in front of the television, with his cell phone. Ten minutes into the show, he'd make a call to Henry. They would talk for about five minutes, then Jan would tear up and whisper into the phone things I tried not to hear. Love words for his Loved One. After he'd get his Henry fix, he'd run his hands through his shoulder length, well-conditioned blond hair, sigh, and then laugh at a funny stint by Lucy and Ethel. Before we left NH, I've seen Lucy drink sedative-spiked seltzer water, stuff chocolates into her mouth, get furniture against Ricky's wishes, go to to Hollywood, and eat butter and watercress sandwiches. Jan recites EVERY line, down to the nuances. I like him like that. It's sad that Henry isn't courageous enough to share his lover with his family, but who am I to judge? I can't even go down that road. I was there for Jan, even when he overcooked the dumplings and my Nanna looked at the pot as if it had been destroyed. But being Jan, he just picked himself up and tried again. He aced it. He aces a lot of things, especially friendships, our friendship.

Now to my cousins -- they were unusually tamed this year. I have four cousins, all girls, and all around the same age. This is the weird part, my mother has two daughters and her two siblings have two daughters apiece. The eldest is only 31. We basically grew up together and did the same stuff as kids, but there was always competition. Who's smarter, prettier, sexier, even who's more orgasmic (more on that in the future). Here's the rundown:

Uncle Gary's Daughters

Deepa & Soniya

Uncle Gary married a beautiful Indian dentist and produced two spoiled, raven-haired, grey-eyed brats. Deepa (28) is what I call a career at-homist -- she plans on staying at home for the rest of her life. She doesn't work and her claim-to-fame is her wonderful saying: "Mommy and daddy are rich, so why should I worry about anything?" On a scale of 1-10, our get-along score is 6. At least she says hello and asks how I like working, as if having a job and earning my keep is such a terrible thing. That's about where the niceties end.

Soniya (23) is the smart aleck brat, with an Ivy League education to back her up. Ask her anything and she probably knows the answer. She's unbelievably beautiful, but a serious bitch. Even she and her sister don't get along because she's always being referred to as The Pretty One. Our score: 4. She speaks but barely.

Aunt Emma's Daughters

Tracey & Kelly

Tracey (31) hates all of her cousins, especially my sister. She is pure evil. She's married to an alcoholic, but is in SERIOUS denial. Last Christmas, her husband got incredibly drunk and proceeded to pull down Soniya's skimpy top, and Tracey attacked Soniya, saying she was flirting with her husband. "You curry bitch!" she screamed. My grandmother made them leave, and they stayed the rest of the holiday in a hotel room. Our score: 2. We don't speak. This year, she rolled her eyes at Jan and mouthed homo to her sister Kelly, the only one who can stand her ass.

Kelly (26) is a few months older than me, so we pretty much were supposed best-friends as children. The only problem with that was WE HATED each other. We broke each other dolls and pulled each other's hair . We competed for everything. Then the copying began. I have caramel hair and champagne highlights, she has caramel hair and champagne highlights, I'm in advertising, she's in advertising, I'm a size fourteen, she's a size fourteen (down from an 18); I can squirt, she can squirt. We proved it to each other last New Year's Eve. We both slept with her boyfriend (I WAS WASTED! POOR JUDGMENT!) that night, and when I released, her face turned red. It was as if I ruined the surprise she had; the one thing she was going to outdo me with. After my performance, she hops along (wink) and starts screaming like his cock is THE ONLY cock left in the world. She's really trying to build up one hell of a release, and finally she pops all over everywhere. "Yuck! Are youuu pisshing?" I slurred.

"That's cum, baby! I'm more orgasmic than you," she happily said.

I didn't argue. The next day, I felt like absolute shit for 1) sleeping with my cousin's "boyfriend" and 2) knowing what her vagina looks like! Two things no woman should ever know or do. Anyway, our score: 0. After that little incident, we didn't speak until this Thanksgiving. "You're losing weight," she said.

"Oh, don't start dieting yet," I said, "I plan on gaining it back this week."

However, the most fun I had was when Jan and I stole a jar of maraschino cherries, creamed jello, and chocolate donuts and snuck them to our hotel room, where we medicated appropriately and cut a few bitches down.

Glad to be home! Glad to fucking be at HOME!

Thankful

2005-11-22T11:30:00.000-08:00

I can't imagine spending the holidays without my family or without having turkey, mashed potatoes, and roasted pears. I guess it's one of those things I'm thankful for. But people like Diana can chuck the family thing and serve Chinese food for Thanksgiving. "Kung Pao chicken is a perfectly fine substitute for turkey," she said last year. "While you're fussing with your cousins over whose got a better life, I'm spooning extra peanuts on top of my plate."

It's true: my cousins and I have issues, but a cozy New England dinner makes up for everything. The smells permeating the air is almost enough. I'm thankful to receive big hugs from women who smell like Jean Nate or imitation Joy. I'm thankful to pry the wine bottle from my grandfather's hand when he starts to stutter. I'm thankful that I will have Jan with me. I'm thankful that I don't have to serve Chinese food or even make Thanksgiving dinner. I'm thankful I can afford to go "home" for the Holidays.

I'm thankful for my family, my friends, my readers, myself. I'm most thankful for life. So with that, I head off to NH, and I will see you all next week. Oh, by the way...

Happy Thanksgiving! Be thankful, dammit.

Milestone Part II

2005-11-21T17:12:00.000-08:00

So where did I leave off? Oh, yeah, the whole squirting thing. Turns out I'm the first woman he's ever been with that could do that. He had lots of questions -- "What does it feel like?" Does it feel like a regular orgasm? How'd you first know you can do that?"

I answered respectively: "It feels amazing. It's almost hard to describe but the best way I can describe it is releasing of pressure. It feels like I'm releasing pressure in my vagina. It feels like I have to urinate at first, but then it heightens to a sexual feeling, and all I want to do is push.

"A regular orgasm feels more like contractions, squirting feels more like pressure. Squirting is more intense, but on a different level -- the intensity is in the release. When I push out, the release is what feels so effing good. It's all about the release. When I have a regular orgasm (clitoral), I can feel it all over my body. It's a lovely feeling. More romantic, sensual. Squirting is more primal.

"A Guy I used to date took me into a bathroom at some party, and gave me the best hand job this side of Nevada. Before I knew it, I had to whole bathroom floor wet. The feeling was so amazing, I was literally speechless for about twenty minutes. I remember we were driving back to his house and I kept saying, 'Do it again! Do it again!' That's how good it felt."

"Wow. So I take it I did a good job?" he asked.

"A fantastic job."

Saturday afternoon, he drove me home, and as I got out of his car, I jokingly reached into my pants and checked for my underwear. "Just making sure, "I said. He winked.

When I got upstairs, I flopped down on the bed, exhausted. What did I just do?, I thought. You had really good sex, I answered back. Do I want more? "Yes." No, do I want mooooore?

The answer to that question needs more thought. So I'm thinking.

Milestone

2005-11-19T15:30:00.000-08:00

We finally had sex. Real sex. The kind that leaves you sleepy, exhausted, and tingly throughout the night. I showed up to his apartment, carrying Elexa freshening cloths and condoms. I came ready to go on an adventure, the adventure he promised me. An adventure it was.

The sex lasted five hours. We started at 7 pm, and ended (by falling asleep in front of the fire place) at around eleven. He tapped every sexual market -- toe sucking, massage, and even restraining me while he has his way with me (really loved that). I was thoroughly orgasmed!

Absolutely NO NEED to frake. He was fascinated by my ability to squirt. He even stopped mid-thrust to examine the liquid. "It's not pee," I said.

He looked at me as though I'd insulted him. "I know that. But what does it feel like?"

I urged him to continue thrusting and I would describe the process as it happens.

But you'll have to wait to read the rest, I've got a ton of laundry to do. Just wanted to chronicle a milestone in our "relationship."

Blowing Jobs

2005-11-16T12:53:00.000-08:00

All he asked for was a simple blow job, and I blew it. He asked me to do a job, and I blew it, literally. I'm on my knees, bobbing on his hardness; my mouth feels like it's ready to have an orgasm. I'm moaning and going to town, it's feeling better to me than it's probably feeling to him. Then a knock on my office door: "Zaftig, are you sick?" *Paula* asked.

PANIC.

PANIC!

Shuffling quickly, pants zipping, shirt tucking, mouth wiping. "I'm fine, my stomach's a lttle queasy."

He looked deflated. "Well, you blew that."

"Meaning the job?" I asked.

"You can't be quiet ? I'm quiet when I blow you."

"First of all, we shouldn't be doing this at work."

He shushed me. "You blew the job, embrace it."

I embraced it.

But I missed a deadline for a report I was doing; so technically, I blew two jobs today.

More Sensibility

2005-11-13T19:44:00.000-08:00

While still on this whole sensibility thing, I headed to Menards, and purchased a sunflower shower head. It's truly beautiful and sensible. I've already tested it out with some sudsy raspberry sorbet body wash. It was like taking a shower under a waterfall. What's so sensible about purchasing an oversized shower head, you ask? Well, it's sensible to take care of myself and to make myself feel good. And you know I love me some shower. So investing in a beautiful shower head is truly a sensible thing. I like this sensible stuff. (Even if my interpretaion of it is a bit jaded.)

In other news: I'm taking Jan to New Hampshire for Thanksgiving. New Hampshire is where my maternal grandparents live, and where I have spent all my Thanksgiving since birth. Jan's excited -- he wants to make meatballs and some dumplings. I'm sure the family is looking forward to munching on something other than the traditionals. I've already booked the tickets.

Besides, I need someone to help me make fun of my cousins. And, honey, Jan can cut a bitch down! And trust me some of these bitches need cutting down, big time.

Sense and Sensibility

2005-11-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

I decided that going grocery shopping was more important than buying a pair of shoes. I'm being sensible. Because, really, it's the right thing to do. A recent e-mail from a reader made me think about the lack of sensibility in foregoing basic necessities to achieve feet porn. Having a fridge with nothing but orange juice and dried fruit for more than a week is not sensible. Especially when you can afford to not have a fridge like that. Money is not the issue (okay, sometimes it is.) Time is my problem -- I end up spending my free time shopping for shoes and products, that when it's time to shop for sustenance, I have to rush into Jewels or Dominicks, grab orange juice, candy, and a few boxes of Healthy Choice to feel like I haven't totally neglected things. That's groceries lately.

I need good olive oil, garlic bulbs, red onions, basil, and firm tomatoes. I need pasta in many awe-inspiring shapes; broccoli that I can roast with kosher salt and olive oil; I need lemons and avocados and pears. I need cheeses and cream to make casseroles. I need ground beef to make homemade Salisbury steaks. I need potatoes to roast or mash. I need to open my fridge and see color. I don't see color a lot these days. "A fridge isn't a fridge if there's no green in it," words from my aunt. Green is the best color inside a fridge. It pops. Herbs are green. Herbs mean you care about food going to that next level.

That's what I want now. It's been menus and phone calls to people with poor English skills; it's been re-heating lamb and mint sauce, while pouring over work-brought-home. I don't have enough going on in my kitchen, and so I changed that today. I've got greens and reds and yellows and even blues. But I'm most proud of the sack spinach I bought. I get to make spinach salad the way I like (tender leaves with shredded carrots and cheese, with black olives and boiled eggs on top).

I've got enough stuff. Now I need more me. So I'm making roasted broccoli, steak, and gralic mashed potatoes...for one.

Misty-Watered Colored...

2005-11-10T12:24:00.000-08:00

So I've downloaded The Way We Were. It's currently on replay, and it's really turning me into an emotional wreck. I need to stop listening to this song. I'm literally turning into myself, and thinking about how lonely I feel. I think I want someone to come into my office and give me a deep hug and make me feel safe. Someone? Okay, Steven...even if he has to limp to do so.

I've got a major meeting at 3:30, and I don't need to be in this state. I want to run over to the noodle shop and get some lo mein, because that's the only thing my mouth wants. My tongue wants to play with the texture of the noodles. So it's the laughter -We will remember,...

I'm refusing to let myself have memories, because then I'd have to be admitted somewhere for having a breakdown. God, this song is painful. I have to stop.

Must get control. Oh, hell just one more play.

The Way I Was (This Morning)

2005-11-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

You should have seen me: a complete wreck, crying, makeup running, tissues flooding the room. I was in my work clothes, ready to start the day, when I made the mistake of hitting the On Demand button and realizing that The Way We Were was a choice. I chose. I chose! I watched. I cried. I longed. I worshiped. I learned. It was my first time seeing the movie, and it was worth going in late to work.

Do yourself a favor, watch the film. It's the Sex and City before Sex and the City.

Goodies

2005-11-07T17:20:00.000-08:00

Who struts down an uneven street in stiletto heels, carrying a bag of kettle corn, hot chocolate, and today's paper to a man who just informed her he hasn't showered in three days, during her lunch hour? Hmm. If you guessed me, then you're wrong.

Try Diana. "He's starting to piss me off," she shout over the phone this afternoon.

"Okay, forget your emotions, you had kettle corn and hot chocolate?" I asked.

"What's with Frenchmen? They think women are at their fucking disposal."

"What's wrong with bringing your man some goodies."

"Nothing, but If I bring him goodies, he better give me some fucking goodies, too."

"And that would be?"

A long silence... "A shopping spree at Nordstroms or at least good head. Definitely not his stinky ass laying in a hotel room and talking on his wireless phone, and motioning for me to put everything on the coffee table. What am I, room service on heels? Damn right, a shopping spree"

"For bringing him popcorn and hot chocolate?"

"And today's paper. It was the Tribune."

"Well, I'd hate to see if your bought him lunch or dinner."

"Then he'd be buying me Nordstroms."

Diana sure keps me grounded.

Sunday Morning

2005-11-06T11:03:00.000-08:00

I just got home. I spent most of the night in the emergency room. Don't worry, it's not me that got hurt. Actually, it was Steven. He sprained his ankle. It was cute, really. His foot missed the curb, and down he went. "Oh, I'm down," was his first response. That was just too cute.

I made fun of him: "I'm wearing four inch heels and you can't even get over a little curb in flat shoes?" He kindly reminded me that men DO NOT refer to their shoes as flats. I took the lesson.

He tried to get up and start walking, but the wince he made let me know that he needed to head to the ER. So I drove him. Once we were inside and he filled out the neccessary paperwork, he made me promise to stay with him. "Stop being a baby," I said, "it's just a sprain." I stayed.

He was discharged around midnight, and I had the pleasure of helping him into his apartment. (Thank God for doormen.) It was a sight: a 5'6 inch woman hauling a 6'3'' man into his apartment. The doorman took appropriate pity on me. He carried my shoes.

I left his house at eleven, after I'd gotten him breakfast from McDonald's. He tried to get me to stay. I told him I wanted to enjoy the morning. "It's been a while," I said, as I kissed him good morning.

Laying It all Out

2005-11-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

I'm meeting Steven for a late lunch, in about an hour. He wants to discuss "where things between us are heading." I thought I could answer his question by reminding him of our most recent encounter. Basically, a sexual relationship. I know at least that could work.

Honestly, I'm afraid of going any further than that -- even though I want to, but I'm not sure I can deal with a relationship with someone I work with. A person who I'd see every day, 9:30-5:30. There would be awkward moments, knowing looks, and I'd have to make sure to wear pretty underwear all the time, because I'd never know when he will want a quickie before the 10:15 meeting. Oy.

Are these silly reasons? Of course they are. All excuses are silly. Still, I'm back at that whole instincts thing. My instincts tell me, and loudly, THIS WON'T WORK! But he wans this to materialize beyond giving me head and one stroke fucks. He says he wants to wash my hair and rub lotion on my legs. "I'll even make you peppermint tea on Sunday mornings." I haven't seen a Sunday morning in two years. He'd make my favorite tea and by the time I wake up, it would be room temperature. I hate room temperature.

He says he wants a relationship. And I want...something. Something other than eating falafels alone. Jan hate falafels; Viv eats her's smelly. Steven eats them in salads. I could deal with that. But I don't have space for him in my apartment. No. Can't do that. And I'm a clean sleeper. When I get out of bed, all I have to do is turn the comforter up and the bed is made.

What the hell am I doing? I have to dry my hair.

Paying It Forward

2005-11-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I took the train to work, and on my way there, my handbag spilled out onto the train's floor. Pantiliners, gum, hairspray, lipstick, and handcream littered the rubbery floor. "Oh, God!" I shouted. A barrage of friendly strangers proceeded to help me pick up pieces of my daily life. "Thank you, thank you," was on the turntable. I felt like mere thank yous weren't enough. This kind act by people who I don't know from Adam overwhelmed me. If one of them had asked for a kidney at that moment, I might have considered it. Seriously.

When I got to work, I thought about how people seem to be much nicer to strangers than to the people we know and love. I know the whole pay it forward thing is an idyllic way to lead your life, but it should also apply to our loved ones. We don't pay it forward enough to the people that count. I know, because I don't do it enough.

So on my way home, I gave up my seat to a woman and her four-pound handbag. I paid it forward. And now I'm going home to take Viv and Jan out to dinner. I guess you can say, I'm paying it forward and backwards. Yep.

Measured in Leaps

2005-11-01T18:57:00.000-08:00

This time of year I start revealing things to myself. Things like how I am ready to begin a new relationship or how I need to make home for myself. I need more baths and less showers. I need aromatherapy candles and cinnamon in my cupboard. I need to boil nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon this Thanksgiving to remind me of my childhood Thanksgivings. I need more hugs and kisses and less inanimate objects that stare back at me coldly. I need more discovery and less surprises. Does that make sense?

I wanted roasted pears last night because they remind me of holidays spent with loved ones who smiled and shared vintage stories that made me laugh and cry simultaneously. I didn't make them because the whole balsamic thing scares me (I'm not good at reducing). Instead, I dug through icky, sticky taffy candy left from the Halloween party. Candy for dinner? It ain't home. Last night I wanted home: roasted pears; cheddar mashed potatoes; Jean Nate shower gel, bubble gum scented bubble bath oil; the pretty scented sachet of cotton my mother puts on my pillows in the morning whenever I visit; my pink barrettes. Last night I wanted a lot. I got candy and makeup remover. I wanted to burn my 40s wig, dress, and shoes. It seemed like a sane thing to do. Fuck! Why can't I make roasted pears?

A professor once said to me: "The desires of life are measured in leaps."

I now know what he means (and why he left out the bounds parts). Sometimes you want to be far away from the comfort of home, because you think you're suffocating; you're becoming those people. When I finally freed myself, I realized that without that comfort, my life is measured in leaps -- from one stage to another, and all the while craving what I left behind.

The key is creation. I must create home for me. A new home. And I'm starting by learning.

Being Mommie Dearest

2005-10-30T15:53:00.000-08:00

In keeping with my Joan Crawford themes for the last three Halloweens, this year I've decided to attend the office party as Mommie Dearest. Yes, I have my 40s 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 the 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 flighty. "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 should be a bit more conspicuous. Right now, Jan's working on getting a drink flask to complete the ensemble. And at some point, I'm going to say booze and take a fine swig.

This should be mighty interesting.

Hi

2005-10-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

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 was smalls). I think a few people enjoyed the view of my breast 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 Cubbie city and no World Series Win is going to change that.

Traffic is a nightmare, and I don't know how I'm going to get home. But I'm told that if I dare take off my White Sox shirt, then I'll be stoned. Not trying to get stoned.

No point for this post, but just to say hi.

Comfort Food

2005-10-27T16:43:00.000-07:00

For lunch I treated myself to a delicious T-bone steak, medium rare, and 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. There's nothing better in this world than buttery mashed potatoes, seasoned with kosher salt. 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 did the whole bechamel 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 wine, 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. That's all I wanted. I'd sprinkle salt, chili pepper, and lime juice on them and go to town.

The steak was fabulous and made me feel so much better. But just in case that didn't work, I always had the option of comedy -- Steven came to work with one half of his face painted black and the other painted white, in honor of the White Sox. Laughter comforts too.

Giving the Love

2005-10-26T21:31:00.000-07:00

If there is anything to 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.

So I have. Sure, I should be in bed, but right now work has pissed me off, and the White Sox have coutered that. So 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.

Fuck

2005-10-26T16:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes 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 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's my head been? Hmm....

I can't be objective right now. Fuck objectivity. I've been swamped for nothing. Well, fuck your 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 Shore Drive. That's my excuse. Fuck.

"Be objective, Zaftig," Steven said.

I can't be objective right now. I can't be anything.

Fuck.

6:30 a.m. Independence

2005-10-25T17:03:00.000-07:00

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, gave me a feeling of nostalgia for my days of 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, then 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 eleven, watching television. 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 stocking and underwear on my shower, I hung them on the posts of my bed. I was still living at home in my mind. Then one day I woke up and realized I had to pay bills. $41 for the electric bill; $60 for cable; $56 for the telephone; $800 for rent. I sat in my home office and pulled out my newly minted check books and realized that I had a bank account, checking and savings. I had a life that I was starting. I was on my own. My own. ON MY FUCKING OWN!

That meant I could bogart milk and orange juice form their respective cartons and not wory about "germing the thing." I could track water from my long shower on the floor if I wanted; I'd be the one who'd have to clean it. I was independent. I pay my way. Therefore, it's my way.

Before I landed my dream job, I was barely getting by. But I knew I had great marketing skills and I knew it would take me somewhere, even if that somewhere meant I could pay for my unaffordable apartment-no-22-year-old-should be-renting without feeling like it was killing me. I promised that if I got a better job, a job where my talents were utilized correctly, then the first thing I'd do is get a gym membership. And by 23 I did it. I did a lot at 23 and 24.

Now at almost 26, all I want to do is secure my independence. And working out at 6:30 in the morning somehow makes me feel like I'm doing so.

Cozy

2005-10-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

It's cold and rainy. I sat in my office, sipping hot cocoa, wanting badly not to be at work. He brought me 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, he came into my office and proceeded to close my blinds, and put his Sade CD on. He found Fleecey and spread her over me. "Now, relax."

We kissed for a long time. Then he massaged my shoulders, back and legs. He gave me head for a while, but I was too nervous to let him do it for more than five minutes. But he made me feel good. He felt good.

Slowly the puzzle is coming together.

Uncertainty

2005-10-23T12:43:00.000-07:00

Last night, after I'd left his apartment. 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.

"To tread this fantasy, openly; what have I done?

Oh, this uncertainty is taking me over,"

I'm uncertain on how to proceed. And I'm really uncertain about if I want to go further with him. I think he does. But think isn't good enough. Sometimes I think 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 changes. The maxim goes: "Change Is a Good Thing," but it should be "Change Is a Hard Thing." Warranted or not warranted.

And we work together. That can't be good.

But last night, as we watched the World Series and snacked on dried fruit, things felt "on go." We sat on his sofa and made out between innings. He felt like my man. And when he held me, I wanted to stay that way. I wanted things to not shift from that moment. But then Jenks came out and he went nuts. So he opened a bottle of champagne and ended up pouring most of it over the balcony. We entered celebration mode, and all the hand holding, soft kisses, and caressing ended.

Then he drove me home. Watching a man drive has always been a turn-on for me. I felt safe. This was a different side of him, a softer, more boyfriend-material side. He was showing me that there's more to him than just sex. He gives me pieces of him.

I'm just uncertain how to put them all together.

Keepsake

2005-10-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I woke up feeling the same. No guilt. I'd fallen asleep naked, with my laptop still on. 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 three a.m. I must have been in a deep sleep. (Intense orgasms will do that to you.) I waited until after my shower to call him back. "I have something of yours," he said. "Guess."

"Um...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. Somthing I needed to help myself go where you went."

Immediately, I went to the living room and realized they were gone. "You stole my underwear?" I smiled. "Pervert."

He asked me out for tonight. "I think I'm going to stay in."

"Why?"

"Because...."

"Well, at least let me bring back to you what's rightfully yours."

"Keep 'em"

"I was hoping you'd say that. So what about tonight?"

I haven't decided yet.

It's a comfort knowing that if I decide never to be with him like that again, at least he has a keepsake.

Oh, My!

2005-10-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

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?" when I've planned for another me night is a spontaneous I don't like.

Until he showed up.

I knew he was coming at seven, just enough time to put on woman, which consisted of me exfoliating with margarita salt scrub, and 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: we 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 fingers made their way over my clitoris. I yelped. His head descended. I couldn't stop him. Trust me, I tried. Fuck, I tried.

After I came. He made an offer: "One stroke. Just one fucking stroke."

"What are you? A horny frat boy?" I asked, still coming down. I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted him gone. I wanted him here. I wanted everything.

I hit the floor, it was warm. He kept to his word, even when I felt like I wanted him to break it. It was a lovely penis. Girth. Length. Good things.

I wanted sleep. He granted it to me. But I had to get this out before my head hit the pillow. I feel so different. I've gone to the next level, even if tomorrow I feel like shit about everything. But this moment counts right now. And at this moment, I feel beautifully different.

Eating Nordstrom's

2005-10-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

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 know it, I'm 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.

Diana Reads a Book

2005-10-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

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.)

"Um...they don't?"

"No. They get drunk instead."

"Okay, where are we going with this?"

"It's a book. My fucking mind is churning over this shit."

Diana picked up this book that explains why French women don't get fat, because they lead outdoorsy lives, drink 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 from Paris and is in Chicago until late November.)

"Okay?"

"And I wanted to read something about France, so I borrowed Gina's book."

"Are you going to finish it?"

"No. I'm ordering liver and onions for lunch, from the Greek place. This book can kiss my twat."

I don't know if French women don't get fat, but I know American women get pissed about the idea of French women not getting fat. Oy.

The Glamour of Being Single

2005-10-18T19:46:00.000-07:00

"Since when is it glamorous to be single?" Viv asked, over fried gobi and fragrant basmati rice.

Well, since 1998. Ever heard of a show called Sex and the City? Being single is glamorous in the big city, You get to splunk down $500 for a pair of shoes that kills your feet, drink fruity martinis, 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 parties and spend lots of time investing in yourself. You get to do the whole therapy thing, too.

A steady relationship would only ruin things. Because then you'd have to put up with his less-than-perfect showering habits, his dirty socks, his budgeting. Yuck! He won't understand why you must have that handbag or those shoes or them jeans, No, he'll want you to make home-cooked meals, do his laundry, cut his hair. Where's the glamor in that?

I dipped my cauliflower in the sweet tamarind sauce and took a big bite. "when being married became boring," I said instead.

We ate, we debated, we went home. She, the Married Woman, and me the Single Girl. She was going home to a husband, a beagle, and a big home. I was going home to work, a laptop, and a vibrator. Somehow, the glamor got lost.

White Sox!

2005-10-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

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.

The Aftermath

2005-10-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

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 Monday and he finally gets to play Florence Nightingale. So we headed out for a Chinese dinner, then to Rush street, where it was a blur of clubs, sluts, fancy cars, and headache-inducing beers and cheering for the White Sox.

Then we went to a swingers party.

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 voyeured. Nothing hot, really. However, I did let Jan squeeze a lemon on my nipples and suckle it off. I couldn't tell if he was making a sour face from the lemon or because he actually was suckling a breast.

After the FREAK party, we went to a greasy spoon for a post-sinning meal. We had to take cabs home, because we were too drunk to drive or assemble the proper change to ride the train.

It's five in the evening, and I'm still feeling last night's alcohol. Jan called an hour ago, and I answered, "Hello, Diana." He got it.

He sounded terrible. And tomorrow I'm going to work sporting bush.

Weekend Rituals

2005-10-15T15:30:00.000-07:00

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 bodywash 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 just knew being a woman is a blessing. Blessed and female. I get to smell fabulous, have long hair, wear eyeliner, and pretty underwear. Plus, I get multiple orgasm with the right partner.

I just got back from the grocery store; another weekend ritual. $136 later, and I will not starve this week. Which is what I've been doing, because I'm now wearing clothes from the size 12 side of my closet. My curves have straightened out a bit, but they should round back after Jan and I hit Chinatown tonight.

Eating dinner with Jan is another weekend ritual. And you all know about the grooming ritual taking place tomorrow.

So those are my weekend rituals. Perhaps, they will include two soon. Until then, it's me and my shower.

Fears

2005-10-14T14:05:00.000-07:00

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 pad. 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. "Well, you have to think about the question for more than a second."

"I think I fear lonliness. No, wait, I fear dependence." But I already knew this.

After my 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 its subjects -- it makes people afraid; afraid that they are abnormal, and that they can't function without therapy. If you're afraid, then you need therapy. It made me feel icky.

Viv thinks I should go back. I don't. What do you think?

Sweetest Day, Schmeetest Day

2005-10-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

Saturday will be the first Sweetest Day in two years where I'm not expecting a pound of candy and a dozen roses. So that leaves me not excited about the day of diabetes-inducing sweetness that we're supposed to show to our significant others and loved ones. Fucked, I know.

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 believe this was the first sign of the end approaching. The year before, we'd did the whole cliche couple thing and had a candlelit, romantic dinner at an upscale restaurant in the North Shore. Apparently he felt a drafty sushi restaurant would recreate the ambiance of the year before. Getting a quick screw in the loo was my hours of passionate lovemaking. Ugh.

So Sweetest Day, Schmeetest Day.

After last night's post, Steven called to tell me he'd been watching an adult film, and that he'd wanted to try a move on me (we've never had sex). I hung up on him. This morning, at work, he came to my office bearing Krispy Kremes and Starbucks caramel macchiato, with extra foam atop. I had to decline -- I'm water fasting. He asked for forgiveness. I granted it.

I spent the rest of the day praying he doesn't ask me what I'm doing for Sweetest Day. He didn't. I'm mildly relieved. If he says let's go out for sushi, I swear I'll have an instant breakdown. Never go out for sushi on Schmeetest Day.

You've been thoroughly warned.

Changes

2005-10-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

"So when is He going to have a name of reference?" a reader writes via e-mail.

Aren't you bored of it all? We're at a standstill. There's just too much going on at work to fuck around. I know, he's taking naps before noon and I'm popping O's with a silent vibrator during work, but really, we're swamped (even more than Viv). But since I feel we're making progress as far as our comfort with each other, it's only fair he becomes more than a capitalized pronoun. So He is now going to be referred to as Steven. Better to have a name than a pronoun, I figure it.

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?

Vicarious Therapy

2005-10-11T17:44:00.000-07:00

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 it here. My comments are in parenthesis.

7:00: 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, where 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 moisturizer, after I had to use melted butter with drops of peppermint essential oil as a moisturizer. I was going on a date and it was too late to go to the store, so I had to improvise. What a woman will do to stay moisturized.)

8:05: I grab a yogurt from the fridge, a bottle of Dasani, and a piece of fruit. (I blog during my breakfast sometimes. Not recently, though.)(

8:15: Brush teeth, run ceramic iron through hair, apply day-light friendly makeup, and watch the news for the traffic reports.

8:30: Put on work clothes, accesorize, and head out the door. (I usually grab breakfast bar to give to the doorman.)

9:30: Arrive at work. Make the rounds; hear the latest gossip from the office Hedda Hopper "Paula." Paula knows everything, except about my little situation. I think. I hope.

10:00: Confer with local clients by e-mail and phone. I then check on my national team, to see how we're coming along on Project X.

10:15: Meeting usually called, so the Head Honchos can brag about their Hinsdale homes and the Big Client that dined at their non-financed homes. I guess we're supposed to be inspired to one day own Hinsdale homes. We just want to get out of the conference room.

Noon: Lunch or sex games in His office. Or therapy, as of late.

1:00: Return from lunch to pure chaos. Big Client from the East Coast is leaving for real this time. SOMETHING MUST BE DONE! Nothing is.

3:00: My time -- I listen to music thgrough my headphones, blog, call my sister. I also write my weekly To-Do lists. Masturbate.

4:00: Back to work. New Bits & Pieces assigned to me from other teams. Stupid stuff, really. More local client work.

5:30. Work day over. (But thanks to major changes, I've been leaving work at 8:30 lately.)

7:00: Home. I try to score dinner, which can range from a grilled tuna dinner from Healthy Choice or a full course meal of salad, soup, falafels, and lamb pitas. I like those dinners.

8:00: My social time. I call Jan, Viv, and Diana and find out about their day. Sometimes I'll do dinner with them.

11:00: I'm ready for bed. I take a complete shower, wash my hair, groom my pits, de-hair my legs, and exfoliate. I go to bed smelling like strawberries and shampoo. I'll blog if I'm thinking too much or need to get something out of my head.

12 am: I'm dreaming.

So that's a typical day during the week. The weekend, however, is another story.

Instincts

2005-10-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

This morning, while looking for my favorite sweater to bring in the fall, I grabbed my 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 front seat of my car. Why I was taking her, I didn't know, but I felt like I needed her.

The heat at work blew. My office feels like Siberia in the winter. I am currently enshrouded by 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 this one out.

Sleeping In

2005-10-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

He took a nap in my 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. 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. "

He got up and hugged me, sliding his hand under my skirt all the while. I stopped him. "Is sleeping in the only in for me?" he asked.

It took my traffic-ridden drive home to figure out what he'd meant. It made me smile.

Bear with Me

2005-09-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

Damn, Mail-to-Blogger! Whenever I write a post via my cellphone, Blogger screws it up. So when my posts are one big blob of messiness, blame Blogger (and my clumsy fingers). I like to take advantage of all the things blogger offers; I just wish I could do it better.

Bear with me, please, as I become more adept at blogging.

Driving to Clarity

2005-09-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

It is Sunday, which means it is time for my
introspective drive to the North Shore. I've packed
little zippy bags with green grapes, honeydew, and
frozen strawberries.

Today, I'll listen to 80s music, eat fruit, and reflect on my life.

Get out today, and take time for yourself.

Friday Night, Vol 5: Answering E-mails

2005-09-23T22:38:00.000-07:00

It's Friday, and I'm at home, online. Just two minutes ago, I received an e-mail from a reader of the blog, asking if I am at home for Friday. "Where the hell are the Friday Night volumes?" the reader wrote.

Well, I was under the impression that chronicling my Fridays was something I'd do when something interesting happened. Nothing interesting has happened -- unless you count applying got2b to my feet or watching Rome from On Demand (I worship On Demand). So there, I've given you my Friday night. No dating, no sex, and no fun. Wait, I take that back; I actually liked tonight. I ate frozen strawberries and yogurt for dessert. It's fun to be in it alone sometimes.

That's all for now. Jan will be in soon, from visiting Henry, and we'll most likely finish off a bottle of Diet Coke and the big bag of gummy bears stashed in my pantry. Tomorrow is grocery shopping, prayers that Rita isn't too harsh, and living.

More Therapy

2005-09-15T13:02:00.000-07:00

According to Him, I have trust issues. He discovered
this while propping his feet on my desk, and dipping
into my bag of bagel chips.

This is getting interesting.

Fraking It

2005-09-13T12:32:00.000-07:00

I admit, I've faked orgasms, but not in the way most people think. When I fake, it's more like forcing my orgams to happen. So it's more like "fraking it" -- fraking is making an orgasm happen when it's apparent my partner is not going to do it for me.

There's an art to fraking, which I'll get to later, but for now let me illustrate my last fraking episode.

I use my experience with Kevin, back in March of this year. Kevin and I had been seeing each other for about three weeks, when it was time to hit home base. The night began with dinner, wine, the usual. Then we headed back to my place, where we proceeded to eat each other alive. Ten minutes after entering my apartment, my bra straps were snapped, a lone Jimmy Choo, kicked off in the throes of passion, sat on my window ledge. My underwear was torn in three places. My VS stockings were pretty much the next day's garbage. Atmosphere, he was giving me atmosphere -- ripped clothing, passionate kisses, finger licking; all the signs that the rest of my evening was going to be...well, orgasmic.

I'm a dirty talker, it heightens my mood as well as my partner's. "Suck my fucking cunt!" I screamed at him. He did. Poorly. (Note to guys: tongue-fucking feels good, but the clitoris is the hotspot. More clit action, less tongue-fucking. It's not rocket science.) My dirty talk was what kept me excited during "oral sex." Finally, I couldn't take the lackluster head anymore, so I pulled him up and said, "I wanna get fucked." And believe me I did.

I'm willing to forgive bad head if a guy can make me come from penetration alone. If he can make me squirt, then I'll really forgive him. Kevin fit into neither of these categories. Kevin is the type that fucks me just good enough to make me frake it. All hope is not lost when I frake it, keep in mind.

Now to the art of fraking: He's inside me, pumping along. It's not spectacular, it's not bad either, just good enough. He's trying. I'm not going to come, but I know I will frake it. I close my eyes and focus on his penetration, the moment. I meet his thrusts and tighten my stomach muscles. I stop breathing and let the tension I'm creating reach a peak. Then I push it all out, with a loud moan and panting. Guy is happy. So am I. I did it six times that night. I fraked him out.

Fraking is a lesson I learned when faking it became a burden for me. If a guy isn't going to bring me all the way, then I will do it myself. I know the whole "Be Responsible for Your Orgasms," which is fine and dandy, but sometimes I want to be irresponsible with my orgasms. And there are men who allow this to happen, and those are the men I want.

Now, I wonder if I will have to frake it with Him.

Answers

2005-09-09T16:29:00.000-07:00

So, we had the duck, along with a really delicious orange sauce. The sauce was so good, we asked the waiter to make us a "doggy pint" to take home. Already, the sauce had dressed a baked chicken that Jan baked, and fried mushrooms have pretty much soaked up the rest. The sauce is truly porn.

Okay, to the date: Well, it was like last time, only with better food and a therapy session thrown in. It started off simple -- "What can I do to you tonight?" he'd asked before the complimentary white wine had even arrived.

"Nothing," I replied, "I'm just here for the duck."

Dinner continued. First was a salad with pine nuts, romaine lettuce, and orange wedges, with a tangy lemon dressing. Then it was the roasted duck with the orange porn sauce, and the best tasting stuffed dumplings in all of Chinatown. Dessert was mango pudding. After we'd spooned the last of the sweet, exotic goodness into our mouths, he resumed his therapy session: "I think you're afraid of me."

"How so?"

"I think because we work together, you're afraid to let yourself be free with me."

Huh?

Dude, I showed you my vagina! I let you see whether Jan did a good job or not. Yeah, I'm not free with you. How much more free should I be? Perhaps an intense fucking in front of clients and bosses will prove how free I am with you. Gimme a break.

"Well, I think you're playing games," I said. It was my turn to play restaurant therapist.

"I don't play games. When a woman thinks a man is playing games, it's usually because she's afraid to admit something to herself."

"Is that right? And what am I afraid to admit?"

"You tell me. I've already given you all the signs that I'm ready for whatever you want to give to me."

I chuckled. "As long as it's sex, right?"

"See, that brings me back to my point. You're afraid to have sex with me because you think that's all I want from you."

I pondered this for a moment. if he's given me all the signs that he wants what I want to give him, then no wonder he wants sex. That's all I've given him. From the beginning, it's all I've given the men in my life. I love sex; sex makes me feel incredibly good. It's also the way I read men. If he gives me a good time, then I know he's considerate, possibly loyal. Of course, this is flawed thinking, but's it's my issue. I deal. After churning this epiphany over in my head, I asked: "So what do you want from me?" Cliched, but it needed answering.

Later on that night, at his place, he answered the question: "What I want from you is everything."

I went home that night, unsexed, but feeling like a woman should. I didn't allow one negative thing to enter into my mind. I didn't want to self-sabotage that evening.

Then at 1:39 a.m., Jan called. "Henry's in the hospital." So I had to dash to the hospital, at 2 a.m. to be there for the man who has and always will be there for me.
The follwing Monday, we had a passionate makeout session in his office, and then made another dinner date. "This time, what can I do for you?"

"Score me some orange sauce."

"Done."

Promise

2005-09-07T21:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, here's the thing -- Im completely swamped; both
at work and at home. Too swamped to blog coherently
either way. (Not that I euer did.) Jan is going to be
staying with me for at least another week, and I will
be on supportive friend duty. But when things become
less stressful, I will resume the blog fully. Until
then, blogging will be light. I promise to return with
goodies.

Update

2005-09-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

Thanks for your kind e-mails, but I'm fine. I'm just
taking a break. Jan's partner is in the hospital, and
I'm hanging out with him to offer support. Blogging
will resume shortly.

Click here to donate to the Hurricane Katrina relief effort.

Food Porn: Falafel

2005-08-23T19:04:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things in the world. I like my falafels piping hot on a bed of cous cous, with tahini, lettuce, and avocado on the side. I don't really like my falafel in a pita, because I think it overpwers the falafel. The restaurant where I get my falafel 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.

Why I Bother

2005-08-22T17:10:00.000-07:00

Because blogging lets me be free, and allows me to write in a way I normally don't. 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. I get to be obscure yet exposed.

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 resolved, 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 sitting in an office of one too many therapists; some qualified; some inspiring; some malevolent; some stupid; some funny. We let them siphon the truth and the resolutions out of us.

Blogging is deeper.

And that's why I bother.

Why Do I Bother?

2005-08-21T16:02:00.000-07:00

It's sites like this that makes me wonder if this whole blogging thing is worth committing to. While the blog is "entertaining", it is poking fun at a woman who shares her life with the public (same as I). It makes me feel like a complete fool for even thinking people care about my life.

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.

*Thanks "H" for telling me about the link problem. I should check my links before I post.

Normal (and the Date Proposal)

2005-08-20T13:39:00.000-07:00

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. Besides, Sister needs someone to talk to, since her best friend is in Hawaii, in love. 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.

And he couldn't tell me this at work, face to face? What the fuck are we doing here? Warped. Plenty warped.

I've yet to reply.

"Just Wanted to Hear Your Voice"

2005-08-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

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 days 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 too bed and rest more. Thanks to my getting to bed at 3 am, I had to use one of my telecommute days, which is a step above personal day. I called the office and told them I'd be working from home today. It went over well.

In the 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 you.

Bedtime Confessions VIII

2005-08-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

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 is good. Life is worth. "All Minnnnnnne!" Beth Gibbons sings with embedded pain masquerading as soul. It's how I feel. This life is All Minnnnnne! My life is colors and lights.

"No, Zaftig. Tell her 'no,'" says my mother. I agree. It's not mean, it's what's best. "Let her fight her demons."

I rationalize: "If...something....If she does somet--"

"No."

So I called her back and told her, "No."

"I'll see you this weekend," she replies.

"All Minnnnnne!"

The Mind Games Begin

2005-08-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

And I'm wholly pissed about it.

There's not much going on with Him, as it appears we're both in the middle of some crisis, where things are starting to get real. Feeling are blossoming. Our thoughts are invaded with each other while standing at the Chinese restaurant waiting on 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 about everything. 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 food. I'd order bagels and onion & chive cream cheese, read the paper and talk about my formative years. I'd be thoroughly orgasmed, because that's what sexners do -- we orgasm. No strings. No love. No complications.

Lovers make love; sexners make sex. Got it.

But we're neither.

We walk past each other, flashing quick uncomfortable smiles; neither wanting to take it to the next step. Weirdness palpable.

And I'm wholly pissed about it.

Toy Hunt

2005-08-16T17:44:00.000-07:00

I want a dog. No, 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 with dogs requiring 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 picture. Let alone, knowinfg that they, too, suffer from these ailments. 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 -- which is probably why Rich Man's Great Dane and I didn't get along, the Dane knew I feared him.

I think the chihuahua is the perfect size.

While I'm not 100% sure what my next step will be, I know in the near future these little bundles of joy will be toted around in a ridiculously expensive Vuitton dog carrier.

Life Lesson from The Boondocks

2005-08-15T18:17:00.000-07:00

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

Drama Queens

2005-08-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

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 came to her door, hair a mess, and looking like she'd really loss sleep over the erroneous run. "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 a whole run again. This one can be fixed quite quickly by art," I assured the basket case.

"Okay. Sorry you had to come all this way," she said. She finally looked as if she understood how mental she appeared to me. "At least let me make you some lunch."

I declined. I wanted to get home, because I kept having visions of a tall Swede with a razor and Skintimate Shave Gel arguing with my doorman. "She told me this time. I'm here to groom her."

On a side note: Jan thinks I'm going absolutely mad: "Did you buy Target baby oil on purpose?" he wants to know.

Free

2005-08-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

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 it. If I wanted to go back to my apartment and have an 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. That's rich. 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 her back and now I'm on my way to Wilmette to sort some things out before Monday. Grrr.

Free, my ass.

Seriously, I'm still free. But on some days I'm just a little...less free.

Alexander

2005-08-12T21:46:00.000-07:00

Men. Eyeliner. Muscles. Bad dye jobs. Swollen lips. Beautiful blue eyes (Leto). Terrible acting. Unncessary trembling to convey emotions. Trite. Cliched. Rhys-Meyer and Leto should be lovers. Farrell sucks. Stone an idiot. Night wasted. Diana unhappy. Jan very unhappy. The horror.

Bedtime Confession VII

2005-08-11T20:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not on the pill, and it just kills my mother. "Well, what do you do?" she asks.

I tell her I don't have sex. Which is partly true. The last time I was penetrated was in March. I have had sex-like activities; oh, many of those.

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 they tells us to make the putting on of the condom sexy, but nothing's more sexier than guiding a...well, you know where I'm going.

The pill. Ugh. I don't trust anything that small and convenient. The patch? I might investigate. But for now, it's Lifestyles.

Night.

The Mango Man

2005-08-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

Jan came to my job this afternoon to "give me mangoes." But we both know he came to check out my fling. In came this thin, 6'6'' blond Swede, carrying a bag full of mangoes. He comes up and I'm at my desk in the new outfit he sent two days ago, and he just fawns over how good it looks on me. He then thrusts the mangoes on my desk. "They were on sale at Jewels!"

Is being overly generous a Swedish thing? First three great outfits from his lover Henry's boutique, our sushi dinner, and now mangoes. Who knows what else will come this week. I'm used to this but I wonder if all Swedes are this generous to their friends.

Jan's not exactly a good influence for me at work: Last time he came, he sauntered innocently to my office and opened his bag to reveal a bottle of Sauza, some lemons and a salt shaker. His dog had just died and we both were depressed about it. We did shots out of Dixie cups, while the office buzzed around us. In honor of G, his beloved daschaund, we got drunk in the worst place to be drunk. With the help of a few mints, I made it through the rest of the day without anyone noticing. I think. I hope.

Back to the fling: Anyway, Jan took one look at Him, and whispered, "He's dangerous."

I didn't ask if it was in a good way or bad way. I don't think it matters.

Food Porn: Sushi

2005-08-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

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.

In It For...?

2005-08-09T17:41:00.000-07:00

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 made me almost broke this week. He stopped me. The arch is god.

After ten minutes of being in this position, he let me go. As I put my shoes on, he smiled at me. The he said it: "I'm going to fuck you." I didn't reply. The way he looked at me when he said it is what made me clench all the way back to my desk.

I left without seeing him.

Now I'm home, thinking of him. My instincts tell me he's in it only for sex. And since I keep thinking of having sex with him, I wonder if that's what I'm in it for.

Something for me to chew on while I try on the perfect size-14 clothes Jan sent to me today.

Trisha

2005-08-09T12:02:00.000-07:00

My friend Trisha started shooting up at 15-years-old. She's 25 and still shooting up, yet her looks never failed, and she never looked strung-out. She defied the definition of Dope Fiend.

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 amberish liquid in her arms 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 me that Trish can't stop getting high for her daughter's sake. I wonder if her husband is an addict as well.

Trisha's on my mind today.

14 Things I'm Craving

2005-08-08T18:41:00.000-07:00

14. A Hot Shower: After a day of lugging home groceries, new shoes (Weitzmans), and laundry, a hot shower will be paradise. The more suds, the better it will be.

13. A Foot Massage: From His hands that knows the arch is god.

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-hood 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.Jan's Conversation: Because he never let's me talk.

7. Fall: The smoky air, fallen leaves, and apples.

6. Michael's Scent: A combination of male, Pert-Plus, and applesauce.

5. Meatloaf Sandwiches: With gravy and mashed potatoes on the bun.

4. His View of the City: Lights, crime, and love happens below the beauty.

3. Lemon Berry Swirl Sherbet: In a brandy snifter.

2. My Bed: With its clean sheets and crisp pillowcases, smelling of Tide.

1. Him. Enough said.

R.I.P. Peter Jennings 1938-2005

2005-08-07T21:51:00.000-07:00

I was sleep just ten minutes ago. Until 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.

Friday Night, Vol 4: The Power of Azzura

2005-08-06T15:47:00.000-07:00

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 placed 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 made Him MAD. Azzura was delicately placed on the inside of my thighs, the back of my neck, both wrists; there was a gentle dab on my upper lip. I took a tissue and sprayed it with the magic scent and wiped my breast with it, dispersing Azzura all over them. I even used it in my hair. After all that, I stood in front of a fan and let the force of air diffuse the intensity of the scent, so that I didn't go out smelling like a perfumery. What was left was a delicately scented woman, squeezing her thighs together throughout the whole evening.

I could have fucked Him. I wanted to. Really wanted to. But it would have only frustrated me. I'd be on the blog two days later, regretting it. However, third base and a half was reached. It took all the strength in my body from going to home base, and He knew it. He tried to take me there, with his promise of multiple orgasms and how he could hold off from climaxing for hours. Swoon.

Composed I stayed.

Barely.

I did spend the night at his house; a nice downtown bachelor pad with a great view. He wanted to make love with the lights out, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I wanted to as well, but Good Girl Promise, remember?. Instead, we set up camp in front of the window, where we sipped wine, kissed, and talked about...of all things, work. Two and a half glasses of wine later, I was on my tummy, the spaghetti-straps of my dress pulled down for a much needed massage from him. His hands felt divine. "Can I be honest with you," he said, while massaging me.

I moaned.

"Your perfume is driving me crazy."

"I'm not wearing any perfume," I lied. "That's just my shower gel." I think he bought it. I think the scent was just delicate enough for the lie to go over.

We kissed for a while, and he suckled my nipples. He tried to head downtown, but I stopped him...reluctantly. He asked me if I was sure; I said yes. We laid together watching the city, our breath smelling of fermented grapes. He put on 95.5 WMUA and we fell asleep to some jazz.

We both didn't wake up until noon, where we headed to Ann Sathers for breakfast.

I'd say things went well.

Now I'm home, ready to take me a hot bath, then order in some Chinese. Then...I await His call.

The game begins.