The Zaftig Chronicles

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

So I've downloaded the song  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 long hug and make me feel safe. Someone? Okay, I want Steven to do the honors...even if he has to limp in 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 spicy broccoli 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.  Fuck, this song is painful. I have to stop .  Must get control.  Oh, hell just one more play.

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 bubble 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 smile warmly and share vintage stories that make me laugh and cry simultaneously. I didn't make them because the whole balsamic thing scares me (I'm not good at reducing, ha). 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, b...

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

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

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

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

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