I Appreciate the Finer Things

After a 3 mile run at the gym during lunch, I headed back to the locker room for a much needed shower.

While undressing my sweaty self, I surveyed the room. Women of all shapes and sizes were strewn around the lockers, in various stages of undress. No one of note.

And then my eyes settled on a woman sitting on the bench next to me. This girl had a really pretty body, and I was definitely impressed.
My eyes lingered a little too long, when I realized that she noticed my gaze, locked eyes with me, and smiled.

Caught yet again!

Of course I was horrified and looked away, quickly. But I snuck a few peeks here and there when she wasn’t paying attention.

I have started to become mesmerized by good boobs in my old age. I’m like a 12 yr old boy…or any male, for that matter. I really appreciate a good rack, and am open to admiring them. Maybe it’s because I sprouted a set of my own, FINALLY, a nice, perky pair, by the time I’d turned 30.

And then I see women in the locker room, and I’m always amazed at how far low so many of the tits I see hang down. I totally forget that most women get a lot of lift from their bras, and that in actual fact, their boobs hang down to their waists.

So when I see a good set, I’m fixated.

But don’t get me wrong. Cock is still my dessert of choice. Boobs are just a side interest. ;)

I'm Ok, You're Ok.

I used to be one of those annoying, body dysmorphic, eating-disordered girls. You know the ones I speak of. The girls who are way too skinny, who go from starving themselves one day to bingeing on an entire Entenmann’s cake the next. I was obsessed with the way I looked, and would say things to people such as “I’m soooooo fat” knowing full well that I was nowhere near fat, and just needing to hear all of my enablers tell me so.

Today, I am far from too skinny. I am quite zaftig, actually, but proud of my curves. Through years of intense therapy, I have, for the most part, ridden myself of the body issues that have plagued me for years.

And then, I come across one of “those” girls. And I want to punch someone in the face.

I have a friend who is very, very tall. And very, very skinny. She is someone who can eat pretty much whatever she wants, and is naturally athletic and fit. It’s not a secret. We can see, with our own eyes, how good she looks. People tell her all the time how they wish they looked like her. Yet, somehow, this is not good enough.

I will see her after a weekend, in her skinny jeans, and hear about how she engorged herself for the last three days. Too much beer, too many chicken wings. How FAT she must be from such a bacchanal. She points out her non-existent muffin top. “Oh ____, you look great,” we say, in unison, on cue.


One time, during a shopping spree (stupid, stupid me, allowing myself to accompany her. I should have known better. Cheese gets a spanking for that.) she kept picking things out for me that she thought would look good. I know she meant well, but it was horrifying for me to have to admit that the sizes she was picking up, as well as the styles she was throwing my way, were never going to fit me. Maybe I’M the one that’s body dysmorphic, but I just couldn’t help feeling that she was trying to make herself feel better by hearing me admit the bigger size that I actually wear. Hi, paranoid much? ;)

The last conversation we had, she regaled me with tales of a wedding that she attended over the weekend. She spent all of her time stuffing her face, it seems (the usual). But this time, it was ok. Because at the wedding, someone told her that she looked like she could use a cheeseburger. What fun! Someone thought she was so skinny, that she needed to eat! Isn’t that hysterical? So, in response to this, my friend went out and gorged herself all weekend, since some stranger at a wedding told her that she could!

I know, I know, I’m a jealous, issued bitch. At least I own it.

I'm Moving to the Country, Gonna Eat A Lot of Peaches

I’m one of those annoying people who gets all panicky when someone mentions leaving NYC to live somewhere else.

My boyfriend, from time to time, will just throw out names of small towns and suburbs as possible places to reside. Sometimes I think he does it just to see the look of sheer horror on my face.

“Poughkeepsie” he said the other day.

“BLAAAEAGHHHH” was what came out of my mouth.

I did try to relocate once, going as far as interviewing for some jobs on the West Coast. I was pretty sure I was leaving. Yet somehow, here I am. Still here.

I will admit, every once in a while, I am struck by how much I am starting to dislike it here. While I am waiting on a long-ass line to run on a treadmill like a freaking hamster, I realize how insane it is to go the gym to get a workout, only to have to stand around for half an hour staring at OTHER people working out. Or when I am riding in on the train from Brooklyn, and it still takes me over an hour to get to work because the subway system is ALWAYS a mess, it seems.

I feel that, come weekends, I rarely if ever even leave the fair borough of Brooklyn. I’m too afraid to venture out into the wilds of Manhattan anymore. Who can take advantage of all it has to offer, when everything is too crowded and too expensive? In addition, anything that is authentic and cool eventually gets replaced by a mini-mall or a hi-rise apartment building…and that depresses me.

The other night, Beehive and I made a very rare appearance in the East Village Sat. night, to go to a movie. Miraculously, we were able to get tickets and seats without arriving 3 hrs ahead of time (they weren’t available online) which to me was a good sign.

The movie let out around 9:00 and I was excited to grab a bite and a dirty martini somewhere before heading back to Prospect Heights.

Our first stop was to Cedar Tavern, a place that I have been frequenting forever, and had been around for 100+ years. I loved that fucking place and, sadly, hadn’t been in a while. Imagine my horror and disgust when we walked up to a boarded up Cedar Tavern…apparently it is now closed and in its place will be…you guessed it…condos.

Ok. So I’m pretty distressed about this, but determined to get that dirty martini and a burger anyway, and definitely need it more than ever. So we walk. And walk. And walk. Everywhere that we could think of to go was packed to the gills. Places that I never would have even looked at, much less dined at, were crowded to the rafters.

Beehive, always the calm and gentle one, kept a smile on his face while starving on the inside. Me, I was a bitch on wheels, cursing every single restaurant like they were purposely keeping me from nourishing my poor, weak self (ok, stop snickering. I hadn’t eaten all day, had worked out for two hours and was PMS, dude!)

We found ourselves in the West Village, having peeked into places off of 7th Avenue South that we would have never DARED enter under normal circumstances (all, what do you think…PACKED) and I suggested we just hop on the train and get off in Brooklyn Heights. I figured, it’s now 10pm. Brooklyn Heights—how happening can it be?

Little did I know. Brooklyn Heights was TRES happening at 10pm on a Saturday night.

Every single place that I had in mind was inconceivably stuffed with people, stuffing their faces tauntingly as I peeked into windows of joints I hadn’t been to in years.

Holy mother of fuck, when did this happen? When did it become absolutely impossible to get a fucking bite to eat after a movie?

Right when I was about to give up and suggested eating PB&J and drinking boxed wine, I thought of ONE last place to go. My one last beacon of hope in a sea of disappointment and famine. The Heights Café on Montague and Hicks. Another mainstay of mine for years when I lived in the ‘hood—good service, good food, and cheap wine. We sat. We stuffed our faces. I owe you one, Heights Café.

New York City, on the other hand, I have nothing to say to you. You have disappointed me yet again, yet sadly I have come to expect this from you.

Poughkeepsie has a nice ring to it, doncha think?

Nothing is Better Than a Hot Rocker Boy

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a lover of all things music. Ok, I take that back. I was a lover of all things HOT male musicians with floppy hair. Always.

At the age of six, I wanted to pounce on Donny Osmond. Davy Jones from The Monkees was my imaginary friend. Shaun Cassidy and David Cassidy, I wanted to have a threesome with, before I knew that sex was fun. I read Teenbeat and Tigerbeat with fervor every week, and cut out pics of all my faves and hid them under my pillow, kissing them goodnight before I fell asleep.

(God I am old. Do half of you people even know who Davy Jones IS? Hahaha).

As an adult, I am still very much a worshiper of men with guitars. Or behind drums. Or just wearing very tight, bulgy pants, whipping a microphone around, hair flopping to and fro.

I would make a terrible groupie though.

When I was young and naïve (read, up until around the time I turned 30), I used to think that if you just showed up at a gig, stood in the front and smiled a lot at the lead singer and looked cute, you’d get “hand-picked” to be pulled backstage and away from mediocrity forever.

Now, I know that this can and does happen to a very select few girls (and it’s usually by the roadies or band manager), I would certainly never have been one of them. I mean, I’m cute and all, and my rack is pretty spectacular, but I do not have that je ne sais quois (read sluttiness) that would get me noticed by anyone of worth. Let’s put it this way, Taylor from the Foo Fighters ain’t jumping over his drumset into the crowd to make me his love slave.

I went through a phase where I was REALLY into seeing live shows, one band in particular. I’m not going to bother mentioning which band , not to protect the innocent, but more because, they’re sort of a hacky band, and a lot of people think they broke up like, back in the mid-90’s…so I need to protect my cool factor…at any rate, I saw these people perform probably 25 times in my life, sometimes 3 nights in one week. I knew people who “knew” them, who would hang with them backstage, some who even fucked them. I CRINGED at the thought of getting to be backstage with these people. The mere thought of having an actual conversation with them put me into a complete state of panic.

What a loser!

One night, at a club in San Diego, some friends and I were contemplating what to do after the show…somehow, a friend of one of our friends managed to get a backstage pass (I have no idea how as she CERTAINLY did not have that aforementioned je ne sais quois. I mean, not even one hint of cleavage. Jeez!) so she took full advantage of it…the rest of us losers came up with a plan.

“Let’s crawl underneath that there fence and sneak into the backstage area,” someone suggested.

So that is how I found myself on the floor, in my mini skirt, tank top, and high heeled sandals, slithering underneath a chain link fence, to meet the man of my dreams (lead singer of hacky band that I wanted so badly to fuck). This was my chance. It was now or never!

Drunk and laughing hysterically, we all made it safely to the other side, wiped off the dirt and muck we accumulated in our travels, and giggled our way to the back of the club, where we found various band members and their friends partying.

So what does any self-respecting groupie wannabe do when faced with a situation like this?

She hides in the bathroom of course!

In addition to this, we also found that friend of our friend—Backstage Pass Girl—nearly passed out, by herself, on the floor. With people sort of walking over and around her.

So much for partying with the band.

Long story short, we ended up having to inconspicuously get this girl back to our hotel (not so easy when she’d pissed and shit her pants and was vomiting uncontrollably)
And guess what. I never got to fuck the lead singer of the hacky ‘90’s band.

Yea. Groupiedom is not for me.

Recently, I got an email from a friend—someone who has absolutely nothing to do with this band or this era of my life—and she happened to mention that a friend of hers is “dating” the drummer of the hacky ‘90’s band.

Once upon a time, I would have been jealous as all hell. And berated myself for not being more aggressive in my groupieness.

Now, I just wish her luck. I hope she likes butt sex.

Why I'm Not Trendy

Europe has always been the fashion epicenter of the universe as far as I know. All of my garmento friends are always traveling to Milan, or Paris, for the next hot trend in all things related to clothes, shoes, and accessories.

This morning on my way to work, I spotted two European tourists walking down Madison Avenue in tank tops underneath overalls. Both of them were attired in this ensemble.

Are overalls the new hot thing?

Or were these girls mildly retarded?

I am PRAYING for the latter.

In Stink.

Last night, I cuddled up with my boy on the couch-the very same couch where we ravaged each other about an hour before--and watched a post-coital viewing of Parenthood, the movie.

Martha Plimpton's character was whining to her mother that she LURVED her boyfriend, Todd (Keanu Reeves). Not the "going steady" kind of love, but real, true love, where he made her quiver.

Thinking back to the hot banging that took place earlier, I looked over at Beehive and gave him a big gushy smile.

A big gushy smile was returned right back to me.

"Aw..." I thought to myself, "We're so in sync. Look at how he totally loves me."

"Heh," he looked at me sheepishly. "I have the worst gas right now. Sorry."

In sync, we are not. Old married couple, perhaps.

;)

A Mother's Guilt

As most of you know, Igby the Wonder Cat is my pride and joy. As well as being the biggest pain in the ass that ever lived. He's needy. He's codependent. He demands attention 24-7 and he has this annoying desire to lick your entire epidermis off when you aren't looking.

He is awfully cute, though.






At any rate, the little beast is a picky eater, and generally only eats Fancy Feast. The new, fancy kind. That cost a dollar a can and smell like someone vomited crabmeat into a tuna's mouth. I have to feed it to him, or I risk having cat tongue attached to my cheek all night. So stinky Fancy Feast he gets.

The other day, I got the brilliant idea to change things up a bit. I bought some Nutro Classic Gourmet in the pouch. Fishy and in gravy, just like he likes it.

I fed this to him Friday morning, and then skibbled off to work, and then later, to Beehive's house.

After getting Beehive off to bed, I watched the 11 o'clock news and saw the recall. Which included Nutro products. Ack! Leave it to me to switch up my cat's food right when a massive nationwide recall occurs. Only the Cheese...

So the next day, I get home, scared to find my cat on death's door, or worse, already dead, stiff as a board lying in front of his food bowl, eyes open and staring at me with a look that says "Look what you did to me, you evil fuck,"

Thankfully, this was not the case, and Igby the wonder cat was fine.

Mainly due to the fact that of couse, he hated the fucking food, and ate three bites before calling it quits.

Of couse, the guilt has overtaken me, and I am now spoiling the little shit rotten. because "mommy almost killed him"

The other night. Lesty was over to watch The Hills. Igby was perched on top of the couch, humping his favorite fleece blanket.





"What the hell is he doing?" Lesty screamed. He's grinding against the blanket right behind my head! Make it stop!"

But of course, I can't, because Mommy almost killed him.

It's 3am and you're hungry? Mommy will feed you. You want to lick my face until you fall asleep? Go to town. You want to hump my butterscotch bear because you're too lazy to go into the other room and hump the blankie? Go for it.




He is awfully cute though!