Jessica Biel Wants My Ass

I've always been small boned, and extremely small waisted. But not in the butt. My grandmother, who I resembled in physique, had a nickname: Big Buns. Now, it's okay to be known as "Big Buns" at 60 years old, but I didn't exactly enjoy having the name bequeathed to me in my 20's.
This past month, I've been eating whatever I want. Fried foods and rich desserts, anything. I've also allowed myself to exercise whenever I liked, which turned out to be 0 times. Now, I am going out to one or two upcoming events and I have nothing to wear. It seems that I have turned into a porker.
I guess there is something wrong in my brain, you know, with that mechanism that's supposed to tell me that I'm full. It's not working. Example: Today I ate chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a Subway for lunch, an Amy's meal for dinner, and a mint brownie and, I can't even say it, a little less than A QUART of Edy's Slow Churned, half the fat ice cream. I was surprised, because I don't usually like Edy's, or dietetic dessert in general, but this peppermint stick was so f-ing good, it tasted exactly like full fat. Unfortunately, eating, according to the nutritional description, seven servings of the stuff was probably not okay.
The reason why I turned into a disgusting pig is because of my sister, who, in a characteristic diatribe against our society's idealization of the underweight female, raged and gnashed her teeth in response to the self-criticism I directed toward my recently expanding body.
"If you think that you're overweight at your size, that's sick. You've always had a body image problem, I've always thought that."
"Cool," I said, tired of explaining the phenomenon of "skinny-fat," where size four jeans may still conceal a rippled jiggly mass of fat stuck on a size my five foot one, size two frame. "Maybe I do have a body image problem," I said. "That's good news. Then I can actually eat anything I want, and however gross I think I look, I'll know it's all in my mind."I have now increased two sizes, and do not fit into the fat pants I bought at the time of the of the body dysmorphic disorder discussion. I realized I do not have a body image problem, it is my sister who has an (other-directed) body image problem. It is directed specifically towards me, and is a by-product of my regrettable reign as big sister bitch-tyrant, where through torture and mind control, she sees me as some sort of idealized physical being.

Now one month later, when I have a skirt on, it looks as if I am wearing an old-fashioned bustle underneath. It's a shame they have gone out of style. My waist is still kinda small, but my ass has expanded. It is what I would call a "birth-control butt." With my clothes off, I notice that each buttock is a little bigger than the size of my head. And it is lumpy. So instead of washboard abs, I have a washboard ass. I can't even describe what it looks like, because I've never seen anything like it before. Wait, let me take another look. Oh my God. The ass sticks out like Jessica Biel's, but as if she was in a funny mirror that dwarfed everything but her butt. A pair of toddlers could stand under it and be completely shielded from a violent rainstorm. That is not an exaggeration.

I don't understand the popular notion that 'women dress for other women.' My ex-boyfriend would tell me things like that, as if he had consulted some encylcopedia of female behavior. I found out later that these are things his ex-wife, (who he still worshipped) would tell him as canons of womanhood, which he would kindly pass on to me so I could benefit from her wisdom. I disagreed with most of them, along with "all women are constantly in competition over men." In my opinion, I would usually win the argument, which he would then rebut with the statement, "well, I guess you're just not like most women." Anyway, this dressing for other women business is no different. I mean, occasionally I will bathe for other women, like if my sister is coming over after I go jogging I might take a shower , but I really only dress for male attention, and sometimes for self-expression, but certainly not all the time. If it weren't for cute guys walking around out there, I would wear L.L. Bean boots, Adidas shorts and fleece shirts everyday.
Which would be kinda the same reason I started eating all this food; it had been so long since I'd had a date that led anywhere exciting. Looking back at all the hours logged at the gym and calorie restrictions, measured against miserable returns in the dating scene, I just decided it wasn't worth it. The pleasure I got from eating fattening foods was more rewarding than what I was getting back from the guys. It's too hard. The men are so bad, and food is so good. It is getting harder to fight the good fight.

NYC Men Stink

All of a sudden, I was besodden with weariness. That's not mine. Actually, my friend Sally said it while we were browsing the personal essay section at the Barnes and Noble, after leaving my favorite hamburger joint on 72nd street. 'Favorite hamburger joint' is kind of misleading, implying a hierarchy of favorites which would indicate a sense of identification with my community and exhuberance about NYC. Like I could have family come out of town and introduce them to my collection of avenues and neighborhoods that have names like Nolita and Noho, my relationship to NYC like that of new friends who have started to exchange bits and pieces of their personalities. But I don't really feel that way about New York City; I don't really like living here; I just really like that hamburger place. A dive bar that serves comfort food. Sunken, cavernous, wood, with waiters that wear their own clothing and an attitude that defies the New York frenetic pace. The place that Zagat forgot.
I was trying to diet because I would be leaving for the beach in 12 days, and had gained a shocking 10 pounds in reaction to two failed dates and because of the revelation that I now much preferred vanilla cream filled donuts at Krispy Kreme to bullshit filled NYC men. Of course I couldn't diet with Sally because with us, it's all about excess. We added fries to each of our burgers and split a piece of chocolate cake. Only the cake was so suprisingly good, that I called out to the waitress across the room to bring us another piece, like a frat boy on spring break anxious for another shot of Jaeger. I can't drink so chocolate is my drug of choice.
The lunch was kind of a bookend to the most humiliating dating week I'd had since I'd started really dating again, which was only about a month ago. First, an actor I had made plans with for our third date cancelled because he had 'too much work to do,' (translation: it didn't look like he was going to get laid anytime soon.)
Then it got worse. Probably the worst rejection I've ever had without ever even going out with the guy. His name was Phil, I suppose it still is. First of all, I don't even like the name Phil. I don't trust it, Phil Donahue aside. I met Phil at a catering gig, a wedding. We were flirting and exchanging stories all night. I asked some reliable coworkers about him, who gave him a positive endorsement using words like 'ernest' and 'cute butt.' Then I cinched the deal when Phil asked me out to dinner sounds It sounds pretty pathetic when it's the woman who has to do the 'cinching', but that's what it's like in a city with a 5:1 ratio of women to men. In a city where women on every curb seem to be mugging for Vogue, complete with requisite pout.
Two days later, Phil followed up with a phone call, just to tell me he was looking forward to our date and that he would contact me when he returned to NYC from his parents. One week passed and he did not call. Just after I'd mentally filed Phil away in the 'promising date gone awry' junkyard pile located in the back of my brain, I received a phone call at 1:30am Friday night while I was enjoying a bag of kettle style popcorn.
Phil: Is this Erika? (I had apparently already made it into his phonebook.)
Me: Yes, who is this?
Phil: (Confused sounding) Phil. I thought I had the wrong number. Is this the girl I met last night at the bar on 24th street?
Me: No.
Phil: Oh, huh. I guess I have the wrong number.
Click.
So basically, not only had Phil forgotten about our date, he had also forgotten WHO I WAS. Fantastic. What does a woman have to do to get an honest kiss in New York?
I have not kissed a guy since I was well out of the city limits, a year and a half ago in my parents driveway, in front of my grandfathers window, idling in some guy's car. And even that guy, instead of asking for my number, asked if he could give me a spanking.

Youth Day Parade

First of all, thanks to y'all who have been reading and posting! Now, I wouls like to invite you all to the youth day parade! I've found out the secret to finding a nice guy- go young!!
Okay, I'm still single, ladies, and of course still hung up on the ex, but this has been a nice ego boost. I guess it's because I've been dressing better, but it still doesn't explain why all these youths have been coming onto me. I feel like a lecherous camp leader. I started talking to a 23 year old in my apartment complex. I didn't know he was that young until later, he does seem actually much more mature thnt my ex in a number of ways, so I was surprised. Anyway, I realized that life and romance has had less time to F*** these guys up! We've had a few chats in the hallway, then he invited me to a party. I wanted to ask him if I would be the oldest one there, but I was too embarassed. He is a classical musician, so I figured it might be a pretty mixed crowd. Anyway, we got to the party and, I'm almost to embarrassed to say, it was an UNDERGRAD party! Everyone was F-ing 19! And they looked 12! As I roamed through the odyssey of plastic cups and homemade bongs, I couldn't help feeling like the Fonz on Happy Days. At one point I looked around and I was standing by myself in the midle of a crowded room. I couldn't help but thinking what these kids must be saying, like "You're aunt's hot, dude." I left in 10 minutes. I was tired, I mean the party didn't start until 11:00.
Then, I felt guilty because the next day the kid calls 3 times. I think he likes me. I talked to him but instead of feeling like Demi Moore I feel like a sicky. He's invited me to another party, but I think I have to call it quits. This one starts even later. I can just see, if I continued dating him what it would be like: him, heading out at night and me sitting in my robe. "Come over here and give momma a kiss. Momma goin' to miss her baby." I would bellow.

Channeling My Inner Demi Moore (Dating Young Men)

If you've been reading, you'll remember that LANE, first in a series of barely post pubescent suitors, never called me back. I was just wondering, why? I figured it was because he saw my crow's feet. But I bet it was because I'm uncool. I had totally blanked on what happened at the end of the date. When we exited the Starbucks, he made all these references to 'next time.' Then we got on the subway together, and when it arrived at my stop, I said goodbye and when I turned around, walked into the pole. I thought it was kind of endearing, but the more I think about it, it must have looked kind of dorky. Anyway, it was no great loss, as shortly thereafter, a door opened to reveal another, even younger, man/boy. And the door did literally open; George is an actual doorman at one of the buildings where I walk dogs. He's 22(gasp.) He's seen me at my worst, (7:30am, last night's eyeliner, bedhead hair.) The absolute best thing about it is that he seemed so desperate for me to go out with him. "I'd really appreciate just talking to you." (Well intentioned lie.) "I just get really shy and nevous around you." (My beauty and worldliness is overwhelming to him.) He's so polite, and his social skills seemed more refined than guys my age. Most of the time it's, "So, you wanna hang out sometime?" Duh.
But I have a hard time coming up with topics of conversation every morning. If I ended up seriously dating him, would our morning conversations end up mimicking the lame exchanges so far that seem to shed a glare on the 14 year age gap?
Conversation 1: Me: "So what was your major?
Him:"I don't know yet. I'll wait til I get back from the navy."

Conversation 2: Me: "So what did you do over the weekend?"
Him:"I went to the movies."
Me: "See anything good?"
Him:"Yeah, Beerfest. It was okay."
Me: "Yeah, I was going to see that, but I didn't know if it would be as good as American Pie." (At this point, I realize he was not even a fertalized egg when I begged my cousin to take me to Porky's, so what can I really say?)
I didn't end up going out with the 22 year old. I almost agreed, after my friend John said "I wouldn't care about the fact that he's 22 one iota. Not one iota." This, knowing I had only had two dates in two years. But even though I loved the attention, and he's a lovely young man, I just couldn't. I mean, the poor guy is leaving for basic training in October. Jesus. Didn't anyone tell this kid a war is on?

Diary of a Mad Single Woman

OUTLINE OF MY LOVELIFE


I. The Pre-Dating Years
A. Birth
B. Celebrity Infatuations
1. Sean Cassidy
a. Purchase of Da Doo Run Run Album
b. Making Out With Pillow after Hardy Boys TV Show
2. ‘Leroy’ from Fame
a. Defunct ‘Gaydar’
b. Set lifelong precedent for bad taste
C. Awkward Stage
1. Too short
2. Head Gear
3. Flat Chest
II. High School Highlights
A. Prom
1. Stag with girlfriends
2. Snubbed guy who later became unbelievably hot neurosurgeon
B. Drama Club
1. Unrequited crushes
2. Make out session with closeted fellow cast member
C. Dances
1. Drinking Rum and Coke in Bleachers
2. Slow Dance to Stairway to Heaven with Boy Who says my Sweater
Looks like Strawberry Yogurt
III. College
A. The Beer Goggle Years
1. Alternative Mark
a. Wore silverware as jewelry
2. Curly-Haired Thom
b. Kept grandfather’s old condom from WW II as family
heirloom
3. Other
c. Don’t remember
B. Serious Relationship
1. Brian the Schizophrenic
a. Would continually ask me if I could also see things
that were figments of his imagination
1.) Bulls running through backyard
C. Academic Probation
1. Homeward Bound
a. Nights at Home with Dad, Mom and Brother
IV. The Roaring Twenties
A. Buzzkill Byron
1. Refused to take taxicabs, buses or subways; resulting in 8 block
travel radius
2. Had sour stomach which dictated the geriatric plan for most
activities
3. Broke up w/me
B. Crip Dreadfield
1. Separated from wife who he was still in love with
2. Hated his mother
3. Short
4. Broke up w/me

VI. Present Day
A. ‘Couple’ Friends Start Their Families
1. Picking Up Babies Instead of Picking Up Men
2. Necessity of new, young, ‘going out’ friends
a. Pounding house music
b. One-night stand stories
B. Dating Again
1. Guy who kept hors d’euvres in gym bag
2. Two other losers

C. Resignation
1. Ghiradelli Brownies
2. Lifetime, We, etc…
3. Foster dog

Not Quite Ashton and Demi

A 36, soon to be 37-year-old woman, me, was approached by two much-younger men on two separate occasions last week. The amorous solicitations appeared to signal an end to a long suffering dating drought but ended with not so much as a make out session.
The first hopeful, a strapping Scandinavian Ken doll look-alike named 'Lane,' approached the woman while she was walking a dog on West 93rd Street in Manhattan. The man, who had shoulder-length blond hair, azure eyes and a hot bod, inquired about the dog and moved quickly into the suggestion that they go for coffee. The woman then picked her jaw up off the cement and agreed.
At the Starbucks, the twosome enjoyed green teas over a refreshingly non-stilted conversation that was mostly dominated by the woman. (Still me.) She took notice that under the sunglasses a series of lines hinted at the beginnings of crow's feet, which made her feel better about the perceived age difference. On a number of occasions, the model-like Lane mentioned the phrase "next time we will have to..."
The woman said that she was busy for the next few days, but would call him if she would be attending the movies during that time. She telephoned two days later to inform the man that she would be going to a comedy movie, if he wanted to come along. He said he was booked up. The weekend passed with no follow-up call, as did the following three days. The woman's advisory committee officially declared the situation a 'blow off.' The woman did, however, come face to face with the young man later that week in a disasterous run-in where she was dressed as a mentally challenged individual: high waisted Chino shorts, white sneakers, and a McDonaland T-shirt featuring the Fry Guys and Hamburgler. Lane gave the woman a fake side hug and excused himself giving the excuse that he 'had a lot of work to do.'


"Who cares," the woman was overheard saying, "I don't need Lane and his prep school ass

Where the Boys Are (Not)

Well, I found out where the boys are. On the street. Specifically, selling things on the street. This past weekend I've been asked out twice, which in one weekend is a hundred percent increase in solicitations during all of last year. I've had interactions with other guys that I've met on the street but every time I think it's going somewhere the conversation ends with no number exchange, no nothin'. But guys who work on the street must feel like they hold some jurisdiction. It's their street; you're just walking on it. That, or they just have more balls than other guys, which also seems probable. The first guy was actually a youth. 24 years old, but looked 16. He was selling jumbo flashlights, and he repeatedly asked to take me to lunch, and for my phone number. Sometimes no guys will ask me out for years, and then, some young guy is begging for me to go out with him. What the hell is that about? The next guy sells jewelry on the street. This is the second jewelry vender that asked me out. The first was Brazilian, and also spun house music. He was young and skinny, and I don't like house music or all that goes along with it, so I rejected him. This new guy is Israeli, but looks and talks and acts somehow exactly like Hank Azaria as the scuba instructor who sleeps with Debra Messing in 'Along Came Polly.' He was sort of cute, but had already made a pass at my friend in addition to me. I don't know, maybe I'll call him. Once, I made out with a street musician who asked me out on the street. He was one of those small Peruvian fellows who plays the Andean flute. So, I may as well go out with him, it's not like I haven't done this before. Besides, my weekend was full of shit. I met a comedian on the street that I sort of like. We chatted, but of course there was no follow through. Then dog I was pet sitting for had exploding diahrea all over the living room at 6:30 am on Saturday.

Are You My Boyfriend?

The female subconscious is a powerful thing. If you are to begin the process of seeking a healthier relationship, it is vital that you ‘reprogram’. We have thus devised a simple, yet effective, regimen of videos that will help you. Instead of Retail Therapy we suggest Rental Therapy

Rental Therapy

The subconscious is a powerful tool that can be harnessed to help you seek kind men and to discern which men are boobs, unworthy of your attentions or affections. It is important to remember that ambivalent men are Jeckyll and Hyde type creates, prone to extreme shifts in behavior. Sometimes you think because your man looks the same as he did yesterday, that he is the same person inside. For most people, that would be a safe assumption to made. If you are dating an ambivalent man, however, this assumption could very well cost you your sanity.

It is important to recognize your boyfriend could actually be two (or more different people) lurking in the same body cavity. One of those people might be kind and generous—your dream man. The other one, however, might just be an insane, ego-destroying, maniac so self-involved and commitment-phobic that he makes Dennis Rodman look like Ghandi.

It is extremely difficult, however, for the average woman to recognize this. Therefore, we have come up with the following video program designed to help your subconscious to begin that oh-so-important process of discerning who your boyfriend really is. Movies contribute to this problem a great deal as men who are knights in shining armor on the silver screen are often scarecrows riding donkeys in real life. Consider the following "Reel Life" vs. "Real Life" scenarios:

1. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill vs. Hugh Grant getting arrested for solicing a prostitute on the Sunset Strip in real life.

2. Mel Gibson in Braveheart vs. Mel Gibson the anti-semetic, drunk driving lunatic.

3. Tom "you complete me" Cruise in Jerry M. vs. The crazy lunatic Scientologist control freak.

4. Ryan O'Neil in Love Story vs. Ryan O'Neil the abusive crazy father and cheating spouse.

5. Bill Cosby on the Cosby Show vs. Bill Cosby the cheating, chester-molester.

6. Charlie Sheen on 2and 1/2 Men vs. Cheating, crazy, rage-aholic husband of Denise.

7. Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black vs...well, you know....

Where The Boys Are (Not)

I saw that interview! Lauer needed to give Brit a break. She is young and has a deadbeat husband. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability. Why doesn't he grill Angelina Jolie about how she bragged to the press that she would never sleep with a married man? If he ever said, 'you know, Angie, some people think you're a slut,' she would probably knee him in the nuts on camera. Anyway, Matt Lauer is a cheater; shame on him for looking down at Britney just because her mammaries are spilling out.

Anyway, my roommate has had an experience that further reveals Where the Boys Are (Not). I'm not sure why I find this story so funny but I just do. Perhaps because my roommate is so blase. This time the venue was a mostly-European-clientele jazz bar. Now this was helpful to me as I hate jazz, but was planning on checking out a jazz club just to see if it was where the boys are.
She went two weeks ago, and ended up talking to one of the two guys there that were'nt part of a couple. What you have to understand is that my roommate is Hungarian and likes to drink red wine and have conversations about culture. This guy was also European (Italien) and she described him as 'a little bit macho.' She had said this with a grimace but decided to give him a shot.
The guy came over on a Sunday with purple teeth and a fresh bottle of wine. He had curly hair and looked old. If you ask me she could have done a lot better than him, but she she seemed to be amusing herself. She, like me, is 36 and has not had a real date in 2 years. I heard them arguing in the hallway, but this is nothing new. She was using the same admonishing tone of voice as she uses with me and my other roomates in reference to the overflowing sink and the empty toilet paper roll.
Next week for her birthday, he invited her over for a BBQ but she declined. Mostly because she thinks he drinks too much. He gave her his number to call him, but she was clear in saying she was not going to do that; but he could call her if he wanted to.
On her birthday, this unwanted Italian showed up at the door with a dozen white roses and more red teeth, asking to take her to lunch. She yawned and shrugged. "Let me just change out of my robe."
The Italian launched into an animated monologue about jazz, to which I replied, 'I don't like jazz, I only like the blues.' He then became indignant and told me I couldn't like the blues if I didn't like jazz. Unruffled, I said, "Whatever you say," and offered him some sugar corn pops, which seemed to infuriate him more.

On the date, they rode from one restaurant to the next, looking for something suitable. The Italian refused to take the subway as my roommate suggested. Four cab rides in, my roommate was famished, and begged to just eat at some cheap Spanish place. The Italian was upset. Obvsiously my roommate wasn't falling prey to his charms as planned. For lunch, he tried to order for her, but that didn't work. She wanted soup, so she ordered soup. This next part is the part I really like, but I don't know why. For his lunch, the Italian ordered a salad with salmon. When lunch was delivered, all he was served was dried up beans on a plate. My roommate started to laugh uncontrolably. He got enraged and started yelling at the wait staff. They finally got him some fish tacos.
I haven't seen the Italian since, but he keeps calling my roommate and acting annoyed and angry that she's not calling him and inviting him over.

Britney vs. Angelina

Adoption guru, man-stealer, UN Goodwill Ambassador--and now Identity Theif. It seems that Angie not only nabbed Jen's man, but she grabbed her starring role in the film "A Mighty Pearl" based on the life and times of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal Reporter who was killed. So, the lowdown is Plan B bought the movie and Jennifer Aniston was set to star, Brad and Jen busted up, and Angie decided SHE wanted to play Daniel Pearl's grieving widow in the movie.


All the gossip rags report on this, and what I find really annoying is that they all seem to agree that Angelina is a better fit for the role since she "looks more like Mariane Pearl" than Aniston does.

Everyone seems to be overlooking that fact that Marianne Pearl is BLACK!! Hello???!!! She doesn't look anything like Jolie or Aniston!! I don't get it! It seems like Jolie can get away with murder.

Meanwhile, the press is eating Britney Spears alive. I mean, what is so different about what they did? I mean, let's look at the stats:


Adultry: Ok, they both are "homewreckers". But if you ask me, Shar Jackson should be thanking Britney. I mean, at least Shar doesn't have to bear the horrible shame of being married to the man responsible for setting musical history back about 1,000 years with the release of the "PapaZao" single. Meanwhile, Jolie's wandering eye lands her the cover of People Magazine and the title "most beautiful person inside and out"

Endangering the Life of a Child: Paprazzi catches Brad wheeling around the Namibian dessert popping wheelies with Maddox (sans helmet) on the back of his dirt bike. All he gets is a "be more careful Brad" slap on the wrist from US Weekly. Meanwhile,Britney is raked over the coals for running away from paprazzi that are stalking her with her kid in her lap while she was driving. Both are boneheads to be sure. But, just becuase Brit wasn't tucked away in a 3rd world country 'saving souls' and, instead, was speeding down the highway,blasting "Sweet Home Alabama" on her cd player and slugging Mountain Dew, everyone hates her.

Poor Fashion sense: Angelina turned her body into a 5 ft 9 in. billboard professing her love for the OTHER guy she stole, Billy Bob. It looks like she got a bunch of them removed and now her body has a lot of blurry black ink spots on it. I'm sure that looks very attractive when combined with stretch marks. During a Dateline interview Anne Curry has no comment, other than to remark how beautiful Jolie is. Meanwhile Britney, suffering an admittedly terrible case of what Ms. DunThat calls "reverse anorexia" whereby you see yorself as being much thinner than you actually are, squeezes her 6 month pregnant body into one of Jessica Simpson's leftover outfits from the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Matt Lauer proceeds to call her 'White Trash" on national television. Nice.

Poor Acting Skills. Crossroads--no good. Life or Something Like It--even worse.

Failed Marriages: Brit--A 24 hour marriage and quickie divorce. Angie--vials of blood, disgusting public make-out sessions with Billy Bob--who, I'd like to point out, basically looks like a 65 year old Kevin Federline, matching 'his and hers' wifebeaters on the red carpet...you decide.

So, until Brit buys the rights to "The Rosa Parks Story" and decides to cast herself in the starring role, I'm rooting for Team Britney!!

Oprah and Gayle

So, Gail says that if Oprah was a man she would have married her. HAH! Shame on her. Gail knows (just as I know you all know) if Oprah was a man he would never talk with her on the phone four times in one day. At least not after they had been having sex for awhile.

Ladies, please do not fall for that "my husband/boyfriend is my best friend" garbaage. Husbands and boyfriends are NOT, under any circumstances, to EVER be considered your best friend for the following reasons:

1. If your hubby is your best friend, when he runs off with some hottie and breaks your heart, whose couch are you going to sit on, bawling your eyes out and smoking cigarettes? His?? I think not. His new 'best friend' is sitting on that couch now & I don't think she wants you ashing your Newport lights on her carpet.

2. When your hubby or boyfriend acts like a butt-head, who exactly are you going to call and explain/analyze his idiot like behavior with? Him? I'm sure he will be oh-so sympathetic.

3. When your husband/boyfriend's mother/brother/sister/best friend does something completely annoying and he takes their side who do you get to bitch to? Him? Not gonna happen.

4. How much fun do you think your man would have discussing whether McDreamy or Dr. Burke is the hottest doctor on Grey's anatomy?

5. It is no fun to borrow their clothes.

6. If he dumps you, who is going to set you up with cute guys? Help you edit your profile on Match.com? Laugh hysterically at all the losers on the online dating sites? Not him! Your 'best friend' will be too busy trying to post his own damn profile.

7. If your husband or boyfriend is your best friend they are of no use whatsoever in helping you analyze/understand why you have such rotten taste in men.

8. He can't go into that big huge open fitting room they have at Loehmanns & tell you if your ass looks as fat as you think it does in low rider white terrycloth Juicy sweat pants. You would have to go outside the fitting room and show him (and the rest of the store) thus increasing your humiliation factor by 100 percent.

9. Best friends should not have back hair, read the sports page while sitting on the john, or be capable of 'hocking a loogie'

10. Jen Aniston, Halle Berry, Hillary Swank, and Uma Thurman all said those dreaded words "he's my best friend" and we all know how those relationships turned out...

Where the Boys Are (Not)

I am officially starting a new cyber column here at HeWontCommit. In my search for a shiny new boyfriend-or, who am I kidding- used and scuffed is fair game as well, I have hit upon a new strategy, namely to go out places, rather than sit at home. Feel free to write in any suggestions in the comments section, especially our friend in Fairfield, who has faithfully checked for updates. The goal is to prove Mrs. BeenThere wrong, and score some hot dates. If you're not counting along with me, we are at 2 dates in a year and a half. That is what I would officially call a slump. So, I will make an attempt to drag myself out. Not without complaint, mind you.

My first step is to finally get that internet profile/photo up on Nerve.com, although I have a still few reservations. I was initially excited, as I learned that Nerve personals are linked with some other personals sites, like the Onion and New York magazine. Then one of my clients informed me that Nerve is more of a sex and erotica publication and that an overwhelming majority of members are looking for hook ups and short term relationships. That sucks. Why would a woman go through the trouble of uploading her information to get a hook up? Last I knew, all it took was a push-up bra and a trip to the nearest Irish bar.
So I'm not looking forward to it. The last thing I need is to go all the way downtown to eat a free salad so some guy can put his hand down my pants.
Not that I'm a prude, mind you, it's just that after I've been with someone for 5 years, sex and the related acoutrements have taken on a new prerequisite: intimacy. The thought of a random, probing tongue is unappealing, comical even.

OK, Maybe I have become a prude. I feel like I have been re-virginalized. Perhaps my hymen has grown back, even. And this second time around, I just don't feel like sharing bodily fluids with anyone that doesn't pass the smell test. So I'm willing to try online dating, but sorry, no action on the first date. As my Grammy Harriet said, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Or maybe it was "Don't be a slut."

In the mean time, I can rely on fantasy boyfriends until I meet that special someone. I can always watch Richard Gere in 'Unfaithful' one more time, or get all worked up watching Gray's Anatomy where I can't choose between Dr. Burke, McDreamy, and the sexy jerky guy. Any other readers here try Nerve?

10 Biggest Lies About Where the Boys Are

I don't like any of my married friends so I am trying to get Ms.DunThat married off--preferably to someone who doesn't irritate me or my over-sensitive spouse.
I have tried looking for dudes for her in all the 'hot spots' mentioned in the dating articles and can tell you right now, that stuff is total bunk.

1. Adult education classes.
I took an adult ed class(3 of them in fact) to help us on some of the book projects we are working on. There are no single men under the age of seventy in adult education classes. They were filled with retired women. The one guy there wrote a story about riding past a funeral home and noticing that the woman being buried was someone he had known in high school. He then wrote an essay about it for class, wherein he was kind enough to mention that the last time he saw this woman she was 17, standing in a window with her shirt slightly open and jiggling here breasts. So, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen pervert, adult ed is out!

2. Weddings.
I went to a wedding last Saturday. Weddings are full of single women, small children, old people, and single men way past their expiration date. I sat next to one of the few single men there. He bragged about the fact that now that he was working for Roto-Rooter he could get all the parking tickets he wanted--he just added them onto the bill of the customer. The only other cute single guy there was 75. So, again, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen or are interested in riding around town in a Roto Rooter van, getting parking tickets, weddings are NOT the place to be.

3. Church. Old people, married people, and babies.

4. Grocery Store. Old people, babies, and mothers.

5. Bookstore. Ditto.

6. Fun classes like the trapeze class we took. Single women, teenage girls, and one dude with his girlfriend.

7. Networking functions. Lots of single chicks. No dudes.

8. Work. Oh, please.

9. Shopping. Only metrosexuals shop. I married one of those. Trust me, you don't want a guy who takes longer to get ready in the morning than you do.

10. Online dating. Weirdos, Wackos, and Weenies are far as I can tell....

On Getting Noticed

I'd been complaining to all my 'peeps' that I've received less and less attention, no matter how hard I try to look good. Even the cat calls from the construction crews have died down. Maybe it's just too damn humid, or maybe the competition is just so stiff in NYC that even the construction workers, who are usually so dependable when in comes to sexist bravado, have become highly selective.

I did, however, receive some recognition yesterday. I had decided to wear a cute Ben Sherman shirt I had discovered at Filene's Basement. I couldn't believe it was only $20. It was hot pink and had puffy sleeves. About three hours into the day I noticed why it was $20. The buttons were attached in such a way as to make the shirt gape wide open in the cleavage area, at least on anyone over an A cup. I started covering the peephole with my bag but eventually got tired of that and just let it all hang out. I told myself maybe you could only see something if you were at a certain angle. I was wearing a bra. As I stepped back into what I thought was my obscure bubble of singleness, I passed by what appeared to be two 18 year old boys. They seemed to be looking at me. "Yo,check it," one of them shouted as I passed, "Your tit's hangin' out." I turned the corner immediately, went into a deli and ordered an impromptu corned beef sandwich to calm my nerves and gather my thoughts.
Also, further evidence that the last of my pheremones leaked through a black hole in my sex appeal- was the fact that this big fat annoyoying guy didn't even want me. I belong to a fellowship that happened to sponser an evening of dinner and dancing recently. There is a guy I don't know too well who is bald and big, and sort of looks like Sloth on 'The Goonies.' Apparently he keeps bothering all the pretty girls and handing them his personal card that details his 'caberet show.' As I was dancing, I almost tripped over the guys small water, which he had put next to him in the middle of the dance floor. As the water rolled away from my foot, the guy comes up to my face and screams "You kicked my water! I would appreciate it if you picked it up please." Then he folded his arms and waited. I clutched arms with my girlfriend as we both stared at him, frozen in horror and disbelief. Then we ran. Later, he came over and gave our other friend his card, and proceded to describe his 'cabaret,' while giving me the evil eye.

This is why I have had two dates in the last year. This is why I agreed to go out with the last loser, who kept hors d'euvres in his gym bag. (Long story.) But I am gearing up, girls. I am going to fight back. I am going to stage a full out effort to meet guys. I am armed with new pics (new, not-heinous ones) and am ready to register with two websites. I have a ticket to a singles event, and I am even willing to try 8-minute dating, even though the whole concept horrifies me. Wish me luck, and give me strength. Mrs. BeenThere?

The Greatest Show on Earth

In middle school, when it came time for captains to pick teams for volleyball, Mrs. BeenThere and I were always the last ones standing. Same thing with soccer. And even cruise games. Yes, we had something called cruise games. It’s not that we were total outcasts, just bad sportsmen. We had both long before developed a fear of gym (the quasi-coordinated peers, the oddly pumped and underclothed authority figures,) and compensated by acting like clowns. The last straw came when Mark B., who later played professional soccer, acquiesced to our request to play on his volleyball team. I was stationed in a back defensive position, hands slackly frozen in the ‘bump’ position. It was here that I received my first of many sports equipment related injuries, getting beaned by the volleyball while I was busy showing Mrs. BeenThere how to do a grande plie. A disgusted scowl spread over Mark B.’s face.

Flash forward 15 years. Mrs. BeenThere is now married to a soccer agent (blame it on bad karma), and we are both still allergic to any type of sports equipment. Which doesn’t at all explain how we landed at the entrance of lower Manhattan’s Trapeze school. The force that propelled us there was the opportunity to be featured in a short internet film that would be produced for nycfilms, an emerging internet film company. Seeing as this would bring us one step closer to our dream of co-hosting a show on Lifetime Television, our excitement was initially enough to keep our fear in check.

THE EQUIPMENT:
We were outfitted with their equipment and removed of our own (me-Chandelier earrings, Mrs. BeenThere-glasses.) They might as well as just removed Mrs. BeenThere’s eyes, seeing that she is blind as a bat without those glasses. I had asked Daniel, the filmalker shooting us, if he had a camera setting to decrease the size of my butt, which, already ample, was amplified even more by a shackle-type belt that was cinched around my waist. Even with my aversion to equipment, this one seemed important. There was a safety cable attached to it, and I figured it might actually save my life in the off chance I fainted from sheer terror when I jumped from the platform. Then there was the actual trapeze. It was so high. Higher than the high dive that I was forced to jump off of in swim class as a child, which I had managed to do by squeezing my eyes shut and holding my nose with both hands.



THE INSTRUCTORS:
The instructors seemed to sniff out our history of gym ineptness. The first guy, a foreign type I’ll call Dolf, explained to us the daredevil maneuver that in a few moments we would be expected to execute. This 5 minute explanation, which included safety guidelines, was delivered in what might as well have been his native tongue, at least to Mrs. BeenThere and I. I noted that Dolf may have been an Eastern European stewardess in a previous life, as his instructions seemed to mimic the same abstract brevity. When he had finished, the rest of the class nodded their heads to indicate understanding, which surprised me. We were then asked to line up in front of a mat over which hung a practice trapeze, where Dolf would first spot us before ascending the ladder to the real one. The maneuver was this: grab hold of the trapeze, tuck the knees, curl the legs over the top of the bar, let go of the bar while swinging, hands back on, then a back flip to dismount. This information was surprising, considering I had envisaged my first trapeze maneuver to be more like that of Tweety Bird: sitting relaxed on the bar, hands lightly gripping the cables to my sides, possibly whistling. When I asked if maybe it would be better to save this more complicated maneuver for a more advanced class, I got the still faintly familiar ‘stink eye’ from my classmates, all except for Mrs. BeenThere, who, now visually impaired, was staring serenely into a random corner.
The really troubling part was that I actually failed the test run. I couldn’t get my feet up and around the bar, which was of an uncomfortable metal, not bamboo like I’d imagined. My hands were already slipping off and I could feel the beginning of a blister. And although I could live with a blister, I was more concerned about falling from the upside down position onto my neck, having no health insurance, and spending the rest of my days in a state subsidized nursing home. After being spotted into the hanging position, Dolf had to hold my legs so they wouldn’t go flying off. If I couldn’t complete the maneuver on the ground with a spotter, how could I seriously attempt it at a good 15 feet above the net, by myself, while swinging? Thinking that I, the ‘too weak,’ would be disqualified in the same way that short people were sometimes disqualified from roller coasters, I expressed this concern to Dolf. He mumbled a string of words which included ‘up there,’ ‘weightless,’ and ‘worry.’
Dolf’s female counterpart was stationed at the top of the platform. She appeared even tougher than him, wearing knee socks, Samba sneakers, and short-shorts with the word CIRCUS printed on the butt. She reminded me of one of the girls who would have zig zagged in front of me volleying a puck back and forth saying “Get out of my way.” As I became exponentially dizzy with each rung climbed on the latter, I realized there was no way she was going to put up with my girly whining. I was actually going to have to do this.

"Hut!" That was my cue. I grabbed onto the bar, the mean girl let go of my waste, and I went flying through the air, screaming the whole time. I am ashamed to admit that I was the only one in the class who screamed. As for the commands, I am proud to say that on two out of my four runs, I completed the acrobatic maneuver of swinging from my knees. On one attempt, I really messed up, got in some sort of upside-down pike position, and all the instructors were yelling at me. Mrs. DunThat recalled from her elementary school gymnastic days that I had 'skinned the cat,' and I could have dislocated my shoulders.
When it was Mrs. DunThat's turn, I thought she was in a trance. Before she made her assent, I looked in her eyes and there was nobody in there. Then the instructors yelled for her to take her glasses off. Mrs. DunThat is blind as a bat without her glasses. After she plunged, the instructors kept trying to give her directions from the ground, but all she kept saying was 'What!? What!?' and looking in the wrong direction, like Mr. Magoo.
All in all, it was a great day. It marked the first time we've been recognized professionally for doing what we do best, namely acting like bufoons, and screwing up any directions we are given by authority figures. Who would have known these life long handicapps would be so useful in the realm of reality TV!
I was also very excited that I could walk around referring to myself as 'the talent' and that we received a comped pack of cigarettes (Which I sort of quit but realized i needed before I dove off that platform.)
The shoot went great. The trapeze instructors were 10 times as mean, the activity was 10 times as terrifying. It should make for great television.

Spawn of Brangelina Arrives: Idea of "Karma" is shown to be a load of bunk

So, the much awaited spawn of Brad and Angie has arrived. I tell you, there is no justice in the world.

Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"

1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation

Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.

This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?

I Need Some (Cyber)Space

I hav'nt even gone on my first date, yet I have to get away from the boards for a while. First off, let me say that if you want a man your own age, you're considerably out of luck. The common male preference is something like this: Male, 38; searching for women age 25-35. So some of us are already cut out of a pool of guys our own age.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?

When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)

I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.

Internet Dating for Dummies

First off...NO MS.DunThat you CANNOT re-email someone with a better picture of yourself after you went and sent him a picture where you looked like a the dude from "The Mask" in hippy-dippy tie-dye tank top. It is beyond cyber-stalking. It says "I am not only desperate, I am also crazy".

To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.

That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.

From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.

Internet Dating Starts Off on a Bad Foot

I remember that video. I think they were dancing in a diner, or something. Brangelina woudn't ever be in a situation like this because a)they would never park in the discount parking lot, b)Angelina wouldn't be caught dead traveling with John Voight, and c)Brad isn't allowed to hang out with his parents. The only thing Mrs. BeenThere's weekend had in common with a Brangelina vacation was the signature oversized child on hip.

Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.

Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"

Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?

ROAD TRIP!!

Ms. DunThat's past reminds me of another vacation I took with my commitment shy guy (our very first vacation as a matter of fact). This vacation was to a developing nation with unreliable road transport. We were planning to do a lot of walking, biking, etc. to get around. One week before the vacation he decided to run a major city marathon (27 miles) WITHOUT TRAINING--just a couple of hurdler stretches at the start gate and he was off!. He finished the race but had to be on crutches and a cane for our whole trip. Perhaps he was trying to tell me something? But, I digress. This post is actually to you about my latest vacation...to the midwest...with my parents.

So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.

We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.

So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.

Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.

The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.


I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.

The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).

Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.

Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....

Traveling with a Commitment-Phobe

Mrs. BeenThere, there are so many of us out there who feel your pain. Each of my ex BF's tended to develop commitment-itis when confronted with an approaching vacation. I have also witnessed the psychosomatic illness. But now that I think about it was really manufactured illness and personal injury. Mr. BeenThere had a choice- to either eat the questionable shellfish or leave it alone. A previous ex boyfriend was even better than your husband. We were supposed to go to the jazz festival in Montreal, and he was sooo not excited about it. He took his mountain bike out the evening before, in the dark, and flipped over it, puncturing something in his shoulder that would actuallyrequire surgury. For the next week, instead of staying in a nice hotel, we stayed at his parents house where I slept on the floor next to his bed, and if memory serves me correctly, holding his hand. Gag, ugh, ughh, gag. I can totally imagine Brad having exploding diahrrea on a vacation with Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and David Arqette.He would probably eat some stale pork rinds to avoid having to participate in group karaoke or something. But he wouldn't with Angelina, or George Clooney for that matter. They would look down on him if he had to take a day off from working in the soup kitchen or whatever he's doing that day. Plus, Angie would so rip him a new one and go sleep with that Jenny Shimuzu model.
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!

Namibia is for Commitment-phobes

You know how they say Paris is for lovers? Well, I have a new promotional schame for the Namibian tourism board: Namibia is for Commitmentphobes. I was reminded of this story when I read Ms.DunThat's post about her ex's aborted trip to visit her. I too, have a similar story.

Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.

Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.


On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.

Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!

The Dunkachino Disaster

As Ms. DunThat was unsuccesfully trying to get to the Aquarium with her 'rents, I was attempting to get my father to buy me a Dunkachino at Dunkin Donuts. For those of you who are not frequent Dunkin visitors, a Dunkachino is half-hot chocolate, half coffee. Anyway, so the conversation goes something like this:

Me: Dad, can you get me a medium Dunkachino and six donut holes for the kids
Dad: Donut holes? What are those?
Me: They are like, little donuts, little round things. Don't worry, they are going to know what they are, get 3 jelly flavored and 3 glazed.
Dad: What? Ok, where are my sandals? Has anyone seen my sandals?
Sister: Can you pick me up a regular coffee? Hezelnut Vanilla?
Dad: Oh no, I'm not going to be able to do this. Can someone get me a pen? I need to write this down!!!
My 3 year old: Grampa, can I come with you?
Dad: What's that now that you wnat me to get, a Grampachino?

Sooo, he writes it all down, what everyone wants. He comes back half an hour later with....four regular coffees, z smoothie, and a dozen donuts. No Dunkachino, No Munchkins, no Vanilla Hazelnut coffee for my sister. Where he got the notion in his head for these other items, I can't begin to fathom. I mean, he HAD a list...

Vacation musings

On the last day of my trip, I got in trouble and received the 'silent treatment' from my father. I had planned to go to the zoo or the aquarium with my sister and brother. I know what you're saying already, 'what kind of loser goes to the zoo or the aquarium for the highlight of their vacation?' Especially because this zoo is the world's most horrible, politically incorrect zoo. Monkey cages are tiny and splattered with feces; they throw things at you because they are (rightfully) mad at the world. A huge lion lays lethargically in a cage exactly like the old fashioned one on the side of the Barnum and Bailey Animal Crackers box. Underneath the cage is a crappy sign that says 'Simba.' Indeed, last year we tried to report the zoo but nothing came of it. But it would be fun. The three of us never get a chance to go anywhere together, but when we do, it tends to be very carefree and leisurly. My sister ended up not being able to go because her friend saw a sign for free skin care consultations at Sephora. This opportunity clearly superseded the zoo or the aquarium.
My parents, noticing the time gap left between 'The Ellen Degeneris Show' and 'American Idol' later that evening, volunteered to go with my brother and I instead. Now don't get me wrong, I like doing things with my parents, but it's a totaly different vibe than taking a leisurly drive to observe some wildlife.
My parents got to it with the same zeal and authority as a couple of camp counselors, minus the T-shirts and the whistles. My father got busy plotting out the physics of available time verses possible ground cover and activities. Mom got to work on the hospitality element. By the time she mentioned the dreaded cooler, I was tired out. The cooler, THE harbinger of useless, endless errands. Luncheon meats would have to be bought, ice packs cooled.
Mom: "If we lunch on the beach after, we'll bring the tent, otherwise sand will get in your food. You don't want sand to get in your food. We need that tent for your brother. He's already red and I don't think he should be getting anymore sun."
Me: "We're not going camping, we just want to go for a drive. Just forget it." I was already thinking about the trip there, sitting in the back seat with my brother, getting windblown from the front window rolled down all the way, bobbing and weaving the ashes flicked carelessly out the driver's seat window. When I pointed out that the whole day was turning into a rigamarole, my dad got in a huff. He acted hurt, and thy gave up on the whole idea.
The wierd thing is that this doesn't happen when you have a boyfriend, this type of automatic regression. He's usually there with you, or as much of it was in my case, the idea of him is there at least. The last year we were together, he was supposed to take a trip down there with me for a week long vacation. He kept putting off buying the plane ticket. I kept hasseling him, and waiting to buy my ticket. Finally he said I should just buy it, he had to wait a little longer and would just pay the extra money, and if he wanted to cut the trip short, well, I could just go to the airport and they would switch it around to accomadate us. I wasn't too sure. THEN he said he wanted to drive down there. He seemed really excited about it, and kept talking about visiting my parents, and then driving around and doing our own thing, maybe going to some little B and B, and what not. But I was so uneasy, like I KNEW somehow this trip wasn't going to happen. I just knew part of him wasn't into it. Then, his mom got sick. I still believe that part is true, maybe I'm a shmuck. Some condition that required hospitalization and included possible transfusions. So of course, I was horrified, and couldn't say anything. I offered to stay with him, but he said to go, she might need surgery, but the condition wan't life threatening or anything. Bought the ex mom a card and went to my parents. Now, ex didn't really get along with his mom, but still. Halfway into my trip, when I askd him how his mom was, he told me blankly he never got around to visiting her over the weekend. When I got back from the vacation, I found out he never bothered to visit her at all. I was stunned, but what was I supposed to say? If I got pissed at him, I would also basically be accusing him of being a bad son, and what if something did then happen to the mom?

I'VE STILL GOT IT

Now I have to get it while the getting is hot!
Although I still (sadly) miss my ex, I am pleased to report that a 21 year old boy tried to pick me up tonight. It was a record low, and was obviously very flattering. I believe 21 is off limits, as it even exceeds the Demi/Ashton gap. I'm not going for any Guiness world records, it's just nice to think that maybe I can at least find a guy my own age. I was having doubts, considering all the guys on match.com who only want to date women 2-15 years younger than them. So screw them all, the pigs!

Damn, I wish I'd seen that Oprah. Now, Sheryl Crow seems like a real nice lady. I find it interesting that although she's always been described as 'strong' and independent, she too put her professional life on hold for a year for Francy-Pants and then got dumped to the curb like a crumbled up bottle of Gaterade. I don't know about Lance, but it seems like there are a lot of guys out there who get real nervous when you put them in front of your own career. That's so stupid. I would think a man who's lived through cancer would be appreciative of a woman who wanted to make sacrifices to be with him. And about his wife, I mean, what woman wouldn't relocate to France for a seemingly nice guy who's on his way to becoming an international superstar and who is recovering from cancer? Why is that pathetic? I guess you're just not supposed to give anything up anymore. I mean, you would give up where you live and your job if your kid had the opportunity to go to a better school, right? That would be courageous. But if you do it for a man, you're a sap. Sometimes you want to celebrate other parts of your life aside from your 'work' life, but you know what that means-Uh,Oh- she might expect something BACK, something EMOTIONAL. She let her guard down. She's just not attractive anymore. I guess I'm a litttle bitter.
The hospice vacation continues. We were loaded up into the van yesterday to finally go to the beach. For the first time in years, I barely fit into a one piece bathing suit, thanks to my mom's home cooking. But I was able to narrowly escape the 'maillot with skirt' style suit by pairing my bathing suit with a cotton miniskirt. I have been here for four days so far and I would like to make a list of what I've been fed: BLT's, chips, homemade macaroni and cheese, take out chinese, homemade pizza, German chocolate cake with cherry filling, molasses cookies, pancakes and sausage. On the ride to the beach, my sister and brother and I took turns complaining how 'wrong' the scale was in mom and dad's bathroom. It seems it's a good 5-10 pounds off. We hope. But unlike my younger brother and sister, there is nobody at home to be horrified by my acute weight gain.
And yes, we made a family field trip to Reed's Jewelers, to pick out the setting for the diamond my brother bought for his fiance. When we walked in, they were playing a song by Al Green, OUR old song, me and you-know-who's. I am always uncomfortable in those places because they are like a foreign country I am supposed to have visited. They speak a strange language and use words like carrots. My sister who's 29 knows what they are talking about but I do not. She brought along her three diamond rings to use as examples.But the only time I've seen the inside of a jewelry store was with the ex, who had gifted me diamond studs with embarrassing and cautious reserve. Then we went to the store because we had to exchange the studs because they were so small they were actually falling out through my ear hole. Jewelry stores also remind me of how he kept the earrings and any other piece of jewelry he gave me when he broke up with me. He sent all my stuff back in boxes but kept those and the one of a kind Native American jewelry. This was not because he was angry with me but because he 'didn't want me wearing it with anyone else." Huh?So helping my brother was bittersweet. I mean my God, I remember when I used to babysit with Mrs. BeenThere and we used to watch Love Boat. Now my baby brother is a big man getting married and I'm still waiting to find a man who doesn't expect to go dutch on a vacation.

OK Ms. DunThat, Mrs. BeenThere is here and I feel your pain.

For those who haven't met me yet, I'm Mrs.BeenThere and I have been Ms.DunThat's co-conspirator for about 25 years now.I am also spending the week with my parents. They decided to visit me this year in lieu of a vacation. My parents are odd birds. My dad has a PhD and my mom has two Masters degrees. My dad has written four books and is currently working on two more. My mom proofreads all his stuff and is his co-author on a number of articles. They are in perfect health and neither one of them is senile. Nevertheless, once their feet cross the threshold of my house, neither one of them can complete even the most simple task without assistance. They are unable to turn on the t.v by themselves or change the channel. They can't turn on the shower by themselves. They can't find objects that are right in front of their faces. I spend most of my time running around doing basic things for them. It is sort of like taking care of my two toddlers, except my parents are a lot more bossy.

So, here we both are, on the wrong side of 35 spending close to every waking hour with our parents! Becuase of the collective oddities of both of our families, we have to communicate via blog becuase we actually cannot communicate any other way when our families are around. Yesterday I tried to call her in the morning and after about 100 rings her grandfather finally shuffled to the phone and picked up. He demanded to know why, if I was calling from the East Coast, the caller ID showed a number from the midwest. I had to explain I still had my old cell phone that I used when I lived elsewhere. He wasn't buying it. He acted very suspiscious, like I was trying to pull one over on him. I finally got him to tell me that she had gone engagement ring shopping. For a brief moment my heart soared. I fantasized that Mrs. BeenThere had met the man of her dreams and would finally get hitched so my husband and I (who have no couple friends becuase every other married couple we know is horrifically boring) would actually have another cool couple to hang out with. OK, I know, she hasn't actually been on a date in a while so the chances of her finding a guy and getting hitched within 24 hours of the last time I spoke to her are slim, but hey, I can dream, can't I? Anyway, no such luck. She was going ring shopping with her little brother. Who I have known since he was in diapers. Who is now getting married. To an actual adult woman becuase he is an actual adult man and not an fourteen year old. Which means I am really, really old now. Depressing. So, anyway, I get grandpa off the phone (he didn't offer me any toothbrushes) and decided to call her later.

The next time I called her her father picked up. He started droning on about possibly using my name as a reference for some volunteer opportunity he was pursuing. Once again I felt horrifically old when I realized that the same man who used to drive me to the movies in eigth grade now considers me old enough to write a letter of reference for him. Which again underscores the fact that I am one old broad. So, anyway, the worst thing of it was I was just trying to call her quickly to tell her that Lance Armstrong's ex was on Oprah. Did anyone catch that? Lance Armstrong is (after Brad Pitt) possibly the most dangerous commitment-phobe out there. And now his wife was on t.v, presumably to ditch the dirt. Thank god for TIVO becuase her father droned on and on for close to twenty minutes. I was dying.

You know, I'm getting really really sick of Oprah. She always blames the woman for every crappy thing a man does to her. Take the interview with Lance's ex (who, by the way, looks exactly like Sheryl Crow) She is blaming herself for the fact that Lance Armstrong is basically a self-involved son of a gun. The basic gist of the interview was that she was saying that she lost herself in her marriage and became a 'yes woman' who didn't stand up for herself, which eventually led to her divorce.Oprah went into her whole "yeah girl, you women out there better wake up, if your man is mistreating you it is probably becuase you taught him to do that" routine. Ok, sure, I get it, no one is blameless in any situation, but COME ON. What I saw on that stage was a woman who fell in love with a man, sold her house, her car, and her DOG. Moved to France, got pregnant, and was just trying to hold it all together to support the man she loved. She should be blamed because she didn't ask for help? What about blaming him for never OFFERING to help??? A woman gives up a great life for you, has your babies, moves to the land of bad showers, rude people, and chain smokers (ok ok I hate France), cooks your meals and washes your dirty drawers and you never once think to ask "can I help you?" and it is HER FAULT when the marriage tanks!!! Get your ass off that bike and change a diaper already Lance!! Take your wife out to dinner!!Use some of that dough you won at the Tour-de-Fancy Pants France to fund a getaway weekend for her and some girlfriends!!! And what are we supposed to think about him ditching Sheryl Crow? A woman who had a great career, was independent, and was no "yes woman" as far as I could see. It didn't keep her from getting kicked to the curb once bicycle boy had had his fun. Can I get a witness, Ms. DunThat??? Oops, wait, I gotta go, my father is calling me from downstairs. He needs me to turn on the t.v. for him so he can watch C-Span.

I am on vacation

Yes, I am on vacation. Not at a tropical island, not in Vegas, not on a singles' cruise (something I probably should do considering I'm hurtling at the speed of light toward middle age.) I am at my parents. The plus side: They live 15 minutes away from the beach, and there is a thriving downtown with quaint stores and big city nightlife. The down side: There is a cold front, I have no access to a car and nobody wants to do anything.
That is not entirely fair. On Saturday night, my sister and her friend took me out to a biker bar. We were going to go to a nice club but there was no parking so we left. The allergy fueled flu that I'd had in New York had settled into an easily ignorable cold, so I grabbed the chance to go out. I danced to a few songs, dodging the 'octopus arms' that occasionally reached from behind me to secure the bump and grind position. There was a lot of cigarette smoke which I guess aggravated my condition because I couldn't speak for the next 24 hours and now I think I have walking brochitis. But at least I was out there.
That was the only time I've been out for three days, except when my dad brought me to the QwikMart to get some Tampons, where he stayed in the car, but gave me $4 to buy his Merit Menthols. I don't drive a car, and my sister doesn't like leaving the house during the day. I wake up in the morning and play Scrabble with my brother. My mother asks me what I'm going to eat. I watch old movies on TV, and watch my grandfather shuffle back and forth to the bathroom. This morning he brought out a cigar box filled with new toothbrushes and asked me to pick one. He says there's more where that came from, that he's got 100's of them. I play with the dogs for a little while. I read, and sometimes I take a bath.
I am 36 years old. I am on vacation but it looks more like i've checked into a hospice. This stuff only happens when you're single or in a stagnant relationship. Can anybody else relate? Mrs. BeenThere?

Last Monday my ex-Boyfriend pretended he didn't know me and the next night I had to work as a bathroom attendant.

Yes, this is true. As you know, my ex left me in the dust just a little over a year ago after 5.5 years. What you may not know is that I also left a teaching career to write and walk dogs. I also had to pick up some cater-waiter jobs. So here's how it went down: I was entering a restaurant to get a piece of lemon meringe pie. I was in my dog walking uniform, which that day was old droopy beige cords (with a tomato sauce stain on back of leg), scuffed sneakers, and weird sweater with pompom drawstring. Most importantly, I had on no make up and my hair was tied up and windblown; the top of the hairdo looked like a shark fin. That's what I was reminded of when I looked in the mirror after. Anyway so I enter the first door, there is a little hallway between the first and second door, with a glass panel to my left, through which sits one table where both diners are approx. 3 feet away from me. As I'm opening the second door I glance at that table and see my ex BF sitting with his ex wife. (They were seperated when we met.) He looked up at me too, we locked eyes for a moment, and then he returned to the conversation he was having with her without missing a beat. I guess the coward didn't have it in him to acknowledge me after spending 5+ years with me, after all she didn't know who I was. I don't even think she really knew I existed, as I realized later he was hedging his bets and dividing his emotions between the two of us our whole time together. Watching them was like watching a mental picture I had created that now moved on it's own accord. It was just sheer post traumatic pain.

Then I went to the corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked them. I have not heard from him and I guess after this, I never will. And if I do, I will be an idiot for talking to him. Then, at 11:30 at night, I got a call from a catering co. that wanted me to work for them as a bathroom attndant the next day. Yipee! I hadn't really worked for them yet, so I had to take the job to insure they would call me again.
The sad thing is, that when I saw him, I still wanted him. After 14 months. Oh God, I hope I don't get famous and he reads those words. I guess I can replace that part about wanting him with, 'He looked like an orange troll, I don't know what it was I saw in him in the first place.' My friend Sally told me if you're relationship (or breakup) with a guy seems like a Lifetime movie, it's probably not healthy for you. So I must listen to her.

I am finally going to get back to writing and maintaining this blog. The reason I havn't been writing is due to my chair. I tried to make a cozy writing area for myself. I bought a new rug, chair, and even hung up the painting that I had bought for my ex before he left me. It had been sitting in my closet for over a year. It is a lovely painting, and it is mine now. It is probably the most 'high class' thing that I own, which gives you an idea of who I treated better, him or myself. Anyway, the chair. It is one of those round, nest-style chairs and it is so comfortable, that when ever I sat down, I didn't feel like writing; only like watching TV or maybe reading. I had planned to do some writing this weekend, and was so depressed come Sun. night when all I had to show for the weekend was an empty DVR and a trail of cookie crumbs that had worked their way down my front and lodged themselves in my navel, that I started to feel really bad about myself. Not just because I havn't been able to write, but because my butt got bigger. Just when I was about to roll across the room into the bed, I found a new position in the chair that felt like the perfect writing position. I am hoping that this is a turnung point to get me out of my slump. I am in the position now, and here I am writing. So anyway, about dating. I havn't really bothered to update because it's been so boring. I had two dates, both of whom I compared with my boyfriend and who came up short, even though my boyfriend was an asshole. He did have other attributes. The first date seemed promising; I met the guy at a catering event, we exchanched numbers and then both saved eachothers numbers wrong. He actually tracked me down by calling the catering company! But then, on the date, he was a bizaare composite of annoying personalities. He kept talking about Bush, Russian literature, and 'faggots.' His voice was high and his teeth were shriveled and blackish, I can't believe I didn't notice that before.
The second date was fine; it was with an ER doctor who was short and bald, but not George Costanza short and bald. But he was pretty young for me, 30. We had a good time talking, but I didn't feel much of an attraction. Anyhow, he invited me to a concert and something else. Then I told him I was 36 (he thought I was about 32) and then I never heard from him again. Those are the only dates I've had in the 14 months since the breakup.

Tomorrow I am going to try to start the Perricone 28 day diet so tonight, I am sitting in front of Grey's Anatomy with a fork and an Entemen's cake. I have eaten one third of the cake. Like an alcoholic who sucumbs to the fantasy of a last drink, the reality of my pig out session is disappointing and filled with self-loathing. It is a Valentines cake. So I know I will keep eating in an attempt to get rid of it. Pigging out should be left to those who, like my roomate, can exercise a modicum of self-control. I've already gained 8 pounds this season. But I did, on a high note, have a blind date the other night. For those who are counting, that is date number two since the BREAKUP. Not bad, you know, for a 36 year old. Let's see, that's an average of 1 date every 7 months. At this rate,

Sometimes it seems that just when you start to feel a little bit better about something, fate intervenes to bring you back to a place of misery The following event is real, not fictionalized, as you would be inclined to believe.
As I may have told you, shortly before the breakup, I had given up my career as a dance teacher to pursue other career options. The breakup ensued, and I spent six months of government subsidized unemployment on the beach and under the covers watching Ellen and reality TV. I presently spend my days walking dogs and writing. That's right, careerless and mateless in one shot. Oh well, c'est la vie, I gave away my ticket for a normal life long ago, in college, when I started dating unavailable men. BUT THIS IS WHERE IT STOPS!
Anyway back to the point- Manhattan is a condensed sity. There is so much to see that it is not hard to avoid a particular area if necessary. I used to live with my BF on 64th and West End. So the area on West End between 50th and 80th Streets is basically a blackout zone. (The blackout zone originally included Manhattan, then the entire west side, and has shrunk in time. Not that I'm over it.) The other day, I got a pet sitting job within 10 blocks of the old apartment. I literally closed my eyes in the street as I walked close to the apt. we had shared, risking walking into a stranger or a lamp post. I kept my head down past the neighborhood restaurant we visited on lazy Sunday evenings, where I liked the the fried zuccini and he liked the linguini a la vongole. I got up to the apartment, set up my laptop and played tug of war with the dog. The apartment is a top floor penthouse, with a wrap around balcony. I know, I know. I am staring out the window when it dawns on me that I'm actually freaking looking at the apartment we shared together for almost SIX YEARS, the apartment that he in all probability, still resides at. Then, as if a divine being placed them there itself, I see to my right a set of binoculars. For about two seconds I tried to talk myself into forgetting about it and going to see what was on the Lifetime Movie station. Instead I picked up the binoculars, and with my hands in a death grip, heart pounding, tried to see if I could scout out our apartment. I mean this is a year later guys, I don't know what kind of horrors I could have seen. Turns out I can't see into his apartment, which is a good thing, because even if I could have seen so much as a one inch sliver, I would have stood there in a death grip watching for an elbow, anything, like some 1980's movie voyeuristic loser.