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.

Newman check out the pic

Anybody have any dirt on Tom Cruise?

It's me! (not the Asian chick, the pasty one to the back left.) God I look so pasty- Tom is making me look bad with his fake bake! What you can't see is that I'm clutching Tom from behind- we're on a first name basis after all. He's very close to me because I'm actually pulling him in like a lech. I mean he is cute.
Nicole Kidman's a real class act. Because if I were her, OUT Magazine would be doing a big expose on Tom Cruise, despite the questionable validity of the rumors. I would gather every detail of poor conduct and questionable sanity, and there'd be a dent on Oprah's couch where my ass would be telling Tom Cruise fans everywhere. OK, so that's a bit harsh. But really let's examine how awful this is. Nicole Kidman wants a natural child, we all know this. For whatever reason this doesn't happen during the course of her marriage. There is a miscarriage, reports of sterility, nobody really knows the story. A few days shy of their 10th anniversary, soon after he writes her some romantic poem, he announces he's leaving the marriage. She is devastated, and continues to mourn the relationship like a normal person. He rubs out any signs of emotional attachment and starts dating another starlet. And she gets to read about it anytime she passes by a newstand or turns on the television. By the time he plucks the 16 year younger Holmes from her engagement to that cute actor Chris Klein, the public notices that he has gone full out, mad Scientologist-crazy. He still acts larger than life. He is ranting at Matt Lauer on TV, saying negative things about Brooke Shields, denouncing an entire medical field, which incidently is the same field that his former father in law of 10 years devotes his life to, and still expects people to think he's this great guy? Now he's going to be a dad? How can Nicole Kidman stand it? I can't stand it. And you know why? Because my ex is a watered down version of the same thing. And he still has power over me. Tom Cruise gets to act like a crazy person and be rewarded for it with a life beyond anyone's wildest dreams? Maybe my ex can too. Uuuugh!
So, come on anybody. Does anybody have the scoop on Tom Cruise? What's really going on there? You can tell us.

I've come to think of my ex much like the Wizard of Oz. Remember the frontman? The strong and powerful looming grumpy hologram who claimed to grant wishes?
Much like Oz, who, from what I can recall doled out, among other things, a blackmarketed diploma for a scarecrow and an empty promise for Dorothy, the ex was FULL of unfulfilled promises and bizzare substitutes for caring and commitment. He'd always described himself as generous; and everyone from his doorman to his friend's wife would attest to what a prince he was. But everything he gave was EASY for him to give, in other words he displayed a kind of "generosity of convenience."

He SAID he wanted to take me somewhere exotic and adventurous. We ended up going on two island vacations together, dutch, that I planned and he tried to worm out of.

He told some friends of mine 'not to worry about the bill' for dinner, and when they didn't, he complained they didn't make a counter offer to pay.

He went window shopping for Christmas presents for my whole family, and then got nothing- including for me. (Me to him: huge lavish stocking.)

My favorite: bought me very nice Tiffany earrings and one of a kind jewelry- when he broke up w/me out of the blue, sent me all my stuff from his apt. except for the jewelry, which I never saw again.

Chinese Food. Remember in my Big, Fat Greek Wedding where the father thought every ailment could be cured with Windex? The answer to restablishing balance in any crisis was ordering take out chinese food. I am ashamed to say that that I perpetuated this feeble attempt by jumping up and down and licking my chops . When he refused to let me meet his ex wife, there was kung pao chicken. When he renegged on holidays and I was left alone in the city, there was fried rice to the rescue. When he changed his mind about moving in together and decided not to give me a key to his new apartment, I got to order my OWN egg roll.

I mean, I do really like Chinese food. How could I confuse the Chinese food cure with emotional depth, fortitude, and steadfastness? Just gullible, I guess.

I was so eager to believe in the wizard, all knowing, powerful and benevolent. But remember when Toto pulled the curtain back? The wizard was no wizard a whiz he was. He was just a little con man. I think what happened is I started to pull the curtain back, and he bolted. Sadly, I know I would have settled for the small, deceitful, version of him as well.

Maybe it is pathetic. But I'm still not over him after almost 9 months. I get disgusted with the idea of him sometimes, so maybe that's progress. I am also, however, disgusted with the prospect of dating, touching, engaging or becoming physical with any man except for Jason on General Hospital. Which doesn't really sound like progress, but more like one of my crazy aunts who sleeps with a cheese knife under the mattress and is in love with Mario Lanza, who still croons to her from an LP. I am after all, at age 35, the propper age to be inducted into into the old maid trainee program. Which I guess is OK because I think once you're a member, you're allowed to blow up like a house and watch a lot of lifetime television, and that suits me just fine. It sounds almost as good as my Camp Cupcake fantasy, in which I can both get even with my ex and catch some rent-free R&R. But living in NYC you can't really progress by those traditional aging standards. Eligibility requirments to become an 'old maid' is up to like, 82. All the would-be members are taking strip aerobic classes, revealing their never distended belly buttons, still holding on to the hope that they'll meet a nice divorcee. Just like me. But I'm almost ready to retire. My ex constantly reminded us that "40 is the new 30." So why, still, am I uncomfortable with the fact that each day that passes since my 35th birthday brings me closer to the big 4-0? I mean Demi Moore is great and all, but honestly I just don't have the energy anymore, you know? I mean I'm a normally aging 35 year old. I have forehead wrinkles and a bursitis.

As a sidenote, if he said that 40 is the new 30, does that mean he couldn't date a 22 year old because she'd really only be 12?

Well, this past Saturday would have marked our 6th year anniversary. Since we started dating, that is. Most people don't get to celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting. They have to settle for boring wedding anniversaries. Not me! Now that I think about it, that seems a little pathetic; celebrating another year that'd gone by where he successfully avoided marriage and that I successfully hung in there without a commitment. And to tell you the truth, he was the one who made such a big deal with the sappy card every year; I would always be one day off.

Since he left the relationship with pretty much no (rational) explanation-a few nuggets- "Happiness just isn't enough for me...I just don't want a girlfriend anymore ...sooo, do you need cab fair?", I couldn't help wondering if I would recieve a call from the most recent ghost of boyfriends past. I mean, he always came back before!? Ouch, I know that was pathetic.

Anyway, I'm still not over him. Went on one lame-o date in the past 8 months and that's it. No funny business at all , much to some of my girlfriends' horror.

So I went to a bachelorrette party this weekend that was being thrown by a self-proclamed sexologist. The bride to be had organized a celebration of women that included burlesque-style strippers, sex-toy demos and of course, dirty bingo. I attended the party with a group of women from work varying in all ages and backgrounds which of course made for some borderline uncomfortable moments. "What was the last one she called?" asked the sixty-something year old receptionist. "Butt plugs, Dot. She called 'B - Butt plug'. Did you fill in your free space?"

I don't think I have to tell you who the winner was. When I went up to claim my vibrator, the sexologist, who also happened to be a client of ours, explained in graphic detail how to position it to get the most bang for the buck. When I quipped back that my prize will come in handy for my bursitis, the room went silent. Not only was I , I was also an ingrate. Oh and the best part- the thing also has a remote control- just in case .... well just in case I don't know what.