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.