The Grrl With The Most Cake Throws It Up.

There are certain things I have no business doing, For instance, I have no business blasting "No Air" in the car and attempting to sing both Jordin Sparks’ and Chris Brown’s runs simultaneously, at the top of my lungs, all the while illustrating the fact that I am singing by using overemphasized hand gestures of an X-tina Agulera nature. No business, do I have to do that.

Not that that stops me.

I also have no business attempting to transition from anorexia (which I am not convinced that I have, but my shrink is) to bulimia, a disorder which involves several components, none of which I have ever been good at.

Not that that stops me.

I’ve been hungry lately and I have to do something to get rid of the extra calories I find myself consuming. That "something" is the very thing I ought not to be doing, not just for health reasons, but for capability reasons. To put it bluntly, I am a sucky bulimic.

The typical bulimic binge is supposed to involve thousands upon thousands of calories. Mine involves eating not one Skinny Cow ice cream cone, but…wait for it, wait for it….two. Even I know that 300 calories does not a binge make. Still, its enough for me.

Next comes the purge, which is where I really shine. People like me have no business attempting to throw up. What should be a quick finger down the throat expulsion of reduced fat salt and vinegar chips turns into a song and dance routine of epic proportions, complete with its own introductory monologue ("Just do it! Just do it! That Lean Cuisine is affixing itself to your abdomen as we speak! Just do it you candy-ass—oh. Candy. That sounds good right about now…."). I always manage to get the job done, so to speak, but it’s a massive time suck, what with the half-hour of cheerleading that is required for me to get anything up.

I have no business doing what I am doing. Still, in this case—and in the case of so many other things in life— I continue to seek the instant gratification that comes from doing something I shouldn’t.

Which is why, the next time you see me walking around my house completely naked, blinds up, windows open and neighbors likely gawking, don’t try to intervene. Yes, it’s true, I have no business doing that.

Not that that stops me.

I've Got (Excess) Baggage

"Can't you drive any faster?!"

My husband and I had rushed home from our respective workplaces only to rush to the “further-away-but-significantly-cheaper” airport to make our “ridiculously-late-but-significantly-cheaper” red-eye flight, which we’d booked in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I was exhausted, frustrated and wearing 5 inch platform wedge shoes which, although devastatingly cute, were clearly un-airport friendly and I’d put on in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not that we could relax when we arrived to our destination or anything. While it had been a busy week, an even busier weekend awaited us…one complete with its own itinerary; One which was apt to entail more than its fair share of feigning interest in perfect strangers, being utterly selfless and politely rebuffing drunken advances from wedding-goers both overeager and underage.

I excel at none of these.

So when it was time to check our luggage and it was 51 pounds, exactly one pound over, it was the proverbial suitcase that broke the TSA agent’s back.

“You’re going to have to take something out or pay an extra fee,” I was informed.

“You know what?” I said cocking my head at the agent.

This is a rhetorical question I begin all my tantrums with. As the speaker, I neither expect nor do I care if the target of my rage “knows what”.

My husband, however, does know what. And he knows that when I ask someone else if he or she knows what, it almost always means trouble. He attempted to run interference, but by then it was too late. I’d already begun my anti-luggage weight limit verbal manifesto.

“You know what? I weigh 91 pounds. I weigh less than everyone on this damn plane. And you know what else? I bet me and my luggage combined still weigh less than everyone on this plane. So you know what? Screw your stupid weight limits. If I want to have an extra pound in my damn suitcase, that’s my damn prerogative.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take something out of your bag or pay an extra fee.”

Guess I told her.

My husband had already begun removing something from our suitcase; another devastatingly cute but clearly un-airport baggage-friendly pair of wooden clogs that I didn’t really need but packed anyway in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

As my husband stood in my wake apologizing profusely to the agent, I wheeled my now 50 pound bag to the X-ray machine.

Grace under pressure. Packing light. Making nice to airport workers who are just trying to do their jobs.

I excel at none of these.

The Grrl With The Most Bruschetta and The Fewest Friends

I promised an acquaintance that I’d go to the charity event she was chairing. The anticipated crowd was described to me as "over 500 young professionals" which was just perfect considering I am neither young nor professional.

Of course, those in attendance were going to be the antithesis of everything I am or aspire to be. A mix devoid of any substance; the kind of people who I’d fit in with at face value, but would never be friends with: douchebag guys with $75 haircuts, Seven A-Pocket jeans and twill J-Crew blazers; girls in towering Jimmy Choos, cuffed skinny jeans and oversized Gucci bags. People in fields like PR or marketing or advertising or any of the other image-conscious professions young, dead-behind-the-eyes, up-and-comers get into.

When I arrived I recognized one girl, a friend of a sort-of friend. She perfectly epitomized the sea of people in whose stupidity I was now very actually drowning: Vapid. Mindless. Shallow. During the Obama/McCain elections, when she heard that Black Panthers were stationing themselves at the polls, she wondered aloud to our mutual friend about how the people got the cats out of the zoo and, when they got them to the polls, how they were able to keep them there without being bitten.

My premonition about the guests was correct, and I spent most of the night in a corner by myself watching the Summer’s Eve mingle with the Dead Air. I listened in as they discussed the important topics of our day, like tooth whitening and frozen yogurt and—the biggest insult to writers with integrity everywhere— the accolades and merits of the "so well-written" Lauren Conrad "LA Candy" series. If they kept talking this way, it was likely I wouldn’t have to use my fingers to purge the bruschetta I was nibbling on.

Morons.

But as I stood there alone, in the corner, talking to no one— not as much by my own choice as by their choice—it became very clear who the moronic loser was.

I crammed another few pieces of bruschetta down my throat and headed to the restroom.

hot potato

most days at work i run across the street to get a baked potato for lunch, hanging a "be back in 5 minutes" sign on the door of the store. while i run or half-jog or speed walk or scurry as fast as my 4 inch heels will allow, my mind inevitably begins to formulate what i have begun referring to as my "story of the day".

simply put, the "story of the day" is that day's excuse, concocted to make the D-cubed store clientele (demeaning, demanding and degrading), who may or may not be waiting to get into the store when i return, a little less so. as a writer i think making up stories (translation: flat out lying to strangers) is something to which i am predisposed. im sure my other artist friends have their own version of the "story of the day" game. tell me about yours.

some days i go for hours without seeing another living soul (not that i see any dead souls either; im no haley joel osment). still, no matter when i run to get my stupid potato, it seems there is a direct correlation between my leaving the store and people arriving. many a time i've returned to find a woman (or five) angrily tapping her (so-last-year) tori burch flats, arms crossed, botoxed face pseudo-frowning, waiting outside the locked door when i return. these women's glares tell me i should be sorry i made them wait three extra minutes to play a rousing game of slave-massa. my potato gets cold while i run back and forth fetching size 2 garments for their very un-size 2 asses.

one day when i returned to find a lady waiting at the door, she unfurled the wrath of hell on me, all dante's inferno-like. where was i and people are waiting and leaving the store is not good for business and shes a paying customer blah blah blah. because, you know, wanting to peruse racks of overpriced clothing is as critical to survival as food and water and how dare i be so irresponsible so as to make her wait an extra three minutes and nearly deprive her of that. and that's when it just came out.

"im diabetic and i was about to go into shock."

"huh?"

"i usually have some snacks here but one of the other girls ate them. if i didnt go grab something to get my blood sugar up, i could have lapsed into a diabetic coma."

its times like these that i begin to question my sanity. or, rather, not question it, but question the degree to which i had previously believed it had deteriorated. clearly, i underestimated things.

diabetic? really? who does that? diabetes is not a laughing matter and definitely not something to exploit, unless your name is bret michaels. or wilford brimley.

but it caught the lady off guard and she totally backed off. she was almost nice about it, going so far as to regale me---as people so often do with any affliction---with tales of her diabetic cousin, and insisted that i eat my potato immediately and nevermind her. she could pick out her own size 2 jeans.

and thus, the "story of the day" was born. while i avoid the admittedly repugnant illness-faking lie i told initially, it is now the highlight of my day to see what strange and twisted tale i can weave to justify a (what should be an unjustifiable) need for lunch. some days i get to use my story. others, no one is pounding down the doors for overpriced garb and i wind up keeping it to myself.

but, should anyone today need to know, im on a strict diet for a story im writing for a major publication, requiring that i eat at least one potato a day. really.

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Post is About You...

…and one very well may be.

Which is directed at you? Is one directed at you? Now, don't be vain....

I hate it. I absolutely hate it.

I think—I know— I love you more than you love me. That hurts.

I know you’re mad at me. However, if I had it to do all over again I would still make the same decision. You go on and keep being pissed. And while you’re at it, eat me.

Sometimes when I am telling a story about you, I refer to you as "my best friend,_____" even though that is something that would have to be mutual to be true.

The more I see, the less you matter.

For the love of all that is holy, will you please change your shirt?

I want to be just like you when I grow up. Only much, much thinner.

I thought you hated me, so I told everyone you were a "fugly stupid bitch". And it turned out that you didn’t hate me and then I felt really bad about that. Especially since you turned out to be really nice, and are not at all fugly.

As far as my writing is concerned, your opinion is the only one that matters to me. So when you say you believe in me, sometimes it makes me believe in myself.

I know it’s mean and wrong and ugly but I’m secretly rooting for you to fail.

I’m waiting for you to call me even though I know you never will.

Before I buy something, I think about whether or not you would wear it, and base my decision around that.
　
　

I'm Snow Angel

People don’t shovel their driveways in the city where I grew up. They hire a twice-daily snowplow to clear the white death that falls from the sky and drifts from the neighbors’ yards; There’s just too much snow for a human to tackle without assistance.






In the city where I now reside, there is just as much snow, only it falls twice a year instead of every day. Twice a year means no snowplowing services. Twice a year means shovel it yourself. During a hypermaniacal episode on my day off, I decided to do just that.






And now, for a quick math lesson. What do you get when you take a 91-pound bipolar chick, subtract her medicine and add a foot of snow? You get a really interesting sight for the neighbors.






As readers of this blog may remember, I tend to forget my surroundings when engaged in yard work. Last spring I went all Joan Crawford on my rose garden while loudly and obliviously serenading the neighborhood with my rendition of Anarchy in the UK, along with a few Rebel Yells, just so Billy Idol wouldn’t feel left out. I performed an encore last fall, which received mixed reviews from legions of horrified and perplexed window-peeping housewives.
Shoveling the driveway on Tuesday found me similarly engrossed in my work and disengaged from the outside world.






The snow that has fallen is the heavy, waterlogged kind and it takes a lot of strength to clear. This task is made easier when your manic state enables superhuman strength and your I-pod playlist provides aggressive music for momentum. For this task I only dabbled in the very angry but low BPM Hole, and skipped over the pussyish Toad the Wet Sproket entirely. Yes, something’s always wrong, but that wasn’t going to get the driveway clear.

Things would have been fine, had I not forgotten to consider the following:

---You don’t realize how loud you are singing when listening to an I-pod.
---Normal people do not stretch their backs in public by doing back walkovers and other gymnastic moves up and down their driveways.

What follows is the scene countless neighbors—out shoveling their own driveways, a fact to which I was fairly oblivious—were privy to. I cannot be sure exactly how much they heard or saw, but I’m pretty sure it was enough to maintain my status as the Street Pariah.

Shoveling while singing along with Bikini Kill, a band I’ve only recently allowed myself to listen to after a 15-year hiatus: Oh baby/ I want you/You’re so big and hard/You've got such a big cock/ Push it in deeper now/ Oh deeper, harder/ I'm almost cumming/ I'm almost cumming! Wooooooah! Sugar!

Pause to do some back flips as my back hurts. Declare, en masse, that "I’m a self-fulfilling porno-queen."

Commence shoveling while listening to Weezy: I’m not trying to offend the women/ I defend the ladies/ Commend the women/ I cum on the women/ Next night cum in that woman/ Next morning come out that woman/ Next day I don’t remember shit about that woman/ What I do know/ I effed the shit up out that woman!

More back flips. Jumping jacks.

Resume Shoveling. Resume Singing. How about a Grammy selection this time? Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!

Pause to look at progress. Utter a few choice profanities as progress is not where I’d like it to be.

Resume shoveling. Relive 1999. "Girl you look good/ Won’t you back that ass up/ You’se a fine mother-effer/ Won’t you back that ass up/ Call me big daddy/ When you back that ass up/ Ho, who is you playin’ wit/ back that ass up!

Make a snow angel. Chuck some snowballs at the house for no good reason.

Repeat from beginning until job is complete, approximately two hours later.

After making a spectacle of myself I think two things are clear: First, I need assistance shoveling my driveway. Second, I need assistance, period.

WF ISO Blanket

As kids, my brother and I both had security blankets. My brother’s actually had a name, Frank Blank, which is not only stupid sounding but even more idiotic in light of the fact that this was his blanket’s nickname, shortened from the even more ludicrous Franket Blanket.

When I was four or five my blanket got "lost". In actuality this was my mother’s tough-love method to break me of what she perceived to be my blankie-addiction. Either that, or she was really, really evil—a proposition which, to this day, I am not convinced is entirely untrue. At any rate, she snatched my blanket while I slept, hid it in a closet, and let me throw myself on the floor in hysterics for a few days until I wore myself out.

I eventually had to put myself back together and trudge on—blanketless—in a cold, cruel world. I had to figure out how to soothe myself sans outside influences, something I’ve never really mastered. (You will note the difference between "soothing" oneself and "satisfying" oneself. I am quite skilled at the latter). Interestingly enough, my mom allowed my brother to keep his pal, Franket, indefinitely. Brat.

My brother grew up to be self-assured, successful and grossly confident. I, on the other hand, have spent the last 25 years in hot, messy, desperate pursuit of anything that will to make me feel secure again.

My blanket has yet to resurface.