The Contents of Your Kitchen Cabinet Can Speak Volumes About You

…As I’ve learned over the years of sharing living quarters with others.

My current roommate’s eating habits are almost as peculiar as mine, something I couldn’t help but notice since I’ve moved in this past fall.  Now that she’s left town for three weeks, I set out to confirm my suspicions and took the liberty of swinging open the doors to her side of the kitchen cabinets, above the counter where she keeps her Zumba tapes.  The findings are quite telling about a 31-year-old compulsive-dieting product of our present day health-nut consumerism.  Of the pseudo-food that I found include:     Continue reading

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Phone Calls With Mom, and Ensuing Contemplations of My Life At 29

I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour.  In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon!  Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah.  And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.

“It’s just a fact,” she harped.  “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it.  So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”

So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen.  You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.

“Ummm . . . sure.  Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered.  “We’d do anything for you.”

image from Wiki Commons

Let’s say this is me.

image from Wiki commons

This would be me if I had lived in Europe in the 1930s.

This would certainly be me if I had lived in the US in the 1880s.

This is most likely what would have ultimately become of me if I had lived in early modern Europe.

. . . Or maybe this, if I had lived in the English colonies.

This is definitely not me, but I really prefer the more romantic portrayals of aberrant women . . .

And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.

*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain.  Click the image to go to the source.

Questions I Would Like to Ask the Married Guy Who Asked Me Out

I have pondered and pondered and Googled, yet I remain stupefied by the most irksome Question of the Ages:  Why, Mr. Really, Really Nice Guy, do you decide to reach out to me and spill your guts to me and commiserate about life with me and give me your number and email back and forth with me and say such nice things to me and suggest that “we get together sometime,” and yet, you don’t mention that you’re married?

?

Hmm?

So, in an attempt to organize my confusion, I composed the following list of questions.

Continue reading

The Short, Narcissistic and Melodramatic PMS Post

Sooo…..

Guess who has spent All Day sitting on her pile of blankets in the corner of her room with the cats?  And has been Really, Really, Hungry?  Drinking cup after cup of coffee; eating carrot stick after unfulfilling carrot stick; rummaging in the pantry for any forgotten packets of diet hot cocoa; nosing ceaselessly in the dark crumby corners for leftover sugar-free cappuccino mix; nibbling with dissatisfaction on dried cranberries; and finally, after walking back and forth to the kitchen cupboard and staring at the place where the coveted, craved item sits, picking it up and then putting it back, standing, thinking, deliberating, hesitating, thinking . . . finally licking spoonfuls of peanut butter directly from the jar.

The menses are approaching again.

The one thing that I really miss about being a full-blown bulimarexic is the amenorrhea:  None of this periodic bullshit Hunger X 50,000.  None of the elusive, indefinable, skin-crawling, boiling agony searing through me.  None of the flaming Medusa heads terrorizing me from all angles.  My body couldn’t raise bloody hell every month the way it does now when it was half-dead.

Midol doesn’t work; it doesn’t do squat for the crippling hunger.  Back in the days when I still had health insurance, and before I became tolerant of them, prescription tranquilizers worked.  After all, how can you feel anything when you’re tanked on a serene Valium euphoria?  But now I wouldn’t be able to get a hold of those things even if I hadn’t allowed some quack to prescribe me too much of them, too often, over just a few too many months, to the point that they are now as effective as sugar, and nothing, nothing, NOTHING will deliver me from this piercing agony.