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FUCKED

"I've seen bar fights better organized than your sex life." -Da Bishop

Don't worry I'll explain, but let's go through this in an orderly manner. Of course all the best material is at the end, so I'm afraid only my most dedicated readers will get the ohh-la-la ending.

The Thin Jeans

I was never a huge Sex in the City fan, but one of the things that hit me was when they talked about "the thin jeans." Every woman has a pair of jeans in their closet that they desperately want to get into. They keep them there in the hope that sometime in the very near future they will be able to wear them. My thin jeans were from 2001. Occassionally I would get them out. Sometimes I was able to stuff my ass into them, but then the unfortunate rolls over the waist band not to mention the almost immediate cessation of feeling below the waist prevented me from ever wearing them outside.

Last friday I got the thin jeans down. It could have been depressive folly, but no not only did they fit, they were a bit roomy. Can a girl facing the prospect of seeing an ex have a better moment than that? Being able to put on the thin jeans without having to slather myself in crisco so I could fit my elephantine butt into those pants was truly sublime.

On the street, men were staring, smiling, winking. I went to see my hairdresser. Got myself coiffed, picked up some supplies at Sephora, dunked myself in a decadent bath, got dressed, decided my outfit looked to forced (because it can't just be sexy it has to be effortlessly sexy), changed my ensemble, and went to the fabulous blogger party.

Blogtastic Extravaganza

First off I have to thank Karol, the organizer of these lovely events, who despite her exhaustion, was charming and a very attentive hostess. I was a bit uncomfortable around her because I felt suddenly guilty for all of my anti russian propaganda as she is a perfectly wonderful person and I am hoping she doesn't take my ranting too seriously or personally. I must admit poor Bakerina was charged with the solemn task of making sure that A I didn't get too drunk B I didn't make a total ass of myself and C I didn't end up killing anyone with my rapier wit. Unfortunately, all my preparation left me exhausted and so she and I ended up sitting on the floor talking amongst ourselves in a very unsocial way. Crickey people if we were that socially well adjusted, well, we wouldn't be bloggers then would we? Well I wouldn't. I have these strange attacks of shyness, particularly at parties where I don't know people. Bakerina was more than happy to babysit me while I nervously eyed each new arrival.

I ended up having, as my friend would call it, a "beautiful conversation" with a sweet guy. One of those moments where I began to have my faith in the universe restored. We chatted about all number of things and at the end of the night he told me he was going to go check on my blog. And of course, although my face didn't betray it, I was suddenly filled with dread.

I have these moments where I suddenly see what I must look like to you poor readers, that dark perpetual martini in one fist, cig in the other, gravel-y persona that I adapt, and even exaggerate, for my use here. Perhaps I should have warned him "Look I've had a really awful two weeks don't judge me based on my most recent posts" but I just kind of accepted that it was going to terrify him. Which is too bad because I really liked talking to him. Damn it.

Ivan Durak

However, Ivan the Imbecile failed to show up. All that time and effort and anxiety and nothing. The going theory is that he is scared of me. How much do I love that? I am a four foot six disabled Jew, I'm like the least terrifying person on the planet. How much of less of a threat do you need me to be? What am I going to do eviscerate you with my scintillating vocabulary? Please.

I would like to say if I put that much effort into looking fabulous in order to shame you the least you can do is show up. Idiot probably fell asleep with his guitars in park again. Nothing like a little willed narcolepsy.

Link Love

I did manage to say hello briefly to Dawn Summers who complimented me on my righteous indignation. Ok she called it anger, but she meant righteous indignation. I gotta like her as she wrote an epic post about the party before I even manage to begin to my thoughts together.

Lipstick Lesbian

Personally I don't find this next part that interesting, but the Amazon insists it's blogworthy, and one does not argue with a six foot blonde in stack heels. I headed uptown for an after party beverage (needed time for all that anxiety to bleed out of my system). The Amazon was there drinking, what? White Russians. Because this is the kind of symbolism that follows me around. An obnoxious yuppified drunk attempted to talk to me and when he failed he tried to talk to her. When she began to ignore him, he referred to us as "Bush women." The Amazon insists that he meant we were lesbians. She wheeled on him and had him immediately thrown out. I'm not sure why she was so insulted. I mean seriously I'm probably the best offer she's had all week.

Perfect Day

Saturday I was lazy. I spent the day resting my head on this twit's shoulder. He explained to me that Ivan is technically a white russian (see there it is again) a distinction he explained as "They are primitive. Without a culture of their own. All their culture is from Moscow or St. Petersberg." So on top of everything else, the twit I was dating is from the NJ of Russia. Explains a lot really.

I spent the day dreaming of napping in upstate new york. Lying out on the porch under the blanket. Snuggling under there. Gently kissing and touching. No longer putting off sex until night time when it is cool enough to fuck without risking dehydration. Making mulled wine and eating fresh apples in the kitchen in the evening and then going to bed. Sitting and reading to each other out loud under the duvet. Talking about what we read or maybe just for fun throwing in Nicholson Baker for a little bit of a raunchy thrill. Falling asleep all enrapt by male warmth.

Of course instead I was sitting with Ricardo as he complained that I couldn't leave NY because he needs some stability in his life. I spent the day looking at his hands and remembering how much I wanted them on me once. His hands were the first thing that drew me to him. In fact the first time I saw him, I didn't even see his face. Just the scarf and the hair and those hands. Even without seeing his face I wanted those hands on me. But now I wonder what I saw in that moment. His fingers are short and stubby. His nails are bitten. They look rough, those hands. Not something I want to be caressed by.

Epic Tits

Rabid insisted that I see Closer, which meant that for the entire weekend I had the Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice in a continuous loop in my head. I wasn't overwhelmingly impressed, but I spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out how I would change it or make it better. The language was too strained, forced, although there were some lovely moments like the line featured above. I'm not sure how one has epic tits, but I am amused by the idea. It is worth a watch, but personally when it comes to a film which really captures the tormented nature of relationships my money is on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Rabid and I did manage to see Corpse Bride which is just so worth it. Richard Grant gives good villian. Rabid and I giggled and tittered through the entire film. Of course for us to enjoy a "lighthearted romantic comedy" you know there has to be some edginess to it, like gratuitious jokes about death. Rabid, despite her worry about grad apps, managed to get a poem into Shampoo.

FUCKED Revisited

Afterwards, we went to get a beverage. Although previously we thought my first autobiography should be entitled "From Milan to Minsk: Fighting for World Peace One Man at a Time" I decided that FUCKED would be a much better title. I thought Rabid and I could having dueling narratives. Da Bishop, some raging alcoholic was literally throwing money around the bar, happened to come up with the sex life line which just fit in perfectly with our book idea. I thought no matter what this book is about it has to started with that line.

I realized, as I sat there, that I have dated a man from every continent. (Or so I thought until Snowball pointed out that I have not dated anyone from Antarctica and no that guy from Alaska who was chased by a moose does not count. Still it is good to have goals. Let me go don my parka.)

Cake

Dr. Eyes came in with people in tow. It was a double birthday and so he brought a cake, reddi-whip, and candles. One of the birthday girls was giving whip cream hits from the bottle to the boys and when she came to me decided I was going to be the entire cake. So I ended up covered in whipcream at the bar with three strange people scraping me off. ( At least they weren't licking.) The birthday boy, age 24, wanted me to be his birthday present. "Do you know how old I am?" I asked. "Age is just number." "No it's a number that represents I have managed to stay on this planet six years longer than you." "Is that a no?" "It's just a statement of fact." Brilliance personified moved onto "Well I'm not looking for a serious relationship." Yes because rarely does one look to a whipcream sodden girl for solemnity. Generally that kind of broad is into the wacky hijinx department.

Bad Bunni posted at 10/03/2005 03:18:00 PM |

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