DC Damsel

It’s hard to believe it’s been 12 years since Slick Willy told a federal grand jury and the American people he didn’t boff that chubby girl in the beret.

After seeing a news clip of Billy’s infamous speech the other day, I couldn’t help but think about my own sexual experiences with women, or a lack there of.

As all five readers of this blog know, I am no prude. And while I’ve never been into bondage (unless the occasional handcuff fantasy counts) or erotic asphyxiation, I’ve still been known to get my freak on from time to time.

I’ve had sex in an elevator.

Been on the giving end of a fair amount of road head.

Fucked a guy within the first 15 minutes of a first date.

I’ve been felt up in front of tourists on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial (doing in front of honest Abe would just be, well, wrong).

Been the lone female in a boy, boy, girl threesome.

You catch my drift.

I’m no porn star, but I’m still pretty fun at parties.

But after 32 years, one failed marriage, and an extremely respectable number of sexual partners (or depraved depending on who is asking), I have yet to have anything close to a sexual experience with another woman.

Not during a raucous slumber party in high school.

Or a particularly mind-blurring night smoking kind bud in college.

Never in the consoling arms of a girlfriend when my marriage broke up.

And not once when getting drunk with my gay boyfriends and their ridiculously cute lesbian friend who does research with rhesus monkeys at the NIH. (Seriously, the girl is adorable, wears baggy jeans and a wallet chain and can assemble furniture from Ikea or Best Buy like nobodies business).

And despite the fact that I’m an avid supporter of same sex marriage, listen to Melissa Etheridge and k.d. lang with all the angst of a lady in limbo, and played with my own tits from time to time, I’ve never longed to taste the upper (or lower) lips of another girl.

I’m an angst-filled, love-lorn, chick on the edge of heterosexual desperation, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t ever imagine partaking in vagina pie.

Maybe women are too emotionally expensive (hat tip to the Restaurant Refugee).

Maybe I really hate the smell of vanilla and Summer’s Eve in the morning.

Maybe I dislike the color pink and think women are sensitive, soft, and kind of dull to get drunk with.

Really, I can speculate until the cows come home and their utters stop milking. Regardless there are a few key reasons why bitches will never be my bag. Here they are, A-E:

A is for Adam’s Apple: I’ve lived with these ovaries and fallopian tubes for 32 years now and as much fun as they’ve been, I have to say, I can’t imagine dating another set of each. They are a hormonal bunch of organs. They bloat like balloons and demand inordinate amounts of chocolate every month. They have cost me some decent dough in silk undies from Victoria’s Secret and honestly, a girl can only expend so many tissues on Sarah McLaughin themed-ASPCA commercials before she needs to buy stock in Kimberly Clark. I just can’t imagine twice as many Tampax, Costco size bottles of ibuprofen, four sore boobs, and the kind of emotional overload that only comes with the square root of the double X chromosome. So, I’ll stick with that damn knobby nodule that protrudes from the neck of Neanderthal Nathan and hope for a smaller monthly Chubby Hubby tab.

B is for Bitch: From the elementary school playgrounds of yesteryear to my cubicle colleagues of today, girl groups have always inspired a kind of blood curdling fear in the pit of my stomach. Women in numbers greater than one are notoriously mean. I’d rather run around with tampons stuck in my nostrils twitching and muttering about the parting of the Red Sea than endure the wrath of a collective chick click on a day I’m wearing an unflattering pair of skinny jeans. My mother, bless her heart, loves to prognosticate what will happen when my thirty-year-old sexually tinged friendships with boys evolve into forty-year-old relationships with married family men. God willing, my cirrhosis-lined liver will help me stumble towards my maker before the realities of a sewing circle filled future ever gets a chance to set in.

C is for Clooney: Even the most gorgeous girl can’t get my gourd the same way George Clooney does on his most average of days. Not Angelina or Scarlet, Kate Beckinsale when she beefed up and played Ava Gardner in The Aviator, or even Beyonce when she got on her knees in that tight black number at this year’s Grammys and pontificated like a gilded lioness what she would do if she was in fact, a boy.

D is for Dick: I really dig dick. White. Black. Big. Not quite as big. In me. On me. Sideways. And back around. An imperfect beast, with a mind all its own. They almost assuredly cum when you call them. And while healing isn’t their strong suit, they can learn to obey if you’re willing to put the time and effort into training them.

E is for Edification: In the end, as much as I bellyache about the ramifications of dating dudes, I really do adore their primitive ways. I like the ridiculous ways they attempt to relate to others. The sports metaphors and the way they stink after a workout. The way they muscle rather than reason through an argument. Their penchant for chili fries and blow jobs. The raw rather than the refined. The way they’d rather save than merely soothe. The way they will never remember the anniversary of the first time you kissed but they’ll buy you jewelry nonetheless once you remind them how daft and unthoughtful they are. The way they look at you with passionate recognition when you deep throat a bacon cheeseburger on the first date. The way they’ll oblige morning sex before you’ve had a chance to brush. The way they covet tits the size of the Sutter Buttes or the ones tantamount to Tibetan glory. And above all the way they’ll wrap you in their arms, chubby or chiseled, and whisper promises in your ear, regardless of whether they’re bullshit or bona fide.

“In the kitchen
in the shower
and in the back seat of my car
I’ll hold you up
in your office
preferably during business hours
‘cause you know how I like it when there’s people around
and I know how you like it
yeah I know how you like it
I know how you like it when I tease you for hours” -Melissa Ferrick

According to Weight Watchers, I’m only 5-8 pounds overweight. That said, I was looking at the high-end number. The low-end number made me want to vomit into my running shoes and then run laps with them on just to remind me of what a big fucking pig I am.

For all intensive purposes, 5-8 pounds of extra flesh really ain’t much in our morbidly obese, Type 2 diabetic, super-size society, but when I glimpsed a picture that a co-worker posted of me on Facebook from a birthday party a few months ago, I nearly lost my lipids.

No wonder men weren’t staring at me on the Metro.

I knew there was a reason I had resisted buying new pants as of late.

I used to pass on the bread basket

Now I’m practically threshing the glutons straight down my gullet.

Fuck next year’s harvest, I’ve already turned this year’s crop into enough Bagels to make a Jewish Princess blush.

I’ve got enough tummy flab to insulate a whole fleet of homeless Haitians.

The fucked up thing is, all I can think about right now is the Triscuit and cheese spread duet waiting for me in my kitchen.

Or the microwavable Kettle corn of the full-fat vareity and the 20 ounce Diet Pepsi I was going to rock while watching Bad Boys 2 tonight. (Fuck you if you can’t grasp the genius that is Willard Christopher Smith Jr.)

So, what to do about the chubby Charleston Chew I have become?

How much weight would I need to lose to look like Valerie Bertinelli in those god damn Jenny Craig commercials?

I really don’t need to be swimsuit ready by Spring, but I better start counting calories before I start competing for sympathy along with those poor beached whales in NZ.

Time to postpone my next trip to NYC to see Staten Island’s favorite son.

Or the hot redhead who I’ve worshipped from afar for the last three years. He practices Krav Maga and posts Facebook updates on his weekend ten-mile runs. Me thinks I better start hitting the pavement before I can hope to hit anything on his lithe lower body.

No trips to Texas to spend a weekend with my gay boyfriends until this extra epidermis sleeps with the fishes. I mean, if I’m going to function on fatty acids, I suppose the Omega 3 variety will have to do for now.

How many calories does h.w.c. actually contain?

Should I be concerned?

I mean, I know Weight Watchers makes you count points for booze, but jism may be going a little far.

Seems to me, semen shouldn’t count anymore than your average plankton.

Someone call Jean Nidetch so we can revise this antiquated system.

I’m 142 pounds and fearful if I don’t skim the cream soon, I may miss out on all the lovely livestock life has to offer.

So, tomorrow brings the treadmill and a newly enforced ambivalence to carbohydrates, cheese, and Grey Goose (God help me).

In the name of Bridget Jones and all those other girls who starved themselves skinny to stardom and romance incarnate, I salute you.

Here’s to:

Poise over paunch.

Muscle over milling.

Resolution over reticence.

Chic over cheesecake

Until Costco puts that big motherfucking white chocolate raspberry truffle thingee on special.

I’m not superhuman for Christ’s sake.

Damn people!

I have several recurring themes in this blog – men, my weight, liquor, shoes, Springsteen. Ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, my job, my friends, my family, the curious thoughts that pop into my head when I’m trying not to stare at freaks on the Metro or soaping my naughty nuggets in the shower, my bad poetry, my bad puns, my even worse happenstance. But never, in all my days and nights of hunting and pecking my deepest darkest obsessions for the rest of the world to share (or at least the five people who read this blog) did I ever think that I’d be adding neighborhood pervert to my repertoire of written regurgitation. I mean, he’s found his way into the occasional post, but he has yet to encapsulate a category onto himself.

Until today.

I’ve lived with his frequent window-front masturbation since June of 2009. The first time I spotted him, I was teaching my friend Kenny how to play Texas Hold-Em after a full Sunday of drinking at a Cleveland Park hole in the wall.  At first Kenny and I thought the guy was naked ironing without realizing his shades were open to the full monty view we were getting. Then, as we stared a little longer, we realized, he was naked ironing while wearing a pink corset. We chuckled, we drank another Corona, and Kenny learned another way to bluff his friend the DC Damsel out of her dollar bills. Who were we to judge? Who were we to shun this lingerie clad fellow citizen who’s soul mission in life was to rid himself of ghastly wrinkles while enjoying the early summer breeze?

Not I!

Not Kenny!

But then we realized, our friendly, cross-dressing,  co-resident wasn’t ironing. Nor was he obsessively vacuuming his floors or over-watering his ficus. He was doing the deed, in front of his Cleveland Park apartment window facing Connecticut Avenue.

He was loud.

He was proud.

And it was, well, kinda funny.

Kenny stood in my window and waved at the dude while I took pictures of Kenny on my iPhone.

I mean, I thought the dude was creepy but I was drunk and it was summer and my good friend was about to move to a Central time zone so I didn’t really give it much more thought than that.

Until, the next time.

And it was nighttime.

And he added a spotlight.

And I was alone.

I frantically text messaged Kenny and his partner Sean.

What should I do?

Ignore him?

Draw the blinds?

Tell the building managers?

Call the cops?

“Just ignore him,” Kenny told me.

Kenny’s partner Sean simply laughed at me and told me to make sure my deadbolt was in place.

My mother told me she was quite sure that while the man may be a pervert, it was unlikely anyone wearing a pink corset had violent tendencies. (Not sure how mom became an expert at such things, but I digress).

Naturally, their reassurance was most comforting.

So, I learned to live with the cross-dressing, chronic masturbator like you learn to live with a broken drawer, a creeky closet door, a leaky sink.

I made sure to admonish him consistently when he decided to “practice his craft,” by drawing my blinds boldly before him.

Surely if he lacked a captive audience, he’d turn elsewhere for his voyeuristic sexual gratification.

I mean, regardless of the old woman with Elephantitis who sits on the lobby couch talking to herself all day long, or the nice Jewish newlyweds domestic abuse couple or even the alcoholic old guy who liked to accost any woman under 60 with his drunken admiration and his surefire meatloaf recipe, regardless, this was a nice building to live in. And surely I thought, our cross-dressing, chronic masturbater would realize this and bring a halt to his uncovered activities.

But alas, he has yet to see the light.

And after eight straight months of living with his nightly performances (he does matinees for half price on the weekends), he has yet to cease pleasuring himself for the public.

And I am left frustrated, grossed out, and wondering why he hasn’t visited a decent lingerie store by now.

I mean, seriously, go dumpster diving at La Perla already, because I’m pretty sick of the extra large Maidenforms from Filene’s Basement you’ve been rocking.

If you’re going to be a dedicated pervert, go hard or go home.

I’m quite sure this ain’t what  Bob from Sesame Street meant when he told me these were the people in my neighborhood.

Surely this is the guy the “stranger danger” folks had been warning me about all those years.

What in God’s name would our dearly departed Mr. Rogers have to say about this man and his McFeely ways?This brings a whole new meaning to the term “speedy delivery.”

It would be pretty fucking hilarious if it wasn’t so damn disturbing.

So here, I boldly sit, typing this blog post, and waiting with bated breath for the moment I have to Iron-man it to the window to pull my blinds down when Fiddle Faddle Felix makes his nightly appearance. I can only hope he’s a peaceful kind of pervert and doesn’t want to make a suit out of my epidermis.

It rubs the lotion on its skin?

I shall say so.

Otherwise the chaffing would be ridiculous.

 

1.  “Vampires ARE kind of sexy.”

2. “Cherry Blossoms? Eh.”

3. “Do you think Michelle Obama takes performance enhancing drugs?

4. “No, I don’t subscribe to his Twitter feed, but I did let him tweet the fuck out of me once.”

5. “My money’s on the flying monkeys, but that seems like the obvious answer.”

6. “I just started the Taco Bell Drive-Thru Diet.”

7. “I don’t think he speaks with a Negro dialect either!”

8. “Wait, let me just slip out of these Spanx first.”

9. “Just club soda for me please.”

10. “Let me tell you about my new app idea.”

The longer I’m alone, the more I find myself scrambling to gain my single girl footing as I approach certain dates on the calendar. Trying to decide how I am going to spend Valentine’s Day makes me want to down percocet and pinot, chased with a chilled shot of Pepto and sleep to the next fucking leap year.

I suppose I felt pressure to make the Hallmark holiday special when I was married too, but if we both called uncle and gave the middle finger to the whole shabang, we were off the hook for that particular year and united in our cool ambivalence in the customs of coupledom.

He may have been a martyred saint,  but Valentine ain’t done shit for me lately. I spent last February 14th  with friends and a romantic interest at an ostentatiously obvious DC bar drinking too much wine, and eating large handfuls of overpriced Wasabi peanuts only to spend the latter part of my evening polishing the porcelain rather than in copulated bliss. Again, sorry about that Frankie. I’m sure some day I’ll make it up to you by over-imbibing in some cute bistro in Little Italy somewhere and hugging the toilet with you holding back my hair. But not until you’ve had a decent slice of lasagne and a pseudo blow job in the cab on the way home. Who loves ya baby?!

Whenever February 14th approaches, I can’t help but harken back to my middle school days when they used to deliver red roses with notes attached in third period to whomever was lucky enough to have someone spring the two bucks on a dilapidated flower and lace heart made out of construction paper. No matter how hard I prayed, I never got one. I mean, us chubby girls all made sure we took care of one another and sent anonymous buds to each other so we wouldn’t look like pathetic fools in front of the more pituitarily-blessed pubescents.

Now, being single and 32 on Valentine’s Day presents an uncomfortable but familiar conundrum. Do I reject the day altogether in a Carrie Bradshaw-like fuck-you-fashion (she did have all those Manolos to keep her warm at night though) or do I embrace the bullshit and succumb to the tradition of devil-may-care coupling? Everyone knows that when you spend the big candied heart holiday with someone, it’s a commitment that is difficult to break free from. I always thought that only the shittiest of singles go into Valentine’s Day with a shroud of uncertainty just to have someone to stare at over an overly-priced seafood dinner and heart-shaped subpar chocolaty confection. So the question is, how badly do he and I need to feel the comfort of another’s skin to feel ok with our single selves on the holiest of red-letter days?

I’m lonely too.

So very lonely.

But becoming cupid’s bitch may not be the answer we should be searching for.

“I believe in the goodness
Though broken down and beaten
And I believe in the chances
And when they came, they were taken
Now all that wasted energy
We never really felt that way
Now I’m older I see
There’s no escape in the empty
We belong in a world away from here
Words aren’t spoken, just the quiet
Of red roses
So close your eyes now and go to sleep
Don’t be afraid of the darkness
Anyone can see you’re still full of hope and open spaces
And we belong in a world away from here
Where words aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Where the world wont come in
And where time don’t begin
And twords aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Just red roses”

-The BoDeans

There are a number of differences a girl encounters when dating men of varying ages. Some prefer the careful comfort of a May-December romance while other ladies don’t bat a lash at cultivating a cougar status. As a woman in my 30s, I enjoy men of multiple maturity levels and have dated men as green as 23 and as gray as 46. And while I enjoyed sampling both categories of chap, I can’t help but draw a few, key distinctions. Here are my top four:

1. Target vs Tiffany: It’s like trying to decide between a walk through Central Park versus a helicopter ride over Punta Cana. It’s the board game you love to play in his studio apartment in NE that he bought you at Target for your anniversary versus the little blue box awaiting your weekend arrival on the balcony of your Kennedy Warren apartment. I’ve spent nights eating pizza and playing Scrabble that have been far more amazing than any evening I’ve spent eating off a prix fix menu at a five star restaurant. That said, a diamond is forever and a cubic zirconia makes me want to blow chunks on the other patrons at the Olive Garden. And while money can’t buy you happiness, it sure as hell can make fucking one person for the rest of your life a bit easier to stomach  It’s the pauper versus the prospering and it’s the kind of game that breaks the very best of our worldly brethren. It’s the Cheeseburgers against the Filet Mignons in the fourth quarter of the championship tournament and all I crave is a medium seared bone-in rib-eye.

2. Beer Bong vs Single Barrel: I have to admit, when it comes to mens’ vices, I’m often a pawn in the hand of whomever is paying the bar tab that evening. Just call me Solomon and split that baby smack dab down the middle. As much pleasure as I take in binge-drinking and nights full of making bad decisions to Lady Gaga looming over the bottle service section, I can’t help but long for the grey-templed guy who sips his small batch like liquid bliss while sitting on his porch swing with his vinyl collection spinning languidly in the background. While the young man gets high on the latest “it” drug to hit his college campus, the older man takes his sweet time rolling a burner on his antique coffee table. While Mature Monty may languish in long, drawn-out kisses in the May rain, Vernal Vic understands the benefits of a late night round of sexting in the December cold.  Killing me softly isn’t always preferable to love in an elevator and visa versa. Addiction has its drawbacks, but teaching an old dog new tricks might prove the perfect compromise.

3. Fucking vs Fulfillment: As a woman who supposedly hasn’t reached her sexual peak yet (I may have a few suitors who would beg to differ), I hesitate to equate a man’s sexual prowess with the number of rings around his truck (sorta speak). But sex plays a major role in determining the passion injected into any relationship and needs to be recognized as one of the cogs in the widget that makes the love apparatus go round (counter clockwise please). A lot of women assume (and we all know what that does) that a man’s age determines his ability to do three things; go hard,  go down, and go the distance. And while this generalization may apply to a significant percentage of male-female genitally inclined encounters, it’s not always accurate. Going hard while often physically easier for the younger gent isn’t anything a little blue pill can’t cure for at least four hours for the elder suitor (do call that hot-line number on the back of the box if it goes any longer boys – it’d be a super duper bummer if you lost tunnel vision down there). Going down on the other hand, while all men think is some inherent gift bestowed upon them personally by Pan himself, is a skill best left to the noble and the few. I hate to dash the random man’s hopes, but as the recipient of many alleged mouthy maestros, I’m going to admit here and now, few of you actually know what in the hell you’re doing. That said, my pleasure quotient averages out to somewhere smack dab in the middle. Grab a copy of the gazillionth edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves, and bone up boys, the rewards will revisit you tenfold. And finally, as for going the distance, practice makes perfect. Fuck those nuns who said you’d go to hell, 78% of them do it too and they’re still pie in the sky as long as the holy father is concerned.

4. Frank vs Justin - When push comes to shove, it really does all boil down to attitude. The lady may very well be a tramp but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s longing for your dick in a box. The 23-year-old has little to lose as he embarks on the early stages of adulthood. Fewer responsibilities, less contrition, mere backpack baggage. This can be very refreshing, invigorating really, a weight lifted from my own 32-year-old shoulders for the duration of the encounter, whether it consists of one hot night on his futon or a whole semester full of love. The 46-year-old on the other hand brings with him two decades more of history, triumph, failure, and more often than not an ex-wife or two. And while his burden may be heavier, he’s had that much more time to learn how to carry it with panache. We’d be foolish though to assume that age always equates with humility. The penitent man is as likely to carry a lunchbox as he is a cane. In the end, a girl of any age knows when a man feels lucky to have her in his arms, regardless of whether he can drop and give you 2 or 20.

They’re still racing out at the Trestles
But that blood it never burned in her veins
Now I hear she’s got a house up in Fairview
And a style she’s trying to maintain
Well if she wants to see me
You can tell her that I’m easily found
Tell her there’s a spot out ‘neath Abram’s Bridge
And tell her there’s a darkness on the edge of town – Bruce Springsteen

It’s been a long while since I believed in Santa Claus. I was the last kid in my fourth grade class to concede that Old Saint Nick was merely a figment of my parents’ well-meaning but rather manipulative imaginations. Why would my trusted mother make up such an immensely complicated lie? Whose bells were actually jingling the year he couldn’t make it on time and I had to sit in the den with the door closed watching Fraggle Rock while “Santa” delivered my presents? In truth, I was mildly terrified of the jolly old fat man who my mother insisted “got very angry with children who tried to spy on him,” so much so, I made her hold my hand walking down the shag carpet stairs one year because I had this image of Kris Kringle turning into something resembling Galadriel the elf queen when she gets a hold of that damn ring that was always causing so many problems - you know the part when Cate Blanchett turns from ethereal to demonic and freaks the fuck out of poor Frodo? (Guess he didn’t go to Jared).

Anyway, after the lie about Father Christmas was finally revealed to me, it all went downhill from there. Logically I began to question nearly every detail once purported to me as gospel about my childhood icons.

I became so downtrodden with the multitude of fabrications my parental units had bestowed upon me in the name of yuletide, my adolescent walls of sugar plums came crashing down around me like a type 2 diabetic attack. But this time, insulin wouldn’t save the day. The falsehoods needed to be revealed. The truth needed to be espoused one way or another and I wouldn’t rest until the shroud of holiday horse shit was lifted off of all the other impressionable minds around me. Here is one to get you started:

Part One: Frosty the Snowman Was a Letch
A fat stub of a wet cigar perched between his lips wet where his corncob pipe should have been. He wore a sports jacket and a button down yellow shirt with a duck on the lapel. He coughed like a TB-divorcee on his way to rehab for the third time in nine months, but something in those coal-colored eyes lured me in from across the hazy bar.

“What’s your poison?” He asked.

“A vodka martini, dirty, in all the right places.” I purred.

“What’s your name kitten,” he whispered into my ear.

“I’m the DC Damsel. You can call me Dee Dee for short. And you are?”

“Frosty,” he said, “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Well Frosty, what brings you to these parts on such a cold winter’s night?”

“I’ve been looking for a little magic doll, in this old silk hat I found.”

“Care to dance?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

He twirled me like an ice princess there on the grungy floor of the Broomstick Bar, and as I fell into his graceful stick-like arms, I couldn’t help but wonder, if the fairy tale romance I had so long dreamed of wasn’t about to come true.

“How about I walk you home Dee Dee?”

“I’d really like that Frosty.”

And before I knew it we were walking the streets, arm in arm, pausing for long, cool kisses along the way.”

“Would you like to come up?” I asked.

“As sure as you melt my heart sweet thing.”

As we sipped on our buttered rums, I could tell he was starting to feel their steamy effects.

And before I knew it, our frozen fondling had gone too far.

“Don’t make me regret this night Frosty” I said as I took a post-coital pull off my Marlboro Light.

“Dee Dee, baby, I’ll never let you go.”

Relieved and satiated, I fell into a deep sleep. Had I finally found the one? Could his icy exterior really hold the key to all of my holiday happiness and beyond?”

THUMPITY

THUMP

THUMPITY

THUMP THUMP

“What the?!”

Something had startled me awake and as I stood there with my teeth chattering I noticed the window was wide open. I ran to it and stared down the seven stories.

“He couldn’t have…”

“He wouldn’t have…” I stuttered.

How could he have ever survived that jump?!

As I turned around and scoured my tiny studio apartment for clues, I saw it, in a heap in the corner. It was Frosty’s fedora with a post-it note stuck to the brim.

A shiver passed through me.

I clutched the yellow note in my hand and began to read.

“Thanks for tonight doll. I’ll never forget it. But I’m just not the kind of guy to be tied down. I’m not a one woman kind of snowman. I’m going through a selfish phase and I really need to concentrate on me right now. I’m sure you understand. Good luck Dee Dee, we’ll always have tonight.”

Who in the hell did that snowman think he was?!

He thinks he can just come into my life and laugh and play and duck out the back as soon as things start to heat up a little?

Motherfucker.

Frosty was sure right about one thing though, I never would forget that night.

Every time it began to flurry, small vengeful tears trickled from my eyes.

Snot-filled icicles hung resentfully from my nose.

On my weaker nights, after a few spiced rums, I’d send him lovelorn text messages from my iPhone. But I never did hear back from him and after a while I realized the number he had slipped me was for the Cold Stone down the street.

On my angrier nights I’d stare at my hair dyer, nurturing violent fantasies of the snowman’s silent screams as I melted him down to nothing more than a puddle on the floor and a pair of red licorice lips.

No Frosty, you won’t come back to life one day, not if I have anything to say about it.

1. I have less to write about now that I don’t date on a regular basis. What if angst is the only emotional state that allows me to say something the slightest bit meaningful? The dilemma of a minor league sob story. I’m an emotional vampire and my food supply has atrophied.

2. I fall in love with the most inappropriate of men and despite this realization, I keep letting it happen over and over and over again. It may be Oedipal. I may just be romantically retarded.

3. The thought of having an affair with a married man is starting to seem like the logical middle ground between being in a relationship and continuing to enjoy the freedom that being single allows. A miscreant’s happy medium.

4. I wonder who I’d get to sleep with if I was better looking? I wonder who I would have taken a pass on if I had the physical privilege? Perhaps the twitchy ferret guy.

5. I’m terrified the dreams I have about my ex-husband may never cease. If only there was some kind of subconscious pre-nup we could have worked out.

6. I may only have 8-10 good years left with my tits, then it’s all liposuction and leg-men.

7. He had me until renaissance fair. I can only pray he’s a good kisser.

8. If you laugh at my jokes, I’m more likely to go down on you.

9. If I don’t get laid soon, I may have to name my vibrator. The Purple People Eater has a nice ring to it.

10. A guy who once told me he wanted to show me that not all men were assholes, text messaged me the other night to tell me he was in the area and in the mood to fool around. Porky’s pendulem and other lessons in why men are full of shit. B side tracks.

“I can feel it in my bones, I’m gonna spend my whole life alone. It’s fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was seventeen. Fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was twelve.” -Liz Phair

My friend Dave once told me that breaking up with his ex-girlfriend was harder than having her simply up and die on him.

At first I thought that a bit harsh, but once he explained it to me I came around.

A mourning period is more acceptable when someone croaks than when they simply clean out the drawer you created for them in your Grandmother’s antique armoire.

Essentially when you break up, that person is exiting your life but they’re still out there living there own.

Breathing

Eating

Flirting

Fucking

Hanging at the same bars.

Talking to the same mutual friends.

Moving on with their lives.

Honestly, I can see how it might be easier to have them six feet under, restful, their mouths and legs shut to the rest of the single world.

Visits to their grave sight are far easier than awkwardly bumping into them at some random farmer’s market, on a Saturday morning, picking out organic ingredients with their new, thinner girlfriend who can cook, speak three languages, and play the accordion.

(Great, she’s skinny and speaks Portuguese. I’m so happy for you!)

(Go fuck yourself)

Having recently experienced a break-up of sorts – five dates, zero coitus (I know, I usually give it up by at least the third date) I got to thinking, that the five stages of grief could easily apply to break-ups as well.

They go something like this:

1. Denial:  You’re just frightened by my honesty. It’s obvious you’ve never been with someone this authentic and it’s making you realize things about yourself that you simply didn’t see until I came along. You’re scared to be in love and that’s okay, we can work through this. You just need time. Let’s take this journey together.

2. Anger: Oh no you didn’t! Your short, tubby, awkward ass did not just tell me you “think we should just be friends.” What in God’s name entitles you to think you’re the one who gets to exit this equation first?! I did not just spend five dates discussing the global economy and the genius of Monty Python so you could break up with me over a shit Shiraz and your pity-filled bug eyes.

3. Bargaining: It’s my smoking isn’t it? Babe, I can quit this shit. Take it or leave it. Seriously, you’re overreacting. I’ve got this thing nipped in the bud. I’ve got 75 patches in this box and they are all dedicated to you. And seriously, if you’re worried about the drinking, I’ll dump this 1979 Macallan Scotch Whiskey down the fucking drain here on the spot boo. Liquid pleasure is nothing compared to the pleasure you give me every time I look into your eyes.

4. Depression: Oh Jesus, I really am going to die alone, a recluse, surrounded by stray cats, urine stains on the carpeting, eulogized by a single three-sentence blurb on page A13 of the metro section.

“DC Damsel was found in a 3-day-old pool of her own Stoli strewn vomit. She is survived by her loyal postman Dmitri, who she never failed to leave genuine two-dollar bills for as a tip at Xmas time. The ASPCA issued the following statement regarding her death, ‘We hope the greater DC community can learn from the unfortunate example of the DC Damsel, and remember how vital it is to spay and neuter your pets.’”

5. Acceptance: I’m a good person. He’s a good person. We just weren’t meant to be. I need a change, a break. Maybe I’ll go away for a long weekend. Maybe somewhere by the seaside. The ocean is so rejuvenating, cleansing really. The tide washing in at dusk. The water is teaming with so much life. The crashing waves against my alabaster legs. Ah, Fleet Week, how I missed you so …

For as long as I can remember, I’ve compared myself to other women.

I’ve placed a large percentage of my self-worth on my physical appearance

The bathroom scale can determine whether my day will be good or bad

No shiny surfaces go unchecked for stray hairs

Or visible panty lines

Embarrassing blemishes

I have a self-rating system for how presentable I look on any given Tuesday

I hate the humidity for every bullshit wave it puts in my blow-dried straight hair

I don’t tuck things into my pants for fear of a waistline a la Oompa Loompa

I abstain from bikini waxes because I can’t imagine letting the skinny, little Asian see my thick thighs

I cower when someone randomly whips out their camera at parties

I’d rather volunteer to take the group picture

Than become part of the Kodak moment.

(I secretly dread that when my time finally comes and I’m lying in my closed casket, there won’t be any pictures to eulogize me with)

I refuse to let my office post my head shot next to my bio on our website

And I wholeheartedly believe in romantic “leagues.”

So many say

“That’s foolish”

“Just be confident”

I can’t help but wonder who the fuck they think they’re kidding

I haven’t lived a day of my adult life when I haven’t felt ranked and filed into the appropriate physical category.

I have anxiety attacks every time I have to walk across a crowded bar to use the restroom

I stare at the dinge-dirty carpeting for all three stops riding the Metro in the morning

And only make eye-contact on the way back if I’m lucky enough to be stoned on pricey vodka

I wear sunglasses even after dusk beckons me to remove them.

After all, what they can’t see

They can’t judge.

I prefer wearing skirts on dates I think may end in an intimate encounter

Most would assume it’s simply a means to an easier access

But really, it’s purely strategic

If I let them remove my heels

And blouse

Bra

And panties

They’re satiated

Enough clothes have been taken off for sexiness to occur

But the skirt stays on, hiked around my waist

Hiding my belly bulge

They never know

They just presume me eager

The reality remains my own pathetic little secret.

I turn the lights off when I fuck

And make sure there’s a blanket near by to cover my fattier parts

As much as I’d like to take a lover up on that long, hot, steam-filled shower

I refuse

Normal people fear things like death and public speaking

I fear male revulsion

The minute they see me standing up-right and stark naked before them

Lucky for me, baths are more enticing via candlelight

Bubbles provide remarkable cover

Sexual camouflage is the name of my game

It’s the getting in

And getting out of the tub

That poses the biggest dilemma.

I often wonder what it’s like

To ride in the backseat of a taxi cab with the windows rolled all the way down

Without the final five minute struggle to fix my face.

Or what it’s like to go on a long bike ride on a DC summer day

Without finding shame in my helmet hair.

To wear pastels in the late springtime

Butt-sweat be damned.

To own my D-cup breasts

Minus the cover of cashmere

Or uplift courtesy a secret held via Vicky.

I long for tank tops that defy my Jello jiggles.

I pray for chubby chasers.

And legally-blind boys.

I crave leg men

Even if I stand before them in all my scarred, knobby kneed glory.

I want for breast men

Regardless of my droop.

I well-wish with dimes and quarters

For the boy who will look into my blue eyes

Unembellished with requisite eye shadow enhancements

And mascara-drawn drama.

For the day I deign bare-colored cheeks

And liquid-free lips.

And notice of my peach-fussed face.

I strive to suck his fingers

Without worrying my double-chin

Rebuffs his lust.

I want to dance

And sweat in all the spots

Not enticing.

I want to fornicate

Without innocuous injury

To his retinas.

I want to learn to love my pretty porcine.

And own my ordinary.