Tag Archives: Sex and the Single Girl

The Glamorous Girl’s Diet (Updated)

HGB suggests that your work day “glamour girl” lunch should be veggies, fruits and non-fat yogurt OR a wedge of cheese.  This is a very good suggestion, these are all good foods, but my usual workday lunch, which I eat at my desk, is usually a cup of delicious homemade soup, some peanut butter crackers, a banana and a two fun-sized Baby Ruths, because I deserve a treat.

Five hours into my work day and a cup of oatmeal, 6 oz of carrots and a cup of Chobani strawberry banana yogurt later, I. am. STARVING, with only a banana left to get me through the last four hours of my day.

Also, I have a headache  and blurry vision, with bizarre floaters making it nearly impossible to see what’s on my screen like my computer has been taken over by J.J. Abrams.  I don’t know if this is related to my hunger or to the fact that when I did manage to sleep last night (which wasn’t much) I dreamed that B.D. Wong was trying to seduce me into going on a crime spree with him, but whatever it is, it’s making it hard to concentrate.

UPDATE (2:25 p.m.) OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE.  My head feels like someone is hitting the base of my skull with a rubber mallet while stabbing their thumbs into my eyeballs and grinding an awl through my left temple.  I’ve gone past feeling hungry to merely feeling ill.  I have not eaten my banana.  I can’t concentrate and I alternate feeling overheated and freezing.

BUT I WANT YOU ALL TO KNOW that I have NOT touched the Gummy Bears Cathy brought in, EVEN THOUGH I WANT ONE MORE THAN ANYTHING.

UPDATE: (3 p.m.) Ian just texted me to say he  is bringing home more steak, plus shrimp and peppers.  I think he’s taunting me.  Only my sheer Taurus stubbornness is keeping me going.

UPDATE (4:04).  Ate banana. Headache worse, but I think that has more to do with the awful bombing at the Boston Marathon than any mild feelings of hunger.

UPDATE: (4:49) Feck it all.  I’m getting some crackers and trying not to cry from the sheer insanity and cruelty of the world.  Today is too ugly to diet. (not a link to news stuff, I promise)

Looks Like HGB Was On To Something . . . .

Science says Helen Gurley Brown (and me!) were RIGHT!

I’ve been going braless for about two weeks now, and I’m pretty much determined never to wear one again, except maybe under tee-shirts because I don’t like the space between (or the bouncy). But it’s just more of an excuse to wear HALTER TOPS!!!!

 

The Braless Wonder

“Forget” some of your lingerie.  Anything you’re not wearing out thread by thread is money in your piggy bank. . .  if you’re small but firm-busted, you don’t need a bra.”  Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl.

First things first.  HGB is one cheap little tart.  Pennies?  Seriously?  My favorite purple bra, which I don’t even like that much, cost me $14 at TJ Maxx and I’ve had it for over a year.

That being said, I love going braless and the thought of going back to one (even my not-as-terrible purple one!) makes me want to cry.

I could probably still fit into my first bra (which was also purple!) because my boobs have not gotten any bigger since about 7th grade, when they just sort of showed up.  I am a 36A, the flattest in my family.  I’ve never liked wearing bras; I can never find the right strap-to-cup ratio.  

I was never too bothered by my lack of boobage.  My ex bought me a big gel-padded push-up bra, which I wore because the gel part was kind of like a pillow.  But otherwise, all my bras have all sucked.  I can’t think of one where I thought to myself “Yeah, I’m glad I’m wearing this extra layer of fabric when it’s 108 degrees out!”

I like that I can wear cute halter tops without a bunch of straps hanging out.  I like that I can wear low-cut shirts without being told to cover up–what would I cover up anyways? My boney clavacle?

Plus, I’ve rediscovered the great joys of the camisole.  All silky and whisper-thin.  Lovely.  Now I just need to get a few better slips for under my dresses.

So you win this time, HGB.  Burn ALL the bras!

 

The Day The Blogs Crossed Paths

“An affair can overlap, of course” Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl

HGB is all about dating married men, so today, I asked my friend Eeon, (married to the awesome Bridget) to accompany me to see G.I. Joe: Retaliation.  And since Eeon does the Canned Laser podcast with Pete (one of my Most Eligible Bachelors) I decided to invite him along too . . . after all, since HGB says I can date two men at once, why not go out with them at the same time?  I’m a busy girl, after all.  Also, this way, I shielded Ian from having to sit through a movie that was almost as good as The Room.

Some quick thoughts about the movie: Walton Goggins was extra-Goggins-y, just eating scenery and loving it.  He rocked a pink oxford (Note to guys: You cannot do this.  Do not even try) and his scenes were over too soon in a really drag way.  It wasn’t as clever as his performance in Predators or as deep as his portrayal of Shane Vendrell in The Shield.  But it was amusing for a few minutes in an otherwise torturous movie devoid of soul, heart, or original dialogue.

But the company was great.  We had pizza and wings afterwards at the Depot, and they made me laugh, like they always do.

Guys, here’s the secret to getting a great girl (like Bridget).  Be funny.  And not funny in that way that you can quote Anchorman.  Be genuinely funny.  Learn to tell a joke or a good story.  That way , no matter what, you can always show a girl (even ones you’re not dating) a good time.

Even at G.I. Joe.

Presents, Please

“I can’t give you anything but love” is a real Depression-era sentiment.  There must be something he can give.”  Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl

I was in Sperbeck’s getting chips, a banana and a few minute chocolate bars (feck diets!) when a man came up to me and told me he liked my rose-printed 14 eyelet Doc Martens.  They’re beautiful boots; my mom and Ian went in on them for Christmas one year and I’ve been wearing them a lot lately. Docs are my shoe of choice; I’ve been wearing them since college and this is the 4th pair I own.Image

But they’re not exactly Betsey Johnson stiletto booties, so I was kind of surprised that they got noticed.  He proceeded to tell me that he had a pair of vintage hiking boots that would probably be my size; if he could find them, he would give them to me.  I smiled politely and thanked him, but didn’t expect anything would come of it.

I went in today to get my chips and chocolate, and the woman behind the counter said that he had, in fact, left them for me.  And, true to his word, they fit.

Some women get men to buy them anything.  My sister Laura used to have guys lining up to buy her things.  One of them offered to buy her a dog one time.  My boyfriend Geza used to spoil me with roses and dinners, Ian buys me random things and Matthew almost never shows up empty handed (he got me an SVU crew hoodie!) is but as a general rule, men don’t often come up and offer to give me presents. The boots are stiff from storage, but they’re insanely cool.  They’re actually cobbled, not glued.  And maybe they’re not affair-inspiring stilettos, but they’re totally Libby.

A girl could get used to this . . . .

Body Issues and Other Fun Topics

“The men who insist they like girls plump are the ones who prefer cleaning rifles or exchanging jokes in the locker room to flirtation.  they aren’t sure of their masculinity and appeal, so a chic, glamorous woman challenges them.”  Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl.

I’ve never had a problem staying thin.  I come from a slender family, I didn’t drink in college (the easiest way to avoid the Freshman 15) or eat a ton of junk food (although Eeon will testify to my amazing ability to smell a fresh BG’s Pizza from half a campus away) and I’ve had exactly eight McNuggets in the last decade.  More importantly, I never uttered the phrase “OMG, I am, like, totes fat” in hopes that people would feel sorry for me.

But after I returned home from AWP, Ian commented that I had put on “noticeable” weight.  A trip to the doctor’s confirmed that in the last few months, I’ve packed 10 pounds onto my 5’3″ frame.  I almost started to cry.

Maybe this isn’t a big deal.  Maybe some of you are saying, “Get over it, Twiggie, and eat a Twinkie.”  But like all food-related issues, it goes down to something much, much deeper.  For me, it’s a reminder that I’m edging up on 30 and will not always be effortlessly lithe and that’s sort of a drag.  But more than that, it’s intricately linked with fears of failure.

I am terrified of being perceived as lazy.  My generation is looked down upon by Gen-Xers as being spoiled little marshmallows, and the Baby Boomers that raised us think we’re a bunch of moochers who selfishly want them to give us jobs after college.  And worse, we’ve got a squishly little (redacted) like Lena Dunham prancing around pretending to be the “voice” of our generation when really she’s just a rich girl writing in her diary about how hard life is for a girl to make it when her parents gave her everything, like a TV show.  Life is TOTES UNFAIR, LENA.

Point is, if you’re not working three jobs eight days a week 24 hours a day, politicians in ugly suits will tell you that you are WORTHLESS SCUMBAGS and FOOD-STAMP GRUBBING WELFARE QUEENS who take the HARD EARNED MONEY (left over from their parent’s fortune) and have A HUNDRED ABORTIONS each.  So I work.  And I work and I work and I work and at 30 I’m homeless, unmarried and underwater on my student loans.

But with laziness also comes not being beautiful.  I know wives who resent their husbands for desiring them and who believe it’s their right to wear nothing but sweatpants and eat bags of chips and watch TV, because that’s what being a woman has become to them.  And I always laughed at them, thinking how selfish they were being, because honestly, if you want your husband to not be a fat lazy toad, you can’t be one yourself.  I have always tried to dress for every occasion, even if it’s searching around a junkyard, because I hate looking slovenly.  Looking nice was a way of telling the world, “I take this seriously.”

But for the first time in my life, I felt a little of that kind of resentment.  I was angry, because I too wanted a little space to breathe, to eat, to relax without feeling guilty.  I was mad at him for saying something because I wanted to believe that I had earned the right to go a little soft after everything that’s happened in the last few months.  I worry that there’s a divide between wanting to be fed and wanting to be loved.  

I also have major food issues that I’ve never told anyone about.  I do love food, but when I get depressed (usually because I haven’t eaten), it becomes about “deserving” food.  I’ve gone hungry more than once. I’ve eaten lunches made up of free samples, but when your choices are pay rent or eat, well, sometimes you have to take the risk that someone else will feed you because no one’s going to pay your rent but you.  Or there are days when I get so caught up in work that there isn’t time to eat.  I used to work a lot of terrible retail jobs that gave you 15 minutes break for six hours work.  I know what it’s like to go hungry, and it’s a raw, brutal fear that burrows into your gut until you feel so sick you can’t eat, even though you know you have to, until the actual act of eating becomes either a forced chore or all-out gluttony as I try and eat as much as I can for fear that there won’t be any tomorrow.

But Ian’s making me lunch now.  And I’ll start working out again (Arlene Style!), trying to take time for meals.  And maybe somewhere in this mixed-up crazy stunt, I might actually find a way to love myself.

Doubtful, but hey, HGB has a diet where you drink wine and eat steaks, so there’s that to look forward to.

 

Nearly Stranded and Almost Fabulous

“The ancient custom of foot-binding in China, makes a girl feminine and helpless, and she can’t run away” Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl

This is how I found myself standing in 4″ platform open-toed spike booties in the middle of a sleet storm in Boston.

Believing, foolishly, that I would be inside and sitting through most of the AWP Conference in Boston, I packed my favorite Betsey Johnson booties, the ones that make men motion me over just so they can tell me how beautiful I looked (this happened last week at the B-Side Ballroom–I’ve never had a man compliment me on my shoes ever).  We had to go to see my friends Lexa, Jaed and Suzanne read at the Boston Public Library, and since we were one of the flagship events, I wanted to look fine.

So I wore the booties with skinny jeans and a sparkly grey sweater, strutting through the mall that connected our hotel to the conference center.  Yeah, I looked good.

But when I got outside, it was sleeting.  Matthew was also trying to look good, so he wore is Kenneth Cole shoes, which are also not designed for hoofing through Boston in the middle of a snowstorm. I clung to his arm and he tried not to slip on the sloppy sidewalks.  

I was in a bad mood already, and I give him all the credit in the world for not stranding me in the middle of the sidewalk, because I wouldn’t have made it home and would still be standing out there, ankle-deep in slush.  

And he should give me credit for not forcing him to carry me like the foot-bound beauty that I was.